Gaslight in Page Street (13 page)

Fred Blackwell glared up at the firm’s owner, trembling with temper. ‘I’ve worked fer some nasty bastards in my time,’ he sneered, ‘but you take the prize. Yer fink yer can ride roughshod over yer workers, an’ if they as much as walk in yer light yer sack ’em. Well, let me tell yer, Galloway, yer gonna come ter grief before long. Somebody’s gonna stand up ter yer one day, an’ I ’ope I’m around ter see it. Yer can stick yer job up yer arse! There’s ovver jobs around. I won’t starve.’

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.

Chapter Seven

Carrie Tanner pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears as she walked quickly along Spa Road on her way to work. A cold early morning wind whipped up the brittle brown leaves from the gutter and sent them swirling along the street as she passed the council depot. Roadsweepers were pushing their barrows out of the yard and she saw the water cart drive out, with the carman clicking his tongue at the horse to hurry it on. The sight of the horse-and-cart awoke memories, and Carrie’s face became serious as she turned into Neckinger and walked along past the leather factories to her job at Wilson’s.

It seemed only yesterday that Sara Knight had given her a present of a small, fan-shaped marcasite brooch and she had handed her friend a box containing three lace handkerchiefs as they left school for the last time. It was nearly nine months ago now, she recalled, and in that time she had seen Sara only on odd occasions. They had vowed to stay friends and go out together in the evenings and at weekends but it had been difficult. Sara seemed to be a prisoner in her own home since her father had gone into the sanatorium and she had had to take on the mantle of breadwinner. Her mother still did early morning cleaning when she was able, although from what Sara said she seemed to be getting weaker and was often confined to bed with a bad chest.

It was not very easy in her own home either, Carrie allowed. Her father seemed to be working harder than ever at the yard since the young Geoffrey Galloway had come into the business. He returned home exhausted and fell asleep every evening after he had finished his tea. George Galloway was spending less time at the yard now and more time on his other ventures, and the young man was learning the business. Carrie’s father was having to make decisions for him and take the blame if things went wrong, which had happened on more than one occasion recently. There had been the fever which struck down the horses and all but paralysed the business. Then there was the trouble over Jack Oxford - Carrie had heard her parents talking about how he’d once bungled a telephone message and almost lost Galloway a lucrative contract. It appeared that Mr Galloway had wanted to sack the yard man a long while ago but her father had managed to talk him out of it. There was also the terrible time when her favourite horse Titch had become ill and died. Carrie remembered how she had cried when the box van drew up and she watched from the upstairs window while poor Titch was winched up and into the van by ropes that were tied to his legs. And just after that young Danny took ill with pneumonia and pleurisy and almost died. James had been ill too with scarlet fever, and had been taken to the fever hospital. Of the three boys only the quiet and studious Charlie seemed to stay well, she thought, hoping uneasily that the future would not bring more worries and troubles.

As she reached the factory where she worked, Carrie remembered fondly the times when she had gone on those trips with her father. Now the hay was delivered to the yard and things would never be the same. She sighed to herself as she entered the factory and slipped her time-card into the clock.

Wilson’s was a busy firm of leather-dressers. Hides and skins were cured and dyed at the factory and Carrie worked on the top floor. Her job was to hang the heavy hides over stout wooden poles and to stretch the skins on frames. It was heavy, tiring work for which she was paid fifteen shillings a week, much better than the money Sara earned as a sackmaker, Carrie had to admit. At least the factory was airy and conditions there not as bad as in some of the other firms in the area. Her parents had been apprehensive when she told them about the job, but they realised that the alternative was for her to work in one of the food factories or go into service, where the money was very poor and she would have to live in as well.

At the factory Carrie worked alongside Mary Caldwell, a short, plump girl of seventeen who had dark frizzy hair and peered shortsightedly through thick spectacles. Mary was strong and agile for her size, and she had an infectious laugh that helped to brighten the day for Carrie. Mary spent most of her free time reading and it was she who explained to Carrie about the growing suffragette movement. She often went to their meetings and had been reprimanded on more than one occasion for sticking up posters and leaflets in the factory. Although she had a pleasant nature, Mary got angry at the disparaging remarks made about the movement by some of the other factory girls.

‘They don’t understand, Carrie,’ she said as the two threw a large wet hide over a high pole. ‘Those women are fightin’ fer all of us. We should ’ave the vote. I wanna be able ter vote when my time comes. We gotta make those stupid people in Parliament listen. Until we do we’re gonna be exploited, that’s fer certain.’

Carrie wiped her hands down her rubber apron and took hold of another hide. ‘My mum said she don’t worry about votin’,’ she remarked. ‘She said she leaves it ter me dad. ’E knows best, she reckons.’

Mary peered at her workmate through her steamy spectacles. ‘That’s where yer mum’s wrong, Carrie,’ she replied. ‘Men vote fer what suits them, an’ a lot of ’em don’t bovver ter find out what they’re votin’ for anyway. When women get the vote they’ll change fings, you wait an’ see. ’Ere, I’ll give yer some leaflets if yer like. Yer can read all about what the movement stands for, an’ maybe yer can come wiv me ter one o’ the meetin’s.’

Carrie nodded as she helped Mary pull another wet hide from the trolley; her workmate made it all sound sensible to Carrie. Until now all the stories she had heard about those smart women who chained themselves to railings or threw themselves down on the steps of government buildings made her feel that it was a futile and silly campaign, but Mary’s argument began to make her think. After all, it was the women in Page Street who had stopped Galloway running his horses along the street and putting the children in danger of being trampled. Her own mother had taken part, although she did not seem to have time for the suffragettes. Maybe she should find out more about the movement and go along with Mary to one of the meetings? It would be exciting to see those well-dressed women chaining themselves up and addressing large gatherings.

‘I’ll bring the leaflets in termorrer,’ Mary said as they leaned against the trolley to catch their breath. ‘I’ve got loads of ’em. ’Ere, by the way, Carrie, fancy comin’ wiv me this dinner time? I’ve promised ter put a poster up outside the council depot.’

Carrie grinned. ‘All right. We won’t get arrested though, will we?’

Mary laughed. ‘Not if we’re quick!’

The morning seemed to pass slowly. When the factory whistle sounded at noon, the girls all trooped down to the ground floor where they sat in the yard to eat their lunch. Mary ate her thick brawn sandwich quickly and drank cold tea from a bottle. Carrie finished her cheese sandwich and gulped down the fresh, creamy milk she had bought on her way to work.

‘C’mon, Carrie, we’ll ’ave ter be quick,’ said her friend, getting up and pushing her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose.

The two slipped out of the factory and walked quickly towards the council depot. Outside the gates a few men were standing around, leaning against the railings and talking together. A few yards further on there was a large notice board fixed to the railings. When they reached it, Mary took a large poster from beneath her long coat. Without hesitating she tore down a notice of coming elections and spread out her notice in its place.

‘Hold yer ’and on the bottom of it, Carrie,’ she said, licking a strip of brown sticking-paper.

Carrie reached up to the high notice board and pressed her hand against the poster which read ‘Votes for Women’ in large black letters.

Mary was just fixing the last of the corners when they heard the loud voice behind them: ‘’Ello. Bit young fer this sort o’ fing, ain’t yer?’

The two girls turned to see a large policeman standing there with his hands tucked into his belt.

‘D’yer know this is council property?’ he said, looking at them quizzically.

Mary peered at him through her thick glasses. ‘We ain’t doin’ any ’arm,’ she said spiritedly.

‘Oh, is that so?’ the constable replied mockingly, rocking back on his heels. ‘D’yer know yer defacin’ a private notice board, apart from destroyin’ council property?’

‘We ain’t destroyed nuffink,’ Mary said, glancing quickly at Carrie.

‘What’s that then?’ the policeman said, pointing down at the torn poster at the girls’ feet.

‘That’s only an old poster. It ain’t nuffing important,’ Mary replied.

The constable raised his eyebrows. ‘That ’appens ter be an election notice. What ’ave yer got ter say about that, young lady?’

Mary’s face was flushed. She adjusted her spectacles and bravely replied, ‘Women should ’ave the vote. Shouldn’t they, Carrie?’

The Tanner girl nodded, wishing she had never agreed to go with Mary.

‘We was only puttin’ one little poster up,’ she said in a quiet voice, glancing coyly at the large guardian of the law.

The policeman took out his notebook and licked on the stub of a pencil. ‘Right then, let’s ’ave yer names an’ addresses.’

‘Freda ’opkins, an’ I live at number seventeen Salisbury Buildin’s, Salisbury Street,’ Mary answered without batting an eyelid.

The policeman looked at Carrie who was desperately trying to think of a name and address. ‘’Ave you got a name?’ he asked.

‘I’m, er, Agatha Brown,’ she said quickly, suddenly remembering the girl she most disliked at school.

‘D’yer live anywhere?’

‘’Undred an’ two Bacon Street Buildings,’ Carrie blurted out.

‘Right. Now I don’t wanna see you two under-aged suffragettes tearin’ down any more council posters, is that quite clear?’ the policeman said, giving the two a stern look. ‘An’ don’t go chainin’ yerselves ter the council railin’s in future, ’cos I might jus’ leave yer there all night.’

Mary nodded. Carrie merely stared up fixedly at the towering policeman.

‘All right then, on yer way,’ he said, holding back a grin.

The two young protesters left the scene of their misdemeanour and hurried back to the factory. Mary had a satisfied smile on her face. ‘That’s what yer gotta do when yer get caught puttin’ posters up, Carrie,’ she said firmly. ‘They don’t check up - ’ardly, anyway.’

Carrie’s heart was still beating fast. She glanced at Mary. ‘I ’ope they don’t! We could go ter prison fer givin’ the wrong names.’

‘That’s what we gotta be prepared ter do in the movement,’ Mary said proudly. ‘Lots o’ suffragettes go ter prison, an’ they carry on when they come out. I might ’ave ter go ter prison meself.’

Carrie felt worried as she listened to her workmate. The incident at the council depot had been a frightening experience and she felt she was still a bit young to get herself arrested for the cause. Mary did not seem a bit concerned, and was smiling with satisfaction as they walked back into the factory.

The men at the depot gates had dispersed but the policeman remained standing in a doorway opposite. He had watched the two young girls depart with a smile on his face. They would no doubt end up chaining themselves to railings, he thought. The one with the glasses seemed very determined. Maybe they had a genuine argument. His wife was always on about women having the right to vote. The policeman sighed and took out his notebook. Smiling wryly to himself, he tore out a page, screwed it up in his fist and dropped it into the gutter. He had had reason to visit Bacon Street Buildings many times and knew that the numbers only went up to sixty-four.

Geoffrey Galloway was busy sorting through the pile of papers on his desk. He felt depressed. He had bowed to his father’s wishes and gone into the business but it seemed a far cry from what he really wanted to do in life. The five years he had spent at the yard had taught him a lot, although he still had to rely on Will Tanner where practical matters were concerned. True, he had had a good education and the clerical side of the job posed no problems. The accounts too were easy to understand and Horace Gallagher handled that side of it competently enough, although the man seemed to be cracking up physically.

What troubled Geoffrey was handling problems with the carmen. He knew only too well that he lacked his father’s ruthlessness, and were it not for his yard foreman would have found himself hopelessly lost. William seemed able to keep the men’s grouses to a minimum and sort out the work without much trouble. The horses were always well groomed and fit for work, and the carts were maintained to a good standard. He had spoken to his father about getting in a couple of motor vans but the old man had been against it. He seemed to think horses would always have pride of place in the cartage business, and maybe he was right. Most of the firm’s business was done with local concerns and the journeys were of a short distance. A horse cart was more manoeuvrable in the tight lanes and on the wharf jetties, and with a pair of horses and one of the larger carts a considerable amount of tonnage could be transported.