Gaslight in Page Street (32 page)

Sharkey grinned widely. ‘Much better than workin’ fer that ole git Galloway,’ he replied. ‘I feel sorry fer yer farvver ’avin’ ter put up wiv ’is bloody moanin’. When yer see ’im, tell ’im there’s always the chance of a job on our firm. I’ve already spoke fer me ole mate Soapy.’

A line was forming and Carrie quickly had to get back on with serving tea and taking orders. When she finally sat down in the back room to eat her dinner at one-thirty, she realised that she had been on her feet attending to customers non-stop since eight o’clock that morning.

Two months later Fred Bradley called his young worker into the back room just as she was leaving at the end of the day and told her that he was making her money up to one guinea a week. Carrie felt gratified. She liked Fred and had settled into the job and was now a firm favourite with the customers. Sharkey Morris had passed the word to his fellow carmen about the coffee shop in Cotton Lane. He told them they served large toasted tea-cakes and bacon sandwiches made with new crusty bread and mugs of strong tea for tuppence. He also warned them that he was keeping an eye on the nice young girl who worked there.

Things at the Galloway yard were quiet during the cold winter months. Soapy Symonds kept himself out of trouble while he waited to get the word from Sharkey, and Sid Bristow, the other long-serving carman, got on with his work and wondered when his turn would come to be sacked. Four other carmen were employed by Galloway on a casual basis, and William Tanner was becoming more than a little depressed and unsure of his future at the yard as he got on with his job of keeping the horses fit and the carts in good repair. He had, however, been successful in gaining the confidence of the gelding. It was now established in the trap and Galloway was stabling the animal at the ostler’s behind Tyburn Square.

Carrie missed going with her father to the yard at weekends to feed and tend the animal but Jack Oxford was secretly pleased. He had never taken to the ‘bay devil’, as he called it, and whenever George Galloway brought the horse into the yard, Jack kept out of its way. The yard man had another reason for feeling pleased that the horse was no longer stabled there. The doss-house he frequented now played host to a group of Irish labourers who were employed on building the new railway, and they often came in at night the worse for drink and sat playing cards until very late. The labourers were paid on Fridays and on these nights Jack often felt driven to forsake his lodging-house for the peace and quiet of the Galloway stables. Getting into the yard was no problem. He had previously loosened one of the long planks in the fence that backed on to the rear alley, and with some manoeuvring found he could squeeze in and out. Jack’s favourite place to sleep was the small stable at the far end of the yard. Straw bales were stored there and they provided a comfortable bed. It was also much cleaner than the chaff loft.

One cold Friday evening Jack Oxford sat in the public bar of a pub in Abbey Street, moodily contemplating his pint of porter. His thoughts drifted back to the little place along the street where he had spent a few happy months before the man of the house’s unexpected return. The few pints he had already consumed made him feel depressed and he yearned for company and a quiet chat. The public bar was beginning to fill with Irishmen from the railway workings, obviously in a jolly mood. As they became more inebriated their voices rose and they began to sing patriotic songs. A group of elderly gents started up with their own version of a cockney song and Jack decided it was time to leave.

The night mist was thickening as he ambled along Abbey Street and suddenly remembered the time he had dashed along the same route without his boots. The memory of that night led Jack to think about those old friends whose fire he had shared, and he decided it might be nice to pay them a visit. They were always good for a chat, he thought as he turned into Druid Street and made his way under the arches. He soon saw the glow of the brazier and the huddled figures, and as he approached he recognised the bearded figure of Bernie the exschoolteacher. Harold was there, too, and Moishie. The other figure was a stranger. It was he who waved for Jack to join them. ‘Sit yerself down, friend,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘We’re short of wood ternight but the fire’ll last a while yet.’

Jack sat down on an upturned beer crate and held his hands out to the fire. ‘I come fer a chat,’ he said, looking around at the group.

Bernie stroked his beard. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, my friend,’ he said. ‘Convivial company and cultured conversation can be guaranteed. It’s money we’re short on.’

Moishie poked at the fire with a stick. ‘I wish I ’ad the price of a good bed ternight,’ he grumbled. ‘When this fire goes out, it’s gonna be bloody cold ’ere.’

Bernie chuckled. ‘ “It was cold, bloody cold, in Elsinore.”’

‘What’s ’e talkin’ about?’ Moishie asked.

‘Search me,’ Harold said, taking a swig from a quart bottle of ale.

‘
Hamlet
. I saw it once at the Old Vic. Marvellous performance,’ Bernie declared. ‘Sir Seymour Hicks played Hamlet, or was it John Whitehead?’

‘I’d sooner a night at the Star Music ’All meself,’ Harold said, taking another swig from the bottle. “I’ve seen some luvverly shows up there. I remember one night they put on a show called “The Gels from Gottenburg”. Smashin’ songs. Brought tears ter yer eyes, some of ’em.’

Jack took the bottle from Harold and put it to his lips. The beer he had already drunk and the cold night air were making him feel a little light-headed. He burped loudly.

Harold was studying him closely. ‘I thought yer’d be tucked up at the doss-’ouse on a cold night like this,’ he remarked as he took the bottle back.

Jack shook his head. ‘Fridays are bad nights at the kip’ouse. I try ter stay away from there then. I’ve got meself a nice little nook ter kip down in,’ he said, touching the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘It’s quiet an’ there’s nobody ter disturb yer.’

‘Do they take guests?’ Bernie asked, pulling his tattered overcoat collar tighter around his neck.

Jack gazed at the flames. He had shared their fires before, and their refreshments, he conceded. Maybe he could repay the compliment. It would be a friendly thing to do. ‘I might be able ter get yer in,’ he replied. ‘Yer’ll ’ave ter be quiet, though. It’s private property.’

When the last plank had burned through and the flames died to glowing embers, Harold drained the bottle of ale. ‘Shall we go, gents?’ he said, burping. ‘Anywhere’ll be better than this arch wivout a fire ter keep us warm. The wind fair cuts frew ’ere.’

‘Lead on, Macduff,’ Bernie said, rising from his egg crate and buttoning up his overcoat.

Moishie and Harold got up and Bernie motioned to the stranger.

‘C’mon, Charlie. One for all and all for one.’

Jack led the way out from the arch with the motley group following on his heels. Harold was bent over, his overcoat dangling along the ground. At his side was the tall figure of Moishie with a filthy bowler perched on the top of his head and a ragged overcoat reaching down to worn-out boots. Behind them came Bernie who was stroking his large black beard and holding on to a bundle of rags. Next to him was Charlie who looked the scruffiest of the lot. His overcoat was tied with string and his stubbly face was blackened by smoke from the fire. On his head was a grease-stained trilby that was pulled down around his ears, and in his lapel he wore a dead flower.

The group marched along into Abbey Street and out into Jamaica Road, ignoring the stares of passers-by. As he strode along at their head, Jack was feeling good. He had friends and they were going to be treated to a good night’s sleep. Maybe he could stand them supper, he thought. After all, they were his friends. Jack delved into his pocket and took out a handful of coppers. There was enough for three large pieces of cod and chips, he estimated.

Alf Rossi was shovelling more fried chips into the container above the fryer when he saw the party stop outside his shop. ‘It’s that idiot from Galloway’s yard, Rosie,’ he scowled. ‘’E’s got ’is family wiv ’im.’

‘I’m not ’avin’ that lot in my shop,’ Rosie shouted to her husband. ‘Tell ’em ter piss orf.’

Alf was spared the unpleasant task for Jack held up his hands signalling his friends to wait, and then swaggered into the shop alone. ‘I want three pieces o’ cod an’ chips,’ he announced. ‘Nice big pieces if yer don’t mind, Alf.’

‘Cod’s orf,’ Alf told him. ‘’Addock or skate?’

‘’Addock. Big pieces,’ Jack said, counting out his coppers.

‘Who’s that lot out there?’ Alf asked as he wrapped the portions in newspaper. ‘Looks like the ’ole family.’

‘They’re me pals,’ Jack replied proudly, taking the packets and laying them in a line on the counter.

Alf and Rosie exchanged glances and Alf raised his eyes to the ceiling as the yard man opened the wrappings slowly and sprinkled the food with salt, pepper, and a liberal amount of spiced vinegar. ‘Anyfing else yer want?’ he said sarcastically as Jack re-wrapped the fish and chips.

‘Got any ’a’penny wallies?’

Rosie put her hand into a large jar and took out two small pickled cucumbers. ‘’Ere, yer can ’ave these. Now yer better get goin’, before that food gets cold,’ she said impatiently.

The tattered wayfarers crossed the quiet Jamaica Road in a line and hurried along to Page Street. Jack was holding the bundles of food to his chest and his friends followed on closely, their nostrils twitching at the appetising aroma. It was dark along the turning, with only the gas lamp on the bend spreading a dull light on the pavement below. As the group shambled round the corner by the yard gates and emerged into the faint circle of light, Jack put his finger up to his mouth. ‘That’s the place,’ he whispered. ‘We get in round the back.’

Moishie’s feet were hurting and he tutted as they trudged along to the end of the road and turned left into Bacon Street, while Bernie pulled on his beard as he relished the thought of the fish and chip supper they would soon be enjoying. Just past the buildings Jack ducked into the alley with the ragged gang shuffling in his wake, and after tripping and staggering over old bits of iron and bundles of rubbish they finally reached the fence at the back of Galloway’s yard. ‘’Ere we are at last,’ Jack grinned, handing Bernie the parcels while he grappled with the loose planking. Suddenly a dustbin lid clattered to the ground and they heard a loud caterwauling. A window in the buildings was thrown up and an object clattered down into the alley, then it became quiet once more.

Jack and his friends had soon settled themselves in the cosy stable. They sat in a circle with their backs propped against the straw bales. A paraffin lamp was hanging from the centre post and by its flickering light Jack halved two pieces of the fish and tore up the newspaper into sections. Soon they were all wolfing down their supper. Bernie took out a dirty penknife and wiped it on his sleeve before delicately cutting the cucumbers into small pieces. ‘It’s times like this when all’s right with the world,’ he sighed, spearing a piece of cucumber with his knife. ‘All good friends together, or as the song goes, “All good pals and jolly fine company”.’

Jack sighed contentedly. It was nice to have company, he reflected. They were good friends, and like him all lonely souls. They spent their days wandering the streets, scrounging bits and pieces, and their nights sleeping under the arches or on park benches when the weather was kind. As he stretched out against the straw, drowsy from the beer and hot food, it seemed to Jack that in the end the simple pleasures of life were all that really mattered.

A full moon shone down on the cobbled yard and in the long shadows the hunched figure made no sound as he tiptoed past the cart-shed and reached the office door. In the old days Charlie had earned his living by stealth. He had once bragged that he could walk over broken glass without making a sound, and had lost none of his guile. He had had to wait until his companions were fast asleep but he was not bothered. He had all the time in the world.

Charlie Hawkins had guessed right. The office door was not locked. There was no need for it to be, since the yard was secured by the main gate. Very carefully he let himself into the dark office and looked around. For a few moments he stood there silently until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He could see two roll-top desks, one near the door and one in the far corner. The first produced nothing, but when he gently slid up the slatting of the far desk he saw the silver watch hanging by its chain from a nail. Charlie sat down at the desk and took out the crumpled newspaper bundle from his overcoat pocket.

While he finished off the few chips he had saved and picked at the haddock bone, he studied the watch. That would bring in a few bob, he thought. He screwed up the newspaper and put it down on the desktop while he examined the silver chain. The links felt heavy and in the darkness Charlie’s fingers closed around the small medallion. He grinned to himself as he slipped the watch and chain into his overcoat and turned his attention to the small desk drawers. He could find nothing of value, and as he was about to gather up the screwed-up newspaper he heard someone at the front gate. He quickly slid the shutter down over the desk and crept silently to the window. For a few moments it was quiet, then the gate rattled again and the sound of drunken singing carried into the yard. Charlie breathed easier as the staggering footsteps faded away, and when he was satisfied that all was quiet once more he slipped out of the office and hurried back to the small stable.