Gaslight in Page Street (36 page)

Maisie nodded. ‘It’s nice ter see yer kids get on. My two’s doin’ well,’ she said. ‘Ronnie’s in a shippin’ office an’ Albert’s workin’ in Tooley Street fer a provision merchant’s. I’m glad they never went in the factories. That’s no life fer kids slavin’ away in those places.’

Florrie leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘I ’eard Galloway’s younger son got married. Sid Bristow’s wife told me. She said the girl sings in the music ’alls. ’E’s done well fer ’imself.’

‘That’s all right if they like that life,’ Aggie remarked. ‘Those music-’all people travel all over the country. I don’t s’pose the boy’s gonna like ’er gallivantin’ all over the place. I wouldn’t like it if my ole man was never ’ome.’

‘I can’t see your ole man singin’ on the stage,’ Nellie laughed. ‘Jus’ imagine, ’Arold the singin’ lamplighter.’

The friends’ conversation was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Betty Argent and Maudie Mycorft who nodded to the group as they walked up to the counter and ordered their drinks. Maisie noticed that the two looked rather quiet and leaned across the table. ‘Yer look a bit upset,’ she remarked. ‘Everyfing all right?’

Maudie pinched her chin with her thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s Betty’s ’usband,’ she said gravely.

‘Ain’t ’is bronchitis no better?’ Maisie asked.

Betty shook her head. ‘It ain’t that. ’E went back ter work last week an’ now ’e’s orf sick again.’

‘What’s the matter wiv ’im this time?’ Maisie rejoined.

‘’E’s come out all over in a rash. The doctor told ’im it’s the shock comin’ out,’ Mrs Argent told her.

‘What, the shock o’ goin’ back ter work?’ Florrie joked.

Betty pulled a face. ‘’Im an’ ’is gang was layin’ track down by Bermondsey Junction on Wednesday night an’ they come across this body. It’d bin ’it by a train by all accounts. Terrible mess it was in. My Dougie said it was prob’ly an ole tramp by the look of ’is clothes. ’E said the strangest fing was, although the clothes was in rags there was a watch-an’-chain on the body. Seems strange fer a tramp ter be wearin’ a watch-an’chain. ’

Late on Friday evening Jack Oxford left the little pub in Abbey Street and walked slowly towards the lodging-house near the spice wharves in Dockhead. The beds were tuppence dearer than those in Tooley Street but at least he could be assured of a reasonable night’s sleep, he told himself. The owner there did not allow gambling and noisy behaviour, and he had already barred Fatty Arbuckle from staying there after the incident of attempted boot-stealing. Jack had enjoyed a quiet few hours at the pub and had eaten a good supper.

Now he was feeling quite content as he made his way past the shadowy, deserted wharves. As he reached the lodging-house he saw a policeman standing outside the entrance and his heart missed a beat. There was no turning back now, he decided, trying to maintain a steady pace. Better to sweat it out.

Inside the lodging-house owner was talking earnestly with two men, and when he saw Jack called him into his office. ‘These two gentlemen are from the police. They wanna talk ter all my regular customers,’ he said.

The larger of the two detectives motioned towards a chair. ‘Sit yerself down,’ he said, taking a notepad from his inside pocket.

Jack struggled to keep calm as he settled his lanky frame on the seat. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked, feeling his mouth going dry.

‘Can we have your name first?’ the detective asked, eyeing him closely.

When Jack had told him, the other detective took over. ‘Do you lodge here regularly?’ he began. ‘Do you know any of the tramps who have been using this neighbourhood during the past few months?’

Jack nodded to the first question and shook his head to the second.

‘We’re trying to establish the identity of a tramp who was killed by a train at Bermondsey Junction,’ the officer told him. ‘The body was too mangled for us to get a picture done of him but we’ve got a description to go on. The man was about five foot seven and in his mid-thirties. He was dark-skinned and brown-eyed. His clothes were ragged and he wore a long black overcoat with a rotted flower in the buttonhole. The most unusual thing was that he was wearing a silver watch-and-chain. Have you ever seen anyone who looked like that, Mr Oxford?’

Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anybody like that,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t know anyfing about a watch-an’-chain. It’s nuffink ter do wiv me.’

The detective brought his face closer to the worried man’s. ‘Tell me, Mr Oxford, why are you getting so excited over a watch-and-chain? All I said was, the tramp was wearing a watch-and-chain. You seem nervous. Should you be?’

Jack looked around him in an attempt to gather his thoughts. ‘I’m tryin’ ter fink if I did see a tramp walkin’ about round ’ere,’ he faltered.

The detective glanced at his colleague. ‘Is there anything else you want to ask Mr Oxford?’

‘There is one thing puzzling me,’ the other officer remarked, and turned to Jack. ‘Why did you say it was nothing to do with you when the watch-and-chain was mentioned?’

‘I, er, I dunno. I thought yer might fink I give the watch ter the tramp,’ Jack stammered.

‘No, Mr Oxford. All we want to do is try to identify the victim. Put a name to him, that’s all - for the moment.’

Jack lowered his eyes and jumped noticeably as he felt the hand on his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Mr Oxford. We’re finished with the questions,’ the officer said.

After Jack had left the room the senior of the two officers turned to the lodging-house owner. ‘What do you know of him?’ he said, nodding towards the door.

‘’E’s ’armless enough,’ the owner told him. ‘Bin comin’ ’ere on an’ off fer years. ’E was stayin’ at a place in Tooley Street until it got a bit too noisy fer ’im an’ ’e started comin’ back ’ere. Noise upsets ’im, yer see. ’E got kicked in the ’ead by an ’orse an’ ’e’s bin a bit dopey ever since.’

Jack sat on his bed and tried to stop himself from shaking. Charlie was dead, he told himself, and it was his fault. If only he hadn’t chased him when he spotted him in St James’s Road. He should have left him when he ran up on to that railway embankment. The poor sod never stood a chance.

Jack shuddered as he recalled looking down on the mangled body. Miraculously the watch-and-chain was undamaged but he had not been able to bring himself to pick it up. It had caused Charlie to get killed and suddenly it no longer seemed important to return it to Mr Galloway. As he stood there in the cold staring at the watch-and-chain Jack had felt a sudden horrible fear, as if the thing might be alive.

He undressed and climbed into the cold bed, and for the first time in years did not bother to stand the legs of the bed over his boots.

Chapter Twenty-one

Carrie sat in the quietness of her tiny back bedroom and studied herself in the dressing-table mirror. She had scrubbed her face until it was glowing and then brushed out her long fair hair and set it up on top of her head, firmly securing it with pins and a wide tortoise-shell comb. She was wearing her best white linen blouse which buttoned high in the neck with a ruched turn-up collar, and had put on the long black satin skirt that her mother had made for her twenty-first birthday. It was cut tight at the waist and flared slightly from the knee down. Her shoes were of patent leather and canvas, buttoned up at the side and with small heels. Her mother had told her she should be wearing a stay bodice and Carrie had tried one on but could not endure the feeling of being squeezed breathless. She turned sideways and looked over her shoulder at her reflection. Her bosom did protrude. She smiled to herself as she pulled back her shoulders even more.

It had been an irritating time since she announced to her family that a young man was going to call on her. Her mother had questioned her about the lad and offered advice on the dos and don’ts and the pitfalls of letting a young man go too far. James had leaned back in the chair with his thumbs hooked into his braces and embarrassed her with his mocking smile and his comment about the likelihood of her beau having horse dung on his boots when he called. Charlie had had little to say apart from being curious about what the young man looked like, and Danny, who was preoccupied with the local boys’ club, had said even less. Her father had looked worried when she told him she was going to the South London Music Hall and warned her that the Elephant and Castle could be a rough place on a Saturday night.

Carrie glanced at the loudly ticking alarm clock on the chair beside the bed and adjusted the collar of her blouse. Tommy would be calling soon. Her stomach turned over as she gathered up her cape and white gloves. At least the boys were out of the house, Carrie thought as she took a last look at herself in the mirror before going out into the parlour.

Her parents looked up as she entered the room and Nellie got up from her chair. ‘Twirl round, let’s see ’ow that skirt’s ’angin’,’ she said.

William put down his paper and watched them fussing over the hem of the skirt and the tiny strand of cotton that was hanging down. How alike they were, he thought. They were both endowed with well-rounded figures and long fair hair that reminded him of new straw. They both had pale blue eyes and lips that traced a saucy curve, and when Carrie twirled around with her hands held out and her face flushed with excitement William felt a lump rising in his throat. She was a pretty thing, he owned with a bittersweet feeling. She was young and full of vitality, ready to be courted and eager to make her way in life, but how soon would it be before she was bowed beneath the burden of children and prematurely aged by the constant struggle to make ends meet? Nellie had been fortunate in that he had been in regular work over the years. She still had her looks and beauty. Would Carrie fare as well?

The loud knock on the front door roused William from his troubled thoughts and he smiled at his daughter’s reaction as she gathered up her cape and gloves and hurried from the room.

The air was mild and the evening sky suffused with a glorious shade of gold as the two young people walked quickly along Page Street. Tommy wore a brown single-breasted suit with the buttons undone to show off his waistcoat and silver chain, and his brown boots were brightly polished. Her wore brass and enamel cufflinks in his turnback shirt-cuffs, and the white, starched collar of his shirt had rounded peaks which smartly set off the wide-knotted grey tie that was secured in place with a small pin. His dark wavy hair was neatly combed into a quiff over one eye and he walked along proudly, rolling his shoulders in a confident manner, his lips curled in a smile as he offered Carrie his arm. She laid her hand lightly on his jacket and looked directly ahead as she spotted Florrie Axford at her front door. People were talking on their doorsteps, and as they cast glances in her direction Carrie felt her face redden. Tommy was looking about him as though enjoying the casual curiosity and smiled at the women as he passed them.

It was after they had left the street and turned into Jamaica Road that he turned to her. ‘Yer look very nice,’ he said.

Carrie let her eyes glance quickly up and down to appraise him and gave him a big smile in return. ‘Yer look very smart too,’ she replied demurely.

Tommy’s face became serious as he leaned his head towards her slightly. ‘If yer smell a funny pong don’t worry, it’s the moth-balls,’ he said with a grave expression. ‘My ole mum always puts ’em in me suit when she pawns it.’ His face suddenly broke into a wide grin. ‘It’s all right, I’m only jossin’ yer. It’s bin weeks since she pawned it.’

Carrie squeezed his arm playfully as she caught the mischievous look in his large dark eyes. He was certainly a handsome young man, she thought, and very sure of himself too. ‘Whereabouts d’yer live?’ she asked him, trying to start a conversation.

‘St James’s Road, near John Bull Arch,’ he told her. ‘Me an’ me ole mum live in one o’ those ’ouses facin’ the shops.’

‘What about yer farvver?’ Carrie asked.

Tommy shrugged his shoulders. ‘I never knew ’im. ’E left years ago. When we was all little. All me bruvs an’ sisters are married, there’s jus’ me at ’ome. I sort o’ look after the ole gel. She’s gettin’ on a bit now.’

‘’Ave yer always bin a carman?’ Carrie asked.

Tommy smiled. ‘I started work in a sausage factory in Dock’ead an’ I flitted in an’ out o’ factory work till I was seventeen. By that time I couldn’t take anuvver job in a factory so I got a job on the brewery as a cart boy. That’s where I learned ter drive a team of ’orses. I’ve bin a carman ever since. Well, that’s my life story, what about you?’

‘I worked in a leavver factory until I got put off, then I got the café job,’ she replied.

‘’Ow comes yer got mixed up wiv the suffragettes?’ he asked.

‘There was a gel who worked at the factory an’ she was always goin’ on marches an’ she was always askin’ me ter go wiv ’er. In the end I went on one o’ the marches an’ it sort o’ grew on me. I could see the sense in what the women were campaignin’ for an’ I wanted ter be a part of it.’

They had reached the tram stop and Tommy leaned against the post. ‘I always thought it was those upper-class women who done all the protestin’ an’ gettin’ ’emselves chained ter railin’s.’

‘Those women usually organise the meetin’s, but there’s loads o’ workin’-class gels who march,’ Carrie informed him.

‘You’ve never chained yerself ter railin’s, ’ave yer?’ he asked her, smiling broadly.

Carrie shook her head. ‘I’ve bin on meetin’s an’ marches that got really rough, though.’