Gaslight in Page Street (54 page)

‘I fink I’ll stay single,’ Carrie said, laughing.

‘That won’t stop yer gettin’ pregnant,’ Freda replied. ‘I can vouch fer that. The only way is ter give up men altergevver an’ do what Mary does - ’ave a woman fer a lover.’

The friends finally left the café and strolled through the rose gardens, walking in a slow circle and arriving back to where the path led down towards the gates. They gazed down at the afternoon sunlight reflecting on the quiet river below them, beyond the classical white walls of the Royal Naval School. The air was fresh and Carrie breathed deeply as she stood with her two workmates on the brow of the hill. How different it was from the suffocating closeness of the little backstreets with their dilapidated houses and tenement blocks. They set off slowly, walking down the hill towards the faint sound of the early evening traffic, and Freda began coughing again.

In late summer Page Street’s first war casualty was back home after being disabled in the Somme offensive. Billy Sullivan sat at his front door in the warm afternoon sunshine, his shoulders hunched from the shrapnel wound in his chest and his breathing laboured. Danny Tanner sat with him, saddened to see his idol looking so unwell, and doing his best to cheer him up.

‘Yer’ll soon be fit as a fiddle, Billy,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Pedlar Palmer’ll ’ave ter watch out then. You’ll beat ’im easy.’

‘I’ve ’ad me last fight, Danny ole son,’ Billy replied, grimacing. ‘Yer need all yer wind in the ring. I can’t even get up the stairs wivout puffin’.’

‘Yer’ll get better, don’t worry,’ Danny said quickly, trying to reassure him. ‘The war won’t last ferever an’ then yer’ll be back in that ring knockin’ ’em all out. I can be yer second if yer like. We’ll make a good team, you an’ me.’

Billy smiled cynically. ‘I wish now I ’adn’t bin so bloody keen ter get in the war,’ he muttered. ‘It seemed like it was a big adventure we was goin’ on. I remember when I signed on - the band was playin’ an’ all the blokes were laughin’ an’ jokin’, sayin’ what they was gonna do when they got out there. Everybody was clappin’ an’ cheerin’ us, an’ givin’ us fags. It was the same all the way ter the recruitin’ office. They’re not laughin’ now, none of them. There’s no bands playin’ an’ nobody’s rushin’ ter join up. They’ve all got more bloody sense.’

Danny looked into his friend’s faded blue eyes. ‘Well, yer out of it now, Billy. Yer’ll get fit again soon an’ back in that ring, jus’ wait an’ see,’ he coaxed.

Billy shook his head sadly. ‘I’m never gonna put a pair o’ gloves on again,’ he said, his voice faltering. ‘It’s up ter you now, mate. Jus’ remember what I told yer: keep those fists up an’ stay light on yer feet. Do as the trainer tells yer an’ train ’ard. Who knows? One day we might ’ave a national champion in Page Street after all.’

Danny’s face became serious. ‘Yer’ll always be the champion as far as I’m concerned, Billy,’ he said staunchly. ‘As fer me, boxin’s gonna ’ave ter wait till the war’s over. I signed on terday.’

The autumn days were growing shorter, with chill winds heralding a cold winter as more troop trains rolled in to Waterloo Station, full of veterans from the long campaign. Many young men having experienced the horrors of trench warfare in winter-time were filled with dread at the possibility of another spell at the front in bitter weather. One young soldier who became too terrified to return was Percy Jones from Page Street. When his short leave was over he did not catch his allotted train. Instead he walked into the Kings Arms and got drunk. That night he slept like a baby. The next morning he got up and strolled down to the quayside and watched the ships being unloaded and the barges being brought upriver. Percy tried to forget the mud and blood of the battlefields and the comrades he had lost. As he gazed at the river, he remembered how carefree and happy his childhood had been. He sat for hours at the dockside, recalling the times he and his friends had climbed down into the barges in search of coconut husks. Then he took a long stroll to London Bridge and over the river to Billingsgate. Percy smiled as he walked the greasy wet cobbles and saw the last of the fish vans leaving. As a lad he had strolled through that market much earlier in the day, and often taken home haddock or mackerel or sometimes a large plaice, depending on what was available and how close to it the market policeman was. Next morning he would get up early and stroll through the market while it was busy, he promised himself.

That evening Percy Jones put on his threadbare suit, clumsily knotted his red silk scarf around his neck and pulled on his highly polished boots, giggling as he realised that he had them on the wrong feet. Maggie Jones was near to tears as she confronted her son, but he did not seem to understand why.

‘If yer don’t intend ter go back orf leave, why don’t yer go an’ stay wiv yer sister down in Surrey?’ she suggested to him anxiously. ‘They’ll be comin’ fer yer soon, Perce, an’ they’ll frogmarch yer out o’ the street. They done it ter Mrs Wallis’s boy. Gawd, I wish yer farvver was still alive. ’E’d know what ter do.’

Percy shrugged his shoulders as he walked out of the house. He wondered what his mother might mean and suddenly felt lonely and lost, a young lad whose friends had all gone away. Why would they come for him? he thought as he entered the Kings Arms and ordered a pint of ale.

The public bar was filled with smoke and an accordionist was standing beside the piano playing ‘Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?’ People were singing loudly and Alec Crossley was busy pulling pints.

Grace Crossley had spotted Percy Jones sitting alone and she nudged her husband. ‘’Ere, Alec, I’ve bin watchin’ that Percy. I wonder if ’e’s all right? ’E looks sort o’ funny,’ she remarked.

‘What d’yer mean, funny?’ he asked her. ‘’E looks all right ter me.’

Grace scratched her head thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure ’e was due back on Thursday,’ she recalled, ‘at least that’s what ’is muvver told me.’

‘P’raps ’e’s got an extension,’ Alec suggested.

‘I dunno,’ Grace said. ‘Maybe ’e’s deserted. Mind yer, I wouldn’t blame ’im if ’e ’as. Poor sod looks shell-shocked ter me.’

‘’Ow d’yer know what shell-shock looks like?’ Alec laughed.

‘I see Mrs Goodall’s boy, an’ that young Johnnie Ogden from Bacon Street. They was both shell-shocked,’ Grace replied indignantly. ‘Mrs Goodall told me ’erself. She told me about Johnnie Ogden too. Percy’s got that same funny look on ’is face.’

‘Percy’s always ’ad a funny look on ’is face,’ Alec chuckled. ‘I fink it runs in the family. Maggie Jones always seems ter be vacant when yer see ’er in the street.’

The pub door suddenly opened and Fred Dougall came in. He stood looking around the bar for a few moments, and when he spotted the young man hurried over to him.

‘The army’s bangin’ on yer door, Percy,’ he whispered. ‘There’s a couple o’ coppers wiv ’em an’ there’s a Black Maria outside yer ’ouse as well.’

‘Fanks, Fred. I’ll go out in a minute,’ he said calmly.

Alec and Grace Crossley were gazing out through the windows and people were gathering in the street as Percy pulled his cap down over the top of his ears and strolled out of the Kings Arms. He shuffled calmly up to a military policeman sitting at the wheel of a car and gave him his special cross-eyed stare as he climbed in next to him. Percy had been doing that stare for years to make his friends laugh. He made one of his eyes turn so far inward that the pupil almost disappeared. The military policeman rounded on him angrily. ‘Oi! Get out this motor, yer stupid git,’ he growled.

Percy looked appealingly at the soldier. ‘Gis a ride, mister,’ he said.

‘If yer don’t get out o’ this motor, I’ll knock yer bloody ’ead orf yer shoulders,’ the soldier snarled, leaning towards him threateningly.

‘I only wanted a ride,’ Percy moaned, climbing out of the vehicle.

Mrs Jones was standing at her front door, having suffered the indignity of seeing her whole house being searched. As she spotted her son standing beside the army car, she nearly fainted on her doorstep.

‘We’ll be back,’ a policeman told her as he strode out of her house. ‘If yer son does show up, tell ’im ter give ’imself up straight away. The longer ’e overstays ’is leave, the worse it’s gonna be fer ’im when we do catch ’im.’

Percy stepped back to let the other military policeman get into the vehicle, giving him one of his best stares and saluting eagerly. When they had left he grinned widely at his mother and walked calmly back into the pub.

On a chill Sunday morning in September as the church bells were calling people to worship, Nora Flynn put on her hat and coat and smiled to herself. She always looked forward to the morning service at St James’s Church and particularly enjoyed the sermons given by the new minister. He was a fiery orator and the sound of his deep, cultured voice resounding throughout the lofty stone building filled her with a sense of calm. It was there too that she met her old friends and chatted with them after the service as they walked together through the well-tended gardens.

Nora Flynn did not attend that morning service, however, for as she came down the stairs there was a loud knocking on the front door and she was confronted by an elderly army officer who brought the tragic news that Lieutenant Geoffrey Galloway had been killed on the Somme.

Chapter Thirty-two

Throughout the cold winter months the curtains at number 22 Tyburn Square remained drawn. The draughty house had become almost like a mausoleum, with guarded voices speaking in whispers and footsteps sounding strangely loud in the silent rooms. Nora tried her best to comfort George in his grief and was saddened to see how the tragedy aged him. He had lost his upright posture and stooped as he trudged around, a shadow of his former self. Since the fateful Sunday in September, his eyes had grown more heavy-lidded and bleary with the amount of whisky he was drinking, and his hair had become totally grey. The running of the business had been left to Frank. The only time George left the house was late at night when he drove his trap through the gaslit streets down to the river, where he would sit watching the tide turn and the mists roll in.

When she had recovered from the first shock of Geoffrey’s death Nora realised she had a painful duty to perform. Mary O’Reilly would have to be told. Nora’s eyes filled with tears as she went to the sideboard drawer and took out the slip of paper from inside her family bible. She remembered Geoffrey joking with her when he gave her his lady-friend’s address for safekeeping in case anything should happen to him. ‘Put it in your bible, Nora,’ he had said laughing. ‘Father won’t find it there, that’s for sure.’

Geoffrey had told her that his lady-friend’s husband was always out of the house during the day, so on Tuesday morning Nora boarded a tram to Rotherhithe and then walked through the little backstreets to Mary O’Reilly’s home near the river. It was a three-storey house at the end of a narrow lane and Nora bit on her lip with dread as she climbed the four steps and knocked timidly on the front door.

As soon as Mary opened the door she recognised Nora and her mouth sagged opened. ‘Oh no! Not Geoff?’ she gasped.

Nora nodded slowly, reaching out her hand to clasp the young woman’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry. I had to come,’ she said softly. ‘I felt I ’ad ter tell yer. They told us last Sunday mornin’.’

Mary closed her eyes tightly and swayed backwards, and as Nora took her by the arms she rested her head against the housekeeper’s shoulder. ‘I was dreadin’ this,’ she sobbed. ‘I knew it was gonna ’appen some day.’

Nora helped the young woman into her cluttered parlour and made her sit down in an armchair. Mary was shaking with shock and she leant against the edge of the chair, clutching a handkerchief tightly in her shaking hands.

Nora had noticed Mary’s condition. She put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Is it Geoffrey’s?’ she asked, knowing the answer already.

Mary nodded. ‘I wrote an’ told ’im. I’ve got ’is last letter in the drawer. Geoff was gonna tell ’is father about us an’ the baby as soon as ’e got ’ome. Now ’e’ll never see ’is child,’ she sobbed.

Nora made the distraught young woman a cup of strong tea, and when she saw that Mary had composed herself sufficiently she asked her, ‘Does yer ’usband know it’s not ’is?’

Mary laughed bitterly. ‘We’ve not slept tergevver fer months. I couldn’t put off tellin’ ’im an’ as soon as I did ’e walked out. I couldn’t blame ’im, Nora,’ she sobbed. ‘’E was a good man despite everyfing, but ’e’s got ’is pride. I expected ’im ter give me a good ’idin’, or at least tell me what a slut I was, but ’e didn’t. ’E didn’t say anyfing. ’E jus’ left wivout a word. Oh Gawd! I jus’ want ter die.’

Nora bent down and gripped Mary’s hands in hers. ‘Now listen ter me,’ she said firmly. ‘Yer got a duty ter look after yerself fer the baby’s sake. Young Geoffrey would ’ave bin so proud, ’specially if it’s a boy. Yer gotta go an’ see Geoff’s farvver soon as the baby’s born. ’E’ll be able ter provide fer both o’ yer.’

Mary looked up at her visitor, her eyes red with crying. ‘I won’t take charity. I’ll manage some’ow,’ she said forcefully.

Nora patted the young woman’s hand. ‘Yer must tell George Galloway,’ she urged her. ‘Wait till the time’s ripe an’ go an’ see ’im, Mary. Yer’ll need all the ’elp yer can get. Bring Geoff’s letter wiv yer, the ole man’ll ’ave ter believe yer then.’

As Nora left the drab house in the lane by the river she felt the cold biting into her bones. She hoped the young woman would see sense and go to Galloway, but there had been something in her eyes that told Nora otherwise.