Gaslight in Page Street (72 page)

‘Yer mustn’t blame yerself, Mum,’ Carrie implored her. ‘We’ll never know what really ’appened ter Josephine. An’ if anyone’s ter blame,’ she added fiercely, ‘it’s that evil stinking bastard Galloway, not you.’

Nellie dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’ve carried this cross all these years fer yer farvver’s sake,’ she sobbed. ‘’E’s a lovely man an’ I could never bring meself ter tell ’im.’

‘Ain’t Galloway ever shown any remorse fer what ’e done?’ Carrie asked angrily.

Nellie nodded. ‘’E offered me money but I refused. We’ve always ’ad ter scrape an’ scheme ter live, an’ yer farvver would ’ave found out if I suddenly ’ad extra money ter play wiv. Besides, I’d ’ave felt like a common whore takin’ Galloway’s money. Yer farvver mus’ never know,’ she pleaded. ‘Promise me, Carrie. It’d kill ’im, the way ’e is.’

Carrie felt herself breaking into sobs as she hugged her mother and kissed her forehead. ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she said as tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I won’t tell Dad.’

Chapter Forty-three

On the last Saturday evening in January the Page Street women together with Nellie and Carrie all marched up to the Crown public house at Dockhead.

Sadie grabbed the arm of an elderly man who was going in the pub and said, ‘Oi, you, tell the guv’nor ’e’s wanted outside.’

The startled man nodded and hurried into the bar. Soon Don McBain came out and faced the determined women. ‘Sorry, ladies, it’s fer men only,’ he smiled. ‘Get yer men ter place yer bets fer yer.’

Florrie put her hands on her hips and glared at the publican. ‘It’s ’er boy who’s fightin’,’ she told him, nodding her head towards Nellie. ‘We’re gonna cheer ’im on so yer’d better let us in.’

McBain shook his head. ‘Sorry, gels, I can’t,’ he replied, turning on his heel.

Sadie grabbed him by the arm. ‘Now listen ’ere, you,’ she growled. ‘We know the brewery don’t know about these fights yer put on, an’ nor do the coppers, but they soon will if yer don’t let us in. We might even tell the local papers as well. I should fink they’d be interested, wouldn’t you, Flo?’

Florrie nodded her head vigorously. ‘That’s fer sure.’

McBain sighed in resignation. ‘All right, go through the back door,’ he said wearily, ‘but no screamin’ an’ ’ollerin’, an’ keep yer traps shut, all right?’

Meanwhile in the bar Soapy Symonds and Sharkey Morris were standing close to a few of the bookies’ runners and chatting noisily.

‘’Ow the bloody ’ell is the boy expected ter do any good when ’e’s only got one good eye?’ Soapy puffed. ‘It ain’t as though ’e’s up against any ole fighter. That Jake Mitchell’s an experienced bloke, an’ jus’ look at ’is record. Nah, I can’t see the boy lastin’ two rounds wiv ’im.’

‘Wassa matter wiv ’is eye then?’ Sharkey asked in a loud voice.

‘Well, accordin’ ter Florrie the boy got gassed in France,’ Soapy replied, sipping his beer and glancing quickly around the bar. ‘’E was blinded fer a time, by all accounts. ’Is left eye’s ruined. Mustard gas ruins yer eyes, yer know. Florrie said Danny’s muvver told ’er about ’im bein’ ’alf blind. Yer know what a nosy ole cow Florrie is. She gets ter ’ear about everyfing.’

‘Well, I’m glad yer told me,’ Sharkey said, banging down his empty glass on the table. ‘I fink I’ll save me money.’

‘Anuvver fing, that gas affects yer chest,’ Soapy went on. ‘Florrie reckons the boy should never be in the ring, what wiv ’is coughin’ an’ wheezin’.’

Florrie’s plan to raise the stakes in their favour had been executed to perfection. Now all that remained was for the bets to be placed.

The women filed into the large marquee and took their places on the wooden benches. Nellie felt her heart beating faster and bit on her bottom lip as she gazed at the roped arena. She could picture Danny lying there, cut and battered, with anxious people bending over him. She squeezed her daughter’s hand in hers. ‘Can yer see yer farvver?’

Carrie looked around and pointed. ‘There ’e is, Mum. ’E’s sittin’ next ter Joe Maitland.’

Nellie tried to stay calm as the master of ceremonies ducked under the ropes. She glanced across at the anxious face of her husband and he waved over to her reassuringly.

Florrie meanwhile had been placing the bets and she was looking very smug as she rejoined her friends. ‘Five ter one we got. That ugly git Mitchell is odds-on,’ she grinned.

‘What’s odds-on mean?’ Ida asked.

‘It means it ain’t werf wastin’ yer stakes,’ Florrie replied, still grinning widely.

Danny Tanner was announced to the spectators and as he strode behind Billy Sullivan towards the ring the Page Street women cheered loudly, ignoring the cat-calls and cries of derision from Mitchell’s supporters. Danny ducked under the ropes and stood quietly banging his fists together beneath the overcoat which was draped over his shoulders. Jake Mitchell’s entry was greeted with loud cheers from his cohort of fans. When he slipped off his wrap and walked into the centre of the ring to get his instructions from the referee, Nellie winced and turned to Carrie.

‘Jus’ look at the difference in size,’ she groaned. ‘That Mitchell looks twice as big as Danny.’

Carrie squeezed her mother’s arm. ‘Danny can look after ’imself, Ma,’ she said, trying to sound confident. ‘Besides Billy’s bin ’elpin ’im. ’E’ll be all right, yer’ll see.’

There was a sudden hush as the two contestants walked back to their respective corners, but as soon as the bell sounded a roar went up. Jake Mitchell moved towards Danny menacingly and started circling him slowly. His right fist shot out and caught Danny’s brow.

‘Oi, mind ’is eye!’ Mrs Bromsgrove shouted out, but her voice was drowned by the roar of the crowd.

Another right shot out and this time it caught Danny high on his head. Immediately Mitchell charged in, sensing he had his man reeling, but a straight left jab full in his face stopped him dead. Danny was moving around now, his body ducking and weaving and his feet shuffling lightly across the canvas-covered floor. Mitchell growled and charged in again, hoping to grab his opponent and use his head on Danny’s left eye, but as he came on he was rocked by a fusillade of blows. Billy Sullivan was screaming out for Danny to keep moving and the Page Street women were shouting at the tops of their voices. ‘Do ’im, Danny! Knock the ugly git out!’ Sadie screamed.

Carrie had felt no anxiety as she waited for the fight to begin, only a numbness. She had felt numb inside ever since that terrible day when she discovered her mother’s awful secret. Now as Danny punched his fist into Mitchell’s face, she jerked her shoulders forward as if she were there beside him, urging him on. She felt a cold hatred towards Galloway’s champion, as though he were Galloway himself. She did not hear the other voices around her as she rose to her feet with hatred in her eyes, screaming hoarsely, ‘Kill ’im, Danny! Kill ’im!’

Danny was pummelling Mitchell relentlessly with a series of heavy lefts and rights, and only the bell saved the heavier man. He staggered back to his corner and the crowd were quiet. Only the women were laughing and joking with each other.

For the next four rounds Mitchell took a terrible beating. Danny was lighter and fitter and he stayed out of reach of Mitchell’s swinging punches, dancing in to hammer lefts and rights into the carman’s bloodied face. The bell sounded for the end of the fifth round and by now most people in the marquee knew that the fight could not go on for much longer. Mitchell knew his strength was failing, and glanced over to where his sponsor was sitting. George Galloway sat impassively beside his son with his hands clasped over the silver knob of his walking-stick and did not meet his fighter’s eye.

Mitchell lasted another two rounds, his face cut and streaked with blood. By now everyone had stopped cheering. Nellie was ashen-faced. She alone had sat silent for the whole fight. She could no longer watch, preferring to gaze at the floor instead. Carrie had slumped back down beside her. Her own hatred had made her feel dirty, and every time Danny landed further blows on his opponent she winced.

Near the end of the eighth round Danny struck Mitchell with a wicked right-hand punch high on the head and the carman sagged down on the canvas. With a last supreme effort he rose on shaking legs but a barrage of heavy blows floored him again. This time he was counted out by the referee and dragged back to his stool.

Carrie felt physically sick at the sight of Mitchell’s face. She looked over to where William was sitting just in time to see him leaving. She had felt her compassion growing for the beaten fighter, but as she glanced over at Galloway’s bowed figure a smile came to her lips.

Danny left the ring to loud acclaim, and when Mitchell finally stood up from his stool and was assisted out of the ring the applause was almost as loud. Everyone present had been moved by the man’s courage in holding on for eight rounds against a much fitter and younger opponent. Even the Page Street women were generous to the man they had been ready to hate and stood up to clap him as he walked unsteadily from the marquee. George Galloway had turned his back on Mitchell and was talking to his son with a guarded expression on his florid face. Frank looked at him as if surprised and slowly shook his head as they walked slowly out of the marquee.

In a small room at the back of the pub Mitchell sat alone, plasters over one eye and across the bridge of his nose. Suddenly the door opened and George Galloway walked in.

‘’Ow d’yer feel, Jake?’ he asked, leaning heavily on his cane.

‘I’ve felt better,’ Mitchell replied, trying to grin through his swollen lips.

Galloway walked slowly across to a bare wooden table and leaned against it. ‘Yer met yer match ternight,’ he said without a trace of pity. ‘I warned yer, didn’t I? I told yer the booze would catch up wiv yer, but yer chose to ignore me. I told yer one day some young striplin’ would give yer a good pastin’. I’m only sorry it turned out ter be Tanner.’

Jake Mitchell winced as he felt the lump on his cheekbone. ‘I’m sorry, Guv’, if it cost yer ternight but yer gotta admit yer’ve done well in the past. I jus’ wasn’t meself,’ he said quickly.

Galloway smiled and looked down at his black patent boots. ‘Oh, I didn’t lose. My money was on the Tanner boy,’ he said with emphasis.

Mitchell looked up quickly, his bruised features rigid with shock. ‘Yer mean yer backed the ovver bloke?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘That’s right, I did,’ Galloway replied. ‘There was a bit o’ rumourmongerin’ goin’ on an’ it looked like somebody was out ter skin the bookies. I’ve lived round ’ere fer long enough. I know these people. There was a lot o’ confidence in the boy, so I placed me money accordingly. I got a good price on Tanner.’

Mitchell looked hard at his employer. ‘Yer knew that an’ yer didn’t fink ter warn me?’ he snarled. ‘Yer let me go in against the boy wivout a word o’ warnin’? What sort of a bloke are yer?’

‘I’m a businessman,’ Galloway replied pointedly. ‘I back winners, not losers. It’s why I’m where I am terday.’

The beaten fighter slumped back in his chair. ‘All right, so I lost ternight. There’ll be ovver times,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Not wiv me there won’t,’ Galloway said quickly. ‘All the young bucks’ll be linin’ up ter fight yer now, Jake. Take my tip, get yerself a steady job an’ ferget the booths an’ the pub circuits, or yer quite likely ter end up sellin’ papers like ’im up at Dock’ead.’

‘Yer mean yer sackin’ me?’ Mitchell said in a shocked voice.

George Galloway straightened and flicked at an imaginary object with his cane. ‘That’s right. There’s two weeks’ wages in there,’ he said, throwing an envelope on the table. ‘There’s yer cut o’ the purse money in there as well. Do yerself a favour, Jake, an’ jack the fightin’ in, before yer get ’urt bad.’

Mitchell watched dumbfounded as Galloway turned on his heels and walked out of the room. Slowly he stood up, holding his aching ribs as he reached out for the envelope. He was still counting the money when Billy Sullivan put his head round the door.

‘My bloke wants ter ’ave a word wiv yer, if it’s all right,’ he said.

Mitchell nodded as he pocketed the envelope. ‘Tell ’im ter come in.’

Danny Tanner walked in, followed by his father, and immediately held out his hand. ‘No grudges?’ he asked.

Mitchell smiled as he gripped the young man’s palm. ‘No grudges. Yer a good fighter. I reckon yer’ll go a long way,’ he said, sitting down heavily. ‘If yer take my advice, though, yer’ll get out while yer in one piece, before the likes o’ Galloway gets their ’ooks inter yer.’

Will Tanner stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘I gotta say yer got a lot o’ guts, Jake,’ he said. ‘Most would ’ave stayed on the floor but you didn’t.’

The battered fighter shook his hand and smiled painfully. ‘Fanks, mate. By the way, I’m lookin’ fer work as from Monday mornin’. If yer ’ear of anyfing, I’d be grateful fer a nod.’

‘Yer mean Galloway sacked yer, jus’ ’cos yer lost?’ William asked him in a shocked voice.

Mitchell nodded. ‘It seems ’e only backs winners.’

William leant against the wall and looked intently at Mitchell. ‘Tell me straight, Jake. What’s yer feelin’s terwards Galloway now?’ he asked quietly.

Mitchell spat, ‘As far as I’m concerned, ’e can rot in ’ell.’

‘Will yer do me a favour before yer go ’ome? Will yer ’ave a word wiv a pal o’ mine?’ asked William.

Mitchell nodded. ‘Why not?’