The Girl from Cotton Lane (44 page)

‘We gotta push fer it, d’yer ’ear me, Frank?’ he growled. ‘Yer know very well I went after that piece o’ land five years ago, jus’ before Maitland went away in fact, but ’e beat us to it.’

Frank sipped his Scotch. ‘I’ve told you what Streetley advised us to do,’ he replied. ‘There’s an application lodged at the Council for a gymnasium to be built on that site and the planning committee is voting on it soon. If there are any objections lodged then they’ll discuss them beforehand. Streetley seems to think he can carry the vote, providing the case is a good one.’

George gulped his drink and pulled a face as the strong liquor burned his throat. ‘I know what yer said,’ he replied cantankerously in his gruff voice. ‘What I’m sayin’ is, there’s no need ter go down that road. My information comes from a reliable source, somebody who’s more reliable than that ginswillin’ excuse for a councillor. Maitland bought that land as an industrial site, not fer leisure or anyfing else. There’s a bid of ours still lodged wiv the land agents fer that piece o’ land ter be used as an extension fer our yard.’

‘Well, we can be sure that Streetley would put that fact to the Council committee,’ Frank said, twirling the Scotch around in his glass.

‘I’m not gonna grease that pissy git’s palm,’ George growled.

‘Well, what do you suggest we do then?’ Frank asked impatiently.

‘D’yer know, Frank, I sometimes wonder why I ever bovvered ter spend all that money givin’ yer a college education,’ the old man complained. ‘All right, let’s assume that Streetley wins the day, which I’m not too sure of, knowin’ ’im. Maitland won’t be able ter lease off the land fer a gymnasium. What’s ’e gonna do? Well, I’ll tell yer. ’E’ll be out o’ the nick soon an’ ’is business ’as gone down the drain. ’E might keep the land, but it’s more likely ’e’ll sell it orf fer industrial use ter raise money, an’ if ’e does sell it certainly won’t be to us. No, Frank, my way is better. We’ll get our solicitor ter stick an injunction on the improper sale. The proof is the application fer leisure use at the Council. I’m pretty certain it’ll stick, an’ then the land reverts back ter the agents wiv Maitland only gettin’ ’is original stake back. That leaves the site free fer our outstandin’ bid ter be accepted. I’ve bin told we’ll ’ave no trouble.’

Frank drained his glass, irritation building up inside him. The old man’s getting past it, he thought. He’s paying too much attention to those drinking cronies of his, and the booze is getting to him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had let drink cloud his judgement, Frank recalled. There was a prime piece of land which had been going begging at Cotton Lane years ago and if he had acted swiftly he could have got it for a song. Well, he had better listen this time.

‘It won’t work,’ Frank said calmly.

‘What d’yer mean, it won’t work?’ George growled, reaching for the bottle of Scotch.

Frank leaned forward in his chair. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you. The application Maitland lodged at the Council is in effect an application to change the land’s usage from industrial to leisure. There was no improper sale, so where does that leave your argument?’ he asked. ‘Going down your road we would be involved in an expensive exercise we wouldn’t have a chance of winning. No, Dad, we’ve only one chance of getting that land. We lodge a protest at the Council opposing the building of the gymnasium, basing our case on the fact that our bid was more suitable and if it had been successful it would have contributed more to the area. We’ll also use the argument that, due to the shortage of industrial land in Bermondsey, none should be made available for any other use.’

George Galloway poured a large measure of whisky into his empty glass and took a swig. ‘All right, I take yer point,’ he grumbled, ‘but like I’ve jus’ said, if Joe Maitland is forced ter get rid of the site, ’e ain’t gonna sell it to us is ’e? Not after we’ve blocked ’is little scheme.’

Frank smiled slyly. ‘We’ll renew our bid at the original price, and we’ll use our own agent to negotiate for us with an improved offer from a limited company that he’ll register. Maitland will have no way of knowing it’s coming from us. All that’s needed then is a resale. It’ll be a little more expensive, but by no means as expensive as going through the courts.’

George Galloway stared at his glass for a few moments then he drained it in one go and grimaced. ‘All right. Do it your way, but I want Streetley ter know the score. No result, no money. Is that clear?’

Frank nodded. ‘Leave it to me, Father. I’m seeing him this evening. We’ll draw up a document that’ll discredit Maitland’s scheme. There should be no trouble.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

When Carrie first thought about selling the cafe she had been prepared for some hard bargaining with the new buyer, ready to insist adamantly that in recognition of their hard work and loyalty Bessie and the other two helpers must be allowed to keep their jobs, but she need never have worried. One morning Corned Beef Sam had strolled in blithely and told her that he would buy the business. He had saved up a large sum of money over the years working at his decrepit stall, which he had kept in big white five-pound notes under the floorboards beneath his bed ever since the man in the bank had upset him one day.

Sam had struck up a rapport with the ebullient Bessie Chandler after a hesitant start and they spent much time discussing Bessie’s strange neighbours and Sam’s strange friends, and Carrie often heard the big ginger-haired woman roaring with laughter at the stories of Mutton-eye Jack and Vaseline Vic. Sam was also a shrewd businessman and he saw the value of having someone like Bessie employed in the cafe. He was quite content to keep the two helpers on as well. Both Lizzie and Marie were by now firm favourites with the dockers and carmen who frequented the dining rooms and Sam felt that he should be able to get on with the cooking without getting disturbed by all the chatter and cheekiness at the counter.

Carrie had a trying meeting with the bank manager, who pored over the books, looked at the trading figures for the Buckman Cartage Contractors and gave her much professional advice before agreeing to a renegotiated bank loan against the new business. There were legal matters to take care of and the change-over had to be arranged, and Carrie had the sometimes tiring duty of explaining to Fred all the intricacies involved. He questioned every move, every step along the way, feeling that he was being helpful with his criticisms, but they only served to make Carrie have misgivings and begin to doubt her own confidence. The transactions seemed to drag on endlessly and Carrie was left exhausted, but finally, in the spring of ’31, she and Fred became the owners of Bradleys’ Cartage Contractors.

The transport yard was located in Salmon Lane, a turning which led down to the riverside in Dockhead. On the righthand side of the street a row of little houses ended at a large warehouse that stretched down to the end of the road and the river walkway. The transport yard was sited in the middle of the turning on the left-hand side between another shorter row of houses and a pickle factory that faced the warehouse. The yard was compact, with an office just inside the gate to the left. Next to the office there was a ground-level stable for twelve horses, and across the cobbled yard there was a house which was in fairly good condition. Adjacent to the house was a large shed for storing the carts, and at the end of the yard a high brick wall enclosed the area.

Carrie said her goodbyes to the tearful Bessie and the sad-faced Lizzie and Marie, and when Corned Beef Sam gave her a departing kiss on the cheek he had some advice for her. ‘Don’t stand no bleedin’ nonsense from those carmen, luv. Show ’em who’s the boss, an’ if yer get any ole sauce from ’em do what I do, ’it ’em wiv yer ’andbag!’

Carrie watched with emotion as her parents’ meagre belongings were carried down from Bacon Buildings and placed on a horse cart. It had taken her quite some time to realise her dream of moving them from the slum block, but when the day finally arrived she found it hard to force back a tear.

Nellie and William Tanner installed themselves in the upstairs of the house and Carrie arranged the downstairs to suit her husband’s needs. Fred was now more mobile since there were no stairs to climb, and he was able to sit in a comfortable chair beside the window and watch the comings and goings. Rachel was happy, feeling very excited at the prospect of being around horses. She had listened to her mother’s endless stories about when she was a little girl at the Galloway stables.

There were two carmen who had been retained for the existing contracts. Jack Simpson, a tall, gangling character in his forties, was employed on the leather contract. He had a habit of stretching the corner of his mouth and rolling his head whenever he got agitated, which was very often. He had a toothless smile and a shaven head, and he reminded Carrie of Sharkey Morris. Paddy Byrne, the other carman, was the exact opposite. He was employed on the rum contract and he handled his team of horses expertly. He was a pleasant character, short and stocky with a mop of dark, wavy hair and large brown eyes, and he was given to expressing himself in song, whenever he had sampled an extra tot of rum. He was also in his forties, and had worked for John Buckman more than twenty years.

William Tanner had taken an early opportunity to look over the horses and he was pleased with what he saw. The pair of black Clydesdales used on the rum contract were in prime condition, as were the pair of Irish draughts that Jack Simpson drove. There were four other horses in the stable, a pair of grey Percherons and two Welsh cobs. All had been well cared for and William told his daughter that the Percherons would be ideally suited for heavy work, something that Carrie had already noted. The carts were in reasonable repair, although there were one or two that had worn wheels and wood rot along the raves. William stressed the need for a good yard man who could be relied upon to look after the carts and harnesses, keep the yard clean and muck out the stables.

‘Yer need somebody reliable, Carrie,’ he told her. ‘The right man could ’ave this yard lookin’ ship-shape in no time. ’E could fix those carts too an’ keep the ’arness well dubbined an’ the brasses clean an’ shiny.’

‘’Ave yer got anybody in mind?’ Carrie asked him.

William made a pretence of thinking for a moment. ‘I know. What about ole Sharkey Morris?’ he said suddenly. ‘’E’s still active. ’E’s a year or two younger than I am. ’E’d be yer man.’

Billy Sullivan had taken the opportunity to visit Father Murphy at St Joseph’s Church, and when the ageing priest had finished reading the letter Billy handed over he had some sound advice to offer. ‘You’ve got to think this thing through carefully, Billy me lad,’ he told him. ‘It was a fine gesture on the part of Joe Maitland to give you that piece of land, especially as he’ll be coming home soon and could have realised some capital on it, but I’m sure the Lord will bless him. It leaves you with a lot of work to do, though. You’ll need to give the project a name and it’ll need to be registered as a charity. That way we can ask for donations.’

‘I wonder why Joe did it, Farvver?’ Billy asked. ‘Like yer say, ’e could ’ave made good use of it ’imself.’

‘I think it’s God’s work. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, my son,’ the priest told him, his eyes going up to the stained-glass window high in the wall facing him. ‘We should leave it at that, I think.’

‘Would yer consider takin’ charge o’ the project, Farvver?’ Billy asked him forthrightly.

‘I’d be delighted,’ the priest replied. ‘Now let’s see. According to the letter there’s an application already lodged at the Council offices for permission to build a gym. I hope that doesn’t pose a problem, but we must be positive. As soon as the application is granted we’ll get our heads together and look at ways to raise the money. In the meantime go home and think about it. Oh, and Billy, don’t forget to pray. And while you’re at it, you might say a short prayer for your benefactor. I’m sure Joe Maitland could do with a few prayers said on his behalf.’

‘I’ll do that, Farvver,’ Billy promised. ‘I’ll go roun’ wiv the beggin’-bowl too. I’ve already bin promised a load o’ timber.’

‘You’ll need bricks and mortar as well,’ the priest informed him.

‘Bricks an’ mortar?’

‘Why yes. You weren’t thinking of knocking up some ramshackle shed, were you?’ Father Murphy asked him, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

‘Well, yes, but it wouldn’t be ramshackle,’ Billy replied.

‘Nonsense! A fine, solid building, equipped with a changing room, showers and a full-size, raised ring - that’s what you should be thinking about, Billy,’ the priest told him, using his hands to elaborate. ‘A place for the young lads to practise the noble art of fisticuffs, and learn Christian virtues at the same time.’

Billy had gone to see Father Murphy expecting to be given a small donation or at least the promise of a helping hand from some of his younger parishioners, but instead he had been made to see the huge problems he was facing. Well, the gym was going to be built now, come what may, he vowed, and nothing would ever dent his enthusiasm and determination. It would just mean going around with a larger begging-bowl.

Red Ellie Roffey called round to Page Street and was taken on an inspection tour of the houses. Florrie showed Ellie her leaking roof and Maisie took her up to her bedroom where the ceiling was bulging dangerously. Maudie too was moved to invite Ellie into her house, although she had already warned her husband Ernest not to engage the woman in a political discussion.

‘We’ve bin all frew it before, Ernest,’ she reminded him. ‘I ain’t standin’ fer yer goin’ out at all hours again wiv those silly leaflets. Besides, yer gettin’ too old ter go round in all weavvers knockin’ on people’s doors. Yer could catch pneumonia or pleurisy. Yer know ’ow yer chest is.’