The Girl from Cotton Lane (9 page)

‘Me too,’ Billy said quickly.

Chopper Harris had peered around the vehicle, and his mouth fell open as he saw the officer talking to his friends. ‘We’ve bin nabbed!’ he gasped out to Frankie. ‘It’s a bluebottle!’

Frankie Albright put his finger up to his mouth and motioned Chopper to get down. The two slipped quietly over the tailboard and marched off smartly along the Commercial Road, not daring to run in case they attracted the policeman’s attention.

‘By the way, lads, I’m makin’ fer Cable Street. I’d be grateful fer a lift ter the site if yer don’t mind,’ the constable asked.

Billy made to get out of the cab but the policeman held up his hand. ‘Stay there, son. I’ll stand on the runnin’-board,’ he said.

The lorry pulled away from the kerbside with Tony the driver looking helplessly at his two friends. ‘Where we s’pose ter be goin’?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘It mus’ be some sort o’ meetin’,’ Freddie mumbled in reply. ‘I fink ’e finks we’ve got the equipment.’

Billy was too close to the policeman to make any suggestion, though he was at a loss anyway, but Freddie suddenly remembered something he had read in a newspaper about the temperance revivals in the East End of London. ‘’E finks we’ve come ter put the tent up!’ he hissed.

‘Oh, fer Chrissake,’ Tony gasped. ‘What we gonna do?’

‘’Ow the bloody ’ell do I know?’ Freddie growled. ‘Bluff it out, I s’pose.’

The policeman was hanging on to the door and obviously enjoying the ride. ‘If yer turn right ’ere then turn first left yer’ll come out right by the site,’ he shouted helpfully.

Tony did as he was told and finally saw the large area of waste ground ahead. A lorry similar to theirs was parked by the roadside and on the site there was feverish activity. A large marquee was being erected and everywhere men seemed to be pulling and heaving on large ropes.

‘I thought you lot ’ad the tent,’ the policeman said with a puzzled look on his face.

‘No, officer. We’ve been sent to sort out the finer details,’ Freddie said with a flash of inspiration.

‘Oh? An’ what might that be?’ he asked.

‘There’s lots o’ seats to set up and they want a nice big pulpit built,’ the Nark continued, beginning to enjoy himself despite the possible danger to their freedom.

‘I’d say yer got yer work cut out,’ the officer remarked.

‘There’s anuvver two in the back,’ Freddie said smiling.

As the policeman stepped down and walked to the rear of the lorry Billy turned to Freddie and shook his head slowly. ‘Yer shouldn’t ’ave mentioned those ovver two,’ he grated. ‘If that rozzer sees Chopper ’e’s gonna twig somefing’s up. Chopper looks more like ’e’s on the run from Dartmoor than a bloody Salvation Army bloke.’

The policeman returned to the front of the vehicle. ‘There’s no one in the back,’ he said. ‘There’s nuffink in the back. I thought yer said yer was bringin’ the seats. Yer did say that, didn’t yer?’

Freddie laughed. ‘No, officer. I said we was sent to set up the seating and the pulpit.’

‘But yer said there was two more of yer in the back,’ the policeman persisted.

‘No, I said at the back. I meant in the ovver lorry. It’s following up. That’s a bigger vehicle and it’s full o’ benches and suchlike,’ he said, a note of desperation beginning to creep into his voice.

The police officer gave the young man a strange look and Billy cut in quickly. ‘We’d better give the lads an ’and,’ he said, nudging Freddie.

‘Well, thanks for all your help, officer,’ the Nark said, following Billy and Tony on to the waste ground.

The tent riggers looked surprised and mystified as three strangers started to lend their muscle to the ropes. Freddie groaned as he saw the policeman coming over to him.

‘I’ll walk up to the main road. Your mates might be stuck in that traffic ’old-up at Lime’ouse,’ he said to Freddie.

‘I’m much obliged,’ the would-be warehouse-breaker replied, shaking the policeman by the hand. ‘We’d like to get finished soon as possible.’

The policeman nodded. ‘I ’ope so too. We’re guardin’ this tent all night an’ it looks like rain. I’d much sooner guard it from the inside,’ he grinned.

Freddie smiled and began pulling on the rope.

‘Oi! What yer doin’?’ one of the riggers shouted at him. ‘If yer pull on that one the ’ole bloody lot’ll come down.’

Freddie glanced fearfully in the policeman’s direction but he was already walking smartly along the narrow street. ‘C’mon, you two. Let’s be orf,’ he hissed.

‘Oi! Give us an ’and wiv this rope,’ the foreman rigger called out to them.

‘Poke yer poxy rope! I ’ope the ’ole bloody lot falls down,’ Freddie snarled at him.

Soon the lorry was rolling once more. Freddie the Nark sat back in the cab, feeling very pleased with himself for the way he had handled such a tricky situation. Both Billy and Tony had praised his coolness, and they were puzzling over the fate of their confederates.

‘They might ’ave fell out when we pulled up,’ Tony volunteered.

‘Nah. They jumped out more like,’ Freddie laughed. ‘They must ’ave seen the rozzer.’

‘Nice bloke, wasn’t ’e?’ Billy remarked, grinning broadly.

‘Chopper an’ Frankie’s got a long walk ’ome,’ Tony said.

‘Not if I know Chopper. ’E’ll most prob’ly get a cab an’ then do anuvver runner,’ Freddie laughed.

The three lapsed into silence until the lorry was rumbling over Tower Bridge, then Freddie slipped his hand into his coat pocket and took out a handful of silver. ‘’Ere, Tony. There’s the dosh fer yer pal. Yer’ll all ’ave ter ’ave a whip round ter pay yer share. I can’t stand the lot.’

Billy nodded. ‘I wonder if that ole boy did phone the police,’ he said.

‘Yer can bet yer life ’e did,’ Freddie said positively. ‘I could feel it in me water. I can smell trouble o’ that sort a mile orf.’

Freddie was right. Jack Price had hurried to the phone and informed Dockhead police station that there was an attempted robbery in progress at the Clark Wharf. Freddie the Nark’s impersonation of a police officer had sounded convincing to him, until he said that Peggie had fallen at her home. She had, but it had happened the previous afternoon, and Jack had gone with her to Rotherhithe Infirmary where she had been admitted with a broken hip.

Chapter Six

In the early months of 1920 the little dining rooms in Cotton Lane prospered. The docks were experiencing a boom in trade and all day long a steady stream of customers came and went. Carrie and Fred worked hard all day, aided by the vociferous Bessie Chandler, whose tales about the trials and tribulations of her friends in the buildings where she lived became painful ongoing sagas. Fred suffered the most, for Bessie worked at his elbow most of the day. She was very efficient though, and as she went on endlessly about her neighbours she seemed to race through her chores with increasing speed. The pastry took a terrible pounding at times, and Bessie kneaded the dough with a vengeance as she talked of Kate Kerrigan, one of her sworn enemies. Fred would listen patiently until he could stand no more and then depart to the small back yard, where he sat on an upturned tea-chest and vowed that one day he would forget how efficient his kitchen hand was and just do away with her.

Carrie worked unceasingly behind the counter, rushing off upstairs often during the afternoons to tend to Rachel once Annie McCafferty had left. At such times Fred Bradley got some respite from Bessie’s ever-wagging tongue. His assistant took over behind the counter and proceeded to inflict the continuing stories of her friends and enemies in the buildings on the dockers and carmen. They took little notice of her, though; the rough, bawdy crowd were more interested in the fortunes of their local football teams, Millwall and West Ham. When Carrie was serving she often became involved in their conversations at the counter. The young woman made a point of following the respective teams’ results and their positions in the league tables and she held her own in the sporting discussions and arguments. Bessie knew nothing about football, and her constant harping on one subject caused her to become somewhat of an object of ridicule. The buxom, ginger-haired woman also had a shady past, and it did little to help the poor woman’s image when it was resurrected by two regular carmen.

Sharkey Morris and Soapy Symonds had both worked at the Galloway transport firm in Page Street for a number of years. Both had left after arguments with the firm’s owner and they now worked for Tommy Hatcher in Long Lane. They liked and respected Carrie’s father, who had been their foreman at Galloway’s, and it was Sharkey who had told Carrie about Fred wanting a serving-girl for the cafe. He had promised William Tanner he would keep his eye on his daughter and make sure that she was treated right and that none of the customers took advantage of her. Soapy Symonds also minded Carrie’s welfare as far as he could, and both men were favourites of the pretty young girl who had now become the joint owner of Bradley’s Dining Rooms.

Sharkey and Soapy were both in their fifties. Sharkey was tall and gangling with broad shoulders and a wicked sense of humour, while Soapy was smaller in stature, stooping and with hawklike features. They often came into the dining rooms together and one day they were trying not to listen as Bessie was going on at length about her friend Elsie Dobson.

‘’Ark at Bessie Bubbles goin’ orf again,’ Soapy groaned to Sharkey.

‘Who?’ one of the carmen sitting with the two asked.

‘Bessie Bubbles. That’s what she was known as when she was on the game,’ Soapy informed him.

‘Bessie on the game? I don’t believe it,’ the carman said incredulously.

‘’S’ right. She was a Lisle Street whore,’ Soapy said unkindly. ‘She was found out by a couple o’ the local lads who went over Charin’ Cross fer a good time. It’s a long story but it’s true, sure as I sit ’ere. She used ter wear a blond curly wig. All the street found out eventually. Mind you, there’s a lot do it an’ never get found out. Poor ole Bessie come unstuck.’

‘What about ’er ole man? Didn’t ’e ever find out?’ the carman asked. ‘She’s always on about ’im.’

‘As far as I know ’e was ’avin’ it orf wiv one o’ the young gels where ’e worked. They’re both as bad as each ovver if yer ask me,’ Soapy remarked, biting into his dripping toast.

The enlightened carman managed to resist addressing Bessie by her nickname, but the story was soon common knowledge and she became known as ‘Bubbles’ to all and sundry behind her back.

The dining rooms were beginning to show a better turnover and the books started to look much more tidy and well kept, thanks to Carrie’s efficiency and enterprise. She had gone to the library and borrowed all the books she could find on accountancy, bookkeeping and running a business. A lot of the information was above her head but she had persevered until she learnt how to keep a good set of accounts. Her hard work and determination set her in good stead for the confrontation she had had with the Johnson representative, Albert Buller. He was delivered of an ultimatum and he accepted it with a smile and good grace, although he went away cursing the interference and audacity of Fred’s young wife. There was now a discount for orders on a rising scale, and on certain commodities where discounts were not forthcoming Carrie immediately took action by switching her custom elsewhere. The Bradley business now had the benefit of more than one representative calling regularly and Carrie played them off one against the other. Fred often winced when he witnessed his wife’s impudence and guile, but he realised she was right. The profits grew and the bank manager began to smile at Carrie whenever she paid in the weekly takings.

There was a cloud on the horizon, however, which worried the Bradleys. Russia and Poland were at war and the Polish army were making gains. The Labour movement supported the Bolsheviks in their struggle and when the freighter
Jolly George
berthed in the London Docks the dockers refused to load a munitions cargo that was destined for Poland. The trade union movement was gathering strength and there was talk of a full dock strike.

‘It’s likely ter paralyse the country,’ Don Jacobs, a dockers’ leader, told Carrie. ‘If the docks stop, the rest o’ the movement’s gonna come out in support, yer can take that fer gospel,’ he said with severity.

Carrie was in two minds about the situation as she discussed it with Fred one evening in the little sitting-room above the shop. ‘I’ve seen ’ow me own dad was treated by Galloway,’ she was saying. ‘Me dad was a loyal, conscientious worker an’ ’e ’ad no union ter back ’im up. If there’d ’ave bin a union at Galloway’s ’e might still be there.’

Fred nodded in agreement, a worried frown showing on his face.

‘Trouble is, it’s businesses like ours that are gonna suffer,’ Carrie went on. ‘The men won’t come in ’ere if they’re on strike, ’specially if it goes on fer any length of time. Will a strike do any good though? The government could always bring in the troops ter load the ships.’

‘I dunno ’ow we’re gonna pay off the bank if there is a strike,’ Fred said with concern in his voice. ‘We still owe quite a lot on that money we borrered fer the free’old.’

‘I dunno what we’ll do,’ Carrie replied, feeling that all her hard work and shrewdness in helping to build up the business was going to count for nothing should the threatened strike take place.

‘P’raps we shouldn’t encourage those dockers’ and carmen’s union men ter use that back room fer their meetin’s,’ Fred suggested despondently.