Gaslight in Page Street (10 page)

Carrie smiled sympathetically. ‘I ’ope she gets better soon.’

Sara fell silent again until they reached Carrie’s front door, then she fixed her friend with her pale blue eyes. ‘If the trip is this week, don’t ask fer me ter go, Carrie. I won’t be able ter come.’

The Tanner girl nodded sadly and watched her friend walk away along the turning.

That night after tea her father said that he had to go and clean out the boiler, ready for the chaff-cutting. Carrie asked if she could help him. William was surprised. Whenever he went into the yard to tend the horses Carrie was at his heels, but she had never offered to help him with the messy job of boiler-cleaning. ‘All right, but change that school dress,’ he told her.

While William cleaned out the fire pan and then set about unbolting the inspection plate on the side of the boiler, Carrie made herself busy sweeping out the shed. Then she sat on an upturned crate by her father’s side while he reached inside the boiler to remove the loose scale. Suddenly he cursed and withdrew his hand quickly. Blood dripped from his finger. He sucked on the deep cut, spitting a mouthful of blood on the clean floor. Carrie quickly reached down to the hem of her petticoat and tore off a strip of linen. William watched the serious expression on his daughter’s face as she deftly bound up his finger, and a smile formed on his lips. ‘Proper little nurse, ain’t yer?’ he said quietly.

Carrie grinned back at him and suddenly he melted. She was certainly a grown-up nine year old, he thought. Maybe he had been a little hard on the children lately, but it had been difficult at the yard since the trouble with the women. George had been like a bear with a sore head, even though he had managed to sell all twelve of the horses to the army. He had not mentioned Nellie’s part in the protest but there had been a strained atmosphere whenever the boss walked into the office. No doubt he blamed Will for Nellie’s actions, but George had known her long enough himself to realise she was a very determined woman. Once she made her mind up there was no putting her off.

William set about refitting the inspection plate with Carrie handing him the bolts. When the last one had been screwed down tight, she fixed him with her eyes.

‘Dad, I was gonna ask yer if me an’ my best friend Sara could come wiv yer on Saturday but it doesn’t matter now,’ she said quietly.

William could see the sadness in his daughter’s eyes. ‘Don’t yer wanna come then?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do, Dad, but I’ve bin lots o’ times an’ I thought it’d be nice if Sara could come this time. She’s never bin anywhere, an’ I’ve bin tellin’ ’er all about the trip. I said I was gonna ask yer if she could come wiv us, but she can’t now.’

‘Oh, an’ why’s that then?’ William asked.

‘’Er muvver’s took ill an’ Sara’s gotta look after ’er,’ Carrie replied.

William sat down on the brick base of the boiler and studied his bandaged finger for a few moments. ‘Is Sara that gel yer walk ’ome from school wiv? ’Er wiv the raggety clothes?’

Carrie nodded. ‘It’s ever so sad, Dad. Sara ’as ter look after all ’er bruvvers an’ sisters while ’er muvver goes out ter work, an’ ’er farvver’s a cripple. Sara gets ill a lot. I don’t fink they ’ave much food.’

‘Fings are bad fer most people,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s lucky fer us I’m in regular work. Mind yer, after what yer mum done ter Galloway’s ’osepipe, it’s a wonder I ain’t got sacked.’

Carrie caught the humorous look in his eyes and suddenly they both burst out laughing.

‘Serves the ole goat right,’ he spluttered, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.

‘Can Sara come wiv us one time, Dad?’ she asked suddenly.

William nodded. ‘I should fink so. If she wants to.’

‘She’ll be so pleased when I tell ’er,’ Carrie said, suddenly hugging her father.

William was embarrassed by her spontaneous show of affection and he looked down at his feet. ‘Well, we’d better get these tools tergevver an’ lock up,’ he said, ‘or yer mum’ll nag me fer keepin’ yer up.’

The hour was late and Nellie was making cocoa. She felt happy that the tension between her and William had vanished, and hummed softly as she stirred the hot liquid. William had slipped up on her and put his arms around her waist as she was drawing the blinds. His lingering kiss on the back of her neck had made her shiver with pleasure. She had turned to face him and returned his kiss. Now, as she handed him a large mug of steaming cocoa and sat down facing him, Nellie could see William had become thoughtful. For a while they were both silent as they sipped their hot drinks, then suddenly he put his mug down on the edge of the fender and looked at her.

‘Carrie was tellin’ me about that friend of ’ers.’

Nellie shook her head sadly. ‘It’s a shame about that family,’ she answered. ‘They live in Bacon Street Buildin’s. Florrie Axford knows them well. She said the gel’s farvver is on relief an’ ’e sells bits an’ pieces from a suitcase in the markets. ’E ’as ter go over the water ter do ’is sellin’. Poplar an’ Whitechapel, I fink Florrie said. ’E can’t do any sellin’ around ’ere, somebody’s bound ter give ’im away. Bloody shame really.’

‘Can’t ’e do anyfink else?’ William asked.

Nellie shook her head. ‘’E ’ad a bad accident in the docks a few years ago. Got smashed up bad, by all accounts. Florrie said ’e broke ’is back an’ both legs. One’s inches shorter than the ovver. ’E can’t do any ’eavy work at all now.’

‘Carrie told me she was goin’ ter ask if I’d let Sara come wiv us on Saturday but the kid can’t come now. ’Er muvver’s ill apparently an’ she’s gotta look after ’er.’

Nellie finished her cocoa and put the mug down on the table. ‘It mus’ be bloody ’ard fer the kid. She looks a poor little mite. ’Er clothes look like they’re fallin’ off ’er. I fink I’ll ’ave a word wiv Florrie termorrer. P’raps we can sort a few bits an’ pieces out fer the kid ter wear.’

William nodded. ‘I don’t s’pose Florrie’s got anyfink though,’ he said. ‘She never ’ad any kids.’

‘Florrie knows a lot o’ people round ’ere,’ Nellie replied. ‘I bet she’ll scrounge somefink.’

William stood up and yawned, then he reached out for Nellie’s hand. ‘C’mon, luv,’ he said. ‘Let’s go ter bed.’

She stood up and felt the strong grip as his hand closed around hers. ‘I mus’ remember ter talk ter Florrie termorrer,’ she said, yawning.

It was late when Nora Flynn heard the front door shut. She had looked in at the room directly below hers once or twice and satisfied herself that Josephine was sleeping soundly, then she had settled down to read. The book fell from her lap as she stretched her arms above her head and yawned widely. The sound of a deep chuckle followed by a high-pitched giggle carried up to her room and she sighed irritably as she glanced up at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was past twelve. They’ll wake Josie up if they’re not careful, she thought, walking over to her door and pressing her ear against its panel.

There was a clattering noise and then the sound of a door closing. Nora waited a few minutes and then quietly went down the carpeted stairs and peered into the child’s room once more. Josephine was sleeping soundly and Nora breathed a sigh of relief. As she turned and made her way back up to her own room she heard mumbled voices and then giggling. It was always the same with George, she thought. He would spend a week or more sitting in his darkened room in the evenings, drinking heavily, then as though feeling he had done his penance he would suddenly change and become almost friendly. It was then that he brought back those women. Nora knew where George spent his evenings when he went out. He had told her about the music hall in Abbey Street where saucily dressed girls danced around the tables. It was at the music hall that pleasure could be bought for a drink or two, but of course George had not told her that. Nora had known for some time of the dubious reputation of that particular hall and guessed that George’s latest woman friend had been solicited there.

She sighed as she got undressed. There was a time when she would have welcomed George Galloway into her own bed, she admitted to herself. He was still an attractive man, although coarse and very often ill-mannered, and fate had made them akin. Both had lost their partners in tragic circumstances, and through the children Nora had steadily grown to know George. When the pain of her loss had eased and nights became more bearable, Nora had begun to think about her employer in a physical way. She had taken pains to make herself as presentable as possible and tried to please him with the meals she knew he was fond of. There had been little if any response from him, although occasionally he sat with her and talked at length about his problems. Nora had tried to open up to him about her own feelings but natural reserve inhibited her. In his own way George was still grieving, and her discreet attempts to let him know the way she felt were lost on him.

Nora had finally realised that she was not going to lure him into her bed and resigned herself to doing the job she was paid to do. Lately, George had become more morose, and a hard, unfeeling father to his two sons. As far as Josephine was concerned, his attitude seemed to be one of thinly veiled dislike. He spoke to the child only when he had to. It was left to Nora Flynn to provide the love and care lacking in the child’s natural parent.

It was patently obvious to his housekeeper that George blamed the child for Martha’s death. What he would not admit to himself, Nora reflected, was the fact that Martha was thirty-six and not very strong when he had made her pregnant. There had been a gap of eleven years since young Frank’s birth and Martha had paid a tragic price for her third pregnancy. Maybe George did blame himself, she thought. Maybe in his inner thoughts he knew that he had been unfeeling and clumsy. Perhaps that was why he punished himself with the bottle, and with the hard-faced, painted tarts he brought home. He would do better to stay sober long enough to take stock. Maybe then he would see what was there for him under his own roof.

The following evening the two women walked purposefully along Page Street and turned left into Bacon Street. Each of them carried a brown paper carrier bag. As they reached the tenement block, Nellie Tanner pulled a face. ‘Gawd ’elp us!’ she breathed.

Florrie Axford nodded at Nellie’s reaction on seeing the buildings close to. ‘What a bloody dump,’ she remarked, her eyes flitting over the front exterior of the dwellings and catching sight of a mangy cat sniffing at a kipper bone in a block doorway. ‘Fancy ’avin’ ter live in a place like this.’

Nellie nodded, screwing her face up as she stepped over an old newspaper that contained the remains of some fish and chips. ‘I thought our ole ’ouses were bad enough, Flo,’ she muttered incredulously.

Bacon Street Buildings was a four-storey tenement block which had been built in 1840 and had long since fallen into disrepair. There were four entrances which led up flights of stone stairs to small, unconnected landings on each level. On every landing there were four flats, and each storey contained sixteen flats. At the back of the building was a foul-smelling tannery. It was one of the larger rear flats on the top floor overlooking the factory that Florrie and Nellie were making for.

As they climbed the well-worn stairs, puffing at their exertions, the two women saw naked gas-jets spluttering out dim light on landings where the front doors had long since shed their coats of varnish. Sounds came drifting out from the flats. They heard babies crying and voices raised in anger as young, miserable children were scolded by despairing, miserable mothers.

When they reached the top landing Florrie stopped outside number 32 and gave Nellie an anxious glance before knocking. After a few moments the door opened and they were confronted by the young Sara Knight, clad in a long dress with an apron tied around her middle. The child stood wide-eyed, her pallid face full of surprise as she looked up at the two visitors.

‘We’ve got a few fings fer yer mum, Sara,’ Florrie said, holding up her carrier bag.

The child stood back for the women to enter. As they walked into the disordered flat, they saw two young children sitting at the kitchen table. Both children’s faces were smeared red as they ate slices of bread and jam. There was a low fire burning in the grate which was enclosed by a metal fire-guard. Freshly washed napkins had been placed across the guard and were steaming dry. The windows were covered with holed and grubby curtains, and equally grubby wallpaper hung down from the walls.

Sara led the way to the bedroom and Florrie and Nellie followed her in. The child’s mother was propped up in bed with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a towel around her neck. On top of the bedclothes there was an old overcoat, and beside the bed medicine bottles and an empty soup bowl were sitting on a chair. A baby slept fitfully in a cot beneath the window and in the far corner a battered metal trunk stood against the water-stained wall.

Annie Knight pulled the blanket closer about her and forced a smile. ‘Sara luv, bring the ladies a chair, there’s a dear,’ she croaked.

Sara left the room and returned with only one chair, looking at her mother for guidance. Florrie smiled at the child. ‘It’s all right, Sara, I’ll sit on the bed,’ she said.

When the child left the room, Florrie turned to Annie. ‘I’m Florrie Axford and this is Nellie Tanner, Carrie’s mum,’ she told her. ‘We’ve got a few fings ’ere fer yer. ’Ope yer not offended?’

Annie smiled at Nellie. ‘She’s a nice gel, your Carrie. ’Er an’ Sara seem ter git on very well.’

Nellie smiled back at the sick woman. ‘Yeah, they do. My Carrie’s always talkin’ about your Sara.’