Gaslight in Page Street (22 page)

‘Would you let a boy ’ave ’is way wiv yer before yer got married, Carrie?’ Jessica asked suddenly, interrupting her troubled thoughts.

Carrie shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. I’d be too frightened in case I fell fer a baby. What about you, Jess, would yer let a boy make love wiv you?’

‘No fear,’ Jessica replied quickly. ‘If I got meself pregnant me farvver would chuck me out, I know ’e would.’

Freda smiled cynically. ‘I remember sayin’ that once, but I still got put in the pudden club. We’re all the same. We say one fing an’ mean anuvver. Take me. I was sure I wouldn’t let a bloke take advantage o’ me but I was wrong. I went out wiv this good-lookin’ bloke an’ I was feelin’ good at the time an’ ’e was very gentle. I remember it well. We was in the park an’ ’e was gettin’ ’andy. I told ’im ter stop it but ’e knew I didn’t really want ’im to. Funny fing was, when we got around ter doin’ it, I remember feelin’ disappointed. It wasn’t as good as I expected. I never went out wiv ’im after that one night, and as soon as ’e ’eard I was fallen ’e was off ter sea!’

‘S’posin’ yer liked a feller,’ Carrie said to Freda, ‘really liked ’im a lot an’ ’e asked yer ter walk out wiv im? Would yer let ’im ’ave ’is way in case ’e never asked yer out again?’

Freda shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Carrie,’ she answered. ‘It all depends on ’ow yer feel at the time. Sometimes yer can say no an’ mean it, an’ ovver times yer tingle all over an’ yer feel like yer on fire. All I know is, if yer do manage ter say no an’ the bloke don’t ask yer out anymore, yer ain’t missin’ much. Any bloke who finks that way ain’t werf ’avin’ in the first place.’

The whistle sounded and as they all trooped back to their work benches, Carrie found herself feeling more confused than ever.

Jack Oxford was feeling very pleased with himself as he trudged through the foggy February evening to Abbey Street. Ever since his accident he had moved from place to place, sleeping in doss-houses and on park benches during the summer, but now he had found himself a regular place to stay. He had always thought himself fortunate in having a steady job which at least allowed him to have a full belly, but how much nicer it was now to go into a warm house and sit down to a hot meal beside a roaring fire. Now there was no more worrying about getting his boots stolen or his pockets picked while he slept. Now he could go to bed between clean sheets and get a wash and shave without having to wait his turn to use the grimy stone sinks in the doss-house.

Jack had been very lucky to find Mrs Cuthbertson. She was a big, motherly woman with red hair and a wide smile whose wayward husband had suddenly left her for a younger and prettier woman. After a few weeks of dejection and loneliness Amy Cuthbertson had quickly pulled herself together. She had a large house in Abbey Street which she had inherited, and a little money put aside. She also had a shrewd mind and realised that there was money to be made by taking in working men as lodgers. Amy’s one failing was her weakness for stout, and when she was suitably fortified with a few bottles of the dark brew she became very passionate. More than one lodger had left her house due to her excessive demands upon him, and after each rejection she grew more determined than ever to find someone who would give her a little loving as well as the weekly rent. Amy had a strong streak of compassion in her make-up, and when Jack Oxford appeared on the scene it served him just a little too well.

There were three other lodgers in the house before Jack arrived but they were younger men who had come over from Ireland to work on building the railways and they usually kept themselves aloof from Amy. She liked older men, and when she spotted the yard man sitting mournfully on a park bench in Bermondsey Church Gardens one evening with a bottle of ale for comfort she was intrigued. The man looked as though he was earning a living by the state of his boots, and his sorrowful look prompted her to approach him. When she enquired casually about his general health and well-being Jack told her his past life history, his current position, and his intention of doing away with himself if things did not look up.

Amy had heard enough. She suggested to him that he might lodge in her house. That evening the yard man went to inspect his prospective room in Abbey Street and gave her one week’s rent there and then. As the days passed Amy Cuthbertson became more and more kindly disposed towards her lodger, and one evening she plied him with stout and took the startled inebriate to her bed.

The new arrangement suited Jack Oxford admirably, and Amy too.

As he walked home through the fog along Abbey Street, Jack whistled to himself. The house was warm as he let himself in and he could smell mutton stew cooking.

‘I’m in the scullery, deary. Tea’s nearly ready,’ Amy called out.

Jack ambled into the front room and flopped down in an armchair with a blissful sigh. He just could not believe how lucky he was.

Across the street Arthur Cuthbertson shifted his position in the shop doorway and scowled as he stared over at the house. Some of the people in the neighbourhood were still friendly with Arthur, and from what one of them had told him he had good reason to worry. Amy had found herself a bloke and they appeared to be very happy, he had been informed. Since his new lady friend had walked out on him, Arthur had realised he made a mistake in leaving Amy. He had been intending to go back to her cap in hand, hoping for a reconciliation, but this seemed unlikely now that she had found herself a new man. Well, there was only one thing to do, he decided. Amy’s lodger would have to be frightened off if there was to be any chance of getting back with her. He would give them time to have their tea and then he would make an appearance, he told himself, fingering the piece of lead piping which was tucked into his wide leather belt.

After he had finished his meal Jack settled himself beside the fire and rested his feet on the brass fender. He sighed contentedly as he leaned back and closed his eyes, not taking any notice as Amy got up to answer the loud knock.

Her scream brought him upright in his chair, and as the bulky figure of Arthur pushed his way into the room brandishing a length of lead piping in his large fist Jack knew instantly that he was in serious trouble.

‘So you’re the whoreson who’s took ’er from me, are yer?’ Arthur growled at him, moving around the table to get at him.

‘I ain’t done nuffink,’ Jack cried, trying to keep the table between him and his assailant.

‘If I get ’old o’ yer I’ll maim yer, yer dirty ole goat!’ Arthur yelled.

Amy was trying to hold her estranged husband back, with little success. ‘Leave ’im alone, yer cowson!’ she screamed. ‘Yer pissed orf an’ left me fer yer fancy bit an’ now yer want me back. Well, I ain’t takin’ yer back, yer scruffy git. Go on, get out!’

Amy’s outburst only made Arthur more incensed and he brought the lead pipe down on the table with a loud crash. ‘Keep still, yer dopey bastard!’ he roared at Jack. ‘Let me get at yer! I’ll do fer yer, I swear I will!’

With Amy holding on to Arthur’s arm, the terrified yard man saw his chance to escape. He made a sudden dash for the front door and stumbled out into the foggy street. By the time Arthur had freed his arm Jack was halfway along Abbey Street, looking over his shoulder fearfully as he hurried along, his stockinged feet pattering over the wet cobbles.

Jack Oxford’s cosy evenings had been terminated by the sudden appearance of Amy’s wayward husband, and as he leaned against a gaslamp to catch his breath he pondered over what he should do next. It was no night to be sleeping rough, he thought with a shudder, and it was unlikely he would be able to get a bed at a doss-house now. There was only one thing to do, he decided. It would have to be the Druid Street arches.

Jack hobbled on along Abbey Street and turned into Druid Street. The fog was getting thicker now and he cursed his luck as he slipped into a narrow alley and then shuffled over rotting garbage and rubbish. He could see the glow of a fire ahead and then the huddled figures sitting around it. ‘Any chance of a warm?’ he asked timorously as he reached the group.

‘Why if it ain’t ole Jack Oxford,’ one of the men said, grinning widely as he saw Jack’s stockinged feet. ‘Sit yerself down, mate. Wanna drop o’ soup? It’s bacon bones an’ ’tater peelin’s an there’s a couple o’ crusts left.’

Jack sat down on the plank of wood which served as a bench and rubbed his sore and frozen feet as he looked around at the four men. They were all familiar to him beneath their beards and unwashed faces. The man who had welcomed him handed over a tin of watery liquid and a stale crust of bread which Jack accepted gratefully. He had eaten his fill earlier but the cold had penetrated up from his feet. As he sipped the hot, greasy soup and chewed on the bread, he felt a little less sorry for himself.

‘What ’appened ter yer boots, mate?’ the man asked.

Jack felt a little embarrassed about telling them the full story and shrugged his shoulders. ‘They wore out,’ he said simply.

The man facing him chuckled through his huge black beard. ‘We’re all wearing out, friend,’ he said, poking a stick into the fire and putting it to his stained clay pipe. ‘Trouble is, it’s always the wrong way round. We wear out from the ground upwards. I’ve always said we should start the other way round.’

Jack’s host nudged him with his elbow. ‘Bernie’s a clever old cock. ’E used ter teach the kids at Webb Street ragged school, didn’t yer, Bern?’

The bearded man stared into the fire not hearing, his pipe locked between thumb and forefinger. ‘’Twould be a mite more merciful that way,’ he said quietly. ‘When the mind goes, the rest doesn’t matter. Just think, we could sit here in front of the fire in sublime ignorance. We would neither understand nor care about the circumstances of our plight. We’d all be happy souls, indeed we would.’

‘Bernie lost ’is position at the school, didn’t yer, Bern?’ Jack’s friend remarked.

‘The great poets understood,’ Bernie went on, ignoring the interruptions. ‘Milton, Shakespeare and the like. They were all aware.’

Jack yawned. He did not understand what Bernie was saying but he was aware of one thing: he was not going to chance going back to Amy’s house to collect his boots, not now that her maniac of a husband had returned. The bacon-bone and potato soup had warmed his insides and the heat of the fire felt pleasant on his aching feet. Maybe he should never have forsaken the doss-houses for Amy’s place, he reflected. At least he could have protected his boots with the bedposts. Jack closed his eyes and soon sleep blotted out the circumstances of his plight.

At the Tanners’ house William was lounging in his chair and Nellie was sitting facing him, busily darning a sock. ‘Yer not goin’ in the yard ternight, are yer, luv?’ she asked.

William shook his head. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Everyfing’s all right.’

Nellie got on with her darning and William closed his eyes. It was a habit he had adopted when he wanted to think. Nellie was always quick to notice when he was worried and by feigning sleep he could mull over his problems without being disturbed.

It was something Geoffrey had said that morning which was worrying him. ‘I think the old man should seriously consider buying a couple of motor vans, Will,’ he had remarked. ‘Most of the carters are getting them. If we fall behind we’re going to be left to pick up the work no one else wants, and at a lower price.’

William pondered his own position. He had worked with horses since he was a boy and had spent more than twenty-seven years with Galloway’s. He knew nothing of motor transport, and if the horses went so would his job. George might let him stay on, but for what? Would he end up taking over Jack Oxford’s job? Then there was the home the family lived in. What would happen if he was put out of work? Galloway would no doubt employ someone to look after the motor vans and might well offer that person their house as an inducement.

William’s forehead wrinkled as he thought about his future and he shifted uneasily in the chair. Nellie had been looking at him for a while. She lowered her eyes again to her darning. She knew that when her husband slept, he snored. He was awake and there was something troubling him, she knew. Will was always loath to talk about his worries and had been that way ever since she had known him. How long was it now? she thought suddenly. Almost nineteen years since they had walked down the aisle at Bermondsey Church. Then Will had been a handsome young man with a proud swagger. He was a good man who had provided for her and the children and she had tried to make him happy during their years together.

She winced as she pricked herself with the darning needle, and as she sucked on her finger wished there was a way to soothe her troubled thoughts. Unlike her husband, she was always ready to discuss and share her troubles. There was only one occasion when she had been unable to confide in him, and it had caused her so much pain and anguish ever since. But William would neither have understood nor forgiven her. She would never be able to unburden herself to him and the secret would have to remain locked inside her until the day she died.

The fog cleared by dawn and the morning sky was clear. By seven thirty all the horse carts had left but there was still no sign of Jack Oxford. At eight o’clock Florrie Axford was just about to whiten her front doorstep when she saw the yard man hobbling down Page Street with sacking wrapped around his feet. ‘Gawd ’elp us, Jack!’ she exclaimed. ‘What yer done ter yer boots?’

He scowled at her. ‘I lost ’em,’ he replied quickly.

‘Lost ’em? Did somebody nick ’em in the kip ’ouse?’ she enquired.