Backstreet Child (4 page)

Carrie could remember how she had felt on that evening when she was nestled in his arms before the fire. She loved him dearly and needed him desperately, but there was a lingering fear between them that made her wary. He was sleeping in his own room then and would come to her occasionally very late at night. She wanted time, they both did. She needed to know for sure that he was going to be as good as his word over leaving the drink alone before committing herself to marriage. Since then, during the past few months, Joe had proved to her that he really had beaten his addiction, and he had worked hard alongside her in the business. He had made her very happy by leaving his room for hers and now they were living as man and wife. They had planned to wait until the spring of ’39 to get married properly. Carrie felt that by then enough time would have elapsed since Fred’s death. She knew that her mother did not want her to marry too soon after her husband’s death, though her daughter Rachel seemed to think it did not matter. But then Rachel was different in outlook to the matriarch of the family, that was plain. The old lady was concerned about wagging tongues and had said as much to her daughter, while Rachel laughed contemptuously at what folk might think. ‘Yer’ve got one life, Mum,’ she had said on more than one occasion. ‘Yer can’t mourn ferever. Just be ’appy.’

The sound of her mother’s voice carried into the room and Carrie hurried up the stairs to the back bedroom. Nellie was sitting up in bed with a shawl round her shoulders, holding a photograph of her late husband William in her hands.

‘Could I ’ave anuvver cuppa before I go ter sleep, Carrie?’ she asked, looking somewhat sorry for herself.

Carrie nodded as she sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘That’s a nice picture o’ Dad,’ she said softly.

Nellie brought the photo nearer to her face. ‘ ’E was very young then,’ she replied. ‘That was taken just after he started work fer ole Galloway. We was ’appy then. I was expectin’ you at the time an’ yer dad was gettin’ all excited. Little did I know what was in store fer us.’

Carrie nodded her head slowly. She knew what her mother was thinking about. ‘Yer shouldn’t dwell too much on the bad fings,’ she told her. ‘There was a lot of ’appiness in our family. I was very ’appy as a child, especially when Dad let me near the’orses.’

Nellie gave a brief smile and then her face became sad again. ‘Young James took after yer dad,’ she said, nodding her head slowly. ‘’E was the one most like ’im. I can picture the lot o’ yer sittin’ roun’ the table at mealtimes when we lived next ter the stable. James ’as gorn, an’ Charlie too. There’s only you an’ Danny left now.’

‘I’m sure we’ll see Charlie again one day, Mum,’ Carrie told her.

Nellie shook her head sadly. ‘I won’t,’ she said almost in a whisper. ‘India’s the ovver side o’ the world. My Charlie made a new life fer ’imself out there an’ ’e won’t ever come back now. George Galloway’s got a lot to answer for, an’ I’m not altergevver free from blame when yer come ter weigh it all up.’

Carrie gently took the photograph from her mother’s limp hand and stood up. ‘I’m gonna bring yer up a nice cuppa an’ I want yer ter try an’ get some sleep,’ she said soothingly. ‘P’raps we’ll pop roun’ an’ see ole Dr Baker termorrer. ’E might be able ter give yer a tonic.’

Nellie’s face stiffened. ‘I ain’t goin’ ter see no doctor,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s nuffing wrong wiv me that a good milk stout won’t put right. As a matter o’ fact I’m goin’ round ter see me friends termorrer night. We’re goin’ up the Kings Arms ter see what the new landlord’s like.’

Carrie shrugged her shoulders in resignation and left the room. As she went down the stairs, her mother called after her. ‘Make this one a bit stronger, gel. The last one tasted like gnat’s piss.’

The evening had gone well and Rachel felt happy, chatting easily with Derek as they walked to the Bricklayer’s Arms junction to catch the tram home. She had sipped her port and lemon and enjoyed the music; everyone seemed friendly in the pub and the jazz had been a series of impromptu renderings, with musicians getting up on the stage and joining in at will. The final piece of music had had the whole place buzzing and all the musicians taking part. Rachel had found her feet tapping, and when she glanced across the table at Derek he seemed enraptured by the music and his eyes were closed as he tapped his fingers on the table-top in time to the finale.

Now as they strolled to the tram stop, Derek suddenly took her arm. ‘We’d better cross here,’ he said.

Rachel felt a familiar little shiver at his hand on her upper arm, and when they reached the other side of the road she slipped her arm through his. Derek looked pleased and he smiled briefly at her, then gazed steadily ahead until they reached the tram stop and joined the people already waiting there.

‘That there bloody Adolf ’Itler’s gotta be stopped, that’s what I say,’ the large woman in front of them declared loudly to her friend.

‘Too bloody right,’ her equally large friend agreed. ‘My ole man finks it won’t be long before we’re all in it.’

Rachel grimaced to her escort and Derek merely smiled.

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ the first woman said. ‘It was bad enough the last time. It’ll be ten times worse this time. I was only talkin’ ter Mrs Allen the ovver day. She reckons they’re buildin’ a great big shelter under Weston Street. They say it’s the sewers they’re doin’, but they would say that, wouldn’t they? Anyfing ter stop people gettin’ worried.’

When the tram arrived and everyone climbed aboard, the two large women sat together on the bottom deck and continued their conversation in loud voices, to the consternation of those around them. Rachel turned to Derek with a worried look on her face. ‘Everybody seems ter be talkin’ about a war,’ she said in a whisper.

Derek’s face looked serious as he turned his head to her. ‘I’m goin’ in the navy if there is a war,’ he said without emotion.

Rachel looked out of the window at the shuttered shops for a few moments and then she turned to Derek again. ‘You don’t really fink it’ll come to it, do yer, Derek?’ she asked him.

He saw how concerned she was and smiled. ‘Course not,’ he said, and then paused for a moment. ‘Would yer like ter come ter the pictures on Wednesday?’ he asked.

Rachel nodded and snuggled close to him. ‘Yes, if yer like.’

‘Shall I call fer yer at seven?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, all right.’

The conductor had been collecting fares up top and when he hurried down the stairs and started issuing tickets on the lower deck he became aware of the loud discussion going on, which by now had spread to other passengers. ‘No war talk on this tram,’ he announced in a loud voice, winking cheekily to Rachel.

‘The trufe will out,’ the large woman told him in an even louder voice.

‘What trufe? It’s all rumours,’ the conductor told her, feeling pleased with the smile Rachel gave him.

‘Oh, I see,’ the large woman’s large friend cut in sarcastically. ‘So all the gas masks they’re dishin’ out ain’t really ’appenin’. It’s jus’ rumours.’

‘An’ that bloody great shelter they’re diggin’ in Weston Street ain’t really a shelter.’

‘Yer know somefink, missus. I used ter like my job,’ the conductor said, trying not to laugh.

‘Well, if the war does start, yer can ’ave a change, can’t yer?’ the first woman told him.

‘They won’t take me, luv. They ain’t got no trams in the army,’ he replied, grinning broadly now.

‘Yer’ll be laughin’ the ovver side o’ yer face when they put yer in uniform an’ give yer a rifle an’ bayonet,’ the second large woman said sharply. ‘Yer won’t ’ave it so cushy then.’

For a moment the conductor’s face showed a glimmer of anger, then he chuckled. ‘They wouldn’t trust me wiv one, missus.’

As the tram reached the corner of Tooley Street, the conductor stepped down painfully into the roadway and hobbled over to switch the points. His war wound had been playing him up all day and he was thankful that his shift would end a mile or so along the road at Rotherhithe Tunnel.

At Dockhead, Derek helped Rachel from the tramcar and together the two walked through the foggy night to Salmon Lane. At the entrance to the yard they halted and the young man turned to his partner. ‘I’ll call on Wednesday, then?’

Rachel agreed with a smile but made no attempt to press on the yard bell. She was waiting for his arms to go around her, impatient to feel his lips on hers.

‘I’m glad yer liked the jazz,’ he said, moving close.

‘Yeah, I did,’ she replied.

‘P’raps we could go again, if yer really enjoyed it,’ he went on.

‘I said I did,’ Rachel said quickly, her eyes flitting briefly along the quiet street.

Derek detected a note of impatience in her reply and suddenly he slipped his arms round her waist and pulled her to him, his head tilted as he pressed his lips to hers. The touch of his body as she slipped her arms round his neck made Rachel shiver with pleasure and she moulded herself to him. She could feel the warmth of his body and she closed her eyes to savour the kiss as his arms tightened around her slim waist.

They stood in the shadow of the yard gate for some minutes, locked in a warm embrace, until the sound of revelry drifted down the turning.

‘Well, good night then,’ Derek said as they moved apart reluctantly.

‘Well, good night, Derek,’ she answered, reaching for the bellpush.

Suddenly, they could hear the strains of, ‘There’s an old mill by the stream, Nellie Dean,’ and they saw two lurching figures coming toward them.

‘I’ll see yer then,’ Derek said with a sigh of resignation as he turned to walk away.

Rachel watched him until he passed by the drunken revellers and then she returned his wave before stepping into the cobbled yard.

Chapter Three

At number 22 Tyburn Square, George Galloway sat with his son in his large front room. The houses in the quiet Bermondsey backwater had all been electrified recently and behind the curtains bright lights shone, but at the Galloway residence the front room was only dimly lit by a low-wattage table lamp standing in a corner. George sat in a large leather armchair beside the fire, with his son Frank facing him. Both men were heavy of build with florid complexions. Frank’s thick wavy hair was grey at the sides, while his father’s was now snowy-white and thinning. George Galloway was in his eighty-second year and still very much the man in charge of the thriving transport concern. He had taken to drink many years ago after the death of his wife in childbirth, and some people were convinced that he would end up killing himself unless he eased up on the Scotch whisky. Nevertheless, as the two men sat together in the gloomy room, the old man had hold of a glass containing his favourite tipple, and for his age he looked hale and hearty.

Frank was George Galloway’s younger son and the sole survivor of the three children born to George and Martha Galloway. He ran the cartage business and was given a free rein in the everyday matters of management, but the overall direction of policy and major decisions required the old man’s say-so. Frank was resigned to the situation, knowing that in a few years he would inherit the business and the properties that his father had amassed over the years.

Frank Galloway was married to Bella Ford, once a popular music-hall star who was now reduced to pleading for minor roles in musicals and revues. They had one child, a daugher named Caroline, who at twenty-one was as spoilt and inconsiderate as her mother. Frank knew full well that his marriage had been a disaster from the beginning, and that Bella had taken lovers throughout their miserable union. He too had had his share of available women over the years, and now in his middle age he was a very unhappy man.

Tonight the two men were discussing the possibility of their transport concern being taken over by the Government if war broke out. ‘The Road Haulage Association don’t seem to know exactly what will happen,’ Frank was saying. ‘It seems that the railways have told the Government they can handle all the extra freight but the road hauliers have contested it. From what I can gather, as long as we’ve got regular contracts that don’t rely on dock collections solely, we’ll be all right. They seem to feel that a lot of shipping will be re-routed to West Country ports in the event of war. As it happens, that brewery contract we’ve managed to acquire could be our get-out. Then there’s the food contract with Murray’s. The main problem is likely to be petrol rationing, but there again it depends on the sort of goods we’re hauling.’

George downed his Scotch and pulled a face. ‘It seems ter me that the ’ole bloody lot don’t know their arse from their elbow,’ he growled. ‘We’ll jus’ ’ave ter wait an’ see.’

Frank stared at his father as the old man toyed with the small gold medallion that hung from his watch-chain. ‘I’ve heard that Carrie Tanner has got rid of her horses and she’s getting two new lorries,’ he remarked.

George snorted as he stared at the flickering flames of the dying fire. ‘I should fink she’s takin’ a chance, the way fings are,’ he said coldly.

Frank had come to respect the business acumen of Will Tanner’s daughter even though he disliked her intensely. She would know what she was doing, and must have the necessary cartage contracts to warrant the purchase of two more lorries. They were not cheap by any means, he knew, and the sale of her horses would not have raised enough capital to buy the vehicles. ‘I don’t think we should underestimate her, Father,’ he remarked. ‘She’s caused us enough problems over the years and well we know it.’