Gaslight in Page Street (14 page)

Geoffrey tidied up the papers and leaned back in his chair. It was early afternoon and the yard was quiet before the hustle and bustle around five o’clock when the carts rolled back. He could see Jack Oxford crossing the cobbles with a bucket in his hand, and Will Tanner winching up a bale of hay into the loft. The sun was shining brightly and its long rays penetrated the gloom of the office and lit up the dust motes floating in the air. Geoffrey felt trapped in the job, and not a little irritated by his younger brother’s attitude. Frank was nineteen and after he left school had been allowed to go on to college with the old man’s blessing. He had sat for a diploma in accountancy and was now working in the City for a firm of business accountants. Frank was leading an active social life, often visiting the West End with young women on his arm to see the best shows and revues. He had said he was not interested in going into the family business and his father had not shown any anger or disappointment. How different it had been in his case, Geoffrey thought resentfully. He had been pressured into taking over at the yard, with no consideration for what he wanted. Even now, when he had agreed to submit to what was required of him and had proved himself capable, his life was still strictly monitored by the old man. Even Geoffrey’s choice of women had been deemed a subject for discussion with his father, and the two girls he had taken home so far had been met at best with criticism, at worst with outright hostility. Maybe he should have stood out and refused to submit to his father’s wishes, and taken home the sort of girls Frank seemed to socialise with.

Geoffrey leaned back and sighed. Well, as far as business went, if he was going to stay he would expect to have a bigger say in its running and development, he told himself. He had served his apprenticeship and now he had some ideas of his own to put forward.

Jack Oxford had finished his chores and was taking a rest in his store shed. He was never disturbed there, summoned usually by a shout from the yard. Inside the shed he had an old armchair with broken springs and horsehair protruding from both arms, and had made himself a cushion from a sack stuffed with straw. The only problem with resting in the shed, Jack rued, was that there was no room to stretch out. As he reclined in the chair with his feet propped up on a littered bench, he was thinking about the yard’s cat. It had crawled away the previous day without eating the supply of fresh catmeat laid out for it and Jack was sure it had gone somewhere to have its kittens. He would take a few more minutes’ rest and then make a search. It would most probably have crawled into the small stable where the sick horses were kept in isolation. There had been no horses in there for the past week and cats were clever, he reasoned.

When the yard man finally made a search he found the cat nestling in the far corner of the small stable beneath a pile of loose straw. It had had a large litter of kittens which all looked healthy. Jack scratched his head and pondered on what he should do. The boss would not permit a family of cats in the yard, and if he found out about the litter would order Jack to drown the kittens. Maybe he could give them away when they were ready to leave their mother. There would be no shortage of takers in the street for a cat that was a good mouser. Their mother was the best mouser he had seen and the kittens would most probably take after her, he reasoned.

As the tall, gangling man left the stable, he thought about knocking on Florrie Axford’s door to make enquiries. He had never liked the woman very much but had to admit that she knew everyone in the turning and could put the word around. Having to knock on ‘Hairpin’ Axford’s door was preferable to putting the kittens in a bucket of water, he assured himself.

On his way home that evening the yard man timidly knocked at the door of number 10. When Florrie Axford opened it she looked surprised. ‘What d’yer want?’ she asked, eyeing her visitor warily.

‘Sorry ter trouble yer, missus,’ he said, scratching the back of his head. ‘I’ve got kittens, yer see.’

‘That’s nice fer yer,’ Florrie said sarcastically. ‘What d’yer want me ter do, feed ’em?’

‘I was finkin’ yer might want a cat, or else one o’ the ovver women might. They’ll be good mousers. Their muvver’s the best I’ve seen.’

Florrie shook her head, wanting to get rid of the man as quickly as possible. ‘They’ve all got cats,’ she said curtly.

Jack pulled a face. ‘If ole Galloway finds out she’s ’ad kittens, ’e’ll get me ter drown ’em. Bloody shame really.’

Florrie stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘I s’pose I could ask around,’ she said. ‘When can they be took away from the muvver?’

‘A couple o’ weeks should be all right,’ Jack said, his face brightening up considerably.

‘When yer ready, give us a knock an’ I’ll see what I can do,’ said Florrie, stepping back inside the house.

Jack was feeling better as he walked off along the street, blissfully unaware of what was in store for him.

On a Thursday evening four of George Galloway’s carmen sat around an iron table in the Kings Arms, engaged in a serious discussion.

‘I don’t fink the bloke’s a nark,’ Sharkey said, putting down his drink and wiping the back of his hand across his moustache. ‘I’ve known the silly bleeder fer a few years now, an’ as far as I know ’e’s always minded ’is own business.’

Soapy Symonds nodded his agreement. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Jack Oxford might look stupid but ’e knows what day o’ the week it is. ’E knows when it’s pay day,’ he chuckled.

The two carmen sitting facing Sharkey glanced at each other. ‘Well, I dunno about that, but somebody seems to keep the ole man informed,’ one of them said. ‘That soppy git always seems ter be ’angin’ around. ’E talks ter Will Tanner a lot as well.’

Soapy took another swig from his glass and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘If yer ask me, I’d say it was more likely ter be that Sid Bristow,’ he cut in. ‘’E’s always talkin’ ter Galloway. I reckon it was ’im what put the word in about ole Scratcher Blackwell when we tried to get the union in years back. Bristow wouldn’t back us fer a strike neivver. Yer gotta watch that cowson.’

Sammy Jackson hunched his broad shoulders and leaned forward over the table, his large, calloused hands clasped around his glass. ‘That was before my time but the old man knew what we was plannin’ an’ ’e warned me about gettin’ involved wiv the union. Somebody must ’ave told ’im,’ he growled.

‘Well, my money’s on Sid Bristow,’ Soapy said firmly.

‘P’raps it was Will Tanner,’ Sammy’s friend suggested.

Sharkey shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ’im, Darbo. Will’s as straight as a die. ’E’s always standin’ up fer the blokes, an’ what ’e knows ’e keeps ter ’imself. All right, ’e’s the yard foreman an’ sometimes ’e gets a bit shirty wiv us, but that’s ’is job. We all know that.’

Ted Derbyshire shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sammy might be right about Jack Oxford. That bloke gives me the creeps. ’E’s always slouchin’ around the yard wiv that funny look in ’is eyes. I ’eard ’e sleeps in the doss-’ouse in Tower Bridge Road. Somebody told me they seen ’im standin’ outside that school in Fair Street watchin’ the gels doin’ their exercises. Yer gotta watch people like that. Them dirty ole gits are dangerous where kids are concerned.’

Sharkey finished his drink and made to leave. He did not like the way the conversation was going and it seemed to him that the two new carmen had it in for the yard man. He had known Jack Oxford for many years and felt sure the man was just a harmless simpleton.

Chapter Eight

Florrie Axford had been making herself busy during the past two weeks and felt happy with the response she had got from her neighbours and friends. It looked as though she had now found enough homes for the whole litter and she felt she had better go and see Jack Oxford instead of waiting for him to call. ‘That silly bastard’s prob’ly fergot ’e’s s’posed ter come round. ’E’ll drown the poor little mites if I don’t go an’ tell ’im I’ve found ’em ’omes,’ she groaned to her friend Maisie Dougall.

Maisie had said she would take one of the litter and her next-door neighbour had found a home for another with a friend. Aggie Temple had been approached but had declined. It was bad enough as it was keeping the place clean without cats messing everywhere, she told Florrie. Sadie Sullivan had said she was willing to take one, and there were a few more offers of a home for the remainder of the litter.

When Florrie called at the yard, Jack was busy with the broom. She beckoned him to the gate. ‘I’ve got people ter take them all,’ she said.

He grinned lopsidedly. ‘Righto. I’ll bring ’em round ternight,’ he replied.

‘I ain’t ’avin’ ’em all in my place, an’ I certainly ain’t runnin’ aroun’ deliverin’ ’em,’ Florrie said pointedly. ‘I’ll tell ’em ter come an’ pick ’em up themselves.’

Jack nodded and got on with his sweeping, happy in the knowledge that now he would not have to drown the kittens. His only fear was that George Galloway would find out about them, despite the precautions he had taken, and stop him giving the litter away.

The next morning, as soon as the last cart had left the yard, Maisie Dougall called in and Jack Oxford took her into the small stable. She soon selected her kitten and went away, happily cuddling it to her ample bosom. During the day two more callers went away with their chosen kittens. Maggie Jones had intended to go to the yard that morning but her youngest daughter Iris wanted to select the kitten herself and so she decided that the child should call in at the yard on her way home from school.

It was a quiet afternoon when ten-year-old Iris Jones called in and was shown to the stable by the grinning Jack Oxford. He stood back while the child bent over the litter and made a fuss of each small bundle of fur. At last she made her choice and slipped the kitten under her coat. She walked out into the bright sunshine, smiling happily at Jack Oxford.

At the same time as the young girl arrived at the gate that afternoon, Darbo was driving his cart down the turning. He saw Iris cross the yard with Jack. As he drove into the yard and jumped down from his seat, Darbo looked around him, frowning. They were nowhere to be seen now. The curious carman walked quickly into the office and saw Horace Gallagher bent over his desk.

‘I’ve jus’ seen Oxford bring a young gel in the yard,’ he exclaimed loudly.

The elderly accountant peered over his glasses. The figures did not seem to be making sense that afternoon and he was feeling irritable. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he replied. ‘Go and tell Mr Tanner.’

Darbo hurried from the yard and looked around. The foreman was most probably up in the large stable, he thought. There was no time to waste. Anything could be happening to that child.

He hurried to the store shed and peered in. It was all quiet. As he turned to leave he saw the girl and the yard man walking to the gate. The gangling figure stared after her and gave her a wave as she disappeared along the turning. Darbo’s immediate reaction was to confront Jack Oxford, but as he watched the yard man loping up the long ramp he thought better of it. Best wait until Sammy gets in, he decided. People like Oxford could be violent at times. Sammy would be able to handle the situation if it got dangerous.

When Sammy Jackson drove into the yard fifteen minutes later he was confronted by the excited Darbo, and while their animated conversation was taking place George Galloway drove his trap into the yard with Geoffrey sitting at his side. Immediately the two carmen hurried up to the trap and Sammy leaned on its brass side-rail.

‘Yer’ve got a dirty ole git workin’ fer yer, Guv’,’ he said quickly. ‘Go on, Darbo, tell the guv’nor what yer jus’ told me.’

When Darbo finished his account, George Galloway, turned to Sammy Jackson. ‘What d’yer wanna do about it?’ he asked.

Sammy clenched his fists and nodded in the direction of the upper stable. ‘I’ve got young kids meself, Guv’. I reckon we ought ter teach ’im a lesson ’e won’t ferget.’

George nodded. ‘It’s up ter you what yer do. I ’ad no part in this, understand? If yer do dust ’im up, don’t go too mad. I don’t want a bloody murder on me ’ands.’

As Sammy and Darbo hurried towards the ramp, Geoffrey turned to his father in disbelief. ‘Are you going to let those two loose on Oxford without finding out exactly what
did
happen?’ he asked incredulously.

George smiled crookedly at his son. ‘What would you do in the circumstances?’ he asked.

‘Well, I’d at least call the man into the office and confront him,’ Geoffrey replied, staring hard at his father.

‘An’ what’s ’e gonna say? “Yes, Guv’, I’ve jus’ molested a child.” Grow up, Geoff. Those two ’ave got more chance o’ gettin’ the truth out o’ the man than me an’ you.’

Geoffrey bit on his bottom lip and glanced anxiously towards the stable. ‘They could kill him. I’m going to stop them.’

George put out a restraining hand. ‘I said leave ’em,’ he growled. ‘That bloody idiot’s bin a burden ter me fer years now. I dunno why I listened ter Tanner in the first place. I should ’ave done what I intended ter do an’ sacked the dopey whoreson long ago.’

Geoffrey got down from the trap and made his way to the office. ‘Where’s Tanner?’ he asked the accountant, who by this time had finally sorted out the figures and was leaning back in his chair looking exhausted.

Horace Gallagher shook his head. ‘He had to go out. One of the carts broke an axle. What’s going on?’ he asked, noticing the young man’s worried expression.

Geoffrey ignored the question and stood by the door, gazing across the yard. Horace Gallagher had worked for the Galloway company for a number of years and he had witnessed some strange goings-on but on this occasion he had a strong feeling that he should make himself scarce. He quickly gathered up his ledgers and stuffed them into his tatty briefcase, then putting on his trilby he squeezed past Geoffrey and hurried out of the yard as fast as he could.