Gaslight in Page Street (20 page)

The marchers were congregating in Lambeth Road. When the girls reached the old Bedlam Asylum, Mary was greeted warmly by a smartly dressed woman who handed her a white, green and purple-coloured banner with the letters ‘WSPU’ boldly emblazoned on it. ‘We’re waiting for the East End contingent and then we’re starting,’ she said, taking the posters from Mary.

Carrie looked around her and saw young women standing in groups, each with their own distinctive banner. They had come from all over London. Some of them wore factory aprons and white linen caps.

‘They’re from the chocolate factory in Walworth Road,’ Mary said, and pointed to another group. ‘That lot comes from Waterloo.’

Soon the East End women arrived, riding in two open horse carts driven by bored-looking carmen. A cheer went up as the women jumped down and hurried to take their places. One of them carried a banner which proclaimed, ‘Poplar Women Want The Vote’, and to the rear of the group another two women shared a large wide banner which said in bold letters, ‘Stepney Women Unite’.

Organisers hurried up and down along the lines as the long column started off along Lambeth Road and into Westminster Bridge Road. Up ahead, Carrie could see the tall tower of Big Ben. Folk stared at them as they passed, some of them bemused but others openly mocking. Some children ran alongside the column for a time, and then with their curiosity satisfied darted off down side streets.

As the column reached the wide bridge and started to cross, a group of young men gathered at the kerbside and began to shout out obscene comments. Carrie’s heart beat wildly as she glanced across at the men, fearing that violence would erupt at any second. Some of them were joking and jeering, but it frightened her to see how some faces were twisted with malice and hatred. She turned her head away and looked straight ahead, breathing a deep sigh of relief when the column had passed by without incident.

She was beginning to feel more relaxed by the time the women reached Victoria Street and neared the railway station. Policemen were flanking the procession and some way in front two mounted officers were clearing the way. Mary was shouting slogans and walking proudly, her banner flapping in the slight breeze, Freda and Jessica were walking beside Carrie with serious expressions on their faces, and for the first time she felt a little thrill of exhilaration at taking part in the march.

Soon the head of the column veered to the right and as the line straightened the women were leered and jeered at by a large group of young men who had gathered at a corner of the street clutching dirty sacks of overripe fruit.

‘They’re a local gang of nasty young troublemakers. They did that last time,’ a well-dressed woman shouted to Carrie and her friends above the din. ‘Keep your heads down, ladies.’

A heavy shower of rotten fruit and cabbages fell among the women, and scuffles broke out as some men managed to get at the marchers, kicking out and yanking at their hair. The escorting policemen rushed up and chased them off, but by now some of the women who had been hit were in extreme distress. One young girl was led away with a handkerchief held up to her face and others were crying and screaming out in anger. Carrie and her two friends felt shocked and stunned, hardly able to believe they had escaped unharmed, but Mary had been hit on the back of the head by a soft orange and her hair was a soggy mess.

The column finally halted outside Hyde Park in some disarray. The organisers moved quickly among the ranks of women, taking stock of the situation and trying to restore order. When the injured and distressed had been consoled and spirits were restored the marchers set off again, walking stalwartly through the gates singing and laughing defiantly.

Carrie felt a surge of elation and pride as she strode into the park alongside the other women. After the attack on the march everything happening around her seemed suddenly different, and she began to feel a sense of belonging that was new to her. At first she had gone along with reservations, feeling unsure of herself, but when she watched the distressed women being led away and saw how the rest of them closed ranks and took over the banners, she felt an anger and determination she had never known before. Her curiosity had been fired by listening to Mary’s outbursts and hearing a lot spoken about the protests, but she had attended the march with a childish sense of adventure, not really thinking that the campaign had any bearing on her own life. Only now was the real meaning of the movement and what the march represented slowly dawning on her. Women from all over London and from different backgrounds were marching together and facing ridicule and violence to win a say in the way the country should be governed.

Mary had told her about it often enough and she had thought about it vaguely, but until now she had not envisaged the depth of feeling shared by the campaigners. Their zeal was inspiring, and Carrie understood why they believed so passionately that with the vote women could change things and stand up against the poverty and slavery that ruled their lives. She realised that in a few years’ time she could be old enough to vote, and thought of the hungry woman and her two children in the pie shop who had looked as though they were starving. She thought of her friend Sara and her ailing mother, and of Sara’s father who had once sold matches in the gutter to feed his children. Maybe women could dispel the squalor and deprivation if they got the vote. Their anger at being denied a say in their own lives was now her anger, and Carrie felt a sudden determination to find out what needed to be done so that she too could help to make things better.

When the marchers reached their destination inside Hyde Park, Carrie could see a high platform around which people were gathering. The long column had now changed into a milling crowd, and people were closing in on the dais and pushed forward to get near to the speakers. Dampness rose from the sodden grass and the sky above their heads remained leaden as the meeting got under way. Speaker after speaker rose to demand the vote for women and to expound on what could be achieved if they were allowed into Parliament.

Mary seemed to know all about the speakers. ‘That’s Christobel Pankhurst,’ she pointed out. ‘See that man sitting next to ’er? That’s H.G. Wells, an’ that’s George Bernard Shaw sittin’ next to ’im. That lady wiv the black bonnet is Mrs Shaw.’

Carrie had been listening intently to the speakers and suddenly Mary nudged her. ‘Keir ’Ardie’s gonna speak now,’ she said in a reverent tone. ‘’E’s the Labour leader, an’ ’e’s really good.’

When the bearded man in the ragged suit got up and raised his hands there was complete silence. Then his reedy voice rang out over the gathering and Carrie was spellbound, forgetting the coldness that assailed her body and her tired, aching limbs. Keir Hardie was eloquent and impassioned as he talked of the poverty and squalor prevailing everywhere. He angrily decried the evils of starvation wages and the exploitation of workers, and reminded the gathering of the power of ordinary people to force changes and demand a better standard of living and quality of life. When he ended by lifting his hands high above his head and demanding the vote for women, the meeting erupted into deafening applause and wild cheering. Carrie felt drained as she joined in the clapping.

The meeting finally ended and the women started to disperse. Mary had disappeared into the crowd and Carrie left the park holding on to her friends’ arms.

For a while the three were quiet, each wrapped up in their own thoughts, then Freda broke the silence.

‘Wasn’t that ’Ardie fella good?’ she said with awe. ‘When ’e was goin’ on about the squalor an’ starvation wages, I got so worked up I wanted ter scream.’

Carrie nodded slowly. ‘I know what yer mean, Freda. I reckon ’e was the best speaker o’ the lot. I’m glad I came terday. When yer listen ter those speakers, it makes yer fink.’

Jessica smiled. ‘I reckon ’e was right about starvation wages. That’s what we get at Wilson’s. I reckon we should ’ave a strike, don’t you?’

Freda snorted. ‘A fat lot o’ good that’d do. I ’eard they’re finkin’ o’ puttin’ us on short-time. I couldn’t manage on short-time money. I’m the bread-winner in our ’ouse.’

The thought of being laid off and losing their wages weighed heavily on the three girls as they walked along Victoria Street and down to the Embankment. An elderly lamplighter was busy turning on the tall gaslamps by the river and at the Embankment steps a chestnut-seller was stoking up a glowing brazier. The three girls stood shivering at the tram stop, and by the time they clambered aboard the tram home they were feeling exhausted. Along the river a mist was rising, blotting out the far bridge, and through the gathering darkness rain started to fall.

Fog had been threatening for most of the day and now, as night fell and mists rose from the river, it thickened and swirled into the narrow Bermondsey backstreets. Page Street was fog-bound. The yellow light from the corner gaslamp barely pierced the gloom as William Tanner set his lighted paraffin lamp down outside Galloway’s stables. He unlocked the small wicket gate and let himself into the yard, his footsteps echoing eerily as he walked across the cobbled area and entered the small stable at the far end of the premises.

The black Clydesdale was standing quietly in its stall, coat glistening with sweat. It looked balefully at the intruder. William could see that the horse’s food had not been touched. He patted the horse to reassure it before running his hand down its withers and under its belly. ‘C’mon, boy, we’ll give yer a rub down,’ he said, taking hold of the horse’s bridle and backing it out of the stall. William hummed tunelessly to himself as he rubbed the large horse down with handfuls of straw. When he was satisfied that the coat was dry and shining, he led the Clydesdale around in a circle once or twice before putting it back into its stall.

The previous evening when Sharkey Morris had driven his pair of horses into the yard and jumped down from his cart he had been confronted by an irate George Galloway.

‘’Ave yer bin makin’ ’em trot?’ the owner enquired angrily, glaring at the distressed horse. ‘’E’s sweatin’.’

Sharkey looked aggrieved as he ducked under the horse’s head to face the owner. ‘I never run my ’orses, Guv’, yer know I don’t,’ he said quickly. ‘The black’s bin a bit ropy all day. ’E ain’t touched ’is nosebag an’ ’e wouldn’t drink when I stopped at the trough at Dockhead.’

Galloway slid his hand under the horse’s belly. ‘’Is stomach don’t feel swollen, but yer never can tell.’

William had walked across the yard and taken hold of the horse’s bridle, looking the animal over with a critical eye.

‘It could be colic,’ he remarked to Galloway.

‘It might be, Will,’ Sharkey cut in. ‘’E’s bin lookin’ at ’is flanks.’

George Galloway pulled a face. He had acquired the big Clydesdales and a large cart for the renewed contract with the rum firm in Tooley Street. This required transporting casks from the docks to the firm’s arches in Tooley Street where the rum was bottled, and the Clydesdales were the only horses in the stable capable of pulling the heavy loads.

‘We’ll ’ave ter let the vet take a look at ’im, Will,’ he said. ‘It could be colic.’

‘It might be the bloat or the twist,’ Sharkey volunteered, only to be rewarded by a murderous look from his boss who knew only too well that the twist was a knotting of the intestine and nearly always fatal in horses.

‘Get that ’arness off ’im and put ’im in the small stable,’ George told his carman. ‘Watch ’im ternight,’ he said, turning to William, ‘an’ if ’e starts rollin’ get the vet in straight away. I’ll ’ave ter get anuvver firm ter do the run termorrer.’

William stood in the dark stable for a while, watching the horse nuzzling at the hay and blowing hard through its nostrils. He felt sure that there was nothing seriously wrong with the animal and before he left he patted its neck fondly.

As he walked back through the cobbled yard the sound of a horse moving in its stall made him look up instinctively to the stable on the upper level. His eyes widened in surprise. He was sure he had seen a flicker of light. He stood still. For a fleeting moment he saw it again and clenched his teeth, realising there was someone in the stable.

With an uneasy feeling William crept quietly over to the ramp and turned up the burner of his lamp before going on tiptoe up the steep incline. At the top of the ramp he turned right and walked quietly into the long stable, holding his lamp above his head. Most of the horses were lying in their stalls but one or two were standing, nuzzling at their hay nets and stamping. It all looked normal enough and William walked back out to the ramp with a puzzled frown. He crossed the level and looked into the chaff-cutting loft, immediately catching a whiff of paraffin. The hairs on his neck rose as he realised that someone was in the loft. He held the lamp high and saw the straw in one corner move.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out, moving forward cautiously.

‘It’s only me, Will,’ a low voice answered.

William moved his lamp a little and saw the face of Jack Oxford. The man’s eyes were wide open and he wore a silly grin as he emerged from his hiding-place.

‘What the bloody ’ell yer doin’ ’ere?’ William asked him.

The yard man shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘I’m sorry, but I lost me digs, yer see,’ he said awkwardly.

‘What d’yer mean, yer lost yer digs?’ William asked.

Jack Oxford lowered his eyes and studied his boots. ‘I got chucked out fer causin’ trouble, but I didn’t really. Well, I did, but I didn’t start it, it was Fatty Arbuckle’s fault, an’ ...’