Gaslight in Page Street (25 page)

The two frightened women hurried off without a word and Sadie put her arm around Maisie’s shoulders as they walked back to their group. ‘Don’t worry, gel,’ she grinned. ‘Them sort ain’t used ter seein’ a load of ole sloshers like us.’

Meanwhile there had been a serious discussion taking place over the supine figure of Soapy, who was snoring loudly.

‘What’re we gonna do?’ Aggie groaned, stroking her bandaged ankle.

‘It’s no good, I’ve tried ter wake ’im but ’e’s too pissed,’ Florrie said, shaking her head. ‘There’s only one fing ter do. Give us an ’and, gels.’

After Soapy had been unceremoniously thrown into the back of the cart, Nellie took charge. Having to drive the cart did not worry her. She had often gone out on trips with William in the past and he had let her take the reins. The horse was fetched from its resting-place under a clump of trees and tethered to the cart, and when all the women had clambered aboard and Aggie had been made comfortable with her damaged leg resting across Soapy, they started for home. A few hours later a tired, happy bunch of wassailers finally drove into Page Street by the bright silver light of a full moon.

Chapter Fourteen

Early in 1910 an outbreak of diphtheria in the nearby Salisbury Street slums spread to Page Street. Two of the smaller Sullivan boys caught the disease, as did Maisie Dougall’s younger son. For days the children’s parents could do nothing but wait and pray. When the crisis had passed and the three children began to recover everyone hoped that the scourge had left, but it was not to be. Mrs Jones lost her daughter, Mrs Carmody lost a son, and in Bacon Street Buildings four children died. The tragedies left a terrible scar on the hard-up families, and with the menfolk falling out of work and food prices rising there seemed little to instil hope into the drab lives of the Bermondsey folk. Anger and bad feelings were running high, and activists were beginning to make themselves heard in their efforts to get something done about the slum dwellings in the area. Salisbury Street was a major target for the campaigners, as was Bacon Street Buildings. Meetings took place in church halls, school buildings and on street corners, and the local councillors were roundly berated. The suffragettes were actively stepping up their campaign to win the vote for women and were trying ever more fervently to persuade people that their votes would force change and improve the lives of everyone.

Carrie Tanner had called on her friend Sara Knight at her home in Bacon Street Buildings often during the diphtheria outbreak and she had been moved to tears as she saw the funeral processions leaving Bacon Street. Her sadness and anger found release in the women’s movement and she was now becoming more and more dedicated to the cause. She attended every march and meeting she could and volunteered to carry one of the heavy banners, along with Mary and her two friends Jessica and Freda. Local newspapers had been quick to realise that the suffragette movement was gaining many dedicated followers amongst working-class girls and they ran stories and interviews. The
South London Press
and the
Kentish Mercury
were regularly reporting events and publicising the marches to their readers, and support for the women’s movement grew.

Nevertheless, there were still many people who viewed the movement in a very unfavourable light, and at Wilson’s leather factory the management issued a threat. A notice was pinned up beside the time-clock which read: ‘As full-time working has been resumed, any future absenteeism due to taking part in suffragette marches will result in instant dismissal’.

‘Well, I don’t care,’ Mary said firmly as she punched in her time-card. ‘I fer one ain’t gonna bow ter that sort of intimidation. As far as I’m concerned, the movement comes first, so sod ’em all.’

‘What we gonna do about Friday’s march, Carrie?’ a worried Jessica asked her friend.

‘I feel the same way as Mary. I’m not gonna be stopped by that notice,’ Carrie replied angrily.

‘Nor am I,’ Freda said firmly. ‘If they sack us, we’ll jus’ ’ave ter go ter Peek Freans or the tin-bashers. They always seem ter be takin’ workers on. Ter tell yer the trufe, I don’t fancy workin’ in a metal factory, what wiv the noise an’ that, but I can’t afford ter be out o’ collar.’

Mary had a sly grin on her wide face as she turned to Carrie. ‘I wonder if the local papers’ll be interested in that notice?’ she remarked.

On Friday morning the management met to discuss the absence of four of their workers and the disappearance of the warning notice.

‘It’s going to be embarrassing if the newspapers get hold of that notice,’ the personnel manager, Mr Wilkins, remarked. ‘It’s likely to reflect badly on our good name.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about our good name,’ the elderly managing director, Mr Gore, cut in. ‘We’re an old established business with a good employment record. We don’t have strikes at our factory because the workers enjoy good working conditions, and better wages than any of our competitors in Bermondsey, I might add. I think many people are getting a little tired of the suffragettes and the disruption their marches cause. As far as this firm is concerned, our position has been made clear. We can’t afford to let our girls go off on those ridiculous marches just when it suits them. In any case, we’re within our rights.’

‘I take it the four young women will be dismissed then?’ the works manager queried, glancing at Mr Wilkins.

Mr Gore nodded emphatically. ‘Are there any voices against enforcing our ruling?’ he asked, looking round the table quickly. The silence gave him the answer he required and he looked at the personnel manager. ‘I take it you’ll be able to deal with it, Mr Wilkins,’ he said brusquely as he got up and walked out of the room.

The rest of the gathering exchanged glances. ‘This could cause trouble,’ the works manager, Mr Faraday, remarked. ‘The old man was talking about our strike-free record. I think we’re likely to lose that. There’s been some unrest on the shopfloor since that notice went up.’

Mr Wilkins nodded his agreement. ‘I warned him about taking too hard a line. We could have just stopped the day’s pay. Sacking the girls is going to give us more trouble than we bargained for, mark my words.’

‘We could have spoken up and opposed him,’ Mr Hopgood, the chief accountant said timidly.

‘Well, we didn’t, so there’s no point harping on it now,’ Wilkins said. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see what happens next.’

Across the river on Tower Hill that bright spring morning the four workers from Wilson’s leather factory were collecting their banners for the big march on Parliament, in blissful disregard of their possible fate. Mary was becoming excited. She pointed to a group of women in aprons and white hats. ‘Look over there, ’ she enthused. ‘They’re the matchbox gels from Bryant and May’s.’

Smartly dressed organisers were hurrying to and fro, distinctive in their armbands showing the letters ‘WSPU’. They wore long dark satin dresses with ruffled sleeves tapering at the wrist and all had on wide hats and patent leather boots. In contrast, the factory girls and women from the working areas of London wore long shabby dresses or factory aprons and bonnets.

There was a mood of solidarity and quiet determination as the column finally set off along Eastcheap and into Cannon Street. Carrie carried a poster that showed apronclad women with raised hands. The wording above the picture announced, ‘The Women’s Social and Political Union’, and beneath the picture was the statement, ‘Women demand the right to vote. The pledge of citizenship and basis of all liberty’. Carrie walked proudly beside Mary who was sharing a large banner with Freda, and Jessica strode alongside with a smaller banner to herself. As they progressed along the busy thoroughfare the chant went up, ‘Votes for Women!’ City workers and fish porters stood watching at the roadside and occasionally an obscene comment was directed towards the column. Women looked down from open windows, cheering the marchers and shouting encouragement. Policemen flanked the column, looking totally disinterested, and up ahead traffic came to a standstill as the campaigners crossed into Fleet Street.

Carrie’s arms were beginning to ache. She glanced across to Mary. The young woman’s plump face was flushed and she was chanting loudly as she strode along. Carrie grinned to herself. What was going to happen if they lost their jobs at the factory? she wondered suddenly. Her mother had warned her of the possible consequences and would no doubt have much to say, although her father would probably shrug his shoulders and leave the chastisement to Nellie.

The procession moved along the Strand, crossed the south side of Trafalgar Square and turned left into Whitehall, where more police were waiting. Freda leaned towards Carrie with a worried look on her pale face. ‘I wonder if they’ll try an’ stop us before we get ter Parliament?’ she said.

Mary heard the comment. ‘They can’t do that. We’re allowed ter lobby, long as we don’t cause trouble,’ she announced, giving the policeman walking beside her a mean glance.

The suffragettes finally arrived at the looming tower of Big Ben and the column halted while two of the organisers spoke with police at the gates of the House of Commons. Carrie could see the two women walking into the courtyard, flanked between two policemen. She rested her banner against her leg. Mary was sweating profusely and both Jessica and Freda looked tired from the long march.

The police seemed to be getting agitated as the traffic was being forced to divert around the marchers and there was some pushing and shoving going on. A group of women were protesting at being herded away from their vantage point outside Parliament, and as a policeman took one of them roughly by the arm and tried to remove her from the gates a scuffle suddenly broke out. Other women started to cry out against what seemed to be an unnecessary use of force and soon policemen surrounded the growing disturbance. Traffic was coming to a standstill in Parliament Square as the orderly lines disintegrated into a swarming, chaotic throng. Policemen’s helmets became dislodged as the violence grew worse. The matchbox women were in the thick of the fray with fists flying.

Carrie picked up her banner and tried to follow her friends to the safety of the central grassed square but a policeman grabbed her arm and yanked her towards the pavement where a Black Maria was parked. Suddenly Mary’s heavy banner crashed down on his head, and as he stumbled Carrie pulled herself free.

‘Quick, run!’ screamed Mary, setting off in the direction of Westminster Bridge.

Carrie held her skirts up from her feet as she followed her friend, tearing across the road. When the two reached the foot of the bridge they leaned on the parapet, gasping for breath.

‘They was after arrestin’ those what was carryin’ banners,’ Mary said when she had recovered slightly. ‘We better not stop ’ere.’

The skirmishes were spilling on to the entrance to the bridge by now and the two women could see some of the organisers being led away by policemen.

‘Quick, let’s cross over,’ Carrie said, pulling on Mary’s arm.

They dashed through the congested traffic, and at the entrance to Whitehall spotted Freda and Jessica who both looked distressed. Freda’s dress was torn at the front and Jessica was crying. There seemed to be police everywhere. There was an officer standing near the four young women, carrying a battered helmet in his hand. When he spotted Mary, his face screwed up in anger.

‘Come ’ere, you!’ he shouted gruffly, beckoning her with his finger.

Mary backed away and turned to run but the angry policeman reached out and grabbed her. ‘I’m arrestin’ you fer assaultin’ a police officer,’ he growled.

Carrie stood directly in front of him and looked angrily into his flushed face. ‘She ain’t done nuffink,’ she cried.

‘Oh, I see. Yer both wanna be arrested, do yer?’ he said, taking her arm.

Jessica and Freda had had enough trouble for one day. They backed away and hurried off in the direction of the bridge. People were standing around watching the incident. One young man wearing a cap and red scarf walked up boldly and confronted the officer. ‘Why don’t yer leave ’em alone?’ he said. ‘They ain’t doin’ no ’arm.’

The policeman turned to the man. ‘’Oppit, or I’ll run yer in as well,’ he snarled.

Carrie could feel her heart pounding as she struggled in the policeman’s strong grip and tried to prise his fingers from her arm with her free hand. She could see more policemen crossing the road in their direction and bit on her bottom lip. With a deft movement she reached up into her hair and pulled out a hat-pin. With a quick thrust she pushed it into the policeman’s leg. He bellowed in pain and at the same time Mary kicked him on the shin. The sudden assault had disabled the policeman and the two young women broke free, holding hands as they dashed off across Westminster Bridge as fast as their legs could carry them.

Once over the river, and realising they had not been chased, the two stopped and leaned against a wall to recover.

‘That was a smart fing ter do,’ Mary laughed. ‘Where did yer learn that trick?’

Carrie grinned. ‘That’s what Florrie Axford would ’ave done,’ she replied.

‘Florrie Axford?’

‘Yeah. They call ’er “’airpin” Axford be’ind ’er back ’cos she stopped a fight once by stickin’ ’er ’airpin in this bloke’s leg,’ Carrie explained.

‘I wonder if Jessica an’ Freda got away all right?’ Mary asked presently.

Carrie nodded. ‘I see ’em both runnin’ over the bridge. I reckon they’ll be ’ome by now.’