Gaslight in Page Street (27 page)

‘Come on, Wilkins, what’s it to be? Instant dismissal for the whole workforce?’

Once again the browbeaten personnel manager opened his mouth to speak but was shut up immediately.

‘Right then, you get down and deliver the ultimatum. Back to work forthwith or the sack, got it?’

Mr Wilkins was afraid that he was going to get it but he nodded and prepared to face the workers once more. He had barely risen from the table when he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of loud voices in the corridor. A protesting Mrs Jones appeared in the doorway to be brushed aside immediately by a large woman wearing a twill dress and a high bonnet with black buttons sewn along one side. Her hair was cut short to her neck and her dark eyes glared like two burning coals. ‘My name is Barbara Lennox-Leeds. I’m the secretary of the South London branch of the WSPU and I wish to speak to the managing director,’ she said in a loud but cultured voice.

‘I’m Harold Gore. What can I do for you?’ the managing director said quickly, looking warily at the large woman.

The intruder stood with hands on hips, fixing him with her intimidating stare. ‘Am I right in thinking that you have taken it on yourself to dismiss four young women in your employ for taking part in a march on Friday?’ she boomed.

‘That’s right, I did, not that it’s any concern of yours,’ Gore replied sharply.

‘What happens to my members
is
my concern,’ the woman rebuked him. ‘Mr Gore, I think I should make one thing perfectly clear. The suffragette movement, in which I am proud to serve, is campaigning for women to take their rightful place in society. When that happens, and when women get the vote, they will use their powers to right the wrongs in our society and ensure that never again will they be treated merely as the chattels of men. Never again ...’

‘What is it you want, Mrs Lennox, er, Lees?’ Mr Gore cut in.

‘The name is Lennox-Leeds. Miss Lennox-Leeds,’ she bellowed. ‘As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, never again will women be reduced to suffering in silence as the unpaid servants of men. They will ...’

‘Look, Miss Lennox-Lees, I understand what you’re saying, but what exactly is the purpose of your visit?’ Mr Gore asked irritably.

‘Lennox-Leeds,’ she corrected him again. ‘The purpose of my visit is to ask you to reconsider your decision to punish my members for taking part in the cause.’

Harold Gore glanced quickly at the wide-eyed and open-mouthed management team and dismissed them with a nod of his head. After they had hurriedly departed, he waved his visitor to a chair.

‘Let me make one thing quite clear,’ he began. ‘I’m running a business - which, I might add, has been going through a bad time during the past twelve months. We have just reverted to full-time operation and I can’t afford to let my workers take time off to attend marches, however strongly they feel about things. Discipline has to be maintained and if I don’t reinforce my position the company will founder. In short, my dear, the answer is no, I will not reconsider.’

Miss Lennox-Leeds stood up quickly, glaring across the desk at him. ‘I’m not your dear,’ she bellowed, ‘and you will kindly listen to what I have to say. Unless those four young women are reinstated immediately, the WSPU will see to it that steps are taken which will put your company right back into dire circumstances. In short, Mr Gore, your company may very well founder. I hope I’ve made myself quite clear?’

Harold Gore stood up quickly and matched his unwelcome visitor in a hard stare. ‘Are you threatening me?’ he demanded.

‘No, I am not,’ she replied. ‘I am stating the obvious. If you cannot or will not act in a sensible and realistic manner then I will inform the press, the local member of Parliament, ward councillors, your competitors, and anyone else who will listen, that your company is openly demonstrating its opposition to the suffragette movement by victimising members of your workforce who support it. Furthermore, we the WSPU will mount daily pickets outside your premises, suitably armed with banners and posters. Now do your worst, and may you live to regret it.’

Harold Gore stood open-mouthed as the large woman turned on her heel and stormed out of his office, then he collapsed into his chair and rested his head in his hands. For a time he sat motionless. Finally he got up with a heavy sigh and called in his secretary. ‘Get them back in here will you, Mrs Jones,’ he groaned.

One morning in the first week of May, Florrie Axford hurried along Page Street and knocked on Maisie Dougall’s front door.

‘’Ere Maisie, I was jus’ goin’ up the shop fer me snuff an’ ole Bill Bailey stopped me,’ she said, puffing from her exertion. ‘Did yer know the King’s dead?’

Maisie stood staring at Florrie for a few seconds and then her hand came up to her mouth. ‘The King’s dead?’ she repeated.

Florrie nodded. ‘I didn’t believe Bill Bailey when ’e told me, ter tell yer the trufe. Yer know what a silly ole bleeder ’e is. Anyway, when I got ter the paper shop I see it fer meself. It’s on the placards. ’E died o’ pneumonia yesterday. The shop’s sold out o’ papers already.’

Maisie shook her head sadly. ‘It jus’ shows yer, Florrie. All the best doctors in the world ain’t no use when yer number’s up. ’E must ’ave ’ad the best ter look after ’im, it stan’s ter reason.’

Florrie pinched her chin between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I bin finkin’. It might be a good idea ter get the neighbours ter chip in wiv a few coppers.’

‘Yer finkin’ we should send ’im a wreaf then?’ Maisie asked.

‘No, yer silly mare. I mean fer the kids,’ Florrie replied forcefully, and seeing Maisie’s puzzled look she sighed with exasperation. ‘A party. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. We should ’ave a street party fer the kids.’

Maisie shook her head. She had been present at Bridie Phelan’s wake and she remembered how shocking it was to see the fiddler playing beside the coffin and the singing mourners gathered there in the room with glasses of whisky in their hands. ‘It wouldn’t be right, Florrie,’ she said reverently. ‘I said so at Bridie Phelan’s send orf an’ I ain’t changed me mind. I fink it’s wicked ter get pissed at such a time.’

Florrie reached into her coat pocket for her snuff-box. ‘What are yer talkin’ about, Mais?’ she grated, tapping her finger on the silver lid. ‘I reckon it’s a good idea ter celebrate the coronation wiv a party fer the kids. We’ve got plenty o’ time ter save up fer it.’

Maisie’s face relaxed into a wide grin. ‘I see,’ she laughed. ‘A coronation party. I thought yer was on about a funeral party, like the one they done fer Bridie.’

Florrie had taken a pinch of snuff and was searching for her handkerchief. ‘Gawd, Maisie, yer do get yer stays in a tangle sometimes,’ she said with a resigned sigh. ‘There’s bound ter be a coronation, an’ we ought ter celebrate. After all, it’ll be somefink ter look forward to.’

Maudie Mycroft was hurrying along the turning towards them and Florrie reached out quickly and touched her friend’s arm. ‘I can’t stand ’ere goin’ on about the King, Maisie. I’ll see yer later.’

As Florrie hurried off, Maisie turned to greet Maudie. ‘I jus’ ’eard the news. I fink we ought ter ’ave a party fer the kids, don’t you, gel?’

Maudie was about to tell Maisie that Grandfather O’Shea had finally expired and that her husband was off work with shingles, and she wondered how on earth that gave them cause to have a party.

During the summer months of 1910 there was trouble at the Galloway yard. A lucrative contract with a leather firm had been terminated and complaints had been coming in from the rum merchant’s about the general conduct of the hired carmen. Trouble came to a head when the managing director of the rum merchant’s phoned personally to complain that two of Galloway’s carmen had refused to cross a picket line at the docks and that as a consequence bottling was at a standstill.

George Galloway had had enough. When he drove his trap into the yard on Monday morning, his face was dark with anger. ‘What’s bin goin’ on?’ he stormed.

William shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s a stoppage at the Rum Quay,’ he replied. ‘It started on Friday mornin’ and it’s not bin resolved. I’ve sent Symonds and Morris out but it’s likely they’ll be turned back.’

George brought his fist down on the desk. ‘I’ve ’ad the top man on ter me about those two bloody troublemakers. ’E told me they’ve got casual labour workin’ on the quay an’ there’s two loads o’ rum casks waitin’ fer collection. Why didn’t Morris an’ Symonds go through the pickets? The police would ’ave seen to it there’d be no trouble loading.’

William shook his head. ‘It’s not as easy as that, George,’ he answered. ‘If our carmen ’ad passed those pickets, we’d be in trouble later on. Most o’ the ovver cartage firms around ’ere ’ave gone union. None o’ them ’ave crossed the picket lines.’

‘I’m not interested in what the ovver firms do,’ growled George.

William pulled up a chair and sat down facing his employer. ‘I know yer’ve always bin against the unions, George, but yer gotta face the facts. We’d be blacklisted if we pulled a load off the quay while there was a stoppage. It’d mean the loss o’ the contract. Surely yer can understand that?’

Galloway’s face was set in a hard scowl. ‘Those dockers ’ave tried that little trick before an’ it didn’t work. Don’t ferget they get a call-on every mornin’ an’ the troublemakers are left on the cobbles. I don’t fink we’ve got much ter worry about on that score. What I am worried about is the complaints I’ve been gettin’ about those two dopey gits o’ mine. Apparently Soapy’s bin gettin’ at the rum an’ givin’ the manager a load o’ cheek, an’ there’ve bin complaints about Sharkey. From what I’ve bin told ’e’s bin makin’ a nuisance of ’imself wiv one o’ the women an’ ’er ole man’s bin up the firm sayin’ ’e’s gonna smash Sharkey’s face in. On top o’ that, both of them are none too careful wiv the loads. There was two casks damaged last week when they was unloaded, an’ they’ve bin late gettin’ back. If I’m not careful I’m gonna lose that contract an’ I can’t afford it, not on top o’ that leavver contract I’ve jus’ lost. If fings go on the way they are, I’m gonna be out o’ business, Will.’

‘All right,’ Will said quietly, ‘I’ll ’ave a word wiv ’em when they get back.’

Galloway shook his head. ‘No, I’ve ’ad enough from those two,’ he said firmly. ‘As a matter o’ fact, I’ve sent young Geoffrey along ter the rum firm ter see if ’e can square fings up at that end. If Morris an’ Symonds turn round outside the dock gates this mornin’, I’m gonna sack the pair of ’em, an’ that’s final.’

‘Yer bein’ a bit drastic, ain’t yer?’ Will ventured. ‘They’ve both bin wiv yer fer years. Why don’t yer let me talk to ’em first?’

Galloway rounded on his foreman. ‘What good would that do?’ he asked loudly. ‘The trouble wiv you, Will, is yer too easy wiv ’em. It was the same when I wanted ter sack Oxford. I’ve got a business ter run. I can’t afford ter let sentiment cloud me finkin’.’

William shrank back slightly in his chair, and sighed. ‘That’s always bin the difference between us, George,’ he said quietly. ‘I could never run a business, but I know ’ow ter ’andle the men. I’ve kept the peace ’ere fer more years than I care ter remember, an’ it’s not always bin easy. There’s a lot o’ discontent over yer refusin’ ter let the union in an’ if yer sack those two carmen it’s all gonna blow up in yer face, mark my words.’

Galloway glared at his foreman. ‘I don’t see I’ve got any choice. It’s them or the contract. Tell me, what would you do in my position?’

‘I’d swop the jobs around,’ William replied quickly. ‘I’d put Lofty Russell an’ Ted Derbyshire on the rum contract. Sid Bristow could switch ter the ’ops in place o’ Russell, an’ let Morris an’ Symonds do the fellmongers’ contracts in place o’ Derbyshire an’ Bristow. That leaves the two new carmen fer the bits an’ pieces as usual.’

George shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s too much disruption. I want it left as I’ve said. If those two drunken gits get sent back, I want ’em sacked. That’s it, finished with.’

William stood up and walked to the door, then he turned to face Galloway, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. ‘You’re the guv’nor, George. If that’s what yer want, so be it. I’d jus’ like yer ter remember that Sharkey an’ Soapy are ole servants. If yer not careful, yer gonna ’ave a yard full o’ casuals. What price yer contracts then?’

The firm’s owner smiled briefly. ‘When I started up in business I ’ad nuffink but casuals workin’ fer me, except Albert Flynn, an’ ’e got ’imself killed,’ he said quietly. ‘I worked long hours ter build up the business an’ I ’ad ter make sacrifices. I didn’t see much o’ me kids when they were little an’ that’s somefink I’ve lived ter regret. I couldn’t spend much time wiv Martha, Gawd rest ’er soul, an’ I regret that too, but that’s the price yer pay fer bein’ in business. What I’m not prepared ter do is see the firm go down the drain over carmen who can’t or won’t do their jobs prop’ly, even if I end up wiv a yard full o’ casuals again.’

William left the office without replying, and as he crossed the yard saw Geoffrey coming through the gates. The young man’s expression was serious. He beckoned to the foreman. ‘I’ve just come from the rum merchant’s, Will,’ he said. ‘There’s a full dock strike brewing and they’re anxious to get their consignment today. Symonds and Morris are on their way to the docks. I just hope they get loaded. If they don’t, we’re in trouble.’

William smiled mirthlessly. ‘That’s jus’ what yer farvver told me,’ he replied. ‘I ’ope they get loaded, fer their sakes. I’ve bin told ter sack the pair of ’em if they come back empty-’anded.’