Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts Page 3

  Once Nellie was down among the crowd, she grabbed Lily, feeling overwhelmed by the mass of humanity surrounding her. She had never been in such a vast crowd, not even during the new King George’s coronation celebrations, earlier that summer. There must be thousands of women there today, choking the width of Spa Road, holding up carts and trams, drawing shouts from drivers and hoots from the odd motor car desperate to get through the crush. Women poured from side streets, like the tributaries of an unstoppable river. They seemed to Nellie to move in an orchestrated way and yet no one was in charge; they were merely surging forward in a common purpose. Astonished onlookers lined the pavement, unable to negotiate their way through the throng of banner-carrying women. Many of the men and boys stopped, mid-stride, to gawp openly; others, shoving their hands into their pockets, pointedly ignored the women and attempted to barge through them. Some called out as they passed, ‘Get back ’ome, and cook yer husbands’ dinners!’ and other less decorous suggestions. But Nellie felt safe enough, amongst the group of burly dockers who had turned out to march with them. Some of these shouted back at the hecklers.

  ‘Don’t I know yer missus, mate? She’s here somewhere!’

  Nellie pulled Lily in closer, linking arms. ‘Look, there’s Ted!’ She pointed towards the front of the crowd, where Lily’s brother and his fellow dockers marched.

  Nellie thought Ted looked heroic, with his red-gold hair shining in the bright sunshine, and his strong arms holding one end of the dockers’ union banner. At the head of the march she could see the colourful banner of the National Federation of Women Workers, bravely proclaiming that they would ‘fight to struggle to right the wrong’. Nellie guided Lily nearer to the banner, which was held aloft by two athletic middle-class young women. Beneath it, marching four abreast with the other strike leaders, was Eliza James, dressed in a long, flowing grey silk coat and a broad straw hat. With her white scarf flying out behind her, she was smiling and urging the women on, calling out to the male onlookers, ‘Come and join the struggle, these are your daughters, and your wives!’

  She looked magnificent, as bold and brave as Britannia on the face of a penny, and whatever misgivings she might once have had, Nellie felt she would follow Madam Mecklenburgh to the ends of the earth.

  Nellie could hardly believe it had only been a few short weeks since she’d first met the woman. Then she hadn’t even heard of the NFWW, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to attend a meeting, listening to stuffy speeches. At the time, she had gone simply because Ted Bosher asked her to. Since then, she’d avoided her father as much as possible, stayed home in the evenings and attended every one of the trade union’s lunchtime meetings at the Fort Road Labour Institute. The more she’d heard the less frightened she’d become, anger and boldness replacing timidity. She and the other women were buoyed up by the dockers’ support. Even when the government caved in and gave the dockers their eightpence an hour, they’d pledged to stay out on strike until the women got their eleven shillings a week. Dockers in Hull and Liverpool were striking as well as those in London. The railwaymen had joined them, and her father was livid when even his fellow horse drivers in the carmen’s union had voted to support the strike.

  ‘That’s the end of it for this country!’ he railed at her one teatime. ‘Ted Bosher and his friends won’t stop till they get their revolution, and who’ll pay for it? Their wives and kiddies, that’s who!’

  Nellie had cleared the tea things away and privately thought her father a blustering coward, too scared to defy his bosses. He was just frightened that his supply of beer and tobacco would dry up! But if he was too weak to make the sacrifice that could change all their lives forever, she wasn’t. And anyway, what gave him the right to sneer at Ted? At least he was doing something.

  ‘You think you know it all, girl,’ he’d said when she tried to disagree, ‘but you don’t know what it means. You don’t remember the dock strike in eighty-nine. Well, I do. When the strike fund ran out, it was the wives and kids that starved. It was terrible and now it’s happening all over again.’

  Hard as it was, she had bitten her tongue. She didn’t want him getting too suspicious. The rows would have to wait for later, and she shuddered as she thought of what might be in store for her when he finally found out. But she did know enough to acknowledge that striking would mean hardship for her family. Even now, the evidence of the three-week shutdown at the docks was there, in the stagnant, putrid air surrounding the wharves. London’s Larder was rotting. After days of fiery ninety-degree temperatures, the scant summer breezes bore only the stink of decaying food, left rotting on the quayside or still in the holds of the warming refrigeration ships, waiting to be unloaded by absent dockers and stevadores. Worst of all, supplies of milk and bread were failing, and even in Vauban Street two children had died of dysentery, some said caused by bad food and milk.

  Now, as they approached Southwark Park, the mood of the marching crowd was changing. Gaiety was giving way to anger. Their numbers had swelled to thousands, and scores of nervous policemen were lining Southwark Park Road. Eliza James and the dock union leaders were due to address the marchers in the park. Women streamed through the gates and spread like a rippling tide over the grass, which had been burned to a crisp during the long, rainless weeks of summer. The jaunty songs of the women were being drowned out now by angry shouts and jeers from the dockers, as they spotted rows and rows of khaki-clad guardsmen, with their bayonets fixed. Nellie felt her elbow being grabbed from behind. It was Ted. ‘Listen, you two, stay out of the way, there might be trouble.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I was taller,’ Nellie said, standing on tiptoe. ‘I can’t see sod all from here. Can’t we get up the front?’

  ‘No,’ Ted said sternly, ‘those soldiers ain’t here for a picnic. They’ll make trouble if they can’t find it. I’m going up to the podium, but you two stay back here!’

  With that, he strode off towards the bandstand, where Nellie could make out his tall figure helping Eliza James up the steps. Once she stood on the platform, she called out, above the noise:

  ‘Women of Bermondsey, are you downhearted?’

  The refrain went up from thousands of voices.

  ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘Some may say it’s the men that run the world, but I say, it’s only the women that can change it. Are you ready to change the world?’

  And Nellie joined in as the women roared back, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ She jumped and waved her makeshift banner, which read CUSTARD TARTS DON’T COME CHEAP!

  The lines of soldiers seemed to have shuffled closer, forming a ring round the great mass of people. Some union officials walked among the crowd, urging them to stay calm and orderly. The last thing they wanted was rioting; the Riot Act had already been read at rallies elsewhere in the country and the soldiers had orders to shoot, if the strikers turned nasty.

  Suddenly a surge in the crowd set it into a slow spiral, and though she fought the momentum, Nellie found herself separated from Lily. The crush of bodies seemed to waltz her round the bandstand, spiralling her closer and closer to the front. She found herself pressed deep into a group of dockers who were shoving and jostling at the line of soldiers. Some of them tried to ease off the crush as her banner bashed them, knocking off someone’s cap. Then one of them started haranguing the soldiers.

  ‘Shame on you lot for shooting yer own kind, you’re meant to be defending us!’

  His fist was curled round a rock. Suddenly he let fly at the nearest guardsman, and soon Nellie found herself tumbled about in a tangle of dockers. The rock had hit its target and now the guardsman, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead, lurched forward with his bayonet extended. She tried to worm her way out, but found she couldn’t move her arms as she was tossed between solid muscled bodies, all ducking out of the way of the advancing soldier. The only possible way for her to go seemed to be down, and finally, Nellie was knocked clean off her feet. Frantically pushing up against the crushing weight of bodies, straining on t
o her hands and knees, she found herself staring into the muzzle of a rifle, the sharp end of a bayonet only inches from her face. She scrabbled to crawl away as shouts and fists exploded about her, punctuated by the sickening crunch of cracking jawbones. A heavy docker thudded down on top of her, pinning her to the dusty earth.

  ‘Get off me, yer big lump!’ she gasped, as the air was squeezed from her lungs. Her last thought was that her best wool jacket would now certainly be ruined, ground into the dust.

  4

  Swept Off Her Feet

  When she came round, she was being carried in the arms of a young man who looked familiar. Her head felt sore and her vision was blurred. She was looking up into the strong midday sun, which obscured the young man’s features but cast a golden glow around his head. It felt like a romantic dream.

  ‘Ted?’ Her voice sounded thick and distant.

  He put her down gently and sat her on the bottom step, at the back of the bandstand. ‘It’s Sam, Nellie. Sam Gilbie.’

  ‘Oh, what are you doing here? Where’s Ted?’ She put her hand to her forehead and brought it away, sticky with blood. Now she remembered. The terror of the approaching bayonet, the panic as she’d gasped for a breath that she felt would never come. A sharp taste in her mouth told her that she must have bitten her lip as the weight of the docker had slammed into her.

  ‘I’m here with the carmen’s union,’ Sam explained. ‘Ted’s still up on the podium, covering himself with glory, by the looks of it.’ He glanced up towards the speakers, one of whom was finishing a rousing speech. She thought she could see Ted’s tall figure on the bandstand, waiting for his turn.

  Nellie had noticed the barb in Sam’s tone and remembered that there was no love lost between the two cousins. ‘It’s my own stupid fault. Don’t blame Ted, he told me to stay put.’ She straightened up and disengaged herself from Sam’s still encircling arm. ‘I’m all right now, no need to make a fuss.’

  But it was too late and already a small crowd of women was forming round her. Sam stepped back as they clucked and examined her.

  ‘You’ll have a nasty shiner tomorrow, Nell.’ Ethel Brown was dabbing at the cut over Nellie’s eye with a handkerchief. ‘And look at the state of your lovely jacket.’

  Just then, the little crowd parted to allow Eliza James through. She was an imposing figure and all the women quietened down, waiting for her to take charge.

  ‘Where’s our wounded soldier?’ She knelt in front of Nellie and lifted her chin. ‘Let’s see the damage then.’

  ‘I’m all right, but me jacket’s ruined,’ said Nellie, holding up her torn cuff.

  Eliza laughed. ‘Typical Bermondsey priorities. Never mind about the cut head and crushed ribs, eh?’

  At that, Nellie realized she would have to explain her state to her father and she groaned.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ Eliza’s expression turned to one of concern.

  ‘It’s just a bruise, madam. Tell the truth I was thinking of me dad. He didn’t want me to strike and now he’ll kill me if I go home in this state.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ said Ethel Brown, poking her head over Eliza’s shoulder. ‘If an eighteen-stone docker can’t kill you, I shouldn’t think George Clark would have a chance.’

  The other women laughed and even Nellie had to smile.

  ‘I’ll take her home… and explain to Mr Clark.’ Nellie had forgotten Sam’s presence, but now, as he stepped forward, she was shocked at the look he gave Eliza. She had only ever seen him as the pleasant, placid young man she thought of as ‘that soppy ’apporth’, but now his expression, as he spoke to Eliza, was harder, colder. His normal high colour had paled and his dark eyes were lacking their usual friendly warmth. Eliza stood and turned towards him. Nellie couldn’t be sure, but she sensed recognition in Eliza’s face. Was it possible they had met before? she wondered. It was unlikely. Sam may have joined the other carmen in the strike, but he wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool union man like Ted. She had never seen him at any of the planning meetings.

  Eliza appeared flustered, and as the little group of women wandered back to hear more of the speeches, she turned to Sam. ‘That’s kind of you and I’m glad you’ve turned out to support us.’

  ‘I did it for the girls, not for any other reason. Don’t think I’d deprive my family of a day’s wages for the likes of you and your Bolshie friends.’

  Nellie was shocked by his uncharacteristic rudeness, but something about his tone piqued her interest. She’d never seen anything in Sam Gilbie that had interested her much… until now. Nellie had been surprised he was here at all. Her father wouldn’t be happy with him either; he wasn’t going to do her much good with placating George Clark. No doubt her father had been coping alone all day at the yard.

  ‘No thanks, Sam,’ she said, and it came out more curtly than she’d intended. ‘Thanks for the offer, but me dad’ll be livid with you too. He didn’t think you’d turn out today. Anyway, I want to hear Ted’s speech.’ Just then, Lily came running up, red in the face and puffing.

  ‘What the bloody hell have you done to yourself? I’ve been looking all over. Someone told me you got shot by a guardsman!’

  She flung her arms round her friend and Nellie winced as pain shot through her ribs.

  ‘Quick, Ted’s starting his speech!’ Lily said as she dragged Nellie round to the front of the bandstand. When Nellie glanced back, Sam was walking towards the park gates and Eliza James was staring after him, looking as if someone had stolen from her all the glory of the triumphant day.

  Ted’s speech was the last of the day and ended with a roar of approval from the crowds of dockers, who threw their caps into the air. Women waved their banners and little groups started to split away, strolling through the streets, chatting and laughing as though they had been on a beano to Ramsgate. The cooler temperature of the late afternoon brought a welcome breeze and now that any hot-headed dockers had long since cooled off, the carefree atmosphere returned. Nellie felt it was almost like a party.

  Ted bounded down from the bandstand and when he saw her black eye and cut head, he joked, ‘I bet whoever upset you came off worse!’ Then he saw Lily’s face.

  ‘Where were you, Sir Galahad?’ She rounded on her brother. ‘Left us to fend for ourselves, didn’t you? She could have been killed!’

  ‘Oh, turn it up, Lily. I told you it wasn’t no soddin’ picnic.’ He turned to Nellie. ‘I’m sorry, Nell, does it hurt?’

  ‘No…’ She felt Lily prod her in the ribs and drew in her breath. That really had hurt. ‘Not if I don’t move!’

  ‘Why don’t you come with us, over the other side. We’ve got a camp set up on Tower Hill and there’s tea stalls, we can get a bite to eat.’

  Nellie desperately wanted to postpone the confrontation with her father, which she knew would have to come. Normally she would have hurried home, but now she wanted the day to go on forever.

  ‘I reckon it’s the sun turned my head, or the whack that docker give me, but either way I must be mad.’

  Lily looked at her, astonished. ‘You’re coming?’

  Nellie nodded.

  The three of them fell in with a crowd of dockers and women strikers heading for the dock union’s makeshift HQ at Tower Hill. They passed Butler’s Wharf, with its black iron gates still shut and locked. The usual crowds of dockers that hung around street corners were now mobilized into millions of orderly, marching strikers, gathering for their nightly meeting on Tower Hill. The roads were almost traffic-free – the dock strike meant fuel was running out, so fewer and fewer motor taxis and trams were about.

  The strikers spread themselves in long leisurely lines across the breadth of Tooley Street, passing under some banners made from sheets, strung across the tenements: No wages, no dinner! Some of the dockers’ wives were holding a protest of their own against the strike.

  Ted jumped up, trying to tear them down. But Nellie understood the fear among the women. She pulled him away.

  ‘Lea
ve ’em, Ted. They’ve got the same right as us to say their piece, haven’t they?’

  But he’d already grabbed the end of one of the sheets and was ripping it to shreds. ‘Yeah, but they won’t be complaining when the wages go up, will they?’

  ‘Leave off, you two, stop arguing, you’re like cat and dog. Hurry up, I’m gasping.’ Lily was impatient to get to the tea stalls at Tower Hill.

  They crossed Tower Bridge and waited like excited children in the middle, as a heavy cart and one of the few motors still running caused the bascules to bounce up and down, and them with it. Nellie had one hand on her hat and the other on her sore ribs, as they stood astride the two-inch gap between the bascules, looking down at the river below and laughing like schoolchildren. Then the three of them linked arms as they marched on past the Tower of London.

  ‘Oh, that breeze is lovely!’ said Nellie

  ‘Yeah, and so is the stink!’ Ted replied. ‘Every time that smell gets blown down to Westminster, they know we mean business!’ The obnoxious smell, wafting up the river from Butler’s Wharf, was indeed overwhelming – a combination of rotting fruit on the quaysides and melting rancid butter, for the refrigeration ships had run out of fuel and the meat was now putrefying in their holds.

  ‘You wouldn’t be so pleased with yourself if you had kids to feed, though,’ said Nellie. ‘My dad says it’s criminal to let the food rot and there’s people starting to starve now, they say.’

  She was thinking of the two dead children in Vauban Street, and of her own small brothers who had been complaining, only the night before, about tummy aches. She had given them the last of the bread. ‘Bread and pull’it, goes a long way!’ she’d told them, as though it were some extra-special magic remedy against hunger.