Trinidad Street (12 page)

‘Bastards.’ The man’s face set into lines of frustration. ‘I got three sick kids at home and the wife’s expecting again in a couple of weeks. I got to get some money.’

The gates opened. Alf Grant emerged, flanked by a pair of bruisers. The men behind the chain pushed forward. Tom braced his legs, his back. The pressure of bodies behind him was growing. Men had been crushed to death at the call-on before now.

Tom saw Grant’s eyes run along the line, meet his for a second, then sheer away. With so many here so eager for anything, the chances of Grant taking him on seemed slim, but still he stared at the man, challenging him to make the choice.

‘Hobbs, Jenkins, Green . . .’

The preference men, the ‘Royals’, came first. There were still tickets in Grant’s hand. The casuals tensed. Now was the crunch. They pressed forward. The chain was cutting into Tom in front while the weight of two hundred men bore down on his back. The blood pounded in his head and his eyes felt as if they were bulging. The crowd swayed and gave, arms waving, legs slipping. Grant went slowly. Fighting to keep upright, Tom tried to see the pattern. He knew a lot of these men and it was not necessarily the youngest and strongest Grant was picking. He sensed something odd going on. Archie was called, and the man on the other side of Tom. Still he bore into Grant with his eyes. There was one ticket left. The foreman came back and stopped in front of him.

‘Johnson. Not seen you for a while.’

‘Been working elsewhere.’

It was difficult to talk calmly when the breath was being squeezed out of his body.

‘Come back to us though, have you?’

‘Thought I might give it a try.’

He fooled neither of them. They both knew this was a last resort. Grant gave a mirthless smile.

‘Nice of you.’ He held the precious metal token just out of reach. ‘I’ll take you on, but there’s to be no trouble. Understood?’

So he wanted to show his power, have Tom Johnson on a string.

‘There’ll be no trouble if no trouble’s needed.’

For a long moment Grant appeared to consider the meaning of this. Then he held out the ticket.

‘Just remember,’ he warned.

Tom tried very hard not to show his relief. He was not going to give Grant the pleasure of knowing how much he needed that ticket.

‘That’s all,’ Grant said to the unlucky ones. He turned and walked swiftly back towards the gates.

Pandemonium broke out. Men were shouting and cursing in their disappointment. Just along from Tom, two were fighting over possession of a ticket, while others round them argued the point. Someone behind him grasped Tom by the shoulder.

‘Gimme that ticket, mate. I’m desperate. We sold everything. It’s going to be the workhouse if I don’t bring some money home today.’

He was a small man, thin and round-shouldered. Tom was sure he knew him. He looked into a face deeply etched with lines of worry.

‘You know me, mate. Reggie Wilkins. We worked together over the East Indias. Eight kids I got at home. Youngest is just a year old.’

Here was greater need than his. He hesitated. Then Archie joined in.

‘Sell you mine.’

‘What?’ Tom was horrified. He never thought Archie would sink that low. But Wilkins jumped at the chance.

‘How much?’

‘Two bob.’

‘Two bob?’ Tom repeated. ‘Do you know what that means? That means you’ll be working all day for half-a-crown, three bob at the most.’

The police were breaking up the fight. The lucky ones were making their way towards the gates. There was no persuading Wilkins. Half a crown was better than starving. Tom tramped into the docks.

The ship looked normal enough, an old three-master somewhat the worse for wear. Tom looked up at the duty officer standing on the deck watching with his hands behind his back. A huge man with a full grizzled beard, his navy uniform jacket unbuttoned to show a vast expanse of belly, he gazed down impassively at the quayside.

Grant was dividing out the work. Most of the Royals were put down in the hold. That was just as usual. It required skill and stamina to work fast and accurately in cramped conditions. The Royals that were left were set to receive the sets of cargo as it landed on the quay and
unpack it. The riff-raff were to do the trucking, taking the stuff into the transit shed or warehouse.

‘Johnson.’

Tom looked at the foreman, expecting to be deliberately humiliated by being put with the truckers.

‘You’re up on the deck.’

Tom nodded, concealing all emotion behind an impassive face. The deckman was the most responsible job of the lot. On him the safety of men and cargo depended. But as he stumped off with the others to their given positions, unease still nagged at him.

It was not until he actually got on deck that he noticed the ship’s house flag, an unfamiliar white diamond shape on a black background.

‘You’re not one of Eastcote’s,’ he said to the deck officer.

The man glared at him as if he were some lower form of life, not deigning to answer.

‘What line are you?’ Tom insisted.

‘Diamond,’ came the reluctant reply. The man had a strong Glaswegian accent.

‘Never heard of it,’ Tom said, deliberately offensive in return.

But he knew enough about these small lines to be alarmed: little fly-by-night one-ship outfits with safety records that never bore looking at, willing to go anywhere and pick up anything. God only knew what was awaiting them down in the hold. He felt offended, both personally and on behalf of the others. They were sugar men.

‘What you got down there?’ he shouted down the hatches.

‘Sacks of something bloody awful,’ came a disgruntled reply. ‘Fishmeal.’

Grumbling, they started getting it into the first set of the day, lifting up the ends of the sacks with their hooks and slipping the rope strop underneath. Tom waved the crane jib over. The truckers cleared the last of yesterday’s cargo off the quay. The day’s work began. Rising and bending, lifting and slinging, with hardly a moment between one set and the next to run and relieve themselves, the treadmill of labour would have numbed the mind if it had not been for the jokes and the backchat. The rain came steadily down, soaking clothes and chilling backs and shoulders already aching. The stench from the hold seemed to grow worse as the morning progressed.

At midday the truckers were given an hour’s dinner break. They were not paid when they were not working, and the stuff could sit on the quay till they got back. The shipworkers were given twenty
minutes, as the vessel had to be emptied as fast as possible to be turned round. Every day in the dock was costing her owners money.

Tom walked stiffly down on to the quay. He might just have enough time to get something off a stall before getting back to work. There’d been nothing left in the house to eat this morning after they had their bread and scrape for breakfast, so he had not been able to bring anything with him. On the quay he saw Wilkins, visibly failing.

‘You all right, mate?’ Tom asked.

‘Yeah, ’course. What’s the matter? Think I’m not pulling my weight?’

Tom looked at his undernourished frame. He probably had not eaten properly for days.

‘Just don’t let Grant spot you,’ he advised.

By mid-afternoon they had the fishmeal cleared. The rain had still not eased up. If anything, it was coming down harder, a relentless grey curtain that had now soaked them all to the skin, making clothing heavy and clinging, hampering movement. Even the men in the hold were getting wet when they moved the stuff under the hatchway, and the cargo was becoming damp. Tom heard exclamations coming up from below.

‘Bloody hell, someone’s made a poor job of stowing this lot.’

‘Will you look at what’s happened to these decks!’

‘They’re leaking. Look, the dullage has shifted and punctured the sides of the bloody barrels. The stuff’s run out on to the deck.’

‘Whole bloody ship’s leaking. You can smell the rot.’

Tom peered down into the gloom. ‘What’s up?’

A couple of the men were directly under him, manhandling some steel barrels into place.

‘It’s these things. Some of ’em are cracked. You should see what it’s done to the deck underneath ’em. Eaten into the timber, it has.’

Already they had the first set assembled. Tom waved the crane up.

‘What the hell is it?’ he asked, as the load swung over and down on to the quay. ‘Some sort of acid?’

‘Caustic soda,’ someone told him.

‘Yeah, make soap out of that, they do. Puts you off washing, don’t it?’

It all fell into place. That was it. That was why Grant took on all those most desperate for work. If they wanted the money enough they would be willing to handle stuff that could burn into their hands and damage their eyes. He looked at the sorry specimens toiling down on the quay, then along the dockside at the empty berths. Grant had done
his job well. These men knew better than to refuse. What he could not work out was why the foreman had taken him on. He must have known that the promise of no trouble had been no promise at all. The only answer that made any sense was that Grant wanted a dispute just so that he could win. He wanted to make an example of Tom in front of the other men, so that the word would go out round the docks.

As if summoned by thought, Grant appeared. The crane jib was swinging back to take the next set.

‘Be careful with them. I don’t want any breakages,’ he said.

‘Why, are they dangerous?’ Tom asked, a picture of innocence.

Grant shot him a warning look. ‘It’ll be dangerous for you if they’re dropped. You’ll be off the job.’

Tom looked at the barrels. They were safe enough when they were sound, but not if they were leaking somewhere. He called down to the men in his gang who were setting about lifting them.

‘Wait. This needs to be talked over.’

They looked from him to Grant, uncertain.

‘What are you listening to him for? Is he the one who gives out the tickets? I said get them out and be careful, so get on with it.’

One or two men started to lift the barrels but most stood where they were. They knew Tom Johnson. Even if they had not worked with him before, they had heard of him. They knew he talked sense, and that he was on their side.

‘Do you know what that is that you’re handling?’ he asked them.

‘Caustic soda,’ someone said.

‘Yeah, and do you know what it does to you if it get in your eyes? Blinds you, that’s what. You wouldn’t be much use to no one if that happened, I can tell you.’

The men stirred and muttered. Those who were handling the barrels let them down again and moved over to the hatchway. Seeing the stoppage, the gangs on the quay paused in the unloading and trucking and looked up at the ship to find out what was going on.

‘If you don’t drop the bloody things it won’t get on your skin, will it?’ Grant reasoned. ‘I warned you, Johnson: no trouble. You were all taken on to unload this ship. Now get on with it.’

Tom held up a hand. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

‘Those barrels are unsafe,’ he stated.

‘Not if they’re handled properly,’ Grant insisted. ‘If you lot are careless, that’s your own bloody fault, ain’t it?’

‘They’re leaking. You can see it in the hold, you can see what the stuff’s done to the decks.’

‘I can’t see nothing. Like I said, Johnson, I don’t want no trouble from the likes of you. Now listen to me.’ He looked around at the assembled men, making sure that those down on the quay were listening as well. ‘There’s three days’ work unloading this ship. Three days’ pay. But if you lot want to bugger off, that’s fine by me. There’s plenty more will do the job. I only have to go outside and there’s a queue waiting to take your places. So take your pick – get this lot on to the quay and stacked in the warehouse, or go.’

For a long moment the group hesitated. Then Reggie Wilkins manoeuvred the toe of his truck underneath the nearest barrel, grasped the top and tipped it back with obvious difficulty into the carrying position. A noticeable trickle fell out of the side of the barrel and down his wet trousers.

Others followed. Tom harangued them, pointing out the dire effects of the soda, but they would not listen. They knew Grant was right. There were a hundred others outside willing to earn sixpence an hour if they walked out.

Tom watched them with despair in his heart. He knew the poverty that drove them, knew the cold homes and hungry, unshod children. They had run out of coal for the range three days ago at his house and were living on bread and scrape, with tea from used leaves brewed next door. But they were many and the management were few. If they all united they could win. If they gave in, it would always be like this.

Grant came up to him. A thin smile of triumph stretched his face.

‘You working, Johnson, or going?’

Either way the foreman had won, and they both knew it.

‘I never walked out on anything,’ Tom told him.

Grant’s smile grew wider. ‘Missus waiting for the pay, is she? Wouldn’t like to go home short, would we?’

Tom kept his temper with difficulty. ‘I’m staying to see over my mates’ interests,’ he said, with dignity. ‘Because nobody else will, that’s for sure.’

‘You stay, and you stay on my terms, Johnson. You were taken on to unload this ship, and unload it you will, without any nancy-boy whining about hurting yourself. Understood?’

If he walked off now, no point of principle would have been made and Grant would have succeeded in getting rid of him. He needed the men behind him to make a stand. If he stayed, there was still a chance they would see that they were being exploited, and then he would be here to speak for them. But to stay meant to bow to Grant’s demands. His mates would see him give in.

‘Understood, Mr Grant.’ He forced the words out.

‘Good. I knew you’d see it my way in the end.’ The foreman’s voice was oily with success. ‘Now get to work!’

Resentment boiling within him, Tom went back to the hatchway. The others avoided his eyes.

‘Sorry, mate,’ one muttered to him, ‘but I need this money and we wouldn’t never have won. Not with all them lot still wanting jobs. I’m a Royal and still I been waiting for work all last week.’