Trinidad Street (61 page)

‘Going to tell ’em where to put it,’ Will said succinctly.

‘Right. Too true they are. You know what I think, Will? I think we got to get everyone up that meeting tomorrow – everyone we know what’s in dock work, all the street, all the blokes what we work with, everyone. And we got to tell Tillett and Gosling what we think of their agreement. They can take it right back to Lord bloody Davenport and start talking fast, or we’re all coming out. We waited long enough.’

‘But it’s Friday tomorrow,’ Maisie said, her first contribution to the discussion.

Will groaned dramatically. ‘We know it’s Friday tomorrow. You don’t think we’re going to run along to work like good little children, do you? What’d the gov’nors think then? We got to show ’em we mean business. I’m with Dad. I think we ought to get the whole street up there. Them union leaders got to see we ain’t going to take it lying down this time. No point in being in a union it they can’t get a good deal for us.’

Maisie looked crushed.

‘If you do come out on strike, how long is it going to last?’ Ellen asked, speaking for all three women.

‘As long as it takes,’ Tom told her.

Martha’s mouth tightened. ‘It ain’t so bad for us, we ain’t got no little ’uns at home no more. But it’s hard for them with young families.
I remember last time, when the union had to set up food stations – cup of cocoa and a doorstep of bread for the kids before they went to school. Had to see them right through till the next day, that did.’

‘But we won in the end, didn’t we?’ Tom pointed out. ‘We got the docker’s tanner. This time we’re going to get eightpence and a bob. God knows, it ain’t a blooming fortune. You’d think we was asking for life’s blood. Eightpence for a hour’s hard labour! They’re lucky we’re only asking that. We deserve more.’

‘Of course you do,’ Ellen said. She turned to her mother and Maisie. ‘One thing, at least it’s summer. I always think the worse part of being really on your uppers is being cold. It eats into your bones.’

‘It’s all right for you to talk. Your Gerry’s not in dock work,’ Maisie pointed out.

‘Let’s hope it don’t last till winter, then,’ Martha said.

‘It won’t,’ Tom told her.

The mood was the same throughout the docks. The men had had enough. They had waited twenty years for a pay rise and they had been persuaded to join one union or another on the promise of twopence an hour more. The mass meeting threw the provisional agreement out and sent the Federation leaders back to try again. The men from Trinidad Street came home in fighting mood, and went up to the Rum Puncheon for a rowdy celebration of their daring in challenging both the employers and their own leaders. The next day the coal porters, who had not been covered by the agreement, started to come out on strike, while the lightermen, who had been trying to negotiate a ten-hour day, threw out the compromise that their leaders had come to.

All through a hot and sultry Sunday, Trinidad Street was buzzing with rumour. The men gathered in little knots, exchanging what they knew of how friends and relations were acting in different sections of the docks and reaffirming their determination to see it through this time. The women stayed on the doorsteps, their arms folded over their stomachs, and muttered amongst themselves. They could feel the tide of battle rising. Even the grandmothers, matriarchs of the clans, did not try to speak out against the coming action. They knew when to bow to the inevitable. The children, picking up the excitement and aggression in the air, marched up and down the street, chanting and waving makeshift flags.

Alma, coming back in the early evening from the long weary journey over to visit Charlie at the Scrubs, could not face them all. She just wanted to hide herself away. But the place was full of Gerry and Ellen
and the children, and, anyway, to get there she had to pass all the people out in the street. What she had learnt today was so shaming she felt she could never hold her head up in front of her neighbours again. She hesitated on the corner, looking at the Rum Puncheon. Percy was expecting her in. Teatime was already past and the men were gathering for the evening. He would be needing her behind the bar. Weary and sick at heart, she went round the back way.

As luck would have it, Percy was out there fetching some glasses.

‘Ah, there y’are, Alma. Going to be busy tonight, I reckon. Get that hat off and –’ Then he noticed the expression on her face and stopped short. He put down the glasses and came over to her. ‘Here, what’s up, girl? What’s happened? Didn’t they let you see him?’

Alma shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s –’ A great sob gathered in her throat. She tried to stop it, but it kept coming up. ‘Oh, Percy . . .’ And then Percy’s big arms were round her and she was crying her heart out on his shoulder. He patted her back and begged her not to cry. When at last she did subside into hiccups, he brought her a whisky and sat her down, ignoring the demands for service coming from the bar.

‘Now then, girl, what’s the matter, eh? Tell old Perce about it.’

Alma shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Not in solitary, is he? Not been got at?’

‘No – no.’

‘Been given extra time?’

‘No.’

‘Sick, then? Is he ill?’

Reluctantly, Alma nodded. Fresh tears welled up. ‘Oh, Percy, I’m so ashamed. That a boy of mine . . .’ Words failed her.

‘Ashamed? What d’you mean, ashamed? Everyone gets sick sometimes. Even me. Nothing to get into such a state about. Except – oh.’ Light dawned. Percy bit his lip. It was a difficult one to ask tactfully. ‘He – er – he got something nasty, has he?’

Alma nodded.

‘And it’s not cancer or TB or nothing like that?’

A shake of the head.

‘Ah – so he’s got . . .?’

A nod. Alma pressed her hands to her trembling lips. ‘It’s horrible. So – so dirty.’

Percy looked disapproving. ‘He didn’t ought to have told you. You don’t go telling your mum that sort of thing. He should’ve known it’d upset you. Blimey, if I’d had a dose of the clap, I wouldn’t’ve told my mum. Would have broke her heart, it would. That’s where a little
white lie comes in.’ Percy was incensed. He patted Alma’s hand. ‘But look, it ain’t the end of the world, you know. I mean, they got treatment for it, so long as it ain’t got too far. When I was at sea, I knew lots of blokes got it. Mind you, one sort’s worse than the other. Depends what he’s got. But he’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

‘But the treatment. I mean, that’s horrible too.’

There was nothing Percy could honestly say to that.

‘To think he must of gone with some horrible dirty prostitute. My boy!’

Percy refilled her glass. ‘Now, you drink this up, then you go upstairs and have a bit of a lie-down. Then when you’re feeling better, you get yourself ready and come on down. But not till you’re up to it, mind. I can look after that lot in the bar till then.’

‘But it’s busy in there this evening. You’ll be run off your feet,’ Alma tried to protest.

‘But nothing. You’re all in. I’ll manage all right. You just go upstairs and have a rest.’

Gratefully, Alma complied. The last thing she really wanted to do was to go in and be cheerful to the drinkers.

‘You’re a real pal, Percy,’ she said.

Percy gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘It ain’t nothing.’

She heaved herself wearily up the narrow stairs. On the dark landing at the top she hesitated. She had never been up here before. It was Percy’s private quarters. Feeling as if she was intruding, she opened the doors and peeped into the rooms. There was a neat parlour with a couple of nice easy chairs by the empty grate, then a bare kitchen that looked as if it was hardly used, a tiny spare room piled with boxes and trunks, and the bedroom, Percy’s bedroom, with a huge mahogany wardrobe, a marble-topped washstand and an iron bedstead. The curtains were drawn, making an inviting twilight. Alma hovered indecisively in the doorway. He had said to have a lie-down and, God knew, she needed it. Sitting in one of the easy chairs would not be the same. But it did not seem right to go and use his bed. She leant on the doorframe, her head throbbing. From down below a buzz of talk floated up with the smell of beer and Woodbines. Percy would be far too busy to come up and check on her. She tottered across the room and flopped down on top of the green cotton cover.

The room spun round her. The day’s events kept popping up in her mind in jagged fragments. The long journey with its changes of bus and tram. The grim exterior of the Scrubs. The clanging doors and distinctive prison smell. And Charlie, always Charlie, small and
pathetic in his ugly uniform, sobbing his horror and fury at the loathsome disease he had contracted. She lay on her back, too tired to move a muscle, and stared up at the cracks in the whitewashed ceiling, while Charlie’s face danced before her. It was all very well Percy saying there was a cure, but she was gripped with the dreadful uncertainty that she was never going to see him again.

Gradually through the nightmare she became aware of the scent of the room, that comforting male smell of sweat and pipe smoke with a faint whiff of coal-tar soap. It wrapped round her, soothing her. The bed beneath her was soft and comfortable. It was as if Percy’s strong arms were holding her. It was so long since she had had a man of her own. There had been nobody since poor Ernie died. The taunting images began to fade, the headache receded, and before she realized it, Alma was drifting into a deep and healing sleep.

WILL LEANT FORWARD
to catch what his father was trying to say.

‘You got to tell ’em, son.’ Tom’s voice was a painful croak. Just when he needed it most, he had gone down with a bout of laryngitis.

‘Me?’ Will was alarmed. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘You got to, son. You got to get ’em to act as one. It’s vital. Life or death.’

‘But what’ll I say?’

Tom closed his eyes briefly in exasperation. ‘You know. You heard me often enough. You can do it, I know you can. You’re my son. Don’t let me down.’

Guilt wormed uneasily through his guts. Will had let his father down often enough. He knew he was a disappointment to him. Even now, he would much rather make an excuse and slope off to the easy camaraderie of the pub. It was all right talking to his mates about joining the union and the need to fight, but standing up in front of a whole crowd and making a speech, that was quite different. He was afraid of failing in front of them.

‘But,’ he began.

‘Bloody hell!’ His father’s face was scarlet with exasperation. ‘It ain’t as if they don’t want to listen. They do. They want to know what to do, they want to be given a lead. That’s all they need, boy. Just tell ’em what they can do to make their voices heard. A child could do it. Your sisters could do it. Ellen, she’d tell ’em, or Daisy. They’d know what to say.’

Shamed and angry, Will straightened his back. Pretending a confidence he didn’t feel, he gave his father a slap on the shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll get ’em going.’

It was the end of a long hot Wednesday, with the stink of summer hanging over the whole West India docks. The men on the quay were caked in sweat and sticky from the raw sugar they had been unloading, and set upon by swarms of flies. All day rumours had been going round the docks. At last Tom had received some firm news.

Will got up on a handy box while his father banged a length of iron against the leg of a crane to gain attention. The men gathered round. The apathy of years had flown. They were all in a state of unrest, ready to stand and fight if they were just given the chance. All the same, as he looked down at the upturned, waiting faces, Will’s uncertain resolve quailed. They all expected inspiration and leadership from him, things he felt he couldn’t give. He’d seen his father turn rabbles into armies. He had heard the great orators on Tower Hill, Ben Tillett and Tom Mann, putting into words what the men felt, then turn that gut feeling into firm resolve. But he knew in his own heart that he was not the man they were. He was only an ordinary working man, like those gathered round him. He had no right to set himself up like this.

Just behind him, his father was making a painful effort to project the remnants of his voice and get him started.

‘Friends, a great fight has started,’ he managed to prompt.

Will cleared his throat. ‘Friends, a great fight has started,’ he repeated.

The buzz of talking died down. All those nearby were listening. Those further off were elbowing each other to be quiet. What next? What did he say now? There was no help from his father. To make it worse, he saw a couple of foremen making their way over, ready to break the meeting up. One of them, he realized, was Alf Grant.

‘You know what’s been going on these last few days,’ he said. A growl of agreement went round. They were an easy audience, but Will knew he had not quite struck the right note. His father wouldn’t have put it like that. What was more, if he did not get them all going quickly, Grant and his mate were going to stop him before he started. He tried again.

‘We’re all in together on this, friends. We been waiting long enough!’

That was it. There were shouts of ‘Yeah’ and ‘Too right, mate’.

Charged with the mood of assent, his mind was starting to function. His father always began by saying what the men already knew and agreed on.

‘The gov’nors and the leaders wanted us to accept sevenpence and ninepence. But what did we do? We told ’em to go back and think again!’

More shouts, and even one or two cheers. To his own amazement, Will found he was beginning to enjoy himself. The crowd round him was growing, with men coming in from other quays. He pitched his voice to be heard right to the back of the gathering. Hours of listening
to speeches came to his aid. He spoke slowly so that each word could be appreciated, and paused between sentences.

‘Now, you probably heard already about the coalies. They weren’t in on this agreement in the first place. They started coming out Saturday for more pay. Monday there was over a thousand of ’em on strike. Yesterday the dockers been coming out in the Royals and the Surreys and today there’s more of them stopped away. But friends, do you know what our leaders said to ’em, Orbell and Tillett and Gosling? They said, “You men got to go back to work.” And do you know what our brothers in the Royals and the Surreys said?’