Gaslight in Page Street.

HARRY BOWLING.

To Shirley, in loving memory.

Prologue.

All day long the November fog had swirled through the Bermondsey backstreets, but now that the factories and wharves had closed the fog thickened, spreading its dampness over the quiet cobbled lanes and alleyways. Only the occasional clatter of iron wheels and the sharp clip of horses' hooves interrupted the quietness as hansom cabs moved slowly along the main thoroughfares. The drivers huddled down in the high seats, heavily wrapped in stiff blankets against the biting cold, gripping the clammy leather reins with gloved hands as they plied for hire. The tired horses held their heads low, their nostrils flaring and puffing out clouds of white breath into the poisonous fumes.

Behind the main thoroughfares a warren of backstreets, lanes and alleyways spread out around gloomy factories and railway arches and stretched down to the riverside, where wharves and warehouses towered above the ramshackle houses and dilapidated hovels. Smoke from c.o.ke fires belched out from cracked and leaning chimneys and the fog became laden with soot dust and heavy with sulphur gases. Hardly ever was the sound of hansom cabs heard in the maze of Bermondsey backstreets during the cold winter months, and whenever a cabbie brought a fare to one of the riverside pubs he always sought the quickest way back to the lighted main roads. There was no trade to be had in these menacing streets on such nights, and rarely did folk venture from their homes except to visit the nearest pub or inn, especially when the fog was lying heavy.

Straddling the backstreets were the railway arches of the London to Brighton Railway and beneath the lofty archways a gathering of vagrants, waifs and strays spent their nights, huddled around low burning fires for warmth. Sometimes there was food to eat, when someone produced a loaf of bread which had been begged for or stolen, and it was sliced and toasted over the crackling flames, sometimes there were a few root vegetables and bacon bones which were boiled in a tin can and made into a thin broth; but often there was nothing to be had and the ragged groups slept fitfully, their bellies rumbling with hunger and their malnourished bodies shivering and twitching beneath filthy-smelling sacks which had been begged from the tanneries or the Borough Market.

One bitterly cold November night, William Tanner sat over a low fire, wiping a rusty-bladed knife on his ragged coat sleeve. Facing him George Galloway watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as his young friend struggled to halve the turnip. The railway arch that they occupied faced a fellmonger's yard and the putrid smell of animal skins filled the cavern and made it undesirable as a place to shelter, even to the many desperate characters who roamed the area. For that very reason the two lads picked the spot to bed down for the night when their finances did not stretch to paying for a bed at one of the doss-houses. Usually there was enough wood to keep a fire in all night and no one would intrude on their privacy and attempt to steal the boots from their feet while they slept. At first the stench from the fellmonger's yard made the two lads feel sick but after a time they hardly noticed it, and they became used to the sound of rats scratching and the constant drip as rainwater leaked down from the roof and dropped from the fungus-covered walls.

William pa.s.sed one half of the turnip to George and grinned widely as his friend bit on the hard vegetable and spat a mouthful into the fire.

'It's b.l.o.o.d.y 'ard as iron, Will, an' it tastes 'orrible,' the elder lad said, throwing his half against the wall.

William shrugged his shoulders and bit on his half. 'I couldn't get anyfing else,' he said. 'That copper in the market was on ter me soon as I showed me face.'

George threw a piece of wood on to the fire and held his hands out to the flames. He was a tall lad, with a round face and large dark eyes, and a mop of matted, dark curly hair which hung over his ears and down to his shabby coat collar. At fourteen, George was becoming restless. He had attended a ragged school and learned to read and write before his street trader father dragged him away from his lessons and put him to work in a tannery. At first George had been happy but his father's increasingly heavy drinking and brutality made the lad determined to leave home and fend for himself. Now, after two years of living on the streets, he felt it was time he started to make something of himself. George had experienced factory life and had seen how bowed and subservient the older workers had become. He had walked out of his job at the tannery and did not return home, vowing there and then that he would not end up like the others.

William Tanner sat staring into the fire, his tired eyes watering from the wood-smoke. He was twelve years old, a slightly built lad of fair complexion. His eyes were pale blue, almost grey, and his blond hair hung about his thin face. Like George he had never known his mother. She had died when he was a baby. Of his infancy he could only vaguely remember stern faces and the smell of starched linen when he was tended to. His more vivid memories were of being put to bed while it was still daylight and of having to clean and scrub out his attic room with carbolic soap and cold water. He had other memories which were frightening. There was a thin reed cane which his father had kept behind a picture in the parlour. Although it had never been used on him, the sight of that device for inflicting pain had been enough to frighten him into obedience.

When his father lay dying of typhoid in a riverside hovel, William had been taken to live with an aunt and there taught to read and write. The woman made sure he was properly dressed and fed but the home lacked love, and when his aunt took up with a local publican William became an unwanted liability. Like his friend George he began to feel the weight of a leather belt, and after one particularly severe beating William ran away from home. He had stumbled into a railway arch, half-frozen and with hunger pains gnawing at his stomach, and had been allowed to share a warm fire and a hunk of dry and mouldy bread with a group of young lads. Their leader was George Galloway and from that night William and George became firm friends. Now, as the fire burned bright, George was setting out his plans. The younger lad sat tight-lipped, fearful of what might happen should things go wrong.

'Listen to me, Will,' George was saying, 'yer gotta be 'ard. n.o.body's gonna come up an' give yer money fer nuffink. It's dog eat dog when yer up against it. All yer 'ave ter do is foller me. We'll roll the ole geezer an' be orf before 'e knows what's 'appened. I've cased the place an' 'e comes out the same time every night. If all goes well, we'll 'ave a nice few bob. Yer gotta 'ave the shekels ter get started, Will. One day I'm gonna 'ave me own business. I'm gonna wear smart clothes an' 'ave people lookin' up ter me. "There goes George Galloway. 'E's one o' the n.o.bs," they'll say.'

William nodded, disturbed by the wild look in the large dark eyes that stared out at him from across the fire.

The fog had lifted a little during the morning, but now it threatened to return as night closed in. From their vantage post in a shuttered shop's doorway the two lads watched the comings and goings at the little pub in the Old Kent Road. William made sure there was no more pork crackling left in his piece of greasy newspaper then he screwed it up and threw it into the gutter, wiping his hands down his filthy, holed jumper. He shivered from the cold and glanced at George, who was breathing on his cupped hands. 'P'raps 'e ain't there,' he said, trying to inject a note of disappointment into his voice.

''E's in there,' George scowled. ''E's always there.'

A hansom cab rattled by and then George's hand closed around his friend's arm. 'There 'e is!' he whispered.

Joshua Wainwright burped loudly as he fished into his waistcoat pocket and took out his timepiece. The hands seemed to be spinning and he put it away with a frown, hunching his shoulders as he walked off rather unsteadily in the direction of Surrey Square where he had his London residence. It had been a good week, he thought. The case was progressing nicely and the judge had been more than usually receptive when points of order had been raised. There would be a substantial settlement, of that he was sure, and the fee would be a good one too. 'd.a.m.n this gout,' he grumbled to himself. It had been playing him up all day.

A sudden tug on the tails of Joshua's frock-coat made him lose his balance and as he tried to fend off his attackers he tumbled heavily into the entrance of a dark alley. His stovepipe hat was knocked from his head and a sand-filled sock crashed down on his exposed pate, sending him into oblivion.

The attack had been well timed and George and William made good their escape along the dark, reeking alleyway. The older lad had pocketed the barrister's gold watch-and-chain together with his wallet. When they had put some distance between themselves and their victim, George stopped to catch his breath and motioned William into a doorway.

'I'm goin' straight ter see Stymie wiv this,' he gasped, opening the palm of his hand and letting William catch a glimpse of the watch. ''Ere, there's some tanners in the wallet. You go an' get us both some f.a.ggots an' pease puddin', Will,' he went on, pa.s.sing over a silver sixpence. 'Make yer way back ter the arch an' keep the fire in. I shouldn't be too long, then we can 'ave a share out.'

A wind had got up and it swirled into the evil-smelling railway arch as William tended the fire. The lad was still shaking from his first experience of foot-padding and occasionally he glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to be apprehended at any minute. As he sat before the flaring wood-fire, William saw again the face of the groaning man who had struggled to get to his feet. He shivered violently. He knew he should not have gone back but he was fearful that they had killed the old man. When George left him in the alley, William had taken a circular route into the Old Kent Road and ambled along as casually as he could towards the alley entrance. He had nothing on his person to link him with the robbery except for the silver sixpence, and he was sure that the victim had not caught sight of him as he tugged on his coat from behind. As William reached the entrance to the alley he had heard a groaning sound, and out of the corner of his eye had caught sight of a congested face as their victim staggered to his feet, cursing loudly. William had breathed easier as he hurried away to the butcher's shop to buy supper.

When George finally reached the railway arch, he sat down with a scowl and ate the f.a.ggot and pease pudding ravenously. 'The ole b.a.s.t.a.r.d tried ter do us up, Will,' he spluttered between mouthfuls of food. 'Two quid, that's all we got. That watch must 'ave bin werf a small fortune. I tel yer straight, I'm gonna do fer Stymie one day, see if I don't.'

William watched while George wiped his greasy lips on the back of his coat sleeve and then counted out the money from their victim's wallet before handing over three one-pound notes and four sixpences. William realised that he had never in all his life had more than sixpence in his pocket. He carefully folded the notes and tucked them down the side of his boot before stretching out in front of the dying fire.

George had covered himself with a large sack and was staring up at the sodden brickwork of the arch. It was only right after all, he thought. It was he who had masterminded the job and done all the work. It was he who had had to bargain and argue with Stymie over the money for the gold watch. Then there was the time he had spent eyeing the pub and half freezing in the process. He was the leader and if it wasn't for him they wouldn't have had any supper that night. Yes, it was only right he should have the larger share of the proceeds.

William was still too excited to sleep. He turned on his side to face his friend. 'We can kip in Arfur's doss-'ouse termorrer night, George, now we've got money,' he said cheerfully.

George grunted. 'Yeah, an' we can pay tuppence an' get proper blankets. Those bleedin' penny beds ain't too clean. Last time we was there I got bitten all over.' He yawned and turned on to his side. 'One day I'm gonna get meself an 'orse an' cart an' do deliveries. There's a good livin' ter be made cartin' skins about. I'm gonna make me pile an' 'ave me own cartage business, Will, you see if I don't.'

William sighed contentedly. His belly was full and the warmth from the fire had penetrated his cold, aching limbs. The thought of owning his own business did not excite him, but driving a horse and cart was another thing. William often hung around the stables in Long Lane and earned pennies for running errands. The carmen were a good lot, and sometimes they paid him to muck out the stalls and fill the nosebags with fresh chaff. He loved being around horses and often picked up a few carrots from the Borough Market or from under the market stalls in Tower Bridge Road for the nags.

'I just wanna drive a pair o' dapple-greys, George,' he said, staring into the grey embers of the fire. 'I'd plait their tails an' polish the 'arnesses - I'd 'ave the smartest pair of 'orses in the ole o' Bermon'sey.'

But George was already fast asleep, and dreaming of bigger things.

Chapter One.

On Sunday, 20th May 1900 church bells rang out in Bermondsey. People were out on the streets to celebrate, and along the Old Kent Road horse buses and the new electric trams rattled by, garlanded with Union Jacks and bunting. The cheering crowds exchanged newspapers and waved excitedly as an open-topped tram came into view with local councillors aboard. The mayor, wearing his chain of office, stood at the front of the upper deck holding a portrait of Queen Victoria aloft. Loud cheers rang out as spectators caught sight of the large framed picture, and then the waiting crowds hoisted the children on to their shoulders as the procession came into sight.

At the head of the parade a team of horses was drawing a brewery dray which contained an effigy of a Boer soldier with his hands held over his head being prodded by a British Tommy. Along the side of the cart a white sheet was tied, with the words 'Mafeking Relieved' painted in red along its length. Behind the leading dray there were smaller carts, pulled by well-groomed horses. 'Broomhead' Smith the totter came by sitting proudly on his creaking cart, tufts of ginger hair sticking out from under his battered trilby. His horse looked unusually spruce despite the dirty, moth-eaten Union Jack that had been laid over its withers. On the back of the cart there was a rusty wringer which Broomhead had meant to remove before the parade started. He had covered it over instead and now the blanket had slipped off. The crowds laughed as he waved his whip in their direction and doffed his cap.

Carrie Tanner stood beside her father on the kerbside, holding his hand and shifting from one foot to the other. Her new b.u.t.ton-up boots were pinching slightly but Carrie was too excited to care as the parade moved by. She was waiting for the Galloway cart with its team of two greys. She had helped her father to brush the horses and tie on their coloured ribbons; she had used the curry-comb and the large, heavy brush until their coats glistened and her arms ached. Her father had laughed as she reached up to the nags' manes and carefully plaited the coa.r.s.e strands of hair as she had been shown. At last the horses had been fed and given their t.i.t-bits of carrot and Carrie hurried from the stables to get cleaned up. She felt proud of helping her father, and as she spotted the Galloway team jumped up and down excitedly. 'Look, Dad, look!' she cried out. 'Don't they look luvverly?'

William Tanner smiled at his eldest child and moved to one side so that she could get a better view. 'You did a good job, Carrie,' he said, his hands resting on her shoulders. 'I should reckon we stand a good chance o' gettin' the prize.'

As the cart drew level William cast a critical eye over the cart. He had spent much time scrubbing the paintwork and the name 'George Galloway, Carter' now stood out clearly on the side. Galloway's longest serving carman Sharkey Morris was up in the d.i.c.ky seat and waved to Carrie and William as he rode by. Sharkey had a bowler hat on, and for the first time in his life was wearing a white starched collar and black tie. The brown tweed suit which he wore was not his. It had been loaned to him by the owner of the cartage firm, who was anxious to s.n.a.t.c.h the first prize for the best turned-out entrant in the parade. William smiled to himself as he recalled what Galloway had said when he saw Sharkey march into the yard early that morning: 'Gawd 'elp us, Will. 'E looks a bleedin' scruff. I can't 'ave 'im sittin' up on that cart lookin' like that. Bring 'im in the office an' I'll send young Geoff 'ome fer one o' me old suits.'

The parade had pa.s.sed by. William took his daughter's hand as they followed on to New Kent Road where the judging was to take place. Carrie felt the excitement growing inside her as she hurried along beside her father. Her tight boots were making her hobble but she ignored the pain. She wanted desperately for Galloway's horse and cart to win the prize, for her father's sake. He had worked hard on the wagon and team and she knew how much winning would mean to him.

At nine years old Carrie was more like her father than her three younger brothers. She was slim, with long fair hair and blue eyes a shade or two darker than his. She was a pretty girl with a saucy smile which seemed to start at the corners of her mouth and light up her whole face. Carrie loved her father dearly and spent as much time as she could in the stables, helping him with the horses and polishing the bra.s.ses and harnesses. She loved the warm sweet smell of the stalls and the sound of steel horseshoes over the cobbles as the animals set out each morning pulling the empty carts. On occasions she would feign sickness or a sore throat to escape having to go to school, but then she would make a miraculous recovery during the day and slip out from the house to the adjoining yard.

Her father laughed at his wife Nellie's concern over their daughter. 'She's a bright child an' she's gonna do all right,' he had told her.

Nellie had shaken her head in dismay. 'It's not right, 'er bein' away from school so much, Will,' she replied. 'The child needs ter learn 'er lessons. Besides, it's not proper fer a young gel ter 'ang around in that yard. She could get injured wiv those carts in an' out.'

William had pulled a face. 'Look, Nell, the child's 'appy wiv what she's doin'.' he retorted. 'She's gonna grow up soon enough, an' what's in store fer 'er? I'll tell yer - she's gonna slog away in a tannery or in one o' the factories. Then she's gonna get married an' be saddled wiv kids. Let 'er be 'appy while she can.'

The day was bright with a warm sun shining down on the entrants as they lined up in New Kent Road. All the carmen stood beside their horses, waiting for the mayor to arrive. Broomhead Smith scowled as he looked at the rusty wringer on the back of his cart. He was upset by some of the comments made to him by the waiting crowd.

'Oi, Broom'ead! Are yer gonna mangle the mayor if yer don't win?' one wag called out.

''Ere, is it all right fer me ter bring a p.i.s.sy mattress round an' sling it on the cart, Broom'ead?' shouted someone else.

The totter tried to ignore their remarks but he could barely contain his anger after one of the councillors strolled by and then had a whispered conversation with a policeman standing nearby. The PC strolled up to Broomhead with a wide grin on his ruddy face. ''E asked me ter get yer ter move the cart, Broomy,' he said, trying to look serious. ''E didn't know yer was in the parade.'

'Silly ole sod,' Broomhead spluttered. 'Where'd they dig 'im up from?'

The policeman's face broke into a grin again. 'I reckon the wringer ain't too bad. Could do wiv a rub down an' a coat o' paint though,' he said as he walked off.

The mayor was walking slowly along the line, stopping at each cart and consulting with his colleagues. Notes were scribbled down into a notebook by one of the judges and heads nodded vigorously. When they reached the totter's cart the judges shook their heads and walked on quickly, much to Broomhead Smith's chagrin, but when they arrived at Galloway's horse and team the mayor looked pleased with what he saw. Carrie looked up into William's face, her hand tightening on his. Crowds were milling around the dais which had been set up by the park gates, and when the mayor climbed up on to the stand and held his hands up for silence everyone started jostling.

'Quiet! Quiet!' one of the councillors called out. 'Be quiet for the mayor.'

Broomhead recognised the man as the one who had earlier had words about him with the policeman. 'Shut yer gob, Ugly,' he called out. ''Ow d'yer like ter get mangled?'

The laughter died away as the mayor began his speech, in which he praised the hard work undertaken by everyone involved. He then went on at length about the gallam soldiers who had held out at Mafeking for so long and the equally valiant action which had finally relieved them. Loud cheers went up at his words, but when the mayor started to itemise the good work being done by the local council the crowds became restless.

'Knock it on the 'ead, mate,' someone called out.

'Tell us who's won, fer Gawd's sake,' the cry went up.

The dignitary held up his hands and as the crowd quietened he put on his pince-nez and stared at the slip of paper in his hands for a few moments.

'The first prize goes to George Galloway,' he said in a loud voice. 'Second prize goes to ...'

Carrie's squeal of delight almost drowned out the name of the runner-up as she hugged her father. 'We won! We won!' she cried out, looking up into his smiling face.

William looked over to the park railings and saw the bulky figure of George Galloway being patted on the back and having his hand pumped by his supporters.

Carrie turned to her father as she saw the firm's owner starting to walk towards the mayor. 'It should be you goin' up ter get the prize, Dad,' she said with a small frown. 'It was you what won it.'

William smiled briefly. 'It's all right, Carrie. Mr Galloway knows that.'

After a few words had been exchanged between Galloway and the mayor, the trophy, a large silver tankard, was held up in the air and clapping broke out. The winner was surrounded by his friends and well-wishers as most of the spectators moved off home. William took his daughter's hand and they left too, walking back to Page Street in the spring sunlight.

The Tanners' home was a two-up, two-down house which adjoined the Galloway cartage firm in Page Street. It was the end house in a row of terraced houses that led from Jamaica Road towards the River Thames. From the main thoroughfare the narrow turning looked like most of the working-cla.s.s streets in Bermondsey. It was cobbled and gaslit, with a small pub situated on the left-hand corner and a tiny tobacconist and sweet shop on the right. Two rows of identical houses stretched down towards the Galloway yard which stood on the bend, where the street turned to the right. The cartage contractor's headquarters was a brick-built construction with a weather-board frontage and wooden gates which swung back into the cobbled stable yard. The gates faced the Jamaica Road end of the turning and the right-hand part of the premises, which were used to store the wagons, stretched along past the bend to where another two rows of houses faced each other across the narrow turning as it led along to Bacon Street.

The street looked very much the same as many other Bermondsey backstreets. Lace curtains hung in the windows of the ramshackle houses and the doorsteps were whitened. Most of the chimney-pots leaned askew and the grey slated roofs dipped and curved in an uneven, untidy fashion. Bacon Street had its own particular blight, however, in the shape of a tall four-storey tenement block. Even the tenants of the damp, draughty and overcrowded houses surrounding the building dreaded the thought of having to live in such a terrible place.

Inside the Tanners' house, the family was gathered around a low fire. The evening had turned chilly and the parlour door was closed against the draught which blew along the pa.s.sage from the ill-fitting street door. Nellie Tanner was sitting in her usual armchair beside the fire, a partially finished piece of embroidery lying in her lap. Nellie was a slim, attractive woman with a fair complexion and deep blue eyes. At thirty, her face was unlined and smooth. Her rather shapely figure was accentuated by a close-fitting long dark skirt which reached down over her ankles and a high-b.u.t.toned linen blouse with ruffled sleeves which hugged her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and narrow waist. Her fair hair, which was a shade lighter than her husband's, was swept up from her neck and piled on top of her head, secured with a wide mother-of-pearl fan comb.

Nellie liked to dress up on Sundays. When the main meal of the day was over she would go to her room and wash down in the tin bath before putting on her clean, freshly ironed Sunday best. She knew it pleased William to see her looking nice when they sat together in the long evening after the children had gone to bed, and she was aware that it roused him when she wore her tight-fitting clothes. Her long neck and high round forehead were exposed by her swept-up hair, which Nellie occasionally touched as she talked with her husband.

William Tanner was of medium height and powerfully built. His wide shoulders and muscular arms bore witness to eighteen years of hard manual work for George Galloway. Now, having seen his efforts with the parade wagon rewarded after a long hard week in the stables, William was feeling relaxed and contented. He eased back in the armchair facing Nellie's and stretched out his legs. His pale blue eyes stared into hers as she spoke and he could sense irritation in her voice.

'I know yer was pleased, Will, an' yer've a right ter be, but yer'd fink Galloway would 'ave at least come over an' fanked yer,' she was saying.

William raised his eyes in resignation. 'It was awkward, really, Nell,' he replied. 'There was people millin' around 'im an' I don't s'pose 'e got the chance. 'E'll see me termorrer. There'll be time then.'

Nellie felt angry that her husband had been ignored by George Galloway at the parade. Every weekday morning William opened the yard and issued Galloway's work orders to the carmen. Then there was the managing of the stables and the locking up after the last van was in, sometimes late in the evening. It was the same when one of the horses was lame or a horse sale was going on. Her husband was on call from dawn till dusk. True, William was paid two pounds a week, but he earned every penny of it, she told herself. It would cost George Galloway much more to call the vet in every time. Ever since they had married ten years ago, and Galloway rented them the house the carter had taken advantage of William - and her - one way or another, Nellie thought with bitterness. She knew she could never talk to her complaisant, easy-going husband of her own hatred for Galloway, and it tormented her cruelly.

William leaned forward in his armchair and Nellie was brought back to the present.

'I'll need ter slip into the yard before it gets too late,' he said, yawning. 'There's the cob ter check. It might be the strangles.'

Nellie sighed and shook her head. 'Yer'd better get in there then, Will. Yer promised me we was goin' ter the pub ternight.'

William grunted as he eased himself out of the chair. 'I'd better call up ter Carrie. She wanted ter come wiv me.'

Nellie was about to object but then thought better of it. Carrie was so like her father. She loved the horses and was worried about her favourite, the small Welsh cob that had been running a fever and had been taken out of the main stable.

Nellie heard her husband call Carrie and then the sound of the front door opening and closing. With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

William undid the padlock and pushed open the wicket-gate. The yard was shadowy and quiet as he led the way to the left-hand side of the cobbled area where the horses were stabled. The building had two levels, and the upper floor was reached by a long straw-covered ramp. A loophole looked out from the higher level, near the noisy chaff-cutting machine and the harness room. The lighter, younger horses were stalled on this floor, and below in the larger stable were kept the heavier shire horses.

Carrie stayed close to her father as he pa.s.sed the main stable and stopped outside a weather-board shed at the end of the yard. It was in this shed that the sick horses were kept in isolation from the rest. William had transferred the cob here as soon as it started coughing, aware that the sickness could easily spread and put the firm out of business.

William picked up the kerosene lamp which was hanging outside the stable door. When he had lit it, he went in with his daughter at his side. The horse was standing in its stall, munching on the last of the chaff. As the yard foreman eased in beside it, the animal turned its head then went back to its munching.

'That's a good sign,' William said, easing down the side of the cob and taking hold of its halter. 'Well, I fink he's over it, but 'e'd better 'ave one more day in 'ere.' He rubbed his hand over the horse's nose and felt its neck just below the ear. 'The swelling's gone down too.'

Carrie had eased herself into the stall and stood beside her father, stroking the cob's neck. 'Can I exercise t.i.tch in the yard termorrer, Dad?' she asked excitedly. ''E's gotta get strong before 'e can pull that cart.'

William laughed aloud. 'It's school fer you termorrer, me la.s.s,' he said quickly. 'Yer muvver's bin on ter me about the time yer missin'.'

Carrie sighed. 'Can I do it after school? Please, Dad?'

Her father put his arm around her shoulders as they stepped out into the dark yard. 'We'll see. Maybe after tea.'

William and Nellie had left for the corner pub and the fire in the grate had burned down to white-hot ash. The eldest of the boys, eight-year-old James, had gone to bed with no fuss, having complained of a sore throat, but Charlie and Danny were reluctant to follow him. They wanted to stay up longer while their parents were out, but Carrie would have none of it.

'Muvver said yer gotta be in bed by nine, Charlie,' she scolded him. 'Besides, Danny won't go up on 'is own. Yer know 'e's scared o' the dark.'

Charlie stared down at his stockinged feet for a moment or two then his wide grey eyes came up to meet Carrie's. 'Can't we stay down 'ere wiv you, Carrie? There might be ghosts upstairs,' he said in a whisper, his eyes rolling around in exaggerated terror.

Five-year-old Danny was already half-asleep. He huddled closer to his elder brother for comfort. 'I see a big ghost on the landin' once, Carrie. I wanna stay down 'ere,' he said in a hushed voice.

She chuckled as she lit a candle and set it into a metal holder. 'Come on, I'll see yer up the stairs. There's no ghosts in this 'ouse. Only 'orrible children get 'aunted. Come on now, follow me.'

The candlelight flickered up the dark stairs and across the narrow landing, casting eerie shadows on the grimy wallpaper and brownish-stained ceiling and glimmering back dully from the brown paint of the back bedroom door. The boys huddled together, having frightened themselves with their stories of lurking ghosts, and when Carrie led the way into their room they jumped into bed and pulled the clothes up around their ears.

'Stay up 'ere, Carrie,' Danny pleaded. 'I'm scared.'

She glanced over at James, sleeping soundly in the single bed by the window, and then set the candleholder down on the rickety washstand. 'All right,' she sighed. 'But just till yer both asleep.'