She reached out and touched his arm in a spontaneous gesture. 'I know that, Fred. I'll keep it in mind what yer said, I promise.'

He smiled awkwardly as she walked to the door. 'Mind 'ow yer go 'ome,' he called out.

Carrie left the cafe with her head spinning. Fred was older than her and set in his ways, and it must have taken a great deal of resolve to declare his love for her. She admired him for that. She knew she should feel flattered at the compliment, but it left her with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The long summer days encouraged everyone out, and the women of Page Street stood on their clean doorsteps after their ch.o.r.es were done and enjoyed a good chat together. All the business of the little turning was aired, and heads nodded eagerly as another choice piece of gossip spread from door to door.

'Don't say I told yer but Florrie Axford's took a lodger in,' Maisie Dougall said in little more than a whisper.

Aggie Temple's eyes opened wide at the revelation. 'Good Gawd! After all she said about 'avin' anuvver man in the 'ouse,' she gasped.

'Well, I'm not sayin' there's anything in it, mind,' Maisie replied quickly. 'She's got them two spare rooms upstairs, an' what wiv the rent goin' up as well ...'

'What's 'e like?' Aggie asked.

''E's a nice-lookin' bloke. About twenty-four or twenty-five, I s'pose,' Maisie went on. ''E's got luvverly curly 'air an' 'e's very smart. I see 'im goin' in yesterday. Smashin' blue pin-stripe suit 'e 'ad on. I could see 'is shoes were polished an' 'e 'ad a collar an' tie on. Bit different from the blokes round 'ere.'

'What about Florrie?'

'What about 'er?'

'Well, did she say anyfing ter yer?' Aggie asked impatiently.

Maisie shook her head. 'Yer know Flo, she don't let 'er right 'and know what 'er left 'and's doin' 'alf the time. Mind yer, she was sayin' somefing about lettin' those upstairs rooms a few weeks ago. I a.s.sumed she was talkin' about a married couple. I didn't fink she'd take a young bloke in. It's bound ter start 'em all gossipin', yer know what they're like round 'ere.'

'Don't I!' Aggie replied, pressing her hand against her pinned-up hair. 'Remember that time my 'Arold was seen 'oldin' that woman round the waist in River Street? They all reckoned 'e was 'avin' it orf wiv 'er. Poor cow fainted right under the streetlamp an' my 'Arold was 'elpin' 'er 'ome. 'E told me 'imself 'e took 'er in an' made 'er a nice cup o' tea. It jus' shows yer what lies people fink up. Jus' 'cos 'e was seen goin' in 'er 'ouse. My 'Arold wouldn't do anyfink like that, after all the years we've bin tergevver.'

Maisie nodded, although the story she had heard of Harold Temple's adventure was a little different from Aggie's version. ''Course 'e wouldn't,' she said. 'Mind yer, it's always a bit awkward when a woman on 'er own takes in a young man as a lodger, especially a nice-lookin' bloke. Tongues will wag.'

'Fing is, Florrie's got a bit of a name wiv the men,' Aggie remarked. 'She's bin married twice, an' there was that bloke at the shop where she works.'

'Oh, an' what was that all about then?' Maisie asked, her curiosity aroused.

'Didn't yer 'ear of it?' Aggie said with surprise. 'It was all round the street. Florrie was s'posed ter be 'avin' it orf wiv Willie Lubeck, the bloke who 'ad the butcher's before ole Greenbaum took it over. Yer remember ole Lubeck. 'E 'ad a cropped 'ead an' a big moustache. Proper German 'e was.'

'Greenbaum's a German too, ain't 'e?' Maisie asked, folding her tubby arms over her clean ap.r.o.n.

'Yeah, 'e's a German Jew by all accounts,' Aggie informed her. 'I like 'is f.a.ggots an' pease-pudden better than when the ovver bloke 'ad the shop. Mind yer, ole Lubeck used ter sell some nice 'alf sheep's 'eads. We often used ter 'ave sheep's 'eads on Sat.u.r.day nights fer our tea.'

Maisie nodded. 'I like them skate's eyeb.a.l.l.s. They go down well wiv a dob o' marge. Mind yer, yer gotta be careful yer don't over boil 'em or they go all gristly.'

Maudie Mycroft was walking along the street. When she reached her two neighbours she put down her shopping-bag and pressed a hand against her side. 'Me kidney's bin playin' me up again,' she announced, feeling in need of a little sympathy. 'Always seems ter be worse in the summer. My Ernest said I should go in an' 'ave it done but I'm terrified of 'ospitals.'

'What is it, Maud, stones?' Maisie enquired.

Maudie nodded. 'I've 'ad 'em fer years.'

Aggie pulled a face. 'Nellie Tanner was tellin' me once 'er Will 'elped the vet bloke operate on one o' the 'orses fer a stone. Large as a cannonball it was, and all colours o' the rainbow. She said 'er ole man pickled it. I don't know if she's still got it but it used ter be on 'er mantelshelf. I ain't seen it when I've bin in there though, not lately.'

Maudie turned pale. 'Well, I'd better get orf in,' she said quickly, wondering what colour her stones might be.

The two watched her walk off along the street and Maisie turned to her friend. 'Funny woman she is, Aggie. Frightened of everyfing. D'yer remember when we all come out an' stopped ole Galloway exercisin' them 'orses? She was terrified we was all gonna get locked up.'

Aggie nodded. 'I don't fink she was scared fer 'erself, though. She was more concerned about what the muvvers' meetin' was gonna say, accordin' ter 'er Ernest.'

'She don't still go ter them meetin's, does she?' Maisie asked. 'I thought she packed it in when they caught the vicar wiv 'is 'and in the collection-box.'

'Nah. Maudie's got a crush on the new vicar,' Aggie informed her. 'She reckons the sun shines out of 'is a.r.s.e.'

'Mind yer, I've seen 'im about,' Maisie said. ''E's not a bad-lookin' bloke, as vicars go. Not my sort though. I like 'em when they look like that new lodger o' Flo's.'

'I wonder if Florrie's lodger comes from round 'ere?' Aggie asked, wanting to get all the facts straight in her mind before she told Mrs Bromsgrove.

'I dunno,' Maisie replied. 'The face is familiar. I fink I've seen 'im wiv that crowd o' jack-the-lads who stand outside the Crown at Dock'ead on Sat.u.r.day nights. Rough 'ole that is.'

Aggie nodded and looked along the street quickly before turning back to her friend. 'My 'Arold gets ter know fings, 'im lightin' all the lamps round 'ere,' she said in a low voice. ''E reckons they've started 'avin' them there fights at the Crown again.'

Maisie did not show any surprise as she scratched away at her elbow. 'I 'eard the same,' she said. 'Flo told me, though Gawd knows where she got it from. She reckons that Jake Mitch.e.l.l 'ad a fight there an' 'e nearly killed the ovver bloke.'

'What, that ugly-lookin' carman who works fer Galloway? 'Im wiv the flat nose an' cauliflower ear?' her friend queried.

'That's 'im.'

'Well, if we stand 'ere much longer we're gonna get the name o' gossip-mongers,' Aggie remarked as she straightened her ap.r.o.n.

Maisie chuckled as she stepped back into her pa.s.sageway. 'Mind 'ow yer go, Aggie, an' if I 'ear any more about you know who, I'll let yer know ...'

Chapter Twenty-six.

On 4th August 1914, the country was plunged into war.

'Once we get our soldiers out there it'll all be over in no time. I give it six months at the outside,' Alec Crossley the landlord of Page Street's little corner pub told his customers.

Harold Temple and Ernest Mycroft were sitting together with Fred Dougall and Daniel Sullivan around a table and they all nodded agreement. William Tanner was leaning against the counter next to Joe Maitland, Florrie Axford's lodger. He looked across at the group.

'I dunno so much,' he said pensively. 'If yer bin readin' the papers, yer'd see it's not that simple. Everybody's arguin' wiv everybody else. Accordin' ter what I've bin readin', all the countries 'ave signed pacts wiv each over an' it's a stone certainty they'll all be drawn inter the fight. I don't fink it's gonna be that easy. This war could go on fer years.'

Alec Crossley chuckled. 'Well, one fing yer can be sure of - there won't be a lack o' volunteers, what wiv all them poor bleeders who's scratchin' fer work. They'll be only too glad ter sign on. At least they'll get a bit o' food in their bellies.'

The landlord of the Kings Arms had prophesied correctly, for within days of the outbreak of war the recruiting offices around London were beleaguered by young men eager to get into the battle before it was all over. Recruiting sergeants were hard put to it to keep order. They smiled with benign tolerance at the volunteers and twiddled their waxed moustaches as they formed the jostling young men into single lines. 'Don't push an' shove, lads. Yer'll all get yer chance ter fight fer King an' Country. That's right, sign 'ere, lad. Well, all right then, jus' put yer mark alongside 'ere. No, I'm sorry, we can't give yer a rifle straight away. There's a medical ter go frew first.'

So it went on. The lines swelled with eager, bold and brash youngsters, and men who were not so young but still keen to get their names on the list. Many stood in line with disablements that would prevent their being allowed to don a uniform, but they stood with their fellows anyway. A man with one eye argued with the recruiting sergeant that he had all he needed to sight a rifle, and another man with a club foot told the sergeant that he could outwalk most of his pals any day. Men afflicted with coughs that wracked their thin bodies lined up with beefy men whose shirtsleeves were rolled up high on their arms. Men with trades, blacksmiths, wheelwrights and engineers, shuffled along behind men with no trade who had spent their adult lives in unskilled factory work or on the roads as labourers. Dockers stood beside clerks and shopworkers, stevedores rubbed shoulders with carmen, everyone laughing and elated now that their humdrum lives were suddenly being transformed.

'We'll be in France afore yer know it.'

'Wait till I tell my ole dutch. She'll be glad ter see the back o' me, that's fer sure.'

'I've got five Gawd-ferbids an' anuvver on the way, an' I ain't seen a day's work fer two months. She'll get a few bob from the army now.'

All day long the lines slowly moved forward and more men arrived to volunteer. Those who had signed left the noise and excitement to break the news to their loved ones, and many began to question what they had done as they found themselves suddenly alone walking home through the backstreets.

The early days of the war were filled with a strange carnival. Military bands marched through the streets and along the main thoroughfares, and behind them came the volunteers. They were a motley crowd of men. While some were comparatively well dressed, others were in ragged clothing. Men prematurely bowed from years of toil walked alongside proud upright youngsters who threw out their chests and swaggered to the cheers of the folk who lined the pavements. The bands marched along to the recruiting offices with blaring bra.s.s and beating drums, and along the way men joined the procession, some pulling against restraining hands and disregarding crying children. Old women dabbed at their eyes as they stood at the roadside, and old men who had seen action in the Boer War and in the North-West Frontier troubles sucked on their clay pipes and shook their heads sadly.

'They're like a load o' bleedin' pied pipers,' one old man remarked, nodding towards the bandsmen.

'It's no 'ardship now, but wait till the music stops an' the shootin' starts, then Gawd 'elp 'em,' another said bitterly.

The early days of the war were an anxious time for Nellie and William Tanner. Their three boys were old enough to enlist and James had announced that he was going to volunteer shortly. Charlie too had indicated that he wanted to join up along with all the other young men at his office, but Danny was not so impatient to put on a uniform. His life was centred around his boxing and he felt that joining up might lose him the chance of fighting in the club championships. Carrie was very worried with the likelihood of her three brothers going off to fight. She loved them all dearly and the thought of their coming to harm caused her many sleepless nights. It seemed to her that life was becoming more and more cruel. She was still walking out with Tommy, but things had not improved during the past year. The old lady was making her usual demands on her son and her drinking had got worse, while the war had made Tommy more sullen than ever, as he knew that he was not in a position to volunteer.

Carrie was feeling worried as she sat talking to her parents one evening when the boys were all out of the house.

'D'yer fink they'll all volunteer, Mum?' she asked. 'They're all so young ter be soldiers.'

Nellie was near to tears as she sat beside the unlit grate with her sewing lying untouched on her lap. 'I don't see as we can stop 'em,' she said sadly. 'Me an' yer farvver 'ave tried ter talk 'em out of it, but all their friends are joinin' up. It's only natural they wanna do the same.'

William sat staring into the grate. 'Danny might not go,' he said, 'at least not yet. As far as the ovver two are concerned, I reckon they'll go soon. Charlie said 'is pals are all signin' on this week an' Jim told me most o' the young blokes at 'is factory 'ave already left. There's nuffink we can do, Carrie, nuffink at all. All we can 'ope for is that it's soon over.'

'D'yer fink it'll last long, luv?' Nellie asked him.

'I don't fink so,' he lied. 'Once the army gets over there, it'll all be sorted out.'

'I've 'eard that women can volunteer as nurses,' Carrie said, looking down at her clasped hands thoughtfully.

'Yer can put that idea out of yer 'ead soon as yer like,' her mother said firmly. 'It's bad enough 'avin' the boys all goin' off, wivout you as well. I'll be in a loony-bin before long wiv all this worry.'

William put a comforting arm around Nellie and she leaned her head against his shoulder as her tears started to flow. Carrie slipped into the scullery and put the kettle on to boil. She was making the tea when Danny came in.

'Billy Sullivan's volunteered, Carrie!' he said excitedly.

She looked at her brother as he stood in the doorway and sighed sadly. He was still only a boy, she told herself. His short fair hair was dishevelled and fell forward over his forehead. His eyes were enquiring, like those of a young child, and apart from a few hairs around his chin his face was still smooth.

'I 'ope you're not finkin' o' followin' 'is example?' she questioned him anxiously. 'It's bad enough Jimmy an' Charlie wantin' ter go, without you startin' too. Somebody's gotta stop at 'ome, Danny.'

'It all depends,' he said in an offhand manner. 'I might. It all depends what 'appens at the club.'

Carrie sighed irritably. 'Oh, I see. If yer don't get the chance of knockin' somebody's 'ead off, yer'll join up. That's charmin', that is.'

Danny frowned. 'Don't keep on at me, Sis. It's bad enough Mum an' Dad goin' on about me stoppin' at 'ome. Everybody's joinin' up. Why should I miss out on it?'

'D'yer fink it's gonna be all nice an' friendly?' Carrie snapped at him. 'Yer could get killed or badly wounded. Would yer like ter spend the rest o' yer days in a wheelchair or lyin' on yer back paralysed or somefink?'

He mumbled an answer and his saucy face broke into a grin. 'All right, Carrie, I promise yer I'll fink about it,' he said quietly. 'I'll see what me bruvs do before I make me mind up. Jim's gonna go fer sure, but I dunno about Charlie. Yer never know what 'e's gonna do.'

Carrie smiled as she reached out and hugged him to her, and Danny patted her back gently. 'It'll all turn out right in the end, you'll see,' he rea.s.sured her.

Across the River Thames in Ilford another conversation about the war was taking place. Frank Galloway lounged across the bed and watched Bella as she applied a touch of dampened soot to her long eyelashes.

'It won't last long, will it, darling?' she asked him. 'I couldn't bear it if it dragged on into one of those awful wars.'

'All wars are awful, Bella,' he told her, thinking that she wouldn't have much choice but to bear it. 'There's no pretty war. But no, I don't think it'll go on too long.'

She looked at him in the mirror of her dressing-table and smiled sweetly. 'I do hope so. Look, darling, you really don't mind my going, do you? If you do, just say so and I'll stay in. I'm sure it'll be one of those terribly boring parties with everyone just gushing compliments and saying how much they adore each other. It's so false. I know you don't like these theatrical get-togethers, that's why I asked if Hubert would escort me. He's a silly billy really but at least I can rely on him not to go off and abandon me. I get so nervous when I'm left stranded at those functions.'

Frank bit back a caustic remark and smiled at her. 'You go and enjoy yourself. I've got some work to do anyway,' he told her, but inside he was seething. As far as he could remember he had never told her he didn't like theatrical parties. In fact, he enjoyed the back chat, and the wine and champagne that were always in plentiful supply. And as for Bella being nervous of managing alone - well, he doubted whether she had ever been nervous in her entire life. She loved the compliments that flowed in her direction, and especially the attention Hubert danced on her. Frank felt he could easily find a more suitable way of describing him than 'silly billy'. The young man was madly in love with Bella, and it was only the fact that she treated him as a boy which prevented her husband from punching the silly billy on the nose.

Bella finished applying rouge to her face and studied the impression. 'You've been looking tired lately, darling,' she said in a soothing voice. 'Don't wait up, there's a dear.'

Frank made to kiss her but she backed away. 'Mind my face, Frank. It's taken me ages to get ready.'

The clock beside the bed showed ten minutes past eight and Bella became anxious. Hubert had promised he wouldn't be late. He was so unreliable, she thought, pouting, so unlike dependable Frank. But how much better in bed! Frank was manly, rough with her, and totally selfish. He had no conception of her needs. Hubert was different. He was a sweet boy who acted like a f.e.c.kless clown but dominated her between the sheets. He was slim, almost girlish, with long thin legs and narrow arms. His hairless body was lithe and reminded her of an uncoiled snake. He was the best lover she had known. If only he had Frank's dependability, she rued. But then, if he did, he wouldn't be Hubert, she thought with a smile, the silly billy she wanted to slip away early with to return to his flat in Bloomsbury.

Bella heard the motor car pull up outside and a light knock on the front door. 'The boy's late as usual,' she said with a sigh. 'He can be so annoying at times. You go to bed early, darling. Promise?'

Frank watched from the window as she stepped into the Daimler, then he walked over to the sideboard and picked up the bottle of brandy. He heard the roar of the car pulling away as he gulped down a large measure of the spirit and sat down dejectedly in a soft armchair. He seemed to be having very little social life lately, and now the war had started most of his colleagues at work had left. Bernard Roseman had become a lieutenant in the London Rifles and Paddy Burns was now up in Scotland doing his training. Then there was Violet Ashley. She had left her desk, and the last he heard was off to France with the field ambulance. Dear Vi - she was as discreet as she was free with her favours. Frank's face creased into a grin as he recalled the time she had told him about her and Bernard Roseman. He was the first Jewish lad she had had. Frank remembered how good it made him feel when Vi told him he was the best lover she had ever known. Paddy was always the worse for drink and he made a song and dance of it, she had said. As for young Arnold Robins, the lad got so fl.u.s.tered when he couldn't untie his shoelace that he jumped into bed with the shoe still on! Vi had quickly put his mind at rest by telling him that she wouldn't discuss him with any of her other lovers. He was the best, she told him, and thus he had the privilege of knowing all about his rivals' prowess in her bed.

Frank raised his gla.s.s to Violet Ashley and wished her well, wherever she was. As for him, he would try to stay out of the war as long as he could. Johnson wanted him to stay on, now that the company had been deprived of its most experienced staff. The old man could certainly get him excused if it came to compulsory enlistment. He would just have to wait and see, he thought as he poured himself another stiff drink.

Geoffrey Galloway pushed back the last of the ledgers and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his throbbing temples. He was alone in the office and could hear the muted sound of children playing in the street outside. The war had not touched the business as yet, he thought, but it was still early days. Unlike some of the local cartage concerns, the firm still employed carmen on a casual basis and there were always men looking for work. As for the contracts themselves, Geoffrey envisaged an upsurge in dock work now that there was a large army which had to be supplied and fed. The local food factories would be extending their contracts too and he saw business increasing.

The thumping in his head started to ease and Geoffrey stretched out in his chair and thought about his own position. Lately the old man had pushed more work on to him and he had had to make more day to day decisions, as well as taking care of the ledgers. Will Tanner was a good yard manager, and as far as the men went he took a lot of pressure off Geoffrey, but to sit out the war by working in the business was something he felt he could not face. Time was slipping by and things were developing fast. His long-standing affair with Mary O'Reilly was the one bright thing in his life, but he was determined that even that could not be allowed to influence him. He had to take the decision soon, however upset his father might be. Maybe Frank could take over? He was married now and might be less inclined to volunteer. Geoffrey thought about talking it over with his father but quickly put the idea out of his mind. He knew that he would end up arguing with the old man and be made to feel selfish and inconsiderate. No, he decided, he would volunteer first and face his father's wrath later.

Outside the yard, in the Tanners' house, Nellie was sitting with Florrie and Maisie discussing the war, and her face had a worried look as she sipped her tea.

'My Jim's volunteered and Charlie's gonna foller 'im soon,' she told her friends.

Maisie shook her head and stared down at her cup.

'My two boys are goin',' she said. 'My Fred tried ter talk 'em out of it but they just laughed at 'im. It's a bleedin' worry. There's Sadie Sullivan worried out of 'er life, too. Billy's done it, an' the rest of 'em are all talkin' about goin' as well. Michael an' John are old enough ter go an' she's worried about young Joe. 'E's seventeen now.'

Florrie put down her cup and pulled out her silver snuff-box. 'That lodger o'mine come in drunk last night,' she said, tapping her fingers on the lid. 'Apparently 'e got turned down at the medical. Somefing about 'is ears. Right upset 'e was. I told 'im straight 'e should fink 'imself lucky. I dunno what them men must be finkin' about. They seem b.l.o.o.d.y keen ter get inter the war.'

Maisie nodded. 'My Fred told me 'e'd go if 'e was younger. I said over my dead body 'e would, an' 'e jus' laughed. "I'd do that an' all," 'e said.'

'Mrs Bromsgrove's ole man volunteered by all accounts,' Florrie told them. ''E got turned down as well.'

'I should fink so too,' Maisie said indignantly. ''E must be all of fifty if 'e's a day. 'E's got that wonky leg as well.'

Nellie reached for the teapot. 'Accordin' ter the papers there's fousands o' youngsters givin' wrong ages. Some are only sixteen, still wet be'ind the ears. Gawd 'elp us, what's it all comin' to?'

Maisie took a refilled cup from Nellie. 'I was readin' in the papers there's fightin' goin' on in France already,' she said. 'Mons, I fink the place was. The news didn't seem too good. It said they was retreatin'. Trouble is, yer never get the trufe. Gawd knows what is really goin' on out there.'