Josephine leaned forward and squeezed the housekeeper's arm gently. 'I'm not shocked. Why should I be? I've always looked on you as my mother. You're the only mother I've ever known. It seemed right that you and Father should, you know, sleep together. Why aren't you now?'

Nora sighed deeply and started the chair rocking again. 'Yer farvver's never really got over yer muvver dyin' the way she did. I'm sure 'e blames 'imself fer what 'appened. I just filled a gap in 'is life. I was there when 'e needed comfortin'.'

'But you're still here, Nora. Why must he turn to the bottle for comfort?' Josephine asked, frowning.

Nora looked down at her folded arms. 'I dunno the answer ter that one, Josie. I expect the ache inside of 'im is too much fer the likes o' me ter ease. Whisky does it fer yer farvver. It dulls the pain 'e's feelin' an' finally sends 'im off ter sleep. It'll kill 'im in the end though, I'm sure it will.'

Josephine sighed sadly. 'I don't think Father blames himself for Mother's death - he blames me. Having me killed her, I know that.'

Nora sat upright in her chair. 'Now listen ter me, young lady,' she said quickly, 'yer farvver doesn't blame you at all. Yer mustn't dare fink that. It was 'im what made yer. If there's anybody ter blame it's yer farvver, n.o.body else, but there just ain't n.o.body ter blame. Least of all you.'

'But why can't I talk to him, Nora? Why does it always feel like he's pushing me away from him?' Josephine asked, her eyes searching the older woman's for an answer.

''E doesn't mean to, child,' Nora told her kindly. 'Yer farvver lives in a man's world. 'E 'ad two sons before you come along. I don't want yer ter take this wrong, but yer farvver's got no refinement, no finesse. 'E can't relax wiv women, I know. It's not just you. Yer mus' try ter understan' what I'm sayin'. Promise me yer won't dwell on it, Josie.'

The young woman nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the housekeeper's. 'Do you know, Nora, sometimes I feel that this family is doomed,' she said slowly. 'Sometimes I lie awake nights with a dreadful feeling in my stomach. It's as though there's a curse hanging over us. I can see no future, nothing good, only bad. Why? Why should I feel like I do?'

Nora forced herself to smile rea.s.suringly. 'Listen ter me, yer a young woman who's just findin' 'erself,' she said quietly. ''Avin those sort o' thoughts is not so terrible as yer might fink. It's all part o' growin' up. One day soon yer'll meet a nice young man an' grow ter love 'im. 'E'll love yer back an' make yer feel good inside. 'E'll comfort yer an' protect yer, an' yer'll be able ter laugh at yer fears. Yer'll see.'

Josephine smiled as she bent down to rouse the dying fire. 'I expect you're right, Nora,' she said, feeling suddenly cold in the firelit room.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

Early in 1915 James and Charles Tanner prepared to leave for France as privates in the East Surreys. William felt proud as he walked along to the Kings Arms with his two sons, both looking trim and smart in their tight-fitting uniforms, peaked caps and puttees wound up around their calves from highly polished boots. James was now a brawny young man a stone and a half heavier than Charlie, who still had a baby face and red cheeks. Their fair hair had been cropped short and both had the look of young men eager and impatient to be off on a big adventure. The stories filling the newspapers of heavy fighting on the Western Front had not caused either of them to lose any sleep, but as pints of ale were downed in quick succession and the customers joked about the girls they would meet, their father became quieter, struggling with the secret fears that he had to hide from everybody.

Alec Crossley had seen many such family gatherings during the last few months, and wondered how many of those young men would be drinking in his pub once the war was over. Already the toll was growing, and almost every evening someone came with stories of lost relatives or friends. His pub seemed to be full of old men and uniformed boys like the Tanners or Billy Sullivan who had left for France only a few weeks ago. Alec pulled pints and watched how the smooth-faced soldiers drank them down with bravado, sometimes turning a shade of grey as the unfamiliar drink took effect.

'Yer know, luv, I fink 'alf of 'em would be better orf wiv toffee apples than pints of ale,' he remarked to his wife Grace.

She smiled sadly as she pulled down on the beer-pump. 'I can't 'elp finkin' of young Alfie Finnegan when I see these young soldiers. I remember when Alfie was sittin' outside the pub wiv a gla.s.s o' lemonade an' munchin' on an arrowroot biscuit. It seems like only yesterday, an' now the poor bleeder's gorn. I still can't get over it. Six weeks, that's all 'e was out there. Six weeks.'

Nellie Tanner had fought back tears as she watched her two boys march off to the pub with their father. She felt grateful that at least Danny wasn't in uniform. He had managed to get the job he was hoping for, and was now articled to a lighterage firm and excited at working on the barges. At least he wouldn't be going off to war, she thought. She was terribly worried about his brothers, but Charlie caused her particular anguish. He was different from Jim in many ways. He had been sired in fear and anger, had always seemed set apart from the others when he was growing up, and now he was a man. He would show courage and endure hardship just like his brother, Nellie felt sure, but he was different. She had always been able to see it in his grey eyes.

Many local young men were now in uniform. Geoffrey Galloway had been commissioned into the Rifle Brigade and was already in France. Maisie Dougall's two boys, Ronnie and Albert, were also in the Rifle Brigade and were doing their basic training on the Isle of Sheppey. Sadie Sullivan bade her eldest son goodbye as he left for the front and then dared the rest of her brood to follow him.

'It's bad enough Billy goin' orf wivout you lot wantin' ter go wiv 'im,' she told them. 'Jus' let me 'ear one peep out o' you lot about joinin' up an' I'll tan yer 'ides, big as yer are.'

'But, Muvver, we can't let Billy do all the fightin'. 'E's gonna need a bit of 'elp,' John the next eldest told her.

''E's got all the 'elp 'e needs wivout the rest of yer puttin' on a uniform, so let's be done wiv it, or I'll tell yer farvver.'

'Yer not bein' fair, Mum,' Michael cut in. 'John an' me are over eighteen, so's Joe. We're old enough ter fight. If we enlist, yer'll still 'ave Shaun an' the twins ter look after yer.'

'Look after me!' Sadie raged. 'I'm tryin' me b.l.o.o.d.y best ter look after you lot. 'Ave yer got any idea what it's b.l.o.o.d.y well like out in France?'

Patrick and Terry were standing behind their mother and mimicked her as she waved her fist at Michael, while Shaun the youngest picked up the broom and started to prod the armchair with it in an aggressive manner.

Sadie sat down heavily in her chair and put a hand to her forehead. 'Yer'll be the undoin' o' me, yer will,' she groaned. 'Can't yer be like ovver muvvers' sons? Do yer 'ave ter drive me right roun' the twist?'

'All the ovver muvvers' sons 'ave volunteered,' Joe moaned.

'Well, you lot ain't gonna do no such fing, d'yer 'ear me?' Sadie screamed.

'My mate at work got a white feavver. Would yer like us ter get a white feavver?' Michael asked his mother.

'I don't care if they send yer the 'ole b.l.o.o.d.y bird, the answer's still no,' she growled, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her fists.

The three eldest boys recognised the danger signs and they quickly made excuses and left the house together, sauntering dejectedly along the little turning with their hands stuffed deep into their trouser pockets.

'C'mon, I've got enough dosh fer a pint,' John said, his eyes brightening.

As the three young men walked into the Kings Arms, Alec Crossley nudged Grace. 'Old tight, gel, lock up the gla.s.ses, it's the fightin' Sullivans,' he said with mock seriousness. 'What yer 'avin', boys?'

John pulled out a handful of coppers and started counting them. 'Gis us a pint o' porter each, Alec,' he said sadly. 'This is gonna be our last pint as civilians. We're signin' on termorrer fer the East Surreys.'

Alec shook his head as he pulled on the pump. 'If this keeps up I won't 'ave enough bleedin' customers ter make up a domino team,' he groaned. ''Ere, lads, 'ave this one on the 'ouse. All the best.'

The Sullivan boys took their drinks to a far table. When they had settled themselves, Michael turned to his brother John. ''Ere, Johnbo, why d'yer tell Alec the three of us were signin' on termorrer?' he asked.

'Well, I 'ad ter do somefink,' John replied, sipping his beer. 'I only 'ad enough money fer two pints.'

Carrie Tanner finished wiping down the last of the tables then walked over to the window of the dining rooms that looked out on to the riverside lane and the river beyond. She could see the belching smoke-stack of a cargo ship as it chugged towards the Pool with its escorting tug whistling noisily, and in the lane itself could see one or two horse-carts parked ready for a call on to the jetty. It had been dreary lately with all the younger men going off to war. She missed their funny sayings and saucy remarks as they came and went, caps askew and red chokers knotted tightly round their necks. Now most of the customers were older men with less to say, except when they cursed the war and wished they were young enough to go instead of being left to do all the work. Fred had told her that he had thought a lot about whether he should volunteer and had decided against it. He had gone so far as to talk with a friend of his who was a recruiting sergeant and he had advised him that he would be exempt anyway because of the nature of his business and he should forget about taking the King's shilling and leave the fighting to the younger men. She sighed to herself as she watched the progress of the cargo ship. She missed her brothers badly, and wondered where Tommy might be right at that minute. He had come into the dining rooms only once since she had told him their romance was over. He had looked uneasy as he ordered his tea and sandwich, and then just as he was leaving had told her he was going into the Queen's Bermondsey Regiment the following week. The cafe was full of customers at the time and Carrie had found herself coldly wishing him luck and a safe return as he turned away with an embarra.s.sed look on his face and walked out of the door, and now she wished she'd been kinder. But it was too late.

The days seemed long and tedious, with little to smile about. The only light relief was when Sharkey Morris and Soapy Symonds made their appearance. They usually came in together and were full of funny stories, often about their own misfortunes. Both were now in their late fifties and still fairly robust, although Soapy was becoming bad on his legs and always seemed to be limping these days. They had not changed in character since she was very small, Carrie reflected. They were a reminder of those carefree childhood days when she rode on the back of t.i.tch the Welsh cob and her father took her on those lovely country trips to fetch the hay bales. She remembered her friend Sara and the look of wonderment on her face as they drove into the farm and saw the animals and the line of waddling ducks leading their unsteady offspring to the muddy pool. Sara was married now and doing well, the last Carrie heard.

Fred Bradley had been kind and considerate towards her, and since that one time he had opened his heart to her, had kept his distance, for which she was grateful. She had been afraid that he might try to force himself upon her in some way but he had been especially nice, leaving her alone to get on with her work and never hara.s.sing her at the end of the day when she cleared up and went home. Carrie knew, though, that he was still waiting patiently for her to have a change of heart, and she felt flattered that Fred wanted her to be his wife. The age difference was not so terrible. Many young girls were marrying older men who could offer them security, men who would be less likely to burden them with lots of children. Fred Bradley would be a good husband, she knew, but she was not in love with him. She sighed deeply.

It was a few minutes to five o'clock in the empty cafe and Fred's helper Bessie Chandler came out of the kitchen and raised her eyes to the ceiling as she sat down at one of the tables. Carrie smiled knowingly as she carried over two mugs of tea and sat down facing her. It was usual for them to have a quick chat together and catch their breath before they left for home in the evenings. Bessie was a large woman in her forties with a wide round face and fuzzy ginger hair which she always kept hidden under her headscarf. Her face was freckled and her small green eyes stared out from beneath drooping eyelids, making her look perpetually sorry for herself. Bessie had been employed to work mornings only at first but when trade increased Fred had asked her to work full-time. She prepared the raw vegetables and made pastry for the pies, afterwards helping Fred with the orders, but she talked incessantly and he felt that she was slowly driving him mad with her accounts of the doings of all her neighbours in the buildings. Fred seriously thought about getting rid of her, but she was such a good cook and very competent in the kitchen that when her endless talking grew unbearable he simply went out into the yard and puffed deeply on a cigarette as he steeled himself to face her chattering once more. Bessie was childless, and her husband worked nights at the biscuit factory. Fred joked with the carmen that she probably spent so much time ga.s.sing to the neighbours, she had no time left for anything else.

Bessie sipped her tea slowly, her doleful eyes staring at Carrie over the mug. ''E's bin in a funny mood lately,' she said in a quiet voice, putting her tea down and nodding in the direction of the kitchen. 'I reckon 'e's gettin' old an' miserable.'

Carrie smiled. 'What's the matter wiv 'im?' she asked, knowing that she was about to find out anyway.

Bessie shook her head slowly. ''E's bin very jumpy lately an' I'm sure 'e just ain't listenin' when yer talk to 'im. If I didn't know 'im better, I'd say 'e 'ad woman trouble. 'E seems miles away.'

Carrie stared down into the tea-leaves as she experienced a familiar sinking in her stomach. Bessie's comment about woman trouble was probably a little nearer the truth than she realised.

'I was only sayin' ter Elsie Dobson the ovver night, 'e's a funny bloke that Fred,' Bessie went on. ''E's never married or got 'imself involved wiv a woman. I mean ter say, 'e ain't a bad-lookin' sort o' fella, as fellas go. 'E'd be a good catch too. 'E mus' be werf a few bob. 'Is family 'ad the business fer years an' 'e prob'ly come inter money when they died.'

'P'raps 'e 'as got a woman tucked away somewhere,' Carrie cut in quickly. 'After all, we don't know what 'e does in 'is spare time.'

Bessie laughed. 'I've known Fred an' 'is family fer years. That's 'ow 'e come ter ask me if I wanted ter work fer 'im. Fred's ole muvver was a funny ole cow. She used ter dote on 'im. Very strict though. I never see Fred wiv a young lady on 'is arm. 'E was always workin' in 'ere from the time 'e left school. Never 'ad annuver job. Mind yer, 'e built this place up. It was a proper gaff when the ole couple run it. Let it go right down the pan they did, 'specially when the old fella was gettin' on in years. I don't s'pose the poor sod 'ad time fer women, what wiv the way 'e 'ad ter work.'

'Was Fred the only child?'

'Yeah. There was annuver child, a gel I fink, but she died as a baby,' Bessie replied. 'I fink 'e should find 'imself a nice young lady. I fink it'd be the makin' of 'im. It ain't right fer anybody ter go frew life on their own. As I was sayin' ter Elsie ...'

Bessie's ramblings were interrupted as Fred came out of the kitchen. She winked to Carrie as she looked over at him. ''Ave yer covered that pastry 'cos o' the flies?' she asked him.

Fred nodded and gave Carrie a quick glance, raising his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. 'Yer better be off, it's turned five,' he said.

Bessie got up and slipped on her coat. 'Yeah, I'd better be orf 'ome an' make sure my ole fella's up fer work,' she sighed.

Carrie smiled at Fred as his a.s.sistant left the dining rooms and he sat down at the table, sighing loudly. 'Bessie's a diamond but she does go on,' he groaned. 'D' yer know what she was on about terday? She wanted ter know why I never married. She reckoned I should find meself a nice young lady.'

'What did yer say?' Carrie asked as she got up to put on her coat, suddenly feeling nervous.

'I told 'er when I meet the right woman, I'll consider gettin' married,' he answered.

'Yer'll meet the right gel one day,' Carrie told him, making for the door.

'I already 'ave,' he said in a low voice.

Carrie walked home feeling wild with herself for making such a stupid remark as she left the cafe. She had said it on the spur of the moment without thinking, and realised she would have to be more careful in future. Any chance remark like that might make Fred feel that she was prompting or encouraging him, and it would be embarra.s.sing for both of them if he asked her plainly to walk out with him and she declined. He was too nice a man to upset but she knew that if he did offer she would refuse him. She was still aching over her romance with Tommy and could not bring herself to think of starting another relationship.

As Carrie walked past Bacon Street Buildings she found herself thinking again of Sara. Had she found happiness with her young man, she wondered, and hoped she would never have to struggle the way her mother had.

Carrie turned the corner into Page Street and saw the women standing at their front doors, chatting together. She saw Maisie talking to Aggie, and Ida Bromsgrove sweeping outside her front door. Young children were swinging from a rope tied to a lamppost, an old man tottered along supporting his frail body with a stick and mumbling to himself. Another old man stood in a doorway smoking a clay pipe, his eyes fixed on the paving-stones. Despite all the people, she felt how strangely quiet the turning seemed to be. There were no young men standing about to ogle her or smile as she pa.s.sed them. All the vitality and youthfulness seemed to have been taken out of the street. Carrie thought of those young men: Tommy, Billy Sullivan, the Dougall boys and her own two brothers. Where were they now? Would she ever see them again? She sighed deeply. The war would not last for long and the young men would soon be home. All of them, she told herself as she reached her front door.

In the dining room at 22 Tyburn Place the curtains had been drawn against the cold night and a fire burned brightly in the open hearth. Five chairs had been placed around the heavy oaken table although only four were occupied. The meal was over and George Galloway sat at the head of the table, thoughtfully rolling an unlighted cigar between his fingers as Nora replenished the coffee cups. Frank sat on his father's right. He was leaning back in his chair, staring down at his cup. Josephine was facing him, and exchanged glances with Nora as the two men pondered. George lit his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, a look of expectancy on his face as he waited for Frank's answer. Nora caught Josephine's eye.

'I fink I'd better get cleared away,' she said, getting up and pushing her chair against the table.

Together the two women carried the stack of used crockery out into the kitchen. Josephine gave the housekeeper a knowing smile. 'It looks as though Father's got his way, Nora,' she said quietly. 'Poor Frank looks very upset.'

Nora shook her head slowly. 'There ain't much choice fer 'im, is there? I fink that white feavver business upset 'im too, although 'e tried ter make light of it.'

Josephine's face became serious. 'Why are people so wicked, Nora? My brother's not a coward. Frank's married now and he's got responsibilities. If he was single, he'd be the first to volunteer.'

'I'm sure 'e would,' Nora replied, looking up at the clock on the mantelshelf. 'I'll see ter the dishes. Yer'd better be off or yer'll be late.'

Josephine left for a meeting of Red Cross volunteers at the church hall in Jamaica Road. In the dining room the two men continued their discussion. A blue smoke haze hung over the table as Frank lit another cigarette.

'The trouble is, you never get to find out who's responsible for sending them,' he said, exhaling smoke and nervously tapping his cigarette against the ashtray.

George nodded. 'I wouldn't worry about it. 'Undreds o' people are gettin' 'em. Yer done the right fing, burning it. Don't give it anuvver thought.'

'I was wondering if it was someone at the office,' Frank remarked, looking at his father.

George puffed in exasperation. 'There yer go! Yer ain't gonna stop worryin' about it, are yer? It's why they send 'em, can't yer see? Whoever it was who sent it wanted jus' that. Why not do as I say an' ferget it? Now let's get down ter what we were talkin' about,' he said testily. 'Yer said yer guv'nor was expectin' yer ter volunteer. If yer carry on workin' there, 'e's gonna be a bit awkward wiv yer, ter say the least. Those top-bra.s.s military families are all the same. King an' Country, an' all that b.l.o.o.d.y twaddle! They stand back an' dish out the orders an' it's the poor b.l.o.o.d.y soldiers who face the bullets. I reckon they should get all that top bra.s.s from us an' Germany tergevver an' put the 'ole b.l.o.o.d.y lot o' the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in a field somewhere an' say to 'em, go on then, get on wiv it. The b.l.o.o.d.y war'd be over in five minutes. They'd all be on the p.i.s.s tergevver.'

Frank chuckled, then his face changed as he glanced over to the vacant place at the table. 'I wonder how Geoff's getting on,' he said quietly.

George dropped his gaze for a moment and then stared at the lighted end of his cigar. 'The boy'll be all right,' he declared firmly. ''E's a sensible young man, 'e won't take no unnecessary risks. I only wish 'e 'adn't bin so 'asty. Geoff was doin' a good job at the yard an' I was really upset when 'e told me 'e'd volunteered. I miss 'im, an' it's upset Nora too. It was 'er idea ter leave a place at the table fer 'im. She reckons it's lucky. She's a strange woman at times, is Nora.'

Frank was quiet as he stubbed out his cigarette, then looked up at his father. 'All right, I'll put my resignation in first thing in the morning,' he said suddenly. 'They'll need a couple of weeks to get a replacement, unless the old man gets shirty and tells me to go there and then.'

George's wide florid face broke into a grin. 'Jus' tell the ole git yer've volunteered. Tell 'im yer wanna leave right away ter get yer fings in order. I don't s'pose 'e'll be too concerned, from what yer've told me.'

Frank nodded. 'All right, I will. I suppose the sooner I start the better. By the way, Father, have you thought any more about getting lorries to replace some of the horses? It'll be a sensible move, especially now.'

George relit the stub of his cigar and puffed on it thoughtfully. 'Look, you jus' get yerself familiar wiv the runnin' o' the business first,' he told him. 'Once yer've sorted the books out, we'll talk again. There's a lot ter consider. Fer a start, if I get lorries I'll need a mechanic ter keep 'em on the road. That's what the ovver cartage firms 'ave 'ad ter do. What's gonna 'appen ter Will Tanner? Once the 'orses go I'd 'ave ter get rid of 'im. I couldn't afford ter keep 'im an' a mechanic as well. Then there's the 'ouse. I'd 'ave ter give 'im notice ter quit.'

'Couldn't you let him stay and pay a rent?' Frank asked.

George shook his head. 'The mechanic would need a place ter live an' there's no 'ouses vacant, not yet anyway. I'd need the bloke ter be on 'and. It's no good if 'e lives miles away from the yard. We'd need more s.p.a.ce too, don't ferget. Yer couldn't garage many lorries in the yard, there's no room ter manoeuvre 'em. It's not like 'avin' 'orse-an'-carts.'

Frank lit another cigarette. 'You should have bought a bigger place when Geoff and I suggested it,' he said reprovingly.

George smiled. 'Yer've only just agreed ter come in the business an' already yer tellin' me 'ow ter run it! Well, maybe that's not a bad fing. I'd like yer ter bring yer own ideas in. I ain't gettin' any younger. You an' Geoff should be able ter make a good go of it, please Gawd. In the meantime, let's 'ave a drink ter celebrate. Now where did Nora 'ide that brandy ...'

Chapter Twenty-nine.

In the early summer a troop train from Southampton arrived at Waterloo carrying a large contingent of troops from the East Surrey Regiment who had seen action in France. The train pulled into the station beside another bearing a bold red cross on all of its carriages. As the troops alighted their noisy gaiety and laughter were suddenly stilled by the sight that met them. A line of stretchers ran the length of the platform, bearing casualties ashen-faced beneath their blankets. Soldiers with bandages over their eyes were being led away in line, each resting his hand on the shoulder of the man in front, and other troops were hobbling along the platform on crutches. Doctors and medical orderlies walked along the long line of stretchers, giving aid and glancing at the medical notes pinned to the top of the blankets. Nurses in Red Cross uniforms bent over the casualties, writing notes and placing lighted cigarettes between the lips of grateful men. Around them the usual station activities went on as if it was a normal day. Porters pushed laden barrows, and steam from the tenders drifted up to the high iron rafters.

James Tanner stepped down from the train and walked along the platform beside his younger brother Charlie, both of them pale and subdued as they gazed down on the faces of their wounded comrades.

'Christ, I need a drink!' James said in a husky voice.

'That's the best fing yer've said all mornin', Tanner,' one of the other troops remarked, putting his arm around James's shoulder.

As they neared the ticket gate, Charlie spotted one of the wounded struggling with something in his hands and he broke away from the group.

'You go on, I'll catch yer up,' he said, walking towards the stretcher.

'We'll be in the 'Ole in the Wall, Charlie,' his brother called out as he pa.s.sed through the gate with their mates.

Charlie bent over the wounded soldier. ''Ere, let me do that,' he said quietly, taking the cigarette packet from the man.

'Fanks, pal. b.l.o.o.d.y fingers are all numb,' the soldier replied.

Charlie opened the packet and lit a cigarette, placing it between the man's lips. 'There yer are. 'Ow's that?' he said kindly.