The Girl from Cotton Lane (33 page)

Carrie hesitated. The port and lemon she had had on their previous meeting made her feel light-headed, and today she wanted to remain in complete control of her senses. ‘I’ll just ’ave a small shandy, please,’ she replied.

They sat sipping their drinks and making small talk, almost afraid to reveal to each other the burning desire they both felt. It was Joe who finally became impatient with their awkward reserve.

‘Look, I’d like yer ter see my place. I’ve just ’ad it decorated,’ he said casually.

‘Is it far?’ Carrie asked. ‘I can’t be away too long.’

‘It’s only at Bermondsey Square. I’ve got the upstairs flat,’ he told her.

They soon reached the crescent of tidy three-storied houses, and when they climbed the few steps leading up to the front door and Joe inserted the key Carrie looked around quickly, as though she was being observed. Inside, the passageway smelt of disinfectant and the stairs creaked as she followed him up to the top floor.

‘There’s a solicitor lives underneath an’ there’s a young couple on the ground floor,’ Joe told her. ‘Most of the day the place is empty. In fact I’ve rarely seen the solicitor.’

Carrie stood back while he opened the door to his flat and gasped with surprise as they entered. The room overlooking the square was furnished in oak and the draperies at the window were full and frilly. Around the walls there were large framed prints of sporting events, and above the white stone fire-surround there were alabaster statues of Greek maidens in various poses. The high white ceiling was figured in plaster reliefs and in the centre a chandelier hung down over a highly polished table. A large settee stretched along under the wide window and at each side of the empty grate there were brass tongs standing upright in holders above a shining brass fender. The grey- and red-flowered carpet was soft underfoot and Carrie could smell lavender polish. Two doors led off from the room and Joe opened the one facing the window and stood aside while she walked in. The kitchen was like nothing she had seen before. Around the room there were pots and jars containing herbs and spices, while beneath the lace-covered window there was a white porcelain sink and to the left a large Welsh dresser. The gas stove had brass taps and there were cupboards reaching up to the ceiling.

Joe smiled at her surprise and without saying anything he went to her. ‘Let me take yer coat fer a while,’ he said quietly.

Carrie slowly unbuttoned her coat and Joe came round behind her, reaching his hands up to her collar. With a single movement he had slipped the coat from her shoulders and turned her around to face him. For a second he gazed into her eyes then his lips went down to hers, his arms locking her in a tight embrace. She could feel his hot lips on hers pressing tightly and his arms pulling her to him, closer and closer, until she could feel every inch of his strong body against hers. His mouth was open, moving over her hot lips, and she gave a little groan of pleasure as his hands stroked along her back.

‘No, yer mustn’t,’ she sighed, willing him to go on.

Joe’s lips were now searching her neck and she could feel his hot breath as he kissed her throat. With an effort she placed her hands against his chest and held him at bay, but only for an instant. He had slipped to one side and lifted her up into his arms and Carrie closed her eyes fully to savour his lips as he pressed his mouth into her neck. She was being carried from the kitchen into the large front room and then to the closed door in the far corner. Very gently Joe set her down and with one hand he turned the doorknob and eased his weight against the panelling. As the door swung open Carrie could see the bed and the sweep of the heavy curtains which reached down to the floor. She looked around for a few moments as Joe watched her reaction.

‘It’s beautiful. It’s all beautiful,’ she sighed, looking at him.

He smiled, his face flushed from the embrace and his eyes burning into hers. Slowly he came to her and his arms reached out and pulled her to him.

‘I need yer, Carrie,’ he said, his voice husky and full of emotion.

‘I want you too,’ she replied, hardly recognising her own voice.

He gently unbuttoned her white linen blouse and very deliberately slipped it over her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Then he reached his hands around her back and slipped his thumbs under the strap of her brassiere. Soon she was standing before him, not protesting as his lips went down to her small firm breast. She could feel his tongue moving over her nipple and she let her head drop backwards, folding her arms around his neck. Joe’s hands were caressing her, stroking her hair, fondling her roused body, moving slowly over her breasts, and then he pulled her tightly to him, his lips smothering hers. They kissed long and passionately and as they parted he buried his head in her loose fair hair, his fingers groping around for the clasp of her long skirt. Carrie could not contain herself and as he slipped her skirt to the floor and reached his fingers into the elastic of her slip she fumbled with his shirt buttons. Soon he was standing before her stripped to the waist, she wearing only her stockings, suspenders and knickers.

Carrie felt unashamed abandonment as she stepped backwards towards the bed and sat down on the soft counterpane to remove her stockings. Joe smiled briefly as he slipped the buckle of his belt, and she smiled back, her tongue moving around her lips, inviting him to love her, take her in a torrent of passion. Everything was forgotten now as he moved towards her, roused to the full. She moved up onto the bed and reclined against the high pillows, her arms spread out to receive him. Two nude, hot bodies met delicately at first but with a growing need, and finally he was above her, his eyes flashing and his hands spread on both sides of her heaving breasts. He lowered himself until his lips were just an inch from hers and she moved slightly, guiding him, urging him to take her. He let his lips brush hers and then as the pressure increased she let out a deep sigh of pleasure. He was one with her now, his body moving over her slowly at first and then faster and faster until she was groaning with the exquisite pleasure, on and on, until his brow was wet with sweat and his arms were shaking. Suddenly a feeling grew from deep inside her, threatening to burst forth and drown her with its intensity. She closed her eyes tightly, letting the feeling grow with no abating, and then she knew for the first time in her life the feeling of true ecstatic fulfilment.

Joe had sunk down on to her. His exhausted body heaved as he pulled himself up on his elbows. ‘Darlin’,’ he groaned, ‘you were beautiful.’

‘I’ve never known such love,’ she sighed, her face flushed with sated passion.

He slipped to one side of her, his body against hers. ‘I wanted yer from the first moment yer walked in the pub, Carrie,’ he whispered.

She turned onto her side, letting her head rest against his deep chest. ‘It jus’ ’ad ter be,’ she whispered simply, closing her eyes and losing herself in the magic of the moment.

Chapter Nineteen

The narrow, cobbled Shad Thames would have been an unlikely place for taxicabs to go on a bright summer evening, but in autumn, with the river mist swirling out into the dark, empty lane, it was outlandish. All the warehouses and wharves were bolted and barred with one exception, and the taxi drivers had only agreed to drive through the deserted area to James’s Wharf because their fares were well dressed and respectable-looking. Most of them carried a briefcase or a thin leather case, and they paid the taxi drivers adding good tips, but the drivers were glad to get back into the brightly lit main roads nevertheless, and being too well mannered to ask questions they were left wondering why they had been required to go to such a place so late in the evening. The taxi drivers who carried ships’ officers and dock officials to and fro in Bermondsey and Rotherhithe knew the riverside area as a rough place of drab streets and large factories and wharves, where the hard life and the often dangerous pubs near the Thames attracted only the most foolhardy and reckless of strangers. If it had not been for the sense of purpose in the faces of their fares the drivers would have recommended Soho in the West End of London, where painted women plied their trade, fortunes were won and lost at the gambling dens, and many a shady deal was struck.

During the late evening the first-floor room of James’s Wharf was filling with serious-faced individuals, who took drinks from an array of liquor on a side table then stood around in small groups, looking anxious and occasionally glancing at their pocket watches. A tall, impassive man in a dark suit stood beside the heavy iron door, his hands clasped behind his back, and in the centre of the large emptied warehouse there was a long table covered with a green baize cloth and surrounded with chairs. Ashtrays were set on the table and at each end there was a filled water jug and a tray of glasses.

A short, stocky man in his sixties had hurried in carrying a briefcase. He ushered the waiting group to the table.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I take it you’ve all served yourselves? If so we’ll get down to business without more ado. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Ronald James and I’m the owner of this wharf. I’d like to begin by saying that after meeting and talking to an old friend of mine, who I regret to say is not here as yet this evening, I decided to make this room available to discuss a matter which is of concern to us all. Now before I go on, is there anyone here who is in any way in the dark as to the business in hand?’

The silence encouraged the wharf owner to continue. ‘Most of you I know personally and I see we’re fairly well represented. All of you sitting here tonight have been personally invited and I can see wharfingers, transport contractors, factory owners, as well as businessmen in various fields of endeavour. All of us have one thing in common: we trade in this area, and in saying that I include Rotherhithe too. All of us earn our living in one way or another from the River Thames where merchants have settled and worked since Roman times, and it’s no coincidence that a thriving trading community has developed in this area over the years. We have a river gateway, ample space for dockage and storage, inland waterways, a growing railway system and a plentiful workforce of craftsmen, rivermen, labourers and factory workers. We can all of us compete, trade together, and help each other along the road to prosperity as long as we’re allowed to carry on in our respective professions unhampered by interference, legal or illegal, and I emphasise the latter because it is the reason for the very nature of this meeting here tonight.’

The speaker was interrupted by George Galloway who entered the room puffing loudly from climbing the stairs.

‘Sorry I’m late, Ron,’ he grunted, going to the far table to pour himself a glass of whisky. ‘The bloody taxi driver wouldn’t drive down ’ere. I dunno if ’e expected me ter rob ’im.’

There was some laughter at the remark and Ronald James raised his hands for silence. ‘To bring us to the point of the meeting,’ he went on, ‘I’d just like to say that it would appear certain forces are being matched against us, and if we do not assert ourselves and oppose those forces we will find that we are unable to store, shift, buy or sell without first consulting and getting permission from a self-appointed godfather.’

There was a murmur from the gathering and George Galloway banged his fist down hard on the table. ‘Why don’t yer cut out the fancy talk an’ get ter the point, Ron?’ he said in a loud voice. ‘We all know why we’re ’ere. What I wanna know is, ’ow are we gonna deal wiv it?’

Everyone at the table stared at the heavily built man with thick grey hair and a red bloated face and then looked back at the speaker. Ronald James smiled patiently at Galloway.

‘That’s what we’re here for, George.’

‘Is there any information available regarding the application for an entertainments licence, and do we know who it might be registered under?’ one of the gathering asked.

‘As far as we can ascertain no application has yet been made,’ the speaker replied. ‘What we do know is, there has been a bid put in for the old Town Music Hall by a company calling themselves Eastern Enterprises. The same company own properties throughout the East End of London. That’s the first link. The second is that the bid bears the name of the company secretary, a man by the name of Martin Butterfield.’

The vacant stares were noted by George Galloway. ‘Butterfield is a company solicitor an’ ’e was actin’ fer Gerry Macedo over a tax fiddle. I might add that Macedo was acquitted,’ he growled.

‘Foolproof,’ an elderly man with a goatee beard grunted.

‘Exactly,’ Ronald James replied. ‘If the bid is successful there’s a double opportunity here. The company can develop the property and apply for an entertainments licence, and if their application is unsuccessful they can demolish the present building and sell the site off as building land when the price warrants it. Eastern Enterprises have subsidiaries as you will have guessed,’ James added, looking pleased with himself.

The young man sitting at the end of the table looked along the line of serious faces. ‘We can sit ’ere an’ agonise over what’s takin’ place an’ what’s likely ter be, or we can take one of two actions,’ he said quietly.

‘What’s on yer mind, Joe?’ Jack Pickering, a local transport contractor, asked him.

‘We can use the local organisations and clubs, such as they are in Rovver’ithe an’ Bermon’sey, an’ put the information we ’ave in front of ’em,’ Joe Maitland suggested. ‘The local Labour Party, the men’s Labour clubs an’ social clubs, an’ the Communist Party more than anyone would be dead against Macedo’s scheme goin’ ahead. They’ll make noises ter the papers, an’ wiv a bit o’ luck one or two o’ the councillors may turn out ter be on our side, yer never know. We can get the local groups ter put pressure on the Borough Council, the City o’ London an’ the L.C.C. ter purchase the land fer blocks o’ flats, ’specially when they know what’s likely to ’appen ter the neighbour’ood. There’s a couple of active charities in the area too, so I understand. They might be able to ’elp out.’