Gaslight in Page Street by Harry Bowling
Authors: Harry Bowling
they went on their hunger strikes. They must be very brave, what with having to endure the jeers and bad stories about them in the newspapers. Would she be as brave if things got out of hand? As she dusted her mantelshelf and adjusted the ornaments, Maudie had visions of being led away by two burly policemen and after a trial at the Old Bailey having a cell door slammed on her. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. What have you got me into, Florrie?’ she moaned aloud.
The redoubtable leader of the forthcoming protest was becoming impatient. Florence Axford looked around, her bottom lip pouting. The house was tidy and the washing was hanging out in the backyard. The front doorstep was clean and the scrag of mutton was cooking slowly in the kitchen range oven. She looked at herself in the overmantel mirror and pushed the hairpin further into her tightly gathered bun. Florrie liked to keep herself busy during the day. She always finished her cleaning job at the Tooley Street offices by nine o’clock in the morning, and her evening job serving behind the counter at the faggot and pease pudding shop did not start until seven. She needed little sleep, and today of all days she felt too excited to take a nap. The kettle was singing in the grate. As she set about making yet another cup of tea, Florrie heard the loud clip-clop on the cobbles.
George Galloway was standing in the yard, his thumbs hooked into his waistcoat as the two riders trotted into the yard and dismounted. Jack Oxford had hosed down the yard and busied himself about the stables. He was anxious to get something done about his itching, bright yellow face but was ushered quickly out of the way into his store shed as soon as the soldiers appeared, earlier than expected.
‘Get in there quick or you’ll scare the ’orses,’ William said, grinning. ‘I’ll get yer sorted out later.’
The tall figure of a Royal Artillery major was wearing breeches and highly polished boots. His black peaked cap reflected the sun as he stepped up to the firm’s owner and shook his hand warmly.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Galloway,’ he said in his clipped voice. ‘I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Robinson. He’s our new adjutant. Knows a thing or two about horses too, I might add.’
The second officer stepped forward to shake hands with Galloway, and after the pleasantries were over the three men walked into the office. George took a bottle from the drawer of his desk and poured three measures of Scotch.
‘We’ve got a good selection,’ he said, passing over the drinks. ‘Good Irish Draughts. First-rate condition an’ they’re all seventeen ’ands. Ideal fer pullin’ gun carriages, I would say.’
‘Well, that sounds fine, Mr Galloway,’ the major said, glancing at the adjutant. ‘We’ve the authority to purchase and you’ve got the bid price from the War Office, I understand.’
George nodded and reached for the bottle once more. ‘I fink you’ll like what yer see, Major,’ he said, refilling the glasses.
Along the street outside, the women were ready. Front doors were open and folk stood around waiting for Florrie Axford to give the word. They did not have long to wait. When the first horse was led up to the gates, Florrie marched down the middle of the turning. ‘Righto, out yer come!’ she cried.
‘Good Lord! What the devil’s going on?’ the adjutant asked, glancing at his fellow officer.
George joined the soldiers at the gate. His face flushed with anger. The women had formed themselves into two lines, blocking both ends of the street, and were now making themselves comfortable. Sadie Sullivan had a rolling-pin resting in her lap and Maisie Dougall had brought out a colander and was proceeding to shell peas. Aggie Temple was starting on her knitting. Only Maudie Mycroft pinched her jaw nervously as she stared at the group by the gate.
‘C’mon now, ladies, don’t be silly,’ Galloway
The redoubtable leader of the forthcoming protest was becoming impatient. Florence Axford looked around, her bottom lip pouting. The house was tidy and the washing was hanging out in the backyard. The front doorstep was clean and the scrag of mutton was cooking slowly in the kitchen range oven. She looked at herself in the overmantel mirror and pushed the hairpin further into her tightly gathered bun. Florrie liked to keep herself busy during the day. She always finished her cleaning job at the Tooley Street offices by nine o’clock in the morning, and her evening job serving behind the counter at the faggot and pease pudding shop did not start until seven. She needed little sleep, and today of all days she felt too excited to take a nap. The kettle was singing in the grate. As she set about making yet another cup of tea, Florrie heard the loud clip-clop on the cobbles.
George Galloway was standing in the yard, his thumbs hooked into his waistcoat as the two riders trotted into the yard and dismounted. Jack Oxford had hosed down the yard and busied himself about the stables. He was anxious to get something done about his itching, bright yellow face but was ushered quickly out of the way into his store shed as soon as the soldiers appeared, earlier than expected.
‘Get in there quick or you’ll scare the ’orses,’ William said, grinning. ‘I’ll get yer sorted out later.’
The tall figure of a Royal Artillery major was wearing breeches and highly polished boots. His black peaked cap reflected the sun as he stepped up to the firm’s owner and shook his hand warmly.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Galloway,’ he said in his clipped voice. ‘I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Robinson. He’s our new adjutant. Knows a thing or two about horses too, I might add.’
The second officer stepped forward to shake hands with Galloway, and after the pleasantries were over the three men walked into the office. George took a bottle from the drawer of his desk and poured three measures of Scotch.
‘We’ve got a good selection,’ he said, passing over the drinks. ‘Good Irish Draughts. First-rate condition an’ they’re all seventeen ’ands. Ideal fer pullin’ gun carriages, I would say.’
‘Well, that sounds fine, Mr Galloway,’ the major said, glancing at the adjutant. ‘We’ve the authority to purchase and you’ve got the bid price from the War Office, I understand.’
George nodded and reached for the bottle once more. ‘I fink you’ll like what yer see, Major,’ he said, refilling the glasses.
Along the street outside, the women were ready. Front doors were open and folk stood around waiting for Florrie Axford to give the word. They did not have long to wait. When the first horse was led up to the gates, Florrie marched down the middle of the turning. ‘Righto, out yer come!’ she cried.
‘Good Lord! What the devil’s going on?’ the adjutant asked, glancing at his fellow officer.
George joined the soldiers at the gate. His face flushed with anger. The women had formed themselves into two lines, blocking both ends of the street, and were now making themselves comfortable. Sadie Sullivan had a rolling-pin resting in her lap and Maisie Dougall had brought out a colander and was proceeding to shell peas. Aggie Temple was starting on her knitting. Only Maudie Mycroft pinched her jaw nervously as she stared at the group by the gate.
‘C’mon now, ladies, don’t be silly,’ Galloway