When she came round, she was being carried in the arms of a young man who looked familiar. Her head felt sore and her vision was blurred. She was looking up into the strong midday sun, which obscured the young man’s features but cast a golden glow around his head. It felt like a romantic dream.
‘Ted?’ Her voice sounded thick and distant.
He put her down gently and sat her on the bottom step, at the back of the bandstand. ‘It’s Sam, Nellie. Sam Gilbie.’
‘Oh, what are you doing here? Where’s Ted?’ She put her hand to her forehead and brought it away, sticky with blood. Now she remembered. The terror of the approaching bayonet, the panic as she’d gasped for a breath that she felt would never come. A sharp taste in her mouth told her that she must have bitten her lip as the weight of the docker had slammed into her.
‘I’m here with the carmen’s union,’ Sam explained. ‘Ted’s still up on the podium, covering himself with glory, by the looks of it.’ He glanced up towards the speakers, one of whom was finishing a rousing speech. She thought she could see Ted’s tall figure on the bandstand, waiting for his turn.
Nellie had noticed the barb in Sam’s tone and remembered that there was no love lost between the two cousins. ‘It’s my own stupid fault. Don’t blame Ted, he told me to stay put.’ She straightened up and disengaged herself from Sam’s still encircling arm. ‘I’m all right now, no need to make a fuss.’
But it was too late and already a small crowd of women was forming round her. Sam stepped back as they clucked and examined her.
‘You’ll have a nasty shiner tomorrow, Nell.’ Ethel Brown was dabbing at the cut over Nellie’s eye with a handkerchief. ‘And look at the state of your lovely jacket.’
Just then, the little crowd parted to allow Eliza James through. She was an imposing figure and all the women quietened down, waiting for her to take charge.
‘Where’s our wounded soldier?’ She knelt in front of Nellie and lifted her chin. ‘Let’s see the damage then.’
‘I’m all right, but me jacket’s ruined,’ said Nellie, holding up her torn cuff.
Eliza laughed. ‘Typical Bermondsey priorities. Never mind about the cut head and crushed ribs, eh?’
At that, Nellie realized she would have to explain her state to her father and she groaned.
‘Where does it hurt?’ Eliza’s expression turned to one of concern.
‘It’s just a bruise, madam. Tell the truth I was thinking of me dad. He didn’t want me to strike and now he’ll kill me if I go home in this state.’
‘Don’t worry, love,’ said Ethel Brown, poking her head over Eliza’s shoulder. ‘If an eighteen-stone docker can’t kill you, I shouldn’t think George Clark would have a chance.’
The other women laughed and even Nellie had to smile.
‘I’ll take her home… and explain to Mr Clark.’ Nellie had forgotten Sam’s presence, but now, as he stepped forward, she was shocked at the look he gave Eliza. She had only ever seen him as the pleasant, placid young man she thought of as ‘that soppy ’apporth’, but now his expression, as he spoke to Eliza, was harder, colder. His normal high colour had paled and his dark eyes were lacking their usual friendly warmth. Eliza stood and turned towards him. Nellie couldn’t be sure, but she sensed recognition in Eliza’s face. Was it possible they had met before? she wondered. It was unlikely. Sam may have joined the other carmen in the strike, but he wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool union man like Ted. She had never seen him at any of the planning meetings.
Eliza appeared flustered, and as the little group of women wandered back to hear more of the speeches, she turned to Sam. ‘That’s kind of you and I’m glad you’ve turned out to support us.’
‘I did it for the girls, not for any other reason. Don’t think I’d deprive my family of a day’s wages for the likes of you and your Bolshie friends.’
Nellie was shocked by his uncharacteristic rudeness, but something about his tone piqued her interest. She’d never seen anything in Sam Gilbie that had interested her much… until now. Nellie had been surprised he was here at all. Her father wouldn’t be happy with him either; he wasn’t going to do her much good with placating George Clark. No doubt her father had been coping alone all day at the yard.
‘No thanks, Sam,’ she said, and it came out more curtly than she’d intended. ‘Thanks for the offer, but me dad’ll be livid with you too. He didn’t think you’d turn out today. Anyway, I want to hear Ted’s speech.’ Just then, Lily came running up, red in the face and puffing.
‘What the bloody hell have you done to yourself? I’ve been looking all over. Someone told me you got shot by a guardsman!’
She flung her arms round her friend and Nellie winced as pain shot through her ribs.
‘Quick, Ted’s starting his speech!’ Lily said as she dragged Nellie round to the front of the bandstand. When Nellie glanced back, Sam was walking towards the park gates and Eliza James was staring after him, looking as if someone had stolen from her all the glory of the triumphant day.
Ted’s speech was the last of the day and ended with a roar of approval from the crowds of dockers, who threw their caps into the air. Women waved their banners and little groups started to split away, strolling through the streets, chatting and laughing as though they had been on a beano to Ramsgate. The cooler temperature of the late afternoon brought a welcome breeze and now that any hot-headed dockers had long since cooled off, the carefree atmosphere returned. Nellie felt it was almost like a party.
Ted bounded down from the bandstand and when he saw her black eye and cut head, he joked, ‘I bet whoever upset you came off worse!’ Then he saw Lily’s face.
‘Where were you, Sir Galahad?’ She rounded on her brother. ‘Left us to fend for ourselves, didn’t you? She could have been killed!’
‘Oh, turn it up, Lily. I told you it wasn’t no soddin’ picnic.’ He turned to Nellie. ‘I’m sorry, Nell, does it hurt?’
‘No…’ She felt Lily prod her in the ribs and drew in her breath. That really had hurt. ‘Not if I don’t move!’
‘Why don’t you come with us, over the other side. We’ve got a camp set up on Tower Hill and there’s tea stalls, we can get a bite to eat.’
Nellie desperately wanted to postpone the confrontation with her father, which she knew would have to come. Normally she would have hurried home, but now she wanted the day to go on forever.
‘I reckon it’s the sun turned my head, or the whack that docker give me, but either way I must be mad.’
Lily looked at her, astonished. ‘You’re coming?’
Nellie nodded.
The three of them fell in with a crowd of dockers and women strikers heading for the dock union’s makeshift HQ at Tower Hill. They passed Butler’s Wharf, with its black iron gates still shut and locked. The usual crowds of dockers that hung around street corners were now mobilized into millions of orderly, marching strikers, gathering for their nightly meeting on Tower Hill. The roads were almost traffic-free – the dock strike meant fuel was running out, so fewer and fewer motor taxis and trams were about.
The strikers spread themselves in long leisurely lines across the breadth of Tooley Street, passing under some banners made from sheets, strung across the tenements: No wages, no dinner! Some of the dockers’ wives were holding a protest of their own against the strike.
Ted jumped up, trying to tear them down. But Nellie understood the fear among the women. She pulled him away.
‘Leave ’em, Ted. They’ve got the same right as us to say their piece, haven’t they?’
But he’d already grabbed the end of one of the sheets and was ripping it to shreds. ‘Yeah, but they won’t be complaining when the wages go up, will they?’
‘Leave off, you two, stop arguing, you’re like cat and dog. Hurry up, I’m gasping.’ Lily was impatient to get to the tea stalls at Tower Hill.
They crossed Tower Bridge and waited like excited children in the middle, as a heavy cart and one of the few motors still running caused the bascules to bounce up and down, and them with it. Nellie had one hand on her hat and the other on her sore ribs, as they stood astride the two-inch gap between the bascules, looking down at the river below and laughing like schoolchildren. Then the three of them linked arms as they marched on past the Tower of London.
‘Oh, that breeze is lovely!’ said Nellie
‘Yeah, and so is the stink!’ Ted replied. ‘Every time that smell gets blown down to Westminster, they know we mean business!’ The obnoxious smell, wafting up the river from Butler’s Wharf, was indeed overwhelming – a combination of rotting fruit on the quaysides and melting rancid butter, for the refrigeration ships had run out of fuel and the meat was now putrefying in their holds.
‘You wouldn’t be so pleased with yourself if you had kids to feed, though,’ said Nellie. ‘My dad says it’s criminal to let the food rot and there’s people starting to starve now, they say.’
She was thinking of the two dead children in Vauban Street, and of her own small brothers who had been complaining, only the night before, about tummy aches. She had given them the last of the bread. ‘Bread and pull’it, goes a long way!’ she’d told them, as though it were some extra-special magic remedy against hunger.
‘The union’s not going to let them starve, Nell. Eliza James has been writing to the newspapers – she’s got thousands of loaves on the way and food coming from all over. She could do with a hand at the Labour Office tomorrow, sorting it all out. Why don’t you go over there?’
‘I will, if me dad lets me.’
The thought of her father’s iron rule caused her to hesitate and she slowed her pace. Perhaps she should just go home now and face the music. Ted had been hurrying them on, elbowing his way through the ambling crowds around the Tower, so that Nellie and Lily were trotting to keep up with his long strides. Now he gave an exasperated sigh and, grasping her hand, almost dragged her past Traitor’s Gate. With every half trot, she felt a stab of pain from her bruised ribs, but Ted held her fast and looked in no mood to slow his progress.
‘For God’s sake, Nellie,’ he said fiercely, ‘you’ve got to grow up and start making your own choices. You’re taking on the bosses. Don’t you think you should start standing up to that bullying father of yours?’
Ted had an infuriating knack of always making her feel like a stupid little girl, and he was one of the few people who could leave her tongue-tied. With anyone else, she gave as good as she got. All she knew was that the excitement she felt when she was with him outweighed the uncomfortable sense of somehow being less than herself.
‘How long do you think we’ll be on strike, Ted?’ Lily asked, diverting Ted’s attention. Nellie shot her friend a grateful look. Lily was the only one she’d told about her father’s threats to chuck her out.
‘As long as it takes! Us dockers will stay out till you get your eleven shillings, and I’m telling you the government’s getting desperate to get us back to work. Why else would bully-boy Churchill be sending in troops?’
‘I hope it ends soon.’ Nellie sighed.
‘Well, I don’t. I’d like to see Asquith and all his lot beggin’ on their knees, and then I’d like to string ’em all up from Big Ben!’
‘Well then, you’re no better than Churchill, are you?’ she snapped.
Nellie was shocked at the vehemence in Ted’s voice. What, for her and the other women, was a fight for a few shillings to feed their families, seemed for him a war, and it was one Nellie wasn’t sure she wanted to be involved in. The Tower’s wooden drawbridge, with its sharp-toothed portcullis, came into view. Nellie shuddered, remembering this was the place they used to put traitors. Ted’s talk was sounding perilously traitorous. But when they arrived at Tower Hill, surrounded by other workers, singing songs, gathering round the glowing hot-chestnut carts and tea stalls, the air of camaraderie quietened her unease. There were more speeches and then Nellie felt the fervour around her swell, as someone on a soapbox shouted: ‘If they want a war, they’ll get a war, and a bloody one at that!’
A roar went up that froze Nellie’s heart. She didn’t want war; all she wanted was for her family to have to struggle less. Suddenly a deep wave of longing for her family swamped her. She saw the trusting faces of Freddie and little Bobby and stalwart Alice; even her red-faced, perpetually angry father seemed like an anchor, preferable to all the shifting sands and swirling moods around her. Nellie felt as if a new world was coming into being and that everything close to her was changing. A sudden chill wind blew up from the river and Nellie shivered. It was the coldest she had felt all day.