Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  ‘What’s that place called?’ asked the little girl who stood beneath a massive cannon.

  ‘It’s the Tower, soppy. Everybody knows that.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes yer do, ’cos I jus’ told yer.’

  ‘What’s them ’oles in the wall for, Tommy?’

  ‘They’re winders,’ announced the boy who had just managed to scramble astride the cannon.

  ‘Well they don’t look like winders ter me. Winders ’ave curtains.’

  ‘Not castle winders. Them winders is ter fire arrers from.’

  The little girl sucked on a thin lollipop. ‘Yer said it was the Tower.’

  ‘Well it’s still a castle. A fousand years ago soldiers used ter fire arrers out o’ them winders.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Ter kill the enemy.’

  ‘Who was the enemy, Tommy?’

  ‘Pirates, I s’pose.’

  ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I wanna do a wee.’

  ‘C’mon then, let’s go ’ome. Yer can’t wee ’ere.’

  The couple chuckled at the children and then strolled on until they reached the arched gateway beneath Tower Bridge and then they started to climb up the wide stone stairs on to the roadway. It was quiet and devoid of traffic as they continued towards the centre span.

  Down below, the swirling, muddy water lapped the stone bastions and eddied in small whirlpools. Michael looked into Connie’s eyes and said quietly, ‘Will yer come out wiv me when I get back from me trip?’

  ‘’Course I will,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ll write ter yer soon as I can, Connie.’

  ‘I bet you’ll ferget. What do they say about sailors? A girl in every port!’

  ‘I won’t go out wiv anybody else till I get back, Con. We’re goin’ steady now, ain’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose so. I won’t go out on no dates neivver, Mick.’

  Michael slipped his arm around her as they reached the end of the bridge and looked into her pale blue eyes. ‘’Ave yer got a photo of yerself?’ he asked. ‘I’d like ter take one wiv me.’

  ‘No. I’ll get one done soon an’ send it on ter yer.’

  ‘Fanks, Con. I’ll keep it over me bunk an’ I’ll dream about yer every night.’

  Connie giggled and pulled on Michael’s arm. ‘C’mon, Mick. It’s gettin’ late. If yer not careful yer’ll miss yer train.’

  They walked down to the Tower Bridge Road and slipped into the backstreets. The evening gloom was descending fast and the cold rising wind made Connie shiver. She held on to Michael’s arm, happy in his company and vowing to remember these few days as the most exciting she had ever known. She felt like a grown woman and she knew there was so much more to discover. Michael seemed deep in thought and he did not say anything until they turned into Ironmonger Street. ‘I’ve really enjoyed our times tergevver, Con,’ he said at last. ‘What about you?’

  The young girl felt as though he had read her thoughts. ‘It’s bin luv’ly. I don’t want yer ter go back off leave, Mick.’

  They stopped at the buildings and stepped into the shadows. Michael pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. Connie felt herself trembling at the contact and she closed her eyes and let her lips mould into his. They parted, both breathing hard.

  ‘I like yer a lot, Con. I’m gonna miss yer like mad.’

  ‘Me, too, Mick. Come back soon.’

  He turned and left her in the block entrance. Connie watched as he crossed the quiet street and saw him turn and give her a cheery wave. Her eyes misted as she waved back and then she turned quickly on her heels and hurried up the stairs.

  The early months of 1937 saw a slight improvement as far as employment was concerned. Some of the Bermondsey factories went back to full-time working and more ships were coming in to berth at the docks and wharves. The Armitage factory had managed to obtain a government contract to produce ammunition cases and mess cans, as well as other less identifiable items for the services. The workforce were happy in the knowledge that, for the present at least, their jobs looked secure, although the items they were turning out gave rise to speculation. In the canteen, the women who worked the metal presses were discussing the implications of the new surge in orders.

  ‘There was a bloke on the wireless last night,’ Lizzie Conroy was saying. ‘’E was talkin’ about us goin’ ter war.’

  Mary Brown took up her knitting and unravelled the four steel needles which she was using to produce a sock. ‘If yer listen ter the wireless all the time yer’ll go right round the twist. All yer get lately is about what’s goin’ on in Germany an’ Spain. Only the ovver night I ’eard this bloke talkin’ about us re-armin’ ter stop a war. ’E said the Germans were buildin’ up their troops an’ ships an’ fings, an’ we’re laggin’ be’ind. If yer take too much notice o’ the likes o’ those people on the wireless yer’d put yerself in an early grave.’

  Lizzie eased her bulk in the uncomfortable chair and patted her permed hair with the palm of her hand. ‘What about all that stuff we’re turnin’ out? It’s all army stuff. If it wasn’t fer that work we’d be joinin’ the dole queues. I fink it’ll come to it sooner or later. My ole man reckons the Germans are itchin’ ter ’ave anuvver go at us. ’E said we should ’ave stopped ’em when they put that ’Itler inter power. ’E’s the cause of all the trouble.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done, Liz. People ain’t prepared ter go ter war jus’ like that. There’s too many lives bin lost in the last war.’

  Lizzie folded her arms and looked peeved. ‘Well my ole man studies the papers, an’ ’e listens ter all the wireless talks, an’ ’e said . . .’

  ‘Look, Liz,’ Mary cut in. ‘You an’ yer ole man can fink what yer like. As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t gonna be anuvver war. All this stuff we’re makin’ is prob’ly ter replace the ole stuff. I know somebody who works in the Woolwich Arsenal, an’ she told me all about the bullets an’ shells they make there. She’s bin workin’ in the Arsenal since ’twenty-nine.’

  ‘Well I ’ope you’re right, Mary. I don’t wanna see anuvver war,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us if it ever starts again. My Uncle Bert got gassed in the last lot, an’ ’is bruvver Maurice got invalided out as well.’

  Joyce Spinks had been listening to the conversation and she puffed hard. ‘’Ere you two, can’t yer change the subject? It’s fair givin’ me the creeps. Who yer knittin’ them socks for, Mary?’

  ‘They’re fer me ole man’s youngest bruvver. ’E’s joined the territorial army an’ ’e’s asked me ter knit ’im a nice pair of thick socks ’e can wear wiv ’is army boots.’

  ‘Gawd Almighty!’ Joyce blurted out. ‘I thought we was gonna change the subject’.

  Lizzie laughed aloud. ‘’Ere. You seen that new bloke who come round inspectin’ the place last week? ’E’s a bit tasty.’

  ‘That was Robert Armitage. ’E’s the guv’nor’s son,’ Joyce said.

  ‘Well ’e can ask me out if ’e likes,’ Lizzie remarked, winking at Mary.

  ‘I dunno. ’E only looks a kid.’

  ‘Well kid or not, I bet ’e knows what ’e’s got it for,’ Lizzie said, pulling a face. ‘I fink my ole man’s sufferin’ from loss o’ memory. The only time ’e faces me in bed is on ’igh days an’’olidays.’

  ‘You wanna be careful, Liz. ’E might be supplyin’ somebody else.’

  ‘What! My ole man knows better than that. ’E knows very well that if I found out ’e was knockin’ about wiv anuvver woman I’d cut ’is chopper off when ’e was asleep an’ stick it in ’is ear.’

  When the laughing had died down Joyce turned to Mary. ‘’Ere, talkin’ about playin’ around, you remember that turn out wiv Dirty Dora?’

  ‘Who?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Tell ’er about it, Joyce,’ Mary prompted.

  Joyce looked around theatrically and leaned closer to the group. ‘It was before y
ou started ’ere, Liz. There was this woman who worked in the packin’ shop. Dora Dillon ’er name was. Proper tart she was. She used ter come ter work like a Lisle Street whore. She wore tons o’ make-up, an’ lipstick, and bloody great ’igh ’eels. She did look eighteen carat. Anyway, she took a shine ter Jake Singer. Jake was the foreman in ’er shop. Married ’e was, wiv about five or six kids. This Dora kept pesterin’ ’im. Every time ’e turned round, there she was makin’ soppy eyes at ’im. ’Course, bein’ like all the rest of’em, open to a bit o’ flattery an’ silly as a box o’ lights, ’e took the bait. Before long they was goin’ be’ind the boxes fer a bit of “’ow’s yer farvver”. Everybody knew it was goin’ on. It was the talk o’ the factory. Dirty Dora used ter walk ter the factory wiv ’im an’ wait fer ’im when they finished work. Brazen cow she was.

  ‘Anyway, this was goin’ on fer about six months or more, an’ somebody shopped ’im ter Gladys, ’is wife. One day we was all workin’ away when there was a right commotion. We looks round an’ there’s Gladys, wiv all ’er Gawd ferbids in tow, marchin’ along the factory floor. “Where’s the poxy knockin’ shop?” she shouts out. Well, I tell yer, if you could ’ave seen ’er face. Scarlet wiv rage it was. There was the kids cryin’, an’’er pushin’ ’er way down the aisle. Joe Cooper’s tryin’ ter keep a straight face. ’E’s twigged it right away. “Turn left at the bottom an’ go right in,” ’e ses. Well, Gladys storms in, kids an’ all, an’ she walks up ter Dora an’ ses, “Yer got me meal ticket, yer better feed ’em.” Wiv that she smacks Dora round the chops an’ walks out, leavin’ the kids standin’ there. Dora was snivellin’ an’ the kids was all bawlin’ their ’eads off. Proper turn out it was.’

  ‘Tell ’er what ’appened next,’ Mary prompted.

  Joyce was enjoying her role as storyteller. ‘Well, Gladys marches up the gangway wiv ’er Jake followin’ ’er. ’E ’ad the little mites trailin’ be’ind ’im an’ ’e was pleadin’ wiv ’er ter take the kids back ’ome. We was all standin’ there watchin’. Suddenly she stops in ’er tracks an’ ses to Jake, “On yer knees then.” True, Liz. She made ’im beg there an’ then. ’Course, she took ’im ’an the kids back but both Jake an’ Dora got the sack. Gladys an’ Jake are like a couple o’ lovebirds now, an’ Dora ended up marryin’ a bloke a lot older than ’er. I see ’er only a few weeks ago. Right scruffy cow she’s turned out ter be. Jus’ goes ter show yer, don’t it?’

  Lizzie picked up her handbag as the factory whistle sounded. ‘I’ll take the chance of a bit o’ trouble if that young Robert gives me the eye,’ she grinned. ‘My ole man would prob’ly come up an shake ’im by the ’and fer ’elpin’ ’im out!’

  Chapter Ten

  Bright spring days with lengthening hours of warm light helped to bring a little cheer to the backstreet folk. Even Ironmonger Street looked less ugly and off-putting when the sun lit up the terraced houses and penetrated the gloomy tenement block. The street dwellers were convinced that the factory owner had been affected by the sunshine when they saw the painters arrive and start work cleaning up the old rusting gates. Within a few days the iron entrance to the factory wore a bold green covering of paint and ladders were going up all around the red brick building. Even the factory sign was being scraped clean and the local wags made capital out of the renovations.

  ‘’E’s gorn mad! Stark ravin’ mad!’ Bill Mullins said to his pal Terry. ‘All that money ’e’s earnin’ ’as gorn to ’is ’ead. If those workers of ’is ain’t careful they’ll find themselves gettin’ a rise.’

  ‘’E’s sellin’ the gaff,’ Terry decided. ‘Marie Lloyd’s buyin’ it off ’im. She’s gonna turn it into a music ’all.’

  ‘What, in Ironmonger Street? Yer wouldn’t get those music’all stars ter do a turn round ’ere. They’d be frightened o’ the reception they’d get.’

  ‘Not ’alf. All the kids would be standin’ outside sellin’ rotten fruit.’

  The factory was looking much less forbidding in its new coat of paint and Peter Armitage was happy. The Ministry officials would be visiting the premises very soon to see how their contract was being implemented. I must remember to talk to Robert about new overalls for the machine-floor workers, he thought. We can’t let the officials see the ones they’re wearing at present, it wouldn’t do. And they might ask to see the canteen. I must talk to the manageress. Maybe she could put a few more items on the menu. My office could do with a bit of a spruce-up too. I’d better have a word with Miss Jones. Perhaps she can get a few flowers or some pot plants.

  Miss Jones was somewhat taken aback by the suggestion. ‘Well I never did,’ she remarked to her friend Mabel Southwick from the accounts office. ‘I’m sure the man’s verging on a nervous breakdown. If he’s not pacing that office of his he’s mumbling to himself. Now he wants me to get him flowers and pot plants, would you believe? I tell you, Mabel. If old Mr Armitage was alive he’d have a fit.’

  Mabel giggled. ‘You be careful. He might be thinking of doing some after-hours entertaining. It wouldn’t be the first time a boss has made up to his secretary.’

  Miss Jones straightened her blouse and snorted. ‘Don’t be silly, Mabel. Mr Peter is a respectable married man and, besides, I’m old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘Well he must have some reason for doing what he’s doing, Alice.’

  Miss Jones pondered the mystery and came to the conclusion that it was probably his age. After all, men got those funny urges in middle life. She had recently read about the traumas of middle-aged men. She had discovered lots about the opposite sex in her life, mostly from books. In her younger days she had taken up with an older man who had tried desperately to lure her between the sheets. Miss Jones had found out in the nick of time that her romantic and persuasive companion was in fact a married man with two young children. Her world of romance was shattered and she decided that men were little more than animals with just one thought in their heads. She would not become anyone’s chattel, and so Alice Jones remained celibate.

  She had no regrets, except for the one time when old Armitage was alive. Her liking for George Armitage had clouded her usually clear judgement when, during a marital crisis, the factory owner had decided to seek the opinion of his loyal and trusted secretary. Alice Jones remembered the incident very well. He had been quiet and thoughtful for some time and one evening, just before the factory closed, he called her into his office and asked her to sit down. He had in fact wanted to know whether or not he should take home a bunch of flowers as a peace offering. He thought that maybe his wife might see the gesture as a sign of guilt and was seeking female advice about the problem. George Armitage broached the subject by saying first that it was very personal, and then he went on to ask if it would be correct to assume that a bunch of flowers was the right sort of gift to give to someone who was feeling neglected and not appreciated. Miss Jones was, of course, totally unaware of her boss’s marital crisis and reacted by saying that flowers were unnecessary if there was true feeling between two people, secretly hoping he would ignore her advice. Armitage senior had grunted and was about to say something when he changed his mind and dismissed his secretary. Alice Jones was sure that he would overcome his lack of resolve, and she resigned herself to being patient. The aggrieved Mrs Armitage did not receive any flowers, and the loyal secretary to the factory owner waited in vain for her gift.

  It was in the spring, too, that Molly Bartlett went into hospital for treatment to her spine. Her parents had already been told by the specialist that Molly’s condition was a permanent one and that curvature of the spine was all too common amongst children in working-class areas; her natural growth and development would be impeded, and her breathing would become even more laboured. Both Helen and Matthew knew that there was little they could do except to make sure their daughter kept the six-monthly appointment at the hospital, and it was during the last visit that arrangements were made for Molly to be admitted for tests.

  The doctors had said that
she might benefit from a medical corset and that the support would make it easier for her to get about. Helen and Matthew were happy that there was a chance their daughter could be helped. Molly had been depressed and ill-tempered recently, which her parents put down to her worsening condition. She had almost stopped growing, and Connie was now head and shoulders taller than her ailing cousin. Even Connie was finding it difficult to communicate with Molly. When she had first told her, excitedly, about the date with Michael she had shown no interest and Connie felt it wiser not to talk any more about her boyfriend. When Michael’s letter arrived from Gibraltar she decided not to say anything, but it troubled Connie that she had to keep part of herself from Molly. And it made her very sad to realise that, quite possibly, her cousin would never be fortunate enough to experience the same excitement.

  When Molly went into hospital Helen informed her employers and requested that her cards be sent home. Molly’s condition had become such that the journey to and from the factory was now getting to be too much of a strain. Helen realised that after the hospital Molly would have to find some other, less strenuous occupation. Connie herself was becoming bored with the dull routine of the factory and she, too, decided it was time to look around for some other type of work. It was Helen who suggested the Ironmonger Street factory.

  ‘I was talkin’ ter Mary Brown only yesterday,’ she told her. ‘She reckons there might be a job goin’ in the Armitage canteen. She got it from one of the workers there. It might be worth yer while poppin’ in an’ askin’, Con. At least yer wouldn’t ’ave that walk every mornin’.’