Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  Connie didn’t feel very enthusiastic about serving meals in the factory canteen, but she was aware that there were not too many jobs available to her and it was very convenient, so she decided to give it a try. After all, what have I got to lose? she asked herself.

  It was mid May when Connie went over to the factory and saw Dot Temple, the canteen manageress. The buxom Dot liked the look of the young girl and she decided to give her a chance.

  ‘Yer’ll ’ave ter be quick on the servin’, me girl. That bleedin’ load o’ savages we’ve got workin’ ’ere won’t wait a minute. Don’t take no ole truck from ’em though. If yer get any problems come ter me an’ I’ll give ’em what for.’

  Connie felt ridiculous in her white apron and hat as she served up the sausage and mash, and meat and two veg. But quite a few of the factory workers knew her and their friendly welcomes helped her through the first awkward days. The management had their own private section and after one week Dot Temple felt her new worker was confident enough to begin serving there. It was strange at first, and the curious glances directed towards her made Connie feel uncomfortable. She was especially shy and nervous when it came to serving the young man in the smart blue suit who sat at the end of the long table. His mild curiosity made her feel clumsy and when he casually passed the time of day with her or just gave her a friendly smile Connie felt her face redden. The young man’s continued show of interest slowly began to have a strange effect upon her and it was something that she did not quite understand. She took to glancing in the mirror and checking that her hair was tidy and her canteen uniform was properly adjusted before she began her duties. And, during the mornings when she had to help to prepare the food and lay the table in the management section, Connie found herself looking longingly at the clock. A feeling of excitement at the prospect of seeing the young man would grow as the morning went on. She was struggling to become more self-assured at serving times and found herself responding to his smile. On certain days, when the young man was absent, Connie felt disappointed, and when he appeared once more she perked up and felt contented for the rest of the day.

  Connie quickly settled into the job and she soon became less nervous. The management were now calling her by her Christian name, and she liked the way the young man spoke it. She particularly liked his easy smile and casual manner. He was tall and fair-haired, with ice-blue eyes that seemed to bore into her. His face was lean, with an expressive mouth and a small straight nose. His voice was soft and cultured and had a humorous ring to it. Connie realised she was thinking more and more about him as the days went by and it worried her. She was getting regular letters from Michael and he had indicated in his last letter that he would be coming home on leave at the end of June. The excitement at the prospect of seeing her sailor lad once more was becoming tempered by her growing interest in Robert Armitage.

  It was Dot who told Connie all about the new manager. ‘That young Robert’s a nice young man,’ she gushed. ’E’s really polite and friendly, not like the rest of ’em. ’E’s bin ter college. Oxford, I fink it was. I ’eard ’e’s trainin’ ter take over from ’is ole man. ’E’s only twenty-two but ’e’s got it up there,’ she said, pointing to her forehead. ‘I mean, yer gotta be clever ter go to a place like Oxford ain’t yer?’

  Connie listened with guarded interest. She feigned indifference but secretly hung on to every word. Robert Armitage was invading her thoughts to such an extent that it frightened her. Nothing good would come of it, Connie told herself. He was educated, cultured and older than her. His interest in her was probably innocent and here she was weaving romantic dreams around him. He most likely had lots of girl friends, she mused. Why should he be bothered with a girl from Ironmonger Street whose Cockney accent would surely embarrass him if he ever introduced her to his friends? She was being foolish to allow her thoughts to wander so. She must keep some distance and not appear too eager to cultivate a friendship that would surely spell disaster.

  The days had become routine, and she spent most evenings reading or listening to the wireless. When Molly came out of hospital towards the end of June she was in some discomfort with her new spinal corset, and Connie sat with her whenever she could in the Bartletts’ flat and attempted to cheer her up. Every other weekend Connie visited her mother at the sanatorium and she noticed each time the increased deterioration in her condition. Most of the time the conversation was strained and forced, and there were times when the two of them sat in complete silence, Kate Morgan staring blankly and Connie biting her lip in anguish and sorrow. It hurt her to see her mother getting weaker, and it was always a relief when she was on the train heading back to London. The sanatorium depressed and frightened her. It was a place of stifled despair. Many of the patients were slowly wasting away, sitting around for long periods with blankets draped over their shoulders, staring dulleyed into the distance, wrecked by the cruel pain of tuberculosis.

  At the factory canteen Connie tried to ignore Robert’s smiles and asides, and she avoided meeting his eyes as much as possible. But, try as she might not to encourage him, he became even more attentive.

  Robert had sensed that something was troubling the pretty young server, and he was determined to find out what it was that had made her ignore him. Maybe he had inadvertently upset her, he pondered. If it was so, he would have to seek an opportunity to talk to her, and it would have to be done discreetly. It was management policy for the white-collar staff to avoid becoming too familiar with the workers. His father had warned him: ‘If a good standard is to be adhered to, Robert, it is important to keep our distance. Remember, familiarity breeds contempt. The workers know their place, and it is for us to make sure we keep to the status quo. Any deviation might be seen as a form of weakness, and be sure, the workers would most certainly take advantage.’

  It was the last Friday of June and after the lunch break most of the management had hurried away to finish their tasks for the week. Robert tarried until the last of the staff had departed from the table and then he sauntered over to the serving hatch and looked through. He could see the girl bending over the large sink, her uniform coatsleeves turned back to the elbows and her hands deep in the steaming water. For a few seconds he watched her, then he called her name. Connie turned with a startled look on her face.

  Robert smiled disarmingly and beckoned her over to him. ‘Have you got a few minutes, Connie? I’d like to talk with you,’ he said.

  ‘Is anyfink wrong?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘No. I just want a few minutes, if you can spare the time.’

  Connie wiped her hands quickly on a roller towel and dabbed at her hot forehead before following him through the door into the dining room. Robert was back at his place at the table and when she walked over he beckoned to a chair.

  ‘Sit down a minute, Connie,’ he said quietly.

  She sat down quickly and looked at him with some trepidation.

  ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve had the feeling lately that I might have said or done something that has upset you.’

  Connie took a deep breath. ‘Of course not, sir. Why should yer fink that?’

  He met her eyes and smiled. ‘Call me Robert. It sounds a lot better than sir. Anyway, I just had that feeling. You seem to be a little distant lately. I’ve been missing that friendly smile of yours, if I may say so.’

  Connie clasped her hands on the table and looked into his blue eyes. She could feel the exeitement rising from deep within her and she struggled to reply. ‘I . . . I didn’t realise I was actin’ any different, sir . . . I mean Robert.’

  He saw the flush in her cheeks and his eyes studied her carefully. He looked at a few wayward strands of her blond hair which had slipped down from under her cap, and at her blue eyes. He noticed her discomfort and he suddenly felt very sorry for her. He reached out and touched her clasped hands very briefly.

  ‘I hope you like working here, Connie. I wouldn’t like to see you leave us. You’ve brightened up th
e place. Old Mrs Kerrigan was all right, but I think the job was getting too much for her.’

  Connie smiled shyly. ‘I like the job, Robert. It’s much better than the biscuit factory.’

  ‘Oh, and what did you do there?’

  ‘I was packin’ biscuits all day long,’ she replied.

  Robert looked at her with some concern in his eyes. She was certainly very attractive. She must be around sixteen or so, he thought, and already factory fodder. She would probably end up married before long and have a brood of children to bring up in a grim, tumbledown backstreet. She would probably struggle on like the rest of the local folk and become old prematurely. She had obviously not had a very good education and yet she seemed very bright and intelligent. It was a shame, he thought, and something that he and his father had clashed over many times recently. The elder had maintained that there had to be a supply of uneducated people to work in the factories and shops and it was the way of things. Robert had disagreed strongly. Why should it have to be so? Why shouldn’t working-class people have better chances of education and better housing? Why were there so many gas-lit streets when factories had electrical power? The houses in Ironmonger Street were lit by gas and yet there were electricity cables running down the turning. Peter had called his argument naive in the extreme. The cost of installing electricity was hardly going to be met by the tenants – and how could they be expected to pay more for improvements when they were hard pushed to pay the current rents? Robert’s contention that local firms should seek to buy out the landlords and develop the houses for their workers angered his father. Robert knew that his ideas were considered to be dangerous and typical of university students. Peter had suggested that it was time for him to find out for himself how business worked, as a few months of practical experience might help to mellow his thinking. He would see then that running a factory needed a pragmatic approach. There was no time to dwell on the unfairness of life. Robert was sure that he would never share his father’s views and he felt that he had made a mistake. He should never have allowed his father to persuade him to enter the family business. Now, as he sat with the poor, overworked young girl opposite him, the young man was troubled. Suddenly he realised he had been staring at her in silence. ‘Is factory work the only type of work you’ve done?’ he asked her quickly.

  Connie nodded, and a slight smile crossed her face. ‘It was the only sort of work goin’. I s’pose I could ’ave worked in a shop, but it’s Saturday work an’ the wages ain’t all that good.’

  Robert looked at her in silence for a moment. ‘How old are you, Connie?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘I’ll be seventeen in November.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got a boyfriend?’

  She felt he was becoming a little too inquisitive, but his face showed a genuine interest and so she nodded. ‘’E’s a sailor. ’E’s bin away at sea fer four months, but ’e’s comin’’ome on leave termorrer.’

  Robert smiled. ‘We are still friends, aren’t we?’

  Connie laughed with embarrassment and looked down at the tablecloth. When she lifted her eyes to meet his she saw a strange look there. ‘’Course we’re friends,’ she said. She glanced back in the direction of the serving hatch. ‘I’d better get back ter work or Dot’ll fink I’m slackin’.’

  ‘We’ll talk some again, Connie,’ he said as he got up and buttoned up his jacket.

  Connie went back to the sink, her mind in a whirl. There was something in the man’s tone that had both excited and worried her. She wanted to think of Michael’s homecoming and the pleasure of being with him and feeling his kisses once more, but instead she found herself dwelling on the conversation she had had with Robert Armitage. Her face was flushed and her hands were slightly shaking as she bent over the sink.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bright sunlight filtered through the drawn blinds and, as Connie opened her eyes, she heard the sound of the rag-and-bone man’s barrow on the cobbles below. She looked at the alarm clock beside her bed and sat up quickly. It was nine-thirty on Saturday morning and she realised that she should have been up an hour ago. There was lots to do before she went to Waterloo Station to meet Michael. Connie jumped out of bed and hurried into the kitchen to light the gas under the kettle. While she was waiting for it to boil, she went back into her bedroom and poured cold water into a bowl from the matching blue china jug on the washstand beneath the window. As she looked through the curtains, Connie could see the old street vendor standing beside his barrow and he appeared to be arguing with Mrs Cosgrove. His hands were spread out in front of him in what Connie thought was a gesture of ‘take it or leave it’, and Clara Cosgrove seemed to be dubious, pinching her chin. It was a familiar scene, and she closed the curtains on it.

  She slipped out of her nightgown and splashed the cold water over her face and upper body. As she dried herself on the rough towel, the girl studied herself in the dressing-table mirror. As if she was looking at a stranger she had never seen before, she followed the line of her hips as they curved up into her narrow waist. She was aware that she had put on a little weight around the shoulders, and around the tops of her arms and her thighs. Her small breasts were firm and rounded, and as she splashed the cold water on them her nipples grew hard. Connie smiled and then quickly dressed and went out into the tiny back kitchen.

  As she sipped her tea and nibbled at the burnt toast Connie glanced at the shopping list that had been placed under her door by Helen as she went off to her early morning cleaning job. It was the usual procedure for Connie to go to the Tower Bridge Road market on Saturdays and she recalled how she had bumped into Michael there not so very long ago. After his months at sea he would probably looked tanned, she guessed, and he would no doubt have lots of stories to tell her of his travels. Would he take her in his arms at the station, or would he merely grin in that way of his and act as though he had only been gone for a few days? Connie swallowed the last of the toast and gulped down the now lukewarm tea. The flat was tidy and the curtains would not need changing for another week at least and the weather was so mild she didn’t need to light the fire. She took down a china shoe from the mantelshelf and tipped it up on the table. It was there she kept the housekeeping money, and the money her mother gave her every other week to pay the rent. Connie had often wondered about where that money came from but Kate waved her questions away whenever she asked.

  ‘It’s a regular fing from when yer farvver died. While I’m alive the money’ll be there, so don’t let it concern yer, child,’ she always said.

  Connie thought that it must be some sort of insurance and, as her mother was not going to enlarge on what she said, she had to leave it at that.

  The sun had risen high in the heavens by the time she left. Children were playing in the street and, outside the Richards’ front door, a few business-minded youngsters were busy chopping up apple boxes for firewood. For them, earning pennies on Saturday morning was all important. The money they got took them to the pie and mash shop and to the tuppenny rush at the Trocette cinema to see ‘Flash Gordon’ and ‘Riders of the Purple Sage’. On a good day the pennies stretched to a bag of fruit and a toffee bar as well.

  In the market the odour of fish and fresh fruit mingled with the smell of newly baked bread and rolls and at the cake shop a sweet aroma of hot apple pies and jam doughnuts drifted out on the morning air. The calls and the banter of the traders rang out and were drowned as the number sixty-eight tram clattered past. Lines of women queued patiently at the stalls, their pinned-up hair covered with nets and square cloth scarves. Their shopping baskets got heavier and their purses became lighter as the Saturday morning ritual took place. Connie’s shopping basket was on her arm and she stopped to rest beside the Cheap-Jack stall. She cast her eye over the wares and saw amongst the profusion of bits and pieces a small bottle of Californian Poppy. Connie held it up and glanced at the dapper-looking stall-owner.

  ‘Give us a shillin’, luv. It’s the real fing. No rubbish on this stall,
’ he said brightly.

  Connie flushed slightly and put the bottle down on the pile.

  ‘All right, make it tenpence. Yer gettin’ a bargain. I’m givin’ the stuff away terday. I mus’ be mad, but anyfing fer a pretty gel.’

  The young girl fished into her purse and took out some coppers. It might be a bit extravagant but, after all, Michael doesn’t come home every day of the week, she thought to herself.

  When she had finished the shopping, Connie joined the Bartletts for the Saturday midday meal. Matthew brought back hot pies and mash and a basin of steaming parsley liquor. They all sat around the table in the front room and chatted about the week’s events with the wireless switched on and tuned to a programme of medleys by the Harry Roy band. Connie always looked forward to the Saturday meal. It made a change from being alone. Molly was in a cheerful mood and the two girls laughed and chatted together. Matthew was still working the East End markets and he had managed to earn enough that week to buy a few badly needed groceries. Helen noticed that her husband seemed more relaxed than he had been for some time and she knew it was because he had heard that the furniture factory was opening up again and wanted its old skilled hands back. Matthew was a French polisher by trade and he felt optimistic about getting a regular job again. He joined in the light-hearted conversation and, when Molly asked him to tell Connie about the man in the Old Ford Road market, he looked at Helen and she raised her eyes to the ceiling and grinned at her niece.

  ‘The times we’ve ’eard that story this week, Con.’

  ‘Go on, Dad. Tell Connie,’ Molly pleaded, her large round face beaming.

  ‘Well, it was on Monday mornin’,’ Matthew began. ‘I was in the market early, so I could get me pitch. Yer ’ave ter get there early or yer’ll get squeezed out by the stalls.’

  ‘Get ter the story, Matt,’ Helen said. ‘Connie ain’t got all day.’