Ironmonger's Daughter Page 17

  It had been a wonderful night, and he had been a wonderful lover. Connie had found him gentle and considerate and she had experienced a pleasure that was new and exciting. She now felt a real woman, and she smiled warmly to herself.

  Robert had been careful, too, and she remembered the act of love with a deep sigh. He had reached for her in the darkness and joined with her gently at first and then with an urgency that brought her to a climax that lingered and then died slowly. It was a feeling she had only dreamed about, and as she stepped from the shower and towelled herself dry Connie could not help but make the comparison. The night spent with Michael had left her feeling irritable, drained of passion and unfulfilled; this morning she felt light, almost as if she were floating, and her body tingled.

  Robert was awake now and he watched her as she walked back into the bedroom with the towel wrapped lightly around her. He climbed out of bed and without any show of selfconsciousness took her to him and kissed her gently.

  ‘God! But you’re beautiful, Connie,’ he gasped as he squeezed her to him.

  ‘So are you,’ she whispered. ‘You’d better get dressed. You’re temptin’ me again, Robert.’

  The young man released her and smiled as he sauntered into the bathroom. Connie could hear the water running as she dried her long hair on the towel. He must be very experienced, she thought. Did all young men carry those French Letters around with them? Michael didn’t use anything, although she hadn’t thought too much about it before. The girls at work always said that you didn’t get pregnant the first time. The older women had said otherwise and she remembered worrying over her next period, but she had taken comfort from the fact that sex with Michael had not really been completed. With Robert it had been perfect, and she was grateful that he had been careful. For herself, she had entered into the lovemaking with little thought of what might happen. Everything else had been forgotten. Now, in the light of day, she had time to reflect on last night. Robert might think I’m easy, she mused. After all, I’ve only been out with him twice. Her sudden doubts were interrupted as he came back into the bedroom. He dressed quickly and sat on the bed, watching as she tied her still damp hair back with a strip of black ribbon.

  ‘We’d better get down to breakfast, Con. I’ll get us a cab after and drop you home, okay?’ he said with a loving smile.

  She nodded. Right at that moment everything was okay with young Connie Morgan.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The train rattled on through the winter countryside as Connie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window. The trees had lost their leaves and they bent against the keen wind. The fields had been ploughed up and the hay gathered in for winter feeding. Above, the grey overcast sky shut out the sun and spread a gloomy light over the barren landscape. The only other occupant of the carriage had been an elderly gent who had alighted at the last stop, leaving Connie alone with her thoughts. How much would her mother’s condition have worsened? she wondered with a sinking feeling. The last time she visited the Bartletts had travelled with her and on that occasion her mother had been even less talkative than usual. Connie was glad she was alone today. She wanted time to sit quietly and think things over. It seemed that her life had suddenly become full of questions and quandaries. Much had happened during the past month, and she wanted time to gather her thoughts into some sort of order. Robert had added a new dimension to her life, but it would bring her problems, too. Very soon Michael would be home on his Christmas leave, and she realised it was going to be very difficult. She was feeling apprehensive about what might happen, but she knew that she would just have to take things as they came. Robert had told her during the cab journey home that he wanted to see her as often as possible and, when she mentioned Michael’s leave, he had become quiet and thoughtful. When she got home she had been plied with questions. Helen had looked at her in a funny way, as if she could read her mind. Connie resented the prying questions and she recalled the look on her aunt’s face when she told her that she had stayed at her friend’s house all night.

  The train pulled into the station and Connie picked up the bag of fruit by her side and stepped down on to the platform. The wind was biting and she pulled up the collar of her coat as she left the station and began to walk along the long country road to the sanatorium. It took twenty minutes to reach the red-brick building which was set in its own grounds and surrounded by sheltering trees. As she walked along the gravel drive Connie began to sense that something was wrong. She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach and in her mind she saw a picture of her mother on her last visit. It was as though she was giving up the fight. Her eyes had stared blankly, and she had hardly spoken.

  As she entered the building and hurried up the wide stone staircase to the first floor, Connie knew that today her mother would be worse. Her high-heeled shoes sounded loudly on the marble-floored corridor, and when she entered the doorway to the ward the nursing sister was waiting. It was the same sister who Connie often spoke with during her visits, and on this occasion she barred her way. She smiled kindly and took the young girl’s arm.

  ‘Can you come into the office for a moment please, Miss Morgan?’

  Connie’s heart sank as she followed the sister into a small room.

  ‘Sit down, my dear,’ the sister said quietly, moving a chair around.

  ‘Me mum?’ was all Connie could muster.

  ‘I’m afraid your mother has taken a turn for the worse. We’ve put her into a small private room. The doctor is with her at this moment. If you’d like to wait here I’ll ask him to have a word with you as soon as he’s finished.’

  ‘Is she dyin’?’ Connie found herself asking.

  The sister looked at the young girl with large gentle eyes. ‘The doctor will talk to you soon, my dear.’

  One of the nurses put her head around the door and beckoned the sister. Connie found herself alone in the room and she clasped her hands tightly and stared down at the whiteness of her fingernails. The room was quiet and peaceful and she glanced around. Over the small desk was a picture of Christ wearing a crown of thorns, and at the back of the desk a bunch of wilting red roses stood in a glass vase. Connie looked up again at the picture and shivered.

  ‘Please don’t let ’er die,’ she whispered aloud.

  It seemed to Connie she had been waiting for ever when the door opened and a tall grey-haired man entered. Connie started to get up but he put his hand on her shoulder and then sat down facing her.

  ‘You are Miss Morgan? Katherine Morgan’s daughter?’

  Connie nodded, her eyes open wide.

  ‘I’m Doctor Phelps. You’re aware that your mother is suffering from Pulmonary Tuberculosis,’ he said in a very soft voice. ‘I’m afraid her condition has worsened. You see my dear, this disease affects the lungs but in your mother’s case her heart is also weak. I must ask you not to stay too long.’

  ‘Is she dyin’, doctor?’

  The doctor looked at his fingernails. ‘She’s very ill. We’re doing all we can, but you must be prepared, child.’

  Connie stood up quickly. ‘Can I see ’er now, please?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘The sister will take you to your mother. Don’t tire her by staying too long.’

  ‘I won’t stay long,’ Connie promised, and she walked quickly out into the corridor and fell in step behind the ward sister.

  Kate Morgan lay propped up against the pillows, her hands resting above the bedclothes. Her thin face wore a ghostly pallor, and her faded eyes were sunken. She turned her head slightly as Connie entered the room and bent over the bed.

  ‘’Ello, Mum,’ Connie said softly, her eyes filling with tears. She reached out her hand and touched her mother’s gently.

  ‘’Ow’s my Con?’ Kate whispered, her tired eyes searching her daughter’s face.

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. ’Ow yer feelin’?’

  Kate closed her eyes briefly as if in answer and Connie sat down beside the bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of he
r mother’s chest. She noticed the small gold locket which rested on her thin neck, and she began to fight back tears. She knew the locket had a special meaning for her mother; it had always hung around her neck, except on certain occasions when it had been taken, in dire necessity, to the pawnshop. Now the locket was shining brightly against the wan skin, and as it rose and fell it caught the light and glistened.

  ‘I’ve brought yer some fruit, Mum.’

  Kate nodded. Her hand lifted from the bedclothes and her bony finger pointed to the locker beside the bed. ‘There’s money – in there. Take it, Con. It’s no use ter me.’ Connie shook her head but her mother’s hand waved impatiently. ‘Don’t argue, child. Take it.’

  Connie went around the bed and opened the locker. There was a small open envelope lying on the shelf. She removed it and saw the money. Kate’s eyes had now closed and her breathing was very shallow.

  ‘Mum?’

  There was no answer. Connie backed away from the bed and became aware that the sister was standing behind her.

  ‘Your mother’s sleeping,’ she said. ‘I should leave now, my dear. We’ll contact you if there’s any worsening of her condition.’

  Connie walked out into the long corridor and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. The sister walked along the corridor beside the young girl, and as they reached the ward office she turned.

  ‘I wonder if you could spare me a moment, Miss Morgan?’

  Connie followed the sister into the office and stood while she slid open one of the desk drawers.

  ‘This came for your mother yesterday. One comes every month. There’s money inside. I know because your mother asked me to open the last one. I usually post the reply off for her. You see, she has to sign the receipt. She’s too ill to be bothered with this. As you’re her next of kin, maybe you could do it?’

  Connie nodded as she took the letter and tore it open. Inside were five one pound notes, a stamped-addressed envelope and a slip of paper. Connie signed the receipt and put it into the envelope. Her eyes narrowed as she read the address. It was destined for the Armitage factory in Ironmonger Street.

  Connie walked back along the road to the station, miserable and depressed, but like a dull ray of light through the darkness of her despair questions began to form in her mind. She had known for a long time that her mother received a regular sum of money, and she had once been told it came from insurance. Connie had had no reason to question her mother’s explanation, but now things were different. Why should the money come from the Armitage firm? What was the connection? Kate had never said anything about her father working there. There must be some reason for the firm to make the payments. Maybe Aunt Helen would be able to help her get at the truth. There were questions that had to be answered. Connie thought about the time when she had first seen her birth certificate and asked about the blank space where her father’s name should have been. Her mother had refused to answer her questions, dismissing them impatiently with the excuse that it wasn’t important. Why was there so much mystery surrounding him? What was the reason for her mother’s refusal to talk about him? Connie knew that her mother was slowly slipping away from her. If the secret of her father died with her she would have no family left, apart from the Bartletts. If her father was still alive, then she surely had the right to know his identity, however bad he had been, whatever he had done?

  During the trip back to London through the drab winter countryside Connie felt upset and confused. She was desperate to get at the truth, but would the knowledge bring her any peace? Maybe the whole thing should stay buried and forgotten. Connie was lulled by the gently rocking train and the clacking of the wheels and she glanced around the carriage. The other four travellers, two elderly ladies and a young couple, were leaning back against the head-rests. They all seemed to be absorbed in their own private thoughts. The young couple were holding hands and one of the elderly ladies was nodding off to sleep. Connie’s thoughts turned to the brief conversation she had had with her mother and she felt her throat tighten. She closed her eyes tightly against the threatening tears and sighed deeply.

  Early winter dusk was settling down in Dockland as Connie reached Ironmonger Street. She went directly to the Bartletts’ flat and when Helen let her in she could see by Connie’s serious face that Kate was worse.

  Matthew brought Connie a cup of tea and they all gathered around to talk to her. Tears dripped into the cup as Connie choked out the words.

  ‘She’s very weak, Aunt ’Elen. They said it’s ’er ’eart. The doctor told me ter be prepared fer the worst.’

  Helen rested her hand on Connie’s shoulder. ‘I’ve kept yer fire goin’, luv. You go up an’ ’ave a nice rest. I’ll pop in ter see yer later.’

  She stood up and put the empty cup down on the table. Connie felt Molly’s warm hand slip into hers and she felt the reassuring pressure as her cousin looked up into her eyes. It was the way it had been in the past, when they were tiny children. Whenever the grief or the anger became too much they had always been there to comfort each other. Connie felt that the old bond between them had been renewed, and her eyes shone through her tears as she looked at her cousin.

  The high wind rattled the windows and shook the doors in the dilapidated Jubilee Buildings. Connie sat in her easy chair beside the fire and re-read Michael’s last letter. It was written in a bold hand and he spoke mainly about his shore leave in Ceylon. The last few paragraphs, however, caused Connie to bite her lip. They were passionate lines, saying how much he hoped they could get to know each other better while he was home. She knew she would have to tell him. It wouldn’t be fair to deceive him. She would have to make him understand. After all, Michael was a sailor. He would most likely spend three quarters of his time overseas and he couldn’t expect her to stay at home all the time he was away. It was natural that she would be asked out. Michael was sensible. He would understand. It would upset him, yes, but he would get over it. She would tell him it was better to be honest with him than not to say anything and deceive him while he was away. As she rehearsed the words in her mind they sounded plausible enough, but she knew in her heart that Michael would not be so understanding. He had his pride and he would see her as being a cheat and disloyal. God! Why must everything be so complicated?

  There was a knock on the door and Helen came in. She looked tired and drawn. Her shoulders sagged and her hair was screwed up untidily on the top of her head and secured with pins. She sat down heavily and puffed.

  ‘Those stairs crease me. I mus’ be gettin’ old.’

  Connie secretly agreed. Her aunt had aged considerably during the last couple of years. Worries and troubles had taken their toll and Connie could not help but make the comparison between Helen and her own mother. Although the two were of different complexion and the shapes of their faces were different, their features had somehow mellowed into a sameness. Time and deprivation had closed the gap between them. Connie smiled sympathetically and got up to put the kettle over the gas.

  ‘Wanna cuppa, Aunt?’ she asked.

  Helen waved her back into the chair. ‘I’ve jus’ ’ad one, Con. I’ve only come up fer a chat.’

  Connie raked the fire and added a few small knobs of coal. ‘I’ve bin sittin’ ’ere finkin’ about me mum. She looked really bad when I saw ’er.’

  Helen stared into the rising flames and watched the smoke spiralling up the chimney. ‘I thought she looked very ill the last time I saw ’er,’ she said softly. ‘Yer gotta steel yerself, Con. It can only be a matter o’ time now.’

  ‘I know, Aunt. I’m prepared fer the worst. I only wish me an’ mum ’ad got closer. She shut me out at times. I sometimes fink she was ashamed o’ the way she was. She ’ad no reason ter fink that, Aunt ’Elen. I love ’er. She’s me mum after all.’

  Helen leaned back in her chair and gripped the arms until her knuckles whitened. ‘Yer muvver loves yer in ’er own way, Connie. She’s always tried ter spare yer the troubles she’s ’ad. She was always tellin�
�� me when you was little that she didn’t want you ter turn out like ’er. She was always out wiv fellers. When she fell fer you she wasn’t married. Yer know that much, don’t yer?’

  Connie nodded. ‘Mum always called ’im “yer farvver”. That’s the way she always spoke of ’im. I’ve seen me birth certificate an’ there’s nufink on it about me dad. It was always the same when I asked questions. Mum said ’e was dead an’ not to bovver ’er. I don’t fink me dad’s dead, Aunt. I fink me dad’s alive somewhere. I’m gonna find out fer sure one day.’ She paused. ‘By the way, I wanted ter ask yer somefink. Did yer know the money me mum gets every month comes from the Armitage firm?’

  Helen looked surprised. ‘No, I never.’

  ‘Mum gets it in a letter every month. She was too ill ter sign fer it this month an’ the sister of the ward asked me if I’d do it fer ’er. It was a shock when I found out where the money comes from. The only fing I can fink of is that me dad worked there once an’ the firm pay the insurance money.’

  Helen stared at Connie. She wanted to blurt out the name of the girl’s father, but she remembered the oath Kate had made her take all those years ago. If Kate’s daughter wanted to find out about her parentage that badly then at least she should try to help her without breaking her vow to Kate.

  ‘Firms don’t pay out insurance money, Con,’ she said slowly. ‘Very few people are lucky enough ter be insured. Those that are get their money from the insurance companies, not the firms they worked fer.’

  ‘What could the money be fer then, Aunt?’

  ‘I don’t know, Connie. I really don’t know.’

  Connie pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger as she stared into the flaring coals and Helen studied her for a few seconds.

  ‘Michael’s comin’ ’ome soon, ain’t ’e?’ she said suddenly.

  The young girl nodded. ‘’E should be ’ome on the twentieth. It’s only ten days’ time.’