Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  Robert was thinking of the meeting he had had with his father before Christmas. Until then, his knowledge of the arrangement between Kate Morgan and the firm had been the same as Connie’s, and the truth had shocked him. He had been told the whole sordid story and had reluctantly agreed with his father that Connie was not to be told anything, even though she had questioned him about the money. Kate Morgan’s silence had been bought all those years until her death. It would serve no purpose to let her daughter into the secret after Kate had agreed never to tell anyone. Nevertheless, he didn’t like deceiving Connie.

  The gramophone record finished and Robert got up to turn it off. He came back and took Connie’s hand as they nestled down together on the well-padded sofa, her head resting in the crook of his arm, and her hand lying across his chest.

  ‘You ’appy?’ she asked dreamily.

  In answer he kissed her gently on the top of her head and she sighed.

  After a few moments Robert said, ‘Connie, I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t you like to give up your work?’

  ‘Give up work?’

  ‘Yes. You could stay here. I’ve money enough. You wouldn’t have to worry about clothes and things. I could give you everything you’d need.’

  She pulled herself upright and glared into his blue eyes. ‘You listen ter me, Robert Armitage. I’m not goin’ ter let you keep me. I wanna earn me own money. It’s important to a girl. I wanna be able ter buy fings wivvout ’avin’ ter keep on askin’ you.’

  He saw the indignant look on her face and he grinned widely. ‘I want to take care of you, buy you things. I love you, Connie.’

  ‘You are takin’ care of me,’ she replied. ‘You could always buy me a little present once in a while, but I wanna be independent an’ earn me own money, Robert, so let’s ’ear no more of it.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, with mock seriousness. ‘I’ll never mention it again.’

  They became quiet again. Connie’s head was resting against his chest and she listened to the steady thump of his heart.

  Suddenly she looked up into his eyes, as if reminded of something. ‘Do yer fink there’s really gonna be a war?’

  ‘What made you ask that, Con?’

  ‘I dunno. There’s a lot o’ talk about a war. If there is, will yer ’ave ter go away ter fight?’

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about war,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘It’s not the subject I want to get into on a cosy Saturday night when I’m entertaining my lustful mistress.’

  Connie looked up into his smiling blue eyes. ‘Is that what yer see me as, a lustin’ mistress?’

  Robert laughed loudly and she felt the rumble in his chest. ‘You’re my lover, my mistress, my scarlet woman. You’re sharing my secret bedchamber, did you not know? Be warned. To spurn my advances could mean the Tower.’

  Connie did not laugh at Robert’s jest. ‘You fool,’ she whispered as she snuggled closer to him and closed her eyes. It felt good just to be with him, but she could not still her thoughts. She remembered the first time she had gone to meet him and the feelings which ran through her then. She did not want to suffer the heartache and pain her mother must have endured. She wanted to make these magic moments last, and keep him, against the pressures of his family and the temptations of other more sophisticated women. Robert hadn’t spoken of the future. He hadn’t talked about marriage or even mentioned getting engaged. He had remained light-hearted and casual about their affair. It was as though he saw their relationship as one to savour for the moment. He avoided mentioning what was to come in the days ahead and laughed off her fears and apprehensions. Maybe he saw the future and feared it? Maybe he shared her fears and refused to face them, lest the realisation spoil their treasured moments together. She felt him slide his hand from beneath her neck and she watched him go to the fire. He came back and bent over her. She felt his strong arms around her as he lifted her from the sofa and she nestled against him, feeling the warmth of his body as he carried her to the bedroom.

  The gusting wind and the heavy beating rain were forgotten as the lovers moved closely together. Their lips met in the darkness and their hands explored each other’s hot bodies. As the night wore on their spent, exhausted bodies finally moulded together in a dreamless slumber.

  The year was young, with early spring buds showing and light rains spattering the branches of the trees as they began to come back to life. In Ironmonger Street the April showers fell on to old, leaky rooftops and against brick walls which were cracked and crumbling. Upstairs rooms became sodden, and water dripped down from the stained ceilings. The dampness penetrated the plaster of the tiny parlours and caused the wallpaper to bubble and peel, and the angry tenants of Ironmonger Street decided that enough was enough. They gathered together in George Baker’s front room on a Friday evening and listened while Joe Cooper said his piece.

  ‘Now we all know why we’re ’ere, folks, so let’s get down ter business. First of all, we know what ’appened last time we complained ter the rent collector.’

  ‘Sod all, that’s what,’ George piped in.

  ‘Be quiet, Dad. Let Joe finish what ’e’s got ter say.’

  Joe looked at the old man. ‘You’re right, Pop, sod all! We know they came round an’ stuck a few slates on the roofs, an’ they plastered up a few cracks in the walls, but it was only a sweet’ner. It ain’t stopped the water comin’ in my ’ouse, an’ it ain’t stopped the water gettin’ in your places eivver. No, I’m afraid unless we all stick tergevver an’ demand a proper renovation job, we’ll all end up floatin’out o’ the street.’

  There was a knock on the door and Mary came back into the room with Mrs Cosgrove holding on to her arm.

  ‘’Ere, make room fer Clara,’ she said.

  They made the old lady comfortable in an armchair and Joe then put his proposition to the group.

  ‘Right, now this is what I reckon we should do. When that soppy-lookin’ git of a rent collector comes round on Monday we all tell ’im ter piss orf, ’cos we ain’t gonna pay ’im any rent.’

  Clara Cosgrove chuckled. ‘I was gonna tell ’im that anyway.’

  ‘Good fer you, Clara,’ Joe exclaimed.

  ‘Wait a minute, Joe,’ Mary’s husband said, ‘that’s a bit strong, ain’t it? They could give us all notice ter quit. Where we gonna live, out in the street?’

  Joe looked across at him. ‘Now listen, Frank. You work in the docks. You know yer don’t get anyfink unless you’re prepared ter fight fer it. If we all stick tergevver an’ nobody pays their rents on Monday, Vine Estates are gonna start finkin’. We’ll give ’em somefink ter fink about on top o’ not payin’ the rent. We’ll call in the South London Press, an’ we’ll lobby the councillors. Anuvver fing we can do is ter call in the council doctor. ’E can put a bit o’ pressure on. Once the ball starts rollin’ the lan’lords will ’ave ter do somefink.’

  ‘Yeah, like chuckin’ us all out,’ Lizzy Conroy piped in.

  ‘Well I fink Joe’s right,’ said George. ‘We gotta do somefink. These places’ll kill us all ’fore long.’

  Mary patted her father’s head. ‘Now don’t get yerself all worked up, Pop. Yer don’t want anuvver turn like last time, do yer?’

  ‘I’m all right, gel. Don’t fuss. I fink we should listen ter Joe. ’E’s talkin’ sense.’

  Frank held out his hand. ‘Jus’ look around. There’s sixteen’ouses in this turnin’. ’Ow many of us ’ere? If we’re gonna stop the rent we’ve all gotta do it. The Toomeys won’t go along wiv us, an’ nor will Widow Pacey.’

  ‘Nor will Muvver Adams. She’d be too worried over ’er moggies,’ someone else chimed in.

  Joe held his hand up for silence. ‘Right. Now this is what we gotta do. First fing termorrer we get a delegation ter see all those who ain’t ’ere ternight. We’ll put it to ’em, then we’ll take a count. If the majority ses they’re fer a rent strike we’ll meet the rent collector when ’e comes round on Monday an’ tell ’im ter piss orf. That way nobod
y can back out o’ the strike. What d’yer say?’

  There was a general nodding of heads and Joe smiled. ‘Are we all in agreement ter stop our rents till they fix up our’ouses?’

  Everyone nodded and Frank looked at the stocky figure of Joe. ‘’Ere, Joe. There’s nine of us present, an’ there’s only sixteen ’ouses in the street. We’ve got a majority, ain’t we?’

  ‘No, we gotta do it right, Frank,’ Joe replied. ‘There can only be one vote fer each ’ouse’old.’

  George gave his son-in-law a scornful glance, then looked up at the tenants’ leader. ‘Yer got my vote, Joe,’ he rasped.

  ‘Anybody against?’Joe asked.

  There was silence, interrupted only by the gentle snoring of Clara Cosgrove.

  ‘Okay then. We got six votes fer a strike. If we get anuvver three, we tell the collector what ter do,’ Joe said.

  ‘We’re wiv yer, Joe,’ Mary shouted.

  ‘Yeah, right in the bloody work’ouse,’ mumbled Lizzie Conroy.

  ‘’Ang on a minute,’ Joe shouted as the gathering prepared to leave. ‘What about the delegation? Who’s gonna come round wiv me termorrer?’

  ‘I’ll come round,’ George said.

  ‘Oh no yer don’t,’ his daughter cut in. ‘Yer not up to it. Let somebody else go round.’

  ‘I’ll come wiv yer,’ said Lizzie Conroy, hoping she might be able to dissuade the rest of the tenants.

  ‘I’ll come, too, Joe,’ Mary said.

  ‘Yer’d better be careful when yer call on the Toomeys, Joe,’ George joked. ‘That girl o’ theirs’ll ’ave yer trousers orf, give’er ’alf a chance.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Joe laughed. ‘If it goes our way we’ll give ’er the rent collector as a bonus.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The belief that war was inevitable was becoming strong in everyone’s mind. Newspapers carried large banner headlines proclaiming the events in Europe, and the inside pages recounted the worsening situation in many parts of the world. The international situation was followed very closely of course by the Horseshoe domino club members. Pints of ale at their elbow, the two spokesmen resumed their habitual debate.

  ‘I tell yer, Bill, it’s bloody disgustin’. Everywhere yer look there’s trouble. Now take Spain.’

  ‘I don’t want it, Tel.’

  ‘C’mon, all jokin’ ter one side, it’s ’orrible what’s goin’ on out there. Did yer see those pictures in the Daily Mirror of the bombin’ out there? It’s the bloody German air force what’s doin’ it.’

  ‘Yeah I did as a matter o’ fact, Tel. I bin readin’ all about it. They call ’em the Condor Squadron. Ole Franco called ’em in. I mean, ’e’s a bloody Fascist ’imself, ain’t ’e? Terrible what they’re doin’ ter those towns. If we go ter war wiv Germany they’ll be bombin’ us. Bloody trainin’ in Spain, that’s what the bastards are doin’.’

  ‘D’yer fink it will come to it, Bill?’

  ‘Stone certainty, Tel. I mean ter say, they’ve got Austria, an’ they’re ’avin’ a go at Czechoslovakia. Everybody’s flyin’ around signin’ pacts. Sooner or later we’re gonna get involved.’

  ‘Long as they keep our pub out of it, Bill. I don’t fancy that Kraut beer.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s lookin’ bad. Anyway, let’s change the subject. It’s gettin’ me depressed. It’s your turn I fink, Tel. I’ll ’ave a pint o’ the same.’

  In Hyde Park, crowds gathered every Sunday morning to listen to the orators, some of whose recent forecasts of how things would move in Europe were proving correct. Other speakers continued to plead for their own pet causes, and one fiery character pronounced, as he had done for the last fifteen years, that the end was nigh. First-time visitors to Speakers’ Corner were often given directions to the spot by a ruddy-faced constable with a busy moustache who clasped his hands over his corpulent middle as he added, ‘It’s the place where they go from the sublime ter the Gor blimey.’

  In the April of 1938 the events abroad were forgotten for a time as the folk from Ironmonger Street faced their own troubles. The delegation met as planned early on Saturday morning and began door knocking. At number eleven, Widow Pacey answered the knock on the door and stood, arms folded, as Joe and Mary argued the case for a rent strike. Lizzy Conroy, the other delegate, remained silent and she was secretly pleased at Widow Pacey’s response. She had listened intently, her tired eyes flitting from one to the other. Widow Pacey had been a widow for a number of years; her only source of income was from bagwash collections and deliveries which she made on a battered old pram with wheels that squeaked for want of a drop of oil. People in the street paid her sixpence for a round trip to Maxwell’s, the local laundry in Long Lane, a journey she made in all weathers and, as she slowly walked along the street with the pram piled high, the local youngsters would talk in whispers of all the horrific stories they had heard about her. Widow Pacey’s children had all left home and, as far as anyone could recall, they had never once returned to visit their ageing mother. She was a proud, deep woman who always stood her ground and on this occasion she could not be moved.

  ‘No. Count me out. This place might not be the best place ter live, but it’s better than none at all.’

  The delegation’s entreaties were dismissed with a short wave of her hand. ‘I can’t stand ’ere argufyin’ wiv yer,’ she said. ‘I got me washin’ ter collect.’

  At number twelve they had a success. Ada Halliday wanted to go even further. Her eyes blazed as she said, ‘We ought ter tar an’ feavver the bastard when ’e comes round!’

  ‘’E only collects the rents, Ada. ’E ain’t ter blame,’ Lizzie replied, realising that the rent strike was looming closer now.

  As they approached number fifteen, Mary screwed up her round face. ‘Bloody ’ell! I can smell the cats’ piss from ’ere!’

  Mrs Adams greeted them with a curt reply. ‘No fanks. I got me animals ter fink about,’ she said, closing the door abruptly.

  It was later that Saturday morning when the delegation realised it was facing failure. Only one other tenant had backed the strike. Doreen Richards’ daughter Bella was ill with pneumonia, and her mother was convinced that their living conditions were to blame. There was one more house to visit and it had been left until last.

  Joe paused at the front door. He shrugged his broad shoulders and ran his fingers through his thick greying hair. ‘Oh well. I s’pose we’d better give it a try,’ he sighed.

  Toby Toomey opened the door of number one and stared absently as Joe began to speak. Lizzie was trying not to look too happy, but she was already confident of the outcome. When Joe finished Toby scratched his head and looked a little thoughtful.

  ‘I’d better go an’ see if Marie agrees,’ he said.

  Marie came to the front door, an apron tied around her waist and her dark hair hanging loosely around her pale face. Joe repeated what he had already told Toby and when he had finished Marie’s face lit up.

  ‘’Ere, Lil. Come down ’ere. We’re all goin’ on strike,’ she called out.

  Lillian Toomey hurried down the stairs and joined her mother at the front door. Her large brown eyes bore into Joe and she gave him a crooked smile. ‘A strike?’ she said in a deep voice. ‘That’ll be nice. ’Ere, are you the organiser, Joe? I’ve always admired forceful men.’

  Mary glanced at Joe and saw that he was almost squirming under Lillian’s smouldering gaze. ‘Well that’s it,’ she said loudly. ‘It’s a strike!’

  Lizzie concealed her disappointment at what she considered to be a bad result. The Toomeys had surprised her by their enthusiasm. The whole family must be stupid, she mused. They don’t seem to know what day of the week it is. They soon will when they get thrown on to the street.

  As they walked back along the turning Joe could hardly conceal his pleasure at having won the first round of the battle. Mary was also grinning widely. Lizzie was more serious-faced. She was worried about what her husband had said. He had tried to dissuade her from
going to the meeting in the first place. He did not like Joe, and expressed the view that he was a trouble-maker and a Bolshevik. ‘If we do get into a war it’ll be people like ’im who’ll cause trouble, mark my words.’

  Lizzie would have been more surprised had she listened in to the conversation which was taking place at number one that very minute. Marie Toomey was grinning widely as she waved the piece of paper in front of her sheepish-faced husband. ‘This bloody letter can go in the dustbin now. We’ll owe more than four weeks’ rent by the time we’re finished. But they can’t chuck us out now the rest of the street ain’t payin’ their rent. It’ll be more than they dare do.’

  Toby nodded, and his daughter Lillian smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she applied another layer of rouge to her red cheeks. Marie screwed up the notice of arrears and prodded Toby in the chest with her forefinger.

  ‘You’d better get that pram fixed. You’ve got a reprieve. I want you out collectin’ soon as possible, an’ don’t ferget what I said. No lumber – no food. Okay?’

  Toby stood up without replying and grabbed the oil can as he walked out into the backyard.

  Connie had made up her mind to leave Armitage’s as soon as she could. It was getting difficult to wait on the table now that the secret of her relationship with Robert was out in the open. It seemed to her that the management’s eyes followed her every move, and Peter Armitage had taken to looking at her in a strange way. It was as though she had become an embarrassment to the factory owner and it worried her. She had already confided in Robert about her feelings and he had said she shouldn’t let it worry her. Connie felt that he showed a slight sign of relief, however, when she told him she was looking for another job. It must be difficult for him, she mused, what with his family’s attitude, and the fact that her presence in the canteen was a constant reminder to them.