Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  Matthew Bartlett was troubled as he climbed the stairs of the tenement block on that Sunday morning. He knew that 1921 was going to be a bleak year for his family. He was on short time at the furniture factory and he had read in the daily newspapers that over two million people were unemployed and many more were, like himself, on short-time working. Helen had said that the Armitage factory was putting workers off, according to old George Baker, who lived in one of the houses, and whose daughter Mary worked as a metal stamper at the factory. Matthew had also heard of the unrest in the local docks and wharves; there was talk of a strike and he was well aware of the effect it would have in the area. He sighed deeply as he clutched the warm bundle in his arms tighter and he felt suddenly guilt-ridden. What right did he have to bring a child into this world when he was struggling to earn enough to survive? What sort of burden had he placed on Helen? He had fathered a child who was malformed and sickly, and who would need constant care and attention. There would be hospital visits and doctor’s bills. He would have to find the money somehow, and always there would be the constant threat of being put out of work. Behind him on the stairs he heard Helen’s laughter at something Kate had said and he could feel a movement in his arms as Molly started to whimper. He looked down at his tiny, defenceless daughter and hoped he would be able to do all right by her.

  Chapter Two

  The Horseshoe Public House stood on the corner of John Street, a small turning between Ironmonger Street and the Tower Bridge Road. The pub was popular with the local folk, and it was here that they gathered to discuss the state of affairs. Most vociferous of all was the domino team, who would often pause between games to expound on current events and anything else that took their fancy.

  ‘An’ I’m tellin’ yer, Knocker, that Lloyd George is gonna’ave ter do somefink,’ said Harold Simpson, a grizzled old man in his seventies who lived two doors away from the pub. ‘The country’s goin’ ter the bloody dogs. Look at yer unemployed. Two bleedin’ million out o’ graft. They should ’ang the bleedin’ Kaiser!’

  Harold’s next door neighbour Knocker Johnson moved his glass of beer out of the reach of Harold’s flailing arms and rubbed his grey stubble. ‘What’s ’angin’ the Kaiser gotta do wiv the state o’ the country?’

  Harold took a quick sip from his beer and wiped a grubby hand across his full moustache. ‘I tell yer what it’s gotta do wiv it. That there war we’ve jus’ bin frew ’as milked this country dry. Bloody millions o’ pounds it’s cost us, an’ look at the way fings are now. Two bleedin’ million out o’ collar an’ now there’s the miners on strike an’ talk of the transport workers joinin’ ’em. Most o’ those what’s workin’ are on short-time. The only people earnin’ money are the bloody pawnbrokers. My suit’s ’angin’ up in Harris’s more often than in me poxy wardrobe. I tell yer straight, Knocker. That there Kaiser Bill is larfin’ at us. You mark my words. We ain’t ’eard the last of that bleedin’ stiff-legged bastard!’

  George Baker sipped his beer and pushed his metal-framed glasses up on to the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. ‘I dunno about ’angin’ the Kaiser. I reckon they should ’ang ole Armitage.’

  ‘Why?’ Harold piped up.

  ‘Don’t yer know what ’e’s gorn an’ done?’

  ‘No,’ replied Harold. ‘Any danger o’ you tellin’ us?’

  ‘Well ’e’s put all ’is workers on short time, ain’t ’e? Me eldest daughter works there. She said it’s quite bleedin’ likely they’ll all get their cards if fings don’t pick up very soon.’

  ‘I don’t see what else ’e can do if there’s no work,’ Knocker butted in.

  George banged a domino piece down hard on the table top. ‘I’ll tell yer what else ’e could do. ’E could show a bit o’ loyalty to ’is workers, that’s what. ’E could keep ’em all on full time an’ let ’em clean the place up or somefink. You take them there winders. Bloody well filfy they are. An’ what about them gates? There’s as much rust on them as on ole Widow Pacey’s pram she uses fer the bagwash. Ole Armitage could get ’em ter paint the gates. Matter o’ fact ’e could get ’em ter give the ole place a lick o’ paint.’

  ‘It’s all very well you sayin’ that,’ Knocker replied, ‘but it all costs money.’

  George’s cue had been delivered. ‘Money?! That ole goat Armitage is werf a packet. The bleedin’ wages ’e pays ’is workers is disgraceful. My Mary only brings ’ome twenty-seven bob after stoppages. She works bleedin’ ’ard fer that, I can tell yer.’

  Harold looked dolefully at his diminishing pint. ‘I still say they should ’ang the Kaiser.’

  George brooded as he shuffled the domino pieces. ‘I’ve seen ole Armitage drive in our turnin’ in that posh motor car wiv those two dopey-lookin’ sons of ’is in the back, an’ I’ve said ter meself, George, there ain’t no justice. There just ain’t no justice. There’s ’im ridin’ about in that jalopy, an’ there’s me wivout two pennies ter rub tergevver.’

  The fourth man in the group leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his corpulent stomach. ‘Yer right, George. I fink it’s what yer lotted out for. Some ’ave the luck, an’ some get kicked in the kybosh. You take them Bartletts in our turnin’. My Fran was tellin’ me that their kid was born wiv a curvature o’ the spine. On Christmas Day, too. ’Parently there’s nufink can be done about it. The poor little mite ain’t got the best o’ starts, ’as she?’

  The year wore on and an overcast summer gave way to chill autumn winds. There had been little to rejoice about as short-time working continued, and only the pawnshops were doing good business. The relief officers called round to the homes of those unfortunates who had to seek assistance, and any item of furniture or chattles deemed a luxury had to be sold before any help was given.

  Mrs Clara Cosgrove was waiting for a visit from the relief officer after her husband lost his job at the local tannery. And as she walked back from the market she had a worried look on her face. The small loaf and the two pound of potatoes she carried in her bag had used up the last of the housekeeping money and there was still a doctor’s bill to be paid. At the corner of Ironmonger Street she almost collided with Helen Bartlett.

  ‘’Ello, girl. Where’s the babies?’ Clara asked.

  Helen grinned and jerked her thumb in the direction of the tenement buildings. ‘Matt’s mindin’ ’em while I pop down the market. ’E’s on short time.’

  Clara shook her head sadly. ‘Gawd knows what’s ter become of us all. I’m waitin’ fer the RO ter call. I tell yer,’Elen, it’s made me ill ’avin’ ter call ’em in, but there was no ovver way. First me ole man got put orf, an’ now ’e’s laid up wiv that there bronchitis. I dunno which way ter turn.’

  Helen squeezed the old lady’s arm and fished into her purse. ‘’Ere, Clara, there’s a couple o’ bob till fings look up. It’s all right, Kate gave me a bit extra fer lookin’ after Connie.’

  Clara looked down at the florin and then into Helen’s eyes. ‘Gawd bless yer, luv. I’ll pay yer back soon as I can.’

  When the relief officer called on Mrs Cosgrove he cast his covetous eyes over the tidy parlour as the small woman glared at him, her arms folded over her aproned bosom. ‘How long have you lived in the street, Mrs Cosgrove?’ he asked in a thin voice.

  ‘’Bout firty years or more. Me an’ my Fred moved ’ere when we got spliced.’

  ‘Hmm. Now what about that piano?’

  ‘What about me pianer?’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to sell it, Mrs Cosgrove.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m afraid it will have to go before we are in a position to offer you any assistance.’

  Until that moment Mrs Cosgrove had controlled her anger but the thought of being parted from her beloved piano proved too much. ‘Now listen ’ere, yer long skinny git,’ she said, her face reddening, ‘it’s lucky fer you me ole man’s upstairs in bed wiv bronchitis. ’E’d ’ave given yer the back of ’is ’and. Now piss
orf out! Yer can keep yer palsy few bob! We’ll manage wivout yer ’elp.’

  ‘But, but . . .’

  ‘No buts. Jus’ piss orf out.’

  The white-faced official hurriedly left Ironmonger Street and one more bad mark was chalked up against the little turning.

  As the foggy December days followed the windy autumn things looked up a bit and a few seasonal jobs became available as the dockers were enjoying a busy time unloading cargoes of fruit for the Christmas markets. Mr Cosgrove got a job stamping out biscuit tin lids at the Armitage factory, and Mrs Cosgrove was able to keep her beloved piano. Matthew Bartlett’s flagging spirits were cheered by the news that normal hours were to be restored at the furniture factory where he worked, and he whistled to himself as he left for work on Monday morning. Now, with Christmas drawing near, there were presents to buy for Helen and the baby, and there was also a loan from the moneylender that had to be cleared up.

  It was late on Christmas Eve when the two sisters met in the Bartletts’ flat in Jubilee Dwellings. The gaslit room was cosy, with a tarry-log burning brightly in the grate. Helen had hung up some coloured paper-chains and spread a clean tablecloth over the rickety table. A few greetings cards were arranged on the high mantelshelf, and in one corner a tiny Christmas tree stood in a bucket, garlanded with silver strands and tiny bonbons. The smoke-streaked ceiling and grimy papered walls were brightened by the colourful decorations and the traditional bowl of nuts placed in the middle of the crisp white tablecloth.

  Helen sighed as she took a bottle of port down from the dresser. ‘Has Connie settled in okay?’

  Kate nodded. ‘Yeah, she’s fast asleep.’

  Helen poured some port into two small glasses and handed one glass to her sister. Kate took a sip, enjoying the sweetness. Helen sat down heavily and toyed with her glass. ‘This time last Christmas I was gettin’ the first twinges.’

  The sound of a baby coughing came from the bedroom and it was Helen who got up quickly to check on the two babies in the bedroom. When she returned she filled Kate’s empty glass and sat down facing her. For a short while there was silence.

  ‘What time are yer expectin’ Matt?’ Kate asked.

  Helen shrugged her shoulders. ‘’E’s ’avin’ a drink wiv ’is workmates, an’ the pubs are open till twelve. ’E won’t be in much before.’

  The two women faced each other across the table. Since Helen married they had drifted apart. Kate’s numerous relationships with men had been surrounded by rumours and Helen had been critical of her sister’s lifestyle, so there had been rows. Now, the birth of their babies seemed to draw them together again, though the strain in their relationship still simmered below the surface. At twenty-eight, Helen was two years younger than her sister, although she looked the elder of the two. Her figure had filled out and her face had become slightly bloated. Her dark hair was pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck and there was some puffiness beneath her small brown eyes. Kate had her father’s complexion. Her eyes were pale blue and her hair was fair and inclined to be wavy. Her figure was still firm and slightly padded around the hips and her full breasts stood out against her tight dress. She had a high forehead and small nose, and her lips were thin, which could sometimes make her appearance seem rather stern.

  A stone shot out from the tarry-log and Helen got up and turned the log over with a poker. ‘’Ave yer thought about gettin’ yerself married, Kate?’ she said, still staring into the flames.

  Kate laughed mirthlessly. ‘Men! I’ve given ’em up. Who needs ’em?’

  Helen turned and looked into her sister’s pale face. ‘I was finkin’ about Connie. Every child should ’ave a farvver.’

  Kate felt the old animosity towards her sister rising within her. ‘My baby’s got a farvver, but she’ll never know ’im.’

  ‘Won’t yer ever tell ’er about ’er farvver – when she’s older I mean?’ Helen asked, sitting down again.

  Kate shook her head slowly. ‘No. What’s the good? She’ll know soon enough ’er muvver wasn’t married. What do they say about kids like Connie? Born the wrong side of the blanket? That’ll be enough for ’er ter go on wiv.’

  Helen winced at Kate’s bitter tone. She clasped her hands together and arched them under her chin with her elbows resting on the table. ‘You know best, Kate. But if it was me . . .’

  ‘Look, ’Elen. I’ve made me mind up, an’ that’s the way it’s gonna be. I don’t want ’er ter know about ’er farvver, an’ you’re the only ovver person that knows who ’e is. I want yer ter promise me you’ll keep it from Connie when she’s old enough ter start asking questions.’

  Helen nodded. ‘If that’s the way yer want it.’

  ‘That’s the way I want it,’ Kate said with emphasis.

  Helen reached for the bottle of port. ‘Come on, Sis. It is Christmas. Let’s ’ave anuvver drink.’

  Kate let her shoulders sag and smiled. She felt sorry for the way she was behaving, but she was always aware of her sister’s disapproval of her lifestyle. Helen had been the plodder. The first man, the only man, she had known was Matthew. Helen was the strong one in their marriage, but then Helen was like their mother. She had been strong, too. She had handled their father’s weakness for drink with quiet resolve, and when he had finally walked out on the family when the children were still very young she had cried briefly, then took over the role of provider. It was the struggle of making sure there was always enough bread on the table, always enough money to pay the rent man and the tallyman that finally killed her. The early morning cleaning and taking in washing and sewing had worn her out until there was no life left in her. And Beatrice Morgan had been one of the first to succumb to the epidemic of influenza that swept the area in 1919.

  Kate’s thoughts were interrupted by Helen getting up quickly and going once more into the bedroom. When she returned and sat down at the table she sighed deeply. ‘Connie’s as quiet as a lamb. But Molly’s restless. It’s ’er chest. I fink it’s the croup.’

  Kate looked hard at her sister. She could see the concern and fear in her eyes and she felt a wave of pity rise up inside her. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be all right. She’s a fighter.’

  Helen laughed mirthlessly. ‘She’s gotta be, Kate. It’s gonna be ’ard fer ’er. The ’ospital said ’er growth will be stunted an’’er lungs might be affected later on.’

  Kate saw the tears well up in Helen’s eyes and she reached out and clasped her sister’ s ands in her own. ‘Try not ter worry too much, sis. There’ll be lots of ’elp when yer need it. I know you an’ me ain’t always seen eye to eye, but we’ve gotta ferget the past. We’re family, ain’t we?’

  Helen smiled and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’d like that, Kate. I’ope our two kids grow up close. They’ll be family to each ovver too, won’t they?’

  ‘You betcha. They’ll be inseparable those two, you mark my words.’

  A cold moon looked down on the ramshackle backstreet and lit the ugly prison-like factory that straddled the turning. Shadows of the rusted iron gates fell across the empty and deserted yard, and a rising wind rattled the glass case of the street gaslamp. The turning was empty, except for one drunken reveller who staggered along the pavement, his face obscured by the turned-up collar of his overcoat. A cloth cap was set askew his dipping head and he carried a quart bottle of brown ale under one arm. The drunk reeled two paces past Mrs Cosgrove’s house then staggered back and almost fell against the street door as he grasped the iron knocker. When the door opened, a patch of light lit up the cobblestones and the sounds of a ragtime piano carried out into the street. Someone was trying hard to imitate Sophie Tucker with a rendering of ‘Some of These Days’, above raucous laughter and, as the door slammed shut, the sounds died.

  In Jubilee Dwellings everything was silent.

  The Bermondsey folk toasted their neighbours that Christmas, and then they toasted in the New Year. The Great War was still fresh in their minds and now they were fearful for their jobs.
Everyone hoped for a peaceful future, and an end of being poor, although for most folk it seemed that the days to come would be very bleak.

  Up in the tenement block in Ironmonger Street as the distant chimes rang out the old year Helen and Matthew clinked glasses and drank a toast to the two young babies who were sleeping unconcernedly in their cots. Next to each other before a brightly burning fire, they sat talking into the early hours of the new year and, as Matthew began to broach a sensitive subject, Helen was immediately on her guard.

  ‘Won’t she even try ter get some maintenance money? I mean, it’s only right.’

  Helen looked into Matthew’s pale grey eyes and saw his concern. ‘You know ’ow she is. Kate’s a proud woman. She won’t ask fer nufink.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t be askin’ fer ’erself. It’d be fer the baby.’