Ironmonger's Daughter Page 21

  ‘How can I find out who was on the outin’, Alice?’

  ‘I might be able to help there,’ Alice volunteered. There’s some old photographs up in my office. They were taken at the pub in Southend. There’s a group photo amongst them, I’m sure. Look, I tell you what. I’ll sort them out and get them to you as soon as I can. How’s that?’

  Connie stood up. ‘Fanks very much, Alice. I really appreciate you ’elpin’ me. I’ve jus’ gotta find out about the money. It’s bin worryin’ me ever since mum died.’

  Alice helped Connie into her coat and showed her to the door. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be able to get to the bottom of it, dear.’

  Once out in the street Connie sighed deeply; the mystery surrounding her mother’s life seemed to be getting more and more complicated.

  The Sunday evening was balmy, with just a hint of a breeze stirring a couple of toffee wrappers at their feet. They walked arm in arm through the park and heard vague brassy sounds drifting over from the distant bandstand. Above, the trees were displaying their new leaves, and through the thickening foliage they caught a glimpse of the scurrying clouds. The two walked slowly, their steps measured and their bodies touching. From time to time they exchanged glances, passing silent messages with their eyes and smiling to each other in the quiet fading light. A couple was walking towards them, the woman pushing a pram and the man walking beside her carrying a large shopping bag. The only other person on the gravel path was an old man with a walking stick who had nodded to the lovers as he passed slowly by. Away in the distance they saw the redness rising over the tree-line and above it the diminishing shades of gold that reached up into the heavens.

  The girl sighed, a deep lingering sigh as she squeezed his arm. ‘It’s so peaceful, Robert. Doesn’t that cut grass smell luvvly.’

  ‘Yes. I love this place. It’s like standing on top of London. When you look down on the river you can sense all the noise and bustle going on, but up here it’s like being in the heart of the country. You can breathe fresh air and almost hear the quietness. You can leave the ugliness and the squalor down below and forget everything.’

  Connie stared into his pale-blue eyes and thought she saw a distant look there. ‘You seem serious, Robert. I’ll give you a penny fer yer thoughts.’

  He grinned nonchalantly, but inside his head there were thoughts that he could not reveal. Thoughts which crowded his mind and gave the lie to what he had been saying. The beauty of the surroundings could do nothing to dispel the nagging fear that before much longer the country would be plunged into war. He felt it strongly, and the fear was steadily growing. It plagued him and affected his thinking. He imagined the destruction and carnage there would be, and could envisage nothing but sorrow and darkness ahead.

  ‘I’m sorry if I seem serious, Con,’ he said after a while. ‘I was just thinking how peaceful it is here, when you consider all the trouble and strife that’s going on in the world.’

  Connie laid her head against his shoulder as they strolled along. ‘Are yer worried about a war, Robert? You was mumblin’ somefing about war in yer sleep last night.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he replied quickly.

  Connie was not to be put off. ‘If it is worryin’ yer, tell me. We’re s’posed ter share everyfink, so yer said.’

  They had just passed a park bench and Robert stopped suddenly and steered her towards it. ‘Let’s sit down awhile, Connie. I suppose we’d better talk about it.’

  The couple with the pram passed by without a glance in their direction and when they were out of earshot Connie touched his arm. ‘I knew there was somefink troublin’ yer,’ she said as they settled down on the slatted seat. ‘Yer keep gettin’ that funny look in yer eyes. It frightens me.’

  He held her hands in his and looked into her worried eyes. ‘Look, Con. I love you very much. I can’t possibly tell you just how much. I want to be with you always. Nothing else matters to me. What scares the living daylights out of me is the thought of a war. A war that would part us, and maybe I’d never see you again.’

  Connie felt her eyes glaze. ‘Even if there was a war we would still be tergevver, wouldn’t we? I mean yer wouldn’t’ave ter go away an’ fight, would yer?’

  ‘You mean that with me being a factory manager I’d be exempt?’ he said with a sudden hardness in his voice. ‘Yes, I would, but can’t you see I couldn’t just carry on in the factory while everyone else was going off to fight. I couldn’t live with myself.’

  She pulled her hands away suddenly and sat up straight in the seat. She glared at him, her eyes burning into his. ‘You make me so mad when yer talk like that. It’s all men fink of, goin’ away ter fight. It strikes me yer want there ter be a war, jus’ so yer can go off an’ get yerself killed or somefink.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Connie. It’s not like that at all. I don’t want to go and get killed. It’s just that . . . oh let’s forget it.’

  She looked into his troubled eyes and her arms went out to him. ‘Yer mustn’t go away an’ get yerself killed or badly wounded, Robert. I couldn’t live wivvout yer. Yer mus’ know that by now. I love yer terrible.’

  He took her to him and they held each other close. No words were spoken as they clung together. Finally their bodies relaxed, and he took her by the shoulders and leaned back until she was at arm’s length.

  ‘I’m sorry, Con. I’ve frightened you. Look, it’s just me. All this warmongering has been getting to me. I don’t think there’ll be a war, honest. Now let’s forget all about such talk. Come on, there’s a nice place I know down near the pier. We can sit on the veranda overlooking the river. If you’re good I’ll buy you a beer,’ he joked.

  They walked in silence down the steep path which led to the park gates. The evening traffic noise sounded loud after the quiet of the serene surroundings they were leaving, and as they crossed the busy road and walked leisurely down to the river they heard the harsh tone of the pleasure boat’s horn as it pulled away from the pier. Along the walkway they passed tired children who were being ushered home, and lovers like themselves who strolled arm in arm, oblivious to everyone around them. They found the riverside inn and Robert squeezed his way to the counter. The pub was quite busy, with a mixture of visitors to the area and local folk who sat around in small groups and cast curious glances at the strangers as they arrived. Robert finally managed to get served and then led the way out on to the veranda. They found a seat by the rail and sipped their drinks as they took in the view. Downriver they could see the sweep of the Thames, flowing in a wide curve around the Isle of Dogs. Crane arms reached up to the darkening clouds and upriver the distant stone of Tower Bridge was bathed in light as the setting sun painted the heavens in shades of red and gold. The last pleasure craft was nearing the pier at Greenwich and across the water dark wharves loomed mysterious and ghost-like. Connie glanced at her lover and saw that now familiar look in his eyes. There was nothing she could say or do to smooth away the fear and concern he was feeling. She felt inadequate, unable to reach into him and bring him any comfort. If war did come she would lose him, she felt sure. He was determined to go away to fight.

  Night was settling in and the sound of an accordion drifted out on to the veranda. The haunting strains of ‘Moonlight Bay’ seemed to float across the water and blend with the swish of the ebbing tide. The two lovers had been silent for a while, absorbed in their secret thoughts and content to sit and watch the night creeping in around them. Connie began to notice the middle-aged couple who had come out on to the veranda and sat down opposite her. The woman took some snapshots out of her handbag and passed them to her companion who put his glasses on to study the prints. Connie was suddenly reminded of the large envelope she had received that Friday morning. Alice Jones had slipped it to her before the rest of the management had arrived for their lunch. That evening Connie had pored over the photos of happy people who wore funny hats and held their glasses of beer up to the camera. One large photo showed the group s
tanding beside the charabanc, and it was this photo which had interested her most. The photo was fourteen years old and most of the people in it were unfamiliar. She could pick out her mother, however. She stood between a young-looking Joe Cooper and a young woman who looked very much like Mary Brown. One other figure caught her eye. He was smartly dressed and the only member of the group who wore a tie. From what Miss Jones had told her Connie took him to be Gerald Armitage. There had been no opportunity so far to talk to the secretary about the people in the photograph nor to show it to Helen, but she was determined to follow up the lead as soon as possible.

  ‘You’re quiet, Con,’ Robert said, squeezing her hand in his.

  She glanced briefly at the couple who were giggling like young children over the snapshots. ‘I was jus’ finkin’,’ she said quietly. ‘Let’s get a photo done of us tergevver, Robert.’

  The past week had been a time of feverish activity for the Ironmonger Street strike committee. The South London Press had been alerted and they had sent a reporter down. Joe Cooper had met with Mary Brown and her father George to draft a letter to the Bermondsey Doctor of Health. One or two local councillors who had been sympathetic to Joe’s activities in the past were also contacted and they pledged their support. As for the rent collector, he had not been seen around since he was sent packing. Lizzie Conroy’s fear that the bailiffs would arrive with the police did not materialise. Joe knew that it was only a matter of time before the bubble burst, and he passed the word around. ‘Be on yer toes. It’s gone too quiet.’

  All was not quiet in the Vine Estate office that Friday morning.

  The portly manager Norman Wallburton had summoned the agitated rent collector into his office and proceeded to read out the riot act. ‘Look, Harris. You’re employed to collect rents, not to be a bearer of bad bloody tidings. No rents collected are bad bloody tidings indeed. I won’t have tenants telling the landlord that they are not going to pay their rents. Good God, man! It’s the tail wagging the dog. I won’t have it, d’you hear?’

  Gordon Harris heard right enough. The bellowing voice hurt his ears. One thing you won’t be having, he thought, and that’s the rents.

  ‘I said, did you hear me?’

  ‘I heard you, sir. Trouble is, there’s a nasty crowd in that street. It’s got a bad name y’know.’

  ‘A bad name!? I’ll give it a bad name before I’m finished with Ironmonger Street. I’ll have the lot of them thrown out,’ Wallburton spluttered, sitting down heavily in his padded chair and wiping his perspiring forehead with a large handkerchief.

  Harris looked at his hot and bothered manager. I’d like to see you face that rabble, you fat, overgrown slob, he thought. That lot would eat you for breakfast. I’m out there taking my life in my hands, and there’s you sitting on your fat arse giving stupid orders. You make me sick.

  ‘Harris!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Get the rest of your rounds done and I’ll talk to you again next Monday morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  On Friday afternoon another visitor was shown in to the Vine Estate office and Norman Wallburton got up to greet him.

  ‘Hello, Frank. How are you?’

  The tall, stooping figure of Councillor Frank Salmon reached out and took the manager’s clammy hand. ‘I’m well, Norman. I hear you’ve been having a confrontation with some malcontents?’

  The manager pulled up a large leather-bound chair and motioned the councillor into it. ‘My collector had the confrontation, Frank. Seems the bolshy bastards over in Ironmonger Street have organised a rent strike, would you believe?’

  Councillor Salmon crossed his legs and proceeded to scratch his shin. ‘Yes, Norman, I know. That’s the purpose of my visit. I’ve been contacted by the strike leader and, being their ward councillor I’m obliged to mediate.’

  ‘Mediate? They’ve got to pay their rents, Frank. All right, I grant you there’re problems with repairs, but let’s face it, those places are nearly eighty years old. It costs a small fortune these days to keep them in good repair.’

  Frank Salmon nodded. ‘I sympathise with you, Norman, but we’ve got a problem here. The local press are on to it. They’ll make capital out of this rent business. I’ve also been talking to the council doctor. He showed me a letter he’d received from the Ironmonger Street people only this morning. It’s a bad time for that sort of publicity, especially after the diphtheria outbreak over on Conner Street a few months ago.’

  ‘What can I do, Frank? I’ve got a business to run. Those houses have already been patched up once.’

  Councillor Salmon scratched his leg again. ‘How long have we known each other, Norman?’ he said.

  ‘Quite a number of years now, Frank.’

  ‘Well then, trust me when I say I’m thinking of both our interests in this matter. Like yourself, I’m a businessman. I make it a point of knowing just what’s going on in the borough. I happen to know that your company is negotiating the purchase of Jubilee Dwellings. I also happen to know that the property is owned by the Granthams and that Lady Grantham is planning to leave for America shortly and wants to complete the deal as soon as possible.’

  Norman Wallburton toyed with his paper knife. ‘You’re certainly well informed, Frank,’ he said a little archly.

  ‘As I said, Norman. It’s my business to know, and I find my lodge meetings can be very informative. However, there’s one other little bit of information which might interest you. At the last Housing Programme Meeting, Jubilee Dwellings was mentioned as a prospective site for council housing development. Nothing was decided, I hasten to add, but at next week’s meeting we’ll be voting on the sites for selection. Point is, Norman, will the council bid for that particular land, or will the idea be vetoed? Let’s look at it objectively.

  ‘Vine Estates agrees to carry out a renovation exercise on the Ironmonger Street houses. The council committee then abandon plans to include the Jubilee Dwellings site for future house building, and we all come out of this with our credibility intact. I say we, because my credibility is at stake. I’ve been put up to champion the Ironmonger Street tenants’ cause. They’ll be looking to me for a result.’

  Norman Wallburton suddenly felt that his options were being squeezed. ‘Suppose Vine Estates decides to defer the repairs, Frank?’ he said. ‘Suppose we decide to compete with the council for the land?’

  Frank Salmon’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a grin. ‘Let’s talk about Mr Knight for a minute or two. Basil Knight owns the lead mills in Crown Street. He also owns the foundry in Dockhead and a saw mill down in Rotherhithe. Talk to his employees about their wages and conditions of work and you’ll find out that Mr Knight is about as popular with his work force as a boil on the arse. He’s not too popular with the unions either, nor the council Labour group. The man is a Midas and a skinflint.’

  ‘I’m not with you, Frank,’ the estate manager said frowning.

  ‘All right then, let’s talk about one of your major shareholders, Miss Audrey Kenwood. The shares are registered in her maiden name. Audrey Kenwood happens to be Mrs Basil Knight.’

  The estate manager’s mouth hung open and his eyes popped.

  ‘That’s right, Norman. I think we can draw our own conclusions,’ Frank Salmon went on. ‘If the local rag gets hold of that tit-bit they’ll have a field day. What’s more, the council would fight tooth and nail to obtain that site if it becomes general knowledge that Basil Knight might well be pulling the strings at Vine Estates. As for those houses in Ironmonger Street, one or two of our radicals on the council might even set the ball rolling for a slum clearance order just to get at Basil Knight. As I said, Norman, those lodge meetings of mine are very informative.’

  The portly estate manager had sagged in his chair. ‘Tell me, Frank. Do you think you can operate a veto at the next meeting?’

  ‘No problem at all, Norman. There are certain other members of the committee who belong to my lodge. All I need from you is a promise
that you’ll start repairs, and a letter of intent when I give you a written assurance that the site is safe. How does that sound?’

  ‘I need to take your offer to the board, Frank. I don’t envisage any problems.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would, Norman,’ the councillor grinned.

  Chapter Twenty

  Spring gave way to a hot dry summer and in the backstreets of Bermondsey the stench from the drains mingled with the reek of the tanneries and the sour smells from the local vinegar factory. In the Tower Bridge Road market, fruit and vegetable stalls were piled high with produce, and the smells mingled with the sweet aroma of cakes from the bakery and the meaty odour coming from the pie shop. Behind the market a sweet, scented smell from the jam factory drifted through the backstreets as another consignment of Seville oranges went into the giant presses. Further along the Tower Bridge Road the air began to carry a hint of sour river mud from the Thames and the sharp, peppery tang of ripened hops as they were transported to the brewery, an ancient establishment that sprawled alongside the waterfront. In Tooley Street a myriad different flavours came from the docks and wharves as various commodities were transferred from small freighters and flatbottom barges into the warehouses and on to lorries and carts. Impatient car-men cursed the sweating dockers and stevedores, while weary horses pulled against the shafts as whips cracked over their backs. Amongst the drab buildings, dingy railway arches and tumbledown streets of Bermondsey, there was an intense, feverish activity.

  In Ironmonger Street, the recent renovation of the terraced houses caused much comment amongst both tenants and gossips. In the Horseshoe public house two elderly regulars were expounding on the subject.

  ‘I don’t know about you, Bill, but I reckon the lan’lords got a right kick up the arse. Let’s face it, those ’ouses was fallin’ down. They ’ad ter do somefink.’