Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  ‘Well, if the people didn’t stop their rents, Terry, the lan’lords would ’ave let the ’ouses fall down, that’s what I say.’

  ‘That’s right, Bill. After all, they couldn’t chuck ’em all out fer not payin’ the rent, could they?’

  ‘Maybe not, but I fink there’s more to it than meets the eye. I reckon the tenants ’ave got a shock comin’.’

  ‘What, yer mean they’ll put the rents up?’

  ‘That’s right, Tel. The bastards’ll get their money back some way.’

  Terry sucked on his unlit pipe and glanced up at the landlord of the Horseshoe. ‘It’s jus’ like ’im,’ he said, jerking his thumb at the bar counter. ‘’E sticks a bit o’ shitty wallpaper up an’ gives the place a lick o’ paint. Then ’e gets a few new chairs in, tarts up the gaff, an’ what does ’e do next? Puts a penny on a pint. Bloody skinflint. I dunno why we drink ’ere, Bill.’

  ‘I tell yer why we drink ’ere, Tel. When we get pissed we can fall out of ’ere an’ straight in our front doors, that’s why.’

  The victorious rent strike committee was discussing the recently completed renovation.

  ‘Well at least the rain won’t come in now, George.’

  The old man nodded as he filled his stained clay pipe. ‘Yeah that’s right, Joe. We showed ’em, didn’t we?’

  Mary had just finished putting her youngest to bed and was studying a knitting pattern. ‘All I ’ope is, the bleeders don’t up the rents,’ she said.

  Joe picked up the chipped china mug and took a swig of his tea. ‘Well accordin’ ter ole Frank Salmon, we ain’t gotta worry about that. ’E reckons providin’ the arrears gets paid up we’re okay. Mind you though, they’ll ’ave a problem gettin’ the back rent from the Toomeys, that’s fer sure.’

  ‘They’ll ’ave ter send Lill out on the game,’ George piped in.

  ‘Well all I can say is, I ’ope she ’as more luck this time. Remember the turn out wiv Danny Mulligan?’ Mary laughed.

  Connie Morgan had left the Armitage factory and started work at a leather firm in the Tower Bridge Road. Brockway and Sons was busy on a government contract and quite a few of the locals had managed to get work there. Connie found the job interesting. She was moved around the factory, working as a stitcher, gluer and cutter, and packer, which she liked best of all. The girls were a friendly bunch, mostly about her own age and she felt happy. She and Robert usually went out twice a week, sometimes to see a film, or if the weather was nice they would take long walks and occasionally visit a restaurant for an evening meal, and she continued to spend her weekends at his flat. Although she was not yet eighteen, Connie now had the body of a mature woman; she was full-breasted, with shapely hips and long, slender legs. Her blond hair shone and her pale-blue eyes sparkled with happiness and good health. Her impish sense of humour had endeared her to the rest of the girls at the factory, and she was always being asked to accompany them to parties and various other events. Most of the time Connie declined their offers with as much grace as possible. The girls knew of her relationship with Robert and secretly envied her. Often he would meet her from work and, as they walked off arm in arm, Connie felt a warm glow inside as she noticed the other girls’ envious glances and heard their bawdy remarks.

  The summer days continued to remain hot and dry, with only the occasional shower of rain. Connie’s quest for information about her mother’s past had reached a dead end. She had had a conversation with her Aunt Helen, who was surprised to learn that there had been some sort of trouble at the firm’s outing.

  ‘Well as far as I can remember, yer mum never told me anyfing about it, Con. As a matter o’ fact I didn’t see very much of ’er at that time. She was always out an’ about.’

  When Connie showed her the photos of the outing, Helen studied them and identified certain people. She was apprehensive about Connie approaching them, however.

  ‘Yer can’t go askin’ questions ter the likes of Joe Cooper and Mary Brown, can yer?’ she asked. ‘They’re neighbours. Yer wouldn’t want them knowin’ all yer business. That’s Joyce Spinks standin’ be’ind yer muvver, Con. She still works at the firm an’ she’s bound ter talk if yer ask ’er awkward questions. It’s difficult. I don’t know ’ow yer gonna get round it. I mean, yer jus’ can’t go up ter people an’ say, “What ’appened ter me mum at the outing?” Not unless yer prepared ter tell ’em about the money. The only person in that photo yer could ask is ’er there,’ Helen said, pointing to a grinning, plump-faced woman standing in the background. ‘That’s Norma Cantwell. She was yer muvver’s best friend fer years. In fact I know they used ter go out quite a lot tergevver. I fink they shared a few blokes as well. Trouble is, I don’t know what ’appened to ’er. I remember yer mum sayin’ Norma left the firm ter get married. Gawd knows where she is now. She might even be dead fer all we know.’

  Connie had agreed that it was out of the question to ask any of the neighbours. She felt frustrated that there was nothing else she could do, and she hoped that some time in the future she might be in a position to find out the whereabouts of Norma Cantwell.

  The days grew shorter as the summer passed, and in September an international crisis flared up. Hitler had turned his attentions towards Czechoslovakia. War now seemed very probable and the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain flew out to Munich to see the German dictator. The ensuing flurry of political activity was viewed with growing concern and a special meeting was called in the Horseshoe.

  The pint at Terry’s elbow was forgotten as he laboured the point. ‘But yer can’t go on chasin’ back an’ forwards after that bloody second-rate paper-’anger. It ain’t dignified. All it is is bloody appeasement. What ole Chamberlain should be doin’ is layin’ the law down, instead of dashin’ around like a tit in a trance kissin’ ’Itler’s arse. I mean, look what’s goin’ on ’ere while the silly bleeder’s back an’ forth. There’s barrage balloons goin’ up an’ down in the sky like Punch an’ Judy. There’s shelters goin’ up, an’ san’bags everywhere yer look. They’ve mobilised the ARP, an’ what’s more, they’re diggin’ trenches in the bleedin’ parks. Bloody nice, ain’t it?’

  Bill nodded sadly and picked up his pint. ‘I fink yer right, Tel. They’re talkin’ about evacuatin’ the women an’ children now. Did yer see it in the paper last night? Bloody scand’lous. I dunno about ’ang the Kaiser. They should ’ave strung ole Schickelgruber up before ’e got too big fer ’is boots.’

  Terry watched as his partner gulped at his pint and he took a swig from his. ‘It makes yer fink, Bill,’ he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I see they’re settin’ up all these air-raid shelters in factories an’ ware’ouses. I wonder if they’ll set one up in Courages’ brewery?’

  At Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park there were angry scenes as the subject of Czechoslovakia was debated. Many people felt that the Czechs were being sold out by Britain, and others argued that it was not realistic to get into a war over a small country which most people knew nothing about. Tempers rose and fists flew as large crowds gathered to hear the speakers. One particular orator remained impassive throughout as he announced to a motley crowd that ‘The end was nigh’.

  ‘Yer’ve bin sayin’ that fer years,’ screamed a scruffy looking individual in a grubby white mackintosh.

  The speaker was not to be put off. ‘Seek redemption, friend, or you’ll perish in the fires of hell.’

  ‘Perish yerself, yer bloody idiot,’ the scruffy one growled.

  ‘Take up the Scriptures, my friend. Study the word of the Lord.’

  ‘I ain’t yer friend,’ the heckler screamed out.

  ‘Go on, mate. You tell ’im,’ someone shouted.

  The scruffy man was becoming heated and his feet did a nervous shuffle. ‘I’ve studied the Bible. I know what God said.’

  ‘Well pay heed, my friend, for the Lord said you should turn the other cheek to the aggressor.’

  ‘Oh no ’E didn’t. God said yer take an eye fer
an eye. That’s what ’E said.’

  ‘An’ a nay for a nay,’ shouted Paddy McGuinness.

  The orator gave the big Irishman a withering look. ‘You’re mocking the Scriptures, Paddy. I hope your priest forgives you.’

  ‘Heavens above!’ Paddy cried out, with mock seriousness. ‘I’m with you, sor. The end is nigh, I grant yer. Now listen ter Paddy McGuinness me lads. We’ll never witness the end. It’ll come like a thief in the night. It’ll take us in our beds. ’Tis the truth I tell yerse.’

  ‘Go an’ boil yer socks, yer bloody maniac,’ someone shouted.

  The scruffy man in the white mackintosh had heard enough. With some of his thunder stolen he departed to heckle another speaker. Paddy meanwhile took out his battered timepiece and consulted it. Realising that the pubs had opened and it was high time for a pint of Guinness he, too, departed, allowing the meeting to return to sensible debate.

  In the backstreets of Bermondsey life went on as usual, but now everyone seemed to be more inclined to chat on their doorsteps. Children still played out on the cobblestones and chalked on the pavements. Young lads chopped up apple boxes and sold the splintered sticks at front doors. Young girls skipped in and out of a turning rope and made up songs to dance to under the watchful eye of their worried mothers and in the pubs discussions went on about the seemingly inevitable war.

  It was early September when Connie Morgan got her part-time job. She had befriended one of the girls at the leather factory, Jennie French. Jennie’s parents ran the Dolphin, a family pub in Salter Street which was situated behind the Old Kent Road. Their part-time barmaid had got herself pregnant and had left. Jennie felt that Connie would be an ideal replacement and when she approached her parents they seemed keen on the idea. Connie thought about the offer. She was struggling on her factory wages and badly needed some extra money. It would mean three nights’ work during the week, which still allowed her two evenings to see Robert. When Jennie took her friend to see her parents they were impressed. The landlord of the Dolphin was not too concerned that Connie had no knowledge of pubs and, while she waited in the bar with Jennie, he and his wife talked it over.

  ‘I’d sooner get ’em green. The old ’ands are more likely ter dip the till. Long as she’s polite ter the customers an’ serves a good measure we should be okay. We’ll soon teach ’er the trade. The only fing that worries me is ’er age. She said she’s not eighteen till November. We’ll ’ave ter be careful the brewery don’t find out.’

  Dora French gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘She looks more than eighteen ter me, Bill. Who’s ter know she’s not? I’m sure the girl won’t go blabbin’ ’er age about.’

  ‘All right, Dora. You put ’er on ’er guard an’ we’ll see ’ow she performs. You tell the girl she’s got the job. I’ve gotta change a barrel over.’

  When Neville Chamberlain returned from Munich, waving a piece of paper and declaring ‘Peace in our time’, the folk in the Bermondsey backstreets breathed a deep sigh of relief. Some folk were saddened, however. They felt that the Czechs had been betrayed and the deal with Hitler had only delayed the war. Bill and Terry were hard at it in their favourite corner of the Horseshoe.

  ‘They’ve bin done down, Tel. There’s no ovver word for it. Fancy doin’ a deal wiv that mongrel ’Itler. It’s bloody disgustin’. No, mate. We’ve sold those poor bastards down the river, an’ we’re gonna be sorry. We should ’ave learnt our lesson from the last turn out.’

  ‘Yer right, Bill. I remember years ago when old ’Arold Simpson was alive. ’E was always goin’ on about ’angin’ the Kaiser. If ’e was alive terday what would ’e be sayin’ about Adolf bloody Schickelgruber?’

  ‘Trouble is though Tel, that ’Itler ain’t nufink like yer Kaiser. ’E’s got the bulk of the German people be’ind ’im. ’E’s even promised every family out there a car in the future.’

  ‘Go on wiv yer. ’As ’e really?’

  ‘’S’right, Tel. Strike me if ’e ain’t. I read about it in the Telegraph.’

  ‘’Ow comes you bought the Telegraph? They don’t sell that paper in our paper shop.’

  ‘I didn’t buy it, yer berk. It was wrapped round a bit o’ plaice me ole woman got fer me tea. Interestin’ article though.’

  ‘Sounds a bit fishy ter me, Bill!’

  Bill ignored the quip. ‘’Ere, Tel, I was finkin’. I bet ole’Enery the Eighth is turnin’ in ’is grave, don’t you?’

  Terry’s face screwed up in puzzlement. ‘What yer talkin’ about?’

  ‘Well I mean ter say, those trenches they’re diggin’ in ’Yde Park an’ Regents Park. It’s crown property, ain’t it? It was’Enery the Eighth what made ’em royal property. ’Ow would you like it if some geezer come along an’ started diggin’ your property up?’

  Terry grinned. ‘The only park land I’ve got is me winder box, an’ me moggie digs that up every night. Mind you I’ll wring the flea-bag’s neck next time it claws up me geraniums.’

  ‘I tell yer what, mate.’

  ‘What’s that, Bill?’

  ‘All this talkin’s givin’ me a thirst. ’Oose round is it?’

  The days got shorter and winter fogs began to roll in from the river. The backstreet folk waited in for the coalman while their elder children took prams up to the Old Kent Road Gas Works for bags of coke. The local kids also scoured the area to search the roadworks. Some of the roads were being re-laid and there were often discarded tarry logs for the taking. People struggled to clear their Christmas loans and the shops began to put up their festive decorations. Seasonal work meant that many folk who had been unemployed throughout the year managed to get a job. One of the lucky ones was Matthew Bartlett, who found a job as a factory labourer with a manufacturing tailors in Tooley Street. The firm had secured a government contract for military uniforms and needed more workers. It was not the type of work he was used to but Matthew was getting desperate. His earnings at the East End market had been a pittance and the lack of money was a major cause of tension in the Bartlett household. Luckily, Molly had also managed to get a job through the labour exchange. She was employed as an assembler of electrical components at a small factory in the Old Kent Road. The work was tedious but there were other young girls with physical disabilities working alongside her, and it made Molly feel less miserable. Helen had recovered enough to return to her early morning cleaning, and she felt happier than she had been all year.

  Connie had celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a night up West. Robert had taken her to see a film and then they had visited a little restaurant in Dean Street for supper. For a present he had given her a tiny gold locket and chain. The evening had been romantic and he had been very attentive. They had returned to his flat in Great Dover Street and during their conversation he had let slip something which caused Connie considerable anxiety. They had been chatting happily when Robert mentioned his university days.

  ‘There was always something going on at the college,’ he said. ‘I got involved with a crowd who were mad on flying. They used to take lessons and I became interested. In fact I did some flying myself. We all used to go to an airfield at weekends, weather permitting, to do a few sorties. I never progressed very far. I mean, I didn’t go solo. Then it was the exams, and back to the family and the business. If war had been declared I suppose it would have been the RAF for me, Con.’

  ‘S’posin’ there is a war, Robert? Lots o’ people still fink it’ll come ter that.’

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,’ he said grinning. ‘There’ll be no war, believe me.’

  Connie wanted to believe him, but she felt deep down inside that her happiness would somehow not last. It was a feeling that constantly attacked her insides and sent shivers running through her whole body. Only when she was in his arms did she feel totally secure. His caresses took the ache away and she drew new strength from his presence. When she was alone again, she worried about the future, and of one day losing him.

  The r
ecent war crisis had been affecting the Cooper household. Joe’s wife Sadie had made it clear that if there was a war she would not stay in London.

  ‘I couldn’t stand it,’ she groaned. ‘I’d sooner kill meself.’

  ‘Don’t talk stupid,’ Joe retorted. ‘You’d ’ave ter put up wiv it jus’ like everybody else.’

  ‘It’s all right fer you, Joe. I’m stuck in this chair. ’Ow could I manage?’

  ‘Yer manage now, don’t yer?’

  ‘No fanks ter you. If it wasn’t fer Cousin Constance I don’t know what I’d do,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Yer never’ere. If it’s not one fing it’s anuvver. Yer always dashin’ off ter bloody meetin’s. Yer never give a thought ter me. I could be dyin’. It wouldn’t make any difference. Yer’d still go off ter yer bloody meetin’s.’

  Joe puffed out his cheeks and got on with polishing his boots. It was better to ignore her outbursts, he thought. As long as she paid heed to that cousin of hers he’d be wasting his time trying to reason with her. Constance was an embittered, wicked woman who had ruined her own life by her nasty attitude. Her husband had run off with someone else and she had taken to unburdening herself on Sadie. She was always around, he mused. She had grown to hate all men and seized any opportunity to poison her cousin’s mind against him. Sadie could not understand that it was Constance who was driving him out of the house. He could not bear to be in the same room as the woman. The trouble is, Sadie won’t have a word said against her, he thought ruefully.

  ‘Me sister Rosie said I could go an’ stay wiv ’er if the’vacuation starts,’ Sadie went on.

  ‘There’s not gonna be any evacuation now,’ Joe replied.

  ‘Well if it does all blow up again, I’m off. Yer’ll ’ave ter look after yerself. I couldn’t stand it ’ere,’ she moaned.