Ironmonger's Daughter Page 25

  ‘’Ello, Lil. What yer doin’ down ’ere?’

  ‘’Ello, Bel. I’m slummin’ again. Fings are quiet in Bermon’sey. I’m lookin’ fer a nice big seaman wiv a pocket full o’ dosh.’

  Bella laughed aloud. ‘’Ere. See that big geezer over by the pianer? I went wiv ’im last night. ’E’s a Swede. Go on, give ’im a pull. I’ve jus’ tried me luck again ternight but I fink ’e likes new faces.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Lillian said, grinning. ‘I don’t mind a big-un but ’e looks like King Kong.’

  ‘Don’t worry about ’im, Lil. ’E’s a babe. I took ’im ’ome last night an’ told ’im ’ow much I charge, an’ yer know what? ’E give me an extra couple o’ quid jus’ ter tiggle ’is toes. I tell yer, Lil, I’ve bin asked ter do some weird fings in me time, but that topped it all.’

  Lillian took out a small mirror from her handbag and studied her face. ‘What’s ’is name, Bel?’ she asked.

  ‘’E’s called Sven. Go on, Lil, try yer luck.’

  The big Swede was standing apart from his noisy countrymen, his round face impassive as he stared into space and his massive hand clamped around a pint glass.

  ‘’E looks pissed, Bel,’ the Toomey girl remarked.

  ‘’E’s okay. That’s ’is natural look. Go on, chat ’im up then. Yer better ’urry up if yer goin’ to. Fat Sara’s got ’er eyes on’im,’ Bella whispered, nodding towards the counter.

  Lillian glanced over and saw the big woman standing with her back to the counter and one foot resting on the brass rail. ‘She still about, Bel? I thought she retired years ago.’

  ‘She did,’ Bella replied. ‘’Er ole man’s turned pimp. ’E’s put’er out again.’

  Lillian had caught the Swede’s eye and she gave him one of her seductive smiles. He smiled back, displaying gold front teeth. Winking at her friend, the Toomey girl sauntered over to him and said in a low voice, ‘’Ello, Sven. Gonna buy me a drink, then?’

  His large blue eyes widened and he took a fistful of notes from his coat pocket. ‘Ja. Drink. You fetch, eh?’

  Lillian took a pound note from the screwed up wad and turned to see Fat Sara blocking the way to the counter. ‘What yer doin’ round ’ere, Toomey? Out o’ yer manor, ain’t yer?’

  Lillian smiled sweetly at her rival. ‘It’s a free country, Sara. I’m toutin’ fer a bit o’ business.’

  ‘Not in ’ere yer don’t,’ Sara growled, her eyes flashing.

  ‘Why, you got the monopoly then?’ Lillian replied, hands on hips.

  Fat Sara prodded the Toomey girl in the chest with a fleshy forefinger. ‘Listen, darlin’. Me an’ the girls from Riverside Street work this patch. We ain’t gonna stan’ by an’ see business snatched from under our noses. Not by a skinny prat like you, so piss orf an’ get yer business somewhere’s else.’

  Lillian made a grab for the prodding finger and bit on it. Sara gave out a yell and thumped her rival in the eye with her clenched fist. Lillian staggered back and fell into the arms of the big Swede.

  ‘You get drink, ja?’ he grinned.

  ‘Oh, no, she won’t!’ screamed Fat Sara, shaping up with her fists.

  Lillian lunged forward and grabbed at the woman’s long dark hair. Customers backed away and a loud voice shouted out from behind the counter. ‘No fightin’ in ’ere, girls! Outside fer punch-ups!’

  The two women had fallen to the floor in a scratching, screaming heap. Sara was under the lighter contestant and was getting the worse of the exchange. Lillian had grabbed her rival’s ears and was pummelling her head on the bare floorboards. They were finally separated by the Swede who grabbed the back of Lillian’s coat and hoisted her up like a baby. Fat Sara saw her chance as she struggled to her feet.

  ‘I’ll kill the whore! Let me at ’er!’ she screamed, rushing forward.

  Sven was ready and with his massive hand held out he stopped Sara in her tracks and shoved her backwards against the counter. Sara’s scrawny looking pimp rushed across with a beer bottle held up in his fist. He tried to bring the bottle down on the Swede’s head but he was stopped by two large seamen who grabbed him and threw him bodily over the counter. There was a sound of breaking glass and then the cross-eyed pimp’s bloodied head appeared from behind the bar. A few young dockers jumped into the fray and suddenly the whole public bar of the Windjammer was filled with a fighting, sprawling mass of bodies. The landlord and his helpers tried desperately to break up the brawl, only to be engulfed in flailing fists, bar stools and any other object that came to hand. As customers hurried for the door they were confronted by a saintly looking lady in a blue bonnet who held a collection box in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other.

  ‘Get your copy of God’s paper,’ the lady called out, holding up the War Cry.

  A body came spinning out through the open door and landed in a heap in the gutter. The man picked himself up painfully and staggered back into the fray. A tall, elderly man wearing the Salvation Army uniform took the paper-seller by the arm and pulled her away from the door.

  ‘I think the customers are previously engaged, Matilda. We should perhaps try the saloon bar, don’t you think?’

  Lillian had managed to disentangle herself and she staggered out into the night air. The street lamps seemed to spin above her and as she tried to focus her one good eye she fell against the wall of the pub. When she had composed herself a little she walked unsteadily away in the direction of Bermondsey. She had only gone a short distance when the sound of heavy footsteps grew louder behind her. ‘You wait, ja?’ a booming voice called out.

  Lillian turned and saw the dishevelled Swede hurrying towards her. His shirt was torn and he had a thin line of dried blood on the side of his face. The large man beamed at her.

  ‘You come have drink on my ship. Ja?’

  She smiled at him and took his arm. ‘C’mon, Sven,’ she said. ‘Let’s go an’ tiggle yer toes. Ja?’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  During the early part of 1939 posters were pasted up everywhere, informing people of their nearest gas-mask fitting station. When the Civil Defence men arrived in the Tower Bridge Road market with the posters Solly Jacobs put down the sharp knife which he used for gutting the fish, wiped his bloodied hands down his apron and called out to Bernie Cornbloom.

  ‘Watch the stall fer ten minutes, Bernie. I fancy a pint.’

  Solly spotted Joe Cooper, who was sitting alone in the Jolly Compasses moodily contemplating his near-empty glass of ale. ‘You seen them posters what they’re puttin’ up, Joe?’ he asked.

  Joe nodded. ‘I’ve bin sittin’ ’ere finkin’ fer the last ’alf hour. It’s all gonna blow up soon, I’m sure it is. The Krauts’ave nicked Czechoslovakia, they’ve warned us that Poland’s next, an’ we’ve promised we’ll ’elp the Poles. What else d’yer expect, Solly?’

  The fishmonger walked over to the counter and returned with two pints of ale. ‘I’ve bin finkin’, Joe. I’m gonna put me name down fer the ARP.’

  Joe grinned. ‘What kept yer? I ’ad me name down last week fer the street warden’s job. They’ve told me I’ve gotta be in charge o’ the shelter.’

  ‘What shelter?’ Solly asked, scratching the side of his face.

  ‘Why, the one they’re buildin’ in the basement o’ the Armitage factory. They started last week. Yer wanna see what they’re doin’. They’ve stuck great big concrete supports under the roof an’ sandbagged the entrance up, an’ they’ve put a gas blanket over the door. Next week they’re gonna bung a toilet in, an’ a water tap. The people are likely ter move down there lock, stock an’ barrel, what wiv the state o’ the ’ouses in Ironmonger Street.’

  In July Connie Morgan took her very first holiday away from London. She left Paddington with Robert on the Cornish Riviera Express and travelled to Penzance. From there they took a taxi to Lamorna Cove, a tiny fishing hamlet a few miles from Land’s End, and booked into a small hotel high up on the rocky hill overlooking the bay. From the bedroom window
shadowed by large trees they could see the green hills which sloped down to the small sandy shore and the cold, sparkling Atlantic. The lovers had registered as Mr and Mrs Wilson and, to prevent speculation, Connie wore a thin gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. The owners of the hotel were curious nevertheless. Mrs Lampton was convinced that the couple were honeymooners.

  ‘They’re very much in love, Claude,’ she whispered to her husband. ‘They hardly take their eyes off each other, and she’s just a child.’

  ‘You’re a soppy thing, Eveline. Don’t you go indulging them now. They may be lovers wanting to escape from something or other, so leave them alone. I know how inquisitive you can be.’

  The weather stayed fine for the week, with cloudless skies and a hot sun that caused the sea to shimmer. They ran hand in hand along the sand and bathed in the sheltered cove. They took long walks up into the hills and lay together in the cool green grass. When the sun slipped down in the western sky and long shadows crept along the cove they strolled leisurely along the harbour wall and listened to the wash of the incoming tide. The lovers dallied there until the heavens turned velvet black and star patterns lit the night. They looked up at the crescent moon and their minds were serene, away from the fearful feverishness of preparation for war. They did not speak of the parting they both knew would now be inevitable, and they savoured and lived for the moment.

  When the sun rose again and peeked through the curtains of their bedroom they would get up quickly and wander back to the harbour wall and stand at a discreet distance from the local artists. They watched their brushstrokes as they slowly captured the rolling, shimmering sea, the rising grey cliffs and the many shades of green which reached up to the deep-blue sky. They ate their lunch of freshly caught crab with salad in a small café that was cut into the rocks, or they strolled down to the Smugglers Inn and took their lunch there in the company of leather-faced fishermen who sat around in small groups, discussing the weather and smoking stained clay pipes.

  At seven o’clock each evening they dined at the hotel, sitting in a window seat and glancing at each other over a vase of wild flowers. Connie sometimes looked down at the gold band around her finger and wished secretly. Robert, as though reading her thoughts, would reach out and take her hand. The evening meals were served by Eveline who missed nothing, and she would remove her matronly figure to the kitchen and speak of young love to her perspiring husband as he stood over the hot ovens and tended the steaming pots.

  Later, as the moon climbed high in the sky and the night owls hooted, the lovers lay in each other’s arms. Connie was aware of the token band around her finger as he took her to him and loved her. She felt pleasure and deep satisfaction, and with it the knowledge that whatever happened in the future, however tortuous and twisted their fate would be, she would always remember the glorious week they had spent together in that romantic Cornish cove.

  In August in the markets and pubs and workplaces the only real topic of conversation was the coming war.

  The Dolphin in Salter Street was busy one Tuesday evening. It was darts night and the visiting team from the Horse and Groom had brought quite a few supporters. Connie and Jennie were serving drinks in the public bar and during the matches the two were kept very busy. Bill French the landlord usually took Tuesday nights off and his wife Dora served alone in the saloon bar. As the evening wore on and the two teams became more excited the barmaids found little time to talk to the customers. It had grown very noisy, with cheers ringing out every time a winning dart was thrown. Regular customers got irritated as the visiting team and their supporters elbowed their way to the counter and impatiently shouted for service. Jennie was used to the hustle and bustle but Connie found it very nerve-wracking and she was glad when Dora looked in on her and suggested she should do a spell in the saloon bar where it was much quieter.

  It was nearing closing time when Connie resumed serving in the public bar. The visiting team had lost the match and most of them had left to get a last drink back at the Horse and Groom. A few remained, and one of them, an elderly man with grey hair and a thick moustache was leaning on the counter, sipping his pint of ale. Connie had become aware of his interest in her. He seemed to be watching her closely and, when she went to serve a customer next to him, he smiled at her. Connie became uneasy. He was studying her every action, and when he finished his drink and beckoned to her she felt her face flush. As she took the empty glass and pulled on the beer pump she could feel his eyes on her.

  ‘I bin watchin’ yer, luv,’ he said as Connie put down the filled glass and picked up the half crown. ‘Yer ain’t Kate Morgan’s kid, are yer?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied with surprise, looking into the man’s faded blue eyes.

  ‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed, slapping the top of the counter with a bony hand. ‘I bin clockin’ yer fer a while now. Yer the spittin’ image of yer muvver. ’Ow is she? I ain’t seen ’er fer ages.’

  ‘Me mum died two years ago,’ Connie said quietly.

  The old man’s face showed shock and he sucked his lips. ‘I’m ever so sorry, luv. I didn’t know.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Connie said, passing over his change. ‘Was you a friend of ’ers?’

  ‘I worked wiv yer mum at Armitage’s years ago,’ he said, looking down at his pint.

  ‘It must ’ave bin a long time ago. Me mum left there in 1923.’

  ‘I know,’ the man replied, taking a swig from his glass. ‘’Ow time flies. We used ter ’ave some good ole laughs at that factory.’

  ‘Did yer go on the firm’s outin’?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Yeah. What a day that was!’

  Connie leaned her elbows on the counter. ‘I remember me mum tellin’ me there was some sort o’ trouble on that outin’.’

  The old man stroked his stubbly chin. ‘I did ’ear of a bit o’ bovver, but ter tell yer the trufe I was too pissed ter remember much after dinnertime.’

  Dora called for last orders and Connie found herself busy once again. When time was called and Dora rang the bell, Connie managed to pick up her conversation with the grey-haired old man as he finished his drink.

  ‘Did yer know that woman who was me mum’s best friend?’ she asked. ‘They was always tergevver.’

  ‘Yer talkin’ about Norma Cantwell? Yeah, that was ’er name. ’Er an yer muvver was like two peas in a pod. I fink they left the firm tergevver as well.’

  Connie looked hard at the man. ‘Yer don’t know what’appened to ’er I s’pose? I fink it’s only right she should know about me mum dyin’.’

  The old man stroked his chin again. ‘Well as fer as I know, she used ter live in Birdcage Lane orf the Old Kent Road. Mind you, they’ve pulled a lot o’ that turnin’ down now.’

  ‘Fanks fer the info,’ Connie said, smiling at him. ‘If yer do get any news of ’er whereabouts, give us a look in, will yer?’

  ‘Sure fing, luv,’ he replied, buttoning up his overcoat.

  Connie watched him leave as she began to collect the empty glasses. It was a chance meeting, she thought, but somehow she must have been meant to bump into him. Now she had a lead to follow, however. She wondered whether it was time she confided in her Aunt Helen. She would be angry at being kept in the dark for so long, but the story Claudette had told her last Christmas had been something she could not bear to talk about, not even to her aunt. She hoped desperately that somehow she would be able to find this Norma Cantwell first, for she might be able to tell her what had really happened.

  Towards the end of August army reserves were being called up and an alliance pact was signed with Poland. On the first of September Warsaw was bombed as German troops marched into Poland. In the Bermondsey backstreets people took the news with calmness, even relief that the uncertainty was now over. They knew it meant war. At the Armitage factory the word went round that as they were engaged on war work the factory would be evacuated to the country.

  ‘I can’t go ter the bleedin’ country,’ Lizzie Conroy
moaned. ‘Who’s gonna get me ole man’s food?’

  ‘’E’ll find somebody ter feed ’im an’ wash ’is dirty socks, I’m sure,’ Mary Brown quipped.

  Joyce Spinks shed a few tears as she confided in Mary. ‘We ain’t gonna be ’vacuated, are we? I’d be worried about Arfur.’E can’t do a fing fer ’imself.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Joyce. They can’t ’vacuate the factory, an’ we won’t be able ter go neivver. We’ll be stuck ’ere same as usual wiv all this bloody war work ter do, you mark my words.’

  Lizzie spotted Joe Cooper coming down between the machines. ‘Oi, Joe. What’s the latest?’ she called out.

  ‘I dunno, Liz, ’cept that they’re evacuatin’ children, accordin’ ter the wireless.’

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ Lizzie gasped, putting a hand up to her mouth.

  As Friday wore on slowly the rumours were spreading fast and furiously. The sound of the pounding machines played on the workers’ frayed nerves and finally one of the machinists found it all too much. She suddenly let out a piercing scream and dashed along the gangway, her hands help up to her ashen face. Joe Cooper made a grab at her but she dodged past him and ran screaming from the factory and out along the little turning. George Baker was standing at his front door, leaning heavily on his walking-stick and he saw her dash past. The tallyman who had just reached George’s door watched her run off down the street and he looked back enquiringly at the old man.