Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  ‘Go on, I dare yer.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘Go on then, look frew the letter box.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘What yer scared of, ghosts?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Bet yer scared of ole Wider Pacey. She goes in there an’ sleeps in a coffin.’

  ‘I’m not scared o’ nufink. I’ll look frew the letter box.’

  Two little lads walked boldly up to the shop and one peered gingerly into the dark, dank interior. ‘Cor! It looks like a skelinton in there. You ’ave a look.’

  ‘No fanks. I can’t stan’ skelintons.’

  ‘Skelintons can’t ’urt yer. They’re only rattly ole bones.’

  ‘Ghosts can. Jimmy Brown said there’s a ghost livin’ in there.’

  ‘C’mon then, let’s try an’ bump in the Trocette. It’s better than searchin’ fer ghosts an’ fings.’

  Connie had gone to Waterloo Station with Robert on Monday morning. She found the parting very hard. On previous occasions when they had said goodbye she knew it would only be a matter of time before they were united again, but this time Robert was going away to join a fighter squadron. She realised she might never see him again and, as he left, she tried to burn the moment into her anxious mind. He seemed relaxed, almost debonair as he took her to him, kissed her gently on the mouth and then climbed aboard the early train. He was wearing his cap at a jaunty angle and his fair hair was brushed back, partially covering his ears. His pale blue eyes were smiling calmly at her, mocking her anxiety as the train moved slowly away from the platform. She turned and said a silent prayer as she walked back to the main concourse, her mind trying desperately to record for ever his expression and his whispered words of love. Connie suddenly felt very alone and frightened. She wondered what the future held, and what might have been had she never met him. Her thoughts turned to Michael Donovan and how surprised she was when she had seen him in the Tower Bridge Road last Christmas Eve. It was the first time she had set eyes on him since they had parted in anger. She recalled her confused feelings on seeing him. In the space of a moment memories of their happy times together and how they had turned bitter had been brought back to her. She had been very surprised when she learned that Michael was married. It must have been a whirlwind romance, she thought, but they seemed suited to each other and she hoped for Michael’s sake that they would be happy.

  That same evening Connie talked with Helen. Her aunt was visibly shocked on learning the truth about her sister. She was also hurt that Kate had not taken her into her confidence.

  ‘That’s the way she was, girl. Your mum kept too much to’erself. We could ’ave all rallied round if she’d ’ave bin more open wiv us all. It’s what families are for. You remember what I was sayin’ ter yer, Con. Don’t yer leave us out in the cold, child.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Aunt. You, Matt and Molly are the only family I’ve got. I shan’t ferget.’

  Helen smiled briefly and then her face became serious. ‘Whatever possessed that Gerald to attack yer mum the way ’e did? It must ’ave bin the drink. Some men are like that when they’re boozed.’

  Connie was reminded of her own experience when Michael had come near to hitting her. ‘Robert said that Gerald’s marriage was in a bad way. I s’pose it didn’t ’elp any.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for what ’e done, Connie.’

  The young girl sat in silence for a while. ‘Auntie,’ she said finally. ‘I didn’t see any document from the factory when we sorted through mum’s fings. I wonder what become of it?’

  ‘Well it must be somewhere. Yer mum wouldn’t ’ave left it wiv anybody else, would she? Are yer sure it’s not in the back of a cupboard or in a drawer?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘I’ve searched everywhere. It’s nowhere ter be seen.’

  ‘Maybe yer’ll come across it, Con. I’ve got nufink ’ere of yer mum’s.’

  The young woman pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I was finkin’ the ovver night, Aunt. What ’appened ter mum’s gold locket? I never saw ’er wivvout it, unless it was at the pawnshop.’

  Helen stared down at her clasped hands. ‘It went wiv ’er,’ she said quietly. ‘She thought the world of that locket. I thought it best if it was buried wiv ’er.’

  Connie reached out and touched her aunt’s hands. ‘Yer did right. She would ’ave wanted it that way, I bet,’ she said gently.

  The long summer days wore on with the fear of an invasion ever present in people’s minds. Church bells were now silent on Sunday mornings and folk dreaded to hear them while the war lasted, for they knew that if they did it would not be a call to worship, but a call to arms against an aerial invader. There was also a stark reminder of how hideous the war might become: tops of pillar boxes were painted a yellowish green, and the colour would change should the paint be exposed to poison gas. People carried their gas masks around with them everywhere, and posters were on display all over, warning of what to do in case of gas attacks. More young men were called up and their jobs were often filled by women. Many Bermondsey men were employed at the docks and wharves and were excused from registering for military service, but there were men in their early thirties and forties who waited anxiously for their turn to come.

  Toby Toomey was in his mid fifties but that didn’t stop his wife from worrying.

  ‘’Ere, Lil, ’ave yer seen this?’ Marie asked, handing a copy of the Daily Mirror to her daughter. ‘It ses ’ere that older men will ’ave ter register in the near future.’

  ‘Dad won’t ’ave ter go, will ’e, Mum?’

  ‘’E might ’ave to, later. Fings ain’t lookin’ too good.’

  Lillian laughed. ‘Imagine Dad in a uniform – an’ wiv a rifle. Gawd! ’E’d be shootin’ ’is mates instead of the Germans.’

  Marie hid her grin. Toby could not be trusted with a pram, let alone a lethal weapon! she thought. Even the magistrate had said he was a danger to other road users when he had fined him twenty shillings after that incident with the copper. If they called him up and gave him a gun he’d be a menace to the whole British army. Toby was worried himself, but it was not over being conscripted. Most of the scrap metal was being collected for the war effort and his only source of income at the moment was from bundles of old newspapers and rags. He had considered at one time hiring a barrow and branching out into bottles and bones. Old Jerry seemed to do all right out of it. Trouble was, a barrow was heavier to push than a pram, and the smell of old bones wasn’t exactly pleasant. Then there were the flies. They didn’t seem to bother old Jerry, but then nothing ever did. Maybe it would be better to conveniently lose the pram the next time around and go into war work? Maybe they’d send him to the north of England, or even Scotland. At least it would be a change not to be on the receiving end of Marie’s rough tongue when he stacked his papers and rags in the backyard. Better still, he could volunteer to be a full-time air-raid warden. Just imagine walking the streets in a tin hat and keeping an eye on the blackout!

  ‘Oi you! Put that light out! D’yer want me ter report yer? – Sorry Mr Toomey, sir. It won’t ’appen again, honest. – Well all right, but I’ll be keepin’ an eye on yer, just in case. – Fank yer, Mr Toomey. Fank yer, sir.’

  Toby’s stern voice carried in from the backyard and Marie shook her head sadly. The man’s losing his marbles, she told herself.

  ‘Is that you talkin’ ter yerself again, Toby?’ she shouted out.

  ‘I was jus’ readin’ out loud, luv,’ he answered grimacing.

  ‘Well get them papers bundled up instead of readin’ ’em. We ain’t paid no bleedin’ rent again this week.’

  In the middle of August the Battle of Britain was raging in the skies. Daily newspapers carried reports of heroic action and mounting losses. Hurricanes and Spitfires roared off from fighter stations in Kent and Sussex to meet the German air armadas and people watched as tracer trails scarred the clear blue sky. Along the coast folk could see
planes fall into the sea and crash into the rolling green downs. They would see an occasional billow of white as a pilot escaped from his stricken aircraft and floated down beneath a mushroom of silk. News placards carried reports of the losses on both sides as though they were scores in a game. Everyone was filled with a strange excitement, as they knew that the battle was a fight for their very survival. If the battle was lost then an all-out invasion would be inevitable. Pubs were packed each evening and people pored over the latest newspaper stories and headline banners. In the Dolphin the piano was sounding loudly as a happy Tubby Jackson banged down heavily on the ivories. His son Joey had been plucked from the beaches unharmed. For Mrs Argrieves however, the news had been bad. Her son Billy was lying seriously injured in a military hospital. And for Connie the days and nights were fraught with uncertainty and fear. There had been no news of Robert since his last letter the day before the battle started. However, there was news of a local lad who was serving on a destroyer in the North Atlantic and it was tucked away inside the Saturday evening edition of the Star.

  ‘’Ere, Dora. You seen this?’ the landlord of the Dolphin called out.

  ‘What’s that, Bill?’

  ‘It ses ’ere a local lad’s won a medal. Listen ter this. “Able Seaman Michael Donovan of Bermon’sey ’as bin awarded the DSM fer bravery at sea.” It ses, “Able Seaman Donovan stayed at ’is post despite bein’ wounded an’ ’elped ter save a badly wounded comrade while under fire.” Fancy that.’

  Connie’s ears picked up at the mention of Michael’s name. ‘Does it say if ’e’s okay, Bill?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Doesn’t say, Con. Why, d’yer know ’im?’

  ‘I used ter work wiv ’im a long time ago,’ she answered.

  The battle of Britain continued to rage and still there was no news of Robert. Late on Saturday evening Connie walked home feeling worried. She let herself into her flat and pulled the blackout curtains before lighting the gaslamp. Later, when she sat sipping her tea she noticed the lighter square patch on the grubby wallpaper. Puzzled, she got up and went over to look more closely. She saw that a picture she had hardly ever noticed had fallen from the wall and was wedged behind the sideboard. As she retrieved it Connie saw that the glass was broken. She spread out a sheet of newspaper on the table and gently eased out the larger pieces of glass. The sepia photograph in the ebony frame was of her mother as a young child. She wore a white dress that was buttoned high in the neck and she was standing beside a jardiniere which held a sorry-looking aspidistra. For a while Connie stared at the photograph and then she turned the frame over. The dusty string was till intact. She walked over to the wall and saw the large nail was also still in place. There seemed to be no reason why the picture should have fallen from the wall, and she shivered as she stared down at the back of the picture. A square of thin cardboard had been placed over the back of the frame and was held by a drawing pin in each corner. Connie could see that the picture backing had been dislodged by the fall and a piece of white paper was protruding from one edge of the cardboard. Carefully she prised the pins away and lifted the backing. ‘July 30th, 1923’ was written in faded pencil at one corner of the folded sheet of paper. She opened it up and sat down beneath the gaslamp. It was the agreement, worded just as Robert had described and signed in a flourishing style by George Armitage and by the small, neat hand of Kate Morgan. The two signatures were side by side, and beneath the words ‘in the presence of’ was the signature of Fran Collins.

  Connie heard the clock chime one and then two, but sleep would not come. She could not understand why the picture frame should have fallen from the wall and thoughts rushed through her mind as she lay staring up at the dark ceiling. It seemed to her almost as though her mother was there in the room with her, and she felt strangely calm and rested. Connie remembered it was only a few weeks ago that she had given up all hope of finding out about the money, and now she knew. Then there was the document. She had searched high and low without success and now the paper lay on the chair beside her bed. She could sense a growing kinship with her dead mother, a kinship she had yearned and prayed for but had never found during her mother’s lifetime. Connie had tried for hours to work out how the picture could have fallen, but now it seemed unimportant. She knew with a profound certainty that she had been somehow destined to follow the path she was now treading. She remembered experiencing the feeling once before when she had first set out to meet Robert. The realisation did not frighten her, and she turned over on to her side and buried her head in the cool pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The sun’s rays lit the room and Connie stirred. She realised she had slept late, and she was about to leap out of bed when she remembered it was Sunday morning. The sound of the street children carried up to the quiet room and she heard the vendor’s cry as he pushed his barrow laden with shrimps and winkles into the turning. Connie turned over and stretched. She had promised to go down to the Bartletts’ flat for breakfast that morning and the clock showed fifteen minutes past nine. She got up and washed at the scullery tap. The cold water took the remaining tiredness away and it was not long before she was tapping on the door of the flat below. As soon as Molly opened the door the appetising smell of bacon frying reached her. The front-room table was laid for breakfast and a low fire burnt in the grate against the morning chill.

  Helen came into the room smiling. ‘Take yerself a seat, Con. Breakfast won’t be long.’

  Connie sat down at the table facing her cousin. ‘’Ow are yer, Molly?’

  Her flat round face broke into a cheerful smile. ‘Guess what, Con?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m gettin’ promotion! I’ve bin put on inspections an’ it means five shillin’s a week extra.’

  ‘That’s smashin’! What’s inspections?’

  Connie’s cousin laid her short thick hands on the blue checked tablecloth. ‘Well yer see, when the resistors an’ condensers are soldered in place I’ve gotta check ’em wiv a special meter. It’s a responsible job but our forelady finks I’m pretty reliable.’

  ‘So yer are,’ Connie said with emphasis. ‘Yer’ll be forelady next!’

  Helen came in carrying a large dish full of fried rashers which she shared out on the four plates. Matthew followed her in with a flat tray. ‘Make way fer the chef,’ he grinned, sliding a ladle under a lightly fried egg.

  Soon the four were sitting around the table to a breakfast of eggs, bacon and tomatoes. Helen held the loaf of bread against her as she neatly cut thick slices and passed them around. Matthew opened a packet of margarine and spread a thick coating on his slice.

  ‘What d’yer fink of our Molly gettin’ a rise, Con?’ he said, cutting his slice in half and dipping one piece into his soft egg.

  ‘Molly jus’ told me, Matt. ’Ow much ’as she gotta give up out o’ the rise, four an’ sixpence?’ Connie joked.

  Helen laughed. ‘We’ve told ’er ter start a savin’s book. If she saves all ’er rise fer a year she could end up bein’ a moneylender.’

  Matthew got up and took the large china teapot from the hearth. As he filled the cups Connie looked around at the family. They were relaxed and happy. Helen had a little colour in her cheeks and Molly looked cheerful. Matthew joked a little as he poured the tea and when he spilled a little on the clean tablecloth Helen tapped his hand playfully. Connie felt happy for them. They had experienced some bad times and now things seemed to be looking up.

  After the meal was finished Connie helped her aunt to do the washing up while Matthew and Molly took a morning stroll to the paper shop. While they were alone Connie took the opportunity to show Helen the document.

  ‘I was cleaning the picture and it slipped out of me ’ands,’ she lied, aware of her aunt’s superstitious nature. ‘That’s ’ow I found it.’

  Helen wiped her hands on a towel and put on her glasses. ‘Well I’ll be!’ she exclaimed. ‘Fancy ole Fran bein’ a witness.’

  Connie stared at Helen
. ‘Why Fran Collins, Aunt?’

  ‘Ole Fran was the one who ’eld yer by yer ankles an’ smacked the breath o’ life inter yer, Connie. ’Alf the muvvers in this street ’ad Fran Collins ter fank fer deliverin’ their kids. I can understand why yer mum picked ’er ter be a witness.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the lady they ’ad the big funeral for, Aunt’Elen?’

  ‘That’s right, luv. When ole Fran was buried all the street turned out. She was a lovely lady. Most of the women round’ere didn’t ’ave two pennies ter rub tergevver. They couldn’t afford a doctor so they called on ole Fran Collins. She knew’er job too. They wasn’t always easy births. Lots o’ mums worked till the last minute an’ sometimes the ’eavy liftin’ they done got the baby’s cord twisted. Ole Fran ’andled plenty o’ them cases. People paid ’er, but most often she ’ad ter wait months fer the money. Fran never complained though, and when she passed away everybody lined the street ter pay their respects. Quite a few of those mourners still owed ’er a few bob, I’ll be bound.’

  Towards the end of August ports and airfields in Southern England were being bombed, and wireless bulletins reported scattered raids on Midland towns. German bombers even reached the eastern suburbs of London and the Bermondsey folk held their breath. Everyone knew how important the docks and wharves were, as well as the rail networks and freight yards. They were all obvious targets and people knew that it was only a matter of time before the onslaught began. Anti-aircraft guns were positioned in Southwark Park and on suitable open spaces near the River Thames. Cars and vans were commandeered and adapted for carrying stretchers, and all first-aid and wardens’ posts were on a constant alert. The summer sky over the centre of London remained peaceful and, high above dockland, barrage balloons floated gently in the breeze at the end of their steel hawsers. In the look-out posts, nervous eyes stared downriver for the first signs of aircraft, but only seagulls drifted and wheeled above the moving cranes and turning tides.