Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  Helen shrugged her shoulders, hating Matthew probing. She had never let on to him that she knew the identity of Connie’s father. She had told him more than once that she had not been taken into Kate’s confidence but she was sure he did not believe her.

  ‘I can understand ’er bein’ reluctant, ’specially if the bloke’s married, but surely she could sort it out wiv ’im some’ow?’ Matthew persisted.

  Helen felt her temper rising. ‘Look, Matt. I don’t know if the baby’s farvver is married or not. I’ve told yer umpteen times, Kate ain’t told me anyfink. She don’t take me into ’er confidence, she never ’as. It’s only since the children were born she’s started comin’ in ter see me.’

  Matthew sipped his beer and thought for a while. ‘I wonder if it’s somebody round ’ere? From the street I mean?’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ Helen said sharply. ‘It’s none of our business. Kate’s bin out wiv a lot o’ fellers. She’s never bin interested in settlin’ down wiv one man. Mum always said she takes after our dad. ’E was always footloose, even after they was married. I honestly don’t fink Kate could settle down.’

  ‘It’s different now though,’ Matthew said, sitting up in his chair. ‘She’s got a kid ter look after. Every kid should ’ave a farvver. It’s gonna be ’ard wivout a man ter provide fer ’em.’

  Helen stared into the flickering coals. ‘My sister’s a determined woman, Matt. They’ll get by. It’ll be ’ard, but as I said, she won’t take charity. Anyway, there’s not many fellers who’d take on somebody else’s kid. The pair of’em will get by. As fer young Connie, she’ll grow up wiv ’er muvver’s stubbornness, I’m sure.’

  The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the half hour. The wind rattled the windows and a down-draught sent smoke billowing into the room. Matthew waved his arms to clear the air and Helen poked at the ash with the poker, her face sad. As long as she could remember, she had looked forward to Christmas with great excitement. She had loved helping her mother to make paper-chains and put up the decorations, she had loved the visits to the late market in Tower Bridge Road. She remembered when she was a child and had gone on those trips to the market along with her parents and Kate. She recalled the wide-eyed excitement just looking at the stalls displaying piles of fruit and nuts. She remembered the hissing Tilley lamps that bathed the stalls and barrows with a bright white light, and the special treat after the shopping was done when her parents went to the pub and she and Kate sat on the step sipping gassy lemonade that made her nose twitch, and nibbled on huge Arrowroot biscuits. The memories of those childhood Christmas times had made the festive season special – until last Christmas.

  Her joy at having a baby at the most happy time of the year for her had been snatched away the following morning, when the doctor told her that Molly would have to go to the Evelina Children’s Hospital to see a specialist. The knowledge that her baby would grow up deformed had been hard to bear. Matthew had been reduced to tears and she, too, had felt hollow and cheated. She had had to be strong for both of them. For a short time she had been terrified that her husband would reject the child, but he had, thankfully, become totally devoted to Molly once he had grown used to the idea of her deformity. For herself, the knowledge that her child would have a cross to bear for as long as she lived made her even more determined that at least Molly would have all the love it was possible for her to give. She hoped that she and Kate could become closer. It would be really nice if Molly and Connie grew up as friends as well as cousins.

  Chapter Three

  Just after Connie’s second birthday Kate got a seasonal job at the Armitage factory. Her sister looked after Connie during the day, which was an arrangement that suited Helen’s needs. It gave the two children the whole day to play together, and let the closeness they had felt very early on develop into a strong bond of friendship. Helen could already see the physical differences between the two as they played happily together. Connie was a sturdy-limbed child who toddled around confidently; Molly was inclined to fall about as she tried to copy her playmate. Helen noticed that Connie was already an inch or two the taller and she felt a lump in her throat as she watched Molly smiling and laughing at Kate’s fair-haired daughter, wondering if Molly’s evident difficulties had already started to give her pain. Connie seemed to be a very placid child, and she never become angry or annoyed at Molly’s awkward shows of affection. Helen felt a great comfort in seeing Connie accept her daughter, and yet it only made her think of the problems her daughter would probably have to face as she grew older. How many times would Molly be rejected, pushed away, and perhaps even laughed at? She hoped with all her heart that Connie would always be a friend and would protect Molly from others’ cruelty.

  Early in 1923, trade at Armitage picked up and Kate got a permanent job there. She worked a stamping machine and although the work was hard and repetitive she was happy in the knowledge that at last she was bringing in a steady wage, even if it was barely a pittance. Overall the wages paid to the Armitage workers were very poor. There was some unrest amongst the factory hands and talk of joining a trade union, but no one wanted to be labelled as a troublemaker and so the griping was normally aired at the street corner and the doorsteps after working hours.

  George Armitage, the owner of the factory, had an intuitive feeling that his workers’ discontent could become dangerous. He stood at the window of his large comfortable office looking down at the yard, a smart, upright man despite his advancing years. The factory that he had built up from practically nothing had been his whole life, but now that his wife had died he was beginning to feel very weary, and he realised that perhaps it was time for his two sons to take over the running of the business. His elder son Peter would assume general control, and Gerald would take responsibility for organising the production. He sighed as he thought of the problems that would arise. There was too much tension between the two brothers. Peter was competent and seriousminded, and happily married with a young son, whereas Gerald was overconfident and brash, and his marriage was breaking down badly. George knew that his boastful younger son would try to dominate Peter, and he realised that discontent among the workers would be aggravated if Gerald went ahead and sacked Joe Cooper, the well-liked young foreman, and some of the older hands on the factory floor. George Armitage gazed out over the yard as the wind disturbed scraps of paper wrapping and torn pieces of cardboard. I wonder what all this will come to, he thought.

  His thoughts were disturbed as Gerald opened the door and walked confidently in.

  ‘Hello, Gerald,’ George said. ‘Sit down for a minute, can you? I’ve just been thinking about a few things.’

  As Gerald made himself comfortable in an easy chair he noticed the worry and concern on his father’s face. He always felt irritable when his father called him in to discuss business, for he believed that the matters which often caused his father so much concern could be summarily resolved quite simply, without so much fuss. His lack of real power in the company irked him, and he was impatient for his father to hand over control to him and Peter.

  George Armitage looked over at his son with stern eyes. ‘Are you having any trouble with the workers wanting to join trade unions, Gerald?’ he asked shortly.

  Gerald shrugged dismissively and a ghost of a grin appeared on his chiselled features. ‘Well, I’ve heard rumours about rumours, Father,’ he said. ‘But it’s not worth paying any attention to them. If they are true, it’s only one or two idiots getting above themselves. Most of the hands are no problem at all.’

  ‘Mmm.’ For some time George seemed to study a piece of paper on his desk and then suddenly he looked up. ‘Gerald, I want you to organise an outing,’ he said.

  ‘An outing!’ his son said, hardly able to disguise the incredulity in his voice.

  ‘That’s right. I think it’ll take their minds off trade unions and pay rises and God knows what else. A nice summer trip to Southend. Lay on a barrel of ale and some sandwiches, and a meal at the other end.’
George smiled to himself as he felt in the pocket of his waistcoat for his pipe. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘we’ll reap the benefits in the long run, I feel sure. By the way, Gerald, order the charabancs from Thomas Tilling. I know one of their directors and we should get a nice discount.’

  Gerald tried not to show his scorn. Outings for workers, he thought, trying to come to terms with the idea. Beer and a meal as well. We might as well put their wages up and give them the bloody afternoons off!

  ‘I think it would be good if one of us put in an appearance on the day, Gerald,’ George continued. ‘Would you be prepared to do that? You know, do a short speech before they sit down to eat and keep an eye on things. Well? Will you do it?’

  ‘If you insist, Father,’ Gerald said curtly. He was cross with his father’s stupidity and he rose quickly to leave. ‘I have to go. We were having a problem with one of the machines downstairs.’

  ‘Of course, son,’ his father said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’ll see you later to finalise the details.’

  Gerald closed the door behind him. George Armitage leaned forward on his desk and breathed heavily as he gazed around his large office. Now the initial excitement of the idea of an outing had worn off the long hours of the day seemed to pass very slowly and the room in which he spent so much time seemed to have become more and more empty.

  A few days later the news spread around the Armitage factory that there was to be an outing in the summer, and for a time the grumbles about the low wages diminished. One or two workers were sceptical though.

  ‘I’ll believe it when we’re on that charabanc,’ Mary Baker remarked to her friend as they walked out through the factory gates one Friday evening.

  Joyce Spinks giggled. ‘Won’t it be luvverly. I ’ope that Johnny Sandford goes. ’E’s really nice.’

  Mary grinned. ‘You’d better be careful. Johnny Sandford’s got a reputation.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ her friend replied. ‘’E could put ’is shoes under my bed any night!’

  Just outside the factory they saw Kate Morgan talking to one of the young lads. Mary nudged her friend. ‘Look at ’er chattin’ ’im up. She’s old enough ter be ’is muvver.’

  Joyce pulled a face. ‘She’d ’ave anyfing in trousers. If we do ’ave a day out she better keep ’er eyes orf o’ Johnny. I’m bookin’ ’im.’

  ‘Are yer linin’ ’im up fer the outin’, Kate?’ Mary called out.

  Kate Morgan walked over smiling. ‘What outin’? I’ll believe it when it ’appens.’

  ‘That’s just what I was sayin’ ter Joyce,’ Mary said, nodding. ‘If they do row the boat out are you gonna go?’

  ‘’Course I will,’ Kate replied. ‘All that free beer an’ all those fellas. I might find meself a chap.’

  ‘What about yer baby?’ Joyce asked, a touch of hostility creeping into her voice.

  ‘Connie’s no trouble,’ Kate answered, quickly. ‘She’s good as gold wiv me sister. Anyway, I’m not lettin’ a kid tie me down. I’ve seen enough of it round ’ere. I’m gonna enjoy myself while I can.’

  The two friends started off along the street and Kate veered off towards the tenement block. ‘If yer can’t be good be careful,’ she called out, smiling.

  ‘An’ if yer can’t be careful remember the date,’ Mary countered, when Kate was out of earshot.

  They reached Mary’s house and stopped by the front door. ‘What shall we do ternight?’ Joyce said.

  ‘We could go up the Tanner’op, Joyce. I ’eard there’s a new band there. We could practise the foxtrot an’ the quickstep.’

  ‘I don’t fancy dancin’, Mary. That fella shoutin’ down the megaphone gives me an ’eadache, especially after all that noise in the factory.’

  Mary thought for a while. ‘I know. Let’s go up the South London. Marie Lloyd’s up there. It’ll be a good show. We’ll’ave ter line up fer tickets though.’

  Joyce looked up at the evening sky. ‘It’s a nice evenin’. Let’s jus’ go fer a long walk.’

  Mary squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘We could take a tram ter the Embankment, an’ walk along the Strand,’ she said excitedly.

  Joyce turned up her nose. ‘What d’yer wanna go over there for?’

  Mary shook her head in disbelief. ‘Ain’t yer never bin up the Strand? There’s all those posh ladies in their fur coats an’ latest dresses, an’ there’s lots o’ really ’andsome men in top’ats and smart suits all goin’ in ter see the shows. It’s really excitin’, Joyce.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll come round soon as I finish me tea. I’ve gotta be in by eleven o’clock though. If I’m late me ole man’ll skin me alive.’

  Mary laughed aloud. ‘Your dad’ll be too pissed ter know whether you’re in or not. ’E always goes up the Horseshoe on Friday nights, don’t ’e?’

  ‘Not any more, Mary. ’E’s on short time again.’

  As the summer days lengthened, excitement grew at the Armitage factory. A notice had gone up in the canteen stating that the firm’s outing to Southend would take place on the first Saturday in July. The workers’ rumblings about becoming unionised ceased for the time being, and Gerald Armitage had to concede that perhaps the old boy was right after all.

  The day of the outing was warm and sunny, and the street folk watched from their doorways as the Thomas Tilling charabancs drove slowly out of the turning. The women sat upright on the open vehicles, showing off their new summer hats and their crisp cotton dresses, while the men, grinning widely, had their hair slicked down and some even wore silk scarves, knotted at the neck and twirled around their braces. George Baker watched as the Armitage workers left the street, then he turned to Toby Toomey.

  ‘Gawd ’elp Soufend when that lot gets down there.’

  Toby looked on enviously and wished that the totters could have an outing to Southend.

  The long summer day had turned to night and a full moon was rising over the rooftops when the charabancs returned, drawing up at the end of the turning. Helen Bartlett heard loud voices and then Kate’s footsteps on the wooden stairs and when she opened the door she saw her sister coming along the landing, a surly look on her face. Kate’s fair hair was hanging loosely and raggedly about her drooping shoulders and her knee-length, mustard-coloured coat was unbuttoned.

  ‘Did yer ’ave a nice day?’ Helen asked.

  Kate glared at her sister and nodded without comment, her mouth tight.

  ‘Connie dropped off ter sleep,’ Helen said, eyeing her sister intently. ‘She’ll be okay wiv us till mornin’. Are yer all right?’

  Kate moved on to the next stairway. ‘Yeah, I’m jus’ tired. It’s bin a long day,’ she said turning and wearily climbed the stairs.

  Helen sighed and shook her head slowly as she went inside and closed the door. Matthew looked up from the armchair and ran his fingers through his wiry hair. ‘She’s pissed I s’pose?’ he said quickly.

  Helen sat down facing him with a sigh. ‘I wonder about that girl sometimes. I dunno about Soufend. She looks like she’s bin to a funeral. She didn’t even ask about young Connie.’

  Matthew’s face showed his disgust as he got up and walked into the bedroom.

  During the days of short-time working and ragtime music, amid the gas-lit tenements and ramshackle houses of the tumbledown backstreets, the daughters of Kate Morgan and Helen and Matthew Bartlett slept peacefully, while all around the signs of industrial strife were growing. The humiliation of accepting starvation wages, the desperate scramble for a day’s work in the local docks and wharves, accidents in the saw mills and in the factories inspired the activists to organise their fellow workers into trade unions. Industrial diseases in the tanneries, lead mills and skin factories outraged the health workers, and questions were raised in Parliament. There were calls for proper hygiene and safeguards in workplaces, and when little was done the atmosphere of resentment and anger grew stronger.

  In the backstreets of Bermondsey very little changed. Women sat in the corner-street pubs
drinking ‘Lizzie Wine’ while they shelled their peas into containers resting on their aproned laps. The men drank pints of porter and slipped out of the pub to place their dog bets with the street bookmaker – keeping one eye open for the local bobbie. Children played in the gutters and paddled in the muddy River Thames, and the more daring climbed the barges and dived into murky water beside the huge iron buoys, or scrambled down into the empty holds and scooped up nut kernels and coconut husks. In Ironmonger Street the children spoke in whispers about a strange old lady who pushed a pram covered with washing to the local laundry every Monday morning. Legends had grown up around Widow Pacey and, as she slowly walked along pushing her contraption, some of the younger children would hide in doorways, unable to take their eyes from the long white hairs on the end of her chin. The older children said she was a witch who cooked babies for her supper and carried the bones down to the river hidden in her pram. When their parents heard the stories and smacked them for talking nonsense, they knew that the legends must be true.

  Connie and her cousin Molly were too young to have understood such stories, but Molly cowed whenever the bagwash lady passed by, frightened by the mere presence of the woman. Connie reacted in a different way, however; her large eyes stared out solemnly at Widow Pacey’s bristling chin and at the laden, squeaking pram, and her small round face remained impassive. A contest of wills developed. The widow would smile or wink at the inseparable young children, but she got little response, except for Molly’s frightened look and Connie’s wide-eyed glance. When looks, smiles and gesticulations failed, the Widow Pacey tried to win the children over with toffee bars as she left for the laundry one morning. On her return trip the bagwash lady saw that the two children were halfway through the toffee sticks, faces smudged and hands stuck to the sweets. But still there was no smile forthcoming, and Widow Pacey gave up trying. One or two of the older lads who had seen the toffee bars being handed out spread the word that Widow Pacey had taken to poisoning children.