Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  It was the last day of August, a warm Saturday afternoon, when Robert drove into Ironmonger Street. The kids were playing on the cobblestones and the street folk stood by their front doors chatting to their neighbours. Connie heard the throaty roar of the engine and the toot of the horn and she hurried to the open window. Robert answered her wave as he sat behind the wheel, surrounded by curious, toffee-smeared children who stared at the controls and giggled as he revved the noisy engine. The street folk nodded knowingly and watched as the young woman ran from the buildings and stepped in beside the uniformed figure. With a toot-toot of the horn to scatter the inquisitive children he swung the car around and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke rising in the little backstreet.

  Connie sat beside him resting her hand on his leg, her golden hair flying in the wind as the car accelerated along the Old Kent Road. Her eyes watered and she ducked her head below the tilted windscreen as Robert glanced at her, a boyish grin breaking out on his handsome features.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Robert shouted above the noise of the engine, patting the dashboard with his gloved hand.

  Her answer was swept away in the wind as the open-top sports car gathered speed up Blackheath Hill. Houses and factories were gradually left behind and fields were beginning to spread out around them. Connie held her hand up to her hair and occasionally glanced at Robert as he manipulated the gears and roared past slower-moving vehicles. She could see the small piece of cloth in blue and white diagonal stripes which was pinned above his breast pocket.

  ‘Is that the medal you told me about in your last letter?’ she asked loudly.

  ‘It’s the clasp. I’ve got the actual medal in a box,’ he shouted with a grin.

  They had been travelling for some time when he suddenly swung the car on to a side road and slowed down through the village.

  ‘Another fifteen minutes should do it,’ he said, squeezing her hand in his as they left the sleepy hamlet behind.

  It had all happened so quickly. There had been no news of him for more than three weeks and, with daily newspapers carrying stories of air battles and mounting losses she had feared for his safety. Then the letter had arrived, and now they were together again once more. Connie felt apprehensive at the prospect of meeting his parents again after such a long time. Robert had said in his letter that they had planned some sort of celebration, but he went on to say that he would make his excuses as soon as possible and maybe they would be able to spend the night in one of the nearby inns. Connie guessed that the family feud must have healed and she wondered how she would feel on seeing Claudette again, and how she would be received.

  The sun was setting and the sky was gloriously aflame as they drove into Kelstowe. The red brick house was just as she remembered it and, when they climbed from the car feeling stiff and wind-swept, the Armitages came out quickly to greet them. Peter shook Robert’s hand vigorously and Claudette hugged her son tightly, much to his embarrassment.

  Peter kissed Connie on the cheek and took her arm. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you, Connie,’ he said kindly. ‘I can see you’re taking very good care of our son.’

  Claudette had composed herself and she glanced briefly at the Morgan girl. ‘Let’s go inside,’ she said. ‘There are a few people who want to congratulate our hero.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Robert gasped, looking helplessly at Connie.

  People were crowding around, eager to pump his hand. A chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ rang out and he gazed sheepishly at the sea of faces. Connie tried to stay at his elbow as well-wishers slapped him on the back. Drinks were flowing and she found herself holding a glass of sparkling champagne.

  Major Clarence Marchant made a beeline for her and held out his hand. ‘Hello, my dear. So you’re the pretty little thing young Robbie has kept from us, what?’

  Connie smiled at the portly major and looked around desperately to where Robert was standing.

  ‘Drink up, me dear. That’s Bollinger ’29. Plenty more where that came from,’ the major said, brushing his military moustache with a forefinger.

  Connie found the bubbles made her want to sneeze as she took a sip of her drink and over the rim of the glass she saw a tall, thin young woman eyeing her intently. The girl wore tortoiseshell spectacles and her hair was pulled back tightly, which gave her a rather severe appearance. The major was eyeing her too as she drained her glass.

  ‘Let me get you a refill,’ he slurred.

  As Clarence Marchant walked away unsteadily the bespectacled young woman came over. ‘I’m Eunice Marchant,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Isn’t it marvellous about Robert. Five victories in just two days. Everyone is so proud of him.’

  Connie smiled. ‘So am I.’

  Eunice stared over her glasses at the Morgan girl. ‘Robert and I have known each other for a long time. I suppose he’s told you about me?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Connie replied, looking in Robert’s direction.

  Eunice’s face clouded and she pushed her spectacles up on to the bridge of her nose. ‘We were almost engaged at one time, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Connie said, smiling gently and holding out her ring finger. ‘We got engaged last Christmas.’

  Eunice looked disapprovingly at the diamond ring. ‘You’ll have to watch him, dear. Robert can be a terrible flirt, as most of the girls around here will tell you.’

  ‘I’ll watch ’im, Eunice. I’ll watch ’im real close,’ Connie said with a hint of malice now in her tone.

  The Waverley sisters came over and introduced themselves and they were followed by the Reverend Jones, while Eunice drifted away to find her hero. Connie became immersed in a constant stream of chatter and her eyes sought out Robert.

  A tall, stooping figure came over to her, his white hair sprouting out from a large head. His eyes were dark and brooding, and his clothes seemed shabby beside the rest of the guests. He took her arm without introduction and smiled at the Waverley sisters. ‘Now then Beatrice, Gwen, we mustn’t tire our lovely guest, must we? Come, my dear. Let me show you the garden. I can assure you it is a wonderful place,’ he said with mock pomp.

  Connie looked at him in surprise and let herself be guided out through the French windows into the cool of the evening.

  ‘Just smell those roses,’ he said to her. ‘Aren’t they gorgeous? And the jasmine. It’s at its best this time of day.’ He waved his arm in a grand gesture toward the flowerbeds.

  The tall stranger was still holding on to her arm and she glanced at him with some puzzlement. He caught her look and smiled, his dark eyes lighting up. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I should have introduced myself before stealing you away from that unmitigating rabble. My name is Spanswick. Leo Spanswick. I’m the local physician, family counsellor and father confessor to these people. I saw you looking rather bewildered and, if I may say so, rather frightened, so I took it upon myself to become your knight in shining armour. Let us walk on, my child, unless you wish to go back and rejoin our friends?’

  Connie smiled sweetly at him. She felt strangely at ease in his company and, as they strolled along the path which led between the well-tended lawns, he took out a large briar and tapped it against his thigh. ‘I hear you and Robert are engaged, Connie. You don’t mind me calling you Connie, do you?’

  ‘That’s me name,’ she said lightly. ‘And yes, we are engaged.’

  ‘Good for you. By the way, you know you’ve upset the apple cart somewhat. I noticed one or two pairs of eyes cast enviously in your direction.’

  ‘Yer mean Eunice? She did mention about ’er an’ Robert.’

  ‘Her and Robert nothing, child. You’ve no doubt heard of marriages made in heaven? Well in this instance the Marchants and Claudette Armitage were conspirators in what I would say was an attempt to create a boardroom marriage.’

  Connie looked at him with a puzzled frown, and he chuckled. ‘Money, my dear, money. The amalgamation of two business concerns t
hrough the manipulation of young love. Isn’t it terrible?’

  Connie smiled and he touched the side of his nose in a confidential gesture as he guided her towards a garden seat at the end of the path. They sat down and she watched as he pulled out a grease-stained tobacco pouch and flipped the stud catch with his thumbnail.

  ‘Yer seem ter know a lot about Robert’s family, and the Marchants, doctor – should I call yer doctor?’ she asked.

  ‘Leo will do fine, my dear. Yes, I consider myself to be pretty well informed, but then I brought young Robert into the world and, after all, I am the village doctor. It’s hard to keep any secrets out of the endless rounds of gossip in our tight little community,’ he said with a wry smile.

  ‘Sounds like where I live in Bermon’sey,’ Connie replied.

  She watched with interest as Leo packed the bowl of his pipe with dark stringy tobacco. There was something about the man she found fascinating. He seemed to find it very easy to talk to her and his manner was very charming. He reminded her of an actor delivering well-rehearsed lines. He did not stutter or pause, and the way he moved his hands was almost theatrical. He lit the briar carefully and when he was satisfied he leant back and glanced up at the evening sky.

  ‘Do you want to go back, young Connie?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s peaceful ’ere. I dare say Robert ’asn’t even missed me yet.’

  Leo chuckled. ‘I take it you two intend to get married soon?’

  ‘We’re gonna wait, Leo. I want us ter get married as soon as possible, but Robert finks we should wait, what wiv ’im bein’ a pilot.’

  Leo puffed out a cloud of smoke and studied the glowing bowl. ‘I’m afraid we’re living in a dark age, my dear. The whole world seems to have become one gigantic lunatic asylum. Too many young lives are being thrown away.’ He sighed and seemed to think for a moment. ‘Anyway, enough of the war,’ he said dismissively. ‘Now where exactly did you say you live?’

  ‘Bermon’sey. It’s near the docks.’

  ‘Oh, I know where Bermondsey is. I spent my younger days in Stepney. I did my medical training at the London Hospital in the Whitechapel Road. You might call me a lapsed Cockney – or a talkative old fogey.’

  Connie touched his arm. ‘I find yer very nice. After all, yer did save me from our Eunice an’ those ovver two ole ladies.’

  ‘And we mustn’t forget the Reverend Jones,’ he said with a comical frown.

  ‘Are yer married, Leo?’ she asked suddenly.

  The doctor’s eyes widened as he stared in the direction of the large rose bush. ‘My wife died more than five years ago.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t ’ave asked.’

  ‘It’s quite all right. It’s an innocent enough question, after all,’ he said with a smile. ‘As a matter of fact my wife is buried in the village churchyard. She came from this village. We met in London many years ago and I came here for the wedding. It was to be a brief stay but I never left. Yes, I’ve lived in Kelstowe ever since.’

  Connie glanced at him and watched his white hair moving in the gentle breeze. He suddenly seemed a sad figure, resigned to loneliness and memories. He must have really loved his wife and be missing her terribly, she thought. It showed in his eyes. The rose bush moved as the breeze freshened and she gave a little shiver.

  ‘Come along, Connie. We don’t want you catching cold while you’re in the care of the village doctor, do we?’ he said with a chuckle.

  As they walked back into the house Robert came over and put his arm around her slim waist. ‘I was getting anxious,’ he said. ‘I thought our doctor had spirited you away.’

  Leo laughed. ‘Twenty years ago and you would have had a fight on your hands, young whippersnapper. I’ve been known to resort to fisticuffs in honour of the prettiest girl in the room.’

  ‘Why fank you, dear sir,’ Connie laughed, and she planted a kiss on the old man’s cheek.

  ‘Careful, Robbie lad,’ Leo whispered. ‘I can see the major’s on his way over.’

  Clarence Marchant held a filled glass in each hand as he staggered up to them. ‘I’m afraid the “War Department” has had to leave, Robert,’ he slurred. ‘She’s taking our Eunice home. Nasty touch of migraine I fear.’

  ‘You be careful with those drinks, Clarence,’ the doctor said. ‘Remember that ulcer of yours.’

  The major gave the doctor a lopsided grin as he staggered off to find Gwen Waverley and Robert winked knowingly at Leo.

  ‘Connie and I are going to take our leave now,’ Robert said to the doctor. ‘Thanks for taking care of her. I’ll be in touch.’

  The men shook hands warmly and Connie planted another kiss on the old man’s rough cheek. The two passed amongst the guests and as they moved out into the hallway Robert’s parents said their goodbyes. Connie could see the anxiety in Claudette’s eyes as she hugged her son.

  As Peter Armitage clasped Robert’s hand Claudette turned to Connie. ‘I can see that Robert is happy, and that makes us happy, too.’

  Connie drew back a biting reply. Instead she stared hard at the woman and said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Armitage.’

  Robert took Connie’s hand and they walked away towards the car. As they roared away into the gathering darkness Connie saw his parents waving from the front door. She felt light-headed and glowing inside as they sped through the country lanes. She wanted to forget that Robert would soon be back in the air and might never return. She wanted tonight to be special, one they would both remember through the days and nights ahead, however long and however lonely they might become. Her head rested on his shoulder and she closed her eyes. The shielded headlights picked out the road ahead and Robert brushed the strands of her golden hair from his face. He could feel her sweet breath on his cheek and his heart was heavy.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The chill of an early September morning gave way to a pleasant warmth as the sun got up over the rooftops and shone down on the busy Tower Bridge Road. The market traders were already putting the finishing touches to their displays as the first of the shoppers stopped for their vegetables and fish. The beetroot lady was standing behind a pile of produce that she had boiled the night before, and Cheap Jack had tipped the final box of tuppenny items on to his already overloaded stall. In the pie shop the large containers behind the marble counter were crammed with steaming mashed potato, and crusty hot meat pies were gouged out of the baking trays. Parsley liquor bubbled in the huge copper bowl, and on the freshly scrubbed marble tables pewter pots of salt and pepper stood beside pint bottles of vinegar which had been expertly laced with spices and cloves. Soon the customers would arrive with their laden shopping baskets and bags and the women would kick off their pinching shoes as they tucked into pie and mash or a basin of stewed eels. The youngsters would arrive, too, with dinner money clutched tightly in their sweaty hands. Other children would saunter into the bustling market and casually glance under the traders’ stalls and barrows in search of empty wooden boxes, whilst in the adjoining backstreets their confederates slipped out of their homes with choppers concealed under tatty jerseys to claim suitable pitches.

  In the market, the traders were used to the usual Saturday morning ritual.

  ‘’Ere, mister. Finished wiv yer box?’

  ‘No, I ain’t. Now piss orf out of it.’

  ‘’Ere, mister, yer’ve only got a few more apples left in that box. Shall I give ’em ter yer?’

  ‘Leave ’em where they are an’ get out o’ the road or you’ll get knocked right up in the air if a tram comes.’

  ‘We ain’t ’urtin’ nobody, mister. We only want empty boxes fer firewood.’

  ‘’Ere, take it an’ piss orf.’

  One or two young lads had perfected a more devious way of obtaining the empty boxes. When the shoppers were gathering thickly around a particular stall a small lad would crawl under the display and pass out boxes to an accomplice. Very often the boxes would not be empty and some woodchoppers were a
ble to exchange apples and tomatoes for cigarette cards and glass marbles. On a good day the pennies earned would pay for a plate of pie and mash, a cheap seat in the cinema, and maybe two ounces of sticky toffees. On Saturday the seventh of September it promised to be a good day. Trade was brisk and the woodchoppers were eagerly engaged in earning their pennies. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky and even Solly Jacobs was humming to himself as he wrapped up his customers’ fresh herrings, sprats and portions of plaice in sheets of newspaper.

  Joe Cooper had said goodbye to his wife Sadie that morning. She had left London to stay with her sister in Devon and, as he walked through the factory gates, he was whistling to himself. Joe went down the few steps into the dark shelter and turned on the lights. There were now enough wooden benches to accommodate the street folk and he had managed to scrounge a couple of trestle tables and a tea urn. Two toilets had been fitted and there was a cold-water tap in one corner. Beside the entrance he had placed a few buckets of sand and a stirrup pump. Joe scratched his head as he looked around. Everything seemed to be in order. He moved a few benches further away from the doorway then walked back out into the afternoon sun.

  The day had gone well. Now the market traders were getting ready to pack away and children were called in to their tea as the sun began to move down in the sky. In the Bartletts’ flat the wireless was switched on and lazy Hawaiian music filled the room. Connie was helping Molly to wind a skein of wool and Matthew dozed in the armchair. Helen sat darning a sock and hummed to the strains of ‘Sweet Liani’. Every now and then Matthew mumbled in his sleep and Molly looked at her cousin and giggled. Suddenly the wireless crackled and went silent. Helen put down her darning and turned her head sideways. The girls heard it, too. It started as a rumble and grew into a steady drone.