Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  ‘Wake yer dad, Molly,’ Helen said, a frightened look on her face.

  The wail of the siren and the crash of anti-aircraft guns shattered the quietness and drowned the sound of the approaching planes. People were out in the street. They could see the aircraft now and the shell bursts around them. Joe Cooper was blowing on his whistle and shouting for everyone to get under cover. People stood as though transfixed as the tight formation of bombers flew in. The sound of exploding bombs became deafening and a rising pall of black smoke filled the sky.

  ‘It’s the Surrey! The bastards are bombin’ the Surrey!’ old George Baker croaked, leaning on his walking stick.

  People hurried through the factory gates and down into the shelter as the sky turned black. Flames were rising hundreds of feet into the air and the roar of guns rose to a terrifying crescendo. Joe stood by the entrance and shepherded the street folk down into the darkness. He wore his steel helmet and carried a gas mask pack over his shoulder.

  ‘C’mon, girls. Take it easy now. Mind yer step,’ he said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. ‘C’mon, Toby, ’old on ter Marie’s arm.’

  Mary Brown’s husband Frank carried young Jimmy while Jane hurried along at his side. Mary held on to the protesting Clara Cosgrove. ‘Now, don’t worry, Clara,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s all right in ’ere. Once we get yer settled I’ll make yer a nice cuppa.’

  ‘I told yer straight, Mary. I’d sooner stay in me own ’ome. Ain’t it bleedin’ all right? I was jus’ standin’ at me door talkin’ ter Muvver Adams when I ’ears this noise. I didn’t know what ter fink. Gawd ’elp us, Mary.’

  George Baker’s daughter helped the angry old lady down the steps and into a seat near the door. Marie Toomey was sitting nearby, her face a mask of fear, but she forced a smile in Clara’s direction.

  ‘Who’s she lookin’ at?’ the old lady growled.

  ‘Now c’mon luv, don’t upset yerself,’ Mary said, taking Clara’s hands in hers. ‘She’s only tryin’ ter be friendly.’

  Clara grunted and pursed her lips tightly as she gave Marie Toomey a hard look. The shelter was packed and young children were crying as the noise of the air raid increased. Joe left the refuge and ran up the street to the warden’s post. Inside the dusty shop men were manning the phones and one of them beckoned to the street warden as he entered.

  ‘It’s the Surrey, Joe! It’s gettin’ a terrible pastin’!’

  Joe shook his head. ‘That place is stacked full o’ timber. The bastards ’ave picked the right target.’

  ‘Yer tellin’ me,’ the man replied. ‘There’s a general call gone out ter the fire brigade. They’re askin’ fer reserves ter come in from outside o’ London.’

  ‘Christ! It mus’ be bad, Bill.’

  One of the men put down his phone and came over. ‘I’ve jus’ bin talkin’ ter the area control. Apparently the roads are cut off down town. They said the whole place is afire. Gawd ’elp those poor bleeders. The bridges are blocked an’ there’s no way they can get to ’em.’

  Cigarettes were passed around and Joe took a deep drag on his Goldflake. ‘I fink most of our street are down in the shelter. We even got ole Clara out of ’er place. She’s a cantankerous ole bitch but I fink she was glad ter get out o’ the ’ouse.’

  The roar of guns continued and the wardens’ post shook. Plaster dust fell from the ceiling and a telephone rang. Bill Johnson picked up the receiver and his face took on a serious look.

  ‘There’s anuvver wave of bombers comin’ in,’ he shouted above the noise as he replaced the receiver.

  They could hear the sound of fire bells and the dull thump as more explosives landed on the stricken docks. Outside the evening sky had changed to a dull red as the Surrey burned. Black smoke drifted upriver and hung like a huge storm cloud over the whole of dockland. The reflection of the roaring inferno flickered on the hanging black pall and a smell of charred wood filled the air. Joe stood in the doorway and stared up at the angry sky. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. The heavens were ragged, charred and nightmarish. From where he stood he could see the tips of the flames licking the ever-growing smoke clouds which were swiftly turning day into night. He could hear the drone becoming louder as a fresh wave of bombers approached their burning target and the explosions shook the ground beneath his feet.

  Connie sat beside the Bartletts in one corner of the shelter, her arm around her cousin’s shoulders. Molly was sobbing quietly as she bit on her handkerchief. ‘I’m scared, Con. We’ll all be killed.’

  Connie pulled her closer. ‘’Course we won’t. We’re safe in’ere. Everybody’s scared though, Molly, it’s only natural. ’Ere, jus’ look at all their faces. Poor ole Toby looks like a little boy who’s jus’ bin told off. Look at ole Clara Cosgrove mumblin’ to ’erself, an’ Widow Pacey. See ’ow she keeps lookin’ at Muvver Adams. I bet she’s sayin’ to ’erself, “don’t you come near me”. Mind you, Molly, she does smell o’ cats.’

  Molly had stopped crying and was bravely trying to raise a smile. The dull thud of falling bombs and the louder crash of the local guns continued. People sat white-faced, their hands clenched and their shoulders hunched as they fought their growing terror.

  After what seemed to be an eternity the noise finally ceased and the street folk started to relax. Animated conversation began as everyone waited for the all-clear signal. Connie thought about Robert and the wonderful night they had spent together in the old country pub. What was he doing now? Was he up there in the clouds with the rest of his squadron? She recalled how she had pressed him into showing her the medal he won. He told her it was the Distinguished Flying Cross and she remembered how embarrassed he got when she told him how brave he was. He had said that there were many of his friends who should have got medals before him. Connie thought about Claudette and her parting words. She had seemed different somehow. Maybe she was genuinely sorry for the story she had invented and wanted to make amends, especially now that her son was going back to war. She thought about Robert’s father, and how his eyes had misted when he shook hands with his son before they left. She thought about the charming and lonely old doctor who had rescued her from the twittering Waverley sisters and the drunken major. She smiled to herself when she recalled how brazen she had been when she and Robert found themselves alone in their room above the old inn. Her face became hot as she recalled standing naked in front of him as he sat on the edge of the bed looking at her with such love in his eyes, and whispering words of endearment as he explored her eager body. It had been a truly wonderful night, and one she would treasure for as long as she lived.

  The long, even wail of the all clear sounded and people hurried from the musty shelter and passed out through the factory gates. The smell of burning hung in the evening air and they saw the terrible result of the blitz on the Surrey Docks. The sky was stained dark red. The black smoke still rose high in the heavens and the street folk walked back to their front doors as though mesmerised. The sounds of fire bells clanging in the distance shattered the strange quietness and they knew that the war had finally reached them. People remained outside their houses and talked in low voices. Everyone knew that the afternoon raid was only the beginning. The terror would go on and it would get worse, and the knowledge seemed to draw the folk together. People passed around cups of tea as they stood in the street and Joe Cooper walked the length of the turning chatting to everyone. He felt pleased that Sadie had got away from London just in time. He saw the Bartletts standing by the dwellings, looking up into the sky, and he went over to them.

  ‘You lot okay?’ he asked.

  Helen nodded and Matthew turned towards him. ‘They say it’s the Surrey Docks got it, Joe.’

  The warden nodded and turned his attention to the two young women. ‘What about you two? Yer wasn’t frightened, was yer?’ he grinned.

  Connie pulled a face. ‘I was.’

  ‘So was I,’ Molly said. ‘I couldn’t stop shakin’.’

  Joe
was staring at Connie. ‘I expect you’re worried about young Robert, luv.’

  ‘Yeah. I ’ope ’e’s all right,’ she replied, returning his stare.

  Joe put his arm on her shoulder. ‘’E’s okay, luv, take it from me. I got ter know ’im pretty well when ’e was at the factory.’E’s a good ’un. ’E can look after ’imself.’

  As Joe walked away Matthew turned to Helen. ‘’E’s a strange bloke is Joe,’ he said.

  Helen looked pensive. ‘I tell yer what. ’E’s a lonely man.’

  The Saturday evening sky was blood red as the German air force returned in strength. They flew up the Thames Estuary, guided by the still raging fires and made for the docks, wharves and railways. Bombs fell all over dockland and the surrounding boroughs. Factories and warehouses burned, and some little backstreets were smashed into rubble. Fire engines raced to roaring blazes, only to find that water mains had burst. Buildings fell on the tenders and hoses were cut and buried beneath tons of bricks and rubble. Rescuers toiled desperately to free people buried under the ruins of their homes, and ambulances and stretcher cars ferried hundreds of casualties to the nearby hospitals. Only the severely injured were taken to the wards. The rest of the wounded were placed in corridors, store rooms and any other space that could be made available. The Ironmonger Street folk huddled together in the factory shelter, their faces white with fear as bombs screamed down and anti-aircraft guns opened up with an ear-shattering clatter. Shrapnel fell into the yard and a thick metal nose-cone bounced over the cobbles and came to rest near the shelter entrance.

  Joe Cooper and Frank Brown stood talking inside the refuge.

  ‘The ole cow wouldn’t move, Joe. Our Mary pleaded wiv’er but she was adamant. She said she’d ’ad enough o’ the shelter fer one day. What can yer do though? I mean yer can’t drag ’er down ’ere, can yer?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘I dunno. Trouble is, them ’ouses will tumble like a pack o’ cards if a bomb did land nearby. Wait till it eases off a bit an’ we’ll go take a look, jus’ ter see if she’s okay.’

  Frank jerked his thumb in the direction of the Toomeys. ‘Them two are ’avin’ a right bull an’ cow. Poor ole Toby looks like ’e’s gettin’ an’ ear’ole bashin’.’

  Marie was poking her frail-looking husband in the chest with her forefinger, her dark eyes glaring like two black coals. ‘If I told yer once I told yer a fousand times about those bloody bundles o’ newspapers yer got stacked up in that yard. If they catch light we’ll be burned out of ’ouse an’ ’ome.’

  ‘They’ll be okay, unless a bomb falls in the yard, then we’ll be bombed out anyway, so it won’t make much difference, will it,’ Toby said with a valiant attempt at bravado.

  ‘Don’t yer get saucy wiv me, Toby. A bleedin’ spark could set them bundles alight. Yer should ’ave took ’em round the bleedin’ paper sorters weeks ago.’

  Toby’s face took on a look of resignation. ‘I s’pose yer right, luv, but . . .’

  ‘But nufink. You’re just a lazy ole bastard. If it wasn’t fer our Lil bringin’ in a few bob we’d all starve. I fink it’s about time yer got off yer lazy arse an’ started earnin’ some money.’

  The Widow Pacey was sitting nearby and she suddenly turned towards Marie. ‘Oi, you!’ she shouted out. ‘Why don’t yer shut yer trap! It’s bad enough we’ve all gotta sit down ’ere, wivvout you makin’ it worse.’

  Marie Toomey’s eyes blazed as she faced the bagwash lady. ‘An’ what’s it got ter do wiv you? If I wanna row wiv me ole man I’ll row wiv ’im whenever I like, so put that in yer pipe an’ smoke it!’

  Widow Pacey leaned forward in a threatening manner, arms folded over her ample bosom. ‘When my ole man was alive’e’d ’ave smacked me round the jaw if I’d talked to ’im like you’re talkin’ to your ole man.’

  ‘Maybe your ole man wasn’t a lazy good fer nufink like’im, so there.’

  Toby’s tired eyes flitted from one to the other and he shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench. ‘Now don’t start arguin’, Marie,’ he whispered.

  ‘Start arguin’. Who’s arguin’? I’m jus’ tellin’ a few ’ome truths. Anyway, who told you ter butt in?’

  ‘Yer ought ter give ’er a good ’idin’,’ the bagwash lady growled at Toby. ‘That might keep ’er quiet fer a bit.’

  Marie’s face went purple and she pointed aggressively at Widow Pacey. ‘If yer don’t shut yer cake ’ole I’ll shut it for yer!’

  The big woman stood up on her feet and squared up with her fists. ‘C’mon then, if yer fink you’re up to it!’

  Folk sitting around jumped up to get a better view, the bombs and the danger forgotten as they jostled for position. Joe and Frank pushed their way towards the circling women and stood between them.

  ‘What’s the matter wiv you two?’ Joe said sternly. ‘Ain’t it bad enough the bloody Germans are knockin’ the life out of us wivvout you two silly mares tryin’ ter do it for ’em. Now sit down an’ be’ave yerselves, or I’ll chuck yer both out o’ the shelter.’

  Toby slumped down in his seat. Maybe ole bagwash Pacey is right, he thought. Maybe I should give Marie a pasting. I don’t know though. Maybe it would be better to put some rat poison in her food. Just think, she’d be rolling all over the floor screaming out for help and I could say, ‘die, you silly mare, die’. Trouble is, they’d string me up for murder. Perhaps it would be better to put a match to those bundles of newspapers when she’s asleep and then just disappear. It’s worth thinking about, he mused.

  The night wore on, with brief periods of quiet between the thunder of the guns and the rolling explosions. The street folk tried to catch some sleep as they sat on the hard benches, their backs propped against the damp walls. Young children nestled against their mothers and babies slept fitfully as the guns opened up and more bombs fell. The cramped shelter became unbearably stuffy but when one of the men rolled up the gas blanket to let in some air the noise that carried into the refuge was loud enough to wake the babies and young children. Outside the shelter entrance, beneath a concrete canopy, Joe Cooper stood talking to some of the men. They could see flames and black smoke rising over the rooftops and the lightning-white flashes of the heavy guns lit up the empty street. At number twenty Clara Cosgrove slept on and, in a few of the ground floor flats in Jubilee Dwellings, some of the street folk were huddling together white-faced and trembling.

  With the merciful dawn came the all-clear siren and tired, jaded folk walked wearily out through the factory gates, thankful that their homes were still intact, apart from a few broken windows and dislodged slates. The street folk brewed tea and listened to the wireless broadcasts. They heard of the carnage wrought during the night and the many casualties which were flooding into the hospitals. They heard the call for blood donors, and later in the morning many people went to the church; for some of them it was the first time they had gone in many a long year.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The London blitz had been raging nightly for nearly three weeks. Bombs had fallen in the Tower Bridge Road and on the Tooley Street wharves, and one little Bermondsey backstreet had been almost destroyed by a landmine. Factories had been burned to the ground by fire bombs and the local gas works had been badly damaged. Lack of sleep and the constant strain of being under attack was taking its toll. People were becoming upset and nervous as they thought of yet another night with little, if any, sleep.

  Most of the Ironmonger Street folk hurried home each night, had their tea and made for the factory shelter before the air raids started. Even Clara Cosgrove had decided reluctantly that it was probably safer than staying in her home. Every night the street dwellers rested uncomfortably on the hard benches and fell asleep where they sat, despite the noise of the blitz. Joe Cooper had organised a team of fire watchers and they took turns to keep an eye on their street. Mary Brown and some of the women organised a tea counter where a mug of tea could be bought for tuppence. The strain of shelter life was beginning to show and th
ere were minor rows and disagreements. In an attempt to calm the atmosphere Lizzie Conroy and Ada Halliday led a nightly sing-song, with Bill Richards accompanying the singers on his ukulele. Lizzie had a strong voice and Ada could reach the high notes. The two plump, middle-aged women managed to get a good response, with a few of the folk volunteering to do a solo turn of their own. The nightly sing-songs became more melodious when Lizzie’s husband brought his harmonica to the concert and one old man rattled out the tunes on a pair of dinner spoons.

  For the Bartletts, shelter life brought added problems. Molly’s health was beginning to suffer. Sitting for hours on the hard bench was agonising, and her breathing began to be affected by the stuffy confinement. Helen had talked to Matthew about Molly’s condition and they both decided that if the raids continued Helen would try to get herself and Molly out of London. Connie was still working at the Dolphin most nights, although the pub shut early. She would hurry to the shelter at closing time and on occasions she was forced to run through the streets after the air-raid siren had sounded. Helen wanted her to leave the job, but Connie insisted that the work stopped her brooding about Robert’s safety. The evening work tired her out and she usually fell asleep where she sat, even during the heaviest of raids. Only one of the shelter people never went to sleep. Widow Pacey sat in a corner, her arms folded and her eyes staring into space. She never nodded off even once and people marvelled at her resilience. Every Monday morning Mrs Pacey made two or three trips to the laundry with bags of washing piled high on her old pram, and then she made another collection on Wednesdays. People began to look at the big woman in a new light, and they admired her for the way she had stood up to the vociferous Marie Toomey.