Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  Helen made a decision. ‘I’ll stay wiv Molly an’ you go over the shelter, Matt. Yer can’t do anyfing ’ere.’

  Matthew would have none of it. ‘Yer don’t fink I’d leave yer both up ’ere on yer own, do yer? I’m stayin’, too. If fings get too bad I can wrap a blanket roun’ the girl an’ carry ’er down ter the ground floor flat. They wouldn’t mind.’

  Helen knew she would get nowhere arguing with him and, as she stood over the gas stove stirring a pot of soup for Molly, she worried for her daughter, and she thought of Connie who had returned to her job at the Dolphin. The raids were starting earlier now and Helen feared that her niece was cutting it a bit fine leaving the pub almost at closing time. She sighed deeply and said a silent prayer that they would be spared the bombing for just one night.

  Connie found herself very busy on that Saturday evening. She preferred it that way, for the work and the noisy atmosphere prevented her from brooding too much over her tragic loss.

  It was getting near to closing time when Dora French came into the public bar. ‘I thought yer’d be gone by now, Con. Yer better be on yer way, just in case the siren goes early.’

  Connie bid the French family goodnight and hurried from the pub. As she walked out into the Old Kent Road she took a torch from her handbag and shone the dim light down on the pavement. She thought about the Bartletts having to stay in the buildings all night instead of the shelter. She had offered to stay with her cousin but Helen would not hear of it. Maybe the siren wouldn’t sound tonight, Connie thought as she picked her way carefully through the darkness. Wouldn’t it be nice to curl up in bed just for one night and sleep undisturbed until morning?

  She had just reached the Bricklayers Arms junction when the siren wailed out its mournful sound. Connie hurried on as the drone of aircraft became louder and flashes of gunfire lit the night sky. As she ran along the Tower Bridge Road and turned off into the backstreets the drone sounded directly overhead. The scream of falling bombs sent her scurrying into a doorway and she felt the hot blast of air rush past her as a bomb fell a few streets away. Shattered glass tinkled on to the pavements and cobblestones as Connie pressed herself into the doorway. More bombs exploded nearby and she shook with terror. The crash of guns made her clasp her ears and grit her teeth as she left the doorway and ran as fast as she could into Ironmonger Street. Pieces of red-hot shrapnel landed all around her and the factory gates seemed a mile away as she heard the scream of a falling bomb. She was thrown headlong into the gutter by the blast, the flash of the explosion momentarily blinding her. She picked herself up painfully, her head pounding, and she could see the rising flames coming from the damaged gas main in John Street. She heard running footsteps and, as Joe Cooper reached her, Connie lost consciousness.

  The street was lit by red lamps and the clean cobblestones were shining in the phosphorescent glow. Connie walked in silence beside the shadowy figure of her mother. The turning was empty and the houses were in darkness. They stopped beside a door and her mother reached out for the iron knocker. Connie could see the tears on her face as the door opened and she stepped over the threshold. The young girl wanted to follow but she was rooted to the spot. She tried to hold out her arms but they were pinned to her sides. Her mother was slowly disappearing from sight and the door started to close. Connie was alone in the turning. She seemed to be drifting along and the light changed to a bright blue. It was cold and she wanted to get far away. She began to run but the street moved with her. Her breath came in gasps and suddenly she screamed. Hands were bearing down on her, squeezing the remaining breath from her body. She fought until there was no more strength left, and she saw the faces staring down at her.

  ‘Connie! Connie! C’mon now, girl. It’s all right.’

  Her eyes opened wide and Connie saw Joe and Frank bending over her. She was lying on her back in the shelter and she could see the familiar trail of conduit tubing which ran the length of the ceiling. Mary was cradling her head and people were standing around, their faces all looking serious.

  Joe stared down at her. ‘It’s okay, girl. Yer fainted when we got ter yer. The blast must ’ave concussed yer. You’ll be all right. Jus’ stay quiet fer a while.’

  Connie looked up into Joe’s large brown eyes and felt comforted. His wide friendly face was split in a relieved grin and she could see the deep lines that spread out from the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Yer gave us a scare, girl. What was yer doin’ out there? Yer should ’ave bin in the shelter long ago.’

  Connie attempted a sheepish grin and winced as the pain in her head increased with the rush of blood as she sat up slowly. ‘I left it a bit late leavin’ the pub. I thought I’d ’ave enough time before the raid started,’ she said in a faint voice.

  ‘You’re a daft ’ap’orth,’ Joe laughed with an exaggerated shake of his head.

  There was a short lull in the bombing and people had started to chat together. Connie sat in a corner, a mug of hot tea clasped in her still shaking hands. Mary sat beside her whilst nearby her two young children were listening to Frank as he read them a story.

  ‘You okay now, Con?’ Mary asked.

  Connie nodded. ‘I was scared, Mary. I thought the world was fallin’ in on me.’

  Mary grinned. ‘Yer was strugglin’ like a good ’un when Joe carried yer in the shelter. I thought yer was ’avin’ a fit.’

  ‘I was ’avin’ a terrible dream,’ Connie said shivering. ‘It was more like a nightmare. I could see me mum but she was leavin’ me an’ I couldn’t get to ’er. It was really ’orrible.’

  Mary patted the young woman’s hand. ‘Drink yer tea, luv, it’ll do yer good. Yer’ve ’ad a nasty shock.’

  Connie looked up at Mary. ‘I wonder ’ow me aunt an’ uncle an’ Molly are gettin’ on? They mus’ be frightened up in them buildin’s on their own.’

  ‘They’ll be okay. Now drink that tea,’ Mary urged her with a note of authority in her voice.

  The bombs had started to fall again, and the shelter seemed to shake to its foundations. The gas blanket rustled and dust blew in. People had lapsed into silence, each alone with their secret fears. Strings of plaster dust fell from the ceiling and with every explosion the electric lights dimmed. Joe and some of the men got out the kerosene lamps and began to prime them while Mary poured more water into the tea urn. Lizzie and Ada were trying to get a sing-song going but there was little support, and the strains of the harmonica were swallowed up by the increasing noise from outside. People sat rigid with fear and some of the children started to cry as they were awakened from fitful sleep. More dust and paint flakes fell from the ceiling and the smell of carbolic coming from the toilets hung in the stuffy air.

  It was after midnight when the clattering started. Joe cast his eyes up to the ceiling and clenched his fists tightly. It sounded to him as though someone with immense strength was violently shaking a sheet of corrugated iron. It seemed to last for ever and grow into a deep rumble, and then the blast from the explosion threw everyone on to the floor. People were screaming as the lights failed, and in the panic that followed some folk found themselves being trampled on. Joe picked himself up and struggled to the doorway. As he reached the yard, the sight which met his eyes made him recoil in sheer horror. There was a great gap in the buildings. Dust was still rising into clouds of white in the sudden unearthly silence. Half of Jubilee Dwellings had been reduced to a great pile of rubble. Joe could see the exposed fireplaces and the pieces of furniture balanced precariously on the remaining flooring. The part of the dwellings which was still standing had had all the windows blown out and most of the roof tiles dislodged. For a few seconds Joe stood rooted to the spot. He stared in disbelief, not knowing what he should do. As the rest of the men struggled to their feet they stood beside him and stared up at the devastation.

  Joe suddenly came to his senses. ‘Quick! Somebody get ter the wardens’ post fer Gawd sake!’ he shouted. ‘There’s people buried under that lot!’

  G
uns were still screaming out and bombs were falling as Bill Richards ran along the street. Inside the post there was pandemonium. All the lines had gone dead. Without hesitation he ran back into the street and headed for the Tower Bridge Road. The streets were illuminated by fires which were burning everywhere and here and there jets of water shot high into the air from damaged mains and hydrants. Half a mile along the main thoroughfare he found the area wardens’ post and staggered in gasping for breath.

  ‘Jubilee Dwellin’s!’ he blurted out. ‘They’ve copped it! There’s people buried there.’

  The fire watchers of Ironmonger Street had begun burrowing into the rubble and now and then they stopped, listening for sounds of life. Timbers were gently prised loose and huge chunks of brickwork were eased aside as the digging went on. It was almost an hour later when the lorry drove into the turning and men from the Heavy Rescue Squad rushed to help.

  Joe pointed to the tunnel they had made. ‘There was a sound come from down there a little while ago, but it’s gone quiet now,’ he said, his face a white mask.

  ‘Take a breather, mate. We’ll carry on diggin’,’ one of the rescuers said gently.

  Joe sat down on the kerb beside Mary Brown’s husband. ‘I can’t stop shakin’, Frank. It’s the first night the Bartletts ’ave stopped in the buildin’s. I feel so bloody useless.’

  ‘We done all we could, Joe. We’ve jus’ gotta wait now.’

  It was under a dawn sky when the first body was brought out. Joe slid back the blanket and saw that it was Molly Bartlett. The man holding the rear of the stretcher shook his head slowly. Soon after the body of Matthew Bartlett was dragged from under a wall of bricks. Joe Cooper’s face was ashen as he pulled back the blanket to identify the body. Tears of frustration and anger fell down his blackened face as he screwed up his eyes and slumped down heavily on a pile of rubble.

  ‘That’s two of ’em gone, an’ the poor sod’s wife is still under that lot,’ he groaned, staring at the two stretchers lying side by side in the middle of the street.

  There was a sudden call for silence. The rescuers stopped digging and crowded around the shored-up tunnel. Joe picked himself up and hurried over to the men. He saw their leader standing by the tunnel, his head held sideways and a stern look on his dust-streaked features. They could all hear it now. It sounded like a mournful whine coming from far away. The sound made Joe’s flesh creep and he gazed helplessly at the rescuer beside him. The man rested his large hand on the warden’s shoulder and motioned to the shelter.

  ‘We’ll call yer when we reach whoever it is. Yer can ’elp us by tryin’ ter find out ’ow many are likely ter be under the rubble,’ he said.

  ‘I can tell yer that now, mate,’ Joe replied. ‘Most of the people who used ter stay on the ground floor got scared and started usin’ the shelter in the factory a few nights ago. There’s only a woman by the name o’ Bartlett, a Mr and Mrs Riley, an’ an ole woman called ’Awkins. They’re the only ones unaccounted for.’

  The man nodded. ‘All right then, we’ll give yer a shout soon as we can.’

  Joe watched as one of the rescuers slid down into the tunnel. Another man followed him in and the rest of the men stood quietly waiting. The street warden turned towards the factory gates. His heart went out to the grief-stricken young woman who sat alone in the shelter, and silent tears ran down his gaunt face. How much more grief was the girl expected to suffer?

  The all clear had sounded and exhausted, ashen-faced folk had emerged from their refuge to stand horrified at the sight of the stricken dwellings. They watched silently as the sun rose up over the chimney pots and they shivered in the cold sunlight as the ambulance drove back into the street. The shocked street folk caught their breath as a stretcher was carried down from the rubble. They could see old Mrs Hawkins, her head swathed in bandages, waving her hands in protest. ‘I can walk, sod yer! Put me down I tell yer!’

  ‘It’s okay, Ma. Jus’ lie quiet. You’ll be all right,’ the rescuer said as he held her shoulder.

  Another stretcher was rushed up to the tunnel, and soon they carried Helen Bartlett down. A doctor clambered along beside the stretcher, his small black bag held in his bloodied hand. ‘Careful!’ he cried out to the bearers. ‘Keep the stretcher level, she’s badly hurt.’

  Joe trailed along behind them, his eyes lowered towards the cobblestones. He looked up as the injured Helen Bartlett was placed in the ambulance and he shook his head at the questions thrown at him. His thoughts were centred on the young Morgan girl who was being restrained back in the factory shelter. Mary Brown had broken the news to her and she had physically to hold her down with the help of Ada Halliday. Now he had the task of telling the young girl that her aunt had been brought out from the rubble barely alive.

  As the red sun climbed up overhead the service began. A small wooden cross was placed on an altar of bricks, and the congregation stood throughout the sermon. Instead of a church floor beneath their feet there were only cobblestones strewn with debris, and the roof above their heads was the cloudy autumn sky. No hymns were sung and no collection boxes were passed around on that Sabbath morning. The cassocked figure stood perched on a mound of rubble, his sombre voice echoing eerily in the shattered street. He spoke of the courage of rescuers and of the forebearance of those who mourned. He raised his arms to the heavens as he asked the congregation to join him in prayers for the departed souls of the victims and he thanked God for the deliverance of the survivors. Above, the cold sun gave no heat, and as the gathering mumbled ‘Amen’ a new fall of rubble sent a cloud of dust rising into the air. The priest climbed down and walked sorrowfully from the turning with his head bowed. He clutched the wooden cross in his hand and held the New Testament under his arm. As he turned out of the street he heard from somewhere behind him a pitiful cry of torment.

  Later the exodus began. The tenants of Jubilee Dwellings were taken to a nearby rest centre with the exception of Connie Morgan. She had been given a strong sedative and was sleeping in Ada Halliday’s bed. In a little church hall a few streets away lay the bodies of Matthew and Molly Bartlett, alongside those of Annie and Alf Riley. The local hospitals were filled to overflowing and many victims of the night’s bombing lay in draughty corridors or in makeshift wards. Among the casualties admitted to Guy’s Hospital was Helen Bartlett. She lay in a coma, her back broken and both her legs smashed. In the locker beside her bed was a small handbag which she had been holding on to when the rescuers found her. Back in the little street that George Baker had said was invincible a pathetic stack of furniture and bits and pieces stood in a heap beside the huge pile of rubble. The part of Jubilee Dwellings which remained standing would never again be a home for the Ironmonger Street folk. Walls were showing huge cracks and all the window frames had been blown out on to the cobbles below. Chimney pots lay amongst a showering of roof slates, and a rope cordon had been thrown along the pavement beneath a crazily balanced chimney-stack which was in danger of toppling at any minute.

  The street was strangely quiet on that Sunday afternoon. Mercifully, the little houses opposite Jubilee Dwellings had escaped serious damage, apart from broken windows, loosened front doors and dislodged roof slates. Plaster had fallen from the ceilings and soot filled the rooms, but the structures remained intact. Women cooked their lunches on gas stoves which were operating on half pressure and they fetched their water from a hastily erected stand-pipe at the end of the turning. The men had left the street earlier and walked sadly past the heap of rubble that was once the Horseshoe. They drank beer in unfamiliar surroundings and returned to find their dinners still not ready. The street folk took to their beds later that afternoon to catch up on sorely needed sleep and Ada Halliday, loath to awaken Connie, slumbered in her favourite armchair. Outside the wind rose and whisked spirals of brick dust along the cobblestones. At the end of the turning the Armitage factory gates remained open, and they rattled noisily on their heavy chains.

  Part Three

  Chapter Th
irty-One

  A stocky figure with greying hair walked purposefully through the hospital gates with a young woman holding on to his arm. She wore her long blond hair tied back with a black ribbon and her once proud shoulders slumped. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and her pretty features were pale. She started to lag and the man beside her slowed his pace as they crossed the forecourt and entered the main building. The wind had dropped and spots of rain started to fall from a leaden sky. In the distance a roll of thunder announced a coming storm. The man was silent as he guided his companion up the wide stairway and squeezed the hand which rested limply on his arm. They were stopped at the entrance to the ward by a sternlooking matron.

  ‘I’m sorry. Visiting time finished over an hour ago.’

  The girl stared blankly at her feet and the Ironmonger Street warden nodded. ‘We’ve come ter visit Mrs ’Elen Bartlett. We were told she’s on an open order.’

  The matron’s face relaxed a little. ‘Oh I see. Are you the next of kin?’

  ‘This ’ere young lady is. She’s the only relative,’ Joe said, looking at Connie.

  The matron motioned to a side room. ‘I’m afraid Mrs Bartlett hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but you’re both welcome to sit with her. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Connie swayed back on her heels and Joe gripped her arm tightly. ‘The tea would go down a treat, luv.’

  The elderly matron raised her eyebrows stonily and turned away, her crisp apron crackling as she walked swiftly along the dimly lit corridor.

  Joe was aware of the noise his boots made on the tiled floor as he led Connie into the side room. The two looked down on the still figure and Joe caught his breath. Helen Bartlett had aged considerably since he had last seen her. Her hair was now completely white and her eyes were sunken, the dark circles around them conspicuous against the pallor of her face. Helen’s breathing was very shallow and her hands were white and streaked with blue veins as they lay motionless outside the raised bedclothes. Joe turned his shocked gaze to the young woman at his side but he could see no emotion in her eyes as she looked down at her aunt. Joe eased his companion into a chair beside the bed and he drew up another seat at the other side. They sat in silence: Connie staring at her comatose relative and Joe studying his tightly clenched hands.