Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  The hours seemed long, and the work was dull. The only relief came when the daily tot of wine was handed out. The women labellers chuckled as Molly took her first sip of wine and pulled a face. It tasted like vinegar and she had difficulty in swallowing it. Connie, too, found the taste strange, but it was not long before both girls got used to it and in fact even began to look forward to the wine break. The ribald jokes, and the raucous laughter which often brought the foreman out of his office to see what was going on, were at first frightening to the cousins. But the women, mostly old hands, took the two young girls under their wings, and though life in the bottling stores was tedious and hard, in no time at all the young girls felt that they were part of the group. They soon began to understand the logic of the bawdy jokes which were, more often than not, directed towards the men workers.

  Liaisons were established, and the banter and repartee often resulted in little favours being done by the men to ease the workload. Women could take a break in the toilets to have a smoke or take a swig from a bottle of wine that had been secreted behind the cistern while one of the men took over the labelling. Other little favours helped everyone through the day and, when someone had a birthday, one of the men would run over to the bakers across the road from the stores and fetch cakes. The most important reason for befriending the men, however, was the fact that the bottling stores worked on a bonus system. To have an ally amongst the men meant that the full boxes of labelled bottles would be more quickly removed and another empty box made ready; it could also ensure that a speedier supply of labels and paste kept production going and the bonus figure being reached.

  At five o’clock every evening the two friends left the dank, gas-lit railway arches where the bottling stores were situated and walked home arm in arm to Ironmonger Street. As they walked through the warren of little backstreets to reach their homes they usually talked about their funny workmates and the young lads who were employed to load and unload the vans and horsecarts. One of the lads, a scruffily-dressed individual with an impish look, had seemed to have taken a shine to Molly and it was the subject of much talk amongst the older women. Molly was finding his attentions embarrassing, and she always blushed when the lad came through the arch and gave her a huge wink. Connie though was grateful for his friendship and she decided to find out a little about him.

  The opportunity presented itself when the bottling machine broke down one morning. While the broken glass was being extracted from the cogs the labellers took a well-earned rest, and some of the lads came in to the bottling arch for a chat. The impish character sidled up to Connie and leaned on the work bench. ‘’Ello. What’s your name then?’ he asked, his eyes gently mocking her.

  ‘Connie Morgan. What’s yours then?’ she countered.

  ‘Michael Donovan. I live in Tower Bridge Road,’ he said quickly, flicking a tuft of hair from his eyes with a quick move of his head.

  ‘I live in Ironmonger Street,’ Connie said.

  Michael’s eyes lit up and he broke into a grin, showing a row of wide even teeth. ‘Ironmonger Street. Cor! That’s a right ole street ter live in.’

  Connie gave him a hard stare. ‘What d’yer mean? Our street’s okay. I’ve lived there all me life. Molly lives there too. We’re cousins.’

  ‘I know you’re cousins. They told me,’ he said, nodding to the group of women who had produced a pack of cards and were beginning a game of pontoon. ‘Why don’t yer cousin talk ter me when I wink at ’er? Is she shy?’

  ‘She is a bit, I s’pose,’ Connie conceded.

  ‘I used ter go out wiv one o’ the girls ’ere,’ Michael said, standing up straight and puffing out his pigeon chest. ‘She left though. Got anuvver job in an office.’

  ‘Oh, an’ is that why yer packed ’er up?’

  ‘I didn’t pack ’er up. She packed me up,’ he admitted as he toyed with a pasting brush.

  Connie studied the tall, slim lad and felt suddenly sorry for him. His demeanour was innocent enough, although she sensed a fierce pride simmering below the surface. His face was open and friendly and his unruly mop of fair hair almost covered his ears. His clothes seemed to be hanging on him, and his boots were tied up with string. He had a pleasant smile and his full lips were constantly moving. He seemed somehow to be different from the rest of the lads in that he took every opportunity to chat to everyone within reach.

  ‘’Ow old are yer?’ Connie asked suddenly, flushing at her own impudence.

  ‘I’m nearly seventeen. ’Ow old are you?’

  ‘I’ll be fifteen in November,’ Connie replied.

  ‘Yer just a kid, Connie. Don’t worry though. I’ll keep me eye on yer. Some o’ those women are crafty,’ he whispered, nodding in the direction of the card players. ‘They’ll give yer all the worse jobs, you bein’ new an’ everyfing.’

  ‘I’m not a kid,’ Connie retorted sharply. ‘I’m only a little bit younger than you. Anyway, yer not a kid once yer start work,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘What’s up wiv yer cousin, Con?’ Michael said, in an effort to change the subject.

  ‘What d’yer mean what’s up wiv ’er?’

  ‘Well, she looks sort o’ different. Like she’s a dwarf or somefink.’

  Connie was furious at his impudence, and wanted to lash out with her tongue, but something stopped her. He seemed genuinely interested in Molly’s condition, and she saw the look of sympathy and concern on his elfin face.

  ‘Molly’s got a spine defect. She was born wiv it. That’s why she gets shy when boys talk to ’er,’ she said quietly. Michael’s look of puzzlement made her go on. ‘Yer see, Molly finks people pity ’er. She gets mad when people pity ’er.’

  ‘Can’t the ’ospital do anyfink – ter make ’er walk better I mean?’ Michael asked.

  Connie shook her head. ‘No. ’Er mum told me she might’ave ter wear irons on ’er legs soon. Don’t you tell ’er that, will yer?’ she said, her eyes widening.

  ‘’Course I won’t. What d’yer take me for?’ Michael said indignantly.

  Connie glanced over to where her friend was working and saw that the group on that particular bench was huddled around one of the women who seemed to be pointing out something from a catalogue. Molly appeared to be interested in what was being shown and did not seem to have noticed the conversation she was having. Connie looked back at Michael who was leaning against the work table, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’ve not seen yer in Tower Bridge Road,’ she said. ‘I’m always there, doin’ shoppin’ fer me aunt.’

  ‘I live in Albion Buildin’s, near the bridge. I live wiv me gran,’ he said, looking down at his scruffy boots.

  ‘Ain’t yer got no mum an’ dad then?’ Connie asked.

  ‘They split up when I was a little kid. I can’t remember much about ’em. I remember a little bit about me dad. ’E was very big. All I can remember about me mum is the scenty smell. She always smelt really nice. I can’t even remember what she looked like.’

  Connie looked down at her fingernails. ‘My dad’s dead. At least that’s what me mum tells me. I don’t know really. ’E might still be alive.’

  ‘D’yer live wiv yer mum, Con?’

  ‘Yeah. Why d’yer ask?’

  ‘Well yer said yer go shoppin’ fer yer aunt.’

  ‘That’s right, I do. I stay wiv ’er an’ Molly a lot. Me mum works in a pub, an’ she ’as ter go out a lot.’

  The belt was now clear of broken glass and it looked as though work would start again very soon.

  Michael stood up straight. ‘Fanks fer the chat, Con. I’d better get outside, or that ole goat Bradley’ll start shoutin’.’

  Connie smiled at him. ‘Somebody mentioned you was tryin’ ter get in the navy,’ she said. ‘Is that right?’

  Michael’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah. I’m waitin’ till I’m seventeen next month an’ I’m gonna sign on fer seven an’ five.’

  ‘What’s seven an’ five mean?’

  ‘Seven in the service, an’ five y
ears in the reserve. It’s what yer gotta do if yer wanna join up,’ he said as he moved away from the work bench.

  ‘See yer later,’ Connie called out.

  ‘See yer, Con,’ he smiled.

  1935 was Jubilee year, and in May lots of backstreets in dockland held parties for the children. In Ironmonger Street some of the folk gathered together in George Baker’s house to make arrangements for a street party. George was now in his early seventies and still sprightly. His daughter Mary was there, too. She had married Frank Brown, a docker from the next street, and they had two young children. Joe Cooper sat at the table with a note pad in front of him holding court.

  ‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘We’ve gotta go roun’ wiv the collectin’ boxes. People ain’t got much, we know, but every penny’ll count. We’ve also gotta scrounge some fruit an’ nuts from the stall-’olders, an’ somebody’s gotta pop in ter get a few bob from ole Misery.’

  ‘I’ll chat the stall-’olders up,’ Mary said, wiping her baby’s hands and moving the packet of margarine out of reach.

  ‘I can make some jellies,’ Clara Cosgrove piped in.

  ‘I can bake a load o’ fairy cakes if somebody can supply the stuff,’ said Mrs Griffin.

  ‘What about the clobber, Joe?’ old man Baker said, knocking the bowl of his pipe on the fender.

  ‘Well it all depends,’ Joe answered. ‘If we get enough money from the whip round we can get Union Jack pinafores fer the girls, an’ paper ’ats fer the boys. There’s also those Jubilee mugs on sale in the market. We might be able ter get some o’ those an’ fill ’em up wiv sweets.’

  ‘What about tables an’ chairs?’ Mary said, dipping her baby’s dummy in the jam pot and popping it in his mouth. ‘I can’t put any o’ mine outside me front door, I’d be too ashamed. They’re all rickety.’

  ‘I know what. Let’s go round an’ see ole scatty Simmons,’ Mary’s husband said. ‘’E could let us ’ave some trestle tables an’ benches from the school.’

  ‘’E wouldn’t give yer the time o’ day,’ Mrs Cosgrove said with venom. ‘That ole goat’s pissed ’alf ’is time.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Joe butted in. ‘We’ll talk to ’im when ’e’s pissed. We’ll get more sense out of ’im that way. If we play our cards right ’e might chip in a few cups an’ plates.’

  The group of organisers went about their various tasks, and soon the festivity supplies began to grow. Tony Armeda promised to donate a tub of his lemon ice-cream and the stallholders gave generously. As one of them put it: ‘We might as well do it wiv a good ’eart. Those bleeders from Ironmonger Street’ll nick the bloody fruit anyway.’

  Misery Martin proved to be a problem, however, and Joe Cooper decided to sort him out in his own way. ‘Come ’ere you lot,’ he shouted at a group of street kids who he found tying door knockers together and pulling on the string. ‘I ain’t gonna give yer a clout. Not if yer do as yer told. Now listen. This is what I want yer ter do.’

  Misery Martin had been trying unsuccessfully to sell his business for years. No one seemed interested, and he blamed the street. ‘Who’d wanna buy a shop in this bloody turnin’,’ he was grumbling to a commercial traveller he’d cornered in his shop. ‘Them little urchins ain’t civilised. Bloody savages, the lot of ’em. I’d give ’em a party! More like a good ’idin’. That’s what they want. I ’ad one o’ the farvvers in ’ere only yesterday. Wantin’ a subscription fer the street party. I told ’im no, an’ in no uncertain terms.’

  The commercial traveller was backing out through the door with his head buzzing. ‘I’ll look in again next week Mr Martin.’

  ‘That’s what they need,’ Misery called out to the disappearing figure. ‘A bleedin’ good ’idin’.’

  Four grinning faces looked in the shop doorway and pointed to the canes that were hanging from the rafters.

  ‘Go on, ’op it!’ the disgruntled shop owner called out.

  The four kids stood perfectly still, their mocking faces grinning evilly.

  ‘You ’eard what I said. ’Op it!’

  The kids remained perfectly still by the doorway. Misery hobbled around the counter and they disappeared. When he returned to the counter the kids were back. The aggravation went on all day. Next morning the kids came back and Misery spoke to PC Wilshaw, who promised to box a few ears if he came across the little ruffians. Little was gained from Misery’s consultation with the law. As soon as the constable left the street back came the kids. By the end of the second day Misery had come to the end of his tether.

  ‘What can I do ter put a stop to it?’ he groaned to Joe Cooper, who had purposely gone in for a penn’orth of nails.

  ‘Leave it ter me, Jerry. I’ll sort ’em out. Yer won’t be bovvered by ’em any more,’ Joe said, pulling a serious face. ‘Oh, by the way. Did I ask yer fer a contribution ter the street party?’

  It’s bloody little short of blackmail, groaned Misery to himself as he reluctantly handed over two one pound notes.

  Chapter Six

  The winter of ’thirty-five was very cold, with intermittent snow and ice and dense yellow fogs. The inclement weather affected trade, and transport was badly disrupted. Ships became marooned mid-stream, trains were cancelled, and the vehicles of cartage firms were abandoned throughout London, although the horse-carts usually got home. When the terrified animals were held by their halters and led along the road they usually calmed down, and when they somehow sensed that they were nearing familiar surroundings the car-men were able to jump up in the dicky seats and let the animals plod on without assistance. Another ploy of the car-men was to steer the iron-rimmed wheels into the tram tracks and glide home that way. It was not uncommon for car-men to miss the turnoff and find themselves in the tram depots, where they spent the night sleeping in one of the tramcars. The unfortunate horses had to bed down on the cold concrete surface, much to the chagrin of depot superintendents.

  In October Kate Morgan lost her job as barmaid. She had been suffering with a bad cough which refused to get any better. Connie was worried; she could see the change. Her normally lively mother was pale and weak and had to spend some time in bed. Connie would take her tea and toast before she left for work, and Helen would look in during the day. But the cough only got worse and, when Kate was able to get up, the doctor sent her to the hospital for tests. She had contracted TB, and Connie was close to tears as she watched her mother leave in an ambulance to go to one of the new clinics that had just opened in Sussex. Helen had suggested that Connie stay with her, but the young girl was determined to look after herself. She knew that, as it was, Helen was hard pushed to care for her own family. Matthew was out of work again, and Molly had been ill twice that winter. Her chest was weak and the fogs made it hard for her to breathe. At work, Connie found some cheer in talking to the effervescent young Michael. His cheerful banter and infectious laugh made it easier for her to get through the day. Michael was so excited at the prospect of going into the Royal Navy, and he promised to keep in touch after he had joined up.

  Connie was growing fast, her thin legs were becoming more shapely and her breasts were developing; her face was losing its childish appearance and her lips had become fuller and more expressive. Connie was a little confused at the changes she was experiencing, and felt the occasional tinge of excitement deep within her. She had also started to experience dreams that made her feel embarrassed and ashamed when she remembered them the next morning. The job at the bottling stores was becoming almost unbearable, and she had thought about looking for another one. Helen was urging Molly to leave the job, too. She had lost a lot of time lately because of ill-health and her mother blamed the damp environment of the railway arches for her daughter’s illnesses, although she knew that it really only aggravated Molly’s condition rather than caused it. The hospital had said long ago that she would always suffer because of her underdeveloped lungs.

  Just before Christmas Connie went with Helen and Matthew to see Kate at the sanatorium near Hastings
. The long wards were painted white and large windows let in the low winter light. The day was cold and dreary and a light rain had been falling since dawn. Kate was sitting in a comfortable chair beside her bed and when Connie saw her she was shocked. Kate was ashen-faced and her eyes had heavy dark circles around them. She showed little emotion as the small party assembled around her bed and Connie hugged her. The atmosphere was unbearably tense as the visitors tried to make conversation. Kate seemed preoccupied and bored with Helen’s account of the current state of affairs in Ironmonger Street. Matthew was sitting on the edge of his uncomfortable chair without saying much, and Connie was silent and physically shaken at her mother’s appearance. When finally she managed to tell Kate about her intention to change her job her mother merely nodded and looked away down the ward. Helen felt for her niece; Kate’s attitude towards her daughter was one of indifference. Helen knew that there had never been any show of warmth or affection, nor any of the closeness that would be normal between a mother and her daughter and it rankled. She could make allowances for Kate’s wayward behaviour and the numerous relationships she had had with men, but she could never forgive her for her coldness towards her own daughter. It was as though Connie was an unwelcome responsibility, and her presence was an intrusion into Kate Morgan’s life.

  At last, the two hours were up and the ward sister rang a small bell at the end of the ward. Kate looked relieved that the visit was over and she smiled mirthlessly as Helen said, ‘You’ll be ’ome soon, Kate.’

  ‘I’m ’ere fer six months, sis,’ Kate said slowly. ‘Yer better get used to it – I ’ave.’

  Helen’s face was grim as she turned and walked down the long ward with Matthew and Connie following in her wake. At the door Connie turned to wave to her mother, but she was already talking to the patient next to her and she had her back to her daughter. Matthew noticed the look in Connie’s eyes and with a rare show of emotion he put his arm around her shoulders as they walked out into the wide corridor.