Ironmonger's Daughter Read online

  Christmas was a sober affair. Connie spent most of the holiday period with the Bartletts and in Molly’s company. Concern for her mother’s health caused the young girl to be even more quiet and thoughtful. She knew enough about tuberculosis to realise that her mother would be in hospital for a very long time, and that often the disease proved to be fatal. Helen and Matthew watched the change taking place in their niece, but they could do little to alleviate her fears. They were also concerned that Connie insisted on staying alone in the flat.

  ‘It’s not right that she should be there all by ’erself, Matt,’ Helen remarked. ‘She’ll only brood. She should stay wiv us.’

  Matthew shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s growin’ up, ’Elen. She prob’ly wants ter spend some time on ’er own. There’s nufink we can do, except keep an eye on ’er.’

  Helen stroked the side of her face thoughtfully. ‘It really upset me the way Kate was wiv young Connie. It was almost as though she didn’t want ter see ’er. It’s not right the way she treats the poor little mite.’

  ‘It’s what I’ve said all along,’ Matthew answered. ‘Connie’s bin an inconvenience ter yer sister. She didn’t want ’er, an’ she’s makin’ a good show of lettin’ the kid know – an’ us if it comes to it.’

  Helen did not answer. She did not want to get into an argument with Matt. He had been short tempered ever since he had lost his job, but she had to concede that he was right. Kate was ill, and so her attitude to her daughter at the hospital was, to some extent, excusable, but there had never been any show of love, only a tolerance and shallow affection. Helen worried about the long-term effects of Kate’s attitude on her daughter. Connie was a sensible girl, but the mind was a funny thing, she mused. None of the love shown by the girl to her mother was reciprocated. And, as Connie was now growing up and beginning to understand things, she might soon start to judge her mother – and blame her.

  The new year started cold and foggy. More factories closed, and the dole queues grew longer. In Germany the rantings of Adolf Hitler were sending shock waves across Europe. The German army marched back into the Rhineland and, when the Spanish Civil War broke out, the German air force interfered on the side of General Franco’s forces. The majority of people in England, however, still espoused the cause of pacifism. Calls to re-arm were dismissed as scaremongering, and some cartoonists portrayed the pleadings of the ‘re-armers’ as the insane ravings of evil factory bosses and avaricious arms dealers. General opinion held that another war was out of the question and few believed that Germany would ever dare to attempt another war against England.

  Joe Cooper wandered slowly amongst the crowds at Speakers’ Corner one Sunday in 1936. Occasionally there was a flicker of recognition as he passed a heavily built young man, but Joe would ignore him and walk on. Word had it that the Blackshirts were planning violence against one of the trade union speakers and the Bermondsey men were ready.

  A loud-voiced orator was urging his audience to march on Parliament and demand a re-armament programme. ‘’Ave yer fergot 1914? Well I ain’t,’ he shouted.

  ‘Nor ’ave I,’ someone replied. ‘I got gassed in France.’

  An elderly man in a grubby mackintosh took a wet stub from his mouth and called out, ‘My ole granfarvver got gassed.’

  ‘In the war?’

  ‘No, in the kitchen. ’E done ’imself in.’

  The laughter from the audience encouraged the heckler, and he rammed his hands into his coat pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘My ole granfarvver used ter come ’ere every Sunday, listenin’ ter the likes o’ you frightened the bleedin’ life out of ’im. That’s why ’e gassed ’imself.’

  ‘I wish yer’d put a tanner in the meter an’ do yerself a favour,’ shouted the speaker, to more laughter.

  ‘I ain’t got a tanner. I’m on the bloody dole.’

  ‘If this country ’ad the sense ter re-arm there wouldn’t be any unemployment. We’d all ’ave a job ter go to,’ the speaker continued, waving his finger at the heckler.

  ‘Listen you,’ his antagonist shouted as he stepped forward a pace or two. ‘I ain’t got no intention of workin’ in a bleedin’ arms factory.’

  ‘By the look o’ you, yer ain’t got no intention o’ workin’ anywhere,’ countered the orator, grinning at his own jibe.

  ‘Why, yer saucy git. I was workin’ when you was a dirty idea in yer farvver’s ’ead. I can work wiv the best of ’em.’

  ‘An’ the worst of ’em,’ a voice called out from the back of the crowd.

  The orator struggled to regain the attention of his audience and he raised his hands skywards for order. ‘Mark my words well, friends,’ he began. ‘If we let the Germans get away wiv it we’re gonna be sorry. Before long they’ll be marchin’ up the Mall.’

  The crowd erupted and one or two young men made for the speaker, their fists clenched.

  ‘Order! Order!’ shouted a heavily built man who was standing by the speaker.

  The crowd held back as the big man faced them, his hands held out in front of his chest. ‘Now listen, brothers,’ he said in a broad Irish accent. ‘As me darlin’ ole mother used ter say, there are those who are for us, an’ those who are agin us, an’ my name’s Maginnis.’

  ‘Piss orf, Paddy. Go back ter yer own soap box,’ someone called out.

  The large Irishman smiled broadly. ‘Sure ’tis an unsociable crowd ye are, so I’m away, my friends. But first I’ll leave yerse with a blessin’ ter be gettin’ on with. When yer toime comes may yerse be in heaven a half an hour before the divil knows you’re dead.’

  The speaker turned his attention to his audience once more as the laughing Irishman walked away somewhat unsteadily. The heckler in the grubby mackintosh walked away, too, his eyes focused on another group who were shouting abuse at a speaker wearing a dog-collar and he walked over to direct a tirade of obscenities at the pacifist minister.

  Soon the crowds began to drift away and Joe breathed easier. The Blackshirts were not going to put in an appearance today after all. I’m getting a little too old for all this, he told himself as he went to join his friends.

  Connie Morgan heard it from Carrie Jones and she told Molly as they walked to work one Monday morning.

  ‘There’s jobs goin’ at Peek’s. Let’s take the afternoon off an’ go roun’ there. They pay more than we’re gettin’.’

  Molly stopped in her tracks. ‘Why wait? Let’s go roun’ there right now. I’m fed up wiv labellin’, ain’t you?’

  Connie grinned. ‘C’mon then, Molly. We might be lucky. The extra money’ll come in ’andy.’

  Molly nodded her agreement. ‘My mum’s worried. Dad got ’imself in debt wiv the moneylender again. If we get the job I can give up a bit more.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Connie replied. ‘My mum’s comin’ ’ome soon an’ she won’t be able ter work fer some time yet.’

  Molly took her cousin’s arm as they crossed the Tower Bridge Road and walked purposefully towards Grange Road. The market stalls were already set up and the smell of fresh fruit carried on the slight breeze. Trams rattled by, and horsecarts made a crunching sound as the iron-rimmed wheels passed over the cobbles. When they neared the Trocette Picture House Connie squeezed her cousin’s arm. ‘Cor! Look Molly!’

  The large poster over the entrance spelt out in bold red lettering: Frank Capra’s, It Happened One Night, starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert.

  ‘I fink Clark Gable’s lovely, Con.’

  ‘So do I, Molly.’

  ‘We’ll ’ave ter see that picture.’

  ‘If we get the job let’s celebrate an’ go up there ternight.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s.’

  Later that evening the two girls left the cinema and walked slowly back to Ironmonger Street. They had been silent for a while, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Suddenly Molly said, ‘I didn’t fink we’d get the job. I got scared when she asked me about bein’ under the ’ospital.’

  Connie laughed aloud
. ‘Wasn’t she funny-lookin’. She reminded me of ole Miss Perkins at school. I nearly burst out laughin’ when I saw them glasses on the end of ’er nose.’

  Molly giggled. ‘Jus’ fancy. Twenty two an’ sixpence a week, an’ as many biscuits as we can eat.’

  ‘Wasn’t that smell nice,’ said Connie as they turned into Ironmonger Street. ‘I love the smell of biscuits, though I bet we won’t be sayin’ that after a few weeks there.’

  They walked down the quiet, dark street and turned into the block entrance. The gaslight flickered as they climbed the wooden staircase and tramped noisily along the landing. After bidding Molly good night Connie climbed the shadowy stairs to her fourth-floor flat and let herself in. The flat felt strangely cold, although the night was mild. She lit the gaslamp and drew the curtains and then she boiled the kettle and made herself a cup of cocoa. There were a few biscuits left in the tin and Connie smiled to herself. After a few weeks at Peek’s I won’t be able to look at these, she thought, as she nibbled on a stale digestive and sipped her drink. From outside the distant sound of a tug whistle and noises from the railway yard carried up into the room. A train whistle sounded faintly as she prepared herself for bed, and she was suddenly consumed by a feeling of loneliness. She missed her mother and hated to be in the flat alone.

  Connie heard the clock on the mantelshelf strike eleven as she lay in bed staring up at the flaking ceiling. She and Molly would be starting their new jobs tomorrow and her mother would be home soon. She should be feeling happy, but instead she was aware of a strange feeling that seemed to be working away deep down inside of her. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes but sleep would not come. She twisted restlessly as her thoughts centred on her mother. Her illness was serious and she might not get better. Connie had overheard Helen talking to Matthew about how pulmonary tuberculosis had killed old Betty Flicker and Mr Brown. She had also commented that the way Kate had carried on hadn’t helped. Connie wondered about those remarks. Her mother had been so secretive about her personal life. It was always, ‘Somebody I’ve got to see’ or ‘I’ve been invited out’. She had never brought her friends back to the flat to meet Connie. Those nights she was sent to the Bartletts to stay might have meant that her mother was intending to bring someone back and didn’t want her to know, Connie thought. And why would no one ever let her know anything about her father? As much as she tried Connie knew she would not learn who her father was, or how he had died – at least not from her mother. Why should she be so secretive? What was she hiding? Maybe her father was still alive. Maybe that was why Kate didn’t want her to know.

  One day I’ll find out the truth, Connie vowed, as she turned on her side and closed her eyes. Dreamy images formed into a tall dashing man with jet-black hair walking towards her. She sighed in her sleep, and pressed her cheek deeper into the pillow.

  Chapter Seven

  Solly Jacobs had a fishmonger’s stall in the Tower Bridge Road market. Solly was a heavily built man in his forties, the eldest son of a Jewish immigrant from Poland. He was also a regular attender at the local synagogue and a leader of the Jewish community in Bermondsey. Solly had been growing concerned about the rise of the British fascists and he was determined that Oswald Mosley’s crowd of Blackshirts would get a bloody nose if they attempted to go ahead with their intended march along the Old Kent Road.

  Solly’s cousin Hymie had been present when Oswald Mosley marched down the Mile End Road at the head of his black-uniformed followers and the following week he paid his relative a visit.

  ‘I tell yer, Solly, it was sheer bloody murder. The swine were chantin’ and jeerin’, and when our lads tried to break up the march the police on ’orseback lashed out with their truncheons. There were a few cracked ’eads and one or two of the boys got trampled by the horses, but that was only the start. Outside the synagogue some young lads rushed the column. My God, it was terrible! Young Bernie Meyer got pushed through a shop window and another young boy got a bottle in’is face. The fightin’ spilled into the side streets an’ the swine were kickin’ out at everyone. They’ve got to be stopped, Solly. We’ve got to get more organised or we’re done fer.’

  The big fishmonger’s face darkened with anger and he laid his hand on Hymie’s shoulder. ‘Listen my friend,’ he said softly. ‘We all know about the sufferin’ of our people in Germany, an’ we all know we mustn’t let it ’appen ’ere. I’ve already called a meetin’. Rest easy, I’ll keep yer informed.’

  Two days later Solly gathered his group together in the backroom of his local pub, The Swan and, to enthusiastic applause, he vowed that the Blackshirt swine would live to regret it if they ever set foot in Bermondsey. Solly held his hands up for silence and when the cheering and clapping died down he introduced the guest speaker.

  Joe Cooper stood up and hooked his thumbs through his wide braces. ‘Yer might ask, brothers, what’s a gentile doin’ at a Jewish gatherin’,’ he began in a loud voice. ‘Well I make no excuses fer bein’ ’ere ternight. I’m a trade unionist, an’ your fight is our fight. If we allow this fascist scum ter ride roughshod over us ordinary people, then we deserve the consequences.’

  Loud applause greeted his statement and Joe leaned forward, his clenched fists resting on the bare wooden table. ‘Let me ask yer somefink, bruvvers. Is there anyfink in yer teachin’ that ferbids yer from bein’ trade unionists? Is there anyfink that ses yer can’t vote, or can’t be as equal as yer gentile bruvvers? ’Course there ain’t. But I tell yer. There’s a lot in the manifesto of the British Union of Fascists that ses jus’ that. The Blackshirts are comin’ fer you lot terday. They’ll be comin’ fer us termorrer, an’ they’ll be comin’ fer Gawd knows who the next day.’

  The clapping and cheering went on as Solly slapped Joe Cooper on the back and clasped his hand in a show of gratitude. Joe waited for the noise to die down then he hooked his thumbs through his braces once more. ‘I only wanna say one more fing, bruvvers. When yer face the Blackshirts my lads’ll be there wiv yer.’

  The meeting had broken up and Solly stood beside Joe in the public bar. Jack Rabin, the landlord, had been talking to a small group of men and when he came over he leaned over the counter. ‘There’s some more wanna sign up, Solly. If this keeps up we’ll ’ave a bloody army by next week.’

  Joe sipped his beer. ‘I’ll muster a good crowd, Solly. A lot o’ the lads remember the Armitage trouble way back. They ain’t fergot what ’appened to us when we was out on the cobbles. The firm got the ’ard men in. It’s them sort o’ gits that’s marchin’ wiv Mosley, yer can bet on it.’

  Solly nodded his agreement. ‘We gotta be careful, Joe. We ain’t gonna be dealin’ wiv know-nufinks. Them Blackshirts know the score. They got right nasty in Mile End. A few of our boys got a pastin’. One got aimed through a plate-glass winder. It got ugly, I can tell yer. The law’s gonna be out in force on this march. We’ve gotta be shrewd or we won’t get anywhere near the fascist bastards.’

  Joe finished his drink and put his hand up when Solly offered to buy another. ‘I’ve gotta get goin’, Solly. My Sadie ain’t too well. She don’t like me bein’ out fer long.’

  The Jewish fishmonger watched as Joe Cooper walked out through the door, then he turned to Jack Rabin. ‘’E’s a good man, Jack. We need the likes of ’im ter stand wiv us,’ he said.

  The landlord looked thoughtful. ‘I dunno, Solly. I’m always a bit cautious about that sort. I don’t want us ter be used as fodder fer their battles.’

  Solly laughed aloud. ‘Jack, yer gettin’ suspicious in yer old age. Let me tell yer about Joe Cooper. I’ve known ’im fer ages. Joe’s a foreman at the tin bashers in Ironmonger Street. ’E’s bin campaignin’ fer years ter get a union in there. Back in twenty-six ’e was up front in a strike at the factory. The owners brought in a team ter break up the strike an’ Joe Cooper ended up on the floor wiv boots goin’ in all round ’im. ’E got took away in a Black Maria an’ ended up in front of the beak. I tell yer, that man’s got principles
. I’ll tell yer somefink else as well. Joe’s wife is stuck in a wheelchair wiv polio. She’s bin that way fer years. If Joe ain’t out at meetin’s ’e’s lookin’ after’er. Yer don’t ’ave ter worry about ’im.’

  The pub landlord stroked his chin. ‘If ’e’s after startin’ up a union at the factory, ’ow comes they ain’t sacked ’im?’

  ‘They’re not that stupid,’ Solly laughed. ‘Joe knows ’is job. They don’t come no better. All the workers likes ’im and ’e gets the best out of ’em. The guv’nors know that. No, Jack. They ain’t that stupid.’

  Connie and Molly were settled in their new jobs at Peek Frean’s biscuit factory. The Bartletts were on relief, as Molly’s was the only money coming into the household. Kate had come home from the sanatorium and she spent most of her time sitting by the window, looking down on the street. Her body was constantly wracked by a dry, rasping cough and Connie became increasingly worried as she watched the life slowly draining from her mother. Every morning, before she set out for work, Connie helped her mother into the armchair and brought her tea and thin toast, then she made the bed and tidied up. When the weather was cold Connie would light the fire and bring in a supply of coal which she piled up in the scuttle beside the hearth. In the evening there was the usual round of chores to do before she settled her mother for the night. During the time Connie was at work Helen came in with a meal. Kate rarely ever ventured out and, on the one or two occasions that she managed to get down the stairs and out into the street, she was immediately seized with a spasm of coughing. Her face became drained of colour and she had to lean against the wall until she recovered enough to move. During the first few months her party friends had called around often to see her, but slowly the number of visitors diminished until there were no callers or enquirers – except for the people from the street. Connie’s life settled into a dull, monotonous routine, she rarely ever went out in the evenings or at weekends, and her only chance to get away from the depressing flat was when she slipped downstairs to chat to the Bartletts. Helen and Matthew were becoming increasingly worried about the girl.