Ironmonger's Daughter (10 page)

On the last Friday evening of November, as the young girl hurried home from the factory, she had a strange feeling of unease. Molly was off sick with her chest and Kate had been racked with a particularly bad coughing spell that morning. The weather was cold and damp, with a fog settling in. Connie stopped off at the Tower Bridge Road for some bread and fresh milk, and when she finally arrived home she was met by a worried-looking Helen.

‘It’s yer mum, luv,’ she said. ‘She’s ’ad a bad turn. The doctor’s bin. ’E said she’s gotta go away.’

Connie hurried past her aunt into the drab interior of the flat. Kate was sitting up in bed with a blanket pulled around her shoulders. She was drained of colour, and her eyes were blackrimmed and sunken. Connie sat on the edge of the bed and took her mother’s clammy hands in hers. A sickening rush of fear and dread made her tremble as she asked, ‘What is it, Mum?’

‘I’m dyin’, child. I can’t get me breath. The pain’s terrible.’

For a moment or two Connie felt panic. She tried to control her emotions and force a smile. ‘You’ll be all right, Mum,’ she said. ‘It’s the cold and fog. When yer get ter the ’ospital they’ll give yer somefink fer the pain. You’ll feel better then.’

Kate squeezed her daughter’s hands in a weak grip. ‘You’re a good child, Con. I know I’ve not bin one ter say much, but I know what yer’ve give up all these months ter look after me. I’m only sorry I won’t be able ter make it up ter yer.’

Connie felt the tears rising. ‘Don’t talk like that, Mum. You’ll be okay. You see if yer don’t.’

Kate withdrew her hands from Connie’s grasp and pulled the blanket tighter around her sagging shoulders. ‘Listen, Con. I don’t fink I’m gonna see this place again, so I want yer ter pay attention ter what I’m gonna say. I’ve not bin a family woman like me sister. I’ve gone me own way an’ enjoyed me life, ’cos that’s the way I wanted it. I never wanted ter settle down wiv a man, until I met yer farvver. I didn’t want ter fall fer a kid eivver, but I did. When you come along I was feelin’ sorry fer meself, but I ’ad ter accept me lot. You know what they say, if yer makes yer bed, yer gotta lie in it. I’ve gotta say this, though, yer never brought me any trouble. Yer’ve . . .’ Kate’s words were interrupted with a spasm of coughing and Connie handed her mother a handkerchief. When she finally ceased and wiped the cold sweat from her forehead, she smiled weakly at Connie. ‘Yer’ve always bin a lovin’ child,’ she said, ‘an’ I know I ain’t appreciated yer the way I should ’ave. I know ’ow yer’ve give up yer nights out ter look after me.’

Connie’s eyes misted and she stared down at the bedclothes. ‘I’m not worried about goin’ out nights, Mum. I’d sooner be’ome lookin’ after you.’

Kate reached out and squeezed her daughter’s hands. ‘Yer a very pretty girl, Con. One day soon the boys are gonna start knockin’ fer yer. Jus’ promise me somefink.’

Connie nodded as she kept her eyes averted from her mother’s face.

‘Promise me you’ll find a nice lad an’ settle down. Don’t play the field like I did, girl. It’ll only bring yer un’appiness.’

‘I promise, Mum,’ Connie said tearfully.

Kate forced a weak smile. ‘That’s my girl. Now go an’ make me a cup o’ tea before the amb’lance comes.’

 

November had brought some extra orders to the Armitage factory and the workers were put on full time until Christmas. Mary Brown and her friend Joyce Spinks both got work there again and during their first lunch break they sat together in the canteen and gossiped.

‘I don’t like that foreman, Joyce.’

‘’E ain’t a patch on Joe Cooper,’ Mary said.

‘Yer tellin’ me,’ Joyce replied, as she wiped her plate with a piece of dry bread. ‘The silly bleeder’s bin up an’ down that gangway all mornin’. Every time I looked round there ’e was, starin’ at me.’

Mary grinned. ‘I reckon e’ fancies yer, Joyce. ’E ain’t married, yer know.’

‘Well I am, an’ in any case, I don’t fancy old age creepin’ all over me.’

Mary pushed her empty plate away and lit up a cigarette.

‘I didn’t know yer started smokin’,’ Joyce said in surprise.

‘Yeah, I started when our Maggie was born. Couldn’t get no sleep fer the first few months wiv ’er cryin’ an’ I found it settled me nerves.’

‘My Arfur can’t stand me smokin’,’ Joyce said. ‘’E reckons women who smoke look like prossers.’

Mary snorted. ‘’Ow many prossers does your Arfur know?’

Joyce dismissed her friend’s remark with a limp-wristed wave. ‘’Ere Mary. They tell me Joe Cooper ended up gettin’ six months.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. ’E should get a couple o’ months off fer good be’ aviour.’

Joyce took out a small mirror from her handbag and studied herself for a few seconds. ‘I bet Joe’s wife’s cut up, ’er bein’ the way she is.’

Mary puffed on her cigarette and blew a jet of smoke ceiling-wards. ‘I dunno about that. They don’t get on, yer know. Poor ole Joe ’as ter do everyfink fer ’er. ’E pushes ’er everywhere in that wheelchair, an’ I’ve seen ’im up the market gettin’ the shoppin’. Poor sod was like an errand boy.’

‘Who’s lookin’ after ’is missus while ’e’s away then, Mary?’

‘Why, that relation of ’ers. Miserable ole cow she is. I fink she was the one who poisoned ’er mind. Every time I saw Joe an’ ’is missus out tergevver she was always moanin’ at ’im. Mind you though, ’e was always ’avin’ ter rush off ter meetin’s.’E’ll never change.’

‘I dunno, Mary. ’E might be different now. ’E’s got time ter fink about fings. It mus’ be ’ard goin’ away fer bashin’ up a couple o’ Blackshirts.’

Mary laughed. ‘’E didn’t get six months fer bashin’ up Blackshirts. Joe got nicked fer punchin’ a copper.’

‘Did ’e? I didn’t know that.’

Mary nodded knowingly. ‘My Frank was up the Old Kent Road when it ’appened.’

‘July wasn’t it, Mary?’

‘No, it was in June. Joe an’ a load of ’is union mates was standin’ wiv the Jew boys when Mosley’s marchers come up. Somebody slung a brick at ’em an’ the police on ’orses galloped up wiv their big sticks slashin’ out. Accordin’ ter my Frank there was a lot o’ Mosley’s supporters waitin’ in the crowd. The fists were flyin’ everywhere an’ Joe caught this copper in the jaw so they took ’im away. That last affair outside the factory went against ’im. Most o’ the ovvers got bound over. Bloody shame really. Trust poor ole Joe ter get roped in.’

‘Yeah, it’s a shame,’ Joyce said feelingly. ‘’E’s such a nice bloke really.’

Mary outed her cigarette in a saucer. ‘What about that time’e got the Jubilee party up fer the kids. ’E even got ole Misery Martin ter chip in, though Gawd knows ’ow ’e managed that. Ole Martin wouldn’t give yer the drippin’s from ’is nose!’

‘’As ’e still got that shop, Mary?’

‘Yeah. Misery’s bin there fer over twenty years. ’E’s breakin’ up now though.’

Joyce scratched the back of her head and watched the progress of a young lad who was trying to reach the table without spilling any of his soup. ‘It ain’t changed much round’ere, ’as it, Mary? D’yer remember when we was kids?’

Mary nodded her head slowly. ‘What about after work on Fridays, when we used ter go up West. We used ter dream about findin’ ourselves a couple o’ toffs, an’ what did we both end up wiv? Two lads from Tower Bridge Road.’

Joyce sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t give my Arfur up fer no bloody toff.’

‘No, nor would I,’ Mary said. ‘My Frank’s as good as gold. It makes yer fink, though, don’t it?’

The hooter sounded and there was a noisy scraping of chairs as the workforce started to leave the canteen. Mary gathered up her handbag and waited while Joyce looked at her reflection in the small mirror once more.

‘You mind yer don’t wipe an ’ole in that plate, Pete,’ Mary said with mock seriousness to the young lad who was busy mopping up the last of his soup with a hunk of bread.

Pete ignored the jibe and burped loudly as he pushed the plate to one side.

‘C’mon, Joyce. It’s like feedin’ time at the zoo round ’ere,’ Mary groaned.

Connie spent another quiet Christmas with the Bartletts. Kate was settled in the sanatorium and her condition had improved slightly, although her cough was still giving her trouble. Helen was now going out early each morning to do office cleaning, and Matthew was supplementing his dole money by selling bits and pieces of haberdashery from a suitcase in the East End markets. Every Monday morning Helen Bartlett would take her best pair of sheets to the pawnbroker’s and accept the seven and sixpence in exchange so that her husband could buy his wares. The business had to be done ‘over the water’, away from the snoops and busybodies at the Relief Office. The wholesalers in Brick Lane sold off the remnants of their stock to people like Matthew, but he had to wait until the bulk buyers had been accommodated. On a good week Matthew recouped his original seven and sixpence by Thursday, with just enough bits and pieces left over to make a tiny profit by the end of the week. Some of the Eastenders who frequented the markets made a show of interest, picking up the thimbles, collar studs and coloured cottons as if they had been looking everywhere for them.

‘’Ere look, Sal. ’E’s got collar studs. Me ole man’s right out o’ collar studs.’

‘’E’s got packets o’ needles an’ all, Queenie. I gotta lot o’ sewin’ ter do. I fink I’ll get a packet.’

Matthew was not fooled. Nearly every week Queenie needed collar studs, although he was sure that her husband now possessed more studs than shirts. As for Sally, she must have mislaid dozens of needles – she had bought a packet every Friday for the past two months. But Matthew was eternally grateful to Eastenders like Queenie and Sally whose patronage allowed him to retain some of his dignity, which he had felt he was gradually losing in the endless dole queues.

 

The year of 1936 ended with a major topic being discussed in every pub and on every doorstep in dockland Bermondsey. In the Horseshoe the old domino group would have had much to say about the abdication, but the only survivor, George Baker, rarely ventured as far as the pub. A new generation was holding court. Terry Hicks and Bill Mullins were dockers, and conveniently lived a few doors down from the pub.

Terry, the new spokesman, was adamant. ‘I tell yer, Bill.’E’s the King of England. ’E’s not the same as the likes o’ you an’ me.’

‘The likes o’ you an’ me wouldn’t marry a foreigner who’s already wore out two ole men, Terry.’

‘Well I reckon ’e should put the country first. Yer can’t go against the church an’ the country when yer a king. I mean, there’s yer coronation an’ yer pomp an’ splender. It’s yer’eritage, Bill.’

‘Sod yer pomp an’ splender. ’E could get married in a regist’ry office like anybody else.’

‘C’mon, Bill. Yer can’t do fings like that when yer a king o’ yer country. Just imagine Edward walkin’ down the town ’all steps wiv that there Mrs Simpson on ’is arm an’ some soppy bleeder runnin’ down the steps after ’im, shoutin’ out, “don’t ferget yer crown, Ted”.’

When the laughter subsided Terry went on. ‘All right, I grant yer that ’e’s in love wiv ’er, but what’s ter stop ’im gettin’ spliced ter lady so-an’-so an’ givin’ ’er one every once in a while fer the sake o’ the Royal line. ’E’s got ole Mrs Simpson on the quiet an’ everybody’s ’appy.’

‘P’raps ’e don’t want ter marry some ugly ole aristocrat, jus’ ter please the likes o’ you, an’ I don’t s’pose that there Mrs Simpson would be very ’appy wiv that arrangement, Tel.’

‘It ain’t a question o’ what makes Mrs Simpson ’appy. ’E’s got the country ter fink about, Bill, an’ in any case, ’e don’t’ave ter marry an ugly aristocrat. There mus’ be a few goodlookin’ ones amongst ’em, surely ter Gawd.’

Bill refused to be shaken. ‘I don’t care what yer say. ’E’s got the right ter pick an’ choose, jus’ like anybody else. I say good luck to ’im. At least ’e’s got the guts ter come out wiv it.’

The argument was suspended while fresh pints were brought from the crowded bar and then the discussion went on until closing time.

 

The young couple had met by chance, and at first she had almost walked past without looking at the upright figure in a naval uniform. It was he who stopped and hailed the pretty blond-haired girl.

‘’Ello, Con. Remember me?’ he said brightly.

Connie flushed as she looked up at the grinning Michael Donovan. ‘Yer did it then,’ she exclaimed, her eyes travelling from his polished shoes up to his cap, which was perched at a jaunty angle. ‘I didn’t reco’nise yer, Michael. Yer do look smart. ’Ow long yer bin in the navy?’

‘Six months. I’m stationed down in Portsmouth, but I’m off ter sea next week.’

Connie put her shopping bag down on the pavement and rubbed her stiff fingers together. ‘When d’yer go back off leave?’

‘Sunday night. We’re sailin’ on Tuesday. We’re goin’ ter Gib,’ Michael said proudly.

‘Gib?’

‘Gibraltar. Well, that’s our first port o’ call. We’re goin’ on ter the Med.’

‘Lucky you,’ Connie said, smiling as she looked into his fresh-cut features. ‘I’ll be finkin’ about yer when I’m sittin’ there packin’ ’orrible biscuits.’

Michael took off his cap and ran his fingers through a mop of fair hair. ‘’Ow’s yer friend Molly?’

‘She’s okay. We’re still workin’ tergevver, but at Peek Frean’s now. She’s bin off work a lot lately. She was pretty rough over Christmas.’

Michael reached down and picked up Connie’s shopping bag. ‘C’mon, I’ll carry it back fer yer.’

The two young people threaded their way in and out of the Saturday morning shoppers and turned off into a side street. Michael walked with a slight swagger and Connie felt strangely elated as she walked by his side. She could not help but notice the change in the lad. His gaunt face had filled out and it had a healthy glow about it. He seemed to have grown taller and put on some weight. Connie had to concede that he looked quite dashing in his uniform and she gave him a few shy glances as they walked towards Ironmonger Street.