Ironmonger's Daughter (12 page)

Peter leaned back heavily in his large leather armchair. ‘Look Gerald, of course I’d do anything for the best interests of this company. I’ve already been in touch by letter about the agreement.’

Gerald looked up quickly. ‘You have?’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t well received, to say the least. The answer was terse and specific. The arrangement stays the same.’

Gerald dropped his gaze. ‘You know Cooper’s going to foment trouble,’ he said slowly. ‘It won’t be long before we have another strike on our hands.’

‘It may be that we have to start some kind of talks,’ Peter said with resignation. ‘But let’s face it, Gerald. Joe Cooper gives us a fair day’s work, the workforce respect him and he manages to get the best out of them. The way things are going, the government could be initiating a re-armament programme any day now, and we may well be looking forward to a healthy contract.’

‘But that’s the point I’m trying to make, Peter. If we allow a union inside our factory we’ll be plagued with silly stoppages and walkouts. It’s happened to every firm that’s allowed them in.’

Peter took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Times are changing, Gerald. The main complaints most unions have are over conditions of work. We’ve provided a works canteen, we’ve improved safety, and we’ve even gone so far as to promise a review of working hours. Most of our workers have been with us a long time. They know the hardships of short-time working and they’re terrified of being put off again. Besides, for every worker who remains faithful to the union there’s another who doesn’t give a damn about it, so long as he or she can get a week’s work and have some money to take home. And Joe Cooper knows that, he’s no fool.’

Gerald said nothing. As Peter watched him gazing down glumly at his hands he thought of how much his brother had changed in recent years. Much of the brashness and fire had left him, and he seemed almost to be a mere shadow of his old self, lost and defeated.

There was a knock on the door and Miss Jones entered the large office. Alice Jones had been with the company for more than twenty years, during which time she had served two generations of the Armitage family. There was not much that Alice did not know about the company intrigues. As secretary she handled all the correspondence, as well as being on hand at meetings. Even the most confidential information somehow reached her ears. The office partitions were not all that thick and she had been surprised just how much could be heard by leaning back in her chair and pressing her good ear to the wall. She was a quiet, unobtrusive character, and it stood her in good stead. She had a knack of becoming almost invisible when it suited her purpose, and many a dropped word or opinion was inadvertently expressed in her presence. She was well aware of the nature of the current discussion between the two brothers and she put on her most detached look as she placed a sheaf of documents in front of Peter and silently departed to resume her vigil at the office wall.

Peter had been waiting for the Ministry applications for tender and when he saw the papers his eyes lit up. ‘Gerald, I’ve got these forms to work on. I’ll need your help on the output figures for the last quarter,’ he said with a sudden smile.

Gerald nodded slowly. ‘I’ll get them sent up by this evening,’ he said. ‘By the way, when is young Robert starting? I could certainly do with some help. Things are begining to pile up.’

Peter stroked his chin thoughtfully. His son had just finished college and had shown some reluctance to enter the family business. He had informed his father that he wanted to go into the pharmaceutical industry, and the elder Armitage had explained his reasons for wanting his son to join the family concern. Peter was convinced that before long there would be another war and he wanted his only son to be holding down a vital position within the company and so be protected from the inevitable call-up.

‘I’m hoping Robert will be starting here within the next month or two, Gerald. He’s going on a walking holiday with some of his college chums before then. So I hope you can hang on for a while,’ Peter said kindly.

‘Well, I’d better get working on those figures, Peter,’ his brother said as he stood up and made for the door. Outside Miss Jones eased her chair away from the wall and lowered her head over her battered Remington.

 

On a Sunday afternoon in mid February two young people strolled arm in arm along the tree-lined Tower Gardens. The day had been cold and bright, and already the watery sun was starting to dip down behind London Bridge. It was quiet, with just a few visitors wandering along the cobbled paths or resting against the huge cannons. Birds chattered overhead and down beyond the stone wall the gentle swish of the turning tide carried up the walkway. Across the River Thames the couple saw the idle cranes and the bolted warehouses and wharves of the Pool. Two ocean-going freighters were rocking gently in their berths, and in mid-stream a brace of laden barges strained against their moorings. Heavy clouds were gathering, and the slowly fading daylight made the massive stone ramparts of the Tower of London appear forbidding. The couple walked slowly, the girl’s long blond hair falling down almost to her waist, the lad, tall and upright, holding proudly on to her arm. They stopped as the lad pointed to a distant object on the far bank and, as they leaned on the wire fencing, his arm encircled her slim waist and she moved closer to him. A commotion behind them made the young people turn and they smiled as they listened to the two children talking.

‘What’s that place called?’ asked the little girl who stood beneath a massive cannon.

‘It’s the Tower, soppy. Everybody knows that.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes yer do, ’cos I jus’ told yer.’

‘What’s them ’oles in the wall for, Tommy?’

‘They’re winders,’ announced the boy who had just managed to scramble astride the cannon.

‘Well they don’t look like winders ter me. Winders ’ave curtains.’

‘Not castle winders. Them winders is ter fire arrers from.’

The little girl sucked on a thin lollipop. ‘Yer said it was the Tower.’

‘Well it’s still a castle. A fousand years ago soldiers used ter fire arrers out o’ them winders.’

‘What for?’

‘Ter kill the enemy.’

‘Who was the enemy, Tommy?’

‘Pirates, I s’pose.’

‘Tommy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I wanna do a wee.’

‘C’mon then, let’s go ’ome. Yer can’t wee ’ere.’

The couple chuckled at the children and then strolled on until they reached the arched gateway beneath Tower Bridge and then they started to climb up the wide stone stairs on to the roadway. It was quiet and devoid of traffic as they continued towards the centre span.

Down below, the swirling, muddy water lapped the stone bastions and eddied in small whirlpools. Michael looked into Connie’s eyes and said quietly, ‘Will yer come out wiv me when I get back from me trip?’

‘’Course I will,’ she replied.

‘I’ll write ter yer soon as I can, Connie.’

‘I bet you’ll ferget. What do they say about sailors? A girl in every port!’

‘I won’t go out wiv anybody else till I get back, Con. We’re goin’ steady now, ain’t we?’

‘Yeah, I s’pose so. I won’t go out on no dates neivver, Mick.’

Michael slipped his arm around her as they reached the end of the bridge and looked into her pale blue eyes. ‘’Ave yer got a photo of yerself?’ he asked. ‘I’d like ter take one wiv me.’

‘No. I’ll get one done soon an’ send it on ter yer.’

‘Fanks, Con. I’ll keep it over me bunk an’ I’ll dream about yer every night.’

Connie giggled and pulled on Michael’s arm. ‘C’mon, Mick. It’s gettin’ late. If yer not careful yer’ll miss yer train.’

They walked down to the Tower Bridge Road and slipped into the backstreets. The evening gloom was descending fast and the cold rising wind made Connie shiver. She held on to Michael’s arm, happy in his company and vowing to remember these few days as the most exciting she had ever known. She felt like a grown woman and she knew there was so much more to discover. Michael seemed deep in thought and he did not say anything until they turned into Ironmonger Street. ‘I’ve really enjoyed our times tergevver, Con,’ he said at last. ‘What about you?’

The young girl felt as though he had read her thoughts. ‘It’s bin luv’ly. I don’t want yer ter go back off leave, Mick.’

They stopped at the buildings and stepped into the shadows. Michael pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. Connie felt herself trembling at the contact and she closed her eyes and let her lips mould into his. They parted, both breathing hard.

‘I like yer a lot, Con. I’m gonna miss yer like mad.’

‘Me, too, Mick. Come back soon.’

He turned and left her in the block entrance. Connie watched as he crossed the quiet street and saw him turn and give her a cheery wave. Her eyes misted as she waved back and then she turned quickly on her heels and hurried up the stairs.

 

The early months of 1937 saw a slight improvement as far as employment was concerned. Some of the Bermondsey factories went back to full-time working and more ships were coming in to berth at the docks and wharves. The Armitage factory had managed to obtain a government contract to produce ammunition cases and mess cans, as well as other less identifiable items for the services. The workforce were happy in the knowledge that, for the present at least, their jobs looked secure, although the items they were turning out gave rise to speculation. In the canteen, the women who worked the metal presses were discussing the implications of the new surge in orders.

‘There was a bloke on the wireless last night,’ Lizzie Conroy was saying. ‘’E was talkin’ about us goin’ ter war.’

Mary Brown took up her knitting and unravelled the four steel needles which she was using to produce a sock. ‘If yer listen ter the wireless all the time yer’ll go right round the twist. All yer get lately is about what’s goin’ on in Germany an’ Spain. Only the ovver night I ’eard this bloke talkin’ about us re-armin’ ter stop a war. ’E said the Germans were buildin’ up their troops an’ ships an’ fings, an’ we’re laggin’ be’ind. If yer take too much notice o’ the likes o’ those people on the wireless yer’d put yerself in an early grave.’

Lizzie eased her bulk in the uncomfortable chair and patted her permed hair with the palm of her hand. ‘What about all that stuff we’re turnin’ out? It’s all army stuff. If it wasn’t fer that work we’d be joinin’ the dole queues. I fink it’ll come to it sooner or later. My ole man reckons the Germans are itchin’ ter ’ave anuvver go at us. ’E said we should ’ave stopped ’em when they put that ’Itler inter power. ’E’s the cause of all the trouble.’

‘That’s easier said than done, Liz. People ain’t prepared ter go ter war jus’ like that. There’s too many lives bin lost in the last war.’

Lizzie folded her arms and looked peeved. ‘Well my ole man studies the papers, an’ ’e listens ter all the wireless talks, an’ ’e said . . .’

‘Look, Liz,’ Mary cut in. ‘You an’ yer ole man can fink what yer like. As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t gonna be anuvver war. All this stuff we’re makin’ is prob’ly ter replace the ole stuff. I know somebody who works in the Woolwich Arsenal, an’ she told me all about the bullets an’ shells they make there. She’s bin workin’ in the Arsenal since ’twenty-nine.’

‘Well I ’ope you’re right, Mary. I don’t wanna see anuvver war,’ Lizzie said.

‘Gawd ’elp us if it ever starts again. My Uncle Bert got gassed in the last lot, an’ ’is bruvver Maurice got invalided out as well.’

Joyce Spinks had been listening to the conversation and she puffed hard. ‘’Ere you two, can’t yer change the subject? It’s fair givin’ me the creeps. Who yer knittin’ them socks for, Mary?’

‘They’re fer me ole man’s youngest bruvver. ’E’s joined the territorial army an’ ’e’s asked me ter knit ’im a nice pair of thick socks ’e can wear wiv ’is army boots.’

‘Gawd Almighty!’ Joyce blurted out. ‘I thought we was gonna change the subject’.

Lizzie laughed aloud. ‘’Ere. You seen that new bloke who come round inspectin’ the place last week? ’E’s a bit tasty.’

‘That was Robert Armitage. ’E’s the guv’nor’s son,’ Joyce said.

‘Well ’e can ask me out if ’e likes,’ Lizzie remarked, winking at Mary.

‘I dunno. ’E only looks a kid.’

‘Well kid or not, I bet ’e knows what ’e’s got it for,’ Lizzie said, pulling a face. ‘I fink my ole man’s sufferin’ from loss o’ memory. The only time ’e faces me in bed is on ’igh days an’’olidays.’

‘You wanna be careful, Liz. ’E might be supplyin’ somebody else.’

‘What! My ole man knows better than that. ’E knows very well that if I found out ’e was knockin’ about wiv anuvver woman I’d cut ’is chopper off when ’e was asleep an’ stick it in ’is ear.’

When the laughing had died down Joyce turned to Mary. ‘’Ere, talkin’ about playin’ around, you remember that turn out wiv Dirty Dora?’

‘Who?’ Lizzie asked.

‘Tell ’er about it, Joyce,’ Mary prompted.

Joyce looked around theatrically and leaned closer to the group. ‘It was before you started ’ere, Liz. There was this woman who worked in the packin’ shop. Dora Dillon ’er name was. Proper tart she was. She used ter come ter work like a Lisle Street whore. She wore tons o’ make-up, an’ lipstick, and bloody great ’igh ’eels. She did look eighteen carat. Anyway, she took a shine ter Jake Singer. Jake was the foreman in ’er shop. Married ’e was, wiv about five or six kids. This Dora kept pesterin’ ’im. Every time ’e turned round, there she was makin’ soppy eyes at ’im. ’Course, bein’ like all the rest of’em, open to a bit o’ flattery an’ silly as a box o’ lights, ’e took the bait. Before long they was goin’ be’ind the boxes fer a bit of “’ow’s yer farvver”. Everybody knew it was goin’ on. It was the talk o’ the factory. Dirty Dora used ter walk ter the factory wiv ’im an’ wait fer ’im when they finished work. Brazen cow she was.