Ironmonger's Daughter (18 page)

‘The theatre’s not far from here. We can get a drink first if you’d like,’ he said turning to take her arm.

At the door of the pub Connie hesitated. ‘I’m not old enough ter go in a pub,’ she said, looking at Robert with worry showing in her eyes.

He grinned. ‘I was forgetting. Anyway, I don’t suppose anyone would realise you’re under age. Come on, you can have a lemonade or something.’

Connie ran her hand down her hair and compressed her lips nervously as they walked in. Her lipstick tasted scenty, the small daisy earrings were nipping her ear lobes and her high-heeled shoes were pinching slightly. It was a nuisance trying to look grown-up, she decided.

They sat in a corner sipping their drinks. Connie’s eyes flitted around the room and she felt as though she were in another world. People stood at the bar, many of the men wearing evening suits and bow ties, some of the women in long dresses that touched the floor and others in fur coats or with fur stoles draped over their shoulders. All the women wore lots of make-up and Connie marvelled at how beautiful they all looked. It was like a gathering in one of those films at the Trocette. Connie half expected someone to burst into song at any minute, or dance along the bar. Looking at all the well-dressed ladies she felt shabby in comparison and her eyes dropped down to the table.

Robert was watching her carefully and he sensed she was ill at ease. He wanted to tell her that for him she was the most beautiful girl in the room. Her hair shone and hung down over her shoulders in a golden sweep. Her eyes seemed as blue as the sea and her smooth, flushed face reminded him of a Greek goddess. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she sat straight and taut. He could see the fullness of her young breasts beneath the tight coat and the slope of her slim shoulders. Her small ears peeped out from between strands of hair and he wanted to kiss her shapely red lips. Instead he picked up his drink and drained the glass.

Later, they walked across the busy Strand and up to the lighted front of the Adelphi. Connie clutched a small handbag under her arm and subconsciously slipped her free arm into his as they entered the foyer. The scene that met her eyes made her heart pound. She felt out of place as she looked around nervously and Robert smiled reassuringly.

‘Just relax, Connie. All you’ve got to do is sit back and enjoy the show.’

She smiled sheepishly. ‘Those women look really nice, don’t they?’ she said, glancing at a party in fur coats.

Her escort looked over, then back to her. ‘So do you,’ he said quietly.

She looked away from his deep, enquiring eyes feeling as though she were a Cinderella being escorted to the ball by a handsome prince. She would have him all to herself, but then the clock would strike midnight and the dream would fade. She would be back waiting at the table dressed in her apron and silly hat. He would smile like he always did and she would think about him as she cleared the plates away. The days would be the same as they always were, and the nights would be spent dreaming about the ball, and her charming suitor. Connie felt a lump rising in her throat as she walked into the darkening auditorium.

 

Helen Bartlett sat in the armchair beside the low fire, busily darning one of Matthew’s socks. The wireless was on and the soft, melancholic music from a string quartet drifted through the flat. Molly sat in the other armchair, her head buried in a book. Occasionally she fidgeted and Helen could hear her daughter’s uneven breathing. Matthew had gone to bed early after an argument and Helen worked swiftly with the large needle, her mind still preoccupied with the angry words they had said to each other. It was her fault that the argument had started in the first place, she knew. Matthew had been unlucky at the labour exchange that morning and, instead of giving him a few words of encouragement, she had niggled away at him until a row erupted. It was becoming a common occurrence and Helen was very aware that she had become short-tempered of late. It seemed to her that their whole existence had become meaningless. She had married Matthew with high hopes of building a happy life with him. At the beginning the desire to have children had been strong, but in the first five years of her married life Helen had been disappointed. When she had finally become pregnant it seemed her cup was full, her prayers had been answered. Until the traumatic experience of Molly’s birth. Her disability had been hard to come to terms with, and it had been made even more difficult by Matthew’s reaction. But together they had overcome their burden of grief and anger at the unfairness of it all and they had tried for another child. It had never happened. Then Matthew had fallen out of work and it made him more and more morose. He struggled to earn a few coppers at the markets to eke out his dole money, and Helen knew only too well that it was her morning cleaning job which kept their heads above water. Their problems only seemed to be getting worse and it was all becoming more than she could handle. Helen was nearing fifty and already her hair was showing streaks of grey and her face was becoming lined and gaunt. Her love life with Matthew was now practically non-existent. She knew how it upset him when she constantly spurned his advances but she felt repulsed at the thought of allowing him to make love to her. His show of frustration only added to her disgust and the rows increased.

Her daughter’s difficulties were also eating away at Helen. Molly’s physical problems were growing as she got older, and she was becoming harder to handle. She had become embittered and sullen. Even Connie, who had always been able to cheer her up, was finding it difficult to reach her. To make matters worse, Kate seemed to be losing the will to live. She showed no desire to talk on visiting days and it agonised Helen, and she had decided to visit her sister only once a month. Even on those infrequent occasions she came away from the sanatorium feeling very depressed.

There seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel, nothing to expect except the drudgery and the constant struggle to make ends meet. Helen dropped the sock in her lap and leaned back in the chair as she closed her eyes.

 

The full moon hung over Bermondsey. Robert had stopped the taxi at the Bricklayers Arms and as they passed the shuttered shops he looked at Connie.

‘Thanks for your company. I’ve really enjoyed this evening,’ he said with a smile.

‘So ’ave I, Robert. The show was wonderful. You sure I looked okay?’

‘Connie, you looked perfect. I was proud to be your escort.’

‘I was glad yer asked me, ter tell yer the truth,’ she said.

‘I wanted to. I think you’re nice company. We must do it again sometime soon.’

Connie hesitated before answering. It would have been so easy to say yes. He was very good looking and exciting to be with. He had an easy manner which helped her to feel confident and self-assured. Just being with him made her forget everything. He had introduced her to another world she had not realised existed outside of films and story books. It would be quite easy to give herself to Robert, she thought. But it was wrong even to think of a serious relationship with him. They were so different. Robert did not come from the working class; his world was not one of backstreets and tenement buildings, pawnshops and poverty. And he could not be expected to understand the ways of working-class people, with their very different hopes and aspirations and their fierce pride. Connie was surprised by the beginning of a vague anger within her, and she wavered. ‘I’d like ter go out with yer again sometime, Robert, but I don’t think I should,’ she said slowly.

‘Why not, Con? We’ve enjoyed tonight, haven’t we?’

‘Too much. That’s what I mean. I like yer company but I’ve got a boyfriend. It wouldn’t be fair while ’e’s away.’

They had turned into the maze of backstreets and ahead they saw the factory gates looming up in the moonlight. ‘Well, here we are,’ he said smiling.

They stopped at the entrance to the buildings and he looked into her eyes. ‘Say you’ll let me take you out again soon, Connie. I’d like to, really I would.’

Connie looked up into his face and saw something there in his eyes that promised her so much, and she felt her legs go weak. He held a key to her heart and if she was not careful her little world could come tumbling down around her. She wanted to throw caution to the wind and draw him into her world, but something deep down inside her told her to resist. ‘I’ll ’ave ter fink about it,’ she said weakly.

He bent his head and took her gently by the shoulders as he kissed her tenderly on the cheek, then he turned and walked away. She stood there in the entrance to the tenement block, her eyes following him until he disappeared in the darkness. Her stomach was turning over with a mixture of elation and dread. She felt like a fly caught in a web, trapped by his kiss. She could still feel it on her cheek and the pressure of his hands on her shoulders. Connie turned and ran quickly up the dark stairway to her lonely flat.

The village of Kelstowe was tucked away in the Weald of Kent. It boasted one pub, a post office, a general store, and a crumbling sixteenth-century church that was in imminent danger of falling to the ground. Kelstowe was privileged in having a very active and influential fund-raising committee that, led by Claudette Armitage, had organised a summer fête for more years than they cared to remember. Moneys earned from the various fête activities went to the Holmesdale Home for the Elderly in nearby Canterbury. The summer fête was also seen as a way of perpetuating the traditions of village life and almost all the villagers made a point of attending the function. The Kelstowe fête had become famous locally and it was praised by some, and blamed by others, for being the prime catalyst of local matrimonial entanglements, and disentanglements. It also provided enough scandalous gossip to last until the following year.

Kelstowe was thrown into confusion in 1935 when, without warning, a piece of masonry the size of a half crown had landed on the head of Beatrice Waverley, the eldest of the Waverley sisters, just as she was leaving church one Sunday evening. Beatrice had felt the weight of the masonry as it fell on to her new bonnet, and when a trickle of blood ran down into her eye she fainted away. Doctor Spanswick was called from the Three Pheasants to administer to her, and two cold compresses and one stitch later he had zipped up his black bag and returned to his place in the snug bar. Reverend Jones was later summoned to the Waverleys’ cottage at the edge of the village and instructed to pay more attention to those hooligan choirboys of his. Throwing stones was to be expected of those London guttersnipes, not of village church lads, the Waverleys were quick to point out. The Reverend Jones was at pains to reassure them that his choirboys did not throw stones and it had merely been a piece of dislodged masonry which had flattened Beatrice Waverley and ruined her new bonnet. The sisters were not to be pacified and they had demanded that a full inspection should be carried out forthwith to ascertain the level of danger to parishioners.

Reverend Jones was in a quandary. A full survey would cost money and his bishop would most certainly raise Cain, but the Waverleys were members of the village committee and as such they would command strong support. He realised he would have to talk to the bishop, and he fretted at the thought of it. At the first opportunity the elderly cleric confided in his dutiful wife Christina. It was she who gave him the answer which he felt would go a long way to pacifying the bishop.

‘Why don’t you get the survey done, and when the cost of renovation is worked out, get your committee to raise the restoration funds at the fête. After all, Bernard, it
is
their church.’

‘But the fête is organised to raise money for the Holmesdale, dear.’

‘Well, organise another fête in the autumn, dearest. It shouldn’t be that difficult.’

Reverend Jones met the bishop and got approval for a full and expensive survey to be carried out without delay. The results were staggering. The church was in danger of falling down in a pile of dust unless major restoration work was started immediately. The Reverend took the news to the committee and after much wrangling he managed to win approval for an autumn fête to raise the £5,000 needed. Every year since then the autumn fête had stood in front of the summer function as the main event on the village social calendar.

Everyone was expected to rally to their church, even if they omitted to respond to the elderly at Holmesdale. Claudette Armitage made a point of reminding everyone that the west wing of Kelstowe Church was in a dire condition and for that reason the autumn fête should be enthusiastically supported this year and every year.

 

In Ironmonger Street the tumbledown houses and the grim Jubilee Buildings were not fortunate enough to have dedicated sponsors and, when heavy rain seeped through broken roof slates and penetrated the decayed pointing on the brickwork, the street folk realised that their homes were in danger of falling down on top of them. When the rent collector called in the street one Monday morning he was besieged by angry tenants. Pleas for him to look at the dampness and state of disrepair were ignored and his excuse that he was only employed to collect rents only served to inflame the situation still further. He was surrounded by an irate group who threatened all manner of unspeakable things if he did not report the condition of the homes to his superiors. The rent collector realised that Ironmonger Street was not any old street, and its reputation was not to be taken lightly. With a sense of foreboding he relented and promised he would do what he could. He left the street with old George Baker’s threat ringing in his ears.

‘If we don’t get somebody down ’ere right away yer better not show yer ugly face in our turning next week, Jacko.’

On Friday morning two smartly dressed characters arrived with clipboards and rolled-up plans of Ironmonger Street. They knocked on the doors and introduced themselves as surveyors from Vine Estates.