Ironmonger's Daughter (28 page)

‘Yer’ve bin sayin’ that fer years,’ screamed a scruffy looking individual in a grubby white mackintosh.

The speaker was not to be put off. ‘Seek redemption, friend, or you’ll perish in the fires of hell.’

‘Perish yerself, yer bloody idiot,’ the scruffy one growled.

‘Take up the Scriptures, my friend. Study the word of the Lord.’

‘I ain’t yer friend,’ the heckler screamed out.

‘Go on, mate. You tell ’im,’ someone shouted.

The scruffy man was becoming heated and his feet did a nervous shuffle. ‘I’ve studied the Bible. I know what God said.’

‘Well pay heed, my friend, for the Lord said you should turn the other cheek to the aggressor.’

‘Oh no ’E didn’t. God said yer take an eye fer an eye. That’s what ’E said.’

‘An’ a nay for a nay,’ shouted Paddy McGuinness.

The orator gave the big Irishman a withering look. ‘You’re mocking the Scriptures, Paddy. I hope your priest forgives you.’

‘Heavens above!’ Paddy cried out, with mock seriousness. ‘I’m with you, sor. The end is nigh, I grant yer. Now listen ter Paddy McGuinness me lads. We’ll never witness the end. It’ll come like a thief in the night. It’ll take us in our beds. ’Tis the truth I tell yerse.’

‘Go an’ boil yer socks, yer bloody maniac,’ someone shouted.

The scruffy man in the white mackintosh had heard enough. With some of his thunder stolen he departed to heckle another speaker. Paddy meanwhile took out his battered timepiece and consulted it. Realising that the pubs had opened and it was high time for a pint of Guinness he, too, departed, allowing the meeting to return to sensible debate.

 

In the backstreets of Bermondsey life went on as usual, but now everyone seemed to be more inclined to chat on their doorsteps. Children still played out on the cobblestones and chalked on the pavements. Young lads chopped up apple boxes and sold the splintered sticks at front doors. Young girls skipped in and out of a turning rope and made up songs to dance to under the watchful eye of their worried mothers and in the pubs discussions went on about the seemingly inevitable war.

It was early September when Connie Morgan got her part-time job. She had befriended one of the girls at the leather factory, Jennie French. Jennie’s parents ran the Dolphin, a family pub in Salter Street which was situated behind the Old Kent Road. Their part-time barmaid had got herself pregnant and had left. Jennie felt that Connie would be an ideal replacement and when she approached her parents they seemed keen on the idea. Connie thought about the offer. She was struggling on her factory wages and badly needed some extra money. It would mean three nights’ work during the week, which still allowed her two evenings to see Robert. When Jennie took her friend to see her parents they were impressed. The landlord of the Dolphin was not too concerned that Connie had no knowledge of pubs and, while she waited in the bar with Jennie, he and his wife talked it over.

‘I’d sooner get ’em green. The old ’ands are more likely ter dip the till. Long as she’s polite ter the customers an’ serves a good measure we should be okay. We’ll soon teach ’er the trade. The only fing that worries me is ’er age. She said she’s not eighteen till November. We’ll ’ave ter be careful the brewery don’t find out.’

Dora French gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘She looks more than eighteen ter me, Bill. Who’s ter know she’s not? I’m sure the girl won’t go blabbin’ ’er age about.’

‘All right, Dora. You put ’er on ’er guard an’ we’ll see ’ow she performs. You tell the girl she’s got the job. I’ve gotta change a barrel over.’

 

When Neville Chamberlain returned from Munich, waving a piece of paper and declaring ‘Peace in our time’, the folk in the Bermondsey backstreets breathed a deep sigh of relief. Some folk were saddened, however. They felt that the Czechs had been betrayed and the deal with Hitler had only delayed the war. Bill and Terry were hard at it in their favourite corner of the Horseshoe.

‘They’ve bin done down, Tel. There’s no ovver word for it. Fancy doin’ a deal wiv that mongrel ’Itler. It’s bloody disgustin’. No, mate. We’ve sold those poor bastards down the river, an’ we’re gonna be sorry. We should ’ave learnt our lesson from the last turn out.’

‘Yer right, Bill. I remember years ago when old ’Arold Simpson was alive. ’E was always goin’ on about ’angin’ the Kaiser. If ’e was alive terday what would ’e be sayin’ about Adolf bloody Schickelgruber?’

‘Trouble is though Tel, that ’Itler ain’t nufink like yer Kaiser. ’E’s got the bulk of the German people be’ind ’im. ’E’s even promised every family out there a car in the future.’

‘Go on wiv yer. ’As ’e really?’

‘’S’right, Tel. Strike me if ’e ain’t. I read about it in the
Telegraph
.’

‘’Ow comes you bought the
Telegraph
? They don’t sell that paper in our paper shop.’

‘I didn’t buy it, yer berk. It was wrapped round a bit o’ plaice me ole woman got fer me tea. Interestin’ article though.’

‘Sounds a bit fishy ter me, Bill!’

Bill ignored the quip. ‘’Ere, Tel, I was finkin’. I bet ole’Enery the Eighth is turnin’ in ’is grave, don’t you?’

Terry’s face screwed up in puzzlement. ‘What yer talkin’ about?’

‘Well I mean ter say, those trenches they’re diggin’ in ’Yde Park an’ Regents Park. It’s crown property, ain’t it? It was’Enery the Eighth what made ’em royal property. ’Ow would you like it if some geezer come along an’ started diggin’ your property up?’

Terry grinned. ‘The only park land I’ve got is me winder box, an’ me moggie digs that up every night. Mind you I’ll wring the flea-bag’s neck next time it claws up me geraniums.’

‘I tell yer what, mate.’

‘What’s that, Bill?’

‘All this talkin’s givin’ me a thirst. ’Oose round is it?’

 

The days got shorter and winter fogs began to roll in from the river. The backstreet folk waited in for the coalman while their elder children took prams up to the Old Kent Road Gas Works for bags of coke. The local kids also scoured the area to search the roadworks. Some of the roads were being re-laid and there were often discarded tarry logs for the taking. People struggled to clear their Christmas loans and the shops began to put up their festive decorations. Seasonal work meant that many folk who had been unemployed throughout the year managed to get a job. One of the lucky ones was Matthew Bartlett, who found a job as a factory labourer with a manufacturing tailors in Tooley Street. The firm had secured a government contract for military uniforms and needed more workers. It was not the type of work he was used to but Matthew was getting desperate. His earnings at the East End market had been a pittance and the lack of money was a major cause of tension in the Bartlett household. Luckily, Molly had also managed to get a job through the labour exchange. She was employed as an assembler of electrical components at a small factory in the Old Kent Road. The work was tedious but there were other young girls with physical disabilities working alongside her, and it made Molly feel less miserable. Helen had recovered enough to return to her early morning cleaning, and she felt happier than she had been all year.

Connie had celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a night up West. Robert had taken her to see a film and then they had visited a little restaurant in Dean Street for supper. For a present he had given her a tiny gold locket and chain. The evening had been romantic and he had been very attentive. They had returned to his flat in Great Dover Street and during their conversation he had let slip something which caused Connie considerable anxiety. They had been chatting happily when Robert mentioned his university days.

‘There was always something going on at the college,’ he said. ‘I got involved with a crowd who were mad on flying. They used to take lessons and I became interested. In fact I did some flying myself. We all used to go to an airfield at weekends, weather permitting, to do a few sorties. I never progressed very far. I mean, I didn’t go solo. Then it was the exams, and back to the family and the business. If war had been declared I suppose it would have been the RAF for me, Con.’

‘S’posin’ there is a war, Robert? Lots o’ people still fink it’ll come ter that.’

‘Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,’ he said grinning. ‘There’ll be no war, believe me.’

Connie wanted to believe him, but she felt deep down inside that her happiness would somehow not last. It was a feeling that constantly attacked her insides and sent shivers running through her whole body. Only when she was in his arms did she feel totally secure. His caresses took the ache away and she drew new strength from his presence. When she was alone again, she worried about the future, and of one day losing him.

 

The recent war crisis had been affecting the Cooper household. Joe’s wife Sadie had made it clear that if there was a war she would not stay in London.

‘I couldn’t stand it,’ she groaned. ‘I’d sooner kill meself.’

‘Don’t talk stupid,’ Joe retorted. ‘You’d ’ave ter put up wiv it jus’ like everybody else.’

‘It’s all right fer you, Joe. I’m stuck in this chair. ’Ow could I manage?’

‘Yer manage now, don’t yer?’

‘No fanks ter you. If it wasn’t fer Cousin Constance I don’t know what I’d do,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Yer never’ere. If it’s not one fing it’s anuvver. Yer always dashin’ off ter bloody meetin’s. Yer never give a thought ter me. I could be dyin’. It wouldn’t make any difference. Yer’d still go off ter yer bloody meetin’s.’

Joe puffed out his cheeks and got on with polishing his boots. It was better to ignore her outbursts, he thought. As long as she paid heed to that cousin of hers he’d be wasting his time trying to reason with her. Constance was an embittered, wicked woman who had ruined her own life by her nasty attitude. Her husband had run off with someone else and she had taken to unburdening herself on Sadie. She was always around, he mused. She had grown to hate all men and seized any opportunity to poison her cousin’s mind against him. Sadie could not understand that it was Constance who was driving him out of the house. He could not bear to be in the same room as the woman. The trouble is, Sadie won’t have a word said against her, he thought ruefully.

‘Me sister Rosie said I could go an’ stay wiv ’er if the’vacuation starts,’ Sadie went on.

‘There’s not gonna be any evacuation now,’ Joe replied.

‘Well if it does all blow up again, I’m off. Yer’ll ’ave ter look after yerself. I couldn’t stand it ’ere,’ she moaned.

Joe bit his tongue. The way things had been for the past few years maybe it would be a good idea if she did go and stay with her sister, he thought. At least there would be no more rows. It would also mean he’d see the back of that bloody interfering cousin of hers.

The village of Kelstowe lay under a thick carpet of snow. A full moon shone down on the quiet hamlet and lit up the large red-brick house which stood at the end of the deserted lane. Inside the lounge Claudette Armitage sat beside a brightly burning log fire. The heavy velvet curtains were tightly drawn against the inclement weather and a stack of sawn pine logs rested next to the stone fireplace. Around the large room there were sprigs of mistletoe and holly, and in one corner a Christmas tree reached up to the huge oak beams. The tree was lit with tiny lights and strands of silver tinsel hung from the branches. At the base there were parcels, wrapped in festive paper and tied with coloured ribbon. The high wooden mantelshelf was bedecked with Christmas cards, and to one side of the fireplace a tall lamp-stand afforded a pleasant, pinkish glow. Claudette sat looking distastefully at her husband who was snoring in the leather-bound armchair facing her. She reached for the glass of sherry at her elbow and drained the contents.

There had been words between them and she felt angry. Peter did not seem to grasp the situation. Either that or he didn’t care. It was bad enough Robert leaving home and taking a flat in London, without him consorting with that factory girl. Worse still, he did not seem to have been put off by what his father had told him. Peter had weakly taken it in his stride and merely shrugged his shoulders. He should have taken a much harder line. After all, he had to consider their good standing in the village. For him to add to the hurt by suggesting to Robert that he bring this girl down to spend Christmas at their home was most inconsiderate, to say the least. Surely he could have envisaged the embarrassment it would cause? The girl was from a working-class background. How could Robert be so silly? He must have realised the implications of getting involved with a girl of that sort. There were many girls he could have chosen; girls like Eunice, who came from respectable and prosperous families. It just didn’t make sense. It was too ridiculous.

Peter stirred in his chair and Claudette got up to add another log to the fire. Her irritation increased when her husband yawned and settled down again. It was just like Peter to ignore the situation. He should be more concerned about his son’s welfare, if nothing else. This girl’s mother had caused the family enough trouble without her daughter throwing herself at their son. That Kate Morgan woman had led Gerald on and then had made the family pay for his indiscretion. The girl would do the same if she got the chance, it was obvious. Another scandal would be too much to bear. Surely Peter could understand the dangers? Why was Robert being so naive? He must realise there could be no future with this factory girl. Well if Peter wasn’t going to do anything about it, she would have to – somehow.

 

In the Bartletts’ flat the curtains were drawn tightly against the cold night. Molly sat with Connie in front of the fire, their chairs positioned so that their stockinged feet rested on the brass fender. On Monday evenings Connie normally went out with Robert, but on this occasion he had gone to see his family to make arrangements for the Christmas visit. Connie was pleased to have the opportunity to stay with Molly. They had not spent much time together lately and it had caused her some concern.