Ironmonger's Daughter (31 page)

The white countryside had given way to bricks and mortar. Dark factories and houses flashed past, their chimneys belching smoke from roaring fires. Robert was rousing himself and Connie nudged him gently.

‘We’re nearly there,’ she said, watching him as he shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. The train slowed into the station and came to a juddering halt with a loud hiss of steam. It was dark as they hurried along the platform. Connie yawned and held his arm as they passed through the ticket barrier.

‘You look tired. Do you want me to take you straight home, Con?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want to be on me own ternight, Robert. I wanna stay wiv you.’

He led her to the taxi rank in the station forecourt, his arm around her waist. ‘Let’s go home, Con,’ he said softly as he opened the door of the taxi and helped her in.

Snowflakes danced in the cold wind as the cab moved along Borough High Street. They sat close holding hands, her head resting against his shoulder. Robert gazed out at the flurrying snow and caught sight of a discarded placard leaning against a shuttered shopfront. ‘PEACE OR WAR’ it read in bold black letters.

 

It had been a quiet Christmas in Ironmonger Street. There had been virtually no incidents that would have added to the turning’s already dubious reputation, and in the local pubs the customers went home without much persuasion when time was called. George Baker had drunk too much on Christmas Eve and was helped back to his house by his son-in-law and Joe Cooper, who took hold of the old man’s arms and steered him along through the thickening carpet of snow.

The Bartletts stayed at home with their daughter. Matthew had managed to clear up his Christmas Club and had found the money for a large chicken and presents for Helen and Molly. There was not enough money left for a visit to the pub but Matthew was content. It might have been worse, he thought. His job did not pay very much, but it was better than standing in the freezing cold with bundles of shoelaces and cards of collar studs throughout the week for a few coppers. Helen was feeling content, too. There had been a better understanding between them lately. Matthew was much less inclined to argue with her now that he had found a job, and Molly had become less withdrawn once the rows had stopped. Helen’s only concern was for Connie. She was becoming more like her mother as time passed, in looks as well as attitudes. She had become defensive about her relationship with the factory owner’s son, and disinclined to talk about her staying out at weekends. It worried Helen that Connie was sleeping with him. It would be terrible if the girl fell for a child the way her mother had.

It had been a quiet Christmas, too, for Toby and Marie Toomey. Toby had managed to get his battered pram operational once more with the aid of an oil can and a ball of string. He had been out collecting scrap which he stored in the shop next door, alongside the bundles of rags and old newspapers. He had saved enough money to clear up the rent arrears and pay the rent on the shop, but the scrap merchants had finished early this Christmas and did not call to clear his stock on Christmas Eve. Marie had given her dutiful husband a mouthful of abuse for his lack of foresight, which had left them almost penniless. Their daughter Lillian had decided that sitting at home and listening to her parents arguing all through Christmas was unthinkable. She had to do something and as she put her make-up on Lillian had already made up her mind. She would go back to her old haunt down in Rotherhithe. It had been profitable in the past, and at this time of year there would surely be a few seamen ready to pay for some company. She had left the house early on Christmas Eve and caught the tram to Surrey Docks Station. The Windjammer was packed and Lillian took stock as she entered the public bar. A few hefty blond seamen stood in one corner talking excitedly and in another corner she spotted one or two of the girls she had socialised with during her adventures in the area. A large redhead noticed her and came over.

‘’Ello, Lil. What yer doin’ down ’ere?’

‘’Ello, Bel. I’m slummin’ again. Fings are quiet in Bermon’sey. I’m lookin’ fer a nice big seaman wiv a pocket full o’ dosh.’

Bella laughed aloud. ‘’Ere. See that big geezer over by the pianer? I went wiv ’im last night. ’E’s a Swede. Go on, give ’im a pull. I’ve jus’ tried me luck again ternight but I fink ’e likes new faces.’

‘Bloody ’ell,’ Lillian said, grinning. ‘I don’t mind a big-un but ’e looks like King Kong.’

‘Don’t worry about ’im, Lil. ’E’s a babe. I took ’im ’ome last night an’ told ’im ’ow much I charge, an’ yer know what? ’E give me an extra couple o’ quid jus’ ter tiggle ’is toes. I tell yer, Lil, I’ve bin asked ter do some weird fings in me time, but that topped it all.’

Lillian took out a small mirror from her handbag and studied her face. ‘What’s ’is name, Bel?’ she asked.

‘’E’s called Sven. Go on, Lil, try yer luck.’

The big Swede was standing apart from his noisy countrymen, his round face impassive as he stared into space and his massive hand clamped around a pint glass.

‘’E looks pissed, Bel,’ the Toomey girl remarked.

‘’E’s okay. That’s ’is natural look. Go on, chat ’im up then. Yer better ’urry up if yer goin’ to. Fat Sara’s got ’er eyes on’im,’ Bella whispered, nodding towards the counter.

Lillian glanced over and saw the big woman standing with her back to the counter and one foot resting on the brass rail. ‘She still about, Bel? I thought she retired years ago.’

‘She did,’ Bella replied. ‘’Er ole man’s turned pimp. ’E’s put’er out again.’

Lillian had caught the Swede’s eye and she gave him one of her seductive smiles. He smiled back, displaying gold front teeth. Winking at her friend, the Toomey girl sauntered over to him and said in a low voice, ‘’Ello, Sven. Gonna buy me a drink, then?’

His large blue eyes widened and he took a fistful of notes from his coat pocket. ‘Ja. Drink. You fetch, eh?’

Lillian took a pound note from the screwed up wad and turned to see Fat Sara blocking the way to the counter. ‘What yer doin’ round ’ere, Toomey? Out o’ yer manor, ain’t yer?’

Lillian smiled sweetly at her rival. ‘It’s a free country, Sara. I’m toutin’ fer a bit o’ business.’

‘Not in ’ere yer don’t,’ Sara growled, her eyes flashing.

‘Why, you got the monopoly then?’ Lillian replied, hands on hips.

Fat Sara prodded the Toomey girl in the chest with a fleshy forefinger. ‘Listen, darlin’. Me an’ the girls from Riverside Street work this patch. We ain’t gonna stan’ by an’ see business snatched from under our noses. Not by a skinny prat like you, so piss orf an’ get yer business somewhere’s else.’

Lillian made a grab for the prodding finger and bit on it. Sara gave out a yell and thumped her rival in the eye with her clenched fist. Lillian staggered back and fell into the arms of the big Swede.

‘You get drink, ja?’ he grinned.

‘Oh, no, she won’t!’ screamed Fat Sara, shaping up with her fists.

Lillian lunged forward and grabbed at the woman’s long dark hair. Customers backed away and a loud voice shouted out from behind the counter. ‘No fightin’ in ’ere, girls! Outside fer punch-ups!’

The two women had fallen to the floor in a scratching, screaming heap. Sara was under the lighter contestant and was getting the worse of the exchange. Lillian had grabbed her rival’s ears and was pummelling her head on the bare floorboards. They were finally separated by the Swede who grabbed the back of Lillian’s coat and hoisted her up like a baby. Fat Sara saw her chance as she struggled to her feet.

‘I’ll kill the whore! Let me at ’er!’ she screamed, rushing forward.

Sven was ready and with his massive hand held out he stopped Sara in her tracks and shoved her backwards against the counter. Sara’s scrawny looking pimp rushed across with a beer bottle held up in his fist. He tried to bring the bottle down on the Swede’s head but he was stopped by two large seamen who grabbed him and threw him bodily over the counter. There was a sound of breaking glass and then the cross-eyed pimp’s bloodied head appeared from behind the bar. A few young dockers jumped into the fray and suddenly the whole public bar of the Windjammer was filled with a fighting, sprawling mass of bodies. The landlord and his helpers tried desperately to break up the brawl, only to be engulfed in flailing fists, bar stools and any other object that came to hand. As customers hurried for the door they were confronted by a saintly looking lady in a blue bonnet who held a collection box in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other.

‘Get your copy of God’s paper,’ the lady called out, holding up the
War Cry
.

A body came spinning out through the open door and landed in a heap in the gutter. The man picked himself up painfully and staggered back into the fray. A tall, elderly man wearing the Salvation Army uniform took the paper-seller by the arm and pulled her away from the door.

‘I think the customers are previously engaged, Matilda. We should perhaps try the saloon bar, don’t you think?’

Lillian had managed to disentangle herself and she staggered out into the night air. The street lamps seemed to spin above her and as she tried to focus her one good eye she fell against the wall of the pub. When she had composed herself a little she walked unsteadily away in the direction of Bermondsey. She had only gone a short distance when the sound of heavy footsteps grew louder behind her. ‘You wait, ja?’ a booming voice called out.

Lillian turned and saw the dishevelled Swede hurrying towards her. His shirt was torn and he had a thin line of dried blood on the side of his face. The large man beamed at her.

‘You come have drink on my ship. Ja?’

She smiled at him and took his arm. ‘C’mon, Sven,’ she said. ‘Let’s go an’ tiggle yer toes. Ja?’

During the early part of 1939 posters were pasted up everywhere, informing people of their nearest gas-mask fitting station. When the Civil Defence men arrived in the Tower Bridge Road market with the posters Solly Jacobs put down the sharp knife which he used for gutting the fish, wiped his bloodied hands down his apron and called out to Bernie Cornbloom.

‘Watch the stall fer ten minutes, Bernie. I fancy a pint.’

Solly spotted Joe Cooper, who was sitting alone in the Jolly Compasses moodily contemplating his near-empty glass of ale. ‘You seen them posters what they’re puttin’ up, Joe?’ he asked.

Joe nodded. ‘I’ve bin sittin’ ’ere finkin’ fer the last ’alf hour. It’s all gonna blow up soon, I’m sure it is. The Krauts’ave nicked Czechoslovakia, they’ve warned us that Poland’s next, an’ we’ve promised we’ll ’elp the Poles. What else d’yer expect, Solly?’

The fishmonger walked over to the counter and returned with two pints of ale. ‘I’ve bin finkin’, Joe. I’m gonna put me name down fer the ARP.’

Joe grinned. ‘What kept yer? I ’ad me name down last week fer the street warden’s job. They’ve told me I’ve gotta be in charge o’ the shelter.’

‘What shelter?’ Solly asked, scratching the side of his face.

‘Why, the one they’re buildin’ in the basement o’ the Armitage factory. They started last week. Yer wanna see what they’re doin’. They’ve stuck great big concrete supports under the roof an’ sandbagged the entrance up, an’ they’ve put a gas blanket over the door. Next week they’re gonna bung a toilet in, an’ a water tap. The people are likely ter move down there lock, stock an’ barrel, what wiv the state o’ the ’ouses in Ironmonger Street.’

 

In July Connie Morgan took her very first holiday away from London. She left Paddington with Robert on the Cornish Riviera Express and travelled to Penzance. From there they took a taxi to Lamorna Cove, a tiny fishing hamlet a few miles from Land’s End, and booked into a small hotel high up on the rocky hill overlooking the bay. From the bedroom window shadowed by large trees they could see the green hills which sloped down to the small sandy shore and the cold, sparkling Atlantic. The lovers had registered as Mr and Mrs Wilson and, to prevent speculation, Connie wore a thin gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. The owners of the hotel were curious nevertheless. Mrs Lampton was convinced that the couple were honeymooners.

‘They’re very much in love, Claude,’ she whispered to her husband. ‘They hardly take their eyes off each other, and she’s just a child.’

‘You’re a soppy thing, Eveline. Don’t you go indulging them now. They may be lovers wanting to escape from something or other, so leave them alone. I know how inquisitive you can be.’

The weather stayed fine for the week, with cloudless skies and a hot sun that caused the sea to shimmer. They ran hand in hand along the sand and bathed in the sheltered cove. They took long walks up into the hills and lay together in the cool green grass. When the sun slipped down in the western sky and long shadows crept along the cove they strolled leisurely along the harbour wall and listened to the wash of the incoming tide. The lovers dallied there until the heavens turned velvet black and star patterns lit the night. They looked up at the crescent moon and their minds were serene, away from the fearful feverishness of preparation for war. They did not speak of the parting they both knew would now be inevitable, and they savoured and lived for the moment.

When the sun rose again and peeked through the curtains of their bedroom they would get up quickly and wander back to the harbour wall and stand at a discreet distance from the local artists. They watched their brushstrokes as they slowly captured the rolling, shimmering sea, the rising grey cliffs and the many shades of green which reached up to the deep-blue sky. They ate their lunch of freshly caught crab with salad in a small café that was cut into the rocks, or they strolled down to the Smugglers Inn and took their lunch there in the company of leather-faced fishermen who sat around in small groups, discussing the weather and smoking stained clay pipes.

At seven o’clock each evening they dined at the hotel, sitting in a window seat and glancing at each other over a vase of wild flowers. Connie sometimes looked down at the gold band around her finger and wished secretly. Robert, as though reading her thoughts, would reach out and take her hand. The evening meals were served by Eveline who missed nothing, and she would remove her matronly figure to the kitchen and speak of young love to her perspiring husband as he stood over the hot ovens and tended the steaming pots.