Ironmonger's Daughter (44 page)

 

Salter Street had so far survived the bombing and the little pub was busy on Saturday night. Outside the wind was keen, threatening colder weather, and folk were crowding into the public bar to discuss the bombing, the food rationing and the local street gossip. One group who was discussing the recent disturbance outside the Argrieves’ house was silenced by the sudden appearance of the woman herself. She walked into the small bar with her head held high. Behind her came her son Billy, who looked around sheepishly as he reached the counter.

‘Go on then, son. Get yer money out. I’ll ’ave a milk stout,’ Florence Argrieves said, looking around with a satisfied grin on her tired, lined features.

‘’Ere, Bess. Look at ’er,’ one of the customers whispered to her friend. ‘She looks like the cat that swallered the canary.’

Bess nodded her agreement. ‘I s’pose she’s done a feat gettin’ that son of ’ers ter smarten ’imself up. Jus’ look at ’im.’E’s ’ad a shave, an’ ’e’s got a clean shirt on. There’s even a crease in ’is trousers.’

Nora grinned. ‘I s’pose yer right. She’s even got ’im ter buy’er a drink. Now that’s a feat.’

Billy Argrieves pulled out a handful of coins and dropped some on the threadbare carpet as he looked at the pretty blond barmaid. ‘Er . . . milk stout, an’ er . . . er, pint o’ bitter.’

Florence raised her eyes to the ceiling as her son spread the handful of coins on the bar and stared at Connie as she counted out the right amount. When the drinks were placed in front of them Florence took a long gulp and licked her lips appreciatively. Billy just stared down at his filled glass, a faraway look in his dark eyes.

‘Well go on then, drink yer beer, it won’t bite yer!’ Florence chuckled, nudging her son.

As she pulled down on the beer pump Connie glanced at the uncomfortable young man at the counter. She had heard some of the stories surrounding Billy Argrieves, but it was the first time she had set eyes on him. He looked a sad figure, she thought. Once he must have been attractive, with his dark brooding eyes and small nose. His thin lips framed an expressive mouth and his dark wavy hair was unkempt, a lock hanging down over his high forehead. He was heavily built with wide shoulders and he looked tall, although it was difficult to judge his height as he slumped at the counter. Connie noticed how his hands moved constantly as he rested them out on the wooden counter. The grey suit he had on was grease-stained, although she could see it had been pressed recently. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and the blue tie he wore was knotted carelessly and pulled away from his throat. Connie could see the discomfort growing in the young man as his mother spoke to him and she noticed his face redden. It made her sad to see him suffering. He was only a young man, and already he had been reduced to a physical and nervous wreck by what he had gone through.

Jennie came over and puffed loudly. ‘Christ! It’s busy ternight. ’Ow yer doin’?’

‘I’m okay,’ Connie replied as she mopped up a puddle of beer from the polished counter. ‘What about you?’

Jennie grinned. ‘I’ll survive. ’Ere, Con. That’s Billy Argrieves over there,’ she said, jerking her head in his direction. ‘It’s the first time ’e’s bin in ’ere since ’e got out o’ the army. Cor, what a change in the bloke! D’yer know, us girls used ter go weak at the knees when we see ’im around? ’E was a right smart fella once. ’E wore smashin’ suits an’ real smart shoes an’ shirts. ’E used ter knock around wiv all the local’erberts. And jus’ look at ’im now. That suit could do wiv a good clean, an’ ’is barnett could do wiv a comb.’

Connie felt irritation welling up inside her. ‘Maybe ’e ain’t interested in poncin’ ’imself up anymore. Maybe ’e don’t want the girls droolin’ over ’im.’

Jennie pulled a face. ‘P’raps you’re right. Still, yer can’t’elp noticin’ the difference in the bloke.’

Their discussion was forgotten as Dora rang the bell and the customers began to be ushered out. There were lots of glasses to be washed and the tables and counter had to be mopped. Ash trays needed emptying and the carpet cleaned, and when the chores were finished they had to prepare something quickly to eat in case the air-raid siren sounded early.

Later, Jennie and Connie sat together in the upstairs room. Dora and Bill were still down in the bar counting the night’s takings and their daughter took the opportunity to confide in her friend.

‘’Ere, Con. Yer see me chattin’ ter those two well-dressed fellas in the bar earlier? Well, the tall one lives round the corner an’ the shorter one is a pal of ’is. They’ve got a transport business down in Rotherhithe an’ they was tellin’ me all about this club they go ter up West. Real fancy it is. They was sayin’ there’s a girl in short skirt and black stockin’s that goes round wiv cigarettes, an’ anuvver girl that takes yer coat when yer go in. There’s a cabaret as well. They was tellin’ me they go up ter the club quite a lot an’ they asked me if I’d like ter go wiv ’em.’

Connie looked hard at her friend. ‘I’d be careful if I was you.’

Jennie dismissed Connie’s caution with an easy grin. ‘There’s nufink ter worry about. Steve Barnett’s okay. ’E told me ’e’d look after me. ’Ere, Con. What about you comin’ as well? We could make a foursome.’

Connie shook her head. ‘Count me out, Jen. I wouldn’t be any company. Besides, I go ter the ’ospital every night.’

‘That’s okay. But it might cheer yer up a bit. Yer need ter get out once in a while, Con.’

Connie felt tired and jaded. Going out in a foursome was the last thing she wanted. She saw Jennie looking at her expectantly. ‘I’ll fink about it, Jen,’ she said quickly.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. ‘Don’t let on ter mum an’ dad,’ Jennie whispered. ‘They don’t go a lot on Steve Barnett.’

 

With the gloomy November days came a respite in the bombing. Other large cities were now being targeted and the London raids became more sporadic. People began to sleep in their own beds again, although they would often start awake in the early hours terrified that they had heard the wail of the siren. The sixty-seven nights of consecutive bombing had left terrible scars, but Salter Street had escaped with virtually no damage except for a few missing roof slates and some cracked and broken windows. The Dolphin stayed open later than most local pubs during the evenings, and most of the time it did good business. The staff were kept busy, and Connie began to find it difficult to drag herself to work each morning. She was not sleeping very well and the dreary mornings were hard to face, with nothing but the prospect of another day of mundane tasks at the leather factory. Then there was the awful thought of sitting beside Helen’s hospital bed just waiting, praying for a miracle. Aunt Helen was showing no signs of coming out of the coma. Instead she seemed to be slipping away. Connie was reminded of another time when she had felt the way she did now, when she was nursing her mother in the flat that had just been destroyed. Her life had been dreary and sad then, but at least there had been a future to dream about. Now she could see nothing to look forward to but the same desolate emptiness which she carried around inside her. It would be her twentieth birthday in a few days time, she thought, and for the first time it meant nothing to her. It would bring her no joy.

It was on Connie’s birthday that the message came. Dora took the phone call late on Saturday evening and called Connie into the small room behind the public bar.

‘It’s the ’ospital, Con. They said you should go there as soon as possible,’ she said urgently.

‘Is she . . . is she . . .’

‘They wouldn’t say,’ Dora stopped her. ‘Get yer coat. I’ll come wiv yer. Bill can manage the bar.’

The two women hurried through the blacked-out streets, picking their way carefully in the dim light of a torch. As they neared Guy’s Hospital the pungent smell of hops from nearby warehouses filled the air. Connie held on to Dora’s arm as they walked quickly through the gates and climbed the wide stone staircase up to the wards. They were met by the ward sister who took Connie gently to one side.

‘Your aunt regained consciousness a couple of hours ago,’ the nurse said. ‘She seemed to rally for a while, but I’m afraid she’s slipped back. She won’t be able to talk to you, my dear. You must be prepared for the worst. It can only be a matter of time now. I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Can I see ’er?’ Connie asked, biting back her tears.

‘Of course you can,’ the sister replied, leading the way towards the small side room.

Connie left Dora standing outside in the corridor and walked hesitantly over to the bedside. She noticed a glimmer of recognition in her aunt’s glazed eyes as she bent over the still figure.

‘’Ello, Aunt,’ she whispered.

Helen blinked and a tear formed in the corner of her eye. Connie leaned over and gently brushed her aunt’s ashen forehead with a soft kiss. She sat down and took her aunt’s cold hand in hers. Helen blinked again and moved her eyes slowly to one side and then back again to Connie, as if in a gesture. Connie could feel the very slight movement in her fingers and she saw her move her eyes sideways once more.

‘What is it, Aunt ’Elen? What are yer tryin’ ter say?’ she whispered huskily.

For a moment Helen’s dull eyes stared up at the ceiling, and then she repeated the gesture. Connie released her aunt’s hand and got up. Following the movement of her eyes she walked around the bed and, when Connie stood beside the small locker, Helen blinked a couple of times. Without taking her eyes from her stricken aunt’s stare Connie slowly opened the drawer. She glanced down and saw an old grey handbag lying there, and as she lifted it out Helen closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

‘Yer wanted me ter take this, didn’t yer, Aunt ’Elen?’ she whispered.

There was no response. Her eyes remained closed, and Connie thought she could see a faint smile on her aunt’s white, drawn face. A nurse who had come into the room with the sister gently led Connie out into the corridor.

After a few minutes the sister came out grim-faced. ‘I’m afraid your aunt has passed away,’ she said quietly.

Dora got up from the wooden bench by the wall and led the sobbing young woman out on to the dark landing. Connie did not hear her words of comfort as they descended the wide staircase and walked out slowly into the cold black street.

 

It was a quiet night. The air-raid siren had not sounded, and only the moaning wind invaded the silence as it rattled the window panes and whistled down the chimney. In the hearth a small coal fire was burning steadily and the room was warm and close. Connie stared down sadly at the bits and pieces from her aunt’s handbag which she had emptied on to the counterpane of her bed. There was a little tortoiseshell comb, a few pennies and a new half-crown, an oval powder compact, and three keys tied together with a black shoe-lace. There was also a tiny gold pixie wrapped up in tissue paper. Connie sadly remembered the many times her aunt had said the piece would bring her good luck. With a sigh she picked up the bag to replace her aunt’s effects and she felt something inside a clipped compartment which she had not opened. She snapped the catch and took out a bundle of papers. There were a couple of notes, the words written in a childish scrawl and signed ‘Molly’, and a faded photograph of Matthew standing with his arms folded a railway station. There were receipts and bills and, folded up in a piece of plain notepaper, there was a pawn ticket headed ‘Mills & Sons’.

Connie sat cross-legged on the bed staring wistfully at her aunt’s pathetic belongings, and as she touched one thing after another trying to make some sense of them her eyes filled with tears. All her life Aunt Helen had struggled against adversity. Matthew had been continually in and out of work and she had had to clean houses and take in washing until she had become exhausted. And she had suffered the terrible heartbreak of watching her only child struggle through illness and pain in her misshapen body. She had known little happiness, only worry and struggle, and all she had to show for it were a few coins and a pawn ticket. It seemed strange that her aunt had drawn attention to the bag, but there had been nothing else in the locker. Connie picked up the pawn ticket again and stared at it for a long time, alone in the silence.

For the folk of Ironmonger Street the long-awaited lull in the bombing was a chance to forsake the draughty, uncomfortable factory shelter. Old Clara Cosgrove dug out her clean sheets and made up her bed. She changed the pillow cases and put on the patchwork quilt which had not been on the bed since her husband died. She made herself a cup of cocoa and listened to the late-night play on the wireless. Clara was cherishing the thought of slipping into the clean bed that she had already warmed with two hot water bottles, and when her eyes started to droop she put down the empty mug and thought how nice it would be to get in between the fresh warm sheets. As the first light of dawn filtered through the spotless lace curtains of Clara’s front room she finally opened her eyes. She felt cold and stiff, and more than a little put out. ‘Sod it!’ she grumbled aloud. ‘I knew I shouldn’t ’ave drunk that bleedin’ cocoa!’

One morning Peter Armitage called Joe Cooper into his office to tell him that the Ministry was going to install bunks in the shelter, as he knew that Joe would be able to ensure they were allocated fairly. Joe was shocked to see the change in the man since the last time he had spoken to him. Gone was the upright stance and the alert manner. Now the factory owner was bowed and grey, and his suit seemed to hang shapelessly on his frail figure. The ever-present Miss Jones came into the office with some forms for Peter to sign and she had to prompt her boss into completing the task he would once have done with a flourish.

As Peter walked back into the outer office Joe glanced at the secretary. ‘Is ’e all right?’ he asked quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ Alice replied. ‘The poor man’s still grieving, and he told me this morning his wife’s gone into a nursing home. It’s terrible. I feel really sorry for him.’