Ironmonger's Daughter (49 page)

‘What is it, Mr Preedy?’

‘Well, I got talkin’ to a pal o’ mine,’ he continued. ‘I ain’t seen ’im fer ages. We got chattin’ about ole times an’ it come up about when we worked tergevver at the tin bashers in your ole turnin’. Well Charlie, that’s ’is monicker, ’e outs an’ tells me about Norma Cantwell.’

‘What about ’er?’ Connie prompted.

‘She copped it. Yeah that’s right. Last November it was. Landmine be all accounts. It knocked a block o’ flats down orf the Walworth Road. Bloody shame. Ole Norma was re-housed in there when they pulled Birdcage Lane down, so Charlie told me.’

Connie sighed. She had tried to resign herself to the fact that she would probably never locate Norma after visiting Birdcage Lane and discovering that everyone had moved away, but she had still clung to the faint hope that someone might know where she had gone. Now Norma Cantwell would never be able to help her. Connie straightened up and gave the old man a smile.

‘Fanks fer rememberin’ after all that time, Mr Preedy,’ she said heavily. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘It was no trouble, luv,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘I was only too pleased ter let yer know. Sorry ter be the bearer of bad tidin’s though. Still, it can’t be ’elped. ’Ere, fill that up an’ ’ave one yerself.’

Connie poured two drinks. ‘Fanks very much,’ she said, clinking glasses with him. ‘’Ere, by the way, Mr Preedy. Was there anybody by the name of Bonny workin’ at the factory when you was there?’

The old man stroked his chin. ‘The name don’t ring a bell. It’s a funny name. I reckon I would ’ave remembered a name like that. Why d’yer ask?’

‘Oh nufink. I ’eard me mum mention it a few times,’ she said.

 

The heavily built figure walked painfully through the dark, icy cold streets, keeping close to the sides of the buildings and wharves as he occasionally glanced behind him. There wasn’t much time, he realised. They would soon come looking. They knew he would make for Bermondsey and his friends. It had been a long time since he had tasted the river air and smelled the soft grey mud. The area had been badly bombed but his friends would still be there. They wouldn’t let him down. He heard slow plodding footsteps ahead and he darted into a doorway. A heavy padlock pressed against his back and he felt the sweat breaking out cold on his forehead. Christ! he muttered voicelessly. If it’s the law he’ll be trying all the doors! He held his breath as the footsteps got nearer and then suddenly they stopped. For a while he rested his aching head against the cold iron door, knowing he could soon be discovered. He heard the footsteps again. They were going away and he breathed easier. He knew that he had to press on. He was nearly there and if the street had survived someone would give him a meal and a place to sleep.

He stubbed his toe in the darkness and cursed. That old iron post had been there for years; he should have remembered it, he had played leapfrog over it enough times as a kid. He puffed heavily in the cold air. Prison had a way of making people forget. Everything seemed smaller than he had imagined it to be. As he looked around in the quiet darkness he could see that there were spaces and piles of rubble where his kind had lived, but at least the little turning was still there. It was scarred and the buildings had been badly damaged, but the little row of houses were still standing. He strained his eyes and saw the black silhouette of the ugly factory building standing out against the night sky. He reached the house he was looking for and he hesitated. The street was empty and no light filtered out on to the cobblestones. Maybe he had left, he thought with a sinking feeling. Maybe they had all gone. He knocked softly on the door and the iron knocker sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. He hunched his shoulders against the night chill and waited. Then he heard a door inside open and footsteps. The street door opened and he saw the familiar face staring at him in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak and a wave of exhaustion and relief flowed over him. He staggered forward and gripped the door post.

‘Can yer ’elp me, Joe?’ the fugitive gasped.

Before he went to work Joe Cooper walked up to the corner of John Street and bought the morning paper. It was there inside the first page, with the headline: ‘Dennis Foreman Escapes’. Joe hurried back home with the paper tucked under his arm. He was already aware that the long arm of the law would soon be reaching out to his neighbourhood. Dennis was well known in the area and it would be obvious to the police that he might well seek help there. He placed the open paper on the kitchen table and took his spectacles down from the mantelshelf.

Joe folded the paper and sat back in his chair. Denny had not said much about his escape. He had been exhausted when he knocked at the door and, after wolfing down a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, he had collapsed on to the bed. When Joe got up that morning he had roused the fugitive with a cup of tea and some toast and told him to get dressed as quickly as possible. He knew the police would realise their quarry was making for London. It would not take them long to inform the local police, who knew of Denny’s old haunts. Joe also realised that because of his own police record he could be visited by the police at any time. He would have to find a safe haven for Denny until he could be got out of the area. Joe wondered where he could go, and he decided there was only one thing to do for the moment. He would have to stay in the factory shelter, if he could be smuggled in without being noticed. Joe looked at the clock on the mantelshelf: it showed twenty minutes to eight. Very soon the workforce would be hurrying through the gates and it was then that Denny might make it inside without attracting attention.

At ten minutes to eight the two men stood just inside the front door. Joe felt apprehensive but there was no time to dwell on things. Denny looked pale and gaunt in the old overcoat Joe had found for him. He had washed and shaved and wrapped a woollen scarf around his neck. Fear showed in his eyes as he waited for the word from Joe, who had told him to slip out into the street at the last minute and trail in through the gates behind the latecomers. That way he might just make it. They had gone over the plan whilst they waited and, with a bit of luck, it seemed that it might just work. Joe could see the Barton sisters coming into the turning. They were invariably the last two to clock in each morning.

As they drew level with his house, Joe stepped out. ‘C’mon you two. Late again?’ he joked as he fell in step beside them.

They hurried through the gates, the two girls unaware that Dennis Foreman, the notorious jewel robber, was walking quietly a few yards behind them. Inside the yard, the fugitive veered off and darted safely down into the dark shelter.

 

The day went very slowly for Joe. He had managed to smuggle some sandwiches and a flask of tea to Dennis during the lunch hour but there was no time to stay for a chat. He always ate his lunch in the firm’s canteen and to change his routine now would arouse suspicion. It was after dark when he got back to the shelter. He carried a broom and shovel with him in case anyone spotted him, but he need not have worried. The blacked-out street was deserted. Denny was lying on one of the bunks which had only recently been installed and he jerked up as the street warden came in.

‘Did yer get the evenin’ paper, Joe?’ Denny asked, rubbing his eyes.

Joe pulled the
Star
from his pocket and tossed it on the bunk. ‘There’s nufink in there,’ he said. ‘I already looked. Yer yesterday’s news!’

Dennis threw his legs over the edge of the bunk and sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘The bloody time’s dragged terrible. I was expectin’ the law ter walk in ’ere any minute.’

Joe sat down on the bunk facing him. ‘You’ll be okay fer the time bein’. If there’s an air raid ternight get inter that corner,’ he said, indicating with his thumb. ‘The crowd who sit there ain’t very talkative. They won’t start askin’ questions.’

‘I gotta get ter Norwich, Joe. I got a cousin there. ’E’ll put me up till it cools orf a bit. Trouble is I can’t jus’ jump on a train. The stations are bound ter be watched.’

Joe nodded. ‘The law’s pullin’ up civilians on stations. They’re askin’ fer identity cards. There’s bin a flap over deserters and fifth columnists.’

Dennis scratched his head. ‘I can’t stop ’ere, Joe. I gotta do somefink. Don’t yer know any local transport blokes yer can trust? I got me money stashed away up at me cousin’s. I can send the money on. I’ll pay well fer a ride out of ’ere.’

Joe thought for a while. ‘I know somebody ter ask. I’ll pop round there later ternight. In the meantime, take it easy. Yer safe ’ere, long as yer don’t break inter song.’

Dennis grinned. ‘I’m not likely ter do that. By the way. Fanks fer sortin’ me out, Joe. I knew I could count on yer.’

The street warden looked hard at the heavy-set man facing him. ‘Yer ain’t said much about what ’appened, Denny. I got more out o’ the mornin’ paper.’

‘I was knackered last night,’ Dennis said as he lit a cigarette. ‘I tell yer, when I jumped down orf that train I ran like the devil was after me. It was pitch-black an’ I must ’ave fell over a dozen times. The last time I went straight in a ditch full o’ water. Anyway I reached this main road an’ I ’ad ter duck in the bushes every time a motor went by. Farther down I came across some road works. I ducked in the bushes an’ waited till a lorry come along. When it slowed down ter get round the ’ole I jumped on the back. D’yer know, I didn’t ’ave a clue where the bleedin’ ’ell the lorry was bound for. All I was interested in was gettin’ as far away from that train as possible. It seemed like I was on that lorry fer hours an’, when it finally stopped at a transport caff, I ’opped orf and legged it. I finally found meself on Chelsea Embankment, would yer believe? Anyway, I jumped a bus, an’ that’s about it.’

Joe leaned back on the bunk. ‘You ’ad some money fer the fare then. Where d’yer get it from?’

Dennis grinned. ‘When I went frew the rozzer’s pockets fer the keys I found some silver. I couldn’t get ter the pound notes. If ’e ’ad any ’e must ’ave bin sittin’ on ’em.’

‘What made yer do a scoot, Denny? Yer done a lot o’ yer sentence. Wiv time off yer’d be out in a year or two.’

Dennis laughed bitterly. ‘Yer don’t know the ’alf of it. Fer a start there ain’t no time orf. I was involved in a scuffle wiv a screw an’ bang went me remission. They reckoned I was gettin’ ter be a trouble-maker, that’s why I was on me way ter the Moor.’

Joe smiled and shook his head. ‘Yer ain’t changed a bit,’ave yer? Yer always was a bit of a mad so an’ so. Couldn’t yer count ter ten before yer ’ammered that screw?’

‘Yer done bird, Joe. I know ’cos sister Dolly wrote an’ told me. Yer know what it’s like. Yer banged away fer hours at a time an’ yer get ter finkin’. I was broodin’ about me missus. She sent me a letter sayin’ she wanted a divorce. She told me she met this geezer who’s got a respectable job an’ she wanted nufink more ter do wiv me. I tell yer, Joe, it cracked me up. I was ’avin’ a bad time wiv this screw an’ when ’e started ter goad me I seen red an’ clonked ’im. I busted the bastard’s jaw.’

‘When did yer get married, Den?’

‘I met me missus when I got out o’ the army in 1930 an’ we got married the same year. I done seven years in the colours, Joe. Matter o’ fact I signed up just after I left ’ere. I was posted ter India. I done almost four years out there.’

Joe changed his position on the bunk. ‘It’s bin a long time, Denny. Yer ain’t changed all that much.’

‘Nor ’ave you, Joe.’

‘D’yer remember when we run the streets round ’ere? We’ad some good times, didn’t we?’

‘We sure did, pal.’

Joe lowered his head and stared down at his shoes. ‘I bumped inter yer sister Dolly just after Kate died,’ he said quietly. ‘She said she was goin’ ter write an’ tell yer.’

‘Yeah, she did, Joe. Bloody shame the way she went. She was a diamond was Kate. I bet young Connie’s all growed up now, ain’t she? She was only two years old when I left.’

Joe looked up. ‘Yeah, she’s a real little beauty. Talk about a ringer fer ’er muvver.’

Dennis stood up and stretched. ‘I’d love ter see ’er, Joe. Maybe I will when fings die down a bit.’

Joe lapsed into silence and stared down at the floor.

Dennis looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then he said, ‘Look, Joe. There’s a lot o’ water gone under the bridge. I ’ad ter leave when I did. There ain’t no grudges, is there?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Like yer say, Den. It was a long time ago. We grew up since then. There’s no grudges. We missed yer, an’ Kate took it bad. We was all very close.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I’d better get goin’ if I’m gonna see this bloke,’ he said, standing up and buttoning his coat. ‘Take it easy. I’ll be back soon as I can.’

 

PC Wilshaw stood on the corner of Ironmonger Street with his gloved hands clasped behind his back and watched the comings and goings. It was early evening and the Armitage workers were hurrying from the turning. The constable knew most of the workers by sight and his eyes darted from one to another as he chewed on his chinstrap and rocked back and forth on his size twelves. They had all been briefed at the station that morning and Dennis Foreman’s photograph had been duly studied. PC Wilshaw was confident. I’ll spot him if he shows his face around here, he told himself. It would be a nice arrest to make. There would be quite a bit of publicity and his photo would most certainly be in the daily newspapers. Could be sergeant’s stripes in it, too, he thought.