Ironmonger's Daughter (5 page)

‘I’d better see me ole man first. If I get it wrong ’e’ll be in a right ole mood.’

‘Please yerself,’ Misery muttered as he tipped the nails back into the box under the counter.

Mrs Walker turned on her heel and started for the door. She caught her foot in the doormat on the threshold, slipped down the step and stumbled out into the street. When she had straightened her hat and regained her composure she looked around into the open doorway. She was about to give Misery Martin a piece of her mind about the maintenance of his shop when she saw his face. A huge grin had spread over his features. He reminded her of one of those evil-looking door knockers down Tanner’s Alley that she had always hurried past. Mrs Walker turned smartly without making any comment and walked back to the Dwellings.

‘Bloody ole goat,’ she grumbled aloud with a shiver. ‘’E should be struck like that! Larffin’ at people’s mis’aps. It’s the only time ’e’s ’appy.’

 

The long summer times were balmy and days of blue skies were followed by starlit nights. The winters were severe, with poisonous fogs and winds that chilled the bones. In the dockland slums, beyond the whitened front doorsteps and crisp lace curtains, the houses were infested with bugs. Wax tapers were lit and applied to the bedsprings and soft green soap was packed between woodwork and plaster in the constant battle against infestation. The local people frantically kept themselves clean with carbolic soap and Lysol and, as money was short, they would use homemade medicines and applications for their ailments: bread poultices, soap and sugar applications for boils and abscesses, and vinegar-soaked towels for septic throats. Steam kettles were used to ease bronchitis in children and horse hairs were tied around warts.

During the ’twenties, as Connie Morgan and Molly Bartlett grew up in the little backstreet behind the Tower Bridge Road, the street became used to the sight of the two cousins toddling around together, inseparable. Connie was becoming tall and leggy whilst Molly’s growth was slow and painful. Her flat round face was set upon a short neck, but her large dark eyes shone out like defiant beacons, and her laugh was infectious. She waddled along, swaying from side to side beside the pretty fair-haired girl whose pale blue eyes were set in a finely moulded face. Connie’s placid character contrasted sharply with her playmate’s changing moods. Molly’s alert and agile mind was trapped inside her retarded body and it often made her frustrated and angry. Connie quietly bore the brunt of her anger and changing moods with gentle patience. When the street children chased a ball or followed coloured glass marbles in a scurry, Connie would stay close to Molly. It was as though she had made herself responsible for her cousin’s safety and wellbeing and, whenever Helen watched the two together, it tugged at her heart. She had cared and tended her sister’s child since Kate first took the job at Armitage’s. When she had suddenly left the factory after the outing in twenty-three, Kate had got a job as a barmaid and young Connie was left more and more in Helen’s care. Helen had grown to love the girl as though she were her own and she was aware of the deep bond between the children. It helped to quell the grinding bitterness and heartache at seeing her own child’s malformed body struggling to develop and mature.

During the early ’twenties the Government changed hands with almost monotonous regularity until, in 1924, a Conservative government under the leadership of Stanley Baldwin took office and remained in power for five years. Then, in 1926, a general strike paralysed the industrial areas, and in Bermondsey the trams stopped running and the docks and wharves closed. Some local factories shut, and in the Armitage factory some of the younger members of the workforce attempted to organise their own support for the strike by walking out and standing at the gates. The main section of the workforce was confronted with hastily prepared leaflets when they reported for work one Monday morning and many workers joined the protesters at the gates. Joe Cooper was standing amongst them. Joe had earned the respect of nearly every worker at the factory. He had been instrumental in helping to improve relations between the workers and management and in the process he had made an enemy of Gerald Armitage. Gerald saw that Joe could coax and cajole the best out of the factory hands and he was jealous of Joe’s influence. He was convinced that the foreman was the troublemaker behind the growing demands for the factory to become unionised. But Joe had also earned the respect and trust of Peter Armitage, the factory’s new managing director, and he was not afraid to take the shop floor grievances directly to Peter and bypass his more inflexible brother. Although this was a blatant infringement of normal procedures it was an arrangement which persisted, and it caused a few eyebrows to be raised.

Peter Armitage stood at the window of his office, looking down at the yard. His father had recently handed over control of the business to him, and the realities of running the factory weighed heavily upon him . . .

With a deep sigh he left the window and slumped down at his desk. His forefinger twirled the paper knife as he thought about the conversation he had had with his wife Claudette the previous evening. They had been sitting beside the log fire and Claudette was industriously working on a piece of embroidery. Suddenly she had looked up. ‘Will the factory have to close, Peter?’ she asked.

‘I think it’s more than likely, my dear,’ he replied. ‘The strike seems to be spreading everywhere.’

Claudette clicked her tongue. ‘But you can’t allow yourself to be dictated to. You’ll have to stand up to them. Gerald was saying that it’s only a few troublemakers leading the rest and he thinks it’s about time you showed them just who’s running the factory.’

Peter had given his wife a withering glance. ‘Exactly. I think Gerald should bear that in mind, too,’ he growled and flicked open the evening paper. And, just as he had turned to read it, he had caught a strange smile on Claudette’s face as she worked the needle through the tapestry . . .

The sound of loud voices coming from the yard jerked Peter out of his reverie and he got up and went back to the window. He watched with growing anxiety as some of the workers defied the call for solidarity and marched defiantly through the pickets. Scuffles broke out and the situation became tense. Some of the strikers were holding up banners calling for support for the miners and, as other workers tried to pull them down, the fighting got worse; banners were broken and the sticks used as clubs. As he watched the disturbance by the gates Peter was shocked and sickened. His trusted foreman Joe Cooper was fighting on the side of the strikers, and Peter saw him punching out at a couple of strangers who were trying to snatch a banner from one of the female workers. Peter was convinced that the two ruffians did not work at the factory.

The door opened and Gerald strode in. ‘Miss Jones has already called the police, Peter,’ he said quickly. ‘They’ll sort out this bloody mess.’

Peter looked hard at his younger brother and pointed in the direction of the yard. ‘Who are they? Those two thugs don’t work here.’

Gerald looked down towards the gates. His brother noticed the ghost of a wry smile cross his face. ‘I don’t know them,’ he said. ‘They look to me like strike breakers.’

‘They look to me like strike breakers, too,’ Peter said pointedly. ‘Are they the strike breakers you were telling me about who were involved round at the Matthew’s factory last week?’

Gerald glared coldly at his brother but didn’t speak.

Peter looked down into the street and saw Joe Cooper lying on the ground, several boots raining kicks into his curled-up body. Other workers started to drag the attackers off as police rushed up to the gates and pulled the fighters apart. With its bell ringing, a Black Maria roared into the turning and screeched to a halt. Peter watched people being bundled unceremoniously into the back of the van, and he saw the halfconscious figure of Joe Cooper dragged along the cobbles and thrown in with the others. He turned away from the window and looked at his younger brother, his face contorted with anger. ‘I suppose you think this is the way to deal with this sort of thing?’ he said loudly.

Gerald’s face darkened. ‘What are you accusing me for?’ he said with a nonchalant shrug.

‘You must think I’m stupid,’ Peter said, his voice quiet and scornful. ‘A friend of yours gets strike breakers in to deal with his troubles and you think it serves his workers right, and now you don’t know what’s been going on down there?’ He shook his head. ‘Bring in the toughs and let them beat up the workers. If the old man gets to hear of this it’ll kill him. Christ Almighty, Gerald, you’re a fool.’

His younger brother’s face reddened with anger. ‘This business belongs to the family. I’ve got as much right as you to look after its best interests. What gives you the right to preach to me?’

Peter breathed in deeply. He knew that if he continued he would be opening a black chapter in Gerald’s past that they had agreed to bury. He walked around behind his desk and sat down heavily. Gerald watched his progress, a look of distaste on his handsome features. Peter said nothing. He clasped his hands on the desk top and pressed the tips of his fingers together until the nails went white. After some time he looked up into his brother’s eyes and said quietly, ‘They’ll be needing you on the factory floor if we’re to get the machines running, Gerald.’

Gerald turned and stalked to the door. He paused before turning again to face his elder brother. Peter’s head was bent forward and he appeared to be inspecting a document. Gerald eyed him warily; he knew that his past misdemeanour would always be held against him, and would be used to make sure he behaved. He was trapped. ‘I’ll come up later when I’ve sorted things out,’ he said coldly, and stepped out into the passageway, shutting the door behind him.

 

The General Strike lasted just nine days, and the factory strike less than one week. Joe Cooper appeared at the Tower Bridge Magistrates Court and was fined ten shillings for disorderly conduct. His bruised and battered head remained unbowed as he paid the fine and walked out of the court to back-slapping and cheers from his workmates. The next Monday morning an apprehensive group of workers walked through the gates of the factory and clocked in. There were no cases of victimisation, but the following week the management declared that working hours were to be increased by one hour and the early Friday finish would now be a thing of the past. Though they could do nothing about it, it angered the subdued workers and made Joe Cooper all the more determined to bring trade union membership into the Armitage factory.

Another confrontation which took place during the strike was the subject of discussion at the next domino group get-together.

‘We was all outside the pie shop in Tower Bridge Road,’ George Baker began. ‘I was standin’ there mindin’ me own business an’ eatin’ me ’ot pie, when along comes this tram. Yer could ’ave knocked me over wiv a feavver. I says ter young Bernie Cornbloom, “’Ere, Bernie, the trams are s’posed ter be on strike ain’t they?” “’S’right,” ’e says. So I looks up the road an’ there’s this dirty great tram wiv a geezer drivin’ it who wasn’t yer regular tram driver. ’E ’ad this posh coat on wiv a fur collar, an there was a copper standin’ on the platform next to ’im. The tram was packed wiv them bleedin’ office workers from Tooley Street. This copper ’ad ’is arms folded over ’is truncheon an’ there was anuvver copper on an ’orse trottin’ be’ind. Before yer could say Jack Robinson, young Bernie grabs me pie an’ runs out in front o’ this tram. ’E aims me dinner at this geezer who’s drivin’ the tram an’ it ’its the copper instead. Right in the dial it caught ’im. Everybody starts cheerin’ an’ clappin’, an’ young Bernie’s orf like the clappers wiv this copper chasin’ ’im. Some o’ the lads jumped on the tram an’ tried ter pull this driver geezer orf. Now, the copper on the ’orse don’t know whevver ter chase Bernie Cornbloom, or ’elp the scab volunteer. ’E yanks the poor ’orse’s neck round an’ it slips on the tramlines. Over it goes an’ this Tom Mix copper can’t get up. ’E’s got ’is leg trapped under the animal. Ole Clara Cosgrove is standin’ watchin’ the fun an’ suddenly she grabs an ’andful of eggs orf of Teddy Oldham’s stall an’ starts peltin’ the copper wiv ’em. Talk about a laugh. I ain’t laughed so much since ole Knocker ’ere got pissed that night an’ mistook ole Clara’s ’ouse fer the urinal.’

‘I don’t remember doin’ that,’ Knocker said, stroking his thick stubble.

‘’Course yer don’t. You was legless. Yer made a right mess of ’er passage wallpaper, I can tell yer.’

‘Did they catch Bernie?’ Harold Simpson asked.

‘No fear,’ George said emphatically. ‘Bernie runs across the road, roun’ the corner, an’ straight frew ole fat Sara’s front door.’

‘Blimey! I bet she was pleased,’ laughed Knocker.

‘Not ’alf. She grabs young Bernie an’ tries ter pull ’im in’er bedroom. Bernie told me ’e didn’t know whevver ter give’imself up an’ take ’is medicine, or take some of ’ers.’

‘What did ’e do, George?’ Knocker asked.

‘Gawd knows. ’E never told me what ’e did.’

‘What would you ’ave done, George?’ Harold asked.

‘I’d ’ave give meself up. I ain’t too keen ter get a dose o’ the clap. Ole Sara’s ’ad ’alf o’ Tower Bridge Road in ’er place.’

‘Yer right there,’ Harold agreed. ‘I’ve even seen ole Ferris the chimney sweep divin’ in an’ out o’ there.’

‘Fat Sara ain’t got a coal fire. She’s on gas,’ Knocker chipped in.

‘’Ow the bloody ’ell d’you know?’ Harold piped in, amid roars of laughter.

 

As the ’twenties drew to a close the young cousins became settled into their lessons at the local Webb Street School. Every morning they walked to school together, and every afternoon they strolled home, lazily laughing at the peculiar teacher who took them for lessons. It was already apparent that Connie would develop into a very pretty adult: her deep-set blue eyes were very striking, their colour vividly shaded. Her long blond hair reached down almost to her waist, and was usually tied carelessly at the back of her neck with a black lace, revealing her rounded forehead. She moved with childlike grace and her posture was straight and proud. By contrast Molly did not appear to be growing very fast, her pathetic young body looked thick and squat with her back becoming more and more rounded. She managed to walk at a steady pace, although she tended to sway from side to side when she tried to hurry, and her breathing was quick and shallow. Her flat face was constantly changing in expression; it was as though all her suffering, all her struggles to accomplish the day-to-day tasks were written in her round face and reflected in her large dark-brown eyes. The constant awareness of her condition had made her look older than her tender years. She already seemed to have lost the carelessness of childhood and behind her simple appearance there was a maturing mind that was fast outstripping the growth of her tragic body. Already, as a nine-year-old, Molly was beginning to interpret the looks and the remarks of people on the streets. Their attitudes were often well meant and sympathetic, but their careless and unthinking pity pierced the child’s heart.