Ironmonger's Daughter (53 page)

Toby ignored the taunts and continued his efforts to improve his appearance for the benefit of Iris Turner, and it did not go unnoticed.

‘Yer look smart this mornin’, Toby,’ she said. ‘Is that lavender brilliantine you’ve got on yer ’air?’

Toby nodded with a sheepish grin. ‘It ’elps ter keep the flies away, Iris. They swarm aroun’ those dirty barrels.’

‘Drink yer tea, Toby, it’s gettin’ cold,’ she said, sitting down beside him on the upturned box.

The head barrel-washer had succeeded in removing the slice of onion from his sandwich and depositing it behind the box. He picked up his still-hot tea. ‘It’s okay Iris, I like it cool,’ he smiled.

‘I’ll put more milk in it termorrer,’ she said. Then she added quietly, ‘’Ow’s yer wife?’

Toby wished he had kept his mouth shut. Milky tea made him feel sick, and so did the mention of his wife so early on a Monday morning. ‘She’s all right,’ he answered without enthusiasm. ‘She’s ’ad a moan about the smell o’ pickles on me clothes, but as I told ’er, I smelt a lot worse when I was tottin’ fer a livin’.’

Iris shook her head. ‘Yer ought ter get out more – on yer own, I mean. Yer should go fer a drink one night. There’s a nice little pub called The Green Man in Bermon’sey Lane. It’s near where I live. I go in there sometimes wiv me friend Audrey. I could meet yer outside there one night – if yer like?’

Toby wiped the back of his hand across his lips. The thought of taking Iris for a drink seemed a pleasant enough arrangement, providing Marie didn’t get to hear of it. The sudden vision of her chasing him around the house clutching a meat cleaver made him shiver. He glanced into Iris’s large friendly eyes and he decided there and then to take the chance. ‘It sounds a good idea. What about Friday evenin’? Marie goes out wiv ’er friend on Fridays.’

Iris rubbed her meaty shoulder against his bony arm. ‘We can sit in the snug bar,’ she said. ‘It’s quieter in there. They’ve got a nice pianer player in the pub an’ ’e plays all the ole songs on Friday nights. I’ll see yer outside about eight o’clock. Is that all right?’

Toby nodded. Marie usually left the house at seven o’clock. It should give him enough time, he thought.

The little meeting had been noted by the irritable yard manager from his office window. That barrel-washer is taking a bit of a liberty, he moaned to himself. It’s that Iris Turner encouraging him. I’ll have to get her transferred to another department. I can’t have her chatting to him every morning, it’s stopping him doing his work.

He opened his window and leaned out. ‘Oi! You down there!’ he shouted. ‘Have you finished all those barrels? There’s another dozen in the factory waiting to be cleaned.’

As April showers washed the dockland streets clean and watered the budding flowers in the backstreet window boxes, the local folk were beginning to feel that the worst of the air raids might have passed. The Luftwaffe seemed to be changing their attacks to other large cities. The London air raids had become more sporadic, and many people began to sleep in their own beds instead of the uncomfortable shelter bunks. Clara Cosgrove loved her own bed, and she gave the shelter warden and his helpers due warning that if there should be an air raid they were not to disturb her. It seemed that Mrs Cosgrove had been bitten by something or the other and she put it down to shelter lice.

‘It’s them there bleedin’ bunks, that’s what done it,’ she moaned. ‘I mean ter say, yer can’t expect anyfing else, can yer? Them bunks are made of bleedin’ sackin’. They ’arbour fings like lice an’ bugs.’

Joe Cooper tried to remonstrate with the irate old lady but she was adamant. ‘Listen ’ere, Mister Know-all. I’m covered in bloody great bites an’ it ain’t me own ’ouse what’s filfy dirty, an’ I ain’t bit meself. Them there bites are from lice. We all got bitten in the last war, when we was workin’ in the rag sorters’ yard in Bermon’sey Lane. Me an’ ole Daisy Mooney got covered in ’em an’ we ’ad ter be scrubbed all over wiv paraffin twice a day. Bleedin’ uncomf’table, I can tell yer.’

‘Now listen, Clara. I do them bunks out wiv insect spray twice a week an’ nobody else is complainin’,’ Joe retorted.

‘I can’t ’elp that, Joe. I tell yer I’m covered. I’ve even got’em on me . . .’

‘All right, girl,’ Joe butted in, not wishing to know the details. ‘Yer do as yer see fit. But I tell yer, if there’s anuvver bad raid don’t moan at me if yer ’ouse falls down round yer ears, an’ we ’ave ter dig yer out.’

Clara leaned on the door-post and crossed her arms in a gesture of defiance. ‘Well I’m jus’ tellin’ yer, that’s all.’

Joe wanted to tell her that she had probably been bitten by cat fleas. After all, she spent most of each day sitting with Mrs Adams in the cat woman’s little front parlour. But the look on Clara’s face stopped him saying anything further and he shrugged his shoulders as he walked away.

As the month slipped by the weather grew warmer and the days became longer. May started warm and sunny, and on the evening of the tenth the air-raid siren sounded early. Soon the guns were firing and explosions rocked the little backstreets. The raid developed into the worst one the dockland folk could remember. All night the roar went on as high explosives rained down all over London. Fires burned out of control. The docks and wharves were badly hit, and firemen were unable to pump water from the Thames due to a very low tide. The sky glowed dull red and black smoke hung in the air. All the London hospitals were crowded with casualties and queues of dazed victims waited at emergency dressing stations to be treated. Gas, water and electricity supplies were cut off and, as the shocked shelter-dwellers emerged at first light, the sight that greeted them was nightmarish. All around dockland the little streets which survived were strewn with glass and roof slates. High in the angry sky a huge cloud of smoke seemed to cover the whole of the capital and it reflected the flames of the many fires which were still burning out of control. The smell of cordite and burning timbers was stifling and fire bells sounded incessantly as the last reserves of fire fighters dashed to the raging blazes.

In Ironmonger Street, the raid had brought back painful memories of the night when the Dwellings had been destroyed, and the streetfolk felt a new sense of impending doom as they made their way home silently. Joe Cooper and his team of fire watchers had battled all night against the falling incendiary bombs, and they managed to save the little houses from burning down when they smothered a device which had fallen through Ada Halliday’s bedroom ceiling.

At the height of the air raid Joe and his team had banged on Clara Cosgrove’s front door but there had been no answer. They had been too hard pressed to return, but as soon as the raiders left they banged on Clara’s door again. Still there was no answer and they decided to force entry in case something had happened to the determined old lady. Joe leaned heavily on the door and pushed it open. There was a scorching smell in the passage which seemed to be coming from the back of the house, and when the fire watchers stumbled into the little backyard they saw a pair of Clara’s red flannel drawers smouldering on the clothes line. Beneath them was an incendiary bomb which had burnt itself out on the stone floor.

‘Christ!’ Joe gasped. ‘She’s a lucky ole cow. She could ’ave bin burnt alive.’

Clara was unrepentant. She woke with a start to see anxious eyes staring down at her. ‘What the bloody ’ell d’you lot want!?’ she blurted out, quickly drawing the bedclothes up around her neck.

‘Yer drawers caught light, Clara,’ Joe answered, grinning with relief. ‘We jus’ put ’em out.’

‘Gawd ’elp us!’ the old lady groaned. ‘They was me clean ones. I only washed ’em out yesterday.’

Joe stared down at her. ‘Yer sure yer all right, luv? It was a bad one last night.’

‘I didn’t ’ear a fing,’ Clara said, scratching the back of her head and yawning, ‘I must ’ave bin in a deep sleep. Well don’t stand there gawkin’. I gotta get up an’ sort out anuvver pair o’ drawers.’

Like Ironmonger Street, little Salter Street had survived, although the turning was littered with broken glass and roof slates. The adjoining street had not been so lucky, however. A bomb had landed on a row of terraced houses and more than a dozen people had been killed. The nearby Old Kent Road had been badly hit, too. Shop fronts had been blown out by the blast of a high explosive landing in the middle of the road which created a deep crater that had rapidly filled with water. There was ugly devastation everywhere. Black smoke rose from many backstreets and the sickly smell of smouldering fires hung in the still air.

People appeared on the street and looked around in disbelief at the damage that had been inflicted. Road gangs were out pumping water from the crater and other men worked with oxy-acetylene torches to remove the twisted, mangled tramlines. Fire hoses criss-crossed the thoroughfare, and near the Bricklayers Arms junction a terrified, dust-streaked tom cat sat in a tree and watched the commotion. As evening set in, the beleaguered docklanders prepared for the worst. The shelters filled early and ears strained for the dreaded air-raid siren. But night fell and as the hours ticked slowly away it remained silent. Slowly the battered population drifted off to sleep, and when the new day dawned and the people roused themselves they rubbed their eyes incredulously. The morning was calm and the smoke had cleared.

 

The week following the terrible air raid was a quiet one and people began to hope that it may have been the last attempt of the German air force to bomb the capital into submission. Their spirits rose as the days passed and the pubs became busy once more. In the Dolphin, Connie and Jennie were struggling to cope with the trade on Saturday evening. The piano player was in good form and already the public bar chorus was giving an unrehearsed rendering of the latest tunes. The bar was noisy and filled with smoke and people were jostling for space as they shouted out their orders.

Connie was secretly pleased that Derek Angelo had not made an appearance. Ever since the night of the party he had been pressing her to go with him to a nightclub up West. Jennie had told her that Derek’s business premises had been gutted by fire during the last air raid and he was probably preoccupied with salvaging what was left. The crowd of smart young men was in its usual spot, however, but Jennie was taking care of that end of the bar and for that Connie was thankful. She was desperate not to become too involved with the crowd. The experience with Derek had made her cautious. She had become resigned to going straight to her room after the pub had closed and reading until she dropped off to sleep. Sometimes it was easy when the customers had been generous, but other times she needed to take the bottle out of its hiding place and fortify herself before going to bed. She had no strength to resist the bottle in her room or the tot which some kind soul bought her, but there were times when the drink hardly seemed to help her at all.

The evening wore on and Connie glanced at the door every time someone came in. It had been almost two months since Billy Argrieves had been forcibly ejected and she was giving up hope of his coming in again. She missed him and hoped he would make an appearance, although she tried not to dwell too much on him or to wonder why he had stayed away. Connie had told herself over and over again that no one would ever get beyond that self-imposed barrier she had created. Billy was a danger to her, she realised. If she was not careful he might weaken her defences, and she tried to put him out of her mind. He posed too much of a threat.

 

It had been more than six weeks since Billy Argrieves walked nervously into the local labour exchange and got himself a job. The official was feeling very charitable on that particular morning and he had listened while the hesitant young lad blurted out his requirements. Billy was duly dispatched to the premises of John Burton, Timber Merchants, where he spent some considerable time chewing on his green card before plucking up enough courage to enter the yard. The foreman was a kindly man who felt sorry for Billy’s efforts to articulate himself and he signed his labour card.

Billy found the job to his liking, although at first his damaged back caused him pain. Working outside suited him and he soon became used to the physical nature of the job. The demand for timber was heavy and he was often able to earn a few extra shillings with overtime. The job helped to restore Billy’s self-confidence and he began to make plans to get himself tidied up. On one thing he was decided: he would not enter the Dolphin until he was satisfied with the way he was dressed. There would be no cause for anyone to take the rise out of him and he would also be in a position to repay the blond barmaid for her kindness in buying him all those drinks.

Florence Argrieves had taken the tape measure to her son and when all of his details were entered on the form supplied by her next-door-neighbour she went to place the order.

‘I’ve put the colour in the box, Edie,’ she said. ‘Now don’t let the so an’ so talk yer into ’avin’ any ovver colour. Billy insists on it bein’ grey. Oh, an’ fer Gawd’s sake don’t let on it’s fer ’im.’

Edie nodded. ‘Don’t yer worry yerself, Flo. If the nosy bastard starts askin’ questions I’ll say it’s fer me nephew.’

‘Fanks, Edie. Since my Billy clobbered ’im, the bleeder won’t even look at me. I couldn’t even get a pair o’ shoe-laces orf ’is catalogue. Mind you though, Billy’s payin’ fer the suit, not me. Since ’e started work ’e’s a changed lad. By the way, Edie. If that tallyman brings any o’ those plain blue shirts round like you got your ole man, order us one, will yer? Put it on the book an’ I’ll settle up wiv yer. I’m buyin’ it fer Billy.’

Two weeks later the young man stood appraising himself in front of the mirror. That afternoon he had got a haircut and he had paid a visit to the baths in Grange Road. He had to concede that the new grey suit fitted perfectly. His black brogues were well polished, his blue shirt looked very smart and a silver tie added the finishing touch. Florence had wanted him to wear a pocket handkerchief but he shook his head.