Ironmonger's Daughter (54 page)

‘I don’t wanna look too flashy, Ma. This’ll do.’

Ten minutes later his mother called up the stairs, ‘Ain’t yer goin’ out? Yer bin standin’ in front o’ that mirror fer hours. If yer not careful yer’ll ’ave the devil jumpin’ out after yer.’

Billy looked down at his shaking hands and felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The thought of walking into the pub again terrified him. All eyes would be on him and people would be bound to notice he was wearing a new suit. Supposing the mickey-taking starts again, he thought to himself. Could I cope with it?

‘C’mon, Billy. What yer doin’ up there?’ his mother bawled out.

With an effort he turned away from the mirror and hurried down the stairs to the front door. Florence watched through her lace curtains, a proud smile spreading over her face, as her son walked away along the darkening street.

People entered the Dolphin and the light faded until it was completely dark. Still Billy waited in the same spot where he had stood when he saw Connie leave with the dark-haired young man. He squeezed his clenched fists until it hurt and then rubbed his sweating palms down his trouser legs. It was the sight of the returning policeman which decided him to go in. He had given Billy a suspicious look as he strolled by earlier. With his heart beating rapidly the young man walked up to the door of the public bar and pushed it open. As he stepped through the heavy blackout curtain and looked around quickly he saw that the pub was packed. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him and slowly he edged his way towards the bar.

Connie saw him coming towards her and she let the drink she was pouring spill over. He looked so different. His dark wavy hair was combed back from his forehead and he was grinning nervously.

‘’Ello, Billy,’ she said quickly, letting go of the pump handle as beer washed over her hands. ‘Long time no see.’

He touched the knot of his tie with his thumb and forefinger. ‘’Ello, Connie,’ he said. ‘I’ve bin pretty busy. I . . . I got a job.’

‘So I ’eard. Is it okay?’

He nodded as he reached his hand into his pocket. ‘Yeah, I like it. It’s out in the open an’ there’s a bit of overtime.’

The elderly customer beside Billy was waiting for his pint of ale and he tapped the money on the counter. ‘I don’t fink yer’ll get any more beer in that glass, gel,’ he remarked.

Connie winced. ‘Sorry, Albert. There we are.’

Albert picked up his pint and backed away from the counter, glancing curiously at the young man next to him.

‘What can I get yer, Billy?’ Connie asked, resting her arms on the wooden surface and smiling broadly.

‘I’ll . . . I’ll ’ave a pint o’ bitter, an’ you ’ave one, too,’ he said, grinning back at her.

‘No, it’s all right.’

The smile disappeared from his face and Connie straightened up. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

‘’Ave a whisky.’

‘A beer’ll do.’

Billy’s eyes opened wider. ‘Go on, ’ave a whisky. I’ve seen yer drink whisky when I was in ’ere before.’

Connie returned his open look. ‘Oh yer noticed me, did yer? Well jus’ fer that I fink I will ’ave a whisky.’

They laughed together and suddenly she felt a pang of anxiety. She could see a certain look in his eyes. She had seen that look in Robert’s eyes that day in the Armitage factory canteen. It seemed so long ago now but she had never forgotten it. It had been the start of something wonderful then and, as she remembered, Connie quickly lowered her eyes.

It was nearing closing time and Billy was finishing his third pint. He had been standing at the counter the whole time, watching her as she hurried to and fro with the many orders. The crowd in the corner had noticed him, but apart from a few wary glances they had ignored him. Billy watched the barmaids busying themselves behind the counter and occasionally he and Connie exchanged glances and he fingered his tie or pulled at his shirt cuffs. Connie could see the struggle going on inside him as he looked around nervously and smiled briefly as folk nudged their way to the bar. She became increasingly aware of her own conflict. Part of her wanted to stay and talk to him and part of her wished he had never come in that evening. Her resolution was being tested, and she gritted her teeth. It wasn’t fair, she groaned to herself. It wasn’t fair to him or to her. No one could replace her loss: no one could heal that aching she experienced every waking day which lasted through the long empty hours. Only the warm release she got from the burning spirit could help her forget. There was nothing she could offer to anyone; she had nothing left to give.

The bell had sounded and now Bill French was calling time. Billy had finished his drink and was watching her closely as she mopped the counter. ‘Oh well. I’ll be off then,’ he said without moving.

Connie looked at him, a brief smile disguising her feelings. Go, Billy. For Christ’s sake go, can’t yer, she pleaded silently. ‘Okay, Billy, see yer later,’ she said to him.

He backed slowly away, his eyes never leaving her until he was near the door, and then he turned and was gone. Connie rubbed away furiously at the dry surface. She was being stupid, she told herself. Why was she allowing herself to become involved so easily? She had chosen her path, and now in a moment of weakness the way ahead had become uncertain. She looked around and noticed that Jennie was preoccupied. Quickly she poured herself a large drink and gulped it down. The spirit burned her throat and hit her stomach like a hammer. She blinked and saw Jennie looking at her. The publican’s daughter came over and squeezed her arm. ‘You all right?’ she said with concern. ‘Yer look terrible.’

Connie managed a weak smile. ‘I’m okay, Jen. It’s bin a busy night.’

‘Yeah, it ’as,’ Jennie replied, picking up the last of the dirty glasses. ‘Look, Con. I don’t wanna be a wet blanket or anyfing, but don’t yer fink yer strongin’ it a bit wiv the booze?’

Connie rounded angrily on her friend. ‘It’s all right. I was gonna put the money in the till anyway.’

Jennie shook her head. ‘No, Con. Yer welcome to a drink any time as far as I’m concerned. Trouble is I’m worried – fer you.’

‘There’s no need ter worry, Jennie. I’m okay. Really.’

Jennie touched Connie’s arm. ‘Go on, get up ter bed. I’ll finish down ’ere. Jus’ remember, I’m yer friend. If yer wanna’ave a chat anytime, jus’ say.’

Connie nodded. ‘Fanks, Jen. I will,’ she said with a sigh.

 

Billy walked slowly along the dark street, his footsteps sounding loudly on the flagstones. He was feeling slightly dizzy with the amount of drink he had consumed and more than a little pleased with the way the evening had gone. He had managed the first part. Connie had seemed glad to see him and she had found time to talk to him even though she was very busy. The next part was going to be harder. He had to bring himself to ask her out. Maybe she would come out with him, now that he was looking more presentable. He had reached his front door, and as he pulled on the door-string and let himself in he was whistling. Florence was sitting beside the empty grate listening to the wireless. She heard him climbing the stairs and her face broke into a satisfied smile. I must tell Edie how nice Billy looked in that suit, she thought. She heard his door shut and her eyes travelled over to the empty chair facing her.

‘Yer should ’ave stayed around, yer no good bastard. Yer’d’ave bin proud of ’im,’ she said aloud.

It was a few days after the heavy air raid when Dennis Foreman, alias William Smithers, took up residence at number one, Ironmonger Street. He had arrived early on Monday morning carrying a small battered suitcase and a bunch of flowers which he had purchased from a stall outside Liverpool Street Railway Station. It seemed logical to Mr Smithers that a visiting relative might want to greet his kin with a small token of affection and it would also seem logical to any enquiring soul who might note his arrival.

Mr Smithers’s ploy worked very well, for his arrival was noticed by PC Wilshaw, who had just left the Armitage factory after his usual morning cup of tea. He glanced at the short, stocky figure who rat-tatted on the Toomey’s door and was rewarded with a wide grin. The PC noticed the heavily greased hair, the thick spectacles and the bushy moustache. He looked down at the man’s trouser turn-ups and he could see they were exposing at least two inches of black socks and a pair of scruffy brown suede shoes. The police constable walked by grinning to himself. It figured, he mused. Anyone who looked as ridiculous as that would only be knocking at the Toomeys’ door. He must be a relation, probably a brother or a cousin. Who else would take flowers to number one? Come to think of it, he might be a suitor calling on Lil Toomey. She had had some very peculiar men friends in the past, he recalled.

The wanted man had passed the first test and he soon made himself at home. Lillian introduced him to her soldier sweetheart who mumbled an unintelligible greeting, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him when Marie showed her the flowers he had given her. Dennis was wary, for Joe had warned him about the man-mad Lillian in his letter, and from what he had learnt he decided not to lead the girl on in any way. He had no desire to become involved with anyone who attracted attention by outrageous carryings-on. His plan was quite simple, he reasoned. He would soon become accepted by the local folk and then he could slowly discard the disguise. It had worked for his old cell-mate, Nosher Warner, who had used the ruse to fool the police for quite a few years. Nosher had escaped from an outside working party when he was at Pentonville and he had eventually returned to his home in Hoxton disguised as a city gent. After a while the pinstriped suit and the rolled-up brolly were discarded in favour of a more becoming garb for the area. It was only when he became besotted with the wife of a local councillor and ran off with her, and the week’s takings from the man’s tobacco shop, that he was apprehended. Dennis did not intend to make the same mistake, and he vowed to give Lillian Toomey a wide berth.

The fugitive had made a point of warning Joe Cooper of his arrival, and they met in a quiet pub off the Old Kent Road. Joe arrived first and, halfway through his pint of ale, he saw the ridiculous figure enter the bar and blink owlishly as he approached the table. He held out his hand.

‘’Ello, Joe. Remember me? William Smithers from Dock’ead.’

Joe tried to hide his grin. ‘Sit down yer soppy sod. Yer look like a refugee from Caine ’Ill.’

Dennis smiled. ‘Gonna buy us a drink then?’

Joe got up and walked to the counter. It was early evening and the bar was quiet, much to Joe’s relief. The landlord was studying the next day’s racing in the
Evening News
and he looked up wearily as Joe put a ten-shilling note down on the counter. Dennis was busy polishing his spectacles on a large spotted handkerchief and when Joe put the pint down on the table the fugitive put them back on his nose.

‘Christ! Yer must ’ave good eyesight ter see out o’ them,’ Joe quipped. ‘It’s a good job yer didn’t bring yer white mackintosh wiv yer. Yer’d get run in fer impersonatin’ a peepin’ Tom or a fifth columnist.’

Dennis took off his glasses and put them in his coat pocket. ‘We’ll ’ave ter watch it, Joe. Don’t start callin’ me anyfink but William Smithers if there’s anybody around. I’ve bin practisin’ meself. I’m William Smithers from Barkin’. I’m over this side o’ the water lookin’ up Cousin Toby. I’m single, an’ I’ve got a medical note which ses I’m unfit fer work owin’ ter ’eart trouble. I’ve also got me identity card, an’ a box o’ pills ter make it look good.’

Joe shook his head slowly. ‘Yer bin busy sortin’ yerself out. Is that identity card all right? There’s a few geezers bin nicked round ’ere fer carryin’ forged cards.’

‘Don’t worry about that, Joe. My card is genuine,’ Dennis said, grinning widely. ‘The real William Smithers was killed in an air raid. It seems there’s quite a racket in takin’ cards off dead bodies. If nobody claims the corpse after a certain time they release the identity card. I tell yer, Joe, them cards fetch a lot o’ money. My one cost a packet. So did the medical note.’

Joe sipped his beer thoughtfully. ‘I thought yer was comin’ back ter London a couple o’ weeks ago. What kept yer?’

Dennis took a swig from his glass then leaned back in his chair. ‘I ’ad ter sort me finances out, mate. There was all that money owin’ an’ I ’ad ter collect. It’s all done now an’ I’m set up fer a long spell.’

People were now coming into the pub and Joe began to feel uneasy. It did not go unnoticed by Dennis. He bought some more drinks and smiled at Joe as he sat down. ‘Relax, pal. Yer look a bit bovvered.’

Joe sipped the froth from his filled glass. ‘It’s lookin’ at you. I’m ’alf expectin’ somebody ter come up an’ put their’and on yer collar.’

Dennis grinned and lifted his glass to his lips. Joe watched as his friend took a swig and smiled to himself when he saw the froth on Dennis’s moustache. ‘I gotta say it, Den. Yer do look stupid in that get-up.’

Dennis laughed aloud. ‘What get-up? It’s me own moustache, an’ me own ’air. It’s jus’ combed different, that’s all.’

Joe snorted. ‘What about those glasses? Did they come orf the corpse, too?’

‘As a matter o’ fact, me cousin gave ’em ter me. ’E’s got a new pair.’

‘Well I fink yer attractin’ attention ter yerself, Den.’

Dennis became serious and he leaned forward over the table. ‘Look, Joe. I’ve gotta wear this get-up, as yer call it. Wivvout it I couldn’t come back ter the manor. I tell yer, I couldn’t stand livin’ in the sticks. It’d drive me mad. Besides, people were beginnin’ ter get nosy where I was. They don’t ask so many questions in Bermon’sey. Anyway, let’s change the subject. When am I gonna get ter see young Connie?’

Joe had been waiting for him to ask. ‘I told yer in the letter, Den. She’s left the street,’ he said. ‘An’ I reckon yer should leave ’er fer the moment, she’s got enough on ’er plate. An’ I wouldn’t like ter see ’er get ’urt.’