Ironmonger's Daughter (60 page)

Connie was saddened at the news. She knew Billy’s mother had worked hard at getting him through his dark periods. He was going to take his loss badly, Connie felt sure. Billy had fought his personal battle and it looked as though he had won it, but how would his mother’s death affect him? Connie’s concern was made worse by Jennie’s observation.

‘Yer know, that Billy finks a lot of you, Con,’ she said. ‘’E’s asked me a few times where yer livin’. I reckon if ’e knew ’e’d be round ter see yer. That’s why I made out I didn’t know yer address. I did right, didn’t I?’

Connie’s face looked pained. ‘It’s awkward at the moment, Jen. I’m jus’ settlin’ in at Ada’s, an’ I’m tryin’ ter get meself sorted out. If Billy showed up now fings could get complicated, y’know what I mean.’

‘I understand, Con. Billy knows we work tergevver, so I’ll jus’ say yer send ’im yer best regards an’ that yer stayin’ wiv friends fer the time bein’. ’Ow’s that?’

‘That’s fine, Jen. Maybe I’ll come round an’ see yer folks soon. I’ll prob’ly see Billy then.’

It was during her first week back in the street that Connie was stopped by Dennis Foreman. He had introduced himself by saying that he was a friend of Joe Cooper and used to live in the street years ago. He also said that he knew her mother and was very sorry to hear of her passing. Connie was puzzled by the man. He had a piercing stare that made her feel uncomfortable and she could not exactly understand why. As the days went by and she passed him on the street Connie became increasingly aware of his interest. She could feel his eyes on her and she began to wonder about him.

She decided to tackle Ada about the stranger and was surprised by the woman’s response. ‘There is somefink funny about that bloke, Con,’ she agreed, a puzzled frown on her face. ‘I remember seein’ ’im the first day ’e come inter the street. Funny-lookin’ sod ’e was. ’E was wearin’ these ’eavy glasses. Milk-bottle glasses, I calls ’em. ’E don’t wear ’em now. Anuvver fing is, the bloke’s smartened ’imself up since’e’s bin ’ere. That’s a nice suit ’e wears now, an’ those shoes ’e’as on are pretty tidy, too. When I first saw ’im ’e looked like somefink out o’ the music ’all. Joe Cooper told me ’e’s a cousin o’ Toby’s. There’s somefink perculiar about the man. I can’t put me finger on it, but there’s definitely somefink strange about ’im. I’ve never seen ’im wiv a woman, an’ the only bloke ’e seems ter knock around wiv is Joe Cooper.’

‘P’raps ’e only likes men,’ Connie said, smiling.

‘What, yer mean ’e might be one o’ them there nancy boys?’ Ada queried.

‘’E could be.’

‘No, I don’t fink so, Con. There’s a couple o’ them sort get down the market on Saturdays. They talk funny, an’ they always seem ter be carryin’ a shoppin’ basket. One of ’em’s called Francine. ’E always carries an ’andbag around wiv ’im an’ ’e’s always stoppin’ me fer a chat about somefink or the ovver.’

Connie grinned. ‘Well if I see Mr Smivvers wiv a shoppin’ basket or an ’andbag I’ll let yer know, Ada.’

 

A few miles downriver from Ironmonger Street another Mr Smithers walked into the town hall offices in Barking with a macabre request. He had been sent there by the local police who had informed him that it was where the records were kept of the blitz victims who had not been officially identified, and who had been buried with just a number to note their passing. Lance Corporal Percival Smithers of the Royal Artillery had recently been posted to Shoeburyness, and passing through Barking had given him the opportunity to look up the elder brother he had not seen for a number of years. When he called into the local police station for directions he was informed that the address he sought was no more. The street had been destroyed by a landmine and many of the people living there had been killed. Lance Corporal Smithers found himself being led through a maze of dark, reinforced corridors until he was shown into a small stale-smelling room below ground level. The short-sighted clerk looked over his metal-framed glasses at the intruder and motioned him to a seat while he thumbed through a huge pile of documents. Finally he looked up with a painful expression on his thin face. ‘Whom exactly do you seek information on?’ he asked.

Percival Smithers gave the clerk a hostile look. He folded his arms and said, ‘Mr William Smithers.’

‘And what exactly is your relationship to Mr William Smithers?’ the clerk asked turning back to the pile of documents in front of him.

The soldier was getting irritated by the clerk’s off-hand attitude. ‘’E’s exactly me elder bruvver,’ he said without blinking.

‘Address?’ asked the clerk in a tired voice.

‘Mine or me bruvver’s?’

‘Your brother’s address please.’

‘Twenty-seven, Stonely Street, Barkin’.’

The clerk thumbed through a sheaf of papers and then said, ‘Stonely Street was destroyed by a landmine on the fifteenth of October last year.’

Percival Smithers was finding it exceedingly difficult to hold his temper. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘The police told me. I wanna know if yer’ve got any news about me bruvver, that’s all.’

The tired-looking clerk sighed and clasped his hands over the sheaf of papers, moving his thumbs together. ‘Well, most of the Stonely Street victims were identified by relatives or by their identity cards. There were other victims who carried no identity on their person. Some bodies were dismembered, or totally unidentifiable. We may have a few points to go on, however. Now Mr Smithers, were you aware of any birthmark or tattoo mark that would make a positive identification of your brother possible?’

‘Yeah, as a matter o’ fact there is. Me bruvver ’ad a tattoo mark on ’is left arm. It was entwined ’earts wiv an arrer frew’em.’

‘Upper or lower arm?’

‘Lower.’

The clerk thumbed through the papers once more, then suddenly his face brightened up. ‘Ah. Here we are,’ he said. ‘Victim number 245. Yes, I think we’ve found your brother, Mr Smithers.’

When the sad-faced soldier finally walked out of the town hall the clerk made certain enquiries and had the National Register of Citizens checked. He then picked up the telephone and dialled the local police station. His required duties finished, he sat back and sipped his lukewarm tea. It had been quite a productive day, he thought. Another paper could now be moved into the file marked ‘Identified’. The police sergeant who had taken his call checked the records at the station, and finally the number of the missing identity card which once belonged to the late William Smithers went into a special list.

 

The balmy days of early June passed peacefully in the little backstreet. People were now sleeping in their own beds at night, although the occasional air-raid siren sent most folk scurrying into the factory shelter. Others slept through the raid, including the frail Mrs Cosgrove who was now almost totally deaf. Connie roused herself on hearing the siren and sat in the downstairs room with Ada until the all clear sounded. It seemed to most people that the last terrible raid in late May had been a desperate gamble. Two of the locals had very strong opinions about the way the war was developing and as usual they were eager to make their views known. The venue for their discussions had changed, however, since the Horseshoe had taken a direct hit. Terry and Bill had now become nomads and their evening travels took them to a pub in the Old Kent Road. With filled glasses in front of them the two felt able to assess the situation.

‘Yer gotta understand, Bill, the air raids are bound ter die out now,’ Terry said. ‘They can’t keep it goin’, wiv all those planes what’s gettin’ shot down.’

‘Well I don’t fink they’re shootin’ many down, Tel. Them guns jus’ blast away ter frighten ’em.’

‘I don’t know about frightenin’ the bleedin’ Germans, Bill, they frighten the bleedin’ life outta me, what wiv the noise they make.’

‘Well, I don’t fink we’re shootin’ many down wiv our guns. I mean ter say, ’ow can yer be expected ter shoot planes down in the pitch-dark?’

‘We’ve got searchlights, Bill. It’s in the papers every mornin’ ’ow many’s bin shot down.’

‘Yer can’t believe all yer read, Tel. I remember readin’ that the war was gonna be over by 1940. We’re inter ’forty-one now an’ it looks like it’s gonna go on fer a long time yet. Ole Churchill said it was gonna be a long ’ard struggle.’

‘Well we ain’t gettin’ so many raids now, are we?’

‘Granted, but I’m willin’ ter bet there’s somefink afoot. I fink they’re gettin’ ready ter use a secret weapon on us. They’ve got somefink up their sleeve, mark my words.’

Terry laughed aloud. ‘Don’t talk tripe. The reason they’ve cut down on the raids is because they made a bloody mistake. Ole Goerin’ fought we was all gonna panic an’ sue fer peace. Well we ain’t gonna, an’ I reckon that there Field Marshal Bleedin’ Hermann Goerin’s tearin’ ’is ’air out right this minute.’

Bill sipped his drink. ‘’Ere, Tel. Talkin’ o’ tripe reminds me. My ole woman ses she ’eard that ole Catchpole’s sellin’ black-market meat.’

‘Well ’e’ll ’ave ter be careful, Bill. There’s a bit in yesterday’s paper about this geezer what’s bin sellin’ corn beef under the counter an’ e’ got six months.’

Bill nodded. ‘Seems ter me they’re all at it now. If yer pay over the odds yer can get a Scotch whisky in most pubs. I wonder if they do the business in ’ere?’

Terry looked around the bar. ‘No, I don’t fink so. By the look of ’im be’ind the counter ’e’s never even ’eard of it.’

The mystery of the lessening air raids was solved for Terry and Bill on the twenty-second of June when Germany invaded Russia. The bulk of the German air force had been sent to the Eastern Front, according to the daily newspapers, and for once Bill and Terry did not query the validity of the report.

The news of the invasion was greeted with shock and sadness by the Bermondsey folk, especially those who lived in the Rotherhithe area. There had been many friendships made with the Russian sailors who drank in the local pubs when their timber ships put into the Surrey Docks.

For Terry and Bill there was now another topic to discuss, and they tackled it with their usual aplomb.

 

It was a warm Friday evening towards the end of June and Connie left the factory at five o’clock and walked leisurely along the traffic-filled thoroughfare, her thoughts centring around what Jennie had told her during the day. They had been working side by side on a batch of leather cuttings and the publican’s daughter had been full of her torrid romance with Steve. She had also said that his crowd was congregating at the pub in larger numbers, much to the chagrin of her parents, who saw their increasing presence as a threat to their regular trade. The usual customers had nothing in common with the noisy gang, and Jennie had said that her father was showing concern over her developing romance. She had also mentioned that Arnold Jerrold had made a few brief appearances lately. Hearing his name sent a spasm of anger through Connie and she comforted herself with the thought that she would not have to face him again. She was feeling happy now that she was back in the street with her bad experiences behind her. Ada Halliday had made her feel at home and was always fussing over her welfare. She knew now that the street was where she belonged and for the first time in a long while Connie knew the feeling of contentment.

She had just reached the market when she almost collided with Billy Argrieves. He had turned away from the vegetable stall with a carrier bag in his hand and suddenly his eyes lit up.

‘’Ello, Con. ’Ow yer doin’?’ he greeted her brightly.

Connie’s cheeks flushed with surprise and she smiled. ‘I’m okay. What about you?’

‘Oh I’m all right. Jus’ gettin’ the spuds fer me tea. Where’re yer livin’ now? I’ve missed seein’ yer in the pub.’

Connie noticed that the stutter seemed to have left him and he looked more relaxed. His fresh face glowed with good health and he seemed to have put on weight. He smiled at her and Connie saw the pleasure in his dark eyes.

‘I’m back in Ironmonger Street. It’s where I used ter live,’ she said without hesitation.

‘I know it,’ he said. ‘C’mon, I’ll walk yer ’ome – if yer don’t mind?’

She laughed at the concern showing on his face. ‘’Course I don’t. C’mon, this way.’

They strolled by the stalls and turned into a backstreet. ‘I was sorry to ’ear about yer mum,’ she said after a while. ‘Jennie told me.’

His face became serious. ‘Yeah, it was sudden, although she was ill fer a time. I miss ’er, Con.’

Anxious to change the subject, Connie asked, ‘Yer still workin’ at the wood place?’

The smile returned to his face. ‘No, I got a better job. I’m workin’ at a buildin’ firm. It suits me fine. I’m learnin’ all about bricklayin’, carpentry an’ plumbin’, an’ I’m still workin’ out in the open most times. I couldn’t stand bein’ shut inside a factory all day.’

‘Yeah, I know what yer mean,’ Connie replied.

They had reached Ironmonger Street and Connie stopped. ‘Well, ’ere we are. It’s bin nice meetin’ yer again, Billy,’ she said. ‘Yer still goin’ in the pub then?’ she added, suddenly feeling she wanted to prolong the conversation.

‘Yeah, I still go in there. That noisy mob still gets in the corner but I ignore ’em. After all I don’t want ole Bill French chuckin’ me out again, do I?’ he said grinning widely.

Connie was pleasantly surprised at the change in him. She could see that he had won his hard-fought battle. He had a new-found air of confidence about him, and his whole manner seemed different. She smiled at him. ‘Nobody’s gonna chuck you out any more, are they,’ she laughed.

‘What about you, Connie?’ he asked, a look of concern showing on his face. ‘Yer okay now? Yer ’ad a bad time, didn’t yer?’

‘We’ve both bin through a lot, Billy. I fink I’m sortin’ meself out, an’ it looks like you ’ave, too.’

He nodded. ‘A lot was down ter you, Connie. Yer was very good ter me. It ’elped me more than yer know.’

She waved his thanks away with a sweep of her hand. ‘Yer did it yerself, Billy.’