Ironmonger's Daughter (62 page)

‘That ovver bloke next ter ’im is Derek Angelo. ’E’s in ter just about everyfing around ’ere, an’ a right loud-mouth git in the bargain. Those two tarts wiv ’em are a couple o’ prossers. I’ve seen ’em wiv loads o’ different blokes.’

Dennis leaned his elbow on the back of his chair. ‘I’m just about ter get me an’ me mate a drink,’ he said. ‘D’yer fancy one?’

‘Gawd bless yer, son. I’ll ’ave a nice drop o’ bitter if yer don’t mind.’

Dennis grinned. ‘I’m Will, an’ this is me mate Joe.’

The old character rested his gnarled hands on his walking stick. ‘I’m Albert,’ he said. ‘Albert Swan.’

Dennis brought back the glasses and they continued talking.

‘This yer regular pub, Albert?’ Joe asked.

‘Bin comin’ in ’ere fer donkey’s years I ’ave. Mind you though, I won’t be fer much longer if that load o’ rubbish keeps comin’ in. They fink they own the bleedin’ pub.’

Joe gave Dennis a sideways glance and said, ‘They seem run off their feet be’ind the counter, Albert.’

Albert Swan rose to the bait. ‘Yeah, they miss young Connie. She was a good ’un she was.’

‘Was she?’

‘Yeah. I liked young Connie. Quick as a flash she was. Yer didn’t ’ave ter wait fer a pint when she was around.’

‘What ’appened to ’er, Pop?’

‘I dunno. She left sort o’ sudden-like. I don’t fink she liked that flash mob. They was always chattin’ ’er up, espesh’ly that Angelo bloke.’

Dennis waited until the old man had rekindled his pipe then said, ‘I s’pose them barmaids ’ave ter put up wiv a lot, one way an’ anuvver.’

‘I grant yer that,’ Albert said, puffing on his pipe. ‘Trouble is, some people don’t know when ter draw the line. Yer take young Connie. I used ter ’ave a laugh wiv ’er, but I always knew where ter draw the line. I used ter buy ’er a drink sometimes. I was on whisky at the time, but I can’t drink it now. Me doctor told me ter lay off of it ’cos o’ me blood pressure. Anyway, I used ter buy ’er a whisky an’ she downed it like a good ’un. She could ’old ’er drink could Connie. Never turned an ’air, she didn’t. Yeah, there was a lot in ’ere that was sorry ter see ’er go. Young Billy Argrieves was right upset. I fink ’e took a shine to ’er. Can’t say as I blame ’im.’

Another person had joined the crowd and his entry had not gone unnoticed by Albert Swan. ‘See ’im jus’ come in?’ he said. ‘’E’s a new bloke. I don’t know ’is name but ’e’s right flash wiv ’is money. Always got a roll of it. ’E pulls off pound notes like ’e’s unrollin’ wallpaper. Got a big mouf as well.’

Joe and Dennis laughed at Albert’s description. What he had said was quite telling, but he seemed to be suddenly distracted by two elderly ladies who came over and sat at his table. Albert had now switched his attention to the women and he began enjoying a bawdy repartee with them.

Dennis had a twinkle in his eye as he finished his drink. ‘What say we stand at the counter fer awhile, Joe?’ he said. ‘Old Albert looks like ’e’s preoccupied.’

Joe felt apprehensive. His long association with Dennis had taught him that the man could be a nasty character at times, and never more so than when he had a few pints inside him.

From what Albert Swan had told them it was possible that Connie had fallen foul of the crowd and Dennis seemed determined to learn more.

‘Okay,’ Joe answered reluctantly. ‘But mind ’ow yer go, Den. Yer can’t afford ter put yerself on offer.’

As the evening wore on the noisy crowd became more raucous. The two brassy women were giggling at the antics of the men and there was a noticeable gap between the crowd and the rest of the people at the bar. It seemed to Joe as though the regular customers wanted to avoid becoming involved in any form of conversation with them. He realised that he and Dennis were standing much closer to the mob than anyone else but his friend seemed perfectly relaxed, and he occasionally glanced across to the crowd as laughter erupted. Joe saw that Dennis was watching the latest character to join the group. The man was doing most of the talking and the two brassy women seemed to be hanging on to his every word. The newcomer had noticed Dennis’s interest and he was glancing over more and more. Joe became increasingly worried. His intuition told him that no good was going to come of the evening and he attempted to defuse what looked to him like a dangerous situation by engaging his friend in conversation. Dennis almost ignored him as he continued to watch the neighbouring crowd.

Suddenly the vociferous Arnold Jerrold looked pointedly at Dennis. ‘What do you think, friend?’ he asked loudly.

Dennis returned his stare. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch what yer was talkin’ about,’ he said calmly.

Arnold grinned. ‘I was just saying that you’ve got to be careful in what you say these days, especially in pubs. Pubs are a haven for fifth columnists.’

‘I make yer right, friend,’ Dennis replied, with just a slight intonation on the last word.

Arnold dusted an imaginary piece of fluff from his immaculate blue suit. ‘There you are, Steve. Our friend agrees with me.’

Steve Barnett was feeling slightly uneasy. There was something about the stranger that worried him. The man seemed too casual, and the ghost of a grin that was playing around the side of his mouth seemed threatening. The women, too, had realised that Arnold Jerrold might be overstretching himself and they had retired to powder their noses.

‘I was in the merchant service, friend,’ Arnold went on. ‘Wireless. I was a wireless officer actually. I got torpedoed twice, and I was subsequently made medically unfit for service. The point I’m trying to make is, less careless talk, less convoys getting attacked.’

Steve winced. He had heard it all before. Arnold had masqueraded as a pilot, a commando, a naval officer, and now as a merchant marine officer. He knew that Arnold carried a dubious medical certificate which pronounced him unfit for military service, but he could see that the man who was now the object of his attention had not fallen for the patter. His eyes were calm and almost wicked-looking.

‘C’mon, Arnie. Let’s make a move,’ Steve said.

Arnold was enjoying himself. ‘There’s plenty of time, Steve. Our friend here knows the score. In fact I’m going to buy him a drink. What’s your pleasure, friend?’

Dennis waved his hand in reply but Arnold ignored him. ‘Bill, give our friend and his partner a drink.’

The crowd had become somewhat subdued and the two women, knowing Arnold Jerrold of old, decided to keep their own company at the far end of the bar.

The drinks had arrived and Arnold sidled over to stand beside Dennis. ‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ he said.

‘Yer wouldn’t ’ave done,’ Dennis replied. ‘I’ve never bin in’ere before.’

‘I don’t know why we bother to patronise the place. They seem a miserable lot,’ Arnold sneered.

‘P’raps they don’t like the noise you lot make,’ Dennis said, sipping his drink.

‘Do you think we make a lot of noise, friend?’

‘Put it this way, friend,’ Dennis said in little more than a whisper, ‘if this was my regular pub I’d be a little bit put out, ter say the least.’

Joe winced as he waited for the response, but when it came it was unexpected. Arnold suddenly burst into laughter. ‘I like you, friend,’ he said loudly.

‘Well I’m pleased,’ Dennis said, a slow grin breaking out on his pale face.

Arnold looked along the counter then leaned towards Dennis. ‘I’ll tell you something, friend. This might not be the greatest pub, but they do have some very pretty barmaids here. You see young Jennie there? Well my friend Steve here is taking her out. Then there was Connie.’

‘Connie?’

‘Yeah. She used to serve behind the bar. What a figure! She was hot stuff. We got on very well I might add. Seems she had a thing about sailors. In fact . . .’ Arnold whispered the rest of his words into Dennis’s ear.

Joe watched as the grin disappeared from his friend’s face. Dennis reached for his half-filled glass and slowly poured the ale down Arnold’s front. With measured accuracy he drew his fist back and threw a punch which landed hard in the middle of Arnold’s shocked face. The man fell back and collapsed in a heap, blood pouring from his busted nose.

Bill French vaulted the counter and spread himself between Dennis and the rest of the crowd. ‘C’mon, I don’t allow fisticuffs in my pub,’ he said, glaring from one side to the other.

Dennis looked over the landlord’s outstretched arms. ‘Any o’ you lot wanna make anyfing of it? You’re welcome ter try yer luck.’

Steve shook his head. ‘I don’t know what was said, pal, but I expect ’e asked fer it.’

Bill glared at Dennis. ‘Right mate, yer’ll ’ave ter leave. I can’t afford ter lose me licence.’

Joe grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of ’ere.’

As they walked quickly along Salter Street Joe turned to Dennis. ‘I knew there’d be trouble. I jus’ knew it,’ he said. ‘What did ’e say ter make yer belt ’im, fer Chrissakes?’

‘It’s better yer don’t know, mate. Jus’ leave it at that, will yer?’

It was a hot, dry July, and the smell of drains was permeating the back streets. The council water carts came out in force to wash the dry dust away and flush the stinking sewers, and the children found a new game to play. They sat in little groups and focused the hot sun’s rays through pieces of eyeglass on to scraps of newspaper and watched with pleasure as yesterday’s news smouldered into flame. It was too hot for rattling door knockers or for strenuous games like tin-can copper. Instead the kids sat in the shade and bet their treasured cigarette cards against the turn of a dog-eared playing card. When they grew tired of gambling they roamed amongst the rubble and built their Indian camps on the ruined houses and tenement blocks. The more daring balanced precariously on high rafters and atop swaying brick walls. One little girl in Ironmonger Street was very proud of her find which she pushed around in a doll’s pram, hidden beneath a piece of sacking: the nest of rats was quickly removed when discovered and the little girl was scrubbed vigorously with carbolic soap by her horrified mother. The council sent men to deal with the infested ruins and damaged sewers, and complaints poured into the council offices about the dangerous state of the bomb sites.

Another feature of wartime which troubled the authorities was the black market, which was flourishing in Bermondsey as much as elsewhere in London. People who were registered with a devious grocer or butcher could surreptitiously buy extra rations, but those whose tradesmen did not oblige had to obtain their extras by other means. There was always someone who could supply foodstuffs at outrageous prices, and occasionally the purveyor found himself in front of the magistrate, informed on by an angry customer. Daily newspapers reported on the growing scandal of the black market and articles graphically highlighted the terrible cost of bringing supplies in by sea.

For Connie, the summer days were idyllic. She had kept her appointment with Billy and she remembered their first night out together with pleasure. They had walked along the riverside and visited a quiet pub, talking easily as they sat on a cool veranda overlooking the Thames. They laughed and joked happily, relaxed in each other’s company, and the hours had seemed to fly past. When it was time to go home he had escorted her to the front door and said goodnight with a hesitant peck on her cheek.

They were meeting regularly now, and Connie felt as though a new spirit of life was coursing through her body. She was happy in Billy’s company. He made no demands on her, and he did not try to intrude on her secret thoughts. He seemed happy just to be with her, and Connie recalled with a smile how she had returned his hesitant kiss on their first date. The promise of her new relationship thrilled her, and suddenly the days ahead did not seem so dark and empty. She was captivated by the way he smiled and at times his dark eyes seemed to engulf her, but he never tried to prove himself. The way he treated her was strangely gracious for a man, and she was grateful for the space it allowed her. Time would pass, she knew, and when her wounds were properly healed she would be able to give herself completely. For the moment Connie felt content simply to enjoy each day as it came, and at last she had stopped worrying about the future.

 

Chief Inspector Coggins had, in his own words, ‘rung the changes at Dockhead nick’. During his short reign he had made quite a few unpopular decisions and upset more than a few of his officers with his methods. The duty rosters had been revised and the filing system reorganised to his satisfaction, and there had been a buzz of activity when a certain article appeared in one daily newspaper highlighting the amount of unsolved crimes in the London area. Inspector Coggins decided to respond to the politicians’ criticisms by showing them that at least his station was ‘on the ball’, as he put it.

When PC Wilshaw walked into Dockhead police station at midday on Saturday, ready to get on with his daily written report, he saw that a major tidying-up was under way. Papers were strewn about the desks and the station sergeant was in a foul mood.

‘You can see the problem, Wilshaw,’ he said with a red face. ‘The guv’nor wants the rubbish sorted out, so you’ll ’ave ter do yer report somewhere else.’

PC Wilshaw sat down to ease his aching feet and glanced idly at the pile of papers lying on the desk in front of him. One of the constables came in carrying another bundle and threw it down on a table.

‘There’s another lot for the bonfire, Sarge,’ he said, to the chagrin of Sergeant Carter.

Another constable scanned through the bundle and suddenly he laughed aloud. ‘Bloody hell, there’s some evil-looking characters here.’

Wanted posters were being passed around and comments were made which brought gales of laughter from the officers. ‘’Ere, get a load o’ this one,’ someone said. ‘William Smithers.

Last known address Barking. Wanted fer bigamy. Look at that dial. Who’d wanna marry that?’