Ironmonger's Daughter (8 page)

The group of organisers went about their various tasks, and soon the festivity supplies began to grow. Tony Armeda promised to donate a tub of his lemon ice-cream and the stallholders gave generously. As one of them put it: ‘We might as well do it wiv a good ’eart. Those bleeders from Ironmonger Street’ll nick the bloody fruit anyway.’

Misery Martin proved to be a problem, however, and Joe Cooper decided to sort him out in his own way. ‘Come ’ere you lot,’ he shouted at a group of street kids who he found tying door knockers together and pulling on the string. ‘I ain’t gonna give yer a clout. Not if yer do as yer told. Now listen. This is what I want yer ter do.’

Misery Martin had been trying unsuccessfully to sell his business for years. No one seemed interested, and he blamed the street. ‘Who’d wanna buy a shop in this bloody turnin’,’ he was grumbling to a commercial traveller he’d cornered in his shop. ‘Them little urchins ain’t civilised. Bloody savages, the lot of ’em. I’d give ’em a party! More like a good ’idin’. That’s what they want. I ’ad one o’ the farvvers in ’ere only yesterday. Wantin’ a subscription fer the street party. I told ’im no, an’ in no uncertain terms.’

The commercial traveller was backing out through the door with his head buzzing. ‘I’ll look in again next week Mr Martin.’

‘That’s what they need,’ Misery called out to the disappearing figure. ‘A bleedin’ good ’idin’.’

Four grinning faces looked in the shop doorway and pointed to the canes that were hanging from the rafters.

‘Go on, ’op it!’ the disgruntled shop owner called out.

The four kids stood perfectly still, their mocking faces grinning evilly.

‘You ’eard what I said. ’Op it!’

The kids remained perfectly still by the doorway. Misery hobbled around the counter and they disappeared. When he returned to the counter the kids were back. The aggravation went on all day. Next morning the kids came back and Misery spoke to PC Wilshaw, who promised to box a few ears if he came across the little ruffians. Little was gained from Misery’s consultation with the law. As soon as the constable left the street back came the kids. By the end of the second day Misery had come to the end of his tether.

‘What can I do ter put a stop to it?’ he groaned to Joe Cooper, who had purposely gone in for a penn’orth of nails.

‘Leave it ter me, Jerry. I’ll sort ’em out. Yer won’t be bovvered by ’em any more,’ Joe said, pulling a serious face. ‘Oh, by the way. Did I ask yer fer a contribution ter the street party?’

It’s bloody little short of blackmail, groaned Misery to himself as he reluctantly handed over two one pound notes.

The winter of ’thirty-five was very cold, with intermittent snow and ice and dense yellow fogs. The inclement weather affected trade, and transport was badly disrupted. Ships became marooned mid-stream, trains were cancelled, and the vehicles of cartage firms were abandoned throughout London, although the horse-carts usually got home. When the terrified animals were held by their halters and led along the road they usually calmed down, and when they somehow sensed that they were nearing familiar surroundings the car-men were able to jump up in the dicky seats and let the animals plod on without assistance. Another ploy of the car-men was to steer the iron-rimmed wheels into the tram tracks and glide home that way. It was not uncommon for car-men to miss the turnoff and find themselves in the tram depots, where they spent the night sleeping in one of the tramcars. The unfortunate horses had to bed down on the cold concrete surface, much to the chagrin of depot superintendents.

In October Kate Morgan lost her job as barmaid. She had been suffering with a bad cough which refused to get any better. Connie was worried; she could see the change. Her normally lively mother was pale and weak and had to spend some time in bed. Connie would take her tea and toast before she left for work, and Helen would look in during the day. But the cough only got worse and, when Kate was able to get up, the doctor sent her to the hospital for tests. She had contracted TB, and Connie was close to tears as she watched her mother leave in an ambulance to go to one of the new clinics that had just opened in Sussex. Helen had suggested that Connie stay with her, but the young girl was determined to look after herself. She knew that, as it was, Helen was hard pushed to care for her own family. Matthew was out of work again, and Molly had been ill twice that winter. Her chest was weak and the fogs made it hard for her to breathe. At work, Connie found some cheer in talking to the effervescent young Michael. His cheerful banter and infectious laugh made it easier for her to get through the day. Michael was so excited at the prospect of going into the Royal Navy, and he promised to keep in touch after he had joined up.

Connie was growing fast, her thin legs were becoming more shapely and her breasts were developing; her face was losing its childish appearance and her lips had become fuller and more expressive. Connie was a little confused at the changes she was experiencing, and felt the occasional tinge of excitement deep within her. She had also started to experience dreams that made her feel embarrassed and ashamed when she remembered them the next morning. The job at the bottling stores was becoming almost unbearable, and she had thought about looking for another one. Helen was urging Molly to leave the job, too. She had lost a lot of time lately because of ill-health and her mother blamed the damp environment of the railway arches for her daughter’s illnesses, although she knew that it really only aggravated Molly’s condition rather than caused it. The hospital had said long ago that she would always suffer because of her underdeveloped lungs.

Just before Christmas Connie went with Helen and Matthew to see Kate at the sanatorium near Hastings. The long wards were painted white and large windows let in the low winter light. The day was cold and dreary and a light rain had been falling since dawn. Kate was sitting in a comfortable chair beside her bed and when Connie saw her she was shocked. Kate was ashen-faced and her eyes had heavy dark circles around them. She showed little emotion as the small party assembled around her bed and Connie hugged her. The atmosphere was unbearably tense as the visitors tried to make conversation. Kate seemed preoccupied and bored with Helen’s account of the current state of affairs in Ironmonger Street. Matthew was sitting on the edge of his uncomfortable chair without saying much, and Connie was silent and physically shaken at her mother’s appearance. When finally she managed to tell Kate about her intention to change her job her mother merely nodded and looked away down the ward. Helen felt for her niece; Kate’s attitude towards her daughter was one of indifference. Helen knew that there had never been any show of warmth or affection, nor any of the closeness that would be normal between a mother and her daughter and it rankled. She could make allowances for Kate’s wayward behaviour and the numerous relationships she had had with men, but she could never forgive her for her coldness towards her own daughter. It was as though Connie was an unwelcome responsibility, and her presence was an intrusion into Kate Morgan’s life.

At last, the two hours were up and the ward sister rang a small bell at the end of the ward. Kate looked relieved that the visit was over and she smiled mirthlessly as Helen said, ‘You’ll be ’ome soon, Kate.’

‘I’m ’ere fer six months, sis,’ Kate said slowly. ‘Yer better get used to it – I ’ave.’

Helen’s face was grim as she turned and walked down the long ward with Matthew and Connie following in her wake. At the door Connie turned to wave to her mother, but she was already talking to the patient next to her and she had her back to her daughter. Matthew noticed the look in Connie’s eyes and with a rare show of emotion he put his arm around her shoulders as they walked out into the wide corridor.

 

Christmas was a sober affair. Connie spent most of the holiday period with the Bartletts and in Molly’s company. Concern for her mother’s health caused the young girl to be even more quiet and thoughtful. She knew enough about tuberculosis to realise that her mother would be in hospital for a very long time, and that often the disease proved to be fatal. Helen and Matthew watched the change taking place in their niece, but they could do little to alleviate her fears. They were also concerned that Connie insisted on staying alone in the flat.

‘It’s not right that she should be there all by ’erself, Matt,’ Helen remarked. ‘She’ll only brood. She should stay wiv us.’

Matthew shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s growin’ up, ’Elen. She prob’ly wants ter spend some time on ’er own. There’s nufink we can do, except keep an eye on ’er.’

Helen stroked the side of her face thoughtfully. ‘It really upset me the way Kate was wiv young Connie. It was almost as though she didn’t want ter see ’er. It’s not right the way she treats the poor little mite.’

‘It’s what I’ve said all along,’ Matthew answered. ‘Connie’s bin an inconvenience ter yer sister. She didn’t want ’er, an’ she’s makin’ a good show of lettin’ the kid know – an’ us if it comes to it.’

Helen did not answer. She did not want to get into an argument with Matt. He had been short tempered ever since he had lost his job, but she had to concede that he was right. Kate was ill, and so her attitude to her daughter at the hospital was, to some extent, excusable, but there had never been any show of love, only a tolerance and shallow affection. Helen worried about the long-term effects of Kate’s attitude on her daughter. Connie was a sensible girl, but the mind was a funny thing, she mused. None of the love shown by the girl to her mother was reciprocated. And, as Connie was now growing up and beginning to understand things, she might soon start to judge her mother – and blame her.

 

The new year started cold and foggy. More factories closed, and the dole queues grew longer. In Germany the rantings of Adolf Hitler were sending shock waves across Europe. The German army marched back into the Rhineland and, when the Spanish Civil War broke out, the German air force interfered on the side of General Franco’s forces. The majority of people in England, however, still espoused the cause of pacifism. Calls to re-arm were dismissed as scaremongering, and some cartoonists portrayed the pleadings of the ‘re-armers’ as the insane ravings of evil factory bosses and avaricious arms dealers. General opinion held that another war was out of the question and few believed that Germany would ever dare to attempt another war against England.

Joe Cooper wandered slowly amongst the crowds at Speakers’ Corner one Sunday in 1936. Occasionally there was a flicker of recognition as he passed a heavily built young man, but Joe would ignore him and walk on. Word had it that the Blackshirts were planning violence against one of the trade union speakers and the Bermondsey men were ready.

A loud-voiced orator was urging his audience to march on Parliament and demand a re-armament programme. ‘’Ave yer fergot 1914? Well I ain’t,’ he shouted.

‘Nor ’ave I,’ someone replied. ‘I got gassed in France.’

An elderly man in a grubby mackintosh took a wet stub from his mouth and called out, ‘My ole granfarvver got gassed.’

‘In the war?’

‘No, in the kitchen. ’E done ’imself in.’

The laughter from the audience encouraged the heckler, and he rammed his hands into his coat pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘My ole granfarvver used ter come ’ere every Sunday, listenin’ ter the likes o’ you frightened the bleedin’ life out of ’im. That’s why ’e gassed ’imself.’

‘I wish yer’d put a tanner in the meter an’ do yerself a favour,’ shouted the speaker, to more laughter.

‘I ain’t got a tanner. I’m on the bloody dole.’

‘If this country ’ad the sense ter re-arm there wouldn’t be any unemployment. We’d all ’ave a job ter go to,’ the speaker continued, waving his finger at the heckler.

‘Listen you,’ his antagonist shouted as he stepped forward a pace or two. ‘I ain’t got no intention of workin’ in a bleedin’ arms factory.’

‘By the look o’ you, yer ain’t got no intention o’ workin’ anywhere,’ countered the orator, grinning at his own jibe.

‘Why, yer saucy git. I was workin’ when you was a dirty idea in yer farvver’s ’ead. I can work wiv the best of ’em.’

‘An’ the worst of ’em,’ a voice called out from the back of the crowd.

The orator struggled to regain the attention of his audience and he raised his hands skywards for order. ‘Mark my words well, friends,’ he began. ‘If we let the Germans get away wiv it we’re gonna be sorry. Before long they’ll be marchin’ up the Mall.’

The crowd erupted and one or two young men made for the speaker, their fists clenched.

‘Order! Order!’ shouted a heavily built man who was standing by the speaker.

The crowd held back as the big man faced them, his hands held out in front of his chest. ‘Now listen, brothers,’ he said in a broad Irish accent. ‘As me darlin’ ole mother used ter say, there are those who are for us, an’ those who are agin us, an’ my name’s Maginnis.’

‘Piss orf, Paddy. Go back ter yer own soap box,’ someone called out.

The large Irishman smiled broadly. ‘Sure ’tis an unsociable crowd ye are, so I’m away, my friends. But first I’ll leave yerse with a blessin’ ter be gettin’ on with. When yer toime comes may yerse be in heaven a half an hour before the divil knows you’re dead.’

The speaker turned his attention to his audience once more as the laughing Irishman walked away somewhat unsteadily. The heckler in the grubby mackintosh walked away, too, his eyes focused on another group who were shouting abuse at a speaker wearing a dog-collar and he walked over to direct a tirade of obscenities at the pacifist minister.

Soon the crowds began to drift away and Joe breathed easier. The Blackshirts were not going to put in an appearance today after all. I’m getting a little too old for all this, he told himself as he went to join his friends.

 

Connie Morgan heard it from Carrie Jones and she told Molly as they walked to work one Monday morning.