Ironmonger's Daughter (15 page)

Laughter filled the flat and then Helen got up and sighed in resignation. ‘C’mon, let’s get the table cleared. I’ve got me ironin’ ter do.’

Back in her flat, Connie was getting ready to go to Waterloo. She continually glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf as she pottered about. Michael’s train was due at four o’clock and it was now ten minutes to three. An hour would be plenty of time to get to the station, she calculated. The buses were frequent at that time of day. Connie looked in the mirror over the fireplace and ran her hand over her straight blond hair. She could smell the Californian Poppy and wondered if she had been too liberal with it. Her thoughts turned to what Helen had said just before she had left. ‘You be careful, Con. You’re only young yet. Don’t get too serious. After all, you’re not seventeen till November. There’s plenty o’ time ter date boys.’

Helen was becoming very protective toward her and Connie understood the reasons why. Helen had cared for her since she was a baby. She had always been there when Kate was out on the town, and it was natural for her aunt to feel as she did. Maybe Aunt Helen is trying to stop me behaving like my mother, Connie mused. But what did she do? I know Aunt Helen thinks Mum led a bad life, but did Mum really have a lot of men friends? She must have been lonely after Dad died. If he did. Perhaps that’s the reason why Mum never talks about him. He might have just left. Maybe he has another girlfriend . . . Connie felt confused. She remembered the money that her mother had been giving her every other week and wondered if it was from her father himself? Perhaps her aunt was worried because she knew some horrible secret. Maybe she even knew where the money came from.

Connie’s troubled thoughts would not leave and the clock was now showing ten minutes past three. She slipped on her coat and took her small handbag from the table. It seemed ages since she had seen Michael, and her heart pounded as she ran down the flights of stairs and out into the street. The afternoon was warm, and early summer clouds were drifting high in the blue sky as she hurried along the turning and made her way to Tower Bridge Road. A few people were waiting at the bus stop and Connie stopped behind them. Her stomach was full of butterflies and the sensation made her shiver in the warm sunlight. Feelings of excitement tempered with guilt ran through her. She had often thought about Michael in the dark hours and their kisses, and she had even seen him in her dreams, but he was never alone. As he came towards her she would see the misty figure of Molly standing behind him and her heart would become heavy. Connie knew that the feeling she had for Molly was one of love born out of pity. It could never change. Her new adult feelings were of a different kind and they were growing as her body matured. They were intense, physical, and very difficult to repress. They flowed over her when she touched her body and when she stood naked in front of her mirror. They were quite natural. So why should she feel guilty?

The bus had arrived and as Connie climbed aboard she noticed one of the girls from the biscuit factory sitting alone in a side seat. The two exchanged smiles and Connie sat down beside her. Brenda James was eighteen and involved in a passionate relationship with a married man. It had been common knowledge at the factory and Brenda was openly proud of herself. Her love life had been subject to much discussion on the belt and Connie remembered being a little overawed by the girl. Connie quickly fished into her purse for the fare.

‘’Ello, Con,’ Brenda said. ‘Where’re yer workin’ now?’

‘I’m at the Armitage factory.’

‘What yer doin’ there?’

‘I’m in the canteen,’ Connie replied as she handed the conductor two pennies.

‘I bet yer get ter meet all the nice fellers, don’t yer?’

Connie smiled shyly and looked around to see if anyone was listening.

‘’Ow’s yer cousin, Con? She went in the ’ospital, didn’t she?’

She nodded. ‘Molly’s out now. They fitted ’er wiv a spinal belt. It ’elps wiv ’er walkin’ but she said it’s painful ter wear.’

‘Poor cow,’ Brenda said, shaking her head.

The bus squealed to a stop and a few passengers got off. Brenda eased sideways in her seat and turned to Connie. ‘Where’re yer off to?’

‘I’m goin’ ter meet me fella,’ she answered proudly, feeling a little less overawed by the factory vamp.

Brenda patted her waved hair with the palm of her hand. ‘I’m off ter meet my Frankie. We’re goin’ down ter Little’ampton fer the weekend. I told yer about Frankie, didn’t I?’

Connie remembered at least two occasions when the saga of Brenda’s liaison with Frankie had been related in great detail, and she nodded.

‘’E’s married, yer know,’ Brenda went on. ‘’E don’t get on wiv ’is wife. She’s a right misery by all accounts. Frankie said’e’d leave ’er, but ’e’s scared case she does some ’arm to’erself.’

Connie was already wishing the bus journey would end. As Brenda carried on about Frankie, she looked out of the window, letting the words drift over her. Suddenly she was brought back to herself by Brenda’s elbow digging into her side.

‘You an’ your bloke gettin’ tergevver, are yer?’ Brenda asked with a sly wink.

Connie flushed and looked around to see if anyone had overheard. ‘We’ve only bin out a few times. I ’ardly know ’im.’

The bus jerked to a stop once more and a large man squeezed into the vacant seat beside the two. Brenda looked peeved as she was squashed between Connie and the puffing and snorting character. As the bus pulled away from the stop the man rolled against her and she gave him a wicked look. The next stop was Waterloo Station and in a short time the bus pulled up at the entrance. As Connie rose to alight from the bus she was dismayed to find that Brenda was getting off too.

The painted girl giggled. ‘You meetin’ your bloke on the station? That’s funny, so am I.’

The two girls walked up the wide steps into the main concourse when Brenda pulled on Connie’s arm. ‘I mus’ go ter the ladies an’ put me war-paint on,’ she said rolling her eyes.

Connie was glad of the opportunity to be rid of her and she waved as she walked quickly away towards the platforms.

The station clock showed ten minutes to four. Connie read the arrivals board and saw that the train from Portsmouth was due on platform seven. She meandered along beside the platform barriers and watched the travellers coming and going. Noisy jets of steam hissed from the tenders and guards’ whistles shrilled out. Hurrying families sweated and fussed as they made for the waiting trains and porters pushing large barrows of luggage called out for room as they followed well-dressed passengers out to the waiting taxis. Pigeons fluttered up and down from the iron girders and strutted between the feet of the crowds, and here and there people sat on wooden benches, killing time by browsing through newspapers and magazines.

The minute hand of the large clock clicked towards the twelve and the cloud of steam some way down the track made Connie’s heart race. It was then that she saw Brenda walking arm in arm with a tall, heavily built man in his mid forties. He was dressed in a shabby suit and carried a mackintosh slung over his shoulder. The man had a ruddy complexion, and from the side of his shiny bald head ginger hair sprouted out over his ears. The man towered above his companion and Connie watched their progress from her concealed position behind a paper stand. Frankie was not at all as she had visualised. She had imagined him to be a dapper man with a clipped moustache and polished shoes, someone who smiled deceitfully from the corner of his mouth. The character with Brenda looked more like the sort of man who came into her street with a collecting book under his arm and a stub of pencil stuck behind his ear. Nevertheless Brenda looked happy in his company and seemed to be hanging on to his every word. They passed by and Connie breathed more easily as she moved along towards platform seven as the Portsmouth train shuddered to a halt before the station buffers and the carriage doors began to swing open. At last she saw him walking down the platform with that confident gait of his. He looks so smart in his uniform, she thought, waving to try and attract his attention.

Michael was carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder and a raincoat under the other. His cap was worn at a jaunty angle and his bell-bottoms flapped around his ankles as he approached. When he saw her a beaming smile creased his fresh face. At the barrier he reached out and held her forearm as he bent his head and kissed her gently on the lips. It was not as passionate as Connie had anticipated but his smile was warm and his eyes twinkled. They moved away through the station and out into the sunlight. She held his arm and walked proudly beside him, listening to his small talk and trying to look grown-up. She hoped he could smell the Californian Poppy, and that he liked her high-heeled shoes which brought her up to his height. There was the whole week ahead. A week when she could rediscover how his kisses felt and how nice it was to be with him. She could forget the loneliness and the waiting, and she could put all her fears and anxieties behind her now that Michael was home. She hoped desperately that his physical closeness would take away her night-time fantasies which wove themselves around a young man in a smart blue suit. She had forbidden herself to feel any desire for him but, unbidden, fantasies filled her dreams.

The situation had got worse in Europe. In May the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, had resigned and had been replaced by Neville Chamberlain. The Fascists had gained ground in Spain, and many international observers were concerned that Franco’s forces would eventually line up with Germany and Italy in a European war. The call for faster rearmament was growing. The pacifists were beginning to lose ground in popular opinion, and it was now becoming clear in many people’s minds that a war was more probable than possible.

In the summer twilight the two young people strolled through the park, savouring every moment of the time they had left together. It had been a wonderful week, with long evening walks and nights in the back row of a darkened picture house, whispering loving words to each other and stealing kisses as the time flew past. The little tendernesses and spoken secrets of the past week had already become special memories, and the knowledge that they would soon have to part lent a sharp poignancy to their last evening together. They could not hide the sadness that touched them both as they walked along the edge of the lake. Ducks dipped their heads beneath the water and then darted forward, leaving gentle ripples on the glassy surface. The trees overhead were in full leaf and from the rustling lawns the delicate scent of new-mown hay drifted down to the water’s edge. Along the path they could see the bandstand and the departing musicians, colourful in their military uniforms. Above the lofty trees the evening sky was deepening from a golden hue to a grey shade of darkness and the shadows lengthened. The young couple left the lake and took the path which led out on to the paved promontory. The cold statue of General Wolfe rose above them and, far down below, the silver line of the river twisted and turned away into a distant blackness.

Michael broke the silence as he looked down on the quiet river. ‘We’d better get down ter the bottom. They’ll be closin’ the gates soon, Con,’ he said softly.

They followed the steep path that led down beside the observatory and reached the wide avenue. Ahead, the heavy gates were already shut and people were leaving by the side entrance. Connie looked at Michael and he gave her a brief smile. ‘If we’d stayed much longer we’d ’ave bin locked in,’ he said in mock fear.

Connie snuggled closer to him. ‘I’m gonna miss yer, Mick,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s bin really nice this week.’

Michael did not answer. His forthcoming trip was a hurriedly arranged affair. His naval squadron was leaving for the Far East within the next few days and his excitement was tempered by his growing feelings for the young girl on his arm. He had seen the disappointment on her face when he told her the news, and his imminent departure had made their brief time together all the more precious. They had learned much about each other during the past few days. At first Michael had thought it strange that Connie did not invite him up to her flat. They always met out in the street and at the end of each evening they had said goodnight in the darkened entrance to the buildings. It was after the first few nights that Connie had explained the reasons.

‘I’ve got ter be careful, Mick,’ she had explained. ‘Me Aunt’Elen is a bit worried. She finks I’m too young to ’ave a steady boyfriend. If I invited yer in she’d be bound ter find out an’ she’d tell me mum. I don’t want ’er worryin’ while she’s ill.’

Michael had accepted her reasons but he wished there was somewhere other than the block entrance they could go for their goodnight embraces.

They had boarded the tram and were now sitting side by side on the upper deck, their bodies moving together as the tram swayed and rocked over the rails. They held hands and looked into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the casual glances from the few other passengers. At Tower Bridge Hotel the tram slowed to a crawl, allowing the conductor to leap down and switch the points. Five minutes later the young couple alighted at the deserted market and soon they were back in the tumbledown streets which led off from the main thoroughfare. Ironmonger Street was quiet and nearly empty, but a few older folk were chatting on their doorsteps in the fading light. They glanced at Connie and Michael as the two walked by and exchanged knowing looks. At the entrance to Jubilee Buildings they stopped and stepped into the darkness. Connie moved close to Michael and put her arms around his neck. They kissed long and passionately and when they parted Connie rested her head on his chest. Her thoughts were racing. She wanted to take him to her flat; she wanted to talk intimately with him and allow his searching hands to explore her yearning body. She felt she was ready to taste the fruits of passion and emerge unchaste and it would be something she could recall in the months ahead when they were apart. But she hesitated. They would have to pass the Bartletts’ flat. Connie sighed and turned her head to his and their mouths touched, gently at first, then with a passion which left them both breathless. He searched for her neck with his mouth, and the movement which started at her ear and ran down to the top of her shoulder sent delicious thrills along her spine. His hands caressed her body and a shiver ran through her whole being. It was becoming too tempting and she caught his wrists. ‘Don’t, Mick,’ she groaned. ‘I’m scared.’