Ironmonger's Daughter (27 page)

On Friday afternoon another visitor was shown in to the Vine Estate office and Norman Wallburton got up to greet him.

‘Hello, Frank. How are you?’

The tall, stooping figure of Councillor Frank Salmon reached out and took the manager’s clammy hand. ‘I’m well, Norman. I hear you’ve been having a confrontation with some malcontents?’

The manager pulled up a large leather-bound chair and motioned the councillor into it. ‘My collector had the confrontation, Frank. Seems the bolshy bastards over in Ironmonger Street have organised a rent strike, would you believe?’

Councillor Salmon crossed his legs and proceeded to scratch his shin. ‘Yes, Norman, I know. That’s the purpose of my visit. I’ve been contacted by the strike leader and, being their ward councillor I’m obliged to mediate.’

‘Mediate? They’ve got to pay their rents, Frank. All right, I grant you there’re problems with repairs, but let’s face it, those places are nearly eighty years old. It costs a small fortune these days to keep them in good repair.’

Frank Salmon nodded. ‘I sympathise with you, Norman, but we’ve got a problem here. The local press are on to it. They’ll make capital out of this rent business. I’ve also been talking to the council doctor. He showed me a letter he’d received from the Ironmonger Street people only this morning. It’s a bad time for that sort of publicity, especially after the diphtheria outbreak over on Conner Street a few months ago.’

‘What can I do, Frank? I’ve got a business to run. Those houses have already been patched up once.’

Councillor Salmon scratched his leg again. ‘How long have we known each other, Norman?’ he said.

‘Quite a number of years now, Frank.’

‘Well then, trust me when I say I’m thinking of both our interests in this matter. Like yourself, I’m a businessman. I make it a point of knowing just what’s going on in the borough. I happen to know that your company is negotiating the purchase of Jubilee Dwellings. I also happen to know that the property is owned by the Granthams and that Lady Grantham is planning to leave for America shortly and wants to complete the deal as soon as possible.’

Norman Wallburton toyed with his paper knife. ‘You’re certainly well informed, Frank,’ he said a little archly.

‘As I said, Norman. It’s my business to know, and I find my lodge meetings can be very informative. However, there’s one other little bit of information which might interest you. At the last Housing Programme Meeting, Jubilee Dwellings was mentioned as a prospective site for council housing development. Nothing was decided, I hasten to add, but at next week’s meeting we’ll be voting on the sites for selection. Point is, Norman, will the council bid for that particular land, or will the idea be vetoed? Let’s look at it objectively.

‘Vine Estates agrees to carry out a renovation exercise on the Ironmonger Street houses. The council committee then abandon plans to include the Jubilee Dwellings site for future house building, and we all come out of this with our credibility intact. I say we, because my credibility is at stake. I’ve been put up to champion the Ironmonger Street tenants’ cause. They’ll be looking to me for a result.’

Norman Wallburton suddenly felt that his options were being squeezed. ‘Suppose Vine Estates decides to defer the repairs, Frank?’ he said. ‘Suppose we decide to compete with the council for the land?’

Frank Salmon’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a grin. ‘Let’s talk about Mr Knight for a minute or two. Basil Knight owns the lead mills in Crown Street. He also owns the foundry in Dockhead and a saw mill down in Rotherhithe. Talk to his employees about their wages and conditions of work and you’ll find out that Mr Knight is about as popular with his work force as a boil on the arse. He’s not too popular with the unions either, nor the council Labour group. The man is a Midas and a skinflint.’

‘I’m not with you, Frank,’ the estate manager said frowning.

‘All right then, let’s talk about one of your major shareholders, Miss Audrey Kenwood. The shares are registered in her maiden name. Audrey Kenwood happens to be Mrs Basil Knight.’

The estate manager’s mouth hung open and his eyes popped.

‘That’s right, Norman. I think we can draw our own conclusions,’ Frank Salmon went on. ‘If the local rag gets hold of that tit-bit they’ll have a field day. What’s more, the council would fight tooth and nail to obtain that site if it becomes general knowledge that Basil Knight might well be pulling the strings at Vine Estates. As for those houses in Ironmonger Street, one or two of our radicals on the council might even set the ball rolling for a slum clearance order just to get at Basil Knight. As I said, Norman, those lodge meetings of mine are very informative.’

The portly estate manager had sagged in his chair. ‘Tell me, Frank. Do you think you can operate a veto at the next meeting?’

‘No problem at all, Norman. There are certain other members of the committee who belong to my lodge. All I need from you is a promise that you’ll start repairs, and a letter of intent when I give you a written assurance that the site is safe. How does that sound?’

‘I need to take your offer to the board, Frank. I don’t envisage any problems.’

‘No, I didn’t think you would, Norman,’ the councillor grinned.

Spring gave way to a hot dry summer and in the backstreets of Bermondsey the stench from the drains mingled with the reek of the tanneries and the sour smells from the local vinegar factory. In the Tower Bridge Road market, fruit and vegetable stalls were piled high with produce, and the smells mingled with the sweet aroma of cakes from the bakery and the meaty odour coming from the pie shop. Behind the market a sweet, scented smell from the jam factory drifted through the backstreets as another consignment of Seville oranges went into the giant presses. Further along the Tower Bridge Road the air began to carry a hint of sour river mud from the Thames and the sharp, peppery tang of ripened hops as they were transported to the brewery, an ancient establishment that sprawled alongside the waterfront. In Tooley Street a myriad different flavours came from the docks and wharves as various commodities were transferred from small freighters and flatbottom barges into the warehouses and on to lorries and carts. Impatient car-men cursed the sweating dockers and stevedores, while weary horses pulled against the shafts as whips cracked over their backs. Amongst the drab buildings, dingy railway arches and tumbledown streets of Bermondsey, there was an intense, feverish activity.

In Ironmonger Street, the recent renovation of the terraced houses caused much comment amongst both tenants and gossips. In the Horseshoe public house two elderly regulars were expounding on the subject.

‘I don’t know about you, Bill, but I reckon the lan’lords got a right kick up the arse. Let’s face it, those ’ouses was fallin’ down. They ’ad ter do somefink.’

‘Well, if the people didn’t stop their rents, Terry, the lan’lords would ’ave let the ’ouses fall down, that’s what I say.’

‘That’s right, Bill. After all, they couldn’t chuck ’em all out fer not payin’ the rent, could they?’

‘Maybe not, but I fink there’s more to it than meets the eye. I reckon the tenants ’ave got a shock comin’.’

‘What, yer mean they’ll put the rents up?’

‘That’s right, Tel. The bastards’ll get their money back some way.’

Terry sucked on his unlit pipe and glanced up at the landlord of the Horseshoe. ‘It’s jus’ like ’im,’ he said, jerking his thumb at the bar counter. ‘’E sticks a bit o’ shitty wallpaper up an’ gives the place a lick o’ paint. Then ’e gets a few new chairs in, tarts up the gaff, an’ what does ’e do next? Puts a penny on a pint. Bloody skinflint. I dunno why we drink ’ere, Bill.’

‘I tell yer why we drink ’ere, Tel. When we get pissed we can fall out of ’ere an’ straight in our front doors, that’s why.’

The victorious rent strike committee was discussing the recently completed renovation.

‘Well at least the rain won’t come in now, George.’

The old man nodded as he filled his stained clay pipe. ‘Yeah that’s right, Joe. We showed ’em, didn’t we?’

Mary had just finished putting her youngest to bed and was studying a knitting pattern. ‘All I ’ope is, the bleeders don’t up the rents,’ she said.

Joe picked up the chipped china mug and took a swig of his tea. ‘Well accordin’ ter ole Frank Salmon, we ain’t gotta worry about that. ’E reckons providin’ the arrears gets paid up we’re okay. Mind you though, they’ll ’ave a problem gettin’ the back rent from the Toomeys, that’s fer sure.’

‘They’ll ’ave ter send Lill out on the game,’ George piped in.

‘Well all I can say is, I ’ope she ’as more luck this time. Remember the turn out wiv Danny Mulligan?’ Mary laughed.

 

Connie Morgan had left the Armitage factory and started work at a leather firm in the Tower Bridge Road. Brockway and Sons was busy on a government contract and quite a few of the locals had managed to get work there. Connie found the job interesting. She was moved around the factory, working as a stitcher, gluer and cutter, and packer, which she liked best of all. The girls were a friendly bunch, mostly about her own age and she felt happy. She and Robert usually went out twice a week, sometimes to see a film, or if the weather was nice they would take long walks and occasionally visit a restaurant for an evening meal, and she continued to spend her weekends at his flat. Although she was not yet eighteen, Connie now had the body of a mature woman; she was full-breasted, with shapely hips and long, slender legs. Her blond hair shone and her pale-blue eyes sparkled with happiness and good health. Her impish sense of humour had endeared her to the rest of the girls at the factory, and she was always being asked to accompany them to parties and various other events. Most of the time Connie declined their offers with as much grace as possible. The girls knew of her relationship with Robert and secretly envied her. Often he would meet her from work and, as they walked off arm in arm, Connie felt a warm glow inside as she noticed the other girls’ envious glances and heard their bawdy remarks.

The summer days continued to remain hot and dry, with only the occasional shower of rain. Connie’s quest for information about her mother’s past had reached a dead end. She had had a conversation with her Aunt Helen, who was surprised to learn that there had been some sort of trouble at the firm’s outing.

‘Well as far as I can remember, yer mum never told me anyfing about it, Con. As a matter o’ fact I didn’t see very much of ’er at that time. She was always out an’ about.’

When Connie showed her the photos of the outing, Helen studied them and identified certain people. She was apprehensive about Connie approaching them, however.

‘Yer can’t go askin’ questions ter the likes of Joe Cooper and Mary Brown, can yer?’ she asked. ‘They’re neighbours. Yer wouldn’t want them knowin’ all yer business. That’s Joyce Spinks standin’ be’ind yer muvver, Con. She still works at the firm an’ she’s bound ter talk if yer ask ’er awkward questions. It’s difficult. I don’t know ’ow yer gonna get round it. I mean, yer jus’ can’t go up ter people an’ say, “What ’appened ter me mum at the outing?” Not unless yer prepared ter tell ’em about the money. The only person in that photo yer could ask is ’er there,’ Helen said, pointing to a grinning, plump-faced woman standing in the background. ‘That’s Norma Cantwell. She was yer muvver’s best friend fer years. In fact I know they used ter go out quite a lot tergevver. I fink they shared a few blokes as well. Trouble is, I don’t know what ’appened to ’er. I remember yer mum sayin’ Norma left the firm ter get married. Gawd knows where she is now. She might even be dead fer all we know.’

Connie had agreed that it was out of the question to ask any of the neighbours. She felt frustrated that there was nothing else she could do, and she hoped that some time in the future she might be in a position to find out the whereabouts of Norma Cantwell.

The days grew shorter as the summer passed, and in September an international crisis flared up. Hitler had turned his attentions towards Czechoslovakia. War now seemed very probable and the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain flew out to Munich to see the German dictator. The ensuing flurry of political activity was viewed with growing concern and a special meeting was called in the Horseshoe.

The pint at Terry’s elbow was forgotten as he laboured the point. ‘But yer can’t go on chasin’ back an’ forwards after that bloody second-rate paper-’anger. It ain’t dignified. All it is is bloody appeasement. What ole Chamberlain should be doin’ is layin’ the law down, instead of dashin’ around like a tit in a trance kissin’ ’Itler’s arse. I mean, look what’s goin’ on ’ere while the silly bleeder’s back an’ forth. There’s barrage balloons goin’ up an’ down in the sky like Punch an’ Judy. There’s shelters goin’ up, an’ san’bags everywhere yer look. They’ve mobilised the ARP, an’ what’s more, they’re diggin’ trenches in the bleedin’ parks. Bloody nice, ain’t it?’

Bill nodded sadly and picked up his pint. ‘I fink yer right, Tel. They’re talkin’ about evacuatin’ the women an’ children now. Did yer see it in the paper last night? Bloody scand’lous. I dunno about ’ang the Kaiser. They should ’ave strung ole Schickelgruber up before ’e got too big fer ’is boots.’

Terry watched as his partner gulped at his pint and he took a swig from his. ‘It makes yer fink, Bill,’ he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I see they’re settin’ up all these air-raid shelters in factories an’ ware’ouses. I wonder if they’ll set one up in Courages’ brewery?’

At Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park there were angry scenes as the subject of Czechoslovakia was debated. Many people felt that the Czechs were being sold out by Britain, and others argued that it was not realistic to get into a war over a small country which most people knew nothing about. Tempers rose and fists flew as large crowds gathered to hear the speakers. One particular orator remained impassive throughout as he announced to a motley crowd that ‘The end was nigh’.