Ironmonger's Daughter (38 page)

‘Sounds like where I live in Bermon’sey,’ Connie replied.

She watched with interest as Leo packed the bowl of his pipe with dark stringy tobacco. There was something about the man she found fascinating. He seemed to find it very easy to talk to her and his manner was very charming. He reminded her of an actor delivering well-rehearsed lines. He did not stutter or pause, and the way he moved his hands was almost theatrical. He lit the briar carefully and when he was satisfied he leant back and glanced up at the evening sky.

‘Do you want to go back, young Connie?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s peaceful ’ere. I dare say Robert ’asn’t even missed me yet.’

Leo chuckled. ‘I take it you two intend to get married soon?’

‘We’re gonna wait, Leo. I want us ter get married as soon as possible, but Robert finks we should wait, what wiv ’im bein’ a pilot.’

Leo puffed out a cloud of smoke and studied the glowing bowl. ‘I’m afraid we’re living in a dark age, my dear. The whole world seems to have become one gigantic lunatic asylum. Too many young lives are being thrown away.’ He sighed and seemed to think for a moment. ‘Anyway, enough of the war,’ he said dismissively. ‘Now where exactly did you say you live?’

‘Bermon’sey. It’s near the docks.’

‘Oh, I know where Bermondsey is. I spent my younger days in Stepney. I did my medical training at the London Hospital in the Whitechapel Road. You might call me a lapsed Cockney – or a talkative old fogey.’

Connie touched his arm. ‘I find yer very nice. After all, yer did save me from our Eunice an’ those ovver two ole ladies.’

‘And we mustn’t forget the Reverend Jones,’ he said with a comical frown.

‘Are yer married, Leo?’ she asked suddenly.

The doctor’s eyes widened as he stared in the direction of the large rose bush. ‘My wife died more than five years ago.’

‘I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t ’ave asked.’

‘It’s quite all right. It’s an innocent enough question, after all,’ he said with a smile. ‘As a matter of fact my wife is buried in the village churchyard. She came from this village. We met in London many years ago and I came here for the wedding. It was to be a brief stay but I never left. Yes, I’ve lived in Kelstowe ever since.’

Connie glanced at him and watched his white hair moving in the gentle breeze. He suddenly seemed a sad figure, resigned to loneliness and memories. He must have really loved his wife and be missing her terribly, she thought. It showed in his eyes. The rose bush moved as the breeze freshened and she gave a little shiver.

‘Come along, Connie. We don’t want you catching cold while you’re in the care of the village doctor, do we?’ he said with a chuckle.

As they walked back into the house Robert came over and put his arm around her slim waist. ‘I was getting anxious,’ he said. ‘I thought our doctor had spirited you away.’

Leo laughed. ‘Twenty years ago and you would have had a fight on your hands, young whippersnapper. I’ve been known to resort to fisticuffs in honour of the prettiest girl in the room.’

‘Why fank you, dear sir,’ Connie laughed, and she planted a kiss on the old man’s cheek.

‘Careful, Robbie lad,’ Leo whispered. ‘I can see the major’s on his way over.’

Clarence Marchant held a filled glass in each hand as he staggered up to them. ‘I’m afraid the “War Department” has had to leave, Robert,’ he slurred. ‘She’s taking our Eunice home. Nasty touch of migraine I fear.’

‘You be careful with those drinks, Clarence,’ the doctor said. ‘Remember that ulcer of yours.’

The major gave the doctor a lopsided grin as he staggered off to find Gwen Waverley and Robert winked knowingly at Leo.

‘Connie and I are going to take our leave now,’ Robert said to the doctor. ‘Thanks for taking care of her. I’ll be in touch.’

The men shook hands warmly and Connie planted another kiss on the old man’s rough cheek. The two passed amongst the guests and as they moved out into the hallway Robert’s parents said their goodbyes. Connie could see the anxiety in Claudette’s eyes as she hugged her son.

As Peter Armitage clasped Robert’s hand Claudette turned to Connie. ‘I can see that Robert is happy, and that makes us happy, too.’

Connie drew back a biting reply. Instead she stared hard at the woman and said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Armitage.’

Robert took Connie’s hand and they walked away towards the car. As they roared away into the gathering darkness Connie saw his parents waving from the front door. She felt light-headed and glowing inside as they sped through the country lanes. She wanted to forget that Robert would soon be back in the air and might never return. She wanted tonight to be special, one they would both remember through the days and nights ahead, however long and however lonely they might become. Her head rested on his shoulder and she closed her eyes. The shielded headlights picked out the road ahead and Robert brushed the strands of her golden hair from his face. He could feel her sweet breath on his cheek and his heart was heavy.

The chill of an early September morning gave way to a pleasant warmth as the sun got up over the rooftops and shone down on the busy Tower Bridge Road. The market traders were already putting the finishing touches to their displays as the first of the shoppers stopped for their vegetables and fish. The beetroot lady was standing behind a pile of produce that she had boiled the night before, and Cheap Jack had tipped the final box of tuppenny items on to his already overloaded stall. In the pie shop the large containers behind the marble counter were crammed with steaming mashed potato, and crusty hot meat pies were gouged out of the baking trays. Parsley liquor bubbled in the huge copper bowl, and on the freshly scrubbed marble tables pewter pots of salt and pepper stood beside pint bottles of vinegar which had been expertly laced with spices and cloves. Soon the customers would arrive with their laden shopping baskets and bags and the women would kick off their pinching shoes as they tucked into pie and mash or a basin of stewed eels. The youngsters would arrive, too, with dinner money clutched tightly in their sweaty hands. Other children would saunter into the bustling market and casually glance under the traders’ stalls and barrows in search of empty wooden boxes, whilst in the adjoining backstreets their confederates slipped out of their homes with choppers concealed under tatty jerseys to claim suitable pitches.

In the market, the traders were used to the usual Saturday morning ritual.

‘’Ere, mister. Finished wiv yer box?’

‘No, I ain’t. Now piss orf out of it.’

‘’Ere, mister, yer’ve only got a few more apples left in that box. Shall I give ’em ter yer?’

‘Leave ’em where they are an’ get out o’ the road or you’ll get knocked right up in the air if a tram comes.’

‘We ain’t ’urtin’ nobody, mister. We only want empty boxes fer firewood.’

‘’Ere, take it an’ piss orf.’

One or two young lads had perfected a more devious way of obtaining the empty boxes. When the shoppers were gathering thickly around a particular stall a small lad would crawl under the display and pass out boxes to an accomplice. Very often the boxes would not be empty and some woodchoppers were able to exchange apples and tomatoes for cigarette cards and glass marbles. On a good day the pennies earned would pay for a plate of pie and mash, a cheap seat in the cinema, and maybe two ounces of sticky toffees. On Saturday the seventh of September it promised to be a good day. Trade was brisk and the woodchoppers were eagerly engaged in earning their pennies. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky and even Solly Jacobs was humming to himself as he wrapped up his customers’ fresh herrings, sprats and portions of plaice in sheets of newspaper.

Joe Cooper had said goodbye to his wife Sadie that morning. She had left London to stay with her sister in Devon and, as he walked through the factory gates, he was whistling to himself. Joe went down the few steps into the dark shelter and turned on the lights. There were now enough wooden benches to accommodate the street folk and he had managed to scrounge a couple of trestle tables and a tea urn. Two toilets had been fitted and there was a cold-water tap in one corner. Beside the entrance he had placed a few buckets of sand and a stirrup pump. Joe scratched his head as he looked around. Everything seemed to be in order. He moved a few benches further away from the doorway then walked back out into the afternoon sun.

The day had gone well. Now the market traders were getting ready to pack away and children were called in to their tea as the sun began to move down in the sky. In the Bartletts’ flat the wireless was switched on and lazy Hawaiian music filled the room. Connie was helping Molly to wind a skein of wool and Matthew dozed in the armchair. Helen sat darning a sock and hummed to the strains of ‘Sweet Liani’. Every now and then Matthew mumbled in his sleep and Molly looked at her cousin and giggled. Suddenly the wireless crackled and went silent. Helen put down her darning and turned her head sideways. The girls heard it, too. It started as a rumble and grew into a steady drone.

‘Wake yer dad, Molly,’ Helen said, a frightened look on her face.

The wail of the siren and the crash of anti-aircraft guns shattered the quietness and drowned the sound of the approaching planes. People were out in the street. They could see the aircraft now and the shell bursts around them. Joe Cooper was blowing on his whistle and shouting for everyone to get under cover. People stood as though transfixed as the tight formation of bombers flew in. The sound of exploding bombs became deafening and a rising pall of black smoke filled the sky.

‘It’s the Surrey! The bastards are bombin’ the Surrey!’ old George Baker croaked, leaning on his walking stick.

People hurried through the factory gates and down into the shelter as the sky turned black. Flames were rising hundreds of feet into the air and the roar of guns rose to a terrifying crescendo. Joe stood by the entrance and shepherded the street folk down into the darkness. He wore his steel helmet and carried a gas mask pack over his shoulder.

‘C’mon, girls. Take it easy now. Mind yer step,’ he said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. ‘C’mon, Toby, ’old on ter Marie’s arm.’

Mary Brown’s husband Frank carried young Jimmy while Jane hurried along at his side. Mary held on to the protesting Clara Cosgrove. ‘Now, don’t worry, Clara,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s all right in ’ere. Once we get yer settled I’ll make yer a nice cuppa.’

‘I told yer straight, Mary. I’d sooner stay in me own ’ome. Ain’t it bleedin’ all right? I was jus’ standin’ at me door talkin’ ter Muvver Adams when I ’ears this noise. I didn’t know what ter fink. Gawd ’elp us, Mary.’

George Baker’s daughter helped the angry old lady down the steps and into a seat near the door. Marie Toomey was sitting nearby, her face a mask of fear, but she forced a smile in Clara’s direction.

‘Who’s she lookin’ at?’ the old lady growled.

‘Now c’mon luv, don’t upset yerself,’ Mary said, taking Clara’s hands in hers. ‘She’s only tryin’ ter be friendly.’

Clara grunted and pursed her lips tightly as she gave Marie Toomey a hard look. The shelter was packed and young children were crying as the noise of the air raid increased. Joe left the refuge and ran up the street to the warden’s post. Inside the dusty shop men were manning the phones and one of them beckoned to the street warden as he entered.

‘It’s the Surrey, Joe! It’s gettin’ a terrible pastin’!’

Joe shook his head. ‘That place is stacked full o’ timber. The bastards ’ave picked the right target.’

‘Yer tellin’ me,’ the man replied. ‘There’s a general call gone out ter the fire brigade. They’re askin’ fer reserves ter come in from outside o’ London.’

‘Christ! It mus’ be bad, Bill.’

One of the men put down his phone and came over. ‘I’ve jus’ bin talkin’ ter the area control. Apparently the roads are cut off down town. They said the whole place is afire. Gawd ’elp those poor bleeders. The bridges are blocked an’ there’s no way they can get to ’em.’

Cigarettes were passed around and Joe took a deep drag on his Goldflake. ‘I fink most of our street are down in the shelter. We even got ole Clara out of ’er place. She’s a cantankerous ole bitch but I fink she was glad ter get out o’ the ’ouse.’

The roar of guns continued and the wardens’ post shook. Plaster dust fell from the ceiling and a telephone rang. Bill Johnson picked up the receiver and his face took on a serious look.

‘There’s anuvver wave of bombers comin’ in,’ he shouted above the noise as he replaced the receiver.

They could hear the sound of fire bells and the dull thump as more explosives landed on the stricken docks. Outside the evening sky had changed to a dull red as the Surrey burned. Black smoke drifted upriver and hung like a huge storm cloud over the whole of dockland. The reflection of the roaring inferno flickered on the hanging black pall and a smell of charred wood filled the air. Joe stood in the doorway and stared up at the angry sky. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. The heavens were ragged, charred and nightmarish. From where he stood he could see the tips of the flames licking the ever-growing smoke clouds which were swiftly turning day into night. He could hear the drone becoming louder as a fresh wave of bombers approached their burning target and the explosions shook the ground beneath his feet.

Connie sat beside the Bartletts in one corner of the shelter, her arm around her cousin’s shoulders. Molly was sobbing quietly as she bit on her handkerchief. ‘I’m scared, Con. We’ll all be killed.’

Connie pulled her closer. ‘’Course we won’t. We’re safe in’ere. Everybody’s scared though, Molly, it’s only natural. ’Ere, jus’ look at all their faces. Poor ole Toby looks like a little boy who’s jus’ bin told off. Look at ole Clara Cosgrove mumblin’ to ’erself, an’ Widow Pacey. See ’ow she keeps lookin’ at Muvver Adams. I bet she’s sayin’ to ’erself, “don’t you come near me”. Mind you, Molly, she does smell o’ cats.’