Ironmonger's Daughter (42 page)

The all clear had sounded and exhausted, ashen-faced folk had emerged from their refuge to stand horrified at the sight of the stricken dwellings. They watched silently as the sun rose up over the chimney pots and they shivered in the cold sunlight as the ambulance drove back into the street. The shocked street folk caught their breath as a stretcher was carried down from the rubble. They could see old Mrs Hawkins, her head swathed in bandages, waving her hands in protest. ‘I can walk, sod yer! Put me down I tell yer!’

‘It’s okay, Ma. Jus’ lie quiet. You’ll be all right,’ the rescuer said as he held her shoulder.

Another stretcher was rushed up to the tunnel, and soon they carried Helen Bartlett down. A doctor clambered along beside the stretcher, his small black bag held in his bloodied hand. ‘Careful!’ he cried out to the bearers. ‘Keep the stretcher level, she’s badly hurt.’

Joe trailed along behind them, his eyes lowered towards the cobblestones. He looked up as the injured Helen Bartlett was placed in the ambulance and he shook his head at the questions thrown at him. His thoughts were centred on the young Morgan girl who was being restrained back in the factory shelter. Mary Brown had broken the news to her and she had physically to hold her down with the help of Ada Halliday. Now he had the task of telling the young girl that her aunt had been brought out from the rubble barely alive.

 

As the red sun climbed up overhead the service began. A small wooden cross was placed on an altar of bricks, and the congregation stood throughout the sermon. Instead of a church floor beneath their feet there were only cobblestones strewn with debris, and the roof above their heads was the cloudy autumn sky. No hymns were sung and no collection boxes were passed around on that Sabbath morning. The cassocked figure stood perched on a mound of rubble, his sombre voice echoing eerily in the shattered street. He spoke of the courage of rescuers and of the forebearance of those who mourned. He raised his arms to the heavens as he asked the congregation to join him in prayers for the departed souls of the victims and he thanked God for the deliverance of the survivors. Above, the cold sun gave no heat, and as the gathering mumbled ‘Amen’ a new fall of rubble sent a cloud of dust rising into the air. The priest climbed down and walked sorrowfully from the turning with his head bowed. He clutched the wooden cross in his hand and held the New Testament under his arm. As he turned out of the street he heard from somewhere behind him a pitiful cry of torment.

Later the exodus began. The tenants of Jubilee Dwellings were taken to a nearby rest centre with the exception of Connie Morgan. She had been given a strong sedative and was sleeping in Ada Halliday’s bed. In a little church hall a few streets away lay the bodies of Matthew and Molly Bartlett, alongside those of Annie and Alf Riley. The local hospitals were filled to overflowing and many victims of the night’s bombing lay in draughty corridors or in makeshift wards. Among the casualties admitted to Guy’s Hospital was Helen Bartlett. She lay in a coma, her back broken and both her legs smashed. In the locker beside her bed was a small handbag which she had been holding on to when the rescuers found her. Back in the little street that George Baker had said was invincible a pathetic stack of furniture and bits and pieces stood in a heap beside the huge pile of rubble. The part of Jubilee Dwellings which remained standing would never again be a home for the Ironmonger Street folk. Walls were showing huge cracks and all the window frames had been blown out on to the cobbles below. Chimney pots lay amongst a showering of roof slates, and a rope cordon had been thrown along the pavement beneath a crazily balanced chimney-stack which was in danger of toppling at any minute.

The street was strangely quiet on that Sunday afternoon. Mercifully, the little houses opposite Jubilee Dwellings had escaped serious damage, apart from broken windows, loosened front doors and dislodged roof slates. Plaster had fallen from the ceilings and soot filled the rooms, but the structures remained intact. Women cooked their lunches on gas stoves which were operating on half pressure and they fetched their water from a hastily erected stand-pipe at the end of the turning. The men had left the street earlier and walked sadly past the heap of rubble that was once the Horseshoe. They drank beer in unfamiliar surroundings and returned to find their dinners still not ready. The street folk took to their beds later that afternoon to catch up on sorely needed sleep and Ada Halliday, loath to awaken Connie, slumbered in her favourite armchair. Outside the wind rose and whisked spirals of brick dust along the cobblestones. At the end of the turning the Armitage factory gates remained open, and they rattled noisily on their heavy chains.

A stocky figure with greying hair walked purposefully through the hospital gates with a young woman holding on to his arm. She wore her long blond hair tied back with a black ribbon and her once proud shoulders slumped. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and her pretty features were pale. She started to lag and the man beside her slowed his pace as they crossed the forecourt and entered the main building. The wind had dropped and spots of rain started to fall from a leaden sky. In the distance a roll of thunder announced a coming storm. The man was silent as he guided his companion up the wide stairway and squeezed the hand which rested limply on his arm. They were stopped at the entrance to the ward by a sternlooking matron.

‘I’m sorry. Visiting time finished over an hour ago.’

The girl stared blankly at her feet and the Ironmonger Street warden nodded. ‘We’ve come ter visit Mrs ’Elen Bartlett. We were told she’s on an open order.’

The matron’s face relaxed a little. ‘Oh I see. Are you the next of kin?’

‘This ’ere young lady is. She’s the only relative,’ Joe said, looking at Connie.

The matron motioned to a side room. ‘I’m afraid Mrs Bartlett hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but you’re both welcome to sit with her. Would you like a cup of tea?’

Connie swayed back on her heels and Joe gripped her arm tightly. ‘The tea would go down a treat, luv.’

The elderly matron raised her eyebrows stonily and turned away, her crisp apron crackling as she walked swiftly along the dimly lit corridor.

Joe was aware of the noise his boots made on the tiled floor as he led Connie into the side room. The two looked down on the still figure and Joe caught his breath. Helen Bartlett had aged considerably since he had last seen her. Her hair was now completely white and her eyes were sunken, the dark circles around them conspicuous against the pallor of her face. Helen’s breathing was very shallow and her hands were white and streaked with blue veins as they lay motionless outside the raised bedclothes. Joe turned his shocked gaze to the young woman at his side but he could see no emotion in her eyes as she looked down at her aunt. Joe eased his companion into a chair beside the bed and he drew up another seat at the other side. They sat in silence: Connie staring at her comatose relative and Joe studying his tightly clenched hands.

It seemed an age before a nurse came into the little room carrying two cups of tea. Before she left the nurse pulled the blinds and lit a green-shaded light above the bed. In the strange glow Helen’s face seemed to become almost transparent and the dark circles around her eyes became more prominent. It was very quiet. From somewhere in the distance came the muted sound of a passing train, and footsteps tapped faintly along the tiled corridor outside. They had been sitting in silence for over an hour when Joe got up quickly.

‘C’mon, darlin’. We can’t do anyfing. Let’s go ’ome.’

Connie stood up without saying anything and walked to the door, her shoulders sagging and her head bowed. Joe followed her out into the corridor and took her arm. Still Connie did not speak. She walked along as if in a trance, and her hand felt as light as a feather on his supporting arm. They walked out into the night air and at the gates Joe stopped and clasped the girl’s shoulders gently.

‘Now listen, kid,’ he said softly. ‘Yer gotta pull yerself tergevver. Yer wanted me ter bring yer ’ere, an’ yer ain’t said one word since we left the street. Yer can’t go on bottlin’ it all up. Let go, Con. Scream, shout, or ’ave a good cry, but don’t go on torturin’ yerself by keepin’ it all inside yer.’

For a few moments Connie stared into his large brown eyes, then slowly she fell against his body. Tears fell on to Joe’s collar as the young woman sobbed bitterly, her head resting against his chest. He patted her back gently and whispered encouraging words as they stood beside the huge iron gates. Presently he slipped his hand under her chin and raised her head.

‘C’mon, luv. Take me ’ankey an’ dry yer eyes. There’s a pub just along a bit. We’ll get yer a stiff drink. It’ll do yer good.’

The saloon bar of the Sadlers Arms was almost empty and Joe Cooper led her to the table farthest from the counter. When Connie was seated he ordered two brandies and as she sipped hers the young woman’s eyes screwed up and she gasped for breath. Joe touched her hand.

‘Go on, finish it up. It’ll steady yer nerves,’ he said.

Connie looked at her companion. ‘I’m gonna lose ’er,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna lose ’er jus’ like I’ve lost everybody else who’s ever meant anyfing ter me. Why, Joe? Why?’

For a second or two he could say nothing. He felt the lump rising in his throat and he swallowed hard. ‘I wish I could tell yer, Connie. Gawd knows, yer’ve suffered more grief than anybody should ’ave to. There’s nufink I can say, nor can anybody else fer that matter. No amount o’ talkin’ can ease yer pain, luv. All I can say is, yer not alone. Yer’ve got friends. Yer’ve got the folk in the street. We’re yer friends. Yer can always count on us, girl.’

Connie’s eyes were now dry and she laughed bitterly. ‘I can’t afford ter get too close ter people, Joe. Not any more, I don’t. There was me mum. I loved ’er dearly, even though she could never show ’er feelin’s ter me until she was very ill. I really only got close to ’er when it was all too late. I lost Robert. We were gonna be married an’ I lost ’im, too. Then there was Aunt ’Elen an’ Uncle Matt an’ Molly. They gave me all the love in the world, an’ now Uncle Matt an’ Molly are dead, an’ Aunt ’Elen is layin’ in that ’ospital wiv a broken back an’ both ’er legs all smashed up. She’ll die an’ leave me, I know she will.’

Joe fought back the tears that came to his eyes. ‘She won’t die, Connie. Yer aunt’s a fighter. She’ll pull through, honest.’

Connie stared down at the table for a few moments and then she reached out her hand and squeezed his. ‘Fanks fer bringin’ me ter the ’ospital, Joe, I ’ad ter come, even though it wasn’t much use.’

‘Don’t yer be so sure,’ Joe said quietly. ‘I fink yer aunt knew you were there beside ’er, even though she was unconscious. When she wakes up she’ll know you came in ter see ’er, you mark my words.’

‘I ’ope so. I ’ope you’re right, Joe.’

 

With the night came the bombers. The shattered backwater behind the Tower Bridge Road was lit up as anti-aircraft guns spat out shells and explosives fell on the nearby docks, wharves and railways. The roar of battle shook the factory shelter and terrified the street folk as they huddled together and prayed for their lives. There was no relief. Throughout the long night the bombing continued and no one slept. The knowledge that their much maligned and newly ravaged little turning was still in the front line had made everyone aware that their lives could be snuffed out just like their neighbours from the Dwellings. Mary Brown was nervous as she handed out mugs of tea, and the voices of Ada Halliday and Lizzie Conroy, the shelter duo, were a little unsteady as they tried valiantly to entertain their neighbours with songs. The Toomeys were sitting unusually close together staring glumly at the floor, and Widow Pacey had taken up her usual position against the wall, her arms folded and her eyes unblinking. Outside, beneath the concrete canopy, Joe Cooper and some of the menfolk stood ready with sand buckets and stirrup pumps in case incendiary bombs fell on the little houses. They watched fearfully as the flashes of battle lit up the mountain of rubble, the ruins of the oilshop and the charred gates of the barrow sheds. They cast their eyes skywards and watched the bursting shells and the white pencils of light which searched the heavens for the enemy bombers. Tiredness and anxiety had worn down the strongest of them and, as the explosions grew louder and the guns crashed suddenly, they would start like hunted animals. As the long hours of the night dragged past the drone of aircraft would diminish and then become louder as fresh raiders appeared overhead. The sickly sweet smell of cordite and the acrid smell of burning timbers carried into the little turning. Sounds of fire bells were drowned beneath the din of battle and white-hot shrapnel fell with a clatter on the cobblestones. The factory gates rattled and more roof slates slithered down from the tops of the houses with a loud crash.

The long night finally broke into a grey dawn and as the all clear echoed through the battered Ironmonger Street the sleepless shelter dwellers emerged once more. They came up from their stuffy refuge and blinked in the early morning light. One or two crossed themselves and others were overcome with emotion as they stared at what was left of the Dwellings. Ada emerged with her arm around Connie, her grey hair piled on to the top of her head and secured with a large hat pin. Ada’s buxom figure dwarfed the slim girl at her side as the two walked slowly out through the open gates of the Armitage factory. The Toomeys followed behind. Marie held on to her daughter’s arm and Toby trailed in their wake. Mrs Adams followed on, eager to get home to feed her cats. Widow Pacey came out last, her features set in an expression of grim determination. It was Monday morning and she knew the bags of washing still had to be taken along to the factory in Long Lane.

 

Not too far away from Ironmonger Street the French family came up from their shelter in the cellar of the Dolphin to find that their little street was unscathed. Bill was confident that the cellar was a much safer place during the bombing than the shelter in the church hall. He had reinforced the ceiling with thick posts of wood and installed camp beds, and he had filled buckets with sand and water in case of emergency. Although the beer cellar was cold and damp his family could at least brew tea and heat up soup on the electric grill, and the walls were thick enough to deaden a great deal of the noise. Unlike most of the local folk, the French family slept reasonably well, even though the last few air raids had been very heavy.