Ironmonger's Daughter (6 page)

One day Connie and Molly were later than usual coming home from school. Helen Bartlett put on her coat and scarf and went to look for the youngsters. As she reached the bottom of the stairs she found Connie with her arm around Molly’s shoulders. Her daughter seemed to be crying.

‘Molly, what’s wrong?’ she called out, rushing up to them. She leant down and gently touched the side of Molly’s face, but her daughter would not look up. She stared at the ground, tears running down her cheeks and falling from her chin.

‘Connie, what’s the matter?’ Helen asked, looking over at her niece. Connie looked away, and Helen could see that she did not want to tell her. ‘Come on luv, what’s bin ’appenin’?’ she asked her quietly.

Connie frowned. ‘It’s those Flynn kids,’ she said. ‘They kept on sayin’ “umptybacked” and callin’ Molly names. So I bashed ’em.’

‘Oh, Molly darlin’, come ’ere,’ Helen said as she went to cuddle her daughter. But Molly burst out sobbing and pushed past her to hurry away up the stairs.

 

Although Helen and Matthew were devoted and adoring towards their only child, whose disabilities made them pander to her every need, they sensed that Molly found it very difficult to believe she could be loved. Connie, however, received no such lavish affection from her mother, although she was kept clean and well clothed. For the most part Kate never seemed to be around. Her job as a barmaid took her out every evening, and at weekends there always seemed to be parties and appointments which left Connie either alone in the flat or in Helen’s care. More and more Connie turned to Helen for her needs, and the gap between Kate and her daughter widened. There were also times when, for reasons that the young child did not understand, she was suddenly taken from her own flat and foisted upon Helen, even though it was clear that Kate remained at home. This usually took place at the weekends, and the two children became quite used to sharing the same bedroom. Over the years it became more and more difficult for Connie to approach her mother. Conversations between them were very rare, and whenever Connie asked about her father she was told quite coldly that her father was dead and she should not keep asking those sorts of questions.

Connie was chatting to her cousin on their way home from school one day when Molly suddenly asked, ‘Why ain’t yer got a dad, Connie?’

‘Me dad’s dead,’ she said.

‘’Ow did ’e die?’

‘I dunno.’

‘When did ’e die?’

‘I dunno, Molly. Me mum didn’t say.’

‘What did ’e look like?’

‘I dunno.’

Molly turned her dark eyes towards Connie and said, ‘It mus’ be ’orrible not to ’ave a dad.’

‘Oh it’s all right, I s’pose.’

‘We could share my dad,’ Molly said suddenly, her eyes sparkling.

‘We share ’im now, silly, I’m always stayin’ in your flat.’

Molly thought for a time and then said, ‘I know. Why don’t you ask my mum about your dad? My mum knows everyfink.’

That same evening when the two girls were sitting in front of the coal fire in the Bartlett’s flat, Molly looked up as her mother came into the room and nudged her cousin. ‘Go on. Ask me mum.’

‘Ask me what, Molly?’

Connie put down her colouring book and looked up at Helen. ‘I asked me mum about dad, Auntie ’Elen. Mum said’e’s dead. Did you know ’im?’

Helen sat down in her fireside chair and stared down into the enquiring eyes of her niece. She wanted to tell the truth. She knew that it was not right to keep such a thing from the child. She had a right to know, but Kate was still adamant that Connie was not to be told anything about her father, and Helen realised that she would have to go along with her wishes. ‘I’m sorry, Connie. I didn’t know your dad. ’E died when you was a baby.’

‘Didn’t mum ever bring ’im round ter see yer, Auntie?’ she asked.

‘No, she never did,’ Helen said truthfully.

 

In 1929 the Wall Street crash made headline news. Shares tumbled everywhere and there was talk of a world-wide depression. Unemployment rose to three million. A blight quickly struck all the large industrial areas and thousands of factories closed; almost everywhere workers were put once again on the dreaded short-time working. In Bermondsey, folk realised that the times were going to get even harder as more and more workers received their notices and the docks and wharves ground almost to a standstill. Over the next few years the effects of the economic slump bit deeply everywhere and a grey, depressing gloom overhung the whole of the docklands. During 1931 Ironmonger Street lost one of its most loved characters. Fran Collins died two months after her husband Tom, and the whole street turned out to pay their last respects. Many of the families who stood at their front doors sobbing quietly into handkerchiefs had good reason to be grateful to old Fran. She had slapped the breath of life into many of the street’s kids, and right up until the end she had retained her cheerfulness and good-natured attitude to everyone. One middle-aged lady stood sobbing loudly. Fran had delivered all of her seven children and for the last birth the payment was still owing.

In that same year the Armitage Factory closed for a whole day in mourning for George Armitage who had died in his sleep. In his will he had stipulated that all his workers were to be given a day off with full pay on the day of his funeral. But, in these times, the closing of the factory for a day seemed almost ominous to the workforce rather than a special boon.

‘I dunno. It’s bin a bad year, what wiv one fing an’ anuvver,’ Joe Cooper said one day to old George Baker. ‘There was ole Fran goin’, an’ ole Armitage. It seems ’alf the characters round’ere are leavin’ us ter get on wiv it.’

George sucked on his pipe and looked up the street. A slow smile spread over his grizzled face as he watched the antics of the man who had just pushed a battered old pram into the turning. The contraption was laden down with bits of old iron and, as the man struggled to keep it on a straight course, pieces of scrap fell from the load and bounced over the cobblestones. ‘There’s a few characters still knockin’ about this turnin’,’ George grinned. ‘Just look at that clown Toomey.’

The Toomeys were looked upon as a strange crowd by the street folk. Toby Toomey was a frail, harmless-looking individual who struggled to earn a living by pushing an ancient pram through the streets to collect scrap iron and old newspapers. He invariably wore a battered trilby hat and an overcoat that almost reached his down-at-heel boots. Toby was fearful of his domineering wife Marie, and very much aware that nothing he did was right in her eyes. Marie was a large woman with straight black hair which hung down her back. Her face was always powder-streaked and her eyes dark and brooding. The Toomeys had a daughter Lillian, who was fast gaining a reputation for being a ‘loose woman’. Lillian was in her twenties, and her way of dressing was a constant talking point amongst the street folk. She wore very high-heeled shoes and dresses which were either too short or too tight. She used heavy make-up and outrageous hats and, like her mother, she had raven hair and very dark eyes. Lillian and her mother were a formidable pair and Toby had realised early on that it was useless to argue with them. Nevertheless, he harboured murderous thoughts as he struggled to manoeuvre the pram into his passageway, against a tirade of abuse from Marie.

 

The decade moved on slowly, and there was no respite from the suffering and deprivation of the poverty-stricken backstreet folk. Pawnshop owners were the only people who could afford to walk around with satisfied smiles on their faces. The pawnbroker shop in the Tower Bridge Road was particularly busy, and it was now a weekly meeting place for many of the women of the area. It had become the usual ritual for the matriarchs of the family to parcel up their husband’s suit or overcoat or maybe a pair of linen sheets and hurry over to Uncles with the bale. They would join the line of patient customers, stretching out from the back room, along the dark passageway, and sometimes out into the street. If the pawnbroker was in a good mood they might get their bale pledged for seven shillings and sixpence if it contained a decent suit or overcoat, and five shillings for a pair of sheets. The articles would be exchanged for a pawn ticket on Monday mornings and redeemed that Friday or Saturday when the few shillings earnings came into the home. It had become a way of life for many, and some pawnbrokers began to take advantage of their customers’ desperate need.

It was a cold autumn Monday morning when Mrs Cosgrove parcelled up her Fred’s best suit. Now in her late sixties, Mrs Cosgrove had been caring for her invalid husband for the past year, and she knew that he would not miss his best blue serge in his condition. It troubled her to have to make the visit, but she could see no alternative. When she reached the pawnshop the queue stretched almost to the door. Waiting in front of her in the line was Mrs Halliday who was carrying a large bundle under her arm.

‘’Ello, girl. What you doin’ ’ere? Buyin’ a bit o’ jew’llery?’ she said.

Mrs Cosgrove gave her a toothless grin. ‘Same as you, Ada. I’m tryin’ ter work the oricle.’

‘Gawd ’elp us, Clara.’

‘I fink ’E’d better. Nobody else seems ter be.’

The queue moved forward and Ada Halliday whispered into Mrs Cosgrove’s ear. ‘I ’ope the old bastard ain’t bein’ too fussy terday. If ’e is I’m in the shit.’

‘Why’s that, Ada?’

Ada looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, then she gave Clara a huge wink. ‘Me mate’s borrered me best coat ter go to a funeral, so I wrapped up me old ironin’ blanket an’ the pissy ole coat the moggie sleeps on an’ I took a chance. If ole ugly’s in a good mood ’e won’t bovver ter open me bundle. Blimey, ’e’s seen enough o’ me this last few months, an’ it’s always bin me best coat I’ve brought over.’

Clara hid a grin behind her raised hand. ‘’Ere, Ada. I ’ope ole ugly ain’t got a sensitive snozzle. I can smell that pissy ole coat from ’ere.’

‘That ain’t me bundle yer can smell,’ Ada whispered. ‘It’s ole muvver Adams up front. She takes in all the stray mogs.’Er place smells like a public urinal in Pennyfields.’

The line of customers moved slowly forward, and at last it was Ada’s turn to present her bundle. ‘’Ere we are, same again,’ she said with bluster.

The wizened figure who stood on a raised dais behind the high counter slapped the bundle down hard on the polished surface and sighed deeply. It had been a heavy morning and he was feeling nauseous. Every bundle he had opened smelled of moth balls or lavender water. Then there was the moggie lady with her smelly blankets. It was all getting too much, he groaned to himself as he threw the bundle through the hatch behind him and proceeded to write out the pawn ticket. ‘There we are,’ he said, slapping down a handful of coins on the table. ‘Seven an’ six less fourpence, an’ there’s yer ticket.’

Ada grinned at Clara as she turned to go. ‘See yer later, girl. I’m orf ’ome ter do me ironin’!’

In 1933 a name began to appear regularly in the daily newspapers which soon became more and more well known to anyone who followed the international news. Political cartoonists were fascinated by the new figure and some of their drawings began to worry those who were old enough to see something all too real and familiar in the caricatures; an ominous reminder of the past. Old George Baker was sitting with Joe Cooper in the public bar of the Horseshoe and he prodded the newspaper which was spread out on the table in front of him. ‘Yer Kaiser was one fing, Joe, but this Adolf ’Itler’s a sight more dangerous. See what it ses in ’ere. ’E’s took the country out o’ the League o’ Nations an’ got forty million votes fer rearmament. It’s bloody frightenin’ when yer fink of it. If somebody don’t stop ’im it’ll be anuvver bloody world war, mark my words.’

Joe’s mind was on other things and he grabbed the two empty glasses. ‘Pop, you’re givin’ me the bloody ’ump! Let’s get a refill.’

The events that were shaping the destiny of the world were of little interest to Connie Morgan and her cousin Molly. In 1934 they were both fourteen and feeling very grown-up as, during the year, they discussed the prospect of trying to get a job together when they left school at Christmas. Although work was generally hard to find, many firms were taking on children straight from school to learn machine work of all types. It was seen by many employers as prudent to use what was little more than child labour to keep their costs to a minimum. Kate wanted Connie to get a job in an office, though, and Helen was afraid that her daughter would find it hard to get any type of job at all. The cousins’ school-leaving certificates did not paint inspiring pictures of their capabilities. They were identical, as were those of all the school-leavers that term: ‘Good at needle-work and housecraft. Punctual and trustworthy’.

Kate was still working as a barmaid and most of her free time was taken up with an endless round of parties and so the two friends spent most of the time together during the holidays. Helen and Matthew had gone to the pub on Christmas Eve and the two youngsters were sitting in Helen’s front room listening to the wireless that Matthew had bought only a couple of days before. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and paper chains were hung around the walls. A sprig of holly was pinned over the fireplace and Christmas cards lined the high mantelshelf. Outside, the night was cold and windy, with a pale moon peeping through moving clouds. Connie crossed her legs under her and rested her arms on her lap as she sat on the hearth rug. Molly was sprawled out on her side facing her, her chin supported on her cupped hand. The room was warm and cosy and, after listening to the wireless for a while and chatting about trivial things, Molly brought up the subject of work.

‘I wonder what jobs the labour exchange will offer us, Con?’

Connie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I bet they won’t send us after office jobs. Me mum keeps on at me ter get a job in an office. She reckons I should learn ter type an’ do short’and. I don’t wanna work in offices, Molly. Most o’ them office workers are real posh. I couldn’t talk posh, could you?’