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.
When Bill opened up at lunchtime one of the first customers to walk through the door was Mrs Argrieves. Her grey hair was pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head and there was a worried look in her pale-blue eyes. She had a cotton shawl draped loosely around her drooping shoulders and she carried her purse in her hand.
‘Give us a drop o’ gin, Bill,’ she said. ‘I’m fair done in. I ain’t ’ad a wink o’ sleep all night.’
Bill passed over the gin and leaned on the counter facing her. ‘’Ow’s young Billy doin’, Flo?’
Florence shook her head as she picked up the glass. ‘’E’s drivin’ me
to an early grave, Bill. All ’e does is sit around the’ouse all day. I can’t get ’im ter wash or shave, an’ when I say anyfing it’s wrong. Gawd knows I’ve tried, but it don’t make a scrap o’ difference. When I fink of ’ow smart ’e used ter be before they called ’im up I could cry.’
The landlord of the Dolphin shook his head. ‘Yer gotta remember, Flo, the lad’s bin frew it. It’ll take time fer ’im ter settle. I mean, nobody knows ’ow them lads suffered at Dunkirk.’
Florence downed her gin and pulled a face. ‘Christ! I needed that. I dunno about my Billy, but I fink my nerves are shattered, too.’
As other customers started to come in Mrs Argrieves ordered another gin and took it to a table near the door. She sat deep in thought, the gin untouched at her elbow. Florence was feeling sorry for herself. Hadn’t she been a good wife and mother? she asked herself. And what was her reward? A husband who runs off with a flighty young girl half his age and a son who was turning into a dirty, unwashed gormless tramp! What had she done to deserve such treatment? She had gone without, just so young Billy could have the things all the rest of the kids in the street had. All right, maybe he had not had a father behind him to check him when he ran off the traces, but he should still have a little more consideration for his own mother. He was always out gambling before he was called up, always dressed like a toff and never short of a bob or two, and now look at him. A miserable young git who sleeps in his clothes and finds it too much trouble to wash and shave himself. What was going to become of him?
The gin was still standing untouched on the table when Mabel Hamilton rushed into the public bar, her round face flushed and her breath coming in short gasps. ‘Fank Gawd I’ve found yer!’ she spluttered. ‘Yer better get ’ome, Flo. Young Billy’s gorn stark ravin’ mad. ’E’s jus’ chucked the tallyman down the airey!’
Florence rose and hurried out of the pub towards her house with Mabel trying to keep up with her. ‘That bastard’ll drive me mad. They’ll end up takin’ me away in a straitjacket, I know they will,’ she groaned.
Mabel waddled along behind the enraged Florence as they hurried along Salter Street. A crowd had already gathered at the end of the turning.
‘’Old up, there’s ’is muvver,’ someone shouted.
Florence could see her son standing on the steps that led up to the front door. Down in the area beside the steps a figure sat on his haunches, holding a bloodied handkerchief up to his nose.
‘The stupid bastard should be locked up,’ the victim shouted. ‘All I said was, “Is yer muvver in? She owes two weeks”. ’E ’ad no right ter get stroppy.’
Billy Argrieves stood with his feet apart at the top of the steps, his broad shoulders hunched and his fists clenched tightly. His wild dark eyes stared out from a square face covered with three days’ growth of beard. His thin lips were twitching. The once smart grey suit was creased and dirty, and his brown shoes were trodden down and unlaced. His filthy shirt was unbuttoned, and his dark hair hung down over his forehead. Below him on the pavement the crowd had become quiet. One or two of the onlookers were grinning as an old lady held out her hand to the sad figure.
‘You should make yer peace wiv the Lord fer what yer’ve done, lad,’ the old woman said. ‘Pray ter Jesus. Pray fer yer salvation.’
Florence had reached her front door. ‘Get that prat away from ’im!’ she screamed. ‘She’ll only make ’im worse.’
Mad Lou was ushered away reciting the gospel and Florence looked up at her angry son. ‘Ain’t yer got no feelin’ fer yer ole mum, boy?’ she said with exasperation. ‘Don’t yer know what yer doin’ ter me wiv yer wild ways? Now get inside, fer Gawd’s sake. Can’t yer see they’re all laughin’ at yer?’
His broad shoulders slumped and tears welled up in his handsome face. ‘I told ’im yer got no money, Muvver. ’E kept all on. I clouted ’im ’cos ’e kept goin’ on.’
‘I only asked ’im once,’ groaned the tallyman. ‘’E’s a bloody lunatic.’
‘Gawd ’elp us!’ Florence mumbled. ‘What ’ave I done ter deserve this?’
Billy’s wild eyes turned to the tallyman. ‘Shut yer trap or I’ll stuff the poxy book right down yer throat!’ he growled.
Florence climbed the stairs and took her son by the arm. ‘Now you get yerself inside, d’yer ’ear me?’
The dishevelled figure shook himself loose. ‘I ain’t goin’ inside till ’e pisses orf out of it,’ he shouted, jerking his thumb in the direction of the tallyman.
‘All right, yer scatty bleeder, I’m goin’,’ groaned the tallyman, picking himself up and staggering up the steps into the street.
‘Walk in the way of the Lord Jesus Christ,’ Mad Lou shouted from the other side of the street. ‘Think not of retribution. Renounce the devil and turn the other cheek.’
The white-faced tallyman scowled. He had been thumped hard and had tumbled painfully down a flight of stone steps. The idea of going through that again was unthinkable. ‘Shut yer face, yer bible-punchin’ ole mare,’ he mumbled at her as he staggered along the street.
Billy allowed himself to be shepherded through the front door and the crowd dispersed. The bloodied tallyman had left the street only seconds before the beat constable arrived. PC Rowley had been looking forward to finishing a quiet spell of duty when he was informed that there was trouble in Salter Street. Well it looks quiet enough, he thought as he sauntered into the turning. He could see Mad Lou sitting on the kerb reading her tattered New Testament, and a couple of kids were hopping in and out of a turning skipping rope. A few people passed him carrying shopping baskets and he noticed the bent figure of the road sweeper as he pushed his stiff-haired broom along in the gutter. The constable stopped beside a lamppost and waited until the council employee reached him.
‘’Ello, Bonzo,’ he said, rocking backwards and forwards on his size elevens. ‘What’s bin goin’ on round ’ere then?’
Harold Scribbins lifted his head, his doleful eyes fixing the local bobbie. There were a few things which Harold disliked. One was sweeping streets, and another was the nickname Bonzo, especially if it was being used by a tricky policeman whom he disliked intensely. ‘What d’yer mean, what’s bin goin’ on?’ he asked sullenly.
PC Rowley swayed back on his heels. ‘Fisticuffs, Bonzo. A punch-up.’
The irritable road sweeper’s sleepy eyes blinked slowly and the beat constable could see why the local kids had named Harold Scribbins after one of their favourite comic characters.
‘I ’eard there was a set-to in the street a few minutes ago,’ the policeman said.
‘I ain’t paid ter stand around watchin’ punch-ups,’ Harold said, leaning on his broom. ‘I’m paid ter keep this palsy turnin’ clean, which is jus’ like sweepin’ sand orf the beach. I tell yer, before I’m out o’ the turnin’ it’s like I’ve never bin ’ere, what wiv toffee wrappers an’ apple cores and Gawd knows what else. When the supervisor comes round ’e finks I’ve spent the time scratchin’ me arse. It’s a bloody unfankful job sweepin’ streets, ’spesh’ly round ’ere.’
‘So yer didn’t see anyfink then?’
‘Nope.’
‘What’s them spots o’ blood doin’ on the pavement then?’ the constable asked, his eyes narrowing.
‘’Ow the ’ell should I know,’ Harold replied. ‘P’raps it’s red paint, or it might be ole Percy ’avin’ anuvver nose-bleed.’
‘Percy?’
‘Yeah, Percy Axford. ’E gets a nose-bleed every time ’is ole woman catches up wiv ’im. Anyway, I can’t stand ’ere chinwaggin’ all day. I’ve got me work ter do.’
PC Rowley watched as Harold walked away, the handle of his broom pressed against his bony shoulder. ‘Bloody ole fool,’ he said aloud.
‘Piss orf, yer nosey bastard,’ Harold said over his shoulder.
That evening Jennie French came home from work saddened by the news of Ironmonger Street and her friend’s anguish.
‘Yer should ’ave seen ’er, Mum,’ she said,
her voice full of pity. ‘Connie was so upset. ’Er an’ Molly was very close. The ole family was. I dunno ’ow she made it in ter work terday. ’Er flat’s gone, an’ all ’er fings, too. Poor cow’s only got the bits she’s standin’ up in.’
Dora looked at her husband. ‘She could live ’ere fer a while, couldn’t she, Bill? She’s a good worker, an’ if she feels obliged we could suggest she does a couple of extra turns be’ind the bar.’
Bill nodded. ‘Why not? Yer’ve got a few bits an’ pieces yer could give ’er Jen, ain’t yer, an’ we could fix that attic up an’ put a spare bed in the cellar.’
Jennie threw her arms around her father and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. ‘Fanks, Dad. You’re the bestest.’
Dora grinned at her husband’s discomfort and winked knowingly at her daughter. ‘’E ain’t so bad,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The London blitz continued unceasingly. Each night the German bombers came and left behind them vast fires burning and horrific devastation. Whole streets were destroyed, factories and warehouses were left in smoking ruins, and the toll in human lives mounted. The local hospitals were filled to overflowing, and more and more people were made homeless. Nevertheless, amongst the carnage, the street markets still flourished and the traders displayed notices on their barrows and stalls vilifying and deriding the efforts of Goering’s airforce to bomb the British people into submission. Windowless shops opened up for business, the trains still ran, and buses and trams still managed to operate with numerous diversions. People went to work exhausted from lack of sleep and hurried home for an early tea before going down to their refuge for the night. Rubber ear-plugs were issued to everyone and, as bunks began to be installed in many shelters and people started to take bedclothes with them on their nightly trips, it became a little easier for some to catch a few hours’ sleep whilst the bombs were falling. But other problems got worse for the shelter dwellers, with lice and skin complaints affecting even the most hygieneconscious members of the community. Scabies hit the young badly, and special clinics were set up where sorry-looking children were methodically put into a bath of hot water and scrubbed with strong soap before being painted all over with an evil-smelling lotion which stung their sore patches and reduced many of them to tears. Sties and boils plagued everyone, and the smell of kaoline poultices became as familiar in the shelters as the reek of carbolic.
Ironmonger's Daughter Page 34