Ironmonger's Daughter

by Harry Bowling

  Later, when the fire had gone out and the piano player had left, a few couples were left sitting around the room talking quietly. Connie leaned back in the large armchair, trying to focus her eyes. Sammy had plied her with drinks and she was beginning to feel quite hazy. She looked around the room for Jennie but she was nowhere to be seen. Her escort sat on the arm of her chair, his large hairy hand gripping a near empty glass.

  Connie looked up at the man. ‘Wh . . . where’s Jennie gone?’ she faltered.

  He grinned, ‘She’s gone upstairs.’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  Sammy suddenly stood up and grasped her hand, pulling her out of the chair. He was leading, urging her, and she could only half protest as they climbed the steep stairs. Connie could not see very clearly and her mouth had suddenly become very dry. Sammy was still holding her hand very tightly as he stopped at the top of the stairs and opened a door. She was standing directly behind him and she caught a hazy glimpse of the couple lying naked on the bed.

  ‘Sorry, Steve!’ he exclaimed, shutting the door quickly.

  They moved along the landing, his strong hand squeezing hers almost painfully. As he opened another door and pulled her into the room sharp needles of anxiety pricked her befuddled brain. He turned and pulled her close, his wet lips searching for her mouth and kissing her roughly. His hands were moving over her body and she felt herself being pushed back towards the bed. She could do nothing as he kissed her face and her ears and grabbed her hair to pull her head back. She wanted to push him away but he had pinned her arms to her sides. As they fell back on to the bed, Sammy’s body smothered hers. He was fumbling with her clothes and she felt his hand rub up the inside of her thigh. He was panting like an animal, his mouth open and his wide eyes glaring. She fought him, tensing her body and clenching her teeth in anger as his hand reached the top of her leg. His head was leaning into her shoulder now and his hot breath was searing her face as she felt the pressure of his fingers. A black feeling of sickness and fear possessed her and from nowhere a sudden last urge to preserve herself filled Connie with fierce strength. She freed one arm from his hard embrace and tore at his face. She felt her nails sink into his fleshy cheek and he jerked back. His body slackened and he cursed as he clutched at his face.

  ‘Yer spiteful bitch!’ Sammy snarled, hitting her sharply across the face with his open hand.

  Connie fought back her angry tears as he stood up and glared down at her. She sat up slowly, drawing her legs over the edge of the bed and straightening her dress. She was completely sober now as she watched him like an animal at bay. He had moved back away from her and slumped down in a chair, dabbing at his torn face. She saw a childlike look of disappointment on his swarthy features and her fear turned to cold anger and contempt. There was no threat now, she knew. The moment of danger had passed.

  Connie looked over at him. ‘Fink yerself lucky I didn’t scream out. Yer’d ’ave ’ad some explainin’ ter do,’ she said, her voice cold with rage.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sammy said huskily. ‘I thought yer wanted it. Yer came upstairs wiv me, didn’t yer?’

  ‘Yeah I did,’ Connie said, a sudden tremor shaking her body.

  ‘Let’s ferget it. Yer didn’t get it all yer own way.’

  Sammy touched his cheek and shook his head quickly. ‘I’ll go downstairs an’ see if I can scrounge us a cup o’ tea,’ he said, going to the door and turning to face her. ‘Yer won’t let on, will yer?’

  She looked at him with disdain. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a twist of her mouth. ‘I won’t say nufink.’

  For some time Connie sat on the bed, staring at the open doorway. When she finally got up and went downstairs she found the room empty. Sammy came in and handed her a cup of tea, and without saying anything else he had gone. A little while later Jennie and Steve came down into the front room.

  ‘Where’s our Sammy?’ Steve asked, glancing around.

  ‘I fink ’e left,’ Connie said, sipping her tea.

  The two lovers exchanged glances and then Jennie looked at her friend curiously. ‘You two ’ad a row?’

  Connie averted her eyes. ‘Are yer ready, Jen?’ she asked with a hardness in her voice. ‘I wanna get goin’, I’m tired.’

  Steve followed Jennie out into the hall and Connie could hear them mumbling to each other. Jennie came back alone carrying their coats and they left the house together, walking home in silence through the dark empty streets.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  On Christmas morning a north wind was blowing and the gathering clouds promised snow. Spirals of smoke rose up from leaning chimney pots and young excited voices rang out in the backstreets. At noon the Dolphin opened, and amongst the first customers was Billy Argrieves. His face was clean-shaven and bore a few cuts, as if the razor had been held in a shaking hand. His dark wavy hair had been plastered down with water and his clothes were clean and pressed. The white shirt he wore was open at the collar and his shoes were polished. He came into the public bar almost apologetically and sidled up to the counter. He stood, unsure of himself, coins clutched in his hand. People around him leaned forward and called out their orders, impatient to begin the Christmas drinking session.

  Connie spotted him and came over, ignoring the other customers. ‘What’ll it be, Billy?’ she asked.

  He looked at her, his eyes widening as he scratched his forehead. ‘I wanna – I wanna pint of ale, please,’ he stammered, his eyes fixed on hers.

  Connie took a pint glass from under the counter and smiled at him as she held it beneath the pump tap and pulled on the handle. He smiled back, baring his even white teeth, and then in sudden embarrassment he dropped his gaze to the money in his hand. When Connie placed the filled glass of ale in front of him Billy held out his palm and offered the coins to her.

  ‘You wanna drink?’ he blurted out as she took the money.

  Connie smiled familiarly at him. ‘Can I ’ave one later, Billy? I jus’ got one, fank yer,’ she said kindly.

  He nodded and lifted the glass to his lips as he turned away from the counter. People were pushing their way to the bar and one impatient customer accidentally jogged Billy’s arm. Beer spilled down the front of his clean white shirt and over his coat. The young man carefully brushed the drips from his front without looking up and walked to a seat by the door with his head bowed.

  ‘What’s ’e doin’ in ’ere?’ the impatient man asked his friend. ‘’E shouldn’t be out on ’is own. ’E’s a bloody menace.’

  Connie heard the remark and her face flushed with anger.

  The man’s friend grinned. ‘’E’s all right, is Billy. Look at’im sittin’ there. ’E’s in a world of ’is own.’

  ‘I dunno,’ the other went on. ‘Did yer ’ear about the tallyman ’e clobbered?’

  ‘Yeah, I ’eard about it. Seems ter me the bloke asked fer it. Some o’ those tallymen get a bit lippy at times.’ The man picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Yer gotta understand, mate,’ he said, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Young Billy Argrieves was always a bit wild. The army didn’t ’elp neivver. Dunkirk ruined ’im like it did a lot o’ young lads. From what I’ve ’eard, it was sheer bloody murder out there.’

  The impatient man was mollified somewhat and he nodded his head grudgingly.

  Connie found herself rushed off her feet as the customers crowded into the little bar. Now and then she looked over and saw that Jennie was preoccupied with her boyfriend who stood at the far end of the counter. There was no sign of Sammy, and Connie felt relieved. The pub was now packed full and customers were having to wait for their orders, one or two beginning to mumble about the service and glance in the direction of the publican’s daughter. Connie occasionally looked over to where Billy was sitting alone. He was staring down at his near-empty glass, apparently deep in thought. Once she saw him count through the coins he held in his hand then put them back into his pocket. Her heart went out to him and, as soon as the opportunit
y presented itself, Connie had a word with Albert Swan.

  ‘’Ere, Alb. Do us a faver. Can yer take this pint over ter Billy? ’E’s sittin’ over by the door. Tell ’im it’s on the ’ouse.’

  Albert pushed his way through the milling crowd and said a few words to the young man as he put the pint down in front of him. Billy looked over, a bright, nervous smile breaking across his rugged features as he held the glass up in a toast. Connie felt better and she was pleased when she saw Albert sit down and start chatting to Billy. The old man leaned forward in the chair, nodding his head as the younger man used his hands to describe something. Connie found herself staring over at the two. The stories she had heard about Billy had made him out to be a wild young man, a dangerous character who it was better not to know. He did not seem fearsome to Connie and she remembered what Jennie had said about how smart he once was, and how all the girls went weak at the knees when they saw him around. It was easy to see why, although now he looked like a lost, pathetic soul who found it difficult to enter the pub on his own and face the regulars. He was another casualty of this war who needed some understanding and friendship.

  Ironmonger Street was quiet on Christmas night. The factory gates remained open and folk prayed that the siren would not interrupt their festivities. Joe Cooper had left to visit his ailing wife in the country and Lizzie Conroy had taken the frail Mrs Cosgrove into her home for the holiday. For the Toomeys the holiday was one of good cheer, and Marie was feeling optimistic for the new year. Toby had held down his job. He was on regular wages and the rent was now getting paid on time. Lillian had reason to feel happy too. She had met and fallen in love with Sandor Konetsky, a Czech serviceman who was stationed in London and attached to a labour battalion. Sandor could speak very little English and Lillian’s knowledge of her boyfriend’s mother tongue was limited to a few naughty words. They carried on their courtship mainly in sign language but, as the Toomey girl explained to some of her friends down in Rotherhithe, ‘My Sandor is smashin’ ter go ter bed wiv, an’ I can understand ’im, even though I don’t know what the bleedin’ ’ell ’e’s talkin’ about most o’ the time.’

  Sandor Konetsky was a lonely soul who enjoyed the hospitality of ‘those crazy English people’ as he put it. He especially liked Marie’s cooking and Lillian’s preoccupation with sexual matters – in that order – and for those reasons he had omitted to tell them that he had a wife and seven children back home in Prague.

  The rather set-upon patriarch of the Toomey family was also feeling pleased with himself that Christmas. Washing out filthy barrels with detergents and rinsing them with scalding water from a leaking hosepipe was not the greatest job in the world, but it had its compensations. He was left alone most of the time, and one of the women in the packing department had taken a shine to him. Occasionally she would slip him a large jar of mustard pickle or gherkins and Toby would seize the opportunity to sell his ill-gotten gains to the local transport café. The café owner sometimes drove his car into the factory yard when it was convenient and Toby promptly gave it a wash and a polish. For services rendered the café owner provided the ‘head barrel washer’ with a free dinner and a large slice of apple pie. Yes, life wasn’t too bad, Toby thought. Marie had eased up on her nagging and he had been able to shelve his plans to do away with her – for the time being.

  On the twenty-ninth of December the air-raid siren sounded early and soon the bombs began to fall again. As the night wore on the bombing grew in intensity and the fire watchers of Ironmonger Street could see a red glow rising over the City of London. Joe Cooper had returned from a miserable Christmas in the country and he ran into the wardens’ post at the height of the raid.

  ‘It’s murder over the water, Joe!’ one of the men shouted to him above the din. ‘Control’s told us the place is burnin’ down! The bloody tide’s right out and they’re ’avin’ trouble pumpin’ the water out o’ the Thames!’

  Joe winced as a nearby explosion shook the old rag shop. ‘It’s a bad one ternight. They’re over in force,’ he shouted back.

  The warden put down the phone and rubbed a grubby hand over his tired features. ‘Are your crowd okay?’ he asked.

  Joe nodded. ‘They’re all right. Our two girls are gettin’ ’em goin’ wiv a sing-song an’ we’ve managed ter keep the tea flowin’.’

  Ted Butcher, the senior warden, leaned towards a bespectacled young man who was wearing a steel helmet a size too large. ‘Talkin’ o’ tea. ’Ow about you puttin’ the kettle on,’Orry?’

  Horace Wilson grinned owlishly and disappeared into the back room. Ted took out a packet of Goldflake and held one out to Joe. The two men sat in the dimly lit shop, their faces tired and strained. They puffed away on their cigarettes without talking and, when Horace brought in two mugs of tea Ted stretched and puffed heavily. ‘Did yer ’ave a good ’oliday, Joe?’ he asked.

  Joe pulled a face. ‘I tell yer, Ted. I was glad when it was all over. My ole woman didn’t stop naggin’ all the time I was there, an’ ’er sister was a right bundle o’ laughs as well. Between the two of ’em they gave me the right ’ump. On Boxin’ Night I just about ’ad enough of it, so out I goes ter get a drink. There was this place in the village an’ when I walked in the door yer should ’ave seen the eyes. Everybody was starin’ at me like I’d jus’ crawled out o’ the woodwork. Ter tell yer the truth, it was a poxy pint as well.’

  ‘Your ole Dutch won’t come back ter London then, Joe?’

  ‘No fear! She said she’s quite okay where she is. I’m glad really. She’s a bundle o’ nerves as it is, an’ they ain’t ’ad no bombin’ yet. If she was back ’ere she’d die o’ fright.’

  The phone rang again and Horace picked up the receiver. His face looked serious as he turned to Ted. ‘The fires are out o’ control in the City! There’s a great big crater near the Tower Bridge ’Otel, an’ the flats in Dock’ ead ’ave copped it!’

  ‘Gawd ’elp us!’ Ted gasped.

  The door of the wardens’ post suddenly burst open and a tall, lean figure rushed in, his face blackened and his steel helmet pushed to the back of his head. ‘The water main’s busted in Tower Bridge Road an’ the bleedin’ vinegar factory’s alight!’ he shouted. ‘What’s more, there’s a bleedin’ unexploded bomb in Conner Street!’

  Ted looked over to Horace. ‘You got that, son?’

  The bespectacled warden grabbed the phone, ‘Got it!’ he shouted.

  Joe stood up. ‘I’ll leave yer ter get on wiv it, Ted,’ he said. ‘Look after yerself. It’s gonna get worse before the night’s out.’

  Joe kept his head low as he ran through the gates into the factory yard. Above the sky was blood-red, and the ground shook beneath his feet. Gun flashes lit the night and as he reached the shelter entrance a loud explosion made him clasp his hands to his ears. Down below in the stuffy refuge, Lizzie Conroy was leading a chorus of ‘She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage’, and Billy Richards was plucking away at his ukulele. Joe could see the Widow Pacey, impassive as ever, her arms folded and her eyes staring ahead. The Toomeys were singing and Ada Halliday was conducting the impromptu choir with her arms flailing. Mary Brown was busy at the tea urn, and some of the children were already curled up on the benches.

  When Joe walked over Mary looked up. ‘’Ere, Joe. When they gonna put them bunks in ’ere?’ she asked. ‘Those kids look really uncomf’table on them ’ard benches.’

  ‘Gawd knows,’ Joe replied. ‘They should ’ave bin put in long ago.’

  Over in one corner a group of children were gathered together. Mary’s son Jimmy was showing off his collection. ‘I’ve got a bit wiv a number on it.’

  ‘Let’s ’ave a look,’ Gordon Jackman said, peering into the cardboard box at the jagged chunks of metal.

  ‘That’s nufink,’ Ronnie Bailey scoffed. ‘My mate Arnie’s got a great big ’cend’ry bomb in ’is ’ouse. It come in ’is roof an’ didn’t go orf. ’E’s got stacks o’ shrapnel as well.’

  ‘That�
��s stupid, Ron. ’Cend’ries can go orf any time. ’E could get burnt ter cinders.’

  Ronnie Bailey blinked at the other young boy. ‘It’s all right. Me mate’s dad keeps the bomb in a pail o’ water.’

  Gordon scratched the tip of his nose. ‘I ’ad some newts and tadpoles once an’ I kept ’em in a pail o’ water. When they turned inter frogs an’ fings they all jumped out an’ ’opped up our passage. My mum wasn’t ’alf scared.’

  Jimmy lowered his head and called his friends together. ‘’Ere. See ole Muvver Adams over there?’

  Six pairs of eyes glanced in the direction of the elderly lady who sat alone, her arms folded and her head resting against the wall. ‘She’s got loads o’ cats an’ when they ’ave kittens she drowns ’em all in a pail o’ water.’

  ‘That’s ’orrible. She mus’ be an’ ole witch,’ Ronnie said, pulling a face. ‘Look at Muvver Pacey. She’s a witch. When it’s dark she turns inter a big black pijjin.’

  Gordon pointed over to where the Toomeys were sitting, his eyes fixing on Lillian. ‘I fink she looks like a witch.’

  ‘No, she’s a prosser.’

  ‘What’s a prosser?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s what me dad calls ’er.’

  Just a mile away, another little backstreet was getting its first taste of bomb damage. Salter Street was littered with broken glass, roof slates and splintered wood from shattered front doors after a landmine had flattened a row of houses in Canning Street, the turning opposite. Down in the cellar of the Dolphin they heard the loud explosion and flakes of white plaster fell on to the beds.

  Bill French had been lying awake and he jumped up quickly. ‘Christ! That was a near one!’ he gasped.

  Dora and Jennie were huddled together, and Connie buried her head beneath the bedclothes as the landlord hurried up into the bar. The wooden shutters over the pub windows had held but broken glasses and bottles of beer were scattered across the floor. The large mirror behind the saloon bar counter was cracked, and chunks of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Bill ran out into the street and looked along the turning. He could see the flaring gas main and the high jet of water bursting from a broken pipe. Men were already pulling at the rubble with their bare hands and there seemed to be people running everywhere. Fire bells were ringing out and Bill saw the local policeman cycling into the devastated little turning. The landlord scratched his head. There was nothing he could do. Too many people clambering over the rubble would be disastrous for anyone buried beneath it; help would be needed after the survivors were brought out. He went back into the pub and tried the gas. Luckily it lit, although the pressure was low. He filled the largest pot he could find with water and pulled out a couple of blankets from the bedroom cupboard. There was little else he could do for the moment, except busy himself clearing up the bars.