She had finished her breakfast and was pouring her second mug of tea when Connie walked in, still clad in her dressing gown. Her eyes were swollen and her face ashen.
Jennie filled another mug. ‘Yer late, Con,’ she said. ‘I thought yer’d be dressed by now.’
Connie sat down heavily in a chair and sipped her tea. ‘Tell’em I’m sick, Jen,’ she said in little more than a whisper. ‘I can’t face it this mornin’.’
Jennie grinned. ‘Late night was it? I ’eard the taxi draw up.’
Connie made no reply and Jennie’s face suddenly became serious. ‘Yer really do look sick, Con.’ she said, standing over her friend.
Connie looked up quickly, a hard glint in her eye. ‘I’m sick of work, sick of men and I’m sick of workin’ be’ind that bar every night,’ she said bitterly.
Jennie’s face dropped and Connie sagged in the chair. ‘I’m sorry, luv. I didn’t mean it ter sound like that. You an’ yer family ’ave bin really good ter me, but I’ve gotta get away. I can’t face anuvver night be’ind that bar.’
‘I take it last night ’ad somefink ter do wiv yer decision, Con. Did Derek give yer a bad time?’
Connie laughed bitterly. ‘I got dumped, Jen. Yeah, ’e went off wiv one o’ the women at the party, an’ I got lumbered wiv a no-good bloke who kept tryin’ it on.’
‘Party, yer say? I thought you an’ ’im was goin’ on yer own?’
‘That’s what I thought, but it was all planned. I ended up gettin’ a taxi ’ome from Stepney.’
‘From where!?’
‘That’s right, Stepney. That’s why I was late ’ome.’
‘’Ere, this bloke didn’t ’urt yer, did ’e?’
‘No, ’e didn’t ’urt me,’ Connie lied. ‘’E was just persistent, that’s all.’
‘Did this bloke take yer ter Stepney, Con?’
Connie nodded and stared down at her tea.
‘Why did yer go wiv ’im?’
‘It’s a long story, Jen. I’ll tell yer later. In the meantime, can yer make excuses fer us? Tell the forelady I’ll be in termorrer.’
‘Okay, but are yer really serious about not workin’ be’ind the bar any more, Con?’
Connie pulled her dressing gown tightly around her slim figure and folded her arms. ‘I’m goin’ back ter where I used ter live. One o’ the women in the street said I could always lodge wiv ’er. She’s got a spare room, or she did ’ave. I’m goin’ ter see ’er this mornin’.’
‘I’ll miss yer, Con. Mum an’ dad will too. They fink a lot of yer an’ they reckon yer the best barmaid they’ve ever ’ad. Me dad even reckons yer faster than me wiv the addin’ up.’
Connie gave her friend a wan smile. ‘I can still come round an’ see yer mum an’ dad, an’ we’ll still see each ovver at work, won’t we? It’s just that I mus’ get away. You understand, Jennie, don’t yer?’
‘Yeah, I understand. I s’pose I’d ’ave ter do the same if I was in your shoes. Anyway, I mus’ get ter work or I’ll be late. We’ll talk ternight, okay?’
Connie got up and walked to the door. ‘Ternight, Jen.’
Back in her room Connie got dressed quickly and slipped out through the side door into the street. She wanted to get out before Dora and Bill went down for breakfast. It would be too difficult to talk to them so early in the morning, she thought. She walked slowly into the Old Kent Road and saw that the large clock over the hatters-shop doorway showed a quarter to nine. She ambled along idly, looking in shop windows and gazing at the passing traffic. Last night’s events had shocked and terrified her. She could still remember vividly how frightened she felt when she had found herself in that grimy flat and how disgusted she had been when Arnold had offered her money. The realisation that she had been treated like a prostitute made her feel physically sick. Derek Angelo was as much to blame, she decided. It was he who had told Arnold about her in the first place. She was sure that if she saw him again she would fly at him and tear at his face. Dora and Bill would become involved if she stayed at the pub, and it wouldn’t be fair to them.
She had reached the Bricklayers Arms junction. The sun was climbing and starlings chattered loudly in the tall plane trees which stretched along the New Kent Road. It was still too early to knock on Ada’s door, she thought, and she looked around her. A young woman was pushing a pram through the gates of the memorial gardens which lay back from the main road. Connie followed the woman into the gardens and found an empty wooden bench beneath a tall sycamore. It was peaceful there, the traffic noise deadened somewhat by the high, vine-covered fencing. The woman had walked on along the gravel path and left at the far gate without stopping, and the only other person in the gardens was an old man who sat reading the morning paper.
Connie leaned back on the bench and attempted to get her thoughts together. It had been inevitable that things would go the way they had, she was forced to admit, and there was no one to blame but herself. She had drunk herself almost into a stupor whenever she could and then allowed herself to be manipulated and violated. She had been warned. Jennie and her mother had both tried to spell out the dangers. Then there was Freda Grossman. She had seen the danger at the nightclub and had tried to warn her. Connie realised that she had been stupid and naive. She had thrown caution to the wind and gone like a lamb to the slaughter. The men had seen her as an easy conquest and had exploited her cruelly. She had been called a whore, raped, assaulted and treated like dirt. She felt she had sunk as low as it was possible to get, and she only had herself to blame. She remembered how people had said that she was very much like her mother in looks, and she shivered as she realised how the likeness had become so much deeper. Her mother had been raped and deserted, and she had ended her days in loneliness and misery. Maybe that was to be her own destiny.
Connie sat up straight on the bench as she felt her breath coming faster. Panic knotted her insides and she licked her dry lips. She felt the desperate need for a drink and the desire made her angry. She knew that it was drink which had led her into this situation. She had used it so that she would not have to face the misery of her life, and now it was destroying her. She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. She knew that she would have to fight it or it would be too late. She had become lost in a swirling storm of delirium and she felt it pulling her down, down into the blackness from which there was no escape. Her palms were sweating and her stomach was turning over. Pains wracked her body and she closed her eyes in desperation.
‘Please God! Don’t let me sink! Don’t let it swallow me up!’ she said aloud.
People had come into the gardens. An old man was leaning heavily on his walking stick and humming to himself as he passed. Two young women strolled by, pushing prams and giggling at a joke they were sharing, and a workman was coming closer, sweeping the path with a wide broom.
Connie got up quickly and walked out through the gate, glancing around furtively as if they might be looking at her. The pain in her insides was easing as she walked along the Tower Bridge Road. A market trader whistled after her and another eyed her up and down as she passed his stall. Connie turned off the thoroughfare into the little maze of backstreets. She could see the ruins of the Horseshoe as she walked through John Street, and in a couple of minutes she was standing at the top of her own little street. To her left was the burnt-out oilshop and barrow sheds, and Connie found herself wondering if old Misery Martin was still alive. Opposite, the rag shop that had always been closed was now a wardens’ post. She saw the row of tumbledown houses which led right up to the factory gates, and she looked up at the ruined dwellings facing them. Connie remembered with sadness the countless times she and Molly had climbed those creaky stairs and how her cousin had had to stop on each landing to catch her breath. She thought of Helen and the intimate chats they used to have, and she remembered Matthew. Poor Matt, she thought. He had been kind and understanding, and now he was dead. They were all dead. She could see the factory looming as large and ugly as ever at the end of t
he turning. Its iron gates were pulled back, and beyond them was the cobbled yard which she had crossed every morning. It seemed such a long time ago now.
Widow Pacey was whitening her front doorstep. She looked up enquiringly as Connie passed, and then went back to her task, humming softly to herself. At number twelve Connie stopped and lifted the old iron knocker. When Ada Halliday opened the front door and saw Connie standing there her eyes lit up and she stood to one side.
‘Come in, girl. I was wonderin’ when yer was gonna pay me a visit,’ she said happily.
Connie walked into the parlour and looked up at the old clock on the mantelshelf. She noticed that the two hands were still locked together at twelve o’clock. Ada was standing behind her. ‘Well sit yerself down then. Would yer like a nice cuppa?’
Connie smiled and nodded and, unable to contain her impatience, she called out into the scullery, ‘Is yer room still goin’, Ada?’
She laughed as she heard Ada’s joking reply. ‘No, I’ve got a young man livin’ wiv me.’
‘If yer’ll ’ave me, Ada, I’d like ter take it.’
‘I told yer, girl. It’s yours whenever yer ready. This street’s where yer belong, Connie luv. I used ter remember when yer was just a toddler. This little turnin’ might not be much, but it’s yer ’ome. It’s where yer grew up.’
They sat in the parlour, cups of tea on their laps and Ada talked at length about the street folk.
‘It’s not altered much since yer left, Con. The Toomeys are as scatty as ever. Young Lillian is goin’ strong wiv a foreign soldier. Marie told me ’e’s a Czech. ’E seems all right but the trouble is, yer can’t understand a word ’e ses. Oh, an’ the Toomeys ’ave got a lodger. ’E looks a funny bloke. Relation o’ Toby’s, be all accounts. I was only sayin’ ter Mrs Richards the ovver day, ’e looks sort o’ familiar. I’ve seen ’im somewhere before. I’ve bin puzzlin’ me brains but fer the life o’ me I can’t fink where I’ve seen ’im. Mind you though, ’e keeps ’imself to’imself. More than I can say fer some of ’em round ’ere. You take ole Mrs Adams. She knows everybody’s business. You mark my words, before long she’ll know all there is ter know about ’im.’
Connie was content to sip her tea and let Ada chat away. Although the ruined buildings opposite were a dark reminder of all the tragedy in her life, she was glad that she had come back to the street again. It seemed to Connie that if there was going to be any chance for her to pull herself together and make some sense of her life she had to get back to her roots, here in this little street, where she was born, where she had grown up. It was here that the long, strange path of her life had begun, and she had to retrace that path to its beginning. She had to go back to the people she knew, like the idiotic Toomeys, the Widow Pacey and her trusted old bag-wash pram, the dependable Joe Cooper, the Richards, Lizzie Conroy, old Mrs Cosgrove and the Browns and George Baker, Mrs Adams the cat lady, and kind Ada Halliday. There were others, too. Perhaps one of the vaguely familiar folk who walked in and out of the turning and just passed the time of day held a clue to the secret parts of her past.
Ada had refilled the teacups and was sitting back in her easy chair. She had been studying the pale-faced girl and saw a trace of desperation in her blue eyes. Whatever had happened to her since she left the street would no doubt be revealed in the girl’s own good time, she told herself. For the present she would make her welcome, feed her up and keep an eye on her. It would be nice to have her company, too. The house had been a dreary place ever since Jack passed away.
‘Is that okay then, Ada?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I said, is it all right fer me ter move in ternight?’
‘’Course it is, luv. Sooner the better.’
Connie put her cup down on the table. ‘Yer looked miles away then, Ada.’
The buxom woman smiled and her face relaxed. ‘Oh I was jus’ finkin’. Now yer movin’ in I’m gonna get that bloody clock fixed.’
Joe Cooper walked along the street that evening and, as he neared the wardens’ post, Dennis Foreman came out of Number One. ‘Fancy a pint, Joe?’ he asked. ‘I need ter talk ter yer.’
Joe grinned. ‘Gettin’ yer down, is it?’
‘What, lodgin’ wiv the Toomeys?’ Dennis said, a look of mock horror showing on his face.
‘Well they ain’t exactly yer ideal family, are they?’
‘They’re all right – now I’ve got Lil sorted out,’ Dennis grinned.
They had crossed over into John Street. ‘Yer ain’t bin playin’ around wiv ’er, ’ave yer?’ Joe asked, a shocked look on his wide face.
Dennis laughed aloud. ‘No fear. Matter o’ fact I put ’er straight. I told ’er I was queer, so if I start winkin’ at yer, take no notice.’
‘Gawd, Den! Yer gettin’ worse. We’ll ’ave ter stop goin’ out tergevver, people are gonna start talkin’.’
‘Well I ’ad ter do somefink, didn’t I? She come up ter me room this mornin’.’
‘Oh?’
‘Too true, Joe. I ’ad ter fink quick. I don’t want that bloody Sandor what’s ’is name on me back, I’ve got enough troubles as it is.’
They had reached the Jolly Compasses and when they had settled themselves in a corner Dennis took out a folded sheet of newspaper from his coat pocket.
‘See this, Joe? It’s a page of the Daily Mail. I was passin’ the time in the public library this afternoon an’ I saw it.’
‘What is it?’ Joe asked, taking the paper and unfolding it.
‘Look, there. It’s an article by this geezer who’s bin researchin’ criminal be’aviour. ’E’s mentioned the Piccadilly jewel raid, among ovvers, an’ the bastard ses there that I’m still at large.’
‘Well you are, ain’t yer?’ Joe grinned.
Dennis stroked his forehead. ‘Bloody ’ell. Articles like that stir up people’s interest. I was beginnin’ ter feel more relaxed lately, an’ now this.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much Den,’ Joe laughed. ‘Not many people round ’ere buy the Daily Mail.’
‘Yeah, but they go ter the public library, don’t they? I read it, didn’t I?’
‘Look Den, people in the street ’ave got used ter yer now an’ I see yer’ve already left those stupid glasses orf. Nobody’s passed any remarks about it, ’ave they?’
‘Well, no.’
‘There yer are then. Just take it easy.’
Dennis chuckled. ‘I was sayin’ that ter yer not so long ago. Mind you, I get nervous sometimes. I imagine somebody’s gonna feel me collar. I couldn’t go back now. They’d ’ave ter kill me first.’
Joe looked up quickly. ‘That sounds a bit drastic. If they catch yer yer’ll ’ave ter face the music. The way you’re talkin’s like somefink out of a James Cagney picture.’
Dennis leaned forward over the table. ‘I mean it, Joe. I’ve got a gun stashed away in the ’ouse an’ I’ll use it if I ’ave to.’
‘Christ!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘S’posin’ Marie comes across it an’ shows it ter Toby? The silly bleeder might shoot ’er wiv it.’
‘Don’t worry, mate. She won’t find it. I’ve got it well’idden. Anyway, let’s change the subject. Talkin’ about guns an’ gettin’ caught is givin’ me the creeps.’
Joe took a sip from his glass. ‘’Ere, by the way. I bumped inter Ada ’Alliday on me way ’ome from work. She told me Connie’s bin round ter see about lodgin’ wiv ’er. Ada said she’s gonna ’ave ’er spare room.’
‘That’ll be nice, Joe. I was wonderin’ when I was gonna get the chance ter see young Connie.’
‘Yeah, well I’d be careful what yer say ter the girl when yer do bump into ’er if I was you.’
Dennis grinned. ‘I’ll be careful, don’t yer worry. I tell yer, seein’ Connie is gonna bring back a lot o’ memories, espesh’ly if she looks as much like Kate as yer said she does.’
Joe nodded slowly. ‘Yer wait till yer see ’er.’
Dennis took a gulp of beer and leaned back in
his chair.
‘’Ere, d’yer remember when me an’ you an’ Kate used ter bump in the Trocette when we was kids? I don’t fink we ever paid, did we?’
Joe smiled. ‘’Ere, what about that time we all got caught smokin’ them fags in the buildin’s an’ they told yer ole man. ’E was standin’ at the door wiv the belt in ’is ’and an’, if I remember rightly, it was Fran Collins who talked ’im out o’ wackin’ yer.’
‘Yeah, I remember, Joe. Ole Fran could do no wrong in my eyes after that. Smashin’ lady, wasn’t she?’
The little pub had become crowded. The piano player was idly tinkling on the keys with one hand, the other clasped around a pint glass. Suddenly Dennis looked up at Joe, a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘That’s “Pasadena”,’ he said. ‘D’yer remember that tune? I wrote the words down once, on me ole man’s time sheet I found be’ind the clock. Gawd knows what it was doin’ there. Blimey, did I get a pastin’ fer that.’
Joe was watching the piano player. ‘D’yer remember Kate singin’ it? She ’ad the words off pat,’ he said quietly.
Dennis nodded. ‘Funny ’ow it all turned out. We was a good team, wasn’t we?’
‘We sure was, Den. Kate was really upset when she read about yer little escapade, an’ she took it bad when she ’eard yer got nabbed.’
They had lapsed into silence for a while, and Dennis drained his glass quickly. ‘C’mon, Joe. Let’s find ourselves anuvver pub,’ he said. ‘I’m beginnin’ ter feel morbid sittin’’ere.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Connie Morgan had found it easier to settle back into Ironmonger Street than she had first imagined. People she had known were soon chatting to her once more and after two weeks it seemed to her as though she had never been away. Ada Halliday had made her really welcome and the little upstairs back room which had been made available was comfortably furnished and spotlessly clean. Ada insisted that Connie ate with her in the evenings for, as the jolly woman had said, ‘It’s just as easy ter cook fer two as fer one, an’ besides, there’s two of us ter do the washin’ up, girl.’
Ironmonger's Daughter Page 47
