Ironmonger's Daughter (25 page)

The opportunity presented itself one Monday morning. It was nearing midday and Connie was just finishing laying the table. Miss Jones suddenly walked into the room and handed her an envelope.

‘Would you put this beside the boss’s plate, dear,’ she asked. ‘It’s a birthday card and we’ve all signed it. It might help cheer the old goat up a bit,’ she giggled.

Connie took the envelope and propped it up against a glass, glancing at the well-groomed woman. ‘Would yer mind if I asked yer somefink, Miss Jones?’

Alice Jones patted her permanent wave theatrically. ‘Call me Alice, dear. It sounds less formal. Now, what is it you want to ask me?’

Connie hesitated. ‘It’s . . . it’s about me mum. I was wonderin’ if . . . if yer know anyfink about the money she got from the firm?’

Alice bit on her lip. It was a subject she did not want to discuss in the firm’s canteen, especially as it was almost lunchtime. She looked over her shoulder before answering. ‘Look, dear. I can’t talk to you now. They’ll all be down soon. It would be best if we talked outside of working hours really. You’re welcome to come round to my place, if you’d like to. I don’t live far away. My house is just off the Old Kent Road.’

Connie nodded. ‘I need ter talk ter yer as soon as possible, Alice. It’s important ter me.’

Alice patted her hair again with the palm of her hand. ‘If it’s that important you’re welcome to come round tonight, if you want to.’

‘I’d like to, if you’re sure you don’t mind,’ Connie said hesitantly.

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ the older woman said, fishing into her handbag. ‘Look, here’s my address on this envelope. If you can manage around half-seven it’ll suit me fine.’

Connie nodded as she took the creased envelope and slipped it into her apron pocket. Suddenly the day seemed much brighter.

 

The day had started badly for Gordon Harris and it could only get worse, he decided. At nine o’clock precisely he presented himself to the manager of Vine Estates and was motioned into a chair. Norman Wallburton raised his bulky figure from behind the desk and paced the room.

‘Now look here, Harris. I’m rather concerned about that little business in Ironmonger Street.’

The rent collector felt his heart sink, and he bit on the inside of his cheek. That bloody turning will be the death of me, he thought.

‘Number one, Ironmonger Street,’ the manager went on. ‘They owe four weeks’ rent. How come you allowed the arrears to build up?’

Harris took a deep breath. ‘Ah, yes. The Toomey family. Well you see Mr Wallburton, it’s like this. Toomey has been ill. His wife promised me faithfully that the rent arrears would be cleared up today. In fact, I’m going round to Ironmonger Street this morning.’

The manager grunted. ‘I don’t like these arrears building up, Harris. In future, if any tenant in that particular street slips, even for one week, I’ll want to know why. Is that clear?’

Harris nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Wallburton. It’ll be all right. You can take my word for it. Toomey told me he’s going back to work this week and not to worry. The rent will be paid up to date.’

The bulky manager of Vine Estates looked over his thickrimmed spectacles at his pale-faced subordinate. ‘What exactly does this Toomey do for a living, might I ask?’

Harris swallowed hard ‘He’s a collector.’

‘A collector?’

‘Yes. He collects scrap iron and things.’

‘Scrap iron!? You mean the man’s a totter?’

‘Well, sort of.’

The manager sat down at his desk and glared at the rent collector. ‘I hope he doesn’t store scrap iron in his house?’

‘No, he collects and delivers directly.’

‘What does he use for these collections, a horse and cart?’

‘No, a pram,’ Harris mumbled.

‘A pram!? Good God, man. No wonder he’s in arrears. Now you get straight round there and get that rent. Oh, and make sure our totter friend isn’t storing that scrap of his in the house. It’s against the law.’

Gordon Harris left the estate office and walked slowly down the Old Kent Road. There was no doubt about it, he mused, collecting rents was not a job for the faint-hearted, especially when the round took in Ironmonger Street. He thought about the times he had been verbally assaulted, propositioned, confronted and, worst of all, ignored in that scruffy turning. Even the factory owner had been pelted with rotten apples by the kids as he drove into the street. Then there was the oilshop on the corner. The kids had driven poor old Jerry Martin into Colney Hatch and no one wanted to buy the shop. There was the rag shop on the opposite corner as well. Once every blue moon it opened up for the purpose of loading bags of rags on to a lorry and then it promptly closed again. Vine Estates did not own the premises and no one seemed to know the identity of the shop owner. It was a mystery. Now, on top of everything else, he had heard that Vine Estates was negotiating to purchase Jubilee Dwellings. God! he thought. If that deal goes through I’ll have to give the job up and try something else. Anything would be better than facing another load of moaning tenants every Monday morning.

As he turned into Tower Bridge Road and walked past the market stalls Gordon Harris could sense trouble. The feeling increased as he turned off the thoroughfare and weaved his way towards the dreaded turning. When he reached the corner of Ironmonger Street he knew he should have reported in sick that morning. There was a whole line of people spread across the turning.

‘There ’e is,’ someone shouted.

The rent collector could see the broad-shouldered figure of Joe Cooper approaching him with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets and a stern look on his round face.

‘Sorry, pal. Yer can’t come in the street. Yer barred.’

‘What do you mean, I’m barred? I’ve got rents to collect – and arrears,’ Harris added with forced bravado.

‘Well we’re not payin’ any rent until your precious Vine Estates does somefink about our ’ouses.’

‘That’s right,’ piped in Mary Brown. ‘Our ’ouses are a bloody disgrace. We’ve got water pourin’ in the roofs an’ the walls are soppin’ wet. It’s bleedin’ scand’lous.’

Harris put his black book under his arm and scratched his head. ‘Well I don’t know what I can do about it. I’m only employed ter collect the rents.’

The Ironmonger Street folk milled around him in a threatening manner and George Baker hobbled up, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

‘Now listen, mate,’ George said. ‘We ain’t payin’ no poxy rent, so yer can go back an’ tell yer guv’nor we want somefink done pronto, or we might jus’ come round an’ set yer bloody office alight. Got it?’

The collector had got the message. He had caught a glimpse of Toby and Marie Toomey grinning triumphantly in the background. He turned on his heel and walked away with cheers and jeers ringing in his ears.

 

Connie sat with the Bartletts listening to Helen’s account of the confrontation at the street entrance that morning.

‘You should ’ave seen Mary Brown an’ ’er farvver standin’ up ter that rent collector,’ she said to Matthew. ‘Joe Cooper was up the front – as usual. Anyway, they ain’t payin’ their rents till somefink’s done. I dunno what Joe an’ Mary were doin’ there. They must ’ave lost a day’s pay. I can’t imagine the firm givin’’em time off fer anyfing o’that sort.’

Matthew slumped down in his chair and hooked his thumbs through his wide braces. ‘That Joe gets ’imself mixed up in everyfing. I bet ’is missus ain’t very ’appy.’

Helen shrugged her shoulders. ‘Joe’s always bin the same. I don’t know ’ow ’e finds the time, what wiv Sadie bein’ stuck in a wheelchair.’

‘What’s wrong wiv ’er?’ Connie asked.

‘She caught polio years ago. Shame really. She was a goodlookin’ woman. You wouldn’t reco’nise ’er if yer’d seen ’er then. Very smart she was. Funny, they never ’ad kids. Always out tergevver, like a couple o’ love birds they was. It’s different now though. She don’t stop naggin’ ’im. I fink ’alf of it is that cousin of ’ers. She’s always in the ’ouse, so I’ve ’eard. She’s prob’ly poisoned ’er mind against Joe.’

‘Why don’t Joe chuck the ole bat out?’ Matthew asked.

‘I s’pose ’e’s glad she’s there. It gives ’im a break. ’E was always at meetin’s, but I don’t fink ’e goes ter many now.’

Matthew glanced at Helen. ‘You seem ter know a lot about Joe Cooper.’

‘It’s only what I’m told,’ she countered.

‘Well I don’t fink they’re gonna get away wiv not payin’ the rent. They’ll send the bailiffs round.’

Helen turned her attention to a pair of Matthew’s torn trousers and Molly buried her head in a magazine, sensing that another row between her parents was likely. The clock on the mantelshelf struck seven and Connie realised it was time for her to leave. She had not mentioned that she was going to see Alice Jones. Better wait until I know something definite, she reasoned.

Connie had gone back to her flat before she left for her appointment. She could hear raised voices in the flat below and she felt a concern for Molly. Her cousin had taken to reading as an escape from the unpleasant atmosphere and Connie was, once again, finding it difficult to communicate with her. Molly had become even more withdrawn and less willing to talk. Connie guessed that her relationship with Robert had something to do with Molly’s attitude. She had been a little off-hand when she had learned about Michael Donovan, and now when they had one of their rare chats together Molly would go quiet at the mention of Robert’s name. Connie sighed as she glanced into the mirror. She did not want to shut her cousin out of her life. They had always been very close and she wanted Molly to share in her happiness. Maybe it was inevitable that they should grow apart. Maybe it was unreasonable to expect Molly to be happy for her. After all, there was little happiness in her own life, only the knowledge that she was trapped inside a misshapen, ailing body. It was all so unfair. Connie sighed heavily as she closed the door behind her and hurried down into the quiet street.

The Old Kent Road was quiet that evening. The shops were shuttered and the traffic had died down. One or two trams clattered past and a pair of tired horses pulled an empty haycart along beside the kerb. Connie reach the Dun Cow public house and took the envelope from her handbag. She showed the address to an elderly gent who was lounging against a sand bin smoking a clay pipe, and he directed her to a little backstreet a short way from the pub. Potter Street was made up of neat terraced houses which stretched along both sides of the turning. Steps led up to the front doors, and more steps afforded entry to the basement areas. Number twenty-six had a highly polished front door and a brass knocker and letterbox. Connie climbed the steps and as she lifted the door knocker she saw the lace curtains move in the downstairs window. The door was immediately opened by Miss Jones who smiled at her and stepped back for her to enter. The passage was carpeted and just inside the front door there was a hat stand on which a long bevelled mirror hung. Alice glanced at her reflection and touched her well-managed hair before showing Connie into the front room.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ she asked.

Connie shook her head. ‘No fanks. It’s nice of yer ter see me.’

Alice motioned to an armchair. ‘Sit yourself down, girl. Let me take your coat.’

While Connie was making herself comfortable Alice put the coat on a hanger and hung it behind the room door.

‘Now then. How can I help you?’

Connie clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at her toes. ‘I’m tryin’ ter find out about the money me mum received from Armitage’s all those years right up till she died,’ she said directly.

‘Didn’t your mother tell you anything about the money, dear?’

‘No. Every time I asked ’er she said it was me dad’s money. I never knew ’im. Mum told me ’e was dead and that was all I needed ter know.’

Alice looked at the pretty girl sitting facing her and felt sorry for her. She had known Kate Morgan and had learned quite a lot about her from the works’ gossip. It couldn’t have been easy for this girl growing up. As she studied her Alice could not help but notice how like her mother she was: there was an uncanny resemblance. Alice crossed her legs and straightened her skirt.

‘You think I might know about the money?’ she asked.

Connie nodded. ‘Well I thought you bein’ the guv’nor’s secretary you might ’ave arranged it.’

The older woman smiled kindly. ‘Look. Let me get you a cup of tea and then we’ll have a chat.’

Sounds came from the kitchen and while she was waiting Connie looked about the room. The two armchairs were covered with a floral-patterned material and against the wall facing the fireplace was a matching sofa. In the centre of the room there was a square dining-table with an embroidered sash spread across the middle. A bowl of fruit stood in the centre of the table and the arrangement reminded Connie of Christmas. The walls were papered in a leaf-pattern and various pictures of landscapes were hung around the room. One different picture took Connie’s eye. It was of a guardian angel standing over two young children. There was something about that particular picture that reminded her of the sister’s room at the hospital. The painting was hung in a wide gilt frame and like the others it was suspended from a wooden picture rail that went around the walls. A gas fire stood in the hearth and above the high marble mantelshelf there was a mirror shaped like a butterfly. A rearing iron horse was perched at each end of the shelf and in the centre there was a large chiming clock with an ebonised base. The whole room looked clean and everything seemed in place. Heavy curtains hung at the side of the window and the lace covering the window panes looked freshly laundered. Connie was feeling slightly ill at ease.

Alice came back into the room with two cups of tea balanced on a wicker tray. She handed one cup to Connie and then sat down in the chair facing her with a sigh.