Ironmonger's Daughter (33 page)

Robert slept soundly, his even, shallow breathing hardly moving his chest. Connie twisted and turned, her sleep spoiled with mixed-up dreams. They awoke late and had hardly finished breakfast when the news came over the wireless that the Prime Minister would be speaking to the nation. They listened in silence as the flat, cultured voice spoke of how he had striven to preserve peace and that now, despite all his efforts, the country was at war with Germany. His voice dragged on painfully and, when Robert finally got up and turned off the wireless, Connie saw the set expression on his face and the sadness reflected in his ice-blue eyes. She knew that all the speculation was over. She felt calm, even relieved that the challenge was there for her to take up. She had to be brave now. There must be no tears, no regrets. He would surely leave her, but it would not be for ever. Their times together in the days ahead would be short and treasured. One day they would meet again and never be parted.

The unearthly wail of the air-raid siren broke the silence, and they looked down into the Sunday street below. People were running along the thoroughfare, their eyes searching the skies. Mothers clutched their babies and held on desperately to their youngsters as they ran for the shelter in the square opposite.

Connie gripped Robert’s arm. ‘What shall we do?’ she asked him, her voice trembling.

He put his arm around her waist. ‘Don’t be frightened, Con. They’re probably just trying out the sirens. We might as well stay here, at least for the time being.’

They sat together at the window as the sound of the siren died to a moan. There was a deathly silence outside. The street was now empty, save for a lone mongrel who cocked his leg against a tree then trotted off unconcernedly. A police car suddenly dashed past, and then it was silent again.

 

As soon as the Prime Minister’s speech ended, Ironmonger Street came to life. Front doors opened and people spilled out on to the pavements. Windows in the buildings were thrown open and eyes looked down at the commotion below. Outside number one the Toomeys stood together, Toby with a distant expression on his narrow face, Marie sobbing and being comforted by her daughter Lillian. The Bakers and the Richards stood talking in a huddle while Widow Pacey stood alone in her doorway, her arms folded and a defiant look on her face. When the siren sounded the street folk looked fearfully towards the clear blue sky and then hurried through the factory gates and down the steps into the stale-smelling basement shelter. People ran from the buildings. Alf Riley held his shaking wife by the arm and they were followed by the Smiths, the Carringtons and the Argents. The wail died and the little cul-de-sac became empty and quiet.

The basement shelter in the Armitage factory had become full of shaking, fearful folk who sat around on the hard wooden benches and talked in low voices. Lizzie Conroy took out her knitting and found she was dropping more stitches than she picked up. George Baker had left his false teeth in the cup and he sat making funny faces, to the delight of his two young grandchildren. Mother Adams sat fretting over her cats, and Doris Richards held her arms around her daughter Bella. Joe Cooper stood in the doorway, wearing his steel helmet which had the words ARP stencilled on it and carrying his service gas-mask pack over his shoulder. With him stood Mary’s husband Frank who was looking around at the assembled street folk.

‘’Ere, Joe. Ole Clara Cosgrove ain’t ’ere,’ Frank said suddenly.

‘Bloody ’ell!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘I bet she didn’t ’ear the siren. C’mon, Frank, we’d better see if she’s all right.’

The two men hurried to number, twenty and knocked loudly on the door. Joe bent down and put his mouth to the letter box. ‘You all right, Clara?’ he called out.

‘She’s fell asleep, it’s a dead cert,’ Frank said, looking up at the sky anxiously.

Joe fished his hand into the letter box and pulled out a string with a key tied to the end of it. ‘C’mon, Frank, let’s go get ’er.’

The two men entered the house and walked into the front parlour. Clara Cosgrove was seated in her favourite armchair, her hands folded in her lap and her mouth hanging open.

Joe shook the old lady gently and she awoke with a start. ‘Gawd! Yer frightened the bleedin’ life out o’ me. What’s wrong?’

‘C’mon, Clara. We’re tryin’ the shelter out,’ Joe said, taking hold of her arm.

‘Leave me alone, sod yer!’ she growled. ‘There’s me ’avin’ a nice nap an’ you two come in ’ere playin’ silly buggers. Now piss orf out.’

‘The warnin’ went, Clara. We come ter take yer ter the shelter.’

‘D’yer mean the war’s started?’

‘That’s right, Ma,’ Frank said softly.

Clara reached beneath her pinafore and took out a small lace handkerchief with which she dabbed at her eyes. ‘So it’s all orf again, is it? They’ll never learn, will they? I’m sure it was gettin’ gassed in the last war caused my Fred ter peg out the way ’e did. Well I tell yer somefink. I don’t care what’appens. They’re not gettin’ me down that bloody shelter. I’d sooner stay ’ere in me own ’ome, ’cos the way I see it, when yer number’s up there ain’t much yer can do about it. Now you two go on back ter the rest of ’em. Tell ’em Clara Cosgrove is’avin’ a little nap ’an don’t wanna be disturbed. ’Ere, an’ tell’em all not ter make too much noise as they come past me winder, okay?’

‘Okay, Ma,’ Joe said, looking at Frank and jerking his head towards the door.

 

The long, even tone of the all clear brought people out on to the street once more. The sun shone down from an almost cloudless sky as people stood about at their front doors and children came out to play. Later Tony Armeda pushed his ice-cream barrow into the turning and became busy, scooping dabs of yellow cream on to large wafer cones. Children gripped their pennies and jostled for position at the front of the queue.

‘I’m first! I’m first!’

‘No you ain’t. I was ’ere first.’

‘Donna push! Yer knocka da barrer over. Waita yer turn, you all geta served.’

‘Gissa tupp’ny one, Tony.’

‘Me, too, Tony.’

The big Italian reached down yet again into his metal drum and came up with another scoop of ice-cream. The kids jostled each other as more gathered around the gaily painted barrow, pennies clutched tightly in their sweaty palms. Cooking smells drifted out from open front doors and men started off up the turning dressed in their Sunday best, caps askew and white silk scarves knotted around their necks. Public houses filled and urgent discussions were quickly begun.

‘It won’t last long. I give it six months. It’s a big game o’ bluff,’ Terry said, hooking his thumbs through his braces.

‘I don’t fink so, Tel. I reckon it’s gonna be a nasty turnout. You’ve only gotta look at what ’appened in Spain. Look at the bombin’ what went on out there.’

‘Yeah, but them there Republicans didn’t ’ave any planes, Bill. They couldn’t fight back. If the Germans bomb us we’re gonna retaliate, stan’s ter reason.’

‘I ’ope you’re right, Tel. ’Ere, gonna get anuvver drink in, I feel like gettin’ pissed.’

 

Evening shadows lengthened in the thoroughfare below as Connie sat with Robert in the quiet flat. The wireless was switched on and soft orchestral music drifted through the room. There had been urgent broadcasts all day warning people to read the notices that were going up in public places. People had been urged to register their children for evacuation and advice was given on how to cope in the event of a gas attack. Prayers were broadcast and then sombre music had played once more. Connie rested her head on his shoulder. ‘When will yer go?’ she asked.

‘I’ll go along to the recruiting office first thing tomorrow, Con. There’s no point in waiting.’

‘Will yer ’ave ter go straight away?’

‘No, they’ll send for me. I’ll get a medical first.’

‘What will yer parents say, Robert? They’ll be upset, won’t they?’

He nodded his head slowly. ‘I think they expect me to volunteer. Dad used to point out the value of managing production in a factory which was on a government contract, but he knows I couldn’t sit out the war in the factory. I’d go mad, Con.’

‘You are mad,’ she smiled sadly. ‘Yer could stay ’ere wiv me. Yer don’t ’ave ter go away an’ fight.’

He did not answer as he stood up and walked over to the window. He looked down into the deserted street. It was the first night that the blackout was in force and it was complete. No lights shone out and passers-by lit their way with shaded torches. The distant rumble of thunder and a brief flash of lightning seemed like an omen to him as he stood gazing into the darkness.

Connie walked over to him and put her arms around his tense body. ‘Come away from the winder, Robert. Close the curtains an’ put the light on. I don’t like the dark.’

He bent his head and found her lips. She pressed herself to him, aware that time was short. There was so much she wanted to say and so little time. She clung to him and felt his hands gently stroking her back.

‘I love you, Connie,’ he whispered. ‘Will you wait for me?’

She nodded, unable to speak as tears filled her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. He stepped back and took her hand as he led her away from the window.

‘I want to say something, Con,’ he said, pulling her down beside him on the sofa. ‘You must know I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No, don’t say anything. I’ve wanted to ask you if you’ll marry me, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I’ve been convinced for some time now there’d be a war and it wouldn’t be fair to you. I could get killed and you’d be a widow before you’d got used to being a wife. But now that it’s happened . . .’

‘Yer shouldn’t fink like that,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I’ve got a stake in us, too. We could get engaged. Ask me, Robert. Just ask me,’ she urged him.

He took her to him and looked into her blue eyes. ‘Will you marry me, Con?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ she gasped, pulling his head down on to her open lips.

 

The country was in its first week of war and in the shops and at the markets trade was brisk as people bought up blackout material and rolls of gum-backed paper to protect their windows against blast. Cinemas and dance halls closed, along with sports stadiums and public meeting places. Vehicles drove at night with their headlights shielded and the streets became dangerous places for everyone in the blackness. Police and street wardens began to patrol the back turnings, and the call to ‘Put that light out’ became a very familiar cry. Whole schools were evacuated with their teachers, and many thousands of parents said goodbye to their offspring as trains and coaches took the youngsters to the supposed safety of the countryside. For children who stayed in the capital there were few schools that remained open, and they ran wild in the streets to the chagrin of the local bobbies. News bulletins came with monotonous regularity and the government announced that all young men between the ages of eighteen and forty-one would be liable for call-up.

Robert Armitage had volunteered for the RAF and, after a medical, he was called up almost immediately. Connie attempted to fill the void in her life by spending most of her spare time with the Bartletts. On Tuesday and Thursday evenings she worked at the pub, and when she was asked if she would like to work on Saturday evenings Connie jumped at the chance. The atmosphere at the Dolphin was pleasant enough and she found the work helped her to get over her parting from Robert. He wrote to her regularly and in his letters he spoke of going off to flying school very soon. In the pub young faces were missing as the first batch of eligible men in their twenties received their call-up papers. Pub parties became a nightly occurrence as fresh-faced lads and their anxious parents drank together on the eve of conscription. The lads were invariably treated to a free drink and a fond kiss on the cheek by Dora French, who remarked to her husband, ‘They’re only kids, Bill. Most of ’em ain’t started shavin’ yet.’

‘They’ll grow up soon enough, Dora,’ he replied. ‘There’ll be a few gaps along the counter before this war’s over, mark my words.’

 

The first days of war passed without the expected air attacks, and people began to get used to the defence preparations that had appeared everywhere. Sandbags and posters, first-aid posts and street shelters were in evidence all across London, and travellers carried their gas masks with them on trains and on the buses and trams. Foodstuffs were becoming scarce and the government issued ration books prior to announcing a food-rationing system. The street blackout became a problem as the days grew shorter. People struggled home from work through dark streets and accidents became commonplace.

For the Ironmonger Street folk the blackout did not pose too many problems as most of them worked locally, but for Toby Toomey it became a source of some considerable embarrassment. He had set out on a cold Monday morning in September determined to have a good day. The pram was holding up well although the wheels had started squeaking again, and as he left the turning Toby decided to try Rotherhithe. He had often pushed his battered old pram through the backstreets around the Surrey Docks and the people there knew him. It was quite a walk, but trade had dried up locally and he thought it would be worth the effort. By midday his conveyance was filled with bits of scrap iron and bundles of old newspapers. Mrs O’Shaughnessy had offered him an old tin bath and Mrs Carter wanted him to take her bug-ridden mattress away, but Toby had to remind the two women that it was a pram he had and not a horse and cart.

The sun had come out during the morning and the wind had dropped. Toby decided to eat his sandwiches down by the water. There was a riverside pub he knew where the landlord wasn’t too fussy who he served, providing they could pay, and he would be able to stow his pram within sight. Once he had not taken such a precaution and the local kids had stolen the wheels off his pram for their box-carts. Toby parked his contraption in the alley at the back of the pub and walked in the back door. He ordered a pint of ale and sat out on the veranda where he ate his sandwiches of boiled bacon, keeping one eye on the day’s collection of old rubbish. The sun felt warm on his face and the smell of the river mud drifted up as the tide began to ebb. He could see the Norwegian timber ship moored in mid-stream and the busy dockside cranes dipping and swinging as pine and spruce sets were lifted from the holds of the Scandinavian ships berthed in the Surrey. The beer tasted good and Toby sifted through his pockets. There was just enough for another pint and, glancing at the laden pram beneath the veranda, he felt he had earned it.