Ironmonger's Daughter (34 page)

The usual clientele had left the pub and the landlord closed and bolted the front doors before settling down to a drink with a few docker friends. The veranda had been cleared of glasses and no one had noticed the frail figure in the scruffy overcoat who was snoring quietly in the corner. The parked pram had been spotted however, and a discussion was taking place.

‘What’s this fing doin’ ’ere then, Alan?’

‘I dunno,’ said the smaller lad, biting on a large cooking apple. ‘Somebody who’s in the boozer, I s’pose.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ his friend said, kicking the wheels. ‘The pub’s shut. It’s afternoon.’

‘P’raps somebody’s left it ’ere, Tom. It’s all ole junk,’ the third lad said, kicking the brake off.

The two lads looked at Tom, waiting for their leader to make a decision. ‘Gissa bite of your apple, Alan, then we’ll ditch this ole junk.’

The sun had gone off the river and an easterly wind blew along the estuary. Toby woke up with a start and shivered. For a few moments he looked around, wondering where he was. When he had pulled himself together and walked unsteadily into the public bar four pairs of eyes stared at him.

‘Where the bloody ’ell did you come from?’ the landlord said, his hands on his hips.

‘I’m sorry, mate. I was sittin’ out on the veranda an’ I must’ave fell asleep,’ Toby said yawning.

‘This pub’s bin closed fer over three hours. Yer must ’ave bin in a coma.’

‘Sorry, mate. I done a lot o’ collectin’ this mornin’ an’ I come over tired.’

‘What d’yer collect then?’ one of the dockers asked, smiling at his pals.

‘Scrap iron an’ fings. I got a pram outside,’ Toby replied, scratching his thinning hair.

The landlord stroked his chin. ‘D’yer take carpets?’

Toby wondered how he was going to manage another item on his already overloaded pram, but he thought it better not to antagonise the beefy pub owner. ‘Yeah, I’ll take it out o’ yer way, mate,’ he said cheerfully.

‘C’mon then. It’s in the passage. I’ll let yer out that way.’

Toby followed the landlord and saw to his dismay that the rolled-up carpet was over eight feet long. He went red in the face as he lifted it, and with the help of the publican he managed to hoist it on to his shoulders. This bloody thing must weigh a ton, he groaned to himself as he staggered around the alley to where he had left his pram.

‘Oh Gawd!’ Toby gasped. ‘The bastards ’ave nicked it.’

He dropped the carpet roll on to the cobbles and looked around. There was no sign of his pram. He walked over to the riverside wall and winced as he looked down at the muddy shore. The battered old pram was lying upside down at the bottom of the flight of stone steps which led down from the walkway. The larger bits of scrap iron were sticking out of the oozing mud but the smaller pieces had sunk below the surface. Toby hurried along to the steps and clambered down to where his contraption was lying. It took all his strength to pull it out of the sticky, clinging mud and drag it up on to the walkway. Toby went back down to the shore and tried to recover bits of iron, but he had little success. The scrap was stuck fast. His boots were covered in mud and his socks had become sodden.

‘Bloody ’ell,’ he groaned aloud. ‘Marie’ll kill me.’

People turned and stared at the spectacle as Toby Toomey pushed his mud-covered pram along in the kerb with the carpet roll placed lengthways on top. His overcoat and boots were caked in mud and two of the wheels were buckled. It was getting dark and there was still a long way to go. By the time Toby had reached Dockhead it was pitch black. As he rounded a curve in the road he felt a bump and heard a stream of cusswords.

The uniformed figure at his feet stared up at Toby with a murderous look in his eye. ‘Yer knocked me orf me bike, yer scatty git. I’m gonna nick yer fer pushin’ a pram wivvout due care an’ attention,’ the constable growled as he retrieved his helmet and reached for his notebook.

‘I’m very sorry, mate. I . . .’

‘Don’t you “mate” me, yer bloody idiot. Now what yer got ter say fer yerself?’

‘Well, I ’ad a couple o’ pints an’ I fell asleep yer see, an’ . . .’

‘Right,’ the constable barked, licking his pencil stub. ‘Drunk in charge of a pram on a public ’ighway, fer starters.’

A sorry, tired and totally dejected figure walked into Ironmonger Street to face the wrath of his beloved wife.

‘We’ll all end up in the bleedin’ work’ouse before long!’ Marie screamed at him. ‘Yer bin out all bloody day long an’ all yer’ve collected is a pissy, moth-eared carpet that stinks o’ dog shit an’ two buckled wheels. Look at the state o’ yer. Where did yer find the carpet, in the poxy river?’

1940 began with the worst winter for over forty years. Parts of the River Thames froze over and trains became stranded. Road transport was thrown into chaos as horses and vehicles slipped and slithered over the iced-up cobbles and tarmac. Car-men wrapped their nags’ hooves in sacking and road vehicles were fitted with wheel chains in a battle against the elements. Coupled with the perilous blackout regulations the bad weather caused many accidents and resulted in delays and shortages of supplies to shops and factories. The misery was compounded by the introduction of food rationing. Bacon, butter and sugar were now in short supply and people had to register with particular shops. During the first Christmas of the war, shortages had begun to be felt and now the situation was beginning to get worse.

Christmas had been a time of reunion for Connie and Robert. They had spent just four days together before he left for pilot training, and during that time they had visited a jeweller’s shop at the Elephant and Castle where Connie chose a ring. It had a single white diamond mounted on a platinum shoulder, and when they walked out of the shop and she felt the weight of it on her finger Connie wanted to shout aloud to everyone that she was now engaged. It was during their short time together that Connie had insisted they each get a photo done for the other to keep. They picked a photographic studio in the Tower Bridge Road and it was on the way there during Christmas Eve that she spotted Michael Donovan. He was in uniform and accompanied by a young woman who was holding on to his arm. Connie felt her face flush as they drew near.

He smiled at her with his easy grin. ‘’Ello, Connie. ’Ow yer keepin’?’

‘I’m fine, Michael. Er . . . this is Robert.’

The men shook hands and Michael turned to Connie. ‘This is my wife, Beckie.’

The dark-haired young woman held out her hand. ‘So you’re Connie. Michael told me about yer. I’m pleased ter meet yer.’

Connie took the girl’s hand, her face showing surprise. There was an embarrassing silence, and Robert asked, ‘When are you due back, Michael?’

‘Day after Boxin’ Day. ’Ow about you?’

‘Same day,’ Robert grinned. ‘What are you on?’

‘Destroyers. Are you aircrew?’

‘Not yet. I’m pilot training.’

‘So yer gonna be a flyer then?’ Michael grinned. ‘I prefer the water meself.’

The women looked at each other and Beckie’s eyes raised in feigned impatience. ‘’Ere we go,’ she said, smiling.

Michael pulled the collar of his topcoat up around his ears. ‘Sorry, we’ve gotta dash. We’re off ter get Beckie’s Christmas present.’

‘’E’s buyin’ me a coat,’ the girl said, looking adoringly at her husband.

Michael grinned sheepishly. ‘Oh well, duty calls. All the best, an’ a merry Christmas.’

Robert glanced at Connie and saw the distant look in her eyes as she watched Michael and his wife walking away. ‘Come on, Con,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s get those photos taken.’

 

The bitter winter persisted throughout February and, when the weather finally broke at the beginning of March, a new tribulation was foisted upon the Toomey family. An envelope was pushed through their letter box and when Marie read the contents she screamed out for Toby, ‘Get yerself down ’ere. We got troubles.’

‘Whassa matter, luv?’

‘Read this,’ Marie growled, holding out the sheet of paper.

‘You read it, Marie. Yer know I can’t see wivvout me glasses.’

‘Well it’s about time yer got yerself anuvver pair. They’ve got plenty o’cheap glasses at the market.’

Toby sat himself down in the tattered armchair and looked up at his irate wife. ‘What’s it say, luv?’

‘We’ve gotta give the shop up,’ she said, her arms akimbo.

‘Do what!’ he gasped.

‘This letter’s from Uncle Bert. ’E ses the shop’s bein’ took over by the ARP fer a warden’s post. It’s ter do wiv the defence regulations.’

‘Christ! They can’t do that, Marie.’

‘Well they’ve bleedin’ well gorn an’ done it. You’ll ’ave ter get yer stuff out o’ there by next week, it ses ’ere.’

Toby scratched the top of his head and stared dejectedly into the fireplace. It was bad enough having to scrounge a living by totting, without having nowhere to store all his scrap and old newspapers. At least the shop had been a decent place to dump it. The rent wasn’t much either. Uncle Bert had been generous, but then it had rather suited his purpose. Certain items which had fallen off the back of lorries and horsecarts were often secreted beneath sacks of rags and bundles of old newspapers. Marie’s uncle is a carney character, Toby admitted to himself. No notice was ever taken when the lorry called to remove the scrap, and certain other items, too. Yes, Uncle Bert was carney, although his keeping on about not letting anyone know Toby was renting the shop was a bloody nuisance. It made it difficult, having to cart all the scrap iron and bundles of rags and papers into the shop through the backyard. Uncle Bert had emphasised the need for secrecy to Marie, and he had made himself crystal clear.

‘Look ’ere, luv,’ he said, ‘if yer neighbours know yer ole man’s rentin’ that shop they’re gonna get curious. They’re not stupid. They know that what ’e does don’t run ter payin’ rent on a shop. Somebody’s only gotta open their trap ter the wrong person, like the local bobbie, an’ I’m gonna be in trouble.’

Marie had been staring at Toby as he sat slumped in the battered armchair. ‘Well, what yer gonna do about it? I ain’t’avin’ that rubbish o’ yours stuck in me yard. Yer better sort somefink out ’cos I don’t want our Lil upset. If she brings a fella ’ome an’ ’e sees bits of old iron stuck in the passage ’e’s gonna fink the Toomeys are a load o’ scruffs.’

Toby scratched his head thoughtfully. He felt he was getting too old to push that creaky old pram around the backstreets. Maybe he should give up being a totter. It would be nice to get a steady job and put his tired feet up in the evenings, instead of having to sort through the day’s collections and bag up all those stinking rags. Perhaps there was work going at the factory. Maybe they needed a nightwatchman? It can’t be very hard being a nightwatchman, he thought. After all, it’s only watching the place. Be a chance to get away from Marie and her acid tongue, he mused, his face breaking into a smile.

‘Oi! What yer sittin’ there grinnin’ like a Cheshire cat for?’

Marie shouted. ‘Fings won’t get sorted out while you’re stuck in that chair.’

‘I was finkin’, Marie.’

‘Bloody ’ell! You surprise me.’

Toby stared dejectedly into the fire. Perhaps he should really get things sorted out, like waiting until Marie was asleep and then crowning her with the flat-iron. He could wrap her up in one of those old pissy carpets and dump her in the river. When folks asked after her he could say she had run off with a tallyman. No, it wouldn’t work. Lillian would smell a rat. Oh well, it was nice thinking about it anyway.

 

During the early part of April Germany seized Denmark and invaded Norway. British troops were fighting at Narvik before the month was out, and in May German troops marched into Belgium and Holland. Churchill was now Prime Minister of a coalition government and his rousing speeches were inevitably discussed in the Horseshoe.

‘Well at least ’e ain’t tryin’ ter pull the wool over our eyes, Tel. ’E’s puttin’ it to us straight.’

‘Yeah, I grant yer that, but it frightens the life out o’ my ole woman, Bill.’

‘Yeah, it’s the same wiv my ole dutch, Tel. It’s playin’ on ’er nerves. The ouvver night she woke me up screamin’. “There’s a bloody parachutist sittin’ on our chimney pot,” she shouts out. Bleedin’ nightmare she was ’avin’. I said to ’er, “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll go down an’ light the fire. That’ll do the trick.” She turns over an’ five minutes later she’s snorin’ ’er bleedin’’ead orf.’

‘Yer gotta admit though, Bill. It’s gettin’ bad.’

‘Yeah it is. So’s this beer.’

‘Fancy anuvver one?’

‘Might as well, Tel.’

A few days later, on Saturday the first day of June, everyone in the Dolphin public house in Salter Street was talking about the war. The news was bad. The remnants of the British and French armies were being taken off the beaches at Dunkirk and repeated wireless bulletins had reported that casualties were very high. Connie and her friend Jennie were serving in the public bar and they could both feel the tension. It seemed unusually quiet that evening. Normally the pub pianist would be banging out the latest tunes, but tonight he sat at the counter with his chin resting on his cupped hand. Tubby Jackson’s son was somewhere in France and the anxiety was written all over the old man’s face. There was no laughter in the Dolphin that evening, only subdued conversation and occasional words of encouragement for the piano player.

It was around nine o’clock when the pub door opened and a tall, fair-haired young man in airforce uniform moved the blackout curtain aside and stepped into the smoky interior. He looked around the bar sheepishly and was immediately spotted by two old ladies who were sitting near the door.

‘’Ere, May. Who’s ’e?’

‘’Ow the bleedin’ ’ell should I know, Nora.’

‘’E’s a nice-lookin’ bloke, May. Makes me wish I was twenty years younger.’ May Sanders watched as he squeezed through towards the bar counter. ‘’E’s an orficer by the looks of ’im. I wish it was me ’e was lookin’ for.’