Ironmonger's Daughter (4 page)

‘Hello, Gerald,’ George said. ‘Sit down for a minute, can you? I’ve just been thinking about a few things.’

As Gerald made himself comfortable in an easy chair he noticed the worry and concern on his father’s face. He always felt irritable when his father called him in to discuss business, for he believed that the matters which often caused his father so much concern could be summarily resolved quite simply, without so much fuss. His lack of real power in the company irked him, and he was impatient for his father to hand over control to him and Peter.

George Armitage looked over at his son with stern eyes. ‘Are you having any trouble with the workers wanting to join trade unions, Gerald?’ he asked shortly.

Gerald shrugged dismissively and a ghost of a grin appeared on his chiselled features. ‘Well, I’ve heard rumours about rumours, Father,’ he said. ‘But it’s not worth paying any attention to them. If they are true, it’s only one or two idiots getting above themselves. Most of the hands are no problem at all.’

‘Mmm.’ For some time George seemed to study a piece of paper on his desk and then suddenly he looked up. ‘Gerald, I want you to organise an outing,’ he said.

‘An outing!’ his son said, hardly able to disguise the incredulity in his voice.

‘That’s right. I think it’ll take their minds off trade unions and pay rises and God knows what else. A nice summer trip to Southend. Lay on a barrel of ale and some sandwiches, and a meal at the other end.’ George smiled to himself as he felt in the pocket of his waistcoat for his pipe. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘we’ll reap the benefits in the long run, I feel sure. By the way, Gerald, order the charabancs from Thomas Tilling. I know one of their directors and we should get a nice discount.’

Gerald tried not to show his scorn. Outings for workers, he thought, trying to come to terms with the idea. Beer and a meal as well. We might as well put their wages up and give them the bloody afternoons off!

‘I think it would be good if one of us put in an appearance on the day, Gerald,’ George continued. ‘Would you be prepared to do that? You know, do a short speech before they sit down to eat and keep an eye on things. Well? Will you do it?’

‘If you insist, Father,’ Gerald said curtly. He was cross with his father’s stupidity and he rose quickly to leave. ‘I have to go. We were having a problem with one of the machines downstairs.’

‘Of course, son,’ his father said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’ll see you later to finalise the details.’

Gerald closed the door behind him. George Armitage leaned forward on his desk and breathed heavily as he gazed around his large office. Now the initial excitement of the idea of an outing had worn off the long hours of the day seemed to pass very slowly and the room in which he spent so much time seemed to have become more and more empty.

 

A few days later the news spread around the Armitage factory that there was to be an outing in the summer, and for a time the grumbles about the low wages diminished. One or two workers were sceptical though.

‘I’ll believe it when we’re on that charabanc,’ Mary Baker remarked to her friend as they walked out through the factory gates one Friday evening.

Joyce Spinks giggled. ‘Won’t it be luvverly. I ’ope that Johnny Sandford goes. ’E’s really nice.’

Mary grinned. ‘You’d better be careful. Johnny Sandford’s got a reputation.’

‘I don’t care,’ her friend replied. ‘’E could put ’is shoes under my bed any night!’

Just outside the factory they saw Kate Morgan talking to one of the young lads. Mary nudged her friend. ‘Look at ’er chattin’ ’im up. She’s old enough ter be ’is muvver.’

Joyce pulled a face. ‘She’d ’ave anyfing in trousers. If we do ’ave a day out she better keep ’er eyes orf o’ Johnny. I’m bookin’ ’im.’

‘Are yer linin’ ’im up fer the outin’, Kate?’ Mary called out.

Kate Morgan walked over smiling. ‘What outin’? I’ll believe it when it ’appens.’

‘That’s just what I was sayin’ ter Joyce,’ Mary said, nodding. ‘If they do row the boat out are you gonna go?’

‘’Course I will,’ Kate replied. ‘All that free beer an’ all those fellas. I might find meself a chap.’

‘What about yer baby?’ Joyce asked, a touch of hostility creeping into her voice.

‘Connie’s no trouble,’ Kate answered, quickly. ‘She’s good as gold wiv me sister. Anyway, I’m not lettin’ a kid tie me down. I’ve seen enough of it round ’ere. I’m gonna enjoy myself while I can.’

The two friends started off along the street and Kate veered off towards the tenement block. ‘If yer can’t be good be careful,’ she called out, smiling.

‘An’ if yer can’t be careful remember the date,’ Mary countered, when Kate was out of earshot.

They reached Mary’s house and stopped by the front door. ‘What shall we do ternight?’ Joyce said.

‘We could go up the Tanner’op, Joyce. I ’eard there’s a new band there. We could practise the foxtrot an’ the quickstep.’

‘I don’t fancy dancin’, Mary. That fella shoutin’ down the megaphone gives me an ’eadache, especially after all that noise in the factory.’

Mary thought for a while. ‘I know. Let’s go up the South London. Marie Lloyd’s up there. It’ll be a good show. We’ll’ave ter line up fer tickets though.’

Joyce looked up at the evening sky. ‘It’s a nice evenin’. Let’s jus’ go fer a long walk.’

Mary squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘We could take a tram ter the Embankment, an’ walk along the Strand,’ she said excitedly.

Joyce turned up her nose. ‘What d’yer wanna go over there for?’

Mary shook her head in disbelief. ‘Ain’t yer never bin up the Strand? There’s all those posh ladies in their fur coats an’ latest dresses, an’ there’s lots o’ really ’andsome men in top’ats and smart suits all goin’ in ter see the shows. It’s really excitin’, Joyce.’

‘Okay, I’ll come round soon as I finish me tea. I’ve gotta be in by eleven o’clock though. If I’m late me ole man’ll skin me alive.’

Mary laughed aloud. ‘Your dad’ll be too pissed ter know whether you’re in or not. ’E always goes up the Horseshoe on Friday nights, don’t ’e?’

‘Not any more, Mary. ’E’s on short time again.’

 

As the summer days lengthened, excitement grew at the Armitage factory. A notice had gone up in the canteen stating that the firm’s outing to Southend would take place on the first Saturday in July. The workers’ rumblings about becoming unionised ceased for the time being, and Gerald Armitage had to concede that perhaps the old boy was right after all.

The day of the outing was warm and sunny, and the street folk watched from their doorways as the Thomas Tilling charabancs drove slowly out of the turning. The women sat upright on the open vehicles, showing off their new summer hats and their crisp cotton dresses, while the men, grinning widely, had their hair slicked down and some even wore silk scarves, knotted at the neck and twirled around their braces. George Baker watched as the Armitage workers left the street, then he turned to Toby Toomey.

‘Gawd ’elp Soufend when that lot gets down there.’

Toby looked on enviously and wished that the totters could have an outing to Southend.

The long summer day had turned to night and a full moon was rising over the rooftops when the charabancs returned, drawing up at the end of the turning. Helen Bartlett heard loud voices and then Kate’s footsteps on the wooden stairs and when she opened the door she saw her sister coming along the landing, a surly look on her face. Kate’s fair hair was hanging loosely and raggedly about her drooping shoulders and her knee-length, mustard-coloured coat was unbuttoned.

‘Did yer ’ave a nice day?’ Helen asked.

Kate glared at her sister and nodded without comment, her mouth tight.

‘Connie dropped off ter sleep,’ Helen said, eyeing her sister intently. ‘She’ll be okay wiv us till mornin’. Are yer all right?’

Kate moved on to the next stairway. ‘Yeah, I’m jus’ tired. It’s bin a long day,’ she said turning and wearily climbed the stairs.

Helen sighed and shook her head slowly as she went inside and closed the door. Matthew looked up from the armchair and ran his fingers through his wiry hair. ‘She’s pissed I s’pose?’ he said quickly.

Helen sat down facing him with a sigh. ‘I wonder about that girl sometimes. I dunno about Soufend. She looks like she’s bin to a funeral. She didn’t even ask about young Connie.’

Matthew’s face showed his disgust as he got up and walked into the bedroom.

 

During the days of short-time working and ragtime music, amid the gas-lit tenements and ramshackle houses of the tumbledown backstreets, the daughters of Kate Morgan and Helen and Matthew Bartlett slept peacefully, while all around the signs of industrial strife were growing. The humiliation of accepting starvation wages, the desperate scramble for a day’s work in the local docks and wharves, accidents in the saw mills and in the factories inspired the activists to organise their fellow workers into trade unions. Industrial diseases in the tanneries, lead mills and skin factories outraged the health workers, and questions were raised in Parliament. There were calls for proper hygiene and safeguards in workplaces, and when little was done the atmosphere of resentment and anger grew stronger.

In the backstreets of Bermondsey very little changed. Women sat in the corner-street pubs drinking ‘Lizzie Wine’ while they shelled their peas into containers resting on their aproned laps. The men drank pints of porter and slipped out of the pub to place their dog bets with the street bookmaker – keeping one eye open for the local bobbie. Children played in the gutters and paddled in the muddy River Thames, and the more daring climbed the barges and dived into murky water beside the huge iron buoys, or scrambled down into the empty holds and scooped up nut kernels and coconut husks. In Ironmonger Street the children spoke in whispers about a strange old lady who pushed a pram covered with washing to the local laundry every Monday morning. Legends had grown up around Widow Pacey and, as she slowly walked along pushing her contraption, some of the younger children would hide in doorways, unable to take their eyes from the long white hairs on the end of her chin. The older children said she was a witch who cooked babies for her supper and carried the bones down to the river hidden in her pram. When their parents heard the stories and smacked them for talking nonsense, they knew that the legends must be true.

Connie and her cousin Molly were too young to have understood such stories, but Molly cowed whenever the bagwash lady passed by, frightened by the mere presence of the woman. Connie reacted in a different way, however; her large eyes stared out solemnly at Widow Pacey’s bristling chin and at the laden, squeaking pram, and her small round face remained impassive. A contest of wills developed. The widow would smile or wink at the inseparable young children, but she got little response, except for Molly’s frightened look and Connie’s wide-eyed glance. When looks, smiles and gesticulations failed, the Widow Pacey tried to win the children over with toffee bars as she left for the laundry one morning. On her return trip the bagwash lady saw that the two children were halfway through the toffee sticks, faces smudged and hands stuck to the sweets. But still there was no smile forthcoming, and Widow Pacey gave up trying. One or two of the older lads who had seen the toffee bars being handed out spread the word that Widow Pacey had taken to poisoning children.

One person in the street was sure he had found a way to keep the local children in order. And one dismal morning he took delivery of a large brown paper parcel. Misery Martin’s normally dead-pan features changed into an expression of pleasure as he quickly secreted the parcel under the counter for the time being. At the end of the day, after he had put up the only shutter he had bothered to take down that morning, he slipped the bolts on the front door and went back behind the counter. He placed the large parcel on the linoleum-covered surface, slit the string with a sharp knife and opened the bundle. There in front of him were two dozen thin canes. Misery picked up one by its curved handle and brought it down on the counter sharply. The swish and smack sounded loudly in the quiet shop and a wide grin creased the shop owner’s face. That’s just what the little brats around here need! he thought, considering how to display the canes in the most threatening manner. The parents in the street are always going on about giving their kids a good hiding. Let them buy these canes, they should do the trick. One good thrashing with one of these little beauties should be enough, he ventured to himself.

The expression on the oilshop owner’s face as he thought about his new merchandise would have shocked the streetfolk. No one had ever seen him smile – except for Mrs Walker. When she walked into his dingy shop one day for some nails.

Misery adopted his usual weary tone. ‘What size?’

‘Two inch,’ Mrs Walker said, changing her weight from one foot to the other.

Misery shook his head. ‘I ain’t got two inch. I’ve got inch an’ ’alfs, an’ I’ve got two an’ ’alfs, but no two inch.’

Mrs Walker puffed out her cheeks and bit on her bottom lip in consternation. ‘My ole man will be pleased,’ she groaned.

‘What’s ’e want the nails for?’ Misery asked.

‘’E’s puttin’ a shelf up in me scullery. I bin askin’ ’im fer weeks ter put me one up but . . .’

‘What size is the wood?’ Misery cut in, not wishing to hear Mrs Walker’s matrimonial problems.

‘’Bout this size,’ the lady said, spreading her thumb and forefinger.

‘Inch an’ ’alfs will do. ’Ow many d’yer want?’

‘I dunno. Enough ter put a shelf up I s’pose.’

Misery reached down below the counter and scooped up a handful of nails and threw them into the scale pan with a vengeance. ‘That’ll be tuppence,’ he said, glaring at his customer out of his narrow-set brown eyes.

Mrs Walker thought for a moment, frowning. Misery scratched his wiry grey hair as he stared at the lady. ‘D’yer wan ’em or not, muvver?’ he rasped.