Ironmonger's Daughter (43 page)

When Bill opened up at lunchtime one of the first customers to walk through the door was Mrs Argrieves. Her grey hair was pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head and there was a worried look in her pale-blue eyes. She had a cotton shawl draped loosely around her drooping shoulders and she carried her purse in her hand.

‘Give us a drop o’ gin, Bill,’ she said. ‘I’m fair done in. I ain’t ’ad a wink o’ sleep all night.’

Bill passed over the gin and leaned on the counter facing her. ‘’Ow’s young Billy doin’, Flo?’

Florence shook her head as she picked up the glass. ‘’E’s drivin’ me to an early grave, Bill. All ’e does is sit around the’ouse all day. I can’t get ’im ter wash or shave, an’ when I say anyfing it’s wrong. Gawd knows I’ve tried, but it don’t make a scrap o’ difference. When I fink of ’ow smart ’e used ter be before they called ’im up I could cry.’

The landlord of the Dolphin shook his head. ‘Yer gotta remember, Flo, the lad’s bin frew it. It’ll take time fer ’im ter settle. I mean, nobody knows ’ow them lads suffered at Dunkirk.’

Florence downed her gin and pulled a face. ‘Christ! I needed that. I dunno about my Billy, but I fink my nerves are shattered, too.’

As other customers started to come in Mrs Argrieves ordered another gin and took it to a table near the door. She sat deep in thought, the gin untouched at her elbow. Florence was feeling sorry for herself. Hadn’t she been a good wife and mother? she asked herself. And what was her reward? A husband who runs off with a flighty young girl half his age and a son who was turning into a dirty, unwashed gormless tramp! What had she done to deserve such treatment? She had gone without, just so young Billy could have the things all the rest of the kids in the street had. All right, maybe he had not had a father behind him to check him when he ran off the traces, but he should still have a little more consideration for his own mother. He was always out gambling before he was called up, always dressed like a toff and never short of a bob or two, and now look at him. A miserable young git who sleeps in his clothes and finds it too much trouble to wash and shave himself. What was going to become of him?

The gin was still standing untouched on the table when Mabel Hamilton rushed into the public bar, her round face flushed and her breath coming in short gasps. ‘Fank Gawd I’ve found yer!’ she spluttered. ‘Yer better get ’ome, Flo. Young Billy’s gorn stark ravin’ mad. ’E’s jus’ chucked the tallyman down the airey!’

Florence rose and hurried out of the pub towards her house with Mabel trying to keep up with her. ‘That bastard’ll drive me mad. They’ll end up takin’ me away in a straitjacket, I know they will,’ she groaned.

Mabel waddled along behind the enraged Florence as they hurried along Salter Street. A crowd had already gathered at the end of the turning.

‘’Old up, there’s ’is muvver,’ someone shouted.

Florence could see her son standing on the steps that led up to the front door. Down in the area beside the steps a figure sat on his haunches, holding a bloodied handkerchief up to his nose.

‘The stupid bastard should be locked up,’ the victim shouted. ‘All I said was, “Is yer muvver in? She owes two weeks”. ’E ’ad no right ter get stroppy.’

Billy Argrieves stood with his feet apart at the top of the steps, his broad shoulders hunched and his fists clenched tightly. His wild dark eyes stared out from a square face covered with three days’ growth of beard. His thin lips were twitching. The once smart grey suit was creased and dirty, and his brown shoes were trodden down and unlaced. His filthy shirt was unbuttoned, and his dark hair hung down over his forehead. Below him on the pavement the crowd had become quiet. One or two of the onlookers were grinning as an old lady held out her hand to the sad figure.

‘You should make yer peace wiv the Lord fer what yer’ve done, lad,’ the old woman said. ‘Pray ter Jesus. Pray fer yer salvation.’

Florence had reached her front door. ‘Get that prat away from ’im!’ she screamed. ‘She’ll only make ’im worse.’

Mad Lou was ushered away reciting the gospel and Florence looked up at her angry son. ‘Ain’t yer got no feelin’ fer yer ole mum, boy?’ she said with exasperation. ‘Don’t yer know what yer doin’ ter me wiv yer wild ways? Now get inside, fer Gawd’s sake. Can’t yer see they’re all laughin’ at yer?’

His broad shoulders slumped and tears welled up in his handsome face. ‘I told ’im yer got no money, Muvver. ’E kept all on. I clouted ’im ’cos ’e kept goin’ on.’

‘I only asked ’im once,’ groaned the tallyman. ‘’E’s a bloody lunatic.’

‘Gawd ’elp us!’ Florence mumbled. ‘What ’ave I done ter deserve this?’

Billy’s wild eyes turned to the tallyman. ‘Shut yer trap or I’ll stuff the poxy book right down yer throat!’ he growled.

Florence climbed the stairs and took her son by the arm. ‘Now you get yerself inside, d’yer ’ear me?’

The dishevelled figure shook himself loose. ‘I ain’t goin’ inside till ’e pisses orf out of it,’ he shouted, jerking his thumb in the direction of the tallyman.

‘All right, yer scatty bleeder, I’m goin’,’ groaned the tallyman, picking himself up and staggering up the steps into the street.

‘Walk in the way of the Lord Jesus Christ,’ Mad Lou shouted from the other side of the street. ‘Think not of retribution. Renounce the devil and turn the other cheek.’

The white-faced tallyman scowled. He had been thumped hard and had tumbled painfully down a flight of stone steps. The idea of going through that again was unthinkable. ‘Shut yer face, yer bible-punchin’ ole mare,’ he mumbled at her as he staggered along the street.

Billy allowed himself to be shepherded through the front door and the crowd dispersed. The bloodied tallyman had left the street only seconds before the beat constable arrived. PC Rowley had been looking forward to finishing a quiet spell of duty when he was informed that there was trouble in Salter Street. Well it looks quiet enough, he thought as he sauntered into the turning. He could see Mad Lou sitting on the kerb reading her tattered New Testament, and a couple of kids were hopping in and out of a turning skipping rope. A few people passed him carrying shopping baskets and he noticed the bent figure of the road sweeper as he pushed his stiff-haired broom along in the gutter. The constable stopped beside a lamppost and waited until the council employee reached him.

‘’Ello, Bonzo,’ he said, rocking backwards and forwards on his size elevens. ‘What’s bin goin’ on round ’ere then?’

Harold Scribbins lifted his head, his doleful eyes fixing the local bobbie. There were a few things which Harold disliked. One was sweeping streets, and another was the nickname Bonzo, especially if it was being used by a tricky policeman whom he disliked intensely. ‘What d’yer mean, what’s bin goin’ on?’ he asked sullenly.

PC Rowley swayed back on his heels. ‘Fisticuffs, Bonzo. A punch-up.’

The irritable road sweeper’s sleepy eyes blinked slowly and the beat constable could see why the local kids had named Harold Scribbins after one of their favourite comic characters.

‘I ’eard there was a set-to in the street a few minutes ago,’ the policeman said.

‘I ain’t paid ter stand around watchin’ punch-ups,’ Harold said, leaning on his broom. ‘I’m paid ter keep this palsy turnin’ clean, which is jus’ like sweepin’ sand orf the beach. I tell yer, before I’m out o’ the turnin’ it’s like I’ve never bin ’ere, what wiv toffee wrappers an’ apple cores and Gawd knows what else. When the supervisor comes round ’e finks I’ve spent the time scratchin’ me arse. It’s a bloody unfankful job sweepin’ streets, ’spesh’ly round ’ere.’

‘So yer didn’t see anyfink then?’

‘Nope.’

‘What’s them spots o’ blood doin’ on the pavement then?’ the constable asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘’Ow the ’ell should I know,’ Harold replied. ‘P’raps it’s red paint, or it might be ole Percy ’avin’ anuvver nose-bleed.’

‘Percy?’

‘Yeah, Percy Axford. ’E gets a nose-bleed every time ’is ole woman catches up wiv ’im. Anyway, I can’t stand ’ere chinwaggin’ all day. I’ve got me work ter do.’

PC Rowley watched as Harold walked away, the handle of his broom pressed against his bony shoulder. ‘Bloody ole fool,’ he said aloud.

‘Piss orf, yer nosey bastard,’ Harold said over his shoulder.

 

That evening Jennie French came home from work saddened by the news of Ironmonger Street and her friend’s anguish.

‘Yer should ’ave seen ’er, Mum,’ she said, her voice full of pity. ‘Connie was so upset. ’Er an’ Molly was very close. The ole family was. I dunno ’ow she made it in ter work terday. ’Er flat’s gone, an’ all ’er fings, too. Poor cow’s only got the bits she’s standin’ up in.’

Dora looked at her husband. ‘She could live ’ere fer a while, couldn’t she, Bill? She’s a good worker, an’ if she feels obliged we could suggest she does a couple of extra turns be’ind the bar.’

Bill nodded. ‘Why not? Yer’ve got a few bits an’ pieces yer could give ’er Jen, ain’t yer, an’ we could fix that attic up an’ put a spare bed in the cellar.’

Jennie threw her arms around her father and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. ‘Fanks, Dad. You’re the bestest.’

Dora grinned at her husband’s discomfort and winked knowingly at her daughter. ‘’E ain’t so bad,’ she said.

The London blitz continued unceasingly. Each night the German bombers came and left behind them vast fires burning and horrific devastation. Whole streets were destroyed, factories and warehouses were left in smoking ruins, and the toll in human lives mounted. The local hospitals were filled to overflowing, and more and more people were made homeless. Nevertheless, amongst the carnage, the street markets still flourished and the traders displayed notices on their barrows and stalls vilifying and deriding the efforts of Goering’s airforce to bomb the British people into submission. Windowless shops opened up for business, the trains still ran, and buses and trams still managed to operate with numerous diversions. People went to work exhausted from lack of sleep and hurried home for an early tea before going down to their refuge for the night. Rubber ear-plugs were issued to everyone and, as bunks began to be installed in many shelters and people started to take bedclothes with them on their nightly trips, it became a little easier for some to catch a few hours’ sleep whilst the bombs were falling. But other problems got worse for the shelter dwellers, with lice and skin complaints affecting even the most hygieneconscious members of the community. Scabies hit the young badly, and special clinics were set up where sorry-looking children were methodically put into a bath of hot water and scrubbed with strong soap before being painted all over with an evil-smelling lotion which stung their sore patches and reduced many of them to tears. Sties and boils plagued everyone, and the smell of kaoline poultices became as familiar in the shelters as the reek of carbolic.

For some, the nightly blitz did not pose too many problems. The French family shelter beneath their little pub was now well equipped, and room had been made for an extra bed. Jennie had persuaded Connie Morgan to move in with the family after Jubilee Dwellings had been destroyed, and most nights she managed to talk the sad figure into giving a hand in the bar. Connie tried to force an occasional smile and chat a little to the customers, but her heart was leaden and she could hardly hide her despair. Each night Connie went to the hospital straight from working in the pub to sit with her comatose Aunt Helen. She whispered words of comfort into her ear and watched for a movement or a flicker of acknowledgement, but there was none. Helen’s eyes remained closed and her features were white and stone-like. There was no living sign of pain on her hollow face, and only the cage beneath the bedclothes bore witness to her injuries.

Throughout October Connie continued her nightly vigil. The pale-faced young woman, her long blond hair tied back at the nape of her neck, leaned forward in her chair and stroked the cold, lifeless hands of her aunt, willing her to open her eyes. The nursing staff, hard pressed as they were, brought in tea and tried to talk to Connie, but she stayed silent and they soon left her alone with her grief. Each night before she left the small room at Guy’s Hospital Connie bent over the still figure and gently kissed her forehead, and then she hurried back to the Dolphin in Salter Street. Sometimes she would change her route and pass the little backstreet that was once her home. The rubble from the shattered dwellings had been pushed back from the pavement and the windows and roofs of the houses had been patched up. Sometimes Connie passed one of the street dwellers and she would quickly avert her eyes, avoiding any conversation. Although the painful memories were still vivid in her mind and the very sight of the ugly little turning was distressing, the Morgan girl found herself irresistibly drawn back to the place. Something told her that she should return, that her future was linked to the street. She could not understand her feelings, nor her almost obsessive desire to go back again. There seemed to be distant voices in the dark corners of her mind which urged her on, and they frightened her.

 

During the latter part of October 1940 the weather was unusually mild. Folk prayed for a good old pea-souper which would bring a respite from the bombing, but it was not to be. Each night the clear black sky was full of stars, and the inevitable air-raid siren screamed out. The cellar beneath the Dolphin public house held firm, and each night Connie lay awake listening to the dull explosions and the thump of the gunfire. She felt grateful to Jennie and her parents for taking her in and giving her the opportunity of spending more time behind the bar. For the few hours she was serving she could almost forget. The customers were friendly, and she was slowly getting used to their ways and their sense of humour. Jennie had proved to be a good friend. She was constantly joking with the customers and doing her best to include her friend in the conviviality, but Connie was afraid of becoming too attached to the family and she was resolved to keep her distance, determined never again to let herself go through the torment and agony of losing someone she really cared for. Maybe that was the way her mother had chosen to run her own life in the end, she thought. There had seemed to be no one really close to her. She had lived the way she wanted, and she had become a stranger even to her own sister. From what Connie had gathered, there had been many men friends in her mother’s life, and one of them had been her father. Somewhere along the way things had gone wrong and the man had left. He might be dead now, and yet maybe he was still living somewhere? The only certain thing was that her mother had cut him off and refused even to discuss him. She had been a private person who had found it very difficult to show her real feelings. Maybe she hadn’t always been that way, Connie mused as she lay staring up at the whitewashed ceiling. Something must have happened which had changed her mother. Maybe her own life was following the same path. Perhaps it was her inescapable destiny to suffer in the same way, to know the heartbreak of loss and end up a bitter, empty shell. Would the love she had shared with Robert be enough to sustain her for the rest of her life? Would she be able to keep herself apart from people and remain true to herself, would she never again feel the joy and agony of loving someone deeply and reaching out for love in the darkness? She remembered Joe Cooper’s words. It would take time, and time was a great healer. As the sound of the explosions and crashing guns faded she would turn over, her head sinking into the soft pillow.