Ironmonger's Daughter (56 page)

‘’Ere, Con. Try this on,’ Jennie said. ‘I usually wear this wiv that dress. It’s a three-quarter.’

Connie slipped the jacket on and swung round. ‘What d’yer fink, Jen?’ she asked.

‘Yer look real nice. Yer’ll ’ave ter fight ’im off ternight.’

Connie picked up her small clutch bag from the dressing table. ‘I don’t know if I’m doin’ the right fing, Jennie. Maybe I shouldn’t go.’

Jennie raised her eyes and gently pushed her friend towards the door. ‘It’s a bit late fer that now,’ she said. ‘C’mon, on yer way or ’e’ll be finkin’ yer ain’t goin’.’

Connie reached the top of the stairs and Jennie called out. ‘Con.’

‘Yeah?’

‘’Ave a good time, but be careful, okay?’

Connie smiled and hurried down the stairs. Derek was waiting outside as he had promised. He leaned out of the cab and gave her a wolf whistle as she climbed in.

‘Yer look very nice – an’ on time, too.’

The cab drove slowly over Blackfriar’s Bridge and turned left along the Embankment. Derek broke the strained silence. ‘I asked yer out ’cos I was a bit concerned about yer, Connie,’ he said.

‘Oh, an’ why’s that?’ she asked, looking at him.

‘Well, I was worryin’ in case yer thought I took a liberty wiv yer at the party.’

‘I didn’t fink that at all,’ she replied, looking away from him. ‘I jus’ ’ad too much ter drink. I shouldn’t ’ave gone up ter yer flat anyway.’

‘We’re still friends then?’

‘O’ course.’

In the gathering darkness the tall buildings loomed up against the night sky. Soon they had skirted Trafalgar Square and had driven up into Charing Cross Road. Everywhere sandbags fronted the buildings and people in service uniforms strolled by. The cab made a detour around a huge pile of rubble and turned into Shaftesbury Avenue.

Derek sat smoking a cigarette, his eyes occasionally glancing at her. ‘We’re almost there,’ he said, throwing the cigarette stub from the cab.

Soon the taxi swung into Dean Street and pulled up. He helped her from the car and paid the driver. She looked around at the passing crowds, a strange feeling stirring inside her. The last time she had been up West was with Robert. She recalled those evenings she had spent with him in the little restaurant, and the night he had taken her back to the hotel. It seemed so long ago now and she sighed deeply.

They had gone down a flight of stairs and entered a foyer. The air was heavy with strong perfume and there seemed to be tinted mirrors everywhere. A pretty girl stood behind the cloakroom counter and a tall thin man in an evening suit approached them.

‘Good evening, Mr Angelo,’ the man said formally. ‘Your party’s arrived. I’ll show you to the table, if you’ll follow me.’

Connie was puzzled as she fell into step beside her escort. Derek had not mentioned that they were meeting other people. They walked into a large room and as they weaved their way between the tables Connie felt that everyone’s eyes were staring at her. The ceiling was low and velvet curtains were draped around the walls. A band was playing on a dais and in front of her she could see couples dancing. They had reached the table and immediately a tall distinguished-looking character in evening dress got up and shook hands with Angelo.

‘Hello, dear boy. Glad you could make it.’

Derek introduced Connie and the tall man shook her hand with a limp grasp. As she sat down Connie studied the group. There were five other people sitting at the large round table. Next to the tall character, who had been introduced as Francis Hammond, there was a slim young man who toyed nervously with a silver cigarette case. On Francis Hammond’s left an elderly couple was seated. The woman had her hair piled up on top of her head and the man was bald and wore gold-rimmed spectacles. Another, younger couple completed the party. The man had sandy-coloured hair and was smartly dressed in a grey suit, and the woman with him was striking in a low-cut black dress which made her tanned shoulders look even more golden. Her raven hair shone in the subdued lighting and her dark eyes flashed. Connie was taken by her looks and she stole admiring glances in her direction as the conversation began.

The woman smiled at her, showing large white teeth as she parted her glossy lips. ‘You look very pretty, Connie,’ she gushed, glancing briefly at Derek. ‘We’ve been hearing about you, haven’t we, Arnold?’

Her partner grinned and gave Connie a searching look. ‘Derek wasn’t exaggerating. You are pretty,’ he said smiling at her.

Connie felt herself blushing and she was glad when Francis Hammond took up the conversation. ‘Well, have you sorted out the damage, Derek? I’m sure Bernie here can work out the details. What do you say, Bernie?’

The elderly man nodded quickly as he snipped the top of his large cigar with a pair of silver clippers. ‘No problem, Francis. I’ll get the claim forms ready and send them off first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll need to go over those books, too, Derek.’

The waiter had been hovering in the background and, when Francis beckoned to him, the man hurried over. ‘I think we’re ready to eat, Jules. Oh yes, and you can serve the wine now.’

For the next two hours Connie felt as though she had been transported to the other side of the celluloid screen. It seemed to her just like an evening out in some exotic city from one of the films they showed at the Trocette. When the food was served from silver trays the elderly woman at her side began to notice her disorientation. She pointed to the various dishes and suggested certain items on the menu which Connie found to be quite delicious. The bottles of wine were soon empty and more were ordered. The band was playing a waltz and the elderly couple took the floor. Connie watched as they danced around. Bernie had a serious expression on his bloated face and his wife almost looked glamorous as she turned around stiffly in her long sequinned dress, her heavily powdered face set in a fixed smile. Connie noticed that Derek was constantly talking to the dark-haired woman, and that her partner appeared not to be in any way bothered by the attention being paid to her. He was ignoring them and seemed much more concerned with encouraging Connie to talk about herself. Connie felt a little embarrassed by the good-looking man’s attentions but his wide smile was disarming. Derek’s behaviour was making her uncomfortable, however. He seemed to have totally forgotten her, and she noticed the eye movements and the exchanged smiles between him and the dark-haired woman. Francis Hammond was talking to the slim young man who listened intently, his chin resting on his cupped hand, and Connie gazed thoughtfully around the room.

Suddenly the young man in the grey suit got up and came round the table. ‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked her.

She shook her head vigorously. ‘No fanks, I’m . . .’

‘Come on,’ he said, reaching down and taking her hand. ‘It’s a slow one. We can just shuffle around.’

They were playing a dreamy tune and the floor was crowded with dancers. Connie began nervously but he moved easily and she found it quite simple to follow his movements.

He held her firmly and she could smell the after-shave he wore. ‘There, you see. We’re doing well,’ he whispered into her ear.

Connie smiled and tried to relax as he glided her slowly around the floor.

‘I suppose Derek’s told you all about us, hasn’t he?’ her dance partner said, his face close to hers.

‘No. I was surprised when we got ’ere, Derek didn’t tell me there’d be anyone else,’ she said quickly.

‘That’s typical of Derek. Would you like me to put you in the picture?’

‘If yer like.’

‘Well, the woman Derek is so engrossed with is Beth Knowles. She’s my cousin and she owns a beauty salon in Bond Street. All very posh too. Francis is an associate of Derek’s. They do quite a lot of business together, as you’ve no doubt gathered by their conversation. The slim young man is called Trixey by his close friends.’

‘Trixey?’ Connie laughed.

‘That’s right. Tommy Crossley is his real name. He and Francis are very good friends, if you know what I mean. Young Tommy’s got loads of money. His father’s got some sort of fancy title. The other couple, Freda and Bernie Grossman, are old friends of Francis. Bernie’s an accountant. He keeps the books for the organisation Derek’s involved with. His wife Freda is a lovely lady. She spends most of her time organising various functions to raise money for the war effort. That’s about it, I think.’

Connie looked up at him as they danced around the middle of the floor.

‘What about you? You ’aven’t told me about yerself.’

‘Well that’s another story,’ he laughed.

‘Well?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘I’ve found out about everybody else. I might as well know about you,’ she said smiling.

‘My name is Arnold Jerrold. I’m thirty-five, single and unattached. I live in Stepney and I ran a clothing factory once.’

‘Oh, an’ what d’yer do now?’ Connie asked.

‘I work for the government, for the duration of the war, that is. It’s all very hush-hush, but it’s really very boring. Anyway, that’s enough of the war. Let’s talk about you.’

The music ended and the dancers applauded as they left the floor. Connie felt his hand on her back as he led her to the table, and when they were seated he poured her some wine. There was no sign of Derek nor Beth Knowles. Freda and Bernie Grossman had returned to the table and Freda was gently chiding her perspiring husband. ‘You were moving too fast. That was a waltz not a foxtrot.’

He laughed as he dabbed his forehead and turned to Connie. ‘We’ve been dancing together now for more years than I care to remember, young lady. And she still tells me I can’t dance. What should I do with her, eh?’

Freda tapped her husband’s wrist playfully. ‘I’m off to powder my nose. Will you come with me, young Connie?’ she asked.

They crossed the large floor together and made their way to the ladies room.

‘Where exactly do you come from, my dear?’ Freda asked as she dabbed at her face with the sponge from her compact.

‘I live in Bermon’sey.’

‘And are you a good friend of Derek’s, may I ask?’

Connie leaned against the pink wash basin. ‘Derek comes in the pub where I work in the evenings. ’E asked me out ternight. I don’t know ’im all that well though.’

Freda clicked her compact shut and turned to Connie. ‘Let me give you a bit of advice, young lady. You seem to be a nice girl and you’re very pretty. You should be very careful in your dealings with some of these older men. They’re inclined to be devious, and I might as well tell you, Derek Angelo isn’t exactly a knight in shining armour. People like him are taken by pretty faces, especially if they belong to younger women. I’ve been watching you at the table. I thought you were looking a little angry with Derek. I see he’s disappeared, and that’s made me angry too. He shouldn’t have left you like that.’

Connie shrugged her shoulders and ran a hand down the back of her long fair hair. ‘It’s okay, Freda. Arnold’s bin takin’ care of me.’

The elderly lady’s face became serious and she opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. When they left the powder room and were walking back to the table, she turned and said, ‘You just be careful, dear. You could quite easily get hurt.’

The Grossmans had said goodnight and left, Freda giving Connie a meaningful wink. Francis Hammond had become embroiled with his companion over the merits of Italian art and there was still no sign of Derek and Beth Knowles. Connie had begun to feel quite tipsy. The wine and spirits had combined with the opulent atmosphere and they had taken their toll. A waiter came to the table and handed Arnold a note and, as he read it, a slight smile came to his face.

‘I’m sorry, Con. My cousin Beth got a phone call from home. It seems there’s been some trouble. Derek’s taking her back and he asked me to look after you. I hope you don’t mind?’

Even in her befuddled state Connie became suspicious. She realised that it was all too contrived. Right from the start Derek had made a play for the Knowles woman. How convenient that Arnold should be with his cousin that evening. No wonder Derek hadn’t said anything about meeting other people at the club! Connie felt angry. Derek must have taken her there only to introduce her to his friend. Well, it wouldn’t make any difference, she told herself. Derek Angelo or Arnold Jerrold, they would both get the same answer. The band had returned and were playing again though only a few couples were dancing.

Arnold was standing with Francis Hammond who was waving his hands. ‘No trouble, dear boy. Leave it with me. We can sort out the bill later. Tommy and I will be staying here for a while.’

Connie and Arnold left the club together and he hailed a taxi. Connie heard him mention River Street, Stepney, to the driver and she bit on her bottom lip. Freda’s words ran through her bleary and confused mind.

‘I mus’ get ’ome. It’s very late. They’ll all be worried,’ she said weakly.

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘We’ll stop off at my place first. Derek might well have gone there to wait for us.’

They travelled through the blacked-out city streets in silence. Soon they were passing along Commercial Road and when the driver swung into a little side street and pulled up Arnold seemed to come to life again. He paid the driver and steered her to a grimy-looking door between two shuttered shops. She felt herself being almost pushed into the house and up a dark flight of creaky stairs. She tripped at the top and Arnold laughed. ‘Stay where you are while I light the gas,’ he said.

Connie could feel waves of nausea coming up from the pit of her stomach and she drew deep breaths. With the flare of the match and the growing light from the gas mantle she saw that the landing had no floor covering whatsoever. Seeing the dirty floorboards and peeling wallpaper made her want to run into the street but Arnold was still holding her arm. He opened a door and steered her into the dark interior. There was a strange smell, like mothballs or disinfectant she thought, and when he lit the gas jet over the mantelshelf and pulled the dusty curtains quickly Connie knew that she had been stupid to come back with him to this place. There was no sign of anyone living in the flat. The grate was empty, not made up with paper and sticks of wood like fireplaces would normally be. The small table had an old newspaper spread over it, and ancient dustcovered pictures hung around the walls. When Connie poked her head into the tiny scullery she winced: pots and pans littered the draining board and the iron gas stove. Arnold had opened another door which led into the bedroom. He came over to her.