Ironmonger's Daughter (57 page)

‘I’m sorry about the state of the place,’ he said, studying her closely. ‘I’m only staying here until I get my bomb-damaged flat repaired. Look, why don’t you put the kettle on and make us some tea while I move those things from the settee.’

Connie went out into the scullery and filled the kettle. While it was heating up over the tiny gas jet she found the teapot and caddy. ‘Where’s the milk?’ she called out.

‘It’s on the window sill. I put it out there this morning to keep it cool.’

Connie lifted the window frame and saw the shattered bottle lying on the rusted iron fire escape below. She threw down the sash and turned out the gas. ‘It’s been spilt,’ she said flatly as she came back into the room.

Arnold cursed. ‘I’ll kill that moggie.’

Connie looked down at him as he sat on the torn settee. ‘Look, I’d better get goin’,’ she said. ‘Derek’s not gonna show up, is ’e? I’ll get a taxi.’

He got up slowly, a grin breaking out on his face. ‘C’mon, what’s the rush? We can amuse ourselves for a while. He’ll probably show up later.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Arnold. I’m goin’.’

He reached for her and she swayed backwards away from his outstretched arms.

‘No, Arnold!’

He was grinning widely now, as he gripped her firmly by her shoulders. ‘You’ve had too much to drink to think of going home now,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘Besides, there won’t be any cabs around this area. It’s a dangerous place for a young girl to be wandering around in.’

‘Yer could ’elp me get a taxi,’ she said with a desperate tone in her voice.

‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go in there,’ he leered, nodding towards the open door.

‘No!’ she groaned as she felt his hot breath on her cheek. He pulled her to him and he was propelling her along, half carrying her until she found herself beside the bed. His head was buried in her hair, his wet mouth against her neck and ears. She tried to fight him off but her strength was failing and her head spun. She pounded his chest with her fists. ‘Yer lied ter me!’ she shrieked. ‘Derek’s not comin’! Let me go!’

Then she was lying beneath him and his hands were pulling at her clothes. His full weight was pressing down on her as he reached beneath her dress. Connie’s mind was racing as she remembered how it had happened before. She brought her hands up to his face but he gripped her wrists and pinned them to her sides. She was helpless beneath his writhing body. She felt the sharp pain as he forced himself upon her and then she ceased struggling. Tears of anger and disgust fell silently as his animal passion mounted. It soon was over, and he slumped down on her, his sagging body pressing heavily on her chest.

When he had recovered his breath he placed his hands beside her and lifted himself up. ‘Why did you fight me, you little whore?’ he asked her with a sneer. ‘You know you wanted it.’

Connie choked back her tears and stared at him with hate in her eyes as he moved away from the bed. She was numb and unable to answer. The physical disgust at the way he had humiliated her caused waves of nausea to rise up from her stomach. Icy fingers seemed to squeeze her head and she began to tremble. The sight of his sneering face made her want to throw herself at him and tear at his eyes but instead she clenched her fists and felt her fingernails bite into the palms of her hands. She felt dirty, ashamed and disgusted, and a deep anger rose up inside her.

She was cold sober now as she pulled herself round and sat with her head in her hands on the edge of the bed. The stark realisation that she was a victim of their plotting made her head pound and she felt her face redden.

‘You two worked this all out, didn’t yer?’ she said, her voice shaking.

He laughed aloud. ‘Derek told me all about you and him. I know you two have been under the blankets together.’

‘Nufink ’appened that night,’ she sobbed.

‘Don’t give me that. It’s not what he told me. Anyway, here’s your money. I don’t expect you to do it for nothing,’ he sneered, throwing some notes down beside her on the bed.

‘You dirty animal!’ she cried out, standing up and rushing at him, her fists pummelling his chest.

He gripped her wrists and laughed loudly. ‘Proper little demon aren’t you?’

Connie sagged and he pushed her roughly away. ‘Take the money. It’ll pay for a cab.’

‘Keep yer money, yer no-good bastard! Is that the only way yer can ’ave a woman – by rapin’ ’er?’

‘It’s much better when you put up a fight,’ he sneered. ‘It makes it more exciting. Anyway, you wasn’t raped. You got paid for it.’

Connie bit her lip until it bled and she fought back her tears. She picked up the money and looked at it. ‘Yer couldn’t buy me. I wouldn’t go wiv yer willin’ly if yer offered me a fortune,’ she snarled, throwing the money in his face as she ran out of the room.

‘William Smithers’ paced up and down in his little room, occasionally drawing the curtains back and glancing down into the street below. The workers had passed through on their way to the factory and now it had become quiet. He could see the rag-and-bone man leaning on his barrow beside the ruins of the buildings opposite, and he noticed Widow Pacey walking towards him, carrying a large bundle. He adjusted the curtains and continued to pace back and forth. Time was dragging slowly and he looked down at the alarm clock beside his unmade bed. It was just after nine and already it seemed as if he had been up for hours. It was quiet in the house since Marie had gone to get her shopping and Lillian had left for her new-found job at the clothing factory in Tower Bridge Road. Toby had been gone since seven-thirty and it had been he and Marie arguing before he left which had first awakened Dennis. He had heard Marie screaming something about Toby spending too much time in front of the mirror and Toby replying that he had to keep up appearances, and then the front door had been slammed shut. Dennis had tried unsuccessfully to get back to sleep and, as he paced to and fro, he was deep in thought. Had he known of the plot hatching inside Lillian’s head he would not have tarried so long in his room.

The Toomeys’ scheming daughter grinned to herself as she clocked in and joined the rest of the girls at the workbench. She was very familiar with the house routine, especially on Monday mornings. Her mother always went to the Tower Bridge Road for her shopping, then she called in to her friend Patience for a cup of tea and a chat. She never ever got home until after midday, and today her mother had lots to tell her trusted friend. It seemed ridiculous to Lillian that her father should be playing around with someone else, but her mother had said that she was positively convinced of it. What the eye did not see the heart could not grieve over, Lillian reasoned and, as far as she was concerned, her Sandor was not going to see anything. It had to look good, she told herself as she put a hand to her brow and swayed against the bench.

‘Are you all right, Lil?’ the girl next to her asked.

‘I’m all right. It’s just that fright I ’ad.’

‘What fright?’

‘Oh it was nufink really. It was just that a man jumped out on me last night as I was goin’ ’ome from the pictures.’

‘Did ’e? I bet it scared yer. ’E didn’t touch yer, did ’e?’

Lillian shook her head. ‘’E made a grab fer me but I run all the way ’ome. I fink it’s the shock comin’ out on me.’

The machines had started up and the girls decided to wait until tea break to hear more about Lillian’s traumatic experience.

Suddenly she swayed again and staggered into the girl next to her. ‘I’m sorry, Bet. I seem to be all wobbly.’

Betty got down from her stool purposefully. ‘Yer should be’ome in bed,’ she said quickly.

Lillian hoped she would be, very soon. ‘Don’t make a fuss, Bet. I can manage,’ she said weakly. ‘Yer a girl short as it is.’

‘Never you mind about that,’ said Bet. ‘I’m goin’ fer the forelady.’

The old hands exchanged glances and carried on at the machines while Lillian tried her hardest to look ill. Meanwhile Bet had found the forelady.

‘Miss Brownin’. Lillian Toomey’s ’avin’ a wobbly,’ she said.

Nora Browning knew Lillian Toomey very well and she was aware that the girl had had many different things in her time, but a wobbly was something else. ‘A wobbly?’ she repeated.

‘She does look ill, Miss Brownin’. She’s gonna faint soon, I’m sure she is.’

‘All right, Betty. You go back to your machine. I’ll be along in a minute.’

When the matronly-looking woman approached the workbench the final scene was already being enacted. Lillian had been propped up against the leg of the bench and someone was holding a cup of water to her quivering lips.

‘Now what’s the matter here?’ Nora asked, standing with her hands on her hips.

‘She jus’ fainted, Miss Brownin’. I turned round an’ there she was fainted,’ Betty told her. ‘She was stretched out on the floor.’

Nora bent down and looked closely at the Toomey girl. Well, the silly cow looks okay, she thought. She doesn’t seem to have lost any of her colour.

‘C’mon, Lillian. Let’s get you on your feet,’ she said sternly.

Lillian staggered up and sagged into her helpers’ arms. ‘I’ll be okay. Let me go back ter work.’

It was the only time Nora had ever heard Lillian Toomey volunteering to go back to work. The girl must be ill, she thought. ‘Okay Lillian. You come with me. You can sit in the sick bay. When you’re feeling able you’d better go home for the day.’

It was not long before Lillian was walking quickly home, a satisfied grin on her face. The church clock showed five minutes after nine and she crossed her fingers. Her mother had said William never left the house until after the pubs opened at eleven. There would be plenty of time, she told herself. Soon she had reached the market and with a quick glance at the stalls she took a side turning. It wouldn’t do for mother to see me, she thought as she hurried along to Ironmonger Street. As she walked into the turning and took the key from her handbag Lillian saw Widow Pacey looking up the street, clicking a few coins together.

‘’Ello, Lil,’ Widow Pacey called out from her street door. ‘No work?’

Lillian made a face and touched her forehead as she let herself in.

‘There’s bin somefink wrong wiv that fer years,’ Widow Pacey mumbled aloud.

Dennis Foreman heard the front door open and shut and a puzzled frown creased his forehead. Marie must be back early from the market, he thought. The knock on his door made him jump and he realised how nervous he was.

‘Who’s there?’ Dennis asked quickly.

‘It’s me, Lillian. Can I come in?’

Dennis cursed as he opened the door. Lillian was smiling sweetly at him, her eyelashes fluttering. He stood back and she walked in.

‘I thought yer might be a bit lonely an’ wanted ter talk a bit,’ she said, staring around the room.

‘I’m okay. I was goin’ out soon,’ he said with purpose.

‘Oh dear, yer bed’s not made. Let me do it.’

Before he could refuse Lillian had pulled up the bedclothes and was shaking his pillow. ‘There we are. That’s better,’ she said, sitting down on the bed and hoisting her skirt before crossing her long legs.

He mumbled his thanks and put his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘No work then?’ he asked.

‘They gave me the day off. Said I looked a bit peaky. I feel fine – now.’

Dennis looked away from her dark, liquid eyes and walked around behind the table, trying not to stare at her half revealed thigh. ‘’Ow’s yer young man?’ he asked, his voice sounding croaky.

‘Oh ’e’s all right, but don’t let’s talk about Sandor. Let’s talk about you,’ she purred, swinging her leg suggestively. ‘Yer much more interestin’.’

He backed away towards the window and glanced out quickly. ‘I’m expectin’ somebody soon. I thought it was ’im,’ he said weakly.

Lillian leaned back on the bed. ‘Yer not dad’s cousin, are yer?’ she asked with a searching look.

‘Well, I’m sort of ’is distant cousin, if yer see what I mean.’

Lillian did not, and she did not really wish to know either. Her mind was centring around something much more simple. ‘Are yer frightened of women, William?’ she asked him with a grin.

‘’Course not.’

‘I fink yer are. Come over ’ere.’

Dennis felt that his play-acting was convincing but it was leading him into a fix. He had to think fast. ‘It’s not that I’m frightened o’ women, Lil. I just don’t get excited that way, if yer know what I mean.’

The Toomey girl sat forward on the bed, a puzzled frown on her face. ‘Yer mean women don’t excite yer?’

Dennis felt he had her measure now and he sat down next to her. ‘Look, Lil. I fink yer very pretty. In fact I’d go furvver than that. I’d say yer was beautiful.’

She was smiling now, her eyes widening. ‘Do yer really fink I’m beautiful?’

‘I do,’ he answered. ‘But yer see, Lil. Men like me like to ’ave a pretty girl fer a good friend. Yer know, one they can confide in an’ tell their secrets to.’

‘What d’yer mean, men like you?’

‘I’m queer,’ Dennis said, holding his head in his hand and trying not to laugh. He did not dare to look at her for too long in case he gave himself away.

There was a shocked look on her face and slowly it changed into an expression of pity. She reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. ‘Yer can’t ’elp the way yer are, William,’ she said gently. ‘Jus’ you remember, I’m yer friend. Yer can tell me fings an’ I won’t tell a livin’ soul. Not even Sandor.’

‘Yer mustn’t tell Sandor,’ Dennis said dramatically. ‘’E might not understand.’

She patted his knee. ‘I won’t tell a livin’ soul. Yer secret’s safe wiv me, William.’

 

Marie Toomey had finished her shopping and she walked slowly along to John Street. Patience O’Brian was a good friend. She always listened carefully to what she had to say, and usually had some sound advice to offer. Patience was made that way, she thought. Not like those interfering busybodies in the street. If she let on to one of them it would be all round the turning in five minutes. Patience wasn’t like that. Shame about her old man. All those years at the gas works, then he had to go and get himself killed six months after he retired. Still, walking down the middle of the Old Kent Road blind drunk wasn’t a very sensible thing to do, she mused. Something must have turned his brain. Maybe it was the shock of retirement? It did that to a lot of people. There was old Mr Copperstone, she recalled. He was only retired for six months and he drank a bottle of rat poison. Nasty one that was. Some people whispered that it had been administered. People had never stopped talking about it. Mrs Copperstone went stark raving mad a few months later. Pity that old git of mine didn’t think of taking rat poison, she thought, or maybe getting himself knocked up in the air by a tram. Trouble with Toby is, two pints of beer and he falls over before ’e’s even left the pub.