Ironmonger's Daughter [070-2.5]

By: Harry Bowling

Synopsis:

Ironmonger Street in 1920, with its ugly tenement blocks and tumbledown
houses, is one of the most unsightly turnings in Bermondsey; its residents
are hardened to the grim poverty of their lives.  In the slum block, Jubilee
Dwellings, two sisters attractive, fun-loving Kate Morgan and the happily
married Helen Bartlett give birth to daughters: one is illegitimate, her
mother refusing to name the father, the other is disabled.

Though their mothers can never be close, Connie and Molly grow up together
playing in the gutters, slipping away, truants, from school, and at fourteen
finding jobs despite the recession that ravages the country.  Life may be
hard, but with all their cockney humour and courage they enjoy it, too.  And
wouldn't be parted for the world.  Until the day Connie gets a new Job at the
metal factory, Armitage's, and catches the eye of handsome young Robert
Armitage.

Despite the differences in their backgrounds, and the antagonism that dogs
their two families, they are drawn together and are determined to be married.
But war intervenes .  .  .

Also by Harry Bowling from Headline TUPPENCE TO TOOLEY STREET CONNER

STREET'S WAR

United Kingdom 3.  99 ISBN 0-747Z-3363-2 = ^ Australia $11.  95

||11111111111111111 II III I II III .  00.  3.

Recommended Price Only II "'v ^ ^ HEADLINE 11111111..  Fiction/ General 9 "
780747"233633" Harry Bowling was born in Bermondsey, London, and left school
at fourteen to supplement the family income as an office boy in a riverside
provision merchant.  Called up for National Service in the 1950s, he has
since been variously employed as lorry driver, milkman, meat cutter,
carpenter and decorator, and is now a community worker.  He is married and
lives with his wife and three children in Deptford.  He is the author of two
previous novels.  Tuppence to Tooley Street and Conner Street's War, both of
which were instant bestsellers.

Also by Harry Bowling Conner Street's War Tuppence to Tooley Street
Ironmonger's Daughter Harry Bowling

HEADLINE

With thanks to my agent Jennifer Kavanagh, and to my editor Jane Morpeth.

Copyright 1989 Harry Bowling First published in 1989 by HEADLINE BOOK
PUBLISHING PLC First published in paperback in 1990 by HEADLINE BOOK
PUBLISHING PLC All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by
any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 3363 2

Typeset in 10/10'/2 pt English Times by Colset Private Limited, Singapore
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow HEADLINE BOOK
PUBLISHING PLC Headline House 79 Great Titchfield Street London W1P 7FN To
Val Chapman, with fond memories.

PART ONE

The year of 1920 had spawned a good summer but, when the winter took grip
and nightly fogs drifted in from the river, tired workers left the factories,
offices and wharves to hurry home as quickly as possible.  Belching smoke
from the factory furnaces and from the lop-sided chimneys of the shabby
houses and tenement blocks merged with the wet fog and made it sulphurous.
The fog rolled into the Bermondsey back streets a yellow soot-blanket that
snuffed out the night light from the hissing gas lamps and made the
cobblestones wet and slippery.  Inside the ramshackle houses coke fires were
banked up and draughty doors and windows were plugged with old coats and
yesterday's newspapers.  There was no inclination to chat on the front
doorsteps, nor to stop off for a pint of ale as the November fogs thickened.

On a Friday in mid November the weather turned bitter cold.  The cold red sun
was shut out as the Thames fog swirled through the cobbled riverside lanes
and out into Bermondsey.  It thickened during the early afternoon and the
dismal sound of fog-horns carried from London's river as tugs struggled to
place their trailing barges into safe anchorage before night fell.  Traffic
slowed and trains crawled out to suburbia through the yellow, poisonous
blanket, and homeward-bound workers held scarves and handkerchiefs to their
mouths as they moved wearily home.

The fog blotted out the view for old Fran Collins but she gazed out from a
fourth-floor window in Jubilee Dwellings anyway.  She had done all she could
for the moment and everything was at hand.  Kate Morgan was resting
comfortably and Fran knew that it would be some time yet.

The room was warm and clean and the dampened coke was piled high in the
grate.  The warmth radiated around the shabby room and Fran Collins tucked
her hands into her crisp white apron.

"What yer 'opin' for, luv?"  she asked.

Kate shifted her position in the kitchen chair.

"I don't care.  So long as it's all right."

Fran looked closely at the woman.  All the tales she had heard about Kate
Morgan's love life, the men she had supposedly been with and the identity of
the lover who had made her pregnant were of little interest to her at the
moment.  She had been summoned to deliver the child and she could sense that
the woman facing her in the chair was not disposed to discussing the whys and
wherefores of her condition.

Fran straightened the front of her apron and walked through into the tiny
bedroom that led off from the front room.  Everything looked ready.  A small
fire burned in the grate and the bedclothes had been turned back.  A rubber
underlay had been placed beneath the freshly laundered white bed sheet, and
on the chair beside the bed was the maternity bundle.  Fran checked once
again through the napkins which had been cut from thick to welling and found
the clean nightdress and a pack of muslin.  She took the tin of vaseline and
the thin scissors from the washstand and placed them on top of the bundle
beside the bed before going out of the room.

The kettle had boiled for the second time and when Fran Collins returned from
the scullery she glanced at the fidgeting Kate.  There was something about
the woman that puzzled the street's midwife.

Almost without exception, all the confinements she had attended over the
years were happy events.  Happiness always seemed to shine out from her
clients' eyes, which were bright and clear, even when the pregnancy was
unwanted or when the latest birth would bring more hardship to the family.
There was just a short time when, just before the pain took over, that
special light in the woman's eyes expressed the satisfaction at reaching her
time.  Kate Morgan's gaze did not reflect any satisfaction, Fran thought.
The woman's large blue eyes were dull and lustre less a deep hurt reflected
in her empty stare.

In the street below Jubilee Dwellings the fog covered the ugliness of the
place.  It blanketed off the dilapidated tenement block and the row of
tumbledown houses opposite, and it shut out the drab metal factory which
stood astride the end of the turning.  The swirling fog shrouded the rusting
iron gates of the factory and laid its cold fingers on the cobblestones and
on the grey slates of the roofs.  It wrapped itself suffocatingly around the
one streetlamp and squeezed out the cold light.  In the full light of day,
after the fog had cleared, the grey ugliness of Ironmonger Street would
reappear, one of the most unsightly turnings in Bermondsey.  It stood some
way behind the Tower Bridge Road and it boasted two corner shops at the
entrance: one, a rag shop that was hardly ever opened; and the other, an oil
shop.

Next to the oil shop was a pair of large wooden gates that led into a yard
which was used to store the Tower Bridge Road market barrows and stalls.
From the yard the four-storeyed tenement block carried on and ended short of
the factory wall.  A narrow alley led around to the back of the dwellings and
it was there that the tenants placed their refuge in a large bottomless bin.
As the rubbish built up the bin disappeared beneath the stinking pile and
every Friday it was recovered by the Council dust men who carried the rubbish
out from the alley in large wicker baskets.

On that fog-bound night in mid November, Kate Morgan gave birth to a baby
girl.  It was nearing eight o'clock when her waters broke and the reliable
Fran Collins calmly took control.  Fran was a sixty-six-year-old grandmother
whose husband Torn was a docker at the Surrey.  Their four children had all
flown the nest, were married, and had broods of their own.  Many of the local
kids had been delivered by Fran, who was often called upon when there was no
money to pay for the doctor.  She usually got paid, eventually, but she never
refused the summons to a birth, whatever the time of night or the state of
the weather.  Her grey hair was tied up in a bun on the top of her head and
her large dark eyes shone out from a moon-face.  She was a buxom lady, and
her calm manner helped her charges through even the most difficult of
lab ours  Fran Collins had had no formal training; the whole business seemed
to come naturally to her, and she had gained invaluable experience over the
years.

The birth of Connie Morgan was a straightforward affair and it was over very
quickly.  When both mother and daughter had been made comfortable Fran took
her leave.  As she edged her way out into the pea-souper she could not help
but puzzle over the moment she had placed the tiny bundle into Kate's arms.
The 'look' was missing, she felt sure.  It was a certain look that made her
glow inside every time she placed a new-born baby into its mother's arms and
watched her gaze upon her child for the very first time.  Tonight there had
been no gaze of wonder and love, only a look of resignation.  Maybe she was
wrong, maybe it was her own tiredness and fatigue that made her miss the
glance.  She hoped so.  But, as Fran Collins inched along to her front door,
she was convinced that all was not well with Kate Morgan.

Chapter One As the wind carried large snowflakes against the windows of the
tenement block early on Christmas morning Kate's sister Helen also gave birth
to a daughter.  The confinement was a long and difficult one and Doctor
Morrison was in attendance.  He looked serious as he snapped his black bag
shut; he had seen the signs all too often before.  He glanced at the
white-faced woman who lay back against the pillow, her arm cradling the
child, and he smiled sadly.

"I'll pop in again tomorrow," he said.

"You try and get some sleep now."

Matthew Bartlett hovered by the bedroom door and, as the doctor turned from
the bed, he stood back and glanced anxiously into the man's serious face.
Doctor Morrison put a finger to his lips and motioned with his eyes to the
front door.  Matthew followed him across the living room and waited while the
doctor buttoned up his overcoat.

"What is it, doctor?"  he asked finally.

"I'm not sure yet.  I need to see the child tomorrow.  In the meantime make
sure your wife gets some sleep.  She's exhausted."

Matthew felt his heart miss a beat.  His mouth went dry and he struggled to
form the words.

"Is anyfing wrong wiv the baby, doctor?"

Dr Morrison looked hard at the man.

"I suspect there might be a deformity of the spine," he said gravely.

Down in the street below the sound of happy children carried up to the quiet
flat in Jubilee Dwellings.  The snow was falling heavily now, and already the
cobblestones were hidden beneath a white carpet.

Kate came down from her flat on the floor above to see her sister's baby and
to offer to cook the Christmas meal.  Matthew politely refused.  Helen and the
baby were sleeping and he wanted to be alone.

The doctor's words had stunned him.  How could such a thing happen, he
wondered, and on Christmas Day?  Wasn't it meant to be the holiest of days?
How could God let a baby be born deformed on Christmas Day?  Maybe the doctor
was wrong.  They weren't always right.  He bit on his bottom lip.  How could
this thing happen to us?

Down in the street someone hailed their neighbour.

"A merry Christmas toyer Bert."

"Merry Christmas," Matthew whispered aloud to himself as he buried his head
in his hands.

On the last Sunday in January Connie Morgan and her cousin Molly Bartlett
were christened together at the tiny church in Bermondsey Street.  The
christening service was attended by very few of the Ironmonger Street folk.
Mrs Walker, Kate's next-door neighbour was there, resplendent in the new hat
she had bought for the occasion.  As the party walked through the arched
portal and into the white stonewalled vestibule they were greeted by Fran
Collins, who bent over each tiny bundle in turn, gently easing the shawl
back.  She looked up at Kate Morgan with concern showing in her eyes.  " " Ow
is the little mite?  Is she sleepin' well?  " she asked.

Kate nodded briefly and a ghost of a smile creased her lips.

"She's no trouble," she said.  And as an afterthought she added,

"Thanks for comin', Fran."

The midwife smiled back.  It was her custom to attend the christenings of all
'her babies'.

When Molly was held over the font she cried loudly, but when the blessed
water was splashed over Connie's forehead she screwed up her tiny face and
then went back to sleep.  Mrs Walker nudged Fran urgently.

"I thought all babies cried at the christenin's."

Fran Collins shook her head.

"Most do, although some sleep right frew the service."

Mrs Walker leaned towards her.

"She's gonna be a placid one, you mark my words.  I ain't 'ardly 'card the
little mite cry at all, an' I would 'ave 'carder.  You can 'ear every bloody
sound in our buildin's."

Fran winced as the vicar gave the old lady a cold glance.  "Shh!  Yer not
s'posed ter swear in church," she admonished her.

Mrs Walker looked abashed.

"I wasn't swearin'.  Anyway, most of them vicars swear.  You ought ter 'ear
ole Farvver Kerrigan swear when 'e's got a drop o' terps down 'im.

"E'd make the devil 'himself blush."

Fran winced again and took hold of the old lady's arm.  "C'mon, luv, it's all
over now."

When the group was outside in the cold morning air Matthew Bartlett took his
baby daughter from Helen and held her close against the cold wind.

Kate turned to Fran and said,

"Wanna carry the baby back ter the street?"  Fran smiled and took the tiny
bundle in her arms.  She accepted that Kate was paying her a compliment by
the suggestion, but something deep down inside her told her that her earlier
hunch was correct.  All was not well with Kate Morgan.  The street midwife
almost detected a sigh of relief as Kate handed over the child.

The party walked back along the Tower Bridge Road, past the shuttered shops
and the shrimp and winkle stall before turning off into the back streets When
they reached the corner of Ironmonger Street, Mrs Walker caught sight of
Jerry Martin the oil shop owner as he swept the pavement outside his premises
and she nudged Fran Collins.

"Look at that miserable ole sod.

"E'd crack 'is face if 'e smiled."

Fran, benign as ever, merely smiled.  She had always felt a little sorry for
the wizened-looking character with the spiky hair and the metal-rimmed
glasses, although she had occasionally been the victim of his sharp tongue.

Jerry Martin was known by everyone in the street as "Misery Martin' but, as
far as Jerry was concerned, he felt he had very little to smile about anyway,
and he certainly professed no loyalty to the little turning.  When someone
once walked into his dismal-looking shop and asked him why he didn't take
down all his shutters his reply was, " Leave orf!  The bleedin' kids round
'ere would fink nufink of lobbin' an 'ouse brick frew the winder'.

Jerry had been trying to sell his business for some time, but no one seemed
to be interested in the corner shop.  In fact most strangers would pass the
little turning with a casual glance and hurry away with no regrets for not
having entered the cul-de-sac named Ironmonger Street.  The local folk had no
desire to enter the turning either.  No one ever did, unless they lived in
the street or worked at Armitage and Sons, Sheet Metal Workers.  Ironmonger
Street had got a bad name over the years though one or two of the more
notorious families had since moved on.  The stigma remained and, when one
particular tallyman walked into the lamppost while consulting his account
book and then walked dazed out of the little back street with a large bump on
his forehead, the story got around that he had been caught in a compromising
situation and thrown out of the house by an angry husband whose wife had
spent the weekly payment and had offered her services in lieu.  Folk in the
infamous back street ignored the slanderous asides and were proud of their
ugly turning.  Some even boasted of the fact that there were some 'right 'and
nuts' living there.  Folk spun stories and the goings-on in the street had
become almost mythical.

Matthew Bartlett was troubled as he climbed the stairs of the tenement block
on that Sunday morning.  He knew that 1921 was going to be a bleak year for
his family.  He was on short time at the furniture factory and he had read in
the daily newspapers that over two million people were unemployed and many
more were, like himself, on short-time working.  Helen had said that the
Armitage factory was putting workers off, according to old George Baker, who
lived in one of the houses, and whose daughter Mary worked as a metal stamper
at the factory.

Matthew had also heard of the unrest in the local docks and wharves; there
was talk of a strike and he was well aware of the effect it would have in the
area.  He sighed deeply as he clutched the warm bundle in his arms tighter
and he felt suddenly guilt- ridden.  What right did he have to bring a child
into this world when he was struggling to earn enough to survive?  What sort
of burden had he placed on Helen?  He had fathered a child who was malformed
and sickly, and who would need constant care and attention.  There would be
hospital visits and doctor's bills.  He would have to find the money somehow,
and always there would be the constant threat of being put out of work.
Behind him on the stairs he heard Helen's laughter at something Kate had said
and he could feel a movement in his arms as Molly started to whimper.  He
looked down at his tiny, de fenceless daughter and hoped he would be able to
do all right by her.

FR1;Chapter Two The Horseshoe Public House stood on the corner of John
Street, a small turning between Ironmonger Street and the Tower Bridge Road.

The pub was popular with the local folk, and it was here that they gathered
to discuss the state of affairs.  Most vociferous of all was the domino team,
who would often pause between games to expound on current events and anything
else that took their fancy.

"An' I'm tellin' yer, Knocker, that Lloyd George is gonna 'ave ter do some
fink said Harold Simpson, a grizzled old man in his seventies who lived two
doors away from the pub.

"The country's going' ter the bloody dogs.  Look at yer unemployed.  Two
bleedin' million out o' graft.  They should 'ang the bleedin' Kaiser!"

Harold's next door neighbour Knocker Johnson moved his glass of beer out of
the reach of Harold's flailing arms and rubbed his grey stubble.

"What's 'angin' the Kaiser gotta do wiv the state o' the country?"

Harold took a quick sip from his beer and wiped a grubby hand across his full
moustache.

"I tell yer what it's gotta do wiv it.  That there war we've jus' bin frew
'as milked this country dry.  Bloody millions o' pounds it's cost us, an'
look at the way fings are now.  Two bleedin' million out o' collar an' now
there's the miners on strike an' talk of the transport workers joinin' 'em.
Mosto' those what's workin' are on short-time.  The only people earnin' money
are the bloody pawnbrokers.  My suit's 'angin' up in Harris's more often than
in me poxy wardrobe.  I tell yer straight.  Knocker.  That there Kaiser Bill
is larfin' at us.  You mark my words.  We ain't 'card the last of that
bleedin' stiff-legged bastard!"

George Baker sipped his beer and pushed his metal- framed glasses up on to
the bridge of his nose with a forefinger.

"I dunno about 'angin' the Kaiser.  I reckon they should 'ang ole Armitage."

11 "Why?"  Harold piped up.

"Don't yer know what 'e's gorn an' done?"

"No," replied Harold.

"Any danger o' you tellin' us?"

"Well 'e's put all 'is workers on short time, ain't 'e?  Me eldest daughter
works there.  She said it's quite bleedin' likely they'll all get their cards
if fings don't pick up very soon."

"I don't see what else 'e can do if there's no work," Knocker butted in.

George banged a domino piece down hard on the table top.

"I'll tell yer what else 'e could do.

"E could show a bit o' loyalty to 'is workers, that's what.

"E could keep 'em all on full time an' let 'em clean the place up or some
fink You take them there winders.  Bloody well filfy they are.  An' what
about them gates?  There's as much rust on them as on ole Widow Pacey's pram
she uses fert he bag wash Ole Armitage could get 'em ter paint the gates.
Matter o' fact 'e could get 'em ter give the ole place a lick o' paint."

"It's all very well you sayin' that," Knocker replied, 'but it all costs
money.  "

George's cue had been delivered.

"Money?!  That ole goat Armitage is werf a packet.  The bleedin' wages 'e
pays 'is workers is disgraceful.

My Mary only brings 'ome twenty- seven bob after stoppages.  She works
bleedin' 'and fert hat I can tell yer.  "

Harold looked dolefully at his diminishing pint.

"I still say they should 'ang the Kaiser."

George brooded as he shuffled the domino pieces.

"I've seen ole Armitage drive in our turnin' in that posh motor car wiv those
two dopey-lookin' sons of 'is in the back, an' I've said terme self George,
there ain't no justice.  There just ain't no justice.  There's 'im ridin'
about in that jalopy, an' there's me wivout two pennies ter rub tergevver."

The fourth man in the group leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over
his corpulent stomach.

"Yer right, George.  I fink it's what yer lot ted out for.  Some 'ave the
luck, an' some get kicked in the ky bosh  You take them Bartletts in our
turnin'.  My Fran was tellin' me that their kid was born wiv a curvature o'
the spine.  On Christmas Day, too.

"Parently there's nufink can be done about it.  The poor little mite ain't
got the best o' starts, 'as she?"

The year wore on and an overcast summer gave way to chill autumn winds.
There had been little to rejoice about as short-time working continued, and
only the pawnshops were doing good business.  The relief officers called
round to the homes of those unfortunates who had to seek assistance, and any
item of furniture or chat ties deemed a luxury had to be sold before any help
was given.

Mrs Clara Cosgrove was waiting for a visit from the relief officer after her
husband lost his job at the local tannery.  And as she walked back from the
market she had a worried look on her face.  The small loaf and the two pound
of potatoes she carried in her bag had used up the last of the housekeeping
money and there was still a doctor's bill to be paid.  At the corner of
Ironmonger Street she almost collided with Helen Bartlett.

' "Ello, girl.  Where's the babies?"  Clara asked.

Helen grinned and jerked her thumb in the direction of the tenement buildings.

"Matt's mindin' 'em while I pop down the market.

"E's on short time."

Clara shook her head sadly.

"Gawd knows what's ter become of us all.

I'm waitin' fert he TOter call.  I tell yer, "Elen, it's made me ill 'avin'
ter call 'em in, but there was no ovver way.  First me ole man got put orf,
an' now 'e's laid up wiv that there bronchitis.  I dunno which way ter turn."

Helen squeezed the old lady's arm and fished into her purse.

"Ere, Clara, there's a couple o' bob till fings look up.  It's all right,
Kate gave me a bit extra fer lookin' after Connie."

Clara looked down at the florin and then into Helen's eyes.

"Gawd bless yer, luv.  I'll pay yer back soon as I can."

When the relief officer called on Mrs Cosgrove he cast his covetous eyes over
the tidy parlour as the small woman glared at him, her arms folded over her
aproned bosom.  "How long have you lived in the street, Mrs Cosgrove?"  he
asked in a thin voice.

' "Bout firty years or more.  Me an' my Fred moved 'ere when we got spliced."

"Hmm.  Now what about that piano?"

"What about me pianer?"

13 "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to sell it, Mrs Cosgrove."

"Do what?"

"That's right.  I'm afraid it will have to go before we are in a position to
offer you any assistance."

Until that moment Mrs Cosgrove had controlled her anger but the thought of
being parted from her beloved piano proved too much.

"Now listen 'ere, yer long skinny git," she said, her face reddening, 'it's
lucky fer you me ole man's upstairs in bed wiv bronchitis.

"E'd 'ave given yer the back of 'is 'and.  Now piss orf out!  Yer can keep
yer palsy few bob!  We'll manage wivout yer 'elp."

"But, but.  .  ."

"No buts.  Jus' piss orf out."

The white-faced official hurriedly left Ironmonger Street and one more bad
mark was chalked up against the little turning.

As the foggy December days followed the windy autumn things looked up a bit
and a few seasonal jobs became available as the dockers were enjoying a busy
time unloading cargoes of fruit for the Christmas markets.  Mr Cosgrove got a
job stamping out biscuit tin lids at the Armitage factory, and Mrs Cosgrove
was able to keep her beloved piano.  Matthew Bartlett's flagging spirits were
cheered by the news that normal hours were to be restored at the furniture
factory where he worked, and he whistled to himself as he left for work on
Monday morning.  Now, with Christmas drawing near, there were presents to buy
for Helen and the baby, and there was also a loan from the moneylender that
had to be cleared up.

It was late on Christmas Eve when the two sisters met in the Bartletts' flat
in Jubilee Dwellings.  The ga slit room was cosy, with a tarry-log burning
brightly in the grate.  Helen had hung up some coloured paper-chains and
spread a clean tablecloth over the rickety table.  A few greetings cards were
arranged on the high mantel shelf and in one corner a tiny Christmas tree
stood in a bucket, garlanded with silver strands and tiny bon-bons.  The
smoke-streaked ceiling and grimy papered walls were brightened by the
colourful decorations and the traditional bowl of nuts placed in the middle
of the crisp white tablecloth.

Helen sighed as she took a bottle of port down from the dresser.

"Has Connie settled in okay?"

Kate nodded.

"Yeah, she's fast asleep."

Helen poured some port into two small glasses and handed one glass to her
sister.  Kate took a sip, enjoying the sweetness.  Helen sat down heavily and
toyed with her glass.  "This time last Christmas I was getting' the first
twinges."

The sound of a baby coughing came from the bedroom and it was Helen who got
up quickly to check on the two babies in the bedroom.  When she returned she
filled Kate's empty glass and sat down facing her.

For a short while there was silence.

"What time are yer expectin' Matt?"  Kate asked.

Helen shrugged her shoulders.  " " E'saving a drink wiv 'is work mates an'
the pubs are open till twelve.

"E won't be in much before."

The two women faced each other across the table.  Since Helen married they
had drifted apart.  Kate's numerous relationships with men had been
surrounded by rum ours and Helen had been critical of her sister's lifestyle,
so there had been rows.  Now, the birth of their babies seemed to draw them
together again, though the strain in their relationship still simmered below
the surface.  At twenty-eight, Helen was two years younger than her sister,
although she looked the elder of the two.  Her figure had filled out and her
face had become slightly bloated.  Her dark hair was pulled tightly into a
bun at the nape of her neck and there was some puffiness beneath her small
brown eyes.  Kate had her father's complexion.  Her eyes were pale blue and
her hair was fair and inclined to be wavy.  Her figure was still firm and
slightly padded around the hips and her full breasts stood out against her
tight dress.  She had a high forehead and small nose, and her lips were thin,
which could sometimes make her appearance seem rather stern.

A stone shot out from the tarry-log and Helen got up and turned the log over
with a poker.

"Ave yer thought about getting' yerself married, Kate?"  she said, still
staring into the flames.

Kate laughed mirthlessly.  ThenI I've given 'em up.  Who needs 'em?  "

Helen turned and looked into her sister's pale face.

"I was 15 finkin' about Connie.  Every child should 'ave a farvver."

Kate felt the old animosity towards her sister rising within her.

"My baby's got a farvver, but she'll never know 'im."

"Won't yer ever teller about 'er farvver - when she's older I mean?"  Helen
asked, sitting down again.

Kate shook her head slowly.

"No.  What's the good?  She'll know soon enough 'er muvver wasn't married.
What do they say about kids like Connie?  Born the wrong side of the blanket?
That'll be enough for 'er ter go on wiv."

Helen winced at Kate's bitter tone.  She clasped her hands together and
arched them under her chin with her elbows resting on the table.

"You know best, Kate.  But if it was me.  .  ."

"Look,

"Elen.  I've made me mind up, an' that's the way it's gonna be.

I don't want 'er ter know about 'er farvver, an' you're the only ovver person
that knows who 'e is.  I want yer ter promise me you'll keep it from Connie
when she's old enough ter start asking questions.  "

Helen nodded.

"If that's the way yer want it."

"That's the way I want it," Kate said with emphasis.

Helen reached for the bottle of port.

"Come on, Sis.  It is Christmas.

Let's 'ave anuvver drink.  "

Kate let her shoulders sag and smiled.  She felt sorry for the way she was
behaving, but she was always aware of her sister's disapproval of her
lifestyle.  Helen had been the plodder.  The first man, the only man, she had
known was Matthew.  Helen was the strong one in their marriage, but then
Helen was like their mother.  She had been strong, too.  She had handled
their father's weakness for drink with quiet resolve, and when he had finally
walked out on the family when the children were still very young she had
cried briefly, then took over the role of provider.  It was the struggle of
making sure there was always enough bread on the table, always enough money
to pay the rent man and the tallyman that finally killed her.  The early
morning cleaning and taking in washing and sewing had worn her out until
there was no life left in her.  And Beatrice Morgan had been one of the first
to succumb to the epidemic of influenza that swept the area in 1919.

Kate's thoughts were interrupted by Helen getting up quickly and going once
more into the bedroom.  When she returned and sat down at the table she
sighed deeply.  "Connie's as quiet as a lamb.  But Molly's restless.  It's
'er chest.  I fink it's the croup."

Kate looked hard at her sister.  She could see the concern and fear in her
eyes and she felt a wave of pity rise up inside her.

"Don't worry.  She'll be all right.  She's a fighter."

Helen laughed mirthlessly.

"She's gotta be, Kate.  It's gonna be 'and fer 'er.  The 'ospital said 'er
growth will be stunted an' 'er lungs might be affected later on."

Kate saw the tears well up in Helen's eyes and she reached out and clasped
her sister's hands in her own.

"Try not ter worry too much, sis.  There'll be lots of 'elp when yer need it.
I know you an' me ain't always seen eye to eye, but we've gotta ferget the
past.  We're family, ain't we?"

Helen smiled and dabbed at her eyes.

"I'd like that, Kate.  I 'ope our two kids grow up close.  They'll be family
to each ovver too, won't they?"

"You betcha.  They'll be inseparable those two, you mark my words."

A cold moon looked down on the ramshackle back street and lit the ugly
prison-like factory that straddled the turning.  Shadows of the rusted iron
gates fell across the empty and deserted yard, and a rising wind rattled the
glass case of the street gas lamp The turning was empty, except for one
drunken reveller who staggered along the pavement, his face obscured by the
turned-up collar of his overcoat.  A cloth cap was set askew his dipping head
and he carried a quart bottle of brown ale under one arm.  The drunk reeled
two paces past Mrs Cosgrove's house then staggered back and almost fell
against the street door as he grasped the iron knocker.  When the door
opened, a patch of light lit up the cobblestones and the sounds of a ragtime
piano carried out into the street.  Someone was trying hard to imitate Sophie
Tucker with a rendering of

"Some of These Days', above raucous laughter and, as the door slammed shut,
the sounds died.  In Jubilee Dwellings everything was silent.

The Bermondsey folk toasted their neighbours that Christmas, and then they
toasted in the New Year.  The Great War 17 was still fresh in their minds
and now they were fearful for their jobs.  Everyone hoped for a peaceful
future, and an end of being poor, although for most folk it seemed that the
days to come would be very bleak.

Up in the tenement block in Ironmonger Street as the distant chimes rang out
the old year Helen and Matthew clinked glasses and drank a toast to the two
young babies who were sleeping unconcernedly in their cots.  Next to each
other before a brightly burning fire, they sat talking into the early hours
of the new year and, as Matthew began to broach a sensitive subject, Helen
was immediately on her guard.

"Won't she even try ter get some maintenance money?  I mean, it's only right."

Helen looked into Matthew's pale grey eyes and saw his concern.

"You know 'ow she is.  Kate's a proud woman.  She won't ask fer nufink."

"But she wouldn't be asking' fer 'erself.  It'd be fert he baby."

Helen shrugged her shoulders, hating Matthew probing.  She had never let on
to him that she knew the identity of Connie's father.  She had told him more
than once that she had not been taken into Kate's confidence but she was sure
he did not believe her.

"I can understand 'er being' reluctant, 'specially if the bloke's married,
but surely she could sort it out wiv 'im some 'ow?"  Matthew persisted.

Helen felt her temper rising.

"Look, Matt.  I don't know if the baby's farvver is married or not.  I've
told yer umpteen times, Kate ain't told me any fink She don't take me into
'er confidence, she never 'as.  It's only since the children were born she's
started comin' inter see me."

Matthew sipped his beer and thought for a while.

"I wonder if it's somebody round 'ere?  From the street I mean?"

"I'm not interested," Helen said sharply.

"It's none of our business.

Kate's bin out wiv a lot o' fellers.  She's never bin interested in settlin'
down wiv one man.  Mum always said she takes after our dad.

"E was always footloose, even after they was married.  I honestly don't fink
Kate could settle down."

"It's different now though," Matthew said, sitting up in his chair.

"She's got a kid ter look after.  Every kid should 'ave a farvver.

It's gonna be 'and wivout a man ter provide fer 'em.  "

Helen stared into the flickering coals.

"My sister's a determined woman.  Matt.  They'll get by.  It'll be 'and, but
as I said, she won't take charity.  Anyway, there's not many fellers who'd
take on somebody else's kid.  The pair of 'em will get by.  As fer young
Connie, she'll grow up wiv 'er muvver's stubbornness, I'm sure."

The clock on the mantel shelf chimed the half hour.  The wind rattled the
windows and a down-draught sent smoke billowing into the room.

Matthew waved his arms to clear the air and Helen poked at the ash with the
poker, her face sad.  As long as she could remember, she had looked forward
to Christmas with great excitement.  She had loved helping her mother to make
paper-chains and put up the decorations, she had loved the visits to the late
market in Tower Bridge Road.  She remembered when she was a child and had
gone on those trips to the market along with her parents and Kate.  She
recalled the wide-eyed excitement just looking at the stalls displaying piles
of fruit and nuts.  She remembered the hissing Tilley lamps that bathed the
stalls and barrows with a bright white light, and the special treat after the
shopping was done when her parents went to the pub and she and Kate sat on
the step sipping gassy lemonade that made her nose twitch, and nibbled on
huge Arrowroot biscuits.  The memories of those childhood Christmas times had
made the festive season special until last Christmas.

Her joy at having a baby at the most happy time of the year for her had been
snatched away the following morning, when the doctor told her that Molly
would have to go to the Evelina Children's Hospital to see a specialist.  The
knowledge that her baby would grow up deformed had been hard to bear.
Matthew had been reduced to tears and she, too, had felt hollow and cheated.
She had had to be strong for both of them.  For a short time she had been
terrified that her husband would reject the child, but he had, thankfully,
become totally devoted to Molly once he had grown used to the idea of her
deformity.  For herself, 19 the knowledge that her child would have a cross
to bear for as long as she lived made her even more determined that at least
Molly would have all the love it was possible for her to give.  She hoped
that she and Kate could become closer.  It would be really nice if Molly and
Connie grew up as friends as well as cousins.

FR1;Chapter Three Just after Connie's second birthday Kate got a seasonal
job at the Armitage factory.  Her sister looked after Connie during the day,
which was an arrangement that suited Helen's needs.  It gave
thetwochildrenthewholedaytoplay together, and let the closeness they had felt
very early on develop into a strong bond of friendship.

Helen could already see the physical differences between the two as they
played happily together.  Connie was a sturdy-limbed child who toddled around
confidently; Molly was inclined to fall about as she tried to copy her
playmate.  Helen noticed that Connie was already an inch or two the taller
and she felt a lump in her throat as she watched Molly smiling and laughing
at Kate's fair-haired daughter, wondering if Molly's evident difficulties had
already started to give her pain.  Connie seemed to be a very placid child,
and she never become angry or annoyed at Molly's awkward shows of affection.
Helen felt a great comfort in seeing Connie accept her daughter, and yet it
only made her think of the problems her daughter would probably have to face
as she grew older.  How many times would Molly be rejected, pushed away, and
perhaps even laughed at?  She hoped with all her heart that Connie would
always be a friend and would protect Molly from others' cruelty.

Early in 1923, trade at Armitage picked up and Kate got a permanent job
there.  She worked a stamping machine and although the work was hard and
repetitive she was happy in the knowledge that at last she was bringing in a
steady wage, even if it was barely a pittance.

Overall the wages paid to the Armitage workers were very poor.  There was
some unrest amongst the factory hands and talk of joining a trade union, but
no one wanted to be labelled as a troublemaker and so the griping was
normally aired at the street corner and the doorsteps after working hours.

21 George Armitage, the owner of the factory, had an intuitive feeling that
his workers' discontent could become dangerous.  He stood at the window of
his large comfortable office looking down at the yard, a smart, upright man
despite his advancing years.  The factory that he had built up from
practically nothing had been his whole life, but now that his wife had died
he was beginning to feel very weary, and he realised that perhaps it was time
for his two sons to take over the running of the business.  His elder son
Peter would assume general control, and Gerald would take responsibility for
organising the production.  He sighed as he thought of the problems that
would arise.

There was too much tension between the two brothers.  Peter was competent and
serious-minded, and happily married with a young son, whereas Gerald was
overconfident and brash, and his marriage was breaking down badly.  George
knew that his boastful younger son would try to dominate Peter, and he
realised that discontent among the workers would be aggravated if Gerald went
ahead and sacked Joe Cooper, the well-liked young foreman, and some of the
older hands on the factory floor.  George Armitage gazed out over the yard as
the wind disturbed scraps of paper wrapping and torn pieces of cardboard.

I wonder what all this will come to, he thought.

His thoughts were disturbed as Gerald opened the door and walked confidently
in.

"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 rum ours about rum ours  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.

* * * 23 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 'avea day out she better keeper
eyes orf o' Johnny.  I'm bookin' 'im."

"Are yer linin' 'im up fert he 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'^11 those fellas.  I might find me self 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'mgonna 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 doternight?"  Joyce said.

"We could go up the Tanner'op, Joyce.  I 'card 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
fertickets though.  "

Joyce looked up at the evening sky.

"It's a nice evenin'.  Let's jus' go fera 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 dyer 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 and some men in top 'ats and smart suits all going' inter 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 25 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 back streets 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 work places and when little was
done the atmosphere of resentment and anger grew stronger.

In the back streets 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 bag wash 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 27 win the children over with toffee bars as she left
for the laundry one morning.  On her return trip the bag wash lady saw that
the two children were half way 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 oil shop owner's face as he thought about his new
merchandise would have shocked the street- folk.  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 asking' '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 dyer 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.

"I'd better see me ole man first.  If I get it wrong 'e'll be in a right ole
mood."

"Please yerself," Misery muttered as he tipped the nails back into the box
under the counter.

Mrs Walker turned on her heel and started for the door.  She caught her foot
in the doormat on the threshold, slipped down the step and stumbled out into
the street.  When she had straightened her hat and regained her composure she
looked around into the open doorway.  She was about to give Misery Martin a
piece of her mind about the maintenance of his shop when she saw his face.  A
huge grin had spread over his features.  He reminded her of one of those
evil-looking door knockers down Tanner's Alley that she had always hurried
past.  Mrs Walker turned smartly without making any comment and walked back
to the Dwellings.

"Bloody ole goat," she grumbled aloud with a shiver.  " " E should be struck
like that!  Larffin' at people's mis'aps.  It's the only time 'e'sappy

The long summer times were balmy and days of blue skies were followed by
starlit nights.  The winters were severe, with poisonous fogs and winds that
chilled the bones.  In the dock land slums, beyond the whitened front
doorsteps and crisp lace curtains, the houses were infested with bugs.  Wax
tapers were lit and applied to the bedsprings and soft green 29 soap was
packed between woodwork and plaster in the constant battle against
infestation.  The local people frantically kept themselves clean with
carbolic soap and Lysol and, as money was short, they would use homemade
medicines and applications for their ailments: bread poultices, soap and
sugar applications for boils and abscesses, and vinegar- soaked towels for
septic throats.  Steam kettles were used to ease bronchitis in children and
horse hairs were tied around warts.

During the 'twenties, as Connie Morgan and Molly Bartlett grew up in the
little back street behind the Tower Bridge Road, the street became used to
the sight of the two cousins toddling around together, inseparable.  Connie
was becoming tall and leggy whilst Molly's growth was slow and painful.  Her
flat round face was set upon a short neck, but her large dark eyes shone out
like defiant beacons, and her laugh was infectious.  She waddled along,
swaying from side to side beside the pretty fair-haired girl whose pale blue
eyes were set in a finely moulded face.  Connie's placid character contrasted
sharply with her playmate's changing moods.  Molly's alert and agile mind was
trapped inside her retarded body and it often made her frustrated and angry.
Connie quietly bore the brunt of her anger and changing moods with gentle
patience.  When the street children chased a ball or followed coloured glass
marbles in a scurry, Connie would stay close to Molly.  It was as though she
had made herself responsible for her cousin's safety and well being and,
whenever Helen watched the two together, it tugged at her heart.  She had
cared and tended her sister's child since Kate first took the job at
Armitage's.  When she had suddenly left the factory after the outing in
twenty-three, Kate had got a job as a barmaid and young Connie was left more
and more in Helen's care.  Helen had grown to love the girl as though she
were her own and she was aware of the deep bond between the children.  It
helped to quell the grinding bitterness and heartache at seeing her own
child's malformed body struggling to develop and mature.

FR1;Chapter Four During the early 'twenties the Government changed hands
with almost monotonous regularity until, in 1924, a Conservative government
under the leadership of Stanley Baldwin took office and remained in power for
five years.  Then, in 1926, a general strike paralysed the industrial areas,
and in Bermondsey the trams stopped running and the docks and wharves closed.
Some local factories shut, and in the Armitage factory some of the younger
members of the work force attempted to organise their own support for the
strike by walking out and standing at the gates.  The main section of the
work force was confronted with hastily prepared leaflets when they reported
for work one Monday morning and many workers joined the protesters at the
gates.  Joe Cooper was standing amongst them.  Joe had earned the respect of
nearly every worker at the factory.  He had been instrumental in helping to
improve relations between the workers and management and in the process he
had made an enemy of Gerald Armitage.  Gerald saw that Joe could coax and
cajole the best out of the factory hands and he was jealous of Joe's
influence.  He was convinced that the foreman was the troublemaker behind the
growing demands for the factory to become unionised.  But Joe had also earned
the respect and trust of Peter Armitage, the factory's new managing director,
and he was not afraid to take the shop floor grievances directly to Peter and
bypass his more inflexible brother.  Although this was a blatant infringement
of normal procedures it was an arrangement which persisted, and it caused a
few eyebrows to be raised.

Peter Armitage stood at the window of his office, looking down at the yard.
His father had recently handed over control of the business to him, and the
realities of running the factory weighed heavily upon him .  .

With a deep sigh he left the window and slumped down at 31 his desk.  His
forefinger twirled the paper knife as he thought about the conversation he
had had with his wife Claudette the previous evening.  They had been sitting
beside the log fire and Claudette was industriously working on a piece of
embroidery.  Suddenly she had looked up.  "Will the factory have to close,
Peter?"  she asked.

"I think it's more than likely, my dear," he replied.

"The strike seems to be spreading everywhere."

Claudette clicked her tongue.

"But you can't allow yourself to be dictated to.  You'll have to stand up to
them.  Gerald was saying that it's only a few troublemakers leading the rest
and he thinks it's about time you showed them just who's running the factory."

Peter had given his wife a withering glance.

"Exactly.  I think Gerald should bear that in mind, too," he growled and
flicked open the evening paper.  And, just as he had turned to read it, he
had caught a strange smile on Claudette's face as she worked the needle
through the tapestry.  .  .

The sound of loud voices coming from the yard jerked Peter out of his reverie
and he got up and went back to the window.  He watched with growing anxiety
as some of the workers defied the call for solidarity and marched defiantly
through the pickets.  Scuffles broke out and the situation became tense.
Some of the strikers were holding up banners calling for support for the
miners and, as other workers tried to pull them down, the fighting got worse;
banners were broken and the sticks used as clubs.  As he watched the
disturbance by the gates Peter was shocked and sickened.  His trusted foreman
Joe Cooper was fighting on the side of the strikers, and Peter saw him
punching out at a couple of strangers who were trying to snatch a banner from
one of the female workers.  Peter was convinced that the two ruffians did not
work at the factory.

The door opened and Gerald strode in.

"Miss Jones has already called the police, Peter," he said quickly.

"They'll sort out this bloody mess."

Peter looked hard at his younger brother and pointed in the direction of the
yard.

"Who are they?  Those two thugs don't work here."

Gerald looked down towards the gates.  His brother noticed the ghost of a wry
smile cross his face.

"I don't know them," he said.

"They look to me like strike breakers."

"They look to me like strike breakers, too," Peter said pointedly.

"Are they the strike breakers you were telling me about who were involved
round at the Matthew's factory last week?"

Gerald glared coldly at his brother but didn't speak.

Peter looked down into the street and saw Joe Cooper lying on the ground,
several boots raining "kicks into his curled-up body.  Other workers started
to drag the attackers off as police rushed up to the gates and pulled the
fighters apart.  With its bell ringing, a Black Maria roared into the turning
and screeched to a halt.  Peter watched peopl&being bundled unceremoniously
into the back of the van, and he saw the half-conscious figure of Joe Cooper
dragged along the cobbles and thrown in with the others.  He turned away from
the window and looked at his younger brother, his face contorted with anger.

"I

suppose you think this is the way to deal with this sort of thing?  "

he said loudly.

Gerald's face darkened.

"What are you accusing me for?"  he said with a nonchalant shrug.

"You must think I'm stupid," Peter said, his voice quiet and scornful.

"A friend of yours gets strike breakers in to deal with his troubles and you
think it serves his workers right, and now you don't know what's been going
on down there?"  He shook his head.

"Bring in the toughs and let them beat up the workers.  If the old man gets
to hear of this it'll kill him.  Christ A'mighty, Gerald, you're a fool."

His younger brother's face reddened with anger.

"This business belongs to the family.  I've got as much right as you to look
after its best interests.  What gives you the right to pi each to me?"

Peter breathed in deeply.  He knew that if he continued he would be opening a
black chapter in Gerald's past that they had agreed to bury.  He walked
around behind his desk and sat down heavily.  Gerald watched his progress, a
look of distaste on his handsome features.

Peter said nothing.  He clasped his hands on the desk top and pressed the
tips of his fingers together until the nails went white.  After some time he
looked up into his brother's eyes and said quietly.

"They'll be needing you on the factory floor if we're to get the machines
running, Gerald."

33 Gerald turned and stalked to the door.  He paused before turning again to
face his elder brother.  Peter's head was bent forward and he appeared to be
inspecting a document.  Gerald eyed him warily; he knew that his past
misdemeanour would always be held against him, and would be used to make sure
he behaved.  He was trapped.

"I'll come up later when I've sorted things out," he said coldly, and stepped
out into the passageway, shutting the door behind him.

The General Strike lasted just nine days, and the factory strike less than.
one week.  Joe Cooper appeared at the Tower Bridge Magistrates Court and was
fined ten shillings for disorderly conduct.  His bruised and battered head
remained unbowed as he paid the fine and walked out of the court to
back-slapping and cheers from his work mates  The next Monday morning an
apprehensive group of workers walked through the gates of the factory and
clocked in.  There were no cases of victimisation, but the following week the
management declared that working hours were to be increased by one hour and
the early Friday finish would now be a thing of the past.  Though they could
do nothing about it, it angered the subdued workers and made Joe Cooper all
the more determined to bring trade union membership into the Armitage factory.

Another confrontation which took place during the strike was the subject of
discussion at the next domino group get-together.

"We was all outside the pie shop in Tower Bridge Road," George Baker began.

"I was standin' there mindin' me own business an' eatin' me 'of pie, when
along comes this tram.  Yer could 'ave knocked me over wiv a feawer.  I says
ter young Bernie Cornbloom, " "Ere, Bernie, the trams are s'posed ter be on
strike ain't they?"

 "

" S'right," 'e says.

So I looks up the road an' there's this dirty great tram wiv a geezer drivin'
it who wasn't yer regular tram driver.

"E 'ad this posh coat on wiv a fur collar, an there was a copper standin' on
the platform next to 'im.  The tram was packed wiv them bleedin' office
workers from Tooley Street.  This copper 'ad 'is arms folded over 'is
truncheon an' there was anuvver copper on an 'orse trottin' be' and

Before yer could say Jack Robinson, young Bernie grabs me pie an' runs out
in front o' this tram.

"E aims me dinner at this geezer who's drivin' the tram an' it 'its the
copper instead.  Right in the dial it caught 'im.  Everybody starts cheerin'
an' clappin', an' young Bernie's orf like the clappers wiv this copper
chasin' 'im.  Some o' the lads jumped on the tram an' tried ter pull this
driver geezer orf.  Now, the copper on the 'orse don't know whevver ter chase
Bernie Cornbloom, or 'elp the scab volunteer.

"E yanks the poor 'orse's neck round an' it slips on the tram lines Over it
goes an' this Torn Mix copper can't get up.

"E's got 'is leg trapped under the animal.  Ole Clara Cosgrove is standin'
watchin' the fun an' suddenly she grabs an 'andful of eggs orf of Teddy
Oldham's stall an' starts peltin' the copper wiv 'em.  Talk about a laugh.  I
ain't laughed so much since ole Knocker 'ere got pissed that night an'
mistook ole Clara'souse fert he urinal."

"I don't remember doin' that," Knocker said, stroking his thick stubble.

' "Course yer don't.  You was legless.  Yer made a right mess of 'er passage
wallpaper, I can tell yer."

"Did they catch Bernie?"   Harold Simpson asked.   "No fear," George said
emphatically.

"Bernie runs across the road, roun' the corner, an' straight frew ole fat
Sara's front door."

"Blimey!  I bet she was pleased," laughed Knocker.  "Not 'alf.  She grabs
young Bernie an' tries ter pull 'im in 'er bedroom.  Bernie told me 'e didn't
know whevver ter give 'himself up an' take 'is medicine, or take some of
'ers."

"What did 'e do, George?"  Knocker asked.  "Gawd knows.

"E never told me what 'e did."

 "What would you 'ave done, George?"   Harold asked.

"I'd 'ave give me self up.  I ain't too keen ter get a dose o' the clap.  Ole
Sara's 'ad 'alf o' Tower Bridge Road in 'er place."

"Yer right there," Harold agreed.

"I've even seen ole Ferris the chimney sweep divin' in an' out o' there."

"Fat Sara ain't got a coal fire.  She's on gas," Knocker chipped in.

' "Ow the bloody 'ell d'you know?"  Harold piped in, amid roars of laughter.

* * * As the 'twenties drew to a close the young cousins became settled into
their lessons at the local Webb Street School.  Every morning they walked to
school together, and every afternoon they strolled home, lazily laughing at
the peculiar teacher who took them for lessons.  It was already apparent that
Connie would develop into a very pretty adult: her deep-set blue eyes were
very striking, their colour vividly shaded.  Her long blond hair reached down
almost to her waist, and was usually tied carelessly at the back of her neck
with a black lace, revealing her rounded forehead.  She moved with childlike
grace and her posture was straight and proud.  By contrast Molly did not
appear to be growing very fast, her pathetic young body looked thick and
squat with her back becoming more and more rounded.  She managed to walk at a
steady pace, although she tended to sway from side to side when she tried to
hurry, and her breathing was quick and shallow.  Her flat face was constantly
changing in expression; it was as though all her suffering, all her struggles
to accomplish the day-to-day tasks were written in her round face and
reflected in her large dark-brown eyes.  The constant awareness of her
condition had made her look older than her tender years.  She already seemed
to have lost the carelessness of childhood and behind her simple appearance
there was a maturing mind that was fast outstripping the growth of her tragic
body.  Already, as a nine-year-old, Molly was beginning to interpret the
looks and the remarks of people on the streets.  Their attitudes were often
well meant and sympathetic, but their careless and unthinking pity pierced
the child's heart.

One day Connie and Molly were later than usual coming home from school.
Helen Bartlett put on her coat and scarf and went to look for the youngsters.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs she found Connie with her arm around
Molly's shoulders.  Her daughter seemed to be crying.

"Molly, what's wrong?"  she called out, rushing up to them.  She leant down
and gently touched the side of Molly's face, but her daughter would not look
up.  She stared at the ground, tears running down her cheeks and falling from
her chin.

"Connie, what's the matter?"  Helen asked, looking over at her niece.

Connie looked away, and Helen could see that she did not want to tell her.

"Come on luv, what's bin 'appenin'?"  she asked her quietly.

Connie frowned.

"It's those Flynn kids," she said.

"They kept on sayin' " umptybacked" and callin' Molly names.  So I bashed' em

"Oh, Molly darling', come 'ere," Helen said as she went to cuddle her
daughter.  But Molly burst out sobbing and pushed past her to hurry away up
the stairs.

Although Helen and Matthew were devoted and adoring towards their only child,
whose disabilities made them pander to her every need, they sensed that Molly
found it very difficult to believe she could be loved.  Connie, however,
received no such lavish affection from her mother, although she was kept
clean and well clothed.  For the most part Kate never seemed to be around.
Her job as a barmaid took her out every evening, and at weekends there always
seemed to be parties and appointments which left Connie either alone in the
flat or in Helen's care.  More and more Connie turned to Helen for her needs,
and the gap between Kate and her daughter widened.  There were also times
when, for reasons that the young child did not understand, she was suddenly
taken from her own flat and foisted upon Helen, even though it was clear that
Kate remained at home.  This usually took place at the weekends, and the two
children became quite used to sharing the same bedroom.  Over the years it
became more and more difficult for Connie to approach her mother.
Conversations between them were very rare, and whenever Connie asked about
her father she was told quite coldly that her father was dead and she should
not keep asking those sorts of questions.

Connie was chatting to her cousin on their way home from school one day when
Molly suddenly asked,

"Why ain't yer got a dad, Connie?"

The dad's dead," she said.

"Ow did 'e die?"

"Idunno."

"When did 'e die?"

"I dunno, Molly.  Me mum didn't say."

"What did'e look like?"

"I dunno."

37 Molly turned her dark eyes towards Connie and said,

"It mus' be 'orrible not to 'ave a dad."

"Oh it's all right, I s'pose."

"We could share my dad," Molly said suddenly, her eyes sparkling.

"We share 'im now, silly, I'm always stayin' in your flat."

Molly thought for a time and then said,

"I know.  Why don't you ask my mum about your dad?  My mum knows every fink

That same evening when the two girls were sitting in front of the coal fire
in the Bartlett's flat, Molly looked up as her mother came into the room and
nudged her cousin.

"Go on.  Ask me mum."

"Ask me what, Molly?"

Connie put down her colouring book and looked up at Helen.

"I asked me mum about dad.  Auntie

"Elen.  Mum said 'e's dead.  Did you know 'im?"

Helen sat down in her fireside chair and stared down into the enquiring eyes
of her niece.  She wanted to tell the truth.  She knew that it was not right
to keep such a thing from the child.  She had a right to know, but Kate was
still adamant that Connie was not to be told anything about her father, and
Helen realised that she would have to go along with her wishes.

"I'm sorry, Connie.  I didn't know your dad.

"E died when you was a baby."

"Didn't mum ever bring 'im round ter see yer, Auntie?"  she asked.

"No, she never did," Helen said truthfully.

In 1929 the Wall Street crash made headline news.  Shares tumbled everywhere
and there was talk of a worldwide depression.  Unemployment rose to three
million.  A blight quickly struck all the large industrial areas and
thousands of factories closed; almost everywhere workers were put once again
on the dreaded short-time working.  In Bermondsey, folk realised that the
times were going to get even harder as more and more workers received their
notices and the docks and wharves ground almost to a standstill.  Over the
next few years the effects of the economic slump bit deeply everywhere and a
grey, depressing gloom overhung the whole of the dock lands During 1931
Ironmonger Street lost one of its most loved characters.  Fran Collins died
two months after her husband Torn, and the whole street turned out to pay
their last respects.  Many of the families who stood at their front doors
sobbing quietly into handkerchiefs had good reason to be grateful to old
Fran.  She had slapped the breath of life into many of the street's kids, and
right up until the end she had retained her cheerfulness and good-natured
attitude to everyone.  One middle-aged lady stood sobbing loudly.  Fran had
delivered all of her seven children and for the last birth the payment was
still owing.

In that same year the Armitage Factory closed for a whole day in mourning for
George Armitage who had died in his sleep.  In his will he had stipulated
that all his workers were to be given a day off with full pay on the day of
his funeral.  But, in these times, the closing of the factory for a day
seemed almost ominous to the work force rather than a special boon.

"I dunno.  It's bin a bad year, what wiv one fing an' anuvver," Joe Cooper
said one day to old George Baker.  "There was ole Fran going', an' ole
Armitage.  It seems 'alf the characters round 'ere are leavin' us ter get on
wiv it."

George sucked on his pipe and looked up the street.  A slow smile spread over
his grizzled face as he watched the antics of the man who had just pushed a
battered old pram into the turning.  The contraption was laden down with bits
of old iron and, as the man struggled to keep it on a straight course, pieces
of scrap fell from the load and bounced over the cobblestones.

"There's a few characters still knockin' about this turnin'," George grinned.

"Just look at that clown Toomey."

The Toomeys were looked upon as a strange crowd by the street folk.

Toby Toomey was a frail, harmless-looking individual who struggled to earn a
living by pushing an ancient pram through the streets to collect scrap iron
and old newspapers.  He invariably wore a battered trilby hat and an overcoat
that almost reached his down-at-heel boots.  Toby was fearful of his
domineering wife Marie, and very much aware that nothing he did was right in
her eyes.  Marie was a large woman with straight black hair which hung down
her back.  Her face was always powder-streaked and her eyes dark and
brooding.  The Toomeys had a daughter 39 Lillian, who was fast gaining a
reputation for being a 'loose woman'.

Lillian was in her twenties, and her way of dressing was a constant talking
point amongst the street folk.  She wore very high-heeled shoes and dresses
which were either too short or too tight.  She used heavy make-up and
outrageous hats and, like her mother, she had raven hair and very dark eyes.
Lillian and her mother were a formidable pair and Toby had realised early on
that it was useless to argue with them.  Nevertheless, he harboured murderous
thoughts as he struggled to manoeuvre the pram into his passageway, against a
tirade of abuse from Marie.

The decade moved on slowly, and there was no respite from the suffering and
deprivation of the poverty-stricken back- street folk.

Pawn shop owners were the only people who could afford to walk around with
satisfied smiles on their faces.  The pawnbroker shop in the Tower Bridge
Road was particularly busy, and it was now a weekly meeting place for many of
the women of the area.  It had become the usual ritual for the matriarchs of
the family to parcel up their husband's suit or overcoat or maybe a pair of
linen sheets and hurry over to Uncles with the bale.  They would join the
line of patient customers, stretching out from the back room, along the dark
passageway, and sometimes out into the street.  If the pawnbroker was in a
good mood they might get their bale pledged for seven shillings and sixpence
if it contained a decent suit or overcoat, and five shillings for a pair of
sheets.  The articles would be exchanged for a pawn ticket on Monday mornings
and redeemed that Friday or Saturday when the few shillings earnings came
into the home.  It had become a way of life for many, and some pawnbrokers
began to take advantage of their customers' desperate need.

It was a cold autumn Monday morning when Mrs Cosgrove parcelled up her Fred's
best suit.  Now in her late sixties, Mrs Cosgrove had been caring for her
invalid husband for the past year, and she knew that he would not miss his
best blue serge in his condition.  It troubled her to have to make the visit,
but she could see no alternative.  When she reached the pawnshop the queue
stretched almost to the door.  Waiting in front of her in the line was Mrs
Halliday who was carrying a large bundle under her arm.

' "Ello, girl.  What you doin' 'ere?  Buyin' a bit o' jew'llery?"  she said.

Mrs Cosgrove gave her a toothless grin.

"Same as you, Ada.  I'm tryin' ter work the oricle."

"Gawd 'elp us, Clara."

"I fink

"E'd better.  Nobody else seems ter be."

The queue moved forward and Ada Halliday whispered into Mrs Cosgrove's ear.

"I 'ope the old bastard ain't being' too fussy terday.  If 'e is I'm in the
shit."

"Why's that, Ada?"

Ada looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, then she gave
Clara a huge wink.  The mate's borrered me best coat ter go to a funeral, so
I wrapped up me old ironin' blanket an' the pissy ole coat the moggie sleeps
on an' I took a chance.  If ole ugly's in a good mood 'e won't bower ter open
me bundle.  Blimey, 'e's seen enough o' me this last few months, an' it's
always bin me best coat I've brought over.  "

Clara hid a grin behind her raised hand.

"Ere, Ada.  I 'ope ole ugly ain't got a sensitive snozzle.  I can smell that
pissy ole coat from 'ere."

"That ain't me bundle yer can smell," Ada whispered.  "It's ole muvver Adams
up front.  She takes in all the stray mogs.

"Er place smells like a public urinal in Pennyfields."

The line of customers moved slowly forward, and at last it was Ada's turn to
present her bundle.  " " Ere we are, same again," she said with bluster.

The wizened figure who stood on a raised dais behind the high counter slapped
the bundle down hard on the polished surface and sighed deeply.  It had been
a heavy morning and he was feeling nauseous.

Every bundle he had opened smelled of moth balls or lavender water.

Then there was the moggie lady with her smelly blankets.  It was all getting
too much, he groaned to himself as he threw the bundle through the hatch
behind him and proceeded to write out the pawn ticket.

"There we are," he said, slapping down a handful of coins on the table.

"Seven an' six less fourpence, an' there's yer ticket."

Ada grinned at Clara as she turned to go.

"See yer later, girl.  I'm orf 'ometer do me ironin'!"

41 Chapter Five In 1933 a name began to appear regularly in the daily
newspapers which soon became more and more well known to anyone who followed
the international news.  Political cartoonists were fascinated by the new
figure and some of their drawings began to worry those who were old enough to
see something all too real and familiar in the caricatures; an ominous
reminder of the past.  Old George Baker was sitting with Joe Cooper in the
public bar of the Horseshoe and he prodded the newspaper which was spread out
on the table in front of him.

"Yer Kaiser was one fing, Joe, but this Adolf

"Itler's a sight more dangerous.  See what it ses in 'ere.  " E's took the
country out o' the League o' Nations an' got forty million votes fer
rearmament.  It's bloody frightenin' when yer fink of it.  If somebody don't
stop 'im it'll be anuvver bloody world war, mark my words.  "

Joe's mind was on other things and he grabbed the two empty glasses.

"Pop, you're givin' me the bloody jump!  Let's get a refill."

The events that were shaping the destiny of the world were of little interest
to Connie Morgan and her cousin Molly.  In 1934 they were both fourteen and
feeling very grownup as, during the year, they discussed the prospect of
trying to get a job together when they left school at Christmas.  Although
work was generally hard to find, many firms were taking on children straight
from school to learn machine work of all types.  It was seen by many
employers as prudent to use what was little more than child labour to keep
their costs to a minimum.  Kate wanted Connie to get a job in an office,
though, and Helen was afraid that her daughter would find it hard to get any
type of job at all.  The cousins' school-leaving certificates did not paint
inspiring pictures of their capabilities.  They were identical, as were those
of all the school-leavers that term: "Good at needlework 43 and house craft
Punctual and trustworthy'.

Kate was still working as a barmaid and most of her free time was taken up
with an endless round of parties and so the two friends spent most of the
time together during the holidays.  Helen and Matthew had gone to the pub on
Christmas Eve and the two youngsters were sitting in Helen's front room
listening to the wireless that Matthew had bought only a couple of days
before.  The fire burned brightly in the grate, and paper chains were hung
around the walls.  A sprig of holly was pinned over the fireplace and
Christmas cards lined the high mantel shelf  Outside, the night was cold and
windy, with a pale moon peeping through moving clouds.  Connie crossed her
legs under her and rested her arms on her lap as she sat on the hearth rug.
Molly was sprawled out on her side facing her, her chin supported on her
cupped hand.  The room was warm and cosy and, after listening to the wireless
for a while and chatting about trivial things, Molly brought up the subject
of work.

"I wonder what jobs the labour exchange will offer us, Con?"

Connie shrugged her shoulders.

"I bet they won't send us after office jobs.  Me mum keeps on at meter get a
job in an office.  She reckons I should learn ter type an' do short' and I
don't wanna work in offices, Molly.  Most o' them office workers are real
posh.  I couldn't talk posh, could you?"

Molly laughed and sat up.

"Fancy us being' all posh.  The kids round 'ere wouldn't talk to us.  Anyway,
those office fellas 'ave got funny names, like Clarence and Rodney.  There's
a fella who works in the office at Armitage's called Bertrum.  Fancy 'avin' a
name like Bertrum.  I couldn't go around all day sayin' names like that.  I'd
burst out laughin'."

Connie grinned and leaned forward.

"I reckon they'll send us ter Shuttleworths, or Peek Frean's.  Most o' the
girls who left last term work at Shut's."

"Corf Fancy 'avin' a job packin' choc'lates.  We could eat 'em all day.  Con."

"What about workin' at Peek's, Molly?  Cream biscuits, jam rolls, and
luvverly choc'late digestives."

Molly pulled her knees up.

"I bet yer don't get a chance ter touch a fing.  I bet they've got some ole
witch of a forelady standin' over yer all day.  Someone like Widow Pacey."

"P'raps they'll send us ter one o' those bottlin' stores," Connie said, as
she picked up the poker and stabbed at the glowing coals.

"What would we 'ave ter do there.  Con?"

"Well, accordin' ter that Rita Arnold, yer label wine bottles an' do packin'.
She's worked there fe rages

Molly stretched her legs and rubbed the side of her back.  "I 'ope we do getter work tergevver.  Con.  The labour exchange might send us ter different
places.  Can't we say we wanna work tergevver?"

"I s'pose we could do," Connie replied.

Molly's face became serious and for a time she stared into the fire.

Presently she looked at Connie.

"S'posin' they won't give me a job?"

"What dyer mean, Molly.

"Course they'll offer yer a job.  You could do any job I could do."

"I dunno.  Lots o' firms won't take people like me on.  Bella Richards
couldn't get any jobs at all.  I don't fink she's ever 'ad a job since she
left school."

Connie looked into her friend's large sad eyes and felt a familiar wave of
pity flowing through her.

"Don't be so silly, Molly.  Bella Richards is not like you.  She's got some-
fing wrong wiv 'er brain.

She keep saving fits.  That's why she can't get a job.  There's nufink wrong
wiv yer brain.  You was always better than me at classes.  You'll get a job
anywhere.  "

Molly stared back into the fire, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.

"Will yer get married one day.  Con?"  she asked suddenly.

Connie laughed, and a slight flush tinged her pretty face.  "Oh, I dunno.  I
might, one day."

"Will yer 'ave lots o' babies?"

"I might.  What about you?"

Molly's eyes had remained fixed to the flames.

"Yer need boys ter make babies.  Con.  Boys won't wanna go out wiv somebody
like me."

Connie leaned forward and squeezed Molly's arm gently.  "Yes they will.  You
jus' wait.  Now let's ferget boys.  Let's 45 talk about Christmas presents,
an' mince pies, an' 'of chestnuts."

Laughter rang out in the cosy room, while across the gas- lit landing, in the
flat opposite, old Mrs Walker wrapped her thick shawl around her frail
shoulders and dreamed of Christmas long ago.  The laughter that carried into
her drab, draughty flat was the laughter of the street in more tranquil
times, when the ragtime piano blared out, and when the banging coming from
the scullery was music to her ears.  The shelf was now hanging off the wall,
although she did not notice.  The fire was dying in the grate, but she did
not take heed.  She pulled the shawl tighter and closed her eyes.

Throughout the whole of the depression years West End restaurants and clubs
still took deliveries of clarets and Madeiras, French Sauternes and vintage
ports.  The bottling stores and wholesale wine merchants around the Tooley
Street area remained on full-time working to meet the demand, and it was
there that the two young school-leavers found their first jobs together at
John Friday and Sons.  Connie was put to work labelling French wine, while
Molly was placed on a different work bench, a couple of folded sacks on her
stool to give her height, pasting out year labels for the bottle necks.  With
some trepidation, the two began their working lives.

The hours seemed long, and the work was dull.  The only relief came when the
daily tot of wine was handed out.  The women labellers chuckled as Molly took
her first sip of wine and pulled a face.  It tasted like vinegar and she had
difficulty in swallowing it.  Connie, too, found the taste strange, but it
was not long before both girls got used to it and in fact even began to look
forward to the wine break.  The ribald jokes, and the raucous laughter which
often brought the foreman out of his office to see what was going on, were at
first frightening to the cousins.  But the women, mostly old hands, took the
two young girls under their wings, and though life in the bottling stores was
tedious and hard, in no time at all the young girls felt that they were part
of the group.  They soon began to understand the logic of the bawdy jokes
which were, more often than not, directed towards the men workers.

Liaisons were established, and the banter and repartee often resulted in
little favours being done by the men to ease the workload.  Women could take
a break in the toilets to have a smoke or take a swig from a bottle of wine
that had been secreted behind the cistern while one of the men took over the
labelling.  Other little favours helped everyone through the day and, when
someone had a birthday, one of the men would run over to the bakers across
the road from the stores and fetch cakes.  The most important reason for
befriending the men, however, was the fact that the bottling stores worked on
a bonus system.  To have an ally amongst the men meant that the full boxes of
labelled bottles would be more quickly removed and another empty box made
ready; it could also ensure that a speedier supply of labels and paste kept
production going and the bonus figure being reached.

At five o'clock every evening the two friends left the dank, gas-lit railway
arches where the bottling stores were situated and walked home arm in arm to
Ironmonger Street.  As they walked through the warren of little back- streets
to reach their homes they usually talked about their funny work mates and the
young lads who were employed to load and unload the vans and horse carts One
of the lads, a scruffily-dressed individual with an impish look, had seemed
to have taken a shine to Molly and it was the subject of much talk amongst
the older women.  Molly was finding his attentions embarrassing, and she
always blushed when the lad came through the arch and gave her a huge wink.
Connie though was grateful for his friendship and she decided to find out a
little about him.

The opportunity presented itself when the bottling machine broke down one
morning.  While the broken glass was being extracted from the cogs the
labellers took a well- earned rest, and some of the lads came in to the
bottling arch for a chat.  The impish character sidled up to Connie and
leaned on the work bench.

"Ello.  What's your name then?"  he asked, his eyes gently mocking her.

"Connie Morgan.  What's yours then?"  she countered.

"Michael Donovan.  I live in Tower Bridge Road," he said quickly, flicking a
tuft of hair from his eyes with a quick move of his head.

47 I live in Ironmonger Street," Connie said.

Michael's eyes lit up and he broke into a grin, showing a row of wide even
teeth.

"Ironmonger Street.  Corf That's a right ole street ter live in."

Connie gave him a hard stare.

"What dyer mean?  Our street's okay.

I've lived there all me life.  Molly lives there too.  We're cousins.  "

"I know you're cousins.  They told me," he said, nodding to the group of
women who had produced a pack of cards and were beginning a game of pontoon.

"Why don't yer cousin talk terme when I wink at erIs she shy?"

"She is a bit, I s'pose," Connie conceded.

"I used ter go out wiv one o' the girls 'ere," Michael said, standing up
straight and puffing out his pigeon chest.

"She left though.  Got anuwer job in an office."

"Oh, an' is that why yer packed 'er up?"

"I didn't packer up.  She packed me up," he admitted as he toyed with a
pasting brush.

Connie studied the tall, slim lad and felt suddenly sorry for him.

His demeanour was innocent enough, although she sensed a fierce pride
simmering below the surface.  His face was open and friendly and his unruly
mop of fair hair almost covered his ears.  His clothes seemed to be hanging
on him, and his boots were tied up with string.  He had a pleasant smile and
his full lips were constantly moving.  He seemed somehow to be different from
the rest of the lads in that he took every opportunity to chat to everyone
within reach.

' "Ow old are yer?"  Connie asked suddenly, flushing at her own impudence.

"I'm nearly seventeen.

"Ow old are you?"

"I'll be fifteen in November," Connie replied.

"Yer just a kid, Connie.  Don't worry though.  I'll keep me eye on yer.

Some o' those women are crafty," he whispered, nodding in the direction of
the card players.

"They'll give yer all the worse jobs, you being' new an' everyfing."

"I'm not a kid," Connie retorted sharply.

"I'm only a little bit younger than you.  Anyway, yer not a kid once yer
start work," she added pointedly.

"What's up wiv yer cousin.  Con?"  Michael said, in an effort to change the
subject.

"What dyer mean what's up wiv 'er?"

"Well, she looks sort o' different.  Like she's a dwarf or soinefink."

Connie was furious at his impudence, and wanted to lash out with her tongue,
but something stopped her.  He seemed genuinely interested in Molly's
condition, and she saw the look of sympathy and concern on his elfin face.

"Molly's got a spine defect.  She was born wiv it.  That's why she gets shy
when boys talk toer," she said quietly.  Michael's look of puzzlement made
her go on.

"Yer see, Molly finks people pity 'er.  She gets mad when people pity 'er."

"Can't the 'ospital do any fink - ter make 'er walk better I mean?"

Michael asked.

Connie shook her head.

"No.

"Er mum told me she might 'ave ter wear irons on 'er legs soon.  Don't you
teller that, will yer?"  she said, her eyes widening.

' "Course I won't.  What dyer take me for?"  Michael said indignantly.

Connie glanced over to where her friend was working and saw that the group on
that particular bench was huddled around one of the women who seemed to be
pointing out something from a catalogue.  Molly appeared to be interested in
what was being shown and did not seem to have noticed the conversation she
was having.  Connie looked back at Michael who was leaning against the work
table, his arms folded across his chest.

"I've not seen yer in Tower Bridge Road," she said.

"I'm always there, doin' shoppin' ferme aunt."

"I live in Albion Buildin's, near the bridge.  I live wiv me gran," he said,
looking down at his scruffy boots.

"Ain't yer got no mum an' dad then?"  Connie asked.

"They split up when I was a little kid.  I can't remember much about 'em.  I
remember a little bit about me dad.

"E was very big.  All I can remember about me mum is the scenty smell.  She
always smelt really nice.  I can't even remember what she looked like."

Connie looked down at her fingernails.

"My dad's dead.  At least that's what me mum tells me.  I don't know really.
" E might still be alive.  "

"D'yer live wiv yer mum.  Con?"

"Yeah.  Why dyer ask?"

49 "Well yer said yer go shoppin' fer yer aunt."

"That's right, I do.  I stay wiv eran' Molly a lot.  Me mum works in a pub,
an' she 'aster go out a lot."

The belt was now clear of broken glass and it looked as though work would
start again very soon.

Michael stood up straight.  Tanks fert he chat.  Con.  I'd better get outside,
or that ole goat Bradley'll start shoutin'.  "

Connie smiled at him.

"Somebody mentioned you was tryin' ter get in the navy," she said.

"Is that right?"

Michael's eyes lit up.

"Yeah.  I'm waitin' till I'm seventeen next month an' I'm gonna sign on fer
seven an' five."

"What's seven an' five mean?"

"Seven in the service, an' five years in the reserve.  It's what yer gotta do
if yer wanna join up," he said as he moved away from the work bench.

"See yer later," Connie called out.

"See yer.  Con," he smiled.

1935 was Jubilee year, and in May lots of back streets in dock land held
parties for the children.  In Ironmonger Street some of the folk gathered
together in George Baker's house to make arrangements for a street party.
George was now in his early seventies and still sprightly.  His daughter Mary
was there, too.  She had married Frank Brown, a docker from the next street,
and they had two young children.  Joe Cooper sat at the table with a note pad
in front of him holding court.

"Now listen," he said.

"We've gotta go roun' wiv the collecting boxes.  People ain't got much, we
know, but every penny'11 count.

We've also gotta scrounge some fruit an' nuts from the stall'olders, an'
somebody's gotta pop inter get a few bob from ole Misery.  "

"I'll chat the stall-'olders up," Mary said, wiping her baby's hands and
moving the packet of margarine out of reach.

"I can make some jellies," Clara Cosgrove piped in.

"I can bakea load o' fairy cakes if somebody can supply the stuff,"

said Mrs Griffin.

"What about the clobber, Joe?"  old man Baker said, knocking the bowl of his
pipe on the fender.

"Well it all depends," Joe answered.

"If we get enough money from the whip round we can get Union Jack pinafores
fert he girls, an' paper 'ats fert he boys.  There's also those Jubilee mugs on
sale in the market.  We might be able ter get some o' those an' fill 'em up
wiv sweets."

"What about tables an' chairs?"  Mary said, dipping her baby's dummy in the
jam pot and popping it in his mouth.  "I can't put any o' mine outside me
front door, I'd be too ashamed.  They're all rickety."

"I know what.  Let's go round an' see ole scatty Simmons," Mary's husband
said.  " " E could let us 'ave some trestle tables an' benches from the
school.  "

' "E wouldn't give yer the time o' day," Mrs Cosgrove said with venom.

"That ole goat's pissed 'alf 'is time."

"That's all right," Joe butted in.

"We'll talk to 'im when 'e's pissed.  We'll get more sense out of 'im that
way.  If we play our cards right 'e might chip in a few cups an' plates."

The group of organisers went about their various tasks, and soon the
festivity supplies began to grow.  Tony Armeda promised to donate a tub of
his lemon ice-cream and the stall- holders gave generously.  As one of them
put it: "We might as well do it wiv a good 'eart.  Those bleeders from
Ironmonger Street'11 nick the bloody fruit anyway."

Misery Martin proved to be a problem, however, and Joe Cooper decided to sort
him out in his own way.

"Come 'ere you lot," he shouted at a group of street kids who he found tying
door knockers together and pulling on the string.

"I ain't gonna give yer a clout.  Not if yer do as yer told.  Now listen.
This is what I want yer ter do."

Misery Martin had been trying unsuccessfully to sell his business for years.
No one seemed interested, and he blamed the street.

"Who'd wanna buy a shop in this bloody turnin'," he was grumbling to a
commercial traveller he'd cornered in his shop.

"Them little urchins ain't civilised.  Bloody savages, the lot of 'em.  I'd
give 'em a party!  More like a good 'idin'.  That's what they want.  I 'ad
one o' the farvvers in 'ere only yesterday.  Wantin' a subscription fert he
street party.  I told 'im no, an' in no uncertain terms

The commercial traveller was backing out through the door with his head
buzzing.

"I'll look in again next week Mr Martin."

51 "That's what they need," Misery called out to the disappearing figure.

"A bleedin' good 'idin'."

Four grinning faces looked in the shop doorway and pointed to the canes that
were hanging from the rafters.

"Go on, 'op it!"  the disgruntled shop owner called out.

The four kids stood perfectly still, their mocking faces grinning evilly.

"You 'card what I said.

"Op it!"

The kids remained perfectly still by the doorway.  Misery hobbled around the
counter and they disappeared.  When he returned to the counter the kids were
back.  The aggravation went on all day.  Next morning the kids came back and
Misery spoke to PC Wilshaw, who promised to box a few ears if he came across
the little ruffians.

Little was gained from Misery's consultation with the law.  As soon as the
constable left the street back came the kids.  By the end of the second day
Misery had come to the end of his tether.

"What can I doter put a stop to it?"  he groaned to Joe Cooper, who had
purposely gone in for a penn' orth of nails.

"Leave it terme.  Jerry.  I'll sort 'em out.  Yer won't be bovvered by 'em
any more," Joe said, pulling a serious face.  "Oh, by the way.  Did I ask yer
fera contribution ter the street party?"

It's bloody little short of blackmail, groaned Misery to himself as he
reluctantly handed over two one pound notes.

Chapter Six The winter of 'thirty-five was very cold, with intermittent snow
and ice and dense yellow fogs.  The inclement weather affected trade, and
transport was badly disrupted.  Ships became marooned mid-stream, trains were
cancelled, and the vehicles of cartage firms were abandoned throughout
London, although the horse-carts usually got home.  When the terrified
animals were held by their halters and led along the road they usually calmed
down, and when they somehow sensed that they were nearing familiar
surroundings the car-men were able to jump up in the dicky seats and let the
animals plod on without assistance.  Another ploy of the car-men was to steer
the iron-rimmed wheels into the tram tracks and glide home that way.  It was
not uncommon for car-men to miss the turn-off and find themselves in the tram
depots, where they spent the night sleeping in one of the tram cars The
unfortunate horses had to bed down on the cold concrete surface, much to the
chagrin of depot superintendents.

In October Kate Morgan lost her job as barmaid.  She had been suffering with
a bad cough which refused to get any better.  Connie was worried; she could
see the change.  Her normally lively mother was pale and weak and had to
spend some time in bed.  Connie would take her tea and toast before she left
for work, and Helen would look in during the day.  But the cough only got
worse and, when Kate was able to get up, the doctor sent her to the hospital
for tests.  She had contracted TH, and Connie was close to tears as she
watched her mother leave in an ambulance to go to one of the new clinics that
had just opened in Sussex.  Helen had suggested that Connie stay with her,
but the young girl was determined to look after herself.  She knew that, as
it was, Helen was hard pushed to care for her own family.

Matthew was out of work again, and Molly had been ill 53 twice that winter.
Her chest was weak and the fogs made it hard for her to breathe.  At work,
Connie found some cheer in talking to the effervescent young Michael.  His
cheerful banter and infectious laugh made it easier for her to get through
the day.  Michael was so excited at the prospect of going into the Royal
Navy, and he promised to keep in touch after he had joined up.

Connie was growing fast, her thin legs were becoming more shapely and her
breasts were developing; her face was losing its childish appearance and her
lips had become fuller and more expressive.  Connie was a little confused at
the changes she was experiencing, and felt the occasional tinge; of
excitement deep within her.  She had also started ten experience dreams that
made her feel embarrassed andj ashamed when she remembered them the next
morningd The job at the bottling stores was becoming almost unbearable, and
she had thought about looking for another one.  Helen was urging Molly to
leave the job, too.  She had lost a lot of time lately because of ill-health
and her mother blamed the damp environment of the railway arches for her
daughter's illnesses, although she knew that it really only; aggravated
Molly's condition rather than caused it.  Thel hospital had said long ago
that she would always suffer because of her underdeveloped lungs.

Just before Christmas Connie went with Helen and; Matthew to see Kate at the
sanatorium near Hastings.  The long wards were painted white and large
windows let in the low winter light.  The day was cold and dreary and a light
rain had been falling since dawn.

Kate was sitting in a comfortable chair beside her bed and when Connie saw
her she; was shocked.  Kate was ashen-faced and her eyes had heaves dark
circles around them.  She showed little emotion as thft small party assembled
around her bed and Connie hugged" her.  The atmosphere was unbearably tense
as the visitors tried to make conversation.  Kate seemed preoccupied and
bored with Helen's account of the current state of affairs in Ironmonger
Street.  Matthew was sitting on the edge of his uncomfortable chair without
saying much, and Connie was silent and physically shaken at her mother's
appearance.  When finally she managed to tell Kate about her intention to
change her job her mother merely nodded and looked away down the ward.
Helen felt for her niece; Kate's attitude towards her daughter was one of
indifference.  Helen knew that there had never been any show of warmth or
affection, nor any of the closeness that would be normal between a mother and
her daughter and it rankled.  She could make allowances for Kate's wayward
behaviour and the numerous relationships she had had with men, but she could
never forgive her for her coldness towards her own daughter.  It was as
though Connie was an unwelcome responsibility, and her presence was an
intrusion into Kate Morgan's life.

At last, the two hours were up and the ward sister rang a small bell at the
end of the ward.  Kate looked relieved that the visit was over and she smiled
mirthlessly as Helen said, "You'll be 'ome soon, Kate."

"I'm 'ere fer six months, sis," Kate said slowly.

"Yer better get used to it I 'ave."

Helen's face was grim as she turned and walked down the long ward with
Matthew and Connie following in her wake.  At the door Connie turned to wave
to her mother, but she was already talking to the patient next to her and she
had her back to her daughter.  Matthew noticed the look in Connie's eyes and
with a rare show of emotion he put his arm around her shoulders as they
walked out into the wide corridor.

Christmas was a sober affair.  Connie spent most of the holiday period with
the Harrietts and in Molly's company.  Concern for her mother's health caused
the young girl to be even more quiet and thoughtful.

She knew enough about tuberculosis to realise that her mother would be in
hospital for a very long time, and that often the disease proved to be fatal.
Helen and Matthew watched the change taking place in their niece, but they
could do little to alleviate her fears.  They were also concerned that Connie
insisted on staying alone in the flat.

"It's not right that she should be there all by 'erself, Matt," Helen
remarked.

"She'll only brood.  She should stay wiv us."

Matthew shrugged his shoulders.

"She's growin' up, " Elen.  She prob'ly wants ter spend some time on 'er own.

55 There's nufink we can do, except keep an eye on 'er.  "

Helen stroked the side of her face thoughtfully.

"It really upset me the way Kate was wiv young Connie.  It was almost as
though she didn't want ter see erIt's not right the way she treats the
poor little mite."

"It's what I've said all along," Matthew answered.  "Connie's bin an
inconvenience ter yer sister.  She didn't want 'er, an' she's makin' a good
show of lettin' the kid know an' us if it comes to it."

Helen did not answer.  She did not want to get into an argument with Matt.
He had been short tempered ever since he had lost his job, but she had to
concede that he was right.  Kate was ill, and so her attitude to her daughter
at the hospital was, to some extent, excusable, but there had never ; been
any show of love, only a tolerance and shallow affection.  Helen worried
about the long-term effects of Kate's ; attitude on her daughter.  Connie was
a sensible girl, but the mind was a funny thing, she mused.  None of the love
shown by the girl to her mother was reciprocated.  And, as Connie was now
growing up and beginning to understand things, she might soon start to judge
her mother and blame her.

The new year started cold and foggy.  More factories closed, and the dole
queues grew longer.  In Germany the rantings of Adolf Hitler were sending
shock waves across Europe.  The German army marched back into the Rhineland
and," when the Spanish Civil War broke out, the German air force interfered
on the side of General Franco's forces.  The majority of people in England,
however, still espoused the cause of pacifism.  Calls to re-arm were
dismissed as| scaremongering, and some cartoonists portrayed the| pleadings
of the 're-armers' as the insane ravings of evil; factory bosses and
avaricious arms dealers.  General opinion held that another war was out of
the question and few believed that Germany would ever dare to attempt another
war against England.

Joe Cooper wandered slowly amongst the crowds at Speakers' Corner one Sunday
in 1936.  Occasionally there was a flicker of recognition as he passed a
heavily built young man, but Joe would ignore him and walk on.  Word had it
that the Blackshirts were planning violence against one of the trade union
speakers and the Bermondsey men were ready.

A loud-voiced orator was urging his audience to march on Parliament and
demand a re-armament programme.  "Ave yer fergot 1914?  Well I ain't," he
shouted.

"Nor 'ave I," someone replied.

"I got gassed in France."

An elderly man in a grubby mackintosh took a wet stub from his mouth and
called out,

"My ole granfarvver got gassed."

"In the war?"

"No, in the kitchen.

"E done 'imselfin."

The laughter from the audience encouraged the heckler, and he rammed his
hands into his coat pockets and rocked back on his heels.

"My ole granfarvver used ter come 'ere every Sunday, listenin' ter the likes
o' you frightened the bleedin' life out of 'im.  That's why 'e gassed
'himself."

"I wish yer'd put a tanner in the meter an' do yerself a favour,"

shouted the speaker, to more laughter.

"I ain't got a tanner.  I'm on the bloody dole."

"If this country 'ad the sense terre-arm there wouldn't be any unemployment.
We'd all 'ave a job ter go to," the speaker continued, waving his finger at
the heckler.

"Listen you," his antagonist shouted as he stepped forward a pace or two.

"I ain't got no intention of workin' in a bleedin'arms factory."

"By the look o' you, yer ain't got no intention o' workin' anywhere,"

countered the orator, grinning at his own jibe.

"Why, yer saucy git.  I was workin' when you was a dirty idea in yer
farvver's 'ead.  I can work wiv the best of 'em."

"An' the worst of 'em," a voice called out from the back of the crowd.

The orator struggled to regain the attention of his audience and he raised
his hands sky wards for order.

"Mark my words well, friends,"

he began.

"If we let the Germans get away wiv it we're gonna be sorry.  Before long
they'll be marchin' up the Mall."

The crowd erupted and one or two young men made for the speaker, their fists
clenched.

"Order!  Order!"  shouted a heavily built man who was standing by the speaker.

The crowd held back as the big man faced them, his 57 hands held out in
front of his chest.

"Now listen, brothers," he said in a broad Irish accent.

"As me darling' ole mother used ter say, there are those who are for us, an'
those who are agin us, an' my name's Maginnis."

"Piss orf, Paddy.  Go back ter yer own soap box," someone called out.

The large Irishman smiled broadly.

"Sure 'tis an unsociable crowd ye are, so I'm away, my friends.  But first
I'll leave yerse with a blessin' ter be getting' on with.  When yer toime
comes may yerse be in heaven a half an hour before the divil knows you're
dead."

The speaker turned his attention to his audience once more as the laughing
Irishman walked away somewhat unsteadily.  The heckler in the grubby
mackintosh walked away, too, his eyes focused on another group who were
shouting abuse at a speaker wearing a dog-collar and he walked over to direct
a tirade of obscenities at the pacifist minister.

Soon the crowds began to drift away and Joe breathed easier.  The Blackshirts
were not going to put in an appearance today after all.

I'm getting a little too old for all this, he told himself as he went to join
his friends.

Connie Morgan heard it from Carrie Jones and she told Molly as they walked to
work one Monday morning.

"There's jobs going' at Peek's.  Let's take the afternoon off an' go roun'
there.  They pay more than we're getting'."

Molly stopped in her tracks.

"Why wait?  Let's go roun' there right now.  I'm fed up wiv labellin', ain't
you?"

Connie grinned.

"C'mon then, Molly.  We might be lucky.  The extra money'll come in 'andy."
| Molly nodded her agreement.

"My mum's worried.  Dad 3 got 'himself in debt wiv the moneylender again.  If
we get the 3 job I can give up a bit more."

The, too," Connie replied.

"My mum's comin' 'ome soon an' she won't be able ter work fer some time yet."

Molly took her cousin's arm as they crossed the Tower Bridge Road and walked
purposefully towards Grange Road.  The market stalls were already set up and
the smell of fresh fruit carried on the slight breeze.  Trams rattled by, and
horse-carts made a crunching sound as the iron rimmed wheels passed over the
cobbles.  When they neared the Trocette Picture House Connie squeezed her
cousin's arm.  "Corf Look Molly!"

The large poster over the entrance spelt out in bold red lettering: Frank
Capra's,

"It Happened One Night', starring dark Gable and Claudette Colbert.

"I fink dark Gable's lovely.  Con."

"So do I, Molly."

"We'll 'ave ter see that picture."

"If we get the job let's celebrate an' go up there ternight."

"Yeah, let's."

Later that evening the two girls left the cinema and walked slowly back to
Ironmonger Street.  They had been silent for a while, each absorbed in their
own thoughts.  Suddenly Molly said,

"I didn't fink we'd get the job.  I got scared when she asked me about being'
under the 'ospital."

Connie laughed aloud.

"Wasn't she funny-lookin'.  She reminded me of ole Miss Perkins at school.  I
nearly burst out laughin' when I saw them glasses on the end of 'er nose."

Molly giggled.

"Jus' fancy.  Twenty two an' sixpence a week, an' as many biscuits as we can
eat."

"Wasn't that smell nice," said Connie as they turned into Ironmonger Street.

"I love the smell of biscuits, though I bet we won't be sayin' that after a
few weeks there."

They walked down the quiet, dark street and turned into the block entrance.
Thegaslight flickered as they climbed the wooden staircase and tramped
noisily along the landing.  After bidding Molly good night Connie climbed the
shadowy stairs to her fourth-floor flat and let herself in.  The flat felt
strangely-cold, although the night was mild.  She lit the gas lamp and drew
the curtains and then she boiled the kettle and made herself a cup of cocoa.
There were a few biscuits left in the tin and Connie smiled to herself.
After a few weeks at Peek's I won't be able to look at these, she thought, as
she nibbled on a stale digestive and sipped her drink.  From outside the
distant sound of a tug whistle and noises from the railway yard carried up
into the room.  A train whistle sounded faintly as she prepared herself for
bed, and she was suddenly consumed by a feeling of loneliness.  She missed
her mother and hated to be in the flat alone.

59 Connie heard the clock on the mantel shelf strike eleven as she lay in bed
staring up at the flaking ceiling.  She and Molly would be starting their new
jobs tomorrow and her mother would be home soon.

She should be feeling happy, but instead she was aware of a strange feeling
that seemed to be working away deep down inside of her.  She sighed deeply
and closed her eyes but sleep would not come.  She twisted restlessly as her
thoughts cent red on her mother.  Her illness was serious and she might not
get better.  Connie had overheard Helen talking to Matthew about how
pulmonary tuberculosis had killed old Betty Flicker and Mr Brown.  She had
also commented that the way Kate had carried on hadn't helped.  Connie
wondered about those remarks.

Her mother had been so secretive about her personal life.  It was always,

"Somebody I've got to see' or

"I've been invited out'.  She had never brought her friends back to the flat
to meet Connie.  Those nights she was sent to the Bartletts to stay might
have meant that her mother was intending to bring someone back and didn't
want her to know, Connie thought.  And why would no one ever let her know
anything about her father?  As much as she tried Connie knew she would not
learn who her father was, or how he had died at least not from her mother.
Why should she be so secretive?  What was she hiding?  Maybe her father was
still alive.  Maybe that was why Kate didn't want her to know.

One day I'll find out the truth, Connie vowed, as she turned on her side and
closed her eyes.  Dreamy images formed into a tall dashing man with jet-black
hair walking towards her.  She sighed in her sleep, and pressed her cheek
deeper into the pillow.

Chapter Seven Solly Jacobs had a fishmonger's stall in the Tower Bridge Road
market.  Solly was a heavily built man in his forties, the eldest son of a
Jewish immigrant from Poland.  He was also a regular attender at the local
synagogue and a leader of the Jewish community in Bermondsey.  Solly had been
growing concerned about the rise of the British fascists and he was
determined that Oswald Mosley's crowd of Blackshirts would get a bloody nose
if they attempted to go ahead with their intended march along the Old Kent
Road.

Solly's cousin Hymie had been present when Oswald Mosley marched down the
Mile End Road at the head of his black-uniformed followers and the following
week he paid his relative a visit.

"I tell yer, Solly, it was sheer bloody murder.  The swine were chantin' and
jeerin', and when our lads tried to break up the march the police on
'orseback lashed out with their truncheons.  There were a few cracked 'eads
and one or two of the boys got trampled by the horses, but that was only the
start.  Outside the synagogue some young lads rushed the column.  My God, it
was terrible  Young Bernie Meyer got pushed through a shop window and
another young boy got a bottle in 'is face.  The fightin' spilled into the
side streets an' the swine were kickin' out at everyone.  They've got to be
stopped, Solly.  We've got to get more organised or we're donefer."

The big fishmonger's face darkened with anger and he laid his hand on Hymie's
shoulder.

"Listen my friend," he said softly.

"We all know about the sufferin' of our people in Germany, an' we all know we
mustn't let it 'appen 'ere.  I've already called a meetin'.  Rest easy, I'll
keep yer informed."

Two days later Solly gathered his group together in the backroom of his local
pub.  The Swan and, to enthusiastic applause, he vowed that the Blackshirt
swine would live to 61 regret it if they ever set foot in Bermondsey.  Solly
held his hands up for silence and when the cheering and clapping died down he
introduced the guest speaker.

Joe Cooper stood up and hooked his thumbs through his wide braces.

"Yer might ask, brothers, what's a gentile doin' at a Jewish gatherin'," he
began in a loud voice.

"Well I make no excuses fer being' 'ere teroight.  I'm a trade unionist, an'
your fight is our fight.  If we allow this fascist scum ter ride roughshod
over us ordinary people, then we deserve the consequences."

Loud applause greeted his statement and Joe leaned forward, his clenched
fists resting on the bare wooden table.

"Let me ask yer some fink bruwers.  Is there any fink in yer teachin' that
ferbids yer from being' trade unionists?  Is there any fink that ses yer
can't vote, or can't be as equal as yer gentile bruwers?

"Course there ain't.  But I tell yer.  There's a lot in the manifesto of the
British Union of Fascists that ses jus' that.  The Blackshirts are comin' fer
you lot terday.  They'll be comin' fer us termorrer, an' they'll be comin'
fer Gawd knows who the next day."

The clapping and cheering went on as Solly slapped Joe Cooper on the back and
clasped his hand in a show of gratitude.  Joe waited for the noise to die
down then he hooked his thumbs through his braces once more.

"I only wanna say one more fing, bruwers.  When yer face the Blackshirts my
lads'll be there wiv yer."

The meeting had broken up and Solly stood beside Joe in the public bar.  Jack
Rabin, the landlord, had been talking to a small group of men and when he
came over he leaned over the counter.

"There's some more wanna sign up, Solly.  If this keeps up we'll 'ave a
bloody army by next week."

Joe sipped his beer.

"I'll muster a good crowd, Solly.  A lot o' the lads remember the Armitage
trouble way back.  They ain't fergot what 'appened to us when we was out on
the cobbles.  The firm got the 'and men in.  It's them sort o' gits that's
marchin' wiv Mosley, yer can bet on it."

Solly nodded his agreement.

"We gotta be careful, Joe.  We ain't gonna be dealin' wiv, know-nufinks.
Them Blackshirts know the score.  They got right nasty in Mile End.  A few of
our boys got a pastin'.  One got aimed through a plate-glass winder.  It got
ugly, I can tell yer.

The la-'w's gonna be out in force on this march.  We've gotta be shrewd or
we won't get anywhere near the fascist bastards.  "

Joe finished his drink and put his hand up when Solly offered to buy another.

"I've gotta get going', Solly.  My Sadie ain't too well.  She don't like me
being' out fer long."

The?  Jewish fishmonger watched as Joe Cooper walked out through the door,
then he turned to Jack Rabin.  " " E's a good man.  Jack.  We need the likes
of 'im ter stand wiv us,"

he said.

The landlord looked thoughtful.

"I dunno, Solly.  I'm always a bit cautious about that sort.  I don't want us
ter be used a-s fodder fert heir battles."

Solly laughed aloud.

"Jack, yer getting' suspicious in yer old ag^c.

Let me tell yer about Joe Cooper.  I've known 'im fe rages  Joe's a foreman
at the tin bashers in Ironmonger Street "E's bin campaignin' fer years ter
get a union in there.  Back in twenty-six 'e was up front in a strike at the
factory.  The owners brought in a team ter break up the strike an' Joe Cooper
ended up on the floor wiv boots going' in all xound 'im.

"E got took away in a Black Maria an' ended up in front of the beak.  I tell
yer, that man's got princilples.  I'll tell yer some fink else as well.
Joe's wife is stuck in a wheelchair wiv polio.  She's bin that way fer years.
If Joe ain't out at meetin's 'e's lookin' after 'er.  Yer don't 'ave ter
worry about 'im."

The pub landlord stroked his chin.

"If 'e's after startin' up a union at the factory, 'ow comes they ain't
sacked 'im?"

"They're not that stupid," Solly laughed.

"Joe knows 'is job.  They don't come no better.  All the workers likes 'im
and 'c gets the best out of 'em.  The guy'nors know that.  No, Jack.  They
ain't that stupid."

Connie and Molly were settled in their new jobs at Peek Frean's biscuit
factory.  The Bartletts were on relief, as Molly's was the only money coming
into the household.  Kate tiad come home from the sanatorium and she spent
most of her time sitting by the window, looking down on the street.  Her body
was constantly wracked by a dry, rasping cough and Connie became increasingly
worried as she watched the life slowly draining from her mother.  Every 63
morning, before she set out for work, Connie helped her mother into the
armchair and brought her tea and thin toast, then she made the bed and tidied
up.  When the weather was cold Connie would light the fire and bring in a
supply of coal which she piled up in the scuttle beside the hearth.  In the
evening there was the usual round of chores to do before she settled her
mother for the night.  During the time Connie was at work Helen came in with
a meal.  Kate rarely ever ventured out and, on the one or two occasions that
she managed to get down the stairs and out into the street, she was
immediately seized with a spasm of coughing.  Her face became drained of
colour and she had to lean against the wall until she recovered enough to
move.

During the first few months her party friends had called around often to see
her, but slowly the number of visitors diminished until there were no callers
or enquirers except for the people from the street.  Connie's life settled
into a dull, monotonous routine, she rarely ever went out in the evenings or
at weekends, and her only chance to get away from the depressing flat was
when she slipped downstairs to chat to the Bartletts.  Helen and Matthew were
becoming increasingly worried about the girl.

"It ain't natural fera kid that age ter be nursemaid an' drudge.  She should
'ave a life of 'er own," Matthew remarked.

Helen had to agree with her husband.

"I'm worried sick about 'er.

Matt, but what can we do?  There's nufink we can do.  All I wish is that Kate
would show a little more affection toer.  That kid would get more
appreciation from an outsider.  I feel really sorry fert he poor little cow.  "

The long, repetitious hours spent working on the factory belt and the
mundane, thankless chores were slowly taking their toll.  Connie was growing
into a woman without experiencing the normal carefree life of a teenager.
She was not yet sixteen and already she had the responsibilities and cares of
a mature adult.  At the factory, those who knew of Connie's circumstances
understood her refusal to socialise outside of working hours, but others saw
her as aloof and hard to get on with.  She would have loved to join them on
their nights out, but always there was her sick mother waiting impatiently
for her to put the key in the lock each evening.

Kate was becoming very miserable, and if Connie stopped to chat on the
street corner or outside the factory gate for a few minutes longer than usual
she would accuse her daughter of not caring, and of spending too much time
away from the flat.  Connie could only grit her teeth and ignore the
unreasonable outbursts.  Only at night in her small bedroom when she sat
reading or merely resting on the bed, could Connie allow herself to unwind.
Then she would sometimes break down and cry in her misery and pain.

Once or twice Kate seemed to rally, and it was on those rare occasions she
would sit upright in her high-backed chair beside the window and chat
vivaciously about some of the jobs she had had.

Connie listened intently, hoping her mother might let slip something about
her father, but it was not to be.  Once Kate mentioned her time at the
Armitage factory, and that she had left the firm the week following a factory
outing.  When Connie prompted her mother to go on, Kate had replied that
there was a bit of an upset and it was of no consequence.  She had then
lapsed into a moody silence and stared thoughtfully down into the quiet
evening street.

On the last Friday evening of November, as the young girl hurried home from
the factory, she had a strange feeling of unease.  Molly was off sick with
her chest and Kate had been racked with a particularly bad coughing spell
that morning.  The weather was cold and damp, with a fog settling in.  Connie
stopped off at the Tower Bridge Road for some bread and fresh milk, and when
she finally arrived home she was met by a worried-looking Helen.

"It's yer mum, luv," she said.

"She's 'ad a bad turn.  The doctor's bin.

"E said she's gotta go away."

Connie hurried past her aunt into the drab interior of the flat.  Kate was
sitting up in bed with a blanket pulled around her shoulders.  She was
drained of colour, and her eyes were black-rimmed and sunken.

Connie sat on the edge of the bed and took her mother's clammy hands in hers.
A sickening rush of fear and dread made her tremble as she asked,

"What is it, Mum?"

"I'm dyin', child.  I can't get me breath.  The pain's terrible."

For a moment or two Connie felt panic.  She tried to control her emotions and
force a smile.

"You'll be all right, 65 Mum," she said.

"It's the cold and fog.  When yer getter the 'ospital they'll give yer some
fink fert he pain.  You'll feel better then."

Kate squeezed her daughter' s hands in a weak grip.  " You' re a good child.
Con.  I know I've not bin one ter say much, but I know what yer've give up
all these months ter look after me  I'm only sorry I won't be able ter make
it up ter yer."

Connie felt the tears rising.

"Don't talk like that.  Mum.  You'll be okay.  You see if yer don't."

Kate withdrew her hands from Connie's grasp and pulled the blanket tighter
around her sagging shoulders.

"Listen, Con.  I don't fink I'm gonna see this place again, so I want yer ter
pay attention terwhat I'm gonna say.  I've not bin a family woman like me
sister.  I've gone me own way an' enjoyed me life, 'cos that's the way I
wanted it.  I never wanted ter settle down wiv a man, until I met yer
farvver.  I didn't want ter fall fera kid eiwer, but I did.  When you come
along I was feelin' sorry ferme self but I 'ad ter accept me lot.  You know
what they say, if yer makes yer bed, yer gotta lie in it.  I've gotta say
this, though, yer never brought me any trouble.  Yer've .  .  ."

Kate's words were interrupted with a spasm of coughing and Connie handed her
mother a handkerchief.  When she finally ceased and wiped the cold sweat from
her forehead, she smiled weakly at Connie.

"Yer've always bin a lovin' child," she said, 'an' I know I ain't appreciated
yer the way I should 'ave.  I know 'ow yer've give up yer nights out ter look
after me  "

Connie's eyes misted and she stared down at the bedclothes.

"I'm not worried about going' out nights.  Mum.  I'd sooner be 'ome lookin'
after you."

Kate reached out and squeezed her daughter's hands.  "Yer a very pretty girl.
Con.  One day soon the boys are gonna start knockin' fer yer.  Jus' promise
me some fink

Connie nodded as she kept her eyes averted from her mother's face.

"Promise me you'll find a nice lad an' settle down.  Don't play the field
like I did, girl.  It'll only bring yer un'appiness."

"I promise, Mum," Connie said tearfully.

Kate forced a weak smile.

"That's my girl.  Now go an' make me a cup o' tea before the amb'lance comes."

November had brought some extra orders to the Armitage factory and the
workers were put on full time until Christmas.  Mary Brown and her friend
Joyce Spinks both got work there again and during their first lunch break
they sat together in the canteen and gossiped.

"I don't like that foreman, Joyce."

' "E ain't a patch on Joe Cooper," Mary said.

"Yertellin' me," Joyce replied, as she wiped her plate with a piece of dry
bread.

"The silly bleeder's bin up an' down that gangway all mornin'.  Every time I
looked round there 'e was, starin'atme."

Mary grinned.

"I reckon e' fancies yer, Joyce.

"E ain't married, yer know."

"Well I am, an' in any case, I don't fancy old age creepin' all over me."

Mary pushed her empty plate away and lit up a cigarette.

"I didn't know yer started smokin'," Joyce said in surprise.

"Yeah, I started when our Maggie was born.  Couldn't get no sleep fer the
first few months wiv 'er cryin' an' I found it settled me nerves."

"My Arfur can't stand me smokin'," Joyce said.

"E reckons women who smoke look like prossers."

Mary snorted.

"Ow many prossers does your Arfur know?"

Joyce dismissed her friend's remark with a limp-wristed wave.  " " Ere Mary.
They tell me Joe Cooper ended up getting' six months.  "

"Yeah, that's right.

"E should get a couple o' months off fer good be'aviour."

Joyce took out a small mirror from her handbag and studied herself for a few
seconds.

"I bet Joe's wife's cut up, 'er being' the way she is."

Mary puffed on her cigarette and blew a jet of smoke ceiling-wards.

"I dunno about that.  They don't get on, yer know.  Poor ole Joe 'aster do
every fink fer erE pushes 'er everywhere in that wheelchair, an' I've seen 'im up the market
getting' the shoppin'.

Poor sod was like an errand boy.  "

"Who's lookin' after 'is missus while 'e's away then, Mary?"

67 "Why, that relation of 'ers.  Miserable ole cow she is.  I fink she was
the one who poisoned 'er mind.  Every time I saw Joe an' 'is missus out
tergevver she was always moanin' at 'im.  Mind you though, 'e was alwaysaving
ter rush off termeetin's.

"E'll never change."

"I dunno, Mary.

"E might be different now.

"E's got timeter fink about fings.  It mus' be 'and going' away fer bashin'
upacoupleo'Blackshirts."

Mary laughed.

"E didn't get six months fer bashin' up Blackshirts.

Joe got nicked fer punchin' a copper.  "

"Did 'e?  I didn't know that."

Mary nodded knowingly.

"My Frank was up the Old Kent Road when it 'appened."

"July wasn't it, Mary?"

"No, it was in June.  Joe an' a load of 'is union mates was standin' wiv the
Jew boys when Mosley's marchers come up.  Somebody slung a brick at 'em an'
the police on 'orses galloped up wiv their big sticks slashin' out.
Accordin' ter my Frank there was a lot o' Mosley's supporters waitin' in the
crowd.  The fists were flyin' everywhere an' Joe caught this copper in the
jaw so they took 'im away.  That last affair outside the factory went against
'im.  Most o' the ovvers got bound over.  Bloody shame really.  Trust poor
ole Joe ter get roped in."

"Yeah, it's a shame," Joyce said feelingly.

"E's such a nice bloke really."

Mary outed her cigarette in a saucer.

"What about that time 'e got the Jubilee party up fert he kids.

"E even got ole Misery Martinter chip in, though Gawd knows owe managed
that.  Ole Martin wouldn't give yer the drippin's from 'is nose!"

' "As 'e still got that shop, Mary?"

"Yeah.  Misery's bin there fer over twenty years.

"E's breakin' up now though."

Joyce scratched the back of her head and watched the progress of a young lad
who was trying to reach the table without spilling any of his soup.

"It ain't changed much round 'ere, 'as it, Mary?  D'yer remember when we was
kids?"

Mary nodded her head slowly.

"What about after work on Fridays, when we used ter go up West.  We used ter
dream about findin' ourselves a couple o' toffs, an' what did we both end up
wiv?  Two lads from Tower Bridge Road."

Joyce sniffed.

"I wouldn't give my Arfur up fer no bloody toff."

"No, nor would I," Mary said.

"My Frank's as good as gold.  It makes yer fink, though, don't it?"

The hooter sounded and there was a noisy scraping of chairs as the work force
started to leave the canteen.  Mary gathered up her handbag and waited while
Joyce looked at her reflection in the small mirror once more.

"You mind yer don't wipe an 'ole in that plate, Pete," Mary said with mock
seriousness to the young lad who was busy mopping up the last of his soup
with a hunk of bread.

Pete ignored the jibe and burped loudly as he pushed the plate to one side.

"C'mon, Joyce.  It's like feedin' time at the zoo round 'ere," Mary groaned.

69 Chapter Eight Connie spent another quiet Christmas with the Bartletts.
Kate was settled in the sanatorium and her condition had improved slightly,
although her cough was still giving her trouble.  Helen was now going out
early each morning to do office cleaning, and Matthew was supplementing his
dole money by selling bits and pieces of haberdashery from a suitcase in the
East End markets.  Every Monday morning Helen Bartlett would take her best
pair of sheets to the pawnbroker's and accept the seven and sixpence in
exchange so that her husband could buy his wares.  The business had to be
done 'over the water', away from the snoops and busybodies at the Relief
Office.

The wholesalers in Brick Lane sold off the remnants of their stock to people
like Matthew, but he had to wait until the bulk buyers had been accommodated.
On a good week Matthew recouped his original seven and sixpence by Thursday,
with just enough bits and pieces left over to make a tiny profit by the end
of the week.  Some of the Eastenders who frequented the markets made a show
of interest, picking up the thimbles, collar studs and coloured cottons as if
they had been looking everywhere for them.

' "Ere look, Sal.

"E's got collar studs.  Me ole man's right outo' collar studs."

' "E's got packets o' needles an' all, Queenie.  I gotta lot o' sewin' ter
do.  I fink I'll get a packet."

Matthew was not fooled.  Nearly every week Queenie needed collar studs,
although he was sure that her husband now possessed more studs than shirts.
As for Sally, she must have mislaid dozens of needles she had bought a packet
every Friday for the past two months.  But Matthew was eternally grateful to
Eastenders like Queenie and Sally whose patronage allowed him to retain some
of his dignity, which he had felt he was gradually losing in the endless dole
queues.

71 The year of 1936 ended with a major topic being discussed in every pub
and on every doorstep in dock land Bermondsey.  In the Horseshoe the old
domino group would have had much to say about the abdication, but the only
survivor, George Baker, rarely ventured as far as the pub.  A new generation
was holding court.  Terry Hicks and Bill Mullins were dockers, and
conveniently lived a few doors down from the pub.

Terry, the new spokesman, was adamant.

"I tell yer, Bill.  " E's the King of England.

"E's not the same as the likes o' you an' me."

"The likes o' you an' me wouldn't marry a foreigner who's already wore out
two ole men, Terry."

"Well I reckon 'e should put the country first.  Yer can't go against the
church an' the country when yer a king.  I mean, there's yer coronation an'
yer pomp an' splender.  It's yer 'eritage,Bill."

"Sod yer pomp an' splender.

"E could get married in a registry office like anybody else."

"C'mon, Bill.  Yer can't do fings like that when yer a king oyer country.
Just imagine Edward walkin' down the town 'all steps wiv that there Mrs
Simpson on 'is arm an' some soppy bleeder runnin' down the steps after 'im,
shoutin' out, 'don't ferget yer crown, Ted" "

When the laughter subsided Terry went on.

"All right, I grant yer that 'e's in love wiv 'er, but what's ter stop 'im
getting' spliced ter lady so-an'-so an' givin' 'er one every once in a while
fert he sake o' the Royal line.

"E's got ole Mrs Simpson on the quiet an' everybody' sappy

"P'raps 'e don't want ter marry some ugly ole aristocrat, jus' ter please the
likes o' you, an' I don't s'pose that there Mrs Simpson would be very 'appy
wiv that arrangement, Tel."

"It ain't a question o' what makes Mrs Simpson 'appy.

"E's got the country ter fink about.  Bill, an' in any case, 'e don't 'ave
ter marry an ugly aristocrat.  There mus' be a few good- lookin' ones amongst
'em, surely ter Gawd."

Bill refused to be shaken.

"I don't care what yer say.

"E's got the right ter pick an' choose, jus' like anybody else.  I say good
luck to' im.  At least' e's got the guts ter come out wiv it."

The argument was suspended while fresh pints were brought from the crowded
bar and then the discussion went on until closing time.

The young couple had met by chance, and at first she had almost walked past
without looking at the upright figure in a naval uniform.

It was he who stopped and hailed the pretty blond-haired girl.

' "Ello, Con.  Remember me?"  he said brightly.

Connie flushed as she looked up at the grinning Michael Donovan.

"Yer did it then," she exclaimed, her eyes travelling from his polished shoes
up to his cap, which was perched at a jaunty angle.

"I didn't reco'nise yer, Michael.  Yer do look smart.

"Ow long yer bin in the navy?"

"Six months.  I'm stationed down in Portsmouth, but I'm off ter sea next
week."

Connie put her shopping bag down on the pavement and rubbed her stiff fingers
together.

"When dyer go back off leave?"

"Sunday night.  We're sailin' on Tuesday.  We're going' ter Gib,"

Michael said proudly.

Gib?  "

"Gibraltar.  Well, that's our first port o' call.  We're going' ontertheMed."

"Lucky you," Connie said, smiling as she looked into his fresh-cut features.

"I'll be finkin' about yer when I'm sittin' there packin' 'orrible biscuits."

Michael took off his cap and ran his fingers through a mop of fair hair.  " "
Ow's yer friend Molly?  "

"She's okay.  We're still workin' tergewer, but at Peek Frean's now.

She's bin off work a lot lately.  She was pretty rough over Christmas.  "

Michael reached down and picked up Connie's shopping bag.

"C'mon, I'll carry it back fer yer."

The two young people threaded their way in and out of the Saturday morning
shoppers and turned off into a side street.  Michael walked with a slight
swagger and Connie felt strangely elated as she walked by his side.  She
could not help but notice the change in the lad.  His gaunt face had filled
out and it had a healthy glow about it.  He seemed to have grown taller and
put on some weight.  Connie had to 73 concede that he looked quite dashing
in his uniform and she gave him a few shy glances as they walked towards
Ironmonger Street.

"I was finkin'," Michael said suddenly.

"Would yer like ter come up the Globe ternight?  There's a good film up
there."

Connie almost blurted out yes, but she checked herself and appeared to
consider the offer for a few moments.

"Okay.  What's on?"

"It's a musical.

"Swing Time" , wiv Ginger Rogers an' FredAstaire.  "

Connie did not confess to the lad that she had already seen the film; instead
she pretended surprise.

"We'll 'ave ter get up there early.

It'll be packed," she said.

The red February sun gave little heat and the coppery cloud foreboded more
bad weather.  Smoke drifted upwards from red chimney pots, and moisture clung
to the hard cobbles and grey-slated roofs as the two strolled into Ironmonger
Street.  Ahead, the ugly factory loomed up in the dull morning light and,
half way down the small turning, they could see the knife-grinder bent over a
spinning stone, his foot working away at the treadle.  One or two children
were playing in the street, and Misery Martin, now a grizzled, bent figure,
was sweeping the pavement outside his shop, his lips moving as he muttered to
himself.  To the left, the tall tenement block looked drab and forbidding,
and to the right the row of rundown terraced houses were nearly all sporting
clean lace curtains and whitened doorsteps.  The two stopped at the block
entrance and Connie took the bag from her escort.

Tanks, Michael," she said.

"What tim eyer comin' round?"

"I'll be 'ere sharp on seven.  Shall I wait 'ere fer yer.  Con?"

"All right.  See yer then, Michael," she said.

"By the way, call me Mick, all me pals do."

Connie stood by the entrance and watched the swaggering figure walking away
along the turning.  When Michael had disappeared from her view she hurried up
the stairs and handed Helen her shopping.  Later, as she pottered about the
drab flat, Connie felt pangs of excitement in the pit of her stomach.
Michael had altered since the last time she had seen him, and he certainly
looked handsome in his uniform.

She hummed happily to herself as she brushed the threadbare carpet and dusted
the china ornaments.  Tonight would be exciting, and tomorrow she would be
able to tell Molly all about it.  With the thought came a sudden feeling of
guilt and she sat down at the table.

How would Molly react?  she wondered.  Would she be happy for her, or would
she feel she was taking second place in her affection?  Connie felt suddenly
confused.  She was aware how dependent Molly had become lately.  As her
health deteriorated Molly seemed to have lost her eager interest in things,
and her world had grown narrow and confined.  Connie was the only real friend
Molly had, and now she began to feel it as a burden.  It seemed that through
her love for Molly, she was being held back from her natural instincts and
inclinations and forced to continue a childhood she was quickly outgrowing.
As Connie sat alone in the quiet flat the sad, misshapen figure of her cousin
would not leave her thoughts.  Connie felt an anger welling up inside her.
She wanted her first date to be a happy, exciting evening, but feelings of
guilt were already tormenting her.

Why did Molly have to make so many demands upon her?  For a moment, sitting
thinking at the table, Connie could hardly recognise herself.

She quickly dismissed her ugly thoughts as she clenched her hands tightly and
bit on her lip.  She was being so silly, she told herself.

She loved Molly and here she was creating a big problem out of such a trivial
little affair.  Her shame made her flush and she tried to calm her feelings.
It was just going to be a night out her first night out with a boy.  Perhaps
in her nervousness and anticipation she was just making problems for herself.
Connie realised that if she allowed herself to carry on thinking about
things she would only become more unhappy.  With a deep sigh she rested her
head on the table and pressed her tightly closed eyes against her arm.

It was seven o'clock exactly when Michael Donovan walked into Ironmonger
Street.  The turning was quiet and a rising wind rustled dirty bits of paper
and toffee wrappers and carried them along the gutter.  At the entrance to
the tenement block the young sailor halted and thrust his hands 75 deep into
the pockets of his service raincoat.  He waited patiently for a few minutes,
then he turned and walked slowly along the length of the street.  Ten minutes
later his elation was turning to disappointment.  There was no sign of
Connie.  Maybe there was something wrong?  Perhaps her mother had forbidden
her to go out?

Michael decided to give it another ten minutes and then go home.  As he
turned he saw her coming towards him, her shapely figure clearly outlined
beneath the tight-fitting coat she wore.  Connie's hair was pulled back
behind her head and tied with a black bow, and he noticed that her face
seemed flushed.  Michael smiled as she reached him and he could see a slight
puffiness around her eyes.  Her full lips were parted in a self- conscious
smile and her even white teeth shone in the darkness of the evening.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly.

"I 'ad a lot ter do an' the time flew."

Michael grinned as he held out his arm.

"I thought yer mum might 'ave stopped yer comin' out."

Connie slipped her arm through his and felt a strange sensation as she set
out beside him.  The mum's in 'ospital.  She's bin there fera long time now,"
she said.

Michael looked at her.

"What's the matter wiv 'er.  Con?"

"She's got TH."

"I'm sorry.  Is she getting' better?"

"No.  She's getting' worse.  Mum ses she's never gonna get outo' there."

Michael lapsed into silence as they walked towards the Tower Bridge Road.
Connie shivered against the wind and gripped his arm tighter as they reached
the deserted market and turned in the direction of the Old Kent Road.  At the
Bricklayers Arms they turned left into the main thoroughfare and saw the
queue forming outside the little picture house.  The tired-looking
commissionaire was standing at the head of the queue, his hands behind his
bowed back and his ill-fitting, braided uniform coat almost touching the
pavement.  Connie and Michael joined the queue just as the ticket office
opened up.  Soon the couple was climbing the winding staircase and entering
the small balcony above the main auditorium.  The air was scented and warm,
and soft interval music was playing.  Michael steered Connie into the back
row and helped her off with her coat which she laid over her knees.  After a
while the lights dimmed and the show began.  At first Connie sat upright,
very aware of the lad's presence and feeling slightly ill at ease.  She
strived to relax and enjoy the evening, although her new high-heeled shoes
were beginning to pinch.  Michael was silent during the whole of the first
film but when the lights went up at the interval he turned and smiled at her.

"Would yer like an ice-cream or some fink he asked her.

Connie shook her head.  She felt too embarrassed to say yes and she held her
hands tightly in her lap.  Michael fished into his pocket and produced a
paper bag which he opened noisily.

"Fancy a boiled sweet?"

he asked, leaning towards her.

Connie took a sweet and felt his arm pressing against hers.  He screwed up
the paper bag and put it in his pocket and a woman in the seat in front
turned around and glared at him.  The young couple's eyes met and Michael
winced comically.  The sudden look and the silent communication between them
seemed to break down the first barrier for Connie and she relaxed slightly.

The lights had dimmed and the stars of the film were now dancing lightly
across a wide stage.  Connie watched their movements closely, fascinated by
the way in which their bodies moved together.  Suddenly she became aware of
Michael's arm slipping around the back of her seat.  Soon his hand was
resting on her shoulder and she felt her cheeks grow hot.  Without moving her
head she looked at him out of the corner of her eye and saw that he appeared
to be as engrossed in the film as she was.  The dancing ceased and the stars
embraced.

Michael was now leaning against her and she felt a strange new emotion
welling up inside her.  It was nice sitting in the darkness of the cinema
with Michael.  She could smell brilliantine and the faint aroma from his
uniform.  At that moment Connie felt very grown up.  Her escort had now
slipped his hand under the top of her arm and she found herself leaning
towards him.  His fingertips were gently stroking the side of her breast and
she stiffened her arm.  The film was reaching its climax and Fred Astaire was
serenading Ginger Rogers.  As the stars kissed Connie felt Michael's breath
on her cheek and, as she turned her 77 head slightly, he kissed her quickly
on the side of her face.  She looked quietly into his eyes and his lips
touched hers lightly and then pressed hard.  The kiss was short and awkward,
but Connie was breathless with excitement.  She knew that it was something
she would treasure.  Her first romantic kiss was just as she imagined it
would be, and it felt wonderful.

The audience stood until the anthem had finished then quickly made their way
to the exits.  Connie and Michael walked down the staircase and out into the
cold night.  They were both silent and absorbed in their own thoughts.
Michael was feeling pleased with himself.  The girl by his side was pretty
and desirable and he could still sense the kiss.  Connie was feeling dreamy
and warm, although the wind was cold against her hot cheeks.  She had wanted
the kiss to go on for ever and there was a stirring deep down inside her
which was new and exciting.  She could feel his warm body against hers as
they walked along the deserted Tower Bridge Road and her arm resting on his
instilled a feeling of intimacy that made her shiver with pleasure.

They had reached Ironmonger Street and the block entrance when Michael turned
and looked at her.

"Can I see yer again before I go back off leave?"

Connie smiled shyly.

"If yer want to."

Michael took her by the arm and led her into the darkness of the stairway.
His arms reached out and pulled her to him.  Connie did not resist.  Her eyes
closed as he bent his head.  His lips were slightly open and she opened hers
to meet his searching mouth.  The kiss was lingering and intense and when
they finally parted Connie was gasping for breath.

Michael pulled up the collar of his topcoat and smiled sheepishly.

"I've gotta catch the seven-fifteen from Waterloo.  We could go fera walk in
the afternoon if yer like?"

Connie nodded.

"All right.  What time dyer wanna call round?"

Is'alf past two okay?  "

"Yeah, that'll be fine.  Good night, Mick."

"Good night.  Con," he said huskily as he pulled her close once more and
kissed her quickly on the lips.  Connie watched him turn and walk away and
before he looked back she was hurrying up the shadowy stairs.  Her heart was
pounding and she felt strangely light-headed as she put the key in the lock.
Once in the solitude of her flat she put the kettle on and slumped down in
the armchair.  The fire was out and the room felt chilly, although inside
Connie was glowing.  She could think of nothing but the handsome sailor lad
who had been responsible for her first romantic kiss.  She smiled to herself
in the darkness and stared into the ashes of the fire.  She could still feel
his arm around her and his fingers searching for her breast.  She remembered
how her initial feeling of shock had quickly disappeared and had been taken
over by a sense of abandonment.  She had wanted to be kissed and held close
for a long time.  Suddenly she frowned.  Would he think her too forward?

she wondered.  The girls at work were always talking about what men were like.

"Give 'em an' inch an' they'll soon 'ave yer drawers off," Kathy Greenwood
had said.

"Don't let 'em 'ave a feel on yer first date, they'll fink you're easy," was
another bit of advice Kathy gave to all the girls.  Connie wondered what
Michael was thinking on his walk home.  Maybe he thought she was easy?  Would
he come round tomorrow?  The kettle was popping and Connie roused herself.
Tonight her fantasies would weave around him and she would hold him in her
dreams.  Tomorrow was another day.

79 Chapter Nine Joe Cooper had slipped quietly back into Ironmonger Street
and he lost no time in looking up an old friend.  He and Solly Jacobs sat in
the Horseshoe on a cold February evening discussing the growing crisis.

"I tell yer, it's gotta come, Solly.  Mark my words, 1937's gonna be a dodgy
ole year."

The big fishmonger sipped his beer thoughtfully.

"Yeah I fink yer right, Joe," he answered, wiping a large hand across his
lips.

"I was listenin' ter the wireless last night.  They was going' on about that
bastard

"Itler, an' owe's whippin' up the feelin' against the Jews and Communists.
Trouble is, there's a lot o' sympathisers in this country too.  Those
Blackshirt swine 'ave bin on the march again while you was inside.  We 'ad
another set-to wiv 'em a few weeks ago.  A few 'eads got cracked an' some
shop winders got smashed as well."

Joe grinned mirthlessly.

"I know, Solly.  We did get the papers in nick."

Solly shrugged his massive shoulders and looked hard at Joe.

"Ere, 'ow yer getting' on at the factory?"  he asked suddenly.

"I bet there was a few raised eyebrows, when yer walked back in there?"

Joe smiled.

"Most of 'em seemed pleased ter see me, but I don't fink the management was
too happy, 'spec'ly now it looks like we're going' union."

Earlier that same day a heated discussion had taken place at the Armitage
factory.  Gerald Armitage had been sitting in his brother's office, nervously
toying with his fountain pen.  "It's a bloody nuisance that Joe Cooper's
back, Peter," he said, avoiding his brother's gaze.

"Some of the workers think nothing of talking openly about forming some kind
of workers' union now."

81 Peter sighed.

"There's nothing to be done about that, Gerald," he said with deliberation.

"You know the agreement's still binding.

There's no going back on it, for all our sakes, and especially for yours.  "

Gerald continued to stare at the carpet.

"You never let me forget, do you Peter?"  he said with controlled anger.

Peter looked across at his brother.

"I know you don't need me to remind you, Gerald," he said, a note of pity
creeping into his voice.

He got up from his desk and walked across to an armchair.

"Straight out of prison and back to his old job with a " hello, how are you?
and welcome back"," Gerald said with cold derision.  He shook his head.

"No, there's nothing we can do.  I know that, Peter.  That man's going to
turn us into a laughing stock."

Peter leaned back heavily in his large leather armchair.  "Look Gerald, of
course I'd do anything for the best interests of this company.  I've already
been in touch by letter about the agreement."

Gerald looked up quickly.

"You have?"

"Yes, but it wasn't well received, to say the least.  The answer was terse
and specific.  The arrangement stays the same."

Gerald dropped his gaze.

"You know Cooper's going to foment trouble,"

he said slowly.

"It won't be long before we have another strike on our hands."

"It may be that we have to start some kind of talks," Peter said with
resignation.

"But let's face it, Gerald.  Joe Cooper gives us a fair day's work, the work
force respect him and he manages to get the best out of them.  The way things
are going, the government could be initiating a rearmament programme any day
now, and we may well be looking forward to a healthy contract."

"But that's the point I'm trying to make, Peter.  If we allow a union inside
our factory we'll be plagued with silly stoppages and walkouts.  It's
happened to every firm that's allowed them in."

Peter took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Times are changing, Gerald.  The main complaints most unions have are over
conditions of work.  We've provided a works canteen, we've improved safety,
and we've even gone so far as to promise a review of working hours.  Most of
our workers have been with us a long time.  They know the hardships of
short-time working and they're terrified of being put off again.

Besides, for every worker who remains faithful to the union there's another
who doesn't give a damn about it, so long as he or she can get a week's work
and have some money to take home.  And Joe Cooper knows that, he's no fool.  "

Gerald said nothing.  As Peter watched him gazing down glumly at his hands he
thought of how much his brother had changed in recent years.

Much of the brashness and fire had left him, and he seemed almost to be a
mere shadow of his old self, lost and defeated.

There was a knock on the door and Miss Jones entered the large office.  Alice
Jones had been with the company for more than twenty years, during which time
she had served two generations of the Armitage family.  There was not much
that Alice did not know about the company intrigues.  As secretary she
handled all the correspondence, as well as being on hand at meetings.  Even
the most confidential information somehow reached her ears.  The office
partitions were not all that thick and she had been surprised just how much
could be heard by leaning back in her chair and pressing her good ear to the
wall.  She was a quiet, unobtrusive character, and it stood her in good
stead.  She had a knack of becoming almost invisible when it suited her
purpose, and many a dropped word or opinion was inadvertently expressed in
her presence.  She was well aware of the nature of the current discussion
between the two brothers and she put on her most detached look as she placed
a sheaf of documents in front of Peter and silently departed to resume her
vigil at the office wall.

Peter had been waiting for the Ministry applications for tender and when he
saw the papers his eyes lit up.

"Gerald, I've got these forms to work on.  I'll need your help on the output
figures for the last quarter," he said with a sudden smile.

Gerald nodded slowly.

"I'll get them sent up by this evening," he said.

"By the way, when is young Robert starting?  I could certainly do with some
help.  Things are begin- ingtopileup."

83 Peter stroked his chin thoughtfully.  His son had just finished college
and had shown some reluctance to enter the family business.

He had informed his father that he wanted to go into the pharmaceutical
industry, and the elder Armitage had explained his reasons for wanting his
son to join the family concern.  Peter was convinced that before long there
would be another war and he wanted his only son to be holding down a vital
position within the company and so be protected from the inevitable call-up.

"I'm hoping Robert will be starting here within the next month or two,
Gerald.  He's going on a walking holiday with some of his college chums
before then.  So I hope you can hang on for a while," Peter said kindly.

"Well, I'd better get working on those figures, Peter," his brother said as
he stood up and made for the door.  Outside Miss Jones eased her chair away
from the wall and lowered her head over her battered Remington.

On a Sunday afternoon in mid February two young people strolled arm in arm
along the tree-lined Tower Gardens.  The day had been cold and bright, and
already the watery sun was starting to dip down behind London Bridge.  It was
quiet, with just a few visitors wandering along the cobbled paths or resting
against the huge cannons.  Birds chattered overhead and down beyond the stone
wall the gentle swish of the turning tide carried up the walkway.  Across the
River Thames the couple saw the idle cranes and the bolted warehouses and
wharves of the Pool.  Two ocean-going freighters were rocking gently in their
berths, and in mid-stream a brace of laden barges strained against their
moorings.  Heavy clouds were gathering, and the slowly fading daylight made
the massive stone ramparts of the Tower of London appear forbidding.  The
couple walked slowly, the girl's long blond hair falling down almost to her
waist, the lad, tall and upright, holding proudly on to her arm.  They
stopped as the lad pointed to a distant object on the far bank and, as they
leaned on the wire fencing, his arm encircled her slim waist and she moved
closer to him.  A commotion behind them made the young people turn and they
smiled as they listened to the two children talking.

"What's that place called?"  asked the little girl who stood beneath a
massive cannon.

"It's the Tower, soppy.  Everybody knows that."

I don't.  "

"Yes yer do, 'cos I jus' told yer."

"What's them 'oles in the wall for.  Tommy?"

"They're winders," announced the boy who had just managed to scramble astride
the cannon.

"Well they don't look like winders terme.  Winders 'ave curtains."

"Not castle winders.  Them winders is ter fire arrers from."

The little girl sucked on a thin lollipop.

"Yer said it was the Tower."

"Well it's still a castle.  A fousand years ago soldiers used ter fire arrers
out o' them winders."

"What for?"

"Ter kill the enemy."

"Who was the enemy.  Tommy?"

"Pirates, I s'pose."

"Tommy?"

"Yeah."

"Iwannadoawee."

"C'mon then, let's go 'ome.  Yer can't wee 'ere."

The couple chuckled at the children and then strolled on until they reached
the arched gateway beneath Tower Bridge and then they started to climb up the
wide stone stairs on to the roadway.  It was quiet and devoid of traffic as
they continued towards the centre span.

Down below, the swirling, muddy water lapped the stone bastions and eddied in
small whirlpools.  Michael looked into Connie's eyes and said quietly,

"Will yer come out wiv me when I get back from me trip?"

' "Course I will," she replied.

"I'll write ter yer soon as I can, Connie."

"I bet you'll ferget.  What do they say about sailors?  A girl in every port!"

"I won't go out wiv anybody else till I get back.  Con.  We're going' steady
now, ain't we?"

"Yeah, I s'pose so.  I won't go out on no dates neiwer, Mick."

Michael slipped his arm around her as they reached the end of the bridge and
looked into her pale blue eyes.  " " Ave 85 yer got a photo of yerself?  "
he asked.

"I'd like ter take one wiv me."

"No.  I'll get one done soon an' send it on ter yer."

Tanks, Con.  I'll keep it over me bunk an' I'll dream about yer every night.
"

Connie giggled and pulled on Michael's arm.

"C'mon, Mick.  It's getting' late.  If yer not careful yer'll miss yer train."

They walked down to the Tower Bridge Road and slipped into the back streets
The evening gloom was descending fast and the cold rising wind made Connie
shiver.  She held on to Michael's arm, happy in his company and vowing to
remember these few days as the most exciting she had ever known.  She felt
like a grown woman and she knew there was so much more to discover.  Michael
seemed deep in thought and he did not say anything until they turned into
Ironmonger Street.

"I've really enjoyed our times tergewer, Con," he said at last.

"What about you?"

The young girl felt as though he had read her thoughts.  "It's bin luv'ly.  I
don't want yer ter go back off leave, Mick."

They stopped at the buildings and stepped into the shadows.  Michael pulled
her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth.  Connie felt herself trembling
at the contact and she closed her eyes and let her lips mould into his.  They
parted, both breathing hard.

"I like yer a lot.  Con.  I'm gonna miss yer like mad."

The, too, Mick.  Come back soon.  "

He turned and left her in the block entrance.  Connie watched as he crossed
the quiet street and saw him turn and give her a cheery wave.

Her eyes misted as she waved back || and then she turned quickly on her heels
and hurried up the stairs.

The early months of 1937 saw a slight improvement as far as employment was
concerned.  Some of the Bennondsey factories went back to full-time working
and more ships were coming in to berth at the docks and wharves.  The
Armitage factory had managed to obtain a government contract to produce
ammunition cases and mess cans, as well as other less identifiable items for
the services.  The work force were happy in the knowledge that, for the
present at least, their jobs looked secure, although the items they were
turning out gave rise to speculation.  In the canteen, the women who worked
the metal presses were discussing the implications of the new surge in orders.

"There was a bloke on the wireless last night," Lizzie Conroy was saying.

"E was talkin' about us going' ter war."

Mary Brown took up her knitting and unravelled the four steel needles which
she was using to produce a sock.

"If yer listen ter the wireless all the tim eyer go right round the twist.
All yer get lately is about what's going' on in Germany an' Spain.  Only the
ower night I 'card this bloke talkin' about us re-armin' ter stop a war.

"E said the Germans were buildin' up their troops an' ships an' fings, an'
we're laggin' be' and If yer take too much notice o' the likes o' those
people on the wireless yer'd put yerself in an early grave."

Lizzie eased her bulk in the uncomfortable chair and patted her per med hair
with the palm of her hand.

"What about all that stuff we're turnin' out?  It's all army stuff.  If it
wasn't fert hat work we'd be joinin' the dole queues.  I fink it'll come to it
sooner or later.  My ole man reckons the Germans are itchin' ter 'ave anuwer
go at us.

"E said we should 'ave stopped 'em when they put that

"Itler inter power.

"E's the cause of all the trouble."

"That's easier said than done, Liz.  People ain't prepared ter go ter war
jus' like that.  There's too many lives bin lost in the last war."

Lizzie folded her arms and looked peeved.

"Well my ole man studies the papers, an' 'e listens ter all the wireless
talks, an' 'e said .

.  "

"Look, Liz," Mary cut in.

"You an' yer ole man can fink what yer like.  As far as I'm concerned, there
ain't gonna be anuwer war.  All this stuff we're makin' is prob'ly ter
replace the ole stuff.  I know somebody who works in the Woolwich Arsenal,
an' she told me all about the bullets an' shells they make there.  She's bin
workin' in the Arsenal since 'twenty- nine."

"Well I 'ope you're right, Mary.  I don't wanna see anuwer war,"

Lizzie said.

"Gawd 'elp us if it ever starts again.  My Uncle Bert got 87 gassed in the
last lot, an' 'is bruvver Maurice got invalided out as well."

Joyce Spinks had been listening to the conversation and she puffed hard.

"Ere you two, can't yer change the subject?  It's fair givin' me the creeps.
Who yer knittin' them socks for, Mary?"

"They're ferme ole man's youngest bruvver.

"E's joined the territorial army an' 'e's asked meter knit 'im a nice pair
of thick socks 'e can wear wiv 'is army boots."

"Gawd Almighty!"  Joyce blurted out.

"I thought we was gonna change the subject'.

Lizzie laughed aloud.  " " Ere.  You seen that new bloke who come round
inspectin' the place last week?

"E's a bit tasty."

"That was Robert Armitage.

"E's the guy' nor son," Joyce said.

"Well 'e can ask me out if 'e likes," Lizzie remarked, winking at Mary.

"I dunno.

"E only looks a kid."

"Well kid or not, I bet 'e knows what 'e's got it for," Lizzie said, pulling
a face.

"I fink my ole man's sufferin' from loss o' memory.

The only time 'e faces me in bed is on 'ighdaysan' 'olidays.  "

"You wanna be careful, Liz.

"E might be supplyin' somebody else."

"What!  My ole man knows better than that.

"E knows very well that if I found out 'e was knockin' about wiv anuwer woman
I'd cut 'is chopper off when 'e was asleep an' stick it in 'is ear."

When the laughing had died down Joyce turned to Mary.  "Ere, talkin' about
playin' around, you remember that turn out wiv Dirty Dora?"

"Who?"  Lizzie asked.

"Teller about it, Joyce," Mary prompted.

Joyce looked around theatrically and leaned closer to the group.

"It was before you started 'ere, Liz.  There was this woman who worked in the
packin' shop.  Dora Dillon 'er name was.  Proper tart she was.  She used ter
co meter work like a Lisle Street whore.  She wore tons o' make-up, an'
lipstick, and bloody great 'igh 'eels.  She did look eighteen carat.  Anyway,
she took a shine ter Jake Singer.  Jake was the foreman in 'er shop.  Married
'e was, wiv about five or six kids.  This Dora kept pesterin' 'im.  Every
time 'e turned round, there she was makin' soppy eyes at 'im.

"Course, being like all the rest of 'em, open to a bit o' flattery an' silly
as a box o' lights, 'e took the bait.  Before long they was going' be' and
the boxes fera bit of " 'ow's yer farvver".  Everybody knew it was going' on.
It was the talk o' the factory.  Dirty Dora used ter walk ter the factory
wiv 'im an' wait fer 'im when they finished work.  Brazen cow she was.

"Anyway, this was going' on fera bout six months or more, an' somebody
shopped 'im ter Gladys, 'is wife.  One day we was all workin' away when there
was a right commotion.  We looks round an' there's Gladys, wiv all 'er Gawd
ferbids in tow, marchin' along the factory floor.

"Where's the poxy knockin' shop?"  she shouts out.  Well, I tell yer, if you
could 'ave seen 'er face.  Scarlet wiv rage it was.  There was the kids
cryin', an' 'er pushin' 'er way down the aisle.  Joe Cooper's tryin' ter keep
a straight face.

"E's twigged it right away.

"Turn left at the bottom an' go right in," 'e ses.  Well, Gladys storms in,
kids an' all, an' she walks up ter Dora an' ses,

"Yer got me meal ticket, yer better feed 'em."  Wiv that she smacks Dora
round the chops an' walks out, leavin' the kids standin' there.  Dora was
snivellin' an' the kids was all bawlin' their 'eads off.  Proper turn out it
was.  "

"Teller what 'appened next," Mary prompted.

Joyce was enjoying her role as storyteller.

"Well, Gladys marches up the gangway wiv 'er Jake followin' erE 'ad the little mites trailin' be' and 'im an' 'e was pleadin' wiv 'er ter
take the kids back 'ome.  We was all standin' there watchin'.  Suddenly she
stops in 'er tracks an' ses to Jake, " On yer knees then.  " True, Liz.  She
made 'im beg there an' then.

"Course, she took 'im 'an the kids back but both Jake an' Dora got the sack.
Gladys an' Jake are like a couple o' love birds now, an' Dora ended up
marryin' a bloke a lot older than 'er.  I see 'er only a few weeks ago.
Right scruffy cow she's turned out ter be.  Jus' goes ter show yer, don't it?"

Lizzie picked up her handbag as the factory whistle sounded.

"I'll take the chance of a bit o' trouble if that young Robert gives me the
eye," she grinned.

"My ole man would prob'ly come up an shake 'im by the 'and fer el ping
'imout!"

89 FR1;Chapter Ten Bright spring days with lengthening hours of warm light
helped to bring a little cheer to the back street folk.  Even Ironmonger
Street looked less ugly and off-putting when the sun lit up the terraced
houses and penetrated the gloomy tenement block.  The street dwellers were
convinced that the factory owner had been affected by the sunshine when they
saw the painters arrive and start work cleaning up the old rusting gates.
Within a few days the iron entrance to the factory wore a bold green covering
of paint and ladders were going up all around the red brick building.  Even
the factory sign was being scraped clean and the local wags made capital out
of the renovations.

' "E's gorn mad!  Stark ravin' mad!"  Bill Mullins said to his pal Terry.

"All that money 'e's earnin' 'as gorn to 'is 'ead.  If those workers of 'is
ain't careful they'll find themselves getting' arise."

' "E's sellin' the gaff," Terry decided.

"Marie Lloyd's buyin' it off 'im.  She's gonna turn it into a music 'all."

"What, in Ironmonger Street?  Yer wouldn't get those music 'all stars ter do
a turn round 'ere.  They'd be frightened o' the reception they'd get."

"Not 'alf.  All the kids would be standin' outside sellin' rotten fruit."

The factory was looking much less forbidding in its new coat of paint and
Peter Armitage was happy.  The Ministry officials would be visiting the
premises very soon to see how their contract was being implemented.  I must
remember to talk to Robert about new overalls for the machine-floor workers,
he thought.  We can't let the officials see the ones they're wearing at
present, it wouldn't do.  And they might ask to see the canteen.  I must talk
to the manageress.  Maybe she could put a few more items on the menu.  My
office could do with a bit of a spruce-up too.  I'd better have a 91 word
with Miss Jones.  Perhaps she can get a few flowers or some pot plants.

Miss Jones was somewhat taken aback by the suggestion.  "Well I never did,"
she remarked to her friend Mabel Southwick from the accounts office.

"I'm sure the man's verging on a nervous breakdown.  If he's not pacing that
office of his he's mumbling to himself.  Now he wants me to get him flowers
and pot plants, would you believe?  I tell you, Mabel.  If old Mr Armitage
was alive he'd have a fit."

Mabel giggled.

"You be careful.  He might be thinking of doing some after-hours
entertaining.  It wouldn't be the first time a boss has made up to his
secretary."

Miss Jones straightened her blouse and snorted.

"Don't be silly, Mabel.  Mr Peter is a respectable married man and, besides,
I'm old enough to be his mother."

"Well he must have some reason for doing what he's doing, Alice."

Miss Jones pondered the mystery and came to the conclusion that it was
probably his age.  After all, men got those funny urges in middle life.  She
had recently read about the traumas of middle-aged men.  She had discovered
lots about the opposite sex in her life, mostly from books.  In her younger
days she had taken up with an older man who had tried desperately to lure her
between the sheets.  Miss Jones had found out in the nick of time that her
romantic and persuasive companion was in fact a married man with two young
children.  Her world of romance was shattered and she decided that men were
little more than animals with just one thought in their heads.  She would not
become anyone's chattel, and so Alice Jones remained celibate.

She had no regrets, except for the one time when old Armitage was alive.  Her
liking for George Armitage had clouded her usually clear judgement when,
during a marital crisis, the factory owner had decided to seek the opinion of
his loyal and trusted secretary.  Alice Jones remembered the incident very
well.  He had been quiet and thoughtful for some time and one evening, just
before the factory closed, he called her into his office and asked her to sit
down.  He had in fact wanted to know whether or not he should take home a
bunch of flowers as a peace offering.  He thought that maybe his wife might
see the gesture as a sign of guilt and was seeking female advice about the
problem.  George Armitage broached the subject by saying first that it was
very personal, and then he went on to ask if it would be correct to assume
that a bunch of flowers was the right sort of gift to give to someone who was
feeling neglected and not appreciated.  Miss Jones was, of course, totally
unaware of her boss's marital crisis and reacted by saying that flowers were
unnecessary if there was true feeling between two people, secretly hoping he
would ignore her advice.  Armitage senior had grunted and was about to say
something when he changed his mind and dismissed his secretary.  Alice Jones
was sure that he would overcome his lack of resolve, and she resigned herself
to being patient.  The aggrieved Mrs Armitage did not receive any flowers,
and the loyal secretary to the factory owner waited in vain for her gift.

It was in the spring, too, that Molly Bartlett went into hospital for
treatment to her spine.  Her parents had already been told by the specialist
that Molly's condition was a permanent one and that curvature of the spine
was all too common amongst children in working-class areas; her natural
growth and development would be impeded, and her breathing would become even
more laboured.  Both Helen and Matthew knew that there was little they could
do except to make sure their daughter kept the six-monthly appointment at the
hospital, and it was during the last visit that arrangements were made for
Molly to be admitted for tests.

The doctors had said that she might benefit from a medical corset and that
the support would make it easier for her to get about.  Helen and Matthew
were happy that there was a chance their daughter could be helped.  Molly had
been depressed and ill-tempered recently, which her parents put down to her
worsening condition.  She had almost stopped growing, and Connie was now head
and shoulders taller than her ailing cousin.  Even Connie was finding it
difficult to communicate with Molly.  When she had first told her, excitedly,
about the date with Michael she had shown no interest and Connie felt it
wiser not to talk any more about her boyfriend.  When Michael's letter
arrived 93 from Gibraltar she decided not to say anything, but it troubled
Connie that she had to keep part of herself from Molly.  And it made her very
sad to realise that, quite possibly, her cousin would never be fortunate
enough to experience the same excitement.

When Molly went into hospital Helen informed her employers and requested that
her cards be sent home.  Molly's condition had become such that the journey
to and from the factory was now getting to be too much of a strain.  Helen
realised that after the hospital Molly would have to find some other, less
strenuous occupation.  Connie herself was becoming bored with the dull
routine of the factory and she, too, decided it was time to look around for
some other type of work.  It was Helen who suggested the Ironmonger Street
factory.

"I was talkin' ter Mary Brown only yesterday," she told her.

"She reckons there might be a job going' in the Armitage canteen.  She got it
from one of the workers there.  It might be worth yer while poppin' in an'
asking', Con.  At least yer wouldn't 'ave that walk every mornin'."

Connie didn't feel very enthusiastic about serving meals in the factory
canteen, but she was aware that there were not too many jobs available to her
and it was very convenient, so she decided to give it a try.  After all, what
have I got to lose?  she asked herself.

It was mid May when Connie went over to the factory and saw Dot Temple, the
canteen manageress.  The buxom Dot liked the look of the young girl and she
decided to give her a chance.

"Yer'll 'ave ter be quick on the servin', me girl.  That bleedin' load o'
savages we've got workin' 'ere won't wait a minute.  Don't take no ole truck
from 'em though.  If yer get any problems come terme an' I'll give 'em what
for."

Connie felt ridiculous in her white apron and hat as she served up the
sausage and mash, and meat and two veg.  But quite a few of the factory
workers knew her and their friendly welcomes helped her through the first
awkward days.  The management had their own private section and after one
week Dot Temple felt her new worker was confident enough to begin serving
there.  It was strange at first, and the curious glances directed towards her
made Connie feel uncomfortable.  She was especially shy and nervous when it
came to serving the young man in the smart blue suit who sat at the end of
the long table.  His mild curiosity made her feel clumsy and when he casually
passed the time of day with her or just gave her a friendly smile Connie felt
her face redden.  The young man's continued show of interest slowly began to
have a strange effect upon her and it was something that she did not quite
understand.  She took to glancing in the mirror and checking that her hair
was tidy and her canteen uniform was properly adjusted before she began her
duties.  And, during the mornings when she had to help to prepare the food
and lay the table in the management section, Connie found herself looking
longingly at the clock.  A feeling of excitement at the prospect of seeing
the young man would grow as the morning went on.  She was struggling to
become more self-assured at serving times and found herself responding to his
smile.  On certain days, when the young man was absent, Connie felt
disappointed, and when he appeared once more she perked up and felt contented
for the rest of the day.

Connie quickly settled into the job and she soon became less nervous.

The management were now calling her by her Christian name, and she liked the
way the young man spoke it.  She particularly liked his easy smile and casual
manner.  He was tall and fair-haired, with ice-blue eyes that seemed to bore
into her.  His face was lean, with an expressive mouth and a small straight
nose.  His voice was soft and cultured and had a humorous ring to it.  Connie
realised she was thinking more and more about him as the days went by and it
worried her.  She was getting regular letters from Michael and he had
indicated in his last letter that he would be coming home on leave at the end
of June.  The excitement at the prospect of seeing her sailor lad once more
was becoming tempered by her growing interest in Robert Armitage.

It was Dot who told Connie all about the new manager.  "That young Robert's a
nice young man," she gushed.

"E's really polite and friendly, not like the rest of 'em.

"E's binter college.  Oxford, I fink it was.  I 'card 'e's trainin' ter take
over from 'is ole man.

"E's only twenty-two but 'e's got it up there," she said, pointing to her
forehead.

"I mean, yer 95 gotta be clever ter go to a place like Oxford ain't yer?"

Connie listened with guarded interest.  She feigned indifference but secretly
hung on to every word.  Robert Armitage was invading her thoughts to such an
extent that it frightened her.  Nothing good would come of it, Connie told
herself.  He was educated, cultured and older than her.  His interest in her
was probably innocent and here she was weaving romantic dreams around him.
He most likely had lots of girl friends, she mused.  Why should he be
bothered with a girl from Ironmonger Street whose Cockney accent would surely
embarrass him if he ever introduced her to his friends?  She was being
foolish to allow her thoughts to wander so.  She must keep some distance and
not appear too eager to cultivate a friendship that would surely spell
disaster.

The days had become routine, and she spent most evenings reading or listening
to the wireless.  When Molly came out of hospital towards the end of June she
was in some discomfort with her new spinal corset, and Connie sat with her
whenever she could in the Bartletts' flat and attempted to cheer her up.
Every other weekend Connie visited her mother at the sanatorium and she
noticed each time the increased deterioration in her condition.  Most of the
time the conversation was strained and forced, and there were times when the
two of them sat in complete silence, Kate Morgan staring blankly and Connie
biting her lip in anguish and sorrow.  It hurt her to see her mother getting
weaker, and it was always a relief when she was on the train heading back to
London.  The sanatorium depressed and frightened her.  It was a place of
stifled despair.  Many of the patients were slowly wasting away, sitting
around for long periods with blankets draped over their shoulders, staring
dull-eyed into the distance, wrecked by the cruel pain of tuberculosis.

At the factory canteen Connie tried to ignore Robert's smiles and asides, and
she avoided meeting his eyes as much as possible.  But, try as she might not
to encourage him, he became even more attentive.

Robert had sensed that something was troubling the pretty young server, and
he was determined to find out what it was that had made her ignore him.
Maybe he had inadvertently upset her, he pondered.  If it was so, he would
have to seek an opportunity to talk to her, and it would have to be done
discreetly.  It was management policy for the white-collar staff to avoid
becoming too familiar with the workers.  His father had warned him: "If a
good standard is to be adhered to, Robert, it is important to keep our
distance.  Remember, familiarity breeds contempt.  The workers know their
place, and it is for us to make sure we keep to the status quo.  Any
deviation might be seen as a form of weakness, and be sure, the workers would
most certainly take advantage."

It was the last Friday of June and after the lunch break most of the
management had hurried away to finish their tasks for the week.

Robert tarried until the last of the staff had departed from the table and
then he sauntered over to the serving hatch and looked through.  He could see
the girl bending over the large sink, her uniform coat sleeves turned back to
the elbows and her hands deep in the steaming water.  For a few seconds he
watched her, then he called her name.  Connie turned with a startled look on
her face.

Robert smiled disarmingly and beckoned her over to him.  "Have you got a few
minutes, Connie?  I'd like to talk with you," he said.

"Is any fink wrong?"  she asked quickly.

"No.  I just want a few minutes, if you can spare the time."

Connie wiped her hands quickly on a roller towel and dabbed at her hot
forehead before following him through the door into the dining room.  Robert
was back at his place at the table and when she walked over he beckoned to a
chair.

"Sit down a minute, Connie," he said quietly.

She sat down quickly and looked at him with some trepidation.

"I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I've had the feeling lately
that I might have said or done something that has upset you."

Connie took a deep breath.

"Of course not, sir.  Why should yer fink that?"

He met her eyes and smiled.

"Call me Robert.  It sounds a lot better than sir.  Anyway, I just had that
feeling.  You 97 seem to be a little distant lately.  I've been missing that
friendly smile of yours, if I may say so."

Connie clasped her hands on the table and looked into his blue eyes.

She could feel the excitement rising from deep within her and she struggled
to reply.

"I.  .  .1 didn't realise I was actin' any different, sir ... I mean Robert."

He saw the flush in her cheeks and his eyes studied her carefully.  He looked
at a few wayward strands other blond hair which had slipped down from under
her cap, and at her blue eyes.  He noticed her discomfort and he suddenly
felt very sorry for her.  He reached out and touched her clasped hands very
briefly.

"I hope you like working here, Connie.  I wouldn't like to see you leave us.
You've brightened up the place.  Old Mrs Kerrigan was all right, but I think
the job was getting too much for her."

Connie smiled shyly.

"I like the job, Robert.  It's much better than the biscuit factory."

"Oh, and what did you do there?"

"I was packin' biscuits all day long," she replied.

Robert looked at her with some concern in his eyes.  She was certainly very
attractive.  She must be around sixteen or so, he thought, and already
factory fodder.  She would probably end up married before long and have a
brood of children to bring up in a grim, tumbledown back street.  She would
probably struggle on like the rest of the local folk and become old
prematurely.  She had obviously not had a very good education and yet she
seemed very bright and intelligent.  It was a shame, he thought, and
something that he and his father had clashed over many times recently.  The
elder had maintained that there had to be a supply of uneducated people to
work in the factories and shops and it was the way of things.  Robert had
disagreed strongly.  Why should it have to be so?  Why shouldn't
working-class people have better chances of education and better housing?
Why were there so many gas-lit streets when factories had electrical power?
The houses in Ironmonger Street were lit by gas and yet there were
electricity cables running down the turning.  Peter had called his argument
naive in the extreme.  The cost of installing electricity was hardly going to
be met by the tenants and how could they be expected to pay more for
improvements when they were hard pushed to pay the current rents?  Robert's
contention that local firms should seek to buy out the landlords and develop
the houses for their workers angered his father.  Robert knew that his ideas
were considered to be dangerous and typical of university students.  Peter
had suggested that it was time for him to find out for himself how business
worked, as a few months of practical experience might help to mellow his
thinking.  He would see then that running a factory needed a pragmatic
approach.

There was no time to dwell on the unfairness of life.  Robert was sure that
he would never share his father's views and he felt that he had made a
mistake.  He should never have allowed his father to persuade him to enter
the family business.  Now, as he sat with the poor, overworked young girl
opposite him, the young man was troubled.

Suddenly he realised he had been staring at her in silence.

"Is factory work the only type of work you've done?"  he asked her quickly.

Connie nodded, and a slight smile crossed her face.

"It was the only sort of work going'.  I s'pose I could 'ave worked in a
shop, but it's Saturday work an' the wages ain't all that good."

Robert looked at her in silence for a moment.

"How old are you, Connie?"  he asked suddenly.

"I'll be seventeen in November."

"I suppose you've got a boyfriend?"

She felt he was becoming a little too inquisitive, but his face showed a
genuine interest and so she nodded.

"E's a sailor.

"E's bin away at sea fer four months, but 'e's comin' 'ome on leave
termorrer."

Robert smiled.

"We are still friends, aren't we?"

Connie laughed with embarrassment and looked down at the tablecloth.

When she lifted her eyes to meet his she saw a strange look there.  ' "Course
we're friends," she said.  She glanced back in the direction of the serving
hatch.

"I'd better get back ter work or Dot'11 fink I'm slackin'."

"We'll talk some again, Connie," he said as he got up and buttoned up his
jacket.

Connie went back to the sink, her mind in a whirl.  There was something in
the man's tone that had both excited and worried her.

She wanted to think of Michael's homecoming and the pleasure of being with
him and feeling his kisses once more, but instead she found herself dwelling
on the conversation she had had with Robert Armitage.  Her face was flushed
and her hands were slightly shaking as she bent over the sink.

FR1;Chapter Eleven Bright sunlight filtered through the drawn blinds and, as
Connie opened her eyes, she heard the sound of the rag and-bone man's barrow
on the cobbles below.  She looked at the alarm clock beside her bed and sat
up quickly.  It was nine-thirty on Saturday morning and she realised that she
should have been up an hour ago.  There was lots to do before she went to
Waterloo Station to meet Michael.  Connie jumped out of bed and hurried into
the kitchen to light the gas under the kettle.  While she was waiting for it
to boil, she went back into her bedroom and poured cold water into a bowl
from the matching blue china jug on the washstand beneath the window.  As she
looked through the curtains, Connie could see the old street vendor standing
beside his barrow and he appeared to be arguing with Mrs Cosgrove.  His hands
were spread out in front of him in what Connie thought was a gesture of 'take
it or leave it', and Clara Cosgrove seemed to be dubious, pinching her chin.
It was a familiar scene, and she closed the curtains on it.

She slipped out of her nightgown and splashed the cold water over her face
and upper body.  As she dried herself on the rough towel, the girl studied
herself in the dressing-table mirror.  As if she was looking at a stranger
she had never seen before, she followed the line of her hips as they curved
up into her narrow waist.  She was aware that she had put on a little weight
around the shoulders, and around the tops of her arms and her thighs.  Her
small breasts were firm and rounded, and as she splashed the cold water on
them her nipples grew hard.  Connie smiled and then quickly dressed and went
out into the tiny back kitchen.

As she sipped her tea and nibbled at the burnt toast Connie glanced at the
shopping list that had been placed under her door by Helen as she went off to
her early morning cleaning job.  It was the usual procedure for 101 Connie
to go to the Tower Bridge Road market on Saturdays and she recalled how she
had bumped into Michael there not so very long ago.

After his months at sea he would probably looked tanned, she guessed, and he
would no doubt have lots of stories to tell her of his travels.  Would he
take her in his arms at the station, or would he merely grin in that way of
his and act as though he had only been gone for a few days?  Connie swallowed
the last of the toast and gulped down the now lukewarm tea.  The flat was
tidy and the curtains would not need changing for another week at least and
the weather was so mild she didn't need to light the fire.  She took down a
china shoe from the mantel shelf and tipped it up on the table.  It was there
she kept the housekeeping money, and the money her mother gave her every
other week to pay the rent.  Connie had often wondered about where that money
came from but Kate waved her questions away whenever she asked.

"It's a regular fing from when yer farwer died.  While I'm alive the money'll
be there, so don't let it concern yer, child," she always said.

Connie thought that it must be some sort of insurance and, as her mother was
not going to enlarge on what she said, she had to leave it at that.

The sun had risen high in the heavens by the time she left.  Children were
playing in the street and, outside the Richards' front door, a few
business-minded youngsters were busy chopping up apple boxes for firewood.
For them, earning pennies on Saturday morning was all important.  The money
they got took them to the pie and mash shop and to the tuppenny rush at the
Trocette cinema to see

"Flash Gordon' and " Riders of the Purple Sage'.  On a good day the pennies
stretched to a bag of fruit and a toffee bar as well.

In the market the odour of fish and fresh fruit mingled with the smell of
newly baked bread and rolls and at the cake shop a sweet aroma of hot apple
pies and jam doughnuts drifted out on the morning air.  The calls and the
banter of the traders rang out and were drowned as the number sixty-eight
tram clattered past.  Lines of women queued patiently at the stalls, their
pinned-up hair covered |?  with nets and square cloth scarves.  Their
shopping baskets got heavier and their purses became lighter as the Saturday
morning ritual took place.  Connie's shopping basket was on her arm and she
stopped to rest beside the Cheap-Jack stall.  She cast her eye over the wares
and saw amongst the profusion of bits and pieces as mall bottle of
Californian Poppy.  Connie held it up and glanced at the dapper-looking
stall-owner.

"Give us a shillin', luv.  It's the real fing.  No rubbish on this stall," he
said brightly.

Connie flushed slightly and put the bottle down on the pile.

"All right, make it ten pence.  Yer getting' a bargain.  I'm givin' the stuff
away terday.  I mus' be mad, but anyfing fera pretty gel."

The young girl fished into her purse and took out some coppers.  It might be
a bit extravagant but, after all, Michael doesn't come home every day of the
week, she thought to herself.

When she had finished the shopping, Connie joined the Bartletts for the
Saturday midday meal.  Matthew brought back hot pies and mash and a basin of
steaming parsley liquor.  They all sat around the table in the front room and
chatted about the week's events with the wireless switched on and tuned to a
programme of medleys by the Harry Roy band.  Connie always looked forward to
the Saturday meal.  It made a change from being alone.  Molly was in a
cheerful mood and the two girls laughed and chatted together.  Matthew was
still working the East End markets and he had managed to earn enough that
week to buy a few badly needed groceries.  Helen noticed that her husband
seemed more relaxed than he had been for some time and she knew it was
because he had heard that the furniture factory was opening up again and
wanted its old skilled hands back.  Matthew was a French polisher by trade
and he felt optimistic about getting a regular job again.

He joined in the light-hearted conversation and, when Molly asked him to tell
Connie about the man in the Old Ford Road market, he looked at Helen and she
raised her eyes to the ceiling and grinned at her niece.

"The times we've 'card that story this week.  Con."

"Goon, Dad.  Tell Connie," Molly pleaded, her large round face beaming.

"Well, it was on Monday mornin'," Matthew began.

"I was in the market early, so I could get me pitch.  Yer 'ave ter get there
early or yer'll get squeezed out by the stalls."

103 "Getter the story.  Matt," Helen said.

"Connie ain't got all day."

"Well, I was layin' me stuff out," Matthew went on, 'when this ole man comes
up.  Funny-lookin' ole sod 'e was.  "E 'ad a row of medal ribbons pinned on
'is chest an' 'is boots were all worn out.  There was no buttons on 'is coat.
In fact it was tied up wiv string.  The ole boy's face was black as
Newgate's knocker an' 'e 'ad a dirty beard.  It looked like 'e'd bin sittin'
over a wood fire all night.

Anyway, I started callin' out like I always do.

"Come on, girls, get yer laces an' collar studs 'ere.  Razor blades an'
'air-pins."  Now this ole boy is jus' standin' there right in front o' me.  I
said to 'im,

"Do me a favour, mate.  Go an' stand in front o' somebody else.

Yer blockin' me pitch.  "

" E didn't take a blind bit o' notice.

"Ejus stood there starin'.  I was getting' a bit anxious.  I mean, yer can't
expect people ter stop an' buy wiv this ole character standin' right in front
oyer.  The bloke on the veg stall next terme told me the only way ter get
rid of 'im waster give 'im a couple o' coppers fera cup o' tea.  Well, I
tell yer, before I got me 'and out o' me pocket this ole tramp was 'oldin'
'is dirty mit out.

"E grabs the tuppence an' off 'e trots.  Ten minutes later 'e was back, large
as life.  Well I wasn't going' ter give 'im any more money, so I tried ter
ignore 'im.  It was nearly eleven o'clock an' I 'ain't sold a fing.  I was
getting' worried, I can tell yer.  I 'ad ter do some fink quick.  As it
'appened I 'ad a few safety razors in me case, so I picked up one an' took
the wrappin' off.  I waved it in front of the ole boy an' made an 'orrible
face, then I called out,

"Best razor blades yer can buy.

Gawer round gels.  See the demonstration.  " Yer should I 'ave seen the ole
boy move.  Before yer could say Jack Robinson 'e was off like a shot out of a
gun."

Laughter filled the flat and then Helen got up and sighed in resignation.

"C'mon, let's get the table cleared.  I've got meironin'terdo."

Back in her flat, Connie was getting ready to go to Waterloo.  She
continually glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf as she pottered about.
Michael's train was due|| at four o'clock and it was now ten minutes to
three.  An-1 hour would be plenty of time to get to the station, she
calculated.  The buses were frequent at that time of day.  i Connie looked
in the mirror over the fireplace and ran her hand over her straight blond
hair.  She could smell the Californian Poppy and wondered if she had been too
liberal with it.  Her thoughts turned to what Helen had said just before she
had left.

"You be careful.  Con.

You're only young yet.  Don't get too serious.  After all, you're not
seventeen till November.  There's plenty o' timeter date boys.  "

Helen was becoming very protective toward her and Connie understood the
reasons why.  Helen had cared for her since she was a baby.  She had always
been there when Kate was out on the town, and it was natural for her aunt to
feel as she did.  Maybe Aunt Helen is trying to stop me behaving like my
mother, Connie mused.  But what did she do?  I know Aunt Helen thinks Mum led
a bad life, but did Mum really have a lot of men friends?  She must have been
lonely after Dad died.

If he did.  Perhaps that's the reason why Mum never talks about him.

He might have just left.  Maybe he has another girlfriend .  .  .  Connie
felt confused.  She remembered the money that her mother had been giving her
every other week and wondered if it was from her father himself?  Perhaps her
aunt was worried because she knew some horrible secret.  Maybe she even knew
where the money came from.

Connie's troubled thoughts would not leave and the clock was now showing ten
minutes past three.  She slipped on her coat and took her small handbag from
the table.  It seemed ages since she had seen Michael, and her heart pounded
as she ran down the flights of stairs and out into the street.  The afternoon
was warm, and early summer clouds were drifting high in the blue sky as she
hurried along the turning and made her way to Tower Bridge Road.  A few
people were waiting at the bus stop and Connie stopped behind them.  Her
stomach was full of butterflies and the sensation made her shiver in the warm
sunlight.  Feelings of excitement tempered with guilt ran through her.

She had often thought about Michael in the dark hours and their kisses, and
she had even seen him in her dreams, but he was never alone.  As he came
towards her she would see the misty figure of Molly standing behind him and
her heart would become heavy.  Connie knew that the feeling she had for Molly
was one of love born out of pity.

It could never 105 change.  Her new adult feelings were of a different kind
and they were growing as her body matured.  They were intense, physical, and
very difficult to repress.  They flowed over her when she touched her body
and when she stood naked in front of her mirror.  They were quite natural.
So why should she feel guilty?

The bus had arrived and as Connie climbed aboard she noticed one of the girls
from the biscuit factory sitting alone in a side seat.  The two exchanged
smiles and Connie sat down beside her.  Brenda James was eighteen and
involved in a passionate relationship with a married man.  It had been common
knowledge at the factory and Brenda was openly proud of herself.  Her love
life had been subject to much discussion on the belt and Connie remembered
being a little overawed by the girl.  Connie quickly fished into her purse
for the fare.

' "Ello, Con," Brenda said.

"Where're yer workin' now?"

"I'm at the Armitage factory."

"What yer doin' there?"

"I'm in the canteen," Connie replied as she handed the conductor two pennies.

"I bet yer getter meet all the nice fellers, don't yer?"

Connie smiled shyly and looked around to see if anyone was listening.

' "Ow's yer cousin.  Con?  She went in the 'ospital, didn't she?"

She nodded.

"Molly's out now.  They fitted 'er wiv a spinal belt.  It 'elps wiv 'er
walkin' but she said it's painful ter wear."

"Poor cow," Brenda said, shaking her head.

The bus squealed to a stop and a few passengers got off.  Brenda eased
sideways in her seat and turned to Connie.  "Where're yer off to?"

"I'm going' terme et me fella," she answered proudly, feeling a little less
overawed by the factory vamp.

Brenda patted her waved hair with the palm of her hand.  "I'm off terme et my
Frankie.  We're going' down ter Little'ampton fert he weekend.

I told yer about Frankie, didn't I?  "

Connie remembered at least two occasions when the saga of Brenda's liaison
with Frankie had been related in great detail, and she nodded.

' "E's married, yer know," Brenda went on.  " " E don't get on wiv 'is wife.
She's a right misery by all accounts.  Frankie said 'e'd leave 'er, but 'e's
scared case she does some 'arm to 'erself.  "

Connie was already wishing the bus journey would end.  As Brenda carried on
about Frankie, she looked out of the window, letting the words drift over
her.  Suddenly she was brought back to herself by Brenda's elbow digging into
her side.

"You an' your bloke getting' tergevver, are yer?"  Brenda asked with a sly
wink.

Connie flushed and looked around to see if anyone had overheard.

"We've only bin out a few times.  I 'ardly know 'im."

The bus jerked to a stop once more and a large man squeezed into the vacant
seat beside the two.  Brenda looked peeved as she was squashed between Connie
and the puffing and snorting character.  As the bus pulled away from the stop
the man rolled against her and she gave him a wicked look.  The next stop was
Waterloo Station and in a short time the bus pulled up at the entrance.  As
Connie rose to alight from the bus she was dismayed to find that Brenda was
getting off too.

The painted girl giggled.

"You meetin' your bloke on the station?

That's funny, so am I.  "

The two girls walked up the wide steps into the main concourse when Brenda
pulled on Connie's arm.

"I mus' go ter the ladies an' put me war-paint on," she said rolling her eyes.

Connie was glad of the opportunity to be rid of her and she waved as she
walked quickly away towards the platforms.

The station clock showed ten minutes to four.  Connie read the arrivals board
and saw that the train from Portsmouth was due on platform seven.  She
meandered along beside the platform barriers and watched the travellers
coming and going.  Noisy jets of steam hissed from the tenders and guards'
whistles shrilled out.  Hurrying families sweated and fussed as they made for
the waiting trains and 107 porters pushing large barrows of luggage called
out for room as they followed well-dressed passengers out to the waiting
taxis.  Pigeons fluttered up and down from the iron girders and strutted
between the feet of the crowds, and here and there people sat on wooden
benches, killing time by browsing through newspapers and magazines.

The minute hand of the large clock clicked towards the twelve and the cloud
of steam some way down the track made Connie's heart race.  It was then that
she saw Brenda walking arm in arm with a tall, heavily built man in his mid
forties.  He was dressed in a shabby suit and carried a mackintosh slung over
his shoulder.  The man had a ruddy complexion, and from the side of his shiny
bald head ginger hair sprouted out over his ears.  The man towered above his
companion and Connie watched their progress from her concealed position
behind a paper stand.  Frankie was not at all as she had visualised.  She had
imagined him to be a dapper man with a clipped moustache and polished shoes,
someone who smiled deceitfully from the corner of his mouth.

The character with Brenda looked more like the sort of man who came into her
street with a collecting book under his arm and a stub of pencil stuck behind
his ear.  Nevertheless Brenda looked happy in his company and seemed to be
hanging on to his every word.  They passed by and Connie breathed more easily
as she moved along towards platform seven as the Portsmouth train shuddered
to a halt before the station buffers and the carriage doors began to swing
open.  At last she saw him walking down the platform with that confident gait
of his.  He looks so smart in his uniform, she thought, waving to try and
attract his attention.

Michael was carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder and a raincoat under the
other.  His cap was worn at a jaunty "angle and his bell-bottoms flapped
around his ankles as he approached.  When he saw her a beaming smile creased
his fresh face.  At the barrier he reached out and held her forearm as he
bent his head and kissed her gently on the lips.  It was not as passionate as
Connie had anticipated but his smile was warm and his eyes twinkled.  They
moved away through the station and out into the sunlight.  She held his arm
and walked proudly beside him, listening to his small talk and trying to
look grown-up.  She hoped he could smell the Californian Poppy, and that he
liked her high-heeled shoes which brought her up to his height.  There was
the whole week ahead.  A week when she could rediscover how his kisses felt
and how nice it was to be with him.  She could forget the loneliness and the
waiting, and she could put all her fears and anxieties behind her now that
Michael was home.  She hoped desperately that his physical closeness would
take away her night-time fantasies which wove themselves around a young man
in a smart blue suit.  She had- forbidden herself to feel any desire for him
but, unbidden, fantasies filled her dreams.

109 FR1;Chapter Twelve The situation had got worse in Europe.  In May the
Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, had resigned and had been replaced by
Neville Chamberlain.  The Fascists had gained ground in Spain, and many
international observers were concerned that Franco's forces would eventually
line up with Germany and Italy in a European war.  The call for faster
rearmament was growing.  The pacifists were beginning to lose ground in
popular opinion, and it was now becoming clear in many people's minds that a
war was more probable than possible.

In the summer twilight the two young people strolled through the park,
savouring every moment of the time they had left together.  It had been a
wonderful week, with long evening walks and nights in the back row of a
darkened picture house, whispering loving words to each other and stealing
kisses as the time flew past.  The little tendernesses and spoken secrets of
the past week had already become special memories, and the knowledge that
they would soon have to part lent a sharp poignancy to their last evening
together.  They could not hide the sadness that touched them both as they
walked along the edge of the lake.  Ducks dipped their heads beneath the
water and then darted forward, leaving gentle ripples on the glassy surface.
The trees overhead were in full leaf and from the rustling lawns the delicate
scent of new mown hay drifted down to the water's edge.  Along the path they
could see the bandstand and the departing musicians, colourful in their
military uniforms.  Above the lofty trees the evening sky was deepening from
a golden hue to a grey shade of darkness and the shadows lengthened.  The
young couple left the lake and took the path which led out on to the paved
promontory.  The cold statue of General Wolfe rose above them and, far down
below, the silver line of the river twisted and turned away into a distant
blackness.

Ill Michael broke the silence as he looked down on the quiet river.

"We'd better get down ter the bottom.  They'll be closin' the gates soon.

Con," he said softly.

They followed the steep path that led down beside the observatory and reached
the wide avenue.  Ahead, the heavy gates were already shut and people were
leaving by the side entrance.  Connie looked at Michael and he gave her a
brief smile.

"If we'd stayed much longer we'd 'ave bin locked in," he said in mock fear.

Connie snuggled closer to him.

"I'm gonna miss yer, Mick," she said sadly.

"It's bin really nice this week."

Michael did not answer.  His forthcoming trip was a hurriedly arranged
affair.  His naval squadron was leaving for the Far East within the next few
days and his excitement was tempered by his growing feelings for the young
girl on his arm.  He had seen the disappointment on her face when he told her
the news, and his imminent departure had made their brief time together all
the more precious.  They had learned much about each other during the past
few days.  At first Michael had thought it strange that Connie did not invite
him up to her flat.

They always met out in the street and at the end of each evening they had
said goodnight in the darkened entrance to the buildings.  It was after the
first few nights that Connie had explained the reasons.

"I've got ter be careful, Mick," she had explained.  The Aunt

"Elen is a bit worried.  She finks I'm too young to 'ave a steady boyfriend.
If I invited yer in she'd be bound ter find out an' she'd tell me mum.  I
don't want 'er worryin' while she's ill."

Michael had accepted her reasons but he wished there was somewhere other than
the block entrance they could go for their goodnight embraces.

They had boarded the tram and were now sitting side by side on the upper
deck, their bodies moving together as the tram swayed and rocked over the
rails.  They held hands and looked into each other's eyes, oblivious to the
casual glances from the few other passengers.

At Tower Bridge Hotel the tram slowed to a crawl, allowing the conductor to
leap down and switch the points.  Five minutes later the young couple
alighted at the deserted market and soon they were back in the tumbledown
streets which led off from the main thoroughfare.  Ironmonger Street was
quiet and nearly empty, but a few older folk were chatting on their doorsteps
in the fading light.  They glanced at Connie and Michael as the two walked by
and exchanged knowing looks.  At the entrance to Jubilee Buildings they
stopped and stepped into the darkness.  Connie moved close to Michael and put
her arms around his neck.  They kissed long and passionately and when they
parted Connie rested her head on his chest.  Her thoughts were racing.  She
wanted to take him to her flat; she wanted to talk intimately with him and
allow his searching hands to explore her yearning body.  She felt she was
ready to taste the fruits of passion and emerge unchaste and it would be
something she could recall in the months ahead when they were apart.  But she
hesitated.

They would have to pass the Bartletts' flat.  Connie sighed and turned her
head to his and their mouths touched, gently at first, then with a passion
which left them both breathless.  He searched for her neck with his mouth,
and the movement which started at her ear and ran down to the top of her
shoulder sent delicious thrills along her spine.  His hands caressed her body
and a shiver ran through her whole being.  It was becoming too tempting and
she caught his wrists.

"Don't, Mick," she groaned.  Tmscared.  "

Michael kissed her ear again.

"Don't be scared.  Con," he murmured.  "I fancy yer like mad.  Let's go
teryer flat."

Connie tensed.  Her good sense told her to say no, but her passion was
overwhelming her and she was fighting to keep control of her feelings.  He
was leaving soon and it would be many long, lonely months before she would
see him again.  She took his hands in hers and motionetfTbr him to be quiet.
They walked carefully up the wooden stairs, and as they passed the Bartletts'
flat Connie held her breath.  She could hear dance music coming from the
wireless but to her relief the door stayed closed.  As they walked lightly
along the fourth floor landing Connie reached into her handbag for the key
and glanced nervously at the flat opposite hers.  The elderly couple who had
taken over Mrs Walker' s flat were hardly ever seen, but at that moment the
grey-haired Annie Riley opened her door to put the milk bottles out and she
looked up, startled.

"Gawd, yer scared me, gel!"  she cried out.

"I wondered who it was creepin' along the landin'."

113 Michael gave the old lady a sheepish grin and she looked at him closely
before straightening the door mat and closing the door with a bang.

Inside number seven Jubilee Buildings Alf Riley was dozing in his favourite
chair.  The Star newspaper was draped over his legs and his mouth hung open.
Annie shook him and he awoke with a start.

"Wassa matter?"  he mumbled as he moved his legs and grabbed at the arms of
his chair.

' "Ere, Alf.  I've jus' seen that Morgan gel going' in.  She's got a sailor
bloke wiv 'er."

"What dyer want meter do about it?"  Alf moaned.

Annie gathered up the newspaper lying at her husband's feet and puffed as she
straightened up.

"I was only tellin' yer.  I bet she' saving a right ole game now that mother
of 'ers is away."

Alf rubbed his hand over his bald head.

"It's no concern of ours.

She's got the right ter take who she wants inter 'er flat.  I dunno what yer
worried about.  "

"I ain't worried," Annie said, sitting down opposite him.  "I ain't even
surprised, really.

"Er muvver wasn't much good.  She was always bringin' blokes back.  Ole Mrs
Walker told me some tales about 'er."

"Gawd Almighty, woman!"  Alf said irritably.

"Yer woke me up ter tell me the kid's takin' a sailor in there, an' now yer
going' on about 'er muvver.  That's the trouble wiv the people around 'ere.
They're always mindin' everybody's business but their own.  Kate Morgan might
'ave bin on the game.  So what?  As long as she didn't interfere wiv anybody
else she 'ad the right ter bring back anybody she wanted to.  Now go an' put
the kettle on an' let me get back terme doze."

Annie gave him a withering stare before going out into the kitchen.

"Silly cow," Alf mumbled to himself.

"I wouldn't 'ave minded going' back there myself!"

Across the landing in number eight Connie was preparing supper.  She cut
thick slices from a crusty loaf and spread them with a coating of margarine,
and then began to look through the kitchen cabinet for the hunk of cheese and
some tomatoes.  Michael was standing beside her, waiting for the kettle to
boil, his eyes constantly appraising her tall slim figure, and he noticed how
her blond hair fell across her forehead as she leant over the table to slice
the tomatoes.  The kettle started to spurt steam rings and he stared down at
the fresh tea leaves in the bottom of the teapot.

"P'raps she won't say any fink Con," he said reassuringly.

Connie shrugged her shoulders.  She wasn't concerned now about the Rileys.
It was nice to be alone with Michael and to be able to prepare a meal for
them both.  At that moment she was not going to let anything worry her or mar
the evening.  Tomorrow might be different, but tonight she was going to feed
him, spoil him, and let him make love to her.  Bright sun rays pierced the
net curtains and shone down into the bedroom.  Connie turned over on to her
side and squinted at the alarm clock on the chair beside her bed.  She could
hear the sound of running water coming from the scullery and she sat up
quickly, her eyes darting to the pile of clothes just out of her reach.
Michael's naval uniform was lying over a chair and she could hear him washing
at the stone sink.  Connie slipped out of bed and dressed quickly, her eyes
watching the scullery door.  As she was buttoning up her blouse Michael
walked into the room.  He was stripped to the waist and his face and upper
body glowed from the application of cold water.  He smiled sheepishly, a hint
of a question showing in his large eyes.

Connie quickly turned away to make the bed and then nodded in the direction
of the mantel shelf clock.

"It's past nine.  Are yer gonna be late?"  she said, avoiding his glance.

"It's okay, Con.  The train don't leave till eleven," he replied, grabbing
his shirt from the back of the chair.

Connie walked out into the scullery.

"I'll put the kettle on and do some toast," she called out.

Michael moved over to the window and glanced down into the early Sunday
street.  It was deserted and he glanced up at the clear sky before going to
sit down at the kitchen table.  Soon Connie brought over tea and slices of
thick toast and 115 the two ate in silence.  They were both feeling a
strange awkwardness, and it was Michael who spoke first, hesitantly.

"Yer didn't regret last night.  Con, did yer?"

She smiled wanly and dropped her eyes to the cheque red tablecloth.  "

"Course I didn't.  I was jus' scared."

Michael nodded and sipped his tea in silence.  He knew that last night had
been difficult and that Connie hadn't enjoyed his lovemaking.  He cursed his
lack of experience.  When he glanced up he found her looking at him.

"Look, I'm sorry if it didn't work out.  Con.  I s'pose we was both scared
really.  I should 'ave 'ad some fink wiv me."

She stared down at the tablecloth, her little finger moving the crumbs into a
pile.

"It's okay.  There's no 'arm bin done.  They say it never 'appens first time
anyway."

He nodded again and leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixing on her.

Connie tried to avoid his gaze.  She felt embarrassed and increasingly edgy
under his scrutiny.  She looked up at the mantel shelf again.

"Mind yer time, Mick," she said quickly.

Michael stood up and put on his hat.  Connie went over to the chair beside
the bed and picked up his service raincoat.  For a moment they stood facing
each other, not knowing what to say or do.  Suddenly he reached out and held
her shoulders as he kissed the side of her mouth.

"I'll write soon as I can," he promised.

Connie watched sadly from her front door until he had disappeared around the
lower landing.  She felt no elation, no sense of fulfilment, only
disappointment as she went back into the room and sat down heavily on her bed.

Long, hot summer days and sultry nights continued throughout July and August
and, as the daylight hours gradually shortened and the evenings became
cooler, a wind of change seemed to be stirring Ironmonger Street from its
torpor.  At the Armitage factory Gerald announced that he would be leaving
the family business to join a company which was owned by his father-in-law.
Peter Armitage had been expecting it for some time.  The brothers had become
virtual strangers to each other over the years and, when Joe Cooper finally
achieved his objective in getting the management to accept a trade union
work force, Gerald's defeat had been final.  Young Robert Armitage took over
his uncle's position, and the factory owner breathed a huge sigh of relief.
It seemed certain to him that in the not-too-distant future the country would
be plunged into war, and it was a great comfort for him to know that his only
son would be exempt from call-up.

Robert's mother Claudette was happy, and for her own reasons.  She came from
country stock and was a leading light in the functions of Kelstowe village.
It was her dearest wish that her only son would one day marry the Marchants'
daughter Eunice and she was sure that the two were already on very good
terms.  Now that Robert had settled into the business his friendship with
Eunice might flourish.  The Marchants were landowners and City stockbrokers.
A union with their only daughter would no doubt ensure a lucrative position
in the City for Robert.  The one cloud on Claudette's horizon was Robert's
evident disinclination to settle down.  It irked her that he still seemed to
retain some of those radical ideas he had picked up at university.

But she believed he would come to see the error of his ways and one day get
around to asking for the hand of the Marchant girl.  To that end Claudette
planned and schemed.

In September a strange incident took place in the street, which was discussed
on all the doorsteps, and quickly became known as the "Mulligan Affair'.  It
concerned a genial giant of an Irishman by the name of Danny Mulligan.  Danny
was a chimney sweep who regularly cleaned the chimneys in Ironmonger Street.
September was a busy time for Danny, as it would soon be the season for
roaring fires.  The Irishman had a pair of hands as big as dinner plates and
a beaming smile that was a flash of white in the middle of a blackened face.
He pushed a barrow around the Bermondsey back streets and sold his bags of
soot to a boot polish factory over the water in Poplar.  Danny came from a
large family and now he had a large brood of his own.  He was a God-fearing
man who attended mass every Sunday with his family in tow.

One Monday morning Danny Mulligan had the misfortune of being asked to sweep
the chimney at number one 117 Ironmonger Street, the home of the Toomey
family.

It was mid morning when Danny arrived at the Toomey's house and proceeded to
hang up a heavy sack over the parlour fireplace.  He screwed the circular
brush on to the first of the flexible poles and thrust the contraption into
the chimney.  It was obvious to him that the house had never seen a chimney
sweep by the large amount of soot he dislodged.  He screwed on more poles and
finally the easing pressure told him that the brush had emerged from the top
of the chimney pot.  Danny thought it strange that Marie Toomey and her
daughter should stand watching him while he was working.  Normally he was
left alone to get on with the job, but on this occasion the process of
sweeping a chimney seemed somehow to fascinate the large woman and her
wickedly smiling daughter.

Danny sat back on his haunches.

"Right.  That's it," he said with a puff.

"Can yer go outside an' see if the brush 'as come frew?"

As Marie went outside to check, the Irishman removed the heavy sacking and
carefully began to shovel up the huge amount of soot into a large bag.  He
was aware that Lillian was still standing there looking at him in a peculiar
way and he began to feel a little uneasy.  Suddenly she turned and walked out
of the room.

After a short while Marie came back in.

"Yep, it's okay," she said with a grin.

"It's stickin' straight up."

Danny frowned to himself as he began to pull the brush back down.

"Right.  That'll be alfa crown missus," he said.

Marie grinned even more at the chimney sweep as he carried the bag of soot
out into the passage.

"Yer better see our Lil," she said, pointing to the door half-way down the
passage.

Danny opened the door and looked in.  Lillian was lying naked on the bed with
her hand behind her head, and she; I winked at him.  ^ Danny winced.  He
could not believe his eyes.  y "We've got no money," she said unconcernedly.

"Wann(| co meter some arrangement?"  ;g Danny's eyes turned to slits.

"We certainly can," he said^ and went back into the passage.  | Lillian was
lying there expectantly when the sweep camqj

I?  1

r us I into the room carrying a large bag.  Without ceremony he emptied the
bag of soot on to the nude figure.  Lillian spluttered, jumped up from the
bed and rubbed her eyes while Danny hurried out of the front door laughing.
He put his equipment on to his barrow and started off down the turning as the
nude and blackened figure ran after him screaming obscenities.

For Danny Mulligan the morning had been unprofitable, but he was pleased that
the temptation of the devil had been surely resisted and he knew he would
feel much better at confession.

A few weeks after the

"Mulligan Affair' the Ironmonger Street folk learned of a tragedy that had
long remained hidden in their midst.  At first things seemed no more untoward
than usual, but gradually people began to realise that something very strange
was happening when the oil shop remained closed until late in the morning on
more than one occasion during the weeks of September.  Misery Martin seemed
loath to open at all and when his regular customers were short-changed and
short-weighed the word went around that the shop owner was going off his
head.  When Mary Brown popped into Misery's shop one Saturday morning for
two-penn' orth of hearth-stone and a pint of vinegar he turned her away with
a shake of his head.

"Right out of it," he growled.

"There's some right be' an dyer Mary pointed out.

Misery turned without a word, wrapped up a block of hearthstone in newspaper
and held out his hand for the money.

"What about me vinegar?"  she asked grumpily.

"What vinegar?"

"The vinegar I jus' asked yer for," Mary said, getting more angry.

Misery Martin grabbed the empty bottle from the counter and took it to the
back of the shop.  Mary could see him at the barrel.  When the bottle was
filled to overflowing he made no attempt to turn off the tap.  Vinegar ran
down the bottle and into the spillage tray.  Still he did not turn off the
tap.  The vinegar was now running across the floor and Mary called out to him.

"Oil You asleep?  Look at the mess!"

119 Misery came back to himself and turned off the tap.  When he banged the
filled bottle down on the counter Mary saw a distant look in his rheumy eyes.

"You all right?"  she asked.

' "Course I'm all right.  What dyer ask that for?"

"Yer don't look well."

"I'm all right.  I told yer I'm all right.  What yer waitin' for?"

"Well dyer want meter pay yer, then?"  she asked in disbelief.

Misery Martin's strange behaviour became the talking point of the street and,
when one of the youngsters returned from the shop with a pint of paraffin
instead of vinegar and another lad ran back to say that Misery was banging
nails in his counter and mumbling to himself, the street folk decided that
enough was enough.  Some of the women got together and Joe Cooper was
delegated to approach the oil shop owner.

"What am I s'posed ter do?"  Joe asked them.

"The man needs a doctor."

The women were adamant and Joe reluctantly agreed to call into the shop.  He
found Misery sitting on an upturned box behind the counter with his head in
his hands, mumbling loudly to himself.

"What's the matter mate?"  Joe asked quietly.

Misery did not answer.  Instead, his shoulders suddenly | heaved and he began
to cry.

Joe walked round the counter and put his hand on Misery's shoulder.

"C'mon, mate.  Let's get yer upstairs.

"I Yer need a doctor."  ; Misery did not resist as Joe led him up the stairs,
and when they reached the landing the shop owner stood with head bowed.  Joe
opened the door facing the stairs and recoiled in horror at what he saw.  He
walked slowly into the room and looked around in bewilderment.  The tattered
curtains were drawn and the stale-smelling room was lit by dozens of thick
candles which stood in dirty saucers.  One wall was covered with faded
photographs of a young woman who smiled down into the room.  A vase holding!
coloured paper flowers was standing on the mantelshelf,^ and beside the vase
there was a small framed photograph of; two young people posed together
outside a building.  The smart young man wore a flower in his coat lapel and
the pretty young girl was holding on to his arm.  In the centre of the room
the table was laid for two.  Cobwebs covered the plates, knives and forks,
and beside one of the plates there was a small parcel tied with ribbon.  In
one corner of the room there was an unmade camp bed with a chair placed at
the head.  Misery Martin slumped down on the dirty blanket, his head in his
hands, his eyes staring down at his feet.  As Joe backed towards the door,
hardly able to take his eyes from the scene, he caught sight of the little
photograph on the wall above the bed.  It was of the young girl but, unlike
the other photos, it was draped in black velvet.

"The poor bastard!"  he whispered aloud as he left the room and hurried down
the stairs to fetch the doctor.

121 FR1;Chapter Thirteen Connie got dressed quickly.  It was Monday morning
and she had slept through the alarm.  The kettle seemed to take an eternity
to boil, and the toast burnt under the gas-stove grill.  Outside the window
she could see the rain falling from a leaden sky, and down in the street the
milkman was pushing his heavy cart over the slippery cobbles.  One or two
people hurried along beneath umbrellas and she saw the local policeman
talking to old George Baker at his front door.  Outside, everything was the
same as usual but for Connie the morning was different.  She felt excited as
she scraped the carbon from the toast and spread a thin coating of marmalade
over the two thick slices.  The tea was hot and she glanced again anxiously
at the clock as she blew on the cup.  Up on the mantel shelf was Michael's
latest letter to her and in it he said that he might be home by Christmas.
The holiday seemed a long way off to Connie and she stared at the letter as
she finished her toast.  In two weeks' time she would be seventeen and at
that moment she felt much older.  Robert Armitage was returning after a spell
away from the factory and today she would see him.

The canteen was hot and steamy and a pile of potatoes awaited Connie as she
took off her wet coat.  The short dash across the street had been enough to
soak her and, as she dabbed her hair on a towel.  Dot came over and pointed
to the sacks of cabbages in one corner.

"Yer'll 'ave ter get that lot done before yer lay the managers' table.  Con.
That bleedin' Emma ain't showed upthismornin'."

Connie began peeling the potatoes.  Without Emma chattering away incessantly,
Connie was able to gather her thoughts, and it was with a feeling of
excitement that she recalled the conversation she had had with Robert before
he left.  He had been very attentive whenever he saw her and 123 often asked
about Michael.  Connie remembered how this time he had made much of the fact
that her boyfriend would be away for quite a time, and had suggested that if
she was feeling lonely she might like to go to a show with him when he got
back from his business trip.

Robert had made it clear that it would be merely a friendly evening out and
she would have nothing to reproach herself for.  Connie had been taken aback
by the invitation and said she would let him know as soon as he returned.
She thought that it could be asking for trouble to accept his offer, but she
knew it would be hard to refuse him.  She had tried to keep her distance
since Michael had left but Robert always seemed to be around.  He was good
looking, and she found his easy, relaxed manner very appealing.  Her legs
would feel like jelly whenever he talked to her, and many nights she had lain
awake in her bed thinking of him.  It was not right, she told herself, she
should be thinking of Michael.  Nevertheless she was eager to see Robert
again.

Connie looked at the diminishing pile of potatoes and realised that she had
been peeling them with a vengeance.  Life was very boring at the moment.
During the days there was the grind of the factory canteen and in the
evenings the often uncomfortable time spent at the Bartletts' flat.  Helen
and Matthew argued a lot because of the constant shortage of money and Molly
had grown resentful of Connie's relationship with Michael.  Occasionally the
two cousins went for short walks, but the spinal jacket Molly wore made it
difficult for her to go out very far without discomfort.  At the pictures it
was the same.  Molly became more irritable, and Connie had to bite on her
tongue to stop her making some retort that she would regret.  Worst of all,
there were the regular visits to the sanatorium.  She would always come away
feeling sad and depressed.  Kate was becoming less talkative, and it was
obvious to Connie that her mother was getting weaker.  She had never told
Kate about Michael and it had been an agreement between Connie and the
Bartletts not to mention anything to Kate until she was feeling better.  The
Rileys had obviously not said anything to the Bartletts ab6ut Michael going
back to the flat and for that Connie was grateful.  So Robert was the one
bright thing in her mundane existence.

As the morning wore on Connie became more anxious.  She knew that to agree
to Robert's suggestion of an evening out might well mean the start of a
relationship that she could regret.  It would be hard to resist his good
looks and charming ways for long, she felt sure.

Connie thought hard about her predicament, and she realised that she might
not have been so mixed up and confused had she not taken Michael back to her
flat that evening before he left.  Her childish expectations of ecstasy had
been let down when she had let him make love to her.  Her face flushed with
the recollection.  It was the first time she had ever made love, and she had
been anxious for her breathless need to be sated.  Michael had never been
with a woman before, and his fumbling and inexperience had left her
unsatisfied, cheated of fulfilment.  She had told him that it had been good,
but he had known that she was lying, and his repeated words of concern had
only irked her.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Dot called over to her.

"Leave the rest o' the veg.  I'll finish it.  You'd better get that table
laid."

At ten minutes past midday Robert looked in at the door and spotted Connie
setting the places.

"Hello, young lady.  It's nice to see you again," he said brightly.

Connie flushed with embarrassment and smiled at him.  "Ello.  Did yer enjoy
yer trip?"  she said awkwardly.

Robert thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and hunched his
shoulders.

"It wasn't bad.  I was in Birmingham at an engineering exhibition.  We're
thinking of putting some new machinery in the factory."

"Oh," was all Connie could muster, and Robert smiled.

"It's all boring stuff.  Did you give some thought to what we talked about?"

"About going' out?"

"Yes."

Connie looked down at the table.

"I don't fink I should."

Robert touched her arm gently.

"Look.  There's a good musical show up town.  Do you like musicals?"

Connie had never been to a show but she nodded.  "Yes I do."

"Well then.  What about tomorrow evening?"

It was wrong, she knew, but she couldn't say no to him.

125 He looked totally disarming.  His boyish smile made her feel breathless
with excitement, and she looked into his pale- blue eyes and swallowed hard.

"Yes, okay," she said.

Claudette Armitage put the telephone down with an exaggerated display of
petulance.

"Really, Peter.  I do think Stewart should have ordered the marquee by now,"
she began.

"After all, he did agree.  I can't be expected to do everything myself.
There are the drinks and the buffet to see to, and I suppose Reverend Jones
will be asking me to organise the home-made jam competition again this year.
It's too much, really it is."

Peter grinned to himself as he stayed hidden behind the evening paper.
Claudette was working herself up into one of her hysterical moods, and those
required very special handling.

"You're quite right, dear.  You can't be expected to do it all," he said in a
tone of concern.

"In fact the fete would be an absolute disaster if it wasn't for you."

His sympathetic words soothed Claudette somewhat and she sat down to consult
her notebook once more.

"Now let me see," she whispered to herself.

"I must phone the Marchants tomorrow.  They'll need time to make
arrangements.  I wouldn't like Eunice to miss the day, now that Robert is
back."

Peter puffed silently behind his paper.  He had always considered Clarence
Marchant to be an unmitigated bore.  He drank too much for a start, and he
usually managed to upset one or two of the elderly lady committee members
with his bawdy comments.  He was also prone to ogle the young girls with his
bleary, lecherous eyes.  His long- suffering wife Mabel was so wrapped up in
her charity work at the fete, that she didn't seem to notice her husband's
boorish behaviour or, if she did, she pretended not to.  Yes, Major Clarence
Marchant was insufferable, Peter decided, switching his thoughts to Eunice,
the Marchants' daughter.  It was obvious to him that Robert partnered her at
the fetes only out of good manners and he knew, too, that his son was bored
to distraction with the whole rigmarole.  Peter secretly wished that
Claudette would be more observant her role of matchmaker was one function she
would do well to relinquish.

During the evening the notebook was consulted thoroughly and a few more
ticks placed against names.  Claudette made at least a dozen calls and Peter
watched with amusement as his wife performed, her repertoire ranging from
thinly disguised irritation to gushing patronage.  She was in her element and
loving every minute of being the fete organiser.  In fact, she was elected
every year, and she invariably accepted with a contrived show of reluctance.
"I'm sure someone else could do a much better job than I," she would say
demurely.

"But you always do such a tremendous job, Claudette, and it all goes off so
smoothly," the Reverend Jones would always reply.

All the committee members around the vestry table would nod their heads and
allow Claudette to breathe a sigh of relief.

"All right then.  If you insist."

Peter dreaded the day when the rest of the committee did not insist.

The annual fete was the highlight of his wife's social calendar.

For Claudette, the evening had been reasonably successful.  The usual
volunteers had been recruited.  The jam ladies would be eagerly competing for
the coveted silver jam pot, and Miss Harcourt would be on hand again this
year with a thunderingly good aria.  The Waverley sisters had already started
making woollen egg muffs, tasselled tea cosies and long woollen bed socks
Cyril Thomas, landlord of the village pub, had been pressed into donating a
barrel of ale, and old James the village postman had agreed to go through his
musical spoon routine.  Yes, it was fairly encouraging.  Must have a word
with Robert though, she thought, looking over to her husband who was nodding
off in his armchair.

"Peter, will Robert be coming home this evening?"  she asked loudly.

"No," he yawned.

"Robert's going to see the Lupino Lane show at the Adelphi.  He told me he'll
be staying over in London with a few friends."

Claudette pulled a face.

"I do hope he realises the fete's this weekend.  I don't want him making
other arrangements."

Peter dutifully said he would remind him.  He wished he 127 was in a
position to make other arrangements himself, instead of having to escort the
Waveriey sisters to the homemade jam table and wait while they nibbled on
jam- smeared wafer biscuits and deliberated for what would seem an eternity.

The evening traffic was heavy, with drivers hooting and cursing as they were
held up by trams and buses stopping and starting.  Tired horses held their
heads low as they plodded homewards, their carts slowing the traffic to a
crawl.  Weary office workers streamed over Waterloo Bridge and, down below
the iron girders, beneath the noise and bustle, the quiet river flowed
swiftly on to the open sea.  The autumn night was already lit by a yellow
moon which appeared low in the sky down river.  On the bridge the slow
traffic began to move a little and the taxi driver slipped into the near
side, ready to pull up by the Strand.  His passengers sat, comfortable and
warm, in the back.  The young man was reclining with his arms folded,
occasionally glancing at the expression on his partner's face.  The young
girl was wide-eyed and attentive to everything around her.  It was the first
time she had travelled in a London taxi cab and the prospect of seeing a real
live show excited her.  Robert smiled and pointed to the huge stone building
which ran along the river front.

"See that place," he said suddenly.

"It's Somerset House.  We're all in there somewhere.  It's where they keep a
register of births, deaths and marriages."

Connie followed his eyes.  She could see lights twinkling down river and the
laughing, mocking face of the rising moon.  A momentary panic gripped her as
the promise she made to Michael flashed into her mind.

/ won't go on any dates, Mick, and she paled.

"You okay?"  Robert asked, concerned.

Connie smiled.

"It's exciting.  I've never bin in a taxi before."

The cab driver pulled into the kerb and the two passengers got out.

Robert handed over the fare and waved |, the change away.

"The theatre's not far from here.  We can get a drink first if you'd like,"
he said turning to take her arm.

At the door of the pub Connie hesitated.

"I'm not old enough ter go in a pub," she said, looking at Robert with worry
showing in her eyes.

He grinned.

"I was forgetting.  Anyway, I don't suppose anyone would realise you're under
age.  Come on, you can have a lemonade or something."

Connie ran her hand down her hair and compressed her lips nervously as they
walked in.  Her lipstick tasted scenty, the small daisy earrings were nipping
her ear lobes and her high-heeled shoes were pinching slightly.  It was a
nuisance trying to look grown-up, she decided.

They sat in a corner sipping their drinks.  Connie's eyes flitted around the
room and she felt as though she were in another world.

People stood at the bar, many of the men wearing evening suits and bow ties,
some of the women in long dresses that touched the floor and others in fur
coats or with fur stoles draped over their shoulders.  All the women wore
lots of make-up and Connie marvelled at how beautiful they all looked.  It
was like a gathering in one of those films at the Trocette.  Connie half
expected someone to burst into song at any minute, or dance along the bar.
Looking at all the well-dressed ladies she felt shabby in comparison and her
eyes dropped down to the table.

Robert was watching her carefully and he sensed she was ill at ease.

He wanted to tell her that for him she was the most beautiful girl in the
room.  Her hair shone and hung down over her shoulders in a golden sweep.
Her eyes seemed as blue as the sea and her smooth, flushed face reminded him
of a Greek goddess.  Her hands were clasped in her lap and she sat straight
and taut.  He could see the fullness of her young breasts beneath the tight
coat and the slope of her slim shoulders.  Her small ears peeped out from
between strands of hair and he wanted to kiss her shapely red lips.  Instead
he picked up his drink and drained the glass.

Later, they walked across the busy Strand and up to the lighted front of the
Adelphi.  Connie clutched a small handbag under her arm and subconsciously
slipped her free arm into his as they entered the foyer.  The scene that met
her eyes made her heart pound.  She felt out of place as she looked around
nervously and Robert smiled reassuringly.

129 "Just relax, Connie.  All you've got to do is sit back and enjoy the
show."

She smiled sheepishly.

"Those women look really nice, don't they?"

she said, glancing at a party in fur coats.

Her escort looked over, then back to her.

"So do you," he said quietly.

She looked away from his deep, enquiring eyes feeling as though she were a
Cinderella being escorted to the ball by a handsome prince.

She would have him all to herself, but then the clock would strike midnight
and the dream would fade.  She would be back waiting at the table dressed in
her apron and silly hat.  He would smile like he always did and she would
think about him as she cleared the plates away.  The days would be the same
as they always were, and the nights would be spent dreaming about the ball,
and her charming suitor.

Connie felt a lump rising in her throat as she walked into the darkening
auditorium.

Helen Bartlett sat in the armchair beside the low fire, busily darning one of
Matthew's socks.  The wireless was on and the soft, melancholic music from a
string quartet drifted through the flat.

Molly sat in the other armchair, her head buried in a book.

Occasionally she fidgeted and Helen could hear her daughter's uneven
breathing.  Matthew had gone to bed early after an argument and Helen worked
swiftly with the large needle, her mind still preoccupied with the angry
words they had said to each other.  It was her fault that the argument had
started in the first place, she knew.  Matthew had been unlucky at the labour
exchange that morning and, instead of giving him a few words of
encouragement, she had niggled away at him until a row erupted.  It was
becoming a common occurrence and Helen was very aware that she had become
short-tempered of late.  It seemed to her that their whole existence had
become meaningless.  She had married Matthew with high hopes of building a
happy life with him.  At the beginning the desire to have children had been
strong, but in the first five years of her married life Helen had been
disappointed.

When she had finally become pregnant it seemed her cup was full, her prayers
had been answered.  Until the traumatic experience of Molly's birth.  Her
disability had been hard to come to terms with, and it had been made even
more difficult by Matthew's reaction.  But together they had overcome their
burden of grief and anger at the unfairness of it all and they had tried for
another child.  It had never happened.  Then Matthew had fallen out of work
and it made him more and more morose.  He struggled to earn a few coppers at
the markets to eke out his dole money, and Helen knew only too well that it
was her morning cleaning job which kept their heads above water.  Their
problems only seemed to be getting worse and it was all becoming more than
she could handle.  Helen was nearing fifty and already her hair was showing
streaks of grey and her face was becoming lined and gaunt.  Her love life
with Matthew was now practically nonexistent.  She knew how it upset him when
she constantly spurned his advances but she felt repulsed at the thought of
allowing him to make love to her.  His show of frustration only added to her
disgust and the rows increased.

Her daughter's difficulties were also eating away at Helen.  Molly's physical
problems were growing as she got older, and she was becoming harder to
handle.  She had become embittered and sullen.  Even Connie, who had always
been able to cheer her up, was finding it difficult to reach her.  To make
matters worse, Kate seemed to be losing the will to live.  She showed no
desire to talk on visiting days and it agonised Helen, and she had decided to
visit her sister only once a month.  Even on those infrequent occasions she
came away from the sanatorium feeling very depressed.

There seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel, nothing to expect
except the drudgery and the constant struggle to make ends meet.  Helen
dropped the sock in her lap and leaned back in the chair as she closed her
eyes.

The full moon hung over Bermondsey.  Robert had stopped the taxi at the
Bricklayers Arms and as they passed the shuttered shops he looked at Connie.

"Thanks for your company.  I've really enjoyed this evening," he said with a
smile.

"So 'ave I, Robert.  The show was wonderful.  You sure I looked okay?"

"Connie, you looked perfect.  I was proud to be your escort."

131 "I was glad yer asked meter tell yer the truth," she said.

"I wanted to.  I think you're nice company.  We must do it again sometime
soon."

Connie hesitated before answering.  It would have been so easy to say yes.
He was very good looking and exciting to be with.  He had an easy manner
which helped her to feel confident and self-assured.  Just being with him
made her forget everything.  He had introduced her to another world she had
not realised existed outside of films and story books.  It would be quite
easy to give herself to Robert, she thought.

But it was wrong even to think of a serious relationship with him.

They were so different.  Robert did not come from the working class; his
world was not one of back streets and tenement buildings, pawnshops and
poverty.  And he could not be expected to understand the ways of
working-class people, with their very different hopes and aspirations and
their fierce pride.  Connie was surprised by the beginning of a vague anger
within her, and she wavered.

"I'd like ter go out with yer again sometime, Robert, but I don't think I
should,"

she said slowly.

"Why not.  Con?  We've enjoyed tonight, haven't we?"

"Too much.  That's what I mean.  I like yer company but I've got a boyfriend.
It wouldn't be fair while 'e's away."

They had turned into the maze of back streets and ahead they saw the factory
gates looming up in the moonlight.  "Well, here we are," he said smiling.

They stopped at the entrance to the buildings and he looked into her eyes.

"Say you'll let me take you out again soon, Connie.  I'd like to, really I
would."

Connie looked up into his face and saw something there in his eyes that
promised her so much, and she felt her legs go weak.  He held a key to her
heart and it she was not careful her little world could come tumbling down
around her.  She wanted to throw caution to the wind and draw him into her
world, but something deep down inside her told her to resist.

"I'll 'ave ter fink about it," she said weakly.

He bent his head and took her gently by the shoulders as he kissed her
tenderly on the cheek, then he turned and walked away.  She stood there in
the entrance to the tenement block, her eyes following him until he
disappeared in the darkness.  Her stomach was turning over with a mixture of
elation and dread.  She felt like a fly caught in a web, trapped by his kiss.
She could still feel it on her cheek and the pressure of his hands on her
shoulders.  Connie turned and ran quickly up the dark stairway to her lonely
flat.

133 FR1;Chapter Fourteen The village of Kelstowe was tucked away in the
Weald of Kent.  It boasted one pub, a post office, a general store, and a
crumbling sixteenth-century church that was in imminent danger of falling to
the ground.  Kelstowe was privileged in having a very active and influential
fund-raising committee that, led by Claudette Armitage, had organised a
summer fete for more years than they cared to remember.  Moneys earned from
the various fete activities went to the Holmesdale Home for the Elderly in
nearby Canterbury.  The summer fete was also seen as a way of perpetuating
the traditions of village life and almost all the villagers made a point of
attending the function.

The Kelstowe fete had become famous locally and it was praised by some, and
blamed by others, for being the prime catalyst of local matrimonial
entanglements, and disentanglements.  It also provided enough scandalous
gossip to last until the following year.

Kelstowe was thrown into confusion in 1935 when, without warning, a piece of
masonry the size of a half crown had landed on the head of Beatrice Waverley,
the eldest of the Waverley sisters, just as she was leaving church one Sunday
evening.  Beatrice had felt the weight of the masonry as it fell on to her
new bonnet, and when a trickle of blood ran down into her eye she fainted
away.  Doctor Spanswick was called from the Three Pheasants to administer to
her, and two cold compresses and one stitch later he had zipped up his black
bag and returned to his place in the snug bar.  Reverend Jones was later
summoned to the Waverleys' cottage at the edge of the village and instructed
to pay more attention to those hooligan choir boys of his.

Throwing stones was to be expected of those London guttersnipes, not of
village church lads, the Waverleys were quick to point out.  The Reverend
Jones was at pains to reassure them that 135 his choir boys did not throw
stones and it had merely been a piece of dislodged masonry which had
flattened Beatrice Waverley and ruined her new bonnet.  The sisters were not
to be pacified and they had demanded that a full inspection should be carried
out forthwith to ascertain the level of danger to parishioners.

Reverend Jones was in a quandary.  A full survey would cost money and his
bishop would most certainly raise Cain, but the Waverleys were members of the
village committee and as such they would command strong support.  He realised
he would have to talk to the bishop, and he fretted at the thought of it.  At
the first opportunity the elderly cleric confided in his dutiful wife
Christina.  It was she who gave him the answer which he felt would go a long
way to pacifying the bishop.

"Why don't you get the survey done, and when the cost of renovation is worked
out, get your committee to raise the restoration funds at the fete.  After
all, Bernard, it is their church."

"But the fete is organised to raise money for the Holmesdale,dear."

"Well, organise another fete in the autumn, dearest.  It shouldn't be that
difficult."

Reverend Jones met the bishop and got approval for a full and expensive
survey to be carried out without delay.  The results were staggering.  The
church was in danger of falling down in a pile of dust unless major
restoration work was started immediately.  The Reverend took the news to the
committee and after much wrangling he managed to win approval for an autumn
fete to raise the 5,000 needed.  Every year since then the autumn fete had
stood in front of the summer function as the main event on the village social
calendar.

Everyone was expected to rally to their church, even if they omitted to
respond to the elderly at Holmesdale.  Claudette Armitage made a point of
reminding everyone that the west wing of Kelstowe Church was in a dire
condition and for that reason the autumn fete should be enthusiastically
supported this year and every year.

In Ironmonger Street the tumbledown houses and the grim Jubilee Buildings
were not fortunate enough to have dedicated sponsors and, when heavy rain
seeped through broken roof slates and penetrated the decayed pointing on the
brickwork, the street folk realised that their homes were in danger of
falling down on top of them.  When the rent collector called in the street
one Monday morning he was besieged by angry tenants.  Pleas for him to look
at the dampness and state of disrepair were ignored and his excuse that he
was only employed to collect rents only served to inflame the situation still
further.  He was surrounded by an irate group who threatened all manner of
unspeakable things if he did not report the condition of the homes to his
superiors.  The rent collector realised that Ironmonger Street was not any
old street, and its reputation was not to be taken lightly.  With a sense of
foreboding he relented and promised he would do what he could.  He left the
street with old George Baker's threat ringing in his ears.

"If we don't get somebody down 'ere right away yer better not show yer ugly
face in our turning next week, Jacko."

On Friday morning two smartly dressed characters arrived with clipboards and
rolled-up plans of Ironmonger Street.  They knocked on the doors and
introduced themselves as surveyors from Vine Estates.

When they knocked at number three they were met by Mary Brown holding a
handkerchief up to her running nose.

"Bout time," she spluttered.

"These bleedin' 'ovels are killin' us.  I'm off sick, me ole dad's in bed wiv
the flu, me kids 'ave both got snotty noses, an' there's Mrs Cosgrove along
the street.

"Er an' 'er ole man are both in bed wiv the flu.  It's bloody disgustin'."

The men nodded their heads sympathetically and wrote on their clipboards.

"Can we look around please?  We won't belong."

Mary stood back and allowed the surveyors into her home.  She watched while
they tapped the walls and prodded the rotten plaster, then she followed them
up the stairs and into George Baker's bedroom.  The old boy was sitting up in
bed, a blanket drawn around his frail shoulders.

"Who the bloody 'ell are you?"  he croaked.

"It's all right, Dad.  It's the men from the lan'lords."

George eyed the visitors suspiciously.

"Well it's about 137 tim eyer come an' 'ad a look.  I've lived 'ere fer nigh
on firty years.  Me an'my missus Gawd rester soul brought our family up 'ere.
Weain'tnevermissedpayin' the rent in all that time, an' what 'ave we 'ad
done in the way of repairs?  I tell yer what.  Sweet bugger all, that's what.
An' I tell yer some fink else.  If nufink's done bloody quick we're all
gonna gettergewer an' make this 'ere street out o' bounds ter your bleedin'
rent collector.  Now give that bit o' news ter Vine Estates."

Mary patted her father's back as he went into a fit of coughing and the
surveyors beat a hasty retreat.

The Kelstowe autumn fete got off to a very good start, with Miss Harcourt
reaching a top

"C' and the piano player Christina Jones hardly striking a wrong note as she
struggled with Puccini's

"The Prince'.  Old James came next and, although he dropped the spoons on two
occasions, his attempts to rattle out

"Colonel Bogey' received enthusiastic applause.  The church hall then became
silent as Claudette stood up and issued a passionate plea for everyone to
give generously to the restoration fund.  She took the applause with her
usual aplomb and then flitted theatrically amongst the gathering to milk the
plaudits for her efforts in organising the fete.

Outside in the garden things were beginning to hot up.  Visitors strolled
into the marquee and sampled the ale.  The Waverley sisters stood behind a
table selling their egg muffs and long woollen bed socks and, unseen by
anyone, two young lads slipped into the marquee and one of them dipped his
grubby finger in a jam exhibit.

Major Marchant had also been sampling, and he became more loud-voiced with
each glass of ale.  Mabel Marchant chose to ignore her husband's behaviour
and strolled around the tables with her daughter Eunice holding on to her arm.

Eunice was tall and inclined to stoop.  Her eyes blinked owlishly behind her
spectacles, and her dark hair was tied back with a pink ribbon which exposed
her rather large ears.  Her one redeeming feature was her smile.  When she
parted her lips she exposed perfect teeth and her face lit up.  As she walked
beside her mother Eunice was not disposed to smile, however.  Her father was
rapidly becoming drunk and already attracting disapproving glances from the
Waverley sisters.

Inside the church hall Claudette was getting anxious.  Peter had not yet
arrived, nor had Robert.  The jam tasting is due in ten minutes, she groaned
to herself, studying her watch.  Peter knows very well it's his job to
accompany the Waverley sisters and to take notes.  It won't do.  He knows how
I insist on keeping to a schedule.  Then there's Eunice.  She'll be looking
for Robert to escort her throughout the day.  The girl obviously thinks
highly of him.  Why, oh why doesn't Robert realise she's set her sights on
him?  He could do a lot worse than marrying into the Marchant family.  All
right, maybe the girl isn't a raving beauty, but she has class and breeding
and she would make a perfect partner for Robert.  It's about time he settled
down instead of gadding around with those loutish college friends of his.
Maybe he doesn't like girls?  Maybe he no, the idea's preposterous.  Why ever
should I think a thing like that?  she asked herself.

When Peter strolled into the hall Claudette immediately grabbed him by the
arm.

"Really, Peter.  You do cut things a bit fine.  Come on, let's get the jam
tasting started.  By the way, where's Robert?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"I left him in the Pheasants.  He said he'll follow on later."

Claudette puffed out her cheeks in exasperation.

"I don't know what Eunice is going to think.  I've already told her Robert
will be pleased to be her escort."

Peter looked at his wife and shook his head slowly.

"You shouldn't have told her that, Claudette.  You've no right to act as
matchmaker.

Robert will do his own choosing when he's good and ready.  If you ask me I'd
say he hasn't the slightest intention of settling down just yet.  You must
leave him alone, dear.  He'll do things in his own time.  " But Claudette was
already walking away from him.

The home-made jam contest soon got under way.  Peter stood aside as the
Waverleys spread dobs of jam on to wafer biscuits and nibbled away before
whispering their findings to him.  The sisters were walking slowly along the
line of jam pots when suddenly they stopped and exchanged shocked glances.
The eldest Waverley turned to Peter with a disgusted look on her face.

"We can't sample that one!"

139 she exclaimed.

"It's been tampered with!"

Peter saw the distinct imprint of a small finger and he suppressed a smile.

"Of course you can't.  Miss Waverley," he said sucking his cheek.

The onlookers exchanged sly grins and suddenly a loud voice rang out.

"Whassa matter there?"

Peter turned to find himself confronted by the inebriated Major.  He leaned
away from the man's beery breath and pointed to the jam.  The Major swayed
unsteadily on his feet and looked down at the fingerprint.

"Good Lord!"  he said, blinking at the Waverleys.

"Some- one's sco-scotched the contest!  No one leaves the tent!"  he bawled.

Eunice shrank back into a corner and wished the ground would open up and
swallow her.  Mabel walked over and took her husband's arm.

"Come away, dear.  Let the ladies get on with it."

Clarence leered and swayed backward.

"Sabotage!  That's what it is.

Damn sabotage!  " he spluttered.

More people began to converge on the jam table to offer advice and, during
the confusion, Robert walked into the marquee.  He was immediately approached
by Claudette.  "The Major's had too much to drink, Robert.  I think it's
upsetting Eunice.  Go and see if she's all right, will you, dear?"

Robert groaned to himself and walked over to where the Marchants' daughter
was sitting.

"Hello, Eunice," he said cheerfully.

"Oh, Robert.  Father's getting awfully drunk.  I feel so ashamed, I wish I
could die."

He looked down at the forlorn figure and tried to look concerned.

"It's nothing to worry about, Eunice.  Your father's just a little tipsy,
that's all.  He's not hurting anyone."

"He's hurting me," Eunice blurted out, and she dabbed at her eyes with a lace
square.

At that moment there was a loud crash and Robert looked over to see the Major
lying across the jam table.  The jam pots were strewn about and, as Clarence
was helped to his feet, his blood-red face contorted in a lop-sided grin.
"Damned bloody sabotage," he said with deliberation.

"This is a case for Sexton Blake."

The Waverley sisters were protesting vehemently.  "That it.  The contest is
over.  Come, Gwen.  Ithinkit'stimeweleft."

Claudette was fluttering around in a panic.

"All my hard work has been in vain," she cried to anyone within earshot.
"What could have possessed the Major?  It's so unlike him to get that drunk."

Outside the marquee the village postman sat on an upturned box and tried to
focus his bleary eyes on the departing Waverley sisters.  His head was
swimming and he was having difficulty in rolling a cigarette.  His pal George
Simpson had only sampled two glasses of ale and he had gone home in a worse
state than he did after a skinful at the Pheasants on a Saturday night.
Mabel Marchant was worried.  She had got used to her husband's drunken
antics, but on this occasion he had only consumed a few glasses.  His
behaviour had upset Eunice and Claudette Armitage was furious, she could
tell.  She must apologise for Clarence.  Whatever would the Reverend Jones
think?

Unknown to Mabel, the venerable cleric was having difficulty in making
himself understood.  He had popped into the fete earlier that day and sampled
the ale, intending to go back to the function after he had supervised the
cleaning up operation.  The problem was, he was feeling just like he did on
that occasion long ago when he had over- indulged at the end-of- term party
at theological college.  His eyes were rolling around and words came out
jumbled.  Mrs Brown and two of her friends had volunteered to clean the
church thoroughly and make sure it was tidy, and when their vicar staggered
up and asked them in garbled English to 'sweep the pews out of the church and
dust the aisle' they thought he must be ill.  Mrs Brown's friend Alice had
other views.

"He's sos sled she said.

"Probably been at the communion wine."

Back at the fete Claudette was trying to salvage something from the day.
Miss Harcourt agreed to do an encore and James the postman was being sought
for another rendition on the spoons.  Robert had agreed to escort Eunice home
and they had managed to get the Major out into the fresh air.  Peter was
trying to look serious as his distraught wife dabbed at her forehead.

"The shame and humiliation of it all,"

she groaned.

"I'll never do another fete, Peter.  I swear I won't."

Her name was called and, as she turned, Claudette saw one of the committee
ladies hurrying towards her.

"We've 141 located James," the woman said breathlessly.

"Oh splendid.  Get him to .  .  ."

"It's no use, Claudette," the woman cut in.

"He's asleep in the middle of the flower bed."

"I can't believe it," Claudette wailed.

"What's happening to everyone?  Have they all become alcoholics overnight?"

Worse news was to follow.  Mrs Ackroyd looked in to say that it was unlikely
they would see the vicar any more that day.  According to her friend Alice,
he had cracked up and drunk all the communion wine and was now snoring his
head off in the front pew.

The unintentional perpetrator of the disaster was leaning across the counter
of the Three Pheasants, engaged in a conversation with Doctor Spanswick.

"Personally, Doc, I never have the time to go to the fete now.  It's not my
cup of tea anyway.  It drives me crackers listening to all that gossip and
little-tattle all day long.  None of it's interesting.  Hardly any of 'em use
the pub anyway."

The old doctor shifted his position on the bar stool and chuckled.

"Oh come on, Cyril, it's not that bad.  Their motives are good.  Think of all
the money they raise."

"It's not the principle I object to," Cyril went on.

"It's the way they go about it.  They'd be better off having a get together in
my pub with a few collecting boxes.  And we'd all be able to have a proper
drink instead of a few sips of that watery sherry the Waverleys get from God
knows where.  Mind you, the fete committee talked me out of a barrel of best
ale for the infernal event, though I dare say the old Major's been enjoying
most of that.  Well, at any rate my soul will rest easy.  Doc."

The barrel of ale donated by Cyril Thomas had already been placed out of
bounds by the fete committee, and Claudette vowed that the landlord of the
Three Pheasants would have some pertinent questions to answer.

"This ale is positively lethal," she told the shocked ladies.

Harris and Beamish brewers would have had to agree.  They had distributed
thirty barrels of it before the mistake was discovered.

The ale was in fact a rogue batch that had fermented and frothed until one
pint of the stuff was enough to knock the most experienced drinker bandy.
Twenty-nine barrels had been recovered by the brewers and one was given up
as lost.  The dishonest drayman, who had appropriated the remaining barrel
and sold it to the less- than-honest Cyril Thomas, would soon have to prepare
himself for the publican's wrath.

Robert Armitage walked back slowly to his home on the edge of Kelstowe.  The
day had been one he would sooner like to forget.  The fete had been livened
up by the lethal ale, it was true, but he had not enjoyed being forced to
chaperone and nursemaid the designing Eunice Marchant.  When he walked her
home she had asked him in and when he declined, saying that he had to get
back, she had played the innocent aggrieved.  Her head snuggled against his
chest, she told him how dependable and strong he was.  Robert did his part by
consoling her but the situation threatened to get out of hand when, with
great expectations, the Marchants' daughter had removed her glasses.  Robert
had managed to escape by saying his throat felt sore and he must be going
down with something.  He felt a little guilty for the deception as he
strolled along with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets but he felt
there was nothing else he could do.  He had no desire to entangle himself
with Eunice, no matter what his mother wanted.  His immediate plans concerned
someone else, and his thoughts turned again to Connie.  She had been in and
out of his thoughts all week.  She had charmed him with her rough accent and
naive honesty, and her shy, innocent personality had intrigued him.  She was
a rough diamond, he thought.  A glittering jewel in drab and lustre less
surroundings, claimed yet not owned.  He desired her, wanted to win her, to
be with her more than anything.  He realised it was the first time he had
felt this way about a girl.  Connie may come from the other side of the
street, but it made no difference to him.  It was something that had just
happened, something he couldn't explain to himself, let alone to his family.
They obviously expected him to find a girl from within their own social
circle, or at least a girl with an impeccable background who would be
considered acceptable.  Well life wasn't like that.  He had found someone he
cared for and wanted to be with, and his parents were going to have to get
used to the idea.

143 FR1;Chapter Fifteen Rain beat against the window pane and in the
distance thunder rolled.

The clock beside the bed said nine o'clock and Connie turned over.  It was
Saturday morning and her seventeenth birthday.  The warmth of the bed claimed
her and the cards that had come through the door stayed unopened on the rough
mat in the passage.  She had heard the letterbox sound earlier and guessed
that Helen had put the cards through the door on her way to work.  As she
snuggled down, Connie heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and along the
landing and the letterbox rattled again.  The room felt cold as she climbed
out of bed and gathered up the envelopes from the mat.  Back in bed she
opened the two unstamped ones first.  One was from Helen and Matthew, and the
other from Molly.  One of the stamped envelopes bore her mother's spidery
handwriting.

The card contained the message: "To Connie, with fondest love.  Mum'.

Connie put the open card down on the chair beside the bed and stared at it
sadly for a few moments.  She was due to visit her mother on Sunday and had
not expected her to post the card.  It was an unexpected gesture.  Connie
turned her attention to the remaining envelope and inspected the handwriting.
It was in a flourishing style and the postmark was smudged and illegible.
Puzzled, she opened the envelope and removed the card.  It was from Robert,
and below the words

"Happy Birthday' he had written the message,

"To my special friend.  I have two tickets for the best show in London.
Please say yes.  Robert'.  She hugged it to her chest happily.

Later that morning, when Connie took the weekly shop- U ping into the
Bartletts, she was given two small parcels which were wrapped in brown paper.

"Go on.  Con.  Open 'em up," Molly laughed.

145 Connie sat down in the chair beside the table and tore the wrappings
from the first parcel.  Inside was a green woollen cardigan which Helen had
knitted.

"Corf Fanks Aunt

"Elen.  It's jus' what I wanted," she said, jumping up and kissing the
embarrassed woman on the cheek.

"Go on.  Con.  Open mine," Molly said eagerly, sitting down at the table
facing her cousin.

Connie removed the paper and took out a small tortoise shell powder compact.
Her eyes lit up and she cuddled Molly.

"Ow did yer guess I needed a compact?  It's beautiful."

The Bartletts' daughter cupped her chin in her thick fingers and grinned, her
round face lighting up and her large eyes fixed on her embarrassed cousin.

"I reckoned yer might need a compact, now yer courtin'."  Helen and Matthew
exchanged glances and Connie flushed slightly as she recognised the way Molly
emphasised the last word.

What would they think if they knew I'd been dated by the factory owner's son,
she thought.  Molly was staring at her with a strange look in her eyes.
Behind her cousin's happy expression there seemed to be a look of sadness and
envy.  Connie understood her and pitied her without anger.  Poor Molly was
going through a difficult time.  She was looking for a suitable job while, at
home, all around her there were arguments raging.  And Connie knew there
would be precious few chances for Molly to meet someone who would love her as
she deserved to be loved.

Connie had stayed with the Bartletts awhile, helping to clear away the dinner
things and giving Helen a hand with the household chores.

She felt better by helping out.  The family had been kind to her and Helen
said that Molly always became more cheerful after her visits.

In the afternoon Connie went to her flat and, as she opened the front door,
she saw a small plain envelope lying on the mat.

Intrigued, she tore it open and removed the single sheet of paper.

Her heart leaped as she read the message.

Dear Connie, I hope you liked the card and have had time to think about my
offer.  It really is a very good show.

Consider it as a birthday present.  Please say yes.  If so, meet me at the
Bricklayers Arms tonight.  I'll be there at 7 pm.

Looking forward to seeing you then.

Robert.

He must have knocked earlier and got no answer, Connie reasoned.  Or maybe he
got someone to deliver the note.  Whatever, it was sudden and exciting.  He
was not willing to take no for an answer, but she must say no.  It wouldn't
be fair to Michael if she accepted the offer.

Besides, Robert would think she wanted the relationship to blossom.

No, it was too risky.  But he was so persuasive and good looking and the
combination was something Connie knew she couldn't resist.  All right, it was
one thing to fantasise and to succumb to fanciful dreams, but it was another
thing entirely to start going out regularly to shows with the factory owner's
son.  She was not his kind and it was altogether too dangerous.  It wouldn't
hurt him to wait in vain after all, she could have something else planned
that evening.

He was being too presumptuous she wasn't one to come running, and he had
better realise it.

The clock on Connie's mantel shelf showed fifteen minutes past the hour of
six.  The wireless was playing and the soft music lulled her into a state of
quiet calm.  The fire burned brightly and windy noises in the chimney told
her it was going to be a cold night.  She had washed and done her hair, using
a hard brush to pull out the tangles and bring out the golden sheen.  And now
she added a touch of face powder from the compact Molly had given her, then
slipped into her best dress and put on a precious pair of silk stockings.
Before putting on her high-heeled shoes Connie breathed on the black patent
leather and polished it on a towel.  She had carefully brushed her winter
coat and hung it behind the door.  The music became more dreamy and as Connie
looked at the clock once more she felt wicked.  Why had she tried to fool
herself?  Why pretend?  The young man who would be waiting for her that
evening was not going to be disappointed.  She knew it was something she
couldn't fight; she felt too attracted to him.  He had made her feel 147
beautiful and grown up.  He was sophisticated and worldly and he seemed to
want to be with her, when he could have any woman he wanted.  She shivered
with excitement and anticipation.  What if he wanted to make love to her?
Would he take her in his arms and love her with the passion for which she had
always longed?  Bring her the ecstasy and fulfilment she had not experienced
with Michael?  Poor Michael.  She knew now she would never love him, and she
hoped that he would accept his loss quietly, and that he would want to remain
a dear friend.  She knew though that she was being optimistic.  He was bound
to feel hurt and betrayed.

As she put on her coat and closed the front door behind her Connie knew she
was entering into a game of subterfuge and deceit.  Earlier she had gone down
to tell Helen that one of the girls at work had invited her round to a party
that evening and she would most probably be back late.  Molly had seemed
disappointed that her cousin would not be spending the evening with her but
had tried to disguise her chagrin.  Now, as Connie hurried down the dark
wooden stairs and paused to check her stocking seams before stepping out into
the cold night air, she felt a tightening in her ; insides.  It was madness.
Sheer madness to allow herself to walk knowingly into a situation which would
almost certainly change her life dramatically.  | As the orchestra struck up
for the finale and the cast took their curtain calls to rapturous applause,
Connie sat enthralled.  A thick glossy programme lay on her lap along with
the small box of chocolates.  Robert glanced around at her and, as he smiled,
she glimpsed the whiteness of his even teeth.  Her eyes travelled over his
face and she looked again at his clean-shaven jaw and rather unruly fair
hair.  Connie caught the faint aroma of what she guessed to be an after-
shave, as he reached over and gently squeezed her hand.  He j looked debonair
in his dark grey suit and his large-knotted blue silk tie, and the collar of
his white shirt almost glowed ^ in the darkness.  His eyes seemed to
challenge hers, and Connie looked away quickly at the sea of colour on thej
stage.  As the final curtain fell, the auditorium lights went ^ on.  People
made their way from the theatre and out into the ; windy night.  Robert took
her arm as they left the warm building and walked down to Trafalgar Square
and up into Charing Cross Road.  The air was crisp and the streetlamps bathed
the pavements in golden light as he led her along a small dark road and into
Leicester Square.  Taxis and buses thronged the thoroughfare and
theatre-goers were mingling with sightseers and pleasure-takers.  The blaze
of light seemed to make it less cold, although Connie shivered and pulled her
coat collar up around her ears as they strolled along to Piccadilly Circus.
Robert suddenly steered her towards a narrow alley and she gave him a
quizzical glance.  They stopped outside a dimly lit restaurant and he turned
to her.

"Hungry?"  he asked.

She shook her head and tried to see into the restaurant through the steamy
windows.

"It's a nice place.  Con, very good food.  I often come here when I'm in the
West End.  Even if you're not very hungry we can at least get warm."

She allowed him to steer her into the cosy interior and immediately a waiter
approached them.  He seemed to know Robert and after a few mumbled words
which Connie could not catch the waiter led them into a secluded corner.

The table for two was partially hidden from other customers by a bamboo
screen.  A large-leaf plant had grown up from a huge pewter pot and its
tendrils had woven themselves in and out of the knotted poles.

Olive-green leaves hung limply over their heads, their undersides lit
strangely by a thick red candle set into a gun-metal holder on the centre of
the table.  The white tablecloth hung down around the edges and as the two
sat facing each other, sipping hot thick tomato soup, they exchanged coy
glances.

Robert had spilt some of the soup on his chin and he dabbed at it with a
napkin square.  Connie was terrified in case she should spill her soup on the
spotless tablecloth and she ate slowly.  It was the first time she had eaten
out in a posh restaurant and it fascinated her how the waiters managed to
carry so many plates at once.  She thought they looked Italian or maybe
Spanish.  They all seemed to have sleeked-down, jet-black hair and
expressionless faces.  Presently one of the waiters came over and removed the
empty soup bowls.  He came back immediately with fresh plates 149 and knives
and forks.  Connie was overawed by the whole procedure.  The menu was
difficult to understand and Robert helped her to order.  The grilled plaice
seemed to be the most straightforward choice and Connie agreed quickly with
Robert's suggestion.

They chatted together as they ate the main course and Connie wondered whether
or not she should eat the sprig of parsley which had been placed on the side
of her plate.  Robert had left his, so she left hers, too.  The wine had been
opened and Robert partially filled the two glasses.  He looked amused as she
sipped the wine and pulled a face.

"It tastes sort o' sharp," she remarked, thinking that it was nothing like
the bottling-store wine.

He smiled broadly, captivated by her innocence.  His eyes appraised her, and
he noticed how her hair shone in the light of the candle.

Her blue eyes remained wide open with controlled excitement, and her
expressive lips curled and made tantalising shapes as she chatted about the
show.  As he stared at her facing him in the flickering light, excitement
grew within him.  Connie saw the desire in his pale eyes and she felt her
cheeks growing hot.  He dropped his gaze and they finished the meal in
silence.

They had been in the restaurant for some time.  Ice-cream had followed the
fish course and they were now sipping their coffee.  Connie marvelled at the
tiny cups and she felt clumsy as she lifted the coffee to her lips.  Robert
took a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his coat and took a
tipped cigarette from it.  Connie had never seen him smoke before.  He had
never smoked in the factory as far as she could recall and she watched as he
lit the cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

Suddenly his hand reached across the table and rested on hers.

"Have you enjoyed tonight, Connie?"  he asked earnestly.

She nodded quickly.

"It's bin wonderful.  I've never experienced anyfing like this."

His face became serious.

"You know how much I like being with you.

Con.  I've not stopped thinking about you.  You know that, don't you?  "

She was very aware of his hand touching hers and she looked into his eyes.
The look in them made her feel weak and fragile.  It was inevitable.  She
had known all along that he wanted her.  She had known the first time he had
taken her out, and it both frightened and excited her.  For a moment she
wanted to get up and run from the table, out into the dark night.  She wanted
to get lost in the crowds and allow herself time to get back to reality.

This was wrong, very wrong, and yet she could not move.  His hand sent an
urgent message into her very being, and she trembled inside.

"I know, Robert," she said, in a voice she hardly recognised.

"I've known all along."

"We're good for each other.  Con," he whispered.

"We should be together."

Needle-pricks of warning pierced her mind and she hesitated.  Robert saw the
sudden look of concern on her face and he reached across the table for her
other hand.

"Listen, Connie.  You shouldn't think that anyone has claims on you.

Happiness is not always easy to come by.  If you really want to be happy you
sometimes have to make certain decisions.  At times those decisions aren't
easy to make.  Don't shut me out of your life, Connie.  I want to be part of
it.  Can you understand?  "

His hands held hers on the table and his touch seemed to make everything all
right.  At that very moment it didn't matter to her that she was being
deceitful and unfaithful to Michael.  All that mattered was the young man
facing her across the table.  She felt she was experiencing for the first
time what sexual desire really meant.

With Michael she had been left wondering how much love had not yet touched
her.  How much better it could have been with him if they had not been so
rushed, so fumbling.  Michael had gone away and left her with memories only
of what might have been.  Here and now, she was in the company of someone who
desired her and made her feel weak with longing.  There was magic in the
moment.  It mustn't end, she told herself, not yet.

Out in the cold night the crowds had thinned.  Connie had no sense of time.
She nestled close to him as his arm encircled her waist.  The lights still
shone brightly and traffic rumbled past.  They had taken a narrow pathway
which led out into Charing Cross Road and suddenly she was in his arms.  He
kissed her eager mouth and his arms pressed her to 151 him firmly and
tenderly.  The kiss was over quickly and they started to walk on slowly.
Connie realised it was the first time she had tasted his lips on hers.

The night was becoming colder.  Hoar-frost was forming on the pavement and as
the two reached Trafalgar Square they looked down into the almost deserted
area where the fountains played and the sitting lions guarded the tall stone
column.  Robert's coat collar was turned up against the wind.  His pace was
slow and measured and Connie slipped into step with him.  Their bodies moved
together as they skirted the Square and started back into the Strand.  It was
still rather busy as they passed Charing Cross Station.  It was then that
Robert spoke.

"Will you stay with me tonight, Connie?"  he asked her urgently.

"I

need you.  "

"Where can we stay?"  she asked, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Just say you will."

"Yes, yes," she whispered.

They reached the Strand Palace Hotel and without hesitation Robert guided his
companion through the swing doors into the warm interior.

"Leave everything to me.  It'll be all right," he said softly.

As they reached the reception desk Robert turned to Connie, a smile playing
in the corner of his mouth and said loudly,

"Don't worry, dear.  We'll get the first train tomorrow morning."

The night clerk gave Robert a strange look.

"Can I help you, sir?  " he said in a tired voice.

"We'd like a double room for one night, please."

The clerk spun the register.

"Is there any luggage, sir?"

"No," Robert replied unconcernedly.

"My wife and I are passing through London.  We can't catch our connection ;
tonight."

Connie felt uneasy.  Robert had handled it all so calmly.  Maybe this was
where he usually took his girlfriends.  No, of course not, she reasoned.  It
was just his confident manner; j He had been the same in the restaurant.
Everything he did j was handled with supreme confidence.  Even when the
night| clerk gave him what Connie thought was a disbelievingi glance she
noticed that Robert did not falter.

She watchedJ as he signed the register and reached for his wallet, then he
smiled reassuringly at her as they waited for the porter to arrive to show
them to their room.

At last they were being escorted along a thickly carpeted corridor and taken
up to the fourth floor in a metal-walled lift.  The elderly porter was
dressed in dark trousers and a yellow-striped waistcoat.

He hummed tunelessly to himself as he led the couple to their room.

He had seen it all before.  His powers of observation had become highly
developed over the many years he had been in the hotel's employ.  He had
given the couple no more than a casual glance, yet he had noted certain
details.  The young man was probably well off: his suit was expensive and his
manner confident.  He was no stranger to hotels, but it was all new to the
young lady.  She looked uneasy, even scared.  Can't be more than eighteen, he
guessed.  She was not wearing a wedding ring and there was no luggage, no
overnight bag.  The young lady's clothes were clean and tidy but not
expensive.  She seemed too scared to say much in case she said the wrong
thing.  Poor kid.  She would most likely live to regret this night.  Then
maybe not.  Ah well.  " " Ere we are, sir, madam.  There's a bell if yer
require room service.  A very good night teryerboth.  "

The early morning light filtered through the heavy curtains and Connie opened
her eyes.  Robert lay beside her, his right arm folded across his chest.  His
left arm was beneath her neck and as she moved her head he grunted and
stirred.  Gently she slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and reached
for the large bath towel that was lying on the floor beside the bed.  Quickly
Connie wrapped the towel around her and peered out into the street below.
There was no clock in the room but she realised it must still be early.  One
or two taxi cabs drove past and a few people ambled along the wide
thoroughfare.  The morning was bright and she could see the white coating of
frost on the roof tops opposite.  She looked back into the room at Robert's
slumbering body and then crept out into the bathroom.  Soon she was under the
jets of steaming water and she closed her eyes and held her face up to the
shower head.  It felt glorious just to stand there, letting the hot water run
over her body.  It was much 153 better than the tin bath at her flat and
even the local baths, she thought, as she began to lather herself with the
scented soap in the dish.

It had been a wonderful night, and he had been a wonderful lover.

Connie had found him gentle and considerate and she had experienced a
pleasure that was new and exciting.  She now felt a real woman, and she
smiled warmly to herself.  Robert had been careful, too, and she remembered
the act of love with a deep sigh.  He had reached for her in the darkness and
joined with her gently at first and then with an urgency that brought her to
a climax that lingered and then died slowly.  It was a feeling she had only
dreamed about, and as she stepped from the shower and towelled herself dry
Connie could not help but make the comparison.  The night spent with Michael
had left her feeling irritable, drained of passion and unfulfilled; this
morning she felt light, almost as if she were floating, and her body tingled.

Robert was awake now and he watched her as she walked back into the bedroom
with the towel wrapped lightly around her.  He climbed out of bed and without
any show of self-consciousness took her to him and kissed her gently.

"God!  But you're beautiful, Connie," he gasped as he squeezed her to him.

"So are you," she whispered.

"You'd better get dressed.  You're temptin' me again, Robert."

The young man released her and smiled as he sauntered into the bathroom.
Connie could hear the water running as she dried her long hair on the towel.
He must be very experienced, she thought.  Did all young men carry those
French Letters around with them?  Michael didn't use anything, although she
hadn't thought too much about it before.

The girls at work always said that you didn't get pregnant the first time.
The older women had said otherwise and she remembered worrying over her next
period, but she had taken comfort from the fact that sex with Michael had not
really been completed.  With Robert it had been perfect, and she was grateful
that he had been careful.  For herself, she had entered into the lovemaking
with little , thought of what might happen.  Everything else had been
forgotten.  Now, in the light of day, she had time to reflect j on last
night.  Robert might think I'm easy, she mused.  | After all, I've only been
out with him twice.  Her sudden doubts were interrupted as he came back into
the bedroom.  He dressed quickly and sat on the bed, watching as she tied her
still damp hair back with a strip of black ribbon.  "We'd better get down to
breakfast.  Con.  I'll get us a cab after and drop you home, okay?"  he said
with a loving smile.

She nodded.  Right at that moment everything was okay with young Connie
Morgan.

155 FR1;Chapter Sixteen The train rattled on through the winter countryside
as Connie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window.  The trees had lost
their leaves and they bent against the keen wind.  The fields had been
ploughed up and the hay gathered in for winter feeding.  Above, the grey
overcast sky shut out the sun and spread a gloomy light over the barren
landscape.  The only other occupant of the carriage had been an elderly gent
who had alighted at the last stop, leaving Connie alone with her thoughts.
How much would her mother's condition have worsened?  she wondered with a
sinking feeling.  The last time she visited the Bartletts had travelled with
her and on that occasion her mother had been even less talkative than usual.
Connie was glad she was alone today.  She wanted time to sit quietly and
think things over.  It seemed that her life had suddenly become full of
questions and quandaries.  Much had happened during the past month, and she
wanted time to gather her thoughts into some sort of order.  Robert had added
a new dimension to her life, but it would bring her problems, too.  Very soon
Michael would be home on his Christmas leave, and she realised it was going
to be very difficult.  She was feeling apprehensive about what might happen,
but she knew that she would just have to take things as they came.  Robert
had told her during the cab journey home that he wanted to see her as often
as possible and, when she mentioned Michael's leave, he had become quiet and
thoughtful.  When she got home she had been plied with questions.

Helen had looked at her in a funny way, as if she could read her mind.
Connie resented the prying questions and she recalled the look on her aunt's
face when she told her that she had stayed at her friend's house all night.

The train pulled into the station and Connie picked up the bag of fruit by
her side and stepped down on to the platform.  The wind was biting and she
pulled up the collar of her coat as she left the station and began to walk
along the long country road to the sanatorium.  It took twenty minutes to
reach the red-brick building which was set in its own grounds and surrounded
by sheltering trees.  As she walked along the gravel drive Connie began to
sense that something was wrong.  She had a bad feeling in the pit of her
stomach and in her mind she saw a picture of her mother on her last visit.
It was as though she was giving up the fight.  Her eyes had stared blankly,
and she had hardly spoken.

As she entered the building and hurried up the wide stone staircase to the
first floor, Connie knew that today her mother would be worse.

Her high-heeled shoes sounded loudly on the marble-floored corridor, and when
she entered the doorway to the ward the nursing sister was waiting.  It was
the same sister who Connie often spoke with during her visits, and on this
occasion she barred her way.  She smiled kindly and took the young girl's arm.

"Can you come into the office for a moment please.  Miss Morgan?"

Connie's heart sank as she followed the sister into a small room.

"Sit down, my dear," the sister said quietly, moving a chair around.

The mum?  " was all Connie could muster.

"I'm afraid your mother has taken a turn for the worse.  We've put her into a
small private room.  The doctor is with her at this moment.  If you'd like to
wait here I'll ask him to have a word with you as soon as he's finished."

"Is she dyin'?"  Connie found herself asking.

The sister looked at the young girl with large gentle eyes.  "The doctor will
talk to you soon, my dear."

One of the nurses put her head around the door and beckoned the sister.
Connie found herself alone in the room and she clasped her hands tightly and
stared down at the whiteness other fingernails.  The room was quiet and
peaceful and she glanced around.  Over the small desk was a picture of Christ
wearing a crown of thorns, and at the back of the desk a bunch of wilting red
roses stood in a glass vase.

Connie looked up again at the picture and shivered.

"Please don't let 'er die," she whispered aloud.

It seemed to Connie she had been waiting for ever when the door opened and a
tall grey-haired man entered.  Connie started to get up but he put his hand
on her shoulder and then sat down facing her.

"You are Miss Morgan?  Katherine Morgan's daughter?"

Connie nodded, her eyes open wide.

"I'm Doctor Phelps.  You're aware that your mother is suffering from
Pulmonary Tuberculosis," he said in a very soft voice.

"I'm afraid her condition has worsened.  You see my dear, this disease
affects the lungs but in your mother's case her heart is also weak.  I must
ask you not to stay toolong."

"Is she dyin', doctor?"

The doctor looked at his fingernails.

"She's very ill.  We're doing all we can, but you must be prepared, child."

Connie stood up quickly.  "Can I see 'er now, please?"

The doctor nodded.

"The sister will take you to your mother.  Don't tire her by staying too
long."

"I won't stay long," Connie promised, and she walked quickly out into the
corridor and fell in step behind the ward sister.

Kate Morgan lay propped up against the pillows, her hands resting above the
bedclothes.  Her thin face wore a ghostly pallor, and her faded eyes were
sunken.  She turned her head slightly as Connie entered the room and bent
over the bed.

' "Ello, Mum," Connie said softly, her eyes filling with tears.  She reached
out her hand and touched her mother's gently.

' "Ow'smyCon?"  Kate whispered, her tired eyes searching her daughter's face.

"I'm fine, Mum.

"Ow yer feelin'?"

Kate closed her eyes briefly as if in answer and Connie sat down beside the
bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of her mother's chest.  She noticed
the small gold locket which rested on her thin neck, and she began to fight
back tears.  She knew the locket had a special meaning for her mother; it had
always hung around her neck, except on certain occasions when it had been
taken, in dire necessity, to the pawnshop.  Now the locket was shining
brightly against the wan skin, and as it rose and fell it caught the light
and glistened.

159 "I've brought yer some fruit, Mum."

Kate nodded.  Her hand lifted from the bedclothes and her bony finger pointed
to the locker beside the bed.  "There's money in there.  Take it, Con.  It's
no use terme."  Connie shook her head but her mother's hand waved
impatiently.

"Don't argue, child.  Take it."

Connie went around the bed and opened the locker.  There was a small open
envelope lying on the shelf.  She removed it and saw the money.

Kate's eyes had now closed and her breathing was very shallow.

"Mum?"

There was no answer.  Connie backed away from the bed and became aware that
the sister was standing behind her.

"Your mother's sleeping," she said.

"I should leave now, my dear.

We'll contact you if there's any worsening of her condition.  "

Connie walked out into the long corridor and dabbed at her eyes with a
handkerchief.  The sister walked along the corridor beside the young girl,
and as they reached the ward office she turned.

"I wonder if you could spare me a moment.  Miss Morgan?"

Connie followed the sister into the office and stood while she slid open one
of the desk drawers.

"This came for your mother yesterday.  One comes every month.  There's money
inside.  I know because your mother asked me to open the last one.  I usually
post the reply off for her.  You see, she has to sign the receipt.  She's too
ill to be bothered with this.  As you're her next of kin, maybe you could do
it?"

Connie nodded as she took the letter and tore it open.  Inside were five one
pound notes, a stamped-addressed envelope and a slip of paper.  Connie signed
the receipt and put it into the envelope.  Her eyes narrowed as she read the
address.  It was destined for the Armitage factory in Ironmonger Street.

Connie walked back along the road to the station, miserable and depressed,
but like a dull ray of light through the darkness of her despair questions
began to form in her mind.  She had known for a long time that her mother
received a regular sum of money, and she had once been told it came from
insurance.  Connie had had no reason to question her mother's explanation,
but now things were different.  Why should the money come from the Armitage
firm?  What was the connection?  Kate had never said anything about her
father working there.  There must be some reason for the firm to make the
payments.  Maybe Aunt Helen would be able to help her get at the truth.
There were questions that had to be answered.  Connie thought about the time
when she had first seen her birth certificate and asked about the blank space
where her father's name should have been.  Her mother had refused to answer
her questions, dismissing them impatiently with the excuse that it wasn't
important.  Why was there so much mystery surrounding him?  What was the
reason for her mother's refusal to talk about him?  Connie knew that her
mother was slowly slipping away from her.  If the secret of her father died
with her she would have no family left, apart from the Bartletts.  If her
father was still alive, then she surely had the right to know his identity,
however bad he had been, whatever he had done?

During the trip back to London through the drab winter countryside Connie
felt upset and confused.  She was desperate to get at the truth, but would
the knowledge bring her any peace?  Maybe the whole thing should stay buried
and forgotten.  Connie was lulled by the gently rocking train and the
clacking of the wheels and she glanced around the carriage.  The other four
travellers, two elderly ladies and a young couple, were leaning back against
the headrests.  They all seemed to be absorbed in their own private thoughts.
The young couple were holding hands and one of the elderly ladies was
nodding off to sleep.  Connie's thoughts turned to the brief conversation she
had-had with her mother and she felt her throat tighten.  She closed her eyes
tightly against the threatening tears and sighed deeply.

Early winter dusk was settling down in Dockland as Connie reached Ironmonger
Street.  She went directly to the Bartletts' flat and when Helen let her in
she could see by Connie's serious face that Kate was worse.

Matthew brought Connie a cup of tea and they all gathered around to talk to
her.  Tears dripped into the cup as Connie choked out the words.

161 "She's very weak.  Aunt

"Elen.  They said it's 'er 'eart.  The doctor told meter be prepared fert he
worst."

Helen rested her hand on Connie's shoulder.

"I've kept yer fire going', luv.  You go up an' 'ave a nice rest.  I'll pop
inter see yer later."

She stood up and put the empty cup down on the table.  Connie felt Molly's
warm hand slip into hers and she felt the reassuring pressure as her cousin
looked up into her eyes.  It was the way it had been in the past, when they
were tiny children.  Whenever the grief or the anger became too much they had
always been there to comfort each other.  Connie felt that the old bond
between them had been renewed, and her eyes shone through her tears as she
looked at her cousin.

The high wind rattled the windows and shook the doors in the dilapidated
Jubilee Buildings.  Connie sat in her easy chair beside the fire and re-read
Michael's last letter.  It was written in a bold hand and he spoke mainly
about his shore leave in Ceylon.  The last few paragraphs, however, caused
Connie to bite her lip.  They were passionate lines, saying how much he hoped
they could get to know each other better while he was home.  She knew she
would have to tell him.  It wouldn't be fair to deceive him.  She would have
to make him understand.  After all, Michael was a sailor.  He would most
likely spend three quarters of his time overseas and he couldn't expect her
to stay at home all the time he was away.  It was natural that she would be
asked out.  Michael was sensible.  He would understand.  It would upset him,
yes, but he would get over it.  She would tell him it was better to be honest
with him than not to say anything and deceive him while he was away.  As she
rehearsed the words in her mind they sounded plausible enough, but she knew
in her heart that Michael would not be so understanding.  He had his pride
and he would see her as being a cheat and disloyal.  God!  Why must
everything be so complicated?

There was a knock on the door and Helen came in.  She looked tired and drawn.
Her shoulders sagged and her hair was screwed up untidily on the top of her
head and secured with pins.  She sat down heavily and puffed.

"Those stairs crease me.  I mus' be getting' old."

Connie secretly agreed.  Her aunt had aged considerably during the last
couple of years.  Worries and troubles had taken their toll and Connie could
not help but make the j comparison between Helen and her own mother.
Although ^ the two were of different complexion and the shapes of their faces
were different, their features had somehow mellowed into a sameness.  Time
and deprivation had closed the gap between them.  Connie smiled
sympathetically and got up to put the kettle over the gas.

"Wanna cup pa  Aunt?"  she asked.

Helen waved her back into the chair.

"I've jus' 'ad one, Con.  I've only come up fera chat."

Connie raked the fire and added a few small knobs of coal.

"I've bin sittin' 'ere finkin' about me mum.  She looked really bad when I
sawer."

Helen stared into the rising flames and watched the smoke spiralling up the
chimney.

"I thought she looked very in the last time I sawer," she said softly.

"Yer gotta steel yerself.  Con.  It can only be a matter o' time now."

"I know, Aunt.  I'm prepared fert he worst.  I only wish me an' mum 'ad got
closer.  She shut me out at times.  I sometimes fink she was ashamed o' the
way she was.  She 'ad no reason ter fink that.  Aunt

"Elen.  I love 'er.  She's me mum after all."

Helen leaned back in her chair and gripped the arms until her knuckles
whitened.

"Yer muvver loves yer in 'er own way, Connie.

She's always tried ter spare yer the troubles she's 'ad.  She was always
tellin' me when you was little that she didn't want you ter turn out like
'er.  She was always out wiv fellers.  When she fell fer you she wasn't
married.  Yer know that much, don't yer?  "

Connie nodded.

"Mum always called 'im " yer farvver".  That's the way she always spoke of
'im.  I've seen me birth certificate an' there's nufink on it about me dad.
It was always the same when I asked questions.  Mum said 'e was dead an' not
to bower 'er.  I don't fink-me dad's dead, Aunt.  I fink me dad's alive
somewhere.  I'm gonna find out fer sure one day."  She paused.

"By the way, I wanted ter ask yer some fink Did yer know the money me mum
gets every month comes from the Armitage firm?"

Helen looked surprised.

"No, I never."

"Mum gets it in a letter every month.  She was too ill ter sign fer it this
month an' the sister of the ward asked me if I'd do it fer erIt was a shock when I found out where the money comes from.  The only fing I
can fink of is that me dad worked there once an' the firm pay the insurance
money.  "

Helen stared at Connie.  She wanted to blurt out the name of the girl's
father, but she remembered the oath Kate had made her take all those years
ago.  If Kate's daughter wanted to find out about her parentage that badly
then at least she should try to help her without breaking her vow to Kate.

"Firms don't pay out insurance money, Con," she said slowly.

"Very few people are lucky enough ter be insured.  Those that are get their
money from the insurance companies, not the firms they worked fer."

"What could the money be fert hen  Aunt?"

"I don't know, Connie.  I really don't know."

Connie pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger as she stared
into the flaring coals and Helen studied her for a few seconds.  "

"Michael's comin' 'ome soon, ain't 'e?"  she said suddenly.

The young girl nodded.

"E should be 'ome on the twentieth.  It's only ten days' time."

"It'll soon go round," Helen said.

Connie wanted to pour her heart out about her new love and the problems it
was bringing, but she knew it was not the right time.  She decided to change
the subject.

"Molly seems better lately.  Aunt."

Helen allowed herself a brief smile.

"The brace she's wearin' seems to 'ave 'elped a bit.  I don't like 'er
sittin' around the place though.  She gets so bored.  The labour exchange is
tryin' ter get 'er fixed up wiv a suitable job, soon as she gets the okay
from the 'ospital."

"What about Uncle Matt?"  Connie asked.

Helen shrugged her shoulders.

"The debts are worryin' 'im, I know they are.  What wiv Christmas an' all.

"E'll get a few more coppers at the markets, but even wiv 'is dole money it
won't get the fings we need this year."

"Ain't Uncle Matt's firm openin' up again, Aunt?"

Helen shook her head.

"Nah!  It went out o' business.  It's a shame really.  My Matt's a good
French polisher.

"E's tried 'is best ter get a job in the trade, but there's not much call
fer French polishers round 'ere.  Most o' the cabinet makers are over the
water.

"E's tried over there, too, but they take on all the local people.  They get
to 'ear of the jobs first, yer see."  Coals fell in the grate and Helen
stretched.  "Oh well.  I'd better be getting' back.

I'm feelin' tired an' I've gotta get up early.  "

Connie bade her aunt goodnight and locked up when she had gone.  The
difficult and upsetting day had weighed heavily upon her and, as she tossed
and turned in her bed, mixed up thoughts were twisting in her mind.  Maybe
Robert would be able to tell her about the money?  She must ask him as soon
as the opportunity presented itself.  Before sleep overtook her, Connie said
a silent prayer for her mother.

That same evening a conversation took place in the Kentish village of
Kelstowe between the two men of the Armitage family, both sitting before a
log fire.  The smell of boiling resin from the pine logs filled the large
oak-beamed room.  Peter clutched a glass of Scotch whisky while his son
Robert toyed with his near-empty wine glass.

"It's no good.  Father, I've got to get away.  I'm feeling stifled in the
village.  Mother's still trying her best to get me married off to that
dreadful Marchant girl, and everyone I meet asks me about when Eunice and I
are going to set a date.  I think mother must have made it all look too
obvious."

Peter had a serious look on his face.

"Is it certain, the flat?"

"Oh yes.  It will be available after Christmas and it's mine if I want it,
and I do.  I'd be close to work.  After all, Great Dover Street is only five
minutes from the factory, and I'd have some privacy."

"Away from Eunice Marchant, eh?"  Peter grinned.

"And the village.  Father.  It's all getting on top of me lately."

Peter looked at his son closely.

"Is there a girl somewhere in all this, Robert?"

The younger Armitage shifted uncomfortably in his armchair.

"Now you've asked, it so happens there is."

165 "Someone in London?"

"Yes, Father.  It's a girl I met at the factory."

Peter's face took on a puzzled frown.

"The factory?"

Robert nodded.

"I'd planned to tell you both.  You'll have to know sooner or later, though
what mother's going to say when she finds out I hate to think."

"Go on, Robert."

"It's Connie Morgan, Father."

Peter stared incredulously.

"Connie Morgan?  You don't mean that young girl who serves at the table?"

"The very one."

"But she's a factory girl.  She's only.  .  ."

"She's only what.  Father?  Only working-class?  Only a Cockney girl with no
breeding?  Would you pre ferme to marry someone like Eunice Marchant?  I
can't build a marriage around dinner parties and who's currently in favour
with God knows who.  Surely you know me better than that.  Christ!  I'd
expect mother to adopt that attitude, not you."

"Listen, Robert," Peter began.

"We both have your welfare at heart.

It's natural we want the best for you, and for that reason alone I think it's
about time you learned a little of our family history.

First though, you'd better fill your glass, and fill mine while you're at it.
What I'm going to tell you is not very pleasant, to say the least.  "

Connie heard the distant rattle of a train and the low note of a hooting tug
as she tossed and turned in her bed.  She felt desperately tired but sleep
somehow eluded her.  Pale moonlight entered the room and lit up the cracked
ceiling.  It played on the rickety dressing table and cast its shadows around
the small bedroom.  Down in the deserted street a cat dislodged a dustbin lid
and the loud clatter was followed by a caterwaul.  Connie leaned over and
glanced irritably at the alarm clock on the chair beside her bed.  It showed
ten minutes past the hour of twelve.  Slowly tiredness overtook her and she
fell into a troubled sleep.  She could see the misty figure of her mother
standing in front of the mirror and brushing her long fair hair.

"You must be good, child.  I 'ave ter go out," Kate said, her face smiling
mockingly.

166 Connie stared down at the small figure who sat upright in a high-backed
chair.  The child was crying silently and tears dripped down on to her
crumpled white dress.

"No Mummy, no!"  she sobbed.

"Hush, child.  I 'ave ter go," her mother said, her face taking on a stern
look.

Now Connie was alone in the room.  She sat stiffly in the high- backed chair,
unable to move as the room closed in on her.  She could hear the continual
thumping noise that seemed to come from within her.  It became louder, and
suddenly she was fighting for breath.  With a jerk she sat upright and threw
back the bedclothes.  Her body was bathed in perspiration and, as she fought
to recover her breath, Connie heard the rat-tat again.  Draping a blanket
around her shoulders she hurried to the front door.  The policeman had a
lighted torch clipped onto his shiny belt and his pale face stared down at
her.  He brushed a clenched hand across his bushy moustache and cleared his
throat.

"I'm sorry.  Miss.  It's yer muvver.  She died a few hours ago."

167 PART TWO

FR1;Chapter Seventeen It had stopped raining, although thunder rolled in the
distance and flashes of lightning lit the dark sky.  The young woman walked
quickly along the sodden pavement, her footsteps sounding loudly in the quiet
street.  She hurried up the half dozen steps and used a key to let herself
into the house.  Her arrival did not go unnoticed by the two elderly women
who stood talking on the doorstep of the adjoining house.  The larger of the
two women, Gert, slipped her hands into the sleeves of her coat and jerked
her head in the direction of the black-painted front door.

That's 'er.  That's the one I was tellin' yer about, Freda.  She don't look
any older than my girl.  She's bin comin' 'ere every weekend.

Mind you, it's none o' my business, but it makes yer fink, don't it?  "

Freda nodded.

"Some o' these young girls are shameless.  If it was a girl o' mine I'd
killer, I'm sure I would."

The large woman leaned forward, her eyes darting up and down the turning.

"I've seen 'er leave 'ere on Monday mornin's.

"E goes out later."

"What's 'e like, Gert?"  the little woman asked, her curiosity aroused.

' "E's quite a nice-lookin' fella as it 'appens.

"E's well mannered an' keeps 'himself to 'himself.  I ain't 'ad much occasion
ter talk to 'im, 'cept ter pass the time o' day, but I reckon 'e fancies
'himself a bit.

"E talks posh an' 'is suits ain't from the fifty-shillin' tailors, that's fer
sure."

"I s'pose 'e's one o' them solicitor blokes.  There's a lot of 'em livin'
round 'ere, Gert."

Gert shook her head.

"No, I don't fink so.  All that lot carry briefcases.  I've never seem 'im
wiv a briefcase.  I reckon 'e's got a business or some fink I reckon 'e's
werf a few bob by the look of 'is clobber."

171 Freda folded her arms.

"It's scand'Ious the way some o' them carry on."

"Yer right there, Freda.  It's disgustin' what some of 'em get up to."

Unaware that she was being discussed by the two women, Connie climbed the
stairs to the first-floor landing and let herself into the flat.

After lighting the gas fire she took a towel and rubbed at her long blond
hair.  The fire soon warmed the room and she turned her attentions to making
a pot of tea.  Robert would be home soon and she wanted everything to be just
so.  She felt happy in a way she had never felt before and she luxuriated in
the warm, comfortable feeling inside.  He had made her feel wanted and
needed, and she knew she loved him desperately.

The clock on the mantel shelf struck seven and Connie stretched out her
stockinged feet and wriggled her toes in front of the glowing fire.  The last
few months had been terrible.  When her mother died it had left her feeling
desolate.  She had been expecting it, but the rat-tat on the door and the
sight of the policeman standing there in the early hours of the morning had
left her shaking violently.  At the funeral Helen had been overcome with
grief and had almost collapsed at the graveside.  Connie remembered walking
back to the chapel behind her aunt and uncle.  Helen had seemed to have
suddenly become frail and aged and she leaned heavily on Matthew as they
walked along the gravel path against a biting wind.  A few days after the
funeral Helen had gone down with influenza and had lost her cleaning job.
Matthew had been doing very little porte ring on the side and money was
short.  As for Molly, she had seemed immune to all the misery around her and
seemed unaffected by the death in the family.  She had, after all, never been
close to her Aunt Kate.  Her attitude had been reserved throughout.

It had been a terrible end to the year.  And then, only the day after the
funeral, Michael came home on leave.  She recalled how he had been
sympathetic to her feelings of grief at first, but his attitude had changed
very soon.  He was no doubt eager to prove himself after his last attempt at
lovemaking, and he voiced the opinion more than once that life had to go on
and it was no good becoming too morbid.

Connie remembered how angered she had become.  She had wanted to explain him
that it wasn't just grief and emptiness that assailed her.  It was more than
that.  Her thoughts were now cent red on someone else: a person who had
entered her life and who made her feel like a woman and who had become so
close to her that every minute of the day she wanted to be by his side.  How
could she tell Michael that she had found the love she had never dreamed
possible with someone else?

She had been quite unable to bring herself to tell him the truth.

Michael had become upset and angered at her refusal to talk about getting
engaged.  Her weak excuse that she was too young had only incensed him and
they had rowed constantly during his leave.  Connie recalled how he had tried
to kiss her with passion and how her lack of response had only angered him
more.  He had left her in tears of frustration at her dilemma, and he had
spent part of his leave drinking with his mates.

Then there was the last evening of Michael's leave.  He had been drinking
heavily and was in a foul mood.  They had been to the pictures and had walked
home in stony silence.  The recollection of what happened next filled her
with anger and sadness.  Michael had forced himself upon her, kissing her
roughly and clumsily attempting to arouse her.  She had recoiled from his
actions and pushed him away.

His face had turned white with rage and he raised his hand to her.

Their eyes met in burning anger and he suddenly slumped back.  They both knew
it was all over and he turned without another word and walked unsteadily out
of the street.

A key in the lock and the front door opening and closing cut short her
recollections.  Robert's footsteps sounded on the stairs and he entered the
flat, his face showing relief.

"Hello, darling.  I was hoping you'd be here."

She went into his arms and let him squeeze the breath from her body.

Their lips met in a lingering kiss, and she felt the comfort and protection
that only he could bring her.

"I only just caught the train.  The next one wasn't for another two hours,"
he said as she nestled her head against his chest.

"I'd still be 'ere, Robert.  Yer know I would.  Now sit down and let me get
yer a nice cup pa she said.  smiling at him.

173 Robert took off his coat and threw it over a chair and then slumped down
beside the fire.

"I couldn't get out of it.  Con, I had to go.

You know what it's like when it's family.  "

"Did it go all right?"

He ran his fingers through his fair hair and clasped his hands behind his
head.

"Mother still isn't happy about it.  Her plans for me have come rather
unstuck, but I managed to convince her that it's my life and I've got to run
it, not her.  She seemed to think my taking a flat was tantamount to
disowning my family.  There were a few tears, but it was all right.  She saw
it my way in the end."

"What about yer farvver, Robert?"  she asked.

Robert sighed deeply and stretched out his legs.

"Father was okay," he answered.

"He could understand why I needed to get away.  In fact, he thought it might
be better for me to become a little more independent.  Nice of him, wasn't
it?  Anyway, I'm glad it's over.  Things were getting a little strained at
home."

Connie smiled sympathetically and then hurried into the kitchen.  Soon she
came back with the tea, and as they sat facing each other Connie eyed him
over her cup.  She understood how he must have felt.  She had faced a
difficult situation within her own family just a few weeks ago.  Helen had
called in to see her and had seemed anxious to have a quiet chat with her.
Connie vividly recalled what had been said.

' "Ow yer gonna manage now, girl?"  Helen had asked.

"I mean, yer muvver's money paid the rent.  Now that's finished what yer
gonna do?"

"I'll manage.  Aunt

"Elen.  I've got some of Mum's money put away, an' I'm gonna look around
feranuwer job.  The lan'lord said I could take over the flat, as long as the
rent was paid regular."

Helen pursed her lips.  There was another question she wanted answered.  She
was aware of Connie's break up with Michael, and lately the girl had become
very secretive about her comings and goings.  She wasn't eighteen yet and now
that her mother was dead it was only right that the young girl should have
someone to watch out for her welfare.

"We don't see much of yer at weekends, Con, anter be honest, I'm concerned
at yer stoppin' out on Saturday nights," she said quietly.

174 Connie felt her face flush.  She realised it was no good continuing with
the deceit.  Her aunt had been like a mother to her for as long as she could
remember.  She had a right to know the truth.

I don't know 'ow yer gonna take this.  Aunt

"Elen," she answered, looking her squarely in the eye.

"I can't go on keepin' yer in the dark.  I've not said anyfing before, 'cos I
know 'ow yer worry.  I fink the world of you an' Matt, as well as Molly.  Yer
my family, so I'm gonna tell yer.  I've got a fella, an' I fink the world of
'im too.

"E's got a flat an' that's where I spend me weekends.  I love 'im.

Aunt

"Elen."

The elder woman looked hard at her niece.  How like her mother she was.
There was the same look in her eyes, the same tone in her voice that defied
criticism and the same mannerisms and attitudes.  It was uncanny.  It seemed
to her that the girl was already following in her mother's footsteps, and if
she was not careful she would make the same mistakes.  There was one big
difference between Connie and her mother, and of that Helen was sure.  Kate
Morgan's daughter had compassion.  It showed in her eyes, and it was apparent
in her close friendship with Molly.  The girl was overflowing with love.  She
lacked her mother's hardness, and it could be her downfall.

"Do I know 'im.  Con?"  she asked.

' "Is name's Robert Armitage.

"E's the factory owner's son, Aunt."

Helen looked shocked.

"Christ!  Yer know what yer doin', gel?  They're not our kind.  That crowd
live in a different world to us."

Connie returned her stare.

"Listen, Aunt

"Elen.  I know it's not gonna be easy.  We don't talk the same an', like you
say, we're worlds apart, but Robert makes me feel good.

"E don't ask meter change or alter the way I talk.

"E'saving a bad time wiv 'is family over me, but it don't stop 'im going' wiv
me.  I'm not gonna give 'im up.  Aunt.

"E means too much terme."

Helen averted her eyes from her niece's burning gaze.

"I only want yer ter be 'appy, gel.  That's all I want fer yer.  If yer sure
in yer mind that 'e's the one, I won't try ter put obstacles in yer path.

I'll say one fing though.  Be careful.  Don't make the same mistakes yer mum
made.  "

175 Connie reached out and touched Helen's arm.

"Don't worry, Aunt.  I know what I'm doin'."

Helen smiled and leaned back in her chair.

"So that's why you an' Michael split up."

Connie's face was serious.  " " E knew there was somebody else, I'm sure.  I
didn't tell 'im about Robert though.  I jus' couldn't bring me self ter tell
'im.  "

Helen was silent for a while, and then she asked,

"Ave yer spoke ter Robert about the money yer mum was getting' from the firm?"

Connie shook her head.

"Yes, I asked 'im about it, but 'e said it was an arrangement made years ago
wiv mum an' Robert's gran'farwer.

That's all 'e knew.  "

"It all seems very strange terme.  Con.  Is Robert tellin' yer the truth?"

"I believe 'im.  Aunt."

Helen stood up and straightened her pinafore.

"Don't ferget what I said, Connie.  Be careful.  We don't want you getting'
yerself in trouble.  I remember when yer mum got pregnant.  She was going'
ter get an abortion, but a girl out o' John Street 'ad 'ad one a few weeks
before an' she was found dead in a flat over the butcher's in Bermondsey
Lane.  Whoever done it must 'ave panicked when the girl started bleedin' an'
left the poor cow ter die.  It was in all the papers.  I fink that made yer
mum's mind up not ter go through wiv it.  Don't for getter look after
yourself, Connie."

Night had fallen, and in the cosy flat in Great Dover Street the two young
people faced each other across the table.  The meal was finished and they sat
drinking coffee and chatting happily.  Outside it was raining again and the
wind was rising.  They fell silent listening to the record playing.

Robert was thinking of the meeting he had had with his father before
Christmas.  Until then, his knowledge of the arrangement between Kate Morgan
and the firm had been the same as Connie's, and the truth had shocked him.
He had been told the whole sordid story and had reluctantly agreed with his
father that Connie was not to be told anything, even though she had
questioned him about the money.  Kate Morgan's silence had been bought all
those years until her death.  It would serve no purpose to let her daughter
into the secret after Kate had agreed never to tell anyone.

Nevertheless, he didn't like deceiving Connie.

The gramophone record finished and Robert got up to turn it off.  He came
back and took Connie's hand as they nestled down together on the well-padded
sofa, her head resting in the crook of his arm, and her hand lying across his
chest.

"You 'appy?"  she asked dreamily.

In answer he kissed her gently on the top of her head and she sighed.

After a few moments Robert said,

"Connie, I've been thinking.

Wouldn't you like to give up your work?  "

"Give up work?"

"Yes.  You could stay here.  I've money enough.  You wouldn't have to worry
about clothes and things.  I could give you everything you'd need."

She pulled herself upright and glared into his blue eyes.  "You listen terme, Robert Armitage.  I'm not going' ter let you keep me.  I wanna earn me
own money.  It's important to a girl.  I wanna be able ter buy fings wivvout
'avin' ter keep on asking' you."

He saw the indignant look on her face and he grinned widely.

"I want to take care of you, buy you things.  I love you, Connie."

"You are takin' care of me," she replied.

"You could always buy me a little present once in a while, but I wanna be
independent an' earn me own money, Robert, so let's 'ear no more of it."

"Okay," he said, with mock seriousness.

"I'll never mention it again."

They became quiet again.  Connie's head was resting against his chest and she
listened to the steady thump of his heart.

Suddenly she looked up into his eyes, as if reminded of something.

"Do yer fink there's really gonna be a war?"

"What made you ask that, Con?"

"I dunno.  There's a lot o' talk about a war.  If there is, will yer 'ave ter
go away ter fight?"

"Don't let's talk about war," he said, squeezing her hand.  "It's not the
subject I want to get into on a cosy Saturday night when I'm entertaining my
lustful mistress."

177 Connie looked up into his smiling blue eyes.

"Is that what yer see me as, a lustin' mistress?"

Robert laughed loudly and she felt the rumble in his chest.

"You're my lover, my mistress, my scarlet woman.  You're sharing my secret
bedchamber, did you not know?  Be warned.  To spurn my advances could mean
the Tower."

Connie did not laugh at Robert's jest.

"You fool," she whispered as she snuggled closer to him and closed her eyes.
It felt good just to be with him, but she could not still her thoughts.  She
remembered the first time she had gone to meet him and the feelings which ran
through her then.  She did not want to suffer the heartache and pain her
mother must have endured.  She wanted to make these magic moments last, and
keep him, against the pressures of his family and the temptations of other
more sophisticated women.  Robert hadn't spoken of the future.  He hadn't
talked about marriage or even mentioned getting engaged.  He had remained
light-hearted and casual about their affair.  It was as though he saw their
relationship as one to savour for the moment.  He avoided mentioning what was
to come in the days ahead and laughed off her fears and apprehensions.  Maybe
he saw the future and feared it?  Maybe he shared her fears and refused to
face them, lest the realisation spoil their treasured moments together.

She felt him slide his hand from beneath her neck and she watched him go to
the fire.  He came back and bent over her.  She felt his strong arms around
her as he lifted her from the sofa and she nestled against him, feeling the
warmth of his body as he carried her to the bedroom.

The gusting wind and the heavy beating rain were forgotten as the lovers
moved closely together.  Their lips met ; in the darkness and their hands
explored each other's hot bodies.  As the night wore on their spent,
exhausted bodies finally moulded together in a dreamless slumber.  .  ,i The
year was young, with early spring buds showing and | light rains spattering
the branches of the trees as they began to come back to life.  In Ironmonger
Street the April showers fell on to old, leaky rooftops and against brick
walls which were cracked and crumbling.

Upstairs rooms became sodden, and water dripped down from the stained
ceilings.

The dampness penetrated the plaster of the tiny parlours and caused the
wallpaper to bubble and peel, and the angry tenants of Ironmonger Street
decided that enough was enough.  They gathered together in George Baker's
front room on a Friday evening and listened while Joe Cooper said his piece.

"Now we all know why we're 'ere, folks, so let's get down ter business.
First of all, we know what 'appened last time we complained ter the rent
collector."

Sod all, that's what," George piped in.

"Be quiet, Dad.  Let Joe finish what 'e's got ter say."

Joe looked at the old man.

"You're right.  Pop, sod all!  We know they came round an' stuck a few slates
on the roofs, an' they plastered up a few cracks in the walls, but it was
only a sweet'ner.  It ain't stopped the water comin' in my 'ouse, an' it
ain't stopped the water getting' in your places eiwer.  No, I'm afraid unless
we all stick tergevver an' demand a proper renovation job, we'll all end up
floatin' out o' the street."

There was a knock on the door and Mary came back into the room with Mrs
Cosgrove holding on to her arm.

' "Ere, make room fer Clara," she said.

They made the old lady comfortable in an armchair and Joe then put his
proposition to the group.

"Right, now this is what I reckon we should do.  When that soppy-lookin' git
of a rent collector comes round on Monday we all tell 'im ter piss orf, 'cos
we ain't gonna pay 'im any rent."

Clara Cosgrove chuckled.

"I was gonna tell 'im that anyway."

"Good fer you, Clara," Joe exclaimed.

"Wait a minute, Joe," Mary's husband said, 'that's a bit strong, ain't it?
They could give us all notice ter quit.  Where we gonna live, out in the
street?  "

Joe looked across at him.

"Now listen, Frank.  You work in the docks.

You know yer don't get any fink unless you're prepared ter fight fer it.  If
we all stick tergevver an' nobody pays their rents on Monday, Vine Estates
are gonna start finkin'.  We'll give 'em some fink ter fink about on top o'
not payin' the rent.  We'll call in the South London Press, an' we'll lobby
the councillors.  Anuvver fing we can do is 179 ter call in the council
doctor.

"E can put a bit o' pressure on.  Once the ball starts rollin' the lan'lords
will 'ave ter do some fink

"Yeah, like chuckin' us all out," Lizzy Conroy piped in.

"Well I fink Joe's right," said George.

"We gotta do some- fink.  These places'll kill us all 'fore long."

Mary patted her father's head.

"Now don't get yerself all worked up.

Pop.  Yer don't want anuvver turn like last time, do yer?  "

"I'm all right, gel.  Don't fuss.  I fink we should listen ter Joe.

"E's talkin' sense."

Frank held out his hand.

"Jus' look around.  There's sixteen 'ouses in this turnin'.

"Ow many of us 'ere?  If we're gonna stop the rent we've all gotta do it.
The Toomeys won't go along wiv us, an' nor will Widow Pacey."

"Nor will Muwer Adams.  She'd be too worried over 'er moggies,"

someone else chimed in.

Joe held his hand up for silence.

"Right.  Now this is what we gotta do.  First fing termorrer we get a
delegation ter see all those who ain't 'ere ternight.  We'll put it to 'em,
then we'll take a count.  If the majority ses they're fera rent strike we'll
meet the rent collector when 'e comes round on Monday an' tell 'im ter piss
orf.

That way nobody can back out o' the strike.  What dyer say?  "

There was a general nodding of heads and Joe smiled.  "Are we all in
agreement ter stop our rents till they fix up our 'ouses?"

Everyone nodded and Frank looked at the stocky figure of Joe.

"Ere, Joe.  There's nine of us present, an' there's only sixteen 'ouses in
the street.  We've got a majority, ain't we?"

"No, we gotta do it right, Frank," Joe replied.

"There can only be one vote fer each 'ouse'old."

George gave his son-in-law a scornful glance, then looked up at the tenants'
leader.

"Yer got my vote, Joe," he rasped.

"Anybody against?"  Joe asked.

There was silence, interrupted only by the gentle snoring of Clara Cosgrove.

"Okay then.  We got six votes fera strike.  If we get anuvver three, we tell
the collector what ter do," Joe said.

"We're wiv yer, Joe," Mary shouted.

"Yeah, right in the bloody work'ouse," mumbled Lizzie Conroy.

' "Ang on a minute," Joe shouted as the gathering prepared to leave.

"What about the delegation?  Who's gonna come round wiv metermorrer?"

"I'll come round," George said.

"Oh no yer don't," his daughter cut in.

"Yer not up to it.  Let somebody else go round."

"I'll come wiv yer," said Lizzie Conroy, hoping she might be able to dissuade
the rest of the tenants.

"I'll come, too, Joe," Mary said.

"Yer'd better be careful when yer call on the Toomeys, Joe," George joked.

"That girl o' theirs'll 'ave yer trousers orf, give eralfa chance."

"Don't worry," Joe laughed.

"If it goes our way we'll give 'er the rent collector as a bonus."

181 FR1;Chapter Eighteen The belief that war was inevitable was becoming
strong in everyone's mind.  Newspapers carried large banner headlines
proclaiming the events in Europe, and the inside pages recounted the
worsening situation in many parts of the world.  The international situation
was followed very closely of course by the Horseshoe domino club members.
Pints of ale at their elbow, the two spokesmen resumed their habitual debate.

"I tell yer.  Bill, it's bloody disgustin'.  Everywhere yer look there's
trouble.  Now take Spain."

"I don't want it, Tel."

"C'mon, all jokin' ter one side, it's 'orrible what's going' on out there.
Did yer see those pictures in the Daily Mirror of the bombin' out there?
It's the bloody German air force what's doin' it."

"Yeah I did as a matter o' fact, Tel.  I bin readin' all about it.

They call 'em the Condor Squadron.  Ole Franco called 'em in.  I mean, 'e's a
bloody Fascist 'himself, ain't 'e?  Terrible what they're doin' ter those
towns.  If we go ter war wiv Germany they'll be bombin' us.

Bloody trainin' in Spain, that's what the bastards are doin'.  "

"D'yer fink it will come to it.  Bill?"

"Stone certainty, Tel.  I mean ter say, they've got Austria, an' they're
'avin' a go at Czechoslovakia.  Everybody's flyin' around signin' pacts.
Sooner or later we're gonna get involved."

"Long as they keep our pub out of it.  Bill.  I don't fancy that Kraut beer."

"Yeah, it's lookin' bad.  Anyway, let's change the subject.  It's getting' me
depressed.  It's your turn I fink, Tel.  I'll 'ave a pinto' the same."

In Hyde Park, crowds gathered every Sunday morning to 183 listen to the
orators, some of whose recent forecasts of how things would move in Europe
were proving correct.  Other speakers continued to plead for their own pet
causes, and one fiery character pronounced, as he had done for the last
fifteen years, that the end was nigh.  First-time visitors to Speakers'
Corner were often given directions to the spot by a ruddy-faced constable
with a busy moustache who clasped his hands over his corpulent middle as he
added,

"It's the place where they go from the sublimeter the Gor blimey."

In the April of 1938 the events abroad were forgotten for a time as the folk
from Ironmonger Street faced their own troubles.  The delegation met as
planned early on Saturday morning and began door knocking.  At number eleven,
Widow Pacey answered the knock on the door and stood, arms folded, as Joe and
Mary argued the case for a rent strike.  Lizzy Conroy, the other delegate,
remained silent and she was secretly pleased at Widow Pacey's response.  She
had listened intently, her tired eyes flitting from one to the other.  Widow
Pacey had been a widow for a number of years; her only source of income was
from bag wash collections and deliveries which she made on a battered old
pram with wheels that squeaked for want of a drop of oil.  People in the
street paid her sixpence for a round trip to Maxwell's, the local laundry in
Long Lane, a journey she made in all weathers and, as she slowly walked along
the street with the pram piled high, the local youngsters would talk in
whispers of all the horrific stories they had heard about her.  Widow Pacey's
children had all left home and, as far as anyone could recall, they had never
once returned to visit their ageing mother.  She was a proud, deep woman who
always stood her ground and on this occasion she could not be moved.

"No.  Count me out.  This place might not be the best place ter live, but
it's better than none at all."

The delegation's entreaties were dismissed with a short wave of her hand.

"I can't stand 'ere argufyin' wiv yer," she said.

"I got me washin' ter collect."

At number twelve they had a success.  Ada Halliday wanted to go even further.
Her eyes blazed as she said,

"We ought ter tar an' feawer the bastard when 'e comes round!"

' "E only collects the rents, Ada.

"E ain't ter blame,"

Lizzie replied, realising that the rent strike was looming closer now.

As they approached number fifteen, Mary screwed up her round face.

"Bloody 'ell!  I can smell the cats' piss from 'ere!"

Mrs Adams greeted them with a curt reply.

"No fan ks  I got me animals ter fink about," she said, closing the door
abruptly.

It was later that Saturday morning when the delegation realised it was facing
failure.  Only one other tenant had backed the strike.

Doreen Richards' daughter Bella was ill with pneumonia, and her mother was
convinced that their living conditions were to blame.

There was one more house to visit and it had been left until last.

Joe paused at the front door.  He shrugged his broad shoulders and ran his
fingers through his thick greying hair.  "Oh well.  I s'pose we'd better give
it a try," he sighed.

Toby Toomey opened the door of number one and stared absently as Joe began to
speak.  Lizzie was trying not to look too happy, but she was already
confident of the outcome.  When Joe Finished Toby scratched his head and
looked a little thoughtful.

"I'd better go an' see if Marie agrees," he said.

Marie came to the front door, an apron tied around her waist and her dark
hair hanging loosely around her pale face.  Joe repeated what he had already
told Toby and when he had finished Marie's face lit up.

' "Ere, Lil.  Come down 'ere.  We're all going' on strike," she called out.

Lillian Toomey hurried down the stairs and joined her mother at the front
door.  Her large brown eyes bore into Joe and she gave him a crooked smile.

"A strike?"  she said in a deep voice.

"That'll be nice.

"Ere, are you the organiser, Joe?  I've always admired forceful men."

Mary glanced at Joe and saw that he was almost squirming under Lillian's
smouldering gaze.

"Well that's it," she said loudly.

"It's a strike!"

Lizzie concealed her disappointment at what she considered to be a bad
result.  The Toomeys had surprised her by their enthusiasm.  The whole family
must be stupid, she mused.  They don't seem to know what day of the week 185
it is.  They soon will when they get thrown on to the street.

As they walked back along the turning Joe could hardly conceal his pleasure
at having won the first round of the battle.  Mary was also grinning widely.
Lizzie was more serious-faced.  She was worried about what her husband had
said.  He had tried to dissuade her from going to the meeting in the first
place.  He did not like Joe, and expressed the view that he was a
trouble-maker and a Bolshevik.

"If we do get into a war it'll be people like 'im who'll cause trouble, mark
my words."

Lizzie would have been more surprised had she listened in to the conversation
which was taking place at number one that very minute.

Marie Toomey was grinning widely as she waved the piece of paper in front of
her sheepish-faced husband.

"This bloody letter can go in the dustbin now.  We'll owe more than four
weeks' rent by the time we're finished.  But they can't chuck us out now the
rest of the street ain't payin' their rent.  It'll be more than they dare do."

Toby nodded, and his daughter Lillian smiled at her reflection in the mirror
as she applied another layer of rouge to her red cheeks.  Marie screwed up
the notice of arrears and prodded Toby in the chest with her forefinger.

"You'd better get that pram fixed.  You've got a reprieve.  I want you out
collectin' soon as possible, an' don't ferget what I said.  No lumber no
food.  Okay?"

Toby stood up without replying and grabbed the oil can as he walked out into
the backyard.

Connie had made up her mind to leave Armitage's as soon as she could.

It was getting difficult to wait on the table now that the secret of her
relationship with Robert was out in the open.  It seemed to her that the
management's eyes followed her every move, and Peter Armitage had taken to
looking at her in a strange way.  It was as though she had become an
embarrassment to the factory owner and it worried her.  She had already
confided in Robert about her feelings and he had said she shouldn't let it
worry her.  Connie felt that he showed a slight sign of relief, however, when
she told him she was looking for another job.  It must be difficult for him,
she mused, what with his family's attitude, and the fact that her presence
in the canteen was a constant reminder to them.

But another problem was still causing her considerable concern.  She had come
no nearer to solving the mystery of the money her mother had received from
the firm.  Robert had not been able to shed any light on the subject and she
had decided to try another approach.  Recently she had found out that the
matronly looking woman who sat next to Peter Armitage at the table was his
secretary.  Dot had said that Alice Jones was an old employee who had been
with the company in the time of George Armitage and she seemed a pleasant
woman who was ready with a smile and always polite and friendly.  Connie
reasoned that Miss Jones might well have been involved in the arrangements to
get the payments to her mother sorted out in the first place, and it might be
worth approaching her about it.  Miss Jones had taken the trouble to express
her sympathy after the funeral, and it had been the start of a rapport
between them.  They often exchanged a few words and pleasantries at
lunchtime, and Miss Jones had on more than one occasion indicated her
irritation towards Peter Armitage by a secret flick of her eyes in his
direction and a sly smile.  Connie decided to bide her time until she had a
chance to catch the woman alone.

The opportunity presented itself one Monday morning.  It was nearing midday
and Connie was just finishing laying the table.  Miss Jones suddenly walked
into the room and handed her an envelope.

"Would you put this beside the boss's plate, dear," she asked.

"It's a birthday card and we've all signed it.  It might help cheer the old
goat up a bit," she giggled.

Connie took the envelope and propped it up against a glass, glancing at the
well-groomed woman.

"Would yer mind if I asked yer some fink

Miss Jones?  "

Alice Jones patted her permanent wave theatrically.

"Call me Alice, dear.  It sounds less formal.  Now, what is it you want to
ask me?"

Connie hesitated.

"It's .  .  .  it's about me mum.  I was wonderin' if ... if yer know any
fink about the money she got from the firm?"

Alice bit on her lip.  It was a subject she did not want to discuss in the
firm's canteen, especially as it was almost 187 lunchtime.  She looked over
her shoulder before answering.  Look, dear.  I can't talk to you now.
They'll all be down soon.  It would be best if we talked outside of working
hours really.  You're welcome to come round to my place, if you'd like to.  I
don't live far away.  My house is just off the Old Kent Road.  "

Connie nodded.

"I need ter talk ter yer as soon as possible, Alice.

It's important terme.  "

Alice patted her hair again with the palm of her hand.

"If it's that important you're welcome to come round tonight, if you want to."

"I'd like to, if you're sure you don't mind," Connie said hesitantly.

"Of course I don't mind," the older woman said, fishing into her handbag.

"Look, here's my address on this envelope.  If you can manage around
half-seven it'll suit me fine."

Connie nodded as she took the creased envelope and slipped it into her apron
pocket.  Suddenly the day seemed much brighter.

The day had started badly for Gordon Harris and it could only get worse, he
decided.  At nine o'clock precisely he presented himself to the manager of
Vine Estates and was motioned into a chair.  Norman Wallburton raised his
bulky figure from behind the desk and paced the room.

"Now look here, Harris.  I'm rather concerned about that little business in
Ironmonger Street."

The rent collector felt his heart sink, and he bit on the inside of his
cheek.  That bloody turning will be the death of me he thought.

"Number one.  Ironmonger Street," the manager went on.  "They owe four weeks'
rent.  How come you allowed the arrears to build up?"

Harris took a deep breath.

"Ah, yes.  The Toomey family.  Well you see Mr Wallburton, it's like this.
Toomey has been ill.  His wife promised me faithfully that the rent arrears
would be cleared up today.  In fact, I'm going round to Ironmonger Street
this morning."

The manager grunted.

"I don't like these arrears building up, Harris.

In.  future, if any tenant in that particular street slips, even for one
week, I'll want to know why.  Is that clear?  "

Harris nodded.

"Don't worry, Mr Wallburton.  It'll be all right.  You can take my word for
it.  Toomey told me he's going back to work this week and not to worry.  The
rent will be paid up to date."

The bulky manager of Vine Estates looked over his thick- rimmed spectacles at
his pale-faced subordinate.

"What exactly does this Toomey do for a living, might I ask?"

Harris swallowed hard

"He's a collector."

"A collector?"

"Yes.  He collects scrap iron and things."

"Scrap iron!?  You mean the man's a totter?"

"Well, sort of."

The manager sat down at his desk and glared at the rent collector.

"I

hope he doesn't store scrap iron in his house?  "

"No, he collects and delivers directly."

"What does he use for these collections, a horse and cart?"

"No, a pram," Harris mumbled.

"A pram!?  Good God, man.  No wonder he's in arrears.  Now you get straight
round there and get that rent.  Oh, and make sure our totter friend isn't
storing that scrap of his in the house.  It's against the law."

Gordon Harris left the estate office and walked slowly down the Old Kent
Road.  There was no doubt about it, he mused, collecting rents was not a job
for the fainthearted, especially when the round took in Ironmonger Street.
He thought about the times he had been verbally assaulted, propositioned,
confronted and, worst of all, ignored in that scruffy turning.  Even the
factory owner had been pelted with rotten apples by the kids as he drove into
the street.  Then there was the oil shop on the corner.  The kids had driven
poor old Jerry Martin into Colney Hatch and no one wanted to buy the shop.
There was the rag shop on the opposite corner as well.  Once every blue moon
it opened up for the purpose of loading bags of rags on to a lorry and then
it promptly closed again.  Vine Estates did not own the premises and no one
seemed to know the identity of the shop owner.  It was a mystery.  Now, on
top of everything else, he had heard that Vine Estates was negotiating to 189
purchase Jubilee Dwellings.  God!  he thought.  If that deal goes through
I'll have to give the job up and try something else.  Anything would be
better than facing another load of moaning tenants every Monday morning.

As he turned into Tower Bridge Road and walked past the market stalls Gordon
Harris could sense trouble.  The feeling increased as he turned off the
thoroughfare and weaved his way towards the dreaded turning.

When he reached the corner of Ironmonger Street he knew he should have
reported in sick that morning.  There was a whole line of people spread
across the turning.

"There 'e is," someone shouted.

The rent collector could see the broad-shouldered figure of Joe Cooper
approaching him with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets and a
stern look on his round face.

"Sorry, pal.  Yer can't come in the street.  Yer barred."

"What do you mean, I'm barred?  I've got rents to collect and arrears,"
Harris added with forced bravado.

"Well we're not payin' any rent until your precious Vine Estates does some
fink about our 'ouses."

"That's right," piped in Mary Brown.

"Our 'ouses are a bloody disgrace.  We've got water pourin' in the roofs an'
the walls are soppin' wet.  It's bleedin' scand'lous."

Harris put his black book under his arm and scratched his head.

"Well I don't know what I can do about it.  I'm only employed ter collect the
rents."

The Ironmonger Street folk milled around him in a threatening manner and
George Baker hobbled up, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

"Now listen, mate," George said.

"We ain't payin' no poxy rent, so yer can go back an' tell yer guy' nor we
want some fink done pronto, or we might jus' come round an' set yer bloody
office alight.  Got it?"

The collector had got the message.  He had caught a glimpse of Toby and Marie
Toomey grinning triumphantly in the background.  He turned on his heel and
walked away with cheers and jeers ringing in his ears.

Connie sat with the Bartletts listening to Helen's account of the
confrontation at the street entrance that morning.  "You should 'ave seen
Mary Brown an' 'er farvver standin' up ter that rent collector," she said to
Matthew.  "Joe Cooper was up the front as usual.  Anyway, they ain't payin'
their rents till some fink done.  I dunno what Joe an' Mary were doin' there.
They must 'ave lost a day's pay.  I can't imagine the firm givin' 'em time
off feranyfing o' that sort."

Matthew slumped down in his chair and hooked his thumbs through his wide
braces.

"That Joe gets 'himself mixed up in everyfing.  I bet 'is missus ain't very
'appy."

Helen shrugged her shoulders.

"Joe's always bin the same.  I don't know owe finds the time, what wiv
Sadie being stuck in a wheelchair."

"What's wrong wiv 'er?"  Connie asked.

"She caught polio years ago.  Shame really.  She was a good-lookin' woman.
You wouldn't reco'nise 'er if yer'd seen 'er then.  Very smart she was.
Funny, they never 'ad kids.  Always out tergevver, like a couple o' love
birds they was.  It's different now though.  She don't stop naggin' 'im.  I
fink 'alf of it is that cousin of 'ers.  She's always in the 'ouse, so I've
'card.  She's prob'ly poisoned 'er mind against Joe."

"Why don't Joe chuck the ole bat out?"  Matthew asked.

"I s'pose 'e's glad she's there.  It gives 'im a break.

"E was always at meetin's, but I don't fink 'e goes ter many now."

Matthew glanced at Helen.

"You seem ter know a lot about Joe Cooper."

"It's only what I'm told," she countered.

"Well I don't fink they're gonna get away wiv not payin' the rent.

They'll send the bailiffs round.  "

Helen turned her attention to a pair of Matthew's torn trousers and Molly
buried her head in a magazine, sensing that another row between her parents
was likely.  The clock on the mantel shelf struck seven and Connie realised it
was time for her to leave.  She had not mentioned that she was going to see
Alice Jones.  Better wait until I know something definite, she reasoned.

Connie had gone back to her flat before she left for her appointment.

She could hear raised voices in the flat below and she felt a concern for
Molly.  Her cousin had taken to reading as an escape from the unpleasant
atmosphere and Connie was, once again, finding it difficult to communicate
191 with her.  Molly had become even more withdrawn and less willing to
talk.  Connie guessed that her relationship with Robert had something to do
with Molly's attitude.  She had been a little off-hand when she had learned
about Michael Donovan, and now when they had one of their rare chats together
Molly would go quiet at the mention of Robert's name.  Connie sighed as she
glanced into the mirror.  She did not want to shut her cousin out of her
life.  They had always been very close and she wanted Molly to share in her
happiness.  Maybe it was inevitable that they should grow apart.  Maybe it
was unreasonable to expect Molly to be happy for her.  After all, there was
little happiness in her own life, only the knowledge that she was trapped
inside a misshapen, ailing body.  It was all so unfair.  Connie sighed
heavily as she closed the door behind her and hurried down into the quiet
street.

Chapter Nineteen The Old Kent Road was quiet that evening.  The shops were
shuttered and the traffic had died down.  One or two trams clattered past and
a pair of tired horses pulled an empty hay-cart along beside the kerb.

Connie reach the Dun Cow public house and took the envelope from her handbag.
She showed the address to an elderly gent who was lounging against a sand
bin smoking a clay pipe, and he directed her to a little back street a short
way from the pub.  Potter Street was made up of neat terraced houses which
stretched along both sides of the turning.  Steps led up to the front doors,
and more steps afforded entry to the basement areas.  Number twenty-six had a
highly polished front door and a brass knocker and letterbox.  Connie climbed
the steps and as she lifted the door knocker she saw the lace curtains move
in the downstairs window.  The door was immediately opened by Miss Jones who
smiled at her and stepped back for her to enter.  The passage was carpeted
and just inside the front door there was a hat stand on which a long bevelled
mirror hung.  Alice glanced at her reflection and touched her well-managed
hair before showing Connie into the front room.

"Would you like a cup pa  she asked.

Connie shook her head.

"No fan ks  It's nice ofyer ter see me."

Alice motioned to an armchair.

"Sit yourself down, girl.  Let me take your coat."

While Connie was making herself comfortable Alice put the coat on a hanger
and hung it behind the room door.

"Now then.  How can I help you?"

Connie clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at her toes.

"I'm tryin' ter find out about the money me mum received from Armitage's all
those years right up till she died," she said directly.

193 "Didn't your mother tell you anything about the money, dear?"

"No.  Every time I asked 'er she said it was me dad's money.  I never knew
'im.  Mum told me 'e was dead and that was all I needed ter know."

Alice looked at the pretty girl sitting facing her and felt sorry for her.
She had known Kate Morgan and had learned quite a lot about her from the
works' gossip.  It couldn't have been easy for this girl growing up.  As she
studied her Alice could not help but notice how like her mother she was:
there was an uncanny resemblance.  Alice crossed her legs and straightened
her skirt.

"You think I might know about the money?"  she asked.

Connie nodded.

"Well I thought you being' the guy' nor secretary you might 'ave arranged it."

The older woman smiled kindly.

"Look.  Let me get you a cup of tea and then we'll have a chat."

Sounds came from the kitchen and while she was waiting Connie looked about
the room.  The two armchairs were covered with a floral-patterned material
and against the wall facing the fireplace was a matching sofa.  In the centre
of the room there was a square dining-table with an embroidered sash spread
across the middle.  A bowl of fruit stood in the centre of the table and the
arrangement reminded Connie of Christmas.  The walls were papered in a
leaf-pattern and various pictures of landscapes were hung around the room.
One different picture took Connie's eye.  It was of a guardian angel standing
over two young children.  There was something about that particular picture
that reminded her of the sister's room at the hospital.  The painting was
hung in a wide gilt frame and like the others it was suspended from a wooden
picture rail that went around the walls.  A gas fire stood in the hearth and
above the high marble mantel shelf there was a mirror shaped like a butterfly.
A rearing iron horse was perched at each end of the shelf and in the centre
there was a large chiming clock with an ebonised base.  The whole room looked
clean and everything seemed in place.  Heavy curtains hung at the side of the
window and the lace covering the window panes looked freshly laundered.
Connie was feeling slightly ill at ease.

Alice came back into the room with two cups of tea balanced on a wicker
tray.  She handed one cup to Connie and then sat down in the chair facing her
with a sigh.

"There, that's better," she said, stirring her tea with some deliberation.

"First of all, Connie," she continued,

"I know you've a right to know about the money, now that your mum's passed
away, but you must realise that although I might not be able to help you
much, what I do tell you is confidential.  I'm in a position of trust, and I
wouldn't like Peter Mr Armitage - finding out that I'd been talking to you."

Connie nodded.

"I promise nobody at the firm will find out any fink from me, Alice."

Miss Jones took a sip from her tea and put the cup down on the occasional
table at her elbow.

"I remember when the payments started, because I had to arrange it with the
pay office.  Old George Armitage authorised the money when he was the boss.
It was only three pounds a month at the beginning, but it was increased to
five pounds a month later.  I remember when I first made the arrangements
because it was just after the firm's outing to Southend.  It was the first
and last outing the firm ever had."

"What year was that, Alice?"  Connie interrupted.

"It was the summer of twenty-three.  That's over fourteen years ago.

How time flies.  "

Connie was eager for the woman to get on with it and she fidgeted in her seat.

"As I was saying," Miss Jones went on.

"It was the year of the outing.  I didn't go myself.  I don't like Southend,
and I'm not one for social outings.  Anyway, just after the outing your
mother left the firm.  Rather sudden it was, if I remember rightly.  A few
weeks later I was ordered to arrange the payments.  Your mother was to
receive the money by post every month.  I wasn't taken into George Armitage's
confidence, Connie.  I never knew what the money was for."

"You say me mum left suddenly?  Did yer know why?"

Alice picked up her cup and took another sip before replying.

"Well, there was a lot of talk at the time.  I couldn't get to the bottom of
it, but it was something to do with Gerald Armitage."

"Gerald Armitage?"

195 "Yes.  He was the younger brother.  He left the firm before you started.
He was a nasty piece of work.  Fond of the girls and always upsetting
someone or other.  I heard Gerald got drunk and caused trouble at the pub in
Southend.  Your mother was involved in some way, so I heard.  She was very
upset apparently.  As I said, she left soon after.  The following week I
think it was.  That's all I can tell you, Connie."

"If the money started in twenty-three I'd 'ave bin three years old at the
time," Connie said thoughtfully.

"I don't think the money had anything to do with your father, dear.

If your mother never told you what the payment was for I don't see how you're
going to find out now.  All I can suggest is for you to talk to those workers
who went on the outing.  Some of them still work at the firm.  They might be
able to throw some light on the mystery, although, as I say, it was a long
time ago.  "

"How can I find out who was on the outin', Alice?"

"I might be able to help there," Alice volunteered.  "There's some old
photographs up in my office.  They were taken at the pub in Southend.

There's a group photo amongst them, I'm sure.  Look, I tell you what.

I'll sort them out and get them to you as soon as I can.  How's that?  "

Connie stood up.  Tanks very much, Alice.  I really appreciate you el ping
me.  I've jus' gotta find out about the money.  It's bin worryin' me ever
since mum died.  "

Alice helped Connie into her coat and showed her to the door.

"Don't worry.  I'm sure you'll be able to get to the bottom of it, dear."

Once out in the street Connie sighed deeply; the mystery surrounding her
mother's life seemed to be getting more and more complicated.  ?  { The
Sunday evening was balmy, with just a hint of a breeze; stirring a couple of
toffee wrappers at their feet.  They,; walked arm in arm through the park and
heard vaguest brassy sounds drifting over from the distant bandstand.  Above,
the trees were displaying their new leaves, andi through the thickening
foliage they caught a glimpse of the| scurrying clouds.  The two walked
slowly, their steps!  measured and their bodies touching.  From time to time
they?  exchanged glances, passing silent messages with their eyes' and
smiling to each other in the quiet fading light.  A couple was walking
towards them, the woman pushing a pram and the man walking beside her
carrying a large shopping bag.  The only other person on the gravel path was
an old man with a walking stick who had nodded to the lovers as he passed
slowly by.  Away in the distance they saw the redness rising over the
tree-line and above it the diminishing shades of gold that reached up into
the heavens.

The girl sighed, a deep lingering sigh as she squeezed his arm.

"It's so peaceful, Robert.  Doesn't that cut grass smell luvvly."

"Yes.  I love this place.  It's like standing on top of London.  When you
look down on the river you can sense all the noise and bustle going on, but
up here it's like being in the heart of the country.

You can breathe fresh air and almost hear the quietness.  You can leave the
ugliness and the squalor down below and forget everything.  "

Connie stared into his pale-blue eyes and thought she saw a distant look
there.

"You seem serious, Robert.  I'll give you a penny fer yer thoughts."

He grinned nonchalantly, but inside his head there were thoughts that he
could not reveal.  Thoughts which crowded his mind and gave the lie to what
he had been saying.  The beauty of the surroundings could do nothing to
dispel the nagging fear that before much longer the country would be plunged
into war.  He felt it strongly, and the fear was steadily growing.  It
plagued him and affected his thinking.  He imagined the destruction and
carnage there would be, and could envisage nothing but sorrow and darkness
ahead.

"I'm sorry if I seem serious, Con," he said after a while.

"I was just thinking how peaceful it is here, when you consider all the
trouble and strife that's going on in the world."

Connie laid her head against his shoulder as they strolled along.

"Are yer worried about a war, Robert?  You was mumblin' somefing about war in
yer sleep last night."

"No, of course not," he replied quickly.

Connie was not to be put off.

"If it is worryin' yer, tell me.  We're s'posed ter share every fink so yer
said."

They had just passed a park bench and Robert stopped suddenly and steered her
towards it.

"Let's sit down awhile, Connie.  I suppose we'd better talk about it."

197 The couple with the pram passed by without a glance in their direction
and when they were out of earshot Connie touched his arm.

"I knew there was some fink troublin' yer," she said as they settled down on
the slatted seat.

"Yer keep getting' that funny look in yer eyes.  It frightens me."

He held her hand5 i" his and looked into her worried eves

"Look Con.

I love you very much.  I can't possibly tell you just how much.  l want to be
with you always.  Nothing else matters to me.  ^at scares the living
daylights out of me is the thought of a war.  A war that would part us, and
maybe I'd never see you again.  "

Connie felt her eyes glaze.

"Even if there was a war we would still be terge^er, wouldn't we?  I mean yer
wouldn't 'ave ter go away an' " ght, would yer?  "

"You mean that ^th me being a factory manager I'd be exempt?"  he said with a
sudden hardness in his voice.

"Yes, I would but can't you see I couldn't just carry on in the factory while
everyone else was going off to fight.  I couldn't live with myself."

She pulled her hands away suddenly and sat up straight in the seat.

She glared at him, her eyes burning into his.

"You make me so mad when yer talk like that.  It's all men fink of, going'
away ter fight.

It strikes meyer want there ter be a war jus' so yer ca" So off an' get
yerself killed or some" You don't underhand, Connie.  It's not like that at
all.  I don't want to go aod get killed.  It's just that .  oh let's forget
it.  " .  She looked into " is troubled eyes and her arms went out to him.

"Yer mustn't go away an' get yerself killed or badly wounded, Robert.  I
couldn't live wiwout yer.  Yer mus' know that by now.  I love yer terrible."

He took her to b1111 and they held each other close.  No words were spoken as
they clung together.  Finally their bodies relaxed, and he took her by the
shoulders and leaned back until she was at arm's length.

"I'm sorry.  Con.  I^e frightened you.  Look, it's just me.  All this
warmongeriug has been getting to me.  I don't think | there'll be a war,
honest.  Now let's forget all about such ; talk.  Come on, there's a nice
place I know down near the pier.  We can sit on the veranda overlooking the
river.  If you're good I'll buy you a beer," he joked.

They walked in silence down the steep path which led to the park gates.  The
evening traffic noise sounded loud after the quiet of the serene surroundings
they were leaving, and as they crossed the busy road and walked leisurely
down to the river they heard the harsh tone of the pleasure boat's horn as it
pulled away from the pier.  Along the walkway they passed tired children who
were being ushered home, and lovers like themselves who strolled arm in arm,
oblivious to everyone around them.  They found the riverside inn and Robert
squeezed his way to the counter.  The pub was quite busy, with a mixture of
visitors to the area and local folk who sat around in small groups and cast
curious glances at the strangers as they arrived.  Robert finally managed to
get served and then led the way out on to the veranda.  They found a seat by
the rail and sipped their drinks as they took in the view.  Downriver they
could see the sweep of the Thames, flowing in a wide curve around the Isle of
Dogs.  Crane arms reached up to the darkening clouds and upriver the distant
stone of Tower Bridge was bathed in light as the setting sun painted the
heavens in shades of red and gold.  The last pleasure craft was nearing the
pier at Greenwich and across the water dark wharves loomed mysterious and
ghost-like.  Connie glanced at her lover and saw that now familiar look in
his eyes.  There was nothing she could say or do to smooth away the fear and
concern he was feeling.  She felt inadequate, unable to reach into him and
bring him any comfort.  If war did come she would lose him, she felt sure.
He was determined to go away to fight.

Night was settling in and the sound of an accordion drifted out on to the
veranda.  The haunting strains of "Moonlight Bay' seemed to float across the
water and blend with the swish of the ebbing tide.  The two lovers had been
silent for a while, absorbed in their secret thoughts and content to sit and
watch the night creeping in around them.

Connie began to notice the middle-aged couple who had come out on to the
veranda and sat down opposite her.  The woman took some snapshots out of her
handbag and passed them to her companion who put his glasses on to study the
prints.  Connie was suddenly reminded of the large 199 envelope she had
received that Friday morning.  Alice Jones had slipped it to her before the
rest of the management had arrived for their lunch.  That evening Connie had
poured over the photos of happy people who wore funny hats and held their
glasses of beer up to the camera.  One large photo showed the group standing
beside the charabanc, and it was this photo which had interested her most.
The photo was fourteen years old and most of the people in it were
unfamiliar.  She could pick out her mother, however.  She stood between a
young-looking Joe Cooper and a young woman who looked very much like Mary
Brown.  One other figure caught her eye.  He was smartly dressed and the only
member of the group who wore a tie.  From what Miss Jones had told her Connie
took him to be Gerald Armitage.  There had been no opportunity so far to talk
to the secretary about the people in the photograph nor to show it to Helen,
but she was determined to follow up the lead as soon as possible.

"You're quiet.  Con," Robert said, squeezing her hand in his.

She glanced briefly at the couple who were giggling like young children over
the snapshots.

"I was jus' finkin'," she said quietly.

"Let's get a photo done of us tergevver, Robert."

The past week had been a time of feverish activity for the Ironmonger Street
strike committee.  The South London Press had been alerted and they had sent
a reporter down.  Joe Cooper had met with Mary Brown and her father George to
draft a letter to the Bermondsey Doctor of Health.  One or two local
concillors who had been sympathetic to Joe's activities in the past were also
contacted and they pledged their support.  As for the rent collector, he had
not been seen around since he was sent packing.  Lizzie Conroy's fear that
the bailiffs would arrive with the police did not materialise.  Joe knew that
it was only a matter of time before the bubble burst, and he passed the word
around.

"Be on yer toes.  It's gone too quiet."

All was not quiet in the Vine Estate office that Friday morning.

The portly manager Norman Wallburton had summoned the agitated rent
collector into his office and proceeded to read out the riot act.

"Look, Harris.  You're employed to collect rents, not to be a bearer of bad
bloody tidings.  No rents collected are bad bloody tidings indeed.  I won't
have tenants telling the landlord that they are not going to pay their rents.
Good God, man!  It's the tail wagging the dog.  I won't have it, d'you hear?"

Gordon Harris heard right enough.  The bellowing voice hurt his ears.

One thing you won't be having, he thought, and that's the rents.

"I said, did you hear me?"

"I heard you, sir.  Trouble is, there's a nasty crowd in that street.

It's got a bad name y'know.  "

"A bad name!?  I'll give it a bad name before I'm finished with Ironmonger
Street.  I'll have the lot of them thrown out," Wallburton spluttered,
sitting down heavily in his padded chair and wiping his perspiring forehead
with a large handkerchief.

Harris looked at his hot and bothered manager.  I'd like to see you face that
rabble, you fat, overgrown slob, he thought.  That lot would eat you for
breakfast.  I'm out there taking my life in my hands, and there's you sitting
on your fat arse giving stupid orders.  You make me sick.

"Harris!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get the rest of your rounds done and I'll talk to you again next Monday
morning."

Yes, sir.  "

On Friday afternoon another visitor was shown in to the Vine Estate office
and Norman Wallburton got up to greet him.

"Hello, Frank.  How are you?"

The tall, stooping figure of Councillor Frank Salmon reached out and took the
manager's clammy hand.

"I'm well, Norman.  I hear you've been having a confrontation with some
malcontents?"

The manager pulled up a large leather-bound chair and motioned the councillor
into it.

"My collector had the confrontation, Frank.  Seems the bolshy bastards over
in Ironmonger Street have organised a rent strike, would you believe?"

201 Councillor Salmon crossed his legs and proceeded to scratch his shin.

"Yes, Norman, I know.  That's the purpose of my visit.  I've been contacted
by the strike leader and, being their ward councillor I'm obliged to mediate."

"Mediate?  They've got to pay their rents, Frank.  All right, I grant you
there're problems with repairs, but let's face it, those places are nearly
eighty years old.  It costs a small fortune these days to keep them in good
repair."

Frank Salmon nodded.

"I sympathise with you, Norman, but we've got a problem here.  The local
press are on to it.  They'll make capital out of this rent business.  I've
also been talking to the council doctor.

He showed me a letter he'd received from the Ironmonger Street people only
this morning.  It's a bad time for that sort of publicity, especially after
the diphtheria outbreak over on Conner Street a few months ago.  "

"What can I do, Frank?  I've got a business to run.  Those houses have
already been patched up once."

Councillor Salmon scratched his leg again.

"How long have we known each other, Norman?  he said.

"Quite a number of years now, Frank."

"Well then, trust me when I say I'm thinking of both our interests in this
matter.  Like yourself, I'm a businessman.  I make it a point of knowing just
what's going on in the borough.  I happen to know that your company is
negotiating the purchase of Jubilee Dwellings.  I also happen to know that
the property is owned by the Granthams and that Lady Grantham is planning to
leave for America shortly and wants to complete the deal as soon as possible."

Norman Wallburton toyed with his paper knife.

"You're certainly well informed, Frank," he said a little archly.

"As I said, Norman.  It's my business to know, and I find my lodge meetings
can be very informative.  However, there's one other little bit of
information which might interest you.  At the last Housing Programme Meeting,
Jubilee Dwellings was mentioned as a prospective site for council housing
development.  Nothing was decided, I hasten to add, but at next week's
meeting we'll be voting on the sites for selection.  Point is, Norman, will
the council bid for that particular land, or will the idea be vetoed?  Let's
look at it objectively.

"Vine Estates agrees to carry out a renovation exercise on the Ironmonger
Street houses.  The council committee then abandon plans to include the
Jubilee Dwellings site for future house building, and we all come out of this
with our credibility intact.  I say we, because my credibility is at stake.
I've been put up to champion the Ironmonger Street tenants' cause.  They'll
be looking to me for a result."

Norman Wallburton suddenly felt that his options were being squeezed.

"Suppose Vine Estates decides to defer the repairs, Frank?"  he said.

"Suppose we decide to compete with the council for the land?"

Frank Salmon's mouth twitched into a ghost of a grin.  "Let's talk about Mr
Knight for a minute or two.  Basil Knight owns the lead mills in Crown
Street.  He also owns the foundry in Dockhead and a saw mill down in
Rotherhithe.  Talk to his employees about their wages and conditions of work
and you'll find out that Mr Knight is about as popular with his work force as
a boil on the arse.  He's not too popular with the unions either, nor the
council Labour group.  The man is a Midas and a skinflint."

"I'm not with you, Frank," the estate manager said frowning.

"All right then, let's talk about one of your major shareholders, Miss Audrey
Kenwood.  The shares are registered in her maiden name.  Audrey Kenwood
happens to be Mrs Basil Knight."

The estate manager's mouth hung open and his eyes popped.

"That's right, Norman.  I think we can draw our own conclusions,"

Frank Salmon went on.

"If the local rag gets hold of that tit-bit they'll have a field day.  What's
more, the council would fight tooth and nail to obtain that site if it
becomes general knowledge that Basil Knight might well be pulling the strings
at Vine Estates.  As for those houses in Ironmonger Street, one or two of our
radicals on the council might even set the ball rolling for a slum clearance
order just to get at Basil Knight.  As I said, Norman, those lodge meetings
of mine are very informative."

The portly estate manager had sagged in his chair.

"Tell me, Frank.

Do you think you can operate a veto at the next meeting?  "

203 Councillor Salmon crossed his legs and proceeded to scratch his shin.

"Yes, Norman, I know.  That's the purpose of my visit.  I've been contacted
by the strike leader and, being their ward councillor I'm obliged to mediate."

"Mediate?  They've got to pay their rents, Frank.  All right, I grant you
there're problems with repairs, but let's face it, those places are nearly
eighty years old.  It costs a small fortune these days to keep them in good
repair."

Frank Salmon nodded.

"I sympathise with you, Norman, but we've got a problem here.  The local
press are on to it.  They'll make capital out of this rent business.  I've
also been talking to the council doctor.

He showed me a letter he'd received from the Ironmonger Street people only
this morning.  It's a bad time for that sort of publicity, especially after
the diphtheria outbreak over on Conner Street a few months ago.  "

"What can I do, Frank?  I've got a business to run.  Those houses have
already been patched up once."

Councillor Salmon scratched his leg again.

"How long have we known each other, Norman?  he said.

"Quite a number of years now, Frank."

"Well then, trust me when I say I'm thinking of both our interests in this
matter.  Like yourself, I'm a businessman.  I make it a point of knowing just
what's going on in the borough.  I happen to know that your company is
negotiating the purchase of Jubilee Dwellings.  I also happen to know that
the property is owned by the Granthams and that Lady Grantham is planning to
leave for America shortly and wants to complete the deal as soon as possible."

Norman Wallburton toyed with his paper knife.

"You're certainly well informed, Frank," he said a little archly.

"As I said, Norman.  It's my business to know, and I find my lodge meetings
can be very informative.  However, there's one other little bit of
information which might interest you.  At the last Housing Programme Meeting,
Jubilee Dwellings was mentioned as a prospective site for council housing
development.  Nothing was decided, I hasten to add, but at next week's
meeting we'll be voting on the sites for selection.  Point is, Norman, will
the council bid for that particular land, or will the idea be vetoed?  Let's
look at it objectively.

"Vine Estates agrees to carry out a renovation exercise on the Ironmonger
Street houses.  The council committee then abandon plans to include the
Jubilee Dwellings site for future house building, and we all come out of this
with our credibility intact.  I say we, because my credibility is at stake.
I've been put up to champion the Ironmonger Street tenants' cause.  They'll
be looking to me for a result."

Norman Wallburton suddenly felt that his options were being squeezed.

"Suppose Vine Estates decides to defer the repairs, Frank?"  he said.

"Suppose we decide to compete with the council for the land?"

Frank Salmon's mouth twitched into a ghost of a grin.  "Let's talk about Mr
Knight for a minute or two.  Basil Knight owns the lead mills in Crown
Street.  He also owns the foundry in Dockhead and a saw mill down in
Rotherhithe.  Talk to his employees about their wages and conditions of work
and you'll find out that Mr Knight is about as popular with his work force as
a boil on the arse.  He's not too popular with the unions either, nor the
council Labour group.  The man is a Midas and a skinflint."

"I'm not with you, Frank," the estate manager said frowning.

"All right then, let's talk about one of your major shareholders, Miss Audrey
Kenwood.  The shares are registered in her maiden name.  Audrey Kenwood
happens to be Mrs Basil Knight."

The estate manager's mouth hung open and his eyes popped.

"That's right, Norman.  I think we can draw our own conclusions,"

Frank Salmon went on.

"If the local rag gets hold of that tit-bit they'll have a field day.  What's
more, the council would fight tooth and nail to obtain that site if it
becomes general knowledge that Basil Knight might well be pulling the strings
at Vine Estates.  As for those houses in Ironmonger Street, one or two of our
radicals on the council might even set the ball rolling for a slum clearance
order just to get at Basil Knight.  As I said, Norman, those lodge meetings
of mine are very informative."

The portly estate manager had sagged in his chair.

"Tell me, Frank.

Do you think you can operate a veto at the next meeting?  "

203 "No problem at all, Norman.  There are certain other members of the
committee who belong to my lodge.  All I need from you is a promise that
you'll start repairs, and a letter of intent when I give you a written
assurance that the site is safe.  How does that sound?"

"I need to take your offer to the board, Frank.  I don't envisage any
problems."

"No, I didn't think you would, Norman," the councillor grinned.

204 FR1;Chapter Twenty pring gave way to a hot dry summer and in the back
streets of Bermondsey the stench from the drains mingled with the eek of the
tanneries and the sour smells from the local dnegar factory.  In the Tower
Bridge Road market, fruit and vegetable stalls were piled high with produce,
and the mells mingled with the sweet aroma of cakes from the )akery and the
meaty odour coming from the pie shop.  Behind the market a sweet, scented
smell from the jam ac tory drifted through the back streets as another
consign- nent of Seville oranges went into the giant presses.

Further ilong the Tower Bridge Road the air began to carry a hint of our
river mud from the Thames and the sharp, peppery ang of ripened hops as they
were transported to the rewery, an ancient establishment that sprawled
alongside he waterfront.  In Tooley Street a myriad different flavours :ame
from the docks and wharves as various commodities were transferred from small
freighters and flat-bottom )arges into the warehouses and on to lorries and
carts.

mpatient car-men cursed the sweating dockers and Stevelores, while weary
horses pulled against the shafts as whips racked over their backs.  Amongst
the drab buildings, lingy railway arches and tumbledown streets of
iermondsey, there was an intense, feverish activity.

In Ironmonger Street, the recent renovation of the err aced houses caused
much comment amongst both en ants and gossips.  In the Horseshoe public house
two Iderly regulars were expounding on the subject.

"I don't know about you.  Bill, but I reckon the lan'lords of a right kick up
the arse.  Let's face it, those 'ouses was al ling down.  They 'ad ter do some
fink

"Well, if the people didn't stop their rents, Terry, the an' lords would 'ave
let the 'ouses fall down, that's what I " That's right.  Bill.  After all,
they couldn't chuck 'em all out fer not payin' the rent, could they?  "

"Maybe not, but I fink there's more to it than meets the eye.  I reckon the
tenants 'ave got a shock comin'."

"What, yer mean they'll put the rents up?"

"That's right, Tel.  The bastards'll get their money back someway."

Terry sucked on his unlit pipe and glanced up at the landlord of the
Horseshoe.

"It's jus' like 'im," he said, jerking his thumb at the bar counter.

"E sticks a bit o' shitty wallpaper up an' gives the place a lick o' paint.
Then 'e gets a few new chairs in, tarts up the gaff, an' what does 'e do
next?  Puts a penny on a pint.  Bloody skinflint.  I dunno why we drink 'ere,
Bill."

"I tell yer why we drink 'ere, Tel.  When we get pissed we can fall out of
'ere an' straight in our front doors, that's why."

The victorious rent strike committee was discussing the recently completed
renovation.

"Well at least the rain won't come in now, George."

The old man nodded as he filled his stained clay pipe.  "Yeah that's right,
Joe.  We showed 'em, didn't we?"

Mary had just finished putting her youngest to bed and was studying a
knitting pattern.

"All I 'ope is, the bleeders don't up the rents,"

she said.

Joe picked up the chipped china mug and took a swig of his tea.

"Well accordin' ter ole Frank Salmon, we ain't gotta worry about that.

"E

reckons providin' the arrears gets paid up we're okay.  Mind you though,
they'll 'ave a problem getting' the back rent from the Toomeys, that's fer
sure.  "

"They'll 'ave ter send Lill out on the game," George piped in.

"Well all I can say is, I 'ope she 'as more luck this time.  Remember the
turn out wiv Danny Mulligan?"  Mary laughed.

Connie Morgan had left the Armitage factory and started work at a leather
firm in the Tower Bridge Road.  Brockway and Sons was busy on a government
contract and quite a few of the locals had managed to get work there.  Connie
found the job interesting.  She was moved around the 206 Factory, working as
a stitcher, gluer and cutter, and packer, which she liked best of all.  The
girls we ire a friendly bunch, nostly about her own age and she felt happy.
She and lo bert usually went out twice a week, sometimes to see a ilm, or if
the weather was nice they would take long walks nd occasionally visit a
restaurant for an evening meal, and he continued to spend her weekends at his
flat.  Although he was not yet eighteen, Connie now had the body of a nature
woman; she was full-breasted, with shapely hips nd long, slender legs.  Her
blond hair shone and her pale- ilue eyes sparkled with happiness and good
health.  Her impish sense of humour had endeared her to the rest of the girls
at the factory, and she was always being asked to accompany them to parties
and various other events.  Most of the time Connie declined their offers with
as much grace as possible.  The girls knew of her relationship with Robert
and secretly envied her.

Often he would meet her from work and, as they walked off arm in arm, Connie
felt a warm glow inside as she noticed the other girls' envious glances and
heard their bawdy remarks.

The summer days continued to remain hot and dry, with only the occasional
shower of rain.  Connie's quest for information about her mother's past had
reached a dead and.  She had had a conversation with her Aunt Helen, who was
surprised to learn that there had been some sort of trouble at the firm's
outing.

"Well as far as I can remember, yer mum never told me anyfing about it.  Con.
As a matter o' fact I didn't see very much of erat that time.  She was
always out an' about."

When Connie showed her the photos of the outing, Helen studied them and
identified certain people.  She was apprehensive about Connie approaching
them, however.

"Yer can't go asking' questions ter the likes of Joe Cooper and Mary Brown,
can yer?"  she asked.

"They're neighbours.  Yer wouldn't want them knowin' all yer business.
That's Joyce Spinks standin' be' and yer muvver.  Con.  She still works at
the firm an' she's bound ter talk if yer asker awkward questions.  It's
difficult.  I don't know 'ow yer ^onna get round it.  I mean, yer jus' can't
go up ter people an' say, " What 'appened terme mum at the outing?  " Not
miess yer prepared ter tell 'em about the money.  The only person in that
photo yer could ask is 'er there," Helen said, pointing to a grinning,
plump-faced woman standing in the background.

"That's Norma Cantwell.  She was yer muvver's best friend fer years.

In fact I know they used ter go out quite a lot tergevver.  I fink they
shared a few blokes as well.  Trouble is, I don't know what 'appened toer.  I
remember yer mum sayin' Norma left the firm ter get married.  Gawd knows
where she is now.  She might even be dead fera ll we know.  "

Connie had agreed that it was out of the question to ask any of the
neighbours.  She felt frustrated that there was nothing else she could do,
and she hoped that some time in the future she might be in a position to find
out the whereabouts of Norma Cantwell.

The days grew shorter as the summer passed, and in September an international
crisis flared up.  Hitler had turned his attentions towards Czechoslovakia.
War now seemed very probable and the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain flew
out to Munich to see the German dictator.  The ensuing flurry of political
activity was viewed with growing concern and a special meeting was called in
the Horseshoe.

The pint at Terry's elbow was forgotten as he laboured the point.

"But yer can't go on chasin' back an' forwards after that bloody second-rate
paper-'anger.  It ain't dignified.  All it is is bloody appeasement.  What
ole Chamberlain should be doin' is layin' the law down, instead of dashin'
around like a tit in a trance kissin' " Itler's arse.  I mean, look what's
going' on 'ere while the silly bleeder's back an' forth.  There's barrage
balloons going' up an' down in the sky like Punch an' Judy.  There's shelters
going' up, an' san' bags everywhere yer look.  They've mobilised the ARP, an'
what's more, they're diggin' trenches in the bleedin' parks.  Bloody nice,
ain't it?  "

Bill nodded sadly and picked up his pint.  "I fink yer right, Tel.

They're talkin' about evacuatin' the women an' children now.  Did yer see it
in the paper last night?  Bloody scand'lous.  I dunno about 'ang the Kaiser.
They should 'ave strung ole Schickelgruber up before 'e got too big fer 'is
boots.  "

Terry watched as his partner gulped at his pint and he 208 k a swig from his.

"It makes yer fink, Bill," he said, ing his lips with the back of his hand.

"I see they're settin' ill these air-raid shelters in factories an'
ware'ouses.  I ider if they'll set one up in Courages' brewery?"

it Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park there were angry scenes tie subject of
Czechoslovakia was debated.  Many people that the Czechs were being sold out
by Britain, and others Jed that it was not realistic to get into a war over a
small ntry which most people knew nothing about.

Tempers ; and fists flew as large crowds gathered to hear the ikers.

One particular orator remained impassive mghout as he announced to a motley
crowd that

"The end nigh'.

t^er've bin sayin' that fer years," screamed a scruffy look individual in a
grubby white mackintosh.  he speaker was not to be put off.

"Seek redemption, nd, or you'll perish in the fires of hell."

'erish yerself, yer bloody idiot," the scruffy one wied.

Fake up the Scriptures, my friend.  Study the word of the d.  "

ain't yer friend," the heckler screamed out.  3o on, mate.  You tell 'im,"
someone shouted.  he scruffy man was becoming heated and his feet did a /ous
shuffle.

"I've studied the Bible.  I know what God , iV ell pay heed, my friend, for
the Lord said you should i the other cheek to the aggressor."

3h no

"E didn't.  God said yer take an eye feran eye.

t's what'E said.  "

\n' a nay for a nay," shouted Paddy McGuinness.

he orator gave the big Irishman a withering look.

u're mocking the Scriptures, Paddy.  I hope your priest ives you

leavens above!  " Paddy cried out, with mock ausness.

"I'm with you, sor.  The end is nigh, I grant yer.

v listen ter Paddy McGuinness me lads.  We'll never less the end.  It'11 come
like a thief in the night.  It'll take us ur beds.

"Tis the truth I tell yerse."

joan' boil yer socks, yer bloody maniac," someone uted.

The scruffy man in the white mackintosh had heard enough.  With some of his
thunder stolen he departed to heckle another speaker.  Paddy meanwhile took
out his battered timepiece and consulted it.  Realising that the pubs had
opened and it was high time for a pint of Guinness he, too, departed,
allowing the meeting to return to sensible debate.

In the back streets of Bermondsey life went on as usual, but now everyone
seemed to be more inclined to chat on their doorsteps.

Children still played out on the cobblestones and chalked on the pavements.
Young lads chopped up apple boxes and sold the splintered sticks at front
doors.  Young girls skipped in and out of a turning rope and made up songs to
dance to under the watchful eye of their worried mothers and in the pubs
discussions went on about the seemingly inevitable war.

It was early September when Connie Morgan got her part-time job.  She had
befriended one of the girls at the leather factory, Jennie French.  Jennie's
parents ran the Dolphin, a family pub in Salter Street which was situated
behind the Old Kent Road.  Their part-time barmaid had got herself pregnant
and had left.  Jennie felt that Connie would be an ideal replacement and when
she approached her parents they seemed keen on the idea.  Connie thought
about the offer.

She was struggling on her factory wages and badly needed some extra money.
It would mean three nights' work during the week, which still allowed her two
evenings to see Robert.  When Jennie took her friend to see her parents they
were impressed.  The landlord of the Dolphin was not too concerned that
Connie had no knowledge of pubs and, while she waited in the bar with Jennie,
he and his wife talked it over.

"I'd sooner get 'em green.  The old 'ands are more likely ter dip the till.
Long as she's polite ter the customers an' serves a good measure we should be
okay.  We'll soon teacher the trade.  The only fing that worries me is 'er
age.  She said she's not eighteen till November.  We'll 'ave ter be careful
the brewery don't find out."

Dora French gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

"She looks more than eighteen terme.  Bill.  Who's ter know she's 210 not?
I'm sure the girl won't go blabbin' erage about."

"All right, Dora.  You put 'er on 'er guard an' we'll see ow she performs.
You tell the girl she's got the job.  I've ;otta change a barrel over."

iV hen Neville Chamberlain returned from Munich, waving i piece of paper and
declaring

"Peace in our time', the folk n the Bermondsey back streets breathed a deep
sigh of elief.  Some folk were saddened, however.  They felt that he Czechs
had been betrayed and the deal with Hitler had mly delayed the war.  Bill and
Terry were hard at it in their avourite corner of the Horseshoe.

"They've bin done down, Tel.  There's no ower word for t.  Fancy doin' a deal
wiv that mongrel

"Itler.  It's bloody lisgustin'.  No, mate.

We've sold those poor bastards down he river, an' we're gonna be sorry.  We
should 'ave learnt ur lesson from the last turn out.  "

"Yer right.  Bill.  I remember years ago when old

"Arold iimpson was alive.

"E was always going' on about 'angin' he Kaiser.  If 'e was alive terday what
would 'e be sayin' ibout Adolf bloody Schickelgruber?"

"Trouble is though Tel, that

"Itler ain't nufink like yer Caiser.

"E's got the bulk of the German people be' and 'im.  E's even promised every
family out there a car in the uture."

"Go on wiv yer.

"As 'e really?"

' "S'right, Tel.  Strike me if 'e ain't.  I read about it in the Telegraph."

' "Ow comes you bought the Telegraphy They don't sell hat paper in our paper
shop."

"I didn't buy it, yer berk.  It was wrapped round a bit o' 3la ice me ole
woman got ferme tea.  Interestin' article ho ugh

"Sounds a bit fishy terme.  Bill!"

Bill ignored the quip.

"Ere, Tel, I was finkin'.  I bet ole " Enery the Eighth is turnin' in 'is
grave, don't you?  "

Terry's face screwed up in puzzlement.

"What yer talkin' ibout?"

"Well I mean ter say, those trenches they're diggin' in Yde Park an' Regents
Park.  It's crown property, ain't it?  [t was

"Enery the Eighth what made 'em royal property.

"Ow would you like it if some geezer come along an' started diggin' your
property up?"

Terry grinned.

"The only park land I've got is me winder box, an' me moggie digs that up
every night.  Mind you I'll wring the flea-bag's neck next time it claws up
me geraniums."

"I tell yer what, mate."

"What's that, Bill?"

"All this talkin's givin' me a thirst.

"Oose round is it?"

The days got shorter and winter fogs began to roll in from the river.

The back street folk waited in for the coal man while their elder children
took prams up to the Old Kent Road Gas Works for bags of coke.  The local
kids also scoured the area to search the road works

Some of the roads were being re-laid and there were often discarded tarry
logs for the taking.  People struggled to clear their Christmas loans and the
shops began to put up their festive decorations.

Seasonal work meant that many folk who had been unemployed throughout the
year managed to get a job.  One of the lucky ones was Matthew Harriett, who
found a job as a factory labourer with a manufacturing tailors in Tooley
Street.  The firm had secured a government contract for military uniforms and
needed more workers.  It was not the type of work he was used to but Matthew
was getting desperate.  His earnings at the East End market had been a
pittance and the lack of money was a major cause of tension in the Bartlett
household.  Luckily, Molly had also managed to get a job through the labour
exchange.  She was employed as an assembler of electrical components at a
small factory in the Old Kent Road.  The work was tedious but there were
other young girls with physical disabilities working alongside her, and it
made Molly feel less miserable.  Helen had recovered enough to return to her
early morning cleaning, and she felt happier than she had been all year.

Connie had celebrated her eighteenth birthday with a night up West.

Robert had taken her to see a film and then they had visited a little
restaurant in Dean Street for supper.  For a present he had given her a tiny
gold locket and chain.  The evening had been romantic and he had been very
attentive.  They had returned to his flat in Great Dover Street and during
their conversation he had let slip something which caused Connie considerable
anxiety.  They had been chatting happily when Robert mentioned his university
days.

"There was always something going on at the college," he said.

"I got involved with a crowd who were mad on flying.  They used to take
lessons and I became interested.  In fact I did some flying myself.  We all
used to go to an airfield at weekends, weather permitting, to do a few
sorties.  I never progressed very far.  I mean, I didn't go solo.

Then it was the exams, and back to the family and the business.  If war tiad
been declared I suppose it would have been the R.  A.  F for me.

Con.  "

"S'posin' there is a war, Robert?  Lots o' people still fink it'll co meter
that."

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it," he said grinning.

"There'll be no war, believe me."

Connie wanted to believe him, but she felt deep down inside that her
happiness would somehow not last.  It was a Feeling that constantly attacked
her insides and sent shivers running through her whole body.

Only when she was in his u-ms did she feel totally secure.  His caresses took
the ache iway and she drew new strength from his presence.  When the was
alone again, she worried about the future, and of 3the day losing him.

The recent war crisis had been affecting the Cooper house- lold.  Joe's wife
Sadie had made it clear that if there was a ivar she would not stay in London.

"I couldn't stand it," she groaned.

"I'd sooner kill me self

"Don't talk stupid," Joe retorted.

"You'd 'ave ter put up fviv it jus' like everybody else."

"It's all right fer you, Joe.  I'm stuck in this chair.

"Ow :ould I manage?"

"Yer manage now, don't yer?"

"No fan ks ter you.  If it wasn't fer Cousin Constance I ion't know what I'd
do," she said, dabbing at her eyes.

"Yer lever 'ere.  If it's not one fingit's anuvver.  Yer always ashin' off
ter bloody meetin's.

Yer never give a thought ter ie.  I could be dyin'.  It wouldn't make any
difference.

Yer'd still go off ter yer bloody meetin's.  "

Joe puffed out his cheeks and got on with polishing his boots.  It was better
to ignore her outbursts, he thought.  As long as she paid heed to that cousin
of hers he'd be wasting his time trying to reason with her.  Constance was an
embittered, wicked woman who had ruined her own life by her nasty attitude.
Her husband had run off with someone else and she had taken to unburdening
herself on Sadie.  She was always around, he mused.  She had grown to hate
all men and seized any opportunity to poison her cousin's mind against him.
Sadie could not understand that it was Constance who was driving him out of
the house.  He could not bear to be in the same room as the woman.  The
trouble is, Sadie won't have a word said against her, he thought ruefully.

The sister Rosie said I could go an' stay wiv 'er if the 'vacuation
starts,"Sadie went on.

"There's not gonna be any evacuation now," Joe replied.

"Well if it does all blow up again, I'm off.  Yer'll 'ave ter look after
yerself.  I couldn't stand it 'ere," she moaned.

Joe bit his tongue.  The way things had been for the past few years maybe it
would be a good idea if she did go and stay with her sister, he thought.  At
least there would be no more rows.  It would also mean he'd see the back of
that bloody interfering cousin of hers.

FR1;Chapter Twenty-One The village of Kelstowe lay under a thick carpet of
snow.  A full moon shone down on the quiet hamlet and lit up the large
red-brick house which stood at the end of the deserted lane.  Inside the
lounge Claudette Armitage sat beside a brightly burning log fire.  The heavy
velvet curtains were tightly drawn against the inclement weather and a stack
of sawn pine logs rested next to the stone fireplace.  Around the large room
there were sprigs of mistletoe and holly, and in one corner a Christmas tree
reached up to the huge oak beams.  The tree was lit with tiny lights and
strands of silver tinsel hung from the branches.  At the base there were
parcels, wrapped in festive paper and tied with coloured ribbon.  The high
wooden mantel shelf was bedecked with Christmas cards, and to one side of the
fireplace a tall lamp- stand afforded a pleasant, pinkish glow.  Claudette
sat looking distastefully at her husband who was snoring in the leather-bound
armchair facing her.  She reached for the glass of sherry at her elbow and
drained the contents.

There had been words between them and she felt angry.  Peter did not seem to
grasp the situation.  Either that or he didn't care.  It was bad enough
Robert leaving home and taking a flat in London, without him consorting with
that Factory girl.  Worse still, he did not seem to have been put off by what
his father had told him.  Peter had weakly taken it in his stride and merely
shrugged his shoulders.  He should liave taken a much harder line.  After
all, he had to consider heir good standing in the village.  For him to add to
the hurt by suggesting to Robert that he bring this girl down to spend
Christmas at their home was most inconsiderate, to say the east.  Surely he
could have envisaged the embarrassment it ivould cause?  The girl was from a
working-class background.  How could Robert be so silly?  He must have
realised he implications of getting involved with a girl of that sort.
There were many girls he could have chosen; girls like Eunice, who came from
respectable and prosperous families.  It just didn't make sense.  It was too
ridiculous.

Peter stirred in his chair and Claudette got up to add another log to the
fire.  Her irritation increased when her husband yawned and settled down
again.  It was just like Peter to ignore the situation.

He should be more concerned about his son's welfare, if nothing else.

This girl's mother had caused the family enough trouble without her daughter
throwing herself at their son.  That Kate Morgan woman had led Gerald on and
then had made the family pay for his indiscretion.

The girl would do the same if she got the chance, it was obvious.

Another scandal would be too much to bear.  Surely Peter could understand the
dangers?  Why was Robert being so naive?  He must realise there could be no
future with this factory girl.  Well if Peter wasn't going to do anything
about it, she would have to somehow.

In the Bartletts' flat the curtains were drawn tightly against the cold
night.  Molly sat with Connie in front of the fire, their chairs positioned
so that their stockinged feet rested on the brass fender.

On Monday evenings Connie normally went out with Robert, but on this occasion
he had gone to see his family to make arrangements for the Christmas visit.
Connie was pleased to have the opportunity to stay with Molly.  They had not
spent much time together lately and it had caused her some concern.

"This is nice, Con.  D'yer remember when we used ter sit an' chat fer hours
about all sorts o' rings?"  Molly asked her with a coy smile.

"Yeah I do.  It was nice, wasn't it?  I'm sorry I've neglected yer, Molly."

"It's okay.  Con.  I know yer got it bad," Molly said giggling.

"I do love 'im, Molly.

"E makes me feel ever so good."

"Will yer marry 'im one day?"

"I dunno.  Maybe I will one day."

"Don't it worry yer, sleepin' wiv Robert an' yer ain't even engaged?"

"It did at first, but it don't seem that important now.  The 216 51-oblem is
Robert's family.  I'm sure they don't like 'im ;oin' out wiv me.  I s'pose
Robert wants ter let fings settle a it before 'e springs an engagement on
'em."

"Sounds like 'is family are real snobs.  Con.  They should )e glad fer 'im.
You're better than any o' them upper-class ;irls."

Connie smiled and wriggled her toes.  Molly seemed more heerful than she had
for a long time, and Connie was glad >fthe chance to sit talking intimately
with her.  She glanced it her cousin and saw how pale she was.  Her short,
thick )ody seemed to have become more misshapen and her head ippeared to be
resting directly on her hunched shoulders.  ^s Connie studied her she noticed
how Molly's eyes had ;rown larger in her thin face.  They appeared to glow
darkly with a sad defiance and as she stared imp the fire they -eflected the
flames.

"It don't worry me all that much," Connie said, placing ler hands behind her
head.

"I s'pose Robert's family will et used terme in time."

There was silence for a while, then Molly said,

"D'yer ink I'll ever get a fella, Con?"

' "Course yer will."

"I don't fink so.  I've cometerrealise it jus' won't 'appen.  [ know I'm
different an' there's nufink can change it.  When [ was younger I used ter
cry me self ter sleep some nights, ivishin' I was like you.

You're nice-Iookin' an' yer can il ways get a fella.  I used ter be jealous of
yer.  Con.  Is it ivicked ter be jealous of yer best friend?  "

Connie felt a lump rising in her throat.

"Course it ain't vicked.  I fink yer very brave, Molly," she said, her voice
'altering.

"I'm not brave.  I'm jus' resigned ter the way fings are.  I cnow I can't
change the way I look.  It used ter upset me when people stared, but it don't
worry me now.  I've got ised to it.

"Ere.  D'yer remember when we worked in the TOttlin' stores?  Michael Donovan
always smiled at me an' I eally wanted ter get talkin' to 'im.  I jus'
couldn't though.  I ried ter kid me self 'e fancied me, but I knew 'e was only
?ein' nice.  I was glad when 'e started chattin' you up, Con.  really I was.
Sounds funny don't it?"

Connie could find nothing to say.  She puckered her lips and stared into the
fire, reminded of her time with the young sailor.

' "Ave yer seen anyfing of 'im since yer split up.  Con?"  her cousin asked
after a while.

Connie shook her head.

"No.  I'd like ter see'im, jus' fe role time's sake.  I don't fink I'd be able
ter talk to'im though.  I'd be too embarrassed."

The fire had started to die and Molly shovelled more coal on to the embers.
Outside the wind was getting up and the windows rattled.  The two sat in
silence for a while, watching the violet-coloured flames spurt from the
smoking coals.  Presently Molly got up to poke at the fire and when she had
settled herself once more she said,

"You lookin' forward termeetin' 'is family, Connie?"

"Not really.  I'm gonna feel terrible, 'specially the way fings are.  I
expect they fink I'm a right little tart."

"Why should they fink that?"

"Well, they must know why their son got 'is own flat.  It stan's terreason."

"Let 'em fink what they like.  Con.  Yer as good as them.  All right, yer
might not speak wiv a plum in yer mouth, but it ain't the talkin' what counts
it's the doin'."

Connie laughed aloud as she saw the look on Molly's flat round face.

"You're getting' ter be a proper little philosopher.  It's all those books
yer bin readin'."

Molly grinned.

"Well, it makes me so mad.  Me dad's always going' on about fings like that.

"E reckons we're as good as anybody."

' "Ere, Molly.  Talkin' about yer dad.

"Ow's fings wiv 'im an'yer mum?"

Molly held her crossed fingers out in front of her.

"Since me dad got that job 'e's bin much better.  I ain't 'card 'im an' mum
arguin' at all lately.  They even went ter the flicks tergevver.  They ain't
done that fe rages

"What about you, Molly?  D'yer feel better fer workin'?"

"Yeah, sort of.  It's not a bad job.  It gets a bit monotonous at times, but
they're a nice crowd o' girls there.  One or two of 'em are even worse than
me.  Poor Barbara comes ter work in a wheelchair.  At least I can walk ter
work.  I 'card that the guy' nor gets money from the gover'ment ter take on
people like us Bytheway, 'ow's yer barmaid's job going'?"

218 "Oh, it's okay.  I'm getting' used ter servin' beer an' hat ting all the
customers up.  Jennie's mum an' dad are aretty decent too."

"D'yer get asked out a lot, Con?"

"Not really.  They're all too drunk ter notice me 'alf the :ime."

Molly yawned and Connie got up to stretch her legs.  She ;rossed to the
window and eased the curtains aside.  Down aelow in the empty street a white
blanket of snow covered the cobblestones and the grey slated roofs.  A full
moon shone down into the little turning, giving the snow a bluish lint.  Long
shadows reached out from the factory gates and limbed up the yellow brick
walls of the houses opposite.

The cold glow from the lone gas lamp flickered up and then Faded, its light
paling in the radiance of the bright round moon high up in the heavens.  For
a time the ugly looking Factory held the young woman's gaze.  How many
secrets (were locked away behind those ugly iron gates?  she won- lered.  How
many ghosts were roaming around inside the darkness of that old red-brick
building?

The Christmas Eve train chugged through the white :ountryside and finally
slid noisily into Kelstowe station.  Dutside in the station forecourt Connie
and Robert climbed into a waiting taxi-cab and were driven the couple of
miles lo the Armitage home.  Connie was feeling apprehensive ibout meeting
Robert's mother for the first time.  Her stomach knotted up and she shivered.
Robert took her hand in his, aware of her feelings.  It was something that
had to be done.  His parents had to be made aware that he was serious about
the girl.  He felt uneasy about the confrontation but tie gave her an easy
grin as he looked into her blue eyes.  "It'll be fine, you'll see," he said
reassuringly.  When they reached the house Robert paid the driver and took
her small case.  Connie slipped her arm through his as they walked up the
snow-cleared path to the front door.  Robert's knock was immediately answered
by his father.  He smiled as he beckoned them in, and the warmth made
Connie's face glow red as she slipped out of her coat and straightened her
dress.  "Have a good journey down?"  Peter asked them.

"We had a carriage to ourselves," Robert answered.

Peter took their coats and hung them on the tall coat- stand.

Claudette appeared from the lounge and smiled graciously.

"So this is Connie," she purred, taking the young woman's hand in a limp
grasp.

"Do go in."

Connie followed Robert into the large lounge and glanced quickly around, her
eyes wide with surprise.  Everything seemed so perfectly placed, she thought.
The giant fireplace caught her eye and she could smell the bubbling pine
resin.  Robert took her hand and steered her into the long set tee seating
himself beside her.

Peter Armitage walked over to a cabinet and picked up a bottle.

"Right.  Now what about a sherry, Connie?"

"Yes, please," she answered, giving Robert a brief glance.

"I'd love a Scotch and soda.  Father.  Easy on the soda.  It's a cold night
out there," Robert said, winking at Connie.

Claudette had left the room, saying she wanted to check all was well in the
kitchen.  Peter brought over the drinks and sat down in his favourite
armchair, his eyes on Connie as she sipped the sherry.

"How's the new job?"  Peter asked presently.

"It's all right fank you, Mr Armitage.  I've got used to it now," she replied.

"You can always come back you know," he said, grinning.

Connie began to settle down and her stomach eased.  The factory owner had
always been courteous to her when she worked in the canteen and now he was
trying to encourage her to relax.  His wife had seemed very starchy and
formal, however.  Her smile had seemed forced, although it might just have
been her way.  Connie decided she would just have to see how things developed.

Out in the kitchen Claudette fussed around Mrs Goodyear.

"We'll sit down at eight, Amy.  Is that all right?"

Mrs Goodyear took the Dover sole from beneath the grill and gently prodded it
with a fork.

"It'll be ready by then, Mrs A.  I'll just check the pudding."

Claudette watched thoughtfully as Mrs Goodyear took a large china bowl from
the steamer.  Her mind was on other things.  She had been taken aback when
she first saw the young woman who was holding on to her son's arm.  She 220
iad to concede she was very pretty.  Her hair shone in the ight and her eyes
had a sparkle.  Claudette could see why ler son had been attracted to the
girl.

"That's it.  Everything's ready," Amy said, glancing at riaudette and
noticing the faraway expression on her face.

The meal passed smoothly.  Connie had become used to sating out with Robert
and she managed to use the correct ipoon for the soup.  The fish course was
followed by steamed )udding and, during the whole of the meal, Peter talked
ightly about the weather, the factory output, and the recent dsit of the
Prime Minister to Germany.  It seemed to Connie hat he was attempting to
monopolise the conversation, ire venting his wife from saying very much.
Connie was il eased  She could sense the hostility in Claudette, although )n
the surface she was polite and attentive.  When Amy had lea red the last of
the plates Peter leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.  Robert declined
the proffered cigar box, ^referring a Craven A which he took from his silver
;igarette case.  Amy brought in coffee and then went back nto the kitchen to
face the huge pile of soiled crockery.

The two men had left the dining room to go to Peter's itudy for a brandy or
two.  Connie sat at the table with riaudette, watching her hostess as she
poured out fresh of fee from a tall china pot into minute cups.

"One or two, dear?"  Claudette asked, holding the sugar ongs delicately
between her thumb and forefinger.

"Two, please."

Claudette passed the cup to Connie and leaned forward )n the table, her arms
making a bridge and her fingertips ouching.

"Tell me, Connie.  How long have you known Robert?"  she asked, looking at
her intently.

"We've bintergevver for about a year now," Connie epiied.

"Robert tells me you live in Bermondsey.  Quite near the ac tory I
understand."

"Yes, that's right.  I live in Jubilee Dwellings.  Next door er the factory."

"It doesn't sound a very nice place to live.  What are the Iwellings like?
Do you have electricity?"

"The street's gas-lit.  There's no electricity, except in the ac tory

"Good God!  It must be terrible," Claudette said, pulling a face.

"Are they very old, these dwellings?"

Connie's mind went back to the time the men came into the Bartletts' flat to
fit an extra gas lamp When they lifted the floorboards to lay the piping
Molly had pointed out the carved signature of the original carpenter.
Beneath the name Isaac Smith was a date.

"Yes, they are old," Connie answered.

"The dwellings were built in 1862.  That was the year of Queen Victoria's
Silver Jubilee.  I s'pose that was why they called 'em Jubilee Dwellin's."

"Good Lord!"  exclaimed Claudette, taken off guard by the unexpected answer.

"Do you study history?"

"I read quite a lot," Connie replied, remembering that it was Molly who had
told her about Queen Victoria's Silver Jubilee.  She hoped that Robert would
hurry back soon.

Claudette toyed with her cup for a while.  Suddenly she said,

"Are you and Robert going steady?  I mean, are you planning to get married
one day?"

"I can't say.  Robert 'asn't asked me yet," Connie said quickly.

The woman of the house studied her fingernails.

"I understand from Peter that your mother once worked at the factory?"

Connie felt her stomach knot.

"Yes, she did."

Claudette fiddled with her spoon, removing an imaginary coffee dreg from her
cup.

"Peter was telling me about the arrangement made between Robert's grandfather
and your mother.  You know about that, of course?"

"Yes, I do."  Connie was surprised at Claudette's frankness.

"You know why the money was paid to your mother?"

"No.  When I asked me mum I was told it was from me dad," Connie replied.

Claudette's mouth parted in a ghost of a smile and it did not go unnoticed by
Connie.  She felt sure that the woman knew the reason for the payments and
her mind started to race.  Maybe it was the right moment to try a little
bluff, she thought, fixing Claudette with her eyes.

"Robert told me 'e doesn't know any fink about the money, but I'll know
pretty soon.  As a matter o' fact I'm going' ter see somebody who worked at
the factory the same 222 ime as me mum.  She was a good friend of 'ers.  I
know he'll be able ter tell me what I want ter know."

The older woman leaned forward as though she was ibout to say something when
Robert and his father walked >ack into the dining room.

"Hello.  You two still here?"  Peterremarked.

"I would iave thought you'd have taken your coffee into the ounge."

"We were having a cosy chat," Claudette purred, glancing at Connie, who was
silent.

The cold winter moon shone through the parted curtains nto the bedroom and
played on the pink counterpane.  ronnie lay on her back with her hands
clasped behind her lead.  She could see the snow-covered branches of the
cedar ree through the leaded window and distant stars peeping hrough the
moving clouds.  It had been a firing evening, with Peter continuing to talk
away lightheartedly.  It was ifter midnight when Claudette had pointed out
that Connie ooked tired and suggested that maybe she might like to go o bed.
Sleep would not come, however, and as she watched he swaying branches of the
cedar tree and saw its shadow lancing on the ceiling Connie felt wide awake.
She was ;ertain in her mind that Claudette knew the reason for the )ayments.
The truth was written on her face, and Connie eit that she would have learned
something had their conversation not been interrupted.  If Claudette knew,
then it was almost certain the rest of the family knew, too.  That would mean
Robert had either lied to her or he had been ;ept in the dark by his parents.
Connie's mind went back to he meeting she had had with Alice Jones.  She had
doubted hat the payments had anything to do with her father.  If she was
right then it could only mean that the money had ought her mother's silence.
But for what?  It had either >een offered or demanded and the thought
troubled Connie.  Her mother might have been a bit wild in her young lays,
but she had been a proud woman.  It seemed in thinkable she would have
demanded money from the irm without a very good reason.  Maybe there would be
an >pportunity to carry on the conversation with Claudette.  The woman
obviously knew something.

Connie felt her eyelids at last begin to grow heavy.  She turned on her side
and let her head sink into the lavender- scented pillow.  She did not hear
the door creak open and shut, nor the words that were whispered in her ear.
She did not know Robert was in the bed beside her until he began gently
stroking her hair as he moved his body close to hers.  She opened her eyes
and saw his face next to her, smiling in the pale moonlight.  Her arms
reached for him as he kissed her neck and her ear and sought her open mouth.
"I needed you.  Con,"

he whispered.  "Hold me," she said, her voice coming out husky.  The wind
whistled and powdery snow lifted from the swaying tree.  She caught his hot
breath on her face and felt his warm body against hers.  She closed her eyes
and let his kisses and his caresses shut out the cold night.

In the bedroom at the back of the house Peter Armitage snored noisily, his
sleep fortified by the brandies he had consumed during the evening.
Claudette lay awake, her eyes gazing at the ceiling, her thoughts cent red
around the man who had on certain occasions come to her bed and loved her
with a sensuous passion she had never experienced within her dull, monotonous
marriage.  Her lover was wild, unpredictable, wicked even, and so unlike his
staid brother.  She would protect him out of her love for him.  She would do
what had to be done to shield him.  She heard the landing creak and then the
sound of a door closing.  Claudette glanced at the illuminated clock beside
the bed; it showed two-thirty.  Her lips compressed and she pushed her elbow
into the snoring figure at her side.  Peter grunted and turned over.  It had
become silent again, and in the darkness Claudette schemed.

224 Chapter Twenty-Two )n Boxing Day Connie and Robert decided to catch the
late ifternoon steam train to London Bridge.  The ancient taxi eft the house
and slithered over the fresh snow as it ourneyed through the quiet village.
At the station the driver bllowed the tracks in the snow and brought his
battered 'ehicle to a stop, mumbling to himself as he searched his )ockets
for change.  The tip helped to gratify him and he Irove off, blowing on his
cold hands.  Robert took Connie's ase as they walked along the platform
looking for an empty arriage.  Few people seemed to be on the train and when
the we finally settled themselves in the warm compartment Robert lit a
cigarette.

"I know I shouldn't really say it.  Con, but I'm glad that's ver.  My father
does go on a bit, and as for my mother, he's not happy unless she's fussing
over something or the ther.  How about you?  Was it very difficult?"

"No, it was very nice," Connie lied.

"I was very nervous at irst but yer dad made me feel at home."

"What did you think of Mother?"  he asked, grinning )roadly.

"I fink I was a bil scared of 'er.  When I first sawyer mum thought she
reminded me of the 'eadmistress at our diool."

Robert laughed.

"She'd be pleased about that."

Connie looked out at the snow.

"Don't dare teller I said hat."

Robert squeezed her arm.

"Don't worry, I won't say any- hing.  I'm sure you made a big impression."

The guard blew his whistle and the train jerked away from the station.

Robert glanced at Connie and said,

"You eemed very quiet in the taxi.

I thought there might be omething wrong.  "

Connie forced a smile.

"There was nufink wrong.  I was just wonderin' about what they said about me
after we left.  " They liked you a lot," Robert said casually.

"I could tell.  Connie glanced out of the carriage window as the train rushed
through the bleak countryside.  Robert would have been shocked if he had
heard her conversation with Claudette.  Or would he?  She suddenly wondered.
She looked at Robert and saw that his eyes were drooping and his head was
rolling slightly with the motion of the train.  She studied his finely cut
features and realised how childlike he looked.  His small, straight nose
twitched occasionally and she noticed how long his eyelashes were and how his
fair hair curled at the ears.  His head was slipping down towards her
shoulder and Connie looked back out of the window as the train passed quickly
between fields covered in snow.

Her thoughts went back over the past two days and she shuddered.

Christmas morning had begun with a cooked breakfast of poached eggs, bacon
and mushrooms.  When they were finished they had all exchanged presents.
Robert had given her a gold bracelet and she had given him a thick woollen
cardigan which he was now wearing.  Robert's parents had given her a silver
hairbrush and comb, and she had presented Peter with cigars and Claudette
with a tortoise shell hand mirror.

Connie had been helped in her choice of presents by Robert, who solved the
problem by saying that his mother had broken her favourite mirror perhaps by
bringing it down a little too heavily on his father's head!  They had
attended the morning church service, trudging through the snow and stopping
on the way to exchange pleasantries with their neighbours and friends.
Connie recalled that it was the first time she had been inside a church since
she was a small child and the Christmas service seemed to go on for a long
time, and then there were more handshakes and introductions afterwards in the
churchyard.  Connie was glad when they arrived back at the house and she felt
the warmth of the welcoming log fire.  The table had been laid in the dining
room: Claudette had served the vegetables from silver dishes; and Peter had
expertly cut the huge turkey.  It was the first time Connie had tasted turkey
and it reminded her of chicken, which was the usual Christmas fare at the
Bartletts' home.

226 The day passed pleasantly enough, she thought, with 'eter showing off
his collection of gramophone records which he played on an upright machine.
After a tea of lince pies and cream cakes, Peter suggested they play ards.
Connie smiled to herself as she remembered how lo bert had tried
unsuccessfully to teach her how to play whist.  Later they listened to the
wireless and she had drunk ;wo glasses of sherry.  It was well after midnight
when the \rmitages retired to bed, leaving her and Robert alone ;ogether.
Connie nestled closely to Robert, his arm around ler, cuddling her to him.
She had stared into the burning ogs and imagined that they were alone in
their own house matching the fire dying before he swept her up into his arms
nd carried her up to their bedroom.  They had kissed goodnight on the landing
and she had gone to her room hoping he would come to her again, but she had
fallen asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow and slept soundly until
morning.

There had been no opportunity to talk to Claudette during Christmas Day, but
on Boxing Day morning Claudette had suggested to Robert that he might like to
accompany his father to the Three Pheasants for a lunchtime drink.  Connie
knew then that Claudette was eager to pick up the threads of their
conversation.  She was not to be disappointed, for as soon as the men had
departed Claudette made coffee and suggested they sit beside the fire for a
cosy chat.  Connie watched while her hostess fussed over the chair cushions
and then brought in the coffee pot and crockery on a silver tray.  Placing
the utensils at her elbow, Claudette made herself comfortable and looked
closely at her companion.

"If I remember rightly, you were saying that you expected to learn something
from this get-together you've arranged?"  she began with very little
hesitation.  "That's right."

"Problem is, you're talking about a long time ago, my dear.  Memories fade
and the truth sometimes becomes distorted."

Connie watched while Claudette poured the coffee.

"I ;hought about that," she said quietly.  Ting is, there was more than one
person in my street who worked wiv mum at he factory.  I intend ter talk to
'em all in time.  Then I should be able ter getter the truth.  That's all I
want, Mrs Armitage.  "

"Of course you do, my dear," the elder woman said, passing over a filled
coffee cup.

"You have to remember though that the truth will hurt."

"It might not," Connie replied.

"It will, my dear.  Believe me it will."

"Yer can't know that," Connie said, eyeing the woman with a puzzled frown.

"Oh, but I do," Claudette said quickly.

"Yer mean yer know all about the money?"

"Yes, I do."

"Will yer tell me?"  Connie asked, her eyes fixed anxiously on her hostess.

"I will, providing I have your assurance that you won't say anything to
Robert.  You see my dear, Peter and I have never felt it necessary to mention
the reason for the payments to him because it all happened a long time ago.
The arrangement was between Robert's ^grandfather and your mother, and it was
purely their business.  If my son felt he had been excluded it might affect
his trust and faith in us.  He would think he had been treated badly, and I
don't want that to happen."

"I won't say any fink I promise," Connie said earnestly.

The fire began to burn low and the coffee cooled as the two women faced each
other in the lounge.  Connie sat with her hands held tightly together in her
lap and Claudette leaned forward in her armchair.

"It was at the firm's outing to Southend back in 1923," she began.

"During the evening the charabanc stopped at a public house on the way home.
Most of the workers were more than a little drunk by that time, including
your mother.  There was a lot of merry-making and she got talking to one of
the locals.  Later she was seen leaving with him.

Peter's brother Gerald was responsible for everyone's welfare on the day, and
he was worried by your mother's absence when it was time to leave.  Anyway,
he went off to look for her and finally found both your mother and this local
man lying together in a field behind the pub.  When he called out that it was
time to leave the man became abusive and Gerald was threatened as he tried to
remostrate.

'n the process your mother accidentally fell into a ditch.  She wasn't badly
hurt, just a few bruises and cuts.  The man who as with her attacked Gerald,
who fought him off and then lelped your mother back to the pub.  A member of
the staff lelped her to get cleaned up and then the charabanc left.  /Iost of
the people on the outing were very drunk and no me was aware of what had
happened.  Apparently your not her slept throughout the whole of the journey
home.

"On the next Monday morning she went to see Robert's grandfather and said she
had been attacked by Gerald on he outing and intended going to the police to
tell them he lad tried to rape her."

Connie gasped.

"I can't believe me mum would do such a Fing!  It's not true!"

"I warned you the truth would hurt, dear," Claudette aid, crossing her legs.

"Of course, it came as a terrible hock to Grandfather.

Gerald had already told him about the accident.  He tried to dissuade your
mother from going to the police but she was adamant.

"You'll have to pay to keep me quiet" were her very words.  "

"I can't believe what I'm 'earin'.  She wouldn't do that!  I now she
wouldn't!"  Connie exclaimed.  She was clenching >ier fists tightly.

"Listen, my dear.  You told me yesterday that when you approached your mother
about the money she told you it was to do with your father.  I think you
realise that it wasn't true.  If there was nothing to hide then your mother
would surely have told you about where the money came from and what it was
for."

Connie was silent, her eyes filling with tears as Claudette vent on.

"Your mother told Grandfather that she could not ontinue to work at the
factory after what had happened and as she had a young child to support it
was only right hat the firm should look after her financially.  The arrange-
nent they came to was that a sum of three pounds would be laid to your mother
every month.  The payment was ncreased a few years later to five pounds."

"But it doesn't make sense," Connie blurted out.

"Why iidn't Gerald defend 'himself?

"E could 'ave gone ter court m' told 'em 'is version.

I'm sure 'e would 'ave bin believed aeforememum.  "

Claudette leaned back in her chair and sighed.

"You don't understand, Connie.  Let me try to explain.  At the time Gerald
was going through a bad patch.  He had marriage problems and his wife had
decided on a separation.  If he had gone to court the bad publicity might
have influenced his wife into seeking a divorce, even though he was innocent.
Gerald was desperate to save his marriage and felt he couldn't take the
chance of defending himself in public.  There was another consideration also.
Back in the 'twenties businesses were struggling to stay alive.  Contracts
were hard to come by and the firm was at that time negotiating an important
contract against very fierce competition.  Newspapers would have reported the
case.  Publicity of that sort might well have cost the firm a great deal.
Anyway, a document was drawn up in which your mother agreed not to proceed
further with her allegations and the firm promised to pay her a regular sum
for the whole of her lifetime.  That money bought her silence.  I think you
should let it stay that way.  Talking to anyone about what happened all those
years ago will only cause you more grief.  Let it stay buried, my dear.  It's
the only true course, believe me."

Connie's hands came up to her ashen face and she stared incredulously at
Claudette.

"I just can't believe it," she gasped in a whisper.

Claudette stood up and put her hand on Connie's shoulder.

"Just leave it buried, dear.  It's best that way.  Really it is."

The train clattered on towards London and Robert slept soundly.

Connie sat staring out into the approaching night, deep in thought.

What she had heard from Claudette had shocked and angered her.  She did not
believe her.  There had to be another reason for the money, she told herself.
Her mother had been a little wild in her time but she would never have
stooped to getting money in that way.  There had to be something else.
Claudette had seemed too well informed about the whole series of events.  It
was as though it had all happened yesterday, the way she told it.  If the
woman was lying, who was she protecting?  Was it Gerald or was there some
other person involved?

Questions flooded into her troubled mind.  Why wasn't Robert told anything?
He was an adult.  One day he would take over the factory.

230 why should his parents keep the secret locked away from heir son?

Maybe Claudette had lied about that, too.  Maybe 'e knew and was sworn to
silence, or was just trying to be rotective by saying he did not know the
reason for the pay- ,ients.  She was now more determined than ever to find
the woman Helen had pointed out in the photograph.  She had ?  een a close
friend of her mother.  Maybe she would be able to ell her the truth.

The white countryside had given way to bricks and nor tar Dark factories and
houses flashed past, their :himneys belching smoke from roaring fires.
Robert was ousing himself and Connie nudged him gently.

"We're nearly there," she said, watching him as he shook lis head and rubbed
at his eyes.  The train slowed into the station and came to a juddering halt
with a loud hiss of team.  It was dark as they hurried along the platform.
Connie yawned and held his arm as they passed through the icket barrier.

"You look tired.  Do you want me to take you straight lome.  Con?"  he asked.

"I don't want to be on me own ternight, Robert.  I wanna itaywivyou."

He led her to the taxi rank in the station forecourt, his irm around her
waist.

"Let's go home.  Con," he said softly is he opened the door of the taxi and
helped her in.

Snowflakes danced in the cold wind as the cab moved ilong Borough High
Street.  They sat close holding hands, ler head resting against his shoulder.
Robert gazed out at he flurrying snow and caught sight of a discarded
placard eaning against a shuttered shop front

"PEACE

OR WAR' t read in bold black letters.

t had been a quiet Christmas in Ironmonger Street.  There iad been virtually
no incidents that would have added to he turning's already dubious
reputation, and in the local )ubs the customers went home without much
persuasion when time was called.  George Baker had drunk too much )n
Christmas Eve and was helped back to his house by his ion-in-law and Joe
Cooper, who took hold of the old man's irms and steered him along through the
thickening carpet )fsnow.

The Bartletts stayed at home with their daughter.  Matthew had managed to
clear up his Christmas Club and had found the money for a large chicken and
presents for Helen and Molly.  There was not enough money left for a visit to
the pub but Matthew was content.  It might have been worse, he thought.  His
job did not pay very much, but it was better than standing in the freezing
cold with bundles of shoelaces and cards of collar studs throughout the week
for a few coppers.

Helen was feeling content, too.  There had been a better understanding
between them lately.  Matthew was much less inclined to argue with her now
that he had found a job, and Molly had become less withdrawn once the rows
had stopped.  Helen's only concern was for Connie.  She was becoming more
like her mother as time passed, in looks as well as attitudes.  She had
become defensive about her relationship with the factory owner's son, and
disinclined to talk about her staying out at weekends.  It worried Helen that
Connie was sleeping with him.  It would be terrible if the girl fell for a
child the way her mother had.

It had been a quiet Christmas, too, for Toby and Marie Toomey.  Toby had
managed to get his battered pram operational once more with the aid of an oil
can and a ball of string.  He had been out collecting scrap which he stored
in the shop next door, alongside the bundles of rags and old newspapers.  He
had saved enough money to clear up the rent arrears and pay the rent on the
shop, but the scrap merchants had finished early this Christmas and did not
call to clear his stock on Christmas Eve.  Marie had given her dutiful
husband a mouthful of abuse for his lack of foresight, which had left them
almost penniless.

Their daughter Lillian had decided that sitting at home and listening to her
parents arguing all through Christmas was unthinkable.  She had to do
something and as she put her make-up on Lillian had already made up her mind.
She would go back to her old haunt down in Rotherhithe.  It had been
profitable in the past, and at this time of year there would surely be a few
seamen ready to pay for some company.  She had left the house early on
Christmas Eve and caught the tram to Surrey Docks Station.  The Windjammer
was packed and Lillian took stock as she entered the public bar.  A few hefty
blond seamen stood in one corner talking excitedly and in 232 mother corner
she spotted one or two of the girls she had socialised with during her
adventures in the area.  A large -ed head noticed her and came over.

' "Ello, Lil.  What yer doin' down 'ere?"

' "Ello, Bel.  I'm slummin' again.  Fings are quiet in Bermon'sey.  I'm
lookin' fera nice big seaman wiv a pocket Fullo'dosh."

Bella laughed aloud.

"Ere.  See that big geezer over by he pianer?

I went wiv 'im last night.

"E's a Swede.  Go on, ^I've 'im a pull.  I've jus' tried me luck againternight but I fink 'e likes new faces."

"Bloody 'ell," Lillian said, grinning.

"I don't mind a aig-un but 'e looks like King Kong."

"Don't worry about 'im, Lil.

"E's a babe.  I took 'im 'ome ast night an' told 'im 'ow much I charge, an'
yer know what?

"E give me an extra couple o' quid jus' ter tiggle 'is ;oes.  I tell yer,
Lil, I've bin asked ter do some weird fings in the time, but that topped it
all."

Lillian took out a small mirror from her handbag and studied her face.

"What's 'is name, Bel?"  she asked.

' "E's called Sven.  Go on, Lil, try yer luck."

The big Swede was standing apart from his noisy 'ountrymen, his round face
impassive as he stared into space nd his massive hand clamped around a pint
glass.

' "E looks pissed, Bel," the Toomey girl remarked.

' "E's okay.  That's 'is natural look.  Go on, chat 'im up hen.  Yer better
'urry up if yer going' to.  Fat Sara's got 'er " yes on 'im,"

Bella whispered, nodding towards the ounter.

Lillian glanced over and saw the big woman standing /ith her back to the
counter and one foot resting on the irass rail.

"She still about, Bel?  I thought she retired years go."

"She did," Bella replied.  "

" Er ole man's turned pimp.

"E's outer out again."

Lillian had caught the Swede's eye and she gave him one af her seductive
smiles.  He smiled back, displaying gold Front teeth.

Winking at her friend, the Toomey girl sauntered over to him and said in a
low voice," " Ello, Sven.  3onna buy me a drink, then?  "

His large blue eyes widened and he took a fistful of notes from his coat
pocket.

"Ja.  Drink.  You fetch, eh?"

Lillian took a pound note from the screwed up wad and turned to see Fat Sara
blocking the way to the counter.  "What yer doin' round 'ere, Toomey?  Out
oyer manor, ain't yer?"

Lillian smiled sweetly at her rival.

"It's a free country, Sara.  I'm toutin' fera bit o' business."

"Not in 'ere yer don't," Sara growled, her eyes Hashing.

"Why, you got the monopoly then?"  Lillian replied, hands on hips.

Fat Sara prodded the Toomey girl in the chest with a fleshy forefinger.

"Listen, darling'.  Me an' the girls from Riverside Street work this patch.
We ain't gonna stan' by an' see business snatched from under our noses.  Not
by a skinny prat like you, so piss orf an' get yer business some- where's
else."

Lillian made a grab for the prodding finger and bit on it.  Sara gave out a
yell and thumped her rival in the eye with her clenched fist.

Lillian staggered back and fell into the arms of the big Swede.

"You get drink, ja?"  he grinned.

"Oh, no, she won't!"  screamed Fat Sara, shaping up with her fists.

Lillian lunged forward and grabbed at the woman's long dark hair.

Customers backed away and a loud voice shouted out from behind the counter.

"No fightin' in 'ere, girls!  Outside fer punch-ups!"

The two women had fallen to the floor in a scratching, screaming heap.  Sara
was under the lighter contestant and was getting the worse of the exchange.
Lillian had grabbed her rival's ears and was pummelling her head on the bare
floorboards.  They were finally separated by the Swede who grabbed the back
of Lillian's coat and hoisted her up like a baby.  Fat Sara saw her chance as
she struggled to her feet.

"I'll kill the whore!  Let me at 'er!"  she screamed, rushing forward.

Sven was ready and with his massive hand held out he stopped Sara in her
tracks and shoved her backwards against the counter.  Sara's scrawny looking
pimp rushed across with a beer bottle held up in his fist.  He tried to bring
the bottle down on the Swede's head but he was stopped by 234 two large
seamen who grabbed him and threw him bodily over the counter.  There was a
sound of breaking glass and then the cross-eyed pimp's bloodied head appeared
from behind the bar.  A few young dockers jumped into the fray and suddenly
the whole public bar of the Windjammer was filled with a fighting, sprawling
mass of bodies.  The landlord and his helpers tried desperately to break up
the brawl, aniy to be engulfed in flailing fists, bar stools and any other
abject that came to hand.  As customers hurried for the door they were
confronted by a saintly looking lady in a blue bonnet who held a collection
box in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other.

"Get your copy of God's paper," the lady called out, tiolding up the War Cry.

A body came spinning out through the open door and landed in a heap in the
gutter.  The man picked himself up painfully and staggered back into the
fray.  A tall, elderly man wearing the Salvation Army uniform took the paper-
seller by the arm and pulled her away from the door.

"I think the customers are previously engaged, Matilda.  We should perhaps
try the saloon bar, don't you think?"

Lillian had managed to disentangle herself and she staggered out into the
night air.  The street lamps seemed to spin above her and as she tried to
focus her one good eye she Fell against the wall of the pub.

When she had composed tier self a little she walked unsteadily away in the
direction of Bermondsey.  She had only gone a short distance when the sound
of heavy footsteps grew louder behind her.

"You wait, ja?"

a booming voice called out.

Lillian turned and saw the dishevelled Swede hurrying towards her.

His shirt was torn and he had a thin line of dried blood on the side of his
face.  The large man beamed at tier.

"You come have drink on my ship.  Ja?"

She smiled at him and took his arm.

"C'mon, Sven," she said.

"Let's go an' tiggle yer toes.  Ja?"

Chapter Twenty-Three During the early part of 1939 posters were pasted up
everywhere, informing people of their nearest gas-mask fitting station.  When
the Civil Defence men arrived in the Tower Bridge Road market with the
posters Solly Jacobs put down the sharp knife which he used for gutting the
fish, wiped his bloodied hands down his apron and called out to Bernie
Cornbloom.

"Watch the stall fert en minutes, Bernie.  I fancy a pint."

Solly spotted Joe Cooper, who was sitting alone in the Jolly Compasses
moodily contemplating his near-empty glass of ale.

"You seen them posters what they're puttin' up, Joe?"  he asked.

Joe nodded.

"I've bin sittin' 'ere finkin' fert he last 'alf hour.

It's all gonna blow up soon, I'm sure it is.  The Krauts 'ave nicked
Czechoslovakia, they've warned us that Poland's next, an' we've promised
we'll 'elp the Poles.  What else dyer expect, Solly?  "

The fishmonger walked over to the counter and returned with two pints of ale.

"I've bin finkin', Joe.  I'm gonna put me name down fert he

ARP.  "

Joe grinned.

"What kept yer?  I 'ad me name down last week fert he street warden's job.
They've told me I've gotta be in charge o' the shelter."

"What shelter?"  Solly asked, scratching the side of his face.

"Why, the one they're buildin' in the basement o' the Armitage factory.  They
started last week.  Yer wanna see what they're doin'.

They've stuck great big concrete supports under the roof an' sandbagged the
entrance up, an' they've put a gas blanket over the door.  Next week they're
gonna bung a toilet in, an' a water tap.  The people are likely ter move down
there lock, stock an' barrel, what wiv the state o' the 'ouses in Ironmonger
Street.  "

237 In July Connie Morgan took her very first holiday away from London.

She left Paddington with Robert on the Cornish Riviera Express and travelled
to Penzance.  From there they took a taxi to Lamorna Cove, a tiny fishing
hamlet a few miles from Land's End, and booked into a small hotel high up on
the rocky hill overlooking the bay.  From the bedroom window shadowed by
large trees they could see the green hills which sloped down to the small
sandy shore and the cold, sparkling Atlantic.  The lovers had registered as
Mr and Mrs Wilson and, to prevent speculation, Connie wore a thin gold band
on the ring finger of her left hand.  The owners of the hotel were curious
nevertheless.

Mrs Lampton was convinced that the couple were honeymooners

"They're very much in love, Claude," she whispered to her husband.

"They hardly take their eyes off each other, and she's just a child."

"You're a soppy thing, Eveline.  Don't you go indulging them now.  They may
be lovers wanting to escape from something or other, so leave them alone.  I
know how inquisitive you can be."

The weather stayed fine for the week, with cloudless skies and a hot sun that
caused the sea to shimmer They ran hand in hand along the sand and bathed in
the sheltered cove.  They took long walks up into the hills and lay together
in the cool green grass.  When the sun slipped down in the western sky and
long shadows crept along the cove they strolled leisurely along the harbour
wall and listened to the wash of the incoming tide.  The lovers dallied there
until the heavens turned velvet black and star patterns lit the night.  They
looked up at the crescent moon and their minds were serene, away from the
fearful feverishness of preparation for war.  They did not speak of the
parting they both knew would now be inevitable, and they savoured and lived
for the moment.

When the sun rose again and peeked through the curtains of their bedroom they
would get up quickly and wander back to the harbour wall and stand at a
discreet distance from the local artists.  They watched their brush strokes
as they slowly captured the rolling, shimmering sea, the rising 238 grey
cliffs and the many shades of green which reached up to the deep-blue sky.
They ate their lunch of freshly caught ;rab with salad in a small cafe that
was cut into the rocks, 3r they strolled down to the Smugglers Inn and took
their lunch there in the company of leather-faced fishermen who sat around in
small groups, discussing the weather and smoking stained clay pipes.

At seven o'clock each evening they dined at the hotel, sitting in a window
seat and glancing at each other over a vase af wild flowers.

Connie sometimes looked down at the gold band around her finger and wished
secretly.  Robert, as though reading her thoughts, would reach out and take
her hand.  The evening meals were served by Eveline who missed nothing, and
she would remove her matronly figure to the kitchen and speak of young love
to her perspiring tiusband as he stood over the hot ovens and tended the
steaming pots.

Later, as the moon climbed high in the sky and the night awls hooted, the
lovers lay in each other's arms.  Connie was aware of the token band around
her finger as he took her to him and loved her.  She felt pleasure and deep
satisfaction, and with it the knowledge that whatever happened in the future,
however tortuous and twisted their fate would be, she would always remember
the glorious week they had spent together in that romantic Cornish cove.

In August in the markets and pubs and work places the only real topic of
conversation was the coming war.

The Dolphin in Salter Street was busy one Tuesday ivening.  It was darts
night and the visiting team from the Horse and Groom had brought quite a few
supporters.  Connie and Jennie were serving drinks in the public bar and
during the matches the two were kept very busy.

Bill French the landlord usually took Tuesday nights off and his wife Dora
served alone in the saloon bar.  As the evening wore on and the two teams
became more excited the barmaids found little time to talk to the customers.
It had grown very noisy, with cheers ringing out every time a winning dart
was thrown.  Regular customers got irritated as the visiting team and their
supporters elbowed their way to the counter and impatiently shouted for
service.  Jennie was used to the hustle and bustle but Connie found it very
nerve-wracking and she was glad when Dora looked in on her and suggested she
should do a spell in the saloon bar where it was much quieter.

It was nearing closing time when Connie resumed serving in the public bar.
The visiting team had lost the match and most of them had left to get a last
drink back at the Horse and Groom.  A few remained, and one of them, an
elderly man with grey hair and a thick moustache was leaning on the counter,
sipping his pint of ale.  Connie had become aware of his interest in her.  He
seemed to be watching her closely and, when she went to serve a customer next
to him, he smiled at her.

Connie became uneasy.  He was studying her every action, and when he finished
his drink and beckoned to her she felt her face flush.  As she took the empty
glass and pulled on the beer pump she could feel his eyes on her.

"I bin watchin' yer, luv," he said as Connie put down the filled glass and
picked up the half crown.

"Yer ain't Kate Morgan's kid, are yer?"

Yes, I am," she replied with surprise, looking into the man's faded blue eyes.

"I knew it!"  he exclaimed, slapping the top of the counter with a bony hand.

"I bin clockin' yer fera while now.  Yer the spittin' image of yer muvver.

"Ow is she?  I ain't seen 'er fe rages

The mum died two years ago," Connie said quietly.

The old man's face showed shock and he sucked his lips.  "I'm ever so sorry,
luv.  I didn't know."

"It's okay," Connie said, passing over his change.

"Was you a friend of 'ers?"

"I worked wiv yer mum at Armitage's years ago," he said, looking down at his
pint.

"It must 'ave bin a long time ago.  Me mum left there in 1923."

"I know," the man replied, taking a swig from his glass.  "Ow time flies.  We
used ter 'ave some good ole laughs at that factory."

"Did yer go on the firm's outin'?"  Connie asked.

"Yeah.  What a day that was!"

Connie leaned her elbows on the counter.

"I remember 240 the mum tellin' me there was some sort o' trouble on that
lutin'."

The old man stroked his stubbly chin.

"I did 'ear of a bit ?"  bower, butter tell yer the trufe I was too pissed
ter -em ember much after dinnertime.  "

Dora called for last orders and Connie found herself busy ince again.

When time was called and Dora rang the bell, Connie managed to pick up her
conversation with the grey- la ired old man as he finished his drink.

"Did yer know that woman who was me mum's best Tiend?"  she asked.

"They was always tergevver."

"Yer talkin' about Norma Cantwell?  Yeah, that was 'er lame.

"Er an yer muvver was like two peas in a pod.  I fink hey left the firm
tergevver as well."

Connie looked hard at the man.

"Yer don't know what appened toer I s'pose?  I fink it's only right she
should (now about me mum dyin'."

The old man stroked his chin again.

"Well as feras I (now, she used ter live in Birdcage Lane orf the Old Kent
Road.  Mind you, they've pulled a lot o' that turnin' down low."

Tanks fert he info," Connie said, smiling at him.

"If yer io get any news of 'er whereabouts, give us a look in, will /er?"

"Sure fing, luv," he replied, buttoning up his overcoat.

Connie watched him leave as she began to collect the ;mpty glasses.

It was a chance meeting, she thought, but omehow she must have been meant to
bump into him.  ^ow she had a lead to follow, however.  She wondered whether
it was time she confided in her Aunt Helen.  She would be angry at being kept
in the dark for so long, but the itory Claudette had told her last Christmas
had been some- ;hing she could not bear to talk about, not even to her aunt.

She hoped desperately that somehow she would be able to 'and this Norma
Cantwell first, for she might be able to tell ler what had really happened.

Fowards the end of August army reserves were being called ip and an alliance
pact was signed with Poland.  On the first of September Warsaw was bombed as
German troops narched into Poland.  In the Bermondsey back streets people
took the news with calmness, even relief that the uncertainty was now over.
They knew it meant war.  At the Armitage factory the word went round that as
they were engaged on war work the factory would be evacuated to the country.

"I can't go ter the bleedin' country," Lizzie Conroy moaned.

"Who's gonna get me ole man's food?"

' "E'll find somebody ter feed 'im an' wash 'is dirty socks, I'm sure," Mary
Brown quipped.

Joyce Spinks shed a few tears as she confided in Mary.  "We ain't gonna be
vacua ted are we?  I'd be worried about Arfur.

"E can't do a fing fer 'himself."

"Don't worry, Joyce.  They can't 'vacuate the factory, an' we won't be able
ter go neivver.  We'll be stuck 'ere same as usual wiv all this bloody war
work ter do, you mark my words."

Lizzie spotted Joe Cooper coming down between the machines.

"Oi, Joe.

What's the latest?  " she called out.

"I dunno, Liz, 'cept that they're evacuatin' children, accordin' ter the
wireless."

"Oh my Gawd!"  Lizzie gasped, putting a hand up to her mouth.

As Friday wore on slowly the rum ours were spreading fast and furiously.  The
sound of the pounding machines played on the workers' frayed nerves and
finally one of the machinists found it all too much.  She suddenly let out a
piercing scream and dashed along the gangway, her hands help up to her ashen
face.  Joe Cooper made a grab at her but she dodged past him and ran
screaming from the factory and out along the little turning.  George Baker
was standing at his front door, leaning heavily on his walking- stick and he
saw her dash past.

The tallyman who had just reached George's door watched her run off down the
street and he looked back enquiringly at the old man.

"It's the factory," George said, with mock seriousness.

"It sends 'em all that way in time."

"Good God!"

"Yeah, it's true," George went on.

"They've bin known ter crack up wiv the noise an' put their 'eads under the
presses before now.  They come out lookin' like flat red lollipops.  It don't
'alf make a mess!"

242 The tallyman was beginning to feel queasy and with a shiver he turned
and left the turning in rather a hurry.

George smiled to himself.  The collector had forgotten to ask for the weekly
payment.

Later, when Mary came in from work on that Friday svening, the family had an
urgent discussion.

"What about yer two kids, Mary?  Yer gonna send 'em out o' London?"

her father enquired.

"What yer reckon, Frank?"  Mary asked, looking anxiously at her husband.

"I dunno, girl.  I don't like the idea of sendin' 'em away.  Yer know what
young Jimmy's like.

"E's only six.  It's a dead cert 'e'll pine.

June's that bit older but she's gonna fret too, it's only natural.  "

They both looked at George, who raised his gnarled hands helplessly.

"Don't ask me.  It's your decision.  If it was me though, I'd keep 'em roun'
me.  What's ter be will be."

"I fink we'll wait," Mary said finally.

"We'll see 'ow fings turn out.  Okay, Frank?"

George settled down in his chair and filled his pipe.  He could hear the
children's laughter coming from upstairs and he grinned to himself.  It would
be miserable without the kids about the place, he thought.

' "Ere, Dad," Mary said with her hands on her hips.  "What's this money doin'
on the mantel shelf  Ain't the tallyman bin?"

"Yeah.  We wa saving a chat an' 'e must 'ave fergot all about the money."

Mary shook her head slowly.

"All this talk of war seems to 'ave turned everybody upside down.  We 'ad one
o' the girls go berserk terday.  She run out o' the factory screamin' " er
'ead off.  Joe Cooper said she run up the street like the devil was after
'er.  "

George Baker puffed on his pipe.

"Did she?"  he asked innocently.

There had been little work done that day in the leather factory.

Everyone was preoccupied, including the nanagement.  Some of the girls
discussed the possibility of going along to the recruiting office to join one
of the women's services.  Connie could think only of her coming weekend with
Robert.  Unless he had changed his mind, he would be volunteering for the air
force she thought.  This would be the last weekend together for some time,
and she wanted it to be very special.

When she got home that evening Connie went straight to the Bartletts' home
and found her aunt alone.

Helen had a worried look on her pale face.

"Ain't it terrible?  I've jus' bin listenin' ter the wireless.  There's
fousands o' kids getting' vacua ted Con.  It's made me feel ill jus'
'earin'itall."

Connie slumped down in the armchair.

"It was the same at work terday.

It's all everybody talked about.  "

Helen walked out to the kitchen.

"I'll get yer a cup pa  I've got one made.  Molly an' Matt'll be in soon."

The dark day had worked strangely on Connie and she had decided to unburden
herself while she was alone with Helen.  She had kept the story Claudette had
told her to herself for almost nine months now and she needed to confide in
her aunt, now that her recent attempt to find Norma Cantell had come to
nothing.

The two women sat facing each other in the armchairs, their cups of tea held
in their laps.  Helen listened intently while Connie related what Claudette
had told her and when the girl had finished she shook her head slowly.

"I wish you'd 'ave told me sooner.  Con.  You shouldn't leave us out in the
cold.  We're family.  We're the only family yer've got, girl.  Don't shut us
out.  Yer mum used ter do that an' it stopped us being' really close."

Connie looked into her aunt's tired eyes.

"I know I should 'ave told yer long ago, Aunt

"Elen, but I was 'opin' ter getter the bottom of fings before I worried yer
all.  Yer've got enough on yer plate.

Trouble is, when I went round ter find this Norma an' saw the street 'ad bin
pulled down I knew I was at a dead end.  I wanted ter prove that Robert's
muvver was lying

"Listen, Connie.  Yer don't 'ave ter convince me," Helen said sharply, anger
showing in her eyes.

"Kate was me sister.  She would never do what that woman said she done.  All
right, we know the firm was payin' 'er fer some reason, an' it might 'ave binter keeper quiet, but whatever 'appened it 244 must 'ave bin some fink bad.
Yer mum wouldn't 'ave invented it."

"What do we do next.  Aunt?

"Ow do we find this Norma Cantwell?"

"Yer gotta be patient, girl.  All right, nobody knows where she's gorn to,
but we've got a photo of 'er.  Then there's that old man yer said yer talked
to.

"E might come back wiv some news."

"That's pretty unlikely.  Aunt."

"Yer never know, Con.  It was only fate 'e sawyer in the pub.  If yer meant
ter getter the bottom of it all it'll 'appen, you'll see."

"I 'ope you're right.  Aunt.  I always hoped the money me mum got was really
from me dad.  Now I know it wasn't.  I don't s'pose I'll ever find out about
'im, but I'm determined ter getter the truth, about the money at least."

Helen pursed her lips.  She felt a great sadness at having to bear the burden
her sister had placed upon her.  She wanted to shout out the man's name and
put Connie's mind at rest.  (t was so unfair, but it was Kate's wish.  Even
when she had been very ill and knew that she would not recover, Kate had
still insisted that the secret should be kept.

Footsteps on the landing interrupted her thoughts and she got up from her
chair as Molly and Matthew walked in together.

"News is bad, luv," Matt said as he took off his coat and hung it behind the
door.

Molly sat down heavily in the armchair, her breathing coming quickly.

She smiled wanly at Connie and when she had recovered she kicked off her
shoes and sighed deeply.

"Is there really gonna be a war.  Dad?"  Molly asked.

"Seems it's certain now, luv.  It's no good pretendin'."

"Will yer 'ave ter join up.  Dad?"

"No.  I'm too old.  I might 'ave ter do war work though.  Our firm's talkin'
about getting' exemptions fer us, 'cause o' the gover'ment contract we're on.
I jus' gotta wait an' see."

Molly glanced at her cousin and then looked back at her father.

"The girls at work were talkin' about London getting' bombed.  Couldn't we
all go away somewhere safe.  Dad?"

Matthew ran his fingers through his greying hair.

"I wish we could,"

he said quietly.

"Trouble is, there'll be nowhere ter go.  We might escape the bombin', but
we can't leave the country.

In any case, people like us ain't got nowhere ter go.  All we can do is grin
an' bear it, like always.  "

Helen came into the room with the teapot.

"Now wash yer 'ands, Molly.

You, too, Matt.  War or no war, yer gotta eat.  What about you.  Con?

Wanna stop fertea?  It's saveloys an' pease pudden.  "

246 Chapter Twenty-Four 't had been a special weekend.  On Saturday evening
Connie ooked a meal and Robert opened a bottle of red wine.  they sat
together in the quietness of the flat and talked asually and light-heartedly,
avoiding the thing that yorried them most.  They lay in each other's arms
and, as Robert stroked her long blond hair and she felt his hands ently
caressing her body, she tried to stifle the ache that yelled up from deep
within her.  Soon he would be gone, she new.  The thought of being without
him was hard to bear.  Ie was her whole life, and without his strong arms
around ier and his gentle words of love, life would not be worth iving.
Somehow she had to bear it, however painful.  She nust wait for him to return
to her.  She had to be strong, like icr mother must have been.  He must carry
her love with iim so that wherever he went, whatever dangers he faced, the
knowledge would sustain him and bring him back safely.

Robert slept soundly, his even, shallow breathing hardly noving his chest.
Connie twisted and turned, her sleep polled with mixed-up dreams.  They awoke
late and had lardly finished breakfast when the news came over the vireless
that the Prime Minister would be speaking to the lation.  They listened in
silence as the flat, cultured voice poke of how he had striven to preserve
peace and that now, tespite all his efforts, the country was at war with
Germany.  us voice dragged on painfully and, when Robert finally of up and
turned off the wireless, Connie saw the set xpression on his face and the
sadness reflected in his ice- >lue eyes.  She knew that all the speculation
was over.  She eit calm, even relieved that the challenge was there for her
co take up.  She had to be brave now.  There must be no tears, no regrets.
He would surely leave her, but it would not be for ever.  Their times
together in the days ahead would be short and treasured.  One day they would
meet again and never be parted.

The unearthly wail of the air-raid siren broke the silence, and they looked
down into the Sunday street below.  People were running along the
thoroughfare, their eyes searching the skies.  Mothers clutched their babies
and held on desperately to their youngsters as they ran for the shelter in
the square opposite.

Connie gripped Robert's arm.

"What shall we do?"  she asked him, her voice trembling.

He put his arm around her waist.

"Don't be frightened, Con.  They're probably just trying out the sirens.  We
might as well stay here, at least for the time being."

They sat together at the window as the sound of the siren died to a moan.
There was a deathly silence outside.  The street was now empty, save for a
lone mongrel who cocked his leg against a tree then trotted off
unconcernedly.  A police car suddenly dashed past, and then it was silent
again.

As soon as the Prime Minister's speech ended.  Ironmonger Street came to
life.  Front doors opened and people spilled out on to the pavements.
Windows in the buildings were thrown open and eyes looked down at the
commotion below.  Outside number one the Toomeys stood together, Toby with a
distant expression on his narrow face, Marie sobbing and being comforted by
her daughter Lillian.  The Bakers and the Richards stood talking in a huddle
while Widow Pacey stood alone in her doorway, her arms folded and a defiant
look on her face.  When the siren sounded the street folk looked fearfully
towards the clear blue sky and then hurried through the factory gates and
down the steps into the stale-smelling basement shelter.  People ran from the
buildings.  Alf Riley held his shaking wife by the arm and they were followed
by the Smiths, the Carringtons and the Argents.  The wail died and the little
cul-de-sac became empty and quiet.

The basement shelter in the Armitage factory had become full of shaking,
fearful folk who sat around on the hard wooden benches and talked in low
voices.  Lizzie Conroy took out her knitting and found she was dropping 248
more stitches than she picked up.  George Baker had left his alse teeth in
the cup and he sat making funny faces, to the lelight of his two young
grandchildren.  Mother Adams sat retting over her cats, and Doris Richards
held her arms iround her daughter Bella.  Joe Cooper stood in the door- way ,
wearing his steel helmet which had the words ARP tencilled on it and carrying
his service gas-mask pack over this shoulder.  With him stood Mary's husband
Frank who was looking around at the assembled street folk.

' "Ere, Joe.  Ole Clara Cosgrove ain't 'ere," Frank said suddenly.

"Bloody 'ell!"  Joe exclaimed.

"I bet she didn't 'ear the siren.  C'mon, Frank, we'd better see if she's all
right."

The two men hurried to number twenty and knocked loudly on the door.

Joe bent down and put his mouth to the letter box.

"You all right, Clara?"  he called out.

"She's fell asleep, it's a dead cert," Frank said, looking up at the sky
anxiously.

Joe fished his hand into the letter box and pulled out a tring with a key
tied to the end of it.

"C'mon, Frank, let's soget'er."

The two men entered the house and walked into the front >arlour.

Clara Cosgrove was seated in her favourite irmchair, her hands folded in her
lap and her mouth iianging open.

Joe shook the old lady gently and she awoke with a start.  "Gawd!  Yer
frightened the bleedin' life out o' me.  What's wrong?"

"C'mon, Clara.  We're tryin' the shelter out," Joe said, taking hold of her
arm.

"Leave me alone, sod yer!"  she growled.

"There's me 'avin' a nice nap an' you two come in 'ere playin' silly buggers.
Now piss orf out."

"The warnin' went, Clara.  We co meter take yer ter the shelter."

"D'yer mean the war's started?"

"That's right, Ma," Frank said softly.

Clara reached beneath her pinafore and took out a small lace handkerchief
with which she dabbed at her eyes.

"So it's all orf again, is it?  They'll never learn, will they?  I'm sure it
was getting' gassed in the last war caused my Fred ter peg out the way 'e
did.  Well I tell yer some fink I don't care what 'appens.  They're not
getting' me down that bloody shelter.  I'd sooner stay 'ere in me own 'ome,
'cos the way I see it, when yer number's up there ain't much yer can do about
it.  Now you two go on back ter the rest of 'em.  Tell 'em Clara Cosgrove
isaving a little nap 'an don't wanna be disturbed.

"Ere, an' tell 'em all not ter make too much noise as they come past me
winder, okay?"

"Okay, Ma," Joe said, looking at Frank and jerking his head towards the door.

The long, even tone of the all clear brought people out on to the street once
more.  The sun shone down from an almost cloudless sky as people stood about
at their front doors and children came out to play.  Later Tony Armeda pushed
his ice-cream barrow into the turning and became busy, scooping dabs of
yellow cream on to large wafer cones.  Children gripped their pennies and
jostled for position at the front of the queue.

"I'm first!  I'm first!"

"No you ain't.  I was 'ere first."

"Donna push!  Yer knocka da barrer over.  Waita yer turn, you all geta
served."

"Gissa tupp'ny one.  Tony."

The, too.  Tony.  "

The big Italian reached down yet again into his metal drum and came up with
another scoop of ice-cream.  The kids jostled each other as more gathered
around the gaily painted barrow, pennies clutched tightly in their sweaty
palms.  Cooking smells drifted out from open front doors and men started off
up the turning dressed in their Sunday best, caps askew and white silk
scarves knotted around their necks.  Public houses filled and urgent
discussions were quickly begun.

"It won't last long.  I give it six months.  It's a big game o' bluff,"

Terry said, hooking his thumbs through his braces.

"I don't fink so, Tel.  I reckon it's gonna be a nasty turnout.  You've only
gotta look at what 'appened in Spain.  Look at the bombin' what went on out
there."

"Yeah, but them there Republicans didn't 'ave any planes.  Bill.  They
couldn't fight back.  If the Germans 250 )omb us we're gonna retaliate,
stan's terreason."

"I 'ope you're right, Tel.

"Ere, gonna get anuvver drink n, I feel like getting' pissed."

evening shadows lengthened in the thoroughfare below as Connie sat with
Robert in the quiet flat.  The wireless was witched on and soft orchestral
music drifted through the oom.  There had been urgent broadcasts all day
warning people to read the notices that were going up in pubic ri aces People
had been urged to register their children for svacuation and advice was given
on how to cope in the event of a gas attack.  Prayers were broadcast and then
sombre nusic had played once more.  Connie rested her head on his .  houlder.

"When will yer go?"  she asked.

"I'll go along to the recruiting office first thing omorrow, Con.

There's no point in waiting.  "

"Will yer 'ave ter go straight away?"

"No, they'll send for me.  I'll get a medical first."

"What will yer parents say, Robert?  They'll be upset, won't they?"

He nodded his head slowly.

"I think they expect me to volunteer.  Dad used to point out the value of
managing iroduction in a factory which was on a government on tract but he
knows I couldn't sit out the war in the facory.  I'd go mad.  Con."

"You are mad," she smiled sadly.

"Yer could stay 'ere wiv the.  Yer don't 'ave ter go away an' fight."

He did not answer as he stood up and walked over to the vindow.  He looked
down into the deserted street.  It was the 'irst night that the blackout was
in force and it was '.  omplete.  No lights shone out and passers-by lit
their way with shaded torches.  The distant rumble of thunder and a )rief
flash of lightning seemed like an omen to him as he stood gazing into the
darkness.

Connie walked over to him and put her arms around his ense body.

"Come away from the winder, Robert.  Close he curtains an' put the light on.
I don't like the dark."

He bent his head and found her lips.  She pressed herself o him, aware that
time was short.  There was so much she wanted to say and so little time.  She
clung to him and felt his lands gently stroking her back.

"I love you, Connie," he whispered.

"Will you wait for me?"

She nodded, unable to speak as tears filled her eyes and a lump rose in her
throat.  He stepped back and took her hand as he led her away from the window.

"I want to say something, Con," he said, pulling her down beside him on the
sofa.

"You must know I love you.  I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
No, don't say anything.  I've wanted to ask you if you'll marry me, but I
couldn't bring myself to say the words.  I've been convinced for some time
now there'd be a war and it wouldn't be fair to you.  I could get killed and
you'd be a widow before you'd got used to being a wife.  But now that it's
happened .  .  ."

"Yer shouldn't fink like that," she said, her voice trembling.

"I've got a stake in us, too.  We could get engaged.  Ask me, Robert.  Just
ask me," she urged him.

He took her to him and looked into her blue eyes.

"Will you marry me, Con?"

"Yes!  Yes!"  she gasped, pulling his head down on to her open lips.

The country was in its first week of war and in the shops and at the markets
trade was brisk as people bought up blackout material and rolls of gum-backed
paper to protect their windows against blast.

Cinemas and dance halls closed, along with sports stadiums and public meeting
places.  Vehicles drove at night with their headlights shielded and the
streets became dangerous places for everyone in the blackness.  Police and
street wardens began to patrol the back turnings, and the call to

"Put that light out' became a very familiar cry.  Whole schools were
evacuated with their teachers, and many thousands of parents said goodbye to
their offspring as trains and coaches took the youngsters to the supposed
safety of the countryside.  For children who stayed in the capital there were
few schools that remained open, and they ran wild in the streets to the
chagrin of the local bobbies.  News bulletins came with monotonous regularity
and the government announced that all young men between the ages of eighteen
and forty-one would be liable for call-up.

Robert Armitage had volunteered for the R.  A.  F and, after 252 1 medical,
he was called up almost immediately.  Connie attempted to fill the void in
her life by spending most of her spare time with the Bartletts.  On Tuesday
and Thursday svenings she worked at the pub, and when she was asked if she
would like to work on Saturday evenings Connie lumped at the chance.  The
atmosphere at the Dolphin was pleasant enough and she found the work helped
her to get over her parting from Robert.  He wrote to her regularly and in
his letters he spoke of going off to flying school very soon.  In the pub
young faces were missing as the first batch of eligible men in their twenties
received their call-up papers.  Pub parties became a nightly occurrence as
fresh- faced lads and their anxious parents drank together on the eve of
conscription.  The lads were invariably treated to a free drink and a fond
kiss on the cheek by Dora French, who remarked to her husband,

"They're only kids.  Bill.  Most of 'em ain't started shavin' yet."

"They'll grow up soon enough, Dora," he replied.  There'll be a few gaps
along the counter before this war's ver, mark my words.  "

the first days of war passed without the expected air it tacks and people
began to get used to the defence prepaations that had appeared everywhere.
Sandbags and )osters, first-aid posts and street shelters were in evidence
ill across London, and travellers carried their gas masks with them on trains
and on the buses and trams.  Foodstuffs were becoming scarce and the
government issued ration rooks prior to announcing a food-rationing system.
The ;treet blackout became a problem as the days grew shorter.  'people
struggled home from work through dark streets and iccidents became
commonplace.

For the Ironmonger Street folk the blackout did not pose oo many problems as
most of them worked locally, but for Coby Toomey it became a source of some
considerable mbarrassment.  He had set out on a cold Monday morning n
September determined to have a good day.  The pram was lolding up well
although the wheels had started squeaking igain, and as he left the turning
Toby decided to try ^otherhithe.  He had often pushed his battered old pram .
hrough the back streets around the Surrey Docks and the people there knew
him.  It was quite a walk, but trade had dried up locally and he thought it
would be worth the effort.  By midday his conveyance was filled with bits of
scrap iron and bundles of old newspapers.  Mrs O'Shaughnessy had offered him
an old tin bath and Mrs Carter wanted him to take her bug-ridden mattress
away, but Toby had to remind the two women that it was a pram he had and not
a horse and cart.

The sun had come out during the morning and the wind had dropped.

Toby decided to eat his sandwiches down by the water.  There was a riverside
pub he knew where the landlord wasn't too fussy who he served, providing they
could pay, and he would be able to stow his pram within sight.  Once he had
not taken such a precaution and the local kids had stolen the wheels off his
pram for their box-carts.

Toby parked his contraption in the alley at the back of the pub and walked in
the back door.  He ordered a pint of ale and sat out on the veranda where he
ate his sandwiches of boiled bacon, keeping one eye on the day's collection
of old rubbish.  The sun felt warm on his face and the smell of the river mud
drifted up as the tide began to ebb.

He could see the Norwegian timber ship moored in mid-stream and the busy
dockside cranes dipping and swinging as pine and spruce sets were lifted from
the holds of the Scandinavian ships berthed in the Surrey.  The beer tasted
good and Toby sifted through his pockets.

There was just enough for another pint and, glancing at the laden pram
beneath the veranda, he felt he had earned it.

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, Torn.  It's all ole junk,"

254 the third lad said, kicking the brake off.

The two lads looked at Torn, 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 coma."

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

"What dyer 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 oyer 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 length ways 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 cuss-words.

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" meyer 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 'highway, 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 oyer.  Where did yer find the carpet, in the poxy river?"

256 Chapter Twenty-Five 1940 began with the worst winter for over forty
years.  Parts fthe River Thames froze over and trains became stranded.  load
transport was thrown into chaos as horses and vehicles slipped and slithered
over the iced-up cobbles and armac.  Car-men wrapped their nags' hooves in
sacking and road vehicles were fitted with wheel chains in a battle igainst
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 3f 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
ivorse.

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 i jeweller's shop at the Elephant and Castle where
Connie hose 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 termeetyer.  "

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 air crew

"Not yet.  I'm pilot training."

"So yer gonna be a flyer then?"  Michael grinned.

"I prefer the watermeself."

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 letterbox 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 tim ever got yerself anuvver pair.  They've got plenty
o'cheap glasses at the market."

258 Toby sat himself down in the tattered armchair and iooked up at his
irate wife.

"What's it say, luv?"

"We've gotta give the shop up," she said, her arms ikimbo.

"Do what!"  he gasped.

"This letter's from Uncle Bert.

"E ses the shop's being' ;ook over by the ARP fera warden's post.  It's ter
do wiv the iefence regulations."

"Christ!  They can't do that, Marie."

"Well they've bleedin' well gorn an' done it.  You'll 'ave ;er 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 lot ting without having
nowhere to store all his scrap and old newspapers.  At least the shop had
been a iecent 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 orries and horse carts were often secreted
beneath sacks of ags and bundles of old newspapers.  Marie's uncle is a
:arney character, Toby admitted to himself.  No notice was ver taken when the
lorry called to remove the scrap, and ;ertain other items, too.

Yes, Uncle Bert was carney, although his keeping on about not letting anyone
know Foby was renting the shop was a bloody nuisance.  It made it iifficult,
having to cart all the scrap iron and bundles of ags and papers into the shop
through the backyard.  Uncle Bert had emphasised the need for secrecy to
Marie, and he iad made himself crystal clear.

"Look 'ere, luv, he said, 'if yer neighbours know yer ole nan's rentin' that
shop they're gonna get curious.  They're lot stupid.  They know that what 'e
does don't run ter layin' rent on a shop.  Somebody's only gotta open their
rap ter the wrong person, like the local bobbie, an' I'm ^onna be in trouble."

Marie had been staring at Toby as he sat slumped in the mattered armchair.

"Well, what yer gonna do about it?  I lin't 'avin' that rubbish o' yours
stuck in me yard.  Yer setter sort some fink out 'cos I don't want our Lil
upset.  If he brings a fella 'ome an' 'e sees bits of old iron stuck in the
aassage '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 back- streets.  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 havi.  ig 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 night watchman It can't be very hard
being a night watchman 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.

"Oil What yer sittin' there grinnin' like a Cheshire cat for?"  Marie
shouted.  Tings 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'sputtin' 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.  BIeedin' nightmare she
wa saving  I said toer,

"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' 'erbleedin' 'eadorf.  "

260 "Yer gotta admit though.  Bill.  It's getting' 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, every- the in the
Dolphin public house in Salter Street was talking bout the war.  The news was
bad.  The remnants of the tritish and French armies were being taken off the
beaches at un kirk and repeated wireless bulletins had reported that
asualties were very high.  Connie and her friend Jennie were serving in the
public bar and they could both feel the tension.  [t 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 onversation 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 air force 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."

Nora Matthews chuckled.

"We're getting' ter be dirty ole cows, May, ain't we?"

"Dirty nufink.  It's only natural ter notice a bit o' prime beef when you've
'ad ter put up wiv sc rags o' mutton."

"I know what yer mean.  May.  It does seem strange in 'ere now all the young
men 'ave bin called up.  Poor ole Tubby looks worried out of 'is life.

"E dotes on that son of 'is.  Then there's Mrs Argrieves.  She looks
terrible.  Mind you though, that son of 'ers don't fink nufink of 'er.  All
the time I've bin comin' in 'ere I ain't never seen 'im buyer a drink."

"Still, blood's thicker than water, Nora.  It's only natural fer 'er ter be
worried, even though 'e is a bit of a cow-son."

Connie had just finished serving a customer when she spotted Robert.

He had reached the counter and was watching her, a wide smile on his handsome
features.  Connie gasped and ignored another customer as she hurried over to
him.  She noticed how his cap was pushed back from his forehead and how his
blue eyes lit up as he smiled.

"What yer doin' 'ere, Robert?"  she said joyfully.

"Yer didn't say yer was comin' on leave."

"I didn't know myself until a few hours ago.  I've been given a
forty-eight-hour pass.  I thought I'd look in and surprise you."

"C'mon, Con, I'm dyin' o' thirst," one of the customers called out.

Robert grinned as he put a ten shilling note down on the counter.

"I'd like a Scotch, if you've any left."

"C'mon, Connie girl, don't eat 'im," the waiting customer said to roars of
laughter.

Connie felt her face redden and she quickly poured Robert a whisky.

Jennie came over and touched her arm.

"Don't your fella look smashin' in that uniform.  I could fancy 'im me self

Connie smiled as she handed over the drink and watched as he took a sip.

"I was getting' worried, not 'earin' from yer," she said quietly.

"Sorry, Con," he said, pushing his cap farther back on his head.

"I've got an operational posting.  First thing Monday morning."

"Is it near London?"  Connie asked, her eyes studying his pale features.

He put his finger to his lips and made an exaggerated movement with his eyes
left to right.

"It's classified, I can't say."

Jennie had been hovering nearby and she nudged her friend.

"Ain't yer gonna introduce me prop'ly, or are yer keepin' 'im all ter
yerself?"

she asked finally.

Connie giggled and before she could speak Jennie held out her hand.

"I'm Jennie.  I used ter see yer when yer met Connie at the factory.

Trouble was she wouldn't let any of 262 is get near yer.  If yer ever get
fed up wiv our Con I'm il ways available.  "

They all laughed, to the chagrin of the still waiting customer.

"Ere you two.  If yer don't serve me soon I'm gonna limb over the bleedin'
counter an' 'elp me self

Jennie raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"All right, all right.  ['11 serve yer.  Jus' give yerself a chance."

"Give me self a chance?  I'm dyin' o' thirst an' there's you ;wo natterin'
away wiv Flash

"Arry over there.  Who is 'e inyway?"

"That's Connie's fiance.

"E's a pilot," Jennie said, glancing in Robert's direction.

The customer's face relaxed.

"Ere, Jen.  See if the lad wants a drink."

Jennie pinched the old man's cheek playfully.

"Leave 'em alone.  Jerry.

Yer can buy me one instead.  "

Robert had struck up a conversation with some of the regular customers as
Connie continued serving, occasionally glancing coyly in his direction.

At ten o' clock Jennie caught Connie's eye.

"You'd better get yer fella out of 'ere before ole Benny bores 'im ter death.
Go on, I can manage."

Connie squeezed Jennie's arm.  Tanks a lot, Jen.  It's one [ owe yer.  "

She put on her coat and beckoned to Robert, whose hand was being furiously
pumped by the inebriated Benny, and tie nodded back.  The two lovers walked
out into the chill night air, Connie gripping his arm tightly and resting her
head against his shoulder as they came out from the back- street into the Old
Kent Road.  No lights shone out as they made their way along the street.  A
pale moon shone down wanly, its beams catching the tram lines and making them
glow eerily.  At the junction they passed the white stone library building
and continued into Great Dover Street.  Very few people were about, and as
they neared Robert's Flat the moon had become obscured behind heavy clouds.
Large spots of rain stained the pavement as they hurried up the stairs to the
front door and let themselves into the dark passage.  They climbed the flight
of stairs and entered the First-floor flat just as the first roll of thunder
sounded.  Lightning flashed across the dark sky and rain beat against the
window panes.  Connie pulled the blinds while Robert lit the gas fire and
then turned on the light.  He looked around, his eyes taking stock.

"You've been busy I see.  It's very nice."

Connie smiled.

"I come up 'ere now an' again.  I like ter keep it nice an' tidy."

They looked at each other, searching for something to say.  The long period
apart had made them both feel awkward.  He suddenly held out his arms and the
barrier between them disappeared as she rushed forward and kissed him.  It
was nice to feel his body against hers again and for a time no words were
spoken.  Slowly he reached his hands up to her face and then gently stroked
her white neck.  His fingers found the buttons of her coat and soon she could
feel his cool hands slipping around her slim waist.  He pulled her to him in
a strong embrace and their bodies moulded together.

"God!  I've missed you, Connie," he gasped, his lips moving against her tiny
ears.

"I've missed you, too, Robert.  I've missed your love an' your touch.

I've dreamed about yer lots an' lots.  "

They moved away from the heat of the fire and Connie slipped off her
unbuttoned coat.  He threw his cap into a chair and took off his topcoat.
She saw the white cotton wings sewn above his breast pocket as she returned
to him.  They settled down in the comfortable set tee and he put his arm
around her shoulders and pulled her close to him.

Her fingers followed the raised shape on his chest and she sighed.

"Will yer be flyin' straightaway, Robert?"

"I'm to report to Tangmere," he answered.

"I'll be flying Hurricanes."

Where's Tangmere?  "

"It's in Sussex.  I'm not supposed to say anything, so keep it to yourself,
Con."

"Mum'stheword," she grinned her lips brushing his cheek.

The room was warm and cosy and the heavy curtains deadened the sound of the
rain as it beat against the windows.  They sat in front of the hissing gas
fire as the man- tie shelf clock chimed the hour of midnight.  Connie noticed
how serious Robert looked as his finger traced a circle on the back of her
hand.

264 "Are yer worried about the postin'?"  she asked.

His face relaxed slightly as he smiled.

"No, angel.  As a natter of fact I was thinking about you."

"Oh, an' what about me?"

"Connie.  How long have we known each other?"

"Forever," she laughed, moving her head from his shouller and looking into
his soft blue eyes.

He sighed deeply and squeezed her hand.

"Do you believe really love you?"

"Of course I do," she whispered.

"What's troublin' yer, Robert?"

He sat up straight and looked directly at her.

"Listen, ^on.  We share this flat and you know that one day we'll be named.
In the time we've been together you've only met ny mother on that one
occasion, the Christmas before last.  'we never taken you back, and you've
never mentioned it or isked me why.  I've wondered about that."

Connie looked down at her hands.

"Let's face it.  We both enow your mum don't see me as an ideal choice for a
iaughter-in-law.  We come from different sides of the ;treet.  It's never
worried you, anter be honest I don't fink row dad worries too much eivver,
but your mum can't iccept it.  That time I meter I could tell.  It was
written all ver 'er face.  It doesn't worry me, but what does worry me s the
upset it's causin' you."

He lifted her head gently and gazed into her sad eyes.  There's something
else, too, isn't there?  " he said quietly.

She looked away.

"There's nufink else, Robert."

He leaned back heavily in the set tee and sighed.

"Before I net you this evening I went to see my parents.  I told my not her I
couldn't go on holding things from you if we were ;oing to be married."

"What fings, Robert?"

"The real reason why your mother was paid that money."

Connie's eyes hardened.

"You've known all along?"  she isked, raising her voice.

He reached out and took her firmly by the shoulders.  You've got to
understand.  Con.  I was trying to save you 'from being hurt.  My father told
me before we both went lown for the Christmas.  He asked me to promise not to
say my thing to you.  I kept that promise because of the way I feel about
you.  You did the same for me.  You promised my mother you wouldn't say
anything to me, remember?  "

"Yer mean yer know what your muvver told me that Christmas?"

"Yes."

He saw the puzzlement in Connie's eyes as he relaxed his hold on her.

"Let me explain," he began.

"When I told my parents I was going to tell you what I knew there was a
blazing row.  My mother told me what she had said to you when you were alone
with her.  It seems she was protecting Gerald.  She told me that you were
intending to meet someone who might well be able to tell you why your mother
received those payments and she said she had concocted the story to protect
the family name.  Those were the words she used."

A distant roll of thunder sounded and the rain continued to beat faintly
against the window as the two sat before the fire.  Connie looked at Robert
anxiously.

"You were only two years old when it all happened," he went on.

"It was at the firm's outing to Southend.  My uncle Gerald was told to
organise the event by my grandfather who was running the company then.
Apparently there was a lot of discontent amongst the workers at the time and
grandfather thought it might help to calm the atmosphere.  Anyway, the outing
went off well until the charabanc stopped at a pub on the way home.  Everyone
was pretty drunk by that time, including Gerald.  He saw your mother sitting
alone in a corner of the pub and she was crying.  From what I understand she
had recently broken off a relationship and was feeling pretty low.  Uncle
Gerald took advantage of the situation by plying her with drinks.

Later he followed your mother out of the pub and when she was in a secluded
spot he forced himself on her.  At first your mother thought he was joking,
but when it started to get out of hand she asked him to take her back to the
pub.  It was then that my Uncle Gerald raped your mother.  "

Connie gasped and her hand came up to her mouth.

"My mum was raped!?"

He nodded slowly.

"Afterwards he warned her not to say anything or he'd make it bad, not only
for her but for a few other workers he was out to get.  He also said that he
would 266 leny everything and that his word would be taken before hat of a
slut.  I'm sorry, Con.  That was what he said.  Most )fthe workers were drunk
and none of them knew what had lappened.  The next Monday morning your mother
saw my grandfather and she told him everything.

She told him that he was going to the police and under the circumstances she
would have to leave the firm immediately.  Of course Uncle 3erald was
confronted by the old man and he finally broke lown and admitted everything.

"My uncle already had a reputation for being a woman- ser.  There was some
scandal at the time about him and mother woman, and that was the reason for
his marriage )eing in a bad way.  My grandfather knew all about his
reputation and wasn't going to have the wool pulled over us eyes.  Uncle
Gerald knew that, too.  He knew he couldn't et away with lying to his
father, and so he confessed every- hing.  It was exactly as your mother told
it.  Grandfather 3eorge was a persuasive man as well as being very shrewd.
-Ie could see the harm it might do to the company should here be a court
case.  He was also worried about his son, ;ven though what he had done was
inexcusable, and he wanted him to get his marriage sorted out.  He begged
your not her not to go to the police.  He reminded her of the duty he had to
you and that if she kept quiet he would pay her i regular sum for the rest of
her life.  Father told me that our mother was a proud woman.  Grandfather
George knew hat, so he agreed to her demand that an agreement be Irawn up
with a special condition.  The firm would pay a egular sum for your mother's
silence, and would guarantee ontinued employment to a certain worker who was
facing lismissal because of his trade-union activities.  The old man mew that
it allowed her to feel she had retained her selfespect.  Your mother kept
that silence.  My grandfather new she would honour the agreement.  So did my
father.  The ironic thing is, if only my mother had listened to them he
wouldn't have worried about you finding out, and she wouldn't have needed to
slander your mother's name.  It was a terrible thing to do."

For a while Connie found it difficult to talk.  Finally she looked at Robert,
her eyes wet with tears of sadness and relief.  Tanks fer tellin' me, Robert.
"

He looked down at his feet in embarrassment.

"I'm glad I did.  Your mother must have been some woman.  I'm sorry I never
knew her."

Connie smiled wanly.

"Yes, she was, Robert.  By the way, did the firm keep their promise?"

"You mean about keeping the worker on?  Yes they did.  You know Joe Cooper
who lives in your street?  Well he's still working for the firm, thanks to
your mother."

The storm had abated and the rain was now a steady drizzle.  In the little
flat in Great Dover Street the two lovers lay contentedly in each others'
arms.  Connie felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
At last she knew the truth, thanks to Robert.  She was also very much aware
how the same fierce pride which had kept the silence about Gerald had kept
another silence too.  It was going to be virtually impossible to find out who
her father was.  Maybe one day, somehow, she told herself as sleep overtook
her.

268 FR1;Chapter Twenty-Six curing the first week in June the last of the
British and ^rench soldiers had been taken from the Dunkirk beaches.  The
weather was now sunny and warm and early summer lowers were in bloom.  Around
the coastline the incoming ide lapped against concrete tank traps and flowed
over mried mines.  Along the length of the south coast people walked along
the promenades beside fences of barbed wire, ill boxes and sandbagged
fortifications, while the )pposing armies gazed towards each other across
thenar- ow English Channel.  On the tenth of June Italy joined the var on the
side of Germany and immediately there were issaults made on the Italian
community and their prop eries In Bermondsey a group of young men broke into
Tony ^.  rmeda's premises and smashed his barrow before setting ight to the
shed where Tony made his ice-cream.  The young tall an narrowly escaped death
by jumping from his bed- oom window after the fire spread to his house.

Shops )wned by the Italian families were smashed and one or two )wners were
badly beaten up.

Great Britain had now become an island under siege and 'oik stared up at the
sky, fearing an airborne invasion at my minute.  Wireless broadcasts gave out
depressing )ulletins as more ships were reported sunk.  Casualty lists of
longer, and the government warned everyone to be re pared for air raids.

In Jubilee Dwellings the neighbours got together and lecided to use the
ground-floor flats as shelters should here be an attack.  Some of the folk
were against the idea and made up their minds to use the factory shelter,
even ho ugh it would be overcrowded.  Annie and Alf Riley said hat they would
never be able to stand the factory basement and they would take their chances
in the buildings.  But thers disagreed, including the Bartletts.

Matthew had been adamant.

"If a bomb caught these dwellin's they'd collapse like a pack o' cards.
Let's face it, " Elen, they're fallin' down as it is.  "

Alf Riley put up a different argument.

"What about that bleedin' factory?  Look at all that machinery over yer 'ead.
What chance would yer stand over there?"

A few of the older folk in the dwellings were fatalistic in their approach to
the dilemma.  Mrs Hawkins summed it up by saying,

"If yer gotta go, then yer gotta go, no matter where yer are.  I'm gonna stay
in me bed, an' if the good Lord wants me

"E knows where ter find me."

In the summer of that year Bank Holidays were cancelled.  Factories on war
work extended their hours and many work places were operating seven days a
week.  Cinemas, dance halls and other places of entertainment had been closed
at the outbreak of war, but they were soon re-opened.  During the summer of
1940 they were all very crowded as people sought an escape from the ugly
reality that surrounded them.

In Ironmonger Street the folk were constantly reminded of the war as sandbags
were stacked against the rag shop and telephones were installed.  Toby's
secret storehouse had now become an ARP post.  The little oil shop opposite
remained closed.  It had been shut since Jerry Martin went into the mental
hospital and, for the street folk, it had become a memorial to the grumpy old
character.  The paint had peeled from the shutters and the name over the door
had faded.  Some of the street kids said the place was haunted and they
frightened each other with tales of demons and ghouls.

"Goon, I dare yer."

"I'm not scared."

"Go on then, look frew the letterbox."

"Don't want to."

"What yer scared of, ghosts?"

"Nah."

"Bet yer scared of ole Wider Pacey.  She goes in there an' sleeps in a
coffin."

"I'm not scared o' nufink.  I'll look frew the letterbox."

Two little lads walked boldly up to the shop and one peered gingerly into the
dark, dank interior.

"Corf It looks 270 ike a skelinton in there.  You 'ave a look."

"No fan ks  I can't stan' skelintons."

"Skelintons can't 'urt yer.  They're only rattly ole bones."

"Ghosts can.  Jimmy Brown said there's a ghost livin' in here."

"C'mon then, let's try an' bump in the Trocette.  It's setter than searchin'
fer ghosts an' fings."

Connie had gone to Waterloo Station with Robert on Monday morning.  She found
the parting very hard.  On previous occasions when they had said goodbye she
knew it would only be a matter of time before they were united igain, but
this time Robert was going away to join a fighter iquadron.  She realised she
might never see him again and, is he left, she tried to burn the moment into
her anxious mind.  He seemed relaxed, almost debonair as he took her tp lim,
kissed her gently on the mouth and then climbed aboard he early train.  He
was wearing his cap at a jaunty angle and us fair hair was brushed back,
partially covering his ears.  His pale blue eyes were smiling calmly at her,
mocking her mxiety as the train moved slowly away from the platform.

5he turned and said a silent prayer as she walked back to the nain concourse,
her mind trying desperately to record for ver his expression and his
whispered words of love.  Connie suddenly felt very alone and frightened.
She wondered what he future held, and what might have been had she never net
him.  Her thoughts turned to Michael Donovan and low surprised she was when
she had seen him in the Tower bridge Road last Christmas Eve.  It was the
first time she iad set eyes on him since they had parted in anger.  She
ecalled her confused feelings on seeing him.  In the space of i moment
memories of their happy times together and how hey had turned bitter had been
brought back to her.  She iad been very surprised when she learned that
Michael was narried.  It must have been a whirlwind romance, she bought, but
they seemed suited to each other and she hoped 'or Michael's sake that they
would be happy.

That same evening Connie talked with Helen.  Her aunt was visibly shocked on
learning the truth about her sister.  he was also hurt that Kate had not
taken her into her onfidence.

"That's the way she was, girl.  Your mum kept too much to 'erself.  We could
'ave all rallied round if she'd 'ave bin more open wiv us all.

It's what families are for.  You remember what I was sayin' ter yer, Con.
Don't yer leave us out in the cold, child.  "

Don't worry.  Aunt.  You, Matt and Molly are the only family I've got.

I shall't ferget.  "

Helen smiled briefly and then her face became serious.  "Whatever possessed
that Gerald to attack yer mum the way 'e did?  It must 'ave bin the drink.
Some men are like that when they're boozed."

Connie was reminded of her own experience when Michael had come near to
hitting her.

"Robert said that Gerald's marriage was in a bad way.

I s'pose it didn't 'elp any.  "

"That's no excuse for what 'e done, Connie."

The young girl sat in silence for a while.

"Auntie," she said finally.

"I didn't see any document from the factory when we sorted through mum's
fings.  I wonder what become of it?"

"Well it must be somewhere.  Yer mum wouldn't 'ave left it wiv anybody else,
would she?  Are yer sure it's not in the back of a cupboard or in a drawer?"

Connie shook her head.

"I've searched everywhere.  It's nowhere ter be seen."

"Maybe yer'll come across it.  Con.  I've got nufink 'ere of yer mum's."

The young woman pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger.

"I was finkin' the ovver night.  Aunt.  What 'appened ter mum's gold locket?
I never sawer wivvout it, unless it was at the pawnshop."

Helen stared down at her clasped hands.

"It went wiv 'er," she said quietly.

"She thought the world of that locket.  I thought it best if it was buried
wiv 'er."

Connie reached out and touched her aunt's hands.

"Yer did right.  She would 'ave wanted it that way, I bet," she said gently.

The long summer days wore on with the fear of an invasion ever present in
people's minds.  Church bells were now silent on Sunday mornings and folk
dreaded to hear them while 272 he war lasted, for they knew that if they did
it would not be i call to worship, but a call to arms against an aerial
nvader.  There was also a stark reminder of how hideous he war might become:
tops of pillar boxes were painted a yellowish green, and the colour would
change should the >aint be exposed to poison gas.  People carried their gas
nasks around with them everywhere, and posters were on lisp lay everywhere,
warning of what to do in case of gas it tacks More young men were called up
and their jobs were )ften filled by women.  Many Bermondsey men were mployed
at the docks and wharves and were excused from egistering for military
service, but there were men in their ;arly thirties and forties who waited
anxiously for their turn o come.

Toby Toomey was in his mid fifties but that didn't stop lis wife from
worrying.

' "Ere, Lil, 'ave yer seen this?"  Marie asked, handing a ;opy of the Daily
Mirror to her daughter.

"It ses 'ere that )lder men will 'ave terregister in the near future."

"Dad won't 'ave ter go, will 'e.  Mum?"

' "E might 'ave to, later.  Fings ain't lookin' too good."

Lillian laughed.

"Imagine Dad in a uniform an' wiv a ifle.  Gawd!

"E'd be shootin' 'is mates instead of the 3ermans."

Marie hid her grin.  Toby could not be trusted with a iram, let alone a
lethal weapon!  she thought.  Even the nagistrate had said he was a danger to
other road users when he had fined him twenty shillings after that incident
with the copper.  If they called him up and gave him a gun le'd be a menace
to the whole British army.  Toby was worried himself, but it was not over
being conscripted.  viost of the scrap metal was being collected for the war
if fort and his only source of income at the moment was 'from bundles of old
newspapers and rags.

He had considered it one time hiring a barrow and branching out into bottles
and bones.  Old Jerry seemed to do all right out of it.

Frouble was, a barrow was heavier to push than a pram, and the smell of old
bones wasn't exactly pleasant.  Then here were the flies.  They didn't seem
to bother old Jerry, ut then nothing ever did.  Maybe it would be better to
onveniently lose the pram the next time around and go into war work?  Maybe
they'd send him to the north of England, or even Scotland.  At least it would
be a change not to be on the receiving end of Marie's rough tongue when he
stacked his papers and rags in the backyard.  Better still, he could
volunteer to be a full-time air-raid warden.  Just imagine walking the
streets in a tin hat and keeping an eye on the blackout!

"Oi you!  Put that light out!  D'yer want meter report yer?  - Sorry Mr
Toomey, sir.  It won't 'appen again, honest.  - Well all right, but I'll be
keepin' an eye on yer, just in case.  - Fank yer, Mr Toomey.

Fank yer, sir.  "

Toby's stern voice carried in from the backyard and Marie shook her head
sadly.  The man's losing his marbles, she told herself.

"Is that you talkin' ter yerself again, Toby?"  she shouted out.

"I was jus' readin' out loud, luv," he answered grimacing.

"Well get them papers bundled up instead of readin' 'em.  We ain't paid no
bleedin' rent again this week."

In the middle of August the Battle of Britain was raging in the skies.  Daily
newspapers carried reports of heroic action and mounting losses.  Hurricanes
and^ Spitfires roared off from fighter stations in Kent and Sussex to meet
the German air armadas and people watched as tracer trails scarred the clear
blue sky.  Along the coast folk could see planes fall into the sea and crash
into the rolling green downs.

They would see an occasional billow of white as a pilot escaped from his
stricken aircraft and floated down beneath a mushroom of silk.

News placards carried reports of the losses on both sides as though they were
scores in a game.  Everyone was filled with a strange excitement, as they
knew that the battle was a fight for their very survival.  If the battle was
lost then an all-out invasion would be inevitable.  Pubs were packed each
evening and people pored over the latest newspaper stories and headline
banners.  In the Dolphin the piano was sounding loudly as a happy Tubby
Jackson banged down heavily on the ivories.  His son Joey had been plucked
from the beaches unharmed.  For Mrs Argrieves however, the news had been bad.

Her son Billy was lying seriously injured in a military hospital.  And for
274 onnie the days and nights were fraught with uncertainty nd fear.

There had been no news of Robert since his last etter the day before the
battle started.  However, there was lews of a local lad who was serving on a
destroyer in the Morth Atlantic and it was tucked away inside the Saturday
;vening edition of the Star.

' "Ere, Dora.  You seen this?"  the landlord of the Dolphin al led out.

What's that, Bill?  "

"It ses 'ere a local lad's won a medal.  Listen ter this.  " Able Seaman
Michael Donovan of Bermon'sey 'as bin iwarded the DSM fer bravery at sea.  "
It ses,

"Able Seaman Donovan stayed at 'is post despite being' wounded an' 'elped ;er
save a badly wounded comrade while under fire."  Fancy hat.  "

Connie's ears picked up at the mention of Michael's lame.

"Does it say if 'e's okay.  Bill?"  she asked quickly.

"Doesn't say, Con.  Why, dyer know 'im?"

"I used ter work wiv 'im a long time ago," she answered.

The battle of Britain continued to rage and still there was no lews of
Robert.  Late on Saturday evening Connie walked lome feeling worried.  She
let herself into her flat and pulled he blackout curtains before lighting the
gas lamp Later, when she sat sipping her tea she noticed the lighter square
satch on the grubby wallpaper.

Puzzled, she got up and went over to look more closely.  She saw that a
picture she iad hardly ever noticed had fallen from the wall and was wedged
behind the sideboard.  As she retrieved it Connie saw that the glass was
broken.  She spread out a sheet of lewspaper on the table and gently eased
out the larger aieces of glass.  The sepia photograph in the ebony frame was
of her mother as a young child.  She wore a white dress hat was buttoned high
in the neck and she was standing reside a jardiniere which held a
sorry-looking aspidistra.  For a while Connie stared at the photograph and
then she ;urned the frame over.  The dusty string was till intact.  She
walked over to the wall and saw the large nail was also still n place.  There
seemed to be no reason why the picture should have fallen from the wall, and
she shivered as she stared down at the back of the picture.  A square of thin
cardboard had been placed over the back of the frame and was held by a
drawing pin in each corner.  Connie could see that the picture backing had
been dislodged by the fall and a piece of white paper was protruding from one
edge of the cardboard.  Carefully she prised the pins away and lifted the
backing.

"July 30th, 1923' was written in faded pencil at one corner of the folded
sheet of paper.  She opened it up and sat down beneath the gas lamp It was
the agreement, worded just as Robert had described and signed in a
flourishing style by George Armitage and by the small, neat hand of Kate
Morgan.  The two signatures were side by side, and beneath the words 'in the
presence of was the signature of Fran Collins.

Connie heard the clock chime one and then two, but sleep would not come.  She
could not understand why the picture frame should have fallen from the wall
and thoughts rushed through her mind as she lay staring up at the dark
ceiling.  It seemed to her almost as though her mother was there in the room
with her, and she felt strangely calm and rested.  Connie remembered it was
only a few weeks ago that she had given up all hope of finding out about the
money, and now she knew.  Then there was the document.  She had searched high
and low without success and now the paper lay on the chair beside her bed.

She could sense a growing kinship with her dead mother, a kinship she had
yearned and prayed for but had never found during her mother's lifetime.
Connie had tried for hours to work out how the picture could have fallen, but
now it seemed unimportant.  She knew with a profound certainty that she had
been somehow destined to follow the path she was now treading.  She
remembered experiencing the feeling once before when she had first set out to
meet Robert.  The realisation did not frighten her, and she turned over on to
her side and buried her head in the cool pillow.

276 Chapter Twenty-Seven The sun's rays lit the room and Connie stirred.
She realised he had slept late, and she was about to leap out of bed yhen she
remembered it was Sunday morning.  The sound if the street children carried
up to the quiet room and she ieard the vendor's cry as he pushed his barrow
laden with shrimps and winkles into the turning.  Connie turned over .  nd
stretched.  She had promised to go down to the (artletts' flat for breakfast
that morning and the clock ho wed fifteen minutes past nine.

She got up and washed at he scullery tap.  The cold water took the remaining
tiredness way and it was not long before she was tapping on the door if the
flat below.  As soon as Molly opened the door the .  ppetising smell of bacon
frying reached her.  The front- oom table was laid for breakfast and a low
fire burnt in the rate against the morning chill.

Helen came into the room smiling.

"Take yerself a seat, Con.

Breakfast won't be long.  "

Connie sat down at the table facing her cousin.  "

" Ow are /er, Molly?   "

Her flat round face broke into a cheerful smile.

"Guess what, Con?"

What?  "

"I'm getting' promotion!  I've bin put on inspections an' it means five
shillin's a week extra."

"That's smashin'!  What's inspections?"

Connie's cousin laid her short thick hands on the blue 'hecked tablecloth.

"Well yer see, when the resistors an' ondensors are soldered in place I've
gotta check 'em wiv a >pecial meter.  It's a responsible job but our forelady
finks I'm pretty reliable."

"So yer are," Connie said with emphasis.

"Yer'll be forelady next!"

Helen came in carrying a large dish full of fried rashers which she shared
out on the four plates.  Matthew followed her in with a flat tray.

"Make way fert he chef," he grinned, sliding a ladle under a lightly fried egg.

Soon the four were sitting around the table to a breakfast of eggs, bacon and
tomatoes.  Helen held the loaf of bread against her as she neatly cut thick
slices and passed them around.  Matthew opened a packet of margarine and
spread a thick coating on his slice.

"What dyer fink of our Molly getting' a rise, Con?"  he said, cutting his
slice in half and dipping one piece into his soft egg.

"Molly jus' told me.  Matt.

"Ow much 'as she gotta give up out o' the rise, four an' sixpence?"  Connie
joked.

Helen laughed.

"We've told 'er ter start a savin's book.  If she saves all 'er rise fera
year she could end up being' a moneylender."

Matthew got up and took the large china teapot from the hearth.  As he filled
the cups Connie looked around at the family.  They were relaxed and happy.
Helen had a little colour in her cheeks and Molly looked cheerful.  Matthew
joked a little as he poured the tea and when he spilled a little on the clean
tablecloth Helen tapped his hand playfully.  Connie felt happy for them.
They had experienced some bad times and now things seemed to be looking up.

After the meal was finished Connie helped her aunt to do the washing up while
Matthew and Molly took a morning stroll to the paper shop.

While they were alone Connie took the opportunity to show Helen the document.

"I was cleaning the picture and it slipped out of me 'ands," she lied, aware
of her aunt's superstitious nature.

"That'sow I found it."

Helen wiped her hands on a towel and put on her glasses.  "Well I'll be!"
she exclaimed.

"Fancy ole Fran being' a witness."

Connie stared at Helen.

"Why Fran Collins, Aunt?"

"Ole Fran was the one who 'eld yer by yer ankles an' smacked the breath o'
life inter yer, Connie.

"Alfthe muvvers in this street' ad Fran Collins ter fank fer deliverin' their
kids.  I can understand why yer mum picked 'er ter be a witness."

"Wasn't that the lady they 'ad the big funeral for.  Aunt " Elen?  "

"That's right, luv.  When ole Fran was buried all the street 278 ;urned out.
She was a lovely lady.  Most of the women round 'ere didn't 'ave two pennies
ter rub tergevver.  They :ouldn't afford a doctor so they called on ole Fran
Collins.  She knew 'er job too.  They wasn't always easy births.  Lots 3'
mums worked till the last minute an' sometimes the 'eavy liftin' they done
got the baby's cord twisted.  Ole Fran and led plenty o' them cases.  People
paid 'er, but most often she 'ad ter wait months fert he money.  Fran never
somplained though, and when she passed away everybody lined the street ter
pay their respects.  Quite a few of those mourners still owed era few bob,
I'll be bound."

Towards the end of August ports and airfields in Southern England were being
bombed, and wireless bulletins reported scattered raids on Midland towns.
German bombers even reached the eastern suburbs of London and the Bermondsey
folk held their breath.  Everyone knew how important the docks and wharves
were, as well as the rail networks and freight yards.  They were all obvious
targets and people knew that it was only a matter of time before the
onslaught began.

Anti-aircraft guns were positioned in Southwark Park and on suitable open
spaces near the River Thames.  Cars and vans were commandeered and adapted
For carrying stretchers, and all first-aid and wardens' posts were on a
constant alert.  The summer sky over the centre of London remained peaceful
and, high above dock land barrage balloons floated gently in the breeze at
the end of their steel hawsers.  In the look-out posts, nervous eyes stared
down river for the first signs of aircraft, but only seagulls drifted and
wheeled above the moving cranes and turning tides.

It was the last day of August, a warm Saturday afternoon, when Robert drove
into Ironmonger Street.  The kids were playing on the cobblestones and the
street folk stood by their front doors chatting to their neighbours.  Connie
heard the throaty roar of the engine and the toot of the horn and she hurried
to the open window.  Robert answered her wave as he sat behind the wheel,
surrounded by curious, toffee smeared children who stared at the controls and
giggled as tie revved the noisy engine.  The street folk nodded knowingly and
watched as the young woman ran from the buildings and stepped in beside the
uniformed figure.  With a toot-toot of the horn to scatter the inquisitive
children he swung the car around and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue
smoke rising in the little back street.

Connie sat beside him resting her hand on his leg, her golden hair flying in
the wind as the car accelerated along the Old Kent Road.

Her eyes watered and she ducked her head below the tilted windscreen as
Robert glanced at her, a boyish grin breaking out on his handsome features.

"What do you think of it?"  Robert shouted above the noise of the engine,
patting the dashboard with his gloved hand.

Her answer was swept away in the wind as the open-top sports car gathered
speed up Blackheath Hill.  Houses and factories were gradually left behind
and fields were beginning to spread out around them.  Connie held her hand up
to her hair and occasionally glanced at Robert as he manipulated the gears
and roared past slower-moving vehicles.  She could see the small piece of
cloth in blue and white diagonal stripes which was pinned above his breast
pocket.

"Is that the medal you told me about in your last letter?"  she asked loudly.

"It's the clasp.  I've got the actual medal in a box," he shouted with a grin.

They had been travelling for some time when he suddenly swung the car on to a
side road and slowed down through the village.

"Another fifteen minutes should do it," he said, squeezing her hand in his as
they left the sleepy hamlet behind.

It had all happened so quickly.  There had been no news of him for more than
three weeks and, with daily newspapers carrying stories of air battles and
mounting losses she had feared for his safety.  Then the letter had arrived,
and now they were together again once more.

Connie felt apprehensive at the prospect of meeting his parents again after
such a long time.  Robert had said in his letter that they had planned some
sort of celebration, but he went on to say that he would make his excuses as
soon as possible and maybe they would be able to spend the night in one of
the nearby inns.  Connie guessed that the family feud must have healed and
she wondered how she would feel on seeing Claudette again, and how she would
be received.

280 The sun was setting and the sky was gloriously aflame as hey drove into
Kelstowe.  The red brick house was just as he remembered it and, when they
climbed from the car eeling stiff and wind-swept, the Armitages came out
uickly to greet them.  Peter shook Robert's hand vigorously nd Claudette
hugged her son tightly, much to his mbarrassment.

Peter kissed Connie on the cheek and took her arm.

"It'seen a long time since we've seen you, Connie," he said indly.

"I can see you're taking very good care of our son."

Claudette had composed herself and she glanced briefly it the Morgan girl.

"Let's go inside," she said.

"There are a 'ew people who want to congratulate our hero."

"Good Lord!"  Robert gasped, looking helplessly at Connie.

People were crowding around, eager to pump his hand.  i chorus of

"For he's a jolly good fellow' rang out and he azed sheepishly at the sea of
faces.  Connie tried to stay at is elbow as well-wishers slapped him on the
back.  Drinks were flowing and she found herself holding a glass of sparkling
champagne.

Major Clarence Marchant made a beeline for her and leld out his hand.

"Hello, my dear.  So you're the pretty ittle thing young Robbie has kept from
us, what?"

Connie smiled at the portly major and looked around iesperately to where
Robert was standing.

"Drink up, me dear.  That's Bollinger '29.  Plenty more iv here that came
from," the major said, brushing his miliary moustache with a forefinger.

Connie found the bubbles made her want to sneeze as she ;ook a sip of her
drink and over the rim of the glass she saw i tall, thin young woman eyeing
her intently.  The girl wore :ortoiseshell spectacles and her hair was pulled
back tightly, which gave her a rather severe appearance.  The major was
;yeing her too as she drained her glass.

"Let me get you a refill," he slurred.

As Clarence Marchant walked away unsteadily the bespectacled young woman came
over.

"I'm Eunice Marchant," she said, holding out her hand.

"Isn't it narvellous about Robert.  Five victories in just two days.
Bveryone is so proud of him."

Connie smiled.

"So am I."

Eunice stared over her glasses at the Morgan girl.

"Robert and I have known each other for a long time.  I suppose he's told you
about me?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Connie replied, looking in Robert's direction.

Eunice's face clouded and she pushed her spectacles up on to the bridge of
her nose.

"We were almost engaged at one time, you know."

"I didn't know," Connie said, smiling gently and holding out her ring finger.

"We got engaged last Christmas."

Eunice looked disapprovingly at the diamond ring.  "You'll have to watch him,
dear.  Robert can be a terrible flirt, as most of the girls around here will
tell you."

"I'll watch 'im, Eunice.  I'll watch 'im real close," Connie said with a hint
of malice now in her tone.

The Waverley sisters came over and introduced themselves and they were
followed by the Reverend Jones, while Eunice drifted away to find her hero.
Connie became immersed in a constant stream of chatter and her eyes sought
out Robert.

A tall, stooping figure came over to her, his white hair sprouting out from a
large head.  His eyes were dark and brooding, and his clothes seemed shabby
beside the rest of the guests.  He took her arm without introduction and
smiled at the Waverley sisters.

"Now then Beatrice, Gwen, we mustn't tire our lovely guest, must we?  Come,
my dear.  Let me show you the garden.  I can assure you it is a wonderful
place," he said with mock pomp.

Connie looked at him in surprise and let herself be guided out through the
French windows into the cool of the evening.

"Just smell those roses," he said to her.

"Aren't they gorgeous?  And the jasmine.  It's at its best this time of day."
He waved his arm in a grand gesture toward the flowerbeds.

The tall stranger was still holding on to her arm and she glanced at him with
some puzzlement.  He caught her look and smiled, his dark eyes lighting up.

"I'm sorry, my dear.  I should have introduced myself before stealing you
away from that un mitigating rabble.  My name is Spanswick.  Leo Spanswick.
I'm the local physician, family counsellor and 282 at her confessor to these
people.  I saw you looking rather bewildered and, if I may say so, rather
frightened, so I took t upon myself to become your knight in shining armour.
Let us walk on, my child, unless you wish to go back and rejoin our friends?"

Connie smiled sweetly at him.  She felt strangely at ease in lis company and,
as they strolled along the path which led aetween the well-tended lawns, he
took out a large briar and capped it against his thigh.

"I hear you and Robert are engaged, Connie.  You don't mind me calling you
Connie, io you?"

"That's me name," she said lightly.

"And yes, we are engaged."

"Good for you.  By the way, you know you've upset the ipple cart somewhat.  I
noticed one or two pairs of eyes cast snviously in your direction."

"Yer mean Eunice?  She did mention about eran' Robert."

"Her and Robert nothing, child.  You've no doubt heard ?f marriages made in
heaven?  Well in this instance the Marchants and Claudette Armitage were
conspirators in what I would say was an attempt to create a boardroom
narriage."

Connie looked at him with a puzzled frown, and he Auckled.

"Money, my dear, money.  The amalgamation of ;wo business concerns through
the manipulation of young owe .  Isn't it terrible?"

Connie smiled and he touched the side of his nose in a onfidential gesture
as he guided her towards a garden seat it the end of the path.  They sat down
and she watched as he lulled out a grease-stained tobacco pouch and flipped
the stud catch with his thumbnail.

"Yer seem ter know a lot about Robert's family, and the vlarchants, doctor
should I call yer doctor?"  she isked.

"Leo will do fine, my dear.  Yes, I consider myself to be aretty well
informed, but then I brought young Robert into he world and, after all, I am
the village doctor.  It's hard to <eep any secrets out of the endless rounds
of gossip in our :ight little community," he said with a wry smile.

"Sounds like where I live in Bermon'sey," Connie replied.

She watched with interest as Leo packed the bowl of his pipe with dark
stringy tobacco.  There was something about the man she found fascinating.
He seemed to find it very easy to talk to her and his manner was very
charming.  He reminded her of an actor delivering well-rehearsed lines.  He
did not stutter or pause, and the way he moved his hands was almost
theatrical.  He lit the briar carefully and when he was satisfied he leant
back and glanced up at the evening sky.

"Do you want to go back, young Connie?"  he asked.

She shook her head.

"No, it's peaceful 'ere.  I dare say Robert 'asn't even missed me yet."

Leo chuckled.

"I take it you two intend to get married soon?"

"We're gonna wait, Leo.  I want us ter get married as soon as possible, but
Robert finks we should wait, what wiv 'im being a pilot."

Leo puffed out a cloud of smoke and studied the glowing bowl.

"I'm afraid we're living in a dark age, my dear.  The whole world seems to
have become one gigantic lunatic asylum.  Too many young lives are being
thrown away."  He sighed and seemed to think for a moment.

"Anyway, enough of the war," he said dismissively.

"Now where exactly did you say you live?"

"Bermon'sey.  It's near the docks."

"Oh, I know where Bermondsey is.  I spent my younger days in Stepney.

I did my medical training at the London Hospital in the Whitechapel Road.
You might call me a lapsed Cockney or a talkative old fogey.  "

Connie touched his arm.

"I find yer very nice.  After all, yer did save me from our Eunice an' those
ovver two ole ladies."

"And we mustn't forget the Reverend Jones," he said with a comical frown.

"Are yer married, Leo?"  she asked suddenly.

The doctor's eyes widened as he stared in the direction of the large rose
bush.

"My wife died more than five years ago."

"I'm very sorry, I shouldn't 'ave asked."

"It's quite all right.  It's an innocent enough question, after all,"

he said with a smile.

"As a matter of fact my wife 284 s buried in the village churchyard.  She
came from this dllage.  We met in London many years ago and I came here or
the wedding.  It was to be a brief stay but I never left.  res, I've lived in
Kelstowe ever since."

Connie glanced at him and watched his white hair moving n the gentle breeze.
He suddenly seemed a sad figure, esigned to loneliness and memories.  He must
have really oved his wife and be missing her terribly, she thought.  It ho
wed in his eyes.  The rose bush moved as the breeze reshened and she gave a
little shiver.

"Come along, Connie.  We don't want you catching cold while you're in the
care of the village doctor, do we?"  he aid with a chuckle.

As they walked back into the house Robert came over md put his arm around her
slim waist.

"I was getting mxious," he said.

"I thought our doctor had spirited ?ouaway."

Leo laughed.

"Twenty years ago and you would have had i fight on your hands, young
whippersnapper.  I've been mown to resort to fisticuffs in honour of the
prettiest girl in he room."

"Why fank you, dear sir," Connie laughed, and she )lanted a kiss on the old
man's cheek.

"Careful, Robbie lad," Leo whispered.

"I can see the najor's on his way over."

Clarence Marchant held a filled glass in each hand as he itaggered up to them.

"I'm afraid the

"War Department" ias had to leave, Robert,"

he slurred.

"She's taking our 3un ice home.  Nasty touch of migraine I fear."

"You be careful with those drinks, Clarence," the doctor aid.

"Remember that ulcer of yours."

The major gave the doctor a lopsided grin as he staggered if to find Gwen
Waverley and Robert winked knowingly it Leo.

"Connie and I are going to take our leave now," Robert aid to the doctor.

"Thanks for taking care of her.  I'll be in ouch."

The men shook hands warmly and Connie planted mother kiss on the old man's
rough cheek.  The two passed imongst the guests and as they moved out into
the hallway Robert's parents said their goodbyes.

Connie could see the anxiety in Claudette's eyes as she hugged her son.

As Peter Armitage clasped Robert's hand Claudette turned to Connie.

"I can see that Robert is happy, and that makes us happy, too."

Connie drew back a biting reply.  Instead she stared hard at the woman and
said quietly,

"Goodbye, Mrs Armitage."

Robert took Connie's hand and they walked away towards the car.  As they
roared away into the gathering darkness Connie saw his parents waving from
the front door.  She felt light headed and glowing inside as they sped
through the country lanes.  She wanted to forget that Robert would soon be
back in the air and might never return.  She wanted tonight to be special,
one they would both remember through the days and nights ahead, however long
and however lonely they might become.  Her head rested on his shoulder and
she closed her eyes.  The shielded headlights picked out the road ahead and
Robert brushed the strands of her golden hair from his face.  He could feel
her sweet breath on his cheek and his heart was heavy.

286 FR1;Chapter Twenty-Eight The chill of an early September morning gave
way to a ileasant warmth as the sun got up over the rooftops and hone down on
the busy Tower Bridge Road.  The market raders were already putting the
finishing touches to their lisp lays as the first of the shoppers stopped for
their egetables and fish.  The beetroot lady was standing behind pile of
produce that she had boiled the night before, and ]heap Jack had tipped the
final box of tuppenny items on ,o his already overloaded stall.  In the pie
shop the large ontainers behind the marble counter were crammed with learning
mashed potato, and crusty hot meat pies were ;ouged out of the baking trays.
Parsley liquor bubbled in the huge copper bowl, and on the freshly scrubbed
marble tables pewter pots of salt and pepper stood beside pint bottles of
vinegar which had been expertly laced with spices md cloves.  Soon the
customers would arrive with their laden shopping baskets and bags and the
women would kick off their pinching shoes as they tucked into pie and mash or
a basin of stewed eels.  The youngsters would arrive, too, with dinner money
clutched tightly in their sweaty hands.  Other children would saunter into
the bustling market and casually glance under the traders' stalls and barrows
in search of empty wooden boxes, whilst in the adjoining back streets their
confederates slipped out of their domes with choppers concealed under tatty
jerseys to claim suitable pitches.

In the market, the traders were used to the usual Saturday morning ritual.

' "Ere, mister.  Finished wiv yer box?"

"No, I ain't.  Now piss orf out of it."

' "Ere, mister, yer've only got a few more apples left in hat box.

Shall I give 'em ter yer?  "

"Leave 'em where they are an' get out o' the road or you'll get knocked
right up in the air if a tram comes."

"We ain't 'urtin' nobody, mister.  We only want empty boxes fer firewood."

' "Ere, take it an' piss orf."

One or two young lads had perfected a more devious way of obtaining the empty
boxes.  When the shoppers were gathering thickly around a particular stall a
small lad would crawl under the display and pass out boxes to an accomplice.
Very often the boxes would not be empty and some wood choppers were able to
exchange apples and tomatoes for cigarette cards and glass marbles.  On a
good day the pennies earned would pay for a plate of pie and mash, a cheap
seat in the cinema, and maybe two ounces of sticky toffees.  On Saturday the
seventh of September it promised to be a good day.  Trade was brisk and the
wood choppers were eagerly engaged in earning their pennies.  The sun shone
from a cloudless blue sky and even Solly Jacobs was humming to himself as he
wrapped up his customers' fresh herrings, sprats and portions of plaice in
sheets of newspaper.

Joe Cooper had said goodbye to his wife Sadie that morning.  She had left
London to stay with her sister in Devon and, as he walked through the factory
gates, he was whistling to himself.  Joe went down the few steps into the
dark shelter and turned on the lights.  There were now enough wooden benches
to accommodate the street folk and he had managed to scrounge a couple of
trestle tables and a tea urn.  Two toilets had been fitted and there was a
cold-water tap in one corner.

Beside the entrance he had placed a few buckets of sand and a stirrup pump.
Joe scratched his head as he looked around.  Everything seemed to be in
order.  He moved a few benches further away from the doorway then walked back
out into the afternoon sun.

The day had gone well.  Now the market traders were getting ready to pack
away and children were called in to their tea as the sun began to move down
in the sky.  In the Bartletts' flat the wireless was switched on and lazy
Hawaiian music filled the room.  Connie was helping Molly to wind a skein of
wool and Matthew dozed in the armchair.  Helen sat darning a sock and hummed
to the strains of "Sweet Liani'.  Every now and then Matthew mumbled in 288
lis sleep and Molly looked at her cousin and giggled.  Suddenly the wireless
crackled and went silent.  Helen put lown her darning and turned her head
sideways.  The girls leard it, too.  It started as a rumble and grew into a
steady Irone.

"Wake yer dad, Molly," Helen said, a frightened look on ler face.

The wail of the siren and the crash of anti-aircraft guns battered the
quietness and drowned the sound of the ipproaching planes.  People were out
in the street.  They ;ould see the aircraft now and the shell bursts around
them.  foe Cooper was blowing on his whistle and shouting for very one to get
under cover.  People stood as though trans- ixed as the tight formation of
bombers flew in.  The sound >f exploding bombs became deafening and a rising
pall of lack smoke filled the sky.

"It's the Surrey!  The bastards are bombin' the Surrey!"  old George Baker
croaked, leaning on his walking stick.

People hurried through the factory gates and down into he shelter as the sky
turned black.  Flames were rising lund reds of feet into the air and the roar
of guns rose to a errifying crescendo.  Joe stood by the entrance and
hepherded the street folk down into the darkness.  He wore lis steel helmet
and carried a gas mask pack over lis shoulder.

"C'mon, girls.  Take it easy now.  Mind yer step," he said, rying to control
the tremor in his voice.

"C'mon, Toby, old on ter Marie's arm."

Mary Brown's husband Frank carried young Jimmy while Jane hurried along at
his side.  Mary held on to the rote sting Clara Cosgrove.

"Now, don't worry, Clara," she aid calmly.

"It's all right in 'ere.

Once we get yer settled I'll nake yer a nice cup pa  "

"I told yer straight, Mary.  I'd sooner stay in me own ome.  Ain't it
bleedin' all right?  I was jus' standin' at me loor talkin' ter Muvver Adams
when I 'ears this noise.  I lidn't know what ter fink.  Gawd 'elp us, Mary."

George Baker's daughter helped the angry old lady down he steps and into a
seat near the door.  Marie Toomey was it ting nearby, her face a mask of
fear, but she forced a mile in Clara's direction.

"Who's she lookin' at?"  the old lady growled.

"Now c'mon luv, don't upset yerself," Mary said, taking Clara's hands in hers.

"She's only tryin' ter be friendly."

Clara grunted and pursed her lips tightly as she gave Marie Toomey a hard
look.  The shelter was packed and young children were crying as the noise of
the air raid increased.  Joe left the refuge and ran up the street to the
warden's post.  Inside the dusty shop men were manning the phones and one of
them beckoned to the street warden as he entered.

"It's the Surrey, Joe!  It's getting' a terrible pastin'!"

Joe shook his head.

"That place is stacked full o' timber.  The bastards 'ave picked the right
target."

"Yer tellin' me," the man replied.

"There's a general call gone out ter the fire brigade.  They're asking' fer
reserves ter come in from outside o' London."

"Christ!  It mus' be bad.  Bill."

One of the men put down his phone and came over.

"I've jus' bin talkin' ter the area control.  Apparently the roads are cut
off down town.  They said the whole place is afire.  Gawd 'elp those poor
bleeders.  The bridges are blocked an' there's no way they can get to 'em."

Cigarettes were passed around and Joe took a deep drag on his Goldflake.

"I fink most of our street are down in the shelter.  We even got ole Clara
out of 'er place.  She's a cantankerous ole bitch but I fink she was glad ter
get out o' the 'ouse."

The roar of guns continued and the wardens' post shook.  Plaster dust fell
from the ceiling and a telephone rang.  Bill Johnson picked up the receiver
and his face took on a serious look.

"There's anuvver wave of bombers comin' in," he shouted above the noise as he
replaced the receiver.

They could hear the sound of fire bells and the dull thump as more explosives
landed on the stricken docks.  Outside the evening sky had changed to a dull
red as the Surrey burned.  Black smoke drifted up river and hung like a huge
storm cloud over the whole of dock land

The reflection of the roaring inferno flickered on the hanging black pall and
a smell of charred wood filled the air.  Joe stood in the doorway and stared
up at the angry sky.  It was 290 ike nothing he had ever seen before.  The
heavens were agged, charred and nightmarish.  From where he stood he ;ould
see the tips of the flames licking the ever-growing moke clouds which were
swiftly turning day into night.  He ;ould hear the drone becoming louder as a
fresh wave of >ombers approached their burning target and the explolong shook
the ground beneath his feet.

Connie sat beside the Bartletts in one corner of the shelter, ler arm around
her cousin's shoulders.  Molly was sobbing luietly as she bit on her
handkerchief.

"I'm scared.  Con.  We'll all be killed."

Connie pulled her closer.  "

" Course we won't.   We're safe n 'ere.

Everybody's scared though, Molly, it's only latural.

"Ere, jus' look at all their faces.  Poor ole Toby ooks like a little boy
who's jus' bin told off.  Look at ole riara Cosgrove mumblin' to 'erself, an'
widow Pacey.  See ow she keeps lookin' at Muvver Adams.  I bet she's sayin' o
'erself, " don't you come near me".  Mind you, Molly, he does smell o' cats."

Molly had stopped crying and was bravely trying to raise i smile.  The dull
thud of falling bombs and the louder crash >f the local guns continued.
People sat white-faced, their lands clenched and their shoulders hunched as
they fought heir growing terror.

After what seemed to be an eternity the noise finally 'eased and the street
folk started to relax.  Animated con- ersation began as everyone waited for
the all-clear signal.  onnie thought about Robert and the wonderful night
they iad spent together in the old country pub.  What was he loing now?  Was
he up there in the clouds with the rest of his quad ron She recalled how she
had pressed him into show- ng her the medal he won.  He told her it was the
Distinsuished Flying Cross and she remembered how embarassed he got when she
told him how brave he was.  He had aid that there were many of his friends
who should have of medals before him.  Connie thought about Claudette and her
parting words.  She had seemed different somehow.  ulaybe she was genuinely
sorry for the story she had nvented and wanted to make amends, especially now
that >er son was going back to war.  She thought about Robert's at her and
how his eyes had misted when he shook hands with his son before they left.
She thought about the charming and lonely old doctor who had rescued her from
the twittering Waverley sisters and the drunken major.  She smiled to herself
when she recalled how brazen she had been when she and Robert found
themselves alone in their room above the old inn.  Her face became hot as she
recalled standing naked in front of him as he sat on the edge of the bed
looking at her with such love in his eyes, and whispering words of endearment
as he explored her eager body.  It had been a truly wonderful night, and one
she would treasure for as long as she lived.

The long, even wail of the all clear sounded and people hurried from the
musty shelter and passed out through the factory gates.  The smell of burning
hung in the evening air and they saw the terrible result of the blitz on the
Surrey Docks.  The sky was stained dark red.  The black smoke still rose high
in the heavens and the street folk walked back to their front doors as though
mesmerised.  The sounds of fire bells clanging in the distance shattered the
strange quietness and they knew that the war had finally reached them.
People remained outside their houses and talked in low voices.  Everyone knew
that the afternoon raid was only the beginning.  The terror would go on and
it would get worse, and the knowledge seemed to draw the folk together.

People passed around cups of tea as they stood in the street and Joe Cooper
walked the length of the turning chatting to everyone.  He felt pleased that
Sadie had got away from London just in time.  He saw the Bartletts standing
by the dwellings, looking up into the sky, and he went over to them.

"You lot okay?"  he asked.

Helen nodded and Matthew turned towards him.

"They say it's the Surrey Docks got it, Joe."

The warden nodded and turned his attention to the two young women.

"What about you two?  Yer wasn't frightened, was yer?"  he grinned.

Connie pulled a face.

"I was."

"So was I," Molly said.

"I couldn't stop shakin'."

Joe was staring at Connie.

"I expect you're worried about young Robert, luv."

"Yeah.  I 'ope 'e's all right," she replied, returning his stare.

292 Joe put his arm on her shoulder.

"E's okay, luv, take it from me.  I got ter know 'im pretty well when 'e was
at the ac tory

"E's a good 'un.

"E can look after 'himself."

As Joe walked away Matthew turned to Helen.

"E's a trange bloke is Joe," he said.

Helen looked pensive.

"I tell yer what.

"E's a lonely man."

The Saturday evening sky was blood red as the German ir force returned in
strength.  They flew up the Thames Istuary, guided by the still raging fires
and made for the ocks, wharves and railways.  Bombs fell all over dock land
and the surrounding boroughs.  Factories and warehouses )urned, and some
little back streets were smashed into ubble.  Fire engines raced to roaring
blazes, only to find hat water mains had burst.  Buildings fell on the
tenders and hoses were cut and buried beneath tons of bricks and ubble.
Rescuers toiled desperately to free people buried mder the ruins of their
homes, and ambulances and tret cher cars ferried hundreds of casualties to
the nearby lospitals.  Only the severely injured were taken to the vards.
The rest of the wounded were placed in corridors, tore rooms and any other
space that could be made ivailable.  The Ironmonger Street folk huddled
together in he factory shelter, their faces white with fear as bombs creamed
down and anti-aircraft guns opened up with an ar-shattering clatter.
Shrapnel fell into the yard and a thick net al nose-cone bounced over the
cobbles and came to rest iear the shelter entrance.

Joe Cooper and Frank Brown stood talking inside the .  efuge.

"The ole cow wouldn't move, Joe.  Our Mary pleaded wiv er but she was
adamant.  She said she'd 'ad enough o' the 'helter fer one day.  What can yer
do though?  I mean yer an't drag 'er down 'ere, can yer?"

Joe shook his head.

"I dunno.  Trouble is, them 'ouses will tumble like a pack o' cards if a bomb
did land nearby.  Wait till it eases off a bit an' we'll go take a look, jus'
ter see f she's okay."

Frank jerked his thumb in the direction of the Toomeys.  Them two are 'avin'
a right bull an' cow.  Poor ole Toby ooks like 'e's getting' an' ear' ole
bashin'.  "

Marie was poking her frail-looking husband in the chest with her forefinger,
her dark eyes glaring like two black coals.

"If I told yer once I told yer a fousand times about those bloody bundles o'
newspapers yer got stacked up in that yard.  If they catch light we'll be
burned out of 'ouse an' 'ome."

"They'll be okay, unless a bomb falls in the yard, then we'll be bombed out
anyway, so it won't make much difference, will it," Toby said with a valiant
attempt at bravado.

"Don't yer get saucy wiv me, Toby.  A bleedin' spark could set them bundles
alight.  Yer should 'ave took 'em round the bleedin' paper sorters weeks ago."

Toby's face took on a look of resignation.

"I s'pose yer right, luv, but.  .  ."

"But nufink.  You're just a lazy ole bastard.  If it wasn't fer our Lil
bringin' in a few bob we'd all starve.  I fink it's about tim ever got off
yer lazy arse an' started earnin' some money."

The Widow Pacey was sitting nearby and she suddenly turned towards Marie.

"Oi, you!"  she shouted out.

"Why don't yer shut yer trap!  It's bad enough we've all gotta sit down 'ere,
wivvout you makin' it worse."

Marie Toomey's eyes blazed as she faced the bag wash lady.

"An' what's it got ter do wiv you?  If I wanna row wiv me ole man I'll row
wiv 'im whenever I like, so put that in yer pipe an' smoke it!"

Widow Pacey leaned forward in a threatening manner, arms folded over her
ample bosom.

"When my ole man was alive'e'd'ave smacked me round the jaw if I'd talked
to'im like you're talkin' to your ole man."

"Maybe your ole man wasn't a lazy good fer nufink like 'im, so there."

Toby's tired eyes flitted from one to the other and he shifted uncomfortably
on the hard wooden bench.

"Now don't start arguin', Marie," he whispered.

"Start arguin'.  Who's arguin'?  I'm jus' tellin' a few 'ome truths.

Anyway, who told you ter butt in?  "

"Yer ought ter give era good 'idin'," the bag wash lady growled at Toby.

"That might keeper quiet fera bit."

Marie's face went purple and she pointed aggressively at 294 iVidow Pacey.

"If yer don't shut yer cake 'ole I'll shut it for w!"

The big woman stood up on her feet and squared up with ler fists.

"C'mon then, if yer fink you're up to it!"

Folk sitting around jumped up to get a better view, the >ombs and the danger
forgotten as they jostled for posi- ion.  Joe and Frank pushed their way
towards the circling women and stood between them.

"What's the matter wiv you two?"  Joe said sternly.

"Ain't t bad enough the bloody Germans are knockin' the life out >f us
wivvout you two silly mares tryin' ter do it for 'em.  ^ow sit down an' be'
ave yerselves, or I'll chuck yer both uto' the shelter."

Toby slumped down in his seat.  Maybe ole bag wash 'acey is right, he
thought.  Maybe I should give Marie a as ting I don't know though.

Maybe it would be better to ut some rat poison in her food.  Just think,
she'd be rolling ill over the floor screaming out for help and I could say,
die, you silly mare, die'.  Trouble is, they'd string me up for nurder.
Perhaps it would be better to put a match to those mndles of newspapers when
she's asleep and then just disippear.  It's worth thinking about, he mused.

The night wore on, with brief periods of quiet between he thunder of the guns
and the rolling explosions.  The treet folk tried to catch some sleep as they
sat on the hard )enches, their backs propped against the damp walls.  foung
children nestled against their mothers and babies slept fitfully as the guns
opened up and more bombs fell.

The cramped shelter became unbearably stuffy but when me of the men rolled up
the gas blanket to let in some air he noise that carried into the refuge was
loud enough to vake the babies and young children.  Outside the shelter
ntrance, beneath a concrete canopy, Joe Cooper stood al king to some of the
men.  They could see flames and black moke rising over the rooftops and the
lightning-white lashes of the heavy guns lit up the empty street.  At number
twenty Clara Cosgrove slept on and, in a few of the ground loor flats in
Jubilee dwellings, some of the street folk were luddling together white-faced
and trembling.

With the merciful dawn came the all-clear siren and tired, jaded folk walked
wearily out through the factory gates, thankful that their homes were still
intact, apart from a few broken windows and dislodged slates.  The street
folk brewed tea and listened to the wireless broadcasts.  They heard of the
carnage wrought during the night and the many casualties which were flooding
into the hospitals.  They heard the call for blood donors, and later in the
morning many people went to the church; for some of them it was the first
time they had gone in many a long year.

296 FR1;Chapter Twenty-Nine The London blitz had been raging nightly for
nearly three weeks.

Bombs had fallen in the Tower Bridge Road and on The Tooley Street wharves,
and one little Bermondsey back- street had been almost destroyed by a land
mine.  Factories had been burned to the ground by fire bombs and the local
gas works had been badly damaged.  Lack of sleep and the onstant strain of
being under attack was taking its toll.  People were becoming upset and
nervous as they thought of yet another night with little, if any, sleep.

Most of the Ironmonger Street folk hurried home each night, had their tea and
made for the factory shelter before the air raids started.

Even Clara Cosgrove had decided reluctantly that it was probably safer than
staying in her home.  Every night the street dwellers rested uncomfortably on
the hard benches and fell asleep where they sat, despite the noise of the
blitz.  Joe Cooper had organised a team of Fire watchers and they took turns
to keep an eye on their street.  Mary Brown and some of the women organised a
tea :ounter where a mug of tea could be bought for tuppence.  The strain of
shelter life was beginning to show and there were minor rows and
disagreements.  In an attempt to calm the atmosphere Lizzie Conroy and Ada
Halliday led a nightly sing-song, with Bill Richards accompanying the singers
on his ukulele.  Lizzie had a strong voice and Ada ;ould reach the high
notes.  The two plump, middle-aged women managed to get a good response, with
a few of the folk volunteering to do a solo turn of their own.  The nightly
sing-songs became more melodious when Lizzie's husband brought his harmonica
to the concert and one old man rattled out the tunes on a pair of dinner
spoons.

For the Bartletts, shelter life brought added problems.  Molly's health was
beginning to suffer.  Sitting for hours on the hard bench was agonising, and
her breathing began to be affected by the stuffy confinement.  Helen had
talked to Matthew about Molly's condition and they both decided that if the
raids continued Helen would try to get herself and Molly out of London.

Connie was still working at the Dolphin most nights, although the pub shut
early.  She would hurry to the shelter at closing time and on occasions she
was forced to run through the streets after the air-raid siren had sounded.
Helen wanted her to leave the job, but Connie insisted that the work stopped
her brooding about Robert's safety.  The evening work tired her out and she
usually fell asleep where she sat, even during the heaviest of raids.  Only
one of the shelter people never went to sleep.  Widow Pacey sat in a corner,
her arms folded and her eyes staring into space.  She never nodded off even
once and people marvelled at her resilience.  Every Monday morning Mrs Pacey
made two or three trips to the laundry with bags of washing piled high on her
old pram, and then she made another collection on Wednesdays.  People began
to look at the big woman in a new light, and they admired her for the way she
had stood up to the vociferous Marie Toomey.

It was Monday morning and after three weeks' of shelter life Connie felt
exhausted as she settled down to work at her bench.  The factory had been
damaged by blast the night before.  Tarpaulins had been put up to cover a
hole in the wall and broken glass had been swept into one corner.  The ground
floor was underwater from a burst main, and there was a film of white dust
over the tables and machines.  All the girls looked tired and jaded as they
worked, cutting the leather or glueing pieces together.  The girls who
operated the stitching machines were watched closely by the forelady who was
terrified lest one of the girls should fall asleep and have a serious
accident.  Most of the work was for a government contract to produce leather
holsters and binocular cases, as well as document holders and instrument
containers.  Posters were displayed on the walls of the factory, urging
workers to toil for victory and to remember that their jobs were vital to the
war effort.  This morning none of the workers was paying too much attention
to the posters.  One or two of the girls had left their shelters to find
their homes in ruins and a few tears were shed as they related 298 sir
horror at being homeless and having to face the mediate future in rest
cent res

It was almost midday when the serious-faced forelady me up to Connie.

"Come with me, luv.  The manager ints ter see yer," she said quietly.

Connie followed the forelady out of the workshop and mg the corridor to an
office which had a sheet of car dard nailed over the damaged door glass.
When she tered the room Connie was shocked to see Alice Jones in ding beside
the manager's desk.  The forelady left and ; manager got up.

"I'll see if I can get you a cup of tea," he d, making a quick exit.

"Sit down, Connie," Miss Jones said, taking her arm and iding her to a chair.

What is it!  Is it Robert!  " Connie blurted out.

Alice stood beside the chair and put her hand on Connie's lulder.

"Peter Armitage phoned me this morning.  Con.  He asked if I would come along
to see you."

"Why!?  What's wrong!?"

"I'm terribly sorry but Robert's been reported missing in ion."

Connie buried her head in the woman's stomach and abed bitterly.

"No!  It can't be!

"E can't die an' leave me!

can't!  "

Alice stroked the young woman's hair and could feel her ole body shaking
violently.

The forelady came into the room with a cup of tea.

"See if ;'ll drink this.  I've put something in it," she whispered.

Mice handed Connie a handkerchief.

"Dry your eyes, it.  Drink this tea, it'll make you feel better.  C'mon now."

Connie sipped the tea, tears of grief falling into the cup.

r eyes looked up appealingly to the older woman.

hen?  When did it 'appen?  "

Someone from the squadron came to see Peter early this irning.  I think it
was the commanding officer.  Robert's the crashed into the Channel last
night.  One of the pilots v his plane go down.  He never got out.  Con.  "

Connie's face was deathly white and she stared at the or as though in a
trance.  The cup shook in her hands and ce took it from her.

"C'mon, let's get you home," she said softly.

The Bartletts had finished their tea and they sat in silence.  Molly had gone
to her bedroom and Matthew was staring into the empty grate.

Helen's hands shook as she tried to thread a needle and after a while she
gave up.  She rose and went into the kitchen where she stared at the dirty
cups and plates for a few seconds before returning to the front room.

Matthew looked up as she came in.

"Shall I go up an' see if she's all right?"  he asked her.

Helen shook her head.

"I've bin up twice.  She's jus' lyin' there on the bed.  I can't get a word
out of 'er.  The poor cow was sobbin' 'er 'eart out."

Matthew sighed deeply.

"One of us'll 'ave ter go up before long.  We can't leave erin the flat all
night.  We'll 'ave ter get 'er ter the shelter some'ow."

Helen sat down and looked up at the clock.

"You go up, Matt.  Maybe she'll take notice o' you."

Matthew climbed the flight of stairs and let himself into the flat.

Connie was lying sprawled across the bed, her face buried in the pillow.
Gently he put his hands on her shoulders and she turned on her side.  He
could see her tearstained face and red eyes as she stared up at him.

"Why, Matt?  Why should Robert 'ave ter die?  We was so 'appy.  Why should it
be 'im?"

"I don't know, Connie.  All I know is, there's lots o' brave fellas givin'
their lives in this war.  Fellas jus' like your Robert.  I know it's 'and,
luv, but yer've gotta be brave.

"E was brave, an' 'e would want yer ter be brave, too.  C'mon now, luv.  Wash
yer face an' we'll all go over the shelter tergevver."

"I can't, Matt.  I wanna stay 'ere ternight."

"Now listen, girl.  Yer can't stop in these buildin's all night.  Put some
water on yer face an' come down to us.  We'll wait fer yer."

"You go over the shelter.  I'm gonna stay 'ere."

"Well if yer determined ter stay 'ere ternight we'll all stay wiv yer.  We're
not leavin' yer alone."

Connie slipped her feet over the bed and sat hunched, her head buried in her
hands.

Matthew touched her gently on the top of her head.

300 C'mon, luv.  We'll go down tergevver.  C'mon, take me The siren sounded
early that night and the air raid was a particularly bad one.  A bomb fell in
John Street and lemolished a row of houses.  The Horseshoe public house was
flattened and some of the shops in Tower Bridge Road iad their fronts blown
out.  Bad fires started in the wharves and docks, and a fire bomb landed on
the derelict oil shop >n the corner of Ironmonger Street.  Joe Cooper and
Frank $rown roused the rest of the fire watchers and they raced to he burning
shop.

"It's 'opeless!"  Joe shouted as he dashed into the wardens' lost opposite.

"The oil shop's alight!"  he screamed above he noise of the guns.

"We've already reported it, Joe.  Gawd know sow long it'll take 'em ter get
'ere.  Control's told us 'alf o' London's tiurnin' ternight."

Joe ran back to the others.

"Let's get back under cover.  They've phoned the fire brigade.  If that fire
spreads ter the buildin's we're in trouble."

As the men ran back down the little turning they could hear the sounds of
falling shrapnel and glass shattering.  They stood and watched from the
shelter entrance and eventually the fire tender arrived and firemen began to
play their hoses on the shop and adjoining barrow sheds.

"It looks like the buildin's are okay.  Let's get a cup pa while we've got a
chance," Frank shouted.

Inside the stuffy shelter the grimy-faced men stood by the urn, mugs of
steaming tea held in their shaking hands.

Mary Brown came over to Joe and whispered,

"Young Connie Morgan's in a terrible state.

"Elen told me the girl's Fella got killed in action."

Joe looked over and saw Connie sitting next to Molly.  The two girls were
holding hands in silence, their eyes staring ahead.

"Gawd 'elp us!"  he groaned.

"What a bloody shame.  I was only talkin' toer the ovver day.  She was
worried out of 'er life then.  What a bloody shame."

Mary took his empty cup and dropped it into a bowl of water.

"I dunno where it's all gonna end, Joe.  Jus' look at 'em sittin' there.
Look at their faces.  The old 'uns can't stand much more o' this, an'
there's the kids.  It ain't right fer 'em ter be stuck down 'ere night after
night."

Joe put his hand on her arm.

"The old 'uns can take it, Mary.  They're made of iron, an' the kids'll be
all right too.  The way I see it, we've got some sort o' chance down 'ere,
barrin' a direct 'it.  Is there anuvver cup pa in that urn?"

The bombers had gone and the first light of day showed over the rooftops.
Joe Cooper roused himself and stretched to ease his aching back.  People
around him were in various positions of fitful sleep and he noticed Clara
Cosgrove had her head in her chest and was snoring loudly.  As he glanced
around he saw that Connie Morgan was sitting upright, her hands clasped in
her lap and her eyes staring ahead.

Molly sat next to Connie with her head resting on the Morgan girl's shoulder
and she was sleeping soundly.  Both Helen and Matthew were fast asleep where
they sat.

Joe walked over and crouched down in front of Connie.  "You all right, luv?"
he asked softly.

She nodded and continued to stare blankly.  Joe could see how pale and drawn
she was and he reached out and touched her clasped hands.

"Yer've gotta bear up, girl.  Yer gotta face it, no matter what.  I wish
there was some fink I could say ter ease the pain, but I can't.

Nobody can.  All I know is, time's the greatest 'ealer.  The pain will ease
in time, believe me, girl.  "

Connie's angry eyes met his.

"Robert's gone.  I'll never see 'im again.  You don't know 'ow much it 'urts,
nobody does, so jus' leave me alone."

Joe stood up and looked down on her grief-stricken face.  "Okay, Con.

I'll leave yer alone, but jus' one fing though.  There's a lot o'JFolk
sufferin' like you.  There's a lot o' loved ones being' grieved over an'
grievin' - an' I tell yer some- fink else.  I lost someone once.  It was
someone I was very close to, an' I suffered jus' like you are now.  I know
'ow yer feel, luv, so bear that in mind if yer want somebody ter talk to, okay

Connie's eyes filled with tears and she forced a brave smile.

"Okay, Joe."

The wail of the all clear sounded and the weary Ironmonger Street folk
emerged from the shelter to see the 302 )lackened shell that was once Jerry
Martin's oil shop The tench of charred timbers and scorched bricks filled the
ittle turning.  Fire hoses were still attached to the hydrant and two tired
firemen sprayed jets of water on the smoulder- ng ruins.  Windows had been
damaged and broken glass was cattered over the pavements, and overhead the
morning ky was copper-coloured and darkened with smoke.

t was mid afternoon when the well-dressed figure climbed he four flights of
stairs and knocked on the front door.  Connie ignored the knock and continued
to stare into the ire place When the knock was repeated she got up relucantly
and opened the door.

"I'm sorry, I was .  .  ."  she began.

He had stepped over the threshold and removed his lomburg, his sad eyes
looking into hers.  Without a word he hugged him and he held his comforting
arms around her obbing shoulders.

"I wanted to come.  I know how you must be feeling, Connie.  We loved him
too," he said.

Peter Armitage closed the door behind him and they walked into the front
room.  Connie composed herself and vent into the scullery to make some tea.
She came back with we cups on a tray and they sat talking quietly, each glad
of he other's company.

"Claudette is in a terrible state," Peter said.

"Doctor Spanswick has given her a strong sedative and I've got ,omeone to sit
with her for a while."

They sipped their tea in silence, and then Connie said, Fanks fer sendin'
Miss Jones round.  When I sawer in that ffice I knew she'd come about Robert.
"

"It was the least I could do," he said.

"I'd promised my son hat if anything happened to him I would get the news to
'ou.  It was the way he wanted it.  I would have come earlier ut Claudette .
.  ."  His eyes filled and he choked back the ears.

"Robert's commanding officer told us he was iwarded a bar to his DFC.  We're
very proud of him, and I :nowyouare, too."

Connie looked away from the bowed figure and stared at he small black box
lying on the table.

"Is that Robert's nedal?"

He nodded.

"I'd like you to have it."

She shook her head.

"No, I couldn't.  You keep it.  I've got enough memories ter last me the rest
o' me life.  It's only right you should keep it."

He picked up the box and slipped it into his coat pocket.  "You must come to
see us soon.  I'm sure Claudette would like that.  I would, too."

She showed him to the door and kissed his cold cheek as he stepped out on to
the landing.

"I will co meter see yer both, Peter.  Fanks fer comin' round."

She stood on the cold landing and watched the sad figure disappear down the
wooden stairs.  Maybe one day, Peter, she thought.  One day, when it doesn't
hurt so much.

With the darkness came the raiders, and there was no respite.  Each night the
bombs fell and more fires raged.  Each night more stories were told in the
factory refuge of friends and acquaintances who had been made homeless or who
had been killed or maimed.  The Ironmonger Street folk began to feel that
their little turning was immune to the carnage.  Every night the shelter
dwellers listened to the noise of the bombs and the loud crash of the guns,
and they emerged the following morning giving thanks that their little
turning was still intact.  The street folk who had once rallied to its
defence now joked about its immunity.

"Let's be fair," George Baker said with a smile on his lips.  "That there
Field Marshall Goerin' ain't gonna waste no bombs on our street.  The fifth
columnists 'ave told 'im the bleedin' street's fallin' down already."

Lizzie Conroy got angry with the cantankerous old man.  "Yer shouldn't joke
like that, George.  Yer'll put the bleedin' mockers on the street if yer not
careful."

"Mockers nufink," George replied, leaning on the wall and using his walking
stick to sweep a large piece of glass from the pavement.

"Yer like a bloody ole gipsy, believm' in such fings."

"You can scoff, yer silly ole bleeder.  All I'm sayin' is, yer shouldn't
tempt fate."

"I ain't temptin' nufink.  What I'm sayin' is .  .  ."

"I can't stand 'ere talkin' ter you," Lizzie cut in.

"I've got me ole man's tea ter get."

304 George watched Lizzie's departure with a grin on his ;rizzled features.

"Silly ole fat-arsed cow," he mumbled to limself.

Lizzie was about to let herself into her house when Ada -lalliday walked up.

' "EIlo, luv," Ada said, putting her shopping basket down t her feet and
rubbing her aching back.

"I jus' bumped into Irs Argrieves down the road.  You rememberer.

"Er what ised ter live in John Street.

Yer knower Billy copped a >acketat Dunkirk.  "

Lizzie pulled a face.

"Yeah.  Was it bad?"

"Well, Mrs Argrieves reckons 'e 'ad a bullet lodged near he spine.

They took it away all right an' 'e's walkin' again, ut she said 'e's
sufferin' from shell-shock.  She reckons 'e's orn a bit funny.  "

"Funny?

"Ow dyer mean, funny?"

"Well, be all accounts 'e's mumblin' to 'himself an' 'e won't keep 'himself
clean.  Mrs Argrieves said 'e ain't 'ad a have fera week, an' yer know 'ow
smart 'e used ter be."

Lizzie nodded.

"Er Billy used ter get in wiv that Samblin' crowd.

They used ter play cards an' dice on the ;orner of John Street.  The police
was always tryin' ter catch em.  Billy used ter wear some smart suits.  Must
'ave cost im a few bob.  "

Ada glanced along the turning then looked back at Lizzie.  Accordin' toer,
all Billy's mates clubbed tergevver an' nought 'im a complete rig-out when 'e
come 'ome from the or spital Yeah, shoes, ties, the lot.  She said 'e looked
'is ole elf fera while.  Trouble is, 'e ain't 'ad the clothes orf 'is back
,ince.  Yeah, that's right.  She said 'e even sleeps in 'em.  The roor
bleeder's gorn right down the pan.  It's a bloody worry er 'er.  I did feel
sorry fert he poor ole cow when she old me.  "

"That's the trouble, Ada.  We don't know what those boys vent through out in
that Dunkirk.  Some of 'em won't never )e the same."

Ada picked up her shopping basket and held her back igain.

"Well, luv.  I must be orf.  I don't wanna be late down he shelter ternight.
I left it late last night an' those bleedin' Foomeys nicked me place."

Lizzie took her foot from her doorstep.

"Ere, Ada.

Before yer go.  Don't that Morgan girl look ill.  I 'ardly reco'promised 'er
when I see 'er the ovver day.  "

"Well it's only natural, ain't it.  She was going' wiv that fella fer some
time.

"E seemed such a nice chap.  Always very polite when 'e see yer out.  It's a
bleedin' shame.  All right, 'e wasn't one of us, but she thought the world of
'im.  You could tell that when yer see 'em out tergewer."

Lizzie nodded.

"Ain't she getting' like 'er muvver in looks?  I fink she's the spittin'
image of 'er."

"Well I 'ope she don't take after 'er muvver.  Lizzie.  That Kate Morgan did
love the fellas."

Lizzie grinned.

"Don't we all?  Chance would be a fine fing, what wiv my ole man.  If 'e
caught me lookin' at anuwer fella 'e'd kill me, I know 'e would."

Ada changed her shopping bag over from one hand to the other.

"Oh well, I gotta go.  I got a couple o' pigs' trotters ferme tea.  I do like
them with a few taters an' pease pudden.  See yer down the shelter, Liz."

"See yer, Ada."

As dusk fell the tension grew.  In Ironmonger Street the factory gates stayed
open as usual and the early arrivals found their regular spot in the dimly
lit shelter beneath the machine-shop of the Armitage factory.  People knitted
and chatted together, and some sat quietly reading.  Children ran around
between the wooden benches or played with their favourite toys, trying not to
go too close to Widow Pacey.  Mary Brown put a light under the tea urn and
laid out the clean mugs.  Joe Cooper arrived early and checked the fire
buckets, stirrup pumps and spare sandbags.  Later on that Friday evening
Clara Cosgrove took her place in the shelter and.  when the air raid siren
sounded and the bombs started to fall, once more Clara was already fast
asleep.

306 Chapter Thirty the first few days of October saw the weather turn very
cold and damp.  Influenza and bronchitis were rife in the dock- lands and
many of the people in Ironmonger Street were affected.  Molly Bartlett went
down with a bad attack of bronchitis on the first Saturday of the month and,
when Helen called in the doctor he was adamant.

"That young lady should be in bed.  It's just asking for trouble her sitting
up all night in that shelter."

Helen made a decision.

"I'll stay wiv Molly an' you go over the shelter, Matt.  Yer can't do anyfing
'ere."

Matthew would have none of it.

"Yer don't fink I'd leave yer both up 'ere on yer own, doyer?  I'mstayin',
too.  Iffings get too bad I can wrap a blanket roun' the girl an' carry 'er
down ter the ground floor flat.  They wouldn't mind."

Helen knew she would get nowhere arguing with him and, as she stood over the
gas stove stirring a pot of soup for Molly, she worried for her daughter, and
she thought of Connie who had returned to her job at the Dolphin.  The raids
were starting earlier now and Helen feared that her niece was cutting it a
bit fine leaving the pub almost at closing time.  She sighed deeply and said
a silent prayer that they would be spared the bombing for just one night.

Connie found herself very busy on that Saturday evening.  She preferred it
that way, for the work and the noisy atmosphere prevented her from brooding
too much over tier tragic loss.

It was getting near to closing time when Dora French :ame into the public bar.

"I thought yer'd gone by now, Con.  Yer better be on yer way, just in case
the siren goes ;arly."

Connie bid the French family goodnight and hurried From the pub.  As she
walked out into the Old Kent Road she look a torch from her handbag and shone
the dim light down on the pavement.  She thought about the Bartletts having
to stay in the buildings all night instead of the shelter.  She had offered
to stay with her cousin but Helen would not hear of it.  Maybe the siren
wouldn't sound tonight, Connie thought as she picked her way carefully
through the darkness.  Wouldn't it be nice to curl up in bed just for one
night and sleep undisturbed until morning?

She had just reached the Bricklayers Arms junction when the siren wailed out
its mournful sound.  Connie hurried on as the drone of aircraft became louder
and flashes of gunfire lit the night sky.  As she ran along the Tower Bridge
Road and turned off into the back streets the drone sounded directly
overhead.  The scream of falling bombs sent her scurrying into a doorway and
she felt the hot blast of air rush past her as a bomb fell a few streets away.

Shattered glass tinkled on to the pavements and cobblestones as Connie
pressed herself into the doorway.  More bombs exploded nearby and she shook
with terror.  The crash of guns made her clasp her ears and grit her teeth as
she left the doorway and ran as fast as she could into Ironmonger Street.
Pieces of red-hot shrapnel landed all around her and the factory gates seemed
a mile away as she heard the scream of a falling bomb.  She was thrown
headlong into the gutter by the blast, the flash of the explosion momentarily
blinding her.  She picked herself up painfully, her head pounding, and she
could see the rising flames coming from the damaged gas main in John Street.
She heard running footsteps and, as Joe Cooper reached her, Connie lost
consciousness.

The street was lit by red lamps and the clean cobblestones were shining in
the phosphorescent glow.  Connie walked in silence beside the shadowy figure
of her mother.  The turning was empty and the houses were in darkness.  They
stopped beside a door and her mother reached out for the iron knocker.
Connie could see the tears on her face as the door opened and she stepped
over the threshold.  The young girl wanted to follow but she was rooted to
the spot.  She tried to hold out her arms but they were pinned to her sides.
Her mother was slowly disappearing from sight and the door started to close.
Connie was alone in the turning.  She 308 eemed to be drifting along and the
light changed to a bright ilue.  It was cold and she wanted to get far away.
She began ;o run but the street moved with her.  Her breath came in asps and
suddenly she screamed.  Hands were bearing town on her, squeezing the
remaining breath from her lody.  She fought until there was no more strength
left, and he saw the faces staring down at her.

"Connie!  Connie!  C'mon now, girl.  It's all right."

Her eyes opened wide and Connie saw Joe and Frank bending over her.

She was lying on her back in the shelter and she ;ould see the familiar trail
of conduit tubing which ran the length of the ceiling.

Mary was cradling her head and people were standing around, their faces all
looking serious.

Joe stared down at her.

"It's okay, girl.  Yer fainted when we got ter yer.  The blast must 'ave
con cussed yer.  You'll be ill right.  Jus' stay quiet fera while."

Connie looked up into Joe's large brown eyes and felt ;omforted.  His wide
friendly face was split in a relieved grin and she could see the deep lines
that spread out from the ;ornersofhiseyes.

"Yer gave us a scare, girl.  What was yer doin' out there?  yer should 'ave
bin in the shelter long ago."

Connie attempted a sheepish grin and winced as the pain in tier head
increased with the rush of blood as she sat up slowly.  "I left it a bit late
leavin' the pub.  I thought I'd 'ave enough time before the raid started,"
she said in a faint voice.

"You're a daft 'ap'orth," Joe laughed with an exaggerated shake of his head.

There was a short lull in the bombing and people had tar ted to chat
together.  Connie sat in a corner, a mug of lot tea clasped in her still
shaking hands.  Mary sat beside ler whilst nearby her two young children were
listening to "rank as he read them a story.

"You okay now, Con?"  Mary asked.

Connie nodded.

"I was scared, Mary.  I thought the world was fallin' in on me."

Mary grinned.

"Yer was strugglin' like a good 'un when loe carried yer in the shelter.  I
thought yer wa saving a'fit."

"I wa saving a terrible dream," Connie said shivering.

"It was more like a nightmare.  I could see me mum but she was leavin' me an'
I couldn't get toer.  It was really 'orrible."

Mary patted the young woman's hand.

"Drink yer tea, luv, it'll do yer good.  Yer've 'ad a nasty shock."

Connie looked up at Mary.

"I wonder 'ow me aunt an' uncle an' Molly are getting' on?  They mus' be
frightened up in them buildin's on their own."

They'll be okay.  Now drink that tea," Mary urged her with a note of
authority in her voice.

The bombs had started to fall again, and the shelter seemed to shake to its
foundations.  The gas blanket rustled and dust blew in.  People had lapsed
into silence, each alone with their secret fears.  Strings of plaster dust
fell from the ceiling and with every explosion the electric lights dimmed.
Joe and some of the men got out the kerosene lamps and began to prime them
while Mary poured more water into the tea urn.  Lizzie and Ada were trying to
get a singsong going but there was little support, and the strains of the
harmonica were swallowed up by the increasing noise from outside.  People sat
rigid with fear and some of the children started to cry as they were awakened
from fitful sleep.  More dust and paint flakes fell from the ceiling and the
smell of carbolic coming from the toilets hung in the stuffy air.

It was after midnight when the clattering started.  Joe cast his eyes up to
the ceiling and clenched his fists tightly.  It sounded to him as though
someone with immense strength was violently shaking a sheet of corrugated
iron.  It seemed to last for ever and grow into a deep rumble, and then the
blast from the explosion threw everyone on to the floor.  People were
screaming as the lights failed, and in the panic that followed some folk
found themselves being trampled on.

Joe picked himself up and struggled to the doorway.  As he reached the yard,
the sight which met his eyes made him recoil in sheer horror.

There was a great gap in the buildings.  Dust was still rising into clouds of
white in the sudden unearthly silence.  Half of Jubilee Dwellings had been
reduced to a great pile of rubble.  Joe could see the exposed fireplaces and
the pieces of furniture balanced precariously on the remaining flooring.  The
part of the dwellings which was still standing had had all the windows blown
out and most of the roof tiles dislodged.  For a few seconds Joe stood rooted
to the spot.  He stared in disbelief, not knowing what he should do.  As the
rest of the men struggled to 310 heir feet they stood beside him and stared
up at the devasation.

Joe suddenly came to his senses.

"Quick!  Somebody get er the wardens' post fer Gawd sake!"  he shouted.

"There's people buried under that lot!"

Guns were still screaming out and bombs were falling as ill Richards ran
along the street.  Inside the post there was andemonium.  All the lines had
gone dead.  Without hesita- ion he ran back into the street and headed for
the Tower bridge Road.  The streets were illuminated by fires which were
burning everywhere and here and there jets of water hot high into the air
from damaged mains and hydrants.  ialf a mile along the main thoroughfare he
found the area vardens' post and staggered in gasping for breath.

"Jubilee Dwellin's!"  he blurted out.

"They've copped it!  There's people buried there."

The fire watchers of Ironmonger Street had begun burrowing into the rubble
and now and then they stopped, listening for sounds of life.

Timbers were gently prised loose and huge chunks of brickwork were eased
aside as the digging went on.  It was almost an hour later when the lorry
irove into the turning and men from the Heavy Rescue Squad rushed to help.

Joe pointed to the tunnel they had made.

"There was a " ound come from down there a little while ago, but it's gone
[uiet now," he said, his face a white mask.

"Take a breather, mate.  We'll carry on diggin'," one of the rescuers said
gently.

Joe sat down on the kerb beside Mary Brown's husband.

"I can't stop shakin', Frank.  It's the first night the Bartletts 'ave
stopped in the buildin's.  I feel so bloody useless."

"We done all we could, Joe.  We've jus' gotta wait now."

It was under a dawn sky when the first body was brought ut.  Joe slid back
the blanket and saw that it was Molly iartlett.  The man holding the rear of
the stretcher shook his >ead slowly.  Soon after the body of Matthew Bartlett
was Iragged from under a wall of bricks.  Joe Cooper's face was is hen as he
pulled back the blanket to identify the body.  Fears of frustration and anger
fell down his blackened face is he screwed up his eyes and slumped down
heavily on a )ile of rubble.

"That's two of 'em gone, an' the poor sod's wife is still under that lot,"
he groaned, staring at the two stretchers lying side by side in the middle of
the street.

There was a sudden call for silence.  The rescuers stopped digging and
crowded around the shored-up tunnel.  Joe picked himself up and hurried over
to the men.  He saw their leader standing by the tunnel, his head held
sideways and a stern look on his dust-streaked features.  They could all hear
it now.  It sounded like a mournful whine coming from far away.  The sound
made Joe's flesh creep and he gazed helplessly at the rescuer beside him.
The man rested his large hand on the warden's shoulder and motioned to the
shelter.

"We'll call yer when we reach whoever it is.  Yer can 'elp us by tryin' ter
find out 'ow many are likely ter be under the rubble," he said.

"I can tell yer that now, mate," Joe replied.

"Most of the people who used ter stay on the ground floor got scared and
started usin' the shelter in the factory a few nights ago.  There's only a
woman by the name o' Bartlett, a Mr and Mrs Riley, an' an ole woman called "
Awkins.  They're the only ones unaccounted for.  "

The man nodded.

"All right then, we'll give yer a shout soon as we can."

Joe watched as one of the rescuers slid down into the tunnel.  Another man
followed him in and the rest of the men stood quietly waiting.

The street warden turned towards the factory gates.  His heart went out to
the grief- stricken young woman who sat alone in the shelter, and silent
tears ran down his gaunt face.  How much more grief was the girl expected to
suffer?

The all clear had sounded and exhausted, ashen-faced folk had emerged from
their refuge to stand horrified at the sight of the stricken dwellings.  They
watched silently as the sun rose up over the chimney pots and they shivered
in the cold sunlight as the ambulance drove back into the street.  The
shocked street folk caught their breath as a stretcher was carried down from
the rubble.  They could see old Mrs Hawkins, her head swathed in bandages,
waving her hands in protest.

"I can walk, sod yer!  Put me down I tell yer!"

"It's okay, Ma.  Jus' lie quiet.  You'll be all right," the rescuer said as
he held her shoulder.

312 Another stretcher was rushed up to the tunnel, and soon hey carried
Helen Bartlett down.  A doctor clambered ilong beside the stretcher, his
small black bag held in his loo died hand.

"Careful!"  he cried out to the bearers.

"Keep he stretcher level, she's badly hurt."

Joe trailed along behind them, his eyes lowered towards he cobblestones.  He
looked up as the injured Helen lartlett was placed in the ambulance and he
shook his head t the questions thrown at him.

His thoughts were cent red 3n the young Morgan girl who was being restrained
back in the factory shelter.  Mary Brown had broken the news to her and she
had physically to hold her down with the help of Ada Halliday.  Now he had
the task of telling the young girl that her aunt had been brought out from
the rubble barely alive.

As the red sun climbed up overhead the service began.  A small wooden cross
was placed on an altar of bricks, and the congregation stood throughout the
sermon.  Instead of a Church floor beneath their feet there were only
cobblestones strewn with debris, and the roof above their heads was the
:loudy autumn sky.  No hymns were sung and no collection boxes were passed
around on that Sabbath morning.  The as socked figure stood perched on a
mound of rubble, his sombre voice echoing eerily in the shattered street.  He
spoke of the courage of rescuers and of the forebearance of those who
mourned.  He raised his arms to the heavens as he asked the congregation to
join him in prayers for the departed souls of the victims and he thanked God
for the deliverance of the survivors.  Above, the cold sun gave no tie at and
as the gathering mumbled

"Amen' a new fall of rubble sent a cloud of dust rising into the air.  The
priest limbed down and walked sorrowfully from the turning with his head
bowed.  He clutched the wooden cross in his hand and held the New Testament
under his arm.  As he turned out of the street he heard from somewhere behind
turn a pitiful cry of torment.

Later the exodus began.  The tenants of Jubilee Dwellings were taken to a
nearby rest centre with the exception of Sonnie Morgan.  She had been given a
strong sedative and ivas sleeping in Ada Halliday's bed.  In a little church
hall a few streets away lay the bodies of Matthew and Molly Bartlett,
alongside those of Annie and Alf Riley.  The local hospitals were filled to
overflowing and many victims of the night's bombing lay in draughty corridors
or in makeshift wards.  Among the casualties admitted to Guy's Hospital was
Helen Bartlett.  She lay in a coma, her back broken and both her legs
smashed.  In the locker beside her bed was a small handbag which she had been
holding on to when the rescuers found her.  Back in the little street that
George Baker had said was invincible a pathetic stack of furniture and bits
and pieces stood in a heap beside the huge pile of rubble.  The part of
Jubilee Dwellings which remained standing would never again be a home for the
Ironmonger Street folk.  Walls were showing huge cracks and all the window
frames had been blown out on to the cobbles below.  Chimney pots lay amongst
a showering of roof slates, and a rope cordon had been thrown along the
pavement beneath a crazily balanced chimney-stack which was in danger of
toppling at any minute.

The street was strangely quiet on that Sunday afternoon.  Mercifully, the
little houses opposite Jubilee Dwellings had escaped serious damage, apart
from broken windows, loosened front doors and dislodged roof slates.  Plaster
had fallen from the ceilings and soot filled the rooms, but the structures
remained intact.  Women cooked their lunches on gas stoves which were
operating on half pressure and they fetched their water from a hastily
erected stand-pipe at the end of the turning.  The men had left the street
earlier and walked sadly past the heap of rubble that was once the Horseshoe.
They drank beer in unfamiliar surroundings and returned to find their
dinners still not ready.  The street folk took to their beds later that
afternoon to catch up on sorely needed sleep and Ada Halliday, loath to
awaken Connie, slumbered in her favourite armchair.  Outside the wind rose
and whisked spirals of brick dust along the cobblestones.  At the end of the
turning the Armitage factory gates remained open, and they rattled noisily on
their heavy chains.

314 PART THREE

Chapter Thirty-One A stocky figure with greying hair walked purposefully
through the hospital gates with a young woman holding on to his arm.  She
wore her long blond hair tied back with a black ribbon and her once proud
shoulders slumped.  Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and her pretty
features were pale.  She started to lag and the man beside her slowed his
pace as they crossed the forecourt and entered the main building.  The wind
had dropped and spots of rain started to fall from a leaden sky.  In the
distance a roll of thunder announced a coming storm.  The man was silent as
he guided his companion up the wide stairway and squeezed the hand which
rested limply on his arm.  They were stopped at the entrance to the ward by a
stem-looking matron.

"I'm sorry.  Visiting time finished over an hour ago."

The girl stared blankly at her feet and the Ironmonger Street warden nodded.

"We've co meter visit Mrs

"Elen Bartlett.  We were told she's on an open order."

The matron's face relaxed a little.

"Oh I see.  Are you the next of kin?"

"This 'ere young lady is.  She's the only relative," Joe said, looking at
Connie.

The matron motioned to a side room.

"I'm afraid Mrs Bartlett hasn't regained consciousness yet, but you're both
welcome to sit with her.

Would you like a cup of tea?  "

Connie swayed back on her heels and Joe gripped her arm tightly.

"The tea would go down a treat, luv."

The elderly matron raised her eyebrows stonily and turned away, her crisp
apron crackling as she walked swiftly along the dimly Ut corridor.

Joe was aware of the noise his boots made on the tiled floor as he led Connie
into the side room.  The two looked down on the still figure and Joe caught
his breath.  Helen Bartlett had aged considerably since he had last seen her.

317 Her hair was now completely white and her eyes were sunken, the dark
circles around them conspicuous against the pallor of her face.

Helen's breathing was very shallow and her hands were white and streaked with
blue veins as they lay motionless outside the raised bedclothes.  Joe turned
his shocked gaze to the young woman at his side but he could see no emotion
in her eyes as she looked down at her aunt.  Joe eased his companion into a
chair beside the bed and he drew up another seat at the other side.  They sat
in silence: Connie staring at her comatose relative and Joe studying his
tightly clenched hands.

It seemed an age before a nurse came into the little room carrying two cups
of tea.  Before she left the nurse pulled the blinds and lit a green-shaded
light above the bed.  In the strange glow Helen's face seemed to become
almost transparent and the dark circles around her eyes became more
prominent.  It was very quiet.  From somewhere in the distance came the muted
sound of a passing train, and footsteps tapped faintly along the tiled
corridor outside.  They had been sitting in silence for over an hour when Joe
got up quickly.

"C'mon, darling'.  We can't do anyfing.  Let's go 'ome."

Connie stood up without saying anything and walked to the door, her shoulders
sagging and her head bowed.  Joe followed her out into the corridor and took
her arm.  Still Connie did not speak.  She walked along as if in a trance,
and her hand felt as light as a feather on his supporting arm.  They walked
out into the night air and at the gates Joe stopped and clasped the girl's
shoulders gently.

"Now listen, kid," he said softly.

"Yer gotta pull yerself tergewer.

Yer wanted meter bring yer 'ere, an' yer ain't said one word since we left
the street.  Yer can't go on bottlin' it all ; up.  Let go.  Con.  Scream,
shout, or 'ave a good cry, but don't go on torturin' yerself by keepin' it
all inside yer.  " , | For a few moments Connie stared into his large brown.
| eyes, then slowly she fell against his body.  Tears fell on to | Joe's
collar as the young woman sobbed bitterly, her head,| resting against his
chest.  He patted her back gently and^ whispered encouraging words as they
stood beside the hugi?;| iron gates.  Presently he slipped his hand under her
chin and'l raised her head.

318 "C'mon, luv.  Take me an key an' dry yer eyes.  There's a pub just along
a bit.  We'll get yer a stiff drink.  It'll do yer good."

The saloon bar of the Sadlers Arms was almost empty and Joe Cooper led her to
the table farthest from the counter.  When Connie was seated he ordered two
brandies and as she sipped hers the young woman's eyes screwed up and she
gasped for breath.  Joe touched her hand.  "Go on, finish it up.  It'll
steady yer nerves," he said.

Connie looked at her companion.

"I'm gonna lose 'er," she said.

"I'm gonna lose 'er jus' like I've lost everybody else who's ever meant
anyfing terme.  Why, Joe?

Why?  "

For a second or two he could say nothing.  He felt the lump rising in his
throat and he swallowed hard.

"I wish I sould tell yer, Connie.

Gawd knows, yer've suffered more grief than anybody should 'ave to.

There's nufink I can say, nor can anybody else fert hat matter.  No amount o'
talkin' an ease yer pain, luv.  All I can say is, yer not alone.  Yer've got
friends.  Yer've got the folk in the street.  We're yer Friends.  Yer can
always count on us, girl.  "

Connie's eyes were now dry and she laughed bitterly.

"I an't afford ter get too close ter people, Joe.  Not any more, [ don't.
There was me mum.  I loved 'er dearly, even though she could never shower
feelin's terme until she was very ill.  I really only got close toer when it
was all too late.  I lost Robert.  We were gonna be married an' I lost 'im,
too.  Then here was Aunt

"Elen an' Uncle Matt an' Molly.  They gave me all the love in the world, an'
now Uncle Matt an' Molly are dead, an' Aunt

"Elen is layin' in that 'ospital wiv a aroken back an' bother legs all
smashed up.  She'll die an' eave me, I know she will."

Joe fought back the tears that came to his eyes.

"She won't die, Connie.  Yer aunt's a fighter.  She'll pull through, tionest."

Connie stared down at the table for a few moments and hen she reached out her
hand and squeezed his.  Tanks fert) ringing meter the 'ospital, Joe, I 'ad
ter come, even though t wasn't much use.  "

"Don't yer be so sure," Joe said quietly.

"I fink yer aunt knew you were there beside 'er, even though she was
unconscious.  When she wakes up she'll know you came inter see 'er, you
mark my words."

 "I 'ope so.   I 'ope you're right, Joe."

With the night came the bombers.  The shattered backwater behind the Tower
Bridge Road was lit up as antiaircraft guns spat out shells and explosives
fell on the nearby docks, wharves and railways.  The roar of battle shook the
factory shelter and terrified the street folk as they huddled together and
prayed for their lives.  There was no relief.  Throughout the long night the
bombing continued and no one slept.  The knowledge that their much maligned
and newly ravaged little turning was still in the front line had made
everyone aware that their lives could be snuffed out just like their
neighbours from the dwellings.  Mary Brown was nervous as she handed out mugs
of tea, and the voices of Ada Halliday and Lizzie Conroy, the shelter duo,
were a little unsteady as they tried valiantly to entertain their neighbours
with songs.  The Toomeys were sitting unusually close together staring glumly
at the floor, and Widow Pacey had taken up her usual position against the
wall, her arms folded and her eyes unblinking,.  Outside, beneath the
concrete canopy, Joe Cooper and some of the menfolk stood ready with sand
buckets and stirrup pumps in case incendiary bombs fell on the little houses.
They watched fearfully as the flashes of battle lit up the mountain of
rubble, the ruins of the oil shop and the charred gates of the barrow sheds.
They cast their eyes sky wards and watched the bursting shells and the white
pencils of light which searched the heavens for the enemy bombers.  Tiredness
and anxiety had worn down the strongest of them and, as the explosions grew
louder and the guns crashed suddenly, they would start like hunted animals.
As the long hours of the night dragged past the drone of aircraft would
diminish and then become louder as fresh raiders appeared overhead.  The
sickly sweet smell of cordite and the acrid smell of burning timbers carried
into the little turning.  Sounds of fire bells were drowned beneath the din
of battle and white- hot shrapnel fell with a clatter on the cobblestones.
The factory gates rattled and more roof slates slithered down from the tops
of the houses with a loud crash.

320 The long night finally broke into a grey dawn and as the ill clear
echoed through the battered Ironmonger Street the sleepless shelter dwellers
emerged once more.  They came up From their stuffy refuge and blinked in the
early morning ight.  One or two crossed themselves and others were over- some
with emotion as they stared at what was left of the iwellings.  Ada emerged
with her arm around Connie, her yey hair piled on to the top of her head and
secured with a arge hat pin.

Ada's buxom figure dwarfed the slim girl at ler side as the two walked slowly
out through the open gates at the Armitage factory.  The Toomeys followed
behind.  Marie held on to her daughter's arm and Toby trailed in heir wake.
Mrs Adams followed on, eager to get home to Feed her cats.  Widow Pacey came
out last, her features set n an expression of grim determination.  It was
Monday norning and she knew the bags of washing still had to be :aken along
to the factory in Long Lane.

Mot too far away from Ironmonger Street the French Family came up from their
shelter in the cellar of the Dolphin :o find that their little street was
unscathed.  Bill was onfident that the cellar was a much safer place during
the aombing than the shelter in the church hall.  He had reinforced the
ceiling with thick posts of wood and installed amp beds, and he had filled
buckets with sand and water in :ase of emergency.  Although the beer cellar
was cold and lamp his family could at least brew tea and heat up soup on he
electric grill, and the walls were thick enough to deaden a great deal of the
noise.  Unlike most of the local folk, the French family slept reasonably
well, even though the last Few air raids had been very heavy.

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 tie ad and there was a worried look in her pale-blue eyes.
She tiad 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 tier.  ' "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 any fingit 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 know sow 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.  Tank 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 toward her house with Mabel trying
to keep up with her.

"That has- tard'll drive me mad.  They'll end up takin' me away in a
straitjacket, I know they will," she groaned.

322 Mabel waddled along behind the enraged Florence as hey hurried along
Salter Street.  A crowd had already gath- red 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 ip to the front
door.  Down in the area beside the steps a 'igure sat on his haunches,
holding a bloodied handkerchief ip to his nose.

"The stupid bastard should be locked up," the victim ihouted.

"All I said was,

"Is yer muvver in?  She owes two vee ks

"E 'ad no right ter get stroppy."

Billy Argrieves stood with his feet apart at the top of the iteps, his broad
shoulders hunched and his fists clenched ightly.  His wild dark eyes stared
out from a square face :overed with three days' growth of beard.  His thin
lips were witching.  The once smart grey suit was creased and dirty, and his
brown shoes were trodden down and unlaced.

His il thy shirt was unbuttoned, and his dark hair hung down ver his
forehead.  Below him on the pavement the crowd iad 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 ione, lad,"

the old woman said.

"Pray ter Jesus.  Pray fer yer ialvation."

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 .  ^orence looked up at her
angry son.

"Ain't yer got no 'eelin' fer yer ole mum, boy?"

she said with exasperation.  Don't yer know what yer doin' terme wiv yer
wild ways?  Mow get inside, fer Gawd's sake.  Can't yer see they're all
aughin' at yer?  "

His broad shoulders slumped and tears welled up in his land some face.

"I told 'im yer got no money, Muwer.

"E cept all on.  I clouted 'im 'cos 'e kept going' on."

"I only asked 'im once," groaned the tallyman.

"E's a iloody lunatic."

"Gawd 'elp us!"  Florence mumbled.

"What 'ave I done ter ieserve this?"

Billy's wild eyes turned to the tallyman.

"Shut yer trap or ['11 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, dyer 'ear me?"

The dishevelled figure shook himself loose.

"I ain't going' 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 going'," 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 going' 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 dyer mean, what's bin going' 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 324 and the beat
constable could see why the local kids had lamed Harold Scribbins after one
of their favourite comic :haracters.

"I 'card there was a set-to in the street a few minutes ago," he policeman
said.

"I ain't paid ter stand around watchin' punch-ups," larold said, leaning on
his broom.

"I'm paid ter keep this ialsy turnin' clean, which is jus' like sweepin' sand
orf the 'each.  I tell yer, before I'm out o' the turnin' it's like I've
lever bin 'ere, what wiv toffee wrappers an' apple cores and 3awd knows what
else.  When the supervisor comes round 'e Finks I've spent the time
scratchin' me arse.  It's a bloody mfankfuljob sweepin' streets, 'spech'ly
round 'ere."

"So yer didn't see any fink then?"

"Nope."

"What's them spots o' blood doin' on the pavement then?"  he constable asked,
his eyes narrowing.

' "Ow the 'ell should I know," Harold replied.

"P'raps it's ed paint, or it might be ole Percy 'avin' anuwer nosebleed."

"Percy?"

"Yeah, Percy Axford.

"E gets a nose-bleed every time 'is ?le woman catches up wiv 'im.  Anyway, I
can't stand 'ere ;hin-waggin' all day.

I've got me work ter do.  "

PC Rowley watched as Harold walked away, the handle of us broom pressed
against his bony shoulder.

"Bloody ole Fool," he said aloud.

"Piss orf, yer nosey bastard," Harold said over his ihoulder.  , that evening
Jennie French came home from work saddened iy the news of Ironmonger Street
and her friend's anguish.

"Yer should 'ave seen 'er.  Mum," she said, her voice full of aity.

"Connie was so upset.

"Er an' Molly was very close.  The ?le family was.

I dunno 'ow she made it inter work terday.  Er flat's gone, an' all 'er
fings, too.  Poor cow's only got the its she's standin' up in.  "

Dora looked at her husband.

"She could live 'ere fera while , couldn't she.  Bill?  She's a good worker,
an' if she feels )bliged we could suggest she does a couple of extra turns
)e'indthebar."

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.
Tanks, Dad.  You're the best est

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

326 FR1;Chapter Thirty-Two 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 air force 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
hygiene-conscious 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.  Bach 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 back street 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 328 o be.  Each night the clear black sky was full
of stars, and he inevitable air-raid siren screamed out.  The cellar >eneath
the Dolphin public house held firm, and each night Connie lay awake listening
to the dull explosions and the hump of the gunfire.  She felt grateful to
Jennie and her )arents for taking her in and giving her the opportunity of
pending more time behind the bar.  For the few hours she was serving she
could almost forget.  The customers were riendly, and she was slowly getting
used to their ways and heir sense of humour.  Jennie had proved to be a good
ri end She was constantly joking with the customers and loing her best to
include her friend in the conviviality, but Connie was afraid of becoming too
attached to the family md she was resolved to keep her distance, determined
never igain to let herself go through the torment and agony of osing someone
she really cared for.  Maybe that was the way her mother had chosen to run
her own life in the end, he thought.  There had seemed to be no one really
close to ler.  She had lived the way she wanted, and she had become i
stranger even to her own sister.  From what Connie had ;athered, there had
been many men friends in her mother's life, and one of them had been her
father.  Somewhere along he way things had gone wrong and the man had left.
He night be dead now, and yet maybe he was still living some- where ?  The
only certain thing was that her mother had cut lim off and refused even to
discuss him.  She had been a )rivate person who had found it very difficult
to show her eal feelings.  Maybe she hadn't always been that way, Connie
mused as she lay staring up at the whitewashed soiling.  Something must have
happened which had changed ler mother.  Maybe her own life was following the
same >ath.  Perhaps it was her inescapable destiny to suffer in the ;ame way,
to know the heartbreak of loss and end up a itter, 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 emain true to
herself, would she never again feel the joy and agony of loving someone
deeply and reaching out for owe in the darkness?  She remembered Joe Cooper's
words.  t would take time, and time was a great healer.  As the ound of the
explosions and crashing guns faded she would turn over, her head sinking
into the soft pillow.

Salter Street had so far survived the bombing and the little pub was busy on
Saturday night.  Outside the wind was keen, threatening colder weather, and
folk were crowding into 'the public bar to discuss the bombing, the food
rationing and the local street gossip.  One group who was discussing the
recent disturbance outside the Argrieves' house was silenced by the sudden
appearance of the woman herself.  She walked into the small bar with her head
held high.  Behind her came her son Billy, who looked around sheepishly as he
reached the counter.

"Go on then, son.  Get yer money out.  I'll 'ave a milk stout,"

Florence Argrieves said, looking around with a satisfied grin on her tired,
lined features.

' "Ere, Bess.  Look at 'er," one of the customers whispered to her friend.

"She looks like the cat that swallered the canary."

Bess nodded her agreement.

"I s'pose she's done a feat getting' that son of 'ers ter smarten 'himself
up.  Jus' look at 'im.

"E's 'ad a shave, an' 'e's got a clean shirt on.  There's even a crease in
'is trousers."

Nora grinned.

"I s'pose yer right.  She's even got 'im ter buyer a drink.  Now that's a
feat."

Billy Argrieves pulled out a handful of coins and dropped some on the
threadbare carpet as he looked at the pretty blond barmaid.

"Er .  .  .

milk stout, an' er .  .  .  er, pint o' bitter.  "

Florence raised her eyes to the ceiling as her son spread the handful of
coins on the bar and stared at Connie as she counted out the right amount.
When the drinks were placed in front of them Florence took a long gulp and
licked her lips appreciatively.  Billy just stared down at his filled glass,
a faraway look in his dark eyes.

"Well go on then, drink yer beer, it won't bite yer!"  Florence chuckled,
nudging her son.

As she pulled down on the beer pump Connie glanced at the uncomfortable young
man at the counter.  She had heard some of the stories surrounding Billy
Argrieves, but it was the first time she had set eyes on him.  He looked a
sad figure, she thought.  Once he must have been attractive, 330 with his
dark brooding eyes and small nose.  His thin lips Framed an expressive mouth
and his dark wavy hair was in kempt a lock hanging down over his high
forehead.  He was heavily built with wide shoulders and he looked tall,
although it was difficult to judge his height as he slumped it the counter.
Connie noticed how his hands moved constantly as he rested them out on the
wooden counter.  The yey suit he had on was grease-stained, although she
could see it had been pressed recently.  His white shirt was unbutoned at
the neck and the blue tie he wore was knotted ;arelessly and pulled away from
his throat.  Connie could see the discomfort growing in the young man as his
mother spoke to him and she noticed his face redden.  It made her sad to see
him suffering.  He was only a young man, and ri ready he had been reduced to
a physical and nervous iv reck by what he had gone through.

Jennie came over and puffed loudly.

"Christ!  It's busy :ernight.

"Ow yer doin'?"

"I'm okay," Connie replied as she mopped up a puddle of beer from the
polished counter.

"What about you?"

Jennie grinned.

"I'll survive.

"Ere, Con.  That's Billy ^rgrieves over there," she said, jerking her head in
his direc- ion.

"It's the first time 'e's bin in 'ere since 'e got out o' the mny.  Cor, what
a change in the bloke!  D'yer know, us girls ised ter go weak at the knees
when we see 'im around?

"E was a right smart fella once.

"E wore smashin' suits an' real smart shoes an' shirts.

"E used ter knock around wiv all the local 'erberts.  And jus' look at 'im
now.  That suit could do wiv a good clean, an' 'is barnett could do wiv a
comb."

Connie felt irritation welling up inside her.

"Maybe 'e lin't interested in poncin' 'himself up anymore.  Maybe 'elon't
want the girls droolin' over 'im."

Jennie pulled a face.

"P'raps you're right.  Still, yer can't 'elp noticin' the difference in the
bloke."

Their discussion was forgotten as Dora rang the bell and the customers began
to be ushered out.  There were lots of classes to be washed and the tables
and counter had to ie mopped.  Ash trays needed emptying and the carpet
cleaned , and when the chores were finished they had to ire pare something
quickly to eat in case the air-raid siren sounded early.

Later, Jennie and Connie sat together in the upstairs room.  Dora and Bill
were still down in the bar counting the night's takings and their daughter
took the opportunity to confide in her friend.

' "Ere, Con.  Yer see me chattin' ter those two well- dressed fellas in the
bar earlier?  Well, the tall one lives round the corner an' the shorter one
is a pal of 'is.  They've got a transport business down in Rotherhithe an'
they was tellin' me all about this club they go ter up West.  Real fancy it
is.  They was sayin' there's a girl in short skirt and black stockin's that
goes round wiv cigarettes, an' anuvver girl that takes yer coat when yer go
in.  There's a cabaret as well.

They was tellin' me they go up ter the club quite a lot an' they asked me if
I'd like ter go wiv 'em.  "

Connie looked hard at her friend.

"I'd be careful if I was you."

Jennie dismissed Connie's caution with an easy grin.  "There's nufink ter
worry about.  Steve Barnett's okay.

"E told me 'e'd look after me

"Ere, Con.  What about you comin' as well?  We could make a foursome."

Connie shook her head.

"Count me out, Jen.  I wouldn't be any company.

Besides, I go ter the 'ospital every night.  "

"That's okay.  But it might cheer yer up a bit.  Yer need ter get out once in
a while.  Con."

Connie felt tired and jaded.  Going out in a foursome was the last thing she
wanted.  She saw Jennie looking at her expectantly.

"I'll fink about it, Jen," she said quickly.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Don't let on ter mum an' dad,"

Jennie whispered.

"They don't go a lot on Steve Barnett."

With the gloomy November days came a respite in the bombing.  Other large
cities were now being targeted and the London raids became more sporadic.
People began to sleep in their own beds again, although they would often
start awake in the early hours terrified that they had heard the wail of the
siren.  The sixty-seven nights of consecutive bombing had left terrible
scars, but Salter Street had escaped with virtually no damage except for a
few missing roof slates and some cracked and broken windows.  The Dolphin
stayed open later than most local pubs during the 332 veilings, and most of
the time it did good business.  The tall were kept busy, and Connie began to
find it difficult to Irag herself to work each morning.  She was not sleeping
ery well and the dreary mornings were hard to face, with lo thing but the
prospect of another day of mundane tasks it the leather factory.  Then there
was the awful thought of it ting beside Helen's hospital bed just waiting,
praying for i miracle.  Aunt Helen was showing no signs of coming out >f the
coma.  Instead she seemed to be slipping away.  onnie was reminded of
another time when she had felt the ray she did now, when she was nursing her
mother in the lat that had just been destroyed.  Her life had been dreary and
sad then, but at least there had been a future to dream ibout.  Now she could
see nothing to look forward to but the same desolate emptiness which she
carried around inside her.  It would be her twentieth birthday in a few days
time, she thought, and for the first time it meant nothing to her.  It would
bring her no joy.

It was on Connie's birthday that the message came.  Dora took the phone call
late on Saturday evening and called Connie into the small room behind the
public bar.

"It's the 'ospital.  Con.  They said you should go there as soon as
possible," she said urgently.

"Is she.  .  .  is she .  .  ."

"They wouldn't say," Dora stopped her.

"Get yer coat.  I'll come wiv yer.  Bill can manage the bar."

The two women hurried through the blacked-out streets, picking their way
carefully in the dim light of a torch.  As they neared Guy's Hospital the
pungent smell of hops from nearby warehouses filled the air.  Connie held on
to Dora's arm as they walked quickly through the gates and climbed the wide
stone staircase up to the wards.  They were met by the ward sister who took
Connie gently to one side.

"Your aunt regained consciousness a couple of hours igo," the nurse said.

"She seemed to rally for a while, but 'm afraid she's slipped back.  She
won't be able to talk to 'ou, my dear.  You must be prepared for the worst.
It can >nly be a matter of time now.  I'm terribly sorry."

"Can I see 'er?"  Connie asked, biting back her tears.

"Of course you can," the sister replied leading the way towards the small
side room.

Connie left Dora standing outside in the corridor and walked hesitantly over
to the bedside.  She noticed a glimmer of recognition in her aunt's glazed
eyes as she bent over the still figure.

* "Ello, Aunt," she whispered.

Helen blinked and a tear formed in the corner of her eye.  Connie leaned over
and gently brushed her aunt's ashen forehead with a soft kiss.  She sat down
and took her aunt's cold hand in hers.  Helen blinked again and moved her
eyes slowly to one side and then back again to Connie, as if in a gesture.
Connie could feel the very slight movement in her fingers and she saw her
move her eyes sideways once more.

"What is it.  Aunt

"Elen?  What are yer tryin' ter say?"  she whispered huskily.

For a moment Helen's dull eyes stared up at the ceiling, and then she
repeated the gesture.  Connie released her aunt's hand and got up.

Following the movement of her eyes she walked around the bed and, when Connie
stood beside the small locker, Helen blinked a couple of times.  Without
taking her eyes from her stricken aunt's stare Connie slowly opened the
drawer.  She glanced down and saw an old grey handbag lying there, and as she
lifted it out Helen closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

"Yer wanted meter take this, didn't yer.  Aunt

"Elen?"  she whispered.

There was no response.  Her eyes remained closed, and Connie thought she
could see a faint smile on her aunt's white, drawn face.  A nurse who had
come into the room with the sister gently led Connie out into the corridor.

After a few minutes the sister came out grim-faced.

"I'm afraid your aunt has passed away," she said quietly.

Dora got up from the wooden bench by the wall and led the sobbing young woman
out on to the dark landing.  Connie did not hear her words of comfort as they
descended the wide staircase and walked out slowly into the cold black street.

It was a quiet night.  The air-raid siren had not sounded, and only the
moaning wind invaded the silence as it rattled the window panes and whistled
down the chimney.  In the hearth a small coal fire was burning steadily and
the room 334 was warm and close.  Connie stared down sadly at the bits nd
pieces from her aunt's handbag which she had emptied n to the counterpane of
her bed.  There was a little tor- oiseshell comb, a few pennies and a new
half-crown, an val powder compact, and three keys tied together with a lack
shoe-lace.  There was also a tiny gold pixie wrapped p in tissue paper.
Connie sadly remembered the many imes her aunt had said the piece would bring
her good luck.  Nith a sigh she picked up the bag to replace her aunt's
;ffects and she felt something inside a clipped compartment which she had not
opened.  She snapped the catch and took ut a bundle of papers.  There were a
couple of notes, the words written in a childish scrawl and signed

"Molly', and i faded photograph of Matthew standing with his arms 'olded on a
railway station.  There were receipts and bills md, folded up in a piece of
plain notepaper, there was a >awn ticket headed

"Mills & Sons'.

Connie sat cross-legged on the bed staring wistfully at her lunt's pathetic
belongings, and as she touched one thing ifter another trying to make some
sense of them her eyes tiled with tears.  All her life Aunt Helen had
struggled igainst adversity.  Matthew had been continually in and out of work
and she had had to clean houses and take in wasting until she had become
exhausted.  And she had suffered he terrible heartbreak of watching her only
child struggle hrough illness and pain in her misshapen body.  She had mown
little happiness, only worry and struggle, and all she iad to show for it
were a few coins and a pawn ticket.  It ieemed strange that her aunt had
drawn attention to the >ag, but there had been nothing else in the locker.

Connie ricked up the pawn ticket again and stared at it for a long ime, alone
in the silence.

Chapter Thirty-Three For the folk of Ironmonger Street the long-awaited lull
in the bombing was a chance to forsake the draughty, uncomfortable factory
shelter.  Old Clara Cosgrove dug out her clean sheets and made up her bed.
She changed the pillow cases and put on the patchwork quilt which had not
been on the bed since her husband died.  She made herself a cup of cocoa and
listened to the late-night play on the wireless.  Clara was cherishing the
thought of slipping into the clean bed that she had already warmed with two
hot water bottles, and when her eyes started to droop she put down the empty
mug and thought how nice it would be to get in between the fresh warm sheets.
As the first light of dawn filtered through the spotless lace curtains of
Clara's front room she finally opened her eyes.  She felt cold and stiff, and
more than a little put out.

"Sod it!"  she grumbled aloud.

"I knew I shouldn't 'ave drunk that bleedin' cocoa!"

One morning Peter Armitage called Joe Cooper into his office to tell him that
the Ministry was going to install bunks in the shelter, as he knew that Joe
would be able to ensure they were allocated fairly.

Joe was shocked to see the change in the man since the last time he had
spoken to him.  Gone was the upright stance and the alert manner.

Now the factory owner was bowed and grey, and his suit seemed to hang
shapelessly on his frail figure.  The ever-present Miss Jones came into the
office with some forms for Peter to sign and she had to prompt her boss into
completing the task he would once have done with a flourish.

As Peter walked back into the outer office Joe glanced at the secretary.

"Is 'e all right?"  he asked quietly.

"I don't know," Alice replied.

"The poor man's still grieving, and he told me this morning his wife's gone
into a nursing home.  It's terrible.  I feel really sorry for him."

337 Joe shook his head.

"I fink 'e's aged this last few months.  E idolised that boy of 'is."

Alice leaned back in her chair.

"I'll never forget the day I had to break the news to young Connie," she said
sadly.

"I never want to go through that again."

"I wonder 'ow the kid's getting' on?"  Joe said, thrusting his hands deep
into his trouser pockets.

"God knows.  I haven't seen anything of her."

The neivver," Joe said, rubbing his chin.

Their conversation was interrupted by Peter coming out of his office.

"I'd better sign those forms, Alice," he said, scratching the back of his
head.

Alice frowned.

"You've already signed them," she replied, giving Joe a sideways glance.

"So I did.  It's this headache.  I can't seem to concentrate.  Cancel my
calls will you, Alice.  I think it would be better if I went home."

As Peter disappeared back into his office Alice raised her eyes to the
ceiling.

"He'll go down with a bang if he's not careful," she sighed.

In the privacy of his office Peter slumped down in his padded leather chair
and dropped his head into his cupped hands.  During the previous evening he
had answered the telephone and heard the almost inaudible voice of Gerald's
estranged wife on the other end of the line.

"It's Gerald!"  she had sobbed.

"He's killed himself."

Peter could get no more information from the distraught woman and it was left
to Gerald's father-in-law to explain just what had happened.

His unfortunate son-in-law had been suspected of embezzling large sums of
money from the company and the police had been informed.

Gerald was on his way in to the office to answer the charges when he had
thrown himself under a tube train on Wimbledon station.

With Christmas near, the Toomey family had been compelled to make some
changes.  Toby finally lost his pram when it fell into a water-filled crater
down at Dockhead, and he had decided there and then that enough was enough.
The next day he presented himself at the labour exchange and was sent for a
job at the pickle factory.

"Sit down will you, Mr Toomey," the rather nervous 338 nan ager said as Toby
stood awkwardly in the middle of his >ffice.

"Now, the job is rather messy, but you will be sup- lied with rubber boots
and waterproofs.  We're looking for .omeone who's reliable.  The last man was
always off sick with one thing or another.  You are fit, aren't you?"

Toby nodded.

"Yes, sir."

The manager of Hayden's Choice Pickles shuffled some apers and glanced rather
sceptic ally at the spiky-haired ;haracter facing him.

"Now tell me a little about yourself, at Toomey.  What was your last job?"

"Self-employed, sir."

"What did you do?"

"I was in buyin' an' sellin'."

"What exactly did you buy and sell?"

Toby thought for a while.

"Beds, carpets, ornaments, rons," he said matter-of factly

"What sort of irons?"

"You know, ironin' irons."

The manager's brow furrowed.

"You bought and sold louse hold commodities?"

Toby's eyes widened.

"Yeah, an' old newspapers an' ags.  Mind you, though, I never accepted pissy
mattresses.  iit difficult with carpets though.  When they're rolled up rer
can't always see the condition they're in.  Some 'ave dog hit all over 'em'.

The manager held his hands to his face and slowly shook lis head.

Finally he looked up.

"Mr Toomey.  Are you trying o tell me you were a totter?"  he asked pointedly.

"Not really," Toby replied, grinning.

"Totters go round viv 'orse an' carts, or barrers.  I 'ad a pram till it fell
in his bloody great crater in Dock'ead."

The manager of Hayden's Choice Pickles knew then that ie should have stayed
in bed that morning.  He badly wanted a barrel-washer, and all the labour
exchange had ?  een able to come up with was a pram-pushing totter.  Why was
barrel washing considered to be such a bad job?  Why :ouldn't they send
someone who had just a little credibility?  ie groaned to himself.

"All right, Mr Toomey.  You've got the job on a week's rial," the manager
said with a sigh.

"Report to the yard breman at eight o'clock on Monday morning."

Toby walked from the factory grinning widely.  Marie would be pleased.

He had gotten himself a steady job at last.

"What do yer do fera livin', Toby?"  he said aloud, looking at a lamppost.

"I'm a barrel-washer at the pickle factory."

A passer-by gave him a strange glance and Toby grinned in reply, shuffling
his feet in a two-step before sauntering off to the nearby bus stop.  The
worried figure who was watching Toby's actions from his office window shook
his head sadly and slumped down at his desk.  He picked up a pencil and
scribbled into a notepad: "Phone labour exchange.  Will probably need a new
barrel-washer Monday week."

As Christmas drew closer, the weather deteriorated.  Rain- filled mists
rolled up from the river and enshrouded the docks, and the German bombers did
not come for nearly two weeks while the visibility was poor.  Dockland folk
began to visit the cinemas again, and when the Trocette showed "Gone With The
Wind' large queues stretched back every night from the box office.  The pubs,
too, were doing a brisk trade, and in the Dolphin both bars were always
packed.

Each evening Connie put on a cheerful face and went down to the bar.

But behind the mask her sadness grew.  She missed Robert more and more as
time went on, and her memories of him seemed to grow rather than fade.
Whenever the bar door opened she looked over, half expecting him to be
standing there.  Voices and mannerisms reminded her of him, and whenever the
newspapers published a photo of the latest flyer to receive a decoration
Connie could see Robert staring out of the picture.  The nights were worse.
She remembered his arms around her and heard his soft voice whispering in her
ear, and in her troubled drowsiness she touched the empty pillow beside her.
Sleep was always slow to come and many nights she would lie wide awake until
dawn, staring at the ceiling.  She felt that her loneliness was beginning to
tear her apart.  One morning Dora French remarked how tired she looked and
when the young woman told her she was having difficulty sleeping the
landlord's wife gave her one of her sleeping tablets.  That night her sleep
was deep and empty, and in the morning a raging 340 lead ache and sickness
prevented her from going to work.  It was then that Connie started drinking.

It began innocently enough.  Old Albert Swan was prop- ring up the counter
and had been sharing a joke with Connie.

"Ere, Con, fill that up, will yer?  While you're at t, pouryerselfatot."

Tanks all the same, Albert, but I gotta keep a straight 'ead or I'll be
overchargin' yer," Connie said smiling.

"Go on, 'ave a drink.  I 'ad a nice little double up at tam ford Bridge
terday.

"Undred ter six an' a nine ter two.  t come to a nice few bob.

You 'ave a drink wiv yer ole mate Mbert.  Pour yerself a whisky, it'll put a
bit o' colour in yer Aeeks.  "

The dark spirit burnt her throat and made her eyes water ?  ut the warm glow
stayed in her stomach.  Before time was ;al led old Albert Swan was looking
bleary eyed and his face was flushed from his celebrating.

He had managed to per- ;uade Connie to have another drink and she was feeling
a ittle unsteady herself.  That night the drink quietened her lerves and she
was asleep as soon as her head touched the rillow.

Whisky soon became a regular tonic, and when the cusomers included her in the
round of drinks Connie would gratefully take a small nip.  She found she
could shake off he morning-after feeling without much trouble and soon he was
sneaking a drink before she started work behind the )ar.  Jennie began to
notice the difference in her friend.

She iad become more talkative and inclined to joke with the egulars.

Her face seemed to become flushed as the eve- lings wore on and when the
occasional air raid took place Connie slept undisturbed in the damp cellar.
Dora had lot iced the change in the Morgan girl and she mentioned it o her
husband.

"I'm a bit concerned about 'er.  Bill.  She's very good )e'and the bar an'
the customers fink the world of 'er, but he's drinkin' too much.

After all, she's only a kid.  "

Bill looked over his evening paper at his wife.

"D'yer fink she's'elpin'erself then?"

"Of course not.  She might sneak one now an' again, but hey all do, don't
they?  No, I'm more concerned about the Irinks she accepts from the
customers."

Bill folded up his paper.

"I wouldn't worry too much, luv.  If they wanna buyer a drink it shows they
like 'er.  If so they'll be 'appy ter drink in 'ere instead of somewhere
else.  Besides, it prob'ly does ergood.  I mean, look what she's bin frew
this last few months.  If the drink 'elps 'er ter blot out the memories, so
be it."

Dora nodded.

"Okay, but you keep an eye on 'er," she said, turning to Jennie.

"She listens ter you.  Try ter make 'er ease up a bit.  It ain't good fera
girl that age ter drink too much."

During the Christmas week the Dolphin was packed.  There had been no air
raids for a few nights and everyone was hoping the bombing would hold off at
least until after the holiday.  Connie noticed that Jennie had been spending
a lot of time chatting to a couple of well-dressed men who had been coming in
the pub nightly for the past few weeks and, on Christmas Eve, the publican's
daughter approached her excitedly.

"Come on.  Con.  There's no 'arm in it," she urged her.

"They jus' wanna take us fera drink when we close up.  They've got a bit of a
party going' on at Steve's place.

"E only lives a few streets away."

Connie pulled at her chin.

"I dunno Jen.  I won't be much company.  You go, I'll get an early night."

Jennie laughed,

"What, on Christmas Eve?  Listen, Con.  You can't go on shuttin' yerself away
fer ever.  I know it mus' be 'and fer yer, but yer gotta let go some time.
All yer do is slog away all day at the factory an' work in 'ere all evenin'.
It ain't good fer yer.  Come on, go an' put yer face on.  Yer can keep yer
eye on me.  If me dad knows yer comin' wiv me 'e'll feel 'appier."

Connie gave her friend a wan smile.

"Okay," she said reluctantly.

"As it's Christmas."

Jennie's eyes lit up.

"Smashin'!  You go up an' get ready.  I'll finish clearin' up."

Connie could hear cheerful voices in the street below as she sat at the small
dressing table and stared at her reflection in the tilted mirror.  She had
drunk three whiskies that evening and the pleasant glow in her stomach had
calmed her dull, gnawing ache.  She noticed the little pouches beneath her
eyes and the slight puffiness of her 342 ale face.  She ran her fingers
through her long blond hair and sighed as she picked up the hairbrush.  While
she was pushing out the tangles Connie's eyes fell on the little gold ocket
lying beside the grey handbag.  She put down the rush and gently picked up
the trinket by its thin chain.  It ad been a shock when she had presented the
ticket at the awnbrokers in the Old Kent Road and found that the u-ticle she
had redeemed for twenty-five shillings was her not her gold locket, the one
she had always worn around ler neck.  Connie shivered.

She wondered why Helen had iesperately wanted her to have the memento, and
she tried ;o imagine what she could possibly have been thinking as he lay
there in the hospital, unable to speak.  If only she ;ould have said
something to explain the mysterious little nscription on the inside.  Perhaps
she would not have told ler anything.  After all, she had lied about the
locket being 3uried with her sister's body.  Connie wondered whether her mnt
had been sworn to secrecy, and if she had, why the >ecret had been so
important that she had kept it until her lying day.  Perhaps Aunt Helen had
wanted to leave her iomething out of love the chance to find out at last who
icr father was.

Connie felt an intense excitement as she looked down at Jie tiny heart-shaped
locket resting in the palm of her hand.  Gently she slid her thumbnail along
the side of the locket and prised it open.  Once again she read the
inscription which had been worked neatly on the inner surface: "With all my
love.  Bonny."  For a while Connie stared down at the etching, then she
snapped the locket shut.  The name was unfamiliar to her.  Who was Bonny?
she asked herself again and again.

Was he her father?  Whoever he was, he must tiave been special for her mother
to have always carried his words of love around inside the little trinket.
Although she iid not forget for a moment how difficult it might be for her to
find her father, Connie felt that at last she had come closer to knowing him.
She held something in her hand that he had touched, that he had given to her
mother.  She closed tier eyes, as if in the dark recesses of her mind she
might satch a glimpse of him.  There was a sudden tap on the door and Connie
started.

"Yer ready.  Con?"  Jennie asked eagerly as she poked her head round the
door.

"The fellas are waitin'."

The piano player was pounding away on the keys and couples were dancing
together in the middle of the large room.  Connie stood with a glass in her
hand watching her friend being waltzed around the floor.

Jennie's face was flushed and her white teeth flashed as she laughed loudly
with her tall, smartly dressed partner.  Around the high-ceilinged room paper
chains and balloons moved in the breeze caused by the dancers and tiny
coloured lights around the Christmas tree shone on the silver tinsel and
pretty baubles.  The heavy drapes over the windows were a deep red velvet,
and Connie noticed that the carpet beneath her feet was high- piled and
obviously expensive.

Bottles of drinks stood on the sideboard and in a far corner there was a
firkin of ale resting on a curved wooden stand.  The crowded room was hot and
stuffy and the open fire had been allowed to die down to a dull-glowing mound
of white ash.

As she glanced casually around Connie was acutely conscious of the man's eyes
appraising her.  He was standing nearby, his thumb hooked into his waistcoat
pocket to expose a silver watch chain that spanned his middle and supported a
small silver fob.  The man was swarthy and his heavy brows met above the
bridge of his wide nose.  He was slightly shorter than her and quite heavily
built.  His dark eyes were deep-set and piercing, and Connie felt uneasy
beneath his gaze.  She knew he was studying her and she could feel her face
getting hot.

Like Jennie's partner Steve, the man was well groomed and acted very
self-assured.  He had been watching her closely since the four of them left
the Dolphin and walked to the large house in Saddlers Square.

Jennie had laughingly introduced him as Sammy and during the short walk to
the house the swarthy character had fallen in step alongside Connie and
proffered his arm.  She had ignored the gesture and kept her hands inside her
buttoned-up coat.

Now, as the music stopped and Jennie and her partner walked over, Connie
drained her glass.  Immediately Sammy reached out and took it from her hand.

"Same again?"  he asked, walking towards the sideboard without waiting for
her reply.

344 Jennie was flushed with excitement and when Steve slip- ed his arm
around her waist she leaned against him.

"Yer ;njoyin' yerself.  Con?"

she asked with a wide grin.

"It's a mashin' party, ain't it?"

Connie forced a smile,

"Yes, it's nice," she lied, wishing he had not allowed herself to be coaxed
into coming.

' "Ow're you an' Sammy getting' on?"  Jennie asked, star- ng enquiringly at
her friend.

"All right," Connie answered, trying not to show her irriation as she changed
her weight from one foot to the other.

Sammy came back and handed her a glass which was hree-parts full of whisky.

"Drink up, it's Christmas," he aid grinning at her.

Connie caught a glimpse of his gold-edged teeth and his larrow-set eyes and
suddenly she felt revolted.  She wanted o run from the room out into the cold
night and fill her ungs with fresh air.  Instead she lifted her glass and
gulped it the drink.

The musician had been to get some refreshment and was low back at the
keyboard.  He rubbed his hands together martly and began playing a waltz
tune.  Jennie laughed lappily and pulled Steve into the centre of the floor.
As hey danced away Sammy took hold of Connie's elbow and erked his head in
the direction of the dancers.

"C'mon, girl.  Let's me an' you dance."

She felt his bulk against her body and his hand moving ilong her back as they
began turning around the floor.  He leld her tightly in his arms and she
could smell his peppery reath on her cheek.  Connie wanted to ease the
pressure of us body against hers but his arms seemed stiff and heavy.  he
closed her eyes and let the fiery liquid she had drunk oak through her.  Her
head was swimming as he pulled her iround and she bit on her lip.

Later, when the fire had gone out and the piano player iad left, a few
couples were left sitting around the room al king quietly.  Connie leaned back
in the large armchair, rying to focus her eyes.  Sammy had plied her with
drinks and she was beginning to feel quite hazy.  She looked iround the room
for Jennie but she was nowhere to be seen.  ler escort sat on the arm of her
chair, his large hairy hand sripping a near empty glass.

Connie looked up at the man.

"Wh .  .  .  where's Jennie gone?"  she faltered.

He grinned,

"She's gone upstairs."

"Upstairs?"

Sammy suddenly stood up and grasped her hand, pulling her out of the chair.
He was leading, urging her, and she could only half protest as they climbed
the steep stairs.  Connie could not see very clearly and her mouth had
suddenly become very dry.  Sammy was still holding her hand very tightly as
he stopped at the top of the stairs and opened a door.  She was standing
directly behind him and she caught a hazy glimpse of the couple lying naked
on the bed.

"Sorry, Steve!"  he exclaimed, shutting the door quickly.

They moved along the landing, his strong hand squeezing hers almost
painfully.  As he opened another door and pulled her into the room sharp
needles of anxiety pricked her befuddled brain.  He turned and pulled her
close, his wet lips searching for her mouth and kissing her roughly.  His
hands were moving over her body and she felt herself being pushed back
towards the bed.  She could do nothing as he kissed her face and her ears and
grabbed her hair to pull her head back.  She wanted to push him away but he
had pinned her arms to her sides.  As they fell back on to the bed, Sammy's
body smothered hers.  He was fumbling with her clothes and she felt his hand
rub up the inside of her thigh.  He was panting like an animal, his mouth
open and his wide eyes glaring.  She fought him, tensing her body and
clenching her teeth in anger as his hand reached the top of her leg.  His
head was leaning into her shoulder now and his hot breath was searing her
face as she felt the pressure of his fingers.  A black feeling of sickness
and fear possessed her and from nowhere a sudden last urge to preserve
herself filled Connie with fierce strength.  She freed one arm from his hard
embrace and tore at his face.  She felt her nails sink into his fleshy cheek
and he jerked back.  His body slackened and he cursed as he clutched at his
face.

"Yer spiteful bitch!"  Sammy snarled, hitting her sharply across the face
with his open hand.

Connie fought back her angry tears as he stood up and glared down at her.
She sat up slowly, drawing her legs over the edge of the bed and
straightening her dress.  She was 346 completely sober now as she watched
him like an animal at ?  ay.  He had moved back away from her and slumped
down n a chair, dabbing at his torn face.  She saw a childlike look yf
disappointment on his swarthy features and her fear :urned to cold anger and
contempt.  There was no threat low, she knew.  The moment of danger had
passed.

Connie looked over at him.

"Fink yerself lucky I didn't cream out.

Yer'd 'ave 'ad some explainin' ter do," she said, ler voice cold with rage.

I'm sorry," Sammy said huskily.  *I thought yer wanted t.  Yer came upstairs
wiv me, didn't yer?"

"Yeah I did," Connie said, a sudden tremor shaking her aody.

"Let's ferget it.  Yer didn't get it all yer own way."

Sammy touched his cheek and shook his head quickly.  I'll go downstairs an'
see if I can scrounge us a cup o' tea," ie said, going to the door and
turning to face her.

"Yer won't let on, will yer?"

She looked at him with disdain.

"Don't worry," she said with a twist of her mouth.

"I won't say nufink."

For some time Connie sat on the bed, staring at the open loorway.

When she finally got up and went downstairs she Found the room empty.

Sammy came in and handed her a up of tea, and without saying anything else he
had gone.  A little while later Jennie and Steve came down into the front
room.

"Where's our Sammy?"  Steve asked, glancing around.

"I fink 'e left," Connie said, sipping her tea.

The two lovers exchanged glances and then Jennie looked it her friend
curiously.

"You two 'ad a row?"

Connie averted her eyes.

"Are yer ready, Jen?"  she asked with a hardness in her voice.

"I wan ha get going', I'm tired."

Steve followed Jennie out into the hall and Connie could iear them mumbling
to each other.  Jennie came back alone ;arrying their coats and they left the
house together, walk- ng home in silence through the dark empty streets.

Chapter Thirty-Four On Christmas morning a north wind was blowing and the
gathering clouds promised snow.  Spirals of smoke rose up from leaning
chimney pots and young excited voices rang out in the back streets At noon
the Dolphin opened, and amongst the first customers was Billy Argrieves.  His
face was clean-shaven and bore a few cuts, as if the razor had been held in a
shaking hand.  His dark wavy hair had been plastered down with water and his
clothes were clean and pressed.  The white shirt he wore was open at the
collar and his shoes were polished.  He came into the public bar almost
apologetically and sidled up to the counter.  He stood, unsure of himself,
coins clutched in his hand.  People around him leaned forward and called out
their orders, impatient to begin the Christmas drinking session.

Connie spotted him and came over, ignoring the other customers.

"What'll it be.  Billy?"  she asked.

He looked at her, his eyes widening as he scratched his forehead.

"I

wanna I wanna pint of ale, please," he stammered, his eyes fixed on hers.

Connie took a pint glass from under the counter and smiled at him as she held
it beneath the pump tap and pulled on the handle.  He smiled back, baring his
even white teeth, and then in sudden embarrassment he dropped his gaze to the
money in his hand.  When Connie placed the filled glass of ale in front of
him Billy held out his palm and offered the coins to her.

"You wanna drink?"  he blurted out as she took the money.

Connie smiled familiarly at him.

"Can I 'ave one later, Billy?  I jus' got one, fank yer," she said kindly.

He nodded and lifted the glass to his lips as he turned away from the
counter.  People were pushing their way to the bar and one impatient customer
accidentally jogged 349 Billy's arm.  Beer spilled down the front of his
clean white shirt and over his coat.  The young man carefully brushed the
drips from his front without looking up and walked to a seat by the door with
his head bowed.

"What's 'e doin' in 'ere?"  the impatient man asked his friend.

"E

shouldn't be out on 'is own.

"E's a bloody menace."

Connie heard the remark and her face flushed with anger.

The man's friend grinned.

"E's all right, is Billy.  Look at 'im sittin' there.

"E's in a world of 'is own."

"I dunno," the other went on.

"Did yer 'ear about the tallyman 'e clobbered?"

"Yeah, I 'card about it.  Seems terme the bloke asked fer it.  Some o' those
tally men get a bit lippy at times."  The man picked up his glass and took a
sip.

"Yer gotta understand, mate," he said, wiping the froth from his mouth with
the back of his hand.

"Young Billy Argrieves was always a bit wild.  The army didn't 'elp neiwer.
Dunkirk ruined 'im like it did a lot o' young lads.  From what I've 'card, it
was sheer bloody murder out there."

The impatient man was mollified somewhat and he nodded his head grudgingly.

Connie found herself rushed off her feet as the customers crowded into the
little bar.  Now and then she looked over and saw that Jennie was preoccupied
with her boyfriend who stood at the far end of the counter.  There was no
sign of Sammy, and Connie felt relieved.  The pub was now packed full and
customers were having to wait for their orders, one or two beginning to
mumble about the service and glance in the direction of the publican's
daughter.  Connie occasionally looked over to where Billy was sitting alone.
He was staring down at his near-empty glass, apparently deep in thought.
Once she saw him count through the coins he held in his hand then put them
back into his pocket.  Her heart went out to him and, as soon as the
opportunity presented itself, Connie had a word with Albert Swan.

' "Ere, Alb.  Do us a faver.  Can yer take this pint over ter Billy?

"E's sittin' over by the door.  Tell 'im it's on the 'ouse."

Albert pushed his way through the milling crowd and 350 said a few words to
the young man as he put the pint down in front of him.  Billy looked over, a
bright, nervous smile breaking across his rugged features as he held the
glass up in a toast.  Connie felt better and she was pleased when she saw
Albert sit down and start chatting to Billy.  The old man leaned forward in
the chair, nodding his head as the younger man used his hands to describe
something.

Connie found herself staring over at the two.  The stories she had heard
about Billy had made him out to be a wild young man, a dangerous character
who it was better not to know.  He did not seem fearsome to Connie and she
remembered what Jennie had said about how smart he once was, and how all the
girls went weak at the knees when they saw him around.  It was easy to see
why, although now he looked like a lost, pathetic soul who found it difficult
to enter the pub on his own and face the regulars.  He was another casualty
of this war who needed some understanding and friendship.

Ironmonger Street was quiet on Christmas night.  The factory gates remained
open and folk prayed that the siren would not interrupt their festivities.
Joe Cooper had left to visit his ailing wife in the country and Lizzie Conroy
had taken the frail Mrs Cosgrove into her home for the holiday.  For the
Toomeys the holiday was one of good cheer, and Marie was feeling optimistic
for the new year.  Toby had held down his job.  He was on regular wages and
the rent was now getting paid on time.  Lillian had reason to feel happy too.
She had met and fallen in love with Sandor Konetsky, a Czech serviceman who
was stationed in London and attached to a labour battalion.  Sandor could
speak very little English and Lillian's knowledge of her boyfriend's mother
tongue was limited to a few naughty words.  They carried on their courtship
mainly in sign language but, as the Toomey girl explained to some of her
friends down in Rotherhithe,

"My Sandor is smashin' ter go ter bed wiv, an' I can understand 'im, even
though I don't know what the bleedin' 'ell 'e's talkin' about most o' the
time."

Sandor Konetsky was a lonely soul who enjoyed the hospitality of 'those crazy
English people' as he put it.  He especially liked Marie's cooking and
Lillian's 351 preoccupation with sexual matters in that order and for those
reasons he had omitted to tell them that he had a wife and seven children
back home in Prague.

The rather set-upon patriarch of the Toomey family was also feeling pleased
with himself that Christmas.  Washing out filthy barrels with detergents and
rinsing them with scalding water from a leaking hose pipe was not the
greatest job in the world, but it had its compensations.  He was left alone
most of the time, and one of the women in the packing department had taken a
shine to him.  Occasionally she would slip him a large jar of mustard pickle
or gherkins and Toby would seize the opportunity to sell his ill-gotten gains
to the local transport cafe.  The cafe owner sometimes drove his car into the
factory yard when it was convenient and Toby promptly gave it a wash and a
polish.  For services rendered the cafe owner provided the 'head barrel
washer' with a free dinner and a large slice of apple pie.

Yes, life wasn't too bad, Toby thought.  Marie had eased up on her nagging
and he had been able to shelve his plans to do away with her for the time
being.

On the twenty-ninth of December the air-raid siren sounded early and soon the
bombs began to fall again.  As the night wore on the bombing grew in
intensity and the fire watchers of Ironmonger Street could see a red glow
rising over the City of London.  Joe Cooper had returned from a miserable
Christmas in the country and he ran into the wardens' post at the height of
the raid.

"It's murder over the water, Joe!"  one of the men shouted to him above the
din.

"Control's told us the place is burnin' down!  The bloody tide's right out
and they're 'avin' trouble pumpin' the water out o' the Thames!"

Joe winced as a nearby explosion shook the old rag shop.  "It's a bad one
ternight.  They're over in force," he shouted back.

The warden put down the phone and rubbed a grubby hand over his tired
features.

"Are your crowd okay?"  he asked.

Joe nodded.

"They're all right.  Our two girls are getting' 'em going' wiv a sing-song
an' we've managed ter keep the tea flowing

352 Ted Butcher, the senior warden, leaned towards a bespectacled young man
who was wearing a steel helmet a size too large

"Talking o'tea.

"Owaboutyouputtin'thekettleon, " Orry?  "

Horace Wilson grinned owlishly and disappeared into the back room.

Ted took out a packet of Goldflake and held one out to Joe.  The two men sat
in the dimly lit shop, their faces tired and strained.  They puffed away on
their cigarettes without talking and, when Horace brought in two mugs of tea
Ted stretched and puffed heavily.

"Did yer 'ave a good 'oliday, Joe?"  he asked.

Joe pulled a face.

"I tell yer, Ted.  I was glad when it was all over.

My ole woman didn't stop naggin' all the time I was there, an' 'er sister was
a right bundle o' laughs as well.  Between the two of 'em they gave me the
right jump.  On Boxin'NightIjustabout'adenoughofit,sooutIgoestergeta drink.
There was this place in the village an' when I walked in the door yer should
'ave seen the eyes.  Everybody was starin'
atmelikeI'djus'crawledouto'thewoodwork.  Tertellyerthe truth, it was a poxy
pint as well.  "

"Your ole Dutch won't come back ter London then, Joe?"

"No fear!  She said she's quite okay where she is.  I'm glad really.

She's a bundle o' nerves as it is, an' they ain't 'ad no bombin' yet.

If she was back 'ere she'd die o' fright.  "

The phone rang again and Horace picked up the receiver.  His face looked
serious as he turned to Ted.

"The fires are out -)'controlintheCity!There'sagreatbigcraternear the Tower
kidge

"Otel, an' the flats in Dock'ead 'ave copped it!"

"Gawd 'elp us!"  Ted gasped.

The door of the wardens' post suddenly burst open and a tall, lean figure
rushed in, his face blackened and his steel helmet pushed to the back of his
head.

"The water main's busted in Tower Bridge Road an' the bleedin' vinegar
factory alight1' he shouted.

"What's more, there's a bleedin' unexploded bomb in Conner Street!"

Ted looked over to Horace.

"You got that, son?"

The bespectacled warden grabbed the phone,

"Got it!"  he shouted.

Joe stood up.

"I'll leave yer ter get on wiv it, Ted," he said.  "Look after yerself.  It's
gonna get worse before the night's Joe kept his head low as he ran through
the gates into the factory yard.  Above the sky was blood-red, and the ground
shook beneath his feet.  Gun flashes lit the night and as he reached the
shelter entrance a loud explosion made him clasp his hands to his ears.  Down
below in the stuffy refuge, Lizzie Conroy was leading a chorus of " She's
Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage', and Billy Richards was plucking away at his
ukulele.  Joe could see the Widow Pacey, impassive as ever, her arms folded
and her eyes staring ahead.  The Toomeys were singing and Ada Halliday was
conducting the impromptu choir with her arms flailing.  Mary Brown was busy
at the tea urn, and some of the children were already curled up on the
benches.

When Joe walked over Mary looked up.

"Ere, Joe.  When they gonna put them bunks in 'ere?"  she asked.  "Those kids
look really uncomf'table on them 'and benches."

"Gawd knows," Joe replied.

"They should 'ave bin put in long ago."

Over in one corner a group of children were gathered together.  Mary's son
Jimmy was showing off his collection.  "I've got a bit wiv a number on it."

"Let's 'ave a look," Gordon Jackman said, peering into the cardboard box at
the jagged chunks of metal.

"That's nufink," Ronnie Bailey scoffed.

"My mate Arnie's got a great big 'cend'ry bomb in 'isouse.  It come in 'is
roof an' didn't go orf.

"E's got stacks o' shrapnel as well."

"That's stupid, Ron.

"Cend'ries can go orf any time.

"E could get burnt ter cinders."

Ronnie Bailey blinked at the other young boy.

"It's all right.  Me mate's dad keeps the bomb in a pail o' water."

Gordon scratched the tip of his nose.

"I 'ad some newts and tadpoles once an' I kept 'em in a pail o' water.  When
they turned inter frogs an' rings they all jumped out an' 'opped up our
passage.  My mum wasn't 'alf scared."

Jimmy lowered his head and called his friends together.  "Ere.  See ole Muwer
Adams over there?"

Six pairs of eyes glanced in the direction of the elderly lady who sat alone,
her arms folded and her head resting against the wall.

"She's got loads o' cats an' when they 'ave 354 it tens she drowns 'em all
in a pail o' water."

"That's 'orrible.  She mus' be an' ole witch," Ronnie said, mlling a face.

"Look at Muwer Pacey.  She's a witch.  When t's dark she turns inter a big
black pijjin."

Gordon pointed over to where the Toomeys were sitting, his eyes fixing on
Lillian.

"I fink she looks like a witch."

"No, she'saprosser."

"What's a prosser?"

"I dunno.  It's what me dad calls 'er."

first a mile away, another little back street was getting its irst taste of
bomb damage.  Salter Street was littered with )roken glass, roof slates and
splintered wood from shat- ered front doors after a land mine had flattened a
row of louses in Canning Street, the turning opposite.  Down in the ;ellar of
the Dolphin they heard the loud explosion and lakes of white plaster fell on
to the beds.

Bill French had been lying awake and he jumped up quickly.

"Christ!

That was a near one!  " he gasped.

Dora and Jennie were huddled together, and Connie buried her head beneath the
bedclothes as the landlord hurried up into the bar.  The wooden shutters over
the pub windows had held but broken glasses and bottles of beer were
scattered across the floor.  The large mirror behind the saloon bar counter
was cracked, and chunks of plaster had fallen from the ceiling.  Bill ran out
into the street and looked along the turning.  He could see the flaring gas
main and the high jet of water bursting from a broken pipe.  Men were already
pulling at the rubble with their bare hands and there seemed to be people
running everywhere.  Fire bells were ringing out and Bill saw the local
policeman cycling into the devastated little turning.  The landlord scratched
his bead.  There was nothing he could do.  Too many people ;Iambering over
the rubble would be disastrous for anyone buried beneath it; help would be
needed after the survivors were brought out.  He went back into the pub and
tried the gas.  Luckily it lit, although the pressure was low.  He filled the
largest pot he could find with water and pulled out a ;ouple of blankets from
the bedroom cupboard.  There was little else he could do for the moment,
except busy himself bearing up the bars.

As dawn broke and the long, even wail of the all clear sounded, Bill and
Dora opened up their pub.  The dust- caked policeman stood at the end of the
turning, directing the homeless into Salter Street.  They filed past,
grey-faced and shaking.  Women were quietly sobbing and sleepy-eyed children
looked around curiously as Dora poured tea into large mugs and passed them
around along with sandwiches of cheese and breakfast sausage.  Jennie and
Connie came down into the public bar carrying more blankets which they
wrapped around the elderly women.

The policeman cycled up and came into the bar.  "

" Ow we doin', Bill?   "

he asked, sitting himself down heavily beside the counter.

"Well, we got 'em settled fera bit.  What's the news?"

The constable took off-his steel helmet and put it down on the counter.

"It was a bloody miracle.  Everybody's accounted for.  They was all over the
shelter.  We dug Mrs Harriman's dog out o' the rubble an' it shook itself an'
trotted off large as life.  It was a bloody miracle."

As the winter sun climbed up into the sky, vans arrived to transport the
homeless to the nearby rest cent res  Dora and Bill began their task of
getting the pub ready for the first customers and the girls left for work.
They picked their way through the debris out into the Old Kent Road.

As they walked along to the Bricklayers Arms Jennie glanced at her friend.

"I was terrified last night.  Con," she said.

"I bet there wasn't 'alf some damage done."

Connie shivered and pulled her coat up around her ears.  "When that loud bang
went I ducked under the clothes.  I thought the pub was going' ter crash down
on us."

They could see the devastation of the air raid as they reached the corner of
Tower Bridge Road.  Streetlamps were down and there was glass and rubble
everywhere.  One or two of the shops had had their windows blown out and
there was a large crater in the middle of the junction.  Buses were being
diverted and the trams were lined up waiting as emergency crews worked
feverishly to lay new tracks.

Jennie slipped her arm through Connie's as they crossed the road.

"Well, it was quiet over Christmas, Con.  I'm jus' sorry I talked yer inter
that party," she said, staring ahead.  "I thought it would do yer good."

356 Connie smiled.

"The party was okay.  It was jus' me.  I wasn't really up to it."

"You sure Sammy didn't try anyfing?"  Jennie asked luickly.

"No, Jen.  As I told yer, 'e got a bit 'andy, but 'e soon got he message."

Jennie sighed.  The an' Steve are 'avin' it off, but yer guessed that, didn't
yer?  "

"Yeah, I guessed it."

"Gawd knows what me folks are gonna say when they 'and out.  Trouble is,
Steve's older than me, an' 'e's got a bit ?f a reputation for runnin' aroun'
wiv a dodgy crowd.  Me lad don't like 'im very much.

"E

finks Steve's too flash, but e ain't really.  "

Connie shrugged her shoulders.

"It's never easy, is it?  there's always problems when yer get serious wiv
someone.  [ know 'ow it was when I started going' wiv Robert.

"E was Jider, too, and not our sort.  Poor Aunt

"Elen used ter worry 'erself sick about it.  Fing is, yer gotta sort it out
before yer get too close.  Don't let anybody change yer mind For yer.  Nobody
could talk me out o' going' wiv Robert an' I don't regret one minute of the
time I spent wiv 'im.  My only regret is that it was all too short.  I miss
'im terrible."

It was Monday morning and, as they reached the factory entrance Connie sighed
deeply.  There was another long day ihead, another long week of monotonous
grind.  It seemed is though everything was pressing down on her and squeezing
the life juices from her protesting body.  She felt lid, dry and weary and
she wished more than anything that he could walk on past the factory and just
keep on walk- ng.  Connie realised she hadn't eaten any breakfast that
norning.  Her mouth was parched and her head felt heavy.  The wanted a strong
drink right at the moment and it made ler feel anxious.  She had been
drinking too much; it was making hold of her.  She knew that if she didn't
slow down he would make herself very ill.  Would that be so bad, she ;hought?
There seemed to be nothing for her to live for.  Life without Robert was
empty and meaningless.  There was lo thing to look forward to, nothing but
dark days and iarker nights.  Only in the evenings, when she was serving
behind the bar, could she begin to forget her misery a little, taking a
drink or two and letting the burning spirit blunt her senses and promise a
dream-free sleep.  Alcohol had become like a friend to her, and she was
afraid that it would betray her.

Jennie was looking at her strangely.

"C'mon, Con or we'll be late clockin' in," she said with a frown.

358 FR1;Chapter Thirty-Five Connie had hardly noticed him at first.  He
worked as a abourer at the factory and one of his tasks was to pull rolleys
of treated leathers into the workroom.  Jimmy Pope was tall and slim, with a
pleasant smile and an open face hat bespoke a cheerful nature.  He was active
and strong md when he was summoned to an army medical the girls at he factory
got ready to say their goodbyes.  Everyone was .  urprised, and no one more
than he himself, when he was ejected for military service.  They said it was
a heart mur- nur and suggested that he consult his family doctor.  When Fimmy
followed the advice and contacted his ageing doctor ie was told not to worry.

"The army people were probably coming down on the ;ide of caution.

Your father had the same condition, Mr 'ope and, as I remember, he was
nearing eighty-four when ie passed away.  It's hereditary and I shouldn't
give it mother thought.  Just be thankful you've escaped the all-up.  "

Jimmy was not sure he had escaped anything.  Some of he call-up dodgers were
getting a hard time and he knew he would have to carry his medical card
around with him to atisfy the interfering busybodies.  There was bound to be
.  ome malicious gossip too, but being a cheerful sort of )erson.  Jimmy went
back to work and decided he was lucky ifter all.  He wrote a letter to his
wife, who had been evacuited to Suffolk with the two children, telling her
she could top worrying about him going into the army.  He had been ejected
owing to a perforated eardrum.  He thought a little vhite lie was needed to
put Ruby's mind at rest.  Knowing ler, if he told her the truth she would be
expecting him to Irop dead at any minute.

Connie had been living with the sorrow of Robert's death for some time before
she began to notice Jimmy.  In some ways he reminded her of her lost lover.
He was tall like Robert, and he seemed to have a similar devil-may-care
attitude.  In looks they were very different, however.  Robert had been fair,
with blue eyes which had made her weak with excitement.  Jimmy was dark, with
large brown eyes and he wasn't handsome.  It was his mannerisms which
reminded her most of Robert, and Connie found herself watching him whenever
he came into the workroom.  She felt no physical attraction towards the young
man, only a curiosity, and Jimmy slowly became aware of it.  He had heard
about the tall, pretty girl with the long blond hair whose fiance had been
killed in action and when he noticed her watching him every time he came near
her Jimmy began to get interested.  He was missing Ruby and Connie Morgan was
certainly very pretty.  She must be feeling lonely, too, he reasoned.  Maybe
he should get talking to her and ask her out for a drink one evening.  It
wouldn't be for sexual reasons, he told himself without really believing it,
but just a friendly relationship with someone who was also lonely.

He had started talking to Connie before Christmas and, after the holiday was
over and he had said goodbye to Ruby and the kids once again.  Jimmy decided
it was time to try his luck.  Her response to his suggestion that they go for
a drink one evening surprised him.  ' "Okay," she said without any
hesitation.  "It make a change."

Jimmy walked out of the workroom whistling to himself, and Connie smiled at
Jennie across the work bench.

"Well it will make a change, won't it?"  she said.

Jennie raised her hands and grinned.

"I never said anyfing.  Jus' be careful, yer know 'e's married."

"Yeah I know," Connie replied quickly.

"I'm going' fera drink wiv 'im, that's all."

Jennie saw the look in her friend's eyes and she turned her attention to the
leather strips she was stamping.

The January weather was particularly cold and the sky was heavy with
gathering snow clouds.  Inside the riverside pub the coke fire was banked
high and the light from the flickering flames played on the low oak beams and
grimy plastered ceiling.  The landlord leaned on the bar counter, his 360
shin resting on his cupped hand, his sleepy eyes struggling to stay focused
on the old man facing him.  They were dis- sussing war, and the differences
between trench warfare and tank battles.  The old man was doing most of the
talking and the landlord was striving to stay awake.  The only other people
in the bar were the young couple sitting near the warm fire, and they were
beginning to feel the effects of the drink they had consumed that evening.

Jimmy was twirling his half-empty glass on the table.

"Do yer fink about meetin' somebody in the future an' getting' married?"  he
asked her.

"I mean, yer young.  In tim ever might see fings differently."

Connie shrugged.  The whisky had started to take the coldness away and she
felt strangely at ease.

"I dunno.  I try not ter look too far inter the future.  I 'ad a wonderful
fella an' 'e's gone.  No one could take 'is place."

Jimmy looked into her icy blue eyes.

"I miss me wife an' kids," he said without taking his eyes from her.

"Loneliness is a terrible fing.  Con.  We both know that."

She returned his stare.  He was attractive in a weak sort of way, she
thought.  He was somehow childlike and open, and this suggestive look did not
anger her.  She felt he was playing his hand without deceit, and she decided
to go along with him for a while.

"Tell me.  Jimmy,"

she said,-clasping tier hands on the table top.

"Would yer cheat on yer wife?"

Jimmy was taken aback by the question.

"Yer mean would I make love wiv somebody else?"

"That's what I mean," Connie said, a ghost of a smile touching her pale face.

"It's a difficult question.  Ruby's away in the country an' I'm 'ere alone.
I s'pose it could 'appen, if I met somebody who I was attracted to."

Connie's smile broadened.

"Did yer fink about cheatin' on Ruby when yer asked me out fera drink, Jimmy?"

The young man drained his glass and gritted his teeth as the spirit burned
his throat.

"You're puttin' me in a corner, Con.  I'd better get us anuwer drink."

She watched him walk unsteadily to the counter and saw the landlord
straighten up with a thankful look on his Face.  What had brought her with
him to this quiet pub on a freezing cold night?  she wondered.

Was it just for company, and a chance to get pleasantly merry, or was it
really her need for physical warmth?  Would lovemaking help to take away the
constant ache which tormented her every waking minute?  She remembered how
angry she had got when Jennie looked knowingly at her at the factory that
morning, and she felt a little guilty.

Jimmy had sat down at the table with their drinks and he was looking at her.

"Yer was asking' me about what I was finkin' when I asked yer out.  Well I
tell yer, Connie, I've bin attracted ter yer fera long time.  I know it's
wrong, but I can't 'elp me self  Yer a very pretty woman."

Connie smiled and watched him as he dropped his eyes and ran his finger
around the rim of his glass.

"Do yer want ter make love terme?"  she asked him suddenly, shocked at her
own forthrightness.

"Yes, I do," he said simply.

She took a sip from her glass and put it down on the table.  "I don't want
ter get involved emotionally wiv anybody, Jimmy.  I couldn't stand it.  I
like yer, an' I could easily go ter bed wiv yer, but yer married an' I'm not
gonna get involved again.  I couldn't."

He looked at her closely, his eyes unblinking.

"Listen, Con.  I fink the world of Ruby an' the kids, an' there's nufink I
wouldn't do fer 'em, but right this minute I'd give anyfing ter make love ter
yer.

I've gotta be honest.  Sometimes a man 'as physical needs, wivout getting'
serious or anyfing.  I'm sorry.  Con, but I can't lie ter yer.  "

"Women 'ave needs, too.  Jimmy."

They left the quiet riverside pub and walked out into the black, cold night.
She took his arm and their footsteps sounded loudly on the cobbled street.
Connie felt warm inside and strangely elated.  He was telling her about when
he was a lad, and how he often used to play down at the water's edge.  She
could hear the excited lilt in his voice and felt his arm trembling a little.
They entered Jamaica Road and soon they were standing outside his house.
Jimmy glanced around nervously as he inserted the key and pushed on the front
door.  They walked into the dark, stale-smelling room and she was in his arms.

His urgent kiss pressed down on her waiting lips and his hands groped about
her body.  The ceiling spun above her head as he eased her down on to 362 he
low divan and, as he slipped his trembling hands )eneath her dress, she moved
to help him.  It was unreal, ike a dream, and he was mute as his caresses
became more ntense.  She was his secret adventure, his mistress for a light
who he could not take to his marriage bed.  She knew hat it would be too much
like betrayal for them to go to the led room Here in the darkness, prone on
the divan, the act of love would allow him some vestige of comfort.  The san
city of his marriage would not be profaned.  She felt his oving and she
closed her eyes.  He was tender yet urgent.  He was an experienced lover but
he was inconsiderate, and it was over before she had become fully aroused.
There was 10 fulfilment and no tenderness, only a sense of relief and
hankfulness that she had been able to make peace with lerself as a woman
again.  She held him as he lay exhausted igainst her body, and she dreamed
that maybe sometime in he hazy future she would be able to give herself
completely.

He left her a few doors away from the little public house n Salter Street.
It was nearing midnight and when she let lerself in the side door Connie saw
that the kitchen light was on and Jennie was still up.

Her small round face was ;reased in pain and anguish as she sat slumped in an
upright hair beside the dying fire.

"Did yer enjoy yer evenin' out?"  Jennie said wincing, her lands pressing
down on the tops of her thighs.

Connie took off her coat and threw it over the back of a hair, ignoring the
question.  She searched Jennie's face as he stood over her.

"What's wrong?"  she asked.

"Yer look vhiteasasheet."

Jennie screwed up her face and tensed as another sharp ipasm attacked the pit
of her stomach.

"I'm in agony.  Con.  t's the pills I took.

They're givin' me 'ell.  "

"What pills?  What yer talkin' about?"

The spasm passed and Jennie sagged in the chair.

"I'm a week overdue, and I'm always on the dot.  Steve took me to i chemist
'e knows an' we got some pills.  They're murderin' the.  I'm in agony."

Connie leaned forward in her chair.

"Yer silly cow.  What fer let 'im talk yer inter takin' pills for?"

The white-faced young woman dabbed at her hot fore- iead with a creased-up
handkerchief.

"I 'ad ter do some fink They'd kill me if I was pregnant."  Another spasm
knotted her insides and she got up quickly, holding her stomach and making
for the yard.  Connie followed her to the back door and stood biting her lip
as her friend doubled up in pain.

"Leave me.  Con.  I'll be all right," she groaned, running out through the
open door.

Connie walked back into the kitchen and slumped down wearily in the armchair.
For a while she stared into the white ashes, and then her eyes went to the
sideboard.  The bottle of whisky was still there as usual and Connie pursed
her lips.  Just a little one, she decided.

It'll make me sleep.  She walked over to the sideboard and as she uncorked
the bottle she saw a note.

"Mr Preedy called to see Connie."

She poured herself a drink and swallowed it quickly.  The name did not mean
anything to her.  She poured herself some more whisky.  The sound of the back
yard toilet being flushed made her gulp down the drink, and as she flopped
back into the chair Jennie walked in.

Jennie grinned sheepishly and slumped down in the armchair facing Connie.

"I fink the pills are beginnin' ter work.  Con.  I feel sort o' funny," she
said.

Connie stood up wearily.

"Let's get yer up ter bed.  Yer'll be all right.  I'll stay wiv yer, Jen."

Jennie waved her friend away.

"Don't fuss, Con.  I wanna be on me own.

Don't worry, I'll call yer if I need to.  "

"Yer sure?  I don't like leavin' yer like that."

Another spasm made Jennie wince.

"I'm sure," she grated.

Connie put her arm around her friend's shoulders.  "Yer'd better getter bed,
Jen.  If yer mum sees yer like that she'll guess some fink up."

"Yer right.  I'll get upstairs.  By the way, there was an ole bloke called inter see yer.

"E wouldn't leave a message.

"E said 'e'd come back termorrer night.

"E did tell me 'is name but I fergot it.  Mum wrote it down somewhere."

Connie got up and took her friend by the arm.

"Look, are yer going' ter bed?  I'll talk ter yer more in the mornin'.  Don't
worry, I'll make sure the fire's out an' I'll see ter the lights."

Jennie sighed and clutched at her stomach.

"I'm on me way.  Night, Con."

364 "Night, Jen."

The bad weather was settling in and the German air force iad stayed away for
another night.  The morning had been Mtterly cold with frost lying like
powdered glass on the :obblestones.  Jennie had told her mother she was
feeling iick and was going to take the day off.  Before Connie left 'or work
her friend managed to give her a reassuring wink md a knowing smile passed
between them.

At work it was some time before Jimmy Pope came into he workroom.  He
approached Connie's bench hesitantly and smiled at her, his face showing his
embarrassment.  She imiled briefly in return and carried on the conversation
with her work mates  He had broken the ice and he felt letter as he piled the
leathers on to the work top.  He had sat ip until the early hours writing a
long letter to Ruby.  In it he iad said how much he missed her and the kids
and how nuch he loved them all.  He had expressed his hope that >oon, if the
raids held off, she and the children might be ible to return home.  He felt a
little better after he had finished the letter and he lay in his bed
struggling with his feelings of guilt until sleep finally overtook him.

That evening the Dolphin was quiet.  The bitter weather iad kept all but the
very hardy around their banked-up 'ires, but Billy Argrieves came in and
stood at the counter.  The collar of his navy-blue overcoat was pulled up
around us ears and his cheeks glowed as he sipped his pint of ale.  Connie
noticed how nervous he still seemed.  His hands ihook as he held the glass
and his eyes darted about like hose of a stalked animal.  He finished his
drink and ordered i bottle of Guinness to take away, looking around quickly
is Connie put the bottle down in front of him.

"Bloody 'ell," one of the customers remarked as Billy left.  Did yer see
that?  Billy Argrieves takin' 'is ole mum a drink.  : don't believe it.  "

Connie was about to say something but Bill French had walked over.  He had
noticed that the vociferous customer iad been sitting in front of the fire
for over an hour without mying another drink.  At least Billy Argrieves was
one up >n him, he thought as he leaned over the counter.

' "Ere, Sharkey.  Don't yer fink it's about tim ever left the lad alone?"
he said.

"The poor bleeder's a bundle o' nerves as it is."

Sharkey looked at his friend for support.

"Some people 'ave got short memories.  I remember when Billy Argrieves was a
bloody aggravator.

Ifyer looked at 'im the wrong way yer was more than likely ter get a black
eye.

"E ain't so cocky now, is'e?"

The landlord stood up to his full height and frowned.  " Now listen 'ere,
Sharkey.  That lad spent more than two months on 'isbackinthe 'ospital, an'
when 'ecome 'ome 'ecouldn'teven wash 'himself.  It took a lot o' guts fer 'im
ter walk in 'ere on 'is own fert he first time.

I'm not gonna stand around an' let the likeso'youtakethepissoutof'im.  Now.
whatIsuggestyerdo is shut yer trap, get yerself anuwer drink an' give
somebody else a chance to 'ave a look at the fire, ower wise yer can piss orf
out an' find yerself anuwer pub ter drink in.  "

Sharkey got up and walked over to the counter.  " Who upset you.  Bill?

Your ole woman bin getting' on ter yer, as she?  " he said in a familiar
tone."

"Ere, give us anuwer pint fer Gawd's sake, an' 'ave one yerself.   It might
put yer in a better mood."

Later a grey-haired old man came into the public bar.  He walked up to the
counter rubbing his hands together, his face glowing red above his bushy
moustache.

"Ello, girl," he said brightly.

"Give us a whisky.  This bleedin' weawer's a perisher."

Connie placed the drink in front of him and he took a quick sip.

"I

was in 'ere last night but they told meyer wa saving a night off,"

he said wiping his moustache.

"Are you Mr Preedy?"  she asked, leaning on the counter facing him.

' "S'right.  Yer don't remember me, do yer?"  he said smiling.

Connie stared at him, a puzzled frown on her face.

"It mus' be about eighteen months since I was in 'ere last," he went on.

"It was wiv the darts team from the

"Orse an' Groom.  It was the August before war broke out if I remember
rightly.  Anyway, I was tellin' yer 'ow me an' yer muwer worked tergewer
once.  Remember now?"

Connienoddedwithasuddensmile.

"Yes, I remember," she said with quickening interest.

The old man took another sip from his glass.

"I told yer I'd 366 >op round if I 'card any fink o' that Norma Cantwell.
It lin't good news I'm afraid."

"What is it, Mr Preedy?"

"Well, I got talkin' to a pal o' mine," he continued.

"I ain't ,een 'im fe rages  We got chattin' about ole times an' it ;ome up
about when we worked tergevver at the tin bashers n your ole turnin'.  Well
Charlie, that's 'is monicker, 'e uts an' tells me about Norma Cantwell."

"What about 'er?"  Connie prompted.

"She copped it.  Yeah that's right.  Last November it was.  and mine be all
accounts.  It knocked a block o' flats lown orf the Walworth Road.

Bloody shame.  Ole Norma was re-housed in there when they pulled Birdcage
Lane town, so Charlie told me.  "

Connie sighed.  She had tried to resign herself to the fact hat she would
probably never locate Norma after visiting iirdcage Lane and discovering that
everyone had moved iway, but she had still clung to the faint hope that some-
the might know where she had gone.  Now Norma Cantwell would never be able to
help her.  Connie straightened up and ave the old man a smile.

Tanks fer rememberin' after all that time, Mr Preedy," he said heavily.

"I appreciate it."

"It was no trouble, luv," he said with a wave of his hand.  I was only too
pleased ter let yer know.  Sorry ter be the )earer of bad tidin's though.
Still, it can't be 'elped.

"Ere, ill that up an' 'ave one yerself."

Connie poured two drinks.  Tanks very much," she said, " linking glasses with
him.

"Ere, by the way, Mr Preedy.  Nas there anybody by the name of Bonny workin'
at the ac tory when you was there?"

The old man stroked his chin.

"The name don't ring a 'ell.  It's a funny name.  I reckon I would 'ave
remembered a lame like that.  Why dyer ask?"

"Oh nufink.  I 'card me mum mention it a few times," she said.

The heavily built figure walked painfully through the dark, cy cold streets,
keeping close to the sides of the buildings and wharves as he occasionally
glanced behind him.  There wasn't much time, he realised.  They would soon
come looking.  They knew he would make for Bermondsey and his friends.  It
had been a long time since he had tasted the river air and smelled the soft
grey mud.  The area had been badly bombed but his friends would still be
there.  They wouldn't let him down.  He heard slow plodding footsteps ahead
and he darted into a doorway.  A heavy padlock pressed against his back and
he felt the sweat breaking out cold on his forehead.  Christ!  he muttered
voicelessly.  If it's the law he'll be trying all the doors!  He held his
breath as the footsteps got nearer and then suddenly they stopped.  For a
while he rested his aching head against the cold iron door, knowing he could
soon be discovered.  He heard the footsteps again.  They were going away and
he breathed easier.  He knew that he had to press on.  He was nearly there
and if the street had survived someone would give him a meal and a place to
sleep.

He stubbed his toe in the darkness and cursed.  That old iron post had been
there for years; he should have remembered it, he had played leapfrog over it
enough times as a kid.  He puffed heavily in the cold air.  Prison had a way
of making people forget.  Everything seemed smaller than he had imagined it
to be.  As he looked around in the quiet darkness he could see that there
were spaces and piles of rubble where his kind had lived, but at least the
little turning was still there.  It was scarred and the buildings had been
badly damaged, but the little row of houses were still standing.  He strained
his eyes and saw the black silhouette of the ugly factory building standing
out against the night sky.  He reached the house he was looking for and he
hesitated.  The street was empty and no light filtered out on to the
cobblestones.  Maybe he had left, he thought with a sinking feeling.  Maybe
they had all gone.  He knocked softly on the door and the iron knocker
sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.  He hunched his shoulders against
the night chill and waited.  Then he heard a door inside open and footsteps.
The street door opened and he saw the familiar face staring at him in
disbelief.  He opened his mouth to speak and a wave of exhaustion and relief
flowed over him.  He staggered forward and gripped the door post.

"Can yer 'elp me, Joe?"  the fugitive gasped.

368 FR1;Chapter Thirty-Six ore he went to work Joe Cooper walked up to the
corner fohn Street and bought the morning paper.  It was there de the first
page, with the headline: "Dennis Foreman apes'.  Joe hurried back home with
the paper tucked ler his arm.  He was already aware that the long arm of law
would soon be reaching out to his neighbour hood  mis was well known in the
area and it would be obvious he police that he might well seek help there.
He placed open paper on the kitchen table and took his spectacles vn from the
mantel shelf

Dennis Foreman, who was serving ten years for his art in the 1935 Piccadilly
jewel robbery, made a dranatic escape yesterday evening whilst being
transfer- ed from Pentonville to Dartmoor.  The train carrying lim to
Plymouth was derailed outside Reading and foreman made his escape by leaping
out of the train luring the confusion and disappearing into the dark- less.
The police spokesman said that Foreman was land cuffed to a police officer at
the time but had been ible to take the keys when the officer was rendered in
conscious by the impact.  Members of the public are isked not to approach
this man but to inform their ocal police station or dial Whitehall 1212.  Our
correipondent Jeremy Paine reports that the derailment was caused by a
subsidence brought about by recent ;nemy bombing.  Twelve people including
the police officer were detained in Reading General Hospital with minor
injuries.

folded the paper and sat back in his chair.  Denny had said much about his
escape.  He had been exhausted m he knocked at the door and, after wolfing
down a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, he had collapsed on to the bed.

When Joe got up that morning he had roused the fugitive with a cup of tea and
some toast and told him to get dressed as quickly as possible.  He knew the
police would realise their quarry was making for London.  It would not take
them long to inform the local police, who knew of Denny's old haunts.  Joe
also realised that because of his own police record he could be visited by
the police at any time.  He would have to find a safe haven for Denny until
he could be got out of the area.  Joe wondered where he could go, and he
decided there was only one thing to do for the moment.  He would have to stay
in the factory shelter, if he could be smuggled in without being noticed.
Joe looked at the clock on the mantel shelf it showed twenty minutes to
eight.  Very soon the work force would be hurrying through the gates and it
was then that Denny might make it inside without attracting attention.

At ten minutes to eight the two men stood just inside the front door.

Joe felt apprehensive but there was no time to dwell on things.  Denny looked
pale and gaunt in the old overcoat Joe had found for him.  He had washed and
shaved and wrapped a woollen scarf around his neck.

Fear showed in his eyes as he waited for the word from Joe, who had told him
to slip out into the street at the last minute and trail in through the gates
behind the latecomers.  That way he might just make it.  They had gone over
the plan whilst they waited and, with a bit of luck, it seemed that it might
just work.  Joe could see the Barton sisters coming into the turning.  They
were invariably the last two to clock in each morning.

As they drew level with his house, Joe stepped out.

"C'mon you two.

Late again?  " he joked as he fell in step beside them.

They hurried through the gates, the two girls unaware that Dennis Foreman,
the notorious jewel robber, was walking quietly a few yards behind them.
Inside the yard, the fugitive veered off and darted safely down into the dark
shelter.

The day went very slowly for Joe.  He had managed to smuggle some sandwiches
and a flask of tea to Dennis during the lunch hour but there was no time to
stay for a chat.  He always ate his lunch in the firm's canteen and to change
his routine now would arouse suspicion.

It was after dark when he got 370 )ack to the shelter.  He carried a broom
and shovel with him n case anyone spotted him, but he need not have worried.
The blacked-out street was deserted.  Denny was lying on the of the bunks
which had only recently been installed and ie jerked up as the street warden
came in.

"Did yer get the evenin' paper, Joe?"  Denny asked, rub- )ing his eyes.

Joe pulled the Star from his pocket and tossed it on the unk.

"There's nufink in there," he said.

"I already looked.  fer yesterday's news!"

Dennis threw his legs over the edge of the bunk and sat brward, his elbows
resting on his knees.

"The bloody ime's dragged terrible.  I was expectin' the law ter walk in ere
any minute."

Joe sat down on the bunk facing him.

"You'll be okay fer he time being'.  If there's an air raid ternight get
inter that ;orner," he said, indicating with his thumb.

"The crowd who sit there ain't very talkative.  They won't start asking'
niestions."

"I gotta getter Norwich, Joe.  I got a cousin there.

"E'll ut me up till it cools orf a bit.  Trouble is I can't jus' jump m a
train.  The stations are bound ter be watched."

Joe nodded.

"The law's pullin' up civilians on stations.  They're asking' fer identity
cards.  There's bin a flap over deserters and fifth columnists."

Dennis scratched his head.

"I can't stop 'ere, Joe.  I gotta lo some fink Don't yer know any local
transport blokes yer an trust?  I got me money stashed away up at me
cousin's.  I an send the money on.

I'll pay well fera ride out of 'ere.  "

Joe thought for a while.

"I know somebody ter ask.  I'll )op round there later ternight.  In the
meantime, take it asy.  Yer safe 'ere, long as yer don't break inter song."

Dennis grinned.

"I'm not likely ter do that.  By the way.  ^anks fer sortin' me out, Joe.  I
knew I could count on yer."

The street warden looked hard at the heavy-set man facing him.

"Yer ain't said much about what 'appened, Denny.  got more out o'the
mornin'paper."

"I was knackered last night," Dennis said as he lit a cigaette.

"I

tell yer, when I jumped down orf that train I ran like he devil was after me
It was pitch-black an' I must 'ave fell ver a dozen times.

The last time I went straight in a ditch full o' water.  Anyway I reached
this main road an' I 'ad ter duck in the bushes every time a motor went by.
Farther down I came across some road works.  I ducked in the bushes an'
waited till a lorry come along.  When it slowed down ter get round the 'ole I
jumped on the back.  D'yer know, I didn't 'ave a clue where the bleedin' 'ell
the lorry was bound for.  All I was interested in was getting' as far away
from that train as possible.  It seemed like I was on that lorry fer hours
an', when it finally stopped at a transport caff, I 'opped orf and legged it.
I finally found me self on Chelsea Embankment, would yer believe?  Anyway, I
jumped a bus, an' that's about it.  "

Joe leaned back on the bunk.

"You 'ad some money fert he fare then.

Where dyer get it from?  "

Dennis grinned.

"When I went frew the rozzer's pockets fert he keys I found some silver.  I
couldn't getter the pound notes.  If 'e 'ad any 'e must 'ave bin sittin' on
'em."

"What made yer do a scoot, Denny?  Yer done a lot oyer sentence.  Wiv time
off yer'd be out in a year or two."

Dennis laughed bitterly.

"Yer don't know the 'alf of it.  Per a start there ain't no time orf.  I was
involved in a scuffle wiv a screw an' bang went me remission.  They reckoned
I was getting' ter be a trouble-maker, that's why I was on me way ter the
Moor."

Joe smiled and shook his head.

"Yer ain't changed a bit, 'ave yer?

Yer always was a bit of a mad so an' so.  Couldn't yer count ter ten before
yer 'ammered that screw?  "

"Yer done bird, Joe.  I know 'cos sister Dolly^wrote an' told me.  Yer know
what it's like.  Yer banged away fer hours at a time an' yer getter finkin'.
I was broodin' about me missus.  She sent me a letter sayin' she wanted a
divorce.  She told me she met this geezer who's got a respectable job an' she
wanted nufink more ter do wiv me.  I tell yer, Joe, it cracked me up.  I
wa saving a bad time wiv this screw an' when 'e started ter goad me I see red
an' clonked 'im.  I busted the bastard's jaw."

"When did yer get married.  Den?"

"I met me missus when I got out o' the army in 1930 an' we got married the
same year.  I done seven years in the colours, Joe.  Matter o' fact I signed
up just after I left 'ere.  I was posted ter India.  I done almost four years
out there."

372 Joe changed his position on the bunk.  " It's bin a long time, Denny.

Yer ain't changed all that much.  "

"Nor ave you Joe."

"D'yer remember when we run the streets round 'ere?  We ad some good times,
didn't we?"

"We sure did, pal."

Joe lowered his head and stared down at his shoes.

"I jumped inter yer sister Dolly just after Kate died," he said uietly.

"She said she was going' ter write an' tell yer."

"Yeah, she did, Joe.  Bloody shame the way she went.  She was a diamond was
Kate.  I bet young Connie's all growed up low, ain't she?  She was only two
years old when I left."

Joe looked up.

"Yeah, she's a real little beauty.  Talk about i ringer fer 'er muvver."

Dennis stood up and stretched.

"I'd love ter see 'er, Joe.  Maybe I will when fings die down a bit."

Joe lapsed into silence and stared down at the floor.

Dennis looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, hen he said, "Look, Joe.
There's a lot o' water gone under he bridge.  I 'ad ter leave when I did.
There ain't no grudges, st here

Joe shrugged.

"Like yer say.  Den.  It was a long time ago.  We grew up since then.
There's no grudges.  We missed yer, m' Kate took it bad.

We was all very close.  " He paused.

Anyway, I'd better get going' if I'mgonna see this bloke," he said, standing
up and buttoning his coat.

"Take it easy.  I'll be sack soon as I can."

"C Wilshaw stood on the corner of Ironmonger Street with us gloved hands
clasped behind his back and watched the ,omings and goings.  It was early
evening and the Armitage vorkers were hurrying from the turning.  The
constable new most of the workers by sight and his eyes darted from Jne to
another as he chewed on his chin strap and rocked back and forth on his size
twelves.  They had all been briefed at the station that morning and Dennis
Foreman's photograph had been duly studied.  PC Wilshaw was confident.  I'll
spot him if he shows his face around here, he told himself.  It would be i
nice arrest to make.

There would be quite a bit of publicity md his photo would most certainly be
in the daily news apers Could be sergeant's stripes in it, too, he thought.

The stragglers were coming out of the turning now and the constable decided
to give it another few minutes then take a stroll along to Tower Bridge Road
and back.  Suddenly he spotted Toby Toomey hurrying along, an evening paper
tucked under his arm.  PC Wilshaw had been wondering what had become of the
street totter.

' "Ello, Toby," he called over.

"Ain't yer out wiv the pram these days?"

Toby looked up from his thoughts at the towering policeman and grinned.

"No," he said proudly.

"I got me self a respectable job."

' "Aveyer?Whatdyerdonow,Toby?"

Toby hooked his thumbs through his braces and puffed out his chest

Tmthe'eadbarrel-washeratthepicklefactory.  It's a pretty important job, mate.
Yer gotta be careful when yer dealin' wiv food.  If I don't clean them
barrels prop'ly people could get food poisonin'.  Oh yes, it'sapretty
important job.  "

"I'm sure it is, Toby," the constable said, hiding a smile.  "Not everybody
could be an 'ead barrel-washer.

"Ow many yer got workin' under yer, then?"

Toby pursed his lips and drew in his breath sharply.  " " Bout six or seven.
"

The constable rocked back on his heels.

"I wanna ask yer some fink Toby.  You're a sharp character who keeps 'is eyes
open.

"Ave yer seen any new faces in the area?  Yer know what I'm talkin'about."

The head barrel-washer stroked his chin.

"There's only one new face showed up round 'ere lately, mate."

"Oh, an' what'sthisnewfacelooklike?"

Tobystrokedhischinagain.

"Well 'e'sshortan' stocky, an' 'e'sgotsorto'broadfeatures.

"Isnoseisflattishan' 'isearsare all screwed up like a boxer's.  Yeah, an'
'etalkssorto' funny."

"What dyer mean, Toby?"  the constable asked quickly.

Well it's gibberish.  "

"Gibberish?"

"Yeah, 'e talks foreign.

"E'sCzechoslobleedinvakian."

"Czechowhat?"

"This fella my Lil's going' wivE's a Czech.  Sandor 'e calls 'himself.  Mind
you, I don't know if it's 'is realnameor not, but ourLil.  .  ."

' "Oldup, old up thetallpolicemansaidstemly.

"I'm not 374 nterested in your Lil's boyfriend.  I'm interested in Dennis
foreman.

Yer know who I mean, Toby.  "

"Is that the dirty bastard who's bin exposin' 'himself in thenarket?"

PC Wilshaw groaned to himself and wished he had never mothered to start the
conversation.  Toby was getting worse, what with Czech boyfriends and
marketplace perverts.  Jus' keep yer eye open, Toby,"

he growled.

"If yer see any it range faces who look a bit suspicious, come an' tell me,
kay?"

Toby nodded and started off home.

"Come an' see me?"  ie repeated aloud.

"I should fink so.  Nosy ole bastard.

"E's 'of more chance o' being' struck by lightnin'."

The weather had turned bitterly cold as Joe Cooper made us way to the Swan
public house in Dockhead.  Jack Rabin, he landlord, was friendly with many of
the local villains.  He might know of someone who could safely transport
3ennis Foreman out of the area, Joe reasoned.  It would have to be done very
quickly.  The police would be stepping ip the search in the locality and
they' would certainly get iround to checking all the public shelters.  Joe
was looking lerious-faced as he pushed open the door of the saloon bar and
walked in.  The bar was quiet and Jack Rabin spotted lim immediately.

"Well I never!  If it ain't me ole mate Joe.

"Ow the bloody ell are yer?  I ain't seen yer fe rages Jack said, thumping
roe on the back and holding out his hand.

Joe grinned as he took the landlord's outstretched hand n his.

"Nice ter see yer.  Jack.  I 'card yer retired down ter Margate."

"No such luck, Joe boy.  Not wiv my ole dutch.  She's ceepin' me two steps
away from the poor 'ouse.  Anyway, what yer 'avin'?"

"A nice pint o' bitter'll go down a treat.  Jack."

When Joe put down the money Jack waved it away.

"This me's on the 'ouse.  Fer ole time's sake.  Remember those set-tergevvers
we 'ad wiv ole Solly Jacobs?  We planned a 'ew cracked 'eads in this bar,
didn't we?"

Joe sipped his pint.

"Ere, Jack.  Remember that ilackshirt march down the Ole Kent Road when we
tore into 'em wiv those wooden clubs?  I won't ferget it.  That was when I
got done ferassaultin' that copper.  What a stitch-up job that was."

"Yeah, bloody shame, Joe.

"Ere.  I was down yer way a few weeks ago on a bit o' business.  I passed yer
turnin'.  Those buildin's took a right pastin'."

Joe nodded his head sadly.

"The Bartletts and the Rileys went in that.  I s'pose it was lucky more
didn't go.  Nearly everybody was down in the factory shelter that night."

Jack leaned forward on the counter.

"D'yer fink we've seen the last of the bastards?  It's bin very quiet lately,
ain't it?"

"I dunno.  Jack.  The Midlands 'ave bin getting' it by all accounts, an'
Glasgow an' Liverpool.  They'll be back ter see us before long, yer can bet
on it."

The drinks had been flowing and a few familiar faces had joined the two.
Names were being bandied about and various exploits were being recounted.

Joe decided the time was ripe and he beckoned the group together.

"Look lads, gawer round," he said, glancing around the bar quickly.

"I don't wanna shout.  I got a problem.  A good friend o' mine wants ter get
out o' the area on the quiet.

"E don't mind travellin' third class, if yer get me meanin', but it's gotta
be done smartly.

"E can pay well, but the wages will 'ave ter come later."

"What's 'e done, Joe, upset a few bookies?"  one of the men joked.

Another one glared at him.

"Yer know better than to ask that," he said.

"It's none of our business."

There was now a marked seriousness amongst the group and Joe suspected that
they knew who he was talking about.

Jack turned to one of the men.

"Ere, Don.  What's the name o' that geezer what done yer bit o' business?

"E's pretty reliable, ain't 'e?"

Don Samuels nodded.

"Yeah, that was ole Bert Lucas.  You should know 'im, Joe.

"E's related ter the Toomeys who live in your turnin'."

"Christ!  Not Toby Toomey?"

"That's 'im.  I fink Bert's 'is wife's uncle.  Somefink like that.

Anyway, 'e's reliable, Joe.  Why don't yer 'ave a word in 'er ear?

She'll be able ter locate 'im on the quick.  "

376 oe thought for a while.

"I'd better pop inter see 'er right ay.  I can't afford ter 'ang about too
long.  I'll see you lads ;r.  Keep out o' trouble."

ack leaned forward on the counter.

"Give yer mate our t regards, Joe, an' tell 'im ter come round fera drink en
fings quieten down a bit."

oe grinned and walked out into the black.

was turned eleven when Marie Toomey heard the knock the front door.

"Well go on then, ain't yer gonna answer she shouted at her husband.

Foby was dozing in the armchair and he jerked awake, eyes opening wide.

"I wonder who that is, Marie?"  What am I s'posed ter be,
clair-bloody-voyant?  Go an' dout.  "

foby opened the door a fraction.

"Who's there this time light?"

Open the door prop'ly, yer silly git," Marie screamed out m the end of the
passage.  Foby did as she said and he saw Joe Cooper standing on doorstep.

"Ello, Joe.  Wassa matter, mate?"  I'm sorry ter knock so late, but it's
urgent.  I wanna 'ave ord wiv yer missus, Toby.  " >Iarie walked down the
passage.

"All right, get inside,"

barked at her husband.

"What can I do fer yer, Joe?"

Is yer uncle still in the transport business, Marie?  "

Why, dyer want 'im ter do a job for yer?  " she asked, ining.

oe nodded.

Yer better come in," she said, showing him into the hen.

Can yer get word to 'im, Marie?  It's urgent.  "

Yeah it is, ain't it?  " she smiled.

oe looked at her and then at Toby with a puzzled frown.

hat is it, Marie?  "

D'you wanna tell 'im or shall I?  " she said, looking at by.

You tell'im, girl.  "

Right.  Now ter start wiv, I gotta tell yer I never like going' wiwout me
earrin's in.

"E knows, don't yer, luv."

Toby nodded quickly and Marie continued.

"I was getting ready this evenin' ter go out wiv me friend from John Street
an' when I co meter put me earrin's on they ain't there."

Joe's puzzlement was increasing by the second and he stared at Marie, who
seemed to be enjoying his bewilderment.

"I always keep 'em in me Oxo tin, along wiv me ouwer bits an' pieces," she
went on.

"Anyway they ain't there, so I gets ter finkin'.  The last time I could
remember wearin' 'em was when I got back from seem' me mate an' the siren
went.  It was the Tuesday o' last week, wasn't it?  Well, whenever it was, I
can vaguely remember takin' me earrin's off in the shelter 'cos they was
'urtin' me ears.

I fink I can remember wrappin' 'em up in me 'ankie an' puttin' 'em on the
ledge be' and where I always sit.  I've searched thisouse 'igh an' low, an'
they're not anywhere ter be seen.  The only fing I could fink of was that I
left 'em in the shelter.  Well I sent Toby over ter see if they was there an'
as 'e went in the shelter this great big bloke jumped out an' frightened the
bleedin' life out of 'im.  Well, Toby managed ter convince 'im that 'e was a
good friend oyers an' 'e could keep 'is mouth shut.  "

"Bloody 'ell!"  Joe groaned, clapping his hand to his head.  "Yer could 'ave
got yerself mangled.  That fella can be dangerous in a corner."

' "E's all right, Joe."  Toby cut in.

"We 'ad a nice chat after 'e put me down.

"E told me 'e was out o' fags so I took 'im some back."

Joe shook his head slowly.

"Toby, yer a gem."

378 FR1;Chapter Thirty-Seven Connie Morgan climbed down from the tram and
walked slowly past the tall, imposing St Alfege's Church.  Ahead she could
see the river wall and smell the sour mud which belched its gases at low
tide.  A few people strolled past and noisy children hurried down on to the
foreshore, eager to see what treasures the ebbing tide had washed and dumped.
Above, the clouds were silver-edged as the late rising sun started its climb.

It was a mild Saturday morning in March 1941, and the ;arly spring flowers
were spreading their pale colours unidst the grey, austere surroundings.
Connie had walked this way many times with Robert and the memories came
Flooding back to her as she reached the river wall.

Together they had scanned the wide flowing Thames, made their plans and
dreamed of peaceful times to come.  Now she had returned alone.

She had wanted to come to this place again, to think and to try to put her
confused mind into some sort of order.  The months had slipped by so slowly
and she had become oppressed by the painful fixed pattern of her life.  By
day there was the inevitable factory grind and in the evenings the trial of
always having to put on a happy face For the customers of the Dolphin.  The
ritual was harrowing and Connie felt she was being slowly swallowed up by the
unbroken emptiness of her routine.  Only the glowing feeling in her insides
and the feathery lightness in her head made it all bearable, but that
agreeable state was no longer sasy to reach.  It had been easy once, when her
tolerance was very low and a couple of whiskies were enough.  Now her search
for comfort from the drink had started to become dangerous.  It was more and
more difficult to reach that numb state, and she had started to drink more
and more.

The River Thames looked calm and still while overhead screaming, wheeling
gulls swooped down and plucked at the bread thrown by noisy children.
Connie walked slowly, her head still heavy and hung-over with the effects of
the whisky she had consumed the night before.  The events of the previous
evening were hazy but she remembered the raucous crowd at the end of the
counter.

She recalled Billy coming into the bar and standing at the counter talking
easily and looking relaxed, but after that it all became confused.  She had a
recollection of a dark-haired individual who was with the crowd and who had
gone out of his way to impress her.  He had bought her drinks and he had been
very complimentary but she could not even remember his name.  He was with a
brassy woman, and when he had ignored his partner and turned his attentions
toward her Connie remembered how angry the woman had become.

The gently turning tide was lapping against the massive wooden stanchions by
the pier and it stirred the foreshore mud.  For a while Connie rested by the
wall, watching the children playing at the water's edge.  Slowly her head
began to clear.  It was coming back now.

She could see Billy's face and the murderous look in his eyes as he was
hustled from the pub.  Connie's head pounded as she breathed in the clear air
and gradually her memory of last night's events became sharper.  Billy had
come in early and he had stood chatting to her for some time.  She remembered
how easy it had been to talk to him.  He had taken pains with his appearance
although his suit was fraying at the cuffs and showing signs of wear at the
elbows.  He was trying very hard, but it was easy to see that he was still
struggling with his own personal demons.  She could tell that the noise and
the crowd were affecting him, and when the pub started to fill up he had
become more and more edgy.  There was a look in his eyes, she recalled, a
strange, sorrowful look, and it touched her in a way she could not understand.

It was when the crowd at the end of the counter became noisy that Billy
started to become unsettled.  She had been busy serving and she recalled
hearing the sudden roar and seeing restraining hands pulling Billy away and
pushing him out into the street.  Bill French had raved at Billy and told him
that unless he controlled his temper he would be barred from the pub in the
future.  Connie was saddened by the landlord's outburst.  She had grown fond
of Billy Argrieves.  She liked 380 'us sharp sense of humour and his
charming manner, and inder normal circumstances it would have been quite easy
or her to fall for someone like him.  He was an attractive nan, but she had
promised herself that she would not get motion ally involved with anyone.

Growing too fond of omeone would only bring more heartache and despair.  She
iad already lost everyone who had meant anything to her.

Connie turned her back on the river and strolled slowly owards Greenwich
Park.  It was there, too, that she had pent many happy hours with Robert and
memories rose up -wiftly in her mind as she walked into the tranquillity of
the leafy avenue and took the path which led up to the observatory.  At the
top of the hill she turned towards the wide stone promontory and there she
sat for a while looking down at the silver band of river and the resting dock
cranes.  The sun had slipped out from a cloudy sky and the early morning mist
had cleared .  Her heart was heavy as she stared down at the idle river.  It
would be so easy to go down to the river when the tide was full and the night
was dark.  She could slip from the pier uid let the cold waters take her.
There was no family, no one to grieve.  Maybe her father was still living and
he might read ibout her suicide in the papers.  Maybe he would mourn for a
while, but he would soon forget.  After all, he had left Kate and his baby
and had made no attempt to return.  The realisation knotted Connie's insides.

She experienced a cold fury which grew, and the thoughts of taking her own
life disappeared.  She stood up suddenly, her hands clenched.

If her Father was still living she would find him, somehow.  She would talk
to him and find out what sort of a man it was who would walk away from his
responsibilities and just disappear.  With burning anger rising in her chest
Connie Morgan turned away from the hill and walked back down the steep path
and out once more into the morning traffic.

The proprietors of the Dolphin were having a serious discussion and Bill
French was adamant.

"I can't 'elp it, Dora.  I've bin fair wiv the lad, but enough's enough.
What 'appened last night could 'ave turned into a loody riot.  We've got the
licence ter fink of.  Once the law et called in it goes in the book, yer
know that."

"I know all about that.   Bill, but I still say that crowd started takin'
the piss.   They're the ones you should bar.   They're all Steve Barnett's
cronies, an' I don't go a lot on 'im neiwer.   Our Jennie's besotted wiv 'im.
I've tried talkin' ter the girl.   I've tried ter warner but it's like
talkin' terme self

Bill shrugged his shoulders.

"What can I do about it?  That crowd ain't given me no cause ter bar 'em,
except fertakin' the piss out of Billy Argrieves.  Let's face it, Dora, 'alf
the pub takes it out o' Billy."

"Yeah, be' and 'is back," Dora reminded him.

"They wouldn't face 'im."

"That's the 'ole trouble, Dora.  Young Billy's always bin a bit wild.

Since 'e's come 'ome the lad's got worse.  I mean look at last night.

Much more o' that an' we won't 'ave any regulars left.  They'll all be too
scared ter drink in the pub.  "

Dora prodded the table top with her forefinger.

"I'm tellin' yer now, if yer bar young Billy I'm gonna tell that ovver mob
they're no longer welcome in the pub, so there."

Bill puffed hard and looked into his wife's determined face.

"All right, I'll leave it this time, but if 'e steps out o' line once more
'e's barred, an' I mean it."

The landlady of the Dolphin felt somewhat satisfied by her husband's decision
to give Billy Argrieves another chance, but she could see trouble ahead if
the new crowd continued to drink in the pub.  She was aware that Steve
Barnett had invited them down to the Dolphin and, because Jennie served in
the public bar, they all congregated there.

Perhaps she should have a word with Bill about Jennie working in the saloon
bar, she reflected.  Although that wouldn't be a very good idea.  The crowd
would just change bars.  They would then most likely upset the saloon-bar
customers with their mouthings and nothing would be achieved.  Maybe she
should take it on herself to make it clear to the crowd that they were not
welcome.  She had heard a few nasty stories about them, and in particular the
dark-haired one who had provoked young Billy.  Some of the regulars had
identified him as a devious character who owned a wholesale provision
business and they had told her he was involved in a lot of black-market
dealings.  There were some nasty stories circulating about his wild parties,
too, and Dora was worried about Connie.  She seemed to have become the object
of his attentions and it spelt 382 trouble, she felt sure.  Dora decided
that she would have a word with Connie and put her on her guard, though she
knew it wouldn't be easy.

The girl had become even more withdrawn lately, and her drinking was giving
the family ;ause for concern.  She was now drinking heavily and she kept a
bottle of whisky in her room, according to Jennie, who was more than a little
worried about her friend's well- being.  Dora sighed to herself.  She
shouldn't be saddled with all these problems at her time of life.  Maybe it
was about time she and Bill sold the business and moved into a little country
pub.

Bill French was feeling very much the same as Dora.  He was not very happy
about the new clientele.  Derek Angelo lad been pressing him to take a batch
of his under-the;ounter cigarettes and tobacco which was marked up

"HM Forces Issue'.  He had also been asked to handle a couple of :ases of
Scotch whisky, a deal he had declined, realising the problems it would pose
with the brewers, as well as with Dora.

Then there was the worry of Jennie, who had gotten lierself attached to Steve
Barnett and would not hear a word said against the man.  Bill pondered his
problems as he went wer to the pub doors to open up for trade.

It was Saturday evening, and the first customer to walk through the door of
the pub was Mrs Argrieves, who ardered a milk stout.

"You was a bit 'asty last night, wasn't yerT she said quickly as the drink
was placed in front of tier.

"What dyer mean, girl?"

"Bannin' our Billy, that's what I mean."

Bill leaned forward on the counter,

"Look.  I ain't barred Ae lad.  What I did say was fer 'im ter watch
'himself.  I can't afford ter keep a disorderly pub, now can I?"

"Well I wasn't in 'ere last night," Florence began, 'but I 'card all about
what went on.  Strikes meyer should be avin' a word or two wiv that flash
load o' monkeys 'oo started it all.  It's comin' ter some fink when yer can't
'ave a luiet drink in the pub any more.  "

Bill looked the irate woman squarely in the eye.

"Your Billy threatened ter knock a customer's 'ead off 'is shouliers an' we
'ad ter get 'im outside quick, luv."

Florence returned the stare,

"An' what started it?  I'll tell yer what started it.  This flash

"Arry took my Billy fer some ole plum, that's what.  There was a bit o*
piss-takin' an' then this bloke knocked my Billy's arm, on purpose I was
told.  There was beer all down 'is suit, an' when they all started laughin'
at 'im 'e lost 'is temper.  What's 'e s'posed ter do, walk away?"

The landlord opened another bottle of milk stout and put it beside the angry
woman.  " " Ere, Florrie.

"Ave this on me.  Billy's welcome 'ere as far as I'm concerned an' I promise
yer I'll keep me eye open fert rouble I won't let that crowd get at 'im
again, okay?"

Florence poured out the drink with a look of satisfaction.  "I ain't one ter
complain.  Bill, an' if my lad knew I was talkin' ter yer 'e'd go mad.
Trouble is, yer see, 'e ain't prop'ly better yet.  When 'e first come 'ome I
couldn't get the bleeder ter wash or shave, yer know that.

"E slept in 'is clothes an' every night 'e'd scream out in 'is sleep.  Gawd
knows what 'e was going' frew.  It's bin 'and, but the boy's beginnin' ter
pull 'himself tergewer.  Yer must 'ave seen the difference in 'im lately.
I've got 'im ter wash an' shave, an' a lot of it is down ter young Connie.
Our Billy's took a shine ter the girl.  She's about the only one 'e feels
comf'table wivE's always talkin' about 'er."

Bill nodded.

"I know, Florrie.  She's a good kid.  It ain't bin easy fer 'er neiwer, what
wiv losin' 'er chap, an' all 'er family.  I'll 'ave a word wiv Connie.
She'll keeper eye on 'im."

Customers had started to arrive and it was not long before Steve Barnett's
friends began to congregate in their usual spot at the end of the counter.

Joe Cooper sat in his parlour deep in thought.  Beside him on the table was
the latest letter from Dennis Foreman, and it was causing him considerable
anguish.  Much had happened since the escapee had left Bermondsey concealed
in the back of a lorry laden with a consignment of foodstuffs from the London
docks.  Dennis had been put down on the outskirts of Norwich, and soon he had
been safely reunited with his cousin.  Money had changed hands and a forged
identity card had been provided.  He now wore a moustache and parted his hair
down the middle.  A pair of thick specta- 384 les completed the disguise
and, as Joe studied the phoograph sent with the letter, he had to admit that
Dennis ooked nothing like his former self.

There had been repeated visits from the police during the past few months.
They had made it clear to him that he was known to be a friend of Dennis
Foreman and any attempt to aid or to assist the escaped prisoner would render
him liable to a long term of imprisonment, especially as he himself had
previous convictions.  For a time there had been a policeman lurking in the
street.  Strange faces in civilian clothes also seemed to be hanging around
now and again and Joe began to spot the waiting detectives when he went for
his morning paper or came out from the factory in the evenings.  As time
passed the watchers slowly seemed to disappear.  There had been regular
sightings of the escapee from as far north as Scotland and from various
south-coast towns.  One report in a Sunday newspaper suggested that Dennis
Foreman had been killed in an air raid on Liverpool and another, more bizarre
tale, told of his suicide by drowning.  Credence was given to the story by
the discovery af a torso which had been washed up on the beach at Skegness.
The mangled remains had most likely fouled a ship's propeller and
identification had been rendered impossible, the correspondent concluded.

Dennis had taken comfort from the varying stories of his demise and in his
latest letter to Joe he indicated that it was about time he returned to his
old haunts.  Joe was not so confident.  It had been quiet lately but any
stranger in the area might well arouse curiosity.  There was another part of
the letter which caused Joe to worry.  Dennis, now using the pseudonym
William Smithers, had suggested that the 1'oomeys might like to take in a
lodger.  It would be a safe tiaven, Marie's Uncle Bert had told him, when the
two had met to conclude their transaction.  Joe thought otherwise.  Marie was
shrewd enough to keep Dennis's identity a secret and she would see to it that
Toby kept his mouth shut, but loe felt that Lillian was another proposition.
It was common knowledge that she was very partial to members of the apposite
sex, and the fact that she was at present seeing a lot af a certain foreign
serviceman would not make the slightest difference to her roving appetites.

Joe leaned back in his chair and thought about how he would reply to the
letter.  Dennis had asked about Connie Morgan and said that he would like to
meet her now that she was a grown woman.  His desire to see her worried Joe.
Connie had suffered enough as it was.  One loose word might be enough to
arouse her suspicions, for she was a smart kid.  The shock of discovering the
identity of her father after all this time could be too great.  He would need
to make this clear in his reply and would also need to remind Dennis of the
promise he had made all those years ago: the promise the three of them had
made together.

Kate Morgan might not be alive, but her wishes should still be honoured, for
Connie's sake if nothing else.

The crowd had gathered and the drinks were flowing fast.  Bill French was
helping Dora in the saloon bar but he frequently popped his head into the
public bar as the evening wore on.  There had been no air raids for the past
two weeks and the Dolphin was becoming a very busy pub.  Connie was
disappointed that Billy had not put in an appearance, but Derek Angelo had
been eager to cultivate the pretty young barmaid and he was being
particularly attentive.  She had been plied with drinks and already her head
was beginning to buzz and she could feel the familiar comfortable warm glow
spreading around her insides.

Connie studied the crowd and could not see the brassy woman who had been with
Derek Angelo the previous evening.  Derek had asked her to accompany him to a
party after the pub shut and at first she had declined.  But as the drink
took hold her de fences crumbled and the dark-haired young man had been very
persuasive.  So finally she agreed.  What did it matter?  she reasoned.  He
was friendly and generous, and there would surely be plenty to drink.  What
did it matter if she had to fight him off?  She could drink herself into a
sublime state and forget everything for a few hours.  She could shut out the
pain and sink finally into a dreamless sleep.

At closing time Dora voiced her worries about the assignation but Connie
laughed them off.

"I'll be all right.  The party's only a few streets away.  Don't wait up,
Dora.  I've got me key."

386 Across the road from the Dolphin Billy slouched in a doorway.  He had
been standing there for the past hour and the cold night air made him shiver.
He had made several attempts to cross the street and enter the pub, but each
time he had stopped at the kerb and then slipped back into the shadows.  He
wanted to see the pretty blond barmaid and talk to her again, but he felt
ashamed.  He had tried to ignore the taunts and the jests the previous
evening.  He had tried hard to remain cool and detached but the anger had
welled up until he was looking down a dark, narrow tunnel.  All he could see
was the face of the man who was taunting him and his rage had exploded.  She
would think him crazy he thought, and tears rose into his eyes.

"Why can't they leave me alone?"  he muttered through his gritted teeth.

"Why should they treat me like an idiot?"

He fought the anger and desperation which twisted up his stomach as he waited
in the shadows, and then he saw her.  She was leaving with the dark-haired
man who had taunted him the night before.  She was laughing and she tossed
her long blond hair over her shoulder as the man slipped his arm around her
waist.

Billy watched as they left the turning, then he stepped out from the shadows
into the pale moonlight and walked slowly home.

387 Chapter Thirty-Eight The first light of day filtered through the drawn
curtains and Connie blinked as she slowly came to.  She could see that the
bedroom was well furnished and the ceiling was high, unlike her attic room at
the pub.  Her hands went down to the silk counterpane and suddenly she sat up
with a start, pulling the bedclothes up around her nude body.  Her head
pounded and a feeling of nausea swept over her.  The space beside her was
dishevelled and she realised that someone had shared her bed.

She glanced around the room as she fought her sickness and saw that her
clothes were draped over a chair beside the bed.  She slipped out of the
sheets and felt the soft carpet beneath her bare feet as she stole a furtive
glance at the door.  She dressed quickly and then went to the window.  The
street was deserted except for a lone figure who walked by carrying the
Sunday papers under his arm.  Connie slumped down on the bed and put her
hands to her head.  It was still hazy but she remembered leaving the party
with Derek Angelo and walking across the street.  The rest was a blur.

The sound of a key in the lock startled her and she jumped up from the bed in
alarm.

He came breezily into the bedroom, surprise showing on his dark features.

"Yer awake then," Derek said, breaking into a grin.

"Phew!

That was some party last night.

"Ow's yer 'ead?"

Connie sat down heavily on the chair.

"It's bangin'," she said.

"I

can't remember much.  " She looked towards the bed.  " Did yer stay 'ere last
night?  " she asked hesitantly.

He laughed aloud.

"Yer mean yer can't remember?"

"No," she replied quickly.

"It's all right.  Don't looked so shocked.  Nufink 'appened," he said sitting
down on the edge of the bed.

"We didn't get very far, we was both too drunk."

389 Connie stood up quickly and felt the nausea returning.  She grabbed her
handbag from the dressing table and put her hand to her forehead.

"I'd better get 'ome.  They'll be worried.  What time is it?"

Derek glanced at his wristwatch.

"It's ten past nine.  What about some breakfast before yer go?"

The thought of food made her stomach turn over and she shook her head.

"No fan ks I mus' get 'ome."

She hurried away from the terraced house in Dover Square and almost ran the
short distance to Salter Street.

As she let herself in through the side door Connie heard Dora call out.

"That you.  Con?"

The landlady of the Dolphin looked up as Connie walked into the kitchen.  She
was clad in a pink dressing gown and her hair was dotted with curlers.

"We was getting' worried when yer never come in.  You all right?"

Connie nodded and sat down in the easy chair with a sigh.  "It was late when
the party ended so I slept on the set tee  I'm okay, just a bit of an
'eadache."

Dora took the teapot from the top of the kitchen range and poured out two
cups of tea.  She handed one to Connie and then sat down facing her.

"Bill an' me was a bit worried you going' off wiv that Steve Barnett's crowd.
Con.  They're a no-good lot an', from what I've 'card about their parties, a
young girl ain't safe in their company."

Connie gave Dora a wan smile.

"It's all right, I never got raped or anyfing.  I just 'ad a lot ter drink,
that's all."

Dora sipped her tea.

"That's anuwer fing me an' Bill are worried about, Connie.  Yer drink far too
much fera young girl.  If yer not careful yer'll do yerself some damage."

Connie did not reply.  Instead she sipped her tea slowly, her eyes staring
down over the cup.

"Billy Argrieves didn't come in last night, did 'e?"  Dora asked after a
lengthy pause.

"Bill told me 'is muwer came in earlier an' she was a bit upset."

"What did she 'ave ter say, Dora?"

Dora put down her empty cup and studied her feet.  "Accordin' toer, my Bill
was wrong ter say 'e was gonna bar young Billy.  She reckons it was that
Angelo who started it all.  I fink she's right there.  That crowd are a right
flash lot.  They fink they own the bloody pub."

390 Connie sighed.

"I 'ope it don't stop Billy comin' in.

"E's of a lot better lately, an' 'e's chattin' more.

"E was tellin' ie the ower night 'e's finkin' o' going' after a job.  I 'ope
'e oes.  It'll be good fer 'im."

Dora gathered up the tea cups.

"You just be careful, Connie.  Mind what I've said.  We don't wanna see yer
come er grief.  Gawd knows yer've 'ad yer share already."

Connie went up to her room and threw herself down on he bed.  The sickness
had eased but her head was throb- ing.  She closed her eyes and tried to
remember the party.  he recalled dancing with Angelo in the crowded room.
rhere had been a lot of drink and she vaguely remembered iim encouraging her
to try something different, which as ted bitter, like liquorice.  She
remembered getting hot and uncomfortable soon after.  The only other thing
she ;ould recall was leaving the party and crossing the street and then
climbing up a dark flight of stairs.  Connie turned )n her side and bit on
her clenched fist.  Derek said that lo thing had happened, she thought to
herself, but he ladn't sounded convincing.  She wondered what had been n that
funny-tasting drink and whether it had had anything o do with her ending up
in his bed.

She thought hard about the man as she lay in the quiet oom.  He was
attractive in a rugged sort of way and he had i sense of humour, but she
could not understand why she iad gone off with him to his flat.

She did not feel physically ittracted to the man.  It must have been the
drink, she con- ;luded.  Dora was right.  She was drinking too much.

On hree occasions recently when she had been in men's com- any she had
allowed them to take advantage of her.  The Irink was breaking down her
self-control and making her in easy prey.  ^She knew that she was behaving
like her not her had and the thought was a painful one.

She knew hat people would soon start talking.  They would call her a oose
woman and say that it was only natural, that she was aking after Kate.  The
realisation made her feel suddenly rightened.

She sat up on the bed, her heart beating rapidly and looked around the room.
Her eye caught sight of the little Bold locket lying on the dressing table.
For a while she stared at it, and then she went over and picked it up.  Her
eyes filled with tears of self-pity as she squeezed the trinket in her
clenched hand.  Helen seemed to be mocking her from beyond the grave and it
made her angry that her aunt had waited until she was on her death bed before
deciding to give her the locket.  She must have known all along who Bonny
was.  Why else would she have concealed the whereabouts of the thing?  Connie
prised open the trinket and stared again at the tiny inscription.  She wiped
her tears away with the back of her hand and reaffirmed her vow that no
matter what happened, no matter how long it took, she would find out about
her father, and why he had walked out on his family all that time ago.  It
was a challenge she would never give up; it would be a quest which would
sustain her, whatever lay ahead.

Billy Argrieves walked out into the Old Kent Road and made his way to the
Bricklayers Arms.  It was a fresh spring morning and the traffic was heavy as
he reached the junction.  He stood at the tram stop and waited in the queue
for a number sixty-eight to arrive.  His stomach was turning over at the
thought of going to the labour exchange, but he knew that it was something he
had to do.  The alternative would be another medical to establish his amount
of disability and what sort of pension the army would grant him.  Billy was
aware that his body wounds had healed completely and the assessment would be
made solely on his emotional state.  He could tell the doctors about the
headaches and the nightmares which still plagued him, and the terror he felt
just talking to other people.  He could tell them how difficult it was to
walk into a pub on his own, or even just go out of the house, and they might
be sympathetic towards him.  He would then be given a small pension and spend
the rest of his life moping around the house and sinking further into
depression.  The local people would see him as some sort of idle layabout and
take the rise out of him even more.

They would not care that he was a war casualty, he would just be an idiot to
them who they could mock and throw scorn at.

The noise of the tram interrupted Billy's thoughts as it drew up at the stop.
He jumped aboard and climbed the steep flight of stairs to the upper deck.
He realised that he had always ridden on the top deck of a tram.  The rocking
392 and swaying seemed more pronounced and he could see more from up there.
He handed over his fare and watched is the miserable conductor clipped a
ticket in the machine strapped around his middle.  Billy was grateful for the
man's silence.  He knew that tram conductors were well known for their line
of small talk and banter and he did not iv ant to get involved in any sort of
discussion.  The tram shuddered as it progressed slowly past the stalls in
Tower Bridge Road and Billy leaned back in his seat.

What sort of a job would they offer him?  he wondered.  It would probably be
factory work, for he had no trade.  Maybe they would offer him some sort of
outdoor job.  that would be better, he thought.  Being cooped up inside iid
not appeal to him very much.  In any case, he must get something.  He would
then be able to go into the pub and buy Connie a drink.  She might even like
to go out with him if she knew he had a job.  The tram squealed to a stop
autside the bomb-damaged vinegar factory and Billy felt he hurt and anger
welling up inside of him as he thought of lis last visit to the Dolphin.
Connie must be thinking he was i troublemaker who couldn't hold his drink.
Even if he got i job and plucked up the courage to ask her out she would
probably refuse.  It was obvious she liked those smartly iressed people, like
the crowd who started the trouble the 3ther night.  They were flash boys with
money to burn and he dark-haired one must have impressed Connie for her to
iave left the pub with him like she did.

The tram swung around into Tooley Street and picked up peed.  Billy closed
his eyes and pictured her.  Her hair was ihining and she smiled at him.  He
saw her white even teeth md her pale-blue eyes which seemed to sparkle.  He
could see her clearly as she moved about the bar and he opened his yes
suddenly.  He promised himself that if he got a job he'd ?  et a suit and a
new shirt.  He could buy a pair of those shiny ilack shoes he used to wear
and a new tie.  He would have to ;ry to ignore the taunts when he went into
the pub though.  Maybe if he smartened himself up the flash boys would eave
him alone and Connie might be impressed enough to lo out with him.  The
thought of asking her out made him swallow hard.  He would never be able to
pluck up the courige.  She would probably only laugh at him.  As his thoughts
raced Billy felt himself getting hot and uncomfortable.  He fought to rid
himself of the recurring vision and a cold sweat began to break out on his
forehead.  The plane was coming towards him, flying low, its wings spread out
like a diving eagle reaching down for its prey.

Gun flashes blinded him as bullets splattered into the sand and he clawed at
the wet grit in an attempt to escape.  He felt the bullet hit him and the
burning pain in his back.  Billy clenched his fists and breathed deeply as he
tried to escape from the nightmarish images.  He heard the conductor's voice
coming from a long way off.

"Next stop the Tunnel."

The tram shuddered to a stop and the white-faced young man jumped down.  He
walked briskly along Brunei Road, hoping his exertion would banish the dark
thoughts that clouded his mind, and he was breathing heavily when he reached
the labour exchange.

The week's work had started as usual for the head barrel- washer at Hayden's
pickle factory.  In the yard there was a line of empty, smelly hogsheads, and
as he sat down on an upturned box and squeezed into his rubber boots Toby was
feeling a little apprehensive.  The sudden confrontation with the escaped
prisoner in the shelter had been a shock to say the least, even if they had
got on afterwards.

But Marie had received a letter from the man, asking if she would consider
taking him on as a lodger.  It was that bloody interfering uncle of hers,
Toby thought.  Marie had told him about Dennis Foreman's new identity and
said there was nothing to worry abort, but what about that bleedin' copper?
He was on the lookout for any new face in the area.  Supposing he spotted
Dennis and saw through his disguise?  It would mean prison for the whole
family.  Marie would be sorry.  She wouldn't be able to nag those warders in
Holloway.  Then there was Lillian.  She might take a shine to the lodger and
find out who he really was.  Lil was a good girl but she was apt to be
talkative at times, Toby had to admit.  Maybe he should put his foot down and
firmly tell Marie he would not allow her to take in lodgers.

That wouldn't do any good, he reflected.  Marie never took any notice of what
he said.  He might just as well be the lodger himself, for all 394 the
respect they showed him.  It wasn't as if he was still lot ting He had a
respectable steady job and he brought home his unopened wage packet every
week.  Some men wouldn't stand for it.  Some men would have upped and left
long ago.

The factory manager was staring down from his office vindow.

"What's he doing?  Is he on strike or something?"  ie said aloud.

"The bloody clown's been sitting there with lis hands under his chin for the
last ten minutes."  He leaned ut of the window and cupped a hand around his
mouth.  Oi you!  " he called out.

"Who me?"  Toby said, getting up from the box.

"Yes, you.  Are you going to start work, or do you expect those barrels to
get up and take a shower!?"

"I'm jus' getting' started, sir.  Right away, sir," Toby replied, swearing
under his breath.

The manager shut the window and Toby tied on his rub- ier apron which reached
down to the floor.

"Bloody ole oat," he mumbled aloud.

"I'd like ter nail 'im up in one of hose dirty barrels an' roll the bleeder
off Tower Bridge."

By the time Iris Turner brought out his mug of tea at ieven o'clock Toby had
made good progress.  At least half >f the barrels were cleaned and turned
upside down to [rain.

"There yer are, luv," Iris said, giving him a beaming smile.

Toby grinned back and sat down on the box again.  Iris 'stood over him and
watched closely as he unwrapped his heese sandwich, her large eyes unblinking
and her full lot torn lip hanging loose.  Iris was a large middle-aged roman
who had spent most of her adult life taking care of ler ailing mother.  When
the old lady died Iris realised that he had left it a bit late to get married
and, until Toby came >n the scene, she was content to spend her time caring
for ler cats and going once a week to the women's meeting held ,t the local
church.

Things had suddenly changed for Iris.  The felt sorry for the inoffensive
little character and for the way he was spoken to by the yard manager.  All
Iris's moth- ring instincts came to the fore in the presence of Toby and t
had become one of her little pleasures to take him his doming tea.  Iris had
realised with some surprise that trange feelings were manifesting themselves
within her.

She had even dreamed about Toby one night, and from then on she had decided
to make a play for him.  She soon found out by a tactful approach that he was
married to a dominating woman who, according to the little man, frequently
cracked the whip.  Iris's womanly feelings blossomed whenever she saw him and
at every opportunity she was on hand to give him comfort and to make him
aware that she would be a good catch, should he decide to leave the virago.

While Toby munched on his sandwich Iris took out a small package from her
apron pocket and unwrapped it.

"Would you care for a slice of Spanish onion, Toby?  It's nice with cheese."

Toby took the slice of onion and slipped it in his sandwich.  He was not too
fond of Spanish onions, and he knew that Marie would no doubt have something
to say about his breath when he got home that night.

Nevertheless, he did not want to upset Iris.  She had been nice to him, and
those large jars of pickles she smuggled out from the dispatch department
were proving to be profitable.  Toby was also aware of her interest in him
and he felt flattered.  He had started using brilliantine on his thinning
hair each morning, to the disgust of Marie.

"It makes yer bonce look like a polished apple.  Anybody'd fink yer was
workin' in a bleedin' office," she moaned.

Toby ignored the taunts and continued his efforts to improve his appearance
for the benefit of Iris Turner, and it did not go unnoticed.

"Yer look smart this mornin', Toby," she said.

"Is that lavender brilliantine you've got on yer 'air?"

Toby nodded with a sheepish grin.

"It 'elps ter keep the flies away, Iris.  They swarm aroun' those dirty
barrels."

"Drink yer tea, Toby, it's getting' cold," she said, sitting down beside him
on the upturned box.

The head barrel-washer had succeeded in removing the slice of onion from his
sandwich and depositing it behind the box.  He picked up his still-hot tea.

"It's okay Iris, I like it cool," he smiled.

"I'll put more milk in it termorrer," she said.  Then she added quietly,

"Ow's yer wife?"

Toby wished he had kept his mouth shut.  Milky tea made 396 dm feel sick,
and so did the mention of his wife so early on i Monday morning.

"She's all right," he answered without nthusiasm.

"She's 'ad a moan about the smell o' pickles on the clothes, but as I told
'er, I smelt a lot worse when I was ottin' fera living

Iris shook her head.

"Yer ought ter get out more on yer awn, I mean.

Yer should go fera drink one night.  There's a nice little pub called The
Green Man in Bermon'sey Lane.  [t's near where I live.  I go in there
sometimes wiv me friend Audrey.  I could meet yer outside there one night if
yer like?  "

Toby wiped the back of his hand across his lips.  The thought of taking Iris
for a drink seemed a pleasant enough arrangement, providing Marie didn't get
to hear of it.  The sudden vision of her chasing him around the house
clutching a meat cleaver made him shiver.

He glanced into Iris's large friendly eyes and he decided there and then to
take the ;hance.

"It sounds a good idea.  What about Friday evenin'?  Marie goes out wiv 'er
friend on Fridays."

Iris rubbed her meaty shoulder against his bony arm.

"We an sit in the snug bar," she said.

"It's quieter in there.  they've got a nice pianer player in the pub an' 'e
plays all 'he ole songs on Friday nights.  I'll see yer outside about ight
o'clock.  Is that all right?"

Toby nodded.  Marie usually left the house at seven o'clock.  It should give
him enough time, he thought.

The little meeting had been noted by the irritable yard nan ager from his
office window.  That barrel-washer is aking a bit of a liberty, he moaned to
himself.  It's that Iris turner encouraging him.  I'll have to get her
transferred to mother department.  I can't have her chatting to him every
norning, it's stopping him doing his work.

He opened his window and leaned out.

"Oil You down here!"  he shouted.

"Have you finished all those barrels?  rhere's another dozen in the factory
waiting to be cleaned."

Chapter Thirty-Nine As April showers washed the dock land streets clean and
watered the budding flowers in the back street window boxes, the local folk
were beginning to feel that the worst of the air raids might have passed.

The Luftwaffe seemed to be changing their attacks to other large cities.  The
London air raids had become more sporadic, and many more people began to
sleep in their own beds instead of the uncomfortable shelter bunks.  Clara
Cosgrove loved her own bed, and she gave the shelter warden and his helpers
due warning that if there should be an air raid they were not to disturb her.
It seemed that Mrs Cosgrove had been bitten by something or the other and
she put it down to shelter lice.

"It's them there bleedin' bunks, that's what done it," she moaned.

"I

mean ter say, yer can't expect anyfing else, can yer?  Them bunks are made of
bleedin' sackin'.  They 'arbour fings like lice an' bugs.  "

Joe Cooper tried to remonstrate with the irate old lady but she was adamant.

"Listen 'ere.  Mister Know-all.  I'm covered in bloody great bites an' it
ain't me own 'ouse what's filfy dirty, an' I ain't bit me self  Them there
bites are from lice.  We all got bitten in the last war, when we was workin'
in the rag sorters' yard in Bermon'sey Lane.

Me an' ole Daisy Mooney got covered in 'em an' we 'ad ter be scrubbed all
over wiv paraffin twice a day.  Bleedin' uncomf'table, I can tell yer.  "

"Now listen, Clara.  I do them bunks out wiv insect spray twice a week an'
nobody else is complainin', Joe retorted.

"I can't 'elp that, Joe.  I tell yer I'm covered.  I've even got 'emonme.  .
."

"All right, girl," Joe butted in, not wishing to know the details.

"Yer do as yer see fit.  But I tell yer, if there's anuwer bad raid don't
moan at me if yer 'ouse falls down round yer ears, an' we 'ave ter dig yer
out."

399 Clara leaned on the door-post and crossed her arms in a gesture of
defiance.

"Well I'm jus' tellin' yer, that's all."

Joe wanted to tell her that she had probably been bitten by cat fleas.  After
all, she spent most of each day sitting with Mrs Adams in the cat woman's
little front parlour.  But the look on Clara's face stopped him saying
anything further and he shrugged his shoulders as he walked away.

As the month slipped by the weather grew warmer and the days became longer.
May started warm and sunny, and on the evening of the tenth the air-raid
siren sounded early.  Soon the guns were firing and explosions rocked the
little back streets The raid developed into the worst one the dock land folk
could remember.  All night the roar went on as high explosives rained down
all over London.  Fires burned out of control.  The docks and wharves were
badly hit, and firemen were unable to pump water from the Thames due to a
very low tide.  The sky glowed dull red and black smoke hung in the air.  All
the London hospitals were crowded with casualties and queues of dazed victims
waited at emergency dressing stations to be treated.  Gas, water and
electricity supplies were cut off and, as the shocked shelter dwellers
emerged at first light, the sight that greeted them was nightmarish.  All
around dock land the little streets which survived were strewn with glass and
roof slates.  High in the angry sky a huge cloud of smoke seemed to cover the
whole of the capital and it reflected the flames of the many fires which were
still burning out of control.  The smell of cordite and burning timbers was
stifling and fire bells sounded incessantly as the last reserves of fire
fighters dashed to the raging blazes.

In Ironmonger Street, the raid had brought back painful memories of the night
when the Dwellings had been destroyed, and the street folk felt a new sense
of impending doom as they made their way home silently.  Joe Cooper and his
team of fire watchers had battled all night against the falling incendiary
bombs, and they managed to save the little houses from burning down when they
smothered a device which had fallen through Ada Halliday's bedroom ceiling.

At the height of the air raid Joe and his team had banged on Clara Cosgrove's
front door but there had been no 400 inswer.  They had been too hard pressed
to return, but as soon as the raiders left they banged on Clara's door again.
Still there was no answer and they decided to force entry in :ase something
had happened to the determined old lady.  Joe leaned heavily on the door and
pushed it open.  There was a scorching smell in the passage which seemed to
be ;oming from the back of the house, and when the fire watchers stumbled
into the little backyard they saw a pair of Clara's red flannel drawers
smouldering on the clothes line.  Beneath them was an incendiary bomb which
had burnt itself out on the stone floor.

"Christ!"  Joe gasped.

"She's a lucky ole cow.  She could 'ave bin burnt alive."

Clara was unrepentant.  She woke with a start to see anxious eyes staring
down at her.

"What the bloody 'ell d'you lot want!?"  she blurted out, quickly drawing the
bedclothes up around her neck.

"Yer drawers caught light, Clara," Joe answered, grinning with relief.

"We jus' put 'em out."

"Gawd 'elp us!"  the old lady groaned.

"They was me clean ones.  I only washed 'em out yesterday."

Joe stared down at her.

"Yer sure yer all right, luv?  It was a bad one last night."

"I didn't 'ear a fing," Clara said, scratching the back of tier head and
yawning,

"I must 'ave bin in a deep sleep.  Well -lon't stand there gawkin'.  I gotta
get up an' sort out inuwer pair o' drawers."

Like Ironmonger Street, little Salter Street had survived, although the
turning was littered with broken glass and roof slates.  The adjoining street
had not been so lucky, however.  A.  bomb had landed on a row of terraced
houses and more than a dozen people had been killed.  The nearby Old Kent
Road had been badly hit, too.  Shop fronts had been blown out by the blast of
a high explosive landing in the middle of the road which created a deep
crater that had rapidly filled with water.  There was ugly devastation
everywhere.  Black smoke rose from many back streets and the sickly smell of
smouldering fires hung in the still air.

People appeared on the street and looked around in dis>elief at the damage
that had been inflicted.  Road gangs vere out pumping water from the crater
and other men worked with oxyacetylene torches to remove the twisted,
mangled tram lines Fire hoses crisscrossed the thoroughfare, and near the
Bricklayers Arms junction a terrified, dust-streaked torn cat sat in a tree
and watched the commotion.  As evening set in, the beleaguered dock landers
prepared for the worst.  The shelters filled early and ears strained for the
dreaded air-raid siren.  But night fell and as the hours ticked slowly away
it remained silent.  Slowly the battered population drifted off to sleep, and
when the new day dawned and the people roused themselves they rubbed their
eyes incredulously.  The morning was calm and the smoke had cleared.

The week following the terrible air raid was a quiet one and people began to
hope that it may have been the last attempt of the German air force to bomb
the capital into submission.  Their spirits rose as the days passed and the
pubs became busy once more.  In the Dolphin, Connie and Jennie were
struggling to cope with the trade on Saturday evening.  The piano player was
in good form and already the public bar chorus was giving an unrehearsed
rendering of the latest tunes.  The bar was noisy and filled with smoke and
people were jostling for space as they shouted out their orders.

Connie was secretly pleased that Derek Angelo had not made an appearance.
Ever since the night of the party he had been pressing her to go with him to
a night club up West.  Jennie had told her that Derek's business premises had
been gutted by fire during the last air raid and he was probably preoccupied
with salvaging what was left.  The crowd of smart young men was in its usual
spot, however, but Jennie was taking care of that end of the bar and for that
Connie was thankful.  She was desperate not to become too involved with the
crowd.  The experience with Derek had made her cautious.  She had become
resigned to going straight to her room after the pub had closed and reading
until she dropped off to sleep.  Sometimes it was easy when the customers had
been generous, but other times she needed to take the bottle out of its
hiding place and fortify herself before going to bed.  She had no strength to
resist the bottle in her room or the tot which some kind soul bought her, but
there were times when the drink hardly seemed to help her at all.

402 The evening wore on and Connie glanced at the door very time someone
came in.  It had been almost two no nths since Billy Argrieves had been
forcibly ejected and he was giving up hope of his coming in again.

She missed iim and hoped he would make an appearance, although she ;ried not
to dwell too much on him or to wonder why he had stayed away.  Connie had
told herself over and over again hat no one would ever get beyond that
self-imposed barrier he had created.  Billy was a danger to her, she
realised.  If he was not careful he might weaken her de fences and she tried
to put him out of her mind.  He posed too much of a threat.

It had been more than six weeks since Billy Argrieves walked nervously into
the local labour exchange and got himself a job.  The official was feeling
very charitable on that particular morning and he had listened while the
hesitant young lad blurted out his requirements.  Billy was duly dispatched
to the premises of John Burton, Timber Merchants, where he spent some
considerable time chewing on his green card before plucking up enough courage
to enter the yard.  The foreman was a kindly man who felt sorry for Billy's
efforts to articulate himself and he signed his labour card.

Billy found the job to his liking, although at first his damaged back caused
him pain.  Working outside suited him and he soon became used to the physical
nature of the job.  The demand for timber was heavy and he was often ible to
earn a few extra shillings with overtime.

The job lelped to restore Billy's self-confidence and he began to nake plans
to get himself tidied up.  On one thing he was tecided: he would not enter
the Dolphin until he was atisfied with the way he was dressed.  There would
be no ;ause for anyone to take the rise out of him and he would ilso be in a
position to repay the blond barmaid for her and ness in buying him all those
drinks.

Florence Argrieves had taken the tape measure to her son md when all of his
details were entered on the form sup- lied by her next-door-neighbour she
went to place the >rder.

"I've put the colour in the box, Edie," she said.

"Now don't let the so an' so talk yer into 'avin' any ower colour.  Billy
insists on it being' grey.  Oh, an' fer Gawd's sake don't letonit'sfer'im."

Edie nodded.

"Don't yer worry yerself, Flo.  If the nosy bastard starts asking' questions
I'll say it's ferme nephew."

Tanks, Edie.  Since my Billy clobbered 'im, the bleeder won't even look at
me.  I couldn't even get a pair o' shoelaces orf 'is catalogue.

Mind you though.  Billy's payin' fert he suit, not me.  Since 'e started work
'e's a changed lad.  By the way, Edie.  If that tallyman brings any o' those
plain blue shirts round like you got your ole man, order us one, will yer?
Put it on the book an' I'll settle up wiv yer.  I'm buyin'it fer Billy.  "

Two weeks later the young man stood appraising himself in front of the
mirror.  That afternoon he had got a haircut and he had paid a visit to the
baths in Grange Road.  He had to concede that the new grey suit fitted
perfectly.  His black brogues were well polished, his blue shirt looked very
smart and a silver tie added the finishing touch.  Florence had wanted him to
wear a pocket handkerchief but he shook his head.

"I don't wanna look too flashy, Ma.  This'll do."

Ten minutes later his mother called up the stairs,

"Ain't yer going' out?  Yer bin standin' in front o' that mirror fer hours.
If yer not careful yer'll 'ave the devil jumpin' out after yer."

Billy looked down at his shaking hands and felt beads of sweat breaking out
on his forehead.  The thought of walking into the pub again terrified him.
All eyes would be on him ^md people would be bound to notice he was wearing a
new suit.  Supposing the mickey-taking starts again, he thought to himself.
Could I cope with it?

"C'mon, Billy.  What yer doin' up there?"  his mother bawled out.

With an effort he turned away from the mirror and hurried down the stairs to
the front door.  Florence watched through her lace curtains, a proud smile
spreading over her face, as her son walked away along the darkening street.

People entered the Dolphin and the light faded until it was completely dark.
Still Billy waited in the same spot where he had stood when he saw Connie
leave with the 404 rk-haired young man.  He squeezed his clenched fists til
it hurt and then rubbed his sweating palms down his iuser legs.  It was the
sight of the returning policeman iich decided him to go in.  He had given
Billy a suspicious >k as he strolled by earlier.  With his heart beating
rapidly ; young man walked up to the door of the public bar and shed it open.
As he stepped through the heavy blackout rtain and looked around quickly he
saw that the pub was eked.  No one seemed to be taking any notice of him and
wly he edged his way towards the bar.

Connie saw him coming towards her and she let the drink ; was pouring spill
over.  He looked so different.  His dark vy hair was combed back from his
forehead and he was nning nervously.

' "Ello, Billy," she said quickly, letting go of the pump ndle as beer washed
over her hands.

"Long time no see."  He touched the knot of his tie with his thumb and
"efinger."

 "Ello, Connie," he said.

"I've bin pretty busy.  I .  I got a job."  "So I 'card.  Is it okay?"

He nodded as he reached his hand into his pocket.

"Yeah, he it.  It's out in the open an' there's a bit of overtime."  The
elderly customer beside Billy was waiting for his pint ale and he tapped the
money on the counter.

"I don't fink '11 get any more beer in that glass, gel," he remarked.

Connie winced.

"Sorry, Albert.  There we are."

Mbert picked up his pint and backed away from the [inter, glancing curiously
at the young man next to him.

"What can I get yer, Billy?"  Connie asked, resting her us on the wooden
surface and smiling broadly.

"I'll.  .  .  I'll 'ave a pint o' bitter, an' you 'ave one, too,"

said, grinning back at her.

"No, it's all right."

The smile disappeared from his face and Connie straight;d up.

"Oh, all right," she said.

"Why not?"

' "Ave a whisky."

"Abeer'lldo."

Billy's eyes opened wider.

"Go on, 'ave a whisky.  I've ;n yer drink whisky when I was in 'ere before."

Connie returned his open look.

"Oh yer noticed me, did -?  Well jus' fert hat I fink I will 'ave a whisky."

They laughed together and suddenly she felt a pang of anxiety.  She could
see a certain look in his eyes.  She had seen that look in Robert's eyes that
day in the Armitage factory canteen.  It seemed so long ago now but she had
never forgotten it.  It had been the start of something wonderful then and,
as she remembered, Connie quickly lowered her eyes.

It was nearing closing time and Billy was finishing his third pint.

He had been standing at the counter the whole time, watching her as she
hurried to and fro with the many orders.  The crowd in the corner had noticed
him, but apart from a few wary glances they had ignored him.  Billy watched
the barmaids busying themselves behind the counter and occasionally he and
Connie exchanged glances and he fingered his tie or pulled at his shirt
cuffs.  Connie could see the struggle going on inside him as he looked around
nervously and smiled briefly as folk nudged their way to the bar.  She became
increasingly aware of her own conflict.  Part of her wanted to stay and talk
to him and part of her wished he had never come in that evening.  Her
resolution was being tested, and she gritted her teeth.  It wasn't fair, she
groaned to herself.  It wasn't fair to him or to her.  No one could replace
her loss: no one could heal that aching she experienced every waking day
which lasted through the long empty hours.  Only the warm release she got
from the burning spirit could help her forget.

There was nothing she could offer to anyone; she had nothing left to give.

The bell had sounded and now Bill French was calling time.  Billy had
finished his drink and was watching her closely as she mopped the counter.

"Oh well.  I'll be off then," he said without moving.

Connie looked at him, a brief smile disguising her feelings.  Go, Billy.  For
Christ's sake go, can't yer, she pleaded silently.

"Okay, Billy, see yer later," she said to him.

He backed slowly away, his eyes never leaving her until he was near the door,
and then he turned and was gone.  Connie rubbed away furiously at the dry
surface.  She was being stupid, she told herself.

Why was she allowing herself to become involved so easily?  She had chosen
her path, and now in a moment of weakness the way ahead had become uncertain.
She looked around and noticed that Jennie was 406 reoccupied.  Quickly she
poured herself a large drink and ;ulped it down.  The spirit burned her
throat and hit her to mach like a hammer.

She blinked and saw Jennie look- ng at her.  The publican's daughter came
over and squeezed ler arm.

"You all right?"  she said with concern.

"Yer look errible."

Connie managed a weak smile.

"I'm okay, Jen.  It's bin a msy night."

"Yeah, it 'as," Jennie replied, picking up the last of the lirty glasses.

"Look, Con.  I don't wanna be a wet blanket or inyfing, but don't yer fink
yer strongin' it a bit wiv the woze?"

Connie rounded angrily on her friend.

"It's all right.  I was gonna put the money in the till anyway."

Jennie shook her head.

"No, Con.  Yer welcome to a drink my time as far as I'm concerned.  Trouble
is I'm worried feryou."

"There's no need ter worry, Jennie.  I'm okay.  Really."

Jennie touched Connie's arm.

"Go on, get up ter bed.  I'll inish down 'ere.  Jus' remember, I'm yer
friend.  If yer vanna 'ave a chat anytime, jus' say."

Connie nodded.  Tanks, Jen.  I will," she said with a sigh.

iilly walked slowly along the dark street, his footsteps ounding loudly on
the flagstones.  He was feeling slightly lizzy with the amount of drink he
had consumed and more han a little pleased with the way the evening had gone.
He iad managed the first part.  Connie had seemed glad to see iim and she
had found time to talk to him even though she was very busy.  The next part
was going to be harder.  He had o bring himself to ask her out.  Maybe she
would come out with him, now that he was looking more presentable.  He iad
reached his front door, and as he pulled on the door- ;tring and let himself
in he was whistling.  Florence was it ting beside the empty grate listening
to the wireless.  She ieard him climbing the stairs and her face broke into a
.  atisfied smile.  I must tell Edie how nice Billy looked in that ;uit, she
thought.  She heard his door shut and her eyes ravelled over to the empty
chair facing her.

"Yer should 'ave stayed around, yer no good bastard.  ifer'd 'ave bin proud
of 'im," she said aloud.

Chapter Forty ^ It was a few days after the heavy air raid when Dennis
Foreman, alias William Smithers, took up residence at number one, Ironmonger
Street.

He had arrived early on Monday morning carrying a small battered suitcase and
a bunch of flowers which he had purchased from a stall outside Liverpool
Street Railway Station.  It seemed logical to Mr Smithers that a visiting
relative might want to greet his kin with a small token of affection and it
would also seem logical to any enquiring soul who might note his arrival.

Mr Smithers's ploy worked very well, for his arrival was noticed by PC
Wilshaw, who had just left the Armitage factory after his usual morning cup
of tea.  He glanced at the short, stocky figure who rat-tatted on the
Toomey's door and was rewarded with a wide grin.

The PC noticed the heavily greased hair, the thick spectacles and the bushy
moustache.  He looked down at the man's trouser turnups and he could see they
were exposing at least two inches of black socks and a pair of scruffy brown
suede shoes.  The police constable walked by grinning to himself.  It
figured, he mused.  Anyone who looked as ridiculous as that would only be
knocking at the Toomeys' door.  He must be a relation, probably a brother or
a cousin.  Who else would take flowers to number one?  Come to think of it,
he might be a suitor calling on Lil Toomey.  She had had some very peculiar
men friends in the past, he recalled.

The wanted man had passed the first test and he soon made himself at home.
Lillian introduced him to her soldier sweetheart who mumbled an
unintelligible greeting, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him when Marie
showed her the flowers he had given her.  Dennis was wary, for Joe had warned
him about the man-mad Lillian in his letter, and from what he had learnt he
decided not to lead the girl on in any way.  He had no desire to become
involved with anyone 409 who attracted attention by outrageous carryings-on.
His plan was quite simple, he reasoned.  He would soon become accepted by
the local folk and then he could slowly discard the disguise.  It had worked
for his old cell-mate, Nosher Warner, who had used the ruse to fool the
police for quite a few years.  Nosher had escaped from an outside working
party when he was at Pentonville and he had eventually returned to his home
in Hoxton disguised as a city gent.  After a while the pinstriped suit and
the rolled-up brolly were discarded in favour of a more becoming garb for the
area.  It was only when he became besotted with the wife of a local
councillor and ran off with her, and the week's takings from the man's
tobacco shop, that he was apprehended.  Dennis did not intend to make the
same mistake, and he vowed to give Lillian Toomey a wide berth.

The fugitive had made a point of warning Joe Cooper of his arrival, and they
met in a quiet pub off the Old Kent Road.  Joe arrived first and, halfway
through his pint of ale, he saw the ridiculous figure enter the bar and blink
owlishly as he approached the table.  He held out his hand.

' "EUo, Joe.  Remember me?  William Smithers from Dock'ead."

Joe tried to hide his grin.

"Sit down yer soppy sod.  Yer look like a refugee from Caine '111."

Dennis smiled.

"Gonna buy us a drink then?"

Joe got up and walked to the counter.  It was early evening and the bar was
quiet, much to Joe's relief.  The landlord was studying the next day's racing
in the Evening News and he looked up wearily as Joe put a ten-shilling note
down on the counter.  Dennis was busy polishing his spectacles on a large
spotted handkerchief and when Joe put the pint down on the table the fugitive
put them back on his nose.

"Christ!  Yer must 'ave a good eyesight ter see out o' them," Joe quipped.

"It's a good job yer didn't bring yer white mackintosh wiv yer.  Yer'd get
run infer impersona- tin' a peepin' Torn or a fifth columnist."

Dennis took off his glasses and put them in his coat pocket.

"We'll 'ave ter watch it, Joe.  Don't start callin' me any fink but William
Smithers if there's anybody around.  I've bin practisin' me self  I'm William
Smithers from Barkin'.  I'm over this side o' the water lookin' up Cousin 410
."  oby.  I'm single, an' I've got a medical note which ses I'm unfit fer
work owin' ter 'eart trouble.  I've also got me identity card, an' a box o'
pills ter make it look good.  "

Joe shook his head slowly.

"Yer bin busy sortin' yerself out.  Is that identity card all right?  There's
a few geezers bin nicked round 'ere fer carryin' forged cards."

"Don't worry about that, Joe.  My card is genuine," Dennis said, grinning
widely.

"The real William Smithers was killed in an air raid.  It seems there's quite
a racket in takin' cards off dead bodies.  If nobody claims the corpse after
a certain time they release the identity card.  I tell yer, Joe, them cards
fetch a lot o' money.

My one cost a packet.  So did the medical note.  "

Joe sipped his beer thoughtfully.

"I thought yer was comin' back ter London a couple o' weeks ago.  What kept
yer?"

Dennis took a swig from his glass then leaned back in his chair.

"I

'ad ter sort me finances out, mate.  There was all that money owin' an' I 'ad
ter collect.  It's all done now an' ['m set up fera long spell.  "

People were now coming into the pub and Joe began to feel uneasy.  It did not
go unnoticed by Dennis.  He bought some more drinks and smiled at Joe as he
sat down.

"Relax, pal.  Yer look a bit bowered."

Joe sipped the froth from his filled glass.

"It's lookin' at you.  I'm 'alf expectin' somebody ter come up an' put their
'and on yer collar."

Dennis grinned and lifted his glass to his lips.  Joe watched as his friend
took a swig and smiled to himself when he saw the froth on Dennis's moustache.

"I gotta say it.  Den.  Yer do look stupid in that getup."

Dennis laughed aloud.

"What get-up?  It's me own moustache, an' me own 'air.  It's jus' combed
different, that's all."

Joe snorted.

"What about those glasses?  Did they come arf the corpse, too?"

"As a matter o' fact, me cousin gave 'em terme.

"E's got a new pair."

"Well I fink yer attractin' attention ter yerself.  Den."

Dennis became serious and he leaned forward over the table.

"Look, Joe.  I've gotta wear this get-up, as yer call it.

Wivvout it I couldn't come back ter the manor.  I tell yer, I couldn't stand
livin' in the sticks.  It'd drive me mad.  Besides, people were beginnin' ter
get nosy where I was.  They don't ask so many questions in Bermon'sey.
Anyway, let's change the subject.  When am I gonna getter see young Connie?
"

Joe had been waiting for him to ask.

"I told yer in the letter.  Den.

She's left the street," he said.

"An' I reckon yer should leave 'er fert he moment, she's got enough on 'er
plate.  An' I wouldn't like ter see 'er get 'urt."

Dennis nodded.

"Yeah, yer right, Joe.  It wouldn't do fer 'er ter find out about 'er ole
man, would it?  Not after all these years.  She should 'ave 'ad the chance
ter getter know 'im when she was a kid."

"Yeah, well she didn't did she," Joe replied, staring hard at his friend.

"There's too much water gone under the bridge now.  I reckon it's better ter
let fings stay as they are."

Dennis took a gulp from his pint.

"Does she look that much like 'er muvver, Joe?  Yer said she was a ringer fer
erin yer letter."

"Lookin' at that kid's like seem' Kate.  She's the spittin' image."

"C'mon, Joe, drink up," Dennis said suddenly.

"This pub's beginnin' ter give me the creeps."

On Sunday lunchtime Billy Argrieves came back into the Dolphin with his
mother holding on to his arm.  She was walking slowly and wincing with every
step.

"What's the matter, Flo?"  one of her neighbours asked.  "I tripped down the
stairs," Florence replied, holding her hip and grimacing with pain.  The
bleedin' leg's gorn black an' blue.  I should 'ave gorn ter the or spital wiv
it really.  It didn't seem too bad when I left the 'ouse, but the pain's
terrible now.  "

Billy led his mother to a seat and went to the counter.  Connie smiled at him.

"Is that a Guinness fer yer mum, Billy?"

"Yeah, an' a pint o' bitter ferme, Con," he said, fumbling awkwardly with a
handful of coins.  When Connie put the drinks down in front of him Billy gave
her a shy smile and carried the filled glasses carefully 412 o where his
mother was sitting.  The pub was packed and >oth Connie and Jennie were kept
busy.  The young man sat with his mother, his eyes constantly straying
towards the >ar counter.  The crowd had gathered in their usual spot and
onnie noticed that Derek Angelo was with them.  Pre- ently he caught her eye
and beckoned her over.  Without aking his eyes from hers he ordered a round
of drinks and, when she placed the glasses on the counter and handed the
;hange to him, he leaned across the counter.

"What yer loin' ternight, Connie?"  he whispered in her ear.

"I'm servin' be' and the bar," Connie answered quickly.

"I mean after the pub closes," he countered.

"I'm gonna get a good night's sleep."

"Look, Con.  I've bin workin' dead 'and lately, getting' me >omb damage
sorted out, an' I reckon I need a break.  When I leave 'ere ternight I'm
gonna get a cab an' go up Vest ter that club I was tellin' yer about.  Now
why don't 'er ferget yer early night an' come wiv me?  I told yer, ill work
an' no play ain't good feranybody.  Now what ibout it?"

"No fan ks Derek.  Like I said, I'm gonna get an early light."

"Well I'll be back in 'ere this evenin' an' I'll ask yer again.  ^nk about
it.  You'll enjoy yerself, believe me."

Connie turned away to serve another customer and her yes met Billy's.

He was staring at her with a sad look on his lushed face.  She looked away
and gripped the beer pump lard as she pulled it towards her.  It felt as
though she was >eing forced into a corner.  Why can't they leave me alone?
he asked herself.  Why did it all have to be so complicated?  Veil, they were
both going to be disappointed.  They were lot going to have the chance to get
close to her.  She was not soing to let anyone get that close again ever.

The lunchtime session was coming to an end and the cusomers were preparing to
go home to their Sunday dinners.  iilly and his mother had left suddenly and
the crowd had >ecome noisy.  Occasionally Derek caught Connie's eye, res
sing his question.  He did not speak to her again until iill called time.  As
he left he looked over to her.

"I'll see yer ternight, Connie.  Fink about it," he said, opening his eyes
wide.

Connie watched him leave before going to help Jennie clear the glasses.  The
landlord had shot the bolts and was sweeping up while Dora went into the back
kitchen and prepared to serve the Sunday lunch.  When the usual chores were
completed Connie joined the family around the table.  She was quiet and
thoughtful during the meal and later, when she and Jennie were washing the
dishes, her friend turned to her.

"Yer looked a bit miserable this mornin'.  Con," Jennie said.

"Was that Derek Angelo pesterin' yer?"

Connie shook her head.

"Not really.

"E wants meter go up town wiv 'im ternight, to a night club."

Jennie's eyes widened.

"Lucky you.  Yer going', ain't yer?"

"I don't fink so," Connie replied as she picked up the clean plates and set
them down on the dresser.

"Corf Give me alfa chance," Jennie sighed.

"It must be smashin' ter go to a real night club."

"Get Steve ter take yer then.

"E promised to, didn't 'e?"  Connie said sharply as she walked out of the
kitchen.

It was cool and quiet in the attic room, and the partially drawn curtains
kept out the sun.  Connie spread out on top of the bed and closed her eyes.
Maybe it was time to move on, she thought.  The family were being nice to her
and she was making things awkward for them with her black moods.  Maybe-she
should try to get a room in Ironmonger Street.  Ada Halliday had said she
could rent her upstairs room any time she felt like it.  There was a light
tap on the door and Jennie called in.

"You awake.  Con?"

"Yeah.c'monin."

Jennie walked into the room with her arms folded.

"Mum an' dad are snorin' in the armchairs an' I've read all the papers," she
said with a smile.

"Fancy a chat?"

Connie grinned and sat up on the bed.

"Sit 'ere," she said, patting the counterpane.

Jennie sat down and crossed her legs.  The an' you are friends.  Con.

We should be able ter talk about fings, shouldn't we?  "

Connie touched her friend's arm.

"Of course."

"Well, I've bin worried lately."

"About what, Jen?"

"You."

414 The?  Why should yer be worried about me?  "

Jennie traced a line on the counterpane and pursed her ips.

"Well, yer drinkin' a lot lately, an' yer bin like a bear viva sore 'ead.

Are yer getting' fed up 'ere, Connie?  "

Connie leaned back against the propped-up pillow and ;losed her eyes for a
few seconds.

"I s'pose I 'ave bin going' it i bit wiv the drink lately, but it's the only
fing that seems to elp.  When I get tipsy I can sleep well.  I blot everyfing
out.  rhere's no grief, no nufink."

Jennie looked hard at her friend.

"P'raps you should go ut wiv Derek ternight.  P'raps you should try an' let
go.  ^ufink's gonna bring yer fella back.  Con.  Maybe I'm oundin' 'and but
it's true, yer know it is."

"I know that, Jen.  I've gotta live wiv it, but it's 'and, it's 'ery 'and.
It might be easier if I could cry over 'im, but I an't.

There's no more tears left, just an empty space.  I an't fill that space.  I
can't get near a fella wiwout nakin' comparisons.  I 'ad everyfing once.  No
one can take Robert's place.  "

"P'raps that's where yer going' wrong."

Connie looked up from the bed.

"What dyer mean?"

"Well, yer got a future ter fink about.  Con.  People our age can't dry up
an' live alone.  That's fer older people.  Let go oyer self Yer no different
from me.  Yer need a fella jus' like I do, even if yer don't want ter get too
serious.  Jus' grab any opportunities that's going'.

Let a fella take yer out, an' if 'e gets too fresh, tell 'im yer got.

an' 'eadache, or yer comin' on.  I've faked the curse a few times.  "

Connie laughed.

"What, you an' Steve?"

"No, 'course not.  Steve's different.

"E's older, an' 'e can always get me going'.  Well, most times."

Connie turned on to her side and rested on her elbow.  "Are you two serious?"

"We're serious.  Con, but I don't wanna fink too far inter the future.

I'm livin' ferterday.  Me an' Steve's got a good Fing going', an' I'm not
lookin' ter get married or any fink like that.  It suits me the way fings
are.  Besides, can yer imagine what me mum an' dad would say if I suddenly
told 'em me an' Steve wanted ter get spliced?  "

"I can imagine what they would 'ave said if they'd found aut about those
pills yer took, Jen."

Jennie grimaced.

"I've learned me lesson.  We're very careful now.  I told Steve straight.

"Yer slipped yer braces over yer shoulder an' I got pregnant.  Yer better
start wearin' some fink from now on."  ' The gathering clouds hid the
lowering sun and a breeze rustled the curtains.  Connie suddenly swung her
legs over the bed and went to the dressing table.

"See this, Jen," she said, taking the little gold locket in the palm of her
hand.

"It was me mum's.  She always wore it.

In fact I never see 'er wiwout it, unless it was in pawn.  I always thought
it was buried wiv 'er, but when me aunt died she give it terme.  Well the
pawn ticket anyway.  See the inscription inside?  "

Jennie looked closely at the tiny etching.

"Bonny?  Was that yer dad?"

"I never knew me dad, Jennie.  Me mum would never speak about 'im.  I thought
that one day she would tell me all about 'im but she never did.  She took the
secret toer grave."

' "E must 'ave 'urt 'er bad.  Con.  It seems strange she never told yer about
'im.  D'yer fink this Bonny is yer dad?"

"I'm sure of it.  Trouble is, I've come to a full stop wiv me search.

Yer remember that ole man who co meter see me that night?  Well, 'e used ter
work wiv me mum at the sheet- metal firm in Ironmonger Street.

"E was tryin' ter get some information ferme.  I asked 'im if 'e ever 'card
o' somebody called Bonny an' 'e said 'e 'adn't.  I'm gonna tell yer some-
fink, Jennie.  Not so long ago I was finkin' of endin' it all, but then I got
ter finkin' about me farwer.  I got so mad when I thought about 'im leavin'
us.  I knew then that I 'ad ter find 'im, somehow.  I wanna face 'im, Jen."

Jennie was staring down at the locket.  " " Ave yer thought that 'e might
'ave bin killed in the bombin'?  "

"Yeah 'e could 'ave bin, but some fink tells me 'e's alive.  I don't know
what it is, but I've just got this feelin'.  One day I'll meet up wiv 'im, I
know I will."

Jennie reached out her hand and touched her friend's arm.

"Yer'll find 'im one day.  Con.  I'm sure yer will."

Connie smiled.  Tanks, Jen.  You're a good friend.  I don't know what I would
'ave done wiwout yer.  "

"Shut up, yer makin' me blush," Jennie said, getting up and going to the door.

"I've gotta do some ironin'.  I'm going' out wiv Steve ternight.  Look, Con.
Ifyer do decide ter go out wiv Derek there's a couple o' decent dresses in
me wardrobe.  You can borrer one ifyer like."

Tanks, Jen.  I'll fink about it.  "

The light was fading and a few spots of rain fell against the window panes.
For a while Connie stared at the tiny locket, and then she lay back on the
bed with her hands clasped behind her head.  Maybe Jennie was right, she
thought.  Maybe she should think about going out.  Billy seemed to be about
to ask her, but that would be out of the question.

He was too nice a lad.  He would only end up getting hurt.  Derek Angelo was
different.  He posed no problems, except for his desire to get her into bed.
She felt she could handle him, but with Billy it was different.  She had felt
from the first a natural sympathy for him, and it seemed that somehow their
suffering had made them familiar to each other.  There could be no pretence
with Billy.  She was afraid that he would touch her heart and she would be
unable to give him her love.  She knew she must not weaken now.  She must be
strong, for both of them.

417 FR1;Chapter Forty-One The Sunday evening session at the Dolphin was as
hectic as usual and Connie noticed that Billy had not made an appearance.  It
was around nine-thirty when one of Florence Argrieves' neighbours came in to
say that the old lady had been taken to hospital after collapsing when she
got home from the pub that lunchtime.

"Billy was really upset," the neighbour said.

"E came running in terme an' we got Doctor White in.

"E didn't argue.

"E sent feran ambulance straight away.  The poor cow was shakin' all over an'
she was grey wiv the pain.  Ifyer ask me I'd say she's cracked 'er 'ip.  I
felt really sorry fer young Billy.

"E went in the ambulance wiv eran' 'e's going' back ter see 'er temight."

Dora went back into the saloon bar to tell her husband and then popped her
head back into the public bar.

"Jennie, don't yer get chattin' too much ter that mob an' leave Connie
short-'anded.  I can't 'elp out in 'ere.  We're busy in the saloon ternight."

The drinks were flowing fast on that warm evening.  The customers had been
generous and Connie was beginning to feel a bit light-headed.

Smoke hung like a drifting blanket in the airless bar.  The piano was playing
and one or two elderly ladies were singing loudly.  Connie had already served
the crowd on two occasions and now Derek beckoned her over yet again.  When
she had completed the order and passed over his change he gripped her wrist
firmly.

"Well, Con, yer comin' ternight, ain't yer," he said.

"I'm not takin' no feran answer.  Yer'll enjoy it, I promise."

She smiled wanly and shrugged her shoulders without answering as she moved
away to the other end of the counter.  The drink was weakening her strength
of will and her resolve was slowly crumbling.  Jennie's words rang in her
ears and she chewed on her lip.  It wouldn't hurt any, she 419 thought.  It
would be a new experience going to a night club, and Derek wouldn't be too
much of a problem.

Bill was calling for people to finish their drinks and Derek leaned over the
counter, his face flushed.

"I'll be back wiv a cab in al fan hour, okay?"

Connie looked at him sharply.

"I've gotta get cleared away an' then get changed.  I might not be ready by
then."

Hegrinned.

"Okay, three quarters of an hour, 'ow'sthat?"

Jennie was mopping up the spilled beer from the counter and she nudged her
friend.

"Good fer you.  Get up an' sort yerselfout somefinkter wear.  I'll finish off
down 'ere."

Connie hurried up the stairs and went to Jennie's room.  She could feel her
head buzzing and, as she opened the wardrobe and looked at the dresses,
something told her she was making a mistake.  She removed a blue dress and
held it up against her as she looked into the long mirror.  Her features
seemed blurred as she studied herself.  Connie laid the dress on the bed and
selected another from the wardrobe.  The red dress looks better, she thought,
and she hurried with it to her room.  As she was putting the finishing
touches to her makeup Jennie came in without knocking.  She was carrying an
oatmeal-coloured jacket.

' "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 dyer 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 fert hat now," she said.  "C'mon, on yer way or 'e'll be
finkin' yer ain't going'."

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."

420 The cab drove slowly over Blackfriar's Bridge and turned eft along the
Embankment.  Derek broke the strained lilence.

"I asked yer out 'cos I was a bit concerned about rer, 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 viv yer at the
party."

"I didn't fink that at all," she replied, looking away from lim.

"I

jus' 'ad too much ter drink.  I shouldn't 'ave gone up er yer flat anyway.  "

"We're still friends then?"

'0'course.  "

In the gathering darkness the tall buildings loomed up against the night sky.
Soon they had skirted Trafalgar quare and had driven up into Charing Cross
Road.  Every- here sandbags fronted the buildings and people in service
mi forms strolled by.  The cab made a detour around a huge rile 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 ;igarette stub from the cab.

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

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

"Good evening, Mr Angelo," the man said formally.

"Your party's arrived.  I'll show you to the table, if you'll folowme."

Connie was puzzled as she fell into step beside her escort.  Oerek 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, 422 when Francis
beckoned to him, the man hurried over.

"I think we're ready to eat now, 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 tier 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 seri- 3us 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
liand, 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 fan ks 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 :rowded with dancers.
Connie began nervously but he noved easily and she found it quite simple to
follow his novements.  He held her firmly and she could smell the ifter-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?"

"Ifyerlike."

"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 dyer 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 424 he floor.  Connie
felt his hand on her back as he led her to the able, and when they were
seated he poured her some wine.  There was no sign of Derek nor Beth Knowles.
Freda and iernie Grossman had returned to the table and Freda was ;ently
chiding her perspiring husband.

"You were moving oo fast.  That was a waltz not a foxtrot."

He laughed as he dabbed his forehead and turned to onnie.

"We've been dancing together now for more years ban I care to remember, young
lady.  And she still tells me I an't dance.  What should I do with her, eh?"

Freda tapped her husband's wrist playfully.

"I'm off to >owder my nose.  Will you come with me, young Connie?"  he 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 [ie give you a bit of advice, young lady.  You seem to be a nice ;irl
and you're very pretty.  You should be very careful in 'our dealings with
some of these older men.  They're inclined .0 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'careofme."

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 sasily 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 shut426 ered
shops.  She felt herself being almost pushed into the louse and up a dark
flight of creaky stairs.  She tripped at the op and Arnold laughed.

"Stay where you are while I light the ashe 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
mantel shelf 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 aver it, and ancient dust-covered 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.

"I'm sorry about the state of the place," he said, studying tier closely.

"I'm only staying here until I get my bomb- iamaged flat repaired.  Look, why
don't you put the kettle on and make us some tea while I move those things
from the set tee

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 iown 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 set tee  "Look, I'd better
get going'," 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 going'."

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
terme!"  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 428 nd unable to answer.  The
physical disgust at the way he ad humiliated her caused waves of nausea to
rise up from er stomach.  Icy fingers seemed to squeeze her head and she egan
to tremble.  The sight of his sneering face made her want to throw herself at
him and tear at his eyes but instead he clenched her fists and felt her
fingernails bite into the alms 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 iat with her head in
her hands on the edge of the bed.  The it ark realisation that she was a
victim of their plotting made ler head pound and she felt her face redden.

"You two worked this all out, didn't yer?"  she said, her foice shaking.

He laughed aloud.

"Derek told me all about you and him.  : 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, we's your money.  I
don't expect you to do it for nothing," e sneered, throwing some notes down
beside her on the ed.

"You dirty animal!"  she cried out, standing up and ushing at him, her fists
pummelling his chest.

He gripped her wrists and laughed loudly.

"Proper little lemon aren't you?"

Connie sagged and he pushed her roughly away.

"Take he 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' erIt's much better when you put up a fight," he sneered.

"It nakes it more exciting.  Anyway, you wasn't raped.  You of paid for it."

Connie bit her lip until it bled and she fought back her ears.  She picked up
the money and looked at it.

"Yer :ouldn't buy me.  I wouldn't go wiv yer willin'ly if yer iffered me a
fortune," she snarled, throwing the money in us face as she ran out of the
room.

FR1;Chapter Forty-Two "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 431 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 going' '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 ferme 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 going' fert he 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'saving 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 432 and someone was holding a cup of water to her quivering lips.

"Now what's the matter here?"  Nora asked, standing with tier 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 il even  There would be plenty of time, she told herself.
Soon he 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 some fink wrong wiv that fer years," Widow Pacey mumbled aloud.

Dennis Foreman heard the front door open and shut and a auzzled frown creased
his forehead.  Marie must be back early From the market, he thought.  The
knock on his door made iim 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 going' 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 pea ky  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
cent ring 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?"

434 Dennis felt he had her measure now and he sat down next o her.

"Look, Lil.  I fink yer very pretty.  In fact I'd go 'urvver than that.  I'd
say yer was beautiful."

She was smiling now, her eyes widening.

"Do yer really ink I'm beautiful?"

"I do," he answered.

"But yer see, Lil.  Men like me like to ave a pretty girl fera good friend.
Yer know, one they can on fide in an' tell their secrets to."

"What dyer 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 oolong in case he gave himself
away.

There was a shocked look on her face and slowly it hanged into an expression
of pity.  She reached out and ouched his shoulder lightly.

"Yer can't 'elp the way yer are, William," she said gently.

"Jus' you remember, I'm yer ri end Yer can tell me fings an' I won't tell a
livin' soul.  Not venSandor."

"Yer mustn't tell Sandor," Dennis said dramatically.  " " E night not
understand.  "

She patted his knee.

"I won't tell a livin' soul.  Yer secret's ;afe wiv me, William."

Marie Toomey had finished her shopping and she walked ilowly along to John
Street.  Patience O'Brian was a good ri end She always listened carefully to
what she had to say, nd usually had some sound advice to offer.  Patience was
iade that way, she thought.  Not like those interfering msybodies in the
street.

If she let on to one of them it would ?  e all round the turning in five
minutes.  Patience wasn' tike 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.

Chewing on her thoughts, Marie arrived at Patience's house and her knock was
answered by the lady herself.  Patience O'Brian was a petite, smart-looking
woman in her late fifties.  Her deep-set blue eyes looked out of a tiny,
well-moulded face and her hair was raven without a trace of grey.  She
beckoned her friend in.

"I've got the kettle on, Marie," she said.

"Put yer bag down in the passage, it looks 'eavy."

They had sat together sipping tea for some time before Marie brought up the
subject.

"Patience.  I'm worried about my Toby."

"What's wrong, Marie.  Is 'e ill?"  her friend asked.

"No, 'e's as fit as a fiddle," Marie replied, dabbing at her eyes.

"Whatever's wrong, girl?"

"I fink 'e's got anuvver woman."

"I don't believe it.  Not your Toby."

Marie nodded.  "

" E 'as, Patience.   I'm sure of it.   "

"What makes yer fink 'e's playin' around then?"

"Look, luv.  My Toby was never one ter wear out me block o' Sunlight soap,
an' I used ter get on to 'im every week ter change 'is socks.

It was the same wiv 'is underclothes, but since 'e's 'ad this job e's a
changed man.

"E goes out every mornin' smellin' like a Lisle Street whore, an' 'e smacks
brilliantine on 'is 'air an' stands front o' that mirror lookin' at 'himself
until I feel like crownin' 'im."

"Well maybe 'e likes ter look smart when 'e goes ter work, Marie.

Lookin' smart goes a long way, girl.  "

"Patience, 'e's a bloody barrel-washer, not a bleedin' pen-pusher.

Barrel-washers don't wear collars an' ties.  "

Patience smiled.

"Well, I fink yer makin' too much out of it.  Lots o' men start ter smarten
themselves up as they get older.  My Frankie did.  Gawd rest 'is soul."

Marie screwed a handkerchief up around her fingers.  "There's some fink else."

"Oh, an' what that?"

' "E's got more darin' lately."

436 "Darin'?"

"Well, we 'ad a row the ower mornin' an' 'e told me traight 'e's bin going'
up the pub on Friday nights when I'm ut.  When I asked 'im what pub 'e uses
'e told meter mind ie own business."

"Why don't yer say yer'll go out wiv 'im, Marie?  P'raps 'e'dlikeyerto?"

"I already did."

"What did'e say?"

' "E told me 'e wants ter be on 'is own ter fink.  That ain't like my Toby."

"Well, I did warn yer, Marie.  I told yer not ter be too 'and on 'im."

"I've bin a good wife," Marie sobbed.

"I might 'ave got on to 'im at times, but it was fer 'is own good."

"C'mon, yer do go a bit strong.  What about when Toby lost the pram.

Yer took the poker to 'im, yer told meyer self

Marie did not answer but continued to twist the handker;hief around her
fingers.

"Then there was the time 'e brought that dirty ole carpet 'ome.  What did yer
do then?"

"I made 'im take if out in the yard an' scrub it," Marie sobbed, feeling
suddenly very sorry for her wayward husband.

"There yer are then.  That's what I mean.  Listen, Marie.  A man'll work 'and
an' give up all 'is wages, an' e'll go wivout 'is pint o' beer, just as long
as yer give 'im yer respect.  Do that an' yer 'ome an dry.  Trouble wiv you
is, yer ain't give 'im no respect.  All yer do is ruck 'im.  No man's gonna
stan' fert hat It don't matter 'ow meek an' mild they are, sooner ar later
they're gonna turn, an' when they do, watch out."

"What am I gonna do.  Patience?"

"I'll tell yer what yer gonna do.  Now listen terme."

Toby Toomey walked home on Friday evening feeling rather low.  Friday evening
was normally his night out with [ris, but tonight she was taking Monty to the
vet to get him leutered.  She had said that poor Monty would want a bit of
lursing after all that pulling about and she ought to stop in with him until
he perked up a bit.  They had arranged to change their evening to Monday and
Toby did not feel like having to wait until then.  As he walked home he
wondered what neutering was.

Maybe it was something to do with worms, he thought.  Mrs Adams bought dozens
of worming powders for her cats.  He'd seen her buy them at the cats' meat
stall in the market.  Perhaps Iris didn't know about worming powders.  He
would have to remember to tell her on Monday.

When Toby put his key in the door he could smell steak and kidney pudding.
It was years since Marie had cooked steak and kidney pudding.  He was licking
his lips as he walked into the parlour and his eyes opened wide.  A clean
tablecloth had been spread over the rickety old table and Marie was standing
in front of the freshly laid grate.  She wore a new apron and her hair was
out of curlers.

"Sit down, luv.  Yer mus' be fair worn out," she said sweetly.

Toby looked behind him, and then back to Marie.

"That smells nice.  Is it.  .  ."

"Yes it is, Toby.  I know it's yer favourite.  I thought it was about time I
did a nice steak an' kidney pudden."

Toby sat down at the table.  Something was wrong, he thought.  Maybe Marie
was going a bit funny in the head.  No it wasn't that.  He stroked his chin
thoughtfully.  It must be something else.  Maybe she intended to poison him.
Christ!  She's poisoned the dinner, he decided.  No, he was being silly.
Marie would be more likely to throw him out if she wanted to get rid of him
or even just smash him over the head.  It must be something else.  That was
it!  She was going to ask for a rise.  Well she was going to be unlucky.  The
pocket money she gave him just about stretched to a couple of pints and a
sherry for Iris and now that old misery-guts had got Iris transferred from
the packing department the supply of illicit jars of pickles had dried up.
It was going to be a tight squeeze as it was.

Toby finished his meal and Marie brought in a large chunk of suet pudding
smeared with golden syrup.  Finally he leaned back in his chair and rubbed
his middle contentedly.

"That was really and some girl," he said stretching.

"I fink I could just about manage anuvver cup pa

438 Marie tripped out into the scullery and fetched the tea.  he sat
opposite him, a smile forming on her lips, and when ie drained the cup she
motioned to the easy chair.

"Yer look ired.  Why don't yer put yer 'ead back fer al fan 'our?  By he way,
I've got the evenin' paper.  It's down by the chair."

Toby looked at her closely, expecting the worst, but she emained quiet.  He
went over to the chair and settled him- elf down for a snooze.

"D'yer want meter wake yer up later, Toby?"  Marie isked.

"I know yer go out on Fridays."

"No, dear.  I fink I'll stay inter night

She sat sewing in the chair opposite him, occasionally looking over.

Toby was snoring lightly, his mouth opening md shutting at regular intervals.
The wireless was playing oftly and Marie hummed to herself contentedly.
Patience was a wise old owl, she thought.

When Toby climbed into bed and made himself comfort- ible he was still
puzzling over Marie's sudden change of nood and, when she slipped in beside
him and laid her arm m his stomach, Toby really began to worry.

The weekend was free of arguments.  The meals were on ime, and Marie remained
very attentive.  On Monday norning Toby got ready for work quickly.  He felt
he ;hould not spend too much time in front of the mirror.  He lidn't want
Marie to get upset and slip back into her old ways .  When it was time for
him to leave for work Marie dssed him on the cheek and he walked towards the
pickle ac tory deep in thought.

Iris wouldn't like to hear about Marie's change of mood, he mused.

Better if he kept quiet ibout it.  He spent the day worrying and, when he got
home hat evening, Marie was more than usually attentive.  Toby iad eaten his
fill and was settling down for a quick nap when she sprang it on him.

"I was wonderin' ifyer'd like an' ariy night, luv?"

"Sorry, Marie.  I'm going' out ternight."

When he had left Marie kicked the cat and threw two of ler best plates
against the scullery wall.

"I'll be 'avin a few words wiv Patience termorrer," she grumbled aloud.

Chapter Forty-Three Jennie was feeling as though she had not slept a wink.
She cut two thick slices of bread and put them under the gas-stove grill.  It
had been well after midnight when she got in, and then the sound of a taxi
drawing up in the early hours and the door slamming had awakened her.  She
poured herself a mug of tea and dropped three spoonfuls of sugar into it,
then walked back into the parlour and sat down wearily at the table.  She had
had a few heated words with Steve the night before and as she slowly stirred
her tea and went over the argument in her mind the smell of charred bread
drifted in.  She got up quickly and swore violently as she stubbed her toe
hurrying out to the scullery.  She cut two more slices and slipped them under
the grill and this time she stood over the gas stove, yawning widely.  Monday
was always a bad day for Jennie and this Mondaywasgoingtobeabadone, she knew.
It was always the same when she and Steve rowed.  It upset her for the whole
day and, as she buttered the toast shevehementlycursedMonday mornings.

She had finished her breakfast and was pouring her second mug of tea when
Connie walked in, still clad in her dressing gown.  Her eyes were swollen and
her face ashen.

Jennie filled another mug.

"Yer late.  Con," she said.

"I thought yer'd be dressed by now."

Connie sat down heavily in a chair and sipped her tea.

"Tell 'em I'm sick, Jen," she said in little more than a whisper.

"I can't face it this mornin'."

Jennie grinned.

"Late night was it?  I 'eardthetaxidrawup."

Connie made no reply and Jennie's face suddenly became serious.

"Yer really do look sick, Con."  she said standing over her friend.

Connie looked up quickly, a hard glint in her eye.

"I'm sick of work, sick of men and I'm sick of workin' be' and that bar every
night," she said bitterly.

441 Jennie's face dropped and Connie sagged in the chair.  "I'm sorry, luv.
I didn't mean it ter sound like that.  You an' yer family 'ave bin really
good terme, but I've gotta get away.  I can't face anuwer night be' and that
bar."

"I take it last night 'ad some fink ter do wiv yer decision, Con.  Did Derek
give yer a bad time?"

Connie laughed bitterly.

"I got dumped, Jen.  Yeah, 'e went off wiv one o' the women at the party, an'
I got lumbered wiv a no-good bloke who kept tryin' it on."

"Party, yer say?  I thought you an' 'im was going' on yer own?"

"That's what I thought, but it was all planned.  I ended up getting' a taxi
'ome from Stepney."

"From where!?"

"That's right.  Stepney.  That's why I was late 'ome."

' "Ere, this bloke didn't 'urt yer, did 'e?"

"No, 'e didn't 'urt me," Connie lied.

"E was just persistent, that's all."

"Did this bloke take yer ter Stepney, Con?"

Connie nodded and stared down at her tea.

"Why did yer go wiv 'im?"

"It's a long story, Jen.  I'll tell yer later.  In the meantime, can yer make
excuses fer us?  Tell the forelady I'll be intermorrer."

"Okay, but are yer really serious about not workin' be' and the bar any more.
Con?"

Connie pulled her dressing gown tightly around her slim figure and folded her
arms.

"I'm going' back ter where I used ter live.  One o' the women in the street
said I could always lodge wiv 'er.  She's got a spare room, or she did 'ave.
I'm going' ter see 'er this mornin'."

"I'll miss yer, Con.  Mum an' dad will too.  They fink a lot of yer an' they
reckon yer the best barmaid they've ever 'ad.  Me dad even reckons yer faster
than me wiv the addin' up."

Connie gave her friend a wan smile.

"I can still come round an' see yer mum an' dad, an' we'll still see each
ower at work, won't we?

It's just that I mus' get away.  You understand, Jennie, don't yer?  "

"Yeah, I understand.  I s'pose I'd 'ave ter do the same if I was in your
shoes.  Anyway, I mus' getter work or I'll be late.  We'll talk ternight,
okay?"

442 Connie got up and walked to the door.

"Ternight, Jen."

Back in her room Connie got dressed quickly and slipped ut through the side
door into the street.  She wanted to get out before Dora and Bill went down
for breakfast.  It would be too difficult to talk to them so early in the
morning, she thought.  She walked slowly into the Old Kent Road and saw that
the large clock over the hatters-shop doorway showed a quarter to nine.  She
ambled along idly, looking in shop windows and gazing at the passing traffic.
Last night's svents had shocked and terrified her.  She could still remember
vividly how frightened she felt when she had found tier self in that grimy
flat and how disgusted she had been when Arnold had offered her money.  The
realisation that she had been treated like a prostitute made her feel physi-
ally sick.  Derek Angelo was as much to blame, she decided.  It was he who
had told Arnold about her in the first place.  She was sure that if she saw
him again she would Fly at him and tear at his face.

Dora and Bill would become involved if she stayed at the pub, and it wouldn't
be fair to them.

She had reached the Bricklayers Arms junction.  The sun was climbing and
starlings chattered loudly in the tall plane trees which stretched along the
New Kent Road.  It was still too early to knock on Ada's door, she thought,
and she looked around her.  A young woman was pushing a pram through the
gates of the memorial gardens which lay back from the main road.  Connie
followed the woman into the gardens and found an empty wooden bench beneath a
tall sycamore.  It was peaceful there, the traffic noise deadened somewhat by
the high, vine-covered fencing.  The woman tiad walked on along the gravel
path and left at the far gate without stopping, and the only other person in
the gardens was an old man who sat reading the morning paper.

Connie leaned back on the bench and attempted to get her thoughts together.
It had been inevitable that things would go the way they had, she was forced
to admit, and there was no one to blame but herself.  She had drunk herself
almost into a stupor whenever she could and then ill owed herself to be
manipulated and violated.  She had >een warned.  Jennie and her mother had
both tried to spell iut the dangers.  Then there was Freda Grossman.  She had
seen the danger at the night club and had tried to warn her.  Connie
realised that she had been stupid and naive.  She had thrown caution to the
wind and gone like a lamb to the slaughter.  The men had seen her as an easy
conquest and had exploited her cruelly.  She had been called a whore, raped,
assaulted and treated like dirt.  She felt she had sunk as low as it was
possible to get, and she only had herself to blame.  She remembered how
people had said that she was very much like her mother in looks, and she
shivered as she realised how the likeness had become so much deeper.  Her
mother had been raped and deserted, and she had ended her days in loneliness
and misery.  Maybe that was to be her own destiny.

Connie sat up straight on the bench as she felt her breath coming faster.
Panic knotted her insides and she licked her dry lips.  She felt the
desperate need for a drink and the desire made her angry.

She knew that it was drink which had led her into this situation.  She had
used it so that she would not have to face the misery of her life, and now it
was destroying her.  She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth.  She knew
that she would have to fight it or it would be too late.  She had become lost
in a swirling storm of delirium and she felt it pulling her down, down into
the blackness from which there was no escape.  Her palms were sweating and
her stomach was turning over.  Pains wracked her body and she closed her eyes
in desperation.

"Please God!  Don't let me sink!  Don't let it swallow me up!"  she said
aloud.

People had come into the gardens.  An old man was leaning heavily on his
walking stick and humming to himself as he passed.  Two young women strolled
by, pushing prams and giggling at a joke they were sharing, and a workman was
coming closer, sweeping the path with a wide broom.

Connie got up quickly and walked out through the gate, glancing around
furtively as if they might be looking at her.  The pain in her insides was
easing as she walked along the Tower Bridge Road.  A market trader whistled
after her and another eyed her up and down as she passed his stall.  Connie
turned off the thoroughfare into the little maze of back streets She could
see the ruins of the Horseshoe as she walked through John Street, and in a
couple of minutes she 444 was standing at the top of her own little street.
To her left was the burnt-out oil shop and barrow sheds, and Connie Found
herself wondering if old Misery Martin was still Uive.  Opposite, the rag
shop that had always been closed was now a wardens' post.  She saw the row of
tumbledown tiouses which led right up to the factory gates, and she looked up
at the ruined dwellings facing them.  Connie remembered with sadness the
countless times she and Molly tiad climbed those creaky stairs and how her
cousin had had io stop on each landing to catch her breath.  She thought of
Helen and the intimate chats they used to have, and she remembered Matthew.
Poor Matt, she thought.  He had been kind and understanding, and now he was
dead.  They were all dead.  She could see the factory looming as large uid
ugly as ever at the end of the turning.  Its iron gates were pulled back, and
beyond them was the cobbled yard which she had crossed every morning.  It
seemed such a long time igo now.

Widow Pacey was whitening her front doorstep.  She looked up enquiringly as
Connie passed, and then went back to her task, humming softly to herself.  At
number twelve Connie stopped and lifted the old iron knocker.  When Ada
Halliday opened the front door and saw Connie standing there her eyes lit up
and she stood to one side.

"Come in, girl.  I was wonderin' when yer was gonna pay me a visit,"

she said happily.

Connie walked into the parlour and looked up at the old lock on the
mantel shelf  She noticed that the two hands iv ere still locked together at
twelve o'clock.  Ada was stand- ng behind her.

"Well sit yerself down then.  Would yer like a lice cup pa

Connie smiled and nodded and, unable to contain her impatience, she called
out into the scullery,

"Is yer room still join ', Ada?"

She laughed as she heard Ada's joking reply.

"No, I've of a young man livin' wiv me."

"Ifyer'll 'ave me, Ada, I'd like ter take it."

"I told yer, girl.  It's yours whenever yer ready.  This street's where yer
belong, Connie luv.  I used terre member when yer was just a toddler.  This
little turnin' might not be much, but it's yer 'ome.

It's where yer grew up.  "

They sat in the parlour, cups of tea on their laps and Ada talked at length
about the street folk.

"It's not altered much since yer left.  Con.  The Toomeys are as scatty as
ever.  Young Lillian is going' strong wiv a foreign soldier.  Marie told me
'e's a Czech.

"E seems all right but the trouble is, yer can't understand a word 'e ses.
Oh, an' the Toomeys 'ave got a lodger.

"E looks a funny bloke.  Relation o' Toby's, be all accounts.

I was only sayin' ter Mrs Richards the ower day, 'e looks sort o' familiar.
I've seen 'im somewhere before.  I've bin puzzlin' me brains but fert he life
o' me I can't fink where I've seen 'im.  Mind you though, 'e keeps 'himself
to 'himself.  More than I can say fer some of 'em round 'ere.  You take ole
Mrs Adams.  She knows everybody's business.  You mark my words, before long
she'll know all there is ter know about 'im.  "

Connie was content to sip her tea and let Ada chat away.  Although the ruined
buildings opposite were a dark reminder of all the tragedy in her life, she
was glad that she had come back to the street again.  It seemed to Connie
that if there was going to be any chance for her to pull herself together and
make some sense of her life she had to get back to her roots, here in this
little street, where she was born, where she had grown up.  It was here that
the long, strange path of her life had begun, and she had to retrace that
path to its beginning.  She had to go back to the people she knew, like the
idiotic Toomeys, the Widow Pacey and her trusted old bag- wash pram, the
dependable Joe Cooper, the Richards, Lizzie Conroy, old Mrs Cosgrove and the
Browns and George Baker, Mrs Adams the cat lady, and kind Ada Halliday.
There were others, too.  Perhaps one of the vaguely familiar folk who walked
in and out of the turning and just passed the time of day held a clue to the
secret parts of her past.

Ada had refilled the tea cups and was sitting back in her easy chair.

She had been studying the pale-faced girl and saw a trace of desperation in
her blue eyes.  Whatever had happened to her since she left the street would
no doubt be revealed in the girl's own good time, she told herself.  For the
present she would make her welcome, feed her up and keep an eye on her.  It
would be nice to have her company, too.  The house had been a dreary place
ever since Jack passed away.

446 "Is that okay then, Ada?"

"What's that?"

"I said, is it all right fermeter move inter night

' "Course it is, luv.  Sooner the better."

Connie put her cup down on the table.

"Yer looked miles iway then, Ada."

The buxom woman smiled and her face relaxed.

"Oh I was jus' finkin'.

Now yer movin' in I'm gonna get that bloody clock fixed.  "

oe Cooper walked along the street that evening and, as he eared the wardens'
post, Dennis Foreman came out of lumber One.

"Fancy a pint, Joe?"  he asked.

"I need ter talk eryer."

Joe grinned.

"Gettin' yer down, is it?"

"What, lodgin' wiv the Toomeys?"  Dennis said, a look of nock horror showing
on his face.

"Well they ain't exactly yer ideal family, are they?"

"They're all right now I've got Lil sorted out," Dennis ;rinned.

They had crossed over into John Street.

"Yer ain't bin ilayin' around wiv 'er, 'aveyer?"  Joe asked, a shocked look
)n his wide face.

Dennis laughed aloud.

"No fear.  Matter o' fact I put 'er itraight.  I told 'er I was queer, so if
I start winkin' at yer, ake no notice."

"Gawd, Den!  Yer getting' worse.  We'll 'ave ter stop going' ut tergewer,
people are gonna start talkin'."

"Well I 'ad ter do some fink didn't I?  She come up terme oom this mornin'."

"Oh?"

"Too true, Joe.  I 'ad ter fink quick.  I don't want that bloody Sandor
what's 'is name on me back, I've got enough roubles as it is."

They had reached the Jolly Compasses and when they iad settled themselves in
a corner Dennis took out a folded sheet of newspaper from his coat pocket.

"See this, Joe?  It's a page of the Daily Mail.  I was passin' he time in the
public library this afternoon an' I saw it."

"What is it?"  Joe asked, taking the paper and unfold- ng it.

 Look, there.  It's an article by this geezer who's bin researchin' criminal
be'aviour.

"E's mentioned the Piccadilly jewel raid, among ovvers, an' the bastard ses
there that I'm still at large."

"Well you are, ain't yer?"  Joe grinned.

Dennis stroked his forehead.

"Bloody 'ell.  Articles like that stir up people's interest.  I was beginnin'
ter feel more relaxed lately, an' now this."

"I wouldn't worry too much Den," Joe laughed.

"Not many people round 'ere buy the Daily Mail."

"Yeah, but they go ter the public library, don't they?  I read it, didn't I?"

"Look Den, people in the street 'ave got used ter yer now an' I see yer've
already left those stupid glasses orf.  Nobody's passed any remarks about it,
'ave they?"

"Well, no."

"There yer are then.  Just take it easy."

Dennis chuckled.

"I was sayin' that ter yer not so long ago.  Mind you, I get nervous
sometimes.  I imagine some- body's gonna feel me collar.  I couldn't go back
now.  They'd 'ave ter kill me first."

Joe looked up quickly.

"That sounds a bit drastic.  If they catch yer yer'll 'ave ter face the
music.  The way you're talkin's like some fink out of a James Cagney picture."

Dennis leaned forward over the table.

"I mean it, Joe.  I've got a gun stashed away in the 'ouse an' I'll use it if
I ave to

"Christ!"  Joe exclaimed.

"S'posin' Marie comes across it an' shows it ter Toby?  The silly bleeder
might shooter wivit."

"Don't worry, mate.  She won't find it.  I've got it well id den

Anyway, let's change the subject.  Talkin' about guns an' getting' caught is
givin' me the creeps.  "

Joe took a sip from his glass.

"Ere, by the way.  I bumped inter Ada " Alliday on me way 'ome from work.
She told me Connie's bin round ter see about lodgin' wiv 'er.  Ada said she's
gonna 'ave 'er spare room.  "

"That'll be nice, Joe.  I was wonderin' when I was gonna get the chance ter
see young Connie."

"Yeah, well I'd be careful what yer say ter the girl when yer do bump into
'er if I was you."

448 nnis grinned.

"I'll be careful, don't yer worry.  I tell seem Connie is gonna bring back a
lot o' memories, c'ly if she looks as much like Kate as yer said she does."
e nodded slowly.

"Yer wait till yer see 'er."  ;nnis took a gulp of beer and leaned back in
his chair.  e, dyer remember when me an' you an' Kate used ter p in the
Trocette when we was kids?  I don't fink we paid, did we?  "

e smiled.  " " Ere, what about that time we all got caught tin' them fags in
the buildin's an' they told yer ole man.  as standin' at the door wiv the
belt in 'is 'and an', if I ;mber rightly, it was Fran Collins who talked 'im
out o' ;in' yer.  "

eah, I remember, Joe.  Ole Fran could do no wrong in yes after that.

Smashin' lady, wasn't she?  " ie little pub had become crowded.  The piano
player idly tinkling on the keys with one hand, the other ed around a pint
glass.  Suddenly Dennis looked up at a thoughtful expression on his face.
'hat's

"Pasadena" ," he said.

"D'yer remember that ;?  I wrote the words down once, on me ole man's time t
I found be' and the clock.  Gawd knows what it was there.  Blimey, did I get
a pastin' fert hat ie was watching the piano player.

"D'yer remember singin' it?  She 'ad the words off pat," he said quietly.
inn is nodded.

"Funny 'ow it all turned out.  We was a I team, wasn't we?"

/e sure was.  Den.  Kate was really upset when she read it yer little
escapade, an' she took it bad when she 'card of nabbed.  "

ley had lapsed into silence for a while, and Dennis led his glass quickly.

"C'mon, Joe.  Let's find ourselves 'ver pub," he said.

"I'm beginnin' ter feel morbid sittin' FR1;Chapter Forty-Four Connie Morgan
had found it easier to settle back into Ironmonger Street than she had first
imagined.  People she had known were soon chatting to her once more and after
two weeks it seemed to her as though she had never been away.  Ada Halliday
had made her really welcome and the little upstairs back room which had been
made available was comfortably furnished and spotlessly clean.  Ada insisted
that Connie ate with her in the evenings for, as the jolly woman had said,

"It's just as easy ter cook fertwo as fer one, an' besides, there's two of us
ter do the washin' up, girl."

Living away from the Dolphin seemed strange to start with, but there were no
difficult customers to pacify, and no drinks on offer.  For the first two
days Connie knew that she was experiencing the symptoms of coming off the
drink.  She felt edgy and her body became prone to cold sweats.  Her head
ached and her mouth became dry and furred.  It was noticeable in her
appearance, too.  As she looked in the mirror the young woman could see quite
clearly that her hair had lost its sheen and her face had become rather
puffy, with reddish patches beneath her eyes.  Sleep was easier now, however,
and the feverish dreams had passed.

It was early June.  The warm weather was settling in and the morning skies
were clear and sunny.  Each day Connie walked to her job at the leather
factory feeling a little less depressed and a little more able to face the
monotonous grind.  Jennie was keeping her informed about life at the pub, and
each evening Connie walked back through the bustling streets and sat down
with Ada after their tea, talking about everyday things.  Ada was a good
person to talk to, and she occasionally brought a smile to the young worn-
an's face with her little anecdotes of life in the old days.

451 Sometimes the two would listen to the wireless or take an evening stroll
through the back streets stopping on the way to chat with one of Ada's
multitude of acquaintances.  It was a simple, uncomplicated existence, and it
had brought her peace of mind.  Connie f-it that at last she was beginning to
pull the threads of her life together.  The desire for a drink had eventually
vanished, and she felt better able to cope with her own sense of loss and
sadness whenever she stepped out of the front door and saw the ruined
buildings facing her.

It was on a Monday morning when Jennie told her friend the news.  ' "Ere,
Con.  Poor ole Mrs Argrieves died yesterday.  Billy popped in the pub an'
told me mum.

"E said she got pneumonia from that fall she 'ad.  Poor Billy looked really
upset.  I did fell sorry fer 'im.  The funeral's on Friday.  By the way, 'e
asked 'ow you was getting' on.

"E

said terre member 'im ter yer.  "

Connie was saddened at the news.  She knew Billy's mother had worked hard at
getting him through his dark periods.  He was going to take his loss badly,
Connie felt sure.  Billy had fought his personal battle and it looked as
though he had won it, but how would his mother's death affect him?  Connie's
concern was made worse by Jennie's observation.

"Yer know, that Billy finks a lot of you.  Con," she said.  "E's asked me a
few times where yer livin'.  I reckon if 'e knew 'e'd be round ter see yer.
That's why I made out I didn't know yer address.  I did right, didn't I?"

Connie's face looked pained.

"It's awkward at the moment, Jen.  I'm jus' settlin' in at Ada's, an' I'm
tryin' ter get me self sorted out.

If Billy showed up now fings could get complicated, y'know what I mean.  "

"I understand.  Con.  Billy knows we work tergevver, so I'll jus' say yer
send 'im yer best regards an' that yer stayin' wiv friends fert he time
being'.

"Ow's that?"

"That's fine, Jen.  Maybe I'll come round an' see yer folks soon.  I'll
prob'ly see Billy then."

It was during her first week back in the street that Connie was stopped by
Dennis Foreman.  He had introduced himself by saying that he was a friend of
Joe Cooper and used to live in the street years ago.

He also said that he knew her 452 not her and was very sorry to hear of her
passing.  Connie was puzzled by the man.  He had a piercing stare that made
ier feel uncomfortable and she could not exactly under- tand why.  As the
days went by and she passed him on the treet Connie became increasingly aware
of his interest.  She ;ould feel his eyes on her and she began to wonder
about dm.

She decided to tackle Ada about the stranger and was .  urprised by the
woman's response.

"There is some fink 'unny about that bloke.  Con,"

she agreed, a puzzled frown >n her face.

"I remember seem' 'im the first day 'e come nter the street.  Funny-lookin'
sod 'e was.

"E was wearin' these 'eavy glasses.  Milk-bottle glasses, I calls 'em.

"E

don't vear 'em now.  Anuwer ring is, the bloke's smartened himself up since
'e's bin 'ere.  That's a nice suit 'e wears now, in' those shoes 'e 'as on
are pretty tidy, too.  When I first aw 'im 'e looked like some fink out o'
the music 'all.  Joe Hooper told me 'e's a cousin o' Toby's.  There's some
fink )erculiar about the man.  I can't put me finger on it, but here's
definitely some fink strange about 'im.  I've never ;een 'im wiv a woman, an'
the only bloke 'e seems ter knock iround wiv is Joe Cooper.  "

"P'raps 'e only likes men," Connie said, smiling.

"What, yer mean 'e might be one o' them there nancy )oys?"  Ada queried.

' "E could be."

"No, I don't fink so.  Con.  There's a couple o' them sort et down the
market on Saturdays.  They talk funny, an' hey always seem ter be carryin' a
shoppin' basket.  One of em's called Francine.

"E always carries an and bag around viv 'im an' 'e's always stoppin' me fera
chat about some- ink or the ower."

Connie grinned.

"Well if I see Mr Smiwers wiv a shop- pin' basket or an and bag I'll let yer
know, Ada."

^ few miles down river from Ironmonger Street another Mr imithers walked into
the town hall offices in Barking with a nacabre request.

He had been sent there by the local police who had informed him that it was
where the records were xpt of the blitz victims who had not been officially
identiied, and who had been buried with just a number to note their passing.
Lance Corporal Percival Smithers of the Royal Artillery had recently been
posted to Shoeburyness, and passing through Barking had given him the
opportunity to look up the elder brother he had not seen for a number of
years.  When he called into the local police station for directions he was
informed that the address he sought was no more.  The street had been
destroyed by a land mine and many of the people living there had been killed.
Lance Corporal Smithers found himself being led through a maze of dark,
reinforced corridors until he was shown into a small stale-smelling room
below ground level.  The short-sighted clerk looked over his metal-framed
glasses at the intruder and motioned him to a seat while he thumbed through a
huge pile of documents.  Finally he looked up with a painful expression on
his thin face.  "Whom exactly do you seek information on?"  he asked.

Percival Smithers gave the clerk a hostile look.  He folded his arms and said,

"Mr William Smithers."

"And what exactly is your relationship to Mr William Smithers?"  the clerk
asked turning back to the pile of documents in front of him.

The soldier was getting irritated by the clerk's offhand attitude.  ' "E's
exactly me elder bruwer," he said without blinking.

"Address?"  asked the clerk in a tired voice.

"Mine or me bruwer's?"

"Your brother's address please."

"Twenty-seven, Stonely Street, Barkin'."

The clerk thumbed through a sheaf of papers and then said,

"Stonely Street was destroyed by a land mine on the fifteenth of October last
year."

Percival Smithers was finding it exceedingly difficult to hold his temper.

"I know that," he said.

"The police told me.  I wanna know if yer've got any news about me bruwer,
that's all."

The tired-looking clerk sighed and clasped his hands over the sheaf of
papers, moving his thumbs together.

"Well, most of the Stonely Street victims were identified by relatives or by
their identity cards.  There were other victims who carried no identity on
their person.  Some bodies were dismembered, or totally unidentifiable.  We
may have a few 454 >oints to go on, however.  Now Mr Smithers, were you
iware of any birthmark or tattoo mark that would make a >ositive
identification of your brother possible?"

"Yeah, as a matter o' fact there is.  Me bruvver 'ad a at too mark on 'is
left arm.  It was entwined 'earts wiv an irrerfrew'em."

"Upper or lower arm?"

"Lower."

The clerk thumbed through the papers once more, then uddenly his face
brightened up.

"Ah.  Here we are," he aid.

"Victim number 245.  Yes, I think we've found your irother, Mr Smithers."

When the sad-faced soldier finally walked out of the own hall the clerk made
certain enquiries and had the rational Register of Citizens checked.  He then
picked up he telephone and dialled the local police station.  His equired
duties finished, he sat back and sipped his lukevarm tea.  It had been quite
a productive day, he thought.  another paper could now be moved into the file
marked Identified'.  The police sergeant who had taken his call hecked the
records at the station, and finally the number if the missing identity card
which once belonged to the late William Smithers went into a special list.

The balmy days of early June passed peacefully in the little back street.
People were now sleeping in their own beds at tiight, although the occasional
air-raid siren sent most folk scurrying into the factory shelter.  Others
slept through the raid, including the frail Mrs Cosgrove who was now almost
;otally deaf.  Connie roused herself on hearing the siren and sat in the
downstairs room with Ada until the all clear sounded.  It seemed to most
people that the last terrible raid in late May had been a desperate gamble.
Two of the locals nad very strong opinions about the way the war was devel-
aping and as usual they were eager to make their views ^known.  The venue for
their discussions had changed, how- ver, since the Horseshoe had taken a
direct hit.  Terry and Bill had now become nomads and their evening travels
took hem to a pub in the Old Kent Road.  With filled glasses in Front of them
the two felt able to assess the situation.

"Yer gotta understand.  Bill, the air raids are bound ter die out now,"
Terry said.

"They can't keep it going', wiv all those planes what's getting' shot down."

"Well I don't fink they're shootin' many down, Tel.  Them guns jus' blast
away ter frighten 'em."

"I don't know about frightenin' the bleedin' Germans, Bill, they frighten the
bleedin' life outta me, what wiv the noise they make."

"Well, I don't fink we're shootin' many down wiv our guns.  I mean ter say,
'ow can yer be expected ter shoot planes down in the pitch-dark?"

"We've got searchlights.  Bill.  It's in the papers every mornin' 'ow many's
bin shot down."

"Yer can't believe all yer read, Tel.  I remember readin' that the war was
gonna be over by 1940.  We're inter 'forty- one now an' it looks like it's
gonna go on fera long time yet.  Ole Churchill said it was gonna be a long
'and struggle."

"Well we ain't getting' so many raids now, are we?"

"Granted, but I'm willin' ter bet there's some fink afoot.  I fink they're
getting' ready ter use a secret weapon on us.  They've got some fink up their
sleeve, mark my words."

Terry laughed aloud.

"Don't talk tripe.  The reason they've cut down on the raids is because they
made a bloody mistake.  Ole Goerin' fought we was all gonna panic an' sue fer
peace.  Well we ain't gonna, an' I reckon that there Field Marshall Bleedin'
Hermann Goerin's tearin' 'is 'air out right this minute."

Bill sipped his drink.  " " Ere, Tel.  Talkin' o' tripe reminds me.  My ole
woman ses she 'card that ole Catchpole's sellin' black-market meat.  "

"Well 'e'U 'ave ter be careful.  Bill.  There's a bit in yesterday's paper
about this geezer what's bin sellin' corn beef under the counter an' e' got
six months."

Bill nodded.

"Seems terme they're all at it now.  If yer pay over the odds yer can get a
Scotch whisky in most pubs.  I wonder if they do the business in 'ere?"

Terry looked around the bar.

"No, I don't fink so.  By the look of 'im be' and the counter 'e's never even
'card of it."

The mystery of the lessening air raids was solved for Terry and Bill on the
twenty-second of June when Germany invaded Russia.  The bulk of the German
air force had been sent to the Eastern Front, according to the daily news456
papers, and for once Bill and Terry did not query the validity of the report.

The news of the invasion was greeted with shock and sadness by the Bermondsey
folk, especially those who lived in the Rotherhithe area.

There had been many friendships made with the Russian sailors who drank in
the local pubs when their timber ships put into the Surrey Docks.

For Terry and Bill there was now another topic to discuss, and they tackled
it with their usual aplomb.

It was a warm Friday evening towards the end of June and Connie left the
factory at five o' clock and walked leisurely along the traffic-filled
thoroughfare, her thoughts cent ring around what Jennie had told her during
the day.  They had been working side by side on a batch of leather cuttings
and the publican's daughter had been full of her torrid romance with Steve.
She had also said that his crowd was congregating at the pub in larger
numbers, much to the chagrin of her parents, who saw their increasing
presence as a threat to their regular trade.  The usual customers had nothing
in common with the noisy gang, and Jennie had said that her father was
showing concern over her developing romance.  She had also mentioned that
Arnold Jerrold had made a few brief appearances lately.  Hearing his name
sent a spasm of anger through Connie and she comforted herself with the
thought that she would not have to face him again.  She was feeling happy now
that she was back in the street with her bad experiences behind her.  Ada
Halliday had made her feel at home and was always fussing over her welfare.
She knew now that the street was where she belonged and for the first time in
a long while Connie knew the feeling of contentment.

She had just reached the market when she almost collided with Billy
Argrieves.  He had turned away from the vegetable stall with a carrier bag in
his hand and suddenly his eyes lit up.

' "Ello, Con.

"Ow yer doin'?"  he greeted her brightly.

Connie's cheeks flushed with surprise and she smiled.  "I'm okay.  What about
you?"

"Oh I'm all right.  Jus' getting' the spuds ferme tea.  Where're yer livin'
now?  I've missed seem' yer in the pub."

457 Connie noticed that the stutter seemed to have left him and he looked
more relaxed.  His fresh face glowed with good health and he seemed to have
put on weight.  He smiled at her and Connie saw the pleasure in his dark eyes.

"I'm back in Ironmonger Street.  It's where I used ter live," she said
without hesitation.

"I know it," he said.

"C'mon, I'll walk yer 'ome - if yer don't mind?"

She laughed at the concern showing on his face.  "

" Course I don't.

C'mon, this way.  "

They strolled by the stalls and turned into a back street.

"I was sorry to 'ear about yer mum," she said after a while.  "Jennie told
me."

His face became serious.

"Yeah, it was sudden, although she was ill fera time.  I miss 'er.  Con."

Anxious to change the subject, Connie asked,

"Yer still workin' at the wood place?"

The smile returned to his face.

"No, I got a better job.  I'm workin' at a buildin' firm.  It suits me fine.
I'm learnin' all about bricklayin', carpentry an' plumbin', an' I'm still
workin' out in the open most times.  I couldn't stand being' shut inside a
factory all day."

"Yeah, I know what yer mean," Connie replied.

They had reached Ironmonger Street and Connie stopped.

"Well, 'ere we are.  It's bin nice meetin' yer again, Billy," she said.

"Yer still going' in the pub then?"  she added, suddenly feeling she wanted
to prolong the conversation.

"Yeah, I still go in there.  That noisy mob still gets in the corner but I
ignore 'em.  After all I don't want ole Bill French chuckin' me out again, do
I?"  he said grinning widely.

Connie was pleasantly surprised at the change in him.  She could see that he
had won his hard-fought battle.  He had a new-found air of confidence about
him, and his whole manner seemed different.  She smiled at him.  "Nobody's
gonna chuck you out any more, are they," she laughed.

"What about you, Connie?"  he asked, a look of concern showing on his face,

"Yer okay now?  Yer 'ad a bad time, didn't yer?"

"We've both bin through a lot.  Billy.  I fink I'm sortin' 458 me self out,
an' it looks like you 'ave, too."

He nodded.

"A lot was down ter you, Connie.  Yer was very good terme.

It 'elped me more than yer now.  "

She waved his thanks away with a sweep of her hand.  Yer did it yerself.
Billy.  "

He looked down at his feet.

"I felt I was sortin' me self outing then me muvver died.  I knew then that I
was at the ross roads I realised I could easily slip back wivvout ere' and
me.  That's when I really started.  Con.  I found this >wer job an' got
me self a new suit.  Now I'm lookin' ter earn as much as I can about the
buildin' trade an' maybe tart up me self when the war's all over.  There'll be
plenty o' msiness fer good builders."

"Well I fink that's great.  Billy.  I'm really pleased for yer."

He looked at her closely and she saw that certain light in his large dark
eyes.  It stirred and excited her, and for a brief moment she wanted to turn
and flee.  She had met him by chance and suddenly her emotions were
quickening inside tier.  Connie felt a stirring in her heart, and she
realised it was the first time a man had had that effect on her since Robert
had been killed.  She knew that her feelings for Billy were more than just
physical and she became afraid and anxious, for she was still determined
never to become involved with anyone again and there was a deep anger which
would stop her giving her love to anyone now: an anger at the way men had
used her body selfishly with no tenderness or consideration for her.  She
knew it was not fair expecting Billy to understand the sordid details of her
life.  Connie lowered her eyes.

Billy picked up the shopping bag from between his feet.  "Well, I'd better
get orf," he sighed.

Connie smiled and moved a loose strand of hair from lier face.

"Yeah, me landlady will be wonderin' where I've got to."

Billy looked awkward as he stepped back a pace.

"Look, Connie.  If yer fancy a night out I'd be 'appy ter take yer
somewhere," he said nervously.

"It's nice talkin' ter yer an' that an' I'd like ter do it again."

She looked into his dark, smouldering eyes and knew that she would have to
say no, but the words froze on her lips.  He looked so childlike and
vulnerable.  He seemed to be peering into her soul and she felt her heart
melting.

"I'd like that, too," she said at last.

FR1;Chapter Forty-Five Toby Toomey had spent quite some time thinking about
his problem and he was no nearer solving it as he walked home on Friday
evening.  For a few days Marie had been acting like she had when they first
got married.  His tea had been ready when he arrived home last Friday evening
and she had gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable.

There had been no nagging during the weekend, and the only comments she
passed on his appearance were complimentary.  His favourite meals had been
served up, and afters, too.  She had even suggested an early night, and that
had not happened for years.  It was a pity he had had to go out that evening,
he thought.  Toby hadtoadmitthatatfirsthehadthoughtshewasuptonogood, but his
favourite meal of steak and kidney pie had not been poisoned, and she had not
asked him for an increase in housekeeping money.  He had put her change of
attitude down to genuine remorse for the way she had been treating him and,
just as he had been getting used to her fussing over him, she had changed
back to her old self again.  He considered the possibility that Marie had
found out about his little jaunts with Iris but he dismissed it.  If Marie
had found out she would definitely have poisoned his steak and kidney pie.
No, it must be her change of life, he told himself, or perhaps she was going
off her head.

Whatever it was, it was certainly puzzling.  Maybe he ought to have it out
with her when he got home.

Toby had almost reached the corner of Ironmonger Street when he was hailed by
PC Wilshaw.  " " Ello, Toby.  Yer still washin' barrels out, then?  "

Toby nodded and made to walk on when he saw that the policeman was coming
over to him.  The chief barrel-washer cursed to himself.  He had too much on
his mind to feel like standing around chatting, and besides it didn't look
good being seen talking to the police.  People might take him for a copper's
nark.

461 The local bobby came up to Toby and stood facing him, his hands clasped
behind his back.

"Remember that little chat we 'ad a little while ago, Toby?"  he asked, his
eyebrows beetling.

"No, what was that about then?"

"Don't yer remember me asking' yer ter keep yer peepers open fera ny strange
characters yer might see in the manor?"

"Oh yeah, I remember," Toby answered.

"Well I ain't seen anybody who looks strange, except my ole woman.  She's
gorn strange lately."

PC Wilshaw laughed to himself.  Being married to you is enough to make any
woman become strange, he thought.  He gave Toby an enquiring look.

' "Ow yer getting' on wiv that lodger o' yours?"

Toby realised he had to be careful what he said.  Marie had drilled into him
what he should say if anyone did ask him about Dennis Foreman.

"That's Will Smithers," he replied as casually as possible.

' "E's me cousin an' 'e's stayin' wiv us fera while."

"I see," said the policeman, rocking back on his heels.  "Well if yer do see
any strangers 'angin' about round 'ere, don't fergetter give me the nod,
okay?"

Toby walked away mumbling.

"Bloody nosy bastard.  Somebody in the street must 'ave told 'im we've got a
lodger."

PC Wilshaw had gone back to take up his position outside the baker's shop
once more.  He knew that he had to stay alert.  There had been a shake-up at
the station after that article in one of the daily newspapers about unsolved
crimes and the chief had been taking some flack, word had it.  Bloody
politicians, he moaned to himself.  Why do they have to keep interfering?
The guy' nor a tyrant at the best of times, and now the politicians are on
his back he's a sight worse.  It had not helped matters when the rumour was
spread around that Dennis Foreman might try to creep back into the
neighbour hood now that the fuss had died down.  The old man had passed the
word down for every constable to be on his guard.  He had sifted through the
rogue's gallery and new prints of the Piccadilly jewel robber were now stuck
up in the station.

PC Wilshaw grinned to himself.  Well the villain won't get by me, he vowed.
If he dares to show his face around here I'll nab him.

Ada Halliday was doing her front doorstep on Saturday morning when Joe Cooper
walked by.  She looked up, her face red with the exertion, and she wiped the
perspiration from her brow with the back of a grubby hand.

' "Ello, Joe," she said.

"It's all bloody go, ain't it?"

He grinned.

"I'd 'ave done yer step fera couple o' bob."

"Gertcha, yer saucy git.  Yer wouldn't know where ter start," she laughed,
leaning over the step once more.

"Don't yer believe it, Ada.  I used ter do me mum's step years ago an' I
ain't fergot 'ow it's done."

Ada put the block of hearthstone back into a tin box and leaned back on her
haunches.

"Ere, 'ow's yer wife, Joe?  " Ave yer 'card from 'er lately?  "

"I got a letter day before yesterday.  She said she's quite 'appy where she
is an' don't wanna come back till she's sure the air raids are finished."

Ada was not one to mince her words.

"Well I fink she's being ' selfish, if yer ask me.  A woman's place is wiv
'er ole man at times like this.  I wouldn't be parted from my ole man if 'e
was alive.  Gawd rest 'is soul."

Joe smiled weakly.

"It takes all sorts, girl.

"Ere, 'ow's young Connie settlin' in?"

Ada stood up and puffed with the effort.

"She's getting' on fine, Joe.

Settled in a treat.  I was a bit dubious at first, I must admit.  "

Why's that, Ada?  "

"Well, there's a lot o' bad memories fert he kid in this street, ain't there?
Every time she looks at that ruin it mus' bring it all back, stan's ter
reason."

"There's a lot o' good memories too, Ada.  Connie grew up in the street.  It
mus' stand fer some fink

"Yeah, true enough.  I fink she's co meter terms wiv fings.  She's a real
nice girl.  Seems such a shame what she's 'ad ter go frew.  Me an' 'er 'ave
some nice chats after we've finished our tea every evenin'.

She's told me a few fings about that pub she used ter work in but there's a
lot she ain't told me, I'll be bound.  Apparently there's a right crowd gets
in 463 there, be all accounts.  Seems terme she's better orf away from the
place.  "

"The Dolphin, wasn't it, Ada?"

"That's right.  D'yer know it?"

"I know where it is, but I ain't never used it."

Ada pressed a grubby hand to her side and winced.  "Connie said the family
treated 'er well.  She's a friend o' their daughter apparently.

They work tergewer at the leather factory in Tower Bridge Road.

That'sow young Connie got the job at the pub.  What's puzzlin' me is, why
she should suddenly leave there?  If the family treated 'er decent it mus' be
some fink else.  P'raps one o' the customers upset 'er?  Yer can bet a pound
to a pinch o' shit some fink 'appened ter make 'er leave.  It couldn't 'ave
bin the work.  Connie ain't frightened of a bit o' collar.  "

Joe took his cap off and scratched the back of his head.  " I might go round
the Dolphinfera drink wiv ole Will Smithers.  They won't know who we are an'
we might 'ear some fink Anyway, Ada, I'm off.  I've got a better put on."

Connie took her time getting ready on that Saturday evening.  She had
arranged to meet Billy Argrieves at the Bricklayers Arms at seven o'clock and
she wanted to look her best.  As she sat at the dressing table and studied
herself in the mirror a familiar feeling of anxiety returned to her, but she
shrugged it off.  Billy was like her, she told herself.  They were two of a
kind.  He had struggled to pluck up the courage to ask her out: he had
hesitated, flushed up and had finally managed to come out with it.  Connie
smiled to herself as she remembered.  There was no need to worry about Billy.
He would probably be more nervous than she was.  As she brushed her long
blond hair, she was aware that she had at first felt pity for Billy.  Connie
remembered how sad it had made her feel to see him sitting alone in the
corner and her heart had gone out to him.  But then Billy had done something
about the situation he found himself in.  He had been courageous and
determined, and her pity had turned to admiration.  She knew now that
watching him fight had helped her in no small way, and for that Connie was
grateful.  Billy's transformation had awakened something in her that she had
thought was gone for ever.  She had slowly 464 ;ome to think of him in a
different way.  Billy had revealed limself to be an attractive young man with
a disarming, entle way about him.

He had quickened her empty heart.

roe Cooper and Dennis Foreman strolled leisurely along he Old Kent Road.  It
was a warm Saturday evening.  The shops were already shuttered and the
quietness was occasionally interrupted by the passing of a noisy tram.  The
fugitive had now discarded his eccentric garb in favour of a veil-cut
navy-blue suit and he looked markedly different From the character who had
knocked on the Toomeys' Front door not so very long ago.  Gone were the
thick-lensed spectacles, the brilliantine-layered hair and the witless look.
[-Ie had kept his bushy moustache, however, and it had the iffect of making
him look somewhat older.  The two were Aatting lightheartedly.

"I tell yer, Joe.  Those Toomeys are a real scream," Dennis was saying.

"I walked inter a right ole argument last night.  Marie was accusin' Toby o'
playin' around wiv anuwer woman.  Can yer credit it?"

Joe grinned.

"Don't yer be so sure.

"E's a dark 'orse, that roby.

"E

ain't so daft.  It wouldn't surprise me if 'e's got a ait on the side.  "

The two men turned off the main road into a back street, their hands in their
pockets and their checked caps worn at a jaunty angle.

"The Dolphin's jus' round the corner," Joe aid, indicating that they should
cross the street.

Dennis glanced at his friend.

"D'yer reckon there's my fink gone on there then, Joe?"  he asked.

"I dunno," Joe replied.

"Ada seemed ter fink there 'ad.  She's a knowin' ole bird is Ada.  We'll jus'
keep our ears 3pen an' see what transpires."

"I only 'ope there's nobody in the pub who used ter know me," Dennis said,
grimacing at the thought.

"Yer should 'ave kept those stupid glasses on," Joe laughed.

"Mind you, wiv them on yer looked like Sharkey the bomb-thrower."

Dennis's grin left his face as they reached the pub and pushed open the door
of the public bar.  Inside the air smelled stale with tobacco smoke and a
blue haze hung over the drinkers.  The two made for the counter and Joe
ordered the first drink.  Bill French was serving and he gave the newcomers
a mild glance of curiosity as he filled two glasses with ale.  Joe and Dennis
found a seat and sat back, casually taking in the atmosphere.

At the far end of the counter a crowd of well-dressed men had congregated and
soon they were joined by two young women who wore fur coats and had heavy
make-up on their bloated faces.  The crowd laughed loudly when one of the men
said something and one character banged his fist down hard on the counter.

Dennis looked at Joe and then his eyes travelled around the bar.  He noticed
a few looks of distaste among the customers and he glanced back at his
companion.

"They look a right flash lot, don't they," he said quietly.

Joe nodded.

"I fink that's the crowd Ada was talkin' about.  They're all strangers terme."

Dennis sipped his pint and studied the crowd for a few seconds before saying
anything.

"I don't know any of 'em," he said presently.

"They seem like the local mob.  They do like flashin' their money about."

Joe's alert eyes glanced in the direction of the landlord.  "E looks a bit
brassed off wiv 'em, too, if yer ask me.  Den.  Jus' clock 'is face."

An old man with a blood-red complexion and watery eyes was sitting at the
table next to them.  He was watching the antics of the crowd with a look of
disgust.  Presently he picked up a tobacco pouch from the table and proceeded
to fill his stained clay pipe.  High-pitched laughter came from the end of
the bar and the old man looked over at Joe and Dennis.  His eyes met Joe's
and he grimaced.

"Bloody noisy bastards," he said, packing the pipe with a vengeance.

"I don't know why ole Bill allows 'em in the place."

Joe leaned over.

"D'yer know that crowd.  Pop?"

"Know 'em?  Yeah I know 'em.  See the one standin' next ter the big tart?
That's Steve Barnett.

"E's got a business.  I fink 'e's cartin' the guy' nor daughter out.  That's
'er be' and the bar," he said, indicating with his eyes.

"That ower bloke next ter 'im is Derek Angelo.

"E's inter just about everyfing around 'ere, an' a right loud-mouth git in
the bargain.

Those two tarts wiv 'em are a couple o' prossers.  I've seen 'em wiv loads o'
different blokes.  "

Dennis leaned his elbow on the back of his chair.

"I'm 466 just about ter get me an' me mate a drink," he said.

"D'yer fancy one?"

"Gawd bless yer, son.  I'll 'ave a nice drop o' bitter if yer don't mind."

Dennis grinned.

"I'm Will, an' this is me mate Joe."

The old character rested his gnarled hands on his walking stick.

"I'm Albert," he said.

"Albert Swan."

Dennis brought back the glasses and they continued talking.

"This yer regular pub, Albert?"  Joe asked.

"Bin comin' in 'ere fer donkey's years I 'ave.  Mind you though, I won't be
fer much longer if that load o' rubbish keeps comin' in.

They fink they own the bleedin' pub.  "

Joe gave Dennis a sideways glance and said,

"They seem run off their feet be' and the counter, Albert."

Albert Swan rose to the bait.

"Yeah, they miss young Connie.  She was a good 'un she was."

"Was she?"

"Yeah.  I liked young Connie.  Quick as a flash she was.  Yer didn't 'ave ter
wait fera pint when she was around."

"What 'appened toer.  Pop?"

"I dunno.  She left sort o' sudden-like.  I don't fink she liked that flash
mob.  They was always chattin' 'er up, espec'ly that Angelo bloke."

Dennis waited until the old man had rekindled his pipe then said,

"I

s'pose them barmaids 'ave ter put up wiv a lot, one way an' anuwer.  "

"I grant yer that," Albert said, puffing on his pipe.

"Trouble is, some people don't know when ter draw the line.  Yer take young
Connie.

I used ter 'ave a laugh wiv 'er, but I always knew where ter draw the line.
I used ter buyer a drink sometimes.  I was on whisky at the time, but I can't
drink it now.  Me doctor told meter lay off of it 'cos o' me blood pressure.
Anyway, I used ter buyer a whisky an' she downed it like a good 'un.  She
could 'older drink could Connie.  Never turned an 'air, she didn't.  Yeah,
there was a lot in 'ere that was sorry ter see ergo.  Young Billy Argrieves
was right upset.  I fink 'e took a shine toer.  Can't say as I blame'im.  "

Another person had joined the crowd and his entry had not gone unnoticed by
Albert Swan.

"See 'im jus' come in?"

he said.

"E's a new bloke.  I don't know 'is name but 'e's right flash wiv 'is money.
Always got a roll of it.

"E pulls off pound notes like 'e's unrollin' wallpaper.  Got a big mouf as
well."

Joe and Dennis laughed at Albert's description.  What he had said was quite
telling, but he seemed to be suddenly distracted by two elderly ladies who
came over and sat at his table.  Albert had now switched his attention to the
women and he began enjoying a bawdy repartee with them.

Dennis had a twinkle in his eye as he finished his drink.

"What say we stand at the counter fera while Joe?"  he said.  "Old Albert
looks like 'e's preoccupied."

Joe felt apprehensive.  His long association with Dennis had taught him that
the man could be a nasty character at times, and never more so than when he
had a few pints inside him.  From what Albert Swan had told them it was
possible that Connie had fallen foul of the crowd and Dennis seemed
determined to learn more.

"Okay," Joe answered reluctantly.

"But mind 'ow yer go, Den.  Yer can't afford ter put yerself on offer."

As the evening wore on the noisy crowd became more raucous.  The two brassy
women were giggling at the antics of the men and there was a noticeable gap
between the crowd and the rest of the people at the bar.  It seemed to Joe as
though the regular customers wanted to avoid becoming involved in any form of
conversation with them.  He realised that he and Dennis were standing much
closer to the mob than anyone else but his friend seemed perfectly relaxed,
and he occasionally glanced across to the crowd as laughter erupted.  Joe saw
that Dennis was watching the latest character to join the group.  The man was
doing most of the talking and the two brassy women seemed to be hanging on to
his every word.  The newcomer had noticed Dennis's interest and he was
glancing over more and more.  Joe became increasingly worried.  His intuition
told him that no good was going to come of the evening and he attempted to
defuse what looked to him like a dangerous situation by engaging his friend
in conversation.

Dennis almost ignored him as he continued to watch the neighbouring crowd.

Suddenly the vociferous Arnold Jerrold looked pointedly 468 it Dennis.

"What do you think, friend?"  he asked loudly.

Dennis returned his stare.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't quite catch what yer was talkin' about," he said calmly.

Arnold grinned.

"I was just saying that you've got to be ;areful in what you say these days,
especially in pubs.  Pubs are a haven for fifth columnists."

"I make yer right, friend," Dennis replied, with just a slight ntonation on
the last word.

Arnold dusted an imaginary piece of fluff from his mmaculate blue suit.

"There you are, Steve.  Our friend igreeswithme."

Steve Barnett was feeling slightly uneasy.  There was some- hing about the
stranger that worried him.  The man seemed oo casual, and the ghost of a grin
that was playing around he side of his mouth seemed threatening.  The women,
too, iad realised that Arnold Jerrold might be overstretching limself and
they had retired to powder their noses.

"I was in the merchant service, friend," Arnold went on.  Wireless.  I was a
wireless officer actually.  I got torpedoed wice, and I was subsequently made
medically unfit for service.  The point I'm trying to make is, less careless
talk, less onvoys getting attacked.  "

Steve winced.  He had heard it all before.  Arnold had masiueraded as a
pilot, a commando, a naval officer, and now as merchant marine officer.  He
knew that Arnold carried a ubious medical certificate which pronounced him
unfit for .  lilitary service, but he could see that the man who was now he
object of his attention had not fallen for the patter.  His yes were calm and
almost wicked-looking.

"C'mon, Arnie.  Let's make a move," Steve said.

Arnold was enjoying himself.

"There's plenty of time, it eve Our friend here knows the score.  In fact I'm
going to my him a drink.

What's your pleasure, friend?  "

Dennis waved his hand in reply but Arnold ignored him.  Bill, give our friend
and his partner a drink.  "

The crowd had become somewhat subdued and the two women , knowing Arnold
Jerrold of old, decided to keep heir own company at the far end of the bar.

The drinks had arrived and Arnold sidled over to stand reside Dennis.

"I've not seen you in here before," he laid.

"Yer wouldn't 'ave done," Dennis replied.

"I've never bin in 'ere before."

"I don't know why we bother to patronise the place.  They seem a miserable
lot," Arnold sneered.

"P'raps they don't like the noise you lot make," Dennis said, sipping his
drink.

"Do you think we make a lot of noise, friend?"

"Put it this way, friend," Dennis said in little more than a whisper, 'if
this was my regular pub I'd be a little bit put out, ter say the least.  "

Joe winced as he waited for the response, but when it came it was unexpected.
Arnold suddenly burst into laughter.

"I like you, friend,"

he said loudly.

"Well I'm pleased," Dennis said, a slow grin breaking out on his pale face.

Arnold looked along the counter then leaned towards Dennis.

"I'll tell you something, friend.  This might not be the greatest pub, but
they do have some very pretty barmaids here.  You see young Jennie there?
Well my friend Steve here is taking her out.  Then there was Connie."

Connie?  "

"Yeah.  She used to serve behind the bar.  What a figure!  She was hot stuff.
We got on very well I might add.  Seems she had a thing about sailors.  In
fact .  .  ."  - Arnold whispered the rest of his words into Dennis's ear.

Joe watched as the grin disappeared from his friend's face.  Dennis reached
for his half-filled glass and slowly poured the ale down Arnold's front.
With measured accuracy he drew his fist back and threw a punch which landed
hard in the middle of Arnold's shocked face.  The man fell back and collapsed
in a heap, blood pouring from his busted nose.

Bill French vaulted the counter and spread himself between Dennis and the
rest of the crowd.

"C'mon, I don't allow fisticuffs in my pub,"

he said, glaring from one side to the other.

Dennis looked over the landlord's outstretched arms.  "Any o' you lot wanna
make anyfing of it?  You're welcometer try yer luck."

Steve shook his head.

"I don't know what was said, pal, but I expect 'e asked fer it."

470 Bill glared at Dennis.

"Right mate, yer'll 'ave ter leave.  I can't afford ter lose me licence."
Joe grabbed his friend's arm.

"C'mon, let's get out of 'ere."

As they walked quickly along Salter Street Joe turned to Dennis.

"I

knew there'd be trouble.  I jus' knew it," he said.  What did 'e say ter make
yer belt 'im, fer Chrissakes?"

"It's better yer don't know, mate.  Jus' leave it at that, will yer?"

471 Chapter Forty-Six It was a hot, dry July, and the smell of drains was
permeating the back streets.  The council water carts came out in force to
wash the dry dust away and flush the stinking sewers, and the children found
a new game to play.  They sat in little groups and focused the hot sun's rays
through pieces of eyeglass on to scraps of newspaper and watched with
pleasure as yesterday's news smouldered into flame.  It was too hot for
rattling door knockers or for strenuous games like tin-can copper.  Instead
the kids sat in the shade and bet their treasured cigarette cards against the
turn of a dog-eared playing card.  When they grew tired of gambling they
roamed amongst the rubble and built their Indian camps on the ruined houses
and tenement blocks.  The more daring balanced precariously on high rafters
and atop swaying brick walls.  One little girl in Ironmonger Street was very
proud of her find which she pushed around in a doll's pram, hidden beneath a
piece of sacking: the nest of rats was quickly removed when discovered and
the little girl was scrubbed vigorously with carbolic soap by her horrified
mother.  The council sent men to deal with the infested ruins and damaged
sewers, and complaints poured into the council offices about the dangerous
state of the bomb sites.

Another feature of wartime which troubled the authorities was the black
market, which was flourishing in Bermondsey as much as elsewhere in London.
People who were registered with a devious grocer or butcher could
surreptitiously buy extra rations, but those whose tradesmen did not oblige
had to obtain their extras by other means.

There was always someone who could supply foodstuff s at outrageous prices,
and occasionally the purveyor found himself in front of the magistrate,
informed on by an angry customer.  Daily newspapers reported on the growing
scandal of the black market and articles 473 graphically highlighted the
terrible cost of bringing supplies in by sea.

For Connie, the summer days were idyllic.  She had kept her appointment with
Billy and she remembered their first night out together with pleasure.  They
had walked along the riverside and visited a quiet pub, talking easily as
they sat on a cool veranda overlooking the Thames.  They laughed and joked
happily, relaxed in each other's company, and the hours had seemed to fly
past.  When it was time to go home he had escorted her to the front door and
said goodnight with a hesitant peck on her cheek.

They were meeting regularly now, and Connie felt as though a new spirit of
life was coursing through her body.  She was happy in Billy's company.  He
made no demands on her, and be did not try to intrude on her secret thoughts.
He seemed happy just to be with her, and Connie recalled with a smile how
she had returned his hesitant kiss on their first date.  The promise of her
new relationship thrilled her, and suddenly the days ahead did not seem so
dark and empty.  She was captivated by the way he smiled and at times his
dark eyes seemed to engulf her, but he never tried to prove himself.  The way
he treated her was strangely gracious for a man, and she was grateful for the
space it allowed her.  Time would pass, she knew, and when her wounds were
properly healed she would be able to give herself completely.  For the moment
Connie felt content simply to enjoy each day as it came, and at last she had
stopped worrying about the future.

Chief Inspector Coggins had, in his own words, 'rung the changes at Dockhead
nick'.  During his short reign he had made quite a few unpopular decisions
and upset more than a few of his officers with his methods.  The duty rosters
had been revised and the filing system reorganised to his satisfaction, and
there had been a buzz of activity when a certain article appeared in one
daily newspaper highlighting the amount of unsolved crimes in the London
area.  Inspector Coggins decided to respond to the politicians' criticisms by
showing them that at least his station was 'on the ball', as he put it.

When PC Wilshaw walked into Dockhead police station 474 at midday on
Saturday, ready to get on with his daily written report, he sawthatamajor
tidying-up was underway.  Papers were strewn about the desks and the station
sergeant was in a foul mood.

"Youcanseetheproblem, Wilshaw," hesaidwitharedface.  "The guy' nor wants the
rubbish sorted out, so you'll 'ave ter do yer report somewhere else."

PC Wilshaw sat down to ease his aching feet and glanced idly at the pile of
papers lying on the desk in front of him.  One of the constables came in
carrying another bundle and threw it down on a table.

"There's another lot for the bonfire, Sarge," he said, to the chagrin of
Sergeant Carter.

Another constable scanned through the bundle and suddenly he laughed aloud.

"Bloody hell, there's some evil- looking characters here."

Wanted posters were being passed around and comments were made which brought
gales of laughter from the officers.  "Ere, get a load o' this one," someone
said.

"William Smithers.  Last known address Barking.  Wanted fer bigamy.  Look at
that dial.  Who' d wanna marry that?"

"Well two did," the sergeant growled.

PC Wilshaw was on his feet in a flash and he snatched the wanted poster from
the constable's hand.

"Let's 'ave a dekko at that," he said excitedly.

Two lines had been drawn through the poster and the word "Deceased' was
printed on it in red ink.  As PC Wilshaw studied the photo his brow creased
in a frown.

"I knew that name rung a bell," he said at last.

"I've bin puzzlin' over that name an' it was stuck up in 'ere all the time."

"We took it down when we^of the update through," the sergeant butted in.

"That was the instructions.  We're on a clean-up campaign, Wilshaw, didn't
yer know?  Anyway, what yer gawkin' at it for?  The case is closed, and the
geezer lived at Barkin'.  Nufink ter do wiv us."

"What I'm sayin' is, William Smithers lives in Ironmonger Street."

The sergeant raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"What, 'im?"

"No, not'im.  William Smithers."

"Well I s'pose there's more than one William Smithers.  After all, it's a
common enough name."

Consternation was showing on PC Wilshaw's face.  "Yeah, but the William
Smithers in Ironmonger Street is only stayin' there.

"E comes from Barkin', accordin' ter TobyToomey."

"Who's Toby Toomey, Wilshaw?"  the sergeant asked with a sigh.

"The bloke 'e's lodgin' wiv."

The station sergeant sat down heavily and cleared the papers from his desk
with a sweep of his arm.

"Right.  Now what we gotta establish is, whether or not your Mr Smithers is a
pucka Mr Smithers, or is 'e usin' the deceased's identity card."

"Right," grinned PC Wilshaw.

The station sergeant picked up the phone.

"Joan?  Get me Barkin' nick, will yer?"

Chief Inspector Coggins stared up from his desk at the two men in front of
him.

"Barking said that the deceased was identified by his brother and the
identity card was not recovered, that right?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Yes, sir.  They gave us the ID number from the register."

The inspector rubbed his stub bled chin.

"There's the possibility of a mistaken identification of the body.  You sure
your Mr Smithers is not the one in the photo, Wilshaw?"

"Two different people, sir."

"Right, sergeant.  I'll get someone round to Ironmonger Street right away.
You get back to the beat, Wilshaw, and stay in the vicinity.

You might be needed.  "

A bright sun shone down in the little back street as Dennis Foreman walked
slowly along towards Joe Cooper's house.  The turning was busy as women came
and went with their Saturday shopping and people stood chatting together on
their front doorsteps.  Children played in the gutter, and at the far end of
the turning the knife grinder was bent over his spinning stone, working the
treadle with his foot.  Dennis knocked on number sixteen and Joe came out
carrying his coat.

"It's a nice day fera pint.  Will," he grinned.

"Where we going'?  Fancy the Compasses?"  Dennis asked.  "If yer like.

I've gotta stop off in John Street though.  I wanna put a bet on.  "

476 The two left the street just two minutes before PC Wilshaw arrived and,
as he took up his position opposite Ironmonger Street, the beat bobby was
feeling rather pleased with himself.  His observations had been productive,
and it would certainly stand him in good stead with the guy' nor he felt
sure.  The constable rocked back and forth, his eyes searching the length of
the turning opposite.  Everything looks in order, he thought.  There's old
Mrs Adams nattering away as usual, and there's that peculiar-looking bag wash
woman standing by her front door, arms folded as always.  Don't get many
strangers in that bloody turning.  Even the locals give it a wide berth.
Can't say as I blame them.  Hold tight, who's that?  Oh, it's only the
tallyman.  Poor sod.

Where's the plain- ;lothes brigade got to?  Taking their time, as usual.  PC
Wilshaw took out his silver pocket watch and studied it, squinting his eyes.
Ten minutes past twelve.  I hope they don't leave it too long he thought.
I'm off at four.

At five minutes before one o'clock the two detectives walked into the
turning, glancing briefly across to where the on stable was standing.

They rat-tatted on the Toomeys' Front door then looked up at the upstairs
window.  Inside the tiouse there was panic.

Lillian came hurrying down the stairs, her eyes open wide md her mouth
hanging open.

"Quick!  It's the police!"  she said breathlessly.

"The police!  Oh my Gawd!  They're after 'im," Marie gasped, peeping through
her clean net curtains.

Lillian stood transfixed in the parlour doorway.

"What an we do?"

she said helplessly.

Marie stepped back from the window.

"I dunno if they're ;oppers or not," she said.

"They're in plain clothes."

Lillian started to shuffle around in her anxiety.

"They're ;ecs all right.  I see 'em come up ter the door from the bed-oom
winder.  I reco'nise the big ugly one.

"E was the one who licked me that time."

"What, the one who said yer was whorin'?  I'll 'ave some- Fink ter say ter
that monkey's uncle."

There was a second rat-tat and Marie winced.

"Go on then.  yer better let 'em in," she said to her daughter.

Lillian crept down the passage and gingerly opened the Front door.

"We're police officers," the taller of the two detectives said.

"We'd like to talk to a Mr William Smithers.  We understand he rents a room
here."

Lillian put on her most innocent look.

"Yes, that's correct.  Mr Smithers lives upstairs, but 'e's not in.  I fink
'e's gone shopping

Marie had come into the passage and stood staring over Lillian's shoulder.

"What yer want 'im for?"  she asked sharply.

"It's just routine enquiries.  I don't think there's anything to worry about.
Can we come in?  We'd like to look at Mr Smithers'sroom."

Marie bit on her lip.

"I don't know about that.  Mr Smithers might be upset about people lookin' in
'is private room."

The ugly detective sighed.

"We can get a search warrant, lady.  Now can we take a look?"

"Well, if yer must.  It's the first door top o' the stairs," she said
crossly, omitting to tell them about the low ceiling.

When the two detectives went up the stairs Marie put her finger to her lips.

"Where's Dennis gorn?  We'll 'ave ter try an' warn 'im," she said in a
whisper.

"I dunno.  Mum.

"E could be anywhere."

Marie and her daughter sat listening to the creaking ceiling with serious
expressions on their faces.

Marie put her hand to her cheek.

"I only 'ope Toby don't come in wiv the shoppin' yet."

They heard footsteps on the stairs and the two officers came into the
parlour, the taller one rubbing his head.

"Well everything seems in order," he said.

"Would you mind if we waited for a while?  Mr Smithers might be back shortly.
It would save us another journey."

Marie nodded.

"Sit yerselves down.  I'll put the kettle on."

The detective raised his hand and glanced quickly at his silent partner.

"No thanks.  We've just had ours."

The other policeman could not remember having had a cup of tea recently but
he guessed his senior must have a reason for refusing.

He stared around the room and his eyes rested on Lillian Toomey's crossed
legs.  She gave him a smile and licked her top lip suggestively.  The silent
detective coughed into his closed hand and transferred his gaze to the 478
piling.  Occasionally his ugly partner glanced at his wrist ratch and
consulted the clock on the mantle shelf Marie tayed out in the scullery,
watching the kettle and trying lesperately to think of some way to warn
Dennis Foreman.

Saturday lunchtime was not the best time to drink in the Compasses, Dennis
was beginning to realise.  Women came in with their shopping bags and moaned
about the food shortages, and market traders rushed in and elbowed their way
to the counter, aware that for every minute they were away from their stalls
customers were most likely being undercharged by the minders.  The place was
too small, Dennis decided, and he looked at Joe.  His friend was listening to
an elderly lady who had just in come from the market.

"No bleedin' oranges, no bleedin' bananas, an' no bleedin' pomegranates," she
was saying.

"It looks bleedin' bare on them stalls.  I can't remember when I last see a
banana, or a bleedin' pomegranate.  The poxy apples look maggotty as well.  I
dunno, I'll be glad when this bleedin' war is over."

"What yer got fert he ole man's tea, Jane?"  the woman next to her asked.

"A scrag o' mutton, an' if 'e gives me any ole cheek about it, I'll aim it at
'im."

Dennis finished his pint and looked at Joe.  His friend seemed eager to get
away from the two women and when Dennis caught his eye he drained his glass
and nodded with i wry smile.

The two walked slowly through the market, hands in heir pockets and caps
askew.

"That beer tasted a bit watery, Joe," Dennis remarked.

"It's getting' 'arder than ver ter get a decent pint o' beer."

"The Dolphin sells a good pint," Joe said, a grin breaking 3ut on his face.

"Yeah that's true, but the company ain't all that clever ho ugh is it?"

They had reached the corner of Ironmonger Street.  A few ^ards away, standing
in a shop doorway, the beat bobby ;ried to look unconcerned.

He had his orders to observe aniy, unless Mr Smithers tried to leave the
turning in a hurry.  He watched as the two men stopped outside the wardens'
post and he noticed that the bag wash woman had her pram parked outside the
Toomeys' front door and appeared to be leaning against the wall.

What's going on there?  PC Wilshaw asked himself as he saw William Smithers
take the woman's arm and help her along the street, followed behind by Joe
Cooper who pushed the pram.  The three of them disappeared into Widow Pacey's
house and the constable stroked his chin thoughtfully, Had the beat constable
been able to see inside the front door he would have witnessed a remarkable
recovery.

Widow Pacey had straightened up and shrugged Dennis off.

"There's nufink wrong wiv me bleedin' leg," she said with a bright flash of
her deep eyes.

"I wanted ter keep yer from going' in the Toomeys."

Joe had parked the pram at the bottom of the passage and as he ambled into
the small parlour he started.

"What's all this about, girl?"  he asked, scratching his head.

Widow Pacey looked at Dennis Foreman, a knowing look on her large red face.
"Yer might 'ave fooled most of 'em down the turnin', Dennis Foreman, but yer
didn't fool me," she said with a wizened smile.

"Which was just as well, 'cos there's a couple o' rozzers in the Toomeys.
Two plainclothes blokes they was.  They've bin there since one o'clock.  I
see'd 'em when I got me last load o' bag wash Anyway, while yer decidin' what
yer gonna do about it I'll put the kettle on.

I s'pose yer wanna cup o' tea, or 'ave yer bin on the piss?  "

"We'd love a cup pa girl," Joe butted in.

Widow Pacey sat at the table with her arms folded facing the two men.

"I twigged yer the moment I first see' dyer she said, The an' my ole man used
ter kick yer arse when yer got lippy as a.kid.  Those scatty glasses an' that
smarmed- down bar net didn't fool me fera minute.  Den.  I watched yer grow
up round 'ere.  Funny, my ole man said yer was 'eadin' fer no good.

"E could see it."

Dennis grinned sheepishly.

"Well fan ks fer what yer did, luv.  Yer saved me bacon, an' I'm really
grateful."

"Don't yer be so sure.  Yer ain't out o' the woods yet," the bag wash lady
warned him, scratching her arm.

"Anyway, drink yer tea, it's getting' cold."

480 ennis looked at Joe.  The stuff!  I got that stuff stashed y there!  "
he exclaimed suddenly.

"I've gotta get it e'ow."

What stuff, Dennis?  " Joe asked.  is friend gave the Widow Pacey a sideways
glance re answering.

"You know, and the rest o' me money.

all wrapped up tergevver.  "

e grimaced.

"They've prob'ly searched the place.  They ;t 'ave found it."

'ennis laughed.

"I don't fink so.  Toby showed me where it ash it.

There's a tin bath 'angin' up in the back yard.  re's a brick under it that
pulls out.  Toby's bin 'idin' a bob there fer years, an' Marie's never found
it.  " " Ow're yer gonna get it wiv the law sittin' in there?  " dunno.  I'll
'ave ter fink o' some fink t's gonna be tricky.

Den.  Yer gonna 'ave ter ask Toby et it, ain't yer?  "

he small parlour had become quiet as the three sat king.  Suddenly the sound
of police bells and screeching ces shattered the silence.  The two men jumped
up and looked through the net curtains.  He could see three ce cars in the
turning.  One was blocking the entrance to street, and the other two had
parked outside the imeys' house.

Uniformed and plain-clothes policemen 2 spilling from the cars and entering
the front door.  rhey're on toyer Den!  " Joe said loudly.

"There's dozof'em!"

rhrist!  I can't stay 'ere.  They'll be searchin' the 'ole et!  " Dennis
said, holding the top of his head.  fer can't get out o' the street, that's a
dead cert."  What about the shelter?  " Widow Pacey asked suddenly.  rhey'll
check that," Dennis said heavily.  ae glanced at Widow Pacey.

"What about the roof?"

"E might be able ter get up there, long as 'e don't break ieck in the
process."

'ennis ran out into the backyard and looked up at the ing roof.

"I'll be able ter make it from that upstairs der.  What about me stuff
though?"  ^eave it terme.  I'll fink o' someway ter get it toyer

"Joe , pushing Dennis along the passage.

A short while before Chief Inspector Coggins had sent two of his men down to
Ironmonger Street and he had sat thoughtfully staring up at the ceiling.
Suddenly he had got up and opened the office door.

"Sergeant!"

Sergeant Carter hurried into the office.

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant, my ulcer's playing me up."

"Sir?"

"When my ulcer starts I know things are not right.  What was the name of that
family Wilshaw said Smithers was lodging with?"

"TheToomeys.sir."

"Are they known to us?"

"Toby used terbeatotter.

"E got done ferdrunkenness, an' the daughter Lillian's bin done twice fer
solicitin'.  Nufink else though, far as I know."

"Remember the watch we kept on that area, sergeant?"

"Per Dennis Foreman?"

"That's right.  He came from Ironmonger Street originally.  It wouldn't be
the first time we've gone fishing for fiddlers and caught a salmon."

"Yermean?"

"Yes, Sergeant, Dennis Foreman.  He could be our Mr Smithers.  It might be
the reason the man is still at large.  He could be living right under our
noses.  I'm going to take notice of my ulcer.  Sergeant.

What's our immediate strength?  "

Sergeant Carter grinned.

"Quite a few eating in the canteen.  Then there's a few constables we could
pick up on the way."

"Let's get things moving.  Sergeant.  I want to be in on this one myself.  We
might put this station on the map at last."

PC Wilshaw looked at his pocket watch once more and stroked his jaw.

What are they doing in there?  he wondered.  They've been in with the old
girl for over half an hour.  Maybe it would be better to go over and let the
plain-clothes boys know the whereabouts of Smithers.

Trouble is, it might upset the apple cart  If Mr Smithers happens to be
watching from the window and sees a policeman knocking on the Toomeys' door
he might do a runner.  No, it would be better just to observe.  After all,
orders are orders, he told himself.  The sudden arrival of half the
establishment of Dockhead 482 police made the beat bobbie think that it was
time to act.  Couldn't they trust two burly officers to sort it out without
sending down most of the station?  he asked himself.  Well it was about time
he pointed the lads in the right direction, he decided as he crossed the
road.  In the turning everyone had come to their front doors.  People had
begun to congregate in small groups and they made fun of the serious-looking
policemen.

"Oi, what's our Lil done now?"  someone shouted out.  Someone else said," "
As Toby done ole Marie in then?  " Another wag yelled out,

"Yer got the wrong turnin', it's Sidney Street yer want.  That's where Peter
the Painter lives."

PC Wilshaw was trying to get someone to take notice of him but the police
were already swiftly engaging in a house- to-house search, led by Chief
Inspector Coggins.  Widow Pacey's house was not left out, and the police
looked into her parlour and paid no attention to the three empty tea cups
which stood on the table.  By now Dennis Foreman had managed to spread eagle
himself in a roof gulley that ran back from the street between the ramshackle
houses.  He could not be seen from the ground or from any of the windows, and
for the moment he felt safe.

483 Chapter Forty-Seven Toby Toomey walked back from the Tower Bridge Road
market feeling hard done by.  The shopping bag was heavy and he hoped he had
bought everything on the list that Marie had given him.  It was bad enough
having to do a bit of overtime on Saturday morning, he thought to himself,
without coming home and having Marie moaning at him about her aching back and
groaning that she could not manage a heavy bag.

Lillian, too, seemed to have suddenly developed a bad back and like a fool he
had volunteered to get the weekly shopping.  Well, if I've left anything out
it's just too bad, he thought.  I'm not running back down that market.
Marie'11 have to lump it.

As he walked out of John Street, Toby saw the commotion.  Police seemed to be
everywhere, and his heart sank as he slowly realised that the activity was
cent red around his own house.  With a feeling of dread he quickly walked up
to his front door and the two constables standing guard gave him a suspicious
look.

"It's all right, I live 'ere," Toby scowled as he walked in through the open
doorway.

Inside Chief Inspector Coggins was talking to Marie and, as Toby stepped into
the parlour, he got a warning look from his frightened wife.

The inspector eyed the diminutive character and nodded.  "You're Mr Toomey I
take it?"  he asked formally.

"Yes, sir.  I'm 'im," Toby replied, looking rather bothered.

"You know why we're here I take it, Mr Toomey?"

No.  "

"Well we're waiting to talk to a Mr Smithers, your lodger."

"Oh, an' why's that then?"

The inspector ignored the question.  He turned to one of the plain-clothes
officers.

"Will you get that idiot Wilshaw in here quick as you can," he said irritably.

485 The officers hurried out and Coggins turned back to Toby.

"I

understand Mr Smithers is your cousin.  Is that so?  "

"No, not really, sir."

"But you said he was," Coggins said, looking at Marie.

Marie stuttered as she tried to speak and the inspector sighed.

"Look, I think you should be aware that harbouring an escaped criminal
warrants a long prison sentence.  I hope I'm making myself clear."

Toby took off his cap and scratched his head.

"Well, sir.  It's like this yer see.  I've bin on toer fer months now ter
take in a lodger.

Yer see, I don't earn enough wages ter get a night out even, an' I told 'er
if she took in a lodger it would 'elp me out a bit.  "

Coggins sighed heavily.

"Get on with it, man."

"Well yer see," Toby went on, 'we get lots o' callers asking' if there's any
rooms going' an', when Mr Smithers knocked at me door, I 'appened ter be in.
Well, I took the bull by the 'orns an' told 'im 'e could 'ave the room.  Now
when she come in," Toby continued, jerking his thumb in Marie's direction,
'she raised the bleedin' roof.  I couldn't understand what all the fuss was
about at first, but when she explained fings I see a bit clearer."

"I wish I did," the confounded inspector mumbled.

"Well, yer see, our Lil's got a bit of a reputation wiv the blokes.

Nufink bad, yer understand, but me ole woman I mean Marie reckoned the
neighbours would talk.  They'd most likely say she 'ad 'er fancy man livin'
'ere.  Now Marie an' me 'ave always bin respectable.  We don't want people
finkin' ovverwise, so I said ter tell everybody Mr Smivvers is me cousin.
That way it stops the tongues waggin', if yer see what I mean.  "

Chief Inspector Coggins ran his fingers through his receding hair.  It would
do no good to implicate this family in harbouring a criminal, he told
himself.  He would never get a conviction after a judge heard that story.
The man even looked like he was telling the truth, although Coggins suspected
otherwise.

The detective had returned with PC Wilshaw who was looking a little agitated.

"I told 'em Smithers 'ad gone in the bag wash woman' souse sir," he said,
puffing out his chest.

Coggins waved the explanation away with a sweep of his 486 hand.  He took
out a pencil and a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and sat down at
the table with a deep sigh.  He unfolded the paper and spread it out in front
of him.

"Come here, Wilshaw," he beckoned.

"Now describe Smithers."

The constable rubbed his chin.

"E's about five seven, dark complexion an' 'e wears thick glasses.

"E goes about twelve stone, an e's got brown eyes an' a bushy moustache.
Also e's got smarmed down 'air, parted in the middle."

"Right, let's see what we can make of this," Coggins said, setting to work
with the pencil.

When he had finished with the wanted poster he turned it around and pushed it
towards Wilshaw.

"Well?"

The constable's eyes were popping.

"It's 'im!  It's William Smithers!"

Chief Inspector Coggins stood up.

"You've had an escaped criminal as a lodger Mrs Toomey," he pronounced
sternly.

"We could 'ave bin killed in our beds!"  she moaned, and then fainted away.

Toby looked down at the prostrate figure of his wife and stifled a grin.
Marie had never fainted before in her life, but he had to admit it looked
real.  They helped Marie back into her chair and put some smelling-salts
under her nose.

Coggins gathered up his briefcase and turned to Toby.  "We'll be taking
Smithers's belongings with us," he said.  "There will be uniformed officers
in the street, so don't worry about him coming back.  It won't be long now
before we get our Mr Smithers."

Out in the street Coggins held a briefing.

"Now listen.  We've established that Mr Smithers is Dennis Foreman.  Our
man's bottled up somewhere in the street.  He can't get out through the rear
of these houses because the backyards look out on to a high wall.  It's too
high, even for Foreman.  I'll take a guess our man's in that factory.

There's a public shelter in the yard, that's why the gates are kept open.
Foreman could have slipped in there without being seen, what with all the
sightseers that were standing around earlier.  Now, the factory is surrounded
by a twelve-foot wall and it's topped with barbed wire.  He could be inside
that factory somewhere and there's no way out for him except through those
gates.

487 We're going to do a thorough search and we're going to pay particular
attention to that shelter.  Now for Christ's sake be careful.  We don't know
yet if he's armed.  "

As soon as the police had left number one carrying the lodger's belongings,
Marie made a full recovery.  For the first time in years she wanted to hug
Toby.  He had handled the situation perfectly.  For a few horrible moments
she had seen the doors of Holloway prison closing behind her.  Even Lil was
still shaking and Marie marvelled at how calm her husband seemed.

In fact Toby was secretly worrying about the parcel Dennis Foreman had
secreted in the backyard wall.  He decided that at the first opportunity he
would get it to Joe Cooper.  If anyone knew where Dennis was right now, it
would be him.  Toby went to the window and could see the police milling
around outside.  The two burly constables were still on guard at the front
door and Toby swore under his breath.  He would not feel safe until that
package was out of the house.  He had taken it from the hiding place on one
occasion when Dennis was out of the house and had opened it furtively.  The
revolver had frightened him and he had carefully replaced the parcel in the
wall, half expecting the gun to go off.  If the police found that gun and the
money they would all be in trouble.

Connie Morgan had been doing her washing in the backyard when Ada called out.

"There's some fink going' on at the Toomeys', Con.  There's police
everywhere."

Connie stood with Ada at the front door watching the commotion, and it was
not long before Mrs Adams walked up to them, cuddling one of her cats.

"What's going' on?"  Ada asked.

Mrs Adams shrugged her shoulders.

"Somebody said Toby's done 'is ole woman in.  Mrs Richards 'card it's that Mr
Smiwers they're lookin' for.  I always reckoned 'e was a bit shifty."

Connie had to admit to herself that she felt sorry for the man.  He had
always seemed pleasant and polite, although his piercing eyes had made her
feel uncomfortable.  Joe Cooper had told her that he was an old friend and he
had got into some trouble years ago, but to keep the knowledge to 488
lerself.  He must have done something bad, Connie thought is she watched the
police going in and out of the Toomeys' louse.  She stood at the door talking
to Ada for some time md then went back to get on with her washing.  The water
iad become cold and she went into the scullery and scooped i pail of boiling
water from the stone copper to pour into the in bath out in the yard.  As she
scuffed the washing up and town on the scrubbing board Connie heard a noise
which seined to come from the direction of the roof.  She looked ip just in
time to see a leg disappearing over the guttering ibove Widow Pacey's house.
A few minutes later Joe came ut into his yard and looked over the high
wooden fence.

"Busy, Con?"  he called over.

Connie nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face.  Is it Mr Smivvers
they're looking for, Joe?  " she asked.

He nodded.

"There's police everywhere.  They're lear ching the factory yard."

Connie raised her eyes to the roof.  " I 'ope they didn't bring adders," she
said quietly.

He looked hard at her.

"Yer know where 'e is then?"

"I just seen a leg going' over the roof.  I knew it 'ad ter be im.  What they
want 'im for, Joe?"

"It's along story.  Con.  I'll tell yer later."

The sun had dropped below the rooftops and the evening sky urned red.

The police had finished their search of the facory yard and they started to
clamber over the ruins of the )uildings.  They checked the shored-up block
entrances and itood together, debating their next move.

Inspector Coggins scratched his head.

"Well he's still in the street somewhere," he said.

"It'll be lark in a few hours and then we've got problems."

One of the detectives came up, brushing dust from lis trousers.

"He might have slipped away by now," he crumbled.

Coggins turned to the man with an expression that for- ?  ade criticism.

"My ulcer tells me different.  We'll get him, lon't worry."

"Where can he be, sir?  We've turned the place inside out.  ie ain't a bird.
He can't fly away."

Coggins suddenly slapped the man on the back.

"Roberts, you've given me an idea!"  he exclaimed, his eyes narrowing.  "I
want ladders.  At least two, and long enough to reach up to that roof.  I bet
our man's nesting up there somewhere.  Go on then!  Hurry, man!"

Above the street Dennis Foreman rested his head against the cool slates and
thought about his next move.  It would be useless to climb down into Widow
Pacey's house, he realised.  The police could make another search at any time
and it would look bad on the old lady if he was found there.  There was only
one thing to do, he decided.

Quickly he unlaced his shoes, tied them together and hung them around his
neck.  Next he took off his socks and stuffed them into his trouser pockets.
Slowly and carefully Dennis eased his way up the attic roof on to the
slate-covered slope.  His bare feet allowed him a grip and, breathing heavily
with the strain, the fugitive inched his way along the side away from the
street, a few inches below the topmost ridge.  Dennis realised that he could
not be seen from down in the turning nor from the backyards, but he moved
very slowly and carefully.  If a slate became dislodged and tumbled into one
of the yards it could alert the police and the game would be up.  His breath
came short and he repeatedly stopped to rest.  Finally, aching and sweating
he reached a position directly above the Toomeys' house.  For a while he
rested, then slowly he eased his way down the slope until he reached the
guttering.  Gritting his teeth Dennis slid his legs over the edge and felt
the drainpipe.  Clamping it with his knees he steadied himself, and then
gradually he shinned down into the yard.

By the time he reached the ground his feet were bleeding and his trousers had
ripped against the brick.  He crept over to the tin bath and gently took it
down from the wall.  Quickly he opened the package and took out a revolver,
which he tucked into his belt.  Breathing heavily, he put his hand back into
the bundle and brought out a large wad of notes.  Suddenly the yard door
opened and Lillian walked out with a bundle of washing in her arms.  As she
saw the shadowy figure looming in front of her Lillian screamed in terror and
fell over the tin bath.

The sudden din alerted the policemen standing on guard at the front and they
shouldered the door open and rushed along the passageway.

Lillian tried to push past the police490 men as she ran hysterically from
the yard and obstructed them long enough for Dennis to clamber up over the
rickety fencing.

Asheclimbeddownintotheyardofthewardens' post the other side, he dropped the
money.  But there was no time to go back for it, and he quickly ran to the
heavy iron door and turned the handle.  It creaked open and Dennis dashed
into the dark interior and slammed the door shut behind him.

A black maria with two ladders strapped to the roof screeched to a halt at
the end of the turning.

Inspector Coggins rushed up.

"Forget the ladders, Roberts!  We'vegot him cornered!  He's not going
anywhere."

"Where is he?"

"We've got him trapped in the wardens' post.  It's sealed off.  Get your lads
over here and we'll plan our next move."

The shouting and the sounds of heavy boots on the cobbles carried into the
dark, quiet interior.  Dennis fell over objects and barked his shins as he
looked for the light switch and, when he finally managed to turn on the
light, he could see that there was no lock on the back door.  He drew the gun
from his belt and hurried over to the front door.  Gingerly he turned the
heavy handle and pushed.  The door would not give.  It was locked from the
outside.  The air was stale, and Dennis felt beads of sweat breaking out on
his forehead as he went back to the rear door.  He could hear noises a little
way along and he realised they would be coming over into the yard very soon.

He looked around in desperation and saw the shelving in a corner.

With a frantic strength he yanked the shelving down and grabbed two large
pieces of wood.  He wedged the shorter piece under the iron handle of the
back door and fixed the larger piece between the ceiling and the top of the
handle.  When he was satisfied the handle could not be moved either way
Dennis Foreman rushed across to the front door.  He knew that they would soon
be coming for him, but it would take them time to get the key.  There was no
way they could knock down the heavy iron door.  The whole place had been
reinforced to protect the wardens from blast.  He reckoned that he had a few
minutes to spare before all hell broke loose.  The cupboard would do, he
decided, and quickly he dragged it up against the front door.  When they rush
me I'll have a chance, he told himself.

It had gone quiet outside.  Dennis eased his aching back against the stone
wall and placed the revolver on the floor beside him.  He laughed bitterly to
himself as he realised he had just five rounds in the cylinder.  He knew that
he could not let himself be taken without a fight.  The clock on the wall had
stopped and Dennis guessed that it would be dark in another hour.  It was
strange, he thought.  Only a few hours ago he had been having a quiet drink
with Joe, and now he was cornered like a rat in a trap.  He stared down at
the revolver.  This street was where he had grown up and, despite all his
wanderings, it looked as though he was going to end his days in the shabby
little turning.

The news had travelled fast and everyone in the street was either at their
door or crowded into the little parlours.  Old George Baker was huddled up in
his favourite chair with a sad look on his face and his eyes were watering.

"Who'd 'ave thought it," he was saying.

"I knew 'im when 'e was just a lad.  Many a time I've seen 'is ole man clout
'im fer some fink or the ouvver.  Bloody shame."

Mary and Frank sat with the old man.

"What'll 'appen to 'im.

Pop?  "Mary asked.

George looked at his daughter,

"When they do get 'im they'll lock the poor bleeder up an' throw away the
key."

Frank was not so sympathetic.

"Let's face it, Mary.

"E did rob a jewellers."

George gave his son-in-law a blinding look and Mary shrugged.

"I know 'e did wrong, Frank, but yer gotta feel sorry fert he bloke.

"E never 'armed anybody."

Billy Argrieves had arrived at Ada's house and he was standing with Connie
and Ada at the front door.

"I 'ad a job ter get in the turnin', what wiv all them ropes they've got
round the place," he said.

"What's going' on?"

Just as Connie finished explaining to Billy they saw Widow Pacey appear at
her front door.  She walked up to them, her face set firmly.

' "E was in my place earlier," she said, nodding her head towards the end of
the turning.

' "E got out on the roof.  It's where 'e was 'idin'.  I knew it was gonna end
up like this.  I saw it on 'is face.

"E 'ad the mark on'im."

Ada glanced at Connie, and Billy looked uncomfortable.  They could see the
police standing behind their vehicle and 492 groups of the street dwellers
standing in small groups staring towards the wardens' post.  The light was
beginning to fade and a chill breeze started to blow down the turning.

"I can't stand watchin'," Ada said, hunching her shoulders.

"C'mon in, I'll put the kettle on."

They were sitting in the small parlour, drinking tea.  Ada and Widow Pacey
were facing each other in the armchairs and Connie and Billy were sitting
together at the table.

' "E was surprised when I told 'im I reco'promised 'im," Widow Pacey was
saying, 'but I 'ad 'im taped right from the start.  Ibin in this street more
than forty years.  Iseen'im grow up.  The three of 'em was always tergevver
as kids.

"Im, Joe an' yer muvver.  Con.  They was always tergevver.  Like peas in a
pod.  Matter o' fact I got some ole photos of 'em indoors.  I jus' bin
looking at 'em."

"Yer say yer got some o' me mum, Mrs Pacey?"  Connie asked.

"Yeah.  I'll pop back an' get 'em.  It'll pass the time away."

When Widow Pacey left Ada turned to Connie.

"She's a strange woman.

I've lived down this street enough years an' I've never 'ad much ter say toer
until lately.  Some o' the fings she says frightens me.  Did yer 'ear what
she said about Dennis Foreman 'avin' the mark on 'im?  "

Billy grinned.

"That's the sort o' fing my ole mum used ter come out wiv."

"Well it scares me, that sort o' talk," Ada said with a shiver.

Widow Pacey came back with a large tattered album under her arm and laid it
down on the table.

"There we are," she said as she began to turn the pages.

"There's the three of 'em.  They couldn't 'ave bin more than seven or eight
at the time.  There's anuvver one of 'em.

That's much later.  See yer mum there, Connie?  Yer can see the likeness,
can't yer.  My ole man took most o' these.

"E was always messin' around wiv that box camera of 'is.  There's anuvver one
oyer mum an' Dennis.  They must o' bin about twenty at the time."

Connie studied the photo and saw that Dennis had his arm around her mother.
The widow pointed at the two young people in the picture.

"They were going' out tergevver at the time," she said.

"There's one of Joe Cooper an' Sadie."

"Yer say me mum an' Dennis Foreman used ter go out ter- gevver, Mrs Pacey?"

"Yeah, about the same time Joe started going' out wiv Sadie.  I remember it
well 'cos it was the talk o' the street.  We all thought Joe an' yer mum
would end up tergewer, but instead 'e latched on ter Sadie Armond an' yer mum
got tergewer wiv Dennis.  Funny turn out that was."

"Why was that, Mrs Pacey?"  Connie asked, looking intensely at the old woman.

"Well 'e suddenly left.  Dennis Foreman I mean.  Just seemed ter vanish.
There was a lot o' talk about 'im joinin' the army or runnin' off ter sea.
Nobody really knew what 'appened to 'im, until it was in the papers about 'im
doin' that jewellers raid.  Nobody round 'ere clapped eyes on 'im again until
a few months ago.  Although nobody knew who 'ewas -'ceptme."

Billy had been watching Connie's face and he saw the colour drain away.  She
was still looking closely at the photo of Dennis and her mother.  Suddenly
she looked up at the old widow.

"Mrs Pacey, did yer ever 'ear the name

"Bonny" used?  " she asked quickly.

The old woman looked at Connie strangely.

"I've not 'card that name fer years," she said, creasing up her eyes.  "Funny
yer should ask me that.  Yeah, I remember the name.  It was a nickname they
used when they was kids.  I've 'card 'em shoutin' it out when the three of
'em used ter stand under me winder.  As a matter o' fact, I.  .  ."

Her words were interrupted by a loud bang and Billy jumped up.

"That's a gunshot!"  he gasped.

They all hurried to the door and looked along the turning.  They could see
the police crouching down behind the vehicle and people peeping out from
their doorways.

Mrs Richards hurried along to Ada's open front door.

"E's got a gun!"  she said breathlessly, her hand held to her cheek.  " " E's
fired at the coppers!  "

Connie had pushed her way past Ada and Billy and suddenly she was running
along the street.  Ada yelled out for her to stop but Connie ran faster.

"Quick, Billy!  Stop 'er!"  Ada screamed.

494 Chapter Forty-Eight Dennis Foreman sat hunched against the cold wall and
listened to the voices outside.  It wouldn't be long now, he thought.  They'd
be looking to get it over before it got dark.  Would they try to rush the
place, or would they play the cat and mouse game?  He heard mumbling close by
and the sudden noise of a key grating in the lock of the iron door.  He sat
up straight and picked up his revolver.

Slowly the door creaked open a few inches and a voice shouted, "Dennis
Foreman.  This is the police.  We're asking you to come out with your hands
above your head.  Did you hear?"

"Get stuffed!"  Dennis shouted.

The door opened another few inches and the voice called out, "Foreman.  If
you're carrying a gun throw it out."

The fugitive stood up and pointed the revolver at the gap between door and
framework.  Slowly he squeezed the trigger and the deafening bang
reverberated around the room.  Running feet sounded on the cobbles and he
heard shouting, then it became deathly quiet.  Dennis leant heavily against
the wall and slid back down on to the floor.

Well they know the score now, he told himself.  They'll think twice before
they rush the place now.

Outside, the police crouched behind the car.  Inspector Coggins was
frantically signalling the two constables away from the iron door.

Suddenly one of the policemen behind him shouted out, "Grab 'er!"

Coggins turned to see a young woman running towards them, her long hair
blowing out behind her.  She dodged the first policeman and as she reached
the car Coggins pounced up at her and pulled her down beside him.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, young lady?"  he shouted at
her.

495 "Don't shoot 'im!  Please!"  she moaned, tears streaming down her white
face.

"Listen, Miss.  We're not going to shoot him.  At the moment he's trying to
shoot us."

"Let me talk to 'im.  Yer must let me talk to 'im," she pleaded, wringing her
hands.

Chief Inspector Coggins put his hand on Connie's shoulder and gently pulled
her down out of the line of fire.  Another shout went up and Coggins saw one
of the constables struggling with a young man.

"Bring him up here," he called out.

Billy shrugged the constable off and slumped down beside Connie.  She looked
at him for a second and then fell against his body, burying her head in his
chest.

"Oh Billy!  It's me dad in there!"  she cried.

"They'll kill 'im!"

Coggins moved closer.

"You say it's your old man in there?  Dennis Foreman is your father?"

"Yes!  Yes!"  she shouted.

"What's your name, young lady?"

"Connie.  Connie Morgan."

Coggins gently patted her on the back.

"Take it easy, lass.  We won't harm him, unless he does something silly."

"Let me talk to 'im," Connie pleaded, raising her tear-filled eyes to the
inspector's face.

"No, it's too dangerous.  I can't take that chance."

"D'yer wanna get people killed!?"  Connie screamed.

"I've gotta talk to 'im.

"E'll take notice o' me."

Coggins gritted his teeth and looked across the street at the iron door.  It
was still ajar.

"All right," he said with a sigh.

"But only if you do exactly as you're told, okay?"

She nodded, blinking back her tears.

"Right, now listen.  We'll cross over there, away from the door, and then
we'll inch along that wall until we're close.  You'll let me do the talking
and don't say anything until I ask you to speak.  Is that understood?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"C'mon then," the inspector said quietly, taking her arm.

It had grown very quiet as the two neared the door.  "Dennis Foreman,"

the policeman called out.

"This is Inspector Coggins.  I've got a young lady with me.  Connie Morgan.
She says she's your daughter.  She wants to talk to you."

496 The silence seemed to grow deeper.  Inspector Coggins ;ould hear himself
breathing.  The young woman beside lim said nothing as she continued to stare
at the door.

"Let 'er speak," Dennis suddenly called out.

Coggins nodded to Connie and she swallowed hard.

"Ello," she said, her voice shaking.

"This is me, Connie.  I vanna talk ter yer.  Can I come in?"

Coggins pulled Connie back against the wall to prevent ler going any closer.

"She can talk outside, Dennis."

Connie tried to pull her arm away from the officer's rasp.

"I wanna come in," she called out.

"I wanna talk ter er.  I know about Bonny.

Can yer 'ear me?  I know about (onny.  "

There was a scraping noise from within, and then she tieard Dennis's voice.

"Okay.  Yer can come in, Connie," he said.

"But I warn yer, Coggins.  Try any fink an' I'm gonna ise this gun,
understand?"

"All right.  Foreman.  No one's going to try anything.  you've got ten
minutes."

Connie moved up to the door and slowly eased her way Arough the gap.

Dennis Foreman stood facing her, his eyes staring at her, his lips pressed
into a thin line.  She walked slowly towards him, tears starting up in her
eyes again.

"I knew I'd find yer one day," she said, fighting to control her voice.

"I never give up 'ope.

"Bonny" led me toyer The name in the locket.  The locket yer gave me mum.  It
wasn't buried wiv 'er.  I've got it.  It was all I ever 'ad of yer.  Why?
Why did yer leave us?  Why did yer walk out on me mum all those years ago?  "

Dennis lowered the gun and reached for her.  He held her arm gently and
slowly shook his head.

"Sit down.  Con," he said quietly.

"There's so much yer don't know.  Let me try Ler explain."

Darkness was falling down over the ramshackle houses md, along the street,
folk stood silently at their front doors ike shadowy statues, their
silhouettes dark against the grey (vails.  Coggins crouched down beside the
car, his fingers irumming on the metal.  The minutes ticked slowly away md
only the occasional nervous cough or a shuffling of feet broke the silence.
The inspector began to get fidgety and he wondered whether or not he had
made the right decision.

Suddenly Connie Morgan appeared in the doorway and walked slowly towards the
police car.  She was not crying any more and her face looked impassive.  As
she rounded the car Billy stood up and took her arm.

She looked at the inspector without showing any emotion.

"Dennis Foreman said 'e needs five more minutes, then 'e'll give 'himself up,"

she said simply.

Detective Sergeant Roberts looked enquiringly at the inspector who nodded.

"I think we can give him another five minutes, Roberts."

Connie walked slowly away from the wardens' post, her head lying against
Billy's shoulder, his arm around her waist.  They reached Ada's house and
Connie straightened up.  Ada was at the door beside Widow Pacey and Joe
Cooper.

"Yer shouldn't 'ave done it, Con.  Yer could 'ave got yerself killed,"

Ada said, resting her hand on Connie's forearm.

"It's all right, Ada.  I wasn't in any danger."

Ada was about to speak when the shot rang out.

"Christ!"  Billy gasped, swinging around.

"E's shot 'himself Connie dropped her eyes to the pavement.

"I knew 'e was gonna do it.

I asked 'im ter give 'himself up.  I pleaded wiv 'im, but I knew it was
useless.  It was in 'is eyes.  Billy.  I could see it in 'is eyes.  "

Ada looked at the young man.

"Take 'er upstairs.  Billy.  Don't leave'er."

Billy Argrieves nodded.

"I won't leave 'er, Ada.  She'll be all right."

The sun had risen over the little street and already the children were out.
The rag-and-bone man had arrived with his creaking barrow, his unintelligible
cry for old lumber echoing through the turning.  The wardens' post was
securely locked and a sad-faced policeman stood on guard at a discreet
distance.  Children jumped in and out of a skipping rope and rolled their
marbles along the gutters just like on any other Sunday morning, but today
they did not stray to the top of the turning.  Folk returned with the 498
morning papers and glanced furtively across to the sandbagged entrance as
they passed by.  A few people stood at their front doors, talking quietly and
shaking their heads as they recalled the events of the previous day.  Some of
the street folk turned their heads and lowered their voices when they saw the
young woman walk up to number sixteen and knock on the door.

Joe Cooper looked surprised as he opened the door.  "C'mon in.  Con,"

he said with a tired smile.

"Yer'll 'ave ter excuse the place, I ain't cleared up yet.  Bin sittin' in
the chair all night."

Connie walked into the parlour and sat down beside the hearth.  Joe threw a
paper off the chair facing her and slumped down heavily, his eyes searching
her face enquiringly.  She drew a deep breath.

"Joe, I need ter talk ter yer," she said with a sigh.

"An' I need some answers."

"I'll 'elp yer if I can, girl," he said, a concerned look showing on his face.

Connie leaned forward.

"Yer know they let me talk ter Dennis Foreman before 'e killed 'himself?"

Joe nodded,

"I know.  Con.  But what made yer do it?"

"I 'ad to, Joe.  Last night Widow Pacey showed me an' Ada some photos.

They was photos of you an' Dennis an' me mum.  She told me about 'ow you
three was always tergewer when yer was kids.  There was one photo of me mum
wiv Dennis.

"E 'ad 'is arm rounder.  Mrs Pacey said they used ter go out tergewer fera
time."

Joe nodded.

"That's right.  Con.  They did, fera time."

"Yer see, Joe, it suddenly all fitted tergewer.  I was convinced that Dennis
Foreman was me farwer an' I knew that if I got a chance ter talk wiv 'im, I'd
find out fer sure.  I knew 'e wouldn't lie terme."

Joe looked closely at the young woman.

"Did 'e tell yer?  Did yer getter the truth?"

In answer Connie reached into her blouse pocket and Joe's eyes widened as he
saw the locket lying in the palm of her hand.

"Yer reco'nise this, don't yer, Joe."

He nodded slowly.

"This little locket kept me going'.  It gave me some fink ter 'old on to
when the grief was so bad I thought about endin' it all.

Yer see, I was sure that one day this would lead meter the truth about me
farwer.

"Elen Bartlett gave it terme jus' before she died.

I thought this locket was buried wiv me mum, but it never was.  I fink it was
me aunt's dyin' wish that I should 'ave the chance ter find out who me
farvver was.  Yes, I did getter the truth.  Dennis Foreman told me
everyfing, Joe.  "

' "E told yer?"  he said, looking down at the little trinket in Connie's hand.

"Yeah.

"E told me about the inscription inside.

"E told me you was Bonny.  This locket is the one yer gave terme mum.  It's
the one she always wore around her neck, until the day she died."

Joe lowered his head for a few moments and when he looked up Connie saw tears
in his eyes.

"Why, Joe?  Why wouldn't me mum tell me about yer?  Why did she shut me up
every time I asked questions?"

The ticking of the clock sounded strangely loud as Connie Morgan and Joe
Cooper sat facing each other.  She was leaning forward in her chair, waiting
for the answers she so desperately needed.  He looked into her eyes, almost
pleading with her as he sought awkwardly for the right words.  He wondered if
she would ever understand.

"Yes, Connie.  Yer me daughter," he told her.

"I've watched yer grow up from a leggy little mite into a beautiful woman,
an' all those years I've 'ad ter love yer from a distance.  I've seen yer
suffer 'eartbreaks wiwout being' able ter 'old yer close an' let yer spill
yer tears over me an' it tore me 'eart out, Connie."

"But why, Joe?  Why?"

He sighed deeply.

"Yer mum, Dennis an' me grew up tergevver in this little back street.  We was
inseparable as kids an', as we got older your mum grew ter love me in a
grown-up way I mean.  I loved 'er, too, but Kate was impatient.  It was 'er
way.  I wasn't ready ter settle down an' she began ter play Dennis off
against me.  They started going' out tergevver an' I can still remember 'ow
upset I got.  I know now that Kate was only tryin' ter make me jealous, but I
was too stupid ter see it at the time.  I thought she'd lost 'er feelin'
ferme.

Anyway, I met Sadie a few months later an' 500 we got married inside a year.
Like I said, I wasn't ready ter settle down, but I must o' felt I was
getting' me own back in a way.

The marriage soon started ter go wrong.  Sadie found out she couldn't 'ave
children an' she took it bad.  The followin' year she caught polio.  Yer mum
an' me seemed to be drawn back tergevver some 'ow.

We'd never stopped lovin' each ovver.  Con.  We managed terme et away from
the street an' nobody suspected anyfing, except Dennis.

"E knew all along that it was me Kate really wanted.  There was a big bust-up
at first, an' me an' Dennis 'ad a set-to, but we sorted our differences out
an' we got back ter being' friends again.  When you come along fings were bad
between me an' Sadie.  She suspected I was seem' somebody else an' she told
me then she would never divorce me.

Sadie's a Catholic, yer see.  Kate 'ad wanted us ter get married one day so I
could be a proper farvver ter yer an', when I told 'er Sadie wouldn't give me
a divorce, she got very moody.  Fings were really strained between us and it
all ca meter the boil at the time of the factory outin'.  Everybody was
getting' sos sled an' me an' yer mum'adabigrow.  She said then that me an'
'er was finished.  I got completely blot to an' a lot o' bad fings was said.

"A few days later Kate said she wanted ter talk terme.  She 'ad it all
worked out.  She said yer mus' never know who yer farwer was.  She didn't
want people ter point yer out in the street an' make life bad fer yer.  She
was only finkin' o' you, Con.  Kate made me swear on yer life that I'd never
breathe a word about being' yer farwer.  She made Dennis promise, too.  Yer
see, 'e was the only ower person who knew I was yer farwer.  I was there at
the time.  I remember Dennis getting' angry.

"E said it was wicked ter make 'im swear on a child's life.

What 'e said was 'e'd swear on 'is own life.  It's the fing that I can't get
over.  I've bin sittin' up all night dwellin' on it.  Dennis broke 'is
promise an' then killed 'imselfa few minutes later.  Jus' finkin' about it
makes me go cold.  I still can't believe'e's dead.  "

Connie had been listening intently, her eyes never leaving his face.

Joe paused and she stared down into the empty grate, trying to take in
everything he had said: When she looked back into Joe's eyes she saw the
deep, lonely pain that had haunted him for so long.

"I fink I understand a bit better now, Joe," Connie said quietly.

"I

know me mum never stopped lovin' yer.  "

"I've never stopped lovin' 'er, Con," he said, his eyes filling with tears.

Connie looked down at her hands.  The room was very quiet and in the silence
between them the ticking of the clock seemed to echo.

Joe looked up at her.

"Yer muwer was some woman, Connie," he said quietly.

"I 'ope yer can understand why she made me swear not ter let on ter yer.  It
was the way she was.  I couldn't make 'er change 'er mind.  In fact I went
ter see 'er the day before she died.  I asked 'er ter tell yer, or let me
tell yer, but she was still determined you shouldn't know.  Kate said she'd
'ad ter bear the pain o' me being' out o' reach an' she didn't want yer ter
go frew the same torment every tim ever see me in the street.

"Er words were, " no farwer is better than alfa farwer".  That's the way she
was.  Con."

Connie was looking down at the locket she held in her hand, and Joe followed
her eyes.

"The day I went ter see Kate she said she wanted that locket ter be buried
wiv 'er.  I'm glad

"Elen Bartlett kept it.

Maybe Kate 'ad whispered somefing in 'er sister's ear.  "

Although the morning was warm Connie shivered.  She stood up suddenly and
looked down at Joe.

"I feel as though I'm floatin'," she said, trying hard to smile.

"It seems 'and terrealise I won't 'ave ter spend any more time finkin' an'
wonderin'.  Now I'm gonna 'ave ter get used ter callin' yer " Dad"."

He was on his feet and he held his arms out to her.  She rushed forward and
hugged him tightly, squeezing him to her.  He could feel her body shuddering
as she sobbed uncontrollably.

"There, there.  Let yer tears spill over me, darling'," he said softly as he
cuddled her.

"It's what dads are for."

She laughed through her tears and took the handkerchief from his hand.  When
she had wiped her face Connie looked up into his eyes.

"Let's keep the secret.  Dad fert he time being '," she said, her eyes
shining.

Joe grinned happily.

"Yeah.  Just the two of us."

She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

"It'll 'ave ter be three.

Dad.  I must tell Billy.  I can't keep it from 'im.  "

502 Joe put his arm around her shoulder.

"Is that the young lad who was wiv yer last night?"

Connie nodded.

"We're going' steady.  I'm gonna marry 'im next year."

"Oh, 'e's proposed, then?"

Connie laughed.

"No.

"E doesn't know yet."

Joe shook his head, the grin spreading.

"Jus' like yer mum.  The poor lad won't 'ave a chance.  Anyway luv, when you
two do get married I 'ope yer gonna let me give yer away."

She laughed happily.

"Who else?  After all, you are me dad."

503 Epilogue Bright summer sunlight shone in Connie's eyes as she stepped
into the street.  Children were gathering around Tony Armeda's ice-cream cart
and along the turning Widow Pacey was whitening her front doorstep.

Connie looked over to the ruined buildings and her mind went back to the
first faltering steps she had taken on her first date.  It seemed a lifetime
away to her now.  At last she knew the path that she had been following so
fatefully.  It had led her to her first love.  It had led her to happiness,
and then had cast her down to the depths of despair and degradation.  But she
knew that she had never really been alone.  Someone had walked the path
before her and from the shadows she had been led out into the light.  Now she
had been brought home again, to her father.

And there was Billy.  She saw him now, coming towards her along the street
and without hesitation she ran to him and threw her arms around him.  She
looked up into his dark, startled eyes and said, "I've so much ter tell yer.
Billy."