‘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’ Fred Astaire.’
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, halfway down the small turning, they could see the knifegrinder 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.
‘Fanks, Michael,’ she said. ‘What time yer 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 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. ‘Me mum’s in ’ospital. She’s bin there fer a long time now,’ she said.
Michael looked at her. ‘What’s the matter wiv ’er, Con?’
‘She’s got TB.’
‘I’m sorry. Is she gettin’ better?’
‘No. She’s gettin’ worse. Mum ses she’s never gonna get out o’ 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 somefink?’ 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 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 national 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 fer a walk in the afternoon if yer like?’
Connie nodded. ‘All right. What time d’yer 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.
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 goin’ on about that bastard ’Itler, an’ ’ow ’e’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 gettin’ 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, ’spesh’ly now it looks like we’re goin’ 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.’
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.’