Michael kissed her ear again. ‘Don’t be scared, Con,’ he murmured. ‘I fancy yer like mad. Let’s go ter yer 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 motioned for 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’.’
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 goin’ in. She’s got a sailor bloke wiv ’er.’
‘What d’yer want me ter 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’s ’avin’ 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 in ter ’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 goin’ 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 ter me doze.’
Annie gave him a withering stare before going out into the kitchen.
‘Silly cow,’ Alf mumbled to himself. ‘I wouldn’t ’ave minded goin’ 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 anyfink, 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 sunrays 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 mantelshelf 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 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 chequered 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 somefink 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 mantelshelf 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 workforce, 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-toodistant 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 backstreets 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 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 ’alf a 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 halfway 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 winked at him.
Danny winced. He could not believe his eyes.
‘We’ve got no money,’ she said unconcernedly. ‘Wanna come ter some arrangement?’
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 came 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 oilshop 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 shopowner was going off his head. When Mary Brown popped into Misery’s shop one Saturday morning for two-penn’orth of hearthstone 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’ind yer,’ 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. ‘Oi! You asleep? Look at the mess!’
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 d’yer ask that for?’
‘Yer don’t look well.’
‘I’m all right. I told yer I’m all right. What yer waitin’ for?’
‘Well d’yer want me ter 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 oilshop owner.