Down in the street someone hailed their neighbour. ‘A merry Christmas to yer, 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 stone-walled 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 ’eard the little mite cry at all, an’ I would ’ave ’eard ’er. 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 ’imself 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 backstreets. 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 lamp-post while consulting his account book and then walked dazed out of the little backstreet 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 backstreet ignored the slanderous asides and were proud of their ugly turning. Some even boasted of the fact that there were some ‘right ’ard 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, defenceless daughter and hoped he would be able to do all right by her.
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 somefink,’ said Harold Simpson, a grizzled old man in his seventies who lived two doors away from the pub. ‘The country’s goin’ 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. Most o’ 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 ’eard 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.’
‘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 somefink. 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 fer the bagwash. 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’ ’ard fer that, 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 ter meself, 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 lotted out for. Some ’ave the luck, an’ some get kicked in the kybosh. 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 chattles 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’ fer the RO ter 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?’
‘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 gaslit 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 mantelshelf, and in one corner a tiny Christmas tree stood in a bucket, garlanded with silver strands and tiny bonbons. 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.