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 head-rests. 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.
‘She’s very weak, Aunt ’Elen. They said it’s ’er ’eart. The doctor told me ter be prepared fer the worst.’
Helen rested her hand on Connie’s shoulder. ‘I’ve kept yer fire goin’, luv. You go up an’ ’ave a nice rest. I’ll pop in ter 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 gettin’ 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 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 cuppa, Aunt?’ she asked.
Helen waved her back into the chair. ‘I’ve jus’ ’ad one, Con. I’ve only come up fer a 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 saw ’er.’
Helen stared into the rising flames and watched the smoke spiralling up the chimney. ‘I thought she looked very ill the last time I saw ’er,’ she said softly. ‘Yer gotta steel yerself, Con. It can only be a matter o’ time now.’
‘I know, Aunt. I’m prepared fer the 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 bovver ’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 somefink. 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 ’er. It 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 fer then, 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 gettin’ 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.’
‘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 prefer me 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.
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.’
Part Two
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 kill ’er, 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 ’imself to ’imself. I ain’t ’ad much occasion ter talk to ’im, ’cept ter pass the time o’ day, but I reckon ’e fancies ’imself a bit. ’E talks posh an’ ’is suits ain’t from the fifty-shillin’ tailors, that’s fer sure.’