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 gettin’ on?’ Joe said, thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
‘God knows. I haven’t seen anything of her.’
‘Me 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 manager said as Toby stood awkwardly in the middle of his office. ‘Now, the job is rather messy, but you will be supplied with rubber boots and waterproofs. We’re looking for someone 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 papers and glanced rather sceptically at the spiky-haired character facing him. ‘Now tell me a little about yourself, Mr 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, irons,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘What sort of irons?’
‘You know, ironin’ irons.’
The manager’s brow furrowed. ‘You bought and sold household commodities?’
Toby’s eyes widened. ‘Yeah, an’ old newspapers an’ rags. Mind you, though, I never accepted pissy mattresses. Bit difficult with carpets though. When they’re rolled up yer can’t always see the condition they’re in. Some ’ave dog shit all over ’em’.
The manager held his hands to his face and slowly shook his head. Finally he looked up. ‘Mr Toomey. Are you trying to tell me you were a totter?’ he asked pointedly.
‘Not really,’ Toby replied, grinning. ‘Totters go round wiv’orse an’ carts, or barrers. I ’ad a pram – till it fell in this bloody great crater in Dock’ead.’
The manager of Hayden’s Choice Pickles knew then that he should have stayed in bed that morning. He badly wanted a barrel-washer, and all the labour exchange had been able to come up with was a pram-pushing totter. Why was barrel washing considered to be such a bad job? Why couldn’t they send someone who had just a little credibility? he groaned to himself.
‘All right, Mr Toomey. You’ve got the job on a week’s trial,’ the manager said with a sigh. ‘Report to the yard foreman 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 fer a 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. Rainfilled 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 headache and sickness prevented her from going to work. It was then that Connie started drinking.
It began innocently enough. Old Albert Swan was propping up the counter and had been sharing a joke with Connie. ‘’Ere, Con, fill that up, will yer? While you’re at it, pour yerself a tot.’
‘Fanks 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 Stamford Bridge terday. ’Undred ter six an’ a nine ter two. It come to a nice few bob. You ’ave a drink wiv yer ole mate Albert. Pour yerself a whisky, it’ll put a bit o’ colour in yer cheeks.’
The dark spirit burnt her throat and made her eyes water but the warm glow stayed in her stomach. Before time was called old Albert Swan was looking bleary eyed and his face was flushed from his celebrating. He had managed to persuade Connie to have another drink and she was feeling a little unsteady herself. That night the drink quietened her nerves and she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Whisky soon became a regular tonic, and when the customers included her in the round of drinks Connie would gratefully take a small nip. She found she could shake off the morning-after feeling without much trouble and soon she was sneaking a drink before she started work behind the bar. Jennie began to notice the difference in her friend. She had become more talkative and inclined to joke with the regulars. Her face seemed to become flushed as the evenings wore on and when the occasional air raid took place Connie slept undisturbed in the damp cellar. Dora had noticed the change in the Morgan girl and she mentioned it to her husband.
‘I’m a bit concerned about ’er, Bill. She’s very good be’ind the bar an’ the customers fink the world of ’er, but she’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 they all do, don’t they? No, I’m more concerned about the drinks she accepts from the customers.’
Bill folded up his paper. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, luv. If they wanna buy ’er 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 ’er good. 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 fer a 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 fer a drink when we close up. They’ve got a bit of a party goin’ 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 ’ard 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 pale face. She ran her fingers through her long blond hair and sighed as she picked up the hairbrush. While she was brushing out the tangles Connie’s eyes fell on the little gold locket lying beside the grey handbag. She put down the brush and gently picked up the trinket by its thin chain. It had been a shock when she had presented the ticket at the pawnbrokers in the Old Kent Road and found that the article she had redeemed for twenty-five shillings was her mother’s gold locket, the one she had always worn around her neck. Connie shivered. She wondered why Helen had desperately wanted her to have the memento, and she tried to imagine what she could possibly have been thinking as she lay there in the hospital, unable to speak. If only she could have said something to explain the mysterious little inscription on the inside. Perhaps she would not have told her anything. After all, she had lied about the locket being buried with her sister’s body. Connie wondered whether her aunt had been sworn to secrecy, and if she had, why the secret had been so important that she had kept it until her dying day. Perhaps Aunt Helen had wanted to leave her something out of love – the chance to find out at last who her father was.
Connie felt an intense excitement as she looked down at the 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 have been special for her mother to have always carried his words of love around inside the little trinket. Although she did 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 her eyes, as if in the dark recesses of her mind she might catch 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.