Molly laughed and sat up. ‘Fancy us bein’ all posh. The kids round ’ere wouldn’t talk to us. Anyway, those office fellas ’ave got funny names, like Clarence and Rodney. There’s a fella who works in the office at Armitage’s called Bertrum. Fancy’avin’ a name like Bertrum. I couldn’t go around all day sayin’ names like that. I’d burst out laughin’.’
Connie grinned and leaned forward. ‘I reckon they’ll send us ter Shuttleworths, or Peek Frean’s. Most o’ the girls who left last term work at Shut’s.’
‘Cor! Fancy ’avin’ a job packin’ choc’lates. We could eat’em all day, Con.’
‘What about workin’ at Peek’s, Molly? Cream biscuits, jam rolls, and luvverly choc’late digestives.’
Molly pulled her knees up. ‘I bet yer don’t get a chance ter touch a fing. I bet they’ve got some ole witch of a forelady standin’ over yer all day. Someone like Widow Pacey.’
‘P’raps they’ll send us ter one o’ those bottlin’ stores,’ Connie said, as she picked up the poker and stabbed at the glowing coals.
‘What would we ’ave ter do there, Con?’
‘Well, accordin’ ter that Rita Arnold, yer label wine bottles an’ do packin’. She’s worked there fer ages.’
Molly stretched her legs and rubbed the side of her back. ‘I’ope we do get ter work tergevver, Con. The labour exchange might send us ter different places. Can’t we say we wanna work tergevver?’
‘I s’pose we could do,’ Connie replied.
Molly’s face became serious and for a time she stared into the fire. Presently she looked at Connie. ‘S’posin’ they won’t give me a job?’
‘What d’yer mean, Molly. ’Course they’ll offer yer a job. You could do any job I could do.’
‘I dunno. Lots o’ firms won’t take people like me on. Bella Richards couldn’t get any jobs at all. I don’t fink she’s ever ’ad a job since she left school.’
Connie looked into her friend’s large sad eyes and felt a familiar wave of pity flowing through her. ‘Don’t be so silly, Molly. Bella Richards is not like you. She’s got somefing wrong wiv ’er brain. She keeps ’avin’ fits. That’s why she can’t get a job. There’s nufink wrong wiv yer brain. You was always better than me at classes. You’ll get a job anywhere.’
Molly stared back into the fire, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames. ‘Will yer get married one day, Con?’ she asked suddenly.
Connie laughed, and a slight flush tinged her pretty face. ‘Oh, I dunno. I might, one day.’
‘Will yer ’ave lots o’ babies?’
‘I might. What about you?’
Molly’s eyes had remained fixed to the flames. ‘Yer need boys ter make babies, Con. Boys won’t wanna go out wiv somebody like me.’
Connie leaned forward and squeezed Molly’s arm gently. ‘Yes they will. You jus’ wait. Now let’s ferget boys. Let’s talk about Christmas presents, an’ mince pies, an’ ’ot chestnuts.’
Laughter rang out in the cosy room, while across the gaslit landing, in the flat opposite, old Mrs Walker wrapped her thick shawl around her frail shoulders and dreamed of Christmas long ago. The laughter that carried into her drab, draughty flat was the laughter of the street in more tranquil times, when the ragtime piano blared out, and when the banging coming from the scullery was music to her ears. The shelf was now hanging off the wall, although she did not notice. The fire was dying in the grate, but she did not take heed. She pulled the shawl tighter and closed her eyes.
Throughout the whole of the depression years West End restaurants and clubs still took deliveries of clarets and Madeiras, French Sauternes and vintage ports. The bottling stores and wholesale wine merchants around the Tooley Street area remained on full-time working to meet the demand, and it was there that the two young school-leavers found their first jobs together at John Priday and Sons. Connie was put to work labelling French wine, while Molly was placed on a different work bench, a couple of folded sacks on her stool to give her height, pasting out year labels for the bottle necks. With some trepidation, the two began their working lives.
The hours seemed long, and the work was dull. The only relief came when the daily tot of wine was handed out. The women labellers chuckled as Molly took her first sip of wine and pulled a face. It tasted like vinegar and she had difficulty in swallowing it. Connie, too, found the taste strange, but it was not long before both girls got used to it and in fact even began to look forward to the wine break. The ribald jokes, and the raucous laughter which often brought the foreman out of his office to see what was going on, were at first frightening to the cousins. But the women, mostly old hands, took the two young girls under their wings, and though life in the bottling stores was tedious and hard, in no time at all the young girls felt that they were part of the group. They soon began to understand the logic of the bawdy jokes which were, more often than not, directed towards the men workers.
Liaisons were established, and the banter and repartee often resulted in little favours being done by the men to ease the workload. Women could take a break in the toilets to have a smoke or take a swig from a bottle of wine that had been secreted behind the cistern while one of the men took over the labelling. Other little favours helped everyone through the day and, when someone had a birthday, one of the men would run over to the bakers across the road from the stores and fetch cakes. The most important reason for befriending the men, however, was the fact that the bottling stores worked on a bonus system. To have an ally amongst the men meant that the full boxes of labelled bottles would be more quickly removed and another empty box made ready; it could also ensure that a speedier supply of labels and paste kept production going and the bonus figure being reached.
At five o’clock every evening the two friends left the dank, gas-lit railway arches where the bottling stores were situated and walked home arm in arm to Ironmonger Street. As they walked through the warren of little backstreets to reach their homes they usually talked about their funny workmates and the young lads who were employed to load and unload the vans and horsecarts. One of the lads, a scruffily-dressed individual with an impish look, had seemed to have taken a shine to Molly and it was the subject of much talk amongst the older women. Molly was finding his attentions embarrassing, and she always blushed when the lad came through the arch and gave her a huge wink. Connie though was grateful for his friendship and she decided to find out a little about him.
The opportunity presented itself when the bottling machine broke down one morning. While the broken glass was being extracted from the cogs the labellers took a well-earned rest, and some of the lads came in to the bottling arch for a chat. The impish character sidled up to Connie and leaned on the work bench. ‘’Ello. What’s your name then?’ he asked, his eyes gently mocking her.
‘Connie Morgan. What’s yours then?’ she countered.
‘Michael Donovan. I live in Tower Bridge Road,’ he said quickly, flicking a tuft of hair from his eyes with a quick move of his head.
‘I live in Ironmonger Street,’ Connie said.
Michael’s eyes lit up and he broke into a grin, showing a row of wide even teeth. ‘Ironmonger Street. Cor! That’s a right ole street ter live in.’
Connie gave him a hard stare. ‘What d’yer mean? Our street’s okay. I’ve lived there all me life. Molly lives there too. We’re cousins.’
‘I know you’re cousins. They told me,’ he said, nodding to the group of women who had produced a pack of cards and were beginning a game of pontoon. ‘Why don’t yer cousin talk ter me when I wink at ’er? Is she shy?’
‘She is a bit, I s’pose,’ Connie conceded.
‘I used ter go out wiv one o’ the girls ’ere,’ Michael said, standing up straight and puffing out his pigeon chest. ‘She left though. Got anuvver job in an office.’
‘Oh, an’ is that why yer packed ’er up?’
‘I didn’t pack ’er up. She packed me up,’ he admitted as he toyed with a pasting brush.
Connie studied the tall, slim lad and felt suddenly sorry for him. His demeanour was innocent enough, although she sensed a fierce pride simmering below the surface. His face was open and friendly and his unruly mop of fair hair almost covered his ears. His clothes seemed to be hanging on him, and his boots were tied up with string. He had a pleasant smile and his full lips were constantly moving. He seemed somehow to be different from the rest of the lads in that he took every opportunity to chat to everyone within reach.
‘’Ow old are yer?’ Connie asked suddenly, flushing at her own impudence.
‘I’m nearly seventeen. ’Ow old are you?’
‘I’ll be fifteen in November,’ Connie replied.
‘Yer just a kid, Connie. Don’t worry though. I’ll keep me eye on yer. Some o’ those women are crafty,’ he whispered, nodding in the direction of the card players. ‘They’ll give yer all the worse jobs, you bein’ new an’ everyfing.’
‘I’m not a kid,’ Connie retorted sharply. ‘I’m only a little bit younger than you. Anyway, yer not a kid once yer start work,’ she added pointedly.
‘What’s up wiv yer cousin, Con?’ Michael said, in an effort to change the subject.
‘What d’yer mean what’s up wiv ’er?’
‘Well, she looks sort o’ different. Like she’s a dwarf or somefink.’
Connie was furious at his impudence, and wanted to lash out with her tongue, but something stopped her. He seemed genuinely interested in Molly’s condition, and she saw the look of sympathy and concern on his elfin face.
‘Molly’s got a spine defect. She was born wiv it. That’s why she gets shy when boys talk to ’er,’ she said quietly. Michael’s look of puzzlement made her go on. ‘Yer see, Molly finks people pity ’er. She gets mad when people pity ’er.’
‘Can’t the ’ospital do anyfink – ter make ’er walk better I mean?’ Michael asked.
Connie shook her head. ‘No. ’Er mum told me she might’ave ter wear irons on ’er legs soon. Don’t you tell ’er that, will yer?’ she said, her eyes widening.
‘’Course I won’t. What d’yer take me for?’ Michael said indignantly.
Connie glanced over to where her friend was working and saw that the group on that particular bench was huddled around one of the women who seemed to be pointing out something from a catalogue. Molly appeared to be interested in what was being shown and did not seem to have noticed the conversation she was having. Connie looked back at Michael who was leaning against the work table, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’ve not seen yer in Tower Bridge Road,’ she said. ‘I’m always there, doin’ shoppin’ fer me aunt.’
‘I live in Albion Buildin’s, near the bridge. I live wiv me gran,’ he said, looking down at his scruffy boots.
‘Ain’t yer got no mum an’ dad then?’ Connie asked.
‘They split up when I was a little kid. I can’t remember much about ’em. I remember a little bit about me dad. ’E was very big. All I can remember about me mum is the scenty smell. She always smelt really nice. I can’t even remember what she looked like.’
Connie looked down at her fingernails. ‘My dad’s dead. At least that’s what me mum tells me. I don’t know really. ’E might still be alive.’
‘D’yer live wiv yer mum, Con?’
‘Yeah. Why d’yer ask?’
‘Well yer said yer go shoppin’ fer yer aunt.’
‘That’s right, I do. I stay wiv ’er an’ Molly a lot. Me mum works in a pub, an’ she ’as ter go out a lot.’
The belt was now clear of broken glass and it looked as though work would start again very soon.
Michael stood up straight. ‘Fanks fer the chat, Con. I’d better get outside, or that ole goat Bradley’ll start shoutin’.’
Connie smiled at him. ‘Somebody mentioned you was tryin’ ter get in the navy,’ she said. ‘Is that right?’
Michael’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah. I’m waitin’ till I’m seventeen next month an’ I’m gonna sign on fer seven an’ five.’
‘What’s seven an’ five mean?’
‘Seven in the service, an’ five years in the reserve. It’s what yer gotta do if yer wanna join up,’ he said as he moved away from the work bench.
‘See yer later,’ Connie called out.
‘See yer, Con,’ he smiled.
1935 was Jubilee year, and in May lots of backstreets in dockland held parties for the children. In Ironmonger Street some of the folk gathered together in George Baker’s house to make arrangements for a street party. George was now in his early seventies and still sprightly. His daughter Mary was there, too. She had married Frank Brown, a docker from the next street, and they had two young children. Joe Cooper sat at the table with a note pad in front of him holding court.
‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘We’ve gotta go roun’ wiv the collectin’ boxes. People ain’t got much, we know, but every penny’ll count. We’ve also gotta scrounge some fruit an’ nuts from the stall-’olders, an’ somebody’s gotta pop in ter get a few bob from ole Misery.’
‘I’ll chat the stall-’olders up,’ Mary said, wiping her baby’s hands and moving the packet of margarine out of reach.
‘I can make some jellies,’ Clara Cosgrove piped in.
‘I can bake a load o’ fairy cakes if somebody can supply the stuff,’ said Mrs Griffin.
‘What about the clobber, Joe?’ old man Baker said, knocking the bowl of his pipe on the fender.
‘Well it all depends,’ Joe answered. ‘If we get enough money from the whip round we can get Union Jack pinafores fer the girls, an’ paper ’ats fer the boys. There’s also those Jubilee mugs on sale in the market. We might be able ter get some o’ those an’ fill ’em up wiv sweets.’
‘What about tables an’ chairs?’ Mary said, dipping her baby’s dummy in the jam pot and popping it in his mouth. ‘I can’t put any o’ mine outside me front door, I’d be too ashamed. They’re all rickety.’
‘I know what. Let’s go round an’ see ole scatty Simmons,’ Mary’s husband said. ‘’E could let us ’ave some trestle tables an’ benches from the school.’
‘’E wouldn’t give yer the time o’ day,’ Mrs Cosgrove said with venom. ‘That ole goat’s pissed ’alf ’is time.’
‘That’s all right,’ Joe butted in. ‘We’ll talk to ’im when ’e’s pissed. We’ll get more sense out of ’im that way. If we play our cards right ’e might chip in a few cups an’ plates.’