Read Online Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling - Free Book Online Page B

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.’
    The group of organisers went about their various tasks, and soon the festivity supplies began to grow. Tony Armeda promised to donate a tub of his lemon ice-cream and the stallholders gave generously. As one of them put it: ‘We might as well do it wiv a good ’eart. Those bleeders from Ironmonger Street’ll nick the bloody fruit anyway.’
    Misery Martin proved to be a problem, however, and Joe Cooper decided to sort him out in his own way. ‘Come ’ere you lot,’ he shouted at a group of street kids who he found tying door knockers together and pulling on the string. ‘I ain’t gonna