Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling

workin’ in a bleedin’ arms factory.’
    ‘By the look o’ you, yer ain’t got no intention o’ workin’ anywhere,’ countered the orator, grinning at his own jibe.
    ‘Why, yer saucy git. I was workin’ when you was a dirty idea in yer farvver’s ’ead. I can work wiv the best of ’em.’
    ‘An’ the worst of ’em,’ a voice called out from the back of the crowd.
    The orator struggled to regain the attention of his audience and he raised his hands skywards for order. ‘Mark my words well, friends,’ he began. ‘If we let the Germans get away wiv it we’re gonna be sorry. Before long they’ll be marchin’ up the Mall.’
    The crowd erupted and one or two young men made for the speaker, their fists clenched.
    ‘Order! Order!’ shouted a heavily built man who was standing by the speaker.
    The crowd held back as the big man faced them, his hands held out in front of his chest. ‘Now listen, brothers,’ he said in a broad Irish accent. ‘As me darlin’ ole mother used ter say, there are those who are for us, an’ those who are agin us, an’ my name’s Maginnis.’
    ‘Piss orf, Paddy. Go back ter yer own soap box,’ someone called out.
    The large Irishman smiled broadly. ‘Sure ’tis an unsociable crowd ye are, so I’m away, my friends. But first I’ll leave yerse with a blessin’ ter be gettin’ on with. When yer toime comes may yerse be in heaven a half an hour before the divil knows you’re dead.’
    The speaker turned his attention to his audience once more as the laughing Irishman walked away somewhat unsteadily. The heckler in the grubby mackintosh walked away, too, his eyes focused on another group who were shouting abuse at a speaker wearing a dog-collar and he walked over to direct a tirade of obscenities at the pacifist minister.
    Soon the crowds began to drift away and Joe breathed easier. The Blackshirts were not going to put in an appearance today after all. I’m getting a little too old for all this, he told himself as he went to join his friends.
     
    Connie Morgan heard it from Carrie Jones and she told Molly as they walked to work one Monday morning.
    ‘There’s jobs goin’ at Peek’s. Let’s take the afternoon off an’ go roun’ there. They pay more than we’re gettin’.’
    Molly stopped in her tracks. ‘Why wait? Let’s go roun’ there right now. I’m fed up wiv labellin’, ain’t you?’
    Connie grinned. ‘C’mon then, Molly. We might be lucky. The extra money’ll come in ’andy.’
    Molly nodded her agreement. ‘My mum’s worried. Dad got ’imself in debt wiv the moneylender again. If we get the job I can give up a bit more.’
    ‘Me, too,’ Connie replied. ‘My mum’s comin’ ’ome soon an’ she won’t be able ter work fer some time yet.’
    Molly took her cousin’s arm as they crossed the Tower Bridge Road and walked purposefully towards Grange Road. The market stalls were already set up and the smell of fresh fruit carried on the slight breeze. Trams rattled by, and horsecarts made a crunching sound as the iron-rimmed wheels passed over the cobbles. When they neared the Trocette Picture House Connie squeezed her cousin’s arm. ‘Cor! Look Molly!’
    The large poster over the entrance spelt out in bold red lettering: Frank Capra’s, It Happened One Night , starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert.
    ‘I fink Clark Gable’s lovely, Con.’
    ‘So do I, Molly.’
    ‘We’ll ’ave ter see that picture.’
    ‘If we get the job let’s celebrate an’ go up there ternight.’
    ‘Yeah, let’s.’
    Later that evening the two girls left the cinema and walked slowly back to Ironmonger Street. They had been silent for a while, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Suddenly Molly said, ‘I didn’t fink we’d get the job. I got scared when she asked me about bein’ under the ’ospital.’
    Connie laughed aloud. ‘Wasn’t she funny-lookin’. She reminded me of ole Miss Perkins at school. I nearly burst out laughin’ when I saw