Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling Page A

them glasses on the end of ’er nose.’
    Molly giggled. ‘Jus’ fancy. Twenty two an’ sixpence a week, an’ as many biscuits as we can eat.’
    ‘Wasn’t that smell nice,’ said Connie as they turned into Ironmonger Street. ‘I love the smell of biscuits, though I bet we won’t be sayin’ that after a few weeks there.’
    They walked down the quiet, dark street and turned into the block entrance. The gaslight flickered as they climbed the wooden staircase and tramped noisily along the landing. After bidding Molly good night Connie climbed the shadowy stairs to her fourth-floor flat and let herself in. The flat felt strangely cold, although the night was mild. She lit the gaslamp and drew the curtains and then she boiled the kettle and made herself a cup of cocoa. There were a few biscuits left in the tin and Connie smiled to herself. After a few weeks at Peek’s I won’t be able to look at these, she thought, as she nibbled on a stale digestive and sipped her drink. From outside the distant sound of a tug whistle and noises from the railway yard carried up into the room. A train whistle sounded faintly as she prepared herself for bed, and she was suddenly consumed by a feeling of loneliness. She missed her mother and hated to be in the flat alone.
    Connie heard the clock on the mantelshelf strike eleven as she lay in bed staring up at the flaking ceiling. She and Molly would be starting their new jobs tomorrow and her mother would be home soon. She should be feeling happy, but instead she was aware of a strange feeling that seemed to be working away deep down inside of her. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes but sleep would not come. She twisted restlessly as her thoughts centred on her mother. Her illness was serious and she might not get better. Connie had overheard Helen talking to Matthew about how pulmonary tuberculosis had killed old Betty Flicker and Mr Brown. She had also commented that the way Kate had carried on hadn’t helped. Connie wondered about those remarks. Her mother had been so secretive about her personal life. It was always, ‘Somebody I’ve got to see’ or ‘I’ve been invited out’. She had never brought her friends back to the flat to meet Connie. Those nights she was sent to the Bartletts to stay might have meant that her mother was intending to bring someone back and didn’t want her to know, Connie thought. And why would no one ever let her know anything about her father? As much as she tried Connie knew she would not learn who her father was, or how he had died – at least not from her mother. Why should she be so secretive? What was she hiding? Maybe her father was still alive. Maybe that was why Kate didn’t want her to know.
    One day I’ll find out the truth, Connie vowed, as she turned on her side and closed her eyes. Dreamy images formed into a tall dashing man with jet-black hair walking towards her. She sighed in her sleep, and pressed her cheek deeper into the pillow.

Chapter Seven
    Solly Jacobs had a fishmonger’s stall in the Tower Bridge Road market. Solly was a heavily built man in his forties, the eldest son of a Jewish immigrant from Poland. He was also a regular attender at the local synagogue and a leader of the Jewish community in Bermondsey. Solly had been growing concerned about the rise of the British fascists and he was determined that Oswald Mosley’s crowd of Blackshirts would get a bloody nose if they attempted to go ahead with their intended march along the Old Kent Road.
    Solly’s cousin Hymie had been present when Oswald Mosley marched down the Mile End Road at the head of his black-uniformed followers and the following week he paid his relative a visit.
    ‘I tell yer, Solly, it was sheer bloody murder. The swine were chantin’ and jeerin’, and when our lads tried to break up the march the police on ’orseback lashed out with their truncheons. There were a few cracked ’eads and one or two of the boys got trampled by the horses, but