Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling Page A

I’ve brought over.’
    Clara hid a grin behind her raised hand. ‘’Ere, Ada. I ’ope ole ugly ain’t got a sensitive snozzle. I can smell that pissy ole coat from ’ere.’
    ‘That ain’t me bundle yer can smell,’ Ada whispered. ‘It’s ole muvver Adams up front. She takes in all the stray mogs.’Er place smells like a public urinal in Pennyfields.’
    The line of customers moved slowly forward, and at last it was Ada’s turn to present her bundle. ‘’Ere we are, same again,’ she said with bluster.
    The wizened figure who stood on a raised dais behind the high counter slapped the bundle down hard on the polished surface and sighed deeply. It had been a heavy morning and he was feeling nauseous. Every bundle he had opened smelled of moth balls or lavender water. Then there was the moggie lady with her smelly blankets. It was all getting too much, he groaned to himself as he threw the bundle through the hatch behind him and proceeded to write out the pawn ticket. ‘There we are,’ he said, slapping down a handful of coins on the table. ‘Seven an’ six less fourpence, an’ there’s yer ticket.’
    Ada grinned at Clara as she turned to go. ‘See yer later, girl. I’m orf ’ome ter do me ironin’!’

Chapter Five
    In 1933 a name began to appear regularly in the daily newspapers which soon became more and more well known to anyone who followed the international news. Political cartoonists were fascinated by the new figure and some of their drawings began to worry those who were old enough to see something all too real and familiar in the caricatures; an ominous reminder of the past. Old George Baker was sitting with Joe Cooper in the public bar of the Horseshoe and he prodded the newspaper which was spread out on the table in front of him. ‘Yer Kaiser was one fing, Joe, but this Adolf ’Itler’s a sight more dangerous. See what it ses in ’ere. ’E’s took the country out o’ the League o’ Nations an’ got forty million votes fer rearmament. It’s bloody frightenin’ when yer fink of it. If somebody don’t stop ’im it’ll be anuvver bloody world war, mark my words.’
    Joe’s mind was on other things and he grabbed the two empty glasses. ‘Pop, you’re givin’ me the bloody ’ump! Let’s get a refill.’
    The events that were shaping the destiny of the world were of little interest to Connie Morgan and her cousin Molly. In 1934 they were both fourteen and feeling very grown-up as, during the year, they discussed the prospect of trying to get a job together when they left school at Christmas. Although work was generally hard to find, many firms were taking on children straight from school to learn machine work of all types. It was seen by many employers as prudent to use what was little more than child labour to keep their costs to a minimum. Kate wanted Connie to get a job in an office, though, and Helen was afraid that her daughter would find it hard to get any type of job at all. The cousins’ school-leaving certificates did not paint inspiring pictures of their capabilities. They were identical, as were those of all the school-leavers that term: ‘Good at needle-work and housecraft. Punctual and trustworthy’.
    Kate was still working as a barmaid and most of her free time was taken up with an endless round of parties and so the two friends spent most of the time together during the holidays. Helen and Matthew had gone to the pub on Christmas Eve and the two youngsters were sitting in Helen’s front room listening to the wireless that Matthew had bought only a couple of days before. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and paper chains were hung around the walls. A sprig of holly was pinned over the fireplace and Christmas cards lined the high mantelshelf. Outside, the night was cold and windy, with a pale moon peeping through moving clouds. Connie crossed her legs under her and rested her arms on her lap as she sat on the hearth rug. Molly was sprawled out on her side