Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling Page B

there.’
    Connie almost blurted out yes, but she checked herself and appeared to consider the offer for a few moments. ‘Okay. What’s on?’
    ‘It’s a musical. “Swing Time”, wiv Ginger Rogers an’ Fred Astaire.’
    Connie did not confess to the lad that she had already seen the film; instead she pretended surprise. ‘We’ll ’ave ter get up there early. It’ll be packed,’ she said.
    The red February sun gave little heat and the coppery cloud foreboded more bad weather. Smoke drifted upwards from red chimney pots, and moisture clung to the hard cobbles and grey-slated roofs as the two strolled into Ironmonger Street. Ahead, the ugly factory loomed up in the dull morning light and, halfway down the small turning, they could see the knifegrinder bent over a spinning stone, his foot working away at the treadle. One or two children were playing in the street, and Misery Martin, now a grizzled, bent figure, was sweeping the pavement outside his shop, his lips moving as he muttered to himself. To the left, the tall tenement block looked drab and forbidding, and to the right the row of rundown terraced houses were nearly all sporting clean lace curtains and whitened doorsteps. The two stopped at the block entrance and Connie took the bag from her escort.
    ‘Fanks, Michael,’ she said. ‘What time yer comin’ round?’
    ‘I’ll be ’ere sharp on seven. Shall I wait ’ere fer yer, Con?’
    ‘All right. See yer then, Michael,’ she said.
    ‘By the way, call me Mick, all me pals do.’
    Connie stood by the entrance and watched the swaggering figure walking away along the turning. When Michael had disappeared from her view she hurried up the stairs and handed Helen her shopping. Later, as she pottered about the drab flat, Connie felt pangs of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Michael had altered since the last time she had seen him, and he certainly looked handsome in his uniform. She hummed happily to herself as she brushed the threadbare carpet and dusted the china ornaments. Tonight would be exciting, and tomorrow she would be able to tell Molly all about it. With the thought came a sudden feeling of guilt and she sat down at the table. How would Molly react? she wondered. Would she be happy for her, or would she feel she was taking second place in her affection? Connie felt suddenly confused. She was aware how dependent Molly had become lately. As her health deteriorated Molly seemed to have lost her eager interest in things, and her world had grown narrow and confined. Connie was the only real friend Molly had, and now she began to feel it as a burden. It seemed that through her love for Molly, she was being held back from her natural instincts and inclinations and forced to continue a childhood she was quickly outgrowing. As Connie sat alone in the quiet flat the sad, misshapen figure of her cousin would not leave her thoughts. Connie felt an anger welling up inside her. She wanted her first date to be a happy, exciting evening, but feelings of guilt were already tormenting her. Why did Molly have to make so many demands upon her? For a moment, sitting thinking at the table, Connie could hardly recognise herself. She quickly dismissed her ugly thoughts as she clenched her hands tightly and bit on her lip. She was being so silly, she told herself. She loved Molly and here she was creating a big problem out of such a trivial little affair. Her shame made her flush and she tried to calm her feelings. It was just going to be a night out – her first night out with a boy. Perhaps in her nervousness and anticipation she was just making problems for herself. Connie realised that if she allowed herself to carry on thinking about things she would only become more unhappy. With a deep sigh she rested her head on the table and pressed her tightly closed eyes against her arm.
     
    It was seven o’clock exactly when Michael Donovan walked into Ironmonger Street. The turning was quiet and a rising wind rustled