Free Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling

give yer a clout. Not if yer do as yer told. Now listen. This is what I want yer ter do.’
    Misery Martin had been trying unsuccessfully to sell his business for years. No one seemed interested, and he blamed the street. ‘Who’d wanna buy a shop in this bloody turnin’,’ he was grumbling to a commercial traveller he’d cornered in his shop. ‘Them little urchins ain’t civilised. Bloody savages, the lot of ’em. I’d give ’em a party! More like a good ’idin’. That’s what they want. I ’ad one o’ the farvvers in ’ere only yesterday. Wantin’ a subscription fer the street party. I told ’im no, an’ in no uncertain terms.’
    The commercial traveller was backing out through the door with his head buzzing. ‘I’ll look in again next week Mr Martin.’
    ‘That’s what they need,’ Misery called out to the disappearing figure. ‘A bleedin’ good ’idin’.’
    Four grinning faces looked in the shop doorway and pointed to the canes that were hanging from the rafters.
    ‘Go on, ’op it!’ the disgruntled shop owner called out.
    The four kids stood perfectly still, their mocking faces grinning evilly.
    ‘You ’eard what I said. ’Op it!’
    The kids remained perfectly still by the doorway. Misery hobbled around the counter and they disappeared. When he returned to the counter the kids were back. The aggravation went on all day. Next morning the kids came back and Misery spoke to PC Wilshaw, who promised to box a few ears if he came across the little ruffians. Little was gained from Misery’s consultation with the law. As soon as the constable left the street back came the kids. By the end of the second day Misery had come to the end of his tether.
    ‘What can I do ter put a stop to it?’ he groaned to Joe Cooper, who had purposely gone in for a penn’orth of nails.
    ‘Leave it ter me, Jerry. I’ll sort ’em out. Yer won’t be bovvered by ’em any more,’ Joe said, pulling a serious face. ‘Oh, by the way. Did I ask yer fer a contribution ter the street party?’
    It’s bloody little short of blackmail, groaned Misery to himself as he reluctantly handed over two one pound notes.

Chapter Six
    The winter of ’thirty-five was very cold, with intermittent snow and ice and dense yellow fogs. The inclement weather affected trade, and transport was badly disrupted. Ships became marooned mid-stream, trains were cancelled, and the vehicles of cartage firms were abandoned throughout London, although the horse-carts usually got home. When the terrified animals were held by their halters and led along the road they usually calmed down, and when they somehow sensed that they were nearing familiar surroundings the car-men were able to jump up in the dicky seats and let the animals plod on without assistance. Another ploy of the car-men was to steer the iron-rimmed wheels into the tram tracks and glide home that way. It was not uncommon for car-men to miss the turnoff and find themselves in the tram depots, where they spent the night sleeping in one of the tramcars. The unfortunate horses had to bed down on the cold concrete surface, much to the chagrin of depot superintendents.
    In October Kate Morgan lost her job as barmaid. She had been suffering with a bad cough which refused to get any better. Connie was worried; she could see the change. Her normally lively mother was pale and weak and had to spend some time in bed. Connie would take her tea and toast before she left for work, and Helen would look in during the day. But the cough only got worse and, when Kate was able to get up, the doctor sent her to the hospital for tests. She had contracted TB, and Connie was close to tears as she watched her mother leave in an ambulance to go to one of the new clinics that had just opened in Sussex. Helen had suggested that Connie stay with her, but the young girl was determined to look after herself. She knew that, as it was, Helen was hard pushed to care for her own family. Matthew was out of work