by Pip Granger
‘Jennifer, love, perhaps you’d do better if you took your wellington boots off. You can’t do a nice pirouette in wellies, now can you, dear? That would be silly, wouldn’t it? No? Well, I still think that it would be silly, so take them off, there’s a good girl.’
As I stepped out of my mac and sturdy winter lace-up shoes in the changing area of the hall, Mother handed me a paper bag with a pair of black leather, rather scuffed ballet slippers inside, gave me a hasty peck on the curls, thrust three shillings into Madame’s ready mitt and headed for the door, eager for her freedom. There would be no kids cluttering up her landscape, but she still had the market to tackle. She would shop for fruit and veg while I pounded the boards. That done, she could settle down for a drink in peace until she picked me up again.
Sometimes we went straight home on the bus, but on red-letter days we would stop for something to eat at ‘our’ greasy spoon café, the Regent. When we were well-off, we went to ‘better’ establishments like a Joe Lyons or a Bewley’s, but mostly, the Regent was our place. I loved eating at the Regent, because not only did I love their chips, but I was certain that Mother wouldn’t get the chance to poison them.
There were two markets in Romford in those days, the open air one that was held on Wednesdays and Saturdays and had pens for stock as well as the usual stalls for produce, and the indoor, corridor-type one, which opened every day except Sunday. Both markets had their complement of cafés, but the Regent sheltered in the relative cosiness of the covered market.
I loved both markets for different reasons. If you arrived early enough at the outdoor market, the pens would be full of livestock waiting patiently to be taken to a new home, the slaughterhouse, or back to the old farm if they had not sold. Being new to school, I hadn’t yet learned all about the little lambs, bullocks and piglets winding up in our bellies, via the dreaded slaughterhouse. My ignorance left me free to enjoy staring into a pair of liquid brown eyes fringed with lovely long lashes, or twiddling a set of warm, furry lugs and trying not to giggle when an animal dropped a huge heap of steaming manure on the cobbles. I’m not sure when they stopped selling livestock at Romford Market – some time in the mid-1950s, I think – but I do know that most of the joy went out of it for me once the animals had gone.
The lure of the covered market was very different. To begin with, you could browse in relative comfort if it was pouring with rain, or worse, sleet. Of course, it didn’t have the lure of the lambs, but it did have a fascinating haberdashery stall that brought spots of colour to a very dull old post-war world, and it brought plenty of mystery, too. There were all sorts of weird and wonderful things to find on that stall if you had a good poke about. For instance, there was a whole selection of things called ‘whalebones’ for replacing broken ones in corsets. Whether, by the 1950s, whales actually donated their bones for these torturous undergarments, I really couldn’t say, but I do hope not. There was a glass-fronted drawer full of suspenders in white, black, peach or a sort of tan colour, for replacing the business ends of your suspender belt, should you lose one. If you just lost the button bit, that was OK, because a sixpence or a threepenny bit did just as well in an emergency, but if the metal ‘eye’ disappeared too, it was off to the haberdasher’s to buy more.
Next to the suspenders was a drawer of crescent-shaped pads, which were sewn into garments under the armpits. That way, the pads soaked up any perspiration and could be washed separately from the clothes. It was easier to wash and dry the pads than the clothes. People stank in the 1950s, because antiperspirants had yet to be invented, and deodorants, if they existed at all, were hard to come by, as was perfume, while the washing of both bodies and clothing was not to be undertaken lightly. Sweat was murder on precious clothes; it left nasty salt stains, especially on dark fabrics or delicate ones like silk. Salt stains could not be got out, and anyway, no lady wanted to be spotted with sweaty armpits, with or without added salt deposits.
Huge needles, with big eyes, or strange bent ones – some so cruel-looking that they would have fitted nicely into any torture chamber – were meant for people who did their own upholstery, and were kept next to the studs, webbing and hessian also needed for the job.
I knew all these needles and studs were necessary because, along with ‘Charlie’s dead’, ‘Spud’ was a common cry in the school playground. ‘Charlie’s dead’ meant that your petticoat was hanging below the hem of your skirt, a terrible thing in those days, while a shout of ‘Spud’ meant you had a hole in the heel of your sock and the flesh was poking through. This phenomenon was supposed to look like a potato.
‘Spuds’ were a common sight, as were women busily darning socks with the aid of an implement that looked like a mushroom and wool unravelled from an old jumper. Rationing and austerity had made ‘mending and making do’ a way of life for us all, and nobody thought anything of wearing black socks with a red darn in one and a yellow darn in the other. Rumour had it that the Queen even darned the Duke of Edinburgh’s socks, or at least had a maid to darn them for her. But that was probably only propaganda, to try to keep our spirits up. Even if it was true, I bet he had the right coloured darns in his socks.
I remember thinking this when I watched Mother trying to darn my socks, a chore that did not come naturally to her. Mother’s lumpy darns made every step an agony, as the lumps pressed into tender heels and bruised them, but the pain had to be borne in silence, because Mother liked her efforts to be appreciated and harm could come to a girl who failed to grin and bear it. It was a massive relief when my mother finally gave up darning my socks.
Discreetly tucked away behind the haberdasher’s counter was a set of glass-fronted drawers that held the items that were not for open display, like pairs of Directoire knickers with long legs that gripped the knees and came in pale yukky pink or white. White Aertex knickers, pants and vests, for men, women and children, took up six more drawers. Aertex underwear was made of cotton and had tiny holes all over, to allow, in theory, for the free flow of air in summer, which was supposed to make a person sweat less, always a boon and a blessing. What’s more, a vest was easier to wash and iron than a shirt, blouse or jumper. In winter, the little holes were supposed to make you warmer, but I was never quite sure how that was meant to work.
Sanitary belts, in white or pink elastic, were kept out of sight, along with big, fat sanitary towels. Sanitary towels had a loop at each end and the belts had hooks to catch the loops and hold the whole thing in place. Menstruation was a shameful thing back in those days, and ladies would scuttle into the haberdasher’s, looking furtive, and whisper their requests for towels, or a new sanitary belt, into the shopkeeper’s ear. She, in turn, would look about her, making sure there were no men lurking about to witness this secret transaction. Once the coast was clear, she would hastily slip the offending articles into a paper bag and hand them over the counter. Mother always hid her sanitary towels and belt at the bottom of a deep drawer. Used towels were wrapped in newspaper and burned on the fire. In summer, they were still burned in the grate. Heaven forbid that one should end up in a dustbin, with the risk of the bin men finding it.
On wet days, everyone’s coat would steam and add to the general fug in the Regent café. There’s nothing quite like the smell of wet flannel, cheap fags, hot grease, strong tea and, overlying the whole thing, a whopping great dash of over-cooked cabbage. In the 1950s, cabbage came out of the pan so soggy it was almost liquid, and in some cases you were hard pushed to work out whether to eat it or drink it. It also stank so badly that the smell seemed to seep into your clothes and into the walls. The Regent was a big believer in cabbage as a valued (and cheap) part of their Saturday Special and, indeed, as part of any other day’s Special – except Sunday’s. On Sundays, the Regent took its obligatory day of rest and over-boiled its cabbage at home.
I remember listening to a conversation between ‘Mrs Regent’ – we never knew her name – and my mother.
‘Fat lot of bleeding rest I get,’ she complain
ed. ‘I’m washing for the family and all the tea towels from here, cooking for the family and the caff, changing the beds, washing that lot, running a mop round a bit, then nipping round to me mum’s with her Sunday dinner and me Woman’s Own, stopping there for a cuppa and a chat, poor old thing, then it’s back home to make tea and whip an iron over his shirts for the week, my blouses, aprons and the kids’ school uniforms. Then, if I’m lucky, I can put me plates up for half an hour before I toddle off to bed ready for another six o’clock start on the Monday. There are times when I feel like one of them furry little buggers that run round on a wheel all day. What’re they called, Hampsteads?’
‘I know the feeling,’ Mother assured her, looking down at me. ‘I never seem to stop either.’
If Mother was in a good mood, which she was sometimes, I really enjoyed our Saturday mornings together. The only problem with it was that I could never quite predict how her drink at the Red Lion would take her. Sometimes a swig or several made her jolly, which was great fun. Then we’d laugh until we cried at something silly, like a farting cart-horse dragging his load through the market or some daft joke I had heard at school.
But on other occasions, a drink – and just one could do it – would make her angry, bitter and blisteringly sarcastic. There would be no laughing then. Then I would try my best to be as quiet as a mouse with no squeak, not to fidget and to be as good as I could possibly manage.
I would always be tense on the way home on those bad days, terrified that Mother would finally crack and shove me under a passing bus.
9
Mother ’s Little Helpers
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ my voice rang out. ‘You can get the custard creams a penny a pound cheaper at the Co-Op and you get the divvy as well.’
Several people in the queue turned and smiled down at me as I peered into the glass-topped boxes of broken biscuits. Each variety – Garibaldi or ‘dead fly’ biscuits, Rich Tea, coffee creams, shortbread, Bourbon and digestives – had its own large, silver, square tin, but they were often empty bar some stale old crumbs. Biscuits, even broken ones, were a luxury that was just creeping back into the grocers’ shops as rationing began to relax its grip, but supplies were still limited.
‘Do you rent her out?’ asked a thin lady with surprised eyebrows and a smiling red mouth.
My mother smiled back, ‘Yes, and our rates are very reasonable – she’s worth every penny. Only last week she marched back to the greengrocer’s with a pineapple that was rotten inside.’
The lady looked suitably surprised. ‘Really? How old is she?’
‘Not very – she started school last September – but she had an eye for shopping long before that,’ Mother told her, ‘and she not only took that pineapple back to the shop, but she demanded a full refund when they told her they’d run out of pineapples.’
The lady’s already surprised eyebrows rose so high in astonishment, they almost disappeared into her hair. ‘Did she get it?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mother grinned, ‘she did indeed. And what’s more, they gave her an apple for her efforts, free, gratis and for nothing.’ I think that was the only time in my life when I heard my mother sound proud of me. My chest puffed out so far as I listened to the exchange going on above my head, that I almost popped the buttons on my pinafore dress. It was around that time that my mother first began to call me ‘Madam’, because, according to her, I could be a right little madam when I chose.
I had been so incensed when our precious, and extremely rare, pineapple had proved unfit to eat once we sliced it open, that I simply could not believe that my mother was going to let the matter slide. When it was obvious that she was, I took matters into my own hands. I was heartily fed up with hearing about exotic treats like pineapples and never getting to sink my teeth into one. Actually, I had hoped that the shop would replace it, so I’d finally get to know what pineapple tasted like.
We were all so fed up to the back teeth with rationing, austerity and the government that, for me, the rotten pineapple had been the last straw. We were aching to look forward, and if we couldn’t pop a bit of Bourbon biscuit or fresh pineapple into our mouths every now and then, we were liable to get very grumpy indeed. Enough was a long way past being enough, and I, for one, longed for broken biscuits and fresh, exotic fruit to be on our menu on a more regular basis.
I often helped Mother with the shopping, and I kept my eagle eye on prices. I may not have been able to read, but I knew early in life that there was often no money to spare in our house, so I took on the twin roles of ‘returner of defective goods’ and ‘penny-counter’ when we were out shopping together. Not only did we not get stiffed with dud fruit when I was on the case, we saved money. Best of all, I knew that it pleased my mother no end.
Peter and I were dab hands at helping with the other chores too. We’d discovered that it was a good way of not getting on Mother’s nerves, and getting on Mother’s nerves was all too easy after Father left us. We would be like whirling dervishes as we rushed to smooth our profoundly distressed – and very angry – mother’s path. We found it safer that way. Nobody could dish out a tongue-lashing like our mum when she was tetchy, and neither of us wanted that.
‘Pots, fill the coal scuttle, will you, the fire’s getting low?’ Mother asked, a Kensitas tipped cigarette hanging from her bottom lip. A smelly wisp of smoke curled its way upwards towards her pretty hazel eyes, making her squint a little.
Peter shrugged on his coat without any ritual grumbling, ready to brave the elements, and headed out of the back door where the galvanized metal coal bunker lurked. Getting in the coal was such a filthy job, with coal dust having the ability to get in everywhere, that Mother always insisted on gloves and an old, cast-off coat. It saved hot water, a precious commodity, and it saved having a decent coat expensively dry-cleaned.
‘Where is that damned boy?’ Mother demanded about ten minutes later. ‘What’s keeping him? The fire’s going to be out before he gets back here with the coal at this rate. Stick your head out of the back door and see what he’s up to.’
I did as instructed, and heard a hoarse whisper from somewhere near the bunker. ‘Is that you?’ the voice asked.
‘Yes. Who’s that?’ I answered.
‘Me, you great dollop. Who did you think it was? Come and give me a hand, I’m stuck.’
I peered into the gloom and saw that Peter had forgotten to put on his gloves. On dark, frosty nights in deepest winter, an icy metal coal bunker could nip fingers something rotten, and naked fingertips could stick to metal. The trick was to blow hot breath on the spot where finger met metal, then wiggle the digit like fury to stop it sticking again when the breathy droplets cooled down and became ice in their turn. For some reason, the usual drill had not worked. Maybe Peter didn’t have enough huff or something.
‘OK, now blow,’ Peter instructed once I was standing, shivering, beside him. I hadn’t put my coat on, thinking that only my head was going to be outside in the cold.
‘Say “Please”.’
‘Don’t be stupid, just blow.’
‘Why don’t you blow?’ I was indignant at being called ‘stupid’ and at being made to stand outside in the dark and cold, when all the world knew that was a job for big boys.
‘I have been blowing, nitwit, but it’s both hands and once I stop blowing on one and start on the other, the first one sticks harder. Right, you blow like billy-oh on that one, and I’ll do this one.’
‘Why should I?’ I asked, more for form than anything.
‘Because if you don’t, when I get out of this, I’ll clump you,’ said Peter in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Or better still, I’ll drown your teddy in the bog and pull the chain.’
Incensed at the tyranny of older brothers, I abandoned him to possible frostbite and rushed wailing into the house. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Peter says he’ll drown my teddy,’ I blubbed, being the big baby that I was.
Mother was unmoved. ‘Where’s the coal?’
I shrugged. ‘Pete
r’s stuck to the coal bunker again.’
Mother rolled her eyes in exasperation and spat, ‘Jesus wept! If you want anything done in this bloody house, do it yourself. As if I don’t have enough to do.’
She heaved herself up off the floor. She had been sitting on her feet, playing patience on the hearthrug. That was the way she always sat at home, with her feet tucked under her bum. She was still sitting like that not long before she died, a few months before her seventieth birthday. I tried many times to emulate her, but all I got for my pains was pins and needles in my feet, promptly followed by complete numbness.
‘How many times have I told you to wear your bloody gloves when you’re getting the coal?’ I heard Mother ask in that heavily patient tone that she used when she was trying hard not to be too cross. She got no reply beyond a sulky mumble. ‘Here you are, I’ve got some warm water. Now, when I start pouring, move your fingers, and for God’s sake, don’t put your hands back on the bunker this time, you fool.’
She got him free in moments, filled the scuttle herself and returned to the living room to stoke up the fire. Peter trailed behind her, examining the fingers missing their top layer of skin. With luck, the frozen skin would still be stuck to the bunker in the morning, when we could go and examine it in daylight.
‘Sneak!’ Peter hissed. ‘I’ll get you later,’ he promised. And I’m sure he did. He didn’t drown my teddy, though.
I liked to play with water, so I would clean the bathroom basin, the big white bath and the deep, white kitchen sink. I had to stand on a chair to do that, because the sink was deep enough to wash a pair of double sheets or a chubby baby in it with room to spare, which is pretty deep when you’re on the short side. There was no chance of being frozen to the taps, like the coal bunker, although I did get my thumb stuck up a tap once. But not for long, and nobody had to call the fire brigade – more’s the pity.
Monday was washday for all the other households, but because our mother was at work all day it was usually done on a Saturday or even a Sunday. Washing on a Sunday was still frowned upon by some people but, as Mother said, ‘Needs must when the Devil drives.’ Besides, she was a devout atheist.