An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  He got out of the hearse and stood at the railings. He was heading off to a funeral, so he was kitted out in his full attire. His eyes were searching the playground looking for me. I walked towards him.

  ‘I hear it’s your last day today, boy?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, Uncle,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Your grandmother told me you still want to work in the business, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was now smiling even more.

  ‘Right then, let’s see what you’re made of! Lansdowne Road eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning,’ he said, then turned around and walked back to the car. He climbed in and drove off without looking back.

  I couldn’t tell you how excited I was. I just couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the day.

  ‘Now, son,’ Dad said, taking another mouthful of his tea, ‘are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do? Remember, you can’t keep chopping and changing jobs. A job, if you’re one of the lucky ones, is for life.’

  ‘I know, Dad, that’s why I’m so excited. You know I’ve always wanted to join Uncle Tom, I’ve never even thought about doing anything else,’ I said.

  I knew I was bolting my tea, but couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was the excitement; I had got the job of my dreams.

  ‘Well, let’s see how it goes, shall we,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll soon see if you’re cut out for it. It’s a hard business, Stan, not just physically but emotionally as well.’

  What happened then had never before been witnessed in our house. Dad put down his knife and fork without finishing his tea. Mum placed her hand over his and gently squeezed it, then he looked at her and there was a brief glance of something between them. I’d no idea what it meant and I would never have dreamt of asking. I’d find out though, many years later.

  I had a terrible night that night; I just couldn’t get to sleep. When I got up Mum already had a cup of tea waiting and was going to cook me my regular fry-up but I couldn’t face it, as I was so nervous about my first day. I was desperate to make a good impression, as I knew if I wasn’t up to it I wouldn’t have a job for long. Mum was worried that not having eaten breakfast I would collapse of starvation before I’d even got there, so a bread and dripping sandwich was wrapped up and pushed in my pocket.

  ‘Got to keep your strength up, Stan,’ she said, pinching my cheek. Although she was the disciplinarian in our house, she was still lovely. My dad too was a wonderful man – very calm and quiet, he epitomised the word ‘gentleman’, because that’s exactly what he was.

  I jumped on my bike around 7 a.m. I had over a three-mile ride to Custom House. My life wouldn’t have been worth living if I’d been late. As I previously told you, families were regularly seen loading up large hand-carts with all their possessions, pushing them along main roads looking for a new place to live. This morning wasn’t any different, as I saw several families walking down the Barking Road with their heavy carts in search of a new home.

  The father pushed it and, if they had an elder son, he would be pulling with the mother, whilst the smaller children followed behind. Every time I saw them it always made me feel sad because there they were, with everything they owned in the world, loaded up onto one cart. It just didn’t seem right. After I rode past them I realised I’d been singing the old cockney song under my breath:

  My ol’ man said follow the van

  And don’t dilly-dally on the way

  Off went the van, with me ’ome packed in it

  I walked be’ind with me ol’ cock linnet

  But I dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied

  Lost me way and don’t know where to roam

  And you can’t trust a ‘Special’

  Like the old-time copper

  When you can’t find your way ’ome.

  I sang it over and over while I peddled and, soon enough, I could smell the stables up ahead. I was almost there.

  ‘Good morning, Uncle,’ I said happily, as I pushed my bike through the gates.

  ‘Morning, Stan.’ He was checking in a lorry full of timber that had just arrived, ready to be turned into coffins in our work room. It was always elm and oak, and it was brought to us in its raw form. A tree was felled and then cut into slices with the bark left on and then it was down to the carpenters to turn them into coffins. Even though I had a little knowledge of coffin-making, having watched the men as a small boy, and having helped Uncle make ‘Peggy’s’, this was the ‘real thing’ and a skill that would take me well over a year to master.

  ‘Oh, and before you get started, your grandmother wants you to pop in to see her on your way home, so don’t forget!’ he said. ‘Right, come with me,’ and we walked towards the stables. ‘Jack?’ he called, and Jack’s hang-dog face appeared from one of the stalls.

  ‘Over ’ere, Tom,’ he said.

  ‘Stan here, he’s starting work today, so show him the ropes, will you. Start him at the bottom with the horses’ hooves,’ he said.

  ‘Right you are,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll sort ’im out. Follow me, Stan,’ and off we walked to the shed. He reached up to the shelf and brought down a jar of jet-black oil, then picked out a narrow paintbrush and we walked back to the stables. He pulled up a small wooden stool and sat down next to one of the horses, then proceeded to paint its hoof with the oil so it gleamed.

  ‘Once the ’orses ’ave been groomed and got ready, this is always the last job to be done, Stan.’

  ‘Is it special oil, Jack?’ I asked, peering into the jar, sniffing.

  ‘Special oil?’ he said. ‘Oh yeah, it’s very special, comes all the way from a well in Timbuktu. The well’s so small only pygmies can get in,’ he explained.

  ‘NO! Really? I could hardly get the words out quick enough I was so excited. ‘Where’s Timbuktu, Jack? And what’s a pygmy?’

  ‘You silly little sod,’ he laughed. ‘It’s from the bleeding car over there, that’s just ’ad its oil changed.’

  He then finished painting the hoof, only how he got the job done I don’t know, as he was laughing so much.

  ‘There ya go. Nuffink to it, but make sure you don’t get any oil on their skin ’cos it’s a bugger to get off. You can finish ’em off later, as we’ve got a funeral this afternoon and we’ve gotta get ’em prepared first.’ With that, he plonked the jar and paintbrush in my hand. ‘You’ve only got twenty-three to go but make sure you give yerself enough time to do ’em!’ And off he went, still laughing to himself. For the rest of the morning I kept hearing him chuckling in the stalls. It was so annoying!

  We had six horses at that time: Baby, Stanley, Archie, Tommy, Tony and Prince. They were stallions. Everybody kept stallions for two reasons: one, they tended to be larger than the mares and have more of a ‘presence’ about them and two, because once they were castrated their beautiful jet-black colour would turn to brown during the summer months.

  Jack proceeded to show me how to groom them and we got them ready for the afternoon, but it took me ages to paint the rest of their hooves, as they just wouldn’t stand still. I think they were winding me up, as they knew it was my first day. Horses sense things like that, you know.

  Our particular breed of horses were called Friesians and Rudyard Kipling called them a ‘stud bred of ill-omen’, and they were more commonly called ‘undertakers’ horses’ but to me they were magnificent – I loved every single one of them and I know, for all their bravado, Uncle Tom, Jack, Tommy and Charlie loved them as much as I did. The other good thing was that you never needed to worry about them being pinched, as superstition said that they brought bad luck.

  They had a naturally wavy mane and, when they were washed and brushed out, it left a lovely effect which – and I know this sounds daft – always reminded me of the beautiful actress Veronica Lake. You know the one, she had long, thick wavy hair (although hers was blonde) which fell across one eye, but I didn’t tell anyone, as I knew they’d laugh at me, and they certainly didn’t need any more encouragemen
t on that score.

  You wouldn’t believe the time it took to prepare them. We spent hours and hours grooming them until they shone. Over the coming months, Jack taught me every detail – from the grooming to the cleaning, polishing and fitting of the harnesses and velvets. The ‘velvets’ were around 4ft wide and 4ft long and hung down the sides of the horses. They were fitted onto the harnesses and I had to stand on a stool to reach them, as I wasn’t tall enough otherwise.

  They were exquisite; my grandmother had them made in the late 1920s. They were deep blue with satin inserts and edged at the bottom with a line of small tassels. On my regular visits when I was younger, she used to tell me how she would sit for hours during evenings cleaning every tassel individually. She’d then show me how to do it.

  Although the roads were not as dirty as in her time, they still needed attention after a funeral had been held in the rain. It always took me ages to sponge them down and afterwards they were meticulously wrapped up and stored in a large old trunk.

  It was mid-afternoon on my first day and we’d just about finished preparing the horses for the funeral when Tom came in.

  ‘How’s it going, Stan, you getting along OK?’

  ‘Great, nearly done, just got Tommy’s hooves to oil and then I’m finished,’ I said confidently.

  ‘Almost done are we?’ he said, walking around the horse stalls, rubbing his enormous hands along their backs and down their legs, patting and talking to them softly – inspecting everything; let me tell you, he had eyes in the back of his head.

  ‘Right, go and fetch a bucket of warm water off the stove . . . now warm I said, not hot.’

  ‘What do you want . . .?’ I foolishly started to say.

  ‘Don’t you ever question me, boy!’ he bellowed. ‘If I tell you to get something or do something you bloody well do it!’

  I swear even the horses cowered.

  I ran off doing my Uriah Heep impersonation and brought back the bucket. He put his fingers in, testing the temperature. ‘That’s OK,’ he said, ‘now put a splash of that in it.’ He was pointing to a tin of Jeyes disinfectant fluid. (Now, to my uncle, there were four things he swore by, Jeyes fluid being one. Then there was iodine, Armstrong’s Influenza Mixture and block Saxo salt, and if none of them cured whatever it was that ailed you then I’m afraid you would, in his eyes, be classified as a ‘goner’.)

  You’ll appreciate that I was petrified to ask why, so I placed a splash into the bucket and watched the water turn milky white. ‘Now, pass me a piece of that there,’ he said, pointing to a row of freshly cleaned hessian hanging on a line at the bottom of the stables. I ran and fetched it, then he took it from me and dipped it into the bucket and squeezed it out. He gently lifted the horse’s tail and I stood aghast as he wiped its behind, then, after he’d finished, he replaced the tail and passed me the bucket and cloth.

  ‘God gave you two hands to clean your arse, son; these poor buggers were only given feet – now get on with it!’ And with that he turned and walked out.

  It then dawned on me what he meant when he said I was going to start at the bottom.

  On my way home that night, I went to see Grandma. She was sitting at her desk in the shop.

  ‘Hello, Grandma,’ I said smiling.

  ‘Have you had a good day, Stan?’ she asked, looking up from the books.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed myself.’

  ‘Well I’m pleased to hear it. Look, I just wanted to let you know about your wages. I’m giving you 2/6 for the first month. I’ve started you on that, as I’m not sure if you’ll be cut out for it. It’s a hard business, Stan. You’re so young and, during these times, with all the bombings and everything, there’ll be sights I’m not sure you’ll be able cope with. But listen, if you do decide to stay then I’ll put it up to ten shillings. How’s that sound?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘That sounds great, thank you.’

  ‘Off you go then, son, your mum will be wondering where you’ve got to. I’ll see you at home later for tea.’

  I can’t tell you how I felt riding home; it was as if I’d gone out that morning a boy and was riding back a man. I had no intention of packing it in – I just knew it was for me and I was going to get ten shillings a month!

  I was already sorting out what I was going to do with my first set of wages. One of my plans obviously was to take Joan out, but my other was to take Mum and Olive to the pictures to see Casablanca. Everyone was talking about what a great film it was. It was being shown in the Old Grand cinema, more commonly known as the ‘Flea Pit’ along the Barking Road. The only problem with going there was that halfway through the film the lights would come on for the interval and an attendant would spray us all with a disinfectant mixture meant to kill off lice, fleas and any other germs that must’ve filled the place.

  Honestly it was so belittling. I mean, obviously some people had fleas and lice but we certainly didn’t. It crossed my mind too that instead of spraying us they should’ve filled up one of those crop-spraying planes they used in America and then headed straight for ‘lousy Loughton’.

  When I arrived at work the next morning my plans on how I was going to spend my wages were soon scuppered. Tom called me to one side: ‘Stan, you need a black or dark-blue overcoat so you can walk next to the hearse, so buy one with your wages, and while you’re at it you might want to buy yourself a razor as well.’

  ‘But I don’t shave,’ I said, rubbing my chin, laughing.

  ‘I can see that, you daft sod!’ he said. ‘Just get one and shave your top lip every day and it won’t take long to get a bit of bum fluff going. In a couple of months I guarantee you’ll have one just like me, ’cos if you want to walk with me in the cortège, you’ve got to start looking older, boy.’

  I knew what he meant. I was a late developer and, as well as looking young facially, I was also still quite small.

  Mum had already used up our clothing rations1 for that year so unfortunately I had to buy my own overcoat. So with two months’ wages in my pocket I made my way to the second-hand shop on the corner of Thackeray Road and bought one for twelve shillings and a wallet for sixpence. I didn’t have enough money for a razor too, that would have to wait until next month, so I secretly used my dad’s. Mum was furious when she caught me, but when I explained the reason why, she laughed. ‘That’s typical of Tom. I should’ve guessed he’d be behind it,’ she said.

  After three months of shaving my top lip – sometimes twice a day – I would like to tell you I had a moustache that any RAF squadron leader would’ve been proud of, but I didn’t. In fact, Miss Grimes, the spinster who owned the local cobblers, still sported a better one than I did. Gossip was that she was a hermaphrodite. I didn’t have a clue what one of these was. I wanted to look it up in my dad’s dictionary but I couldn’t even spell it.

  5

  The Romford Road Baths

  1944 (age 16)

  It was during this time that V1 and V2 missiles started to be used. The ‘V’ stood for ‘vergeltungswaffen’ translated as ‘vengeance’. Hitler was upset that we’d bombed German civilians, even though he’d started the war and been blowing us to bits for the previous four years. But he was now panicking, as he knew he was being cornered, so he set out to have these weapons created as his last attempt at winning the war.

  The V1s (doodlebugs or buzz bombs, as we called them) were horrifying things, invented by German rocket scientist Robert Lusser.

  They were in effect pilotless planes, and thousands of them were launched at London and the South East of England. As they flew over you would hear the ominous drone of the engine, then it would cut out and hurtle towards the ground. You didn’t have any idea where they were going to drop. It was the silence that got to you once that engine cut out. It was terrifying. One minute you’re sitting in the shelter with the noise above you and then . . . nothing, just ten seconds of deathly silence. That’s the moment when people used to go to pieces.

  Men and women would become
so panic-stricken they’d be hysterical: ‘Let me out, let me out! It’s going to drop on us. I’ve got to get out!’ they’d scream, fighting their way to the door, but they wouldn’t be allowed to leave. Some would collapse while others would have to be physically restrained, as the fear had driven them to near insanity. They’d pull at their hair, screaming and wailing. It was too awful for words to witness people literally losing their minds in front of your very eyes.

  Others sat praying out loud, most were silent, but everyone was petrified. There was nothing you could do but wait for the explosion. When it did land, and God willing not on you, you could hear people breathe again. If you heard another approaching in the distance you once more prayed it would fly over: ‘Keep going, keep going,’ you would say under your breath and hope the appalling ‘death drone’ would fade into the distance, heading for some other poor buggers.

  The blast from a V1 would extend across a radius of around 400–600 yards in each direction, and would destroy and cause damage to hundreds of houses. During the time they were used, they killed around 6,000 people and left nearly 18,000 seriously injured.

  The Germans had also started firing V2 rockets. These monstrous things were invented by Hitler’s favourite rocket scientist, Wernher von Braun. At least with the others there was some sort of warning, as the siren would sound and we could get into a shelter, but with these you had no warning at all, and shelters were useless against them. When they landed they made a crater ten feet deep and earth tremors could be felt a mile away. They were 46ft long, weighed 27,000lbs and broke the sound barrier, as they flew at speeds in excess of 3,500mph and could travel 500 miles. They destroyed with a massive explosion, followed seconds later by the sonic boom from the upper atmosphere. When these things landed they could destroy and damage 600 houses at a time. You could be sitting there minding your own business, eating your tea or at work, and the next minute without warning you would be blown to smithereens. I think most people believed these were the worst of the lot, as you had no idea when or where they would fall. Silent killers they were. Fortunately neither the V1 or V2s were used for very long, maybe just a few months, as a man called Michel Hollard – a French spy – located many of the construction sites where they were being manufactured, which enabled us to go in and blow the lot up. He was later to be called ‘the man who saved London’ and he received the Distinguished Service Order, one of Britain’s highest honours.