An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  At last we found Elsie.

  ‘Right, let’s get her out and in the coffin. Stan, you take the head and I’ll grab the feet.’ Luckily she was all in one piece, so lifting her wasn’t too bad. Some of the bodies we removed from there were in a dreadful condition. Many had been left unclaimed for days and days and decomposition had started causing flies and maggots to invade the body.

  Once we got her out of the pool we put her in the coffin, which we’d left by the side. We lifted it onto our shoulders and carried it out. The caretaker was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

  ‘All done are we?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, we’ve two more to go, Mr Collins, but as it’s taken so long to find this one I think it’s best if we come back in the morning when we have some daylight,’ Uncle said.

  I couldn’t tell you how relieved I was. I just couldn’t have gone back in there. It was one of the most frightening things I’d ever had to do, and to be honest I think Uncle Tom felt the same, but he would never have admitted it. As I said before, it was bad enough collecting a body in the daylight or when the lights were on, but in the complete darkness it was an experience I unfortunately would never forget.

  The following day we left early and went to collect the other two. We took them back to the yard and Jack helped me prepare them for the funeral, undressing and washing them before wrapping them in a shroud.

  I noticed another had just been brought in but this had already been prepared by a ‘layer-out’. These were women who were called upon when there was a death in the family. A lot of streets had their own ‘layer-out’ and, as deaths would normally occur at home, someone in the family would be sent to fetch her. For around sixpence (£2 in today’s money) she would prepare the body before we arrived but, more importantly, before rigor mortis set in.

  Firstly she’d undress and wash it, then plug any orifices with wadding. Washing of the bodies was believed to cleanse the sweat of death, but also the sins of life; it was looked on as a form of absolution. They were then dressed in a white shroud and stockings, which every household kept ‘ready for a death’ in the bottom of a chest of drawers. In those days shrouds were always white, as white was a sign of purity and even writings from the 1600s relate to the reasons why it was used. In a poem called ‘Death’s Duel’ by John Donne it reads: ‘Just as the body is shrouded in white linen so may be the soul.’

  After dressing, a bandage would be placed under the chin and tied in a knot on top of the head, then pennies placed on the eyes as, when rigor mortis starts to set in – which can be between two to eight hours after death, depending on the temperature of the room (hotter rooms would encourage it to start quicker) – eyelids and facial muscles are the first to be affected. Superstition said that a corpse whose eyes refused to close was traditionally believed to foresee further deaths in the family, so closing the eyes was essential to preventing the omen from coming true.

  Rigor is caused by a chemical change in the body. As the blood flow stops, the muscles form lactic acid, which initially goes soft but then becomes stiff and rigid. In Latin ‘rigor’ means stiff and ‘mortis’ is death. Once it has left the body, which is within thirty-six hours, the pennies could be removed. In Victorian burials, as well as placing them on the eyes one would also be put into the mouth. This superstition went back to ‘Charon the Ferryman’ from Greek mythology. They believed that the spirit had to pay him to take them across the River Styx. This river divided the world of the living from the world of the dead, and it was thought that if they couldn’t pay the fee then their spirit would wander the shore for a hundred years.

  After we’d finished and placed them in their coffins and put the lids on, it would have been normal practice for us to take them home and ‘lay them out’ in their front room, as we didn’t have any embalming or Chapel of Rest, but in this instance the poor woman didn’t have a home left, so they would stay with us until the funeral.

  She arrived back at the shop that afternoon. Uncle saw her and explained that we had collected her relatives and that they were all ready for the funeral to be held. A date was arranged and they were laid to rest together in the City of London Cemetery.

  I never saw the young woman again. She must have moved away to the country, as so many families did – either due to being bombed out or simply because they couldn’t cope with the day-to-day anxiety of living in an area which carried the persistent fear of death.

  6

  The Encampment

  1944 (age 16)

  It was around March 1944, almost four years after that initial night of bombings, when the shop and stables were the only things left in the area. Everything around us had been flattened and cleared away, leaving acres of waste ground. One particular morning there was such a huge amount of activity going on, it seemed as if we were being invaded.

  Army trucks full of soldiers and provisions were pulling up. It was bedlam outside, and the noise and upheaval was unbelievable. I went to see what was going on and was joined by Tom.

  Lorries were unloading all sorts of things: tents, bedding, guns, food, everything was coming off them. As the soldiers unloaded they were being given orders as to what to do with it.

  Uncle walked over to one of the higher-ranking officers and asked him what on earth was going on. The officer replied that the whole area was being turned into an army encampment until further notice.

  This setting up of the camp lasted for at least a week; there were hundreds and hundreds of soldiers, not just English but Polish, Czechoslovakian and Norwegians. The area it covered was enormous, from where we were to all the way over in Silvertown. In fact it covered all of the surrounding area.

  Fences were placed around it, with thick barbed wire fitted along the top and, instead of them working around our little shop and stables, they decided the best thing was to incorporate us into it. It was funny, because anybody coming in to see us would have to walk through gates and an armed sentry. We did have a laugh about being the only undertakers in England to have our own armed guards.

  When I used to lock up at night the Military Police, who used to stand at the gates, would call out, ‘Goodnight, young Cribb, see you in the morning.’ It was great in a way; it certainly made you feel safe.

  Although one day down at the stables Jack had been grooming the horses when a round of machine-gun fire blasted out, splintering the frame of the stable. He ducked for cover, thinking he was under attack. He could hear footsteps outside as the firing continued. He stayed cowering in the corner even after the firing had stopped, not knowing what he should do when half an hour later Uncle walked in.

  ‘Am I glad to see you, Tom,’ he said, creeping out from behind the stable.

  ‘Why? What on earth’s happened? You look scared to death!’

  ‘Had a round of machine-gun fire come in ’ere and hit the wood on the corner of the stable where I was grooming Archie. Don’t know how it missed us.’

  With that he turns and goes to the door and looks carefully around outside. He walks closely along the side of the stables and around the corner he comes across a soldier with his face blackened up, lying on his stomach behind a pile of rubble.

  ‘Did you just shoot a sodding round into my stables? You nearly shot my groom and horse!’ he says furiously, looking at the man on the ground.

  The soldier stands up. ‘Bloody ’ell, sorry about that, guv, I didn’t know the stables were still occupied. I thought they were empty! Nobody told me to avoid ’em, we’re on commando training.’

  ‘Who’s your Officer in Charge, boy? I’ll have to go and have a word with him. Can’t have this, it’s too sodding dangerous!’

  When he found the officer and told him what had happened he was extremely apologetic and guaranteed it wouldn’t happen again and, fortunately it didn’t, but it turned out to be a very peculiar couple of months.

  Although we’d asked the soldiers on several occasions what they were doing there, we never got a proper answer. They said it wa
s a ‘training camp’, but it felt there was more to it than that.

  One Friday towards the end of May, I’d gone into work as usual, but something in the encampment certainly wasn’t normal. I couldn’t put my finger on it; there was always plenty of activity but it seemed different somehow, the atmosphere had altered drastically, the soldiers were on edge and, as the week progressed, so did the anxiety levels – you could sense it.

  When I got home that evening I told Mum and Dad how strange it was around the barracks, how everything seemed different, and how the normally friendly soldiers were abrupt and preoccupied.

  After tea I went over to Joan’s house. She was home for the weekend from her Land Army duties – but I’ll tell you about that later. I suggested we go for a ride up to the Iron Bridge in Silvertown, as I wanted to watch what was going on. We occasionally rode down there and stood on the bridge, as it afforded us a great view over the camp and we would stand and watch the soldiers going about their duties.

  That night there was a considerable amount of action going on. Everybody was being industrious. We couldn’t make out what exactly they were doing, but whatever it was you could sense it was vital. We rode slowly back, side by side, discussing what we’d seen, and unable to come to any conclusions.

  The following Monday I headed off back to the shop; we had an early start so I had to get in especially early to open up.

  As I rode along the Barking Road the weirdest thing hit me; it was quiet, unnaturally quiet. I slowed my bike and gently peddled along, but looking through the fence of the camp, I couldn’t see anyone. That’s odd, I thought, perhaps they’re all over the other side at a meeting or something. But then I reached the shop. There was no sentry on the gates; in fact the gates were open. I got off my bike and pushed it in.

  You know in those old cowboy films, when they ride into a deserted town and tumbleweed is blowing across the set, well that’s exactly what it was like. I’ve never witnessed anything so eerie (except for the Romford Baths) in all my life, and that’s saying something being an undertaker. Everyone and everything had gone – an entire encampment of soldiers, tanks and lorries vanished! I got back on my bike and rode up to the stables – it was the same: nothing, all gone. I just couldn’t believe my eyes. Where on earth was everyone?

  When Grandma, Uncle and the rest of the staff turned up, we all stood outside looking at this once vibrant area that had disappeared overnight. None of us had any notion of what was happening.

  That evening I was explaining it all to Mum and Dad again. Joan had gone back to her duties the day before, so she was unaware of the mysterious new developments. We sat around trying to work it out. Did they have ‘inside information’? Were they expecting us to be attacked? Maybe all of Hitler’s resources were going to be pointed at us and that’s why they’d shifted. We were all desperately worried that we were going to be the target of one almighty raid.

  We had a long, restless night, as you can imagine. But in the morning, thank goodness, we were all still in one piece. So it was work as normal. Our usual mid-morning cuppa was made and we sat chatting and listening to the wireless, when all of a sudden a voice broke in:

  ‘This is the BBC Home Service and here is a special bulletin . . . D-Day has come. Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the north-western face of Hitler’s European fortress. The first official news came just after half-past nine when Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force issued communiqué Number One. This said: “Under the command of General Eisenhower Allied naval forces supported by strong air forces began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.”’

  We sat there dumbfounded. We’d invaded Europe! I had goosebumps all over. This was it! This now was the start of the beginning of the end. It was our last ‘hurrah’, as they used to say. If we failed now, England would be ruled by Germany. We had to succeed. It was the D-Day landings – the largest amphibious invasion of all time and, in fact, it did win us the war.

  Although we invaded on the 6th, the actually invasion was originally set for the 5th June, but the weather was so bad it had been postponed. The month of May had been very nice weather-wise, so the raid had been set. But as we went into June it started to deteriorate and there were major debates between General Eisenhower and General Montgomery as to whether we’d be able to continue. The discussions took place right up to the line and the meteorologists were constantly checking the forecasts. Some wanted to cancel and re-schedule for a month ahead – it had to be a month ahead, as the date needed to be near or on a full moon so there was illumination. Everything and everyone, and I mean everyone – Army, Air Force and Navy – were all geared up for this one moment, so to cancel was not an option. Fortunately for us, the weather predicted for the 6th was slightly better, and the seas were meant to be calmer, so it was decided that the 6th would be the date. And it was. Around 156,000 men from Britain, Canada and the US were deployed on ‘Operation Overlord’ and it was to be one of the largest military invasions in world history.

  The other fortunate factor for us was that the Germans were not expecting us. Due to the bad weather they never dreamt an invasion was imminent, so dozens of the regimental and battalion commanders were away from their posts. Even their man in charge, Field Marshal Rommel, took a few days off, as it was his wife’s birthday. We caught them completely off guard.

  So, now we knew this was the reason our encampment had been set up; it was in order to train the soldiers for the D-Day landings. The words of Irish journalist Cornelius Ryan describe the scope of this massive military action:

  ‘They came, rank after relentless rank, ten lanes wide, twenty miles across, five thousand ships of every description. There were fast new attack transports, slow rust-scarred freighters, small ocean liners, Channel steamers, hospital ships, weather-beaten tankers, coasters and swarms of fussing tugs. There were endless columns of shallow-draft landing ships – great wallowing vessels, some of them almost 350ft long . . . Ahead of the convoys were processions of mine sweepers, Coast Guard cutters, buoy-layers and motor launches. Barrage balloons flew above the ships. Squadrons of fighter planes weaved below the clouds. And surrounding this fantastic cavalcade of ships packed with men, guns, tanks, motor vehicles and supplies . . . was a formidable array of 702 warships.’

  But what had become of the soldiers who had befriended us during those months? We hoped to goodness they’d survived, as we were later to discover that at least 12,000 men who had fought in those landings had been killed or wounded.

  7

  Our Wonderful Horses

  1944 (age 16)

  I had spent many evenings after work sitting nursing a cup of tea in the shop, listening to Uncle Tom talk about the business. I used to love those chats. We would sit opposite each other in front of our small open fire, with the glow of the embers in the grate. Now and again he would tell me to throw an off-cut of elm onto it, which was useless as firewood as it never actually burned – all it did was smoulder – and, if a sudden gust of wind blew down the chimney, we would end up being engulfed in smoke.

  With his back to the window, the light from the street lamp shone behind him, turning him into a silhouette. All I could hear was his low, melodic voice relaying his younger days to me and I watched the glow of his Woodbine as he paused to take the occasional puff.

  I was spellbound.

  He had spent a long time away from the family business working for a number of different funeral directors in the Surrey area, one being Frederick W Paine in Kingston. These companies often dealt with the gentry and aristocracy, and he’d learnt so much from them. To me he was a visionary; he would explain what he believed the future held for the business – such as fridges in which to store bodies. Fridges! I’d never heard of one let alone seen one. He described a box which stayed cold and you would put milk, butter and meat into it to stop it from going off – I couldn’t imagine such a thing, let alone the idea of putting bodies into it. Embalming was a
nother, and so the list went on. On one of these occasions he told me, ‘Stan, the best advice I can give you is to treat every funeral as if it’s your first. If you ever feel you’re becoming complacent you must promise me that you’ll leave and find another job. Complacency shouldn’t be tolerated in any business, but being in this profession it’s not only unacceptable it’s unforgivable. People entrust their loved ones to us, they expect them to be treated with the utmost dignity and respect; this cannot be compromised in any shape or form and I will not tolerate it.’

  As well as learning more about the trade with each passing month, time was catching up with another integral part of our daily lives. By the end of the month Archie, Baby and Stanley would be dead, and all of our beloved horses would be gone.

  Baby was the eldest, and pulling the carriages had become difficult for him, so we were working with only five. Odd numbers are not much good to an undertaker, as he needs a pair of horses to pull a carriage. So we made the decision to either buy another or get rid of the ones we had.

  So the decision was made: the horses had to go, as Uncle knew that motor vehicles would soon be taking over and it wouldn’t be long before the horse-drawn carriages would be obsolete.

  It was devastating news. We all stood looking at one another not knowing what to say or do. Remember, those horses had been with us for ten years or more. I’d only worked with them for two years but had grown up with them around me. The men had worked with them every single day, and they were as much a part of us as we were to them. I swallowed hard. My eyes were welling up with tears.

  ‘Right, we have two weeks before everything is taken to the horse repository for auction. I want everything cleaned, packed up and ready to go. I’m sorry, lads, but that’s the way it is,’ Tom said.