An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  ‘Oh, for the love of God, what’s he want? Probably wants to chuck us out even earlier!’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s a junior architect,’ I explained.

  ‘A junior architect . . . see! Whatever he’s here for the buggers wouldn’t even send us a proper grown-up one. Did you ask him what he wants?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘No, you’d better come out and see him.’

  We both walked outside. Uncle shook his hand and looked him up and down. He then turned away, pulling me with him. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at him. He then whispered in my ear: ‘I’m not dealing with this scruffy bastard; you’ll have to do it.’ And with that he walked back to the office and shut the door behind him.

  Personally, I thought he looked very smart, but to Uncle, anyone who wasn’t wearing a bowler hat would’ve been classified as scruffy.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Anchor, my uncle’s not feeling too well, maybe I can help you?’ I said, as I walked back, pointing to a seat by the desk.

  Out of his bag he pulled a large sketch pad and pen. ‘Right . . . now I’d like, if you can, for you to describe to me in detail what your ideal premises would require?’

  ‘My ideal premises?’ I asked, dumbfounded.

  ‘Yes, what an undertakers would require to bring them up to the modern standards of today.’

  ‘I’m sorry to sound so stupid, but what are you actually here for? Is it a survey or something?’

  He leant forward and clasped his hands together on top of the desk, looking at me, still smiling.

  ‘Survey? Goodness, no! I’m here to find out exactly what you’d want your new premises to be like. I’ve been instructed to draw up plans for the new shop, which is to be built just along the road here at 112 Rathbone Street.’

  ‘New shop? The last letter I had from the council was two months ago, and it was giving us notice to quit by September. We’ve heard absolutely nothing since,’ I said, amazed.

  ‘How odd! But I can assure you that your new premises have been passed by the council to be built here. All you need to do is tell me what you want.’

  ‘Just a minute, let me go in and explain what you’ve just told me to my uncle. I’m sure he’ll have something to say,’ I said, hurrying back to the office.

  ‘Of course, take your time,’ he said, lounging back in his chair.

  I closed the office door behind me and quietly repeated to Tom what had been said.

  ‘New premises? They’re winding us up, that’s what they’re doing!’ he shouted.

  ‘Shh! Why on earth would they do that?’ I whispered.

  ‘How the sodding hell would I know,’ he replied. ‘And don’t you dare tell me to shush, boy!’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want him to hear us arguing. Why don’t you just come out and listen to what he’s got to say.’ I was so frustrated.

  ‘I AM NOT GOING TO WASTE MY TIME SITTING WITH THAT LITTLE TWIT! Now clear off. You sodding started it, you get on with it!’

  I never did get around to telling you that his nickname was ‘Tom Sodem-all’, did I?

  I walked out, shutting the door behind me. I now felt embarrassed that we’d been overheard, but the fact that he’d been called a ‘twit’ seemed to have gone unnoticed, as he was obviously deep in thought, drawing on his pad.

  I heard the office door creak open. I glanced around, thinking he had changed his mind, but all he’d done was open it so he could sit and listen to what we were saying.

  I sat there for several hours going over exactly what we would want. A Chapel of Rest was definitely going to be top of the list. I couldn’t believe it. I was like a child in a sweet shop. I occasionally glanced around at the office and could see Uncle leaning back in his chair, his ear close to the gap, with a Woodbine clasped between his fingers.

  ‘Well, I think I have everything I need,’ said Mr Anchor. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ I saw him out and then sat back down in a state of shock. Uncle walked back in and we looked at one another.

  ‘Well, would you believe it?’ I said, laughing.

  ‘No, I don’t, and I won’t believe it until it’s built and we’re sitting in it!’ he said.

  Around three weeks later I took a phone call. ‘Mr Cribb, it’s Mr Anchor here, hope you’re keeping well. I just wanted to ask you if you wouldn’t mind popping into the Stratford office when it’s convenient, as I would like to show you something.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll be happy too. How about tomorrow?’

  I arrived at the offices as arranged. I was on my own. Uncle, still not having any of it, decided to stay put. I was shown into his office and there, on the table, was a model of our new shop. It was amazing. Everything was exactly as I had requested it should be. He’d done a wonderful job.

  ‘That looks fantastic,’ I said, still staring at the model. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  ‘Good, glad you like it. It’s already been passed by the board, so all we have to do now is get it built,’ he said understatedly.

  I left those offices in a complete trance. Built? They were going to start building? We still hadn’t received one letter from the council about this – absolutely nothing. It was absurd, all this going on without one word of correspondence. I could appreciate why Uncle was so apprehensive about it all.

  I returned to the shop in a state of excitement.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘This whole thing stinks, Stan. There’s something fishy going on and I don’t like it one bit. This type of thing just doesn’t happen . . . they can’t be doing it for nothing, can they? They’ll want something and we haven’t got anything, so what’s going to happen once the thing’s built – if it gets that far, mind you!’

  I could understand why he felt suspicious. I had my own reservations, so I decided to ring the council again.

  ‘Hello, Mr Fletcher. Mr Cribb again from Cribb’s undertakers,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh yes, good afternoon. What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve just come from Stratford Council and they’ve shown me a model of the new premises, which is to be built in the very near future, but we’re extremely concerned about the finances of this property. I wanted to tell you that we’ve no money to pay for them, if that’s what you’re expecting. You see, we don’t want to reach the point of the building being finished and then discover you’re invoicing us for the works. We’d rather lay our cards on the table now before it gets that far. After all, the only form of communication we’ve had was back in March, which was the notice to quit,’ I said.

  ‘Ah yes, I see what you mean, much better to get these things sorted beforehand, quite agree. Hang on, let me get your file out.’ I then waited a few minutes. ‘Right, now let’s see, you said you were paying rent on your other property, so it seems sensible to carry on the same way with this one, don’t you think? So, how much would you be willing to pay?’ he asked.

  Once again I was taken aback. ‘How much am I willing to pay? I’ve got no idea!’ I said. ‘Have you got a figure in mind?’

  ‘Um, interesting question . . . now let me think.’ I could hear his fingers strumming on the desk. ‘How about we say £600 per year with a twenty-one-year lease – does that sound alright with you?’

  I paused for a second. I couldn’t believe my ears! ‘That sounds acceptable,’ I blurted out. I didn’t know what else to say. I was in a state of shock.

  ‘Marvellous! Problem solved then. Well, that was easy, wasn’t it! It’s been very nice doing business with you, Mrs Cribb. I bid you farewell.’ And with that he hung up the phone.

  Mrs Cribb? He’d called me Mrs Cribb! Now, I was alright up until that point. I mean, was it just a slip of the tongue or was the man genuinely round the twist? I was so confused by everything that had been going on for the last four months that I’d started to analyse every little detail, trying to justify what on earth was going on around me. The only conclusion I had was that s
ome form of madness had taken hold.

  The building work started around the end of 1958. Every day I would stand outside the shop, watching it go up. It was a sight for sore eyes. Towards the end, as the windows starting going in, with T. CRIBB & Sons etched into them, it felt that it was actually happening for real.

  Eight months later it was finished. We locked up the old premises, which the council had allowed us to stay in until the new one was built, thank goodness, and moved virtually next door into the new place. It was one of the best days of my life.

  As we sat down for the first time to have a cup of tea, I turned to Uncle and said, ‘Well, do you believe it now?’

  ‘It’s absolutely perfect, boy. But I still don’t believe we aren’t going to be paying for it. Somebody will want a back-hander one day, you mark my words. I’m never going to have any peace because every time the postman delivers a letter I’ll think it’s a bill from the council.’

  True to his word, for the next thirteen years every time an official-looking envelope dropped through our letterbox he thought the ‘day of reckoning’ had come, but it didn’t; and we never received a bill.

  14

  Nell Vale and Mrs Pryce’s Son

  1961 (age 33)

  Since the opening of the new premises, the business took off again, thank heavens. I was regularly getting night calls a couple of times a week. I was losing out on my beauty sleep, but it was worth it. We couldn’t have been happier with the way the new premises had taken off.

  As a result of these late night calls, the curiosity of my two sons – Graham (who by then was nine, and John, six) had been ignited. It must have been very mysterious for them to hear their dad talking on the phone in the dead of night and then seeing him head off into the dark.

  They would stand on the hall landing in their pyjamas listening to my conversations and, in the morning over breakfast, I would feel as if I was under interrogation from the ‘East End Inquisition’, as they’d want to know, as my grandma always said, ‘the ins and outs of a cat’s arse’.

  I vividly remember one week I had two call-outs that would remain etched into my memory for ever, as they were both so out of the ordinary. The first came at around 2.30 a.m.

  ‘Good morning, Cribb and Son,’ I said, in as clear a voice as I could muster.

  ‘Mr Cribb, is that you?’ A woman’s voice came from the other end. ‘My name’s Nell Vale and my husband died about an hour ago and I . . . I don’t know what to do. Can you help me please?’ She then began to cry.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Vale. I’m so sorry for your loss. You’re obviously very upset. What would you like me to do?’ I asked. When we had calls at this time of the morning from the general public there were several things they might ask us to do. Either go round and collect the body immediately, or, if they had members of the family all together, they may ask us round to discuss what their next move would be and arrangements would be made to go back and collect the body in the morning. Every circumstance was different and, depending on the emotional state of the person calling, I would not normally ask them what they wanted me to do, but wait for them to tell me and then work around that – but this lady seemed confused.

  ‘Could you come round? I know it’s late but, it’s just . . .’ The crying continued.

  ‘Of course, it’s not a problem, what’s your address?’

  ‘I’m in Montpelier Gardens, East Ham,’ she sobbed.

  ‘I’ll be there in around half an hour, is that OK?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Cribb. I’ll see you shortly.’ And with that she hung up.

  As I went to walk back upstairs, there, with their faces flushed and hands clamped around the banisters, were the boys, looking like a couple of miniature convicts. My daughter Susan, who was just a toddler, was happily tucked up in her cot.

  ‘Where you going, Dad?’ Graham shouted. I don’t know why but he could never speak in normal tones. He had a voice like a ‘town bull’. I’d often tried to get him to lower his voice to a bellow but alas to no avail.

  ‘Shush, you’ll wake your mum and sister; get back to bed now,’ I said quietly.

  ‘But Dad, I want to know where you’re going?’ he insisted.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you again. Go to bed! I’ll tell you all about it in the morning,’ I said impatiently.

  Not one for ever taking ‘no’ for an answer, he piped up: ‘Can I come with you?’

  God, give me strength! He was a nightmare. Hardly a day went by when I wondered whose genes he’d inherited. He’d try the patience of a saint.

  I stood glaring at him through the banister, and it’s funny what one particular look can achieve. I’d perfected it with him over the years, and, thinking about it, I must have inherited it from my mum and I found it worked far more effectively than words. He was back in bed within seconds, with John right behind him. He’d learnt during his few years on earth that when his elder brother spoke it was always wise to keep out of it, as it inevitably led to trouble.

  It never ceased to amaze me how two sons from the same parents could be so unalike. There was unquestionably nothing remotely similar about them, either in looks or personality. Graham, tall, thick-set with fair hair who, if based on a comic character, would be the more aggravating brother of ‘Dennis the Menace’, whereas John, slight build and very dark, was to be honest, the actual son my mother would have loved: ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’. They drove each other mad – and still do – but not as much as they did when they were kids.

  John was always extremely tidy: clothes hung up and neatly put away, very studious, quiet and home-loving; whereas Graham: untidy, clothes permanently on the floor, hated school, extremely noisy and always wanted to be out – more commonly known as ‘a bloody nuisance’. As soon as he was old enough to move out and could do what he wanted, when he wanted, we got along just fine.

  Years later, when he initially wanted to join the business, I was taken aback, as I always thought his true vocation was at sea. He would’ve made a marvellous stand-in foghorn if the ships broke down, but no, he wanted to join us, as did John.

  Susan, on the other hand, was a normal, well-adjusted girl who didn’t cause us any problems, and growing up didn’t show a lot of interest in joining the firm, but she obviously enjoyed being part of an undertaking family, as she ended up marrying one.

  After making sure the boys were back in bed, I went into the bedroom, got changed and headed off. These night-time call-outs normally meant I was away for roughly an hour and a half.

  It was approaching 3 a.m. as I pulled up outside the house. I knocked on the door and waited. When there wasn’t an answer I knocked again, harder. I then heard a ‘rat-tat’. I stepped back, looked around, and heard it again, coming from above. I saw Mrs Vale at the bedroom window mouthing, ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  I put my thumb up; she was obviously with her husband – maybe preparing him for us. A few minutes later the door was opened by an extremely large lady who was very tearful and out of breath. Funnily enough, you didn’t see people that large in those days, but if you did they’d generally be described as ‘on the plump side’, ‘stout’, as my grandma would say, or ‘having something wrong with her glands’, but this lady was well past those adjectives – she was a right whopper!

  Her hair was tied up in a headscarf, and poking out from underneath I could see metal ‘wave grips’ clamped onto her hair instead of the more popular rollers. (How women ever got any sleep wearing these contraptions I’ll never know.) She still had her slippers on and her housecoat could’ve comfortably doubled up to give a troop of scouts adequate shelter for an adventure weekend. Obviously her husband’s death had happened suddenly and she hadn’t time to change.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry I took so long to answer the door, Mr Cribb, please come in, go through to the back room,’ she said, pointing down the hall. As she joined me in the living room I held out my hand and she shook it gently, smiling. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Vale,’ I
said.

  ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, and I’m sorry,’ she said, touching her ‘grips’ and looking down at her nightwear. ‘I’m not properly dressed but everything’s happened so quickly. I just didn’t know what to do. I’ve never had to do this type of thing before, and I’m sorry I couldn’t take you into the front room, but the fire’s not made up and as it’s so cold it’s best if we sit in here where it’s nice and warm. Please make yourself at home. Would you like a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I said, thinking it would give her time to compose herself. She seemed better than she had been on the phone, but I didn’t want to rush her. I’ve learnt over the years that collecting a body and organising funerals are not simple tasks; a lot of psychology goes into it. When you initially see someone they may talk about anything except what you’re actually there for. I understand how painful it is and I let them talk as much as they liked until they feel ready to get down to the task at hand. If she did want me to take the body away tonight, I would have to contact Jack, who would then cycle to the workshop, pick up the van and a ‘shell’ and meet me here. That would take around an hour, but until I had sat her down to see exactly what she had in mind, everything was on hold. I’d assumed the doctor had already been and gone and left the death certificate but, to be honest, I didn’t have a clue what had been done, and I was secretly hoping that Mr Vale wasn’t as large as his wife. If that was the case then a ‘bespoke’ shell would have to be made to fit him, and it would take more than two of us to move him. I had to get some information soon.

  I could see there were lots of photos around the room, so I got up to take a look. As I was looking at one in particular Mrs Vale returned. ‘That’s George, my husband,’ she said, as she bustled in carrying the tray with a pot of tea and a plate of homemade cake. ‘He breeds canaries.’ She paused, put down the tray, took her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘I have to say bred canaries now, don’t I?’ she said, blowing her nose.