An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  His mouth started to twitch.

  I was still holding my coat, so I turned around, opened the door and headed out. I was too tired to deal with this. As I put my hand in my pocket to get out the car keys I realised I’d left them on the desk. I turned back. As I reached the door I stopped and looked inside, and there they were, Uncle Tom leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped around his middle and Jack laid out across the desk both in hernia-producing convulsions. When I opened the door and walked back in they looked up quickly with straight faces, thinking a customer had walked in but when they saw it was me, collapsed again. I grabbed the keys, slammed the door behind me and headed off to the workshop. As I drove along a smile did creep onto my lips. If only I hadn’t been so exhausted or if the story had been about someone else I would have found it highly amusing too.

  Mrs Vale and her son arrived in the shop later that afternoon. She walked in looking extremely sheepish, carrying a lovely Victoria sponge.

  ‘This is for you, Mr Cribb. I can’t apologise enough . . .’ she started to say.

  ‘Please, no more apologies, Mrs Vale. Now sit down and let me reciprocate your kindness. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and we can share your lovely cake and sort out all the arrangements.’

  She smiled shyly.

  After Mr Vale’s funeral I made a point of going round every Sunday to help her clean out the birds. I don’t know why; I just felt a bit sorry that she was on her own and she had all those birds to look after. I even gave her a hand phoning customers from her husband’s contacts who had purchased birds from him in the past, to see if they would like to buy some more. It took a month or so, but in the end we managed to find good homes for all of them except one. He was her husband’s favourite, and given pride of place in the living room by the window. He was lovingly named Georgie, and every morning, without fail, he filled her little house with birdsong.

  A few days later the ringing of the phone filled our quiet house. As usual I ran downstairs to answer it.

  ‘Mr Cribb, it’s the police. An intruder’s been caught trying to get into your shop. A passing driver saw him and alerted us. Fortunately we got there before he broke in,’ the officer explained.

  ‘What a bloody nuisance!’ I said angrily.

  ‘I agree. I’m sorry to have woken you but obviously we had to inform you what had happened,’ the officer said. ‘But there’s no need for you to go down there, as he didn’t gain entry, but obviously it’s entirely up to you if you want to check everything. They’re taking him back to the station now to charge him with attempted burglary. It’s all a bit sad though – apparently all he keeps going on about is wanting to see his mum.’

  ‘What! D’you know anything else?’ I asked.

  ‘No, that’s all the information I’ve got.’

  ‘Look, it’ll take me fifteen minutes to get down there. D’you think the police could wait for me and maybe we can get this sorted out?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Hang on, I’ll have a quick word.’

  After a brief while the voice returned. ‘The officers said they’ll wait for you, as he’s still going on about seeing her,’ he explained.

  ‘OK, I’m on my way, thank you,’ I said.

  Luckily enough the boys were out like lights that night, so I was saved from an interrogation. I quickly got changed and headed off. The police were parked outside. As I pulled up one of them explained to me again what had happened. Apparently they’d had a call around 1.45 a.m. that a man was seen trying to get in through the front door. By the time they’d arrived he’d given up on the door and had started to scale the back wall.

  ‘I heard that he keeps on about wanting to see his mum?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Said she died last week and the funeral’s tomorrow and that he wants to see her. He’s been drinking but he’s not drunk.’

  ‘Would you mind bringing him over so I can have a word.’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ he said, walking back to the car.

  He then fetched over a small, skinny, bedraggled-looking chap in his late thirties. He looked wild, shifty, his eyes kept darting around as if he thought somebody was after him, and he had a horrible habit of continually sniffing and wiping his nose onto the back of his hand.

  ‘You want to see your mum, I hear. What’s her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Margaret Pryce. She died last week. I’ve been away, ’aven’t seen ’er for years. I want to see ’er!’ he said angrily.

  ‘Well, why don’t you come back early in the morning and—’

  ‘NO! I told ya, I want to see ’er now. I’ve got to see ’er!’ He was very agitated.

  The policeman looked at me, raising his eyebrows. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said, taking his arm. ‘You’re out of order getting stroppy with this gentleman. He’s got out of his bed to try and sort you out. Let’s get you back to the station; you can have some coffee, pull yourself together and . . .’

  He yanked his arm from the policeman’s grip, shouting that he had to see his mother. He was glaring at me.

  I didn’t like him one bit.

  His arm was then pulled up behind his back, causing him to scream in pain. ‘That’s it! Come on, let’s go,’ the policeman shouted, as he pushed his arm further up his back.

  He started to sob, through pain or frustration I wasn’t sure – probably both. ‘Just let me see ’er . . . five minutes, then I’ll go wiv ya. I just need to see ’er,’ he said, staring at me.

  I looked at the officer. ‘I’m happy to go in there and get it organised if it keeps him quiet. What d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t think the bugger deserves it, Mr Cribb, but if it’ll keep him quiet for the night I suppose it’ll be worth it. Go on then. I’ll wait with him here,’ he said, still holding him in an armlock.

  As I walked into the shop I thought about Uncle, who would’ve told him to ‘sod off’ until he’d learnt some manners and wouldn’t have been remotely bothered that he was being taken away to the cells for the night. Maybe his way was right but I could see the bloke was desperate to see his mum and I couldn’t turn him away.

  I went to the chilled area and pulled his mother from one of the units, wheeling her into the Chapel of Rest. She was all prepared for the funeral, which was due to take place later that day.

  I opened the door and walked back out. ‘Come with me. You can see her now,’ I said. The officer let him go. He stood there rubbing his arm. ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ he said, as he followed me in. I showed him to the chapel, and he walked in as I closed the door behind me.

  Exactly ten minutes later, the policeman returned. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘In there.’ I pointed.

  Opening the door he called out, ‘Come on, time’s up!’

  He walked out and headed straight for the front door, not even looking at me. ‘Hold on, hold on!’ the officer said. ‘We know you’ve forgotten your manners, but haven’t you got something to say?’

  He stopped, glanced around at me and muttered ‘Fanks’, sniffing and wiping his nose, before walking outside where the other officer was waiting.

  ‘Unbelievable!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He won’t bother you again, Mr Cribb, and thanks for that.’

  But I had an underlying feeling of unease that he would be bothering me again. I locked up and headed home. What an unsavoury character he was! I didn’t know him from Adam, but, as I said, I didn’t like him.

  The following morning I arrived early at the premises and called Mrs Pryce’s daughter. I explained to her what had happened and she was astounded.

  ‘WHAT?’ she screamed down the phone. ‘I don’t believe it! We never in a million years expected him to come back. He’s got a bloody nerve! Did he mention the funeral?’ she said, concerned.

  ‘Well, he knows it’s today, but he never said if he was coming or not,’ I explained.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a lot actually, he’d had a drink . . .’
<
br />   ‘Oh, there’s a shock!’ she responded sarcastically.

  I carried on. ‘He just kept insisting on seeing his mum as he hadn’t seen her for years. He was very agitated.’

  ‘I bet he was. Probably needed another fix. He’s always been into trying new drugs. He robbed Mum of all her savings so he could pay for his disgusting habit; cleared off to God knows where and none of us have heard from him for over fifteen years. He’s an actor and a complete fantasist . . . always has been. Listen, Mr Cribb, if he does happen to turn up and speaks to you, don’t believe a word he tells you. He’s a lying bastard who can’t be trusted. If you don’t believe me ask anybody who’s there – they’ll tell you the same.’

  Although I believed every word she said, I didn’t tell her what I had witnessed the previous night, as I was starting to feel uncomfortable. Getting involved in family disputes is never a good thing. Uncle’s words of wisdom came back to me: ‘Funerals bring out the worse in families, boy; underlying animosities tend to rear their ugly heads at times like these, so avoid them! Don’t get involved, you’re there to do a job, always remain impartial like the United Nations.’

  There was an awkward pause. I had to say something: ‘I can understand why you feel as you do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she responded.

  ‘Look, I’d better be off. You must have a lot to do. I’ll see you later this afternoon at three.’ I’d cut her short, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  That was it until later that day. Fortunately the weather had brightened up, as the rain had been torrential that morning.

  When the cortège reached the cemetery there, leaning against the gates, smoking a cigarette, was the brother, still in the same scruffy clothes he’d had on the night before. I heard a groan go through the relatives sitting behind me.

  Oh, sod it . . . here we go, I thought.

  He followed in, trailing well behind the rest of the mourners, and sat on his own at the back. Nobody took a blind bit of notice of him. It felt like they were closing ranks to keep him out. There was an atmosphere of concern, as if they were waiting for him to start something but if he noticed he didn’t show it – the only evidence that he was actually there was loud sniffing echoing around the chapel during the service.

  When the coffin was taken outside for the burial, we all gathered around the graveside. He, for whatever reason, decided to stand next to me. I suppose because I always stood away from the rest of the mourners.

  As the service commenced I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was staring intently down at the coffin. He turned his head towards me and whispered something. A whiff of whisky fumes hit me.

  ‘Pardon?’ I said, leaning across.

  ‘I said, I wanna go wiv ’er.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wanna jump on top of the coffin and be buried wiv ’er,’ he explained, still whispering.

  I looked up in the direction of his sister; she too was staring at me. I then noticed that the entire group of mourners was staring at us. They’d been watching him and could see that he’d started talking. She gently shook her head and frowned. It was obvious she meant that whatever he was saying to take no notice.

  I lowered my eyes again, then saw his feet edge forward.

  ‘I’m going in,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said, under my breath.

  ‘What did ya say?’ he said, his eyes spinning towards me in shock.

  ‘I said, go on then.’

  ‘Did you actually hear what I said?’ he whined. ‘I said I wanted to jump in and be buried wiv ’er.’ He repeated it, slightly louder this time, his steps edging ever closer to the graveside.

  ‘I know. I’m not deaf, I heard you the first time.’

  ‘And you said, “Go on, then,” he said, with an incredulous tone.

  ‘That’s right. If you want to go with her, then go.’ I nodded towards the open grave. ‘Go on, jump. Don’t keep on about it, just bloody do it!’ I was talking out of the corner of my mouth. I must have looked like a bad ventriloquist.

  With that he turns sharply, looking directly at me. ‘Well you’re an ’ard bastard, aren’t ya!’ he shouted. ‘I won’t get any fucking sympathy from you, will I?’ With that he made a lunge towards me but, due to the heavy rain, the ground was slippery, causing him to lose his footing. Within the blink of an eye he had gone. It was a terrible moment.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the mourners. They all stepped forward, peering into the hole, and there he was, flat out, lying on his back on top of the coffin. I saw his sister quickly raise her hand to her mouth. I thought she was going to burst into tears but she started to laugh, which then spread to the entire group. Me and the vicar were the only ones not laughing. This revolting man’s behaviour had in my eyes defiled his mother’s grave by his stupid antics. He quickly stood up on top of the coffin and was scrabbling at the side walls trying to get out. I bent down to offer my hand but his sister called out, ‘I’d be tempted to leave him down there, Mr Cribb.’ And then another voice joined in with, ‘Fill it in!’

  I ignored the jibes and managed to grab his hand, yanking him out. He flopped in front of me like a new-born calf but he was quickly on his feet. He was livid. ‘You can all fuck off!’ he shouted, which then made them laugh even harder, until he pushed me to one side and stormed off in the direction of the gates.

  The mourners instantly began talking animatedly to each other. I walked over to his sister and asked to have a word. As we moved away from the rest of the crowd, I apologized. ‘Mr Cribb, you have absolutely nothing to apologise for. You know what? I think that was Mum who pushed him in, or even my dear old dad getting his own back on him for doing what he did to her, but she had such a wonderful sense of humour, she would laugh at anything, and if she’d have been here she would’ve laughed at the aggravating little creep too. Everybody’s been on their guard; it was inevitable he would try to cause merry hell sooner or later.’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘Come on,’ she smiled. ‘Let’s get back home and we can have a toast to Mum, she’d like that.’

  Back at the house the topic obviously returned to the brother. ‘Hopefully the only damage done today was to your brother’s pride,’ I suggested.

  ‘Pride! He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word,’ one of the uncles said angrily. ‘Waste of space. Always has been, always will be.’

  ‘He’s right, Mr Cribb,’ his sister chipped in. ‘Ever since he left school, he’s never worked . . . thought it was above him . . . God knows why! All he did was ponce off my mum, and she put up with it to save any aggravation. Then blow me down he goes and robs her of her entire savings. He hasn’t an ounce of decency in him. A parasite, that’s what he is – a bloody rotten parasite, and let’s hope he stays away for good this time.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said the uncle, raising his glass, to be joined by everyone else. I thought of what my uncle had said about the United Nations and decided this was a good time to make my exit.

  Well, it was certainly a funeral to remember . . . or maybe forget, and not one I would like to repeat.

  That was the first and last time I’d been in a position like that, but this situation was unlike any other. He had, after all, tried to break into my premises. It was a one-off, like Mrs Vale, and fortunately would never happen to me again.

  15

  Eliza Joy

  1964 (age 36)

  As I answered the phone, and before I even had time to speak, an anxious woman’s voice asked, ‘Tom?’

  ‘No, it’s Stan, his nephew, who’s calling please?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Stan. I’m so sorry. I thought Tom would pick the phone up. I’ve not spoken to you before. I’m Eliza Joy. Your uncle has carried out quite a number of funerals for me over the years and sadly, I’ve had another bereavement, a beloved family member . . . died yesterday after a long illness.’ Her voice started to quiver.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Joy. Uncle Tom is out at the mo
ment. Would you like me to come round to sort the arrangements out for you, or would you rather wait for him?’ I asked.

  ‘No, that’s fine, Stan. I’m quite happy for you to come round. It would be lovely to meet you. I’m in Clarence Road. What time should I expect you?’

  ‘I’ll be there within the hour. I’ll see you soon.’ I hung up and was just getting my jacket on when Uncle walked in.

  He sat down and lit up a Woodbine. ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘Eliza Joy called. A family member’s died and she wants to sort out the arrangements, but she said it was OK if I went.’

  ‘Eliza Joy? I’ve known her for years, lovely woman. She’s had her fair share of losses. During the time you were away on military service she lost her mother, father and husband within the space of two years. She’s got a brother, so it’s probably him.’ He took a deep puff of his cigarette and leant back into his chair, gently exhaling the smoke. ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for her, you know.’

  ‘What! I didn’t think you’d have a soft spot for anything besides your prized roses,’ I said incredulously.

  ‘Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, boy! And don’t start getting lippy. Now clear off! Don’t keep her waiting,’ he shouted.

  ‘Well, now I know that, perhaps you’d like to go?’ I started to say.

  ‘Sod off!’ he shouted, throwing a tin of polish towards me.

  I dodged the polish and left. I walked around to see her, as it wasn’t very far, and on the way I thought about what Uncle had said. I found myself smiling. It just goes to show, you work with someone day in and day out and you still don’t know them.

  As I approached the house I saw her anxiously peeking through the curtains. The front door was opened immediately by a lady in her late fifties, who had clearly been very beautiful in her heyday. Her once blonde hair was now streaked with grey and was swept up in a very fashionable ‘chignon’ (that’s what Joan told me it was called. I would just call it a fancy bun) and she was very smartly dressed.