Mrs Lacey looked at least twenty years older than she was. She had a cringing, apologetic way of talking, quite unlike so many Poplar women who were full of breezy self-confidence. She called me ‘madam’ and ‘lady nurse’ and asked if she could carry my bag upstairs. When I refused she said, ‘But it’s too heavy for a lady like you. I’ll take it.’ And she did. When I thanked her she looked surprised and said, ‘It’s good of you, madam, real kind. I don’t expect no thanks. Real kind, I says. I ’preciate it, I do.’ Up in the bedroom her husband shouted to her ‘Put ve bag on ve table, you lazy slut, an’ ge’ out. I’m the one who’s got to suffer ve needle to keep me from dying. Now ge’ ou’.’ If I had been carrying a 4-inch intramuscular needle with me that day, I would have rammed it deep into his fat buttocks and been glad to do so!
Down in the bar I said to her: ‘You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.’
‘Like wha’, madam?’
‘Calling you lazy. Telling you to get out.’
‘I don’ notice nuffink.’
Poor woman. She did not notice all the insults, but she had noticed a word of thanks.
The next time I called she was in the cellar, struggling to get a great barrel of beer across the floor to the pump taps. I went down to give her a hand. She was deeply troubled.
‘Oh, no, no. A lady like you can’t be movin’ barrels o’ beer. It’s not righ’, not fittin’ like. I can do it by meself.’
I ignored her.
‘You take one side, I’ll take the other. We’ll have the job done in no time.’
And we did. She sat down on the barrel sweating.
‘It takes me twen’y minutes ’a get a barrel fixed up by meself. An’ we done it in two. Oh, madam, I’m vat grateful, I am. I wish I ’ad a daughter. Every woman needs a daugh’er as she gets on.’
‘Have you any children?’
‘I got a boy. A lovely boy, ’e is. Bob. ’e’s in Americky. ’e’s doin’ well, doin’ nicely. I’m proud on ’im. Loves ’is ol’ mum, ’e do.’ She gave me a bleak smile.
We climbed the treacherous stone steps from cellar to bar and immediately heard continuous banging on the ceiling. Upstairs in the bedroom Mr Lacey was in a frenzy of rage.
‘You idle, useless woman,’ he shouted. ‘What ’ave you been doin’ all vis time, eh? Sitting around, drinkin’ tea an’ gossipin’, that’s wha’! When me, your lawful ’usband, wha’s sufferin’ an’ dyin’, wants yer. Now listen ’ere, you stupid wench, them letters you brought up. Well one of ’em is from Bob. ’e’s comin’ ’ome. In three weeks. Sailin’ from New York, ’e is. Says ’e’s got a surprise for us.’
Mrs Lacey gave a faint moan and clung to the table.
‘Bob? My Bobby? Comin’ ’ome? An’ got a su-prise for us?’
‘Yes. Three weeks. Now I shall want a new shirt an’ a new pair o’ trousies, an’ some new socks, if you’re not too idle to ge’ yerself round shops an’ buy me some. Now ge’ on with it. I gotta suffer ve needle, an’ I’m goin’ ’a need all me strength to bear ve pain.’
After the injection Mr Lacey moaned, ‘Bob’s goin’ to see wha’ ’is poor old dad ’as to suffer. His poor ole dad wha’ was good to ’im and sacrificed everyfing to bring ’im up proper an’ give ’im a good ejication, wha’s dyin’ now with no one to care for ’im.’ Tears of self-pity rolled down his fat cheeks.
Each time I called that week and the next, Mrs Lacey was in a flurry of excitement. Her usual slow, listless behaviour was replaced by smiling activity. She was decorating his bedroom. Paints and brushes, wallpaper, new curtains, a light shade – everything had to be perfect for her Bob. I couldn’t imagine how she found the time to do it, as well as all the work of running the pub, but she did, and gladly.
One morning when I entered the private bar she was emerging from the cellar, carrying a crate of bottles. The weight was obviously as much as her strength could bear, and she let the crate down with an exhausted sigh. I was indignant.
‘You shouldn’t have to work so hard,’ I said.
‘It’s better’n no work.’
She was panting and perspiring, so she wiped her face with the dirty glass cloth. She sat down on the bar stool for a moment.
‘It’s better’n draggin’ yerself through ve streets wiv nowhere ’a go, no place to rest yer ’ead, nowhere to rest ve baby.’
I looked at her silently, wondering what she had suffered during the great depression, when there was no work for men, even those who were eager to work – and I doubted Lacey had ever been eager. She looked up, and a rare smile lit her tired features.
‘An’ Bobby was my baby. Bob wha’s comin’ ’ome next week. Comin’ ’ome to ’is mum. He’s a lovely boy, ’e is. Doin’ well, vey say. Doin’ nicely. His letter’s a treat, ’e’s got a good ’and. Writes real nice, ’e do. I’m vat proud, I can tell yer.’
By the beginning of the third week the room was decorated, and she wanted to show it to me. She was doubtful about the choice of curtains. Did I think he would like them? Did they match the room?
In contrast to the rest of the dreary pub, the room was bright and cheerful, and I gasped with genuine admiration when I entered and saw all that she had achieved in a fortnight. She saw my face and giggled with pleasure.
‘An’ ve curtains. Will ’e like ’em?’
‘The curtains are lovely. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.’
‘I bin sewing ’em every day sittin’ behind ve bar.’
Two days later she said shyly, ‘I got meself a new blouse. I mus’ look me best when ’e comes. Bu’ now I got it ’ome, I’m not sure. If I puts it on, will you tell me if it suits me?’
When I came down after seeing Mr Lacey, his wife was in the bar, wearing a pink blouse. It was not what is described as ‘shocking pink’, but any colour in that dingy brown and puce room would have been a shock. She stood nervously, biting her lip with her toothless gums.
‘Is it too bright?’
I couldn’t say ‘yes’, could I?
‘It is lovely. Bob will be proud of you. You look really pretty.’ She glowed with pleasure. Had anyone ever paid her a compliment before?
‘We ’ad a letter vis morning from Southampton. Ve boat come in yesterday. ’e’s comin’ tomorrow or ve next day, an’ he’ll be ’ere for three weeks. Three weeks! My Bob.’
Her voice trailed away in emotion.
‘I’ll ’ave to ge’ vis blouse off, keep it clean. Can’ ’ave it grubby afore ’e comes. An’ you really like it?’ She looked up wistfully. ‘Really?’
For two days Mrs Lacey stood in the bar in her pink blouse, wiping the tables, serving her customers. Mr Lacey came downstairs, dressed in his new shirt and trousers, and sat at a table drinking beer and smoking Woodbines. Both of them were on edge. Many times she went out into the street and ran to the corner just to have a look. But no Bob. ‘Somefink musta delayed ’im, he’ll be ’ere by an’ by,’ she kept saying.
At eleven o’clock on the second evening, she wearily called, ‘Time. Finish yer glasses. Time please,’ and shut the bar. Mr Lacey shouted, ‘Fine son you got,’ and went to bed. She sat at a table, her head on her arms, and wept bitterly.
On the evening of the third day the door of the bar opened, and a young man entered. He was good-looking and well dressed in a style not common in Poplar. The bar was empty.
‘Hello. Anyone there?’ he shouted. He was well spoken, with a slight American accent.
‘Fine sort of homecoming this is – anyone there? Jeepers, what a hole! Sorry about this,’ he said to his companion, a tall shapely girl with blonde hair, cut in the pageboy style. Her clothes were tight-fitting and well cut. The neckline of her jacket plunged low enough to reveal an enticing cleavage. Her shoes were high and pointed, and fine nylon stockings covered her shapely legs. Her lips were vivid red, her eyes deeply blackened, and her perfume was subtle and exotic. She was smoking, and she used a long cigarette holder.
She looked around the grimy, des
olate beer-den. She looked at the flies buzzing round the light bulb. She looked at the yellowing ceiling, and at the filthy windows, and said, ‘Jeez, what a dump! Is this where you were brought up?’
Bob coloured.
‘Oh no, no. They’ve only been here eight years. They moved here after I left home. They’ve come down in the world, I’m sorry to say. I was brought up in a fine house in the country. We had a maid and a gardener in those days. But look, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. We could easily slip away. No one knows we’re here.’
The American girl was about to speak when the door leading from the cellar was kicked open. Mrs Lacey entered the room, struggling to carry a great crate of bottles. Her attention was entirely focused on getting the crate to the bar without dropping it. She loosed her hold, and stood trembling, leaning on the bar. She was dishevelled and the dirt on her face was streaked with tears. The girl stared at her in amazement and whispered, ‘Who’s that?’ He whispered, ‘Ssshhh. Let’s get out,’ and made a move towards the door. But the girl’s high heels made a sharp clicking sound on the floor, and the woman turned. She gave a strangled cry.
‘Bob, my Bob. You’ve come, then. I knowed as ’ow you would. Come ’ome to yer ole muvver. My boy.’
She ran across the room and laid her dirty grey head on his clean white shirt.
‘Steady on, ol’ girl. Don’t make a show of yourself. I said I’d come, didn’t I?’
He untangled her arms from around him, and took a couple of steps backwards. She sat down on one of the chairs, leaning her arms on the table. Tears were streaming down her face, and she wiped them away with a hand covered in dust from the cellar.
‘My Bobby. It’s my Bob. My lad. Come ’ome.’ She had not noticed the girl.
‘Yes, it’s me. Now pull yourself together, Mum. I said in my letter I had a surprise for you. I want to introduce you to Trudie. We are going to get married and she wanted to meet you.’
The two women stared at each other as though they were from different planets. It would be hard to say which received the greater shock. Neither spoke.
Bob said, ‘Where’s Dad?’
Mrs Lacey roused herself. ‘Of course. Yer dad. I’ll get ’im,’ and she ran off upstairs.
‘Is she really your mother, Bob?’ enquired the girl.
‘’fraid so.’
He kicked the leg of a table.
‘We shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake.’
Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mr Lacey lurched into the bar. He had not shaved for two days, and his new shirt and trousers were covered in cigarette ash and beer stains. He staggered towards them and held out a hand.
‘Great ter see yer, son. Welcome ’ome.’
Bob winced and took another step backwards.
‘Good to see you, Dad. This is Trudie, my fiance’e. I wanted you to meet her.’
The older man ogled the girl, then reeled towards her. ‘Cor, not ’alf. Nice bi’ of crumpet.’
He attempted to kiss her, but she jumped aside. He did not notice the expression on her face, but Bob did.
‘Take a seat. Take a seat.’
Mr Lacey waved his arm, the jovial, expansive landlord.
‘We’ll ’ave beer’n whisky. We’ll ’ave a chat, catch up on yer news, son. Sit down. This is a celebration.’
He sat down himself.
‘Annie’ he yelled, thumping the table. ‘Annie! Where is tha’ idle, stupid woman. Never there when she’s wanted. Come ’ere, can’cher. We wants a drink.’
Mrs Lacey re-entered the bar. She was wearing her pink blouse, and had washed her face. She was trembling with excitement.
‘Do somefink useful for a change, you lazy slu’, an’ ge’ us some drinks, an’ a packet o’ crisps.’
He turned towards the girl.
‘I got die-betees. I aint goin’ter live long. ’as to have a needle every day. Agony, it is. Dyin’, vat’s me.’
He leaned over the table and looked down her cleavage. She drew back. Bob nearly hit his father.
Mrs Lacey brought some beer and some whisky to the table.
‘We don’ ’ave much call fer anyfink else ’ere. Bu’ I can get some rum if you prefer.’
She sat down next to Bob and shyly touched his jacket.
‘My boy. My dear boy,’ she whispered, gazing at him with adoring eyes.
‘Well, wha’ ’ave you been up to, Bob? Apart from touchin’ up ve girls?’
The father leered at Trudie suggestively.
‘I’m in insurance,’ said Bob coldly, ‘doing well. Lots of room for promotion.’
His mother stroked his arm and echoed, ‘Insurance. My boy. Jes’ fancy. Insurance. Yer doin’ nicely, ven. I’m vat proud on yer, I am.’
Her face glowed with happiness.
The door opened, and a couple of down-at-heel men entered. Both were dirty, and a powerful smell of unwashed body odour entered with them. They stared at the four people round the table and went to sit at the far end of the room. Mrs Lacey jumped up to serve them and then came back and sat down beside Bob. She took his hand and with her forefinger traced little circles on his wrist.
‘It’s bin a long time. Eight years you bin in Americky. An’ yer doin’ nicely. Insurance. Cor, my boy in insurance. Wha’choo fink o’ va’, eh, Dad?’
‘Oh, give over, Muvver. Yer daft. Bob don’t wan’cher maulin’ ’im. Do you, son?’
Bob couldn’t answer, but he moved his hand away and looked at Trudie.
‘Well, we’d better be on our way. I’m showing Trudie the old country, and we’ve got a tight schedule.’
‘I’ll cook a meal for us all. Yer room’s ready. I done it special for yer,’ said his mother eagerly.
‘Oh no. We’re not stopping. We’ve booked into an hotel up West, and I have dinner reservations for us tonight.’
‘Not stoppin’?’ Her face was blank with sorrow.
‘No. There’s a lot I want to show Trudie. She’s never been to England before and she wants to see so much.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ Mrs Lacey’s voice was barely audible. She spoke to Trudie. ‘You’re a lucky girl. You got a good man. He’s my Bob, an’ he’ll be a good husband. There’s somefink I wanna give you, if you can wait a moment.’
She slipped upstairs.
The three round the table looked uncomfortable. The young people looked at each other and squeezed hands under the table. The father leaned forward.
‘Did I tell you I got die-betees? Killin’ me, it is. Injections every day. Agony, real agony, an’ I can’t get no ’elp from ’er.’ He jerked his thumb towards the door whence his wife had departed. He made a scornful hissing sound. ‘Useless, I tells yer straight. Useless.’ He coughed and retched in his throat, leaned across, pulled the spittoon towards him and spat messily into it. Trudie looked as though she was going to be sick.
Mrs Lacey returned to the table. In her hand she held a folded envelope of tissue paper. She sat down beside Trudie and opened it for the girl to see inside.
‘It’s for you, dear. It were Bob’s, when he was a baby. I kep’ it all vese years, an treasured it. Bu’ now it’s for you.’
She opened the paper and revealed a baby’s bonnet, yellow with age, cheap lace half torn off and ribbons frayed and crumbling.
‘Take it, dear. It’s yourn now.’
The girl looked bewildered and muttered a quick ‘Thank you’.
The young people stood up.
‘Well, we must be on our way,’ said Bob with forced cheer-fulness. ‘Nice seeing you both. Don’t forget you’ll always be welcome in America. It’s a big country. Lots of space. There will always be a welcome for you.’ And they left.
An hour or so later, Mrs Lacey was putting some crates in the street. There, in the gutter, lay the precious bonnet. She went upstairs and took off the pink blouse. She never wore it again.
THE FIGHT
A district midwife in Poplar, East London, in the 1950s could
find herself in many strange and unexpected situations. It was about 7 o’clock when I reached the tenements on a cold, wet night, and a menacing sound greeted me. Two women were fighting. I had never seen such a thing before and crept closer to listen to the comments of bystanders.
The fight, apparently, was over a man. Well of course, I thought, what else would two women fight about?
It was dark, but light from some of the windows illuminated the scene sufficiently to show that both women’s blouses had been torn off, and they were clawing, hitting, punching, biting and kicking each other. One had long hair, which was a great disadvantage to her, as it gave her adversary something to grab hold of. Literally hundreds of people were in the courtyard – men, women and children – shouting, jeering, cheering, egging them on. The woman with the long hair had now been forced to the ground, and the other was on top of her, banging her head against the cobblestones.
Just as I was thinking, Dear God, someone’s got to stop this, I heard the piercing sound of police whistles, and two policemen rushed into the yard, wielding their truncheons to show that they meant business. Had they not come when they did, the woman on her back might have been seriously concussed, if not killed. The police were everywhere in the East End in those days, always on the beat – on foot, of course, as there were very few police cars. Within minutes at least another ten policemen had arrived, summoned by the shrill and distinctive sound of the whistle – there were no short-wave radios to connect members of the force, and the whistle was the only means of summoning help. If they heard it, police would run from every direction towards the source of the sound. Now, at the sight of the Law, the crowd disappeared.
Farewell To The East End Page 13