Besides Mother and Father there were five sons and five daughters. Our parents had the top front bedroom, sharing this with the baby and the next youngest child. The girls had the top back bedroom and the boys the ground-floor bedroom. It was mostly two at the top and two at the bottom of a double bed and the odd one in a little truckle bed, the ‘iron’ bed we called that. The door to the kitchen stairs was in the boys’ bedroom and we would all troop through that room on the way in, out, and up, on our various and many joumeyings. A stranger in the boys’ room would think we had risen from the bowels of the earth, for the kitchen stairs were so steep that, without a landing, we had to push the door of the room open before we reached the top stair.
Agnes was the eldest girl and Mother’s first-born; I think perhaps she was also the most intelligent of the family. Mother kept a faded newspaper cutting and photograph of Agnes which hailed her as an infant prodigy at the age of three, when at a Charity Concert in Beckenham she acted and recited a poem, ‘Miss Mouse Came to Tea.’ I always felt fate was unkind to Agnes to start her off so well, then transport her to the slums and endow her with nine brothers and sisters. She was a pretty, sweet-natured girl with soft brown hair, melting brown eyes and a soft mouth, very easily moved to laughter or tears.
Winifred Beatrice, Mother’s second daughter and her fourth child was never, for one moment, any worry; indeed she was more help than any of the family, Mother’s support and unselfish stay. She had brown hair and eyes, a round Claudette Colbert type of face, a good figure, and a direct look, and she always ‘whooped’ when she laughed. Life for me, as a child, was full of Winnie and I just adored her, for she was so kind to Marjorie, the baby of the family, and me. Winifred was brave and calm, so who else would ‘Win the Scholarship’ but her? The school was given a half-day holiday and her name went up on the Honours Board in gold lettering. She went to George Green’s Grammar School for Girls, where the ‘scholarship girls’ were looked down upon by the paying pupils, but that didn’t deter Winifred. She made friends with the most affluent and had the nerve to bring them home, where, strangely enough, they all seemed to want to come again.
Edith Amy, always known as Amy, was an entirely different person from Winifred in temperament as well as looks. She was petite with a mass of luxuriant dark hair and high cheekbones, was very intense and dramatic, and possessed a quick temper. She was an exquisite needlewoman, had an unusual flair for clothes, and was a magnet for the opposite sex. My feeling towards her was one of caution because of her biting tongue, but I was envious of her conquests and her daring, for she was the first in everything. She had her lovely hair shorn before short hair was properly in, and she always started the fashions in Poplar. She had an actress’s voice and would have us in tears at her recitations. She had the same girl-friend for years and years, and they would walk along, arm in arm, heads close together. I wondered what they talked about, for if I ever met them Amy would say in her Sarah Bernhardt voice, ‘Go home, Dolly.’
I was Mother’s ninth child and her fourth daughter and I detested my name, Dorothy, which was shortened to Dolly, I disliked my red hair, my largish nose, my thin legs and wished I had been born the only child of rich parents.
I was the one member of the family without a special gift, and the ‘delicate one,’ causing Mother worry and trouble. I was always ‘gastric’ and Mother would get different meals for me as she thought me a ‘picky’ eater and needed tempting. I always felt this special treatment meted out to me annoyed Amy, but I couldn’t help feeling so ill. It would seem as though I was recalling some horrific dream, and calling for Mother I would faint. Once after I had been in bed for a long time with gastritis the doctor said he thought I was well enough to have solid food and he asked me if there was anything I felt I could eat. Pork chop was my first choice, sausages my second, fish and chips my third, and after this the doctor allowed me no more choices telling Mother I was to have a tiny piece of steamed fish, which I hated.
All the family loved little Marjorie, the baby, and they would say I was jealous of her from the moment she was born, although I cannot recall ever feeling like that, for I depended on her although she was three and a half years younger than me.
The memory of her birth is one of my earliest recollections.
It was a warm day in September, close and humid, and I felt I wanted to be with Mother and not go out and play with Cecil. Agnes knew that the whole family must be got out of the little house somehow, and she asked Winnie to take all the children out for a walk. This was unusual, a walk on Sunday evening, and I didn’t want to go but Agnes said, ‘If you don’t go, then Mother will have another baby and you won’t be her baby any more.’ In the end we all went down to Tunnel Gardens near Blackwall Tunnel, but it was closed and we all came home again. Agnes said to go out again and gave Winnie a penny to spend on us all. There were no shops open and, although Winnie was fourteen I don’t think she knew at all what was happening. Anyway finally we came home and Agnes said to me, ‘Mother has got something to show you.’ I remember climbing the little wooden stairs. The evening sun was making strange shadows on the walls through the trees, and in Mother’s bedroom the counterpane was very white—it was her best one. She was in bed although it wasn’t bedtime and lying on her neck and sucking it was a baby. Mother looked pleased but somehow guilty and defiant, and I came out straight away without saying anything.
Mother’s patience was infinite. She was not simple by any means although she had simple beliefs. She would say children are not really naughty, they are sick, tired, unhappy, bored, ill-treated or neglected, and a child’s first need is love. She was the same with all children, not only her own ten, and all children loved her, for she found no fault with a child, but only in the way it was treated. Of Mother’s love we all received one hundred per cent. She would never favour one more than the other, and would say regarding children, ‘Never fish one and fowl the other.’ But I always felt that Arthur, her second child, was a little special to Mother, and who could blame her if that was so, for of all ten of us, he was the one who really tried to rise above his surroundings.
He was always the ‘perfect gentleman.’ Any money he could scrape together when a boy he would spend on a new collar, etc. and even if his boots were as old as Charlie Chaplin’s, they would have a shine on them one could see one’s face in, and his trousers always had a knife crease in them. He would take such care of the little he had. He was a great help to Mother when Father was ill with pneumonia and looked after the younger ones and even one day made a beautiful stew. When he got the shopping he was very careful to ‘watch the pennies’ for Mother and make the best buy.
Charlie wasn’t present during my childhood. He chose the life of a sailor quite early, later becoming a ship’s plumber in the Merchant Service. He was Arthur’s opposite in every way, Arthur was dark with a longish face, Charlie had red curly hair and was indeed ‘rough and ready.’ He hated collars and would buy cigarettes instead of personal adornments. Once Mother was in the little backyard when out of the top window came all Charlie’s bedclothes, on fire. He was told, after that, not to smoke in the bedroom.
He very nearly spoilt Mother’s record of rearing ten children, for when he was a baby he was once very ill, and dying with bronchitis. Mother’s doctor in Beckenham who was always especially kind to her, came one evening and told her he had done all anyone could do for Charlie, it was just a question of time, a few hours, he thought. Father and her other two children were asleep and she said she never knew such a stillness to creep over the house. It was as though some silent invisible being was waiting. She cut out and sewed, through her tears, a little gown for Charlie, his shroud I suppose, sitting as close to the baby as possible, when there was a tap on the window and Mrs Holmes, her good neighbour, came to sit with Mother, and help her through the tragic hours. Suddenly Mrs Holmes said to Mother, ‘If there is nothing anyone can do for the baby, we can do no more harm if we try a desperate remedy. Are you willing to try to
give Charlie some linseed oil?’ Mother must have been in a terrible state, but she helped Mrs Holmes force this oil into the baby and they waited. They were sure they had hurried along his death and Mother sat Charlie upright on her lap and was crying all over his tiny red curls when he was suddenly and violently sick. The women thought he would never cease vomiting, but when the sickness finally ceased, he was breathing differently and on his upper lip Mother said there was a little bead of perspiration like a diamond. Mother bathed Charlie and put him in the little wooden rocking cot and he went to sleep quite peacefully. From that moment he started to recover.
When the doctor came the next morning Mother said he was ‘dumbfounded,’ but the two women kept their desperate remedy to themselves.
David was Mother’s only blond son, highly strung, but without Arthur’s ambition. He would draw a capital letter and intertwine it beautifully with Grecian ladies, flowers, vases and ivy leaves. His technical drawing was perfect too. He excelled at chemistry and won a scholarship to Sir John Cass’ School. But, lazy as the rest of us, as soon as father left for his club in the evenings, David would scoot out to play with his friends.
Leonard was a boy without malice, no one could quarrel with him, not even Arthur or Amy, and Leonard thought Amy the most fashionable and elegant female he ever knew. When he was young he seemed to hate actually leaving the premises. He would get to the front gate, and keep looking back, to see if we were looking for him still. He would make all sorts of funny faces to amuse us and we would laugh, but the older ones would say, ‘Mother, come and look at Len acting silly at the front gate.’ They were disgusted, but Mother would smile and say, ‘Take no notice of him, he’ll tire before you do. He only does it because he knows you are watching.’
Cecil was the fifth and last boy and two years older than me. He and I were so much alike in appearance that we could have been taken for identical twins, and I hated that. What girl wants to be likened to a boy? He was easy to get on with and although Mother tried to put him in an office, he went and joined the Royal Navy one day, much to her sorrow. To be fair to him, in those days firms would employ boys at fourteen, then when at sixteen they would be called upon to pay National Health contributions for the lads, they would then sack them and employ other boys of fourteen.
We made up our own games and never missed not having toys. The boys played ‘Barbers,’ and I was always the one to have my hair cut or even be shaved. I was always the prisoner in the ‘Wars.’ We played ‘Sewers,’ and turned all the kitchen chairs upside down for the steps, obviously we didn’t really know what sewers were, for I am sure we wouldn’t have squelched and splashed about so happily. We once played a very energetic game and knocked clothes which had been ironed and were airing on to the fire. Mother almost jumped down the stairs at our awful screams and after she put the fire out she put her arms round us and kissed us, so relieved we were safe. Many mothers in that district would have ‘bashed’ the kids for being careless and for the terrible loss of the clothes.
Cecil was an extra lively boy: when he wasn’t climbing or leaping from chair to table he was playing with the fire. He would get bits of string, light them and watch with fascination as they burnt slowly away. While Father was at work one day Cecil did that forbidden thing and opened Father’s tool-chest. Rummaging about amongst the tools and bits of lead and copper piping he came across what we thought was the metal end of a pencil. Cecil rushed with his find to the fire and placed it amongst the red coals, pushing it down with the end of a steel poker which always hung on a hook by the oven. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, an almighty bang, and a live bullet exploded from the fire across the room towards Winifred, who by some lucky chance was standing in an athletic attitude with her legs astride cleaning the dresser. The bullet went right through her skirt and embedded itself in the wooden dresser. We were all very shaken and quiet when Mother returned from shopping. She was angry that Cecil had been disobedient and opened the tool-chest, and furious that Father had left it unlocked, but said that miracles do happen, for it was a chance in a million that it missed all us little ones in such a small space. She said that if Cecil ever played with the fire again, unhappy though she would be, she would have to burn him so that he would know what fire was really like. Of course we all cried; we didn’t want Cecil to be burnt and Mother wouldn’t be Mother then for she never hurt any of us, not even with a slap, but we cried anyway for she never broke her word. We needn’t have worried for the bullet was Cecil’s swan-song and he lost interest in the fire from then on. Nobody ever told Winifred after that incident to stand in a more ladylike posture.
Grove Villas was a short cut to the main road from the Docks and Shipping Offices and I would stand at the gate of the little house at tea-time watching the business people pass on their way to the railway station. The ‘bosses’ with their shiny leather attache cases, newspapers under their arms, the Lascars from the ships, sometimes a drunken seaman, the workmen in their blue dungarees, like Father, and always, without fail, the ‘swearing’ man. He was a big man, red-faced, going bald, he would always charge quickly along, then suddenly stand still and shout in a loud voice a whole string of swear words and sayings, twitching all the time, then peaceful again he would start charging on his way. People averted their eyes and pretended not to notice him, and I would copy them. My brothers said he was ‘shell-shocked.’ I didn’t know what they meant but felt satisfied at this statement. Sometimes one of the ‘bosses’ would rumple my hair with his newspaper and I would smile shyly and feel very honoured.
I was not afraid of the ‘swearing’ man for I always knew that down in the kitchen behind me would be Mother. I often waved, for I could see the top of her head and her eyes above the ‘airy’ wall. Mother, without fail, was always there when I needed her. Once she was lying at the bottom of the wooden steps, not moving, and looked different somehow, but even then when I patted her face and called she opened her eyes and smiled, and when she got up my eldest sister came and gave her a glass of water.
Chapter 4
Down Chrisp Street
Poplar’s market-place, Chrisp Street, ‘Cristreet’ as we locals called it, a stone’s throw from where I lived, was a second home to me, a long wide road stretching from Poplar to Bromley-by-Bow, a lively, happy thoroughfare full of exciting stalls and people. It didn’t matter that I had no money to spend, there was so much to see and to listen to. On Saturdays there was always one member of the Chegwidden family to be found ‘down Cristreet.’
I would go shopping with Mother to help her carry her heavy bags but then she would say they were much too heavy for my young arms, so I was no help to her really. I would get bored standing and listening while she chatted with friends, for Chrisp Street was the only social outlet mothers had.
The large, off-white, imposing building on the corner, half in Chrisp Street and half in East India Dock Road, was THE BANK where Winifred’s friends the Logan girls lived, their father being the bank manager, and it was one of my ambitions to prove to my friends that my older sister moved in a high social sphere. For us it was like associating with royalty, and I always gazed up at the barred windows on the second floor of the bank in case Winifred was there and might look out of the window to amaze my friends and bathe me in reflected glory. But Winifred never came to the window, and so it was always, ‘Oh, Dolly Chegwidden, you do tell ’em,’ from my friends. In other words, not only did they know me for a liar, but I was always trying to make them believe my sister was superior to their sisters, and of course friends don’t do this, not real friends. They were content with things as they were and I knew I was content too, but it didn’t stop that feeling of worship, or was it envy, when I saw the girls from the bank or the vicarage. Some of them went to boarding-school, which I thought must be paradise. School for twenty-four hours a day! My friends thought me crackers when I said I’d like to be a teacher. It may be cowlike to be contented, but unfulfilled ambitions are torture to those who suffer them, and
my friends were quite happy with their lot and thought themselves lucky not to be barmy, ‘Like what Dolly Chegwidden is.’
Outside the bank was Burgess’s large fruit and vegetable stall. They were there all the years I can remember and knew our family well. Mother said, ‘Mrs Burgess is such a nice respectable woman.’ Her sons all helped on the stall which was lit at night by huge naphtha flares which hissed and spluttered and turned lovely colours, yellow, orange, red and blue. The fruit was all shiny and polished and the vegetables always fresh. Mother only really bought fruit at Christmas time, but Mrs Burgess would save some specked fruit in a box under the stall for when Mother was in funds. At Christmas time the fruit we bought was as large and shiny as the fruit on display. Sometimes in the summer we had a hopping apple, which was a very large green cooking apple, brought home by neighbours from the hopfields. It was sweet and crisp to eat and Mother would share it between the young ones. Cabbage was the mainstay of our diet and considered to be very important and necessary to the family, but I would never eat it and Mother never forced me, thinking she might put me off for ever.
Near the bank was the eel shop and next to the eel shop was the Star in the East, a public house with patterned glass windows on which the name was engraved in the glass. People would stand outside with jellied eels and beer and spit the eel bones on to the pavement. I hated the smell of the eel shop, the parsley sauce, vinegar, and bodies. The windows were always steamed up and inside were scrubbed white benches and thick china bowls in which the customers had their hot eels and mashed potatoes and ‘liquor’; this liquor was the parsley sauce. The vinegar bottles didn’t pour like ours at home and had to be shaken violently, so if you weren’t used to them you could shake vinegar over everyone. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust and outside were zinc trays in which masses of grey and black slimy eels writhed, intertwined, waiting for a huge bloody red wet hand to grab one up, slit its throat or belly, and then chop its head off. The eel still wriggled when it was in little pieces only joined to itself by skin, and my brother said the eel wouldn’t die until sunset. I used to wonder how each piece of eel knew the other pieces were still alive, and how the head, which was in a pail in another place, could tell his pieces when it was sunset. I thought eel-eaters must be like cannibals. My family and friends all liked eels.
Mother Knew Best Page 3