Climbing the Stairs (13 page)

We went out several months and eventually we decided that we liked each other enough to make a good basis to get married on. It might sound a bit cold-blooded now but I don’t think it was.
I mean we liked the same things. Perhaps there was not a lot of emotion – but I’d had emotion. This being up in the heavens one minute and down in the depths the next with a man is no
basis for marriage. Because while you’ll put up with it before marriage, you don’t afterwards and that’s the way the rows start. Then again he liked drinking and so did I. So we
agreed that we’d get married.

As we’d got very little money between us we decided on a registry office because it was that or a white wedding with all the trimmings – and it doesn’t matter who you invite,
you never please everybody. You spend a fortune on guests and they go back and compare it unfavourably to other weddings they’ve been to. I know because I’ve done the same thing myself.
Again, if we’d have had that sort of wedding we’d have had to buy our furniture on the nevernever. So we decided on a registry office and furnishing our home for cash. The only thing we
did get on hire purchase was the piano. And we had to have one because in those days no working-class home was complete without a piano. Neither of us could play it. I used to bang things out with
one finger, same as I do with typing.

It was just as well that we had nothing else on the nevernever because we hadn’t been married six months when Albert lost his job. There was a dole by then but it wasn’t very much
money and he was out for a long time. He was just about to go on public assistance which meant having that horrible means test. It was a very lean time for us and the piano had to go back because
we couldn’t keep the payments up. This was terrible, you see, when they came to take it away. It had to go out the same way as it had come in – through our basement-flat window. It took
so long to get that piano out that quite a crowd collected to watch and I felt so mortified. They must all have known that it was going back because we couldn’t afford to pay for it. Albert
said, ‘Don’t worry, maybe they’ll think it’s going to be tuned.’ I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh, so I said, ‘Let’s hope none of them heard
that remark. It’s bad enough them watching our piano going because we can’t pay for it, without them knowing that I married a bloody ignoramus.’ I didn’t mean it of
course.

When we got married we couldn’t afford a honeymoon, but Albert had a week off work and we went around looking at London. We used to enjoy going to the various markets. Like the Caledonian
Market – it’s gone now – where you could get practically anything. One of the stallholders there who spoke in a most cultured voice told us that after he’d put his stall up
in the morning he’d wander round the others buying up stuff which he himself then sold. When you get that kind of thing happening there must have been bargains.

Another interesting one was Berwick Market. It was one of those where you could have your wallet stolen as you entered it and buy it back as you left the other end. I’d been there several
times with Gladys. It was lovely. They had stalls all down the centre of the road with awnings on them, and the shops on either side had got their awnings out too – it was like a covered
market. But it was no place to go alone – that is if you wanted to look at the shops. You had to go in pairs. Not because you might be assaulted physically but because of the strong, intense
verbal barrage you were subjected to even if you stopped to look in the shop windows.

Every shop had a tout in the doorway – generally a man – and the moment you stopped and looked they started talking and gradually edging you inside. And once you were inside you were
very lucky indeed if you got out without buying something – and generally something you didn’t want. Part of their sales technique was to get you right to the end of the shop so that
you couldn’t slip out. Then it was talk, talk, talk.

I remember once being in one with Gladys. They were selling her a coat. Normally I reckon I’m a person that can get a word in edgeways but I couldn’t. Eventually I burst out,
‘If you didn’t keep up such a running commentary I might be able to tell my friend whether it suits her or not.’ So the salesman whispered in my ear, ‘You know, if the boss
doesn’t hear me talking all the time he thinks I’m not trying to make a sale.’ It probably was like that too. If you showed any signs of leaving the shop without buying anything
the entire family came in – the proprietor, his wife and any odd relations they’d got there. They would stand there and utter those obvious insincerities like, ‘Oh, it’s
lovely, it makes you look years younger. It’s just your colouring’ – things like that – and you had to be more than strong-minded to resist their blandishments. We
didn’t. Gladys got a coat that she didn’t want and hardly ever wore. But I hand it to those traders, although I got exasperated at their methods, they knew how to run a shop. After all,
the idea of running a shop is to sell things – and they did. And although you vowed you’d never go back – you did.

Another market Albert and I went to was in Leather Lane. The day we went there there were two Indians selling mysterious ingredients from the East. One was an aphrodisiac to give you the sexual
urge, well we’d only just got married so we hadn’t found any dearth in that line, and the other was a powder – a panacea to cure all ills. They seemed to be doing more trade with
the aphrodisiac than the panacea which must have proved something about us British.

Farther down the Lane there was a large crowd around two men. One of them was tying the other up in chains. He took his time but when he’d done it he asked any member of the audience to
step up and try to extract him. A man stepped forward – part of the act I suppose – and he tried but couldn’t do it. Then the chap who’d done the tying up said, ‘Of
his own volition and completely unaided he can get out of these chains in sixty seconds. But, before I start, I solicit your coppers.’ And he went round with his cap. You should have seen the
audience melt – and when the sixty seconds were up and he was out of his chains, there were only six people left and we were two of them. This again must have proved something.

Our two-roomed basement flat in Church Street, Chelsea, may have been a good address but it badly needed redecorating and of course being newly married we were a bit houseproud, so Albert said
he’d have a go at it. He’d never done anything like it before but I told him it was child’s play because of my father and brother being in the game; the way they used to do it, it
looked like child’s play. Like all jobs which real experts do.

Albert decided that he’d paper the kitchen first. You never saw such a mess as we got into. None of the paper seemed to match up. We cut it wrong lengths and the pattern looked terrible.
Then it tore because he put too much paste on it – and the last straw was when he stepped into a bowl of size and it shot all over the floor. Eventually it got done and we didn’t think
it looked too bad. We thought that the fact that the pattern didn’t match didn’t matter if you didn’t examine it too closely. And when you’re just married you only look at
one thing closely.

Anyway I decided that it wanted a couple of pictures hanging on it – and I didn’t want just reproductions that you can buy anywhere and that everybody has. I wanted something
original. And I’d read in the paper that morning about an exhibition in one of those galleries in Bond Street. The pictures were by a new artist and the critic had said that the prices were
within the reach of all. I imagined I’d get something for about a pound but when I got there, there was nothing under five pounds and the five-pound ones were only the size of a pocket
handkerchief. I’d never seen such pictures, gloomy old things they were, dark and sombre scenes – all greys and browns. You felt as though you were in the depths of woe when you looked
at them. I expect they were good but I thought they were miserable to look at.

I wandered around about three times. I wasn’t going to buy anything. I decided that at first glance. But it looked a bit bad going in, giving it the once over and going out again and I
wanted to look knowledgeable. Then one of those assistants came prancing up to me on the balls of his feet and said, ‘Can I help you? Is there anything you fancy?’ So I said,
‘Well, no, they’re all too expensive for me.’ And I said, ‘They’re not very pretty, are they?’ Well, by the look of horror that came over his face you’d
have thought his trousers had just dropped down. ‘Pretty,’ he said. ‘Pretty! Madam we sell paintings, not Christmas cards.’ Well, I thought, that was a stupid way of
talking. After all’s said and done you want something that’s going to liven you up, don’t you? You don’t want to look at the walls and think death’s gradually coming
ever nearer. We know it is, but we don’t want to be reminded of it. Imagine getting up in the morning, going into the kitchen and looking at two of those things. It would drive you straight
back to bed again. Anyway I felt very small, mortified, and ignorant at the whole thing – but you can’t expect to know everything, can you?

Albert and I were very happy and comfortable in Church Street – though I did sometimes wonder after struggling all those years to get married what all the fuss was about. It didn’t
seem to me that it was anything to get over-excited about. Mind you, I wasn’t any Lady Chatterley and Albert wasn’t the gamekeeper. Somebody lent us a book very soon after we were
married which I thought jazzed the thing up a bit. The
Kama Sutra.
I suppose you could call it Variations on a Theme. I put it on the bedside table – Albert’s side – but as
everything went on in the same old way I suppose it never got read.

I found that having a milkman for a husband was a far different proposition from having a milkman when you were in domestic service when you only saw him for a few minutes every day. There were
quite a few disadvantages attached to being married to a milkman in as much as he did two rounds a day and for the first round he had to be up at half past four in the morning because he started at
half past five. And then he’d come back at ten o’clock for his breakfast and then go off for the second round and back at three for his dinner. That’s why of course we got used to
such irregular meals and why we’re so irregular now – in fact now we’ve got regular irregularity, if you know what I mean.

Being newly married I couldn’t bear to think that he got up on his own at half past four so I got up too, made him a cup of tea and gave him a snack and a sandwich to eat on the round. But
fortunately before my enthusiasm had waned he told me that he’d sooner do it on his own. What I think made him decide was that I’m one of those people who, the moment they get out of
bed, start talking. I feel like that in the morning. I do more in the morning than in the evening. And I think Albert used to get fed up with my chit-chat. So when that stopped all I had to do was
to get breakfast ready for him at ten o’clock. His wages were three pounds five and any commission he got for finding new customers, so we managed quite well. Our rent for the two rooms was
fifteen shillings a week.

He went on his rounds by horse and cart. He had a very spirited animal with a disconcerting habit of rearing right up on its hind legs. Albert reckoned it had been a circus horse at one time. He
really loved that animal. Agatha was her name but he called her Aggie. And he always used to be talking about Aggie. I got quite jealous. I felt at times he thought more of Aggie than me.

He had a terrible time one day in the winter when there was a thick fog. Aggie was so used to the rounds that while he called at one house she’d walk on to the next one. This particular
day walking on in the fog she lost her way and Albert lost his horse and cart. He went wandering around asking people if they’d seen a milkcart anywhere. It took him over an hour to find
them. But, jealousy apart, she was a lovely horse. When Albert used to stand on the footboard with the reins in his hand I used to think that he was Ben Hur driving his chariot. I used to feel
really proud of him. Him and his Aggie.

His round took him to Maida Vale where some of the ladies of the night used to live. When he used to knock on the door once a week for the money they used to be in bed recovering from the
rigours of the night before. Some of them used to offer to pay in kind, but of course as we’d only recently got married he insisted on the money. Other customers used to treat Albert as a
bookmaker’s runner as well as a milkman. He’d take the slips and the money and pass them over to a bookmaker he knew.

One disastrous day a woman gave him five bob to put on a rank outsider and when Albert came in he handed it to me. ‘I’m not putting that money on,’ he said, ‘the horse
won’t win – it can’t possibly.’ Well, the damned thing came in and we had to find three pounds out of our own money to pay her. It was a financial crisis for us.

Many of the customers used to ask Albert to do odd jobs for them – shifting furniture, rolling carpets, even fitting tap washers. We used to get a lot of things that way. Many’s the
piece of furniture Albert’s come home with on the cart and, later, toys for the children. People used to make a friend of the milkman then. They saw him every day and sometimes twice a day.
It isn’t like now where you give a regular order and he leaves it on your doorstep and if you want anything different you put a note in one of the empty bottles and you only see him when you
pay him.

Also of course not many women went out to work – not working-class women anyway. Most of them had big families and the women used to get lonely. They’d ask Albert in for cups of tea
and talk to him as a friend. Many a woman would look at him with a worried face and say, ‘Milkman, I’ve clicked again,’ meaning they were pregnant. ‘What am I going to do
about it?’

Of course Albert didn’t know. The only things he knew about was the same old things that everybody knew – hot baths, Beecham’s pills, Penny Royal, or quinine – and none
of these are any good. I know because I’ve taken them myself. I remember going to a doctor once to see if he would give me anything and he said the only thing he knew was, ‘The hair of
the dog that bit you. And,’ he said, ‘it costs you nothing and you enjoy it.’