Farewell to the East End (28 page)

Authors: Jennifer Worth

BOOK: Farewell to the East End

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Do not ask me how we got Sister Monica Joan to the convent. The whole process was too complicated and confusing. My memories are hazy: getting her clothes off with modesty and decorum; dozens of wet people offering advice; wondering what on earth to put on her; someone donating a raincoat, a cardigan, a baby’s shawl; trying to find her shoes. The swimmer and another man got her to the Commercial Road by giving her a chair-lift. She sat regally on their crossed hands, holding their arms with perfect composure, as though a ducking in the Cuts were a regular experience. Someone must have stopped a lorry in the Commercial Road, because I remember the two men lifting Sister up into the lorry and settling her comfortably. She thanked them with queenly grace, and two tough, strong dockers blushed with pleasure. ‘No trouble at all, ma’am,’ they said. ‘Any time. Good day, ma’am.’

Back at the Convent she was put to bed with hot-water bottles and hot drinks. She slept for twenty-four hours, and when she awoke, she appeared to have no memory at all of what had happened. She suffered no ill. It must have been the angels again.

TOO MANY CHILDREN

‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding. Nothing can be done.’

‘But you says we was top of the housing list.’

‘You are. But there are building delays. Strikes. An electricians’ strike.’

‘We can move in wivout no electricity. We got no electrics where we are, so it don’t matter.’

‘I’m sorry, the Council cannot allow you to move into premises that are incomplete.’

‘But I tells yer, it don’t matter to us. We’re desperate to move, anywhere’ll do. Anywhere’s better’n what we got.’

‘It’s out of the question, Mr Harding. The law is quite clear. Council premises must be adequate and suitable for the family applying for rehousing.’

The Council official shuffled his papers. His was an impossible job. Ten applicants for every house or flat being built. A housing list of thousands, every one of them clamouring for something better than the bomb-damaged buildings, the overcrowded and insanitary conditions in which they lived. But he had to follow the rules.

‘Well, when vis electricians’ strike’s over, how long will it be? How long, eh?’

Bill Harding leaned forward menacingly. The official leaned back defensively.

‘I don’t know.’

Bill thumped the desk with his powerful fist.

‘’ow long? You must have some idea. How long’s the strike gonna last? A week? Two weeks? Then we can move – yes?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mr Harding. It’s not just building delays. It’s a question of size.’

‘Size? What size?’

‘Family size, Mr Harding. You have too many children. The Council at present is building two- and three-bedroom flats. We cannot allow a family of eight to move into a three-bedroom flat. We would have to provide a four-, or even five-bedroom flat or house for a family of this size. And at present the Council is simply not building five-bedroom flats.’

‘But vat’s daft. Three bedrooms is a luxury. More’n enough. We only gots one bedroom, and we all sleeps in it. We’d give anything for three bedrooms.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding. But we have our standards and our rules. We cannot rent a three-bedroom flat or house to a family of eight. It is simply not allowed.’

Bill had lost all his aggression, and despair overtook him. He sighed deeply and held his head in his hands. He had to get back to work. He had taken an hour off to see the Council, and it was like banging his head against a brick wall.

‘Bloody red tape,’ he groaned.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding, really sorry. But the rules must be obeyed.’

Bill stood up and left without looking at the Council official, who, with a depressed and weary sigh, called, ‘Next please,’ knowing that the next interview would be as bad, or worse, than the last.

Bill slouched down the road towards the shipbuilder’s yard, where he was a welder. He slunk against the wall and kicked a stone, hard. It shot across the pavement and hit a passing lorry. The stone ricocheted off and bounced back onto the pavement. A policeman saw what had happened and came over to Bill. No real damage had been done, but the copper tore a strip off Bill for dangerous and irresponsible behaviour. The incident did nothing to improve his humour – bloody red tape, bloody law. Well, his bloody job could wait; he needed a drink. He went into a pub and drank away his lunch hour until chucking-out time at two o’clock. He arrived back at the yard at 3 p.m., having been away since 11 a.m. The foreman came down on him like a ton of bricks. Bill swore obscenely at him and walked out. He walked around the streets until opening time at five o’clock and then got blind drunk.

Hilda made herself another cup of tea, lit a fag, and sat down at the table with her
Daily Mirror
propped up against the milk bottle. The two youngest children crawled around the floor, playing – thank God the older ones were at school and off her hands for a few hours. She couldn’t face what she thought she knew. She sipped her tea and stared at the cracked wall and the huge damp stain on the grey-brown ceiling. It’s gettin’ bigger, she thought. When’s the whole damn thing goin’ to fall, that’s what she wanted to know. No good talkin’ to that landlord – you never saw him anyway, couldn’t get past his agent, who only said if you don’t like it get out, get your name on the Council housing list. Well they’d been on the damned list for five years, and look where it’d got them. Nowhere. Nuffink. Sweet Fanny Adams.

She poured herself another cup of tea, and laced it with sugar. Now this. She couldn’t face it. Not another. But all the signs were there. She hadn’t told Bill. Hadn’t dared. Perhaps she should have told him before he went to the Council, but somehow she hadn’t the courage. Wonder how he got on. He’d said he would be firm, wouldn’t leave till he’d got the promise of a place, and a date. A date. That’s what they wanted. A date to look forward to when they could leave this falling-down dump. She could wring that agent’s neck. Last time she had pointed to the damp on the ceiling and asked for repairs, he had smiled and said it was a condemned property and that the Council wouldn’t permit repairs because it was condemned. That’s logic for you! She had heard the dripping last night as she lay awake wondering if she should tell Bill or not before he went to the Council, and the drips seemed to be getting closer.

They knew the roof had gone, but that was two storeys up, and the floors above them kept the rain out. But if the floors went, then there would be no roof over their heads. She must get Bill to go upstairs and lay a tarpaulin over the floor above. That would keep them dry for a bit, and then they might get a Council flat. Bill would be at the Council office now. He’d tell ’em.

The children were playing boats – floating matches on a bucket of water. One of them had an empty match box which the other wanted. He grabbed at it. The child screamed and lunged at his brother. ‘Mind it,’ shouted Hilda. But too late. They had tipped the bucket over, and water streamed across the floor. ‘You little devils,’ she shouted as she jumped up, and walloped them both. ‘Look at the mess. Now I’ve got to clear it up.’ She got a cloth and wiped up the water, wringing it out into the empty bucket. Well at least it’s giving the floor a clean, she thought as she wiped and wrung. ‘Now I’ve gotta go an’ get more water. An’ don’t you touch anyfink while I’m gone,’ she said menacingly. She picked up the bucket of dirty water. Might as well empty the pot while I’m downstairs. She pulled the chamber pot from under the bed and carried it down the creaking and rickety stairs. This stinkin’ stairwell’s worse than our rooms, she thought. At least we’ve made an effort to put a bit of paint on an’ I try to keep them clean. No one’s repaired or decorated this landing or these stairs for years. An’ as for cleanin’. Well you might as well save your effort. She went out into the yard, to the lavatory with its asbestos roof and broken door and emptied the chamber pot. She pulled the chain – well at least it still flushes, but for how long? How long? How long would they have to wait in this hell-hole? She’d murder that landlord if she could get her hands on him.

Might as well do the washin’, now I’ve got some clean water. She filled two saucepans and lit the gas stove on the landing, then went down again for another bucket of cold water. And now, just when the little one was out of nappies. Now this! She shut her mind to the possibility of more – yet more – nappies. She filled the tin bath – the one they all washed and bathed in – with hot water, added some soapflakes and started the daily chore with her dolly-board and a bar of Sunlight. The little ones clung to her skirts and wanted to help, but she pushed them away. A couple of hours later she had finished the washing, wringing, rinsing, mangling and hanging out. Well, at least it’s a fine day. It’ll soon be dry. That’s one comfort. The little ones were clamouring for their dinner, and two of her children, those of primary school age, would be home for their midday meal. Thank God the others get theirs at school now. Saves a bit of trouble, anyhow. She had a small cupboard on the landing where she kept some food. Not too much, or it’d get pinched in this rotten hole. She pulled out a couple of tins of baked beans and some sliced bread. The grill sometimes worked – she tried it. Yes, it was working today. They could have beans on toast. Always enjoy it, they do.

The downstairs door opened, and two grubby children tumbled upstairs, pushing, shouting, laughing. ‘Now shut yer noise, an’ siddown, ’ere’s yer beans on toast, and don’t get it all over yerselves.’

She tried to eat a bit herself, but it made her feel sick. Oh no – another sign! Can’t be much doubt. She’d have to see the doctor, she would.

After she’d packed the children off to school at two o’ clock, she had to get some grub in for the evening. She went to the corner shop, the one she’d known since childhood, the one her mother got tick from when there was no money and no food in the place and a brood of half-starved kids. Well at least she wasn’t always living on the breadline, not like her poor mum – at least she could feed her kids and not do without herself. Bill earned a good wage, and his job was secure, thanks to the Trade Union. She bought some more bread and half a pound of bacon. They could have fried bread and bacon this evening, then on reflection she added a large tin of beans. Well, at least they get some good food, bacon’s more than she ever got when she was a kid, she mused. The two toddlers were restive and excited to be out, so she took them for a bit of a walk, not too far because she was tired, and she didn’t want to go past the bomb site where the meths drinkers hung out. They scared her. She went down the street where she had played as a child, but it depressed her – all the windows boarded up, signs of demolition at the far end. Wearily she made her way back home.

Four o’ clock and the brood would be home. She steeled herself for the rush and the noise. She prepared a large quantity of beans and bacon and fried bread. ‘Now get that inside yer, an’ go out an’ play. An’ take ve babies with you. I’ve had ’em all day, an’ I’m just about up to here with ’em.’ She raised her hand to her neck to indicate how high. The children gobbled down their food, and rushed out.

Hilda settled down to a quiet cup of tea and
Woman
magazine. It was the only time of day she got any peace – when the bigger children took the little ones off her hands. An hour later she thought, it’s getting dark. The kids’d better be in. She went to the window and yelled down the street. No children in sight. They’ll be on that bomb site, I’ll be bound. I’ve told ’em not to. It’s not safe. You wait till I get my hands on ’em, little devils. Muttering and grumbling, Hilda trudged off to the bomb site and gathered up her brood, cuffing each of the bigger ones round the ear as she did so. ‘You jes’ wait till I tells yer dad you’ve been down ’ere,’ she shouted. The boys grinned and made rude faces and dodged out of her reach.

It was nine o’clock by the time they were all in bed, the four little ones in the bedroom, the two older ones in the cupboard – a decent-sized cupboard, she and Bill had agreed when they took the room shortly after the war, almost as big as another room. We can put all our junk in there, they had said, laughing.

Now it was full of kids! Still no Bill. What’s happened to him? She sat down with another cup of tea and another fag.

At 10.45 she heard the front door bang and heard Bill singing down below. Her heart leaped – he’s got good news – she jumped up to get another cup for him. He’d like a cup of tea before his meal, and then he could tell her the news. The door opened slowly, with Bill clinging to it. He swung into the room and leaned heavily against the wall, staring vacantly at her. Oh no, not drunk, she’d have to be careful, treat him gently, no questions, no chatter, she didn’t want his fist in her face. Mrs Hatterton had got her nose broken only last week. But Bill’s not like that, not really. She sat him down and took off his boots.

‘Like some bacon and beans, eh, ducks?’

‘Nope.’

‘Cup o’ tea?’

‘Nope.’

‘’Ow about a nice bacon sandwich, ven?’

‘Vat’s more like it.’ His eyes brightened a little.

She went to the gas stove on the landing, made two rounds and brought them to him. He hadn’t eaten all day and devoured the first ravenously.

‘Nice cup of tea to wash it down?’

He nodded. He was beginning to look more like himself.