Over on the left-hand side were the tack room and stables, and at the bottom was the work room, where the wood for the coffins and carriages was stored. When you walked up the stairs to the next level, that was the workshop where the coffins were made.
Everything about it enthralled me, and as a boy I couldn’t wait to grow up and be able to work there if my uncle and grandma let me. All my friends at school thought it weird that I wanted to be an undertaker, and I suppose to others it did seem peculiar, but to me I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I know quite a few people used to call me a ‘morbid little bugger’ but it didn’t bother me. I think I was originally drawn to it by the horses, as they always looked so beautiful.
My first recollections were from around the age of about five and a half, when I saw my first horse-drawn funeral leaving the yard. I can still see it to this day. It was bitterly cold and very gently snowing, and I had my tongue out trying to catch the snowflakes. My mum was holding my hand as we were walking towards the yard when the large doors opened and the cortège started to leave. She pulled me up. ‘Put your tongue in, Stan, and stand still.’ She then leant down and whispered in my ear: ‘Take your cap off and bow your head as it passes.’
‘Why, Mum?’ I asked, looking up at her.
‘It’s respect, Stan. We’re respecting the person who’s died.’
I didn’t know what she meant, but I did it – I took off my cap and bowed my head.
Everything about the scene was so spectacular it was as if I was in a film. The gleaming horses looked enormous to me. Their hooves made such a noise on the wet cobbles, and the highly polished carriages had a fine flurry of snow dancing around them. Then there was Uncle Tom with the coachmen looking impeccable in their overcoats and top hats.
I was captivated.
Even seeing the bodies fascinated me. I never once felt frightened. I don’t know why; maybe it was because I was so young and didn’t comprehend what was actually going on.
When I knew nobody was looking I would creep into the storage room where the bodies had been brought in and left on easels in ‘shells’ – these were coffins which were painted white inside and were used to fetch corpses from hospitals or homes before being prepared and placed into a ‘proper’ coffin. As I was so small I would have to drag a chair over to stand on. I would then gently slide the lid across and look at them for what seemed liked ages, but in reality was probably only a few minutes. I was strangely drawn to them, I think, by their stillness, as to me they somehow radiated an air of calm which I felt oddly at ease with.
When I was around seven, I was in the workshop watching Uncle and the other coffin-makers. This particular day was unusually quiet when, out of the blue, he looks at me and says: ‘Would you like to make a coffin, Stan?’
I couldn’t believe my ears! ‘Honest?’
He smiled. ‘Come on, I’ll show you from scratch. We’ll just make a small one though.’ He then proceeded to show me every detail; I can’t tell you how amazing it was. When it was finished he even showed me how to French polish it. It was a day I’ll never forget and it made me even more convinced it was what I wanted to do.
I don’t know why, but Mum wasn’t too thrilled when I returned with it under my arm to meet her at Grandma’s, but she did let me take it home, as long as I agreed to keep it in my bedroom, which I happily did. But I knew it wouldn’t be there for long, as now I had a coffin I obviously needed something to bury.
I generally got on well with my sister Olive, but she did get on my nerves sometimes. I mean, she couldn’t help being a girl, but girls can be annoying creatures especially when they love dolls. I detested them, creepy things, with those staring glassy eyes and those little red lips.
‘Peggy’ was the doll’s name; she would be carted around under Olive’s arm virtually all day. Even at the dinner table it would be propped up and she’d make out to be feeding it. ‘Open up, Peggy,’ she’d say, with a spoonful of food. ‘There’s a good girl for Mummy.’
It seriously got on my wick.
This particular day, Mum had taken Olive out and Dad was at home looking after me, so I was left to play on my own.
The funeral was a very simple affair. Only one mourner attended. She was laid to rest in our small garden under an apple tree. I’d even made a top hat out of cardboard for the occasion. I would’ve got away with it too, if our neighbour hadn’t been changing her bedroom curtains and grassed me up to Mum as soon as she put her key in the front door. I was literally dragged out by my ear, made to dig it up, and my lovely coffin disposed of. To cap it all I was sent to bed without any tea, even though I was famished by all that digging.
I didn’t know what the fuss was about; I was only following the family tradition. I thought she would’ve been pleased but apparently she was mortified, as she knew without a shadow of doubt that all the neighbours would now be gossiping about ‘her morbid little bugger’ and how I was living up to my reputation.
This was all happening during the 1930s when people’s lives were much simpler than they are now. Men were hard-working, women stayed at home with the children and life was basically good – very poor, but good.
As children we had a great time, running free, not a care in the world. Our parents were quite happy with us playing out in the streets until darkness fell; it would never occur to them or us that anything bad would befall us. At end of the day, all over the East End, voices could be heard calling their children in for their teas and we would sadly make our way home, dirty and exhausted.
But, like any child, there were a few things I couldn’t stand. Sunday School, for one. It wasn’t just me, though most of the children I knew felt the same. It was unfortunately compulsory for most of us, as we were forced to go by our parents. We were given stars to stick in a book, to show how many times we had attended; half the time we didn’t go, so we cut out our own and stuck them in but nobody ever seemed to notice.
How would an adult not notice something like that? Life was a mystery.
Once your book was full you were given a ‘special treat’. But in this instance the word ‘treat’ didn’t mean what you might expect. It was a day trip to Loughton in Essex. Now I know what you’re thinking: ‘A day trip to the country . . . now, doesn’t that sound lovely?’ But let me tell you, it was far from it.
The day started when we were put on an open-top bus at Swanscombe Street, Canning Town. We all made a dash to sit on top. It was survival of the fittest to secure a prime seat. Everyone loved to get onto the top deck and prayed for rain; it sounds daft but the reasoning behind it was each seat had these big leather capes, which were attached to the floor by your feet. You hoisted them up over your body and fixed them around your neck to protect you from the elements . . . marvellous contraptions they were.
On arrival we were marched like soldiers to the Society Home. It was supposed to be an enjoyable day out but most of the time it felt like we were on military manoeuvres.
We then had lunch – although we called it dinner in those days. And what we now call dinner was called ‘tea’. We were given these great big enamel jugs of lemonade, so big we could hardly lift them. This always annoyed me too. I mean, why would you give small children such enormous jugs? It was always left to us boys to lift and pour them out, and all the girls would be watching, sniggering behind their hands, just waiting for you to drop or spill it so they could then have a good laugh. I always thought girls had a nasty streak . . . and they always proved me right.
But the point is, and I know it doesn’t sound a big deal for an eight-year-old, but this was all very stressful. I always thought that things like that could scar a boy for life, but then I was lucky enough to meet Norman who changed my attitude to life, he really did.
Norman Floss was a new boy; he’d only arrived at Sunday School a few months before, and a funny little thing he was. Poor little bugger was pitiful, puny – thin as a rake, he was probably suffering from rickets or something. He was so pale he looke
d translucent and you could see little blue veins under his skin. If he hadn’t had brown eyes you would’ve definitely taken him for an albino and, to cap it all, he had round metal-framed glasses with a big lump of sticky plaster over the right lens. Apparently it was because he had a lazy eye, but I never actually knew what that meant; all I know is when he took his glasses off his left eye dropped like a marble into the corner.
We were all sitting down at the long benches, eagerly waiting for lunch, as we were absolutely starving. The monitors came in and started putting the jugs of lemonade on the table. I couldn’t believe it when they put one right in front of Norman. I mean, how stupid can you get! The poor devil looked as if lifting his knife and fork would be a struggle. You should’ve seen his face when that jug was put down; he was mortified, he knew he would have to lift it to share it out to the others, and that everyone was now watching him thinking the same thing: how on earth was he going to do it? I was sitting opposite him, a little way up the table next to Alan, my best friend, and we were watching him like hawks, continually digging each other in the ribs with our elbows waiting for the ‘show’ to begin.
Then the rolls were brought in and placed on the table and the monitor called out that the lemonade could be served. The sniggering had already started before Norman had even stood up. He put both of his hands around the handle. As he tried to lift it his little arms started to quiver and his face became red and distorted. All of a sudden I felt so sorry for him; I wanted to go around and help him out but I couldn’t, as I knew it would only make it worse, so I just sat watching him struggle. Alan felt the same, as he’d stopped digging me in the ribs and was just staring at him; you could tell by his face he was willing Norman to lift it. He looked at me, shaking his head, then he leant over whispering in my ear: ‘Poor little sod couldn’t lift a scab off, he’s got no bloody chance lifting that!’
He tried several times, holding it in different ways, but it didn’t help; he couldn’t even raise it an inch off the table, but do you know what he did? He stopped, looked around and did the ‘strong man’ pose, you know, arms lifted up at shoulder height, making out to flex his non-existent muscles. He then turns to the side and goes straight into ‘Mr Atlas’, shouting, ‘Roll up, roll up, come and see the world-famous strong man . . . the one and only . . . Norman Floss!’
Well, everybody erupted with laughter, it was so funny seeing this frail little boy acting like a strong man, but as I sat there joining in with the laughter, even though I was only eight I suddenly found myself in admiration of Norman Floss. He knew exactly what he was doing – by making people laugh, he was taking the micky out of himself, so we laughed at his antics and not at his physical weakness. It was an enlightening moment for me.
I told him afterwards that I thought it was great the way he’d handled himself and he just shrugged and said, ‘My mum always told me “One of the greatest gifts a person can have is to make others laugh, Norman, and you have that gift, so use it whenever you can”, so I do. I know I’ve always looked funny and probably always will, but I want people to laugh at what I do and say, not how I look,’ he said seriously. From that day on nobody cared less how he looked, because he made them laugh.
When everybody started to dig in to the rolls, me and Alan reached into our pockets and brought out packets of sandwiches. You can imagine the stick we got from the others.
You see, the year before we’d arrived at the same centre, me and Alan were running around the building playing hide-and-seek, eagerly waiting for lunch to be served, when I happened to find a hiding place right outside the kitchen window. While I was waiting for him to find me I stood on an old crate and on tiptoes peered through the window. Inside was this woman, who was making up our lunch, and she was hideous. She needed a boil wash, there were stains all up the front of her apron, her hair thick with grease was falling down around her face, her fingernails were embedded with dirt and, to cap it all, she had a cigarette rammed in the corner of her mouth with a two-inch-long piece of ash precariously dangling from it.
As I watched, I was mesmerised by this piece of ash getting longer and longer, her eyes all screwed up as the smoke drifted into them.
Just then, Alan found me. I held my finger to my lips, grinning, pointed into the kitchen and signalled to the crate for him to climb onto. As we both looked in, this long line of ash fell off into a roll she’d just put the luncheon meat into.
She picked it up, blew on it and sent the ash scattering around so it landed on all the rolls below. Then, blow me down, she throws her fag-end on the ground, grinds it with her foot, reaches into her apron, pulls out another, lights that up, securing it firmly back into the corner of her mouth, and commences to close up the rolls – which she then starts piling onto plates waiting to be brought out to us.
By then me and Alan were giggling and nudging each other so much we fell off the crate, but we managed to get up and run off before we were found out. Needless to say we never ate a thing that day. When we got home ravenous that night, we told our mums and, from that day on, we were always given our own packed lunch to take with us wherever we went.
After lunch we were marched over to the forest into the glades and played cricket and rounders until three o’clock, then we were all piled back onto the bus to be taken home.
But I’ll tell you what: every single time we came back from that place, we were ‘cootie’ – running alive with fleas and nits. It was dire.
Our parents dreaded us going but would never dream of complaining to the church, and I don’t mean to be rude but it had such a bad reputation it was renamed ‘Lousy Loughton’. But thank goodness they did clean their act up after the war.
The second thing that drove me mad was Friday nights. Friday night was bath and senna pod night. As soon as I got home from school, the bath was brought in from the garden. Some people had a big tin bath, a bungalow bath it was called, around 5ft long; others had a small one around 3ft long; some were lucky enough to have both, but we only had the small one. During the week the bath was also used for washing clothes and sheets. They were washed in the scullery – that’s what we used to call the kitchen – then carried into the back garden to be run through the mangle. Wash day would normally last all day, and getting everything dry, especially during the winter, was an absolute nightmare, and that’s not taking into consideration the ironing too. Then it was called a ‘flat iron’ and it had to be heated up on the stove, as there weren’t any electric irons at this point. The saying ‘a woman’s work is never done’ couldn’t have been truer. It must have been awful to have been born a girl in those days.
In the warmer months the bath would be placed in the scullery but in the winter, as it was so cold in the house, it was put in front of the coal fire in the living room, which was the warmest room in the house – in fact the only room in the house which had any form of heating. During those bitterly cold months we would wake up to frost on the inside of our windows. I quite liked this, as I would stand and draw pictures on them with my finger.
Virtually everybody in those days had two rooms: a front room which was kept for best, when visitors called, Christmas or the laying out of the dead, and the living room where we spent all of our time and was located just off the scullery.
Filling the bath took absolutely ages, as the water had to be heated on the stove in a large metal bucket.
Once it was filled – and this is the part that always wound me up – Mum would bath first, followed by my sister, Olive, and then it was my turn. I mean, why did I always have to go last and have to sit in their rotten water? I was never allowed to go in first; I could never see why I would be dirtier than them. Dad was so lucky as he had it all to himself on a Sunday.
I often wished it was like the old days – and I mean the old days, back in the 1500s, not that I would’ve wanted to live then, but bath time seemed to be a lot better organised. Did you know they only bathed once a year in May – perfect!
The dad went first, follow
ed by the sons, then the women and finally the children and last of all babies. Can you imagine the state of the water by then? It would’ve been as black as tar and probably as thick. You know the saying, ‘throwing the baby out with the bath-water’ – well that’s where it came from.
In those days brides would get married in June, and as they’d already had their yearly bath a month before they’d really started to stink, so that’s why the carrying of strongly perfumed flowers was adopted. Now, thank goodness, the bridal bouquet is only for decoration.
One day I piped up, complaining to Mum that it wasn’t fair her and Olive always went first and had the benefit of the nice clean water. I said we should be allowed to take it in turns. I got worked up about it, shouting and being a right pain in the arse. I was a fool and should’ve known better, as it was always drummed into us to never answer back and to always respect our elders.
All she did was stand and glare at me. I hated that glare; I knew then I had pushed it too far. She then goes into the scullery and walks back in wielding a cane she’d bought at the corner shop to prop up something or other in the garden. She whacked me round the back of the legs with it so hard it snapped, and did it sting! As I heard it snap, I screamed, ‘Don’t ’it me, Mum, that ’urts. Stop . . . STOP!’ I hoped it would make her feel bad, but she didn’t take a blind bit of notice. She did stop though, not because I made her feel guilty but because her cane snapped. So what does she do? Only sends me over the road to get another one.
‘Go on now, move yourself. Get over to Paines and tell him I need another cane because you’ve broken my other one. You can tell him how it was broken, too . . . tell him you’ve turned into a bloody monster who needed a good hiding . . . and I’m telling you something else: if you drop your aitches any more, my boy, you’ll get another!’
An East End Farewell Page 2
