‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But just thinking about it makes my blood boil!’
‘What’s that?’ my dad asked.
‘Just living through those war years was bad enough, wasn’t it? Never knowing from one day to the next if you’d survive, then you get bombed out of your own home that you’ve spent time and hard-earned money making as nice as you can, and then something like that happens!’
Boy, is he angry!
‘What on earth happened, Frank?’ Mum asked sympathetically.
‘I know it’s seven or eight years ago, but some things you just don’t forget, do you. After we were bombed out some dirty rotten bastard – excuse my French, ladies – only got into our house and nicked my toilet door, didn’t he? Absolute disgrace, nicking somebody’s toilet door. I mean, how low can you get?’
He was glaring at me, not for any particular reason, thank heavens, just because he was angry, but Dad’s head swings around and now he’s looking at me too!
Joan looks at him. ‘Oh, Dad, you’re not still going on about that!’ She then turned to us. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, if we’ve heard about his precious toilet door once we’ve heard it a thousand times.’
‘Well, what d’you expect! I still can’t believe someone could do such a thing!’ He then turns to me. ‘What do you think, Stan, do you think I’m overreacting?’
I swallow. ‘No, not at all. I mean it’s, it’s . . . terrible! How could somebody do something like that?’
‘I don’t know, son, I really don’t know,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head. ‘People never cease to amaze me, they really don’t. You’ll appreciate that as you get older.’
The evening fortunately ended shortly afterwards. When they’d gone, Dad looked at me and grinned.
‘WHAT?’ I said, trying to look serious.
‘What indeed! You crafty little sod . . . after all this time . . . but it did come in bloody handy, didn’t it?’
9
Mrs O’Leary and Miss Holmes
1949 (age 21)
As I walked into the shop one day, Uncle was sitting at the desk, coming to the end of a phone conversation.
Since I’d been home from my military service he had reinstated me at the shop in Rathbone. He wanted to train me up to organise and conduct funerals, and when business was slack he would be able to teach me how to French polish the coffins. He was a master at that – in fact, he was a master at all things funereal – but, outside of that, his character left a lot to be desired. I could see why he’d never got married; he could be so difficult he would’ve proved an impossible spouse. He seemed contented on his own, though; never a man for going down the pub or socialising, his true love was pottering around in his beloved garden, and he’d always try to secure tickets for any boxing nights going on in the area.
He’d taught me coffin-making down at the yard. That skill (then it was a skill – nowadays they wouldn’t know what hit them if they had to make one from scratch) took me around a year to perfect.
Remember, we used raw timber then. When it arrived at the workshop the tree was sliced into planks but the bark was still intact. As I mentioned before, we only used elm and oak, as these have a lovely grain and show up to perfection once polished. The thickness of the wood was over 1" (we also supplied a ‘Cribb special’, which was one and a half inches) so this, along with the solid brass handles, made it an extremely heavy object – and that was before the body was in it. I sometimes wonder how on earth we lifted them, as they weighed a ton. I recall coming home one evening after a particularly busy day and when I took off my jacket my shirt covering my right shoulder was smothered in blood and red raw from carrying the coffins. In fact, to this day, that shoulder is quite a lot lower than my left.
In most situations, Uncle would be extremely impatient; he couldn’t abide people dithering but once he got into the workshop he was in his element. He would spend hours showing me how to plane down the coffins, to shape and fit them together, and he loved the tricky bit of creating the ‘kerfs’ at the top end. These shaped the area where the shoulders would fit, and that, without doubt, was the hardest section to make. After that the coffin was lined in a thick calico and then the satin insert and ruffles would be fitted. The lining was a necessity in the days before embalming, as it would absorb some of the body’s fluids and prevent them leaking through the joints.
One day I was in the workshop, halfway through making a coffin, when he walked in to check on everyone. I was hammering a nail when I heard a bellow from across the workshop: ‘You’re a coffin-maker, boy, not a sodding watchmaker. Put some welly into it, for Christ’s sake!’
So I too had, at last, now mastered the art of coffin-making and I was on to the next process of staining and polishing. That was a skill in its own right as well. It would take around four hours of continual work to get a coffin perfected. And all of this process was carried out in the shop window, so passers-by could stand and watch. At first I was really self-conscious about having an audience but, once I’d got over my initial shyness, I must admit I actually enjoyed it.
In fact, standing in that shop window was an education in itself. It opened my eyes to a lot of things, especially during the war years when everything was in short supply. But before I explain to you about the art of polishing, let me tell you about Jimmy the Grocer.
You’ve heard of the Alfred Hitchcock film Rear Window – well, this was our version: Front Window.
Directly across from us was a grocer’s shop, selling the bits and pieces allocated to us through rationing books: butter, sugar, flour, tea, that sort of thing. The proprietor was the type of grocer I mentioned earlier – someone you went to when you wanted something ‘extra special’.
These are the men who would normally find themselves in trouble with the police, as they would be offered all sorts of goodies sold ‘under the counter’ – the likes of tinned salmon, corned beef and the odd hock of ham. More often than not, these items had come from the docks.
Most dockers were honest men but, like in any large business, there were a few who strayed from the tracks. Generally they were the main suppliers of these goodies, as they had access to the ships that brought them in, so on occasions when the odd box of food was going begging, it proved too tempting for them to walk away. They saw an opportunity and took it. I couldn’t blame them; many of these men had over a dozen children, and to get a few extra bob in their pockets at the end of the week meant being able to feed and clothe them, so nobody begrudged them a few perks here and there. They were tough old days, and if you saw a way to put some extra food on the table you grabbed it.
The grocer’s was originally owned by Bill (or, as he was more commonly known, ‘Bacon Bill’). He retired through ill heath so, after the war, his brother Jimmy left the RAF and returned to take over the business. Like Bill, he was a lovely man – both of them were very kind and would always try to help anybody out.
Jimmy’d always flirt with the female customers, and they all loved it. He wasn’t a film star or anything; he was tall and rotund with a huge handlebar moustache, which he used to curl up at the ends. In the summer months, when it was hot, we used to prop our front door open to let the breeze in and you could always hear him chatting to his customers in his big booming voice.
Shortly after you saw a woman walk into his shop you’d hear things like: ‘Goodness me, it’s Peggy Peck! Just for a second there I thought Lana Turner had walked in . . . my mistake . . . what can I do for you today, Peggy?’ Or ‘Good afternoon, Dolly! Did I ever tell you my favourite auntie was called Dolly? It’s a name that holds a great affection for me and may I also add that your hair looks particular fetching today; you’ve done something different to it, haven’t you? I noticed Ingrid Bergman had a very similar style when I saw her at the cinema last night. May I say that Mr Dolly is a very lucky man!’ And so on.
That’s all we heard coming from his shop. He certainly cheered up our day; every woman that went
in there was likened to one film star or another, and to see them leave . . . they’d come out, one by one, flushed and giggling to themselves, looking around conspiratorially as if they’d had some secret assignation. So he not only brightened our day, he brightened theirs too. In fact, every person who walked through his door would come out better off in one way or another.
His heart was as big as his belly. Any child you saw going into his shop with or without its mother would come out biting into a chunk of Spam. No child went hungry around him.
The problem all grocers had with ‘under the counter’ trading was the penalties. Due to rationing the police were under strict instructions to arrest anyone found engaged in these types of dealings, and a huge fine and generally imprisonment was normal. It was a very risky business to get involved in.
With these shenanigans, if you’re not caught it encourages you to carry on, but with bigger and bigger contraband, and that, sadly, is exactly what happened to Jimmy.
We tried to keep an eye out for him, but it would only be a matter of time before he was caught. In our front window we had stone statues on show that would be purchased to decorate graves: Our Lady, St Patrick and Our Lord etc. Behind these was a wooden panel that separated the window display from the inside of the shop. On the left-hand wall as you entered was a large cabinet with two glass doors, which, if positioned at the correct angles, enabled me to see way down Rathbone Street, virtually to the junction of the Barking Road, and I could spot any policeman on patrol coming our way. They’d all tended to make a beeline for our shop, as they’d become regular visitors to our back office, where they’d sit drinking coffee and having a smoke. When I saw them coming, I’d pop out the back, put a saucepan on the stove with a spoonful of coffee grains in it ready for when they arrived.
Nobody in the area wanted to see Jimmy go to prison so, if I saw a policeman down the road, I’d just pop over and tip him the wink. If I didn’t do it somebody else would. In fact, when you saw the police approaching you’d always hear some type of signal – a particular whistle or a car hooter blasting out to let everyone know the police were on their way. I loved the fact that everyone looked out for each other.
The police would come into the shop normally one at a time, but occasionally they’d all meet up for their coffee break. It was OK, I didn’t mind, but it did stop me from working, which could be a nuisance sometimes, as I couldn’t tell them to ‘sod off’.
One particular day the phone rang and a frustrated voice on the line said, ‘Sergeant James, Plaistow Station. You got any of my men there?’
‘Er, no, not seen any today, sergeant,’ I lied.
‘Look, I’m not gonna have a go, but if any of them are there, tell them to get their arses back, ’cos I’m running an empty station here and the inspector’s due any minute.’ And with that he hung up.
I turned to the men. ‘Your sergeant’s looking for you . . . apparently the inspector’s on his way. You’d better get going, ’cos he doesn’t sound very happy.’
Hearing that, they turned into the ‘Keystone Kops’, hands fumbling trying to get their boots back on, jacket buttons being done up wrong, helmets dropped – it was chaos. Two ran out the back way, grabbing their bikes as they went, the other through the front, all of them scattering in different directions.
After a few minutes, the whistles and car hooters were heard again, this time slightly differently. Obviously it was the lookouts’ interpretation of the ‘all clear’.
One day, I was standing looking out the front, when I noticed a ‘mechanical horse’ coming slowly up the road. These were three-wheeled tractor-type vehicles with canvas canopies over the back trailer.
They were used a lot on the railways at the time. They’d been around since 1934 and had been invented because the railway companies were looking for a suitable vehicle to replace the horse-drawn carriages that delivered parcels to towns.
It pulled up and the driver got out. He started strolling towards Jimmy’s. He stopped along the way, lighting a cigarette and casually looking around; he then carried on walking before disappearing into the shop. A few minutes later he’s heading back to the ‘horse’. He pulls away, driving past our shop and turns into the side road, where Jimmy’s storerooms are located. I’m now smiling to myself; I know something’s going to happen but don’t know what.
The driver approaches the side door and a chap’s standing there holding a wooden plank. The mechanical horse stops, the plank is pushed onto the edge of it, with the other end on the pavement, the canopy flies up, and three enormous round cheeses come rolling down, shooting straight into the side of the building. It was like watching the scene with the bouncing bombs from the film The Dambusters. It all happened so quickly that if you’d blinked you would’ve missed it. The driver whips the ‘horse’ around 360 degrees, turns back onto the main road, parks a few hundred yards up, gets out and walks back to pick up his ‘cut’.
I waited an hour or so, then popped over to get a nice chunk of cheese for my tea; now that’s what I’d call the perks of the job!
But unfortunately Jimmy didn’t stop with cheeses. He got involved in a far more dangerous enterprise. Early one morning I saw three brand-new Austin cars being parked along the side road outside his storeroom.
Just then, Uncle walks in. ‘What you grinning at?’ he said, turning back to look out the window.
‘Don’t know yet, but they’re up to something over the road and I’m waiting to see what happens,’ I explained. We both then turned back to watch.
These cars had come from the Austin factory in Birmingham. They were literally just off the production line and were being driven to the docks to be transported to Europe. But before they reached their final destination they were being taken on a detour past Jimmy’s, and it definitely wasn’t for him to view the fine workmanship.
Suddenly there was a frenzy of activity. It was like watching a pit-stop at a Grand Prix. One end of a hose was pushed into the car’s tank, whilst the other end went into a chap’s mouth. He then proceeded to suck it up; as the petrol reached his mouth he pulled it out and held it over a large tin can, siphoning it out until the tank was virtually empty. As this was going on, another bloke was swiping the spare tyre out of the back and another, having started the engine, was now removing the battery. Apparently if you start a car and then remove its battery it will keep running until you turn off the ignition (I told you the view was an education). Three cars were done in about ten minutes and all the time a lookout was on each corner.
‘Can you believe it?’ I said, grinning, turning to Uncle. ‘He’s pushing his luck this time.’
He just stood there shaking his head. ‘I tell you, boy, this’ll all end in tears, you mark my words,’ he said, heading back into the office.
‘Miserable old bugger,’ I thought. But unfortunately he would be proved right.
Once the cars had been stripped of spare tyres and pilfered of petrol, the drivers who’d brought them down from the factory jumped back in and drove them up the road. They turned into Hallsville Road, onto the brow of the hill at Silvertown Way and, in neutral gear, coasted them down to the docks to save the last remnants of petrol left in the tanks. God only knows what happened when they got to the docks. The delivery men obviously parked in their allocated area and left the keys with the security staff, but how they got the cars onto the ships once that engine had been turned off I’ve no idea. I assume they were pushed on and it was left to the dockers at the other end to deal with the problem. However it was done, this practice went on fortnightly over a number of months and then it stopped – obviously they were being rattled and the Law were closing in.
But the funny thing was, every Wednesday night, without fail, when the policemen got their pay packets you’d always see a row of bikes lined up alongside Jimmy’s wall. They were all in there getting their share of the goodies!
Sadly for everyone in the area, a new group of policemen arrived on the beat, and one of them ob
viously wanted to make a name for himself. Within a month of him arriving, Jimmy was arrested for black-market dealings and was imprisoned. It was a terrible day, seeing the Black Maria draw up and a group of police go in and take him. As I said, for all of his dodgy dealings, he gave away so much to the poor in the area; they knew if they went to see him, he’d always put that extra pat of butter or another couple of eggs into their sparse shopping baskets.
It’s always the same, isn’t it? You’ll always get one bugger who wants to ruin it for everybody else.
He received a two-year sentence. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, on his release he never returned to our neck of the woods.
Right, now you’ve heard the story of the goings-on from our front window, I can get back to the intricacies of French polishing. Although, thinking about it now, I don’t know how I ever got round to it with all the other entertainment going on around me.
Firstly you would put on your apron. Now aprons were very important – obviously they protected your clothes but also you were on show; you were in the front window for the ‘world and his wife’ to come and watch you, so you had to be immaculate, even though you were polishing. My apron would be taken home and washed every night; there was never a mark or blemish on it and, if there was, another would be used. It would be pressed and starched and even the apron ties would be starched too.
You could always tell the quality of a coffin-maker when interviewing him by his toolbox. All had a personal toolbox and the way it was presented – and obviously the condition of his apron – spoke volumes about the man’s character and work ethic.
To start, linseed oil and plaster of Paris were mixed into a paste; this would then be smoothed onto the sides to fill in any gaps between the joints, and the residue scrapped off. Once that was dry it could be sandpapered down, so it was completely smooth. After that, the stain would be applied and then the elbow grease came to the front with the polishing. We would make a ‘dolly’, which was made of calico and stuffed with wadding; this was dabbed into a polish pot and rubbed in small circles over the entire area. The finish, when it was done properly, of course, was something to be proud of. To think you had literally made the whole coffin from scratch gave you a feeling of great achievement.
An East End Farewell Page 10
