An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  One particular morning I was just getting my apron on to start polishing when Uncle hangs up the phone. ‘Put that apron back on, boy, that was a call from Miss Holmes. Her sister died last night, unexpectedly. She wants me to go and collect the body from the hospital, then I’ll have to go round and see her to make the arrangements. So I’m going to have to leave it to you to take Mr O’Leary back home. I’ll see you back here later.’

  I’d become a bit braver as I’d got older, so I said, ‘Couldn’t I go to collect Miss Holmes and you take Mr O’Leary home?’

  ‘Why’s that?’ he says, looking at me funny.

  ‘Well, I know this sounds daft, but I don’t think Mrs O’Leary likes me very much.’ I sounded pathetic but it was true. She was terrifying; the type of woman you wouldn’t want to meet down a dark alley after she’d had a few milk stouts. You could imagine her bashing the living daylights out of you if you just looked at her the wrong way. No, she wasn’t for me. (In fact, I don’t know who she would’ve been for, but her and Mr O’Leary had been married for around forty years, so he obviously loved her.)

  ‘You don’t think she likes you . . . Bloody hell, I’ve heard it all now! What is it – a popularity contest? You daft sod, you’re conducting her husband’s funeral, not wanting her to adopt you! Get your suit on and get down there NOW!’ Shaking his head, he stood up, then picked up his bowler hat and patted it down on his head. ‘Right, I’m off! See you later. Send my regards to Mrs O’Leary, and tell her not to speak too harshly to you as it upsets you . . . and tell her I’ll be there in ten days to take them to the cemetery.’

  I don’t know why I bothered. I should’ve learnt by now that I wouldn’t get any sympathy from him, or any other member of my family for that matter.

  I went round to the workshop and collected Mr O’Leary. In the East End, the ‘Chapel of Rest’ wouldn’t be introduced until the 1960s. Everyone was ‘laid out’ in their front rooms in those days. They’d be left there for between seven to ten days. Can you imagine, during the warmer months, what effect this would have on the body?

  We put his coffin in the hearse, with a crucifix and five large candle-holders, and headed around to his house in Katherine Road. As I walked up to the front door I saw that the ‘black board’ was still nailed onto the front window frame. Many mourners requested this when they came to the shop to make arrangements on the day the person had died. Within a few hours of them leaving I would be around to their house, fixing the board to the window, where it would stay until the funeral was conducted. It would signify to the neighbourhood that there had been a death in the house.

  I knocked on the door, which was quickly opened by Mrs O’Leary, dressed as always completely in black, her long, full skirt down to her ankles and her steel-grey hair pulled back tightly in a bun. She was only around 5ft tall but she had such an imposing air. Around her neck was a large wooden crucifix, resting against her enormous chest. The O’Learys were one of the staunchest Catholic families I’ve come across, and Mrs O’Leary was the godmother of it . . . or she was to me, anyway.

  Trying to peer around me, she says sharply, in her broad Irish brogue, ‘And where’s Mr Cribb?’

  I stood up as tall as I could, trying to reach my maximum height, which was now around 6' 1". I hoped it might help me, psychologically – it didn’t!

  ‘He sends his sincere apologies, Mrs O’Leary. He was called away to an urgent job this morning. He said to tell you that he’ll certainly be here to conduct the funeral of your husband.’ I cleared my throat. So far so good!

  Then, bugger me, her eyes went all slitty. ‘Did ya bring the candlesticks and crucifix?’ she quizzed me. I knew she was hoping I’d say I’d forgotten them so she could kick-off.

  ‘I certainly have, Mrs O’Leary, they’re all in the hearse.’

  ‘How many did ya bring, boy?’ she asked.

  ‘Five, as you requested,’ I replied confidently.

  ‘Oh!’ She was clearly disappointed. ‘You’d better bring ’im in, then. Ya know where ya have to take him. Call me when you’re done.’

  And with that she walks off down the hall, her hips so broad you could hear the swishing of her skirt as it brushed against the walls.

  I carried the candles and crucifix into the front room. It was arranged in the style of how many Catholic families liked to prepare their ‘laying out’ rooms. Everything that could reflect the body or the coffin had been covered in white sheets, as it was believed that the deceased’s spirit could be trapped in the reflection of mirrors and glass cabinets. All clocks in the house were stopped at the time of death. Some people even turned the photos of family and friends down to prevent any of them being possessed by the exiting spirit.

  I placed the candlesticks in a circle with the crucifix in the middle on a table that had already been set out for me, and lit the candles. The Irish Catholics in olden times would burn twelve reed canes in place of candles, to scare the devils from the departing soul, but in modern times five candles were used in place of the canes to create a ‘circle of five’, which was supposed to be protection from the powers of darkness.

  On a small table a bowl of snuff, tobacco and several clay pipes had been left ready for the start of the wake – which was offered to the friends and relatives who would be attending. It was expected of them to take at least a ceremonial puff or two when it was offered, even if they didn’t smoke, as it was classified as an insult if you didn’t. Food and drink would be added as guests arrived.

  We then carried the coffin in, lying it across four chairs that had been placed close to the open window. This would be left open for several hours, to allow the spirit to depart the body, then it was closed. I removed the lid and propped it in the corner of the room. In some Irish funerals the body would be removed and placed onto a table and the coffin would then be left propped up in the corner. It was removed in order for the ‘watchers’ to have a clear, unobstructed view to see if they witnessed any signs of life.

  Everything was prepared, so I went along and told ‘the godmother’ we’d finished and would be on our way.

  ‘Oh no, don’t t’ink you’ll be going anywhere just yet!’ she said, looking up at me, her eyes going slitty again. I wished she wouldn’t do that, it gave me the creeps; she reminded me of a snake preparing to strike its prey. ‘I want to see everyt’ink’s done properly.’ So she starts marching – I don’t think she walked anywhere – up the passage to the front room. As she marched in, she let out a little gasp, stopping dead in her tracks. It was the first time I’d seen or heard any emotion from her. She walked slowly up to the coffin and looked down at her husband’s face.

  This was always a difficult time for us, the moment the bereaved saw their loved ones for the first time since they died. It was more than likely they’d only died the day before, and more times than not, in that house, so it was distressing for the person to see them just twenty-four hours later, in a coffin.

  She bent down over him, closely inspecting his face. It looked like she was going to kiss him. But she didn’t – she stood straight back up and waved a stubby finger at him, shouting, ‘I said ya’d drink yerself to frigging death. You’re a frigging eejit, so you are!’

  I didn’t know what I should do; she hadn’t told me I could leave, so I just stood there. She held onto the side of the coffin and knelt down. When she eventually managed to get down I bent my head and closed my eyes, thinking I should say a prayer with her, when I heard her booming voice.

  ‘What the bleedin ’ell ya doing, boy? What would ya be having ya eyes shut at a time like this for? Will ya pass me the frigging candlestick? Me knees won’t be holdin’ out much longer!’ With that, I grabbed the stick and handed it to her, now completely confused. God help me, where was Uncle Tom when I needed him?

  Bending under the coffin, she started running the candle along the bottom. At last she leant back and handed me the stick. But she couldn’t get back up, so she gripped onto the side of the coffin, trying
to pull herself up.

  ‘Christ!’ I thought. ‘It’s going to tip up and Mr O’Leary’s going to land right on top of her!’

  I quickly moved forward. ‘Please be careful, let me help you,’ I said, starting to worry and, with that, I stood behind her and lifted her up with my arms under her armpits. I’m not joking – she was actually heavier than one of our ‘Cribb specials’. As we stood there, both puffing, she turned to me.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be wondering why I’m looking under the coffin, boy? You hear a lot about undertakers putting all sorts of things on the bottom of coffins. They leave the proper wood for where you can see it. I’ve been in your workshop years ago when your grandfather was there, and I’ve seen ’im put a patch in a piece of wood better than I could in the arse of me ol’ man’s trousers, and that’ll be the trut’!’

  I cleared my throat. ‘I think you will find, Mrs O’Leary, that at Cribb and Son we do not participate in those sorts of practices. Was everything to your satisfaction?’

  She sniffed. ‘It was, boy.’ She was definitely cheesed off; I think she’d been looking forward to exposing an old patched-up door at the bottom.

  ‘Now, I’ve got to get everyt’ing prepared for the wake, so you be off,’ she said, shooing me out with her hand.

  I made my way back to the shop feeling quite jubilant. I’d faced my demons – or should I say demon – face to face and not cracked under the pressure.

  The history of the wake had always fascinated me. It was initially known as ‘watching’ and became a recognised institution. It was originally an old Jewish custom. The body would be placed in a sepulchre, unsealed for three days, during which time the body was visited by relations, hoping to see signs of life.

  In Christian practice, a gathering of friends and relatives would, in the presence of the body, offer special prayers for the deceased when it was thought that the soul would be passing into another state.

  There is also evidence of professional ‘watchers’ – not only in the past but today too. They’d be paid to ‘watch’ the body from the time of death to the time of the funeral. The poor were normally obliged to shorten the period between death and burial, so they could reduce the charges. The social status of the bereaved families was estimated by the length of time they were able to hold out to the exorbitant demands of the watcher, but it was considered an honour to employ their services.

  This ritual began many centuries ago, when lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky, and the combination would occasionally knock the recipients out for days. Everybody who saw them just presumed they were dead, but in fact they were in a coma. They would be laid out on the kitchen table whilst family and friends would gather around, eat and drink and wait to see if the person would wake up. This process started when it was discovered that people had been buried alive.

  In the Victorian era, coffins would be dug up in order for the old graves to be reused, as there wasn’t available space to keep digging new ones. In fact, the diary of a gentleman from 1859 reveals: ‘It is said that at the present time in London it is more difficult to find room for the dead than it is for the living.’ Once the coffins were opened they were destroyed and the bones taken off to a ‘bone house’ – buildings where human skeletal remains would be stored. It was when these coffins were opened that the grim discovery was made. Unbelievably one in twenty-five was found to have scratch marks on the inside.

  When people heard about this they were obviously petrified it would happen to them or their loved ones, so they decided to take matters into their own hands to avoid it happening again. So an ingenious device was put into practice. A string would be tied around the wrist of the corpse, which was then fed through a small hole in the top of the coffin and attached to a bell on top of the grave. So if they ‘came to’ and found themselves entombed, they’d tug the string to ring the bell. Someone would then sit in the graveyard morning and night for several days, listening for the bell to ring, so they could be quickly dug out and saved from the horrors of being buried alive. That’s where the sayings ‘saved by the bell’ and ‘the graveyard shift’ originate. Although in reality they would never have survived days, as their oxygen would have run out after around two hours.

  Uncle Tom arrived back with a huge grin on his face, having been to arrange Miss Holmes’s funeral. If I’d had my Box Brownie camera to hand, I would’ve taken a photo, as it was such a rare occurrence.

  ‘Well, you certainly look like you’ve had a good time,’ I said.

  ‘I tell you what, boy, not many things shock me and make me laugh at the same time, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, especially in this business, but Miss Holmes did both today.’ He paused for a second to light up a Woodbine. Taking a deep draw he said, ‘I’m parched; make me a cuppa first, then I’ll tell you what happened.’

  I did as he requested; I was certainly looking forward to hearing his story. I had witnessed more eclipses than seen him in this good a mood.

  I put the tea down next to him. ‘So, what happened?’ I asked, eagerly sitting down opposite.

  ‘Well, we’d been sitting there discussing the funeral. She’d decided on the elm casket for her sister . . . you knew her sister Eleanor, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I answered.

  ‘No, thinking about it, I don’t suppose you did. Bit before your time. Well, they’ve always lived in Macaulay Road for as long as I can remember. They moved there an age ago, from Scotland – must have been around the 1900s. Neither of them married, and as far as anyone was aware they never had any “gentleman callers”, if you know what I mean. I often saw them walking about, very attractive women they were, always smartly dressed. I always remember Mum talking about them one day to a neighbour, discussing what a mystery they were. You know how women love a gossip . . . never happy unless they’re pulling some poor bugger to bits. Anyway, once she’s decided on the casket and handles I start to explain about the ruffles. She asks what the ruffles are, so I explain it’s the name for the satin inserts that line the inside of the casket, and there are also ruffles around the edge. I told her there was a variety of colours to choose from, and she was surprised at this. So I went into more detail, you know, explaining what the colours were for. My exact words were, “If you were asking me, Miss Holmes, which colour I would choose for your sister, I would suggest white.”

  ‘“White?” she says, in that soft, cultured Scottish accent of hers, sipping her tea. “That’s interesting, and why may I ask would you choose white, Mr Cribb?”

  ‘“Well,” I say. “Your sister was a maiden lady and white signifies purity, so in my mind it would seem the appropriate choice.”

  ‘“Oh, I see,” she says. “Now I understand what you are saying! So what other colours do you have, and who would they be used for? I wasn’t aware that the colours signified the character of the person inside.”

  ‘So I then sit forward and start to explain.

  ‘“Oh, indeed, Miss Holmes,” I say. “To me, it’s an important factor and must be correct for the individual concerned. Let me explain: lemon is very popular for younger people, teenagers normally; obviously we have pale blue and pink for very young children and purple of course for the older, more – well, I’m not sure of the word I would use – maybe ‘worldly’ would be suitable.”

  ‘“Yes, yes, I see. I know exactly what you mean, Mr Cribb. Thank you so much for explaining everything to me. I hadn’t realised,” she says.

  ‘With that, I stand up and say, “Well, I think I’ve all the information I need. I’ll be heading back now to prepare your sister so we can bring her to you tomorrow,” and I start walking to the front door. I open it and she’s right behind me.

  ‘“One thing more, Mr Cribb,” she says.

  ‘“Of course, Miss Holmes, what would that be?”

  ‘“You said you would be lining the casket in white.”

  ‘“That’s correct.”

  ‘She looks straight at me; her face is complete
ly deadpan, then she says, “Do you think it would be at all possible to add a splash of purple into one of the corners? I think she would like that. She always had a wonderful sense of humour. In fact, we often used to laugh at the fact that everybody just assumed we were sisters.”

  ‘Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather, Stan, you really could. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All those years thinking they were sodding sisters! And as she stood and told me I really think there was a slight smile hovering in the corner of her mouth. How I didn’t laugh, Stan, I don’t know!’

  ‘So I then say, “Miss Holmes, I’ll be more than happy to arrange for that splash of purple to be added, and I’d like to reassure you that at Cribb and Son we always respect our clients’ wishes and confidence. The information you have just told me, will, and I’ll give you my word, never be divulged by us.”

  ‘“I can see you are a man of honour, Mr Cribb,” she says, “and I do appreciate your diplomacy. I shall see you tomorrow when you bring Eleanor home,” and with that she closes the door.

  ‘When I got in the car I had to sit there for a few minutes. I’d been completely taken aback. Christ, it did make me laugh though . . . all these years they’ve kept their secret from the gossips. Can you imagine what they would’ve done with that bit of news? They would’ve had a field day! All I thought was, good for you. I haven’t laughed so much since we were in the Romford Road Baths. Truthfully, Stan, I thought I’d seen and heard it all . . . just goes to show!’

  A short while later the bell rang, as the front door opened, and there stood Budgie. Now Budgie was an oddity, often hanging about but nobody ever knew what he did. He would creep around the streets, always dressed in the same black cap, suit and overcoat. The only splash of colour was the obligatory handkerchief – the colour of which I’d rather not try to describe – clamped firmly to his mouth, which he frequently coughed into. There was lots of speculation about his condition; most of the bets were on consumption, more commonly known as TB.