An East End Farewell

by Yvette Venables

  ‘Would they be able to make her look exactly as she was?’ he said.

  ‘I think they would get very close,’ I said confidently.

  ‘Could she . . . come back home?’ his wife said.

  ‘Yes, once everything’s been done we can bring her back here, if that’s what you would like.’

  They didn’t know what to do; their emotions were running so high, they weren’t even aware this type of reconstruction work existed. They needed time to think, so I took the rest of the details and left them to decide.

  I hadn’t been back in the shop more than thirty minutes explaining to Uncle what had happened when the phone rang.

  ‘Mr Cribb, it’s Mr Rickwood. We’ve decided we want Lily to come home, looking . . . as she did . . .’ His voice was a quiver.

  ‘I’m so happy you’ve made that decision. I’ll contact the company now and get everything organised. I would think we’re talking about a week or so, as there has to be a coroner’s report before they release Lily. That will take at least three days and then it may be another two or three days after that before I can bring her home, but I’ll let you know,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll wait to hear, then, and thank you,’ he said, hanging up.

  I got straight onto the company and explained the situation. They were prepared to come and take a look at Lily after the case was cleared by the coroner’s court.

  I’d put myself well and truly on the line, as we’d never done anything like it before. All I could do now was pray that it would be a success.

  Lily had to be autopsied as, even though it seemed clear cut that she’d slipped on the icy road running to get to school, and had fallen under the wheels of a tram, it had to be confirmed that it was in fact a tragic road traffic accident, and not the result of a heart attack, haemorrhage or some other reason. Autopsies are always used where there is a sudden death, such as a murder, road accident or where a GP isn’t able to accurately state the cause of death. It normally took around three days for the report to reach the coroner, who would then decide if the case could be closed or left open for more witness statements to be collected and studied.

  Professor Keith Simpson was the Home Office Pathologist at that time. A genius in his field, he was one of the original forensic pathologists. When he worked on a murder case his findings could hang a man or free him; he was revolutionary for his time. He arrived at the West Ham Mortuary, where Lily had been taken, to perform the autopsy. I was there when he arrived, dressed impeccably in his bowler hat and three-piece suit. He was accompanied by an extremely attractive woman in a fur hat and coat. They both entered the mortuary. A while later, just as I was preparing to leave, I noticed the mortuary door had been left slightly ajar. I could hear a clicking sound coming from inside. I couldn’t resist taking a peek, and crept up to stare through the crack in the door. There he was, bent over Lily, his jacket removed and replaced by an apron, but still firmly placed on his head was his bowler hat. Sitting on the opposite side of the room was his secretary, still in her fur hat, typing up his report on her portable typewriter.

  His report was later forwarded to the Coroner’s Office, and it was clear from the results and the statements taken from the eye witnesses that this was an accident. She had been a perfectly healthy twelve-year-old but on that freezing morning fate had cruelly intervened and her young life was tragically lost.

  After the hearing I made another visit to see Mr and Mrs Rickwood. I needed a recent photo of Lily, so the reconstruction team could recreate her to as near a likeness as possible. When I told them she would be back in three days, they were thrilled. I know it sounds odd when you say words like thrilled, but they were getting their daughter back when they thought they would never be able to see her again.

  When they started work she had in fact been dead for five days. I had been concerned that she would have started to decompose while we waited for the reports to be completed. Chiller units in which to keep bodies had yet to become available. But luckily the weather had been bitterly cold over that week, so the body had been well-preserved.

  Firstly she was embalmed, and then they spent three days working on her head and face. It was painstaking but the end result was fantastic, and you would never have known that she’d sustained any injury. They were masters of their craft, and I often thought what a wonderful skill it was to be able to bring a person who’d been so badly injured back to their families looking the way they did before. The satisfaction from accomplishing that type of work must have been so rewarding.

  When Lily was ready, I delivered her back home; we carried her in and placed her casket on two easels in the front room. Her mum and dad stayed in the back room until she was settled. I then called them in.

  They stood at the door threshold, Mr Rickwood’s arm around his wife’s shoulder; they looked as if they had aged twenty years.

  As they both walked tentatively forward they were not looking into the coffin. Mr Rickwood was staring straight ahead, and his wife’s head was buried into his neck, her left hand clutching onto his shirt.

  He looked first. I’d never heard such an intake of breath. ‘Oh, my God! My sweet girl . . .’ His voice trailed off and he stood with tears streaming down his face. Then his wife opened her eyes and looked up at him. ‘Tony, I can’t look, I just can’t!’ she sobbed, her knuckles turning white as her hand clenched and unclenched on his chest.

  ‘She’s beautiful, Jean, please look, it’s alright, really it is.’

  She slowly turned her head to look down. As her eyes reached her daughter, her hand shot to her mouth. ‘Oh, Tony!’ she said, looking up at her husband. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it, our beautiful baby . . . she’s here!’ She stroked her daughter’s jet-black hair. ‘Oh, Lily, darling, darling Lily. We’ve missed you so much.’ She stood there for a few minutes, staring as if hypnotised.

  I gently cleared my throat. I knew they’d forgotten I was there. ‘I’ll make my own way out,’ I said softly.

  Mrs Rickwood was in a world of her own and my speaking had jarred her from her thoughts. She dragged her gaze away. ‘Oh I’m so sorry, Mr Cribb, it’s just that I can’t believe it!’ She then took my hand. ‘We can’t thank you enough, can we, Tony,’ she said, looking around at him. ‘We never thought we’d see her again but you brought her back to us as you said you would. Thank you, thank you so much.’ And she turned back to look at her daughter.

  I left them both standing by the coffin. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that they’d stayed in that room together for the remaining days before the funeral was held; they looked to me as if they would’ve been happy to stay there forever. I couldn’t have been happier with the outcome. The Rickwoods had got their lovely daughter back to say their goodbyes.

  It had been my first embalming and reconstruction, but it certainly wouldn’t be my last. So many people heard the news about Lily that their negative thoughts about embalming changed overnight.

  On the beautiful wreath of lilies that Mr and Mrs Rickwood placed on top of their daughter’s casket, the card read:

  A beautiful flower, lent not given, to bud on earth and bloom in heaven.

  13

  A New Start

  1955 (age 27)

  ‘Good morning, Uncle,’ I said cheerfully, as I walked through the shop door one morning. I’d been on holiday to the Isle of Wight for a fortnight with Joan, who was now expecting our second child. We’d had a wonderful time visiting my parents, who were thoroughly enjoying their retirement. I was feeling very relaxed and happy to be back at work.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, boy,’ he answered, as he looked up at me from reading his morning Daily Sketch.

  I wanted to say, ‘Well, aren’t we full of the joys of spring?’ But I didn’t.

  It was funny, really. I was in my late twenties, we’d worked together for thirteen years, and yet I still had to watch how I spoke to him. I wouldn’t have dared to say something like that, as I would’ve been
scared stiff of his response. Nephew or not, I knew he wouldn’t have any hesitation in sacking me. But as children we were always taught to be respectful of our elders. Even if you didn’t agree with them you would never have dreamt of answering them back, or being ‘lippy’.

  So all I said was, ‘How’s business been?’ as I sat down opposite him.

  ‘Not turned a wheel since you been gone,’ he said looking concerned.

  ‘What! Not one funeral in over two weeks?’ I was amazed.

  ‘No, not even an enquiry . . . nothing. God knows what we’re going to do.’

  ‘What can we do? We’ll just have to ride it out. It’s got to turn around,’ I said encouragingly.

  But it didn’t; in fact it got much worse.

  During one month we held only two funerals. Uncle and I were going without wages in order that the staff would be able to take some money home. Things were dire, and how we didn’t go under heaven only knows. Thank goodness I still had my smallholding to help supplement us.

  I’ve no doubt the problem was caused by so many people being killed during the war or having been made homeless, deciding they would take the opportunity to move away rather than stay in the area.

  When you think of the devastation the war caused you can understand why there was such a shortage of people. In the first five months of the Blitz in the London area alone 33,757 houses had been bombed beyond repair, 123,395 were seriously damaged, but were able to be repaired, and 379,140 had been damaged but needed smaller repairs. The Ministry of Home Security was in charge and everything was paid for out of the ‘War Fund’. They estimated it would cost them £750 (equivalent to around £30,000 in today’s money) to rebuild a destroyed house, £100 for the major damage to be repaired and £30 for minor damage. Now this is the amazing part: the total bill had in that short time already reached £113,115,390 and we still had months and months of heavy bombing raids to endure. It’s remarkable how the country survived with that debt, let alone our small business. After two horrendous years, towards the end of 1947, things had gradually started to turn around. It had been an incredibly hard time, putting all of us under immense pressure.

  After the New Year, I knew I had to sit down with Tom and discuss where we were going with the business. I hated the thought of these ‘chats’, as he was such a difficult man to talk to, especially as he grew older. He just wouldn’t deal with things and I would become frustrated with his lack of communication. To tell you the God’s honest truth, it got me down so much that sometimes I went home and wept into my pillow. I know it sounds weak on my part, but I had so much respect for him and, as I said, to answer back or be confrontational just wasn’t an option, so I had to deal with it in my own way.

  It’s peculiar, isn’t it, how you live with certain things for years and years then one day everything looks different? You can’t explain why, but all of a sudden you’ve noticed it. That’s exactly what happened to me.

  I was outside the shop this particular morning, rooted to the spot, staring at the front. I’d got so used to seeing it, I didn’t notice it any more. I studied it closely. How in heaven’s name had it stayed standing for so long? It was literally on the verge of collapse.

  It hadn’t been touched since the first night of the Blitz which, if you remember, was 1940. So, for over fifteen years, it had remained in the same condition. It was leaning over to one side, and the top windows were boarded up, as well as half of the ones below. One of the top windows had a gap in it, which had encouraged, it seemed, the entire pigeon population of the East End to roost in the attic and top floor. When it came to the signage, the gold leaf lettering spelling out our name was barely legible through rain damage. It was in a shocking state . . . something had to be done.

  This is no way to run a business, I thought. No wonder people aren’t coming in; they probably think we’ve closed up. Even though I was out there nearly every day, polishing the front step and cleaning what was left of the windows and scrubbing the floorboards inside, until they were bleached white, it was, as the saying goes, ‘trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear’, and I’d had enough.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked inside. Uncle was sitting, as usual, by the desk reading the newspaper and enjoying his early morning cup of tea and a Woodbine.

  ‘What are we going to do about this shop? We can’t go on like this,’ I said, as forcefully as I could.

  ‘Blimey! Who’s rattled your cage? Bursting in here all stroppy . . . what’s brought this on, had a row with Joan?’ he asked, looking at me, while at the same time annoyingly licking his finger to turn the pages of the paper.

  ‘No, I haven’t had a row with Joan. Have you looked at the state of this shop? It’s a health hazard. The thing’s going to fall in on us soon.’

  ‘Of course I’ve looked at the sodding shop. I sit here all day. What d’you think I’m looking at? There’s no way I can afford to do any work. We’ve barely got enough money to survive, and I haven’t heard the council banging on the door offering to help – they’re happy enough to take the rent every week though, aren’t they? I resigned myself a long time ago to the fact that if the place falls down, it falls down . . . nothing I can do about it, boy,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Oh, charming!’ I said. ‘But we can’t leave it like this . . . it’s ridiculous!’ I was starting to get worked up at his casual attitude. ‘I’m going to ring the council to see what they can do.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, good luck there. After the last fiasco at Lansdowne Road, I won’t hold my breath.’

  Several years beforehand our garages and stables in Lansdowne Road had been taken off us by the council, under a compulsory purchase order. Tom was completely devastated by this, as his father had purchased the land back in 1881, when he started out in the business, and it should’ve been worth a lot of money, but he ended up getting virtually nothing for it. This had made him very bitter and suspicious of anything involving the council.

  ‘We’ve no alternative,’ I said. ‘So I might as well ring them, what’ve we got to lose?’

  That afternoon I spoke to a Mr Fletcher from West Ham Council. I announced who I was, and where I was calling from, and told him I’d like to discuss the situation regarding our premises.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Cribb, yes, of course – if you just give me a moment I’ll retrieve your file,’ he said. A few minutes later he came back on the line. ‘Sorry, but I have no record of you.’

  ‘No record?’ I replied. ‘But there must be!’

  ‘No, definitely not. I’ve checked the files and there’s nothing there,’ he explained.

  ‘Well, for the last thirty years we’ve been paying rent every Friday to a man on a bike called Eric, so I don’t know where that’s been going,’ I said angrily.

  ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘How very odd. I’ll look into it some more and I’ll get back to you, if I may. But before I go, could you explain to me what the actual enquiry is concerning?’

  ‘Yes, of course. The premises were badly damaged during the Blitz. In fact, we were the only shop left standing after that first night of bombings and we carried on throughout the entire war with a half-bombed shop. It’s crooked, the top windows are boarded up, as well as half of the bottom ones, and we’d like the council to carry out repairs for us, as we can’t continue working under these conditions,’ I explained.

  I could hear him scribbling away at the other end. ‘Right you are, then, got everything I need. I’ll contact you by letter in the next week or so. Goodbye.’ He then hung up.

  Not registered. How could that be? We’d been paying rent for so many years to this man Eric, so where had it been going? Perhaps he was pretending to be from the council and just pocketing the money – stranger things have happened. But thinking about it afterwards, I thought it odd that we’d never had a rent increase. I couldn’t tell you how long we’d been paying £1.10s a week, but it was for as long as I could remember. Maybe I had stirred up a hornets’ nest and things would bec
ome a whole lot worse.

  I told Uncle that I’d spoken to them but not the details of the conversation – only that they would look into it and write back shortly.

  ‘Can’t wait!’ he said sarcastically.

  It was about two weeks later when the letter dropped on the mat. I quickly tore it open. It read in bold letters: ‘Notice to Quit’. We had to vacate the premises by 1 September – six months away. Heaven help me, what had I done?

  ‘I told you not to start making yourself busy, didn’t I?’ Uncle shouted across the shop. ‘You just can’t resist it, can you, poking your nose in? I knew no good would come out of it. Now what are we supposed to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, my voice echoing vacantly around the room. I was devastated.

  ‘No, of course you don’t know, that’s always been your sodding trouble.’ I called Mr Fletcher several times but all he said was, ‘Sorry, Mr Cribb, out of my hands now – nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.’

  What was the point? It was all over.

  A couple of months went by, and I’d started to feel very down. Uncle was down too but we had no choice but to carry on until the last. I was polishing a coffin in the front window one day when the door opened and in walked a young man.

  He was dressed very fashionably; his ginger hair was slicked back with a quiff at the front; he had drainpipe trousers and winkle-picker shoes, a jacket with leather patches on the elbows, a white shirt and a ‘slim Jim’ tie.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Are you Mr Thomas Cribb?’

  ‘No, that’s my uncle. He’s out the back. I’ll go and fetch him for you. Who should I say is calling?’

  ‘Mr Anchor. I’m the Junior Architect from Stratford Council,’ he explained.

  The council . . . what on earth was this about?

  I walked out to the office. ‘Chap here from the council to see you.’