by Sue Taylor
Jellied Eels and Zeppelins
Witness to a vanished age
Sue Taylor
First published in 2003 by
Thorogood Publishing Ltd
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London EC2A 3DU
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© Sue Taylor 2003
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Paperback ISBN 978-185418606-5
ePub ISBN 978-1854187017-0
ePub created by Thorogood Publishing Ltd
For Mum, Dad and Ethel
Acknowledgements
Writing this book was never going to be easy. I mean, how do you cram more than 90 years of someone’s life into the pages of a book? Ethel’s recollections are countless. However, we had to stop somewhere and had it not been for the help of the following people, compiling the book would have certainly proved more difficult:
BBC Essex, Angie and my mother-in-law, Dorothy (known as Dot), for first putting me in contact with Ethel; and Dot also for her knowledge of the East End and the Second World War; my family and friends for all their support, especially Hayley and Gaynor for their computer skills; Ethel’s friends, relatives and neighbours for looking after her so well, especially Rosemary, who often made notes when Ethel remembered something in my absence; staff at the London Borough of Waltham Council and at the Vestry House Museum for assisting with my enquiries; all at Thorogood (especially Angela), and at Acorn Magazines (especially Pippa); and last, but by no means least, Ethel herself, for her kindness, sense of humour and friendship, and for making my visits so enjoyable. Thank you Ethel, for sharing your memories.
Sue Taylor
Foreword
In the summer of 1999, Ethel May Elvin was sitting in her cosy kitchen listening to the radio. She had it tuned to BBC Essex when an elderly lady phoned in to talk about life during the 20th century. Ethel was then in her 90th year, older than the caller and yearning to relate her own experiences. Indeed, friends and relatives had often encouraged her to write her memoirs, but with poor eyesight (she had cataracts at the time, but has since had them removed) and arthritis in her hands and legs (caused, she believes ‘by sitting in the dugouts during the Blitz with me feet in water!’), she realised that she needed some help. So, with the assistance of the BBC Essex Helpline and my attentive mother-in-law and her friend Angie who had been listening, I was put in contact with Ethel and recorded the first of many interviews on 17th August 1999. The resultant six articles were published in the Essex Magazine in 2001.
Since our first meeting, I have come not only to admire, respect and be amazed by Ethel’s remarkable memory, but to regard her as a special friend and a truly inspirational character.
That Ethel survived at all - considering the fact that she was a child of ‘delicate health’ and escaped the dreaded ‘Spanish Flu’ pandemic of 1918/1919 as well as both World Wars, including the London Blitz, is a feat in itself. That she should have come out of it with such an amazing capacity to laugh - even now that she is housebound for most of the time - is incredible.
This book is one woman’s journey through life in the 20th century from Walthamstow E17, where she was at first her father’s unwanted daughter, to Doddinghurst village, just a few miles north of Brentwood, Essex, where she and her husband, Joe, made the bricks to build their own house. There might not be many miles between the two places, but there are certainly many memories during this long journey. ‘Jellied Eels and Zeppelins’ is a tribute to all those who helped Ethel on her way. I feel immensely privileged to have worked on it. Not only have I got to know a most remarkable lady, but I have been able to gain an invaluable first-hand insight into what life was like for ordinary working-class families from the beginning of the 1900’s.
Ethel Elvin as a young woman
But Ethel isn’t ‘ordinary’ - not really, not by today’s standards. She, and many others of her generation, showed - and still do - immense courage, fortitude and spirit, not only when it was needed, but throughout their lives.
This is Ethel’s story, told mostly in her own words with respect and devotion, sorrow and acceptance, humour and tenacity. It’s in her words, because it’s better that way.
Some of the names of the people in this book have been changed to protect their right to privacy.
Sue Taylor
Part One
1909-1923
One
Chocolates and Shoe Leather
‘I was born at Cassiobury Road, Walthamstow, on 16th November 1909, to Edwin and Florence Turner, and was of such delicate health that my mother received an extra four shillings a week from the War Office for me.
When I had a bath, Mum said that I made her feel sick, I was so skinny. My sister, Florrie, was the fat one. She had a podgy face and she used to play with the kids in the garden. She was the king of the kids at our school, she used to be the boss, ‘cos she was the eldest.
Cousin Flo’s mum brought me into the world. Dad wouldn’t look at me ‘til I was a year old. Uncle Charlie - Dad’s eldest brother - lived downstairs and Mum and Dad lived upstairs, and he came home from work and came up to my Mum in bed and said ‘What yer got?’ Mum said ‘Another girl.’ Uncle Charlie said ‘What’s Ted got to say about that?’ My mum said ‘He won’t even look at ‘er.’ Charlie said ‘Miserable ol’ so-and-so!’ Mother said that Dad was so mad that she’d had another girl that he stomped into the kitchen and the china fell off the dresser and made me nervous. I had a touch of what they called St. Vitus’s dance over it when I was a baby.
You know what Uncle Charlie did? We ‘ad four brass knobs on the bedpost. He went out and bought me a pair of little mittens and a pair of socks and stuck ‘em on each of the knobs and said ‘There you are, you poor little soul. If your father won’t buy you anything, then I will!’
In about 1916, Mum miscarried a boy. I think I was about six. Dad put me down all the same… But I remember that Cousin Flo’s brother, Herbert, when he was born, he was that tiny, you could have put him in a pint jug. My Dad wanted to adopt him when Aunt Flo died and my uncle said ‘No, you’re not going to have my son just ‘cos you can’t have one of your own!’ And I remember that so clearly. My Dad wanted to adopt him and that stuck in my mind. Funny isn’t it?’
Ethel believes that her father’s wish for a son in an age when men did most of the manual work, was why he taught her how to ‘mend shoes, hang wallpaper and bang in nails. It was always me who had to help ‘im, never Florrie.’
Ethel remembers helping her father mend their shoes: ‘It was the first time he called me Jane. I was only about six or seven. I never questioned him and, after that, he always called me Jane and I never knew why.’
Edwin’s way, like many others of his generation, was never to show affection: ‘He never kissed me once and I never ki
ssed him. He showed Florrie more affection than me. And yet, when he was ill in hospital towards the end of his life, he turned to me and said ‘You’ve been a good daughter to me’. But I did have great respect for my father. I always did as I was told. The only time I ever answered him back was when I was 24 and broke up with a chap that he liked. Florrie argued with him a bit, but not me. We never held much conversation with Dad. He just used to tell you what you had to do. ‘Jane!!’ he used to shout in his booming voice. When I looked after him in his later years, when he was being stubborn, he said once ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you’re my daughter!’ I said ‘Yes, and I’m an old age pensioner too!!’
1910: Ethel Elvin’s mother, father and sister Florrie. Ethel is on her mother’s knee
He had a voice that boomed ‘cos of his time in the army during the First World War, when he told the men what to do. He frightened the life out of me when he shouted. I only had to look in his icy blue eyes and I was gone. He had that Sergeant Major look, I used to call it, and that was enough. I never used to stop and argue. I knew better than that. He didn’t believe in hitting kiddies though.’
Ethel’s father, mother and sister Florrie
One particular occasion that Ethel remembers well, was when her elder sister, Florrie had been misbehaving all day:
‘Mum told her to go along to the local hardware store, to buy a cane. The first time Florrie returned with a bundle of wood for lighting the fire. Mum sent her back again. This time, naughty Florrie had bought candles, so Mum ordered her to return to the shop. On the third occasion, my sister had bought the cane and Mum hung it over the line above the fireplace, telling her that if she misbehaved again, she’d get the cane across her legs. When Dad came home and saw it, he was furious. He grabbed it and whacked it behind Mum’s ankles telling her sternly: ‘Does that hurt? Now you know what it feels like. Don’t ever let me see you hitting those children!’ Then he broke the cane in half and threw it away.
That was the only time I ever saw him hit my Mum. He didn’t believe in hitting women. He reckoned it was disgusting. But he done that on her legs to prove to her how much it hurt - what it felt like. She weren’t allowed to smack us, but my sister used to say, when my mum gave her a wallop now and again, ‘cos she was a little devil, ‘I’ll tell Dad!’
Dad was a complex character. He never saw us kids go without anything. He was good - we never had no luxuries, just the bare things. My Dad always used to provide us with food, clothing and shoe leather. He made sure we never had wet feet and that there was food in our bellies. That’s what I mean when I say he was a good dad. He brought us up well, I must say that. We never had no luxuries of any sort - no sweets or anything, only when he started working at Lonco, then we used to get his free samples.’
Edwin also insisted on good manners at the dinner table. ‘We used to have to sit with our elbows in plates for one hour if we were caught with them on the table.’ The children were also never allowed to ask for anything - they had to wait to be offered.
Edwin (right), standing in front of his ‘Lonco’ van
Working as a parcel delivery man for Lipton’s-owned Lonco, Mr Turner would sometimes bring home sweet samples. On one occasion, he had with him a small box of chocolates:
Florrie‘Father offered us one each. He then offered Florrie another but not me. The next day when he was out, I decided to help myself to a chocolate. In the evening, we went to a relative’s for tea. Just before we sat down, Father told us all to be quiet. He said that we had a thief among us - someone had stolen one of his chocolates.
Well, I realised that he knew it was me, so I shot under the table and that’s where I stayed for the rest of the evening!’
Naturally, the feeling that Florrie was her father’s favourite, caused many problems between the two girls and there were the inevitable fights: ‘I used to have lots of little bruises where Florrie pinched me in the bed we shared.’
Ethel’s sister also once hit her with a stick because she refused to do the washing up when it wasn’t her turn.
Another fracas occurred one Sunday afternoon, when their father asked the two girls to go to Pops, the local publican:
‘You used to get allowed so much beer free and, as we had a relation of ours coming from Blackfriars, my Dad said to my sister and me ‘Take these two pint bottles up to Pops and get them filled up with beer’… Well, this day - it was a Sunday afternoon - we had a pint bottle each to carry up Coppermill Lane to get them filled up. We were halfway up the road, near the school, when my sister said ‘You can take the two bottles and bring them back!’ I thought ‘Why should I?’ so I put my bottle on the floor and said ‘I’m not taking it!’ She said ‘You pick that up or I’ll give you one!’ So I picked it up and knocked her on the head with it! It was a glass bottle and she went crying all the way down the road to tell Mum and Dad. I followed her. They told me to take the two bottles back up the road and get them both filled up with beer. You always get what’s coming to you.’
Ethel’s father also liked to keep up appearances when the family went out together as he was a very proud man:
‘My Dad used to take us round to relations of ours just for a little walk when we came back from Sunday School. We used to have a cup of tea and then come back for our dinner. Dad used to walk behind us and say ‘Hold your shoulders up, walk in line with the pavement!’ He used to pull our shoulders back if we didn’t do it. We used to get away with it a little bit with my mother, but not with my Dad. He made sure that we kept our feet straight, so that we didn’t get pigeon-toed. ‘Look at yourself in the shop window!’ he used to say. And, after that, we used to look in the shop windows, even when we were out on our own.
Dad wouldn’t let us read the newspapers, but, when Emily Davison threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Derby in 1913, Dad showed us the paper. He said ‘See that. That’s the sort of thing that happens when you try and control something.’(I think what he meant by ‘control’ you see, was that they was trying to control the Government). He reckoned that it was clever. He agreed with women getting the vote. He reckoned it was fair for the woman with the position she had in a man’s house, to have the vote as well. He really believed in it.’
An Act in 1918 allowed women of 30 and over, married to a property owner, or property owners themselves, to vote in elections. It wasn’t until 1928 that there was full equality, when all women over 21 were given the vote.
‘Mum was quite thrilled to be able to vote. I’ll tell you what my Mum used to do - I remember seeing her do it when I was a kid. She and her women friends, ‘cos they were in the Labour Movement too, used to pull our Labour MP’s cart up the road with him sitting in it! His name was Valentine La Touche McEntee and he was a lovely man, very helpful. You could go and talk to him. Mum was very, very keen to get the vote and never missed the chance to.
The first time I voted, I remember saying how proud I was. It was a funny feeling, when I think of it. I felt very grown up.
Some of the women were very oppressed in my day and age, especially when a lot of men were knocking them about as they used to. A lot of it went on behind closed doors. My Dad didn’t beat up my mother. He didn’t smack us either. He didn’t believe in it.’
1915-16: Ethel Elvin’s father as a military policeman in Guernsey, astride his mount ‘dolly’
Two
Busbies, Prawns and Bing, Bing, Bing!
‘My Dad was born in May 1884 and my Mum in April of the same year. Dad was the youngest of six, three boys and three girls, but the girls all died within three weeks of each other from diphtheria or scarlet fever when my father was two years old and his mother went on the drink. She came from Ireland. My grandfather used to go looking for her… she used to leave my Dad outside the pub. Then she suddenly disappeared and left him with three boys. That’s why my Dad wouldn’t often touch none of it (drink).’
Edwin’s mother was eventually tracked down to Bethnal Green, but it was left to his
wheelwright father, Charlie and his cousin, Polly from Maldon, to raise the three boys:
‘The one I used to call Gran, or Aunt Polly, was a cousin of my grandfather’s. She lived at Maldon and she’d just lost her husband. She was only a young woman and she came to look after the boys. Aunt Polly used to cook for my grandfather. My Mum used to say ‘You’ve got two grans,’ and I could never understand why. Aunt Polly - oh, she was really lovely, the sweetest old lady you could ever wish to meet, she was.’
Edwin (rear) with his two brothers. About 1890
Edwin Turner joined the army aged 17 during the Boer War, though he never saw active service: ‘He used to wear a big hat on sideways - like they did in the Boer War. He also wore a busby and that was when it was real fur. It made a dent on Dad’s nose, ‘cos it was so heavy. He stood on guard when Queen Victoria died and he said that they had to stand still for four hours then. He said that the soldiers dropped down like ninepins and they weren’t allowed to touch ‘em - they had to leave them there. But my Dad stood rock still the whole time.’
Edwin first met Ethel’s mother, Florence or Floss, as she was known, when they were at school together. Floss, the youngest of four children, was raised by her older sister, Alma, when their mother was admitted into a sanatorium after her son died from a brain disorder aged just two.
‘My Mum had brown eyes and lovely long black hair. I was told that her father was foreign and that he looked Spanish. He had curly black hair, a curly moustache and curly sideboards. When she was 17, my mother worked as a barmaid in the East End, often working until two in the morning. She couldn’t keep her flat going and, as she had to start work at five in the morning, she slept in a bath at the pub. Dad took her away and married her to stop her from getting tuberculosis! (The couple married in 1905).
Ethel’s paternal grandfather Charlie, whom she adored
My Dad very rarely drank, but, when he did, he’d only have two pints and it made him happy, ‘cos he wasn’t used to it. He came home from work one day and he was supposed to have come home mid afternoon on Saturdays for Mum to have been able to go shopping. This was just after the first war when he used to drive around London, taking stuff to the docks. He met a lot of friends from his old firm and he went out with them and didn’t come back ‘til 10. We were all sitting round, we’d just had a cup of cocoa, I’ll never forget it as long as I live. Mum couldn’t get any groceries, ‘cos she didn’t have no money and the next day was Sunday. There was my sister and her friend Edie and me and another friend of hers, I was about 14 then I think, and Dad came in. He always used to hang his coat on the kitchen door and, as my Mum took the cups out into the kitchenette to wash them up, she said ‘There’s something wrong with your father - sounds as if he’s wobbling.’
