He never openly showed affection, but one evening he squeezed her hand and muttered, ‘You’re a good girl, Julia, the only one left. Go to that cupboard and get the box out. I haven’t seen it for years; we’ll look at it together.’
Julia did as she was bid. Her father sat up in bed, his eyes bright, his breathing laboured.
‘Open it, lass, will you? I can’t any more.’
Opening the box, so long unopened, revealed more of her father than anything else could have done. Inside was a jumble of children’s toys and books, colouring pencils, pictures drawn by a childish hand, a small teddy bear and a china doll. At the bottom was a wooden Noah’s Ark.
‘Get it out, Julie, we must look at it.’
Julia opened it up and took out the wooden animals. Her father chuckled.
‘I remember you all playing with these. Do you?’
Of course she did, and the memory nearly choked her. He fingered the giraffe, and the lion, and the ghosts of her brothers seemed to enter the room.
‘There’s another box in there. Lift it out, will you?’
She did so, and it was full of toy soldiers. Her father handled them eagerly, his eyes bright.
‘I bought these as a birthday present, once. The boys played with them for hours.’
The dying man closed his eyes.
‘I can see them now, all over the floor with their soldier games.’
Julia looked at him, and a wave of tenderness swept over her. ‘All gone, all dead,’ he murmured, and his hand fell limply on the counterpane. But then he brightened. ‘There’s a little cotton bag in the bottom; pull it out.’ Inside the bag were some hair ribbons and a child’s bolero, the ones he had asked her to send to Gillian for her birthday when the family were in Skegness. He took the bolero, which was made of soft angora, and rubbed it up and down his cheek. ‘Is there a card there? Read it to me, will you?’ Julia read the card from Gillian, which said how lovely the bolero was, and how she wore it all the time and would not take it off. Her father chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t take it off, bless her,’ but then his face crumpled, and tears started in his eyes. He turned his head away quickly, ashamed of his weakness. ‘Go and get a cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’
Julia left the bedroom in tears. So he had cared after all, and she had not known it. She lit the gas stove, put the kettle on and drew the kitchen curtains. The sounds from the pub were starting downstairs, but she hardly noticed them any more; they were just part of life. The singing and dancing would begin soon, but she no longer resented them. She sat down at the kitchen table and leaned her head on her arms and sobbed. Why was he dying now, just when she was getting to know him? He was the father she had never had but had always wanted, because all girls want a father to love.
The tears did her good. She stood up and washed her eyes in cold water, then made the tea and returned with it to the sick room.
Her father appeared to be asleep, with toys and books and childish things all around him, so she decided not to disturb him. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down beside him. She took his hand, and he responded with a little squeeze; the other hand held the fluffy pink bolero. He stirred a little. ‘Do you want that cup of tea, Dad?’ she whispered. ‘By and by,’ he croaked, ‘by and by,’ and he drifted off to sleep again. She sat quietly beside him, as the sounds of ‘Pack up yer troubles’ floated upstairs. She shut the window, but he roused again. ‘No, don’t do that. It’s nice to hear them enjoying themselves.’ She opened it again and the shouts of ‘.... in yer ol’ kit bag and smile, smile, smile’ came flooding in. ‘Smile,’ he croaked. ‘That’s what we gotta do. It’s a funny old world, eh, Julie?’ And he drifted off into sleep once more.
Julia sat beside him for several hours; she couldn’t bring herself to leave him. Darkness fell, and the tea grew cold. The noise from the pub ceased at closing time but continued in the street for a while. Raucous shouts and shrill cries grew fainter as the customers wandered or staggered away to their homes. A few tuneless attempts at a song, accompanied by a guffaw of laughter – and then all was quiet.
Julia fell asleep in her chair, and when she awoke the Master of the Master’s Arms was dead, surrounded by children’s toys.
THE MISTRESS
I saw pale kings and princes too
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’
‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’, by John Keats
Julia was so accustomed to death in her family that she was neither afraid nor surprised when she found her father had died in his sleep. She waited till morning and then called the doctor. When Terry came up with the previous day’s account of sales he questioned if they should close the pub for the day. She thought for a moment and then said no, her father would not have wished it – business as usual. But she told him to put a notice on the bar informing all customers and requesting quiet, out of respect for the Master.
Two days later a lawyer called. He informed Julia that she was the sole inheritor of the Master’s Arms, of the buildings and all its assets, subject to a life annuity for Mrs Masterton. The will had been made six years earlier. Julia was shattered. The inheritance of the pub had not crossed her mind. If she had thought of it at all, it was only in a vague way, as though a business can carry on by itself. Her first words to the lawyer were ‘What am I going to do?’ He explained that she could sell the freehold to one of the big brewers, and that he would arrange the business side of things for her. ‘You will be a wealthy woman,’ he added.
Julia was a mere twenty-three years old, and the large inheritance overwhelmed her. When the lawyer had gone she wandered around the flat in a daze. She made her way down to the bar, and the staff and several lunchtime customers came over to her with words of sympathy. She went down to the cellar and looked at the huge barrels, the crates of stock and the bottles lining the walls. It was all hers. She felt numb with shock, and her mind was in turmoil. She returned to the flat and sat for a long time in the window seat overlooking the street. She watched the women gossiping or passing by, many pushing prams, going in and out of the little shops, some now and then making a furtive entry into a pawn-shop. Two barrow boys were arguing over a pitch. She heard children’s voices from a nearby school. There was a street sweeper with his hand-cart. A woman flower-seller trundling along with her basket. A group of seamen in clogs and a Chinaman with a pigtail went past. A woman opposite was scrubbing and whitening her front doorstep. A shopkeeper in his long green apron was sweeping the pavement in front of his store. The lawyer had told Julia that she could sell and she would be a wealthy woman. But sitting in the window and watching the street scene had a calming effect on Julia, and she realised, for the first time, that she was amongst her own people, and that this was where she belonged. The memory of her father’s hard work and pride in his achievement, and that of her grandparents, brought with it a proud and stubborn resolution: she would not sell, she would be the fifth-generation landlord of the Master’s Arms.
The staff cheered when she told them of her decision, but were dubious, because she was a woman. They had not taken into account Julia’s determination to succeed. Knowing that she was little more than a girl taking on a man’s job, her instinct told her that she would have to be the undisputed boss from the very beginning.
She immersed herself in the business, taking over her father’s office, and apart from cleaning it up a bit and introducing flowers and some pictures, she changed very little. She poured over the ledgers and on her own initiative drew a graph of sales and purchases throughout the year, which was pinned to the wall, giving an immediate visual record of profit and loss. She familiarised herself with suppliers and visited breweries and distilleries, causing quite a stir among the men, who had never seen a woman publican before, still less a young and pretty one. But Julia was always reserved and serious-looking, which did not invite cat-calls or lewd comments. In all this Terry was
indispensable to her, and, knowing that she could not succeed without him, she raised his wages.
Each day she spent a great deal of time in the bar, watching how a pub was run, and admiring the skill and speed of the barmen. But when one of them slipped his arm around her waist and murmured that she needed a man’s help now, and if they married they could make a real success of it, she slapped his face and sacked him. She also sacked one of the barmaids who took the liberty of calling her ‘Julia’, with the cold words ‘My name is Miss Masterton.’ There were no more ‘Julias’ after that, and the rest of the staff were quietly respectful. She had Terry’s unqualified support, but she knew that she needed another man, preferably one with fighting skills, and she found one in Chubb, an ex-professional heavyweight with a broken nose and no front teeth. He was running to fat, and of limited intelligence, but the hammer fists and ingrown profile ensured that no one would knock his beer over to see how he took it. Chubb and Terry served her with dog-like devotion, and she rewarded them accordingly.
Within a few weeks she was known as the Mistress of the Master’s Arms, a title in which she took great pride. Several of the big breweries offered to buy her out, but she refused them all, preferring to run a free house.
Every day she was in the bar, memorising and ordering stock, overseeing sales, bar and table service, and the hundred and one other things involved in running a pub. The local customers were intrigued by the new Mistress, who was always courteous and welcoming, but never over-friendly or familiar. She was even around during the sing-song and knees-up. She never joined in, but just stood quietly, watching and smiling. Chubb the Brawn was never far from her, and if anything got too rowdy a look from Julia and a movement from Chubb would put a stop to it instantly. In observing and analysing the people who came in, Julia realised that the pub and its atmosphere were an essential outlet for high spirits in her Cockney clients. One thing, however, had always made her unhappy, and that was seeing children hanging around the doors of the pub waiting for their parents. She was determined to do something about it. There was no point in refusing admission to the parent; they would merely move on to the next pub, and probably wallop the children as well. So she got the men to clear one of the stock rooms which was quite separate from the licensed premises, and turned it into a children’s room. This was a completely new idea. A lot of people were scornful, but it worked, and sales increased.
It was 1937 when the Master died and Julia took over. Rumours of war were spreading all over Europe. No one believed, or wanted to believe, it could happen so soon after the last war, but Churchill thundered on about the dangers, and the Government dithered about rearmament. Two years passed, and in September 1939 war was declared. ‘It will all be over by Christmas,’ everyone said cheerfully. But it wasn’t, and a year later on 30 September 1940, the bombing of London started with a ferocity hitherto undreamed of. For fifty-seven nights an average of 200 German bombers a night attacked London, aiming mainly at the Docklands. Acres of housing were destroyed, many were killed, and thousands of people made homeless. Noise, destruction, burning and death filled the streets, and each night nobody knew if they would live to see the morning.
The Master’s Arms in Poplar was in the thick of it, and the chances of a direct hit, killing all inside, were pretty high. Julia felt she ought to close the pub and move to the safety of the countryside, but seeing the relief occasioned by the pub’s warm and welcoming atmosphere made her hesitate. One day she was standing at the door, looking at the smoke and the devastation all around, and the rescue workers digging in the rubble for survivors, when a little old woman caught her eye. She was typical of the older generation of Cockneys – tiny, skinny, bright-eyed, toothless, with straggly grey hair beneath a greasy greyish cap and wearing a long, frowsty coat, of that indescribable colour created by age, damp and decay. She was standing in the street, smacking her lips and grunting to herself. An ambulance worker came up to her and said kindly, ‘Are you all right, mother?’ Quick as a flash she replied, ‘All right? ’course I’m bleedin’ all right! Vat bugger Hitler, ’e’s bombed me ’ouse, ’ard luck, ’e’s killed me ol’ man, good riddance, ’e’s got me boys – vey’re all fightin’ in ve war – ’e’s got me girls, vey’re somewhere, dunno where. But ’e aint got me. An’ I got sixpence ’ere in me pocket, an’ ve Master’s Arms is open.’ She grabbed his arm and grinned a toothless grin. ‘So let’s go in, mate, an’ ’ave a drink an’ a sing-song.’
That old woman banished Julia’s indecision. She would not abandon her people. She would stick it out. If they wanted a drink and a sing-song, they should have it. She would not close the pub. Most of her staff were being called up into the services – all the young men went, including Terry – but she managed to keep going on a skeleton staff. Then a draft came from the Ministry requiring her services as an experienced telegraphist. She had to obey, so she worked all day in the telegraph office and all evening in the pub. Her office work was squeezed in after the pub closed. With a routine working day of about eighteen hours, she was always tired. But she survived, and the Master’s Arms stayed open all through the war.
Julia had always been a remote, self-contained person, and the war years intensified this side of her personality. Life was hard, she could see the evidence all around her, and she could see little to smile about. She had loved her mother, whom she continued to meet occasionally, and her brothers and sisters, now dead; she had even grown to love her father at the very end of his life, when it was too late. But apart from that, love had not touched her and local people always said, ‘She’s a typical old maid.’
But one should never judge from appearances. Still waters run deep, and in wartime love affairs are intense, complicated, sometimes fleeting, but passionate.
Like a thunderbolt of God’s grace, a man from RAF Intelligence Service walked into the telegraph exchange. He was twenty-five years older than she was, and married, but they loved with passionate intensity. They met seldom, and she never knew where he was stationed, because it was top security, but it made no difference. Their moments together were ecstatic and life-renewing. They gave themselves to each other, body and soul, because they both knew that they might never meet again. Death, if it came, would be swift and violent; it could come at any time, and neither would know the fate of the other.
It was 1945. Everyone knew that the war was coming to an end, and there was a lightness of heart in the air. In the Master’s Arms each evening drinking and singing continued, and Julia watched her customers with quiet satisfaction. Against all odds the pub had never closed, and by a miracle it stood undamaged, alone amid streets of rubble.
And another miracle was about to happen; Julia realised that she was pregnant. At first she was fearful, but when she felt the quickening of new life within her, a thrill of unspeakable joy flooded her whole body. She was going to have his baby. Her love affair, lasting three years, had always been fraught with as much sorrow as joy; the stolen hours were always too brief, and the partings always agony. They both knew that, even if they survived the war, they would lose each other in the end, because he was a married man. The heartbreak was overpowering when the final parting came. But now his child was growing within her, and she could never be wholly separated from him. She thrilled with happiness. The child would always be with her, the consummation of her first and only love.
A baby girl was born and filled Julia’s life with a happiness she had never dared hope for. All her maternal instincts of love and protection were focused on the baby and her life was emotionally complete. She continued to run the pub with her usual efficiency, and she engaged a nanny each evening when she needed to be downstairs in the bar. Terry had returned from war service and resumed his job, as manager, so she had more time to spend with her baby. People talked, of course, – people always do – and a baby born out of wedlock was a juicy subject for gossip. Some said, ‘She’s a dark ’orse,’ while others said, ‘She’s no better ’an she should be,’ but Julia was
not perturbed. People had always talked about her, and she had always been indifferent to their comments. Nothing could spoil her happiness, and her staff noticed a softening in her eyes and a radiance in her features that they had never seen before.
It was 1957 when I first saw Miss Masterton, twenty years after she had taken over the Master’s Arms from her father. It was my day off, which happened to be on a Saturday, and I had been showing my West End friends, Jimmy and Mike, and some of their set, around the Docks. We ended the day in the Master’s Arms. There was a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere, and we settled down for a good session. The pub filled up as the evening wore on – local people on their night out, looking for fun. The war had changed much, but not the Cockney’s appetite for bawdy enjoyment. A pianist started to bang out ‘Doin’ the Lambeth Walk, hoi!’ and within seconds everyone joined in, con belto style. Glasses were raised with every ‘oi!’ which grew louder and louder with each refrain. Bodies swayed in rhythm, and beer was spilled. Our group sat in a corner and exchanged surprised glances. ‘This is going to be fun,’ we muttered. Then a group of girls got up, linked arms and started a side-kick routine to the ‘Lambeth Walk’, which went on and on, till they sank down exhausted amid cheers and whistles. ‘Run rabbit run’ followed, and several old music hall songs. Someone got up and acted as chorus master with an ‘all together now ...’ and the pub was filled with raucous voices splitting their vocal cords. It was impossible to hear yourself speak, so we just sat back and enjoyed it.
One woman in particular caught my eye. She was standing behind the bar. She was about forty-five, was well-dressed and good-looking, but was not the typical barmaid. She was quietly pleasant to all her customers, but in a subtle way, seemingly detached from everything around her. Yet at the same time she was obviously watching everyone and everything that was going on. A group sitting by the door began to get a bit quarrelsome, one man shouting at and threatening another. The woman stepped out from behind the bar and walked towards the table. She did not say a word; she just looked at the two men and, somewhat shamefaced, they sat down. There was no more trouble. Her whole aspect exuded quiet self-confidence, but when you looked at her face there was something missing, something in the eyes that I could not define; a sort of blank, vacant expression, as though she was looking at people but not seeing them, or looking through and beyond them to something that was not there.
Farewell To The East End Page 18
