the Jubilee party up fer the kids. ’E even got ole Misery Martin ter chip in, though Gawd knows ’ow ’e managed that. Ole Martin wouldn’t give yer the drippin’s from ’is nose!’
‘’As ’e still got that shop, Mary?’
‘Yeah. Misery’s bin there fer over twenty years. ’E’s breakin’ up now though.’
Joyce scratched the back of her head and watched the progress of a young lad who was trying to reach the table without spilling any of his soup. ‘It ain’t changed much round’ere, ’as it, Mary? D’yer remember when we was kids?’
Mary nodded her head slowly. ‘What about after work on Fridays, when we used ter go up West. We used ter dream about findin’ ourselves a couple o’ toffs, an’ what did we both end up wiv? Two lads from Tower Bridge Road.’
Joyce sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t give my Arfur up fer no bloody toff.’
‘No, nor would I,’ Mary said. ‘My Frank’s as good as gold. It makes yer fink, though, don’t it?’
The hooter sounded and there was a noisy scraping of chairs as the workforce started to leave the canteen. Mary gathered up her handbag and waited while Joyce looked at her reflection in the small mirror once more.
‘You mind yer don’t wipe an ’ole in that plate, Pete,’ Mary said with mock seriousness to the young lad who was busy mopping up the last of his soup with a hunk of bread.
Pete ignored the jibe and burped loudly as he pushed the plate to one side.
‘C’mon, Joyce. It’s like feedin’ time at the zoo round ’ere,’ Mary groaned.
Chapter Eight
Connie spent another quiet Christmas with the Bartletts. Kate was settled in the sanatorium and her condition had improved slightly, although her cough was still giving her trouble. Helen was now going out early each morning to do office cleaning, and Matthew was supplementing his dole money by selling bits and pieces of haberdashery from a suitcase in the East End markets. Every Monday morning Helen Bartlett would take her best pair of sheets to the pawnbroker’s and accept the seven and sixpence in exchange so that her husband could buy his wares. The business had to be done ‘over the water’, away from the snoops and busybodies at the Relief Office. The wholesalers in Brick Lane sold off the remnants of their stock to people like Matthew, but he had to wait until the bulk buyers had been accommodated. On a good week Matthew recouped his original seven and sixpence by Thursday, with just enough bits and pieces left over to make a tiny profit by the end of the week. Some of the Eastenders who frequented the markets made a show of interest, picking up the thimbles, collar studs and coloured cottons as if they had been looking everywhere for them.
‘’Ere look, Sal. ’E’s got collar studs. Me ole man’s right out o’ collar studs.’
‘’E’s got packets o’ needles an’ all, Queenie. I gotta lot o’ sewin’ ter do. I fink I’ll get a packet.’
Matthew was not fooled. Nearly every week Queenie needed collar studs, although he was sure that her husband now possessed more studs than shirts. As for Sally, she must have mislaid dozens of needles – she had bought a packet every Friday for the past two months. But Matthew was eternally grateful to Eastenders like Queenie and Sally whose patronage allowed him to retain some of his dignity, which he had felt he was gradually losing in the endless dole queues.
The year of 1936 ended with a major topic being discussed in every pub and on every doorstep in dockland Bermondsey. In the Horseshoe the old domino group would have had much to say about the abdication, but the only survivor, George Baker, rarely ventured as far as the pub. A new generation was holding court. Terry Hicks and Bill Mullins were dockers, and conveniently lived a few doors down from the pub.
Terry, the new spokesman, was adamant. ‘I tell yer, Bill.’E’s the King of England. ’E’s not the same as the likes o’ you an’ me.’
‘The likes o’ you
‘’As ’e still got that shop, Mary?’
‘Yeah. Misery’s bin there fer over twenty years. ’E’s breakin’ up now though.’
Joyce scratched the back of her head and watched the progress of a young lad who was trying to reach the table without spilling any of his soup. ‘It ain’t changed much round’ere, ’as it, Mary? D’yer remember when we was kids?’
Mary nodded her head slowly. ‘What about after work on Fridays, when we used ter go up West. We used ter dream about findin’ ourselves a couple o’ toffs, an’ what did we both end up wiv? Two lads from Tower Bridge Road.’
Joyce sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t give my Arfur up fer no bloody toff.’
‘No, nor would I,’ Mary said. ‘My Frank’s as good as gold. It makes yer fink, though, don’t it?’
The hooter sounded and there was a noisy scraping of chairs as the workforce started to leave the canteen. Mary gathered up her handbag and waited while Joyce looked at her reflection in the small mirror once more.
‘You mind yer don’t wipe an ’ole in that plate, Pete,’ Mary said with mock seriousness to the young lad who was busy mopping up the last of his soup with a hunk of bread.
Pete ignored the jibe and burped loudly as he pushed the plate to one side.
‘C’mon, Joyce. It’s like feedin’ time at the zoo round ’ere,’ Mary groaned.
Chapter Eight
Connie spent another quiet Christmas with the Bartletts. Kate was settled in the sanatorium and her condition had improved slightly, although her cough was still giving her trouble. Helen was now going out early each morning to do office cleaning, and Matthew was supplementing his dole money by selling bits and pieces of haberdashery from a suitcase in the East End markets. Every Monday morning Helen Bartlett would take her best pair of sheets to the pawnbroker’s and accept the seven and sixpence in exchange so that her husband could buy his wares. The business had to be done ‘over the water’, away from the snoops and busybodies at the Relief Office. The wholesalers in Brick Lane sold off the remnants of their stock to people like Matthew, but he had to wait until the bulk buyers had been accommodated. On a good week Matthew recouped his original seven and sixpence by Thursday, with just enough bits and pieces left over to make a tiny profit by the end of the week. Some of the Eastenders who frequented the markets made a show of interest, picking up the thimbles, collar studs and coloured cottons as if they had been looking everywhere for them.
‘’Ere look, Sal. ’E’s got collar studs. Me ole man’s right out o’ collar studs.’
‘’E’s got packets o’ needles an’ all, Queenie. I gotta lot o’ sewin’ ter do. I fink I’ll get a packet.’
Matthew was not fooled. Nearly every week Queenie needed collar studs, although he was sure that her husband now possessed more studs than shirts. As for Sally, she must have mislaid dozens of needles – she had bought a packet every Friday for the past two months. But Matthew was eternally grateful to Eastenders like Queenie and Sally whose patronage allowed him to retain some of his dignity, which he had felt he was gradually losing in the endless dole queues.
The year of 1936 ended with a major topic being discussed in every pub and on every doorstep in dockland Bermondsey. In the Horseshoe the old domino group would have had much to say about the abdication, but the only survivor, George Baker, rarely ventured as far as the pub. A new generation was holding court. Terry Hicks and Bill Mullins were dockers, and conveniently lived a few doors down from the pub.
Terry, the new spokesman, was adamant. ‘I tell yer, Bill.’E’s the King of England. ’E’s not the same as the likes o’ you an’ me.’
‘The likes o’ you
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