East End Memories E-Book

Jennie Hawthorne

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 490

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2005

Beschreibung

Born in 1916 into an Irish Catholic family, Jennie Hawthorne spent her formative years in the heart of the East End, in a truly multicultural community. This vivid account of growing up is told with passion and humour - even though her drunken father struggles from crisis to crisis, and illness and crime are part of everyday life.

Leseprobe

EAST ENDMemories

EAST ENDMemories

JENNIE HAWTHORNE

Foreword by WILLIAM WOODRUFF Author of The Road to Nab End

First published in 2005 by Sutton Publishing Limited

The History Press The Mill, Brimscombe Port Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QGwww.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2013

All rights reserved © Jennie Hawthorne, 2005, 2013

The right of Jennie Hawthorne to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 5430 3

Original typesetting by The History Press

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Foreword by William Woodruff

Introduction

1. As It Was and Never Shall Be

2. My Mother

3. A New Life

4. Battle Lines

5. DIY

6. A Brush with Crime

7. Crisis

8. Hospitals

9. In the Care of my Father

10. Sister Hedwig

11. First Communion

12. When Soft Voices Die . . .

13. The Mysterious Lodger

14. The Street

15. Last Days

16. Notre Dame

17. World of Work

18. Pivotal Case

19. Future Imperfect

20. Aspirations

21. Realisation

22. Per Ardua

23. Ad Astra

24. Borderline

25. Panic Stations

26. All Change

27. The ‘Blitz’, 1940

28. Weddings and Partings

29. Home Fires Burning

30. Disasters on All Fronts

31. Moving Times

LISTOF ILLUSTRATIONS

1.

Jennie at 18 months, 1917

2.

Winnie Hook and Jennie at their First Communion, 1926

3.

My mother, brother Jim and father on a holiday at Hastings, 1925

4.

A country holiday in Limpsfield, Surrey, 1927

5.

In the back garden with Dad and brother Jim, c. 1929

6.

Beginners at Notre Dame: Jennie with Maggie Webb (Sinunas), 1929

7.

Some of the teaching staff at Notre Dame High School, 1929

8.

Schoolfriends at Notre Dame, 1929

9.

Jennie in her teenage years in the back garden of 11 Nelson Street, c. 1933

10.

A typical East End outing of the 1930s

11.

Mother and friends pose before embarking on the coach for another trip

12.

Jennie at a residential summer school in August 1938

13.

Jennie’s husband-to-be, Frank Hawthorne, as an aircraftman

14.

Frank and Jennie’s wedding, 1940

15.

Jennie with baby Francine, 1941

16.

Francine dressed in a coat sent from the USA during wartime

17.

Francine with her grandfather, 1942

FOREWORD

by William Woodruff

Here is a wonderful book about a girl born in poverty in London’s East End, who never gave up the struggle to survive and do something with her life. Jennie Crawley (Hawthorne) was born in 1916 in Bethnal Green, one of the East End’s tougher boroughs. Her resolute English Protestant mother was a ‘Mrs Mop’, who spent her life cleaning up after others. Her irresolute, gullible (yet most lovable) Irish Catholic father – who forever sought the job that in a world depression did not exist – happily drank his way through life’s difficulties. We are told that he wore a smile that only a saint could have possessed.

The hand-to-mouth existence under which the Crawleys lived would have tested any saint. The author describes her father’s ‘fight for jobs at the docks; the bodies covered in rags that came alive as we passed them under the arches on our way to our Whitechapel school; the lice crawling over the head of the girl at the desk in front . . .’. Hunger often was the worst burden to bear. Sometimes the child was overcome by the sight and scent of other people’s food. She recalls the Dutch herrings taken from great smelly barrels, the saveloys and hot salt beef, and cucumbers pickled but not too sour, the jellied eels, ‘such a lovely glassy green . . .’. Food in those far-off days was a benediction, ‘like berries from a bush or apples blown from a tree’. The desperate conditions of the late 1920s and early 1930s would eventually give rise to the extreme fascist and communist groups of the East End, which Jennie Crawley’s Catholic Church denounced.

Regardless of the setbacks, Bethnal Green, to a child, was a magical place, vibrant and alive. Every day her street became awash with a tide of humanity: a fairground, where every kind of people played their part. Sharp wits were everything.

This book brings out the extraordinary ethnic mix of the East End. From 1900 until 1910, large numbers of Jews fleeing poverty and persecution in Eastern Europe had swarmed into the East End. Long columns of refugees from Poland, Lithuania, Russia and Italy followed. Irish refugees fleeing mid-nineteenth-century famine had preceded them. At school in the 1920s Jennie swam happily in a sea of immigrants. ‘There was hardly an “English” name among us.’ Fighting for a living, these groups did not have the time or the incentive to fight each other. Waving a Union Jack on Empire Day, and celebrating St Patrick’s Day with bunches of shamrock, she says, they somehow found homogeneity.

In 1926 Jennie Crawley made her First Communion, which ‘stood out like a peak in the valley of our lives’ – not least because of the feast that followed. Mrs Silverman, an elderly Jewish friend whom Jennie helped, celebrated the occasion by giving her a gold-plated necklace with tiny Jewish charms. Neither of them could have possibly imagined that the necklace would later land Jennie into trouble on a trip to pre-war Nazi Germany.

It is to the credit of this girl that she allowed nothing to stifle her love of life, or lessen her determination to improve her lot. Discarding self-pity, and with enormous strength of will, she began to excel at school. After passing test after test, in 1937 she eventually took up residence at Oxford University. ‘I was as smitten by Oxford’s beauty’, she writes, ‘as a besotted lover’.

Alas for Jennie, her dream was not to be. Fate intervened and the world went to war. Because of family affairs and the need to hang onto a job, she found herself back in Bethnal Green.

Several times during the war her life hung on a thread. She was in a street, she tells us, ‘that got blown to bits . . . the survivors were screaming for help. We could not help them for we had to be dug out ourselves.’

Despite incessant bombing and the unbearable miseries of war, life went on and the war went on and the Cockneys of East London, of whatever ethnic background, remained unbowed. In all the chaos, Jennie hung onto a job, found a husband and started a family. In 1946, a year after the war in Europe had ended, Jennie Crawley, now Mrs Hawthorne, joined her Air Force husband in Germany.

East End Memories is a tale well and vividly told. It provides an absorbing and lasting picture of a girl’s struggles to find a place in society, a society now gone. Its added value is that, in viewing society from the bottom of the social pile, Mrs Hawthorne is able to draw upon the life she lived. There is no make-believe here. The writer’s aim has been to capture the life of a poor East End community at a particular moment in time. In this, she has succeeded.

William Woodruff Author of the best-selling Nab End books

INTRODUCTION

The tale unfolded in the following pages covers the period from the First to the Second World War, a period of the greatest social and scientific changes the world has ever known. Cheap air flights, TV, mobile phones and personal computers have transformed the lives of ordinary people everywhere. In my childhood, there were no refrigerators, frozen foods or take-aways, no dishwashers, tumble dryers, no ball-point pens with which to sign a name, and no credit cards either. Most working-class homes lacked electricity: lighting came from gas mantles or candles. Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin only in 1928 and we had not heard of antibiotics.

Social changes took a little longer to make their impact but were even more revolutionary. Marriage came first and sex afterwards. Babies arrived yearly, so Marie Stopes and her teaching were more in demand than Viagra or IVF are today. The word ‘gay’ had a different connotation and closets were not for coming out of but for putting clothes in. There were no meaningful relationships except chaste ones within the family circle, and divorce was only for film stars.

This is the world in which I grew up. It is probably alien to today’s teenagers, their parents and even grandparents, but my story has a wider relevance. Our expectations and aspirations, along with those who had them, were killed off by two terrible wars. Today, people aim, hope and often work hard for material comfort and personal happiness. The two do not always go together. If happiness proves elusive, I offer two sayings heard in my youth, one from my husband’s Irish aunt, which goes, ‘Money doesn’t make you happy, but with it you can be d——d miserable in comfort.’ The other sounds like a biblical phrase, but isn’t. It comes from my Cockney mother, who replied, when we asked for something beyond her power or inclination to give: ‘He that expecteth a lot, receiveth nothing.’ Neither entirely true, but useful to remember if dreams ever become nightmares.

1

AS IT WASAND NEVER SHALL BE

When I was born, in October 1916, Bethnal Green had everything: museum, stalls, shops, neighbours and friends, even a bit of greenery too in Victoria Park, and the gardens surrounding the museum. Along a few lucky streets there were some humble plane trees, their leaves mangy and worn as sick old cats, but still able to provide a haven for the homely sparrow. Everything was there.

Now, with old landmarks gone, I am as disorientated as an explorer with an unserviceable compass. The ‘Red Church’, so called not because of any Communist leanings but because of the colour of its brick, is a block of flats. Brick Lane is packed with lively young couples going to curry joints, every one the recommended Restaurant of the Year. Further towards Whitechapel are purveyors of beautiful saris and eastern silks. Sandwiched in between is probably the smallest police station in the British Isles, its main advantage being the cornucopia of cheap food that surrounds it.

In my childhood, the area was a magical place, vibrant and alive. Club Row, on the opposite side of the road, teemed with dogs and birds and bicycles and slick sellers of sick china. Wrestlers squirmed and squiggled and squeezed their way out of vice-like grips. Houdini-type men let themselves be tied up in ropes and chains and sacks so tightly held together by leather belts that I watched, terrified. The men would suffocate. They would die in their sacks in front of my very eyes. They would never get free again. Watching the second-by-second death-defying squirms within the sacks, I held my breath and prayed. The Houdini look-alikes came safely out and after resurrecting themselves went round with a hat.

Other men looked at your hands and felt your arm muscles and guessed your weight in a loud voice. It mingled with the bell-ringing and high-pitched chant of the Lascar trader singing ‘Indian Toff-ee-ee’, and the Jewish woman’s invitation in Yiddish to buy her wares, ‘drei a penny bagels’. A bearded old man pushed his pram round and round the streets with a gramophone that kept repeating ‘mazal tov’, the Jewish words for good luck.

The weight guessers always gave you your money back if they were wrong. When women looked at your hands, they pretended for a ‘tanner’ or less to tell your fortune. All your wishes came true, though you might have to wait a lifetime for that to happen and climb over many hurdles on the way.

I listened, even more fascinated, to the men at the stalls, their voices coaxing you to buy something you didn’t want at all. Clever voices they all had, wheedling, bullying, coaxing, persuading, loud and raucous, soft and sad. When you listened to them you suddenly realised how badly you needed the things they were selling: horrible vases made into the shapes of nasty-looking cats and dogs and even nastier-looking children . . . yet people liked them.

On other stalls, clocks that worked ticked away happily without any regard for the time-keeping of the face next door; clocks that didn’t stood mute, silently grumbling in a world of noise. Next to them were bits of miscellaneous junk, parcels of gramophone records, and cutlery, splendid and proud in green-lined cases or tied up in tarnished batches of six. Before the men began to speak, you were ready to pass by those stalls, not wanting anything at all.

How was it that voices so different could all alike be so persuasive? I was forever tempted to buy something: clothes or shoes perhaps, but, like my father – never my far more sensible mother – was such a sucker for so many bad ‘bargains’, I feared to try my luck again even if I had a ‘bob’ or two on me.

Bakers were a paradise on earth. Outside their front windows, the delicious aroma of Sunday dinners cooked for people with money but no ovens filled the air. Inside, different scents arose from the piles and piles of assorted bread in different shapes and sizes: crunchy fresh loaves, shiny and crisp with poppy seeds on top and some with seeds inside too; milk loaves with white, soft centres covered by a dark brown crust; long, thin loaves, tins and cobs and twists. Famous bakers in the area, like Goides, produced these and other epicurean wonders such as their unforgettable cheese cake. Where can you find their like today? In New York perhaps . . . a long way to go for a slice of bread.

Blooms, a Kosher restaurant, was also noted for its Jewish delights. Morris Bloom, a pre-First World War immigrant to England from Lithuania, learnt the art of meat pickling in his home town and brought this expertise to the snack bar he opened with his wife Rebecca in Brick Lane. Their son, Sidney, left Raine’s Foundation School at the age of 16 to help them. The salt beef, chicken and sausages they sold proved so popular that the family moved to a larger site in Brick Lane. After the death of his father, Sidney took over new premises in Whitechapel High Street and named it M. Bloom (Kosher) & Son. The premises were never without a queue for the take-away provisions. Also on offer was the usual Jewish fare like lokshen, chicken livers and cholent. Strangely I don’t remember ever having gefilte fish or latkes in the restaurant, which was always full with famous personalities, manic waiters and exuberant diners.

Bakers – Jews and non-Jews – sold bagels too: lovely crispy rolls shaped like a doughnut ring with a hole in the middle, but tasting far more delicious. Though dearer and succulent enough they were never quite as saliva-inducing as those from the old woman advertising her wares in Yiddish in the street. And of course, there were matzos, big packets of them, looking like sheets of white paper which had been lightly browned in the oven and then pricked up and down in straight lines. How good they tasted with a squidge of white Dutch butter. You never even connected those unleavened crunchy crackers with the feast of the Passover, when Jews remember their flight from Egypt, with no time to bake bread.

Pretzels were on sale, as well as mouth-watering piecrust with the steam still rising from its currant-filled centre. Having earned my halfpenny from a Jewish momma for turning off her gas tap on the eve of her Sabbath, I would be unable to resist that piecrust, would buy a slice, hold it for a second, warm in my hand, then dig my teeth in for a taste of heaven.

My imagination on fire, I wandered round, following the sight and scent of food: Dutch herrings from great smelly barrels, and saveloys and hot salt beef, and cucumbers, pickled but not too sour; jellied eels, such a lovely glassy green, from Tubby Isaacs’ stall, or Kelly’s in Bethnal Green Road. The eels slid off your tongue, juicy and cold in summer, and in winter warmed you up if you ate them with hot mashed potatoes, flecked with parsley, vinegar and pepper, or warmer still, pie and mash instead.

Butchers’ shops boasted sheeps’ heads, faggots and pigs’ trotters; Kosher ones dangled delicious chickens invitingly in their front windows. Into barrels of salt or pickled herrings, a fat Jewish sales lady fished for a catch, slapped it with onions into a page of newspaper and thrust it into your waiting palm. How you longed but did not dare to have a taste on the way to the hungry stomachs at home.

In spite of the shops filled with food, the threat of hunger, real hunger, hovered over so many people in those far-off days that food itself was a benediction, like berries from a bush or apples blown from a tree, a favour showered upon you, worthy or not, by some heavenly supervisor. My mother felt she had to give thanks – it didn’t matter to whom – usually some form of grace after meals to an unknown invisible Creator. Somebody, somewhere, had to be thanked. She did not use the Catholic grace, ‘Bless us O lord and these thy gifts which we are about to receive through thy grace, Amen,’ and she did not know the Selkirk one which she would have loved: ‘Some have meat and cannot eat, Some cannot eat that want it, But we have meat and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.’ No, Mum’s grace came straight from her heart, usually in the form of ‘Thank God for my good dinner, Amen.’ She said it after any food, well cooked or not, that gave enjoyment, no matter at what time of the day.

If you were really, really hungry, a kindly trader at Spitalfields Market nearby might give you some not-too-rotten fruit or vegetables. But everything was nearby. We needed no buses or trains. The street was our playground. Our feet, unaided, took us to whole new kingdoms. Ships from all parts of the globe packed London’s great river. Its long grey waters, stretching up towards the Cotswolds and down beyond the Essex marshes, boasted so many cranes on the docksides that a Hudson Institute statistician must have wept for joy. Steamers chugged off to faraway Margate or Ramsgate. France was a dream, and package flights to Spain, like a trip to the moon, belonged to science fiction.

At night, the naphtha flares from the stalls lit our way for occasional Saturday night outings to Smarts’ or Excelsior cinemas to see more heavenly romances than this world dreams of. Our young eyes occasionally glanced away from Raymond Navarro’s attractions or the exploits of Charlie Chaplin or Rin Tin Tin, to the courting couples sitting in such odd positions in the back rows.

When darkness fell, the great heart of the City stopped beating and died. As if by magic it became a deserted park where no man loiters and no birds sing. But how gracious and spacious it seemed in the sleazy summer. I walked past the Old Lady in Threadneedle Street and imagined I owned the world.

Against these joys was the all-pervading hardship and squalor which, childlike, we took for granted: our fathers’ fight for jobs at the docks; the bodies covered in rags that came alive as we passed them under the arches on our way to our Whitechapel school; the lice crawling over the head of the girl at the desk in front; the mice that jumped out of our shoes when we got up in the morning; the cockroaches hidden in the cracks between the walls and ceilings of the homes where we lived, and which were fought, not by a spray of ICI insecticide, but a lighted candle, taken round by an ever-tough mother in nightly forays which she occasionally won.

2

MY MOTHER

In 1901 my mother, Susan Cole, was 10 years old. Her father, Philip, was severely disabled, and would never have a full-time job again; her mother, Ellen, was dead. Shattered by the death of his wife, the loss of his strength and of his job, Philip barely coped with the mundane chores of everyday life. He had tried for numerous jobs in vain. The employers where he had had the accident that maimed him sent occasional food parcels. While these kept coming, the family didn’t starve. His children helped him with any work that they could find, any errands they could run. Their schooling suffered and they often went hungry, but the rent was paid.

My mother was hardest hit: the loss of her mother when she herself was so young; cruelly knocked about and starved by gin-soaked Aunt Aggie who, instead of using the money given her to feed the child in her care, used it to drown her own sorrows in drink. Mum developed rickets, and bow legs which were still obvious in her later life.

School, which might have given her a respite, merely proved another hellhole. Like her brothers and sister, and many other children of her generation, she worked long before the school-leaving age of 12, earning a few pence by sweated labour of one kind or another.

One of her jobs was to clean part of a warehouse owned by one of the Jewish families who had settled in the East End after emigrating from Russia. The warehouse was a big square room on a corner site, with two large windows facing two sides of the street. Stuffed to the brim with old rags, this room was linked by a wooden corridor to the kitchen where the family ate. Bales of cloth, on top of each other, were piled up in shelves each side of the corridor and reaching to the ceiling. The house, off Hackney Road, was some distance away from both Susan’s home and her school in the Jago district of Shoreditch.

Susan did the cleaning for the family early in the morning, before school opened. Alongside her Jewish faith, Mrs Abrahams followed the creed of housework expanding to fill the time available . . . and a bit more. ‘Do this little job,’ she would say to her young shikseh. ‘It won’t take a minute. Just a lek un a shmek. And when you’ve finished, could you do that little job?’ By the time one little job and another little job were done, Susan was often late for school. One day she was sent for by the headmistress.

‘Punctuality is the politeness of kings,’ intoned the head, not only irrelevantly but incorrectly. ‘You just can’t turn up at school when it suits you, you’ve been late twice already this week. You must get up earlier. And from now on, every time you’re late, you will stand up in the hall as a lesson to others not to be lazy, like you.’

Susan stood silent, head down, hands rubbing the tears that kept coming to her eyes.

‘Do you hear me, girl?’

Susan nodded. The headmistress got out a big white clown’s cap on which was a large letter ‘D’ for ‘Dunce’. She put the cap on the head of the 10-year-old motherless girl and made her stand on a bench in the school hall all day long wearing it.

Later on, Mum recalled little of her schooldays, not even the name of the headmistress who meted out this punishment. She learnt to read, write and count, and forgot everything else save the day when, at 10 years old, she wore a dunce’s cap in front of the whole school.

As an adult she was a tough and wiry fighter, ready to speak her mind against anything she thought wrong. As a child she wanted only to keep out of the way of ‘trouble’, but the punishment of wearing a dunce’s cap in the hall made her an easy target for bullying, especially as she was very small for her age. She lost all the many fights that followed. School became a nightmare, to be avoided as much as possible.

When not yet 15 years of age, my mother became a servant in the Waterman family. The fate was not a harsh one. On the contrary, it turned out to be a lucky break for Susan to have been employed by the Watermans. Though she felt like an emigrant who has to leave a once beloved country, it was a decision she was never to regret. She learnt much during her employment there which had a big impact on her later life and on those of her children and grandchildren.

The Watermans, poorer but more religious, cultured and musical than most of their middle-class neighbours, lived in a large Edwardian house in Seven Kings near Ilford. Suburban Essex was then almost a remote country area for an East Ender like Susan, who had never travelled much more than a mile from home.

Mr Frederick Waterman was ‘something’ in the City. He had large hazel eyes, a handsome profile and a head of thick dark hair, just turning grey, which gave him an air of wisdom and distinction. His rugged face looked as if it had been carved out of granite, as firm and clean-cut as that of an ascetic Jesuit priest. But it was his voice, deep, soft and seductive, that fascinated Susan. By contrast, Fred’s wife, Gertrude, several years older than her husband, had, in spite of a sweet expression, an almost frightening aristocratic voice and manner.

Over the next seven years the Watermans, then with a son and daughter, had two more daughters. Susan did all the heavy housework and looked after the children when the parents went out. Once a week the family enjoyed musical evenings at home in their front room. They could all sing or play an instrument: the piano, cello or violin.

Fred Waterman’s singing fascinated Susan. In between serving drinks and sandwiches for the evening parties they gave for their friends, she stared at him, goggle-eyed. When he got to the lines, ‘on thy bosom, the fair lilac blossom,’ or even better, ‘on away, awake beloved’ from Coleridge Taylor’s ‘Hiawatha’, she became aware of a whole new world – and not only of music. She adored Frederick Waterman like a god.

He was not unaware of the devotion he inspired in the young servant and in which he sometimes almost erotically basked, but the High Church background of philanthropy and duty instilled into him from youth did not allow him, like many men in less scrupulous families, to take advantage of an innocent girl. And Susan, so worldly wise, so knowledgeable in the ways and language of the street, was quite naive in others.

Gertrude Waterman had a different appeal from her husband. A wonderful housekeeper and manager, she patiently taught her young maid-of-all-work her own skills. Susan loved cooking. Once a month she went home to her father. Another batch of ‘relations’, realising that there was a spare room for part of the month, moved back in with him during the vacant days, and hoped the landlord wouldn’t notice.

In the Watermans’ house, Mum saw for the first time in her life, linen cupboards. She loved opening those cupboards to see the neat piles of clean sheets and pillowcases and to be assailed by the warm, sweet scent of lavender. Another wonder was the mahogany wardrobes and chests of drawers where members of the family each kept their own clothes and some of their possessions.

She polished all of these and learnt how to sweep the carpets – throwing down tea-leaves to prevent the dust from rising – to iron ‘goffered’ pillowcases with their tiny little pleats, to polish the brass door handles, the silver and glass, and to lay a table with the right knives, forks, spoons and glasses and put them all in the correct places.

During her time at the Watermans’ she took me down to their house several times, so at an early age I glimpsed a world quite unlike that of Bethnal Green. The first of many visits occurred when I was quite young. I was absolutely fascinated by the sense of space everywhere, the gleaming kitchen with its array of pots and pans, the soft carpets in other rooms, and most of all by the toy cupboard. It seemed wonderful to have a cupboard just for toys and games. As I grew older, other things impressed me, especially the paintings on the walls. They were not copies by famous artists of the period, but the work of various members of the family, principally Fred Waterman or his middle daughter, Dorothy.

The skills which my mother learnt at the Watermans’ house were unfortunately of little use in trying to keep clean a slum infested by cockroaches, fleas, bugs or other pests. Cats that were good ‘mousers’ kept scuttling creatures at bay, though sometimes when Susan put her shoes on in the mornings, her toes felt inside them a sleepy, lazy mouse that had somehow escaped the cat. Trying to keep a tenement building clean was an altogether different skill from any of those learnt in Seven Kings.

Susan and other tenants in cramped rooms sometimes used the services of Albrecht, the baker. He had premises near Gosset Street and charged only a few pence for cooking dinners (expertly too) in his big ovens. On Sundays, the aroma from his ovens sent you into paroxysms of pleasure – and if you had no pence, pangs of frustration or despair. During the week he added piecrust to his other goods. That cost a halfpenny, or a penny for a larger slice. ‘Ha’p’orth of piecrust,’ you asked of him, proffering the coin that was the ‘wages’ you, as a Shabbas goy, picked up from the stoves of the fromm Jewish mommas, for turning out their taps on the Sabbath.

In return for your halfpenny, or penny, Albrecht passed you a slice of hot fluffy pastry, fresh from the oven and full of currants. He was still selling piecrust when I was in my teens: absolutely salivatingly delicious. Even thinking of it today, along with real bagels, makes my taste buds tingle.

At home in Bethnal Green, Mum’s culinary style was unusual and unhygienic. She brushed aside any complaints with the words, ‘They say you’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die.’ Who said it and when, nobody dared ask, but then the only suffering ever connected with food was not poisoning but hunger.

When money was around – an important proviso – there was compensation enough for her in the food that she saw on the tables in the Watermans’ and Jewish houses where she had worked, and which sometimes appeared on our own: rice served as a vegetable, which few other Gentile families ever had (and which I hated), challah (plaited bread) and bagels, schmalzes herring, gefilte fish and latkes, which she always made herself, and matzos bought in any street-corner grocer’s.

3

A NEW LIFE

While she was working for the Watermans, Susan met my father, James Crawley. How and where, I do not know. But who could resist him? Susan certainly couldn’t. He was the handsomest member of a most handsome and beautiful Irish family. Like that of his sisters – not of his only brother, whose hair was a mousy brown shade – Jim’s hair was thick, curly and black. Black has many shades, and Jim’s hair had a blue sheen in it that rivalled the feathers of a raven. He went grey very early, in his thirties, but the new colour enhanced rather than detracted from his good looks.

Mum sometimes used to brush it back and say, ‘The grey looks nice. It’s a pity you’re not grey all over. You’ve got a bit of black hair at the back.’

To this he replied, ‘Don’t worry, my love. Grey it will be soon enough. And then I’ll go bald. Will that suit you better?’

His heavy-lashed eyes were of an unusual hazel colour, almost green, with little dark flecks in them. No wonder my mother thought him the best-looking man around, and when I was older, so did I. But he was as gullible as he was lovable, the ideal victim for a con man or a fraudster, constantly being taken for a ride by any smooth talker. It was a wonder he ever had any money left for drink after he got his wages as a carman. As for any practical tasks in the home, he was quite hopeless, though improving a little as he got older. He illustrated that line in Hilaire Belloc to perfection: ‘A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend.’

Jim was some four years younger than Susan and earned a pittance. Employed as a delivery man for the railway, he drove a horse, sometimes two, with a cart. He had little money and, unlike an engine driver or station master, for instance, no status either. But the job was safe. No carman ever got the ‘sack’ from the railway, any more than did a dustman from the local council. Poorly paid though such jobs were, they were greatly sought after for the security they gave the wage earner and his family. Like coal mining (the Bevin Boys) in the Second World War, Jim’s job was a ‘reserved occupation’, which meant no call-up for military service if ever a war should come. That was unlikely: something nobody in the East End even thought about. A safe wage packet was far more important.

At the end of one long evening, Susan arrived home late and exhausted. Her father was out. The room was unbearably hot. She opened the window, and noticed yet another crack in the ceiling. That meant her lighted candle must wage another battle with any invaders. The wallpaper and ceiling would be still more scorched and browned by her light, but for a time at least, the room would be partly pest free. The trouble was that as you managed to get rid of one lot of pests, others took their place. Still, she must have another go. That nasty crack in the ceiling over the mantelpiece meant a comfortable nesting place for all manner of horrors.

She made herself a cup of tea, and drained it rapidly. Taking the cup outside to the wash-house, she rinsed it, then came back to the kitchen table and pushed it against the mantelpiece. She lifted a chair onto the table and scrambled up onto it. From this vantage point she could comfortably reach the crack in the ceiling.

In her hand, she held a small candle. Jutting uncomfortably into her stomach, as usual, was the wooden mantelpiece, draped with some pretty material. The Watermans had given it to her for curtains. It looked much nicer where it was. She took out a match from the box on the mantelshelf, struck it, lit her candle and put the box back on the shelf. Holding the lighted candle, she stretched forward to the crack in the ceiling.

As her hand moved along the gap, the chair began slipping away from under her feet. In a panic, she grabbed the mantelpiece to save herself from falling, and let go of the lighted candle. The candle fell onto the drapery, the box of matches on the mantelshelf.

In seconds, the drapery became a fireball. It fell down, in no time setting alight the old coconut mat by the side of the fireplace and engulfing the chair by the table. Tongues of flame began licking everything in their way, feeding on themselves and stretching perilously across the floor. Susan scrambled down from the table and opened the kitchen door.

‘Fire! Fire! Get down quick!’ she yelled to the tenants upstairs, before diving back into the blazing room.

She tore down what was left of the burning drapery and threw it out of the window. The coconut mat followed. She shut the window and turned the table upside down. Her face, her hands, her hair, seemed on fire.

The upstairs tenants and neighbours rushed to help, filling with water any utensils they could find, and throwing it with almost happy abandon over everything in sight. Soon anything that remained unburnt was soaked. Little was left of the room. It looked an empty shell.

Her father arrived with a friend. He pressed inside the gawping crowd and stood at the door of the ruined kitchen. ‘Good God Almighty! What’s ’appened ’ere?’ Neighbours hastened to enlighten him.

‘And what about Susan? She’s all right, is she?’

He looked round and saw her pushing to get out from the smoking room, her face blackened by soot and debris, her hair and eyebrows singed.

‘You all right, Susie?’

She nodded, almost in tears. ‘I’m all right, Dad. But everything’s gone, everything.’

‘Not everything,’ he said. ‘We’re still alive and kicking, though for how long, God only knows. Germany’s invaded Belgium and England’s declared war.’

4

BATTLE LINES

The First World War precipitated a great change in Susan’s life. Her older brother, recalled from service in India, managed, with Fred Waterman’s help, to spend his last day’s leave with Susan. It was a poignant farewell. Her mother had died in her thirties, her sister as a teenager and her younger brother in his twenties. Now her last remaining sibling was going out to stem the seepage in France. Arriving in March, he was reported ‘missing, believed killed’, in May 1915, about par for the course. Shattered, Susan found comfort with Jim. She would leave the Watermans and start a new life.

At this time a strong sense of family unity existed in the East End. It was almost like a mafia, with its own rigid ideas of right and wrong.

Mixed marriages between Gentiles and Jews were initially unacceptable to both sides – save, perhaps, between the prospective bride and groom. Gentiles tended to grow more tolerant over the years, a Jewish father, never. Marriage between Protestants and Catholics was frowned upon rather than forbidden. Only worse than either was the disaster of no marriage at all . . . a man disappearing and leaving behind a pregnant unmarried woman. Fathers were particularly hard on ‘erring’ daughters. Black and white unions were so rare that they aroused more wonder than disfavour. The only black man that I ever saw in my childhood, for example, was a Doctor Jelly (probably not his real name), whose presence in a nearby street was greatly appreciated by the many who used his services for their families.

Living together before marriage was acceptable as a custom of the gentry and occasionally for working-class couples who did not flaunt the fact too obviously. Running off with somebody else’s husband or wife was frowned upon at least in theory, though often envied by those unable to manage a similar action.

When a local shopkeeper’s wife left husband, son and thriving business, one of the most prosperous in the district, for a fellow who proved a rogue, it kept people gossiping for years afterwards. Why did she do it? Such ‘elopements’ when there were no TV soaps to see or discuss proved as much a source of interest and never-ending topic of conversation among the local community as the latest murder case.

My grandfather considered an Irish Catholic the most undesirable suitor possible for his daughter’s hand. Even if she married a Jew – slightly better, but not much – at least she’d never go short of a penny or two. All that Jim Crawley could offer was a job that paid peanuts. As for his religion . . . though my grandfather Philip Cole rarely entered a church, he considered himself staunchly Church of England.

Like many of his co-religionists, he would have nothing to do with any popery and was determined never to have a Catholic son-in-law, any more than a Jewish one. He prophesied all manner of disasters if the wedding took place, threatening to return from the grave after his death and haunt Susan if she went ahead and married that good-for-nothing fellow.

Why Dad should have been so ill received when, unlike many young East Enders, he was lucky enough to have a fairly safe – if low-paid – job, is difficult to say, but the thought of her father’s ghost haunting her after his death was a terrible threat indeed to my mother.

She was the most superstitious person imaginable, and remained so right into her adult life, always seeing signs and wonders in the tea-leaves and everywhere else. Even when I was long past my teens she still remained frightened of thunderstorms and would go anywhere to avoid hearing them, sometimes even under the bed. Yet she stayed at her hospital cleaning job in Bethnal Green throughout the Second World War, sticking out all the air-raids and bombings, and only running off to the underground tube shelters in Liverpool Street or Bethnal Green when she finished work in the evenings. In those shelters, hearing neither air-raid warnings nor German bombers, and surrounded by lots of lively Cockneys, she was content. How could she foresee that the Bethnal Green tube shelter would become the scene of the worst civilian casualty of the war?

Fred Waterman was as helpful as ever in this difficult time which Susan faced in wanting to marry an Irish Catholic. Fred and his wife advised their one-time maid that she was now a capable young woman with a little money of her own. They told her that whom she married was for her to decide and she should make her own choice. Fred, himself Church of England, equally stringent in his ideas of right and wrong as Susan’s father, and with a strong sense of duty, made it his business to visit Philip Cole and have a few words with him. He did his job so well in ‘upgrading’ Susan’s prospective groom that the way was made clear for a wedding and, surprise, surprise, a wedding in a Catholic church.

His fine bone structure enabled my father, Jim Crawley, in spite of the many hardships he suffered, to retain his good looks far longer than most men of that generation. The patrician quality of his face was such that, had he possessed the accent and the bearing, he could easily have passed for a haughty member of the aristocracy. However, his gait was strangely unsteady, even when he was sober, rather like a sailor trying out his legs on land after a long journey at sea.

He married my mother in November 1915. The war was still going on but it would surely be over soon. The Watermans, generous as ever, helped Susan with her wedding dress and the wedding breakfast (as the repast after the ceremony is so quaintly called, no matter what the time of day that bride, groom and guests sit down to eat it). Who came, or how many, I do not know. A friend of Susan’s soldier brother may have come with the guests.

With many misgivings, in spite of Fred Waterman’s little homily, Philip gave his daughter away. When all was said and done, he loved her dearly, this last surviving member of his family. The wedding took place in St John the Baptist Catholic church in the Registrar’s district of Hackney. Susan thought that sounded more ‘refined’ than Bethnal Green.

Many East End families, particularly Jewish ones, splashed out extravagantly on weddings. Gentiles spent a lot on funerals – they took place only once in a person’s lifetime and showed respect for the departed. Sometimes spouses or relations were still paying for these ceremonies in one way or another for years afterwards, and the amounts often became a subject for family jokes, particularly Jewish ones. (‘Marriage is like a violin. When the music is over, the strings are still there.’)

The only photo I have of my parents’ wedding shows it to have been quite a lavish affair. Susan carries a beautiful bouquet, probably created by the very deft and artistic florists who lived in Bethnal Green. It consists of large chrysanthemums and tiger lilies, set off by gypsophilia and some fern trailing artistically down the front of her bridal gown.

The dress was probably also made locally, perhaps by one of her sister Bessie’s seamstress friends with whom Susan still kept in touch. It reached up to her neck and down to her ankles. She wears white shoes and stockings. Framed by the uplifted veil and headdress, her face looks even smaller than it actually was, and there is a quality of pathos about her smile that is like the woman in the painting, Nameless and Friendless, by the nineteenth-century painter Emily Mary Osborn. That work hangs today in a Liverpool museum and depicts so well a scene rarely portrayed, of the so-called genteel poverty of that period. The Trades Union Congress building in Holborn should get a copy to hang alongside its more masculine-oriented pictures.

However, Susan was neither nameless nor friendless on this occasion. The only shabby thing about her wedding photo seems to be where it was taken: against a portion of a wall that appears to be in imminent danger of collapse. My father stands against a part of the wall with a brick missing. The black cavity above his head gives him the appearance of an Egyptian wearing a fez. He sports a dark suit with white collar and tie, and a large chrysanthemum in his buttonhole. He is much taller than my mother and, in spite of his gentle half smile, still manages to convey a seriousness appropriate to the occasion.

In another photo, now lost, there are bridesmaids, possibly the older Waterman girls. Round-faced and chubby, with large smiles and beautifully dressed, they are sitting down cross-legged, each with her own bouquet.

The young couple began their married life in shared rooms, as was the usual practice, and eventually graduated to two rooms and a kitchen in Nelson Street, where I was born. This small terrace of about sixty houses was situated between Hackney Road and Bethnal Green Road, and built in the form of an incomplete square with three sides instead of four. Two entrances came off St Peter’s Street. They led nowhere except into and out of Nelson Street, both ends of which ended in a cul-de-sac, so that traffic rarely entered. An ideal playing area for children, the street has since been demolished during slum clearance.

The upstairs half of the home my parents occupied was, as usual, tenanted by others without a water supply, WC, or sink. Also, as usual in most houses of this type, the tenants upstairs had to come down through the kitchen to the back yard for the facilities there.

To help pay the rent, Susan found a part-time cleaning job in a company where the great inventor Marconi was reputed to work. She and my father seemed well on their way to a happy and even prosperous future. However I arrived just eleven months later, so that Mum’s blossoming career as an office cleaner came to an end, at least for the time being. So almost did I.

Bethnal Green mums still had their babies at home. That’s where I was born in the middle of the First World War, in 1916. It was cheaper and thought to be safer than in hospital.

About the time and place of our coming into this world, we can do nothing, yet these are the forces that, more than any other except one, help shape our destiny. My birthday, 28 October, is shared with Evelyn Waugh and Jonas Salk, microbiologist, discoverer of the anti- poliomyelitis vaccine and the son of Polish-Jewish immigrant parents in New York.

My future was not to be so grand as theirs, nor as poverty-stricken as some. Dad found the atmosphere surrounding my birth so restricting, his fears for my mother so great and his presence so apparently unwelcome to the midwife that he went out and got drunk.

By the time my brother arrived four years later, Dad was older and wiser, but my mother was furious at his absence during my arrival. She did not easily forgive and spoke of his dereliction for years afterwards. Her wrath extended to me as if I were the author of his drunkenness, which, in a manner of speaking, I was.

Soon after my birth, I came down with a lung infection diagnosed as ‘croup’. A steam kettle was recommended for my recovery. The vapour from the kettle, smelling strongly of menthol and camphor, helped patients with breathing difficulties. Unfortunately, a roomful of steam creates its own hazards. Mum was not exactly the most deft of women, except in her cooking. She put the kettle, which had a very long spout, on a trivet by the fire.

Temporarily forgetting its existence, she moved across the small room.

‘Look out!’ yelled Dad as Mum knocked the spout. ‘God help us! You’ve killed her!’ he shouted as boiling water poured out over the new baby.

Luckily it was winter. I was wrapped up in so many clothes that only my head and one arm were uncovered. They were badly scalded. My father rushed me to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital for Children in Hackney Road, only a few minutes’ walk away, followed by my sobbing mother. I recovered from the lung infection. The accident left its mark in the form of a small bald patch on my head, where the hair never grew again, and a big scar, now so wrinkled it is hardly noticeable, on my arm.

Over in France, avoiding death – not giving life – was the major concern. The war operations had developed into a siege, with opposing armies facing each other in trenches which stretched from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier.

In 1916 came the attack on the Somme. British soldiers bombarded the Germans for six days and nights with six million shells, creating a noise that could be heard even in London.

The English generals assumed that this barrage must have wiped out most of the enemy. The survivors would be too weak to offer resistance. How wrong they were, the ‘tommies’ soon found out when they were ordered forward across No-Man’s Land. The Germans were neither dead nor demoralised. They mowed the British soldiers down in their thousands. The poor devils got bogged down in mud or became entangled on barbed wire, easy targets for enemy fire. The few who lived through this hell were ordered to keep on advancing.

Young men from families rich and poor, miners, farm hands, schoolboys and friends who joined up in ‘pals’ battalions, were all grist to the mill. The slaughter only stopped when darkness fell.

The British general Henry Rawlinson, 1st Baron Rawlinson, was so horrified by the massacre that he wanted to abandon the suicidal offensive altogether. He was overruled. Sir Douglas Haig reiterated with even more vigour, ‘The attack will go on.’ And so it did with the loss on 1 July 1916 of 60,000 men, the heaviest day’s loss in the whole bloody history of war to that date.

Having recently lost her brother Jack in France, Mum took more interest in what was happening over there than in the suffragettes at home. It angered and saddened her to read of such terrible battle casualties. And they were not to be the last. After the Somme disaster, came another carnage when 6 or 7 miles of ground were gained at a cost of half a million lives . . . a whole generation of young men mown down in their prime for a few miles of land. And that was how the war continued; battle lines never varying by more than 20 miles west or east, until the great offensive of 1918.

Zeppelin raids brought the war closer to home and my mother, along with several other families, took shelter from them in the nearby St Peter’s church.

In spite of the war, Mum remembered the promise she made when she married, to bring any children up as Catholics. Like the Watermans, she regarded promises very seriously. Though she never herself became a Catholic, shortly after my birth she took me to the local Catholic church for my baptism.

‘And what name would you like the little one to have?’ asked the priest.

Having considered the matter of names for her first-born for some time, Mum was well prepared and replied at once, ‘Ivy Jennie Rose’. She chose Jennie because of the friend who had kept in touch with her deceased brother Jack; Rose because of the beautiful flower; and Ivy as the first name because she liked it. What Mum did not take into account was that registers, including those at school, entered the surname first and I would become Crawley Ivy, as another girl in my class became Smart Mary. Neither did she anticipate the reaction of the somewhat die-hard priest.

Horrified by the choice, he exclaimed, ‘Glory be to God! You can’t be giving the poor wee creature only flowers in her name.’ Ignoring Rose of Lima, he added in the same shocked tone, ‘Not a single saint to watch over her!’ He could not understand such a lapse and continued, ‘Sure, there must be some saint you’d like for her to have.’

Dad, for whom saints were not part of normal conversation, prompted by my Protestant mother, suggested Helen – possibly thinking of Ellen, the name of Mum’s mother, rather than a reference to the Saint Helen credited with having discovered the cross on which Jesus was crucified. He pulled out a further advantage of the name Helen: it was rather posh, and Mum, after her long service with the Watermans, was a soft touch for anything ‘posh’.

After some discussion, Rose went out (it didn’t go with the Ivy on which my mother had set her heart, priest or no priest). Helen came in . . . or nearly did. Owing to the priest’s being Irish, slightly unfamiliar with the local Cockney patois, and thinking, correctly, that he was dealing with some obstinate customer, Ellen instead of Helen went into the records. I thus became the owner of three names, Ivy Ellen Jennie. They proved very useful to me later, for I could always find my name quickly on an examination or other list. Few girls, especially those born in Bethnal Green, were so rich, in initials at least.

When I started my first permanent job in the Civil Service, a supervisor asked my address and name.

‘Bethnal Green? I knew you were a country girl. I could tell it from your lovely complexion.’

I didn’t dare tell her that if I had a ‘lovely complexion’ it came from daily washing under a cold water tap in the back yard. When I gave her my three names, she said that she preferred Jennie, and would call me that. It has stuck with me ever since.

5

DIY

Whether it was the strain of his daughter’s wedding, the loss of his wife, two sons and a daughter, or the sheer effort of disabled living, my grandfather died not long after his daughter and my father got married. Still in her early twenties, Mum became her family’s sole survivor with no relations other than the distant ‘cousins’. Two brothers and a sister had died in their youth, her mother in her thirties. Now her father was gone too. He never saw my brother, young Jim, who was born in 1920, four years after me. When he arrived, the question of more rooms came up, as it had done with Mum herself after her birth a quarter of a century before, and with the same problem of a higher rent.

The soon-to-be-vacant rooms were in a house just across the street. The upstairs half was tenanted by just an elderly couple, so the opportunity for a move seemed too good to miss. Perhaps later Mum might eventually get the whole house. What a wonderful dream, to have your own house with nobody to share it except your family!

She hoped she could get another cleaning job to help out with the higher rent. If not, everybody must sleep in the front room. She could then let out the one thereby made vacant. After all these calculations, we moved across the street from number 55 to number 11. It was a grand apartment, a palace of two whole rooms, and a kitchen where we ate. Like most but not all poorer houses of that era, there was no heating other than from the kitchen fire, and lighting was by a gas mantle, or failing that, by candle.

Our new home consisted of a front room facing the street, a middle room and the kitchen. The front room had two functions. The pull-out bed on which my parents sometimes slept doubled up as a sofa, converting the room into a ‘parlour’. Two cupboards reached halfway up the walls on either side of the fireplace. One Saturday morning when Mum was out doing her charring, and my father out either at work or looking for it, I ventured into this room, and came upon the most wonderful treasure.