Bombsites and Lollipops: My 1950s East End Childhood (12 page)

My parents’ bedroom boasted a small, cheap wooden bookcase with a collection of paperbacks about the war, hardbacks too from authors like Somerset Maugham (
Liza of Lambeth
) H.E. Bates (
Fair Stood the Wind for France
) Edmund Wilson’s
Memoirs of Hecate County
(a naughty one which I flicked through, but didn’t really understand at that age) and Nevil Shute (
A Town Like Alice
). I didn’t read them all, of course, but later, the slightly more salacious ones like
My Wicked, Wicked Ways
, an autobiography by movie star Errol Flynn written just before he died, were devoured. The one thing my childhood didn’t lack was access to reading material.

On Sunday visits to my grandparents, I eventually found a way out of the boredom of trying to make conversation with Anthony by immersing myself in some very ancient copies of the
Illustrated London News
, a magazine which had been first published in the mid-1800s and copies of which my grandparents had obviously hung onto for decades.

There were no outdoor activities to speak of. Physical endeavour of any kind was not my forte; I was a bookish, indoor kid. Anyway, there was nowhere to play. The street wasn’t fit to act as any kind of playground, though at primary school we’d play the traditional, fun playground games like hopscotch (I never got to play Kiss Chase, alas, because I was at an all-girls’ primary), and later on I learned the rudiments of swimming at the local baths.

Unfortunately, I never learned properly. I was towed along on a rope by the teacher, splashing away merrily, but I never got beyond that stage which was a pity: on seaside jaunts, my dad, who loved sport, especially football, relished his annual bout of swimming. My mum would cheerfully pose for the camera standing in the water in a beautiful white bathing suit – complete with big earrings and watch – yet she never ventured further out to get wet or spoil her hairdo. Even the dancing lessons at Miss Betty’s were merely a part of the reciting/singing/showing off bit: I was never going to be a proper dancer.

I was very much a loner. An only child learns a degree of self-sufficiency, of course, as a survival tactic, yet there weren’t many other children in my early world. At school, I didn’t start to really form out-of-school friendships with other girls until I was about ten: I was far too preoccupied with reading, writing, getting good marks and going to my dancing classes. The only other child of around my age I was more or less thrown together with on seaside holidays and regular visits to the Lane was Anthony, whose parents initially lived in the Lane so he lived through far more of our grandparents’ world than I. But there wasn’t much to draw us together; many years later Anthony revealed to my mother that as a timid, shy child he was quite scared of me. ‘Sometimes she’d kick or pinch me when no one was looking,’ was his recall of our relationship. Oh dear.

Most of the time, it was just me and my mum. Imperceptibly, as I grew up, I absorbed many of her preoccupations: clothes, hairdos, make-up. And I also demonstrated scant interest in the things she wasn’t especially bothered with, like domesticity. Of course she cooked all the time – there were no ready meals or takeaways then, other than fish-and-chip shops in Kingsland Road, or jellied eels from Tubby Isaacs in the Lane or Cooks Pie Shop near Ridley Road, things we rarely indulged in – but to Molly, cooking was a chore, a duty, something you had to do. She was reasonably competent: there were never burnt or tasteless meals. But I never learned to cook. The kitchen was tiny, certainly. But she didn’t offer – and I never asked. As for cleaning, washing clothes, ironing, even making beds or washing up, my mum never enlisted me to get stuck in, learn all about being a housewife or homemaker. I had a very cushy deal.

Years later, my dad would commandeer the pokey kitchen to cook his beloved bacon-and-egg breakfasts, neatly laying out the strips of bacon, tomato slices and sausages on plates well in advance, ready for the big fry-up, an obsessive Saturday morning pre-Spurs football ground ritual that developed when his life had taken a different turn. And at one stage, Molly did show me how to thread and wield a sewing needle to create a neat seam or sew on a button. But there was no attempt at teaching me the rudiments of chopping, stirring, baking or frying as I grew up. All I ever did was occasionally shell peas.

Eating out wasn’t an everyday part of ordinary family life in the fifties: the highlight of an outing to the high street or to the West End with my mother might be a trip to a Lyons Corner House, the only decent chain of eating places that existed back then. You could get a cup of tea, a salad or a roll and butter – or a proper meal, depending on the time of day. What thrilled me about any Corner House outing was the chance to dive into a Knickerbocker Glory, a fabulous gooey confection of tinned fruit, jelly, cream and ice cream piled high in a tall glass. Bliss.

Things changed in the mid-fifties when the Lyons Corner House in Coventry Street, Piccadilly, introduced an exciting new addition to the menu, the Wimpy, Britain’s first post-war attempt at a burger. It tasted gorgeous, a combo of fat, salt and ground beef topped with a big dollop of ketchup from the red squeezy bottle on each table. Very soon, even Kingsland High Street sported its first Wimpy Bar as they started to spring up, Starbucks’ style, across the land, gradually changing our eating habits. The birth of fast-food culture as we now know it.

M
y dad was a genuine, 100 per cent cockney, born within the sound of Bow Bells in Whitechapel – and incredibly proud of it all his life. Part of that sense of pride came, I believe, from rubbing shoulders with all sorts of Londoners other than the Petticoat Lane locals: the posh City gents, the coppers, the well-heeled publicans, the bank managers and the journalists he drank with frequently in the pub: this kind of camaraderie linked everyone living and working around the City area (what we now call the Square Mile) itself, with its long trading history and traditions. My grandfather also took pride in his status as a true Londoner – his family had been running businesses in and around the Lane for well over a century.

My mum, born in posh Kensington, with an aspiring Russian immigrant father, had had a much more genteel upbringing where the emphasis was on culture, music and art; as a tot she’d learned the violin and while she was not remotely bookish, many of her siblings were artistic and creative. So she wasn’t over-familiar with East End culture – pubs, rowdy knees-ups, that sort of thing – till my dad started courting her.

Nonetheless, the cultural divide didn’t stop her from spending ages planning her outfits and getting dolled up to the nines for the big ‘dos’, mostly weddings, my dad’s friends and family went in for in the early fifties. I sported a frilly organdie bridesmaid’s outfit and a posy for a few of these – still showing the signs of a big bout of mumps on one occasion – and these mostly Jewish weddings would be pretty lavish affairs with hundreds of guests, live music, cash wedding gifts – and as much as anyone could eat in one sitting.

In the early fifties, my dad’s brother, Neville, courted and married a girl almost half his age – Neville was thirty five, Barb was extremely pretty and nineteen (he’d told her he was thirty and she believed him, only discovering the truth after nearly four decades of marriage when she saw his death certificate).

Neville’s wedding was a huge bash, paid for by Barb’s family and held at a north London hotel. 350 people sat down to a sumptuous five-course meal, followed by dancing to a live big band.

Jewish wedding receptions, by tradition, though often quite extravagant, are not, generally speaking, an excuse for everyone to get well and truly drunk. Alcohol, of course, is available, but most people tend to have one or two drinks, the odd glass of wine and no more.

So on hearing that his son’s wedding was in the planning process The Old Man had a major concern. A few of his big-betting punters were, of course, on the guest list. And they liked Scotch, especially Johnny Walker Black Label. This, of course, was both expensive and not readily available in the austerity days.

‘I’m definitely not paying for the Black Label,’ said Mary, the bride’s mother, a woman renowned for her iron will – and open dislike of alcohol and public houses.

‘Nah, I’ll provide the Black Label for the reception,’ said the Old Man obligingly. And so, courtesy of the black market and his group of ‘anything, anytime’ contacts, the Black Label bottles were sourced for the wedding reception, costing him a sizeable wad of crinkly fivers. He then generously suggested using his contacts to get Barb a really fantastic engagement ring at a very good price. And indeed, once procured, the ring was a superb sparkler; Barb loved the big diamond as she proudly showed it off to her girlfriends.

But once valued, months after the honeymoon, she discovered the truth: the ring was worthless, a paste fake (yet another typical Petticoat Lane con trick of the times, passing off worthless jewellery for wads of cash). Of course, neither she nor her new hubby dared say a word to The Old Man.

At the wedding, The Old Man, his punters and Ginger emptied the Black Label bottles with alacrity. For some reason, no matter what he drank, The Old Man never showed obvious signs of drunkenness: you never saw him actually fool around or get lairy, though we all knew that in private he could be very stroppy. And the punters and their wives, somewhat garishly costumed, like most of the female guests, in long beaded satin dresses and fox-fur stoles, thoroughly enjoyed themselves, the men holding their drink well.

But not Ginger, alas.

I am seated at a children’s table in my frilly bridesmaid’s dress with all the other kids. We are just finishing off our ice cream and fruit salad when it happens. My parents are with a group of relatives at a nearby table. And my dad, well-oiled by now, decides to serenade his brother, the blushing bride and the assembled guests. So he climbs onto his chair and spontaneously bursts into loud – and very pissed – song.

‘AALL of me … why not take AAALL of me, cantcha see, I’m no good wivvaaht ya,’ he croons, well out of tune. I am instantly uncomfortable, trapped with this embarrassing evidence of my dad’s unruly behaviour. I squirm in my seat and avoid the eyes of the other kids. A few older kids are giggling and nudging each other, they’ve seen it before at dos like this. The bride’s family, on the top table, are stony faced, clearly not at all impressed. Even the band doesn’t dare tune in and back him.

This outburst, of course, confirms what Barb’s family, respectable and comfortably off, have already suspected about Neville and his family: they are a rowdy mob of Petticoat Lane ne’er-do-wells. They may be flush with cash – The Old Man’s largesse with the Black Label had been anticipated, even if still frowned upon. But their Barb has definitely Married Down. (It’s a good job that at that point, they didn’t know about the worthless sparkler.)

OK, it’s a wedding with the usual jokey speeches and noisy toasts. And later, when the dancing gets going, the guests will all take to the floor to link arms for the usual raucous versions of the Hokey Cokey and Knees Up Mother Brown. It’s a far from subdued gathering. But this solo, very pissed person’s version of ‘All of Me’ is definitely not relevant to the occasion.

It’s way out of order: you just don’t do this sort of thing at this kind of bash. But as I sit there silently praying he’ll finish, longing to get up and run away, wishing it wasn’t my dad who was making all the noise and making people tut and titter, I look over at my mum. Isn’t she upset?

But no. Molly’s fine. She’s smiling. Noisy, loud, raucous and embarrassing as my dad is, it just doesn’t seem to bother her. As Ginger finishes his wailing and attempts to step down from the chair, he stumbles and falls over. Oh no. More shame, more embarrassment, though by now people are ignoring the whole thing, talking and laughing as if it hasn’t happened. Unsteadily he picks himself up. ‘OK, Mol,’ he winks at his spouse, practically falling into his chair, reaching for another glass. Mol just leans back, gives him a half smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder – and carries on chatting to the person next to her.

This kind of behaviour, boozing until you fell flat on your face, was somewhat at odds with the perceived behaviour of Jewish people: Jews aren’t exactly renowned for their love of heavy drinking or pubs. But the Lane, though very much a Jewish enclave then, was also a bit of a cultural potpourri. It wasn’t like the somewhat posher suburbs where everyone behaved according to type. In the Lane, you earned money however you could, regardless of traditional stereotypes. So there were pubs around the Lane that were run by Jewish families who’d been there for decades. And gambling, of course, brings in all comers, all backgrounds: so keeping punters happy with Black Label or whatever else they wanted to drink was far more important to my dad and grandfather than worrying about observing certain social norms.