Farewell To The East End

never see the funny side of life. He never even smiled. He just doggedly carried on, humping the boxes and crates, his thin frame sometimes trembling under the weight, his cap pulled well down over his eyes and his lips fixed in a tight, straight line. He spoke to no one, and invited no one to speak to him. When the market was over, he vanished. If he had a favourite pub, or a favoured walk or haunt by the river edge, no one knew what or where it was.
    When Mave became pregnant it was a shock to the three of them. They had been married for several years with no issue, to use the old biblical term, and life without children was comfortable enough. They were thirty-eight, and Mavis assumed a saintly, martyred expression. Poor Sid got the rough end. The wives grumbled and nagged at him mercilessly, until he lost another stone in weight and looked as if he might disappear altogether.
    Mave’s pregnancy brought out the warrior in Meg. Mave became rather docile and quiet, whilst Meg doubled her energy and aggression. She had found a new meaning to life. It would be no exaggeration to say that her whole life had hitherto been leading up to this point. She suddenly discovered that Mavis had been suffering for years from numerous diseases and infirmities caused by neglect, hardship, ignorance (other people’s) but most seriously by medical error. The catalogue of ailments could easily be traced to babyhood, when Mave, the second twin, had had her arm pulled by a stupid and ignorant midwife, who ought to have been strung up, Meg reckoned. Everyone could see that there was nothing wrong with Mave’s arm; she had been heaving fruit and veg around the markets for twenty years, but Meg was unimpressed by the evidence. ‘An’ look at her constitooshun! It’s ’er constitooshun, see! No proper nourishment when she was a baby – ooh, terrible it was, I tells yer. Dad – he drank, an’ Mum – no good she was, couldn’t stand up to ’im. No proper nourishment – vat’s what started it – an’ look at ’er now – can’t expect ’er to go through wiv bein’ pregnant. She ain’t got no constitooshun, see?’
    Long-standing complaints and grudges against the medical profession were remembered, dragged up and exploited for all they were worth. ‘Medical blunders’ became her pet phrase.
    ‘Welliclose weins. She ’ad welliclose weins, see? Right mess they made of ’em. Stripped ’em, they did. Well, they shouldn’t ’ave done it. I’ve been readin’ up about it, an’ it was done all wrong. Medical blunder! Made ’er ’alf lame. Look at ’er. It wasn’t done right. Them weins is all swellin’ up. Show ’em yer legs, Mave.’
    Mave pulled down her stockings. ‘Well, vat’s not right. If them weins ’ad been done proper in ve first place, they wouldn’t be swellin’ up now. Doctors! I could teach ’em a thing or two. Don’t know nuffink, vey don’t.’
    Another day it was ‘golf stones’.
    ‘Look at ’er. Gone yeller she ’as. I tells ve doctor, I sez, look ’ere, she’s gone yeller – it’s golf stones, see? You wan’s ’a do somefink about it, or I’ll call the Medical Council. But ’e wouldn’t do nuffink. Too busy playin’ golf, if you ask me.’
    Meg became a voracious reader. She plundered all the secondhand bookstalls and book fairs from Portobello Road to Poplar, searching for ancient medical text-books. Most of the stall holders were glad to get rid of the old rubbish, out of date medically by a century or two, but Meg was delighted with her purchases and bore them home triumphantly. ‘Ancient wisdom,’ she called it. Megan’mave devoured the faded print and agreed that everything the doctors said about Mave’s pregnancy was based on error, ignorance, stupidity, or downright malevolence, and was not to be trusted.
    Because of her age – thirty-eight years – Mavis was told by her doctor that she must have a hospital confinement for the delivery of her first baby. Meg immediately came in, all guns firing. ‘’ospital! Don’t make me laugh. Charnel ’ouse, you mean. I know vese infirmaries, I do. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, you can’t. Women die like flies in them infirmaries!’
    In vain the doctor protested that modern hospitals were not like the old infirmaries, but Megan’mave were adamant. With cold and crafty eye, Meg produced from her bag a book, yellow with age and disfigured with damp marks, and gave him a knowing look.
    ‘What do you say to