Farewell To The East End

washed the glasses. She emptied the spitoons and cleaned the outside lavatory. She served behind the bar during opening hours when a few men sat sullenly, drinking beer. She did it all with a slow, methodical dullness as though she expected nothing else. She always looked tired, she always looked spiritless, she seldom spoke. She just carried on working, eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.
    The only time Mrs Lacey left the pub was to go shopping. Then she would cook a meal and take it up to her husband in bed. I had seen her cooking and told her that he must have no sweet things.
    ‘I daren’t cross ’im,’ she whimpered. ‘’e must ’ave ’is puddings. Won’t do wivout ’em.’
    It was pointless trying to reason with her. The poor woman clearly lived in fear of her husband.
    The same applied to his beer consumption. Visiting twice a day enabled me to see just what went on. He would thump on the floor and scream out, ‘Fetch us a beer and look lively,’ and she would run upstairs with a pint. The doctor, Sister Evangelina and I all told him it was making him worse, but he sneered. ‘If I gets worse it’s all your fault. You’re supposed to get me better.’ I tested his urine twice daily and kept a careful chart of his blood-sugar levels, but they were always high, and sometimes dangerously high.
    Mrs Lacey looked at least twenty years older than she was. She had a cringing, apologetic way of talking, quite unlike so many Poplar women who were full of breezy self-confidence. She called me ‘madam’ and ‘lady nurse’ and asked if she could carry my bag upstairs. When I refused she said, ‘But it’s too heavy for a lady like you. I’ll take it.’ And she did. When I thanked her she looked surprised and said, ‘It’s good of you, madam, real kind. I don’t expect no thanks. Real kind, I says. I ’preciate it, I do.’ Up in the bedroom her husband shouted to her ‘Put ve bag on ve table, you lazy slut, an’ ge’ out. I’m the one who’s got to suffer ve needle to keep me from dying. Now ge’ ou’.’ If I had been carrying a 4-inch intramuscular needle with me that day, I would have rammed it deep into his fat buttocks and been glad to do so!
    Down in the bar I said to her: ‘You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.’
    ‘Like wha’, madam?’
    ‘Calling you lazy. Telling you to get out.’
    ‘I don’ notice nuffink.’
    Poor woman. She did not notice all the insults, but she had noticed a word of thanks.

    The next time I called she was in the cellar, struggling to get a great barrel of beer across the floor to the pump taps. I went down to give her a hand. She was deeply troubled.
    ‘Oh, no, no. A lady like you can’t be movin’ barrels o’ beer. It’s not righ’, not fittin’ like. I can do it by meself.’
    I ignored her.
    ‘You take one side, I’ll take the other. We’ll have the job done in no time.’
    And we did. She sat down on the barrel sweating.
    ‘It takes me twen’y minutes ’a get a barrel fixed up by meself. An’ we done it in two. Oh, madam, I’m vat grateful, I am. I wish I ’ad a daughter. Every woman needs a daugh’er as she gets on.’
    ‘Have you any children?’
    ‘I got a boy. A lovely boy, ’e is. Bob. ’e’s in Americky. ’e’s doin’ well, doin’ nicely. I’m proud on ’im. Loves ’is ol’ mum, ’e do.’ She gave me a bleak smile.
    We climbed the treacherous stone steps from cellar to bar and immediately heard continuous banging on the ceiling. Upstairs in the bedroom Mr Lacey was in a frenzy of rage.
    ‘You idle, useless woman,’ he shouted. ‘What ’ave you been doin’ all vis time, eh? Sitting around, drinkin’ tea an’ gossipin’, that’s wha’! When me, your lawful ’usband, wha’s sufferin’ an’ dyin’, wants yer. Now listen ’ere, you stupid wench, them letters you brought up. Well one of ’em is from Bob. ’e’s comin’ ’ome. In three weeks. Sailin’ from New York, ’e is. Says ’e’s got a surprise for us.’
    Mrs Lacey gave a faint moan and clung to the table.
    ‘Bob? My Bobby? Comin’ ’ome? An’ got a su-prise for us?’
    ‘Yes. Three weeks. Now I shall want a new shirt an’ a new pair o’ trousies, an’ some new socks, if you’re not too idle to ge’ yerself round shops an’ buy me some. Now ge’ on with it. I gotta suffer ve needle, an’ I’m goin’ ’a need all me strength to bear ve pain.’
    After the injection Mr Lacey moaned,