Farewell To The East End

‘Bob’s goin’ to see wha’ ’is poor old dad ’as to suffer. His poor ole dad wha’ was good to ’im and sacrificed everyfing to bring ’im up proper an’ give ’im a good ejication, wha’s dyin’ now with no one to care for ’im.’ Tears of self-pity rolled down his fat cheeks.
    Each time I called that week and the next, Mrs Lacey was in a flurry of excitement. Her usual slow, listless behaviour was replaced by smiling activity. She was decorating his bedroom. Paints and brushes, wallpaper, new curtains, a light shade – everything had to be perfect for her Bob. I couldn’t imagine how she found the time to do it, as well as all the work of running the pub, but she did, and gladly.
    One morning when I entered the private bar she was emerging from the cellar, carrying a crate of bottles. The weight was obviously as much as her strength could bear, and she let the crate down with an exhausted sigh. I was indignant.
    ‘You shouldn’t have to work so hard,’ I said.
    ‘It’s better’n no work.’
    She was panting and perspiring, so she wiped her face with the dirty glass cloth. She sat down on the bar stool for a moment.
    ‘It’s better’n draggin’ yerself through ve streets wiv nowhere ’a go, no place to rest yer ’ead, nowhere to rest ve baby.’
    I looked at her silently, wondering what she had suffered during the great depression, when there was no work for men, even those who were eager to work – and I doubted Lacey had ever been eager. She looked up, and a rare smile lit her tired features.
    ‘An’ Bobby was my baby. Bob wha’s comin’ ’ome next week. Comin’ ’ome to ’is mum. He’s a lovely boy, ’e is. Doin’ well, vey say. Doin’ nicely. His letter’s a treat, ’e’s got a good ’and. Writes real nice, ’e do. I’m vat proud, I can tell yer.’
    By the beginning of the third week the room was decorated, and she wanted to show it to me. She was doubtful about the choice of curtains. Did I think he would like them? Did they match the room?
    In contrast to the rest of the dreary pub, the room was bright and cheerful, and I gasped with genuine admiration when I entered and saw all that she had achieved in a fortnight. She saw my face and giggled with pleasure.
    ‘An’ ve curtains. Will ’e like ’em?’
    ‘The curtains are lovely. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.’
    ‘I bin sewing ’em every day sittin’ behind ve bar.’
    Two days later she said shyly, ‘I got meself a new blouse. I mus’ look me best when ’e comes. Bu’ now I got it ’ome, I’m not sure. If I puts it on, will you tell me if it suits me?’
    When I came down after seeing Mr Lacey, his wife was in the bar, wearing a pink blouse. It was not what is described as ‘shocking pink’, but any colour in that dingy brown and puce room would have been a shock. She stood nervously, biting her lip with her toothless gums.
    ‘Is it too bright?’
    I couldn’t say ‘yes’, could I?
    ‘It is lovely. Bob will be proud of you. You look really pretty.’ She glowed with pleasure. Had anyone ever paid her a compliment before?
    ‘We ’ad a letter vis morning from Southampton. Ve boat come in yesterday. ’e’s comin’ tomorrow or ve next day, an’ he’ll be ’ere for three weeks. Three weeks! My Bob.’
    Her voice trailed away in emotion.
    ‘I’ll ’ave to ge’ vis blouse off, keep it clean. Can’ ’ave it grubby afore ’e comes. An’ you really like it?’ She looked up wistfully. ‘Really?’
    For two days Mrs Lacey stood in the bar in her pink blouse, wiping the tables, serving her customers. Mr Lacey came downstairs, dressed in his new shirt and trousers, and sat at a table drinking beer and smoking Woodbines. Both of them were on edge. Many times she went out into the street and ran to the corner just to have a look. But no Bob. ‘Somefink musta delayed ’im, he’ll be ’ere by an’ by,’ she kept saying.
    At eleven o’clock on the second evening, she wearily called, ‘Time. Finish yer glasses. Time please,’ and shut the bar. Mr Lacey shouted, ‘Fine son you got,’ and went to bed. She sat at a table, her head on her arms, and wept bitterly.

    On the evening of the third day the door of the bar opened, and a young man entered. He was good-looking and well dressed in a style not common in Poplar. The bar was empty.
    ‘Hello. Anyone there?’ he shouted. He was well spoken, with a slight American accent.
    ‘Fine sort of homecoming this is – anyone there?