Farewell To The East End

Jeepers, what a hole! Sorry about this,’ he said to his companion, a tall shapely girl with blonde hair, cut in the pageboy style. Her clothes were tight-fitting and well cut. The neckline of her jacket plunged low enough to reveal an enticing cleavage. Her shoes were high and pointed, and fine nylon stockings covered her shapely legs. Her lips were vivid red, her eyes deeply blackened, and her perfume was subtle and exotic. She was smoking, and she used a long cigarette holder.
    She looked around the grimy, desolate beer-den. She looked at the flies buzzing round the light bulb. She looked at the yellowing ceiling, and at the filthy windows, and said, ‘Jeez, what a dump! Is this where you were brought up?’
    Bob coloured.
    ‘Oh no, no. They’ve only been here eight years. They moved here after I left home. They’ve come down in the world, I’m sorry to say. I was brought up in a fine house in the country. We had a maid and a gardener in those days. But look, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. We could easily slip away. No one knows we’re here.’
    The American girl was about to speak when the door leading from the cellar was kicked open. Mrs Lacey entered the room, struggling to carry a great crate of bottles. Her attention was entirely focused on getting the crate to the bar without dropping it. She loosed her hold, and stood trembling, leaning on the bar. She was dishevelled and the dirt on her face was streaked with tears. The girl stared at her in amazement and whispered, ‘Who’s that?’ He whispered, ‘Ssshhh. Let’s get out,’ and made a move towards the door. But the girl’s high heels made a sharp clicking sound on the floor, and the woman turned. She gave a strangled cry.
    ‘Bob, my Bob. You’ve come, then. I knowed as ’ow you would. Come ’ome to yer ole muvver. My boy.’
    She ran across the room and laid her dirty grey head on his clean white shirt.
    ‘Steady on, ol’ girl. Don’t make a show of yourself. I said I’d come, didn’t I?’
    He untangled her arms from around him, and took a couple of steps backwards. She sat down on one of the chairs, leaning her arms on the table. Tears were streaming down her face, and she wiped them away with a hand covered in dust from the cellar.
    ‘My Bobby. It’s my Bob. My lad. Come ’ome.’ She had not noticed the girl.
    ‘Yes, it’s me. Now pull yourself together, Mum. I said in my letter I had a surprise for you. I want to introduce you to Trudie. We are going to get married and she wanted to meet you.’
    The two women stared at each other as though they were from different planets. It would be hard to say which received the greater shock. Neither spoke.
    Bob said, ‘Where’s Dad?’
    Mrs Lacey roused herself. ‘Of course. Yer dad. I’ll get ’im,’ and she ran off upstairs.
    ‘Is she really your mother, Bob?’ enquired the girl.
    ‘’fraid so.’
    He kicked the leg of a table.
    ‘We shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake.’
    Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mr Lacey lurched into the bar. He had not shaved for two days, and his new shirt and trousers were covered in cigarette ash and beer stains. He staggered towards them and held out a hand.
    ‘Great ter see yer, son. Welcome ’ome.’
    Bob winced and took another step backwards.
    ‘Good to see you, Dad. This is Trudie, my fiance’e. I wanted you to meet her.’
    The older man ogled the girl, then reeled towards her. ‘Cor, not ’alf. Nice bi’ of crumpet.’
    He attempted to kiss her, but she jumped aside. He did not notice the expression on her face, but Bob did.
    ‘Take a seat. Take a seat.’
    Mr Lacey waved his arm, the jovial, expansive landlord.
    ‘We’ll ’ave beer’n whisky. We’ll ’ave a chat, catch up on yer news, son. Sit down. This is a celebration.’
    He sat down himself.
    ‘Annie’ he yelled, thumping the table. ‘Annie! Where is tha’ idle, stupid woman. Never there when she’s wanted. Come ’ere, can’cher. We wants a drink.’
    Mrs Lacey re-entered the bar. She was wearing her pink blouse, and had washed her face. She was trembling with excitement.
    ‘Do somefink useful for a change, you lazy slu’, an’ ge’ us some drinks, an’ a packet o’ crisps.’
    He turned towards the girl.
    ‘I got die-betees. I aint goin’ter live long. ’as to have a needle every day. Agony, it is. Dyin’, vat’s me.’
    He leaned over the table and looked down her cleavage. She drew back. Bob nearly hit his