Farewell To The East End

father.
    Mrs Lacey brought some beer and some whisky to the table.
    ‘We don’ ’ave much call fer anyfink else ’ere. Bu’ I can get some rum if you prefer.’
    She sat down next to Bob and shyly touched his jacket.
    ‘My boy. My dear boy,’ she whispered, gazing at him with adoring eyes.
    ‘Well, wha’ ’ave you been up to, Bob? Apart from touchin’ up ve girls?’
    The father leered at Trudie suggestively.
    ‘I’m in insurance,’ said Bob coldly, ‘doing well. Lots of room for promotion.’
    His mother stroked his arm and echoed, ‘Insurance. My boy. Jes’ fancy. Insurance. Yer doin’ nicely, ven. I’m vat proud on yer, I am.’
    Her face glowed with happiness.
    The door opened, and a couple of down-at-heel men entered. Both were dirty, and a powerful smell of unwashed body odour entered with them. They stared at the four people round the table and went to sit at the far end of the room. Mrs Lacey jumped up to serve them and then came back and sat down beside Bob. She took his hand and with her forefinger traced little circles on his wrist.
    ‘It’s bin a long time. Eight years you bin in Americky. An’ yer doin’ nicely. Insurance. Cor, my boy in insurance. Wha’choo fink o’ va’, eh, Dad?’
    ‘Oh, give over, Muvver. Yer daft. Bob don’t wan’cher maulin’ ’im. Do you, son?’
    Bob couldn’t answer, but he moved his hand away and looked at Trudie.
    ‘Well, we’d better be on our way. I’m showing Trudie the old country, and we’ve got a tight schedule.’
    ‘I’ll cook a meal for us all. Yer room’s ready. I done it special for yer,’ said his mother eagerly.
    ‘Oh no. We’re not stopping. We’ve booked into an hotel up West, and I have dinner reservations for us tonight.’
    ‘Not stoppin’?’ Her face was blank with sorrow.
    ‘No. There’s a lot I want to show Trudie. She’s never been to England before and she wants to see so much.’
    ‘Of course. I understand.’ Mrs Lacey’s voice was barely audible. She spoke to Trudie. ‘You’re a lucky girl. You got a good man. He’s my Bob, an’ he’ll be a good husband. There’s somefink I wanna give you, if you can wait a moment.’
    She slipped upstairs.
    The three round the table looked uncomfortable. The young people looked at each other and squeezed hands under the table. The father leaned forward.
    ‘Did I tell you I got die-betees? Killin’ me, it is. Injections every day. Agony, real agony, an’ I can’t get no ’elp from ’er.’ He jerked his thumb towards the door whence his wife had departed. He made a scornful hissing sound. ‘Useless, I tells yer straight. Useless.’ He coughed and retched in his throat, leaned across, pulled the spittoon towards him and spat messily into it. Trudie looked as though she was going to be sick.
    Mrs Lacey returned to the table. In her hand she held a folded envelope of tissue paper. She sat down beside Trudie and opened it for the girl to see inside.
    ‘It’s for you, dear. It were Bob’s, when he was a baby. I kep’ it all vese years, an treasured it. Bu’ now it’s for you.’
    She opened the paper and revealed a baby’s bonnet, yellow with age, cheap lace half torn off and ribbons frayed and crumbling.
    ‘Take it, dear. It’s yourn now.’
    The girl looked bewildered and muttered a quick ‘Thank you’.
    The young people stood up.
    ‘Well, we must be on our way,’ said Bob with forced cheer-fulness. ‘Nice seeing you both. Don’t forget you’ll always be welcome in America. It’s a big country. Lots of space. There will always be a welcome for you.’ And they left.

    An hour or so later, Mrs Lacey was putting some crates in the street. There, in the gutter, lay the precious bonnet. She went upstairs and took off the pink blouse. She never wore it again.

THE FIGHT

    A district midwife in Poplar, East London, in the 1950s could find herself in many strange and unexpected situations. It was about 7 o’clock when I reached the tenements on a cold, wet night, and a menacing sound greeted me. Two women were fighting. I had never seen such a thing before and crept closer to listen to the comments of bystanders.
    The fight, apparently, was over a man. Well of course, I thought, what else would two women fight about?
    It was dark, but light from some of the windows illuminated the scene sufficiently to show that both women’s blouses had been torn off, and they were clawing, hitting, punching, biting and kicking each other. One had long hair,