Farewell To The East End

proclaiming: ‘This is where it all happened.’ The visitors flocked in, and one of the two brothers led a guided tour of all the murder spots, with grisly details of how the killings were done, embellished for the shivering delight of the crowd, who then returned to the pub for suitable refreshment. Business was looking good.
    The pub took on a life of its own after that and became well known for its landlords, its warmth and hospitality and its easy-going atmosphere. Every pub was easy-going in those days, but there were limits to how easy the going should be, and the brothers set the tone. There was to be no fighting, no child prostitution, no illegal gambling, or money handling and no opium smoking. Again the Masterton brothers were successful, and the pub flourished.
    In the year that Queen Victoria died, one of the brothers died also. His funeral was less spectacular than the Queen’s but lavish enough by Poplar standards, and was enjoyed by all. There’s nothing like a good East End funeral to raise the spirits, and the Master’s Arms opened its generous doors to patrons after the church solemnities. The surviving brother decided to hang up his boots and pass the freehold on to his son, who ran the pub efficiently for twenty-five years throughout the Edwardian period, the disaster of the 1914-18 War and the chaos of the years that followed. It was he who bought a piano, found a piano-player and introduced the communal sing-songs. He did so because of the misery of the times, with the hope that it would cheer people up to have a good sing – or a good cry if need be. The sing-songs and dancing became a feature of the Master’s Arms, and, try as they might, no other pub in the area could rival the Arms for their Saturday night entertainment.
    In 1926, the year of the great General Strike, when most industry in Britain was forced to close, Bill Masterton’s father died, and he, fourth generation, took over the Master’s Arms. He was a thick-set man, a little above average height, with great strength and phenomenal energy. He could work any other man into the ground without breaking sweat. He had a good, practical intelligence, ideal for running a small business, and was known by all as the Master. He was married to an Essex girl, who had not expected a pub life when she married a self-employed carter, and she never really settled down in Poplar or took to the life. Bill once persuaded her to act as barmaid, but she hated it so much that he said she would drive the customers away with her miserable face. Relieved, she devoted her time to her children.
    Oliver, her eldest, was the joy of her heart, resembling his good-looking father in appearance, but with a more loving nature. Julia, her second, was a bit of a mystery; she was a solemn little girl who never said much, and children who don’t talk always make grown-ups feel uneasy. But Mrs Masterton had plenty to do with the three younger boys, who tumbled and romped all over the place. Then she found herself pregnant again, and a little girl was born, as pretty a baby as you could wish for. They called her Gillian. Her husband seemed to like the last baby, which was a surprise to the newly delivered mother. He had not taken much notice of the others, always saying, ‘The children are your concern. You look after them – I’ll look after the money. Can’t say fairer than that.’
    And indeed he couldn’t. He worked hard, and the pub was profitable. Mrs Masterton was never short of money, unlike so many Poplar women. She did not want to see her children growing up like the Cockney kids and with a Cockney accent, so, when the time came, they all went to a small private school outside the borough. Her husband grumbled, but paid the term’s fees for each child, saying, ‘You know best when it comes to the kids. Let’s hope it’s worth the money.’ Husband and wife rubbed along together, each with their own role, but with little communication or understanding. ‘You’re more interested in your pub than your children,’ grumbled Mrs Masterton sometimes. ‘Don’t be daft,’ her husband remarked, ‘what do you expect me to do – change nappies? Ha, ha, I should think! Anyway they’re all right, aren’t they? Doing nicely. What more do you want?’
    Julia was nine when her older brother started coughing. ‘It’s a winter cold,’ said his mother and rubbed his chest with Vick. But the cough continued. ‘It will go in the spring,’ said the