Farewell To The East End

know.’
    ‘Have you seen him?’
    ‘No. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Julia. When did you last see him?’
    ‘Some years ago. I’m not sure.’
    ‘There was no rift, or anything, between you? No harsh words, nothing like that?’
    ‘No. We never quarrelled. We just barely spoke. I never knew what he was thinking. I always thought he was giving me funny looks. I don’t know why. Perhaps he wasn’t. I don’t know. He loved Gillian, but he never loved me, I’m sure of that. Did he love the boys?’
    ‘I think he did, in his way.’ The bereaved mother sighed. ‘He’s a funny man. Never could show his feelings, but I think he loved the boys. And yes, he loved Gillian. She was the apple of his eye.’
    Mrs Masterton screwed up her table napkin and forced back her tears.
    ‘Life can be so hard. All gone, and only you, my comfort, left.’
    Mother and daughter squeezed hands across the table, as the afternoon pianist enjoyed his runs and trills. Both women were lost in memories. Julia broke the silence.
    ‘I ought to go and see him.’
    ‘I was hoping you would say that, dear.’
    ‘I’ll go on my day off.’
    ‘That’s my girl.’
    Mrs Masterton paused, fumbling for her lipstick, then said hesitantly, ‘Ask him if he wants to see me, will you, dear? I won’t push myself on him, but if he wants, I’ll come. Poor old Dad. I don’t like to think of him alone and ill. He wasn’t a bad husband. I’m sure he meant well. But we never got on, and the pub always came first.’

    Julia went to Poplar early in the morning. She wanted to get there before the Master’s Arms opened. The tram rattled on its rails to an area she had not visited for more than six years. She couldn’t get away fast enough when she was seventeen. Now at the age of twenty-three it filled her with interest, and she eagerly watched for landmarks she had known since childhood. She felt strangely excited, almost exhilarated, which was the opposite of what she had expected after so long an absence.
    She got off a stop before the Master’s Arms, in order to walk the last quarter mile, and she noted all the shops she had known: the general store on the corner which sold sweets – she and her brothers had haunted it; the baker’s that always gave off lovely smells; the pawnbrokers, with their three brass balls and ever-open door; the Jewish tailor. She knew them all and felt comforted by the familiarity.
    A man was sweeping the pavement outside the Master’s Arms. She accosted him, and asked if Mr Masterton was at home. He was, but he was ill, and not receiving visitors, the man informed her. Julia said ‘He will see me. Can you let me in, please? I’m his daughter.’
    The man stopped sweeping, leaned on his broom and stared at her.
    ‘His daughter! I never knew ’e ’ad a daughter. Said ’is family was all dead.’
    The daughter that never was, thought Julia sadly. He doesn’t even mention me. But then, to be fair, she had never mentioned her father to the girls at the telephone exchange; so why would he, who was equally reserved, be likely to talk about her to his employees?
    ‘I am his only living daughter. Can you let me in?’
    The man was immediately respectful.
    ‘No, ma’am, but Terry ’as a key. ’e was ’ead barman, but ’e’s been manager since ve boss got ill. I’ll take yer to him.’
    Terry was equally surprised at the news of a daughter and muttered something about ‘Me mum looks after ve old boy.’ Julia did not like the familiarity.
    ‘If you mean my father, then please refer to him as Mr Masterton,’ she said coldly. ‘Now please, let me in to the family quarters.’
    She ascended the wooden stairs that she knew so well. All was quiet, save for her footsteps. She entered the big rooms where the family had lived together in happier days, where the children had laughed and played before Death spread its dark shadow over them. She saw the door of the room where her brothers had been laid out before burial, but she did not open it. Instead she went into the kitchen – it was clean but cold and appeared to be unused. Was no one there at all? She called out, ‘Dad, are you here?’ A voice answered ‘Who’s there? Is that Mrs Weston?’ She went towards the sound of the voice. ‘No, it’s not Mrs Weston. It’s me, Julia.’
    She went into a bedroom. In a single bed by the window lay a man she did not recognise. His face was thin and shrunken, his eyes sunk deep into the eye-sockets. His