Farewell To The East End

to her temperament; the way he shrugged off suffering won her admiration; his desire not to be a nuisance was touching; and his gratitude for the least thing she did for him was unexpected. His constant interest in and care for his pub was consistent with the man she had known throughout her childhood. She admired the huge effort he made each morning, going over the accounts with Terry, and she always stayed in the room in order to help her father, should he need help. Sister Evangelina came each day, and together they administered postural drainage and massage, and she saw the fortitude with which her father endured it. He always seemed a little better an hour later, so they continued.
    He never openly showed affection, but one evening he squeezed her hand and muttered, ‘You’re a good girl, Julia, the only one left. Go to that cupboard and get the box out. I haven’t seen it for years; we’ll look at it together.’
    Julia did as she was bid. Her father sat up in bed, his eyes bright, his breathing laboured.
    ‘Open it, lass, will you? I can’t any more.’
    Opening the box, so long unopened, revealed more of her father than anything else could have done. Inside was a jumble of children’s toys and books, colouring pencils, pictures drawn by a childish hand, a small teddy bear and a china doll. At the bottom was a wooden Noah’s Ark.
    ‘Get it out, Julie, we must look at it.’
    Julia opened it up and took out the wooden animals. Her father chuckled.
    ‘I remember you all playing with these. Do you?’
    Of course she did, and the memory nearly choked her. He fingered the giraffe, and the lion, and the ghosts of her brothers seemed to enter the room.
    ‘There’s another box in there. Lift it out, will you?’
    She did so, and it was full of toy soldiers. Her father handled them eagerly, his eyes bright.
    ‘I bought these as a birthday present, once. The boys played with them for hours.’
    The dying man closed his eyes.
    ‘I can see them now, all over the floor with their soldier games.’
    Julia looked at him, and a wave of tenderness swept over her. ‘All gone, all dead,’ he murmured, and his hand fell limply on the counterpane. But then he brightened. ‘There’s a little cotton bag in the bottom; pull it out.’ Inside the bag were some hair ribbons and a child’s bolero, the ones he had asked her to send to Gillian for her birthday when the family were in Skegness. He took the bolero, which was made of soft angora, and rubbed it up and down his cheek. ‘Is there a card there? Read it to me, will you?’ Julia read the card from Gillian, which said how lovely the bolero was, and how she wore it all the time and would not take it off. Her father chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t take it off, bless her,’ but then his face crumpled, and tears started in his eyes. He turned his head away quickly, ashamed of his weakness. ‘Go and get a cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’
    Julia left the bedroom in tears. So he had cared after all, and she had not known it. She lit the gas stove, put the kettle on and drew the kitchen curtains. The sounds from the pub were starting downstairs, but she hardly noticed them any more; they were just part of life. The singing and dancing would begin soon, but she no longer resented them. She sat down at the kitchen table and leaned her head on her arms and sobbed. Why was he dying now, just when she was getting to know him? He was the father she had never had but had always wanted, because all girls want a father to love.
    The tears did her good. She stood up and washed her eyes in cold water, then made the tea and returned with it to the sick room.
    Her father appeared to be asleep, with toys and books and childish things all around him, so she decided not to disturb him. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down beside him. She took his hand, and he responded with a little squeeze; the other hand held the fluffy pink bolero. He stirred a little. ‘Do you want that cup of tea, Dad?’ she whispered. ‘By and by,’ he croaked, ‘by and by,’ and he drifted off to sleep again. She sat quietly beside him, as the sounds of ‘Pack up yer troubles’ floated upstairs. She shut the window, but he roused again. ‘No, don’t do that. It’s nice to hear them enjoying themselves.’ She opened it again and the shouts of ‘…. in yer ol’ kit bag and smile, smile, smile’ came flooding in. ‘Smile,’ he croaked. ‘That’s what we gotta do. It’s a funny old