Farewell To The East End

before, still less a young and pretty one. But Julia was always reserved and serious-looking, which did not invite cat-calls or lewd comments. In all this Terry was indispensable to her, and, knowing that she could not succeed without him, she raised his wages.
    Each day she spent a great deal of time in the bar, watching how a pub was run, and admiring the skill and speed of the barmen. But when one of them slipped his arm around her waist and murmured that she needed a man’s help now, and if they married they could make a real success of it, she slapped his face and sacked him. She also sacked one of the barmaids who took the liberty of calling her ‘Julia’, with the cold words ‘My name is Miss Masterton.’ There were no more ‘Julias’ after that, and the rest of the staff were quietly respectful. She had Terry’s unqualified support, but she knew that she needed another man, preferably one with fighting skills, and she found one in Chubb, an ex-professional heavyweight with a broken nose and no front teeth. He was running to fat, and of limited intelligence, but the hammer fists and ingrown profile ensured that no one would knock his beer over to see how he took it. Chubb and Terry served her with dog-like devotion, and she rewarded them accordingly.
    Within a few weeks she was known as the Mistress of the Master’s Arms, a title in which she took great pride. Several of the big breweries offered to buy her out, but she refused them all, preferring to run a free house.
    Every day she was in the bar, memorising and ordering stock, overseeing sales, bar and table service, and the hundred and one other things involved in running a pub. The local customers were intrigued by the new Mistress, who was always courteous and welcoming, but never over-friendly or familiar. She was even around during the sing-song and knees-up. She never joined in, but just stood quietly, watching and smiling. Chubb the Brawn was never far from her, and if anything got too rowdy a look from Julia and a movement from Chubb would put a stop to it instantly. In observing and analysing the people who came in, Julia realised that the pub and its atmosphere were an essential outlet for high spirits in her Cockney clients. One thing, however, had always made her unhappy, and that was seeing children hanging around the doors of the pub waiting for their parents. She was determined to do something about it. There was no point in refusing admission to the parent; they would merely move on to the next pub, and probably wallop the children as well. So she got the men to clear one of the stock rooms which was quite separate from the licensed premises, and turned it into a children’s room. This was a completely new idea. A lot of people were scornful, but it worked, and sales increased.

    It was 1937 when the Master died and Julia took over. Rumours of war were spreading all over Europe. No one believed, or wanted to believe, it could happen so soon after the last war, but Churchill thundered on about the dangers, and the Government dithered about rearmament. Two years passed, and in September 1939 war was declared. ‘It will all be over by Christmas,’ everyone said cheerfully. But it wasn’t, and a year later on 30 September 1940, the bombing of London started with a ferocity hitherto undreamed of. For fifty-seven nights an average of 200 German bombers a night attacked London, aiming mainly at the Docklands. Acres of housing were destroyed, many were killed, and thousands of people made homeless. Noise, destruction, burning and death filled the streets, and each night nobody knew if they would live to see the morning.
    The Master’s Arms in Poplar was in the thick of it, and the chances of a direct hit, killing all inside, were pretty high. Julia felt she ought to close the pub and move to the safety of the countryside, but seeing the relief occasioned by the pub’s warm and welcoming atmosphere made her hesitate. One day she was standing at the door, looking at the smoke and the devastation all around, and the rescue workers digging in the rubble for survivors, when a little old woman caught her eye. She was typical of the older generation of Cockneys – tiny, skinny, bright-eyed, toothless, with straggly grey hair beneath a greasy greyish cap and wearing a long, frowsty coat, of that indescribable colour created by age, damp and decay. She was standing in the street, smacking her lips and grunting to herself. An ambulance worker