Farewell To The East End

and she had always been indifferent to their comments. Nothing could spoil her happiness, and her staff noticed a softening in her eyes and a radiance in her features that they had never seen before.

    It was 1957 when I first saw Miss Masterton, twenty years after she had taken over the Master’s Arms from her father. It was my day off, which happened to be on a Saturday, and I had been showing my West End friends, Jimmy and Mike, and some of their set, around the Docks. We ended the day in the Master’s Arms. There was a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere, and we settled down for a good session. The pub filled up as the evening wore on – local people on their night out, looking for fun. The war had changed much, but not the Cockney’s appetite for bawdy enjoyment. A pianist started to bang out ‘Doin’ the Lambeth Walk, hoi!’ and within seconds everyone joined in, con belto style. Glasses were raised with every ‘oi!’ which grew louder and louder with each refrain. Bodies swayed in rhythm, and beer was spilled. Our group sat in a corner and exchanged surprised glances. ‘This is going to be fun,’ we muttered. Then a group of girls got up, linked arms and started a side-kick routine to the ‘Lambeth Walk’, which went on and on, till they sank down exhausted amid cheers and whistles. ‘Run rabbit run’ followed, and several old music hall songs. Someone got up and acted as chorus master with an ‘all together now …’ and the pub was filled with raucous voices splitting their vocal cords. It was impossible to hear yourself speak, so we just sat back and enjoyed it.
    One woman in particular caught my eye. She was standing behind the bar. She was about forty-five, was well-dressed and good-looking, but was not the typical barmaid. She was quietly pleasant to all her customers, but in a subtle way, seemingly detached from everything around her. Yet at the same time she was obviously watching everyone and everything that was going on. A group sitting by the door began to get a bit quarrelsome, one man shouting at and threatening another. The woman stepped out from behind the bar and walked towards the table. She did not say a word; she just looked at the two men and, somewhat shamefaced, they sat down. There was no more trouble. Her whole aspect exuded quiet self-confidence, but when you looked at her face there was something missing, something in the eyes that I could not define; a sort of blank, vacant expression, as though she was looking at people but not seeing them, or looking through and beyond them to something that was not there.
    The boys were enjoying themselves and wanted to stay, but for me, the noise was getting a bit too ear-splitting for comfort, so I left early. As I walked back to the convent, the memory of the woman’s face, and the look in her eyes, haunted me.
    A few weeks later I saw her again, but it was a very different person from the woman I had seen in the pub. I was in All Saints Church with Sister Julienne. It was mid-afternoon, and the church was empty but for Sister and me. Then a woman staggered in. I did not recognise her at first, her hair was dishevelled, her eyes so red from weeping that she could hardly see, and her legs seemed barely able to support her. She looked wildly around her and clung to one of the pews for support. Sister Julienne went up to her to ask if she could help, but the woman did not answer. She took a couple of faltering steps forward and croaked, rather than spoke.
    ‘Yes, this is the place. Six years ago it was. Here, in this church.’
    She let out a low moan and staggered forward a few more steps.
    ‘They stopped here, right here where I am standing. This is where they rested it, the little, little coffin. Six years ago to this day.’
    She sank on to a seat and sobbed.
    Sister asked if she could do anything to help.
    ‘No. No one can help me. Nothing can bring her back. I just want to light a candle, and then I’ll go.’
    Sister helped her to the altar, and they lit a candle together and prayed. Then they sat quietly talking for a minute or two. Finally the woman stood up. She did not say anything, but she looked slightly more composed. She walked towards the spot where she had stopped before, where she said the coffin had rested. She stood silently for a few minutes and then with a firmer step walked out of the church.
    I asked Sister if she knew the woman, and she told me it was Miss Masterton, owner of the Master’s Arms. And then