Farewell To The East End

Mr Harding. Nothing can be done.’
    ‘But you says we was top of the housing list.’
    ‘You are. But there are building delays. Strikes. An electricians’ strike.’
    ‘We can move in wivout no electricity. We got no electrics where we are, so it don’t matter.’
    ‘I’m sorry, the Council cannot allow you to move into premises that are incomplete.’
    ‘But I tells yer, it don’t matter to us. We’re desperate to move, anywhere’ll do. Anywhere’s better’n what we got.’
    ‘It’s out of the question, Mr Harding. The law is quite clear. Council premises must be adequate and suitable for the family applying for rehousing.’
    The Council official shuffled his papers. His was an impossible job. Ten applicants for every house or flat being built. A housing list of thousands, every one of them clamouring for something better than the bomb-damaged buildings, the overcrowded and insanitary conditions in which they lived. But he had to follow the rules.
    ‘Well, when vis electricians’ strike’s over, how long will it be? How long, eh?’
    Bill Harding leaned forward menacingly. The official leaned back defensively.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Bill thumped the desk with his powerful fist.
    ‘’ow long? You must have some idea. How long’s the strike gonna last? A week? Two weeks? Then we can move – yes?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Harding. It’s not just building delays. It’s a question of size.’
    ‘Size? What size?’
    ‘Family size, Mr Harding. You have too many children. The Council at present is building two- and three-bedroom flats. We cannot allow a family of eight to move into a three-bedroom flat. We would have to provide a four-, or even five-bedroom flat or house for a family of this size. And at present the Council is simply not building five-bedroom flats.’
    ‘But vat’s daft. Three bedrooms is a luxury. More’n enough. We only gots one bedroom, and we all sleeps in it. We’d give anything for three bedrooms.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding. But we have our standards and our rules. We cannot rent a three-bedroom flat or house to a family of eight. It is simply not allowed.’
    Bill had lost all his aggression, and despair overtook him. He sighed deeply and held his head in his hands. He had to get back to work. He had taken an hour off to see the Council, and it was like banging his head against a brick wall.
    ‘Bloody red tape,’ he groaned.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding, really sorry. But the rules must be obeyed.’
    Bill stood up and left without looking at the Council official, who, with a depressed and weary sigh, called, ‘Next please,’ knowing that the next interview would be as bad, or worse, than the last.
    Bill slouched down the road towards the shipbuilder’s yard, where he was a welder. He slunk against the wall and kicked a stone, hard. It shot across the pavement and hit a passing lorry. The stone ricocheted off and bounced back onto the pavement. A policeman saw what had happened and came over to Bill. No real damage had been done, but the copper tore a strip off Bill for dangerous and irresponsible behaviour. The incident did nothing to improve his humour – bloody red tape, bloody law. Well, his bloody job could wait; he needed a drink. He went into a pub and drank away his lunch hour until chucking-out time at two o’clock. He arrived back at the yard at 3 p.m., having been away since 11 a.m. The foreman came down on him like a ton of bricks. Bill swore obscenely at him and walked out. He walked around the streets until opening time at five o’clock and then got blind drunk.

    Hilda made herself another cup of tea, lit a fag, and sat down at the table with her Daily Mirror propped up against the milk bottle. The two youngest children crawled around the floor, playing – thank God the older ones were at school and off her hands for a few hours. She couldn’t face what she thought she knew. She sipped her tea and stared at the cracked wall and the huge damp stain on the grey-brown ceiling. It’s gettin’ bigger, she thought. When’s the whole damn thing goin’ to fall, that’s what she wanted to know. No good talkin’ to that landlord – you never saw him anyway, couldn’t get past his agent, who only said if you don’t like it get out, get your name on the Council housing list. Well they’d been on the damned list for five years, and look where it’d got them. Nowhere. Nuffink. Sweet Fanny Adams.
    She poured herself another cup of tea, and