Farewell To The East End

laced it with sugar. Now this. She couldn’t face it. Not another. But all the signs were there. She hadn’t told Bill. Hadn’t dared. Perhaps she should have told him before he went to the Council, but somehow she hadn’t the courage. Wonder how he got on. He’d said he would be firm, wouldn’t leave till he’d got the promise of a place, and a date. A date. That’s what they wanted. A date to look forward to when they could leave this falling-down dump. She could wring that agent’s neck. Last time she had pointed to the damp on the ceiling and asked for repairs, he had smiled and said it was a condemned property and that the Council wouldn’t permit repairs because it was condemned. That’s logic for you! She had heard the dripping last night as she lay awake wondering if she should tell Bill or not before he went to the Council, and the drips seemed to be getting closer.
    They knew the roof had gone, but that was two storeys up, and the floors above them kept the rain out. But if the floors went, then there would be no roof over their heads. She must get Bill to go upstairs and lay a tarpaulin over the floor above. That would keep them dry for a bit, and then they might get a Council flat. Bill would be at the Council office now. He’d tell ’em.
    The children were playing boats – floating matches on a bucket of water. One of them had an empty match box which the other wanted. He grabbed at it. The child screamed and lunged at his brother. ‘Mind it,’ shouted Hilda. But too late. They had tipped the bucket over, and water streamed across the floor. ‘You little devils,’ she shouted as she jumped up, and walloped them both. ‘Look at the mess. Now I’ve got to clear it up.’ She got a cloth and wiped up the water, wringing it out into the empty bucket. Well at least it’s giving the floor a clean, she thought as she wiped and wrung. ‘Now I’ve gotta go an’ get more water. An’ don’t you touch anyfink while I’m gone,’ she said menacingly. She picked up the bucket of dirty water. Might as well empty the pot while I’m downstairs. She pulled the chamber pot from under the bed and carried it down the creaking and rickety stairs. This stinkin’ stairwell’s worse than our rooms, she thought. At least we’ve made an effort to put a bit of paint on an’ I try to keep them clean. No one’s repaired or decorated this landing or these stairs for years. An’ as for cleanin’. Well you might as well save your effort. She went out into the yard, to the lavatory with its asbestos roof and broken door and emptied the chamber pot. She pulled the chain – well at least it still flushes, but for how long? How long? How long would they have to wait in this hell-hole? She’d murder that landlord if she could get her hands on him.
    Might as well do the washin’, now I’ve got some clean water. She filled two saucepans and lit the gas stove on the landing, then went down again for another bucket of cold water. And now, just when the little one was out of nappies. Now this! She shut her mind to the possibility of more – yet more – nappies. She filled the tin bath – the one they all washed and bathed in – with hot water, added some soapflakes and started the daily chore with her dolly-board and a bar of Sunlight. The little ones clung to her skirts and wanted to help, but she pushed them away. A couple of hours later she had finished the washing, wringing, rinsing, mangling and hanging out. Well, at least it’s a fine day. It’ll soon be dry. That’s one comfort. The little ones were clamouring for their dinner, and two of her children, those of primary school age, would be home for their midday meal. Thank God the others get theirs at school now. Saves a bit of trouble, anyhow. She had a small cupboard on the landing where she kept some food. Not too much, or it’d get pinched in this rotten hole. She pulled out a couple of tins of baked beans and some sliced bread. The grill sometimes worked – she tried it. Yes, it was working today. They could have beans on toast. Always enjoy it, they do.
    The downstairs door opened, and two grubby children tumbled upstairs, pushing, shouting, laughing. ‘Now shut yer noise, an’ siddown, ’ere’s yer beans on toast, and don’t get it all over yerselves.’
    She tried to eat a bit herself, but it made her feel sick. Oh no – another sign! Can’t be much doubt. She’d have to see the doctor, she would.
    After she’d packed the