Farewell To The East End

his feet and legs around two sleeping children.
    There was no room for her, so she spent the night in a chair, wrapped in a coat.
    She roused herself at six and went down to get some water. She made a pot of tea and buttered some bread, then she quietly shook Bill. ‘Come on. You’ve got to get off to work,’ she whispered so as not to wake the children. He struggled to his feet, sober, but somewhat the worse for wear. They sat at the table together. She lit a Woodbine, stuck it in his mouth and pushed his tea and bread towards him.
    ‘You’re a good girl, ducks,’ he muttered, drawing on the fag.
    ‘Well? What happened yesterday?’
    ‘Happened? I got pissed, that’s what.’
    ‘No, afore vat. At ve Council.’
    His mind slid backwards, and he groaned.
    ‘Nuffink. Zilch. Gotta wait.’
    ‘Wait! We’ve waited five years. I thought we was top of ve housin’ list.’
    ‘We are. But we still gotta wait.’
    ‘Why?’ she said savagely.
    ‘Too many kids, vat’s why.’
    ‘How d’ya mean? They said all the kids ’ave to move to better, ’ealthier places.’
    ‘I know. But we got too many. Council has to provide a four-bedroom ’ouse for two adults an’ six kids. An’ vey only builds two and fhree-bedroom places at the moment.’
    ‘But we can manage with three bedrooms. We’ve only got one an’ a cupboard here.’
    ‘I tells ve bloke vat, but it makes no difference. It’s rules – bloody rules.’
    ‘I don’t believe it. Vis place is fallin’ down.’
    ‘I told ’em so, an’ vey say as what it’s not Council property, so it’s not ve Council’s responsibility. We ’ave ter ask our landlord for repairs.’
    ‘Fat lot of use that’ll be. Look, let’s get vis clear. Council has three-bedroom houses, but we can’t ’ave one ’cause we got six children?’
    ‘That’s abou’ it. We’re stuck. Now I’ve gotta get off. Can’t be late today.’ The front door slammed, and footsteps hurried down the street.

THE ABORTIONIST

    Hilda sat at the wooden table and lit another fag. She was stunned. Foremost in her mind was the suspicion that had been nagging at her for three weeks. What a blessing she hadn’t told Bill! Only yesterday she thought she would have to, and then go to the doctor. Not now, no siree, no bleeding doctors. She’d see Mrs Prichard, who was well thought of in the area. She’d enquire in the corner shop. Someone would know how to find her. Hilda got the children up and packed them off to school, paying little heed to their demands and squabbles. Her mind was planning what she would have to do – the sooner the better, every day would count.
    Discreet enquiries led her to Mrs Prichard. She had to be very careful. Back-street abortions were quite common in those days, but the practice was illegal, and both the client and the abortionist could be prosecuted if caught and would face a prison sentence if convicted. Every precaution was necessary.
    Mrs Prichard and her daughter lived in a better class of house on the Commercial Road. To the police, local doctors, church and social workers, she was a herbalist, specialising in potions, known only to the mystics, for the cure of hay-fever, gout, arthritic knees and so on. Her front room was filled with bottles and phials. Her premises had been inspected several times by the public health authorities, who had found her remedies and treatments to be harmless, if ineffectual. Evidence of the more lucrative side of her business was nowhere to be seen. She had learned her trade from her mother, who had been an abortionist since the 1880s, and when the old lady died Mrs Prichard had inherited the equipment which had been stolen from a hospital about fifty years earlier.
    Mrs Prichard was a well-upholstered lady. She wore smart suits and several gold chains over her ample bosom. Her face was heavily made up, and her eyebrows, plucked until nothing was left, were replaced by a thin pencil arc, reaching high into her forehead. Her hair was a colour that no woman of her age could hope to retain and was elaborately coiffed and curled. She greeted Hilda with a smile, and listened to her story sympathetically. When she spoke her voice was falsely genteel, an accent beloved by character actresses.
    ‘Oh, my dear, what you got is stomach cramps. I sees a lot of it these days. The doctors don’t know what to do with it. Don’t know nothing, they don’t. I can’t think why they have all that training – they don’t seem to