Open Writing

In the 1920s one of the best parts of a winter day out was going home on the bus, riding upstairs, all the street lights on, with the shops lit up, and seeing the red glow of the OXO sign on the Thames tower by the side of Blackfriars bridge and the tugs towing strings of barges along the dark river. To a six-year-old, it was magic.

The heavy iron knocker of number 32, Herion Street thudded hollowly as Mum beat out the familiar pattern to let them know it was alright to come to the door. Aunty Cely came, all smiles, kissing them as they stepped into the dim passage. It was always full of lumpy coats to push past.

Just inside the door Uncle Albert’s policeman’s helmet rested on a narrow shelf and on a hook below this was his truncheon.

The sox-year-old held on tight to Mum’s hand when they came to the bend at the foot of the stairs. She pressed herself to the wall away from the huddle of coats piled one over the other on the wooden pegs. Someone might be hiding there. She remembered the time her cousin Wilfie had jumped out on her. Today he was still at school, as he had stayed on for Cubs.
Mum and Eileen went on along the side of the lino-covered stairs, past the coal-hole door to where the step down to the kitchen was lit by a small oil lamp on a bracket-shelf above the door. ‘Where was the dog ?’ She hung back, but Aunty Cely called out to go on in; Trixie was outside with Albert. ‘He’s on late shift tonight Kit’.

In the kitchen a large scrubbed deal-topped table almost filled the space. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and and we can have a cuppa before I go out.’ Aunty Cely was in the Drama Group of the Co-op Ladies’ Guild. The show was on tonight. ‘I have to get there early,’ she said.

Trixie the Jack Russell came bustling in and stood up to put her small paws on Eileen’s lap who stayed still as a statue, until Aunty Cely noticed.

‘Here Trix, come on - biscuits. And how’s Fred ? Going to work tonight?’

Now the dog was shut in the scullery Eileen ventured out the side door into the small garden, forgetting for the moment about her very large Uncle Albert. There he was, by the scullery door, blacking tin on a stool beside him, grimacing as his lips ejected tiny explosions of spit on to the boots he was polishing. Eileen’s Dad also had a ritual for polishing his boots, but it didn’t include spitting. She turned quickly away and went back indoors, sliding on to the form next the table where a small plate of Garibaldi biscuits and a cup of milk had been put out for her. She took a biscuit and nibbled, trying unsuccessfully to separate the currants from the crumb and keep them all to one side in her mouth. The currants were the best part.

Aunty Cely came into the kitchen wearing her fur-collared coat and best black hat -something they called a cloche with a small downy feather in the narrow ribbon round the brim
‘You’ll be alright, won’t you Kit ? I’ll save some seats. Wilf knows the way to the hall. I’ve done Albert’s sandwiches. I’ll see you later.’

Uncle Albert came in then. The dog was outside in the garden where she liked to jump up on top of the compost heap to see over into next door. ‘Ah! Kitty - Cely’s gone then. I expect Eileen would like to listen to my crystal set in the other room. She can put the headphones on.’ And Mum and I were ushered along the passage into the small room opposite the foot of the stairs. It was the place he kept his papers and books, crammed tightly into every space on shelves above an old settee beside a small desk with pigeon-holes.

A sepia photo of a young Albert among rows of other police cadets hung over a chenille-fringed mantlepiece under a single gas bracket. As he put a match to the mantle a soft yellow light bloomed, illuminating several fancy tins and two china vases bristling with pens, pencils and a couple of grubby wing-feathers from a long-dead white chicken whose tips were greyed and greasy, having played a part in oiling the alarm clock.

‘Here you are, Eileen, put these on’ and he settled a set of heavy headphones on top of her passive skull. What a weight. ‘You’ll be alright here. You don’t want to come out or you might miss the Teddy Bears Picnic; it’ll be on soon. Can you hear the music?’

Sitting on an ancient black leather chair, with her hands each side of her head to support the weight of the heavy ear phones, her eyes roved round the room.The tiny fireplace where they never lit a fire, the hearth space taken up by piles of old Police Gazettes and Punch magazines.

On the short, narrow mantelpiece where every scrap of space was utilised, there was such an assortment of things, the alarm clock with its two bells on top, a box of matches and a candle, a small paraffin lamp, in case the money in the gas-meter ran out. In a chipped shaving mug no longer in use, were several pairs of black bootlaces, a tube of Seccotine, and a button-slide used in polishing the silver buttons on his uniform jacket. On a wire spike were receipts and bills, next to a small framed photograph of uncle and aunt on their wedding day.

Centred on the wall above was a large circular oak-rimmed clock with Roman numerals, just like the ones in railway station waiting rooms.

On each side below this hung Lawson Wood prints of comic policemen, the same as those in old country pubs where perhaps the landlord is a retired police officer. The popular choice was of a row of Bobbies, with ginger moustaches, seated drinking beer, - the title ‘ Nine Pints of the Law’.

A large silver watch hung on a small cup hook just under the mantle shelf.

Years later it came to her that time would have been all-important to an officer of the law and she recalled the old music hall song -

“If you want to know the time, ask a policeman,
The proper British time, ask a policeman,
Every member of the Force
Has a proper watch of course,
If you want to know the time, ask a policeman.”

She sat up on a cushion in the old Windsor chair and listened, wondering how long it would be. She certainly wasn’t going to chance opening the door of the room where outside all those bundles of coats were lurking, hanging in the dark passage. It had gone quiet in the house. Stealthily she removed the headphones, laid them aside, slid off the chair and went to look out of the window. She could see Trixie at the other end keeping guard.

She wondered forlornly just how long before Mum came to rescue her and Wilfie came home and they could go round to see Aunty Cely and her friends at their Co-op Guild concert. She felt she would rather be home reading ‘Fireside Tales’ her book of fairy stories and having a proper tea.

When Mum opened the door to call her, Uncle Albert had already gone off on duty.

Round at the Co-op Hall she sat with Mum and watched as Aunty Cely and her friend – both dressed up as country yokels, (Cely dressed as a countryman; her trousers tied round with string under each knee, to keep the field mice from going up there when they were harvesting: the friend in a sunbonnet and large cotton frock), as they sang a song ‘My ‘Enery, my Sarah….ooh, ooh, - ooh, ooh.’, which brought the house down.

They didn’t wait till the end, but made their way back to the bus stop, leaving Aunty Cely to finish the rest of the show.

Going home on the bus, through the dark streets, Eileen was feeling sleepy and mesmerised with the lights. Their journey ended at Dalston Junction and they got off the bus. Reaching the front door, Eileen ran in and Mum reached for the note Fred had left on the kitchen table before going up to London, hoping for a night’s work on the papers.

Footnote:-
It was years later and Eileen in her late forties when her mother told her Albert had died and left her £50 in his will. It was then she realised what had probably been going on all those years back beyond the door at Aunty Cely’s, the time when she had waited for, but never did hear the promised ‘Teddy Bears Picnic’.