Written by Clive Enders (The Inn Scribers)
When I was young in
Life was hard but folk like to fool, laughing in parlour, pub – or Music Hall:
And on Sunday when church bells did ring, each pew loudly sang its hymn.
Men worked the East India Docks, in steel-capped boots and grey wool socks,
Long hours both night and day, for just a shilling or some such meagre pay.
King George’s ships brought in strange goods from Empire lands afar;
Dark wood, cloth, tea, coffee, sugar, syrup, spice; the pineapple or banana.
We kids fished with string on stick, gathered lumps of coal, manure or brick;
Saved silver foil, milk caps, tins and cans, glass from bottles and jars of jam.
There were still horse-drawn omnibuses, cabs and trams, but few motors then.
We’d run alongside as, slow and green, they drove past our childhood scene.
When I was a kid in Bethnal Green, we washed communal in Baths of steam;
Hand-laundered-linen, collars-starched-twice, cakes of coal-tar; carbolic for lice.
Despite bed bugs, roaches, rats and mice, our undies stayed all clean and nice.
Women worked hard, slaved a twenty-hour day, cooking with fat, frying in lard,
Home-baked bread pud, suet plum duff; that was just some of our favourite stuff.
When yearly a new babe was born, knick-knacks or trinkets they would pawn.
A family of twelve or even a score, was not unusual; sometimes more! But –
Feeding them all in the Thirties, then War, was a worry and a constant chore.
Yet each family shared no matter how poor. And each house on every street,
Had its welcome, ever-open, and unlocked-front door.
Few lived long, old age to see, not with diphtheria, Spanish flu, the dread T.B.
My Mum, worn out before her prime, died of a stroke at the age of forty-nine.
When I was three, I came to be, a tiny Mile End evacuee.
I was labelled, parcelled on a train, to go some place named Brightlinsea.
A farming couple took me in, were all right, but strict Wesleyan (John).
The old man beat me with great glee, when on their best carpet I dared to pee!
I ranted, screamed and wouldn’t eat, so in their despair and sore defeat-
I was packaged off once more to meet, my older brothers – at
Mum came to visit every month and sometimes took us to the front –
At Southend – where, just my luck, the pier and Kursaal were all boarded-up.
We’d have fresh cockles at Leigh-on-Sea, brown bread with shrimps, or cake, for tea.
But best of all was going home, when the seven seas Dad ceased to roam.
Mile End beckoned like Heaven’s gate but school was soon to be my fate.
I grew up in what was East Ham, with many a kid on some kind of scam;
‘Del-boy’ spivs, or racketeers, conmen, crooks and other buccaneers.
A gang had a ‘manor’ as did the cops, and so to each its own pick of crops.
Each summer or autumn we spent in
We teens had football, boxing, snooker; rock-n-roll, jazz and jive dives, ‘super-duper!’
The local ‘flicks’, dance Halls, youth clubs, coffee bars, and, of course, a hundred pubs.
We were all quite content. Then arrived boats full of the black or Asian emigrant.
Green-belt New Towns were announced; housing , schooling, jobs with higher pay.
The
But still with Cockney words to bind our blood-ties, or roots, in heart and mind.
In time, in Harlow, Hemel, Essex & Herts, we thought we might escape the past;
Perhaps become quite middle class!?
© Clive Enders
Epilogue
I’ve lived in
We bought our three-bed Council house some time ago;
A half-century sure goes quick!
The kids grew up; they did well at school, but are now all ex-pats,
In
We’re eighty-five, prepared to die, but not quite yet dear Lord,
With bingo, pools or lottery wins, we’d like to cruise abroad!
We saw our
We remember bad times, but still recall, some good and happy bits.
And though much has changed, has our old world, still with wars and tears?
Our roots died in the rubble of what was once a proud
And what came to replace it – we’ll say nothing that might offend!
No – we’re here to stay, at peace, in
Until it’s time to move on in, to our final promised place.
© Clive Enders