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Friday 14 October 2011

Custard Cream Confessions

Part 4

Eventually, two rooms in the house were let to a widow and her daughter who was my age, named Joan Bull, and then the games were often shared, but never my dream world. The Bull family occupied one room on the first floor as living room/kitchen, and the largest attic room as their bedroom. The small attic room as spasmodically occupied by a maid-of-all-work referred to by my mother as the “the shiksa” which simply means, in Yiddish, a non-Jewish girl, but which my mother, being religiously bigoted, always managed to make sound derogatory. In the years from approximately 1925 until the years of the forties when cheap labour became hard to get, we had domestic help. It was the normal pattern amongst the small – and not so small – business people to employ such a person, often resident. In my recollection these were mostly Jewish families, of which there were many in Forest Gate. Undoubtedly, as I realised in later years, it was exploited labour, but probably not so bad monetarily as it could have been, at least not in our case, as I remember my mother negotiating the wage as ten shillings a week plus food and accommodation. (This was precisely the princely sum I was to receive many years later when I started work in 1932.)

At that time (the late twenties) nothing worked by pushing a button – gramophones had to be wound, cars cranked with a handle, washing hand-washed, cakes hand-beaten. No refrigeration meant butter, milk, etc. had to be kept in the cellar to be cold, covered with a wet cloth and of course shopping was almost daily.

What general impressions do I have of that period? Many tradesmen called regularly, most of our meat was delivered by the traditional whistling boy on a bicycle, the milkman doled out milk into one’s own jug, dipping the dispenser into a large churn – highly unhygienic one would imagine. Bread was delivered by a baker with a horse-drawn cart, handling both horse and bread indiscriminately. Coal cart drivers called their wares “C-O-A-A-AL” around the streets; the men wore sacks roughly made into hats which hung down their backs, enabling them to carry the sacks of coal more comfortably. The coal was shot straight into the coal-hole to the cellar, with my sister or me standing by counting how many were delivered to ensure we were not overcharged. Supermarkets did not, of course, exist, but shops selling several different kinds of goods were just coming into existence – in Woodgrange Road there was a Penny Bazaar (the origin of Marks and Spencer’s) with all the goods laid out on stalls around the shop. Sainsbury’s sold groceries and dairy products only, with an egg stall laid out in front of the shop – cracked ones were sold cheaply and placed in your own basin (about a halfpenny each). Fresh fish shops, now almost non-existent, were as common as butchers – there were three within walking distance.

Most of the shopping was my responsibility, probably because I rushed about and was so quick, weaving my magic tales to myself all the while. One job I hated was taking my father’s tea round to the shop. This consisted of liquid tea in a covered enamel jug, plus a cake in a bag, but I often managed to spill it and I can feel the hot tea now, dripping through the little wicker basket and running down my leg. The fact that it was such an inexorable daily task made me resent it but it continued for some years. Another shopping exploit concerned biscuits, which were sold loose. I loved custard creams passionately and on my way home from buying some, ate one – and then another – and then another. My mother soon spotted short weight and I was sent back to demand the full half-a-pound – I cannot remember how it ended, but certainly I would have been quite unable to own up to eating some.


The nearest street market was about two miles away, reached by bus on tram, and my mother enjoyed visiting it occasionally, sometimes dragging along a reluctant girlie (me) with her. I remember she had a thing about gloves and I spent many boring minutes by a stall surrounded by gloves of all shapes and sizes – certainly kid gloves must be “soft as butter”, I recollect! Kathleen always seemed to manage to avoid these trips (although she would certainly have enjoyed them more than I did) probably because she was so much older (4 ½ years). She and I seldom played together as we really had no common interests, but I can remember no quarrels. In any outgoing activity, I usually led the way, especially if it was escapade which might not win approval – and she silently applauded. We slept together in a double bed, and often at night I composed a story while she listened; sometimes I illustrated this with shadow figures on the wall, as our bedroom was lit at night with a small paraffin lamp.

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