Farewell To The East End

THE MASTER

They were having tea in Lyon’s Corner House in The Strand. They usually met there. Mrs Masterton liked the atmosphere. Refined, she called it. It was their usual afternoon out, once a month. Mrs Masterton poured the tea.

‘They tell me your father’s ill,’ she said abruptly.

‘Dad? Ill? I didn’t know.’

‘I heard it from our milkman, whose brother is a cab driver. Cabbies get to know everything. He said the Master of the Master’s Arms in Poplar is ill. That’s all I know.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Julia. When did you last see him?’

‘Some years ago. I’m not sure.’

‘There was no rift, or anything, between you? No harsh words, nothing like that?’

‘No. We never quarrelled. We just barely spoke. I never knew what he was thinking. I always thought he was giving me funny looks. I don’t know why. Perhaps he wasn’t. I don’t know. He loved Gillian, but he never loved me, I’m sure of that. Did he love the boys?’

‘I think he did, in his way.’ The bereaved mother sighed. ‘He’s a funny man. Never could show his feelings, but I think he loved the boys. And yes, he loved Gillian. She was the apple of his eye.’

Mrs Masterton screwed up her table napkin and forced back her tears.

‘Life can be so hard. All gone, and only you, my comfort, left.’

Mother and daughter squeezed hands across the table, as the afternoon pianist enjoyed his runs and trills. Both women were lost in memories. Julia broke the silence.

‘I ought to go and see him.’

‘I was hoping you would say that, dear.’

‘I’ll go on my day off.’

‘That’s my girl.’

Mrs Masterton paused, fumbling for her lipstick, then said hesitantly, ‘Ask him if he wants to see me, will you, dear? I won’t push myself on him, but if he wants, I’ll come. Poor old Dad. I don’t like to think of him alone and ill. He wasn’t a bad husband. I’m sure he meant well. But we never got on, and the pub always came first.’

Julia went to Poplar early in the morning. She wanted to get there before the Master’s Arms opened. The tram rattled on its rails to an area she had not visited for more than six years. She couldn’t get away fast enough when she was seventeen. Now at the age of twenty-three it filled her with interest, and she eagerly watched for landmarks she had known since childhood. She felt strangely excited, almost exhilarated, which was the opposite of what she had expected after so long an absence.

She got off a stop before the Master’s Arms, in order to walk the last quarter mile, and she noted all the shops she had known: the general store on the corner which sold sweets – she and her brothers had haunted it; the baker’s that always gave off lovely smells; the pawnbrokers, with their three brass balls and ever-open door; the Jewish tailor. She knew them all and felt comforted by the familiarity.

A man was sweeping the pavement outside the Master’s Arms. She accosted him, and asked if Mr Masterton was at home. He was, but he was ill, and not receiving visitors, the man informed her. Julia said ‘He will see me. Can you let me in, please? I’m his daughter.’

The man stopped sweeping, leaned on his broom and stared at her.

‘His daughter! I never knew ’e ’ad a daughter. Said ’is family was all dead.’

The daughter that never was, thought Julia sadly. He doesn’t even mention me. But then, to be fair, she had never mentioned her father to the girls at the telephone exchange; so why would he, who was equally reserved, be likely to talk about her to his employees?

‘I am his only living daughter. Can you let me in?’

The man was immediately respectful.

‘No, ma’am, but Terry ’as a key. ’e was ’ead barman, but ’e’s been manager since ve boss got ill. I’ll take yer to him.’

Terry was equally surprised at the news of a daughter and muttered something about ‘Me mum looks after ve old boy.’ Julia did not like the familiarity.

‘If you mean my father, then please refer to him as Mr Masterton,’ she said coldly. ‘Now please, let me in to the family quarters.’

She ascended the wooden stairs that she knew so well. All was quiet, save for her footsteps. She entered the big rooms where the family had lived together in happier days, where the children had laughed and played before Death spread its dark shadow over them. She saw the door of the room where her brothers had been laid out before burial, but she did not open it. Instead she went into the kitchen – it was clean but cold and appeared to be unused. Was no one there at all? She called out, ‘Dad, are you here?’ A voice answered ‘Who’s there? Is that Mrs Weston?’ She went towards the sound of the voice. ‘No, it’s not Mrs Weston. It’s me, Julia.’

She went into a bedroom. In a single bed by the window lay a man she did not recognise. His face was thin and shrunken, his eyes sunk deep into the eye-sockets. His breathing was fast, difficult and noisy and his neck was so thin it looked as though it might snap. His skin was grey, but two patches of bright red colouring under the eyes made him look as if he had been painted like a clown. Thin hands rested on the sheets, and bony fingers with long nails were plucking at the bedclothes. ‘Is that you, Mrs Weston?’ he croaked. He turned his head, and his dull eyes grew wider as he recognised her.

‘Julia! What are you doing here?’ His voice was husky.

‘I heard you were ill, Dad.’

‘It’s nothing much. Just a passing fancy. The doctor’s been. He says I’m getting along nicely. I’ll be up and doing in a few days. Nice to see you, girl. Sit down.’

She took a chair and sat next to the bed.

‘Why didn’t you let me know you were ill?’

‘No need to bother anyone. You’ve got your own life to lead. I do all right here. Mrs Weston comes in and does for me. I thought you were her just now when you called. I didn’t think for a moment it would be you.’

Julia felt herself choking with emotion.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should have come earlier, long ago.’

‘No, no, girl. ’course not. You’ve got your own life. And you’re doing all right, I dare say. Is it still the Telephone Exchange?’ She nodded. ‘A good job, good prospects. You’ll be doing all right – your own life, your own friends – you can’t be looking backwards over your shoulder all the time.’

Julia compared the imaginary contentment his words implied with the bleak reality of her life. She did not know what to say.

‘Do you get enough food?’

‘Mrs Weston comes in and cooks for me, but I don’t want much. Can’t seem to get it down.’

‘Oh, Dad. What can I do?’ Julia felt close to tears.

‘Nothing, girl, nothing. You get on and enjoy your own life. You’re only young once; make the most of it.’

‘But Dad, I must do something.’

‘Don’t take on, girl. I want for nothing. Mrs Weston gets me all I need, and I’ve appointed her son Terry as manager. He’ll keep the pub going until I’m up and doing myself.’

He sank back on the pillows. The effort of speaking had exhausted him. Julia sat quietly, engulfed in remorse, regret and self-reproach. Her own father, whom she had not seen for six years, and he looked to be on the point of death. His eyes were closed, but he stretched out a limp hand towards her and whispered rather than spoke.

‘It’s nice to see you, lass. Good of you to come. I appreciate it.’

‘Would you like Mum to come?’

‘Your mother? I don’t know as she would want to.’

‘She says she will if you would like her to. She won’t push herself on you she says.’ He did not reply, but sighed deeply, closed his eyes and appeared to drift off to sleep. Julia sat beside him looking at the tragic waste of the man she had always called Dad but had never really known. A man who had always been so alive and vital, who commanded instant respect and obedience from his staff, who excelled them all in strength and energy, who ran the Master’s Arms with a Master’s efficiency.

She knew what she must do. She would leave the telephone exchange without notice and quit her room. She need not leave her father even to collect things – her landlady could send them on, there was little enough to send. She pondered all that she would have to do – see the doctor, arrange for a day nurse, get advice on diet, exercise and how best to keep her father comfortable. She felt nervous of her own inexperience and longed for her mother to be there to advise her.

Her father slept, so she left his side and wandered round the flat, which was big and spacious. She perched on the corner seat between the two windows where she and her brothers had sat looking down on the changing scenes in the street below. She climbed the narrow stairs up to the attic full of junk where they had played hide and seek. The same junk, which had belonged to her grandparents, was there, a bit more dust and decay, but the same. She would have been outraged if anything had been changed! She went into the big kitchen, once so full of life and nice smells enticing to a child, but now cold and unused. She went into the bedroom she and her sister had shared and decided at once that she would occupy the same room. But one of the beds must go up to the attic – she could not sleep with Gillian’s cold, empty bed in the room. She shuddered and returned to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and a man entered. He was youngish, cleanly dressed and carried a black bag. They met in the hallway and shook hands. He introduced himself as Dr Fuller.

‘And I understand from Terry, the barman, that you are Miss Masterton, my patient’s only living daughter?’

Julia nodded.

‘I wish we had known about you a year ago. He said his family was dead.’

Julia felt herself blush with shame, and did not know what to say. Together they went into the sick room.

Expertly he examined the emaciated body. Julia winced to see the rib-cage exposed, with barely any flesh covering the bones. The doctor felt for enlarged lymph glands and neck rigidity. He palpated the chest at various points and listened through his stethoscope to the heart and the sounds of laboured breathing. He tested for muscular strength, which was almost nil. He looked into her father’s eyes, and at his fingernails, which were a curious shape, Julia noticed. He examined the sputum in the pot. He said, ‘You are doing nicely. Warmth, good food, and rest are what you need. I’m glad your daughter is here.’

‘Yes. She has just come for the day. It’s her day off work. It’s nice to see her. A nice surprise.’

‘I was hoping she would be staying,’ said the doctor pointedly, knowing that Julia was just behind him.

‘Oh no, no. She’s got her own life to lead. She’s doing well as a telegraphist. I don’t want to be a drag on her. She’s got her own friends, her own life.’

‘I see,’ said the doctor with a sigh. ‘Well, I will return again in a few days.’

In the sitting room, Julia informed the doctor that she did intend staying, but had not told her father of her decision. She wanted to know more about his condition, and said that her four brothers and a sister had died of tuberculosis. The doctor told her that Mr Masterton had probably had a primary infection of the tubercle bacillus for many years, which had passed unnoticed. Any symptoms, such as fever or coughing, would have been put down to ’flu. However, about a year previously, a secondary infection had probably occurred, involving the mediastinal glands. ‘I’m afraid that tuberculosis is now widespread throughout his lungs.’

Julia asked what treatment was available.

The doctor explained that treatment consisted of rest, warmth, good food, plentiful fluids, inhalations, postural drainage, fresh air and syrup of codeine linctus, and that later he would prescribe morphine.

Julia asked if her father would get better. The doctor looked unwilling to reply, but she insisted.

‘I must know.’

‘A year ago, my partner and I advised your father to go for six months’ sanatorium treatment in the Swiss Alps. But he refused. He said he could not leave the pub for so long.’

‘Typical,’ said Julia angrily. ‘He could never leave his pub, not even to save his own life. But do go on.’

‘The clean air of the Alps might have saved his life, but it is too late now. Anyway, he seemed to improve for a while, or at least stabilise, and his decision seemed to be the right one. But two months ago he deteriorated rapidly. There is no drug available at this advanced stage that will effect a cure. In some cases, injection of sodium-gold thiosulphate is beneficial in diminishing the lung deposits, but we tried the gold injections weekly, with no effect. Your father, I am afraid, has now reached the stage of advanced phthisis, from which recovery cannot be expected.’

Julia sat quietly looking at the floor. She was not really surprised, just deeply sad.

‘Can he go to a sanatorium now? The air of Poplar is notoriously bad, you know.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Yes, I know, but there is no evidence that the air of Poplar causes tuberculosis. People living in ideal surroundings get the disease and do not recover. But your father cannot be moved now. It would kill him.’

Julia thought of her mother, toiling across Europe, a two-day journey by boat and train, with a sick child who had died shortly after arrival, and agreed with the doctor. ‘So what can be done?’ she whispered.

‘You can make his life as comfortable as possible. He can eat what he likes, if he can eat at all. He can get up if he feels able to. Keep him warm. Inhalations are very soothing. You will need a nurse. I recommend the Nursing Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus, an order of nuns who have worked in these parts for many years.’

Julia set about the massive task of tuberculous nursing with no knowledge or experience whatsoever. She did not tell her father of her plan to stay because she thought his pride might make him refuse her. Instead, she told him a story about having lost her job, and being unable to find another; that she had no money to pay the rent, and had been turned out of her lodgings.

Her father immediately said, ‘That’s hard, girl, you can come and stay here, of course, until you get on your feet again.’

After that he accepted her continued presence without question. He provided her with money to run their small m’nage, to pay Mrs Weston for her cleaning, and to pay the doctor and the nurses, and for medicines. In fact, he was very generous, saying things like, ‘Get yourself something pretty, a nice blouse or something. A young girl likes pretty things.’

He still kept a strict control of pub accounts. Ill as he was, and despite the fact he never went into the bar, he seemed to know exactly what was going on. Every morning Terry had to come upstairs and go through the previous day’s sales. He had to give the number of customers in the bar, the number of sales and the quantity of stock consumed, and all was reckoned against the cash in the till, which was counted and entered in the ledger. Julia watched all this and marvelled that her father was so much in command. He seemed stronger while Terry was with him, and his mind was clear and focused. She also realised that it was only by maintaining such strong control that a publican could avoid being robbed by his staff. With hundreds of glasses of liquor being sold to customers every evening, it would be the easiest thing in the world to skew the money. Her father seemed to know from the daily sales what stock remained, and he placed all the orders himself and signed all the payment cheques. He was known by everyone as the Master, and his daughter came to admire his business acumen greatly. Her father would sink back on his pillows, exhausted and sweating, after Terry had gone; frequently he was coughing and trembling all over and needed his linctus and a cooling drink to get him over the ordeal. One day he said to Julia, ‘Them doctors don’t know anything about business. Wanted me to go away for six months, they did. That would have been a good day for the jackals if I’d gone, wouldn’t it? There would have been nothing left by the time I got back.’ He chuckled at his own astuteness, although Julia wondered what there was left of him through not going away to a sanatorium.

The doctor had advised she contact the Nursing Sisters, and as soon as Julia saw the heavy figure of Sister Evangelina lumbering upstairs she recognised her as the nun who had come to nurse her brothers when they were ill a decade previously. Sister was out of breath and grumpy by the time she got to the flat. She went straight to the sick room, sat down and demanded a cup of tea. Julia had expected a nun to be all holy water and prayers, but her opening remarks were about money.

‘I will come each day, if you want me to, but it is going to cost you something, I warn you. We are an Order who nurse the poor. The Master of the Master’s Arms is not poor. If you want me, you will have to pay handsomely, so that we can treat the poor for nothing. Take it or leave it and yes, two sugars please.’

Mr Masterton chuckled, which brought on a fit of coughing. Sister Evangelina sat drinking her tea, but watching him over the top of her teacup with an experienced eye. Eventually he was able to splutter, ‘I agree, Sister, name your figure and I’ll double it. There are thousands round here who can’t afford to pay for the medical treatment they need.’

‘Thousands?’ she snorted. ‘Tens of thousands would be nearer the mark. We see them all the time.’

She stared aggressively at Julia, who felt very small and didn’t quite know what to make of the big nun.

‘I suppose you don’t know anything about good nursing, or any nursing at all, for that matter?’

Julia shook her head.

‘No. I thought not. Ignorant girls. Dizzy young things. It seems to be my fate always to be landed with these flibbertigibbets. Well, I suppose you are better than nothing, so let’s get on with it. Postural drainage is what the patient needs. Potions and pills and linctuses are all very fine, but they won’t get the phlegm out of his lungs. Postural drainage,’ she added emphatically and stood up. Julia was obliged to take a step backwards.

‘In the bar I saw several trestle tables. That is what we need. Go to the bar and get the men to bring one up,’ she commanded Julia, who stood looking bewildered. ‘Go on, go girl. Don’t stand there gawping. And we will need a mattress.’

‘A mattress?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘But we’ve got a mattress.’

‘We will need another one. Now go on, go on. I haven’t got all day, you know.’

Hastily Julia ran down to the bar. She was quite overwhelmed by the big nun, but she told two men to carry a trestle table upstairs, and then to fetch a mattress from the attic. The Sister looked at the equipment and grunted with satisfaction.

‘Right, you fellows. Leave the table like that with the legs folded in, and lean one end against the bed, sloping gently – further up – yes that will do. Now pull that chest of drawers up to wedge it so that it can’t slip. That will do nicely – now put the mattress over it. Good lads. Perfect.’

She glared hard at Terry.

‘It’s Terry Weston, isn’t it?

He nodded.

‘I thought as much. I knew you when you were about thirteen – you had eaten too much of something that didn’t agree with you and couldn’t get rid of it. Constipated for a fortnight, you were. I had to give you two enemas to shift it. Hope that taught you a lesson.’

Terry blushed scarlet, and the other man sniggered. Mr Masterton also laughed, which brought on the coughing again.

Sister shooed the men away, and when the coughing had subsided, she said gently, ‘Now, Mr Masterton, we have to get some of that fluid off your chest. I want you to lie head down on the mattress. I am going to palpate your back, and show your daughter how to do it. I will help you to get into the right position.’

Julia marvelled at the gentleness of Sister Evangelina as she handled her patient. After behaving in such a brusque manner, it was unexpected. The nun was kind and respectful in every way as she helped Julia’s father to get up and to lie face downwards on the sloping mattress. She explained that the position would drain fluid out of his lungs. ‘Now I am going to palpate your back, cupping we call it, and massage from the lower lungs to the upper lobes, to try to shift some of the muck. We will need a bowl or a chamber pot for you to spit into, so fetch one, will you, nurse – I mean Miss Masterton?’

Julia did as she was bidden, then Sister began to work on her father’s back. ‘Watch me carefully,’ she said, ‘In a minute I am going to ask you to do it.’ Her father coughed uncontrollably and brought up copious amounts of frothy fluid, streaked with thick ropes of greenish phlegm. ‘You will feel better after this,’ said Sister Evangelina to the sick man. ‘Now come here, Miss Masterton. You have a go.’

Julia was terrified of touching her father’s back, which looked so thin and fragile, but she could not disobey this commanding woman. ‘That’s right. Shape your hands like cups and slap from lower to upper lobes; keep going – round the sides also. Now some massage. You have the idea. You have a feel for it. Ten minutes is enough. Now cover your patient, he must be kept warm.’ Then to Julia’s utter astonishment the nun smiled and said, ‘Good girl. Well done.’

To Mr Masterton she said, ‘This must be done every day, twice a day. Your daughter can do it, and afterwards you must lie for about twenty minutes head down. It will make you feel a good deal better. I am going to leave you now, but I will call each day.’

Once they were in the sitting room, Sister turned to Julia and said abruptly, ‘This will not cure your father. Nothing will cure him short of a miracle. But it will make him feel easier. Eventually he will drown in the fluid which accumulates in his lungs, but in the meantime it is our duty to make him as comfortable as possible. Apart from which I usually find that such drastic treatment encourages the patient into thinking that something positive is being done. This stimulates hope.’

She grunted and humphed, gathered up her things and plodded heavily downstairs. In the bar she called out, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, Terry. In the meantime, keep ’em open, then you won’t get bunged up again,’ to the immense discomfort of the poor fellow and the hilarity of the lunchtime customers.

Julia nursed her father for three months, and during that time she grew to understand him more. His reticence and reserve appealed to her temperament; the way he shrugged off suffering won her admiration; his desire not to be a nuisance was touching; and his gratitude for the least thing she did for him was unexpected. His constant interest in and care for his pub was consistent with the man she had known throughout her childhood. She admired the huge effort he made each morning, going over the accounts with Terry, and she always stayed in the room in order to help her father, should he need help. Sister Evangelina came each day, and together they administered postural drainage and massage, and she saw the fortitude with which her father endured it. He always seemed a little better an hour later, so they continued.

He never openly showed affection, but one evening he squeezed her hand and muttered, ‘You’re a good girl, Julia, the only one left. Go to that cupboard and get the box out. I haven’t seen it for years; we’ll look at it together.’

Julia did as she was bid. Her father sat up in bed, his eyes bright, his breathing laboured.

‘Open it, lass, will you? I can’t any more.’

Opening the box, so long unopened, revealed more of her father than anything else could have done. Inside was a jumble of children’s toys and books, colouring pencils, pictures drawn by a childish hand, a small teddy bear and a china doll. At the bottom was a wooden Noah’s Ark.

‘Get it out, Julie, we must look at it.’

Julia opened it up and took out the wooden animals. Her father chuckled.

‘I remember you all playing with these. Do you?’

Of course she did, and the memory nearly choked her. He fingered the giraffe, and the lion, and the ghosts of her brothers seemed to enter the room.

‘There’s another box in there. Lift it out, will you?’

She did so, and it was full of toy soldiers. Her father handled them eagerly, his eyes bright.

‘I bought these as a birthday present, once. The boys played with them for hours.’

The dying man closed his eyes.

‘I can see them now, all over the floor with their soldier games.’

Julia looked at him, and a wave of tenderness swept over her. ‘All gone, all dead,’ he murmured, and his hand fell limply on the counterpane. But then he brightened. ‘There’s a little cotton bag in the bottom; pull it out.’ Inside the bag were some hair ribbons and a child’s bolero, the ones he had asked her to send to Gillian for her birthday when the family were in Skegness. He took the bolero, which was made of soft angora, and rubbed it up and down his cheek. ‘Is there a card there? Read it to me, will you?’ Julia read the card from Gillian, which said how lovely the bolero was, and how she wore it all the time and would not take it off. Her father chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t take it off, bless her,’ but then his face crumpled, and tears started in his eyes. He turned his head away quickly, ashamed of his weakness. ‘Go and get a cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’

Julia left the bedroom in tears. So he had cared after all, and she had not known it. She lit the gas stove, put the kettle on and drew the kitchen curtains. The sounds from the pub were starting downstairs, but she hardly noticed them any more; they were just part of life. The singing and dancing would begin soon, but she no longer resented them. She sat down at the kitchen table and leaned her head on her arms and sobbed. Why was he dying now, just when she was getting to know him? He was the father she had never had but had always wanted, because all girls want a father to love.

The tears did her good. She stood up and washed her eyes in cold water, then made the tea and returned with it to the sick room.

Her father appeared to be asleep, with toys and books and childish things all around him, so she decided not to disturb him. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down beside him. She took his hand, and he responded with a little squeeze; the other hand held the fluffy pink bolero. He stirred a little. ‘Do you want that cup of tea, Dad?’ she whispered. ‘By and by,’ he croaked, ‘by and by,’ and he drifted off to sleep again. She sat quietly beside him, as the sounds of ‘Pack up yer troubles’ floated upstairs. She shut the window, but he roused again. ‘No, don’t do that. It’s nice to hear them enjoying themselves.’ She opened it again and the shouts of ‘.... in yer ol’ kit bag and smile, smile, smile’ came flooding in. ‘Smile,’ he croaked. ‘That’s what we gotta do. It’s a funny old world, eh, Julie?’ And he drifted off into sleep once more.

Julia sat beside him for several hours; she couldn’t bring herself to leave him. Darkness fell, and the tea grew cold. The noise from the pub ceased at closing time but continued in the street for a while. Raucous shouts and shrill cries grew fainter as the customers wandered or staggered away to their homes. A few tuneless attempts at a song, accompanied by a guffaw of laughter – and then all was quiet.

Julia fell asleep in her chair, and when she awoke the Master of the Master’s Arms was dead, surrounded by children’s toys.