Voices from the Past: The Baby;Past Deeds Are Always Paid For—Always

About the Author

Elizabeth Uywin was born in Braintree to a farming family in 1951. Most of her childhood memories are of helping her father on the farm, until her family moved to London to be near her Grandmother.

She worked as a secretary to the Chief News Editor of the Press Association and in the court service for many years. This is her first book of three which follows the life of one particular child called Mary, which has been researched over a period of thirty years. Elizabeth Uywin is widowed and lives in Chiswick.

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Voices from the Past: The Woman

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018-Elizabeth Uywin

The right of Elizabeth Uywin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smash words Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

www.austinmacauley.com

Voices from the Past: The Woman Books is an imprint of

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 978-1-52890-876-4. (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-52890-877-1 (Kindle EBook)

First Published in, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers.Ltd

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

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Acknowledgments

With special acknowledgements

To

The late Mr Keith Hurst MCIM International Consultant to the BBC World Wide

The late Mr Raymond Smith

Chief News Editor of the Press Association

Roy Cole

Mary Cole

Diane Bryson

Billy Bryson

Rachael Jarvis

Denise Kavanagh

Whose encouragement and support have made this book possible?

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Preface

It wasn’t just the destruction caused by World War Two, which left The City of London in chaos. Poverty and family disharmony were commonplace even before the Second World War, and children in particular became victims of circumstances beyond their control.

This is the tale of one such child, a child born to a Docker’s family in Walworth Road, called Mary, who was consoled and comforted by the invincible love of her brother Roy, a brother who followed her into Reedham Orphanage where they both endured isolation and despair.

As she grew into a young woman, with desires and dreams of her own, her powers of endurance were tested to the utmost limit, as relationships were thrown into chaos due to war and betrayal.

Voices from the Past is no ordinary book. It is a book for those who wish to have a glimpse into East London life through three decades. It is a book written about a family, who actually lived and died due to human conflict and poverty. Yet most of all, it is a story about one woman, a woman who wages her own war, against tremendous odds… for survival.

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Author’s Note

In telling the story about the lives of the Cole family, and in particular their youngest child—Mary, I have endeavoured to keep as far as possible to the known facts. Most of the characters actually lived, and the events in this book are factual or based on happenings that had been related to me, by members of the family Cole themselves.

I make no apology for the fact that, for dramatic purposes, I have woven into my story fictional happenings and conversations. Yet, the fact remains that on Percy’s marriage to Jackie, his wealthy father disinherited him, and that Jackie’s fight for survival, and that of her family, were fought in a world where women were second-class citizens, and food was bought with money earned through pure hard work and the charity of others. The threat of separation and the workhouse, with its institutional hard way of life, was always a reality, a reality from which you were fortunate to return.

Mary, too, fought her own battle with poverty and the prejudices of her time, a battle bourn with nothing else than pure determination and courage.

In writing this book I have cried, and I have laughed with the characters. They have taught me an enormous amount about the times in which they lived, and the way they had lived.

Now, I must pass their story onto you, so that you may have the privilege of travelling with them—as I have travelled with them—it will be an adventure, an adventure that you will never forget.

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Principal Characters

Percy Cole Father

Jackie Cole Mother

Mary Daughter

Marjorie Daughter

Elsie Daughter

Royston Son

Eric Son

Elsie Jackie’s sister

Auntie Mick Jackie’s sister

Uncle Dick Jackie’s brother

Elizabeth Moore Jackie’s mother

Father Craig Priest

John Valentine Jackie’s second husband

Rosie Stevenson Jackie’s neighbour

Nanny Mages Jackie’s neighbour

Dennis Howlett Mary’s husband

Charlie Edgley Mary’s second husband

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MARY

AGED TWO

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Prologue

9th July, 1924

A weak watery sun rose slowly over the inhabitants of Walworth Road, causing the two elderly women, who were gossiping over their garden fence, to raise their faces towards its feeble warmth before glancing disapprovingly towards the small boy who was sitting on the edge of the dusty pavement eating cherries. Suddenly, the sound of a woman’s piercing scream caused them to turn sharply as

An upstairs window opened with a resounding crash.

Roy! A large, middle-aged woman shot her head out from the open window. Run and get Dr Coates. Hurry now, boy. There isn’t much time—run.

Rosie Stevenson briefly watched the small boy running down the street before turning towards her neighbour, Jackie Cole, who lay exhausted upon the crumpled bed. Rinsing a piece of rag out into a basin of cold water, she once more wiped her friend’s sweating features. What seemed like hours passed, when suddenly the bedroom door burst open with a resounding crash, revealing the short, rotund figure of Dr Coates? With a long heavy watch-chain swinging across his ample stomach, he pushed his way into the small room. Okay, Mrs Cole, this is it this time, is it?

He didn’t wait for a reply before bending over the low bed and nodding his head in final satisfaction. Rising stiffly, he looked towards Rose over the top of his half-moon spectacles, giving her a beaming smile that revealed his yellowing teeth.

All right then, Mrs Stevenson, he exclaimed while quickly rolling up his fraying shirtsleeve, you can boil the kettle now—I could do with some tea.

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Hours passed while Rose filled and re-filled the old black kettle which continually boiled on the old black stove. Suddenly, a sharp, ear-piercing cry shattered the still air.

God, it’s alive!

Racing across the kitchen, she flung the bedroom door open, revealing a sight which she would never forget.

It’s a girl, Mrs Stevenson. The old doctor turned to greet her with a broad un-even smile. And she’s in fine voice. Gripping the baby upside down by its ankles, he hit the blood-stained buttocks with a resounding crack.

Bloody old butcher, Rose muttered while her gaze rested on Jackie Cole, who was lying semi-naked upon the blood-stained bed.

Wrapping the screaming baby within a thin blanket, he placed her none-too-gently down into an old wooden drawer which lay on the bare floorboards by the side of the bed.

Mrs Cole has had a bad time though, but she’ll be fine in a few days.

She doesn’t look fine to me.

Rose quickly pulled the damp bed sheet over Jackie’s exposed breasts, not noticing and not caring that the old doctor was wiping his blood-stained hands upon the wet rag while preparing to leave.

You may think that my methods are rather basic Mrs Stevenson. He glanced towards her before shutting his leather bag with a resounding snap. Yet I’m all that the Coles can afford. By the way, you can dispose of that lot down the privie… if they have one. He motioned towards the large enamel bowl which contained the birth’s detritus. I’ll drop my bill around later.

With one last nod of his balding head, in final dismissal, he turned and walked briskly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

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Hours later, Rose Stevenson busied herself by the kitchen sink, making tea for the rest of Jackie Cole’s hungry children before Percy, Jackie’s husband, came home from St Katherine’s docks.

Can I have some more bread and dripping please, Auntie Rose? Roy’s stomach rumbled with hunger, while smiling endearingly into Rose Stevenson stern features.

All right, just half a slice though. Your father will be home soon and I don’t want you lot under his feet, making a nuisance of yourselves, do you hear?

The eldest son, Eric, looked up while wiping his nose once more on the end of his long-suffering sleeve. Rapidly blinking his dark eyes, he swallowed the last of his bread. Okay, Auntie Rose. We’ll take the girls out and play hopscotch, won’t we, Roy?

Roy, who was too busy eating, didn’t get the chance to reply before his younger sister Elsie, angrily interrupted.

No, I won’t. She shouted. I don’t want to play with them. They’re horrible, aren’t they, Marjorie?

Marjorie was sitting at the end of the long table, with her dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail; she looked up to find Rose standing beside her. She knew when it was safe, and when it was not safe to incur Rose’s wrath. She quickly decided that this was definitely not the time to agree with her sister, leastways, not while Rose was standing over her with a large wooden spoon, it wasn’t.

You do as you’re told, Elsie Cole, or else you’ll get me hand across your lug, you hear? Now finish up your bread and get out! Rose Stevenson exclaimed towards the sulking Elsie, who always seemed dirty no matter how often you scrubbed her.

The four children scurried from the table before running into the busy street; all, that was, except Roy, who stopped and turned in the open doorway. Slowly and apprehensively, he walked towards Rose before gently tugging at her long dark skirt.

Auntie Rosie, he whispered.

What’s wrong, Roy?

Auntie Rose, can I see me baby sister? I want to see me baby sister.

Rose turned from the sink, and wiping her hands on the wet tea towel, bent down towards him. You know, young lad, you’re the only one who’s asked to see her.

She’s mine, Auntie Rose; I went for the doctor, didn’t I?

Yes, lad, you did that all right. She gave a short laugh. You did that.

Taking his small dirty hand within hers, she slowly led the way into the darkened bedroom. Lighting the gas lamp by the side of the door, she allowed its orange glow to spread within the small room, revealing the now sleeping Jackie Cole and the baby, which was still within the confines of the wooden draw. Roy, while walking alone towards the sleeping child, slowly and silently, reached down to hold the baby’s tiny hand within his.

Rosie Stevenson, while feeling the effects of the day’s exhaustion slowly drifting over her large frame, silently watched the first meeting between the boy and baby, just a few hours’ old, holding hands, with only the gentle poppopping of the gas lamp to disturb her thoughts, thoughts that no one else would ever know.

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Chapter One

1926

Do you want to come to a party tonight, Charlie? Core, yes please, Mr Cole —thanks!

Two years had now passed since the birth of Percy Cole’s youngest child Mary. Two hard long years, which saw him, every morning, by the dock gates, hoping to be picked for work as a Stevedore. Thankfully, he was a large man, as the authorities would only picked the largest and the strongest of men, yet that was still no guarantee that he would work that day. Dressed in his Sunday best, he subconsciously ran his rough square hand through his thick ginger hair while silently watching the excited boy scurry down East Street Market.

Sighing deeply, he continued his journey towards the old mission hall which was attached to the even older Methodist church on the corner of Dore Street. Standing on the top of the three stone steps which led into the halls entrance, he listened briefly to the birds singing their tunes within the distant treetops, before briskly walking into the crowded hall.

Father Craig, a tall thin priest with a voluminous cassock, approached him with his hand out-stretched.

Hello, Percy. The tall priest beamed. I would like you to meet someone. May I introduce you to John Valentine.

Percy looked towards the stranger and held his hand out in greeting.

He’s just arrived here on leave from the army, you know, and I was wondering whether you would be kind enough to show him around.

The priest stepped back and looked at the poor bewildered stranger with tender pride, as if sizing up a new convert. Percy, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. Nevertheless, he was a Christian man and this morning he just happened to be in a good mood, so he decided to give the stranger a chance.

The two men looked at each other apprehensively.

Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Pleased that his role as host was finally over, the priest began to walk away. Oh… I almost forgot. Father Craig turned sharply, causing the cassock to swirl around his long legs. May I come to tea next Sunday afternoon, Percy? Your dear wife wouldn’t mind, would she?

Percy smiled. Of course not, Father, you know you’re always welcome.

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The small square table around which Percy and his companions usually sat was more crowded than usual, the game of dominoes forgotten as they discussed the prospect of a General Strike in heated conversation. It was Sunday 2nd May, 1926, the day after Sir Stanley Baldwin delegated a general council of the TUC to try to avoid the strike, and the day before it was called.

From the back, a man called out, We’re all going to starve! He was a rotund, middle-aged man with a thick brown moustache, his peak cap tilted on one side, with a pint of frothy beer resting in his hand.

Don’t be daft, man. They can’t do that to us! The voice was loud but the caller anonymous. There’d be too much of an outcry.

There was uproar in the hall as they all shouted their agreement, mainly through fear that perhaps, just perhaps, the first speaker was right. John Valentine briefly smiled before leaning back in his