Celia King

I: A Collage of Memories

II: Day at the Seaside (coming soon)

III: A Changing World (coming soon)

A COLLAGE OF MEMORIES

My earliest memory is of lying in bed in my mother’s arms, feeling safe and cozy. She said to me, "You know, we are going to an elegant hotel for our summer holiday soon, and they do not allow children with dummies (‘pacifiers’)." So Mum put an end to my addiction. That was over 70 years ago.

I recall my Mum telling me about the nurse she’d hired to take care of me as a new-born because Mum was busy working in the shop and dressmaking in-between. The nurse was an elderly bony woman with pulled-back iron grey hair, topped by a kind of frilly white hair-piece. I have a vague memory of her dressed all in a long black skirt with a starched white apron.

Nurse ruled the roost and demanded that a jug of milk-stout (a kind of rich, dark, strong beer) was brought to her daily from the pub at the corner of our street. Mum agreed but was horrified when she caught Nurse giving me sips. She probably wanted to get me into a drunken stupor and shut me up. Is that why I’m so short? Needless to say, the nurse was given the heave-ho.

Our milk was delivered every morning by a milk man with a horse and cart. Our white enamel milk jug with its blue rim was brought out to be filled from the huge metal urn. Mum immediately boiled the milk. There was no refrigeration, of course, or pasteurization at that time, so maybe she was right. How I hated the boiled milk, though. I remember fishing for the dreaded floating white specks with a teaspoon. Milky tea was given to us kids as soon as we could drink from a cup.

I remember my Dad creeping into the bedroom with a huge brown shopping bag while I pretended to be asleep. It was Christmas Eve, and he was being Santa after he had closed the shop at about midnight on this exciting night. I always managed to force myself to stay awake until he stealthily placed the bag next to my metal framed, grey painted cot. I’d then contentedly fall asleep, knowing I’d have the excitement of opening my gifts in the morning. Being Jewish, and my father speaking with a heavy Polish accent, made no difference. I knew it was a Christian Holiday, but most of our customers were Christian, and so Dad entered into the spirit of the holiday and decorated our drapery shop and window with paper bells of all colors and sizes. (I loved the way they opened up from being flat.) The decorations also included lots of tinsel and paper chains which at a later date I’d help stick together. It was all such fun and nothing to do with religion for me.

The shops in our street normally stayed open until 8 p.m., but for Christmas Eve they didn’t close until midnight. As the day drew to a close, the toy shops in particular were crowded with bargain hunters, as everything was being auctioned off. I remember two nearby toy shops which were next door to each other, so the competition was fierce, and the shouting of the auctioneers and bidding customers grew as the midnight hour approached. I’d sometimes stand in the crowd and watch, as it was so exciting, but I never felt envious. I knew I’d have my share of happy surprises when I delved into my shopping-bag of gifts when Christmas morning arrived.

On Christmas Eve, the stall-holders in our street who did not have a shop (as we did) stayed with their stalls and wares all night. This mainly applied to the fruit stalls, and I can still picture the young men dressed in heavy clothing and thick woolen gloves with finger tips cut off, huddled round the coal fire they had lit in a bucket with holes. As my bedroom (I shared with my sister and parents at an early age) was in the front, overlooking this delightful scene, it was a noisy and lively night for me because they would joke and laugh all night long. Two of these stall-holders stand out in my mind. One was called Moishe Ligner (ligner means liar in Jewish). The other was Jackie Bananas, for he sold nothing but bananas. I never knew their real names.

My Dad left his stall out on this occasion but brought his rolls of material in till morning, when frantic last-minute purchases were made by last minute customers, who probably didn’t have the money before. At midday everything closed down, and it was officially the end of the Christmas trade. The following day, known as Boxing Day, was a holiday too, so everyone was in a jolly holiday mood. Usually we’d be invited for Christmas Day dinner by my Aunty Becky, my Mum’s younger sister and my favorite aunt. Since she had three daughters similar in age to my sister and myself, we were very close. My Dad would play Santa to my cousins, too, bringing them a shopping bag each full of gifts, and as their financial situation was well below ours, these presents were really appreciated. Our bags would hold all kinds of nuts and foil wrapped tangerines as well as toys and books and candy and chocolates. Sorry, but I do have to confess I remember the tooth imprints I’d made before passing round my prized box of Terry’s chocolates. How else was I to find my favorites?

I can still taste the wonderful flavor of Aunty Becky’s vegetable-barley soup made from fresh vegetables, barley, flour, and bones. They couldn’t afford much meat. There has never been anything as delicious since, and I wish I knew her secret.

I loved my Aunty Beck with her sparkling, cheeky laughing eyes, lovely thick brown hair and ready smile. She was quick to flare up and speak her mind (in Yiddish), but all would soon be forgotten, and her laugh made me feel good. Her husband, my Uncle Jack, made it obvious he adored her in his quiet and self-effacing demeanor. He was tall, slim and handsome with his large dark eyes, which were deep set, and mostly sad looking. It was probably because I mainly remember him in those days as being unemployed and feeling guilty because he couldn’t do more for his family. However it was a happy household, and I always loved going to visit them in the rooms they rented in a house a few miles from us.

My parents must have made a striking couple. My Dad was dark-skinned with black wavy hair and brown eyes, and my Mum was just the opposite, with fair skin, blond curly hair, and bluey-grey, knowing and intelligent eyes. Among the wave of immigrants fleeing Poland about 1912 before World War I in an effort to escape the raging anti-Semitism, they met and married in London. They mostly settled in the East End of London where the streets were grim. The rents were low, but they could barely afford them. They arrived with practically no knowledge of the English language or customs and little formal education, but they had a willingness to learn and work and a strong determination to improve their lives, especially those of their children. These immigrants were not helped in any way by the authorities; they were just grateful to be allowed to survive. However, they helped each other even if it was only by giving those who were poorer than they a small space on the floor or a hot meal. It’s amazing how that generation eventually prospered in spite of the discrimination and hardships they experienced for many years. (Maybe because of it.)

By the time I arrived on the scene in 1922 and my sister Lily in 1924, my happy-go-lucky and good-natured Dad had proudly served in the British army during World War I and would laughingly regale us with stories of his mishaps because of his lack of understanding of the English language. I don’t remember exactly, but Dad always boasted about and showed us his "Honourable Discharge" papers. To the end of his days, he insisted his greatest achievements as a soldier were making good mustard (Coleman’s) and being used as ballast in one of those early aeroplanes, even though he was pale and skinny. Apparently he tried several different jobs as a greenhorn, including selling eggs. He fell into a large crate of them, thus losing all of his profits.

I later asked my Mum why she had agreed to marry him, and she replied, "My mother, who knew she didn’t have long to live, had taken a fancy to this decent, honest, respectable young man who was among my group of friends from the ‘Old Country,’ and she begged me to accept his proposal. In those days, one listened to one’s parents." It turned out to be a good stable marriage because, I believe, they complemented each other.

My mother had an unusually bright mind, spoke several languages, and had an ability to play on our piano any music she had heard. She always had an elegant manner and posture, and even her foreign accent sounded cultured. She was forced into being the head of the family at an early age. Her own mother had died soon after their arrival in England, and so Mum, being the eldest of those in London, had to be mother to her two younger brothers. Her own father was a jolly, rotund Father Christmas-looking man and was fun as a grandpa, or Zeida as we called him, but he decided at an early age that he’d like to retire from his tailoring job, and so Mum had to take care of him, too. So we had a full house and not much room as I was growing up. Mum had taken on these responsibilities even before she was married, and I never saw her carefree. As a rule, even her laughter was restrained.

Mum had rented the shop and the rooms behind and above, and my Dad just moved in. He eventually became good at being a shopkeeper and also "working the markets," as it was called. He seemed to enjoy that life with his zest for living.

My Mum had a remarkable gimmick and talent. She would stand at our stall in front of our shop surrounded by a crowd. A customer would choose material from the many bales of cloth cramming the stall. Mum would ask the customer if she had a style in mind for the dress, blouse, skirt, or whatever was required. Usually the reply in broad Cockney was, "I’ll leave it to you, Misses."

Mum would suggest a suitable style and then after only glancing at the customer’s figure, proceed to cut the fabric in her left handed custom. The dress was cut in a few moments without benefit of a pattern or flat surface while everyone watched in fascination. It was done with such efficiency and flair and so rapidly. It was like watching an artist at work, and I believe she had rare talent. There was no charge for this service, so trade was brisk, and there was no competition in this field.

Mum stood out like a beam of light with her mop of rather unruly blonde curls, her fair, rosy-cheeked complexion, and her cream colored overall made of Shantung silk which she always wore in the shop. The surrounding crowd all looked so drab with their downtrodden faces and greyish clothing matching the streets and the sky. I remember all except Mum in a monotone of greys.

When Mum was not at the stall, she’d be busy at her heavy old black iron Singer sewing machine, sewing stock for the shop or fulfilling orders for customers. This machine was always with us, like a member of the family, and even moved with us when we later evacuated to the country. Mum would be sewing far into the night. As my bedroom (and my place of birth) was above the stockroom behind the shop where the machine stood, it was also my lullaby. I rather liked the sound of Mum treadling away because I knew she was down there, and that realization made me feel safe and cozy as I snuggled under the feather comforter she had also sewn.

The shop full of dress materials and curtaining was part of my growing up. It was also the entrance to our home, so even at an early age, I’d automatically measure and serve the material if a customer was waiting when I arrived home from school. It was also our playground. We’d play "shop," and I’d alternate with my sister or friends, being a customer first and then the shopkeeper.

I always loved to write little stories, and I spent many an afternoon standing behind the old wooden, well-worn counter with a yard stick nailed to the edge, writing about cozy homes and families mostly. One story I remember vividly was about the adventures of an autumn leaf that had fallen from a tree and the different places this leaf had blown to. When a customer interrupted my writing, I’d attempt to serve, or if something more difficult was required, I’d call out "shop" at the top of my voice. Mum’s machinery would cease, and she’d descend the two steps leading from the stockroom and come to my aid. That was Mum’s rest from her sewing.

The excitement was enormous when we were told that the whole school was being taken to see the King and Queen as they paraded along the main Commercial Road. It was May 1935, and King George V and his wife Queen Mary were celebrating their Silver Jubilee, 25 years of their reign. None were more loyal than the poor East Enders, and the king and queen were allowing the commoners to catch a glimpse of their beloved rulers for this historic occasion.

Mum sewed patriotic dresses of red, white, and blue stripes for my sister and me, and we were given Union Jacks to wave. Each child at school was given a commemorative mug. Being short for my age was an advantage, for I was told to stand in front as we waited with bated breath for the royal carriage to appear. We had been warned by our teacher that when she said "Hip-Hip," we were not to say "Hooray" but "Hurrah." I was already a student at this wonderful secondary school, and we were taught to know better and to say "Hurrah." I’m still very proud of having been a student at this famous school my mother gladly paid her hard earned money for me to attend. It was the Raines Foundation School.

At last here they came, and the excitement soared as we heard the clipclop of the horses heralding the approach of the royal carriage. The carriage was beautiful, and the open top allowed us to see King George V (Queen Elizabeth II’s grandfather) and Queen Mary very closely. He looked handsome with an elegant small beard, a bemedalled chest, and a twinkle in his smiling eyes as he waved to us in response to our wild cheers and flag waving. Queen Mary, in contrast, sat very tall, aloof, and stiff as a ramrod in her mauve dress, matching coat, and flowery toque-style hat. She barely smiled, but her complexion looked flawless and doll-like. It was rumored that she wore a kind of porcelain make-up, so maybe she didn’t want it to crack.

In addition to the parades, the whole of England and especially London’s East End went berserk with celebrations. The poorer the street, the more money spent on street parties and alcohol. The royal couple’s faces were everywhere, each street vying to outdo the other. The poor were probably just glad to have something to celebrate in their humdrum lives, and they had been saving for this event for a long time. We really idolized our monarchs in those days.

I had a happy childhood, playing on the pavement in front of the shops. Even the lamplighter arriving on his bicycle and using his long pole with a hook to light the gas light lamp post at the corner of our street was an event. I had a tricycle, scooter, pram and dolls. They lasted for years, and I knew I was lucky to have them. My favorite for many years was an old dark red plush smallish teddy bear with a hump back and one arm.

In the street we mostly played hop scotch, or similar games which we would mark with chalk on the pavement. We’d skip rope and play ball games. A game that seems to have disappeared was called "diabalo." This consisted of a string between two wooden handles and a wooden piece which looked like two cones with the narrowest parts attached. The idea was to balance this wooden piece on the string while moving the two attached string handles. Some of the kids worked wonders, throwing the diabalo into the air and catching it in all kinds of ways, twirling and never allowing the balancing to stop for ages.

However, I was never any good at games, and my greatest delight was when I received a small blackboard with easel and chalk so that I could play at being a teacher. I would get smaller kids to sit and be my pupils, but they usually soon became bored and left. I loved my large shiny wooden pencil box which was gaily painted and lacquered. It had sections for erasers, pens, pencils, etc., and I would spend ages rearranging these to my satisfaction.

Most of all I loved to read. Somehow I discovered this at a very early age although apart from my children’s picture books, we had no books in the house. This was not uncommon in our community. I suppose our parents didn’t have the time or money. Luckily I soon found I could borrow books from the public library near by. I still make good use of the public library, and except for a few rare ones, I don’t feel I need to possess books. I preferred books about simple things and people and families such as Little Women and fairy tales rather than adventure and travel. I hated anything to do with war or violence and even history. I enjoyed reading about schools, and of course I adored all the fairy tales.

Come to think of it, I never was read a bed-time story. My parents’ English in those days was very poor, and among themselves they spoke Yiddish. We heard Yiddish, of course, but we were encouraged to stick to English. When they didn’t want us kids to understand, they used the Polish language. I was very surprised when I first realized that there were Jewish people like some of my teachers and a few politicians who spoke perfectly good English without any trace of a foreign accent. All my parents’ relatives and friends came from a similar background, and English was not their first language.

Our annual two week holiday at a seaside resort near London, called Westcliffe, was our idea of heaven. We stayed at the same small hotel near the beach year after year and shared the same room, as Dad would reserve it a year ahead. It was the largest front bedroom in the hotel, so what better could anyone want? The last two weeks in August were something we dreamed about all year. Mum would use her imagination and sew an assortment of pretty and unusual dresses for my sister and me, using materials, and often remnants from our shop. For many years Lily and I were dressed in identical clothing, and I believe it was popular to do so in those times. Everything we took away with us was spanking new although Mum seemed to make very little for herself.

Now our cases were packed and waiting at the door along with the taxi that Dad had called from the phone which stood on the counter of our sweet shop at the corner of our street. Mr. Sherard, the kindly proprietor, gave my sister and me a couple of lollipops taken from one of his colorful glass jars, as he wished us a happy holiday. It cost two pennies (tuppence) to use the high standing trumpet shaped telephone, and there could be no secrets, but it was the only phone in the vicinity, and we were glad to have the use of it. The unusual sight of a taxi on our street brought the neighborhood kids out to stand and stare. I can still feel that utter joy and bubbling anticipation as the taxi lurched forward and the kids waved us off, and we were on our way to the railway station. I felt like a princess and knew I was lucky, for most of those kids did not get an annual treat like this. Now my head was full of buckets and spades, beach-balls, donkey rides, ice-creams, boat rides, paddling and sun, sand and sea.

Our delicious meals at the hotel were all included, and after dinner we’d often take off to the nearby resort of Southend. For us the big attraction here was the beautiful large open-air round band-stand. It was decorated with colorful hanging flower baskets and was surrounded by deck-chairs on the well kept lawns. It cost tuppence for adults and half-price for children, and Dad would even splurge on a penny program. How luxurious it felt to be sitting in the warm, evening, sweet-smelling fresh air, relaxing after a fun-filled day on the beach. The music was varied, and included popular songs of the day, classical music, operatic music, and often lively military marches.

The day would end with a walk back to our hotel, I always holding hands with Mum, and my sister Lily with Dad. We’d walk along the ocean-front promenade, twinkling with tiny colored lights hung between lamp-posts and trees. We called it Fairyland. Back at the hotel we’d be in time to join the other guests partaking of evening tea and petit fours and exchange news of our day’s adventures. It was utter bliss.

I remember the silent films. As well as the main film there would be a serial, to be continued next week. They invariably stopped with a cliff-hanger. What intense excitement, and how could we possibly wait a whole week before finding out if the train was going to run over the beautiful heroine, tied to the tracks by the ugly villain? I recall reading the subtitles to my parents. Nobody seemed to mind because the audience was too busy making their own noises, hissing and booing the villain, or laughing, all to the sound of cracking fresh roasted peanut shells which they threw to their feet.

Mary Pickford was often the beautiful, curly-haired, wide-eyed, innocent heroine in those days, and Charlie Chaplin had us rolling in our seats with his antics and funny walk. All in black and white of course. Then those marvelous films with sound came along and soon even color, and we had our eyes opened to that glamorous place at the other side of the world, the USA, where people spoke with a strange twang but still called it English. I remember seeing a film in which the "crazy" Americans threw away their used plates. We had never seen paper plates before! I also remember watching the lines of gorgeous befeathered dancing girls with smiles partnered by handsome young men in white suits.

How we enjoyed those family trips to the modern cinemas that were opening. The Troxy near us not only showed two films but also the newsreel and a marvelous stage show. The program took at least four hours, and we’d go on Thursday evenings (half day closing in shop) after school and homework. We’d each take along a packet of sandwiches that Dad had prepared, containing marvelous tasting freshly sliced pickled-beef, and others of chopped liver, both bought at the popular "Feld’s" kosher deli nearby and eaten with a large spear of pickled cucumber.

On our way in, Dad would order "a pot of tea for 3, and an extra cup" from the elegant tea-shop in the Troxy. So during the interval this tray complete with biscuits (cookies) would be brought to our seats. By then Mum and Dad must have been doing quite well because we were sitting upstairs in the 1 shilling and sixpenny seats instead of downstairs for sixpence.

A visit to the live theatre in the West End of London was a very special treat, and this way I saw some fabulous musical comedies and pantomimes. We’d arrive hours before the performance started to rent small collapsible stools to sit on while we queued up. This was all part of the fun. These seats were not reserved, so if we were early in line and ran as fast as possible when the doors eventually opened, we’d usually manage to get good seats in the front row of the second balcony in the plush and gilt beautiful old large theatres. Of course these seats were much cheaper than the reserved ones, but we had so much fun doing it this way.

While waiting, I would go off with mum to a nearby Lyons Corner House to have a delicious supper at one of these very popular large restaurants which charged reasonable prices. The place was always so lively with people chattering at the white clothed, closely placed tables, almost drowning out the sounds of the excellent large orchestra playing on the stage of the mirrored and marbled dining room. Mum’s and my favorite meal was called "egg mayonnaise," a large mixed salad with a boiled egg cut in two and lots of mayonnaise over everything. We also always had a pot of tea and afterwards a plate of pastries for dessert. (We only had to pay for the pastries we ate.) After our delicious meal, we’d make our way back to the theatre queue to allow my Dad and sister to have their supper.

While waiting in line, which usually wound round the back of the theatre, we’d be treated to street entertainers, or "buskers" as we called them. They were usually out-of-work musicians and were grateful for the pennies thrown into their cap lying on the ground and later passed round. We managed to see so many stars this way, and I remember Lena Horne, the singer, at the London Palladium when she was very young.

Friday nights were special in our house. We considered ourselves Orthodox Jews (I didn’t know of any other in those days), but our busiest day was Saturday in the shop, so we didn’t keep the Sabbath but did close for all the Jewish Holy Days. After the lighting of the candles on Friday evening and giving prayers of thanks over the wine and "chola" (a special braided Sabbath bread), we’d enjoy our meal, but the next part is what I remember with so much nostalgia and warmth.

After clearing the dishes, we’d gather round the fireplace with its glowing coals, and Mum would open her weekly Yiddish newspaper. In Yiddish she would read to us a special weekly column taken from the works of the famous author Sholem Aleichem. Fiddler on the Roof was based on his stories, and his characters are unforgettable. In fact when years later I saw Fiddler on the New York stage, it was all so familiar to me. My mother had told me about her childhood in Poland, and it was so much like the play. But the column my mother would read on a Friday night, with the candles lit and the brightness and warmth of the fire and the special Sabbath feeling, was a column full of humor. I know this author’s work has been translated into almost every language, but much of the real humor and exact meaning is lost in translation. Therefore I have this marvelous memory of hearing the original words, and Mum having to stop frequently in her reading because of her uncontrollable laughter, and we’d all join in. If necessary she would explain, but usually the meaning was clear. To me the best part was all of us laughing together, especially as Mum was a serious person and did not laugh easily.

These are some of my earliest memories, and although we had no bathroom (using a tin tub), no indoor toilet, no telephone, and no car, and did without much that is now taken for granted, I felt rich and had a happy life, and I have good things to remember.

© Celia King, 1998.