Tales of Pyrmont Road & Other Stories

by Maryann Brooks

Sunday quiet in the back streets and side roads of London: a welcome and much appreciated state of affairs stubbornly adhered to by the British working man.
This story begins in one such side road situated near the river Thames at Kew.
The year is 1923.

Standing alone in an empty kitchen, Doris fingered her wedding ring. She was as used to it by now as she was of hearing herself called Mrs Blackford, and though that gold band would never leave her hand as long as she lived she still liked to push it up to the knuckle, ease it over, just a little, then push it back firmly into place; a kind of once I wasn’t married, now I am, game.

It was a nice ring. Good looking, solid and made to last a lifetime. Now she had to laugh. That sounded just like her husband. Except for the solid bit. Fred’s shape, as far as she was concerned, was just right.

She knew she really ought to get busy but she allowed herself another few minutes of dreaming.

Who’d have thought that four years ago, round about this time, she was single, almost on the shelf at twenty one, and likely to land there for ever, men were that scarce. Then out of the blue, Fred had come along. True, he was out of work but forget about that; everyone was out of work just after the war. The main thing was he was young, he was reasonably good looking, and he was single. And who did she have to thank for all this good fortune? A foolish drunk who decided to cross Kew bridge on the outside. Not exactly romantic but some day it would make interesting conversation.

She’d been standing on the bridge watching the river, a pleasant pastime when there was nothing else to do, when the drunk had stuck his head over the parapet and though she was a bit startled, she wasn’t exactly surprised; this happened on a semi-regular basis. By the time the police arrived, he was already in the firm grasp of the constable on the beat and within minutes he’d been bundled into a van and taken away.

Which is when she met Fred. Nice, solid Fred, whom never hurried anything which was evidenced by the fact he didn’t propose for over a year. But he’d been worth the wait and now, after only three years, they were about to settle into a home of their own.

She sighed and shook her head. Here she was, standing around as though she had all the time in the world when there was a fire to light and a meal to prepare, which wouldn’t happen if she didn’t get her head out of the clouds.

She took the scuttle up the hall and filled it from where the coal was kept under the stairs then took it back to the kitchen and got to work. Daydreaming was nice for them that had the time. She had things to do.

The kitchen range, found in many houses built around the turn of the century and in most every house on Pyrmont Road, was more than just a cast iron box on cast iron feet: it gave heat both for cooking and personal warmth. In this kitchen it was set in a niche large enough and deep enough to spit a pig and though this did take rather a large chunk out of the kitchen, the lack of space was made up by comfort. Doris s mother reckoned that on Pyrmont Road there was more living done in the kitchen than in any other room in the house.

When it came to getting the best out of this particular range, Doris was an expert. She knew when to open the flap that allowed the heat to circulate around the oven. She knew exactly when the oven was ready for baking and could time her cakes to the minute without having to open the oven door. And after tea and toast, pale or burnt depending the condition of the fire behind the fire bars and striped or crisscrossed depending on the mood of whoever was making the toast, she knew just how much coal to add to give heat without waste until bed time. Last but not least she knew how to bank the fire for the night. Properly done, this kept the coals glowing low until morning when they could then be raked gently and easily rekindled. Yes, Doris knew her kitchen range.

She hadn’t thought to check the chimney before they moved in though, so she kept her fingers crossed as the twisted newspaper coils ignited the dry wood and the coal began to glow around the edges. When she was sure the fire had taken, she pulled out the damper, breathed a quiet thank you mum when no black smoke billowed into the room, then pushed it back just the right amount.

Doris knew this house. She should; she’d grown up here. But she’d never known it this quiet. Or this empty. Her mother had left number seventeen rather suddenly, mumbling something about newly weds needing space but Doris knew the real reason the old lady moved out was Leonard s wife was going to have another baby and he was out of work. Again. Mum’s pension would go a long way to help get them on their feet.

But all the same Mum, Doris complained to her absent parent, you didn’t have to take all the furniture even if it was yours. You might have left something other than a pair of old lace curtains and some old linoleum.

What about the dining table? Where will that go in Leonard s three rooms with two of them bedrooms? Or the settee that fit just right in the front room bay window? Leonard doesn’t have a bay window.

Or dad s Windsor chair that s going to get ruined in no time in Leonard s kitchen? If you can call that hole in the wall a kitchen. And we are not newlyweds, she finished off, we’ve been married for three years.

But you won’t stay, she threw in a mental p.s. Not with Leonard and his wife and two kids. You’ll be back.

Which was one of the reasons she wasn’t worried about not having much furniture. They’d have enough when mum came back; which she would.

Doris checked the fire. The oven would be ready in less than an hour. She’d seen the gas stove she wanted and knew down to a penny just how much it would cost including the installation but until they had some money saved it would just have to stay a picture cut out of the newspaper.

She’d arrived at number seventeen carrying two baskets. In one she had a roasting pan, a small neatly tied beef roast, a small cabbage and some potatoes; she remembered at the last minute to put in the Coleman’s. The other basket was full of odds and ends, enough to keep them until tomorrow and a trip to the shops up on the high street.

A roast was a bit of an expense but this was a First. First home of her own, even though she’d lived here most of her life. First oven of her own, even though she’d popped puddings and roasts in and out of this one for years. And when it was ready, this would be their First dinner. Just for her and Fred. A fitting beginning to this new life.

Of course she’d look pretty silly if the moving men didn’t arrive and they had to eat their First meal off the floor. Which they wouldn’t be able to do anyway as the knives and forks and plates were in one of the bundles on the van.

She went out into the scullery, lifted the wooden lid off the copper and inspected the innards. The whole thing, except for the lining, was brick built, took up an entire corner of the scullery and needed a fire underneath to heat the water. Its one asset was it did heat the water, and lots of it, in little more than an hour.

From as far back as she could remember, until the Great War began and everything changed, the small galvanized tub used to be brought into the scullery every Saturday night and filled from that copper. One after the other, she and her sisters would climb in and be scrubbed clean then rubbed dry and put into a fresh nightgown before being sent to sit beside the kitchen fire. Leonard was last because he was a boy and because there wasn’t a door between the kitchen and the scullery, he was always put in the tub with his back to them. For all the times she stole quick glances in Leonard s direction whenever she got a chance, she never saw anything more exciting than a pink backside.

As soon as they were in bed, the girls all together in the upstairs middle room and Leonard in the upstairs back bedroom, the small tub would be emptied and the long one that looked like a coffin lifted down from its hook outside, brought in and filled; another copper full of water would be ready by then. This wasn’t easy as the bathtub was almost too long for the scullery. But mum wouldn’t have it in the kitchen as the bottom scratched the linoleum. The scullery floor was cement and you could drop anything on that and it wouldn’t matter.

Tonight she planned to indulge in the ultimate luxury of a bath. As long as the moving van arrived. As long as their new galvanized bathtub hadn’t fallen off the back.

In the meantime there were potatoes to peel and the cabbage to cut up. Oh yes, and two pots of water to put on top of the range. When the pots arrived. With the moving van.

Hoping fervently the driver hadn’t stopped for a pint on the way, she spread out yesterdays newspaper and sat on the floor in front of the fire while she scraped and pared. She could just see the date, April the 15th, 1923. In a couple of days they ll have been married three years.

It had been a nice wedding. Not white. Not with dad hardly in his grave wherever that was; somewhere in France was all they’d been told, and money hard to find. But she’d saved enough for a nice gray suit. She’d planned to buy herself a nice, not too fancy gray hat but finished up with a pinky creation with the biggest brim you ever saw. She could still see her mum s mouth go tight the way it did when she disapproved, and mum disapproved of that hat. But Doris wore it anyway and received compliments from everybody; except mum of course.

She had enjoyed her honeymoon, learning in that short time enough of the facts of life to allow her to nod knowingly nowadays when a conversation went in a certain direction and the subject could only be hinted at because there were young persons present. Her wedding suit was fraying a bit at the cuffs by now but the hat looked as good as ever, especially since she cut the brim back a bit to make it wearable for church.

She frowned at the state of the kitchen linoleum. Years of scrubbing had taken off most of the pattern and it looked pretty awful. But at least it wasn’t cracked. With a mortgage payment due each month, new linoleum was out of the question. The same applied to any more furniture. Until they got a bit of money put aside, or when mum came back, whichever, they d have to make do with what they had, which considering the two rooms it used to sit in, wasn’t much.
But that was then. This was now and she wanted to use the toilet and all the newspaper had gone into the fire. And she wasn’t going to clean herself on stuff that had been sat on.

While Doris was busy in the kitchen, Fred was, as she’d guessed, leaning on the front gate, very much enjoying the moment. He had the key to his own front door. His furniture should be arriving any minute. And later, when everything was moved in, there d be a fine Sunday dinner waiting in his kitchen. What else could a man ask for?

The call from outside brought Doris to her feet. With a quick look to check the fire she went out to meet the moving van and remind the men to be as quiet as possible because it was Sunday.

It didn’t take long to unload the furniture.
“Bed and chest of drawers, missus?”

“Upstairs front bedroom, please.”

The cot? Bought too soon and not used but she hadn’t the heart to get rid of it though she knew she should, she directed into the small back bedroom.

“Kitchen table and two chairs?”

In the kitchen.

“What about all the other stuff?”

“Pots and pans on the kitchen table for now.” The bath, undamaged, thank goodness, “hang it out back”.

Everything else, which included a couple of bundles of linens, a couple more of clothes and one potted plant, she had put in the front room.

Just before the men left she asked if they d finished with the daily paper?

“Yes love”, the driver answered, “which one do you fancy, the Telegraph or the Pictorial?”

“Oh. The Telegraph please.” Doris remembered the larger newspaper had less pictures, which meant less ink on the pages.

The driver handed it over then climbed up onto his seat and clicked the reins. The horses had barely settled into a steady clip before she was out back and into the toilet.

Fred watched the horses maneuver the corner and wished the men luck. That was a right piece of rubbish they were driving and he’d taken a risk hiring them for the job. But they needed the money and he didn’t have much to spare and anyway all that was no longer his concern. He turned back to the beauty of his twenty something foot of house. With it s wrought iron gate and nicely trimmed hedge. And a bow window with lace curtains.

All mine! The words sounded good in his head. He said them, quietly at first, then louder. Then looked about hurriedly in case anyone was watching. But the street was quiet and not a curtain twitched. Except maybe that one upstairs across the street. So after hitching down his waistcoat and smoothing back his hair, he opened His front gate, went into His house and closed His front door.

“Dorie,” he directed himself and his voice towards the back of the house and the kitchen, “what do you think of it?” it being the house but she’d know what he meant. The kitchen was empty. The fire was burning a treat and some peeled potatoes lay on a sheet of newspaper, but there was no Doris. A moment later he heard the clonk of a chain, the sound of water flushing and shortly afterwards, the click of the back door latch as she came back into the kitchen.

“Well”, she looked about for a pan for the potatoes, “at least the toilet works.”

“Of course it does”, Fred felt affronted, “Dad and I checked all that kind of stuff”.

“From what I remember”, Doris picked up a pan then put it down again, “my dad was always checking something out there. Do me a favor love and find a towel. I want to wash my hands.”

“Which bundle?” Fred didn’t usually do women’s stuff but today he would make the exception.

“How do I know”, Doris was already in the scullery. “Try the one with the knotted string. I remember it broke when I pushed in an extra towel. And pick an old one please.”

The towel produced and Doris happy now she had clean hands, Fred remembered why he’d come into the kitchen.

“What s to eat?”

“Bread and cheese if you have to eat now. Roast beef, spuds and greens if you can wait an hour or two. Oh, and put a shilling in the meter; it ll soon be time to light the gas. And,” Doris paused and looked hard at her husband, “did you remember to buy new mantles?”

Fred reached into his pocket, pulled out a slim package and put it up on the mantle piece. Voila he’d learned that word in France, “one packet of mantles. I’ll put them on before it gets dark. Want anything taken upstairs?” he was feeling magnanimous.

“Yes”, Doris surprised him, “those bundles of sheets and stuff, and the pillows. They should be aired but it’s getting late and they’ll have to do. And while you’re at it, see the mattress is on straight, and,” she called to his departing back, “take a spare mantle up with you just in case.”

Fred decided to surprise Doris and make the bed but he was the surprised one when he opened the door to the front bedroom and found nothing but an expanse of bare boards and three bare windows.

“Dorie,” he called down over the banister, “where s the bed?”

“Worried it got left on the van?” he could hear the amusement in her voice as she came to the bottom of the stairs.

“I only asked where the bed was,”he huffily replied.

“I changed my mind and had it put in the middle room,” Doris s voice turned frosty, “because someone I will not mention decided to take the front bedroom curtains with her and I will not sleep in a bedroom that half the street can see into because it doesn’t have curtains”. Fred was still framing a response when he heard the slam of the kitchen door.

Fred decided to sweeten Doris’s mood and make the bed. It wouldn’t be easy with a large bed pushed into the corner of a very small room but he d made beds in worse circumstances when he was in the army.

He straightened the mattress and laid an old blanket on it, one of Doris s ideas and it did help smooth out the lumps. Next came the bottom sheet that he smoothed over the blanket then tucked tightly under the mattress. Then the top sheet that he let lay. After he put on the blanket, he took the sheet and blanket together at the bottom end and made perfect hospital corners. Oh yes, he was a good bed maker. Learned in the army though there he only had a blanket. But the theory was the same.

Next he put on fresh pillowcases and last of all he set the bedspread and quilt, a present from his mother. He didn’t think much of the color but Doris liked it and he had to admit it was warm. Which had him wondering if Doris knew where the hot water bottle was? There was nothing better than a hot water bottle. Except, another thought crept into his mind, a nice warm Doris. Which gave him the idea.

Heat from the range made the kitchen warm and cosy. Softly glowing gaslight provided a sense of intimacy. And the roast was cooked to perfection. By the time they finished their First dinner in their new home, Fred was feeling decidedly romantic.

Then Doris decided to use the supposed bath water to scrub the kitchen floor. Fred was a bit disappointed. For the last three years both he and Doris had used the municipal baths for their weekly once over. In separate sections of course. Now they owned their own bath they could use in the privacy of their own kitchen and Doris had to go and decide to scrub the kitchen floor.

By the time the kitchen was to Doris s expectations it was time for bed. They sat together for a cup of cocoa, made with condensed milk as they had no fresh, then Doris took the cups out into the scullery, rinsed them and left them to drain.

“They’ll keep ’til morning”, she yawned, “and will you do the lights please?”

There were two gaslight fixtures in the kitchen, one each side of the mantle piece. Fred turned them out one at a time and with care. You never hurried with the lighting or the putting out of gas light. The mantles, once lit, were fragile and easily shattered. Hence the need for spares.

Fred carried the hot water bottle as he followed Doris up the stairs. He wanted her to be the first one to see his surprise.

Oh Fred, she stopped at the open bedroom door, a fire,

I laid it when I made the bed and lit it later when you were doing the dishes. Like it?

Of course. And it does take the chill off the room nicely. But you took a bit of a risk, Fred Blackford, she wagged a finger at him, this fire hasn’t been lit since my sister Vi had the chicken pox and that was goodness knows how many years ago. Funny I should think of that, she began to undress, maybe it was because Vi got a fire when she had the chicken pox and I didn’t.

By now they were in their nightclothes and climbing into bed. Except Fred had to clamber over Doris because his side of the bed was against the wall. He made the most of the occasion and they finished up a tangle of bodies under the bedclothes. “Remind you of somewhere?” Fred whispered in her ear. “Bognor”. Doris giggled, “on our honeymoon”.

“We never did find the ribbon from your nightie.” Fred grinned at the memory.

Doris reached up to her neck and pulled. Put it somewhere safe this time, she handed Fred a length of yellow ribbon.

He reached up and tied it to the brass head rail then snuggled down to enjoy the warmth of his bed. And Doris.

Bricks and Mortar was very nice.

This was even better.