casks brought in on the horse-drawn carts. When they arrived in the yard, he and his mate lifted them off and turned them over onto blocks of wood to drain the dregs into a bucket underneath. You would be surprised how much liquor came out of one of those casks. They would strain the whisky through a lady’s stocking set up on a tripod to filter out any impurities, such as dirt and grit which had collected inside. It was then decanted into empty White’s lemonade bottles. Alf made himself a special wooden suitcase, lined with cloth, to carry two of these bottles in and out of work each day. No wonder he used to fall asleep drunk every evening and Ada had to help him to bed.
One day he was coming home from work and was so drunk that he fell down the steps in the bus, the suitcase broke and a shard of glass got lodged in his arm. He didn’t feel a thing and refused to go to hospital. However, he was taken there in the end to have it seen to and was kept in. I visited him in New Cross Hospital and saw how he was bruised from waist to feet. He still didn’t feel a thing and protested ‘Fuss ’bout nowt.’
Lily’s mother, unfortunately, wasn’t much better. Ada wasn’t a very nice person and took no nonsense from anyone. She was a cook in a pub and worked long hours for low wages. But that didn’t put her off spending every spare penny (and more) on the dogs. She was never happy unless she was having a bet. She even pawned her son Alfred’s best suit, the one he wore on Sundays and to go courting. Things were rough at home and I know that one of her sisters married early to get away from the rowing and Lily left home as soon as she could.
Lily and Charlie, Charlie and Lily, whichever way you said it, it was the same: we were a couple. We had been going out together for about 18 months, still enjoying going for walks, to the pictures and the occasional dance but I wasn’t keen on that. Two left feet, that’s me. Lily would try to get me on the floor but when I resisted, she would go off and have a jitterbug with some other fellow. I didn’t mind because I knew I would be hopeless even if I had wanted to have a go. At other times we would just sit at home, snuggling up and enjoying being together. I was saving money and Lily was putting things away for her bottom drawer. No actual plans for marrying had been discussed and, with war looming, our minds were concentrating on what was happening around us and what it all might mean for the future. Would I be called up? Where would I go? What would Lily do? So, the night Lily told me it was all over came as a real shock. What on earth had happened for her to say this? Had she got cold feet or met someone else?
I was at Lily’s place one evening, a terraced house she had moved into as a lodger. She had met a woman by chance at the bus stop one evening after work and they had got talking. Lily said she was unhappy at home and mentioned a recent unpleasantness with her mother. This woman offered her a room in her house; her husband was a butler at Buckingham Palace and was rarely at home. Lily was lucky to find somewhere nice to live. I was sitting quietly in the small armchair in her little bedroom as I did three or four times a week. It was cosy with the curtains closed, the lamp on and we could forget the world outside. Lily was very quiet and just sat there on the edge of her bed and I knew something was up.
‘Have I done something wrong?’ No answer. ‘Lily. What is it?’ And then those words, spoken so slowly.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking.’
There was a long pause. I could hear people passing in the street, singing and laughing. ‘Someone’s happy,’ I thought. ‘Don’t say anything,’ I said to myself and then out loud, ‘Don’t say anything else, Lily. Please, don’t.’
She sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but I want time to think about us a little bit more.’
She’s found somebody else, I knew it. ‘Do you want me to go?’
‘Do you mind?’
That was it, I had to go then. ‘If that’s what you want I’ll leave.’
I got up slowly, leaned over and kissed her goodbye on the cheek. There was a terrible lump in my throat so I couldn’t have spoken even if I had wanted to. I went downstairs, out the front door, shutting it slowly, down the path, shutting the gate slowly too, hoping all the time Lily would come out and call me back. I walked to the end of the road, looking back all the time to check if her light was still on. No light. I walked on to the bus stop, thinking she would run after me. I waited. I could hear the sound of a piano playing in a pub nearby and people laughing, and the far-off rumble of a passing train but no voice calling me back.
My mother was still awake when I got in. Once she had heard the back door go and my footsteps coming upstairs, she could close her eyes and go to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep that night thinking about what had happened and wondering what I had done wrong. All alone now. A terrible feeling.
I hadn’t seen Lily for weeks, maybe for a couple of months or, should I say, she hadn’t seen me. Because during that time, I have to confess something. I followed her and secretly watched where she was going. I missed her but I admit that I also wanted to know if she was seeing somebody else. Once I followed her all the way up Stratford Broadway to the Town Hall where she met some fellow outside and they went in to a dance which was on there. I didn’t go inside but she did the same thing the following week. Well, that’s it, I thought.
Then one evening she suddenly appeared. I was returning home with my brother-in-law, who was staying with us. It was very dark as we walked from the station as half the street lights were off. Bert saw somebody waiting at the top of the road and as we got nearer I heard my name being called.
‘It’s Lily,’ said Bert, ‘you go on, I’ll make my own way back,’ and he made himself scarce.
‘Lily,’ I said rushing towards her. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘I thought I’d missed you.’
I could see she was shivering. ‘You’re freezing cold,’ I said as I touched a hand. ‘You’ve got no gloves.’ I took hold of both hands and warmed them with mine. She bent forward and a lock of her hair brushed my cheek and I breathed in the familiar scent of lavender soap. We stood there for a while just feeling the reassuring presence of each other again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘So sorry, Charlie,’ and she put her arms around me and gave me a big hug. Oh, how I had missed that!
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What happened?’ Whatever it was it didn’t really matter now. ‘What was it? What did I do wrong? Tell me and I’ll try and put it right.’
She stood back a bit and said, ‘You can’t dance, Charlie.’
What did she mean, can’t dance? Was that what this was all about? ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know I’m no good at dancing. It’s just that I’ve got two left feet.’ I looked at her and smiled, ‘But I can learn, Lily. I’m sure I can, if you want.’
Fortunately for me, Lily saw past my failings and realised she loved me for what I was. I hoped I would make a better partner in marriage than I was on the dance floor. I was lucky, so lucky that she gave me a second chance. I did try to learn to dance years later after we were married. Lily had talked me into taking some dancing lessons but it wasn’t any good and I still have two left feet.
As war approached everybody was getting jittery with the news of Hitler’s invasion of Poland. So on 3 September, when the inevitable announcement came, it was a kind of relief. We didn’t have a radio but word got round quickly about Chamberlain declaring war on Germany. My mother was upset and cried. The last thing she, or anybody else who had lived through the last war, wanted was another one. There was talk about the call up of young men between 20 and 23 years old. That upset my mother and sisters too. It was just a matter of time. My birthday was in May so, as a 20-year-old, I was expecting my papers any day.
When my army call up papers arrived on 18 October telling me where I had to go register, it was a blow when I realised that I wasn’t going to join the regiment I had requested. Everybody had to fill in a form sent from the Ministry of Labour and National Service, asking us ‘to express your preference’ and I wrote down, ‘to join the Royal Corps of Signals.’ My school friend, Ronnie, had just joined them and had gone off training not far away. I was looking forward to following him and having a pal around to make it more fun and less frightening.
I imagined that I would be learning Morse Code and how to use a radio transmitter; how to install and repair telephone lines and useful skills like that for the front line boys. I did not want to be in an infantry regiment whose main purpose was sticking bayonets into other men’s guts. It was not that I didn’t want to do my duty or was going to shirk my responsibility but I just didn’t want to have to kill a man, any man, somebody with a wife and children. Why should I kill him?
I honestly believed that there was a choice when I filled in the form. I am in where I want to be, ready to serve my King and Country. I am not afraid of hard work and I want to learn new skills. I will do my job as well as I can and we will all be home by Christmas.
