With Sister Julienne’s blessing, my misgivings vanished, and I cycled round to Alberta Buildings at about 8 p.m. with a light heart.
Mr Collett was so obviously overjoyed to see me that he seemed nervous. He had gone to some trouble, and put on a clean shirt and waistcoat and a pair of highly polished boots. Like all old soldiers, he had never got out of the habit of buffing and rubbing his boots to perfection and the whole room smelled strongly of boot polish. The dirty plates and mugs and newspapers had been removed from the table, and two fine crystal glasses and half a bottle of sherry had been put out in readiness. The fire burned brightly, casting flickering shadows over the dingy walls.
He said, “I was so afraid you wouldn’t come, but here you are.”
He walked slowly and carefully over to his chair. “It’s good to have you here. Sit down. It’s so nice to see you.”
I was overwhelmed and a bit embarrassed by all this, and sat down awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say.
“You’ve come. You are here,” he repeated. “Ah, this is so lovely.” Obviously I had to say something. “Yes, I’ve come. Of course I have. I’m not going to run away, so let’s have a glass of sherry, and we can talk about old times.”
He laughed with delight, went over to the table and lifted the bottle. He felt around for the glasses and I moved to help him, but he said, “No, no, I can do it. I have to all the time, you know.”
He poured out two glasses. His hands shook a little and he spilled a considerable quantity on the table, of which he was unaware. I realised that spilled food and liquid would probably account for much of the smell in the room. The rest was likely to be an uncleaned lavatory, unwashed clothes and the bugs that infested Alberta Buildings. I wondered if he had a home help.
But I wasn’t going to think about that sort of thing. If he was unaware of, and quite content with his dirt, why should I criticise? Sister Julienne had told me to enjoy myself, and that I was going to do.
I took a sip of the sherry, and said, “Lovely. This is a cosy room, and you know how to make a nice fire. You were telling me about your childhood. I’d love to hear more.”
He settled down comfortably in his wooden chair, and put his feet on the stool (ulcerated legs have to be kept raised as much as possible). He pulled out his shag and his penknife, and started cutting it up. I inhaled a sniff of the strong tobacco. He took a sip of his sherry.
“This is luxury. When I was young I would never have dreamed of such luxury. A fire every day! A warm bed at night! Enough food to eat . . . A welfare state that pays my rent because I am too old to work, and pays me a pension of ten shillings and sixpence a week, to buy all that I need, including a bottle of sherry when I want it. This is luxury my poor, dear mother never knew in all her life.”
He was cutting up his shag slowly and carefully, holding it in the palm of his left hand and drawing the knife downwards. It looked alarming, as though he was going to cut his hand, because the tobacco was clearly tough and needed a lot of pressure. But from long practice he knew just when to ease the pressure, and he never cut himself. He worked by feel, not by sight. He slowly unravelled strands of the villainous-looking stuff with which he filled the bowl of his pipe. Next, he took a wooden spill, about eight inches long, from a pot at his side and stuck it into the fire. It burned up brightly, the flame leaping high into the air. He brought it towards him, sucking hard on the pipe, and the flame dipped downwards into the tobacco. He sucked and puffed contentedly, and smoke filled the air. Then he blew the flame out, and returned the half-burned spill to the pot, in much the same way that my grandfather used to do.
“Sheer luxury,” he said, smiling contentedly. “I was telling you about our first years in Poplar, after my father died; how my poor mother had to work day and night; and how I couldn’t find work, except odd jobs, to help her. Well, there was one job I got that was good fun for a lad who’s looking for adventure.
“I was down the Blackwall Steps, waiting for the tide to go out, so that I could go scavenging. A man came along and said to me: ‘Here, boy, can you cook a stew?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ I said (I would have said ‘yes’ to anything).
“‘ Can you skin a rabbit?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Bone a fish?’
“‘Yessir.’
“‘Make tea and cocoa?’
“‘Yessir.
“‘Clean a wick and fill a lamp?’
“‘Yessir.’
“‘You’re the boy I want. My cabin boy’s done a bunk. Can you sail today?’
“‘Anywhere, sir.’
“‘Be here at high tide. The British Lion’s the barge you want. A florin a week all found.’
“It was all so quick I hadn’t time to draw breath. I raced back to Alberta Buildings, round to the washhouse where my mother was toiling away, and told her I had been hired as cabin boy on a Thames barge. My mother didn’t look as thrilled as I had expected. In fact, she was dead against it. We had words, and I shouted at her: ‘Look, I’m off, whatever you say, and I’ll come back a rich man. You’ll see.’
“So I ran back to the Steps, no extra clothes, nothing like that. Sure enough, at high tide, the British Lion came along, and I jumped aboard. It was the most wonderful time I had in my life, and I reckon every boy’s dream. I was on the river for six months. The barge carried flints, coal, wood, bricks, sand, slates – anything. We would take a load of coal down to Kent, and pick up a cargo of bricks to bring back to Limehouse. In those days hundreds of trading vessels plied the river, huge ocean-going cargo boats down to one-man skiffs. You could always tell a barge by the red sail, and often the sail and the cabin were all that could be seen. The barges were so low that, with a full load, the whole deck would be under water. It’s true.”
He heard my incredulous gasp and roared with laughter, and sucked his pipe.
“People would stare from the banks, because honestly, all they could see was a red sail, and men paddling about knee-deep in water, with apparently nothing beneath them.
“I was as happy as a boy could be,” he continued with another laugh. “I made the stews, trimmed the lamps, learned boat-handling, and didn’t mind I wasn’t paid. The skipper always said he would pay me after the next trip. After a bit, the mate whispered to me, ‘That bloody monkey’s not goin’ ’a pay you. He never does. All the cabin boys do a bunk in the end.’
“That was a shock to me, that was. I had been counting up the florins in my mind, and had reckoned on one pound after working ten weeks, and two pounds after twenty weeks. I thought I was rich – except that I hadn’t got the money. So I asked the skipper and he said, ‘After the next trip, lad. When I’m in funds.’
“Well, the next trip came and went, and no money. Three or four more trips – no money. I got cross and resentful and told him if he didn’t pay me, I’d do a bunk. He just smiled pleasantly, and said, ‘After the next trip, Joe, the next trip, trust me.’
“Well, of course, I knew he wouldn’t pay me, and the next time we reached Limehouse, I left the barge and didn’t go back.”
He paused, and sucked on his pipe, but it had gone out, so he scratched around in the bowl with a sharp implement that he pulled from his penknife, and lit another spill from the fire. The flame leaped upwards again, narrowly missing his eyebrows. I thought with alarm that he might one day set himself, and the whole building, on fire. His eyesight was not good, and his hands shook. I wondered how many old men in a similar state of infirmity were playing with fire in Alberta Buildings.