The Old Fire Station, Bethnal Green. PART TWO

The Old Fire Station, Bethnal Green

(Vieux-Boucau, Côte d’Argent, France, August 2002)

Continued ...

V

Whitechapel aired my infant breath,
Where Ripper’s knife once dealt in death;
But Shoreditch makes me think of Will,
Of curtain raised and ink and quill.
Those streets where once roamed gin-soaked whores
Is now the haunt of yuppy bores,
Who think to make their mark upon
Old Hoxton Square and Haggerston.
To Shadwell, it’s not wise to go,
And Limehouse too – complete no, no!
Obnoxious was the Isle of Dogs,
With dismal docks and river fogs,
And Ratcliffe Highway was a place
To hide your money and your face.
Of Homerton I wasn’t fond,
I’d rather drown in Clapton Pond;
And Hackney was, I thought in truth,
A skin complaint afflicting youth.
I never cared for Mile End,
Nor ever had a true girlfriend
From Poplar, unsurprisingly,
As folk there practise bigamy!
In Wapping, females curse and swear
And seldom change their underwear,
While Bow girls are allegedly
No better than they ought to be.
So what if Stepney’s up-and-coming,
Those sullen Sloanes are only slumming;
And Stratford women just appal,
They’re Essex Girls, which says it all.
But Bethnal Green! Ah, Bethnal Green!
Where maids are fair and bright and keen,
Since pretty Bessie graced the earth,
A blinded beggar’s proof of worth.

VI

Around the city raised by Rome,
The middle Saxons made their home;
And spreading east from Ermine Street,
Built simple homesteads, poor but neat,
Scattered thinly, down to Old Ford
Where River Lea ran slow and broad.
Thus Blida’s Corner came to be.
My gift to her? This eulogy.

Here Tudor rich, their leisure took;
Here Pepys from fire saved his book;
Here under Queen Victoria’s hand,
Grew foulest slums in all the land;
And hidden from imperial pride
Poor Dicky Perrot lived and died.
Those generations now have passed;
The people triumphed, at the last.
For children who were plagued by nits,
Who saw their homes wrecked in the Blitz,
Grew up, and learned a whole new art,
Of raising kids, street-wise and smart.

But history’s a fickle friend,
Both light and dark are in the blend.
Eight score and thirteen are forgot,
Whilst some (who earned that fate) are not;
Those twins of unremitting shame,
Rewarded with unfitting fame.
Do people shape their living space?
Or are they fashioned by the place?

I know it is a fading scene,
What I recall of Bethnal Green:
Enacted in a dreamy setting,
Unregrettable, unregretting
Childhood, that guileless state
That rosy hindsight must create.

VII

Say! Is ‘fainites’ the word in use
When children call out for a truce?
And are the sounds of running feet,
Sure sign to those along the street,
That if they answer their front door,
Knock-down-ginger’s gone before?
Do girls still play with skipping-ropes,
While chanting out their fears and hopes?
And do the boys still have a lark
Round Weaver’s Fields and Barmy Park?

Do streets and playgrounds daily thrill
To ancient games, remembered still?
Or is hopscotch a thing unknown
To children texting on their phone;
And Tin-can Tommy lost to those
Who wear high-priced, designer clothes?
Are marbles tossed and conkers strung
Until the old school-bell is rung?
Or are the kids now like caged birds,
And fast becoming PC nerds?

On Saturdays, do children go
To watch the morning picture show?
Does that Weissmuller yell and swing?
Is Flash frustrating evil Ming?
And in amongst the hurly-burly,
Are Moe and Larry slapping Curly?
Is Vicky Park, in summer sun,
Where teenage mind games are begun?
Where Lido boys show-off and boast
To giggling girls who promise most,
Hoping they’ll accept the dare
To meet up later at the Fair?
Here’s something else that was habitual
To urban poor – a weekend ritual.
For after supper’s sibling wars,
The tin bath would be dragged indoors;
The kids, in turn, would have a scrub,
Then parents would go down the pub.
Still stands the Rising Sun Saloon?
Where boozers booze and crooners croon?

VIII

And now the thoughts are flowing free,
Lost senses tempt and torture me.
Young’s Bakery – my fingers clench
The pennies for Mum’s crusty french;
Evans, Meredith of that ilk,
Sells wagon wheels and chocolate milk;
Next door is Painter’s olde sweet shop,
With sherbet dabs and ginger pop;
And Peter’s café! Such ice-cream!
The icing on a home-made dream.
Do tell me! Is Pellici’s there,
Doing bacon rolls and breakfast fare?
Or Fredo’s Salt-beef Bar still serving
Cabbies (and other trades unnerving)?
And Kelly’s? Does it yet survive,
For pie and mash and eels alive?

It’s not that, to the past I’m wedded,
But I preferred front steps red-leaded;
And Gamages Department Store;
And milk delivered to the door.
So, if it isn’t too extreme,
I’d like the trains to run on steam.
Hey, wouldn’t it be really great
If records still cost six and eight;
If Billy Fury broke girl’s hearts;
If Beatles’ songs still ruled the charts!
Then Sooty could just wave his wand,
Sean Connery would be James Bond,
And Jimmy Greaves would once again
Be poaching goals at White Hart Lane.

IX

Sometimes, in my imagination
I see the grand old Fire Station,
And wonder if it still is home
To Goddesses, of red and chrome.
Do diesel roar and ringing bells
Possess the charms to conjure spells?
Or has that magic passed away
Considered to have had its day?
Shall precious works of yesteryear
Be all condemned to disappear?
And qualities I understand
Erased like castles in the sand?
Now doors are barred – all life, sub rosa;
Forgotten is old Dan Mendoza.
Yet, maybe, under York Hall’s eaves,
His ghostly form still jabs and weaves.

X

My memory glows dim, at last;
There’s just one voice left from the past,
Beseeching me, “When comes the day,
Be true! And vote for Solly Kaye.”

Damn! Where have all these visions fled?
Or were they whimsies in my head?