then. The two-room flat was only temporary; soon they would have a house of their own and children.
But their dreams were not to be. Doris’s first child was still-born. Arnold was called up in the First War, went to France, and returned a different man, haunted by images of the trenches, his teeth rotting and his hair falling out. But they still counted their blessings. Arnold had survived, when so many of his friends had been killed. They had one another and, even if their home was grim, things would get better. A few years later, once Arnold was settled as a fitter in a factory, finally putting the war behind him, Doris became pregnant again. But when their little boy died, at just a few weeks old, they were both so crushed by grief that they gave up struggling to improve themselves.
A glimpse into their home as the New Year bells rang out for 1928 would have shown a forlorn couple, who had nothing more from twenty years of marriage and hard work than a few pieces of shabby furniture. The bone china tea-set Dr Freeman had given them as a wedding present was put away, wrapped in newspaper because they knew now they’d never have use for it. The linen sheets were threadbare. Their wedding photograph on the sideboard was fading, just like their dreams.
They were old beyond their years. Doris’s once clear complexion was muddy, her blue eyes weary, her body like a sagging bolster. Arnold was stooped, almost bald, racked by coughing fits he’d suffered from since the war, made worse by the damp flat. That year they hadn’t even bothered to put up Christmas decorations, or to go out and join in the New Year celebrations. They’d long since accepted that there was nothing to look forward to: Doris too old at forty even to hope for a child, both sets of parents dead, brothers and sisters scattered. Life was just one long, dreary road which appeared to lead nowhere.
It was just a few days into the new year when they received a letter telling them that the tenement was to be pulled down as part of slum clearance and offering them a council house in Dagenham. After a lifetime of disappointments their delight was tempered with a suspicion that there might be a catch in the offer, but they agreed to see the house anyway.
In later years Doris was to count February 1st, 1928, the day they saw 88 Flamstead Road for the first time, as important an anniversary as her wedding day and every bit as joyful. It was bitterly cold and thick snow had fallen overnight but that made it all the more beautiful and memorable.
It was enough to be given a new start in a three-bedroomed house with back and front gardens, electric light and an inside lavatory. But Flamstead Road overlooked a school surrounded by playing fields. As they looked out of the bedroom window, rosy-cheeked children were playing in the snow, and the air was fresh and clean. All the sadness and disillusionment of the past just faded away.
Their happiness mounted in the next few months. First Arnold got taken on at Ford’s Motor Company with better wages than he’d previously earned, and then, unbelievably, Doris found she was pregnant.
That summer and autumn were blissful. Back in the tenement they had shared a lavatory with six other families, and cooked on an open fire. If they dared to hang washing outside on the communal lines, there was a good chance of it being stolen. Rats, mice, bugs in the walls, were all part of life in Bethnal Green, as were drunken fights, noisy neighbours and the stink of drains and uncleared rubbish.
Now they had a gas cooker and a copper to wash their clothes and heat water for the bath. When they opened the windows they weren’t subjected to noise and gritty dust, just fresh, clean air. To sit on their own clean lavatory for as long as they liked, knowing no one would bang on the door and ask them to hurry up, or to wallow in a real bath, then just pull out the plug without the burden or mess of emptying it, was heaven.
Arnold’s
But their dreams were not to be. Doris’s first child was still-born. Arnold was called up in the First War, went to France, and returned a different man, haunted by images of the trenches, his teeth rotting and his hair falling out. But they still counted their blessings. Arnold had survived, when so many of his friends had been killed. They had one another and, even if their home was grim, things would get better. A few years later, once Arnold was settled as a fitter in a factory, finally putting the war behind him, Doris became pregnant again. But when their little boy died, at just a few weeks old, they were both so crushed by grief that they gave up struggling to improve themselves.
A glimpse into their home as the New Year bells rang out for 1928 would have shown a forlorn couple, who had nothing more from twenty years of marriage and hard work than a few pieces of shabby furniture. The bone china tea-set Dr Freeman had given them as a wedding present was put away, wrapped in newspaper because they knew now they’d never have use for it. The linen sheets were threadbare. Their wedding photograph on the sideboard was fading, just like their dreams.
They were old beyond their years. Doris’s once clear complexion was muddy, her blue eyes weary, her body like a sagging bolster. Arnold was stooped, almost bald, racked by coughing fits he’d suffered from since the war, made worse by the damp flat. That year they hadn’t even bothered to put up Christmas decorations, or to go out and join in the New Year celebrations. They’d long since accepted that there was nothing to look forward to: Doris too old at forty even to hope for a child, both sets of parents dead, brothers and sisters scattered. Life was just one long, dreary road which appeared to lead nowhere.
It was just a few days into the new year when they received a letter telling them that the tenement was to be pulled down as part of slum clearance and offering them a council house in Dagenham. After a lifetime of disappointments their delight was tempered with a suspicion that there might be a catch in the offer, but they agreed to see the house anyway.
In later years Doris was to count February 1st, 1928, the day they saw 88 Flamstead Road for the first time, as important an anniversary as her wedding day and every bit as joyful. It was bitterly cold and thick snow had fallen overnight but that made it all the more beautiful and memorable.
It was enough to be given a new start in a three-bedroomed house with back and front gardens, electric light and an inside lavatory. But Flamstead Road overlooked a school surrounded by playing fields. As they looked out of the bedroom window, rosy-cheeked children were playing in the snow, and the air was fresh and clean. All the sadness and disillusionment of the past just faded away.
Their happiness mounted in the next few months. First Arnold got taken on at Ford’s Motor Company with better wages than he’d previously earned, and then, unbelievably, Doris found she was pregnant.
That summer and autumn were blissful. Back in the tenement they had shared a lavatory with six other families, and cooked on an open fire. If they dared to hang washing outside on the communal lines, there was a good chance of it being stolen. Rats, mice, bugs in the walls, were all part of life in Bethnal Green, as were drunken fights, noisy neighbours and the stink of drains and uncleared rubbish.
Now they had a gas cooker and a copper to wash their clothes and heat water for the bath. When they opened the windows they weren’t subjected to noise and gritty dust, just fresh, clean air. To sit on their own clean lavatory for as long as they liked, knowing no one would bang on the door and ask them to hurry up, or to wallow in a real bath, then just pull out the plug without the burden or mess of emptying it, was heaven.
Arnold’s
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