Page 40 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Um… not all local history,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘Although I’m sure it’s all completely fascinating, of course. But I’m interested in the houses around where I live – Damask Square. Where the garment district used to be. The big, old houses. Especially the one I live in. And Neil said you might be able to help.’

‘The family’s lived here in the East End for ages.’ Neil came back into the room carrying a tray holding a teapot, three cups and a plate of biscuits. ‘I see Mrs Singh down the corridor’s still baking for you, Gramps.’

‘She thinks I’ll starve if she doesn’t,’ the old man joked. ‘I think I’ll lose what I have left of my teeth if she does.’

Before the conversation could segue into chit-chat about the neighbours, Beatrice asked, ‘So your family’s lived here a long time?’

‘We came here as refugees,’ Mr Isaacs said.

Beatrice felt a chill of horror. ‘From Nazi Germany?’

‘Oh no.’ The old man sighed. ‘They weren’t the first to persecute the Jewish people, and they won’t be the last. My grandparents fled from Warsaw during the pogrom in 1881. They hoped they would be able to go on to America but they ran out of money. So they reached the East End and there they stayed.’

‘And they worked here, in Spitalfields?’ Beatrice asked.

‘Worked and lived, four or five families to a house, all employed in the garment trade.’

‘You’d call it a sweatshop, now, wouldn’t you, Gramps?’ Neil interjected.

‘You probably would. In the beginning, they were just glad to have a roof over their heads and food on the table. The industrial unrest came later – the tailors’ strike of 1889… but you’re not here for a lecture on labour relations, are you?’

‘It’s fascinating,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’d love to know more. I had no idea – I mean, I knew garment workers lived in the area, but I thought they were mostly Irish.’

Mr Isaacs laughed. ‘The Irish were long gone by the time we arrived. Most of them, at any rate. That’s how it is – people flee one problem, they find another. Sometimes they stay, sometimes they move on. And when they move on, others come. Like waves on the seashore. After the Jews, the Bangladeshis came. Then the Windrush people, then others from Eastern Europe after the Cold War. That’s how it goes.’

Beatrice felt a swell of frustration. Interesting as the old man’s stories would no doubt be for her to listen to, they weren’t leading her anywhere. She was reminded of the men in the Clonmara pub, with their meandering chatter, hoping she’d stay and drink with them so they could flirt gently with her and prove to themselves they’d still got it.

But they’d told her about the big house the Doyle couple had bought. They’d been quite definite about that.

‘So there were no Irish people left when your family came?’ she pressed.

‘Barely any – or not so’s you’d notice. Big Irish community up in Kilburn, if that’s what you’re interested in. But they came over to work on construction sites, not at sewing machines.’

The old man sipped his tea and crunched a biscuit, his palm beneath his chin to catch the crumbs.

Then his eyes seemed to clear as he remembered, and he laughed. ‘There was one couple, though. One crazy Irish couple.’

‘What happened?’ Beatrice asked.

‘It’s not funny. Not really. But we laughed about it at the time. Young pair from Dublin, they were. His great-grandparents had worked in the area back in the day when there were Irish here, silk weavers. Then they went back home and made their fortune over there.’

‘But this couple came back?’ Neil prompted.

‘They came back. Newlyweds, they were, wanting to buy a piece of their family history. More money than sense. And they bought the house where my family worked – lock, stock and barrel. Turfed us all out. But they never lived there.’

‘Why not?’ Beatrice leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, an untouched biscuit in her hand.

‘Because the war came, see. You wouldn’t want to stay in London with bombs falling round your ears when you could scarper back across the Irish Sea, would you?’

‘But you stayed? You were here in London the whole time?’

‘I was. I never got drafted because of my legs. Polio, it was, when I was a child. But I could still make boots, and I made them, from morning until night, first in that house and then in a factory nearby, once the Irish couple took it off the owner.’

‘So after they bought it, what happened? They just left it?’ Beatrice’s heart quickened.

The old man cackled. ‘I shouldn’t laugh at others’ misfortune. But it was a long time ago. The young man came over a couple of years later, to check on his investment. Never mind there was still a war on – like I told you, more money than sense. The house was still standing – but a couple of days later, he wasn’t.’

‘He was killed?’ Beatrice asked.