Saving Fisher’s Row

This engaging short story by Katie Ashmore is set before the Festival of Britain in 1951.

ELSIE stared at the notice, struggling to take it in. Perhaps she hadn’t read it right. “This must be wrong, Wilf, mustn’t it?” she asked her husband. “They can’t do this. It’s our home.”

Wilf didn’t answer. He looked more drained than usual and his hand shook as he lit a cigarette.

“I know there’s lots of bomb damage, but Fisher’s Row is untouched.

“Why pull down perfectly good houses when there’s so much rebuilding what needs doing?”

Wilf still didn’t answer and Elsie shook her head.

Wilf had not been the same since he got back from the war, but the latest news seemed to have altered him altogether.

He’d lived here all his life. It might not be much – a terraced two-up two-down, with a small yard for the privy and the coal house – but it was home.

“Says it’s on account of that festival they’re planning,” she continued, hoping to rouse him to reply.

“You know, that Festival of Britain. They’re gonna ’ave the main shows here on the South Bank.”

Wilf had been angry when he’d first heard about the festival, even before this.

“Twelve million pounds,” he’d said, banging his fist on the table. “For a blasted festival for toffs, when there’s folks struggling.”

“What will we do, Wilf?” Elsie asked.

He stubbed out his cigarette, took his coat from the door and pulled his cap on.

“I’m going out,” he muttered.

Elsie sank on to a chair and stared into the fire.

She supposed they’d give them another place to live, but how far away? Would they still be able to see the river? Would they know anyone?

She swallowed, then rose to her feet.

Moping didn’t do any good. She had tea to make.

Elsie was scrubbing a shirt on the rack when she heard the click of the front door.

Wilf was at work and

Terry at school. If it was one of the neighbours they’d have called out.

Quickly, she dried her hands on her apron, picked up the rolling pin and tiptoed out of the room.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw her son at the foot of the stairs.

“Terry, what ya doin’ here, love? Why ain’t you at school?”

He flushed red, leaning back against the wall.

“I just come back for somethin’, didn’t I?” he said. “A pencil. Yeah, me lucky pencil.”

Elsie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me, young man. What’s goin’ on? What ’ave you got there?”

She grabbed his arm, pulling his hand from behind him.

Her eyes widened when she saw a 10 shilling note clutched in his fist.

“Where d’you get that?” she asked sharply. “What ’ave you been up to?”

“It’s mine.”

Elsie shook her head.

“I’ll take it,” she said firmly, wrestling it from him and grabbing him by the ear.

“You get straight back to school now. You ain’t heard the last of this.”

But she was talking to thin air. She’d loosened her grip and Terry had made a run for it, dashing straight out the door.

Elsie watched him as he tore up the street. He was a tall boy for ten and his short trousers were already on the small side.

His dark hair was ruffled and he’d had a smudge on his cheek.

It wasn’t the way she’d sent him off this morning, all neat and tidy.

Her brow darkened and she stared at the note. Where had he got it from?

She’d talk to Wilf tonight, then go to see Mr Richards at the school, but now she had work to do.

Ten minutes later, she heaved the wet washing out into the yard, where her neighbour, Nellie, was already hard at work, turning the handle of the large mangle they shared. “Morning, Nellie.”

“You’re late this morning, Elsie. Did I see your Terry?”

Elsie sighed as she took her turn pushing a skirt between the rollers and

Elsie wasn’t going to stand by and let her house be pulled down for no good reason!

cranking the handle.

“Yes. I don’t know what’s got into him. I sent him straight back to school.”

“Boys will be boys. He’ll turn out all right.”

Elsie nodded, her mouth full of pegs, as she began to pin things on to the washing line.

“My goodness. You’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders today!” Nellie exclaimed, seeing her expression.

Elsie tried to be positive. “I’m all right.” She shrugged. “It’s just that Wilf ain’t coping with the news.”

Nellie nodded, her own face grim.

“I’m not sure any of us are,” she declared. “Tearing down our homes for some exhibition.

“They’re welcome to get rid of the damage, but ain’t nothin’ wrong with Fisher’s Row.” She shook her head.

“Poor Dora were saying her mother’s refusing to leave.

“She were born here and she’ll die here, even if the building collapses on her!”

Elsie could believe it.

Mrs Baker was a tough character.

Why should a woman in her seventies have to relocate anyway?

The more she thought about it, the more angry she became.

Elsie set her mouth firmly. It wasn’t right. She wasn’t going to take this lying down.

A small group clustered round Elsie’s table.

There was Nellie, a scarf tied tightly around her rollers; Dora was sitting by the window in a blue dress, her brow furrowed. Phyllis from next door was also squeezed into the kitchen.

Elsie took the knitted cosy off the teapot and poured everyone a cuppa.

She looked at them all in a determined manner.

“We ’ave to do something to protect our street,” she told them. “We can’t sit back and take this. We’ve family depending on us.”

“Hear, hear!” Dora agreed. “They shouldn’t be able to demolish homes. It’ll kill my mum.”

Nellie nodded, but Phyllis looked doubtful.

“What can we do?” she asked. “It’s the government. They won’t listen to the likes of us.”

Elsie stuck out her chin. “Well, we ’ave to try,” she stated.

There was a rumble of agreement.

“We could write a letter,” Dora suggested.

“Who would we send it to?” Phyllis asked.

“That Mr Morrison and our MP.”

“Good idea.” Elsie smiled round at her friends.

This was a good start. They could list the reasons to leave their street alone.

Their husbands might have some ideas they could include, too.

“Slice of fruitcake?” she asked, offering a plate.

“Oh, don’t mind if I do.” Phyllis smiled as she bit into the sweet treat.

“How about a petition?” she went on, licking crumbs from her fingers.

“Yes, we’ll get everyone to sign it. Some business owners might support us.”

“How about a protest with placards? Maybe we could get on the news. They won’t want no trouble.”

This was Dora’s suggestion. The others were lukewarm, but Elsie filed it away in her mind.

“Who’s got the best writing?” she asked. “We need to decide who’ll write the letter, then make a list of what we want in it.”

“Not me.” Phyllis shook her head. “I’ve never been good with writing.”

Nellie offered to make the list and they spent some time thinking of as many arguments as they could.

Elsie had found out that they were right on the edge of the 27-acre area to be cleared.

That would work in their favour, and then there was the lack of bomb damage.

“What’s this exhibition about, anyway?” Dora asked after a while.

“Some arty stuff,” Nellie said. “Art, films, things Britain’s invented. As if that matters compared with people’s homes.”

“Ain’t it about rebuilding, too? Modern towns and stuff?” Dora asked.

“Yes.” Elsie’s eyes lit up. “Maybe our street could be an example of traditional homes that people can compare with new designs.

“If we can be part of the whole thing, that’ll swing it for us.”

Dora and Nellie nodded. After a little more discussion, Elsie said she would get the petition started right away.

They all got up to go, thanking Elsie for her hospitality.

With rationing restrictions, they were grateful for the cake she’d shared with them, but they couldn’t stay any longer.

Running a house was a full-time job and most of them had paid employment.

Elsie needed to finish beating the rugs and dusting before she spent a busy afternoon serving in the shop on the main road.

Then she’d prepare bread and dripping for tea and heat water to fill the bath.

She sighed. It had been time well spent – she just hoped it would work.

Elsie’s hand shook as she reread the letter. Had she understood it correctly?

They’d gathered as many arguments together as they could, and Leslie, Dora’s husband, had got their letter typed for them.

They’d sent it with copies of the petition several weeks earlier and had amassed lots of signatures.

Other streets had signed, hoping they might be saved, too, but had it been enough?

“What does it say?” Wilf watched her expectantly, his face strained.

Even Terry sat quietly waiting for her answer.

She swallowed.

“They’re going ahead with their plans for the South Bank. Most folk will have to move out, but they’re gonna leave Fisher’s Row, King Street and Bolt Lane.

“They want to preserve some of the old houses – as a contrast or somethin’.”

“Here, let me see.” Wilf grabbed the letter. A smile spread across his face.

It was the happiest he’d looked in months.

“Well done,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Why don’t you look cheerful?”

Elsie shrugged. She couldn’t help thinking of the folk whose homes would still be reduced to rubble.

“Look,” Wilf began, putting his arm round her. “The government weren’t

“You’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders today!”

gonna change their plans. The festival’s goin’ ahead, but this here’s a miracle.” He tapped the letter. “You saved three streets, Elsie. I’m proud of you.”

Terry, who looked relieved, snorted nonetheless and muttered under his breath.

Wilf straightened up and glared at his son.

“Don’t speak to your mother like that. Apologise right now.”

Terry looked up uncertainly, but read something in his father’s eyes.

“Sorry, Mum,” he said, glancing from one to the other.

“And another thing,”

Elsie felt a smile spread across her face at her husband’s words. This was a glimpse of the old Wilf.

“I’ve returned that ten shilling note you saw Mr Bryant drop. If you ever take anything that doesn’t belong to you again, you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Elsie looked at her husband in amazement, joy leaping in her heart.

Even Terry smothered a grin. Instead of being dismayed, he seemed to stand taller.

“Yes, Dad,” he said. “Good lad.”

Elsie dabbed at her eyes. Looking around at her husband and son and their little house, she felt better than she had for months.

The End.