Continued from pg8.

She opened her talk on an odd note by telling us that she knew we didn’t like her because the branch had voted to retain Ernie Roberts – a veteran trade unionist and the sitting MP – as our  candidate at the next election. Diane had displaced him, with rumours – never substantiated - of an organised coup. She listed her priorities, which were of the standard left-wing variety. Far from being hostile, the nice middle-class members recognised someone who shared their values, especially, it has to be said, on education. They understood that Stoke Newington was her natural habitat. There was also the feelgood factor of knowing that they would be represented by the 1st black woman MP. She had achieved a major breakthrough, both for Hackney and British politics, and was elected to Parliament the following year.

These days, local Labour Party activists express mixed feelings. They say that Diane is extremely good on issues such as support for single parents and she has appointed a specialist caseworker to deal with immigration and asylum problems. She attends the monthly meetings of the management committee of the local party, writes a regular newsletter to members and holds surgeries every fortnight for her constituents. And, of course, she represents the majority view in opposing the government on Iraq, university grants and foundation hospitals. But (and it is a big but), they feel very let down over the education issue. Nonetheless, very few say openly that they would like to see her replaced as their MP.

What next for Diane? Young James, who seems a quiet, intelligent lad, has settled into his new school but as he grapples with compulsory Latin he might dream occasionally of being back with the living languages of Hackney. His mother has now been an MP for 17 years and the prospect of a further long period on the backbenches cannot be appealing. Will she leave politics to tread the Portillo path towards a career in television? If she does, she will have to deal with people desperately seeking attention rather than asylum. Perhaps she will rise to her feet in the House of Commons and surveying the strange creatures slithering and crawling around her, declare: ‘I’m A Celebrity – Get Me Out Of Here!’ In the meantime, she remains our MP and will continue to attract controversy and strong views. Just like the area she represents.

Having known Les on and off for years, it was no surprise for me to find him in the Rochester Castle one lunchtime.

We got to talking, mainly about his insistence that I should invest in Canadian oil shares, a market about which he seemed surprisingly well informed and I was and am completely ignorant. Suddenly his mood darkened, and this diminutive figure told me about a strapping young barman in a Stoke Newington pub who had annoyed him. He grabbed my jacket lapel and, following a furtive look around the pub, confided ‘But what he doesn’t know, kid, is that I’m a killing machine’. ‘Well, anyone who sees you would know that, Les’, said I. ‘And I know at least twelve ways to finish him off’, continued Les. ‘Well then, I’d better warn him, Les’. At this, he brightened up and we continued our chat about global finance.

As I left the bar, Les was sitting in the corner, surreptitiously (as he thought) pouring his quarter-bottle of whisky into his half pint, his hat sliding over his eyes on the perfectly reasonable assumption that, if he couldn’t see what he was doing, neither could the barman.

Stoke Newington is not rich enough in characters that it can afford to ignore Les Fenwick’s passing. Born in Gateshead seventy-eight years ago, his body was discovered in his council flat in Yoakley Road in December last year, having apparently suffered a heart attack ten days previously. It was only a growing concern at his non-appearance at the Rochester Castle – and a consequent visit to the flat by friend and pub regular Caroline Parker, who spotted the overflowing letter box – which prompted the police to break in and discover his body.

Les had enjoyed a colourful life. Starting his working life as a joiner in the North East, his
love of music and his talent as a gifted pianist led him to London where he became a sought-after fixture in Tin Pan Alley in the 1950s and 1960s, playing such prestigious venues as Ronnie Scott’s and the original Marquee club. This dapper little Geordie, never without a carnation in his buttonhole, could play any style of music from jazz through honky tonk to the classics and, although he could read music, he normally played by ear. After the West End, he gravitated to Stoke Newington where he became a familiar figure behind the piano at the old Coach and Horses, Rose & Crown and Prince of Wales. In recent years Les became increasingly frail but he was always up for it (as anyone who saw him zero in on the nearest attractive woman at the Auld Shillelagh Frank Sinatra nights and boogie away to his favourite singer would testify).

To the casual observer, Les could appear a curmudgeonly figure, but a friendly ‘Hello, Les’ would usually elicit a sly grin and a thumbs-up. Suddenly Les was twenty-five years old again, a debonair young Geordie tinkling the ivories in a Soho club, his easy charm and deft musical dexterity enthralling the clientele. To the great credit of Mike at the Rochester Castle, the pub organised a whip-round and the pub’s regulars responded with equal generosity, raising several hundred pounds to help commemorate his life.
Hackney Council paid for his funeral and the service was held in January at the London Crematorium with around thirty of the regulars attending. A few days later a tree was planted in his name in Abney Park Cemetery and donations were made, from what was left of the money, to Abney Park Trust and St Joseph’s Hospice. His wake was held in the Rochester Castle and the bar staff gave up their free time to ensure that everyone was looked after, fed and watered (particularly watered). No-one could trace any family but who needs family with friends like these?

It was a fitting farewell to a popular local character.

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