My English grandparents were poor by comparison with the Scottish side of the family, who were largely business people and comfortably off.

Nan and Grandad lived along with their youngest son, my Uncle Stanley, in his late twenties but unmarried, in a tiny two-up, two-down terraced house in Blenheim Rd, East Ham. When Mum and I came "home" we took over Nan's bedroom in the front of the house. Nan, Grandad and Stan slept in single beds crammed together in the back bedroom. There was no bathroom in the house and the only lavatory was a dark and dingy affair outside in the backyard so the three adults kept a large white enamel bucket just inside the bedroom door for "emergencies". I only ever saw this bucket full to the brim with bright orange pee! How my Nan ever managed to get the bucket down the steep narrow stairs to empty it remains a mystery. You can bet your life the men in the house never lifted a finger to help. It was the accepted norm that when working men came home they sat by the fireplace and were waited on "hand and foot" by the womenfolk.

Nan spent most of her time in the scullery at the back of the house, cooking, washing, ironing, sewing, polishing etc. Grandad and Stan sat either side of the fireplace, in the only two small wooden armchairs, reading the newspaper or dozing. The only time they spoke was to demand another cup of tea, or grumble about something. In the fireplace was a large black range which burned coal. Grandad would occasionally open the door in the front and stir the fire with a big iron poker which hung on a stand on the hearth inside the polished brass fire surround or fender. Sometimes he would call out to Nan, "Fire needs bankin' up!"
Nan, who was probably up to her elbows in a tub of soapy washing water in the scullery, would dry her hands on the apron she never ever took off, and come through to collect the small shovel which hung next to the poker.

The coal was kept in the cupboard under the stairs in the hallway oposite the front door. Black dust would billow out as Nan scooped a heap of coal onto the shovel. After she'd chucked it onto the fire and poked it about a bit she would go back to her chores. Hardly a word passed between any of them.

Once in a while Grandad would sniff hard up his nose like a pig snorting, make a loud hawking noise, and collect a great gob of phlegm in his mouth. Then lifting the round lid off the top of the range with the special cast-iron handle, he would spit it violently into the flames. I loved the sizzling noise it made as it instantly vapourised!
I seem to remember thinking,"When I grow up I'm going to be a great spitter just like Grandad!"