by Victor Gregg
The Bear finished his cuppa and with a look at me said, ‘You tell your mates to keep away from the coal base, young man. Always think of yer mum and don’t cause me any more bovver.’ And with that little homily the Bear left. ‘Good job for you lot that Mr Thomas is such a good man,’ says my mum. ‘Not all policemen are as good as ’im.’
The greatest fun of all came from our forays up the other end into the West End. There us kids spent our time doing our best to annoy the toffs, that’s of course if they ignored our pleas of ‘Gisusasprazeemister’ (spare us a tanner, mister).
Another ploy was to stand outside one of the big hotels, where the doorman reigned in all his splendour: black coat and tails, shiny top hat, spotless white gloves and campaign medals polished until they dazzled the eyes. This individual imperiously summoned taxis for the departing guests and beckoned to his underlings to carry the luggage of the incoming clientele, while pocketing an endless flow of tips and largesse which all guests seemed obliged, by custom, to hand over. It was here that we started operations.
Taking care to stand well back so as to dodge the occasional swipe, we gathered by the railings outside the main door. ‘Wotcher get all those medals for, mister?’ ‘What you do in the war, mister?’ ‘’Ere, mister, is yer name Fatty Arbuckle?’ ‘Come on, mister, givusasprazee.’ Back would come the reply, ‘Bugger off, yer little turds, or I’ll get the rozzers.’ The mention of the rozzers was an outright declaration of war. To show what we thought of him and his posh hotel a couple of us undid our trousers and started weeing in the gutter. This act of outright defiance always worked and without fail the doorman, sensing that all was lost, gave in by slinging a couple of sixpenny pieces along the pavement. ‘I’ll get the lot of yer one of these fine days, yer little whippersnappers.’ On one occasion there were four of us out one afternoon; it must have been in the school holidays. One of us was a lad whose hair was a brilliant red. We used to call him ‘Bloodnut’. After trying without success to cadge some money from the doorkeeper at the Frascatti restaurant at the start of Oxford Street, we are now outside Waring & Gillow, probably the biggest and poshest furniture shop in the whole of London. It stood on the corner of Oxford Street and Upper Regent Street by Oxford Circus. The huge mahogany front doors swung between two highly polished marble pillars and were guarded by a doorkeeper whose job it was to open the doors of the taxis and private cars as they drew up, salute the customers with a flourish and open up the great front doors with a mighty swing of his arms and shoulders.
What attracted us to this individual was his uniform. Although, like others of his breed, he had a chestful of medals, all highly polished, his coat had no brass buttons; everything was either green or black, even the leather strap that went over his shoulders and was attached to the wide belt round his waist. He wasn’t the usual bulky type that we were used to taking the mickey out of. The four of us stood along the kerbside eyeing this bloke up, each of us thinking how best to get him to hand over the dibs.
‘Now you lads, ’oppit.’ ‘Oi, guv’nor, why ain’t yer got a red coat like all the others?’ ‘Was yer in the Salvation Army?’ ‘Oi, mister, was you in the war?’ This barrage of questions was fired out at the top of our voices. We were trying it on, but this man didn’t react like all the others; he just ignored us as if we weren’t there. It began to cross our minds that we were on a loser. Then a big car drew up and Greenie opens the door. ‘Good afternoon, General,’ says the doorkeeper. ‘Afternoon, Johnson,’ says this man, who is now helping his wife out of the car. ‘I see you’ve got some admirers.’ ‘’Fraid so, General, they’re trying their arm, goes with the job sort of.’ The man who the doorman calls ‘General’ gives us a look. ‘Go back through the years, Johnson, do you recognise them?’ ‘’Fraid so, General.’
The general put his hand into his pocket and brought out a coin. He looked at his wife, she nodded, he pointed to our mate Bloodnut, and said, ‘Share this between yourselves and let this gentleman get on with his job.’ Then he passed over a shilling piece and the pair of them swept through the doors that ‘Johnson’ was holding open for them. ‘Why did he do that, mister?’ ‘Because ’e’s a good man. Now lose yerselves.’ And then he too disappeared inside the store.
Having some dosh in our pockets we decided to retrace our steps back to another cake shop we knew, Cossevelors by name, and get some stale cakes and a bottle of R White’s Lemonade. We were rich.
Another source of entertainment was bunking into the London Zoo in Regent’s Park. The entertainment came from the keepers who, being able to tell at a glance that we didn’t have two halfpennies for a penny, let alone the sixpence entry fee, chased us all around the Zoo.
Regent’s Park had quite a large lake. This lake was a rendezvous point for fishing expeditions. The mums manufactured nets out of old stockings, fixed them with a piece of wire to a bamboo cane, and, so armed, carrying sandwiches and some of us with a penny to spend, off we’d set to spend the day fishing for tiddlers. ‘And don’t come back here soaking wet.’
The day ended when it was impossible to cram another tiddler into the jam jars. Naturally, when we finally arrived back home to proudly display our catch, the poor fish were lifeless, as dead as doornails.
In the summer, a favourite source of enjoyment was the walk to the Tower of London. At low tide it was possible to swim in the river. This was an extremely dangerous pastime and being swept out by the tide was always on the cards. Sometimes the word went around that some boy had drowned. This untimely fate never befell anyone I knew, although I did once have to rescue my brother John from a watery grave when he slipped into the Thames while we were larking about on the steps of Cleopatra’s Needle. We both got a walloping on that occasion for coming home soaking wet.
There were three cinemas in the area: the Euston Cinema, which stood near the corner of Judd Street and the Euston Road, the Tolma, up the other end of the Euston Road in Tolma Square, and the Cobo, so named because it was situated in Copenhagen Street, a little way up the Caledonian Road (the Cally). All three of them were right down to earth flea pits or bug huts. When we could afford the price of entry, threepence (or twopence in the case of the Cobo), off we went to witness the exploits of the famed Tom Mix, Bronco Bill and other favourites.
There were times when not all of us could come up with the money for the tickets. Those who could pay went in and took up seats near the exits, even if it meant threatening the kids who were already sitting there. The attendant who always stood by the doors was told that one of our lot had fainted; the other kids, realising that a ‘bunk in’ was being set up, made it their business to keep the attendant busy while one of us opened the door and let our mates in. Then we sat on the wooden benches and cheered our heroes as they chased the Indians halfway across America, huge shouts and much stamping of feet as another redskin bit the dust. Although these were, of course, all silent films there was nothing silent about the audience: loud boos if the baddies seemed to be getting the upper hand, the boos soon turning to cheers as the villains got their come-uppance.
When Mother learnt about our session at the bug hut (always on Saturdays), she spread a large piece of newspaper on the table, out came the fine-tooth comb, and there our scalps were searched for signs of fleas and other vermin.
Then there was the Tonbridge Club, named after the sponsor, a large public school situated in Tonbridge, Kent, which must have raised quite a large amount of money to get the project going. A completely new building on the corner of Cromer Street and Judd Street had been erected to accommodate this philanthropic venture. The senior boys at the school had a roster in which they took it in turns to come up to London to supervise the activities: classes in dancing for the girls, cricket, football and boxing for the boys.
In vain they tried to teach us the rules of cricket and football. Their failure was complete when it came to what they termed ‘fair play’. The local youth had their own ideas as to what was fair and what wasn’t. Their sports master
sometimes put in an appearance. Boxing was his speciality, and we had a proper ring, complete with proper boxing gloves. This well-meaning individual attempted to teach us the rudiments of the Queensberry rules, but unfortunately for him the contestants came from streets where there was only one rule – give no quarter.
In the summer we went as far as the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens to watch the posh people sailing their model boats. What a sight my brother and I must have presented, a couple of scruffy kids in our short trousers (well patched) with our socks hanging round our ankles. If Mother had earned a good bonus she sometimes gave us sixpence each, enough to get a return ticket to Edgware on the Northern Line of the underground from King’s Cross. The ticket cost us fourpence each return. If by chance we lost our return tickets, which we often did, a pair of doleful eyes would get us past the ticket inspectors.
The most exciting part of the journey was when the train emerged from the tunnel and burst into open countryside. Once out of the station it was a short walk to a land of country lanes and open fields filled with sheep and cows.
On one trip we were approached by a man who asked us if we were lost and where we came from. ‘We come up on the train from King’s Cross.’ ‘Where’s that then?’ said the man. I didn’t know where King’s Cross was except that the train went there and that’s where we lived with our mum. John moved behind me, making sure that I was between him and the man who, dressed in his farmyard clothes, looked a fearsome character. It ended up with the man showing us all over his sheds where he kept his hens and pigs. The pigs really frightened brother John: ‘I don’t like the smell, let’s go home.’ For me things were just getting interesting, especially when the woman of the house appeared with a jug of lemonade and some slices of bread and jam and a couple of bits of fruit cake. It was the first time I had ever seen cake that appeared to have more fruit in it than cake. On the way back to the station John slipped into a muddy pond we had discovered in a field that we thought might be a shortcut. He was soaking wet all the way home. I think he got a whack from our gran. I made myself scarce.
Everything was an adventure; even looking into the shop windows of the West End transported us into another world, a world, funnily enough, against which we held no grudge. We were poor, they were rich, that was the way it was. Looking back I suppose that if I was asked ‘What’s being rich?’ my answer would have been: ‘Don’t know, mister.’
12
Picking Up Tips
Four o’clock and the bell has clanged its message that the day’s schooling has finished. As one, the entire class surges towards the door and freedom. Mr Jones, our arithmetic teacher, picks up his cane as if to attempt to impart some element of restraint but then sits down again, probably thinking to himself, ‘Well, that’s another day over.’ The little gang of four of which I am a member is discussing ways to fill in the time before going home. ‘’Oo’s got any money?’ Teddy Baldock, who is nearly ten and the acknowledged leader of our small group, asks the question. It turns out that we are all broke. Meanwhile, Tommy, the smallest and youngest of us, has attracted the attention of Mr Reid the gardener because he’s been throwing stones at Mr Reid’s pride and joy, the flowerbeds. Mr Reid charges towards us with his favourite weapon, the huge broom with the spiky bristles. We all do a bunk, sticking our tongues out at him: ‘Carn’t catch us, baldy.’ Now we’re out of the gardens and in the street, where there’s a copper standing on the corner. He looks to be too big for us to take the mickey out of, but Teddy gives him a bit of lip. ‘Wot yer looking at, fatty?’ and off we run again. We all desperately need to buy some sweets, Teddy wants some of the new chewing gum like the film stars use, I’d be content with a pennyworth of hundreds and thousands because they last longer. In the end it’s decided that a trip to the station might result in a turn for the better as regards our lack of cash. If we can get to carry someone’s luggage to a waiting taxi or bus we might get as much as sixpence, so off we troop, singing and cat-calling, off up the slope and into St Pancras Station.
Within five minutes we’ve been chased out by the railway police. Change of plan. We lie doggo outside the huge entrance arch and soon our patience is rewarded: a man and a woman leave the station and the man is struggling to carry a big case and a couple of little ones. The woman has a case as well but her load is a bit lighter. ‘Where yer want to get to, mister?’ I ask the man and respectfully touch my cap with the back of my hand, a trick I have copied from watching the doormen at the big hotels. I have noticed that when they salute the customers they always get a tip. ‘We have to get to Camden Town, son. Is there a bus?’ ‘No bus, mister, yer got to get a number seventeen tram. We’ll carry yer bags to the tram, ’taint far.’ So the man hands over the smallest of the bags and we set off to St Pancras Way, which is just round the corner except that we take him the long way round, hoping he might hand over something extra. We’re expecting a sixpence at the least. We dump him at the tram stop and wait until the seventeen comes into view. ‘There’s yer tram, mister’, and we hold out our grubby little hands, he gives us two sixpences and the woman bends down and gives Tommy a big kiss.
13
Tar Blocks and Cricket
We didn’t have playing fields or anything like that, but it was a simple matter to put a couple of articles of clothing in the middle of the road to act as goalposts, and, with a ball made out of rolled-up newspaper tied together with string, that would be it. There were no cars cluttering up the streets. Sometimes a game was arranged with the kids in an adjoining street. Naturally the only rule in the book was to get the ball between the opposing goalposts by any means possible. This could be done by kicking, punching, shoving and pushing. The one thing that was considered completely out of order was kicking somebody when they were on the ground. Always on the lookout for more exciting action than a mere game of footer, the shout of ‘Foul’ gave us the excuse to end the game and start a bundle. Generally the bundle would go on until one side got the worst of it and called it a day, or the police appeared, in which case both sides hurriedly called a truce followed by a smart disappearing act, or, in the terminology of the day, ‘we did a scarper’.
Footer was one thing, cricket on the other hand was far more dangerous, at least for the local residents. A wicket chalked up on a lamp post or perhaps on a suitable brick wall marked out the scene of action. A bat was usually made out of a piece of wood and the ball was probably one of the solid rubber balls that were popular at the time. Once the game started it went on until, sooner or later – generally sooner – the ball ended up going through somebody’s window. Cricket in the streets was discouraged by the adults who, after all, were our own parents.
Another job we did, mainly in the winter months, was to collect tar blocks. In those days most roads were either paved with wooden or granite blocks. The word going around that a certain road or street was about to be resurfaced was the only signal needed for us to gather with our sacks and wait our chance to raid the stacks of old blocks and bring home as many as possible. They were much cheaper than coal, but, after a week’s burning, the chimney became completely blocked by glutinous, foul-smelling tar, causing the rooms to fill up with smoke and fumes. The local chimney sweeps earned a bomb thanks to those blocks.
14
Hop-picking in Kent
Just after I went into the senior boys’ school Mother announced that we were going to have a holiday in the country. We were going ‘hop-picking’. Emmy was to stay with our gran as she was considered too young for the rigours of this method whereby the Kent hop farmers got their harvest picked on the cheap. The trip was organised by the local Baptist church. The farmer involved was a dignitary of the Baptist community in that part of Kent. Although the annual migration to the hop fields was a regular feature in the lives of the boys around me, this was a completely new experience for Mother and us two kids.
Mum was given a piece of paper which explained the whole programme, from leaving our house to coming home the following
week. It seems that the farmer had come to an agreement with the church that, instead of the hop-pickers signing on for the whole harvest, about four to five weeks, the church guaranteed that any families that returned home would be replaced by new arrivals. The farmer was on to a good thing because he didn’t have to worry that the ‘out of towners’, as we Londoners were called, would follow the lead of the more experienced pickers who were known to down tools after the second or third week and demand another sixpence a bin or a bushel. I don’t think Mum earned any extra money for the week we toiled in the hop fields; it was just a way of getting out of the filth of London – which we exchanged for the filth of the hop fields. The day before we were due to leave it was all excitement. Mother borrowed a pram, one with four big wheels, and we filled it up with all the gear that Mum had been told was needed for the coming week, mostly spare clothing, but nothing ‘posh’ (as if we had anything that could have been remotely called ‘posh’). The charity provided us with a pair of wellington boots each, telling us that if they didn’t fit we could change them when we reached the farm. All we had to do was get to London Bridge Station by ten in the morning.
