Back in the nursery, after breakfast, Peggy looked around for Frank, but could not find him. She looked in the lavatory and the washroom, but he was not there. She looked in the classroom and under the stairs, but he was not in those places either. Bewildered and frightened, she stood on the bottom stair hugging the banister, and stamped her feet. An officer came up to her, but she screamed and stamped her little feet even faster.
“Poor little thing,” remarked the officer to a colleague, “she’s going to miss her brother, they were very close. She’ll just have to get over it in her own time. There’s nothing we can do.”
Peggy was three years old and Frank had been with her all her life. She had not noticed the loss of her father, when she was eighteen months old, and had only the vaguest memory of her mother. But Frank was her world, her life, her security and she was utterly devastated. All day she stood on the bottom step, hugging the smooth, round balustrades, sometimes silent, sometimes sobbing. Sometimes she kicked the stairs and hurt her toe. Twice she wet herself, but still she wouldn’t move. Jane tried to talk to her, but Peggy shook her shoulders and screamed, “Go away.”
“Leave her alone,” said an officer to Jane, “she’ll get over it in a day or two.”
Towards evening Peggy started to bang her head on the balustrade. It hurt, but she wanted it to. Perhaps Frank would come when he knew she had hurt herself. When he didn’t come, she sobbed uncontrollably, then slipped down onto the stairs in a deep sleep. A nurse picked her up, carried her to the dormitory and put her to bed.
For the next three months, Peggy hunted for Frank every day. She always expected to find him, but never did. She asked everyone: “Where’s Frank?” and was told that he had been transferred to the big boys’ section, but she did not understand. She developed the habit of sitting alone in a corner and rocking herself. A nurse, who knew that this was a particularly frightening development in a lonely, insecure child, tried to comfort her. But Peggy would not be comforted. Each lonely night, she sucked her thumb and rocked herself and cried for Frank to come to her. But he didn’t come.
As time passed, she stopped looking for Frank and asked for him less, until eventually she stopped asking. It was assumed that she had forgotten all about him.
It was to be nine years before brother and sister saw each other again, and by that time they did not recognise each other.
BILLINGSGATE
At the age of seven, Frank had entered an all-male world of petty rules, upheld by harsh, uncompromising discipline and gratuitous tyranny. Many of the workhouse officers were men who had been brought up in a workhouse themselves during the nineteenth century, when conditions for paupers were simply appalling. A child had to have a very strong constitution to survive the brutality, the work, the cold, and near-starvation. These men knew of no other way of life, and to them it was only natural to impose the same sort of regime on the boys in their charge.
Frank was immediately set to work on one of the numerous tasks assigned to paupers: cleaning potatoes, cutting cabbage, scrubbing out the huge cooking vats (only the smallest boys could get inside them), burnishing the stoves, cleaning the brass, and hosing down the vast stone floors of the kitchen – and woe betide any boy who got himself wet! The list was endless and the day long, starting as it did at 6 a.m. The boys also went to the local council school, so the work had to be done before or after school. Frank found that if his tasks were not finished before he went to school, he got a beating from the officer in charge, and if he stayed behind to finish the job, he got a beating from the schoolmaster for being late!
Small boys quickly learned to hide their tears. They knew that any sign of weakness would be seized upon by a bigger boy and mercilessly exploited. Bullying, constant intimidation and jeering were the only response a smaller boy would gain from tears.
Once, and once only, Frank asked an officer where Peggy was. The man must have told one of the older boys, perhaps maliciously, knowing what would happen. The same day, in the washroom, a chorus went up. “Peggy, Peggy, who’s Peggy?”
“Peggy’s his tart. What a fart!”
“Peg, Peg, peg your nose, what a pong!”
“Peggy’s a stink.”
“He has to put a clothes peg on his nose ’afore he can touch ’er.”
Frank burst into tears, and a big boy came and pushed him over onto the slippery floor.
“Garn, you ain’t got no tart, yer titch,” said the boy, squeezing Frank’s testicles so hard that he screamed with pain.
The officer came in and the big boy swiftly merged into the crowd, looking innocent.
The officer looked round and asked no questions. “Get up,” he said curtly to Frank, “get washed and go to the dormitory.”
Frank crept into bed and cried, as he did every night, for his mother and his sister. He had learned to make no sound when crying, so as not to attract attention, and to keep very still, so that he seemed to be asleep. But he often lay awake for hours, his heart bursting.
During these wakeful hours he often – nearly always, in fact – heard movements and soft footsteps, grunting and puffing and cursing sounds, as iron bedsteads rattled and straw mattresses squeaked. Each dormitory had an officer in charge who had himself once been a workhouse boy. The officer slept in a closed cubicle at the end of rows of beds, and each night a boy would slip quietly out of bed and go into the cubicle.
What can one expect if a crowd of boys are thrown together, with no escape and no female influence? All the boys were lonely. All of them were motherless. They had only each other in whom to find comfort and, let us hope, a little happiness because for them life would be short. From 1914 to 1918 the older boys in Frank’s dormitory – those born in the 1890s – were destined to be sent straight from the workhouses of England to the trenches of France, to die as cannon-fodder in defence of King and Country.
It was September 1914. A costermonger by the name of Tip called at the workhouse and asked to speak to the Master. The Master was prim and pompous; the coster flashy and talkative. He explained, in a husky voice inclined to sudden squeaks, that his lad had gone off to the war, and he had been left without a boy, and a coster must ’ave a boy, how else was he goin’ to do his trade, like, an’ what he was lookin’ for was a sharp little lad of about eleven or twelve, eleven being the preferential age, seeing as how they learns quickest, a boy who was a good worker, an’ quick, an’ it didn’t matter about no book learning, because he never could see no use for that in the fish trade, and them as ’ad book learning never seemed to get on spectackiler in the trade, but he, Tip, would edicate the boy himself an’ make a right sharp coster out of him, as how he could earn his living honest-like, an’ keep his head up with the best, an’ he would supply his lodgins an’ his victuals, least as to say his doxy would, an’ ’ad the Master got such a boy, who was hard-workin’ an’ willin’?
The coster delivered all this in a curious voice that growled and gurgled sometimes, and squeaked and whistled at others. The Master paused to think, and the coster, who never paused and could not conceive of anyone else doing so, started again, “An’ he’s gotta be strong, ’cause its no place for a wimpish lad, an the doxy’ll feed him well an’ keep his strength up, an’—”
The Master held up his hand to silence the man. “Just wait here, will you?” he said, as he left the office.
Workhouse masters were encouraged to off-load inmates in order to reduce expenses, but they were not allowed to turn them out onto the streets unless provision for their maintenance was assured. The apprentice system was the answer.
The Master thought carefully about the coster’s request, and his mind fixed on Frank – he was eleven, he was strong, he was hard-working, he was obedient, and he was, according to his school reports, one of the “has ability but must try harder” type – the despair of every honest schoolmaster.
The boys were at tea, and Frank was called out.
“Now stand up straight, look lively and don’t answer back
,” said the Master as he cuffed him round the ear. “There’s a man here wants to see you.”
They entered the office, where the coster was whistling. He had a beautiful, mellow whistle that seemed a most unlikely adjunct to his peculiar speaking voice.
“This boy seems to answer your requirements. I give you my assurance that he is hard-working. All our boys are trained to work.”
The coster looked Frank up and down and sucked his teeth. He had only two, one in the upper and one in the lower jaw, both at the front, so he was able to vary his sucking with singularly comic effect.
He pinched Frank’s ear. “You’re a skinny li’l sprog. Can you lift a box of herrings?”
Frank didn’t dare to answer back in front of the Master, so he just nodded.
“Ain’ chew got a tongue, ven?” demanded the coster.
Again Frank nodded.
“Yes, he has and he can use it to good effect when he wants to,” answered the Master.
“Vat’s what I needs, a boy as can holler good and loud like, an’ make ’em all sit up.”
“This is the boy for you, then. He’s got a voice like a foghorn,” said the Master conclusively.
“I’ll take ’im. An’ if he don’t come up to scratch, I’ll bring him back next week.”
Before Frank had time to say a word, he was whisked off to the clothes cupboards, his workhouse uniform removed, and ill-fitting street clothes put on him. The coster took him by the hand and they stepped out into the road together.
Tip was a flashy dresser. Not for him the drab greys and browns of working men. He wore green corduroy trousers and a shirt of vivid blue. His shoes were tied with enormous bows which bore no resemblance to the humble shoelace, and at his throat was tied a silk neckerchief of red and blue. His cap was not your ordinary cloth cap, as worn by the English, nor the beret favoured by the French, yet it bore a close similarity to the French style. Tip’s cap could be described as a very large beret, made of the best velvet, and the colour, neither blue nor green, seemed to change with the light and movement. Tip considered himself a real swell, and his doxy admired him prodigiously.
He glanced down at Frank and his masculine vanity acknowledged that the boy was taking in his elegance. “You gotta look sharp in our trade, titch. No use lookin’ like a bag ’o dirty washin’. The ladies don’ like it. An’ it’s the ladies as wha’ does the buyin’, see? So you gotta please the ladies. That’s rule number one. We’ll ’ave to get you some new clobber. Can’t ’ave you goin’ round lookin’ like vat, queering my pitch. The ladies would run away fritted, vey would. I knows of a Jew as what can fix you up cheap and natty like.”
Tip had started the sentence in his baritone voice, but as he came to the end of it, the words came out in a series of high, unexpected squeaks. Aware that Frank was listening with puzzled attention, he explained.
“It’s the toobs. The toobs what wears out with all that ’ollering. They gives out if you’re a good coster, like what I am, ’cause they’re too delicate to stand all that ’ollerin’. Vat’s what I needs a boy for, to ’oller, along with other fings, lots of other fings, all of which I’ll teach you, but ’ollerin’ will be one of your first jobs. Now let’s ’ear you ’oller. See vat li’l lad over there, playing in vat puddle? Well, you call out, loud as you can now, ‘Hey, mucky, your mum’s comin’.”
Frank caught the spirit of things, and bellowed the words out with all his strength. The boy jumped up and ran round the corner like a greyhound.
Frank roared with laughter, and squeezed Tip’s hand. “Vat’s what I needs,” said Tip. “Reckons as how you’ll suit me, an’ if you can pick up ve other tricks of the trade quick like, we’ll get on famous. Now we’re gettin’ to my lodgings, an’ my doxy’s Doll see, and Doll, she’s a rare ’un, but she won’ stand no lip from boys, see, so don’ you give her no lip an’ you won’t feel the back of ’er ’and.” Tip rubbed the side of his chin reflectively and muttered, “An’ you don’t wanna feel the back of ’er ’and, I can tell yer.”
They climbed a dark and foul-smelling staircase to the fourth floor. A large and shapely woman ambled towards them. She wore a red skirt, frayed and dirty at the hem, and a purple blouse, high at the neck, with a row of jet buttons down the front against which a full bosom pressed, screaming for release. Black jet beads hung to her waist, and heavy black hair hung down around her shoulders. When she smiled, her teeth were also black, as though they had been painted to match her outfit. She looked at them both, then cried out, “Is vis the li’l workhouse kid, ven? Oh, look, he’s thin, the pet,” and she pressed Frank’s head to her bosom, an experience which he found to be not unpleasant, though the smell could have been sweeter. “We’ll ’ave to give ’im some pie dahn Dill’s, eh Tip?”
“Let’s ge’ goin’ ven,” said Tip with a leer.
Doll twisted her hair up on top of her head in a fashionable coil (Frank watched, fascinated) and stuck several pins in. One of them had a bird on the end and this she settled on the top of her head.
“You bet, squire,” she said with a wink. Then she leaned down to Frank. “He’s a nice-lookin’ li’l lad, bu’ thin like. Oh, I don’ like ’a see ’em so thin. What’s yer name an’ all, eh? We’ll ge’ choo some pie, ven. Howzat?”
It was nearly seven o’clock and the streets were filled with people. Apart from marching to school in a crocodile, Frank had not been outside the workhouse gates for years. He was filled with wonder and to linger was irresistible. Here, a family was fighting, the man and woman threatening each other with equal fury; there, some boys were playing skittles; yonder a woman was fetching water from the pump whilst a crowd stood around with their buckets, gossiping as they waited. Frank had not seen women for years, and couldn’t take his eyes off them, until he realised with alarm that Tip and Doll were almost out of sight, and he had to run to catch up with them. They sauntered along, greeting people, chaffing children, Tip pinching the cheeks of young girls, Doll screaming across the street to another woman. They both dressed in a more gaudy fashion than any of their neighbours, and Frank felt proud to be with them, although neither looked round to see if he was still there.
They entered a beer shop, high-ceilinged, bare-walled, with a wooden floor. The serving counter was at one end next to a raised platform with a piano on it. The room was not particularly full, and Tip and Doll seemed to know everyone. Frank was all eyes and ears. This was the high life indeed!
“You standin’ a top o’ reeb [pot of beer], Al?”
“Sey [yes], I done a doogheno flash [good deal] today. But kool ’im [look at him]. Who’s he?”
“My wen dal [new lad] Give ’im some reeb an’ rater” [beer and water].
Frank took his beer and sipped it, puzzled. Conversation continued.
“Jack, ’e ’ad a regular tosseno tol [bad luck]. ’Ad a showful [bad money]. Bigger loof [fool] ’im.”
“He musta bin flash karnurd [half drunk] at ve time.”
“On [no], just a dabeno [bad debt].
Costers in those days spoke to each other almost entirely in back slang, incomprehensible to an outsider. This continued until well after the Second World War.
Frank’s eyes rested on each of these big, confident men as he spoke, but none was as flamboyant or assured as Tip, and the seeds of hero-worship were sown in this young heart.
He drank his beer. No one seemed to notice him. He was hungry, and Doll, who was flirting with a man sporting a walrus moustache, appeared to have forgotten the pie she had promised him.
The beer shop filled up, cards were brought out and men sat down to the serious business of gambling. A group of boys in a corner were engaged in the equally serious business of ‘three ups’. A piano player started a tune, and everyone sang along, getting louder and louder at each chorus. A girl leaped onto the stage and started dancing with more energy and vigour than grace, accompanied by shouts and catcalls from the audience. The beer flowed and the laughter swelled. Exhausted, Frank fel
l asleep on the floor.
He was awakened by Doll, screaming, “Oh, the poor li’l nipper. ’Ere, Tip, you’ll ’ave to carry ’im.”
“Take me for a monkey?” said Tip, scornfully. He shook Frank hard and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on, there’s a day’s work ahead.”
Doll was the worse for wear and hung onto Tip’s arm as they walked through the streets. Frank, more asleep than awake, kept close behind them. They climbed the endless steps to the fourth floor, and a straw mattress and a blanket were pulled out from behind the big feather bed and put on the floor under the table for Frank, who was only too thankful to lie down anywhere. He went to sleep to the comforting and familiar sounds of grunting and puffing and rhythmic bed rocking.
Frank was awakened by a flannel soaked in cold water being thrown on his face. He leaped up and banged his head on the table. Stunned, he gasped: “What’s up? Where am I?”
Tip spoke. But it was a very different Tip from the evening before. Gone the flashy clothes, gone the easy swagger and pleasant bonhomie. The morning revealed Tip the coster, Tip the businessman, Tip of the calculating, clever, ruthless eye for a bargain. “Out o’ bed, sharp now. There’s work ’a be done. Billingsgate opens at four, and it’s three o’clock, an’ we’ve gotta get the barrow an’ the gear, an’ be there. Get some clothes on, an’ follow me.”
Tip was already in his work trousers and was pulling on his heavy boots. Frank felt the urgency and leaped out of bed. He was still dressed from the night before and had only to find his boots. He pulled them on hastily and stood up straight.
“Good. Now take vat bag, an’ we’re off.”
Out in the night air, Tip was electric with energy. He kept doing little runs and skips and punching the air with his fists. He gave several short, barking shouts, took in great lungfuls of air and blew it out noisily. He was working himself up to a fever pitch, and Frank caught the energy. He sensed that something significant was happening, and he ran along the dark, quiet street, alive to everything, tingling with anticipation.
Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Page 7
