London Folk Tales

by Helen East

  22

  TEA-LEAVES, OYSTERS

  AND SHYSTERS

  As I was a-walking along a London street,

  A pretty little oyster girl I chanced for to meet,

  I looked into her basket, full boldly I did peep,

  For to see if she’d got any oysters.

  ‘Oysters, O oysters, O oysters,’ said she,

  ‘They are the finest oysters that ever you did see.

  I sell them three a penny, but I’ll give them to you free

  For I see you are a lover of oysters.’

  ‘Landlord, O landlord, O landlord,’ said I,

  ‘Do you have a little room that is empty and nearby,

  Where me and my pretty little oyster girl can lie

  While we bargain for our basket of oysters?’

  We hadn’t been upstairs for half an hour or more

  When that pretty little oyster girl she’s off and out the door,

  She’s gone and picked my pocket and down the stairs she tore

  But she left me with her basket of oysters.

  ‘Landlord, O landlord, O landlord,’ I cried,

  ‘Did you see the little oyster girl who was drinking by my side?

  She’s gone and picked my pocket!’ But the landlord he replied,

  ‘Son, you shouldn’t be so fond of your oysters!’

  One thing you’re bound to be warned about in London – ‘Tea-leaves’. Or – if you prefer to talk proper – ‘thieves’. Dregs of society, but all part of the brew. And if the well-to-do are flush, the ne’er-do-wells will profit too.

  So no time seemed better for the economic growth of both than when Victoria was young. Fresh on the throne – a brown haired, bright-eyed girl with a little bun under her crown. You can see it on the old ‘bun pennies’ if you’re lucky enough to find one, and shine it up clean. Hopes were shining too, back in her day. And hopeful lads were hopping to it, out and about and learning all sorts of skills.

  Down Smithfield way, businesses of all kinds was booming. Costermongers called out their wares: fish ‘wet and dry’, poultry, game, cheese, vegetables, fruit, flowers, and roots. Sellers of ready-to-eat treats drew customers by the nose for spice cakes and sweetmeats, hot eels and pickled whelks, sheep’s trotters, penny pies, plum ‘duff’ and muffins, crumpets, brandy balls, and cough drops. Flying stationers, or running patterers, jostled for space with long-song sellers. And in and out of them all, ever-present and never noticed, silent as shadows, slipped the ‘never sweats’, the cadgers, cutpurses, prigs, petty pilferers, pickpockets. Plenty of names for different shades of the same game.

  Mind you, they’d always been active in that area. Way back, when the River Fleet still flowed through it swift and sweet, it was handy for boats bringing goods and business through – and whisking away anyone who needed to slide out of sight nice and quick. But it had long since slowed into sludge and then a sewer, so solid with dead dogs you could skip across them like stepping stones. ‘Fleet ditch’ it was renamed then and Parliament called it a disgrace, and caused it to be arched over from Holborn to Fleet Bridge, or Ludgate Circus and Fleet Street as they became.

  No doubt the noble gentlemen intended to cover up a multitude of sins. Instead, they simply helped them spread below. Because now there were so many splendid places to hide a hoard, or secret access points to drop through something ‘hot’ into a waiting box that floated on to be retrieved by some accomplice just downstream. Meanwhile, the thief, left innocently empty-handed, could saunter on slowly, letting the Bow Street Runners catch him at last. ‘Aint got nuffin guv,’ he’d laugh, and breathless with rage and wasted effort they’d have to let him go. Even though they knew – and had witnesses too – if he wasn’t caught red-handed, it couldn’t be proved.

  And then there were houses, cunningly constructed over the river, linking one street to another, with escape doors in panelled walls and stairs that turned pursuers onto themselves or round dark corners to end in murky waters. Altogether a thieves’ dream den, but an adder’s nest for everyone else. Worse still if you went down Shoe Lane – where almost all inhabitants ran barefoot – and onto Saffron Hill. No trace there in that foul air of the fine fragrance and rich life of the past.

  But amongst the many living and hiding in that dark place, there were plenty who held their heads high. They prided themselves on their skill – the speed and ease and stealth with which they stole. And top of the bill was a lad of seventeen or so, who’d been there ever since he was five. Probably an orphan, like so many others found in the street, trying to survive. Lucky for him he was taken under a good thief’s wing, and learnt so fast he was soon better than his master.

  He was such an expert in the ‘art’, you’d never even know he had brushed past, or feel your pocket being touched. He could take a necklace from under a lady’s cloak while bowing and opening the door of her coach. He’d get a tip for it too. Being good-looking helped, of course, but he knew exactly what to do. He knew how to behave with a touch of class: to tip his hat, and to dress smart, but not in a way that would mark him out. Nothing special to remember him by. Unless you counted his ‘lucky piece’ – a little pocket watch, the first he’d ever pinched. And he kept that hidden, close to his heart, hardly ever even took it out.

  This lad didn’t work his local area, of course. He was off over the other side of town. The west side – the best side. Strolling down the Strand, or Piccadilly, or sometimes even Regent Street, newly built and very fashionable amongst all the top nobs, so the pickings were classy though the venture more chancy.

  That’s where he was one evening in early winter, still warm enough, but a bit foggy too. Good weather for working as far as he was concerned. There was quite a tidy crowd, moving slowly too, on account of the new gas lights which were French or something, so they had to be admired.

  He’d done alright, and thought he’d treat himself for once, knock off a bit early. Reaching into his waistcoat to check the time, he stopped, shocked. Something very wrong – his watch was gone. He couldn’t quite believe it but there was no other explanation. The biter bit – his pocket had been picked. But who could have done it? He, of all people, should have felt them feeling for it.

  He looked around, watching for the tell-tale signs only an insider would spot – nothing. Everyone seemed purposeful; all the men were paired up and looking to their ladies. Then suddenly, out the corner of his eye, he noticed her. So sly, a hand trailing behind, reaching out, casual as can be. A woman! Young, respectably dressed, demure – he watched her a while, just to be sure. Then he casually followed, keeping his distance until she seemed to guess something was up. Then he was almost running and so was she, round a corner and down a side street. By the time he got there she had vanished into thin air – or would have done if he hadn’t known that alley, with its handy little cranny, with room enough for one. ‘Gotcha!’ he said. ‘Like you got my watch.’

  Of course she denied it, pretended to cry, showed him her empty bag – all the tricks. He had to laugh. ‘Never sweat!’ he said. ‘You’re one of us. And I’m impressed. You’re one of the best. Almost as good as me.’

  She looked him up and down and grinned, ‘We’d make a good team.’

  And they did. Well matched; a handsome pair. Dressed up right, mouth shut tight, they could blend in anywhere. They got on, too.

  You know how it is, one thing leads to another. Started off partners; ended up lovers. Then he got all romantic. ‘Let’s do it right,’ he said, ‘let’s get hitched.’

  They’d money to blow, so it was the real thing. Church bells, coach and four, even a wedding ring. Brand new too! Just the way to go.

  Nature being as she is, and time being as he is, it wasn’t long after that happy event before the young wife was showing signs of another one on its way. Saffron Hill, of course, was celebrating all over again. For there was no doubt, with parents like that, their child would be the best thief out.

  When the day came, the birth wasn�
��t too bad. They got the best midwife that could be had, and soon the lucky couple had a lovely little son. He was pretty well perfect – strong and healthy, but there was just one thing wrong.

  The baby’s right hand was curled tight like a fist, and try as they might they couldn’t make him open it. Well of course it was his working hand. It really did matter. How could he follow his father’s trade if it didn’t get any better?

  They took him to the doctor, the bonesetter, the lot. They tried everything – wouldn’t give up. The one thing no one could understand was that there was nothing wrong with the little boy’s hand.

  The specialists were baffled, and the parents were running out of hope – as well as cash. Thinking they might refresh one or the other, they decided to have an evening off, and went out on the town to a top London show.

  The one that was the craze of fashionable society at the time was a scientific demonstration from a famous mesmerist, who was also a learned professor. It was said he’d discovered ‘animal magnetism’ – the secret impulses of the brain. He could hypnotise anyone in the audience; persuade them to do the oddest things. Wonderful watching for everyone else, particularly since he’d often practice on the most wealthy or prominent person present. It was even more fun than going to the operating theatre to see a doctor dissecting a dead man, or stitching a limb back on to a living one. Although, both entertainments, being so absorbing to Victorian audiences, were popular with the pickpockets too.

  They were dressed in style for the mesmerist, mingling in with the high-class cognoscenti, a frock coat for the little boy too, although, of course, he was too small for a proper top hat. Perhaps that was why the mesmerist picked them out. Or perhaps it was the way the mother suddenly sat up and took notice when he started to talk about the real importance of his science.

  ‘The inward drivings of the mind,’ he declared, ‘can affect the outer body. I can cure what a doctor cannot understand.’

  Either way, in a matter of moments, the little boy was carried forward to the stage as a subject to be practised on. He sat perfectly possessed, watching the audience bright eyed, while the mesmerist tried to manipulate his clenched right hand, and force it to open. He was unable to do so, and everyone sighed in sympathy as the mother bowed her head in disappointment.

  ‘Wait,’ said the mesmerist, with a confident smile, and reaching into his coat he took out his pocket watch, a fine gold piece, with a long chain. It glittered in the gaslight, and caught the child’s eye.

  ‘Now we will work through the mind,’ announced the mesmerist, as he started swinging the chain slowly backwards and forwards. Right, left, right, left. The boy began to follow its swaying, left, right, left, right, his head copying the movement.

  ‘You are feeling sleepy,’ said the mesmerist. ‘Your eyes are heavy.’

  The little boy still looked wide awake.

  ‘Let your eyes close,’ hissed the mesmerist.

  The boy nodded. His eyes gleamed. Then suddenly he thrust his tight little right fist towards the dangling chain. Before anyone had time to blink he had opened his whole hand and snatched the watch. As he did, something dropped from his hold, released at last from his grasp.

  It was the midwife’s gold ring.

  23

  TOSHER’S TALE

  They say wherever you are in London, you are never more than a grave’s length away from a rat. It used to be black rats. They were more arboreal, liked a nice warehouse, and a bit of booze; sit on a barrel of wine, they would, and dip their tails down the bung holes. They loved it round the markets, especially Borough Market – all sorts of passageways underneath. But the brown rats took over, and they’re much bigger, and breed faster too. That’s the kind you’re close to nowadays. They settled into Borough Market as well, but they liked it even better down the sewers, especially in the old days when they opened to the river.

  They weren’t the only ones who slipped down there. The toshers did too. They’d go down to pick up any valuables, washed up from the foreshore or dropped down the drains. Lost jewellery, cutlery, coins. If you knew where to look, you could make a lot of money. Then wash the stink off, and dress up smart, and they never had any trouble getting a woman, because everyone would want to snag a good money bringer.

  Official sewers workers never liked the toshers, because they took what were the workers’ perks. After 1840 it was illegal to go down there, and there was a £5 reward if you grassed up anyone. So they took quite a risk, and that’s apart from the danger, because the tide could rise suddenly, and if they weren’t quick they’d drown. Or else get trapped, which was just as bad, on account of all the rats. A lot of men died that way, picked clean, right to the bone. But there were ways to get round them, if you knew how. The first silver coin that a tosher found down there, well, that was a luck piece, a guard against drowning. And if he did die, his friends put it in his mouth, and then the rats wouldn’t eat him – so they said.

  But better than silver, if you were a good looker, was the top of the lot, the Queen Rat herself. Toshers knew that, but they kept it quiet. Only sometimes stories got passed on. And this one came to a lady called Liz, from her great-great-granddad Jerry. He was a foundling, raised in a tosher family. And he only told when he knew he was dying; otherwise it wouldn’t have been safe.

  All toshers knew that the Queen Rat was down there. She might be watching, and if she took a liking to you, she’d see you alright. But when she really took a shine, she’d listen to you talking to your mates, and find out exactly the kind of girl you fancied. Then she’d change her shape, when the time was right, and meet you ‘by chance’ when you were out and about. If you gave her a good night, she’d repay you with a long life; you’d be in the money too, and no more worries. It could even pass down in your family. Whoever inherits it gets eyes like the river; one is grey, the other blue.

  But if you got these favours, you must never say a word. If you let the secret out then the luck goes arsy-versy. And if you didn’t satisfy the Queen Rat that night, or upset her in some way, well heaven help you then, for luck would be reversed in the nastiest way.

  Anyway, Jerry, he’d heard all that. He’d been working as a tosher since he was seven. Never thought about it though – too busy working or enjoying himself. He was fifteen, good-looking, fit, funny, and usually had money. And he had a steady girlfriend. Though right then she was in the family way, so wasn’t up for going out much. Of course he understood, but sometimes it was rough.

  This particular night everyone was out on the town – it might even have been St George’s Day. So Jerry got leave to go with his mates – a night off. There was plenty of drinking, and dancing and so on, and then a girl sat beside him at the bar. He liked the look of her alright, and she had plenty of spirit. She started matching him drink for drink. And what’s more, she seemed to have a bottomless pocket. He thought she might be a mudlark, out for the day, out for a lark; she was certainly game for anything. So the night wore on, and the drinks went down, and their conversation began to fairly fly. Come around midnight they all decided to go on to a party. There were plenty going on late.

  So then they got dancing, and they went well together. He was a smooth mover, and so was she. But she was kind of teasing him, winding him up. He wasn’t averse to that, only it was a little bit public. And she let him know that if he liked that kind of thing, maybe they could go where they wouldn’t be disturbed, and where they wouldn’t have people falling over them. ‘Why not,’ he said. He’d half-forgotten about his own girl by then, anyway she was a long way from his mind.

  So the two of them slipped out, left his mates behind, and started walking along by the river. There was a little bit of lamplight at one part, and it caught her eyes as they walked past, and it was funny, he could have sworn that they shone red. You know the way an animal’s eyes reflect light? But he told himself it must be the drink, and anyway, she cuddled up close, and he had better things to think about. Then she said she knew where there w
as a good rag factory, and there was an easy way in.

  So he followed on and they got inside and there were bags of rags of all sorts, and she made them up into a real cosy bed. And it was dark and nice and they got down to business.

  They were having a great time, he was up for it as much as she was, until all of a sudden she jumped right on top of him and she gave him such a bite! It wasn’t a woman’s love bite; it was like a rat bite, straight through and into his skin. It gave him a real shock, and before he knew what was what, he upped with his arm and he gave her a wallop. But by the time his arm came down, she was gone. He sat up, the blood running down, with a big hole in his shirt there, and he looked all around and couldn’t see her. So he struck a light, and there above him was the biggest rat he ever saw in his life.

  She was hanging there, and looking down, and in her mouth there was a bit of torn cloth from his shirt. She dropped it, then she said, ‘tosher, you can have your luck. But you’ve got to pay me for it yet. And you won’t be done for a long time.’ Then she was gone. He was so frightened he went straight home. Of course he didn’t tell his mates, didn’t tell anyone. Just waited to see what was to come.

  And he did alright for money out of it. But nothing else. All his love life went wrong from then on. His girl, she died in childbirth. And his second wife drowned. The bad luck went across to them, you see. But he had six children. And you know what? One had a blue eye and a grey. She had hearing good as a rat, and she could walk around at night without a light.

  But Jerry never told her why. Never told anyone. Not until the day he died.

  24

  ROOM FOR ONE MORE

  Many expectations changed in Queen Victoria’s reign – even the view of a woman at the helm. After she had gone, these changes still went on, for women as well as men. Londoners looked to a wider, brighter world. Great Exhibitions influenced how people thought, how they looked at what they saw, what they might aspire to own, even how things could be bought.