Authors: Victor Gregg
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
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
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
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.
Mum got us out of our beds at the crack of dawn and by seven we were on our way. John and I knew full well that the walk never took more than an hour, but mother was adamant: ‘Best to be on the safe side.’ We trudged our way to the station, Mum pushing the pram, John and I running ahead, looking into the shop windows and revelling in the novelty of the occasion. Our small, happy threesome arrived at the station a good two hours early, but even so there were quite a number of the group already there.
At nine the church dignitaries arrived, our names were taken and, with instructions to keep away from the edge of the platform, the great adventure started. This was the first time we had travelled outside the area we called ‘home’. What excitement: we were going on a real steam train. ‘Are we going to the seaside, Mum?’ ‘Shut the window, Victor, we’ll all be covered in soot.’
Mother told us what we had to do. ‘You can play around in the evening, but during the daytime we all work with everyone else at the picking. Don’t be rude to anyone and show respect to the farmer and his family. If it wasn’t for them and the church we wouldn’t be having any holiday.’ (The farmer turned out to be like the rest of his breed: get the crop in by any and all means. You could hardly blame him – the hop harvest lasted about five weeks and if the crop got musty or too wet the farmer’s year of hard labour went down the drain.)