Authors: Victor Gregg
We all got a right whacking with all sorts of dire threats about further punishment. The head told us that it was us new boys who were the prime culprits, guilty of breaking the peace. ‘Whatever you got away with in your last school, it’s different here.’ I still see the lad who started it all; him and his mates were standing behind the head smirking away. Nobody argued with the head, although, funnily enough, we never got challenged again. Mum gave me another dressing down when she got home that evening: ‘You’re growing up now, time to think of your future.’ If Mum had tried to clip me one I would have let her. We all loved our mums.
All the schools in the area organised outside sports activities. There were about six schools in the King’s Cross educational group and every three or four months teams were picked from each school which presented themselves at the allotted playing field, nearly always at Coram’s Fields. If a boy was picked to represent the school it was considered a matter of honour.
Our school always won the boxing. If I was lucky enough to win a bout and get one of the little medals I took it home to our mum expecting praise, but Mum never approved of fighting: ‘Carn’t yer get a medal for something worthwhile?’ I was never able to see Mum’s point of view. What I and my mates understood was that if you didn’t stand up and fight you were at everybody’s mercy, mostly from the boys in the next street. The headmaster, Mr Thornton, played the violin. The geography and history teachers played the cello and the English teacher, Mr Barbour, was a pianist. The other four teachers taught painting, poetry and drawing. The result of this unusual dedication was that the classes were full, and this in a school where the boys were so poor they used to put cardboard in their boots to cover the holes; where socks were a luxury and all the clothes worn by the boys would be hand-me-downs or purchased at the local charity shop, the Crusade of Rescue. If it proved nothing else, it proved that whatever part of society they come from, children are always willing to learn, and the teacher is the crucial element.
Thanks to Mr Thornton we had a school band that used to win prizes and come out ahead of even the local grammar schools. It was Mr Thornton who taught me the rudiments of music and inspired me. ‘Keep your bow straight, hold the violin up to your chin, don’t let it droop, it’s not in need of a lie-down, keep your eye on the music, listen to the beat.’ And so on. Mr Thornton never believed in doing things by halves. He just kept us at whatever we were doing until, in his judgement, we were as good as we were ever likely to get.
And so the years continued to pass and we lived happily in Compton Street until my grandparents managed to get accommodation in Kenton Street in the posh Borough of Holborn. And that’s where a new stage of my life began.
16
When Mum told me about the move to Gran’s house in Kenton Street I wasn’t too happy about it. ‘But, Mum, I don’t know anybody round there. Anyway, it’s full of cissy boys, that’s wot they are. I’ve seen ’em, they spend their time talking to girls.’ ‘If it gets you away from this rough lot round ’ere then that’s a good thing. You’ll just ’ave to get used to it, and there will be no more bugs and mice and those ’orrible cockroaches and you can join the Boy Scouts when we settle in.’ It looked to me as though I was going to suffer a fate worse than death. I didn’t view being a Boy Scout with any enthusiasm.
Not all the boys in the neighbourhood viewed the Boy Scouts as a cissy adventure to be avoided at all costs, however. ‘Ain’t all that bad, in the summer they go camping and the girls go wiv ’em.’ ‘So what?’ ‘Well, dontcha know, they all go in the same tent and do it?’ ‘Do wot?’ ‘Well, I don’t know ’cept they do somefink.’ All I knew about women was my mum, my gran and little Emmy, who wasn’t so little any more and was the reason that I’d been exiled to the kitchen, but she was still my little sister and if any boy took the mickey out of her I’d be on him like a ton of bricks.
Then one day my Uncle Joe and another uncle, Mum’s brother Will, who came from Calthorp Street off the Gray’s Inn Road, turned up with a large barrow to transfer our meagre belongings to our new abode. To make matters worse, my mates queued up giving me the hoots. ‘Oy, Vic, gonna live with the cissy boys then? We’ll come round an’ do ’em up if yer want.’ At this point my Uncle Sam, who was a big bloke from Kentish Town, threatened them with ‘a clip round the ear’ that really got them going. I couldn’t help feeling proud of my mates; they were frightened of no one.
At last the deed was done and me, Mum, John and little Emmy were settled in on the first floor, still only two rooms, but much cleaner, no gaps in the woodwork for the mice to crawl out of and the windows didn’t rattle. The rooms themselves were larger and bigger though the rent was the same.
More than anything it was the front door that made me aware of our sudden change in fortune. For a start the door opened and shut properly; it wasn’t hanging on one hinge like the door in Compton Street which was a door in name only. It never closed properly either. Whoever came in last at night used to slide a piece of wood under it to stop it rattling. Some of our neighbours just had an open space, the door having been chopped up for firewood.
This new door had a brass knocker and a big electric push-button bell, all highly polished, as were the three pull knobs for the upstairs bells. Even the door itself had a shine on it. Our new landlord was the Foundling Estate and part of the large Coram Benevolent Institution. And so we were dragged away from the sordid surroundings of our early years. From now on my grandparents took over.
Grandfather was a short, round man with red cheeks and a huge curly moustache. Off he set every morning with his rolling gait on the walk to Hatton Garden where he worked, wearing a black Homburg and swinging his Gladstone bag, a larger than life gold watch chain strung across his ample paunch.
Grandmother was the opposite, tall and angular, her black hair swept up into a tight bun, eyes that looked right through you. She was always dressed in a long black dress which encased her from her ankles to her high, ruffled neckline. She wore a chain around her waist from which dangled various keys, none of which seemed to be used, except the front door key.
This doughty pair lived in the lower part of the house. The kitchen was in the basement in which nearly all our waking hours were spent. Behind the kitchen was the scullery, complete with a huge open boiling pan in which the weekly wash was done (and the Christmas puddings were cooked). The bedroom was at the back on the ground floor, while the front room, or parlour, was reserved for special occasions, like Christmas and birthdays. The centrepiece of the parlour was a large aspidistra, the leaves of which my gran polished religiously once a week.
During the summer months Gran took her place at the window to look out on the street, commenting on the qualities, good and bad, of the neighbours. It was in this front room that brother John had his bed.
This couple deplored the social level that their daughter had sunk to, blaming it all upon my father, ‘that scandalous plumber from Kentish Town’. ‘You never could trust them as comes from that neighbourhood.’ The fact that my grandparents had lost two sons in the Great War while the plumber from Kentish Town had emerged unscathed didn’t help matters either.
In those days working people had an almost fanatical allegiance to the royal family. I never went to my mates’ homes without seeing the stern eyes of King George and Queen Mary staring down at me from one of the walls. No matter if the rooms were nice and clean, or filthy with flaking plaster and the paper peeling off, the pictures were there for all to see. And, of course, in my grandparents’ house, hanging next to the sacred royal photographs, were the pictures of the two sons who had been laid out in Flanders Field. My grandparents were Victorian in their outlook; there was never any messing about. At the meal table you were served according to your station in the household, small boys being last, and not only that, seen and not heard. ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full!’ ‘Eat what’s given you!’ ‘Ask permission if you wish to leave the table!’ To be certain that discipline was maintained there was a convenient shelf under the edge of the table where resided the CANE, and my grandmother was an expert at wielding that formidable instrument while Grandfather just sat and ate. All the same, they were both good to us. They had realised that Mother was in an impossible situation and had decided to take the weight off her shoulders.
17
As soon as we moved into our new home, Grandmother announced that on Saturday we were going to take a walk to the Crusade of Rescue. This emporium had its premises in Tavistock Place, just at the end of Kenton Street. The Crusade was the Oxfam shop of its day, a place with a huge open front, filled to bursting with all sorts of second-hand clothing, all donated by charitable organisations.
So there we were, my brother and I, standing like a couple of goons while Mother and Grandmother debated as to whether some garment or other was appropriate. After the suits came the boots, and once these were selected they were taken to the boot mender who put as many studs into them as possible. By the time we came to wearing them, the soles and heels were almost solid steel. ‘And don’t let me catch you sliding about on them.’
One afternoon, as I was walking to Grandmother’s home, a dog rushed out of a doorway and took a large chunk out of my arm. A passer-by took me home, where Gran doused the gash with iodine and took me to the doctor’s to be stitched up. Then off she went to find the owner of the dog. When she found him she set about him with a large shovel she had taken with her for that specific purpose. The poor man ended up in the Royal Free Hospital and Grandmother up before the local magistrate. It turned out that Grandfather, who was a Freemason, was in the same lodge as the beak, so nothing came of it.
The move to Kenton Street also brought us into contact with all the uncles and aunts on the Hamblin side of the family – at least those surviving uncles who had managed to escape the scythe of the Grim Reaper during the war. Uncle Will lived quite near, just off the Gray’s Inn Road, but Uncle Tom lived out in the wilds of Epsom. Then there was Uncle Sam and Uncle Joe, who I have already mentioned and who lived in council flats in Rosebery Avenue. All these relatives used to visit us once a month to ‘pay the Club’, the club being the Sir John Peel Working Men’s Mutual Society, of which Grandfather was one of the trustees. Once a month off he toddled to a meeting up in Marylebone Lane, sometimes taking me with him.
After handing over the monthly dues he had collected, he would, with much puffing and blowing, assume his place at the committee table alongside the rest of the hierarchy. After the evening farewells came the walk home, often in the company of one or two of the other club dignitaries. A halt was usually made at some drinking establishment. I never saw the inside of these places – ‘Just hang about a bit, Victor, small boys not allowed in here’ – and while waiting I amused myself thinking about the reception that I knew from experience Granddad was going to get from Grandma.
If by some chance the refreshing nectar had flowed too freely I knew enough to make myself scarce until the almost certain ensuing battle between my gran and her somewhat tipsy husband died down. That said, I never knew my grandfather to get really drunk and incapable; my gran wasn’t going to give him the chance.
18
Costermongers in Kenton Street
The move to Kenton Street made life much easier for Mum: for one thing it was simpler for us to keep clean. John was still sleeping downstairs with my grandparents and it seemed to me that they had taken my brother off Mum’s hands and adopted him as their own son. As for myself, I used to spend the evenings and nights with my old friends from Wakefield Street. ‘What’s it like round there, Vic?’ ‘A load of cissy boys, I reckon’ was my verdict.
There were other sights and sounds that were new to us after the move. Being a slightly better off area, it was common for the streets to be targeted by all the various costermongers, especially on a Sunday afternoon. The Muffin Man, walking along in the centre of the road, carried his wares on a large wooden tray balanced on his head, ringing his huge brass bell, ‘Muffins, luvly muffins.’ Then there was the man who sold shellfish, the Winkle Man. Everyone recognised him, trundling his barrow and announcing his presence with a large motor horn. Then there was the Cat’s-Meat Man, the Fruit and Veg Man, and last but not least, all through the summer months sitting in his old wicker chair and occasionally giving his ice cream a stir, would be Tony the Ice-Cream Man.
There used to be a song the kids would sing, and it went something like this:
I come all the way from Italia,
And I find my way down Saffron Hill, how do you feel?
In winter I sell ches-a-nuts a hotta,
In summer I sell ice-a-da-cream bigger da top, no taster,
Hurra, hurra, hurra for the Italian Man.
I almost forgot the organ grinders, nearly all of them ex-service, with one or more limbs missing, reduced to begging as their only means of support. Hard times they may have been, but working people were not slow to throw pennies out of the window, and so music filled the street and the young girls, throwing a rope across the road, ended up skipping merrily away – Salt, Mustard, Vinegar, Pepper, with the rope whizzing around until they all fell to the ground, exhausted.
To my mum’s delight I gradually began to mix more with the boys in Kenton Street. Although, if at a loss for something to do I’d go back round to my old mates in Wakefield Street and in no time would be back to the old tricks, one of which was a trip up the Cally to see if we could bunk in to watch the boxing, especially if there was one of our local heroes on the programme.