King's Cross Kid (6 page)

My brother John and I made regular Saturday morning trips to any one of the giant produce markets of central London. We started these foraging trips when I was seven and John was just into his sixth year. After John went to live with our gran he used to come round to Compton Street on a Saturday morning and Mum could be relied on to put some rashers of streaky bacon in the frying pan, cut up four huge doorsteps of bread and with all that food stuffed down our gullets we sallied forth to the challenge of the market.

We knew that a sack of potatoes and greens could easily be collected off the pavements at the Garden. At Smithfield meat market, what the traders didn’t sell by ten in the morning was generally reckoned to be a throwaway job, and it was our intention that any throwing away should be done in our direction: once we even picked up a whole leg of lamb.

There were two drawbacks to a Smithfield trip, the first being that everything collected had to be eaten that day as it went off by the next. The second was the amount of opposition. The youth of the East End gathered en masse at Smithfield on a Saturday morning where there were always fights over possession. No: far better and simpler to be satisfied with the easy pickings at Covent Garden.

The wages that our mum received for her weekly work were too meagre to feed us throughout the week, which meant that without our Saturday supplement the four of us would be down to turnip stew and whatever bits of scrag end meat Mum was able to scrounge from the local butcher who, luckily for us, was a leading member of the local Baptist church of which mother was also a member.

Come Saturday morning, bright and early, having gulped down the bacon sarnies, we were out of the house with our mum shouting her instructions down the stairs: ‘Behave yerselves and don’t get run over crossing Kingsway and bring back some firewood and pot ’erbs.’ By the time the instructions concerning the ‘pot ’erbs’ reached us we were well on the way to Russell Square.

The rest of the route took us by way of Museum Street, Drury Lane, Long Acre and finally into the mountains of debris that marked the site of the biggest fruit and veg market in the country. All around there were piles of damaged fruit and all manner of different vegetables waiting to be collected up and stashed into the largest wooden box we could find. In less than half an hour we could fill the box to the brim. But our enthusiasm for quantity could prove to be too much. The overflowing box became too heavy to pull along without breaking the string. So there we would be, two scruffy kids, sitting in the gutter trying to decide what to dump and what we could drag home. At least there was no shortage of string.

And so homewards, back out of Long Acre, through Great Queen Street and along to Southampton Row where stood one of our favourite stopovers: the Holborn Cake and Biscuit Shop. If the cake shop was empty we could have a go at getting some stale cakes for free. We played on our scruffy appearance, dirty and dishevelled, our socks around our ankles, grubby arms outstretched: ‘Got any stale cakes, missus?’ The lady who ran it was desperate to keep up appearances and could hardly be blamed for wanting to see the back of this pair of street Arabs as quickly as possible. In no time at all a bag of old cakes and biscuits changed hands and we were on our way, scoffing down stale and broken examples of the pastry cook’s art that our mum could never afford to buy.

Eventually, we’d get our loot back to our waiting mum who, after evaluating the spoils, began sorting out the little extras she always gave to the old lady who lived in the rooms below us. That night it was off to bed with a good vegetable stew in our bellies.

Whether it was the Garden, Smithfield or Billingsgate, the routine hardly ever varied except, of course, that only Covent Garden supplied the route through Cream Cake Land.

11

The Bear

It was on the streets that we found our amusement and the variety was endless. Nearby we had the three main line railway stations: King’s Cross, the home of the London and North Eastern Railway Company, Euston Station, in Euston Road, and the far better St Pancras, which together housed the London, Midland and Scottish Railway. Those three stations acted like a magnet to us boys.

First there were the steam engines themselves: huge monsters belching smoke and steam as they pulled into the station, along with the clanging of metal and the shouts of the porters, the whole station pulsating with the hustle and bustle.

Quite often, when we were at a loss for something to do, one of the boys might suggest a trip down the station, St Pancras being the favourite since it was the easiest station to bunk out of if we got chased by the guards. There, if we were lucky, we would get to carry a passenger’s luggage to the nearest hotel. This didn’t happen often as any attempt to do the station porters out of earning a bob or two would get us a cuff round the ear. And then there were the railway police who would lose no opportunity to chase us out of the station.

Behind both St Pancras and King’s Cross was ‘the coal base’, the area where mountains of coal were stacked to supply the insatiable hunger of the steam engines. The coal that the steam engines used was not the usual small nuggets that the coalman brought around in his hundredweight sacks. The stuff in the coal base came in super-large lumps, so big that it was only possible to get four into a sack. This was our main source of free fuel.

A raid down the coal base had to be planned. A couple of boys were sent ahead to determine the strength of the railway police. Then, as soon as night fell, and having sussed out the opposition, we would bunk over the wall and throw huge lumps of coal over to our waiting mates. The drawback was that, if you were caught, it meant an appearance in the local police court charged with theft, and this spelled real trouble as it meant that our parents had to pay up. So the winter had to be really cold for us to raid the coal base.

Further behind the stations were the stables. This was another place to earn a little cash. ‘Clean yer ’orse darn, mister?’ Sometimes we really struck lucky and were offered as much as sixpence to perform this task which meant not only washing and brushing down the horse, or horses, but also cleaning out the stables.

These horses were enormous beasts, and to satisfy their thirst there were horse troughs situated along the main thoroughfares. The horses pulled in to drink and at the same time got rid of the water they had drunk at the last stop. The gallons of urine cascading along the kerbside on its way to the nearest drain hole didn’t seem to bother anyone.

Once, on one of our forays to the coal base in which our whole gang was involved, we accidently alerted the railway police and got chased out. One of the boys dropped his school cap, which unfortunately had his name inside. None of us gave this any thought. We had got away, and once back in our street we shared out the spoils, one huge lump each.

A couple of days go by and I’m indoors for a change helping my mum with her housework. The bell clangs away and the next thing we see is the Bear standing outside on the landing. In that confined space he really looked like a bear, he was enormous.

We all knew his name and my mum greeted him: ‘Hello, Mr Thomas, what brings you here?’ ‘Good evening, Mrs Gregg, I’d like a word with young Victor, if you don’t mind.’ Mum gave me a look. ‘Now what games ’ave you bin up to, Victor?’ The Bear quickly put my mum at ease. ‘Nothing to worry about, missus.’ And then he pulled up our one remaining chair and looked me in the eye. ‘Now, young man, tell me when you was last round the coal base.’ By this time my mum was getting a bit hot and bothered. ‘Now, Victor, you tell Mr Thomas the truth.’ I could almost feel my mother beginning to cry. The Bear must have sensed this, too. ‘Now, now, Emily don’t you fret, I’m not here to nick ’im, just give him a friendly warning.’ The Bear carried on: ‘When I came up the stairs the first thing I set me eyes on is them big lumps of coal that you didn’t break up after you and your mates pinched them from the base a couple of nights ago. Why did you pinch them? You know that thieving can get you and that lot you hang around with into real trouble?’ ‘I wanted to keep my mum warm, she ain’t got the money to keep buying coal.’ Silence for a few seconds. ‘What about a nice cup of tea, Emily?’ said the Bear, but Mum was still calling him Mr Thomas. My mum made the tea while the Bear gave me a lecture on how ’ard it was for my mum bringing up her children all on her own without a man to help. There was nothing untoward about the use of mother’s Christian name, since everybody knew that the Bear knew everyone’s business and nobody expected him to worry about formalities. All the same, I sensed that he was more than a little interested in my mum who, despite the toil and stress, was still a very attractive woman, especially to a man who had lost his wife less than six years before.

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.’