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MY SAGA
Introduction
This is a copy of what my dad, Joseph Cornelius, wrote at my request; I had asked him, in a letter probably, to write down some details of his and mum’s early years, since I had suddenly realised that we knew nothing of his or our mother’s life before we were born - as do all children, of course. However, as you can see, he was quite a writer, and this makes fascinating reading, of a world now gone that I did not know, and which will be very strange to our Canadian children and grandchildren. But I hope will be interesting to them.
The original handwritten pages, which are far more valuable, begins as an extract from a letter, dated 16th November 1966. The year 1945 was the end of World War 2, when we children, except Sheila, returned to London from evacuation - me in Cornwall, Margaret in Wiltshire, and Joan also in Cornwall, not far from me, though she returned some time before me. I have put comments or explanations in from time to time, and they are italicised, but I have not edited very much, since you should read this as he wrote it, to me (David Cornelius, now living in London, Canada).
. . . but I’m interested to realize how little you know about Mum and I pre 1945. About as much or little as we know about our own parents. Your suggestion of a “serialisation” could
a) entertain you (and Mum too in parts - I think);
b) be of interest in later years to Mark and the girls
c) be saleable - when typed and ‘proofed” to one or more Canadian publications (need lots of editing).
In any case, what I write should be worth preserving as being of “family tree” interest. In due time (years yet I hope) Mum may let you have the two birth certificates I mention. To be kept by you for Mark as the eldest of our name. They are, of course, of my father and myself. (These are in our safe)
Without any attempt at documentation or window dressing I’ll get ahead.
Details about my grandfather are imprecise. It has come to me of his birth in Ireland (?Cork) about 1830. Probable more than likely he was a sailor - sail in those days. Schooners. Cutty Sarks. So, sometime in the 1850's this Philip Cornelius met Elizabeth Rowland whom he married in due time - 1856?
The Rowlands at one time were a family in Australia and were reputed to have “laid information” that led to the finish of the famous (it should be infamous because, as with Robin Hood and a number of so-called romantic Western outlaws a good deal of nonsense has been written. [It looks like dad forgot to put in the name of the outlaw, but since it’s Australia I presume he meant the Kelly gang] Like most they disliked social order and robbed both rich and poor.)
I was able to discover before I married your mum of a sizable amount of cash being “in the family” via my maternal grandmother. I know also that not a penny of this was, or has been, claimed. The clues are:
a) Irish birth of Philip Cornelius
b) to “lay information” against the Kellys
c) reward for same.
A+b+c = blood money which would be taboo by reason of “a”.
(However, it looks like Dad may not be right here; I have heard him tell this story many times, especially around the time that a movie was made of the Ned Kelly story, when one of the parts was played by Mick Jagger. The person credited with betraying the Kelly gang is a schoolteacher called Curnow, not Rowland, though I suppose it is possible that a girl could have changed her name to Rowland.
The Elizabeth Rowland that married Philip, probably in 1849 in the District of Bethnal Green, seems to have been born in Whitechapel, estimated to be in 1827.
Philip is recorded as being born in Waterford Ireland, also estimated to be 1827.
Philip died in 1888, and Elizabeth in 1891, both in the District of St. Olave, Southwark. These details come from the 1881 census of England and Wales.
They had five children; James [1857], Ellen, William [both 1860 - twins?], Thomas [1868], Elizabeth [1873]. However, there is a death record of a Philip Cornelius who died in 1888, but he is not mentioned in the family record of the 1881 census. However, my Dad mentions a Philip - see below, and also an aunt Peggy, who is not mentioned in the census record).
That is all I know about Mark’s (David’s son) great-great grandparents, and indeed very little more about his great grandparents.
I can copy from what is in front of me:
Page 14 of Register of Births in the South East District of the City of London. Entry No. 69
“A boy James on Dec. 19th 1857 to Philip and Elizabeth Cornelius (formerly Rowland). (He at that time being a labourer.)
The birth taking place at Nicholson’s Wharf, Lower Thames St. In the City of London.”
I have no further knowledge except of my father being the male of twins. The girl being my aunt Peggy. They were, I think, the first born. I know of three further brothers. My uncles Ted, Tom and Philip, with faint memories of the first two. Tom became superintendent of Street Lamps (not lights - lamps) in the Bermondsey Vestry. His two sons Theodore and A.N. Another? Did well. The former a barrister, his brother an architect - no mean achievement at that time. We were, I’m afraid “below their level.” Another sister - my aunt Nell (Ellen).
To come to my own feelings for my own parents. I insert this early because I feel it essential to bear in mind. My father I idolized to his death on Jan. 6th 1928. Mother was always there, and, I’m afraid, taken for granted (? Always). She was dark, almost sallow with jet black shiny hair gathered to a bun at the back. And tiny. About five feet nothing. A wonderful cook. With just a coal fire and side oven she’d cook wonderful meals and, with hindsight, remembering how she prepared food I’d say her life was spent “in service” somewhere as one of many “below stairs.” It is certain that although she couldn’t write and read but with great difficulty, in household management she was perfect. Washing - really white (No DAZ); starching, ironing, cooking and keeping clean a brood of kids!
A real angel, bless her immortal soul. I pray she has forgiven me my sins of omission. She I should have worshipped. I do; her memory now.
Against Mum’s 5'0" Dad was 6' + tall and stiff as a ramrod. Fair hair almost blond with a moustache. At 70 - his death - his hair was as full as ever and he had a complete set of teeth lacking only 3 or 4 that were “knocked out.” His teeth were a true brown - he chewed tobacco and smoked a clay pipe. Worked in the docks most of his adult life. When single for some years a sailor (in sail) - then a Thames waterman (met Mum etc.) at one time an entrant for Dogget’s Coat and Badge but failed to start because of an almighty hangover! Many, many times swam from Tower Bridge to Greenwich and back (5 miles) when the tide was right. Not, I’m afraid too good a law abiding citizen. Not a criminal any more than the next man in those dreadful ‘good” old days. But he didn’t like policemen. And for (when in his cups - often) laying violent hands on the same he went “inside.” Mum sighed resignedly and coped - somehow. This before my arrival however and gleaned from reliable sources other than my father.
Seemingly his dislike of the police had to be resolved. Indeed, it was. A Sergeant of police made him a “fair offer” - “Lick me, I’ll leave you alone. Be licked and forever behave.” So it was. In Black Horse Court, Tabard St. For the first time my dad had seven kinds of hell knocked out of him. So your grandad - minus some teeth - shook hands with his new friend and forever kept his word - and the peace.
Incidentally, he died very suddenly at 8.00 am precisely (Pinks, the jam factory, clock was striking the hour - I was there) on January 16th 1928.
The evening previously - Jan. 5th - his stiff erect figure was to be seen looking at the goods displayed in Fogden’s (a local grocer) shop window. And he could crack Brazil nuts with his teeth. At 70!
(The Dogget’s Coat and Badge Race - Historic lightermen and watermen river race
Established in 1721, this hotly contested race is the oldest annual competitive event in the British sporting year, rowed from London Bridge to Chelsea in the mid-summer heat of August. The race was the brainwave of Thomas Doggett, a Dubliner who arrived in London and was so impressed by the skill of the “waterman”, the London cabbies of their day, that he set up the annual race for new Freeman of the river. A scarlet coat and gold badge was the coveted prize for the winners.)
But the truth must be faced. Like all fathers of his day and age he was it. Mum (as with them all) were just slaves to family and lord and master. Times of real poverty. “He” generally was selfish to the extreme. “She” an angel in every real sense.
There were exceptions. A few, very few. And many mums bore (proudly for some reason) the token of “his” love. A black eye, or - better still - two black eyes. As I mentioned a good deal of this before my own arrival. But on reflection the so called “working” classes were the product - the natural product - of the environment.
Human beings were being increasingly squeezed by growing industrial pressure. Profit and expansion - “Empire building.” “Good” Victoria ruled prosperous England and the “Empah.” (Empire - in upper class accent!) Poverty became worse and worse. There were three classes:
1) the upper (the real parasites)
2) the middle - tradesmen, etc.
3) the heap.
The third class were wrongly named. Working. Exploited to hell and back. They were unable to think. Uneducated. All they craved was forgetfulness or failing that someone to hit out at - generally the womenfolk.
I’d better come back to earth. But it’s alarmingly similar to the colour problem!
The other certificate concerns the birth of one Joseph Cornelius.
To James and Louisa Cornelius (neé Dickman) at Turners Retreat, The Grange, Bermondsey, February 13th 1907.
The family at that time were, in addition to your grandparents - Philip (1893) Jane (1898) Edward (1900) William 1904 - Uncle Bill) ME.
Another girl, my young sister Lou about 1909-10.
There were, I believe, between 1893-1898? Another 3 boys who died in infancy.
All the above (D.V.) are still alive.
The eldest, Philip, married your mother’s sister and we have little but hearsay about them since 1941 or thereabouts. Have a family and many grandchildren.
Uncle Ted lives alone but one sister Jane is in touch with him by her family. Jane is now a great grandmother and had quite a family. Her husband James Wilcox died some years ago.
Uncle Bill has a well furnished (extremely so) one room flat in Red Cross Way. The Borough. He visits now and again and goes abroad each year for his holiday. He works, incidentally, at New Hibernia Wharf (just to the left of London Bridge going North to the City), exactly opposite the wharf where his father was born in 1857!
About me more anon. My young sister married in her late 30's. Her husband died leaving her with one child, a boy - Peter Brazill - now about 18. Your aunt Lou and cousin Peter are, I think, comfortably off. They have the house they live in. Near Raynes Park. Fortunately they have all been to see us (except my brother Philip) in recent years. All except Ted to this flat actually.
Mum and I were so pleased about this because our own (Mum and I) families were not so close knit as we tried to make our own. Again I’m afraid symptomatic of the times.
Of the children of my dad’s brothers and sisters we had little knowledge. My aunt Peggy lived with uncle Tom and his wife Elizabeth. I never knew my cousins - their two sons. Aunt Elizabeth was an active Methodist so I assume Uncle Tom broke completely with the Irish Catholic tradition of my father’s family.
My father, although named James, was never known by that name. Mum called him Jim I remember (he called her Lou sometimes). Otherwise he was known to the family and anybody who knew him as “Shamus” (Hennie (David’s Irish born wife) will find this familiar, it is phonetic for the Gaelic Seamus).
My dad’s sister Nell had 3 daughters. (Aunt Nell was even tinier than my mum but feared nobody. A tongue like a whip - without swearing). They were Biddy, Meg and Aggie in that order. And all 100% Irish and Catholic in life and outlook. All 3 insisted on Sunday Mass for their kids. Any talk or comment of anyone “departed” brought the comment - sotto voce - “rest his/her soul” and a flicker of the right hand in the Sign of the Cross.
They hated the English as only South Irish can who have the priestly influence. We knew these cousins quite well. But my dad never seemed unduly upset about “the English.” My later school life was governed entirely by this Irish hatred of “Cromwell’s” people; this you will learn later.
Of my Mum’s background I know almost nothing. Vaguely of a sister and brother but not enough to put on record. Mum, like most of her “station” and generation was almost illiterate and generally seemed quite timid but behind this deceptive front she had great great courage. Here the strength of character was strongest in keeping us in order - the family. A sharp word and slap for any misdeed was generally enough. The threat “Wait ‘till he comes home” was more than enough. “He” - my Dad. Omniscience. So Dad was quite a humbug when he claimed “never to have laid a finger on any of my kids.” He didn’t have to!
So the background into which Joseph was born 13.2.1907.
I understand I was small enough to be squeezed into a quart beer pot (Dad said he won a bet in proof!). Delicate physically, unexpected to survive. Unusual this because the rest of my immediate family were quite lusty from birth. And Dad many times during my first six months of life threatened to “throw ‘im out the bleeding winder (window) ” a sentiment generally shared by neighbours, for during this period I, seemingly, cried almost nonstop. I still wonder about Turners Retreat, the court where I first lived and breathed. Turner? Man or trade? - Retreat? Military or Monastic? This curiosity of Bermondsey place names has always prompted my mind. Taxes Rents and Colliers Rents could be fairly simple. The name of the builder or freeholder of slums; poverty provided rental income ergo - “Rents.” Grange Rd? Ok, but the Grange? Grange Walk? The Grange? Did it adjoin the 8th century Bermondsey Abbey?
Neckinger - yes; another street name. Who or what? One I do wot of. * Snowsfields. Yes, your school pre C.L.S. (That’s the initials of City of London School, my secondary school). Actually Snowsfields was well pre Guy’s Hospital and is so shewn in old plans of the area before 1725 when Thomas Guy conceived “his Hospital.”
The area was then fields used for tenting new cloth, ie tenters or drying fields. Presumably the cloth being stretched and dried - (tented) was white - so - Snow or Snowsfields as it is still called.
I retrieved this information via Google:
Bermondsey
Bermondsey is a riverside settlement to the east of Southwark. It has the same geographic origin as its larger neighbour, Southwark. At its centre, the site of the modern Bermondsey Square, was a sand and gravel island that rose slightly above the surrounding marsh. Indeed this feature is reflected in the meaning of the name. Beromund’s (a personal name) eyot, or island. At the heart of the town was a Cluniac priory, later abbey, which stood at the junction of the modern Abbey Street and Long Lane with Tower Bridge Road. The Abbey was dissolved at the Reformation and none of its fabric survives.
In the 17th and 18th centuries a few grand houses, such as Abbey House, adjacent to the church, were built and Bermondsey was briefly a desirable place to live; it even had its own spa. But even then it was also a place of industry and this came to dominate in later years.
Bermondsey evolved in the 18th and 19th centuries as an industrial centre. Its principal activities were riverside wharves, where imported goods, especially foodstuffs, were landed; food processing, and tanning and leather working. Butler’s Wharf dominated the former; Peek, Frean & Co. was probably the best known food processor. Tanning pits, where skins were soaked in a succession of unpalatable organic substances, were a distinctive feature of the area. Much of the work in these activities was casual and unskilled.
The earliest areas to develop were near the river - Jacob’s Island, just to the east of St Saviour’s Dock was a notorious and appalling slum – and along Bermondsey Street. Grange Road briefly has a series of Georgian houses, but in the early Victorian period there was much building of small Victorian terraces around Grange Road, and there was a second phase of development in the later Victorian period of larger houses along Southwark Park Road and Lynton Road. By 1900 Bermondsey’s population was all working class, but this was a broad church ranging from the almost destitute casual worker to skilled Thames watermen and lightermen. In general, Bermondsey’s 19th and early 20th century residents also worked there; it was a self-contained area, not a suburb of elsewhere.
Much of the housing was substandard and in the early 20th century the Bermondsey Borough Council carried out extensive slum clearance and other social reforms. Their work is still fondly remembered even today.
I know we - my own family - moved from Turners Retreat (rats) to Tay Buildings (a very narrow court in Long Lane with one lamp post and 6 slum houses which led into Decima St. back of Central Hall (Tower Bridge Road). The Tay Buildings again had rats. (My mum told me about this later). So Star Place in Tower Bridge Road for my first tangible memory. Unsteady legs and being allowed to stagger from Star Place round the corner to “play” nearly all day (?what at) outside of all places - an undertakers. I can see it now, a clean shop with lovely smells. New wood. Varnish. Shavings. And the craftsman. The coffins were made by the owner or workman in the front shop from scratch. I recall his white apron. White hair. Pointed imperial beard (Edward VII style). We must have been “friends” because the recollection is “nice.” At this time my first “life” impressions (apart from food) were formed - smell and noise. The former were either nice or not nice. The latter always noise. Horses clopping, clopping, all day long. Pulling carts with steel tired wheels. On granite cobbled roads. Yes, all roads in “poor” districts were cobbled with granite blocks. Steel shod wheels, steel shod hooves on granite. Noise, noise, noise. Few, very few, auto vehicles. I recall strongly too the sharp sweet smell of orange peel.
Of the frequent piles of horse droppings in the road centre. No, they didn’t need to stop! The road sweepers found this chore their main job. To sweep this into piles every couple of hundred yards. Tons and tons and tons daily swept from the roads. I doubt now the finding of a ton on all London Streets.
Then again to move from Star Place to Southall Place in Long Lane opposite Crosby Row. This was a court 3 sided. Four homes each side. A blank wall. On this almost precise spot we, as a family - your mum, dad and you with your sisters lived from April 8th 1945. But not Southall Place - 20c! (That is 20c Pilgrimage Street - still there today). Now rebuilt.
We moved from Southall Place about 1912 to Lockyer St. No. 21. Our last move as a family entity. From there both my mum and Dad died. My eldest brother and sister and I married in due time. We moved - as always - on a coster’s barrow. Two journeys was enough. The distance was short. Now Lockyer St. has gone. A strange shape Lockyer St. In those days - now rebuilt.
(Dad drew a map to show the geography of the area he is describing - see his original manuscript)
As you see, the turn left from Kipling Street, turn right past the square (inc. 21). So called terrace dwellings. All small and poky.
But our living conditions and environment being what we were used to were as natural as a burrow to a rabbit, a tree to a bird. That there had started to boil a sense and knowledge of social injustice (as bitter as the present “colour” problem) had to get really going before I actually took part.
But in 1913 the “Empah” kept the throne firm. Everybody sang “gorsave” * even kids whose own white flag peeped from the hole in the rear of their unpatched pants.
(* what my dad always called the British national anthem, ie, “God Save the King” became “gorsave”).
My Dad, as with all dockworkers, was paid daily. That’s why shopping meant daily visits to the corner shop; the greengrocers (old Mother Lapham in Kipling St. To me about 90 - 50 actually - and fat. She WADDLED.)
The butcher
a) Redmans in the Boro’ who sold nice cheap beef sausages, or b) Squires in Tabard St. (Steadmans in our blessed honeymoon days!) who had cheap chops or beef pieces, or c) Bill Ayerst who then, before the 1914 war, had a shop nearly next to Shiach’s the Chemist (you recall?) who had breasts of lamb for 1 ½ d or 2d. Oh! The sausages were 4d a lb. A pile of chops or pieces, 3d.
The corner shop. Yellow sugar, in blue paper cone bags weighed ( as all goods were, from sack, box or barrel) 1 ½ d a lb. White sugar too dear for us 2-2 ½ d a lb. We bought in ½ lbs.
My brothers pinched it. We had no cows milk. Too dear. Tins of “Goat” or “Lane” brand condensed sweetened skimmed milk (WARNING: UNFIT FOR BABIES) 1 ½ d “Lane” brand, 2d “Goat” brand. If unseen we’d nick a spoonful to put on a slice of bread. It was worth a whop ‘round the ear.
Tea we bought in 1d packets, about an ounce and a half. Bad economies since a cheap brand was 2d a quarter pound.
Corned beef was a favourite. Cut in slices from a detinned 7lb block. 1d a quarter. Smelt heavenly. Tasted - ooh! And canned in Chicago, Ill!
Old Major - the corner shopkeeper - opened up at 8.00 am each day with me usually on the doorstep waiting, clutching in my grubby paw coppers wrapped in paper. {“And, don’t forget to wait for the change out” from Ma).
He had the house in Long Lane whose “yard” backed on to our own “21" Lockyer St. (He later did well. In addition: bookmaker. Moved to a big house. Sidcup. But fair do’s. He bought loads of cricket and football gear for lads locally who could afford the fare to Eltham. This, after the war. 1918)
I was saying. As with all shopkeepers very little packaged food. Tea, maybe. Bacon rashers had to be cut from the piece. The piece having been disjointed from the side of bacon. So you bought what ever type rashers could be afforded.
Cooked ham bone. This was “dear.” 6 ½ d a quarter. Brawn, too, was popular. Slightly dearer than corned beef. Cheese. This was delivered, two to a crate. Very big and round. It fascinated me. My snotty nose just about counter height scanning wonderstruck (sniffing - a) the mucous b) the lovely mixed smell of all the eatables) as “old manger” as he was called, lifted the whole cheese on to the back counter. He had a very fine wire fixed at the back wall. On the “free” end it wound round and fixed into a piece of round wood about 4" long. He’d pull the wire sharply through the whole cheese.
Presto! Two halves. Right. Put one half on the floor. Turn the other 90°. Presto!! Two quarter cheeses. One quarter cheese put atop the half on the floor. One quarter cheese turned up sideways - rind down - cone shape. Zip! Two half quarter cheeses. One put with the one and a half. The other left to “work on.” This time with a long sharp knife. The customer who got thick rind and bottom of his or her bit swore. Had a price cut.
This knife, like a razor, cut cheese or (wipe) corned beef or (wipe) brawn or (wipe) rashers or ham. Or cut sack strings (wipe).
Cheese we had sometimes 1d for 2oz white cheddar or red Canadian.
Our corner shop had a well remembered loverly smell. Sawdust on the floor. (As did butchers; dairies; fish shops - fried and wet and dry). Oh - pubs too, but only in the public. Good old “Manger.” Rest his soul. He’d a girl, Winnie (the first to disturb “me nature” thoughts only), a boy George. His wife to whom he was devoted predeceased him by some years. We learned then they weren’t married. I don’t know - or want to - the story behind this. They were both nice to me - and each other. That’ll do for me - and the hundreds of kids who scuffed the sawdust, and smelled the smells - in Manger’s corner shop.
The greengrocer
This was opposite Major’s almost but in Kipling St. The “corner shop” was on the corner of Kipling St. and Lockyer St.
A fat lady - dirty - kept it. The shop was dirty in and out. She had a daughter did old Mother Lapham - Poppy - who also was fat (but nice) not too clean but a wicked tongue. Biting. Loud. Laphams sold veg cheaper than anyone else. I can’t quite remember but my brother Will (Uncle Bill) or sister (??) Would go shopping there with only a few coppers and return with a bag too heavy for my skinny arms. Among the purchases - usually - what sounded like “apenorfapsterbs”. This, I late found to be onions, carrots, turnips. If mum thought the “penorf” was short Mrs. Lapham became “ a robbing mare;” and mum rarely used unseemly words. Come to recall Mum didn’t speak a great deal. No time.
Oh! Laphams. It smelled. Decayed greens - ugh! No sawdust on her floor. Just dirt. Thick. She sold coal too. In 1914 6 ½ d, ½ cwt 3 ½ d, 28 lbs 2d, 14 lbs 1d. See? Labour charge on smaller amounts. Did you know coal had a smell? It did - then. Something like cats. Or something. Of interest - mum thinks coal is now about 14/- plus per cwt. Wages then for a coal face miner (learned by me later) 21/- weekly for at least 10 hours at the coalface. Now? What it costs to produce I expect. So as with most things coal was seemingly cheap. But the main thing was - for the big employer - virtually free. Labour. More of that in time and its proper place.
The butcher (any one)
Had to know his job. Literally to butcher. Pig, mutton and lamb carcases were brought in and had to be chopped and cut into joints and chops. Beef came in quarters. Fore and hind. Again, sharp knives and “know how.” Butchers always had blood soaking into the sawdust. Always wore flat straw hats and blue aprons with thin whit horizontal stripes and hanging from the waist a sharpening steel which - now and then - they’d “zip, zip, zip, zip” with this knife to get an edge, shouting with every “zip” “buy” so you’d get “buy, buy, buy, buy” - now and again.
When the meat began to look limp it would go into the back shop to reappear as - sausages.Oh! Before I forget. One butcher in Union Rd. (Near “Jail” Park) - Waghorn - would buy all his stuff “on the hoof.” Once a week cattle and sheep were driven to his shop yard. He had a slaughterhouse. Poultry too. His stuff was beyond us in price. Dear. He did well though.
Fish
Perry’s in Tabard St. Wet and dry. Two doors from Steadman and Squires the butcher. A dairy - Floyd - in between. The Perry was noted for a) the quality of his “home smoked” haddocks and bloaters and red herrings, b) winkles shrimps, etc., on Sunday, c) being blind drunk any of the 7 days. Mrs. Perry was fat. She could swear, at him. And did. Often and long.
Milk
We never used cows milk; bought eggs from the corner shop or Fogdens - a bigger grocer in Long Lane next to Mathias - baker - corner of Staple St., of which more anon. Butter we never saw - even at 10d /lb. Marge (margarine) was 3d up. And we sometimes had beef dripping. Eggs were, for us, very rare. So we had no use for dairies.
Lloyd - incidentally - like his neighbour Perry was nearly always drunk and had a reputation for lechery. This I doubt. He was so fat he’d get seasick!
Keep in mind cars and lorries were then almost non existent. Horses, barrows, carts, vans. Horse and man power. I remember (mum does too) fire engines. I read of the firemen shouting “Hi! Hi! Hi!”. Can remember the bell though. The brassy clang heard adistant would have us kids dropping whatever game we played to tear, skidding around corners, to the corner of Long Lane/Kipling St.
Blang blang blang! The bell loud and brassy. A pair of tearing (grey generally) horses, ‘whopple whopple’ of hoofs, creak of harness leather. The engine was a polished brass boiler, smoking furiously. Brass bell with tongue being rapidly wagged by one of the crew, ladders and hoses stowed and lashed on the sides of the vehicle. About seven brass helmeted firemen in the crew. The driver was my hero. Tugging and whipping down the reigns on the horses quarters. But the horses needed no urging. They knew and were part of the crew. Perhaps another engine to follow. Some of us would whoop after the trail of smoke and, if lucky enough for a “near” fire would gaze starry eyed vowing “when I grow up”.
Being pushed back by the “coppers.” Strangely the actual fire doesn’t register at all. Just the hoses. Water. Clumping firemen. Pushing policemen. You know something? Firemen and police nearly all had large moustaches. So did my dad. And everybody else’s dad. Except those who had beards - a la Edward VII.
An important and now vanished part of back street life was the coster. Barrow or basket.
Their calls were heard 7 days a week. Every day milk and bread barrows on their rounds. The cat’s meat man too - Labon’s in Long Lane. In his shop - cats meat - huge lumps hanging from huge hooks. Covered with masses of flies. Wood was split into lengths and pointed. The meat was sliced and poked on to the pointed stick - ‘aporthacatsmeat’. Labon, a stout red faced man came around everyday to his regulars. Straw hat, blue butcher’s apron, rapid walk with the oft repeated call “me-meeeet! Me-meeeet!” the while whittling points on to sticks. Followed by a dozen cats all the time. Tabbies. Black ‘uns. White ‘uns. Black and white. Ginger. Grey. Everyone had a cat (for the mice - they had them too - and worse). As he stopped at a door, the cats would “wow-wow-wow” round his legs, push stiffly against his legs, tails stiffly erect, quivering, cupboard love indeed. They must have loved the stink of his trouser legs! I always noticed the cat who belonged to the next house on his round. This moggie would whip ahead of the pack and wait quivering in anticipation outside his/her own door. “Me-meeeet!” bang on the knocker. Pieces rapidly on the stick, slapped in pieces of paper. Door would close on meat - and cat. And “me-meeet” with feline forms would rapidly disappear. He, incidentally, was the last of his kind and ‘delivered” till, I think, even your schooldays. I heard his recipe for “no trouble” feet was to buy new socks and wear ‘em ‘till they dropped off. Literally.
I was, by now, nearing my 7th birthday. Attending St. Joseph’s RC School after a short spell at Laxon St. in the Infants. Going to St. Joseph’s meant that your Uncle Bill was deemed responsible enough to “take me and bring me home.” Your Uncle Ted also attended (like Bill a poor scholar but both were excellent artists and swimmers. They could fight too. This meant Bill being my “big brother” in the best sense - for me!)
Ted would be 14 on June 30th. In those days one left on the 14th birthday (in my case - postwar - in 1921 it had been amended. One “left” on the Friday following the 14th) .
All “elementary” schools (L.C.C.) Church run or not were of the same pattern. Self-contained for 5-14 years. From 5-7 mixed infants on the ground floor. After this, upstairs. Segregated. “Big” boys. “Big” girls.
But I’ll go back a little to street life. Or, rather, life in the back streets, alleys and courts.
I mentioned daily costers and callers. Regulars like the catsmeat, milk, bread came to call on their customers every day. But several times a day came “costers” selling from two wheel barrows. Selling - fish, or fruit and vegetables. Buying - old iron, rags, bones. And their loud calls were loud - and indistinguishable as being in any language - even Cockney.
One came every evening about 5.30. Bill, the “paper man.” He sold only the “Star.” ½ d . A voice like old leather - a real croak. He carried a massive load under his left arm - flicked out a paper to any customer like lightning. Moving all the time. He’d be through Lockyer St. In one minute flat and sell 30 odd “Stars.” With all the race results. We paperwise had only the “Star” (for Dad’s 6d each way) weekdays - “News of the World” on Sundays. There was plenty of papers daily and weekly then.
Up to the time of going to school I managed with the ‘gang’ to go afield. Borough Market. Billingsgate. Tooley St. By the docks where Dad worked. It was here I flicked my first switch to an electric bulb. ‘Till “the man” spotted me! I scarpered.
All the usual mischief I expect to the annoyance of adults. The first “penny” pocket money now and again. ‘Moving pictures’ in a converted shop in Tower Bridge Road on Saturday morning. Rows of forms. One paid a penny for a coloured ticket. Pushed aside a heavy smelly dirty curtain into the “fleapit.” The lights went out when the place was full. Until the place filled we kids made a hell of a racket. Then - lights out and the screen would flicker as though the moving jerking figures were behind a curtain of teeming rain. Silent of course except for (a) the cranking - by hand - of the projector and (b) the pianist just beneath the screen. She (generally) glanced up at the “action” and played appropriately. If, as usually happened, the film “broke” and had to be joined, thereby losing time nothing really was lost. The projectionist cranked faster; the pianist played faster and we were hoicked out (thrown out) at the same time. Ah well!
The “Star Music Hall” in Abbey St. still functioned. Brother Ted took me once. To see a new “sensational turn” called “Pimple.” I don’t remember much but I do know “Pimple” became more widely known as George Robey in later years. For 4d one could; pay 1d for the gallery in the Star; buy 4 oranges for 1d; a 1d bottle of fizz; and when coming out a 1d bag of chestnuts! (Or ½ and ½ fish and chips).
Once - Dad took me for a walk to Trafalgar Square and Whitehall. Foot and horse soldiers. Big buildings. Trees. The Park. I was amazed and bemused. So there must be another world!
But back to school. I must have learned very rapidly because by the time Ted left school (and brought home his first weeks wages at Dewrances - a golden half-sovereign. The first I’d ever seen.) I could read newspapers with understanding, and had a fair idea from this and ‘grown up’ comment that “Kaiser” Bill was asking for ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. I knew about Germany and Europe from the lessons.
But what I learned first hand from the other lads was about Ireland. Nearly all kids were of parents not long here from “the dear land” and they hated all things English. Bitterly. From my reading of the history f Ireland since our occupation rightly so. I’m amazed it took so long to get us out. The English landlords treated the Irish fiendishly.
And, of course, half the teaching staff being Irish it wasn’t surprising that St. Joseph R.C. School was, almost to a man, Sein Fein. The green Irish flag - gold harp of Erin - was on the school flagstaff as often as possible.
I, with the rest became indoctrinated by the R.C. religion. Communists can teach nothing to the Catholics in this respect.
First thing. Prayers. Hymns. Address by priest. Then lessons. On every possible occasion a religious slant was impressed on to the lessons. Each page was headed A.M.D.G. - Ad Majorum Dei Gloria (To God’s Greater Glory) in an R.C. sense of course.
Even so I think I was a good pupil. I liked learning. I liked being a Catholic. But about 12-13 I began to think - and doubt. Were we worshipping God, or Rome?
Anyway at 12 ½ I became Senior Prefect (school captain). I’d got through the school curriculum and for a time worried my mother to go to Jersey as a pupil to become a Jesuit. My eventual wage earning stopped that however. I wonder. Often.
But at 9 ½ feeling the need to have pocket money I managed to do odd jobs for the dispenser of the local chemist - Austins - corner of Kipling St./Long Lane. The War had been on some time. “Lining up” for food (and other things) had become part of life. The word of “queue” appeared for the first time.
Rationing was more a matter of “knowing how and where” than Government system. War widows became a more commonly heard term. Wounded “Tommies” were seen every day in their blue uniforms. My eldest brother Philip in the 12th East Surrey regiment was being “made into a soldier.” My eldest sister worked as a “carwoman” driving a horse and van for Hatchers. Later a ‘munition girl’ in Woolwich Arsenal.
We had air raids at night. Zeppelins. Us kids were, at times, taken to the Boro’ or London Bridge Underground Stations for shelter.
We passed the time by hopping on to the first train along (they ran all night) and just went back and forth from the then terminals. Euston - Clapham Common. By some instinct we hopped out just in time to ‘go home.’ But these air raids were picnics by comparison of the “next time.”
Against this background I earned an odd copper (penny) doing jobs and errands for the manager of the Long Lane Branch of Austins, as I said. They had a second branch in Spa Rd. (Just by the Central Baths. Grange Rd.). The main shop and warehouse (they were manufacturing chemists) was opposite Bermondsey Parish Church. I still know the address 198/202 Bermondsey St. The firm was established with an excellent local fame. Established in 1789 about 38 years after Guy’s Hospital opened. I well imagine Guy’s found Austins useful as did St. Thomas’ Hospital which was, at that time, opposite Guy’s. Did you know incidentally they had a joint Rugger team? United Hospitals.
The factory - Austins - has now become defunct. Only one shop remains 198 Bermondsey St. Exactly the same as in 1789. Mirrors and polished panelling with the air of the 18th century remaining. The Spa Rd. Shop was blown to pieces sometime in 1940-41. Long Lane just faded I think.
So, all unknowing, before I reached my first decade, I took both a very, very significant step into life and became a wage earner. A chemist’s boy. After school hours. Illegal I learned later since 11 was the minimum permitted age under the Defence of the Realm Act (which, incidentally, compulsorily closed all
shops at 8 pm: 1 o/c Thursday. And it was illegal to “treat” in public houses.)
It happened thus. The Long Lane manager asked me if I was interested enough to go to the Spa Rd shop. A boy was needed there - would I! I ran.
There I was invited “behind the counter” by the man I learned to love and respect for 4 years. He said I would be required to be at the shop each evening (not Thursday) from 5-8 pm. And Saturday 9 am - 9 pm. To dust, sweep, run errands, make myself generally useful. Be clean in person, etc for a weekly 3/-! Wow! 3/- ! I leaped at it. 2/6 for mum. 6d for me! By the time I left in 1921 my pay was 8/- . And I was rich otherwise.
Riches indeed. And, perhaps the odd copper here and there. I wonder if you’ve ever seen a drawing of the traditional “John Bull?” No, I’m not wandering; it’s germane in this context. “John Bull,” very stout round figure, Pickwickian but dour rather than impish. A Union Jack waistcoat tight stretched across tummy. Hunting knee length boots. Tall hat.
Well, my new boss had such a figure (but clad in neat well tailored grey tweed. Oh! And a slightly walrus moustache, grey eyes that could twinkle - rarely - bushy eyebrows. When out he wore a nondescript trilby). He suffered fools ungladly and hypochondriacs not at all.
He travelled each day from Theydon Bois (Epping Forest) to Liverpool St. There he caught a 78 bus (buses in those days were all of the ‘Old Bill’ type. Solid rubber tyres. Open tops. Seats inside the length of the bus so passengers looked at each other or the “ads” above. Seats outside faced forward each seating two with a centre gangway. Wood. Hard on the bum. Ridgy. If wet weather an apron could be pulled across to keep knees dry.
Ladies rarely “went upstairs.” In our 1929 courting days your mum was no lady. Only two bus companies in London. The biggest, The London General Omnibus Co. And Thomas Tilling.
Both private companies. Both very profitable and they paid drivers and conductors 30% above average wages so were able to really pick and choose staff. And their staff were smart and proud.)
78 buses were owned by Tilling. The route is unchanged today as is the No. - 78. Shoreditch to Dulwich. Probably the only one unchanged in this respect.
To continue. He - my boss - paid 1d from Liverpool to the waste ground just where the Trocette cinema was built in later years. He walked to and from there each day down Grange Rd. to the shop in Spa Rd.
He would then be middle class and quite comfortably off. He’d a wife and two sons slightly older than his new shop boy (me). His home was his own with a very large garden. He grew all they needed. And his stout figure was well known around Spa Rd., his tongue respected.
He was a Fellow of the Pharmaceutical Society and could compound a prescription from the basic roots and/or crystals. A real Apothecary. A Fellow of the Zoo. Of Kew Gardens. F.H.S. whatever the learned body (in the knowledge sense) he had a Fellowship. All this became useful to me at 12-14 years. A note from him admitted me - on Sundays - to Kew, the Zoo and any museum in London; none of this is exaggeration. If ever a man absorbed learning my new and first boss did. He knew just about everything. I changed his books at Spa Rd. Library each week. Never fiction. Biography, Autobiography or advanced in an academic sense. And - you’ll not credit this - His name. John Bull. Really. When he transferred to the Bermondsey shop in 1919-ish the bottom dropped out for me. When I learned some years after he retired of his death I felt a great sadness. John Bull. He had, perhaps, the strongest influence on my life.
So, each day I’d race home from school (not Thursday. This was fortunate because from school we “caterpillared” to church for compulsory Benediction. I may return to this later) have a scrappy piece of bread, cup of tea, then take the walk I remember so well. For four years. I recall almost every paving stone, kerb stone. Every house, shop, pub. The same day in day out, week in week out. Year in year out. And in this time I lived and loved every minute. Never late. Always willing. I loved the job and the man for themselves.
But of the house - Lockyer St. - Kipling St., left into Long Lane, the long stretch down Long Lane - cross over at Weston St., across Bermondsey Square, diagonally across Tower Bridge Rd. Into Grange Rd. And the long straight to turn left into Spa Rd. The shop (our shop at the near corner). Through the door into the “smell.” Scent, soap, carbolic. Chemistry. The outer shop had show cases (rarely changed) on both sides, and half cases half counter faced as one entered. A narrow opening into the “holy of holies,” the back shop. The showcases were always clean, the varnish always shone. A ‘char’ did for an hour each morning. She, and feather duster. There were hundreds of square drawers with gold labels under a fixed glass cover. Powders, crystals; roots; leaves. Smell of this, that, the other.
Bottles had the contents too in gold leaf. Mixture; oleum; Concentra; none of today’s sophisticated pills tabs; capsule; drops; injections. Prescriptions had to be made up from 4 or 5 items (Doctors wrote just as illegibly then and under J.B.s instruction I developed a sixth sense for later I satisfied him of my reliability to do the “stock prescriptions” - Mist. Ammon. Chlor; Mist Alb., etc.) . He took no undue chances and always had half an eye on me. But he used pestle and mortar. He compounded and made pills. Even distilled. A proud man who sought perfection. I learned first hand of our stupid non metric measuring. Apothecaries measures fluid - minims, drachms, grains, gills, pints; scamples (?) Signs. Oh!
All sorts of mysteries. Measuring cylinders were in about 6 sizes from tiny to big. All the one shape - conical with a heavy base. One held the cylinder at eye level and - according to size - poured or carefully dropped in the prescribed quantity. A funnel rested in the bottle (of appropriate size) 1/4 oz (or less, to 16 oz) into which the liquid was poured. When complete bash in the cork, drop hot sealing wax (a gas jet and sticks of red wax) on top of cork, wait 5 secs then press the dispenser’s shop die on the wax. Keep bottle and prescription together; take appropriate label from rack and on this write the doc’s orders. 1, 2, 3 times a day, Before, after. At night. Shake the bottle. Wrap the completed bottle in white paper. Call the customer’s name and repeat the dose vocally. Some with tiny red round boxes of pills; with powders. Ointments (unguentum) oils (oleum).
All this came after a good deal of time, learning and explanation. I weighed from bulk packets (from stock - this I kept generously filled) things in demand every day. Epsom and Glauber salts. Licorice powder. Boracic powder and crystals. Ointments, boracic, eye, sulphur. Pills little and large, liver. Rhubarb. Oh! hundreds of items.
Kept stock of bottles in cellar (rat infested) from 5 ½ oz to 16 oz and Winchester quart. Keep bottles washed when returned. Make sure bottle, bag and pill box label rack was always full.
Go to local doctors (about 5 I remember) with special orders. A copper here and there.
Go to the manufacturing chemists for items beyond our own capacity. In between, my good boss would question and educate me. I learned prodigiously from him. Where to go. All the museums. The Zoo. Public gardens of interest beside Kew. And he’d give me each Saturday as he stepped on his 78 bus a “tanner, for yourself, mind.”
Yes; every evening down Grange Road soon after closing time John Bull’s figure could be seen rolling with my skinny form trotting beside him. For he gave me faith in myself against my complexes of which I have yet to tell you. To me they were serious. Very. But he convinced me they weren’t really bad. I had a) a very, very strong cast in my left eye (seen Chester Conklin on old film? That was me), b) I was very, very skinny, c) I had ginger hair.
Dear old J.B. ‘convinced’ me out of them. He sensed my unprosperous background and, true gentleman as he was did all he could to “sow a seed” in my mind. You must judge as to the result.
He trusted me with the till (not automatic; just a drawer) and I had no thought as to why he shouldn’t. We instinctively knew each other. I served from the show cases cosmetics and wrapped advertised lines. I enjoyed the full day Saturday. Wait for J.B. I was always early. Sweep shop front. Bucket of water. Sweep again. Sort weeks prescriptions. (They were priced and “sent in” monthly. Incidentally, do you know the prescription form has remained almost unchanged to this day? I’d stamp each one on the back with our rubber stamp. Then they go to 198 Bermondsey St., thence to the London Health Committee for payment.)
I learned too from J.B. of the stupid claims made for properly advertised products. He said they’d all (or mostly all), be better poured down the sink. And most stock doctor’s prescriptions. Beechams Pills, as an example, were advertised as “worth a guinea a box.” We sold them at 3 a penny. Or in 1/3, 3/- and 5/- boxes. J.B. proved to me - by actually making them - that the cost in raw materials of a 5/- box of Beechams Pills was - 4 ½ d !
We had, too, a couple of daylight air raids. I remember clearly standing - among a crowd - in the shop doorway looking up at the cloudless sky at about a dozen tiny aeroplanes. By today’s speed they crept across the sky. I think they were Taubes or Gothas. Since the bombs (50 lbs or so) had to be dropped over the cockpit side the danger was minimal.
J.B. clumped my ear’ole and shushed me to the cellar.
This was late 1917 so I must have been about 10 ½ . I learned from your uncle Bill that night of him being in Billingsgate Market during the raid and of a “near miss’ showering him (and his accompanying pals) with debris. Just shows!
So my stay with J.B. was beyond price. Rest his soul. In a different sense he’s, in my mind, standing beside Father George Martin.
His eventual successor a Mr. Francis was younger. A nice enough chap; go ahead in a sense because he cleared the shop window and redressed it weekly. He pushed the “popular” cosmetics. I suppose he must have been successful since he finished as Chairman of Austins, but Austins was anyway a dying company. Overcome in time by the times, to coin a phrase. But, for me, it wasn’t the same although Francis (after a close scrutiny) saw no reason to “demote me” as it were. I still did the stock lines and “served.”
So, quite happily I divided my time between School and job until 1921. In Feb. I was 14 and, as I mentioned I left school - with not the slightest regret - on the Friday after. I continued full time as Chemists assistant for a few weeks. In the meantime I applied (with hope more than anything) for a job as messenger boy with the now defunct Eastern Telegraph Co. of Moorgate E.C.1. There was the G.P.O. The Eastern Telegraph Co. The Western Union and Commercial Cable Co. (Now merged). These latter covered South and North America.
The G.P.O. was internal. The Eastern covered the East to Australia. Marconi Wireless Co. had only just started so it was otherwise all telegraph and cable (undersea).
From enquiries I made both W.U. and C.C. were definitely blind alley jobs. That is at 18 - sack. (fired)
G.P.O. not so. Once established promotion et seq to postman was guaranteed. A job for life. Security.
And the E.T. Co. on engagement gave assurance that if the messenger showed reasonable promise promotion “indoors” was sure. Again, security. This at a time when unemployment due to the “flood” of the armed services was rife and growing to a scandalous degree.
So, I applied to the E.T. Co. tried the tough exam and - to my surprise - passed. Mr. Francis was kind enough to let me go immediately - with cordial good wishes.
So, at 14 I was measured for uniform, hat, etc., and became a telegraph messenger. No. 223 attached to Borough Branch (B.R.) 6 Denman St., London Bridge, S.E.1. South of the River. On my own ground. So picture your dad at 14. Blue uniform. Leggings (below knees). Red piping at neck and sleeves. Peaked cap. Polished boots. Polished brass buttons. Proud. The gateway to life. Hours 3 weeks 8 am to 4 pm (plus 3 hours overtime to 7 pm) 1 week 7.30 am to 3.30 pm 1 week 11.30 am to 7.30 pm. Wages 3 weeks 38/-, 2 weeks 27/-.
Before emerging as a wage earner full time it wouldn’t hurt to reflect back awhile. When this chronicle began London Bridge was but 26 years old. It is fairly certain your great grandfather Philip knew old London Bridge and the City and Southwark of Dicken’s days including the many coach inns.
Tall masted ships came upstream to London Bridge and the view to Greenwich Hill down river was unobstructed by Tower Bridge (1894). The first steamship 1839. Thomas Guy’s Hospital started 172 was beginning to enlarge and St. Thomas’ moving to the new site by London’s second largest bridge - Westminster.
Victoria had been Queen for but 20 years and railways were beginning to creep all over Britain. Even so the change and speed of life between 1858 and 1907 (the birthdates of your father and mine) was, to my mind, insignificant by comparison to the years 1914-21.
In those seven years the “horseless carriages” became automobiles, motors, lorries, buses. Aeroplanes were used first in combat and sophisticated types were being built by Handley Page for passenger use. “Wireless” was on the doorstep of every home - almost. And progress in every shape and form was accelerating. The Great War had left Europe ruined and America prosperous. The so called “working class” became more active in a trade union sense. The Labour Party in politics and Parliament was flexing its muscles. Prices after 1918 had more than kept pace with the higher wages. Men with but one arm or leg; sightless, crippled having no hope of work were selling matches in the gutter; singing in the streets; playing barrel organs or just plain begging.
These - war heroes - were home again, worse off really than their millions of comrades who slept in “Flanders Fields.”
Lloyd George, leader of the Coalition Government that ‘won’ the war was, in 1921, rocking towards political oblivion. Women ‘nearly’ had the vote (1918) - at 30 years of age! I recall the line of a then popular song - “the poor get poorer, the rich get morer” - pretty true.
My own family in 1921. Dad still worked. At Hays Wharf as a crane driver. My eldest sister had married and lived in Jamaica Rd. My eldest brother wounded and back from hospital in Liverpool and London stated flatly his intention never again to work. His left arm was almost useless. A bullet wound in the elbow. Ted and Will were working. So, when I began, at 14 as messenger for the Eastern Telegraph Co.
I imagine things must have been less hard for my mother. In a family sense I became “detached” as ‘full time work,’ and an entirely new life held my attention. I had so much to learn. The E.T.C head office was then a huge building in Moorgate St. - Electra House. (It since by nationalisation has merged with Marconi into “Imperial.”). Oh, sorry. My sister Lou still at school.
From “E.H.” as we called it telegraphists tapped Morse keys every hour of every day throughout the year to every country - civilised or not - east of Gibraltar, Africa to India, to Australia. All ‘operators’ were trained at the school in Hampshire to serve abroad. Those who went to the Tropics had only short spells of duty. But this was my carrot - promotion assured. Security. A bombshell burst 3 ½ years later as you will learn.
The E.T.C. apart from E.H. had about 7 branches in London all ‘tied’ by transmit/receive Morse sets to the “traffic floor” at E.H. The office I was to spend more than 3 very happy years was the smallest. At 6 Denman St., known as the Borough or B.R. It had a staff of nine. Five outdoor messengers (of which I was junior of course) two ‘indoor’ messengers or clerks who ran the clerical routine and kept us in order (these were formerly ‘outdoor’) and two ‘O/C’ in charge. These two operated the machines and were in complete charge. Again; promoted over the years and trained to the job. The office opened at 8 am. Closed 7 pm. One O/C in charge with one indoor messenger started at 8 opening the office. 3 messengers started with them at 8 am. The other two ‘senior’ staff came on at 11.30 and took complete charge at 1 pm when their counterparts finished. So between 11.30 - 1 pm meal breaks were covered.
The 3 messengers who began before 8 am finished at 7 pm (3 hours overtime Mon - Fri) Sat 8 am - 1
pm.
Of the other two one began at 7.30 going first to E.H. (Moorgate) to collect and sort (in 4 “rounds”) the nights accumulation of telegrams for business houses and firms in BR area (South of river). He - the ‘sorter’ arrived at 6 Denman St. Just about 8 am and all four went on their rounds. Generally all were back about 9-9.15.
In the meantime the Morse had been “chattering” and the O/C received, either a) by ear or b) by reading the tape which registered the code.
So usually, it was, for us, in and out till about 11 o/c by which time - on normal days - we’d caught up as it were and had spells of ½ hour or so ‘resting’ - cups of tea. Reading. Gossiping. Darts. Table football. The chaps who started at 7.30 finished and went home 3.30. That left the fifth lad. He started late. 11.30 am and, until 3 o/c did no outside work except for the exceptional “rushes” of traffic.
He was the ‘orderly’ for the week. Kept the messroom clean and tidy. Washed cooking gear (Yes, we ‘cooked’ our own food or warmed it up) went out to the Lyons on the corner for tea. (We flannelled the “hippies” - waitresses - and counter staff and were great pals). Fancy ! A quart of good tea for 2d! Even the manageress did a “nelson.” At 3 o/c the ‘early’ man was virtually finished and the ‘late’ one took over delivery or collecting.
At 7 the office closed. 3 lads went home with the O/C and indoor man. The late lad collected the ‘bag.’ A large leather satchel with records and copies of all business done during the day. This he took to Room 64 at E.H. in Moorgate St. Finished.
It was a fair enough system run by weekly rota. We had two short weeks. Three long. By the ruling standards our wages were good - better than other cable companies or the G.P.O. A sensible lad could save money and be reasonably well off.
Boots and uniforms were issued twice yearly. Summer (light weight) and winter (with heavy warm overcoat). The kit was sober (navy blue) and neat. Brass buttons and numerals (mine 223) on the high neck stock. Caps were peaked (like our postmen now). Uniforms were made to measure for perfect fit. For the first time my clothes really fitted!
We had a good tradition for appearance and were aware enough of it to care.
Each “journey” had a set time; we were constantly reminded that the 12,000 odd miles from Australia for a telegram took from 60 to 120 seconds. From 6 Denman St. To the local addressee it took much longer!
We were a happy crowd enough and the O/Cs although not ‘slack’ for discipline gave reasonable enough regard for our “teen age” status providing we, on our part, didn’t overdo it.
As messengers we cultivated the habit of “getting there” very rapidly and ‘going easy” on return. Thus a 10 minute “tross” (as we called it) was usually 3 ½ out, 6 ½ back. Pro rata for longer walks. Maximum was a return aggregate of 40 minutes. Over this we were sent by public transport. Still “Old Bill” solid tyre buses but the first “covered tops” were being designed by the L.G.O.C. In this connection; about 1924 one or two competitive buses began to challenge the L.G.O.C. monopoly. They were promptly called “pirates.” Their idea was not to undercut fares as much as to “get there faster.”
The races we saw! In those days a passenger could stop a bus or tram) anywhere en route just by one tug (literally) on the bell. So “pirate” agents on L.G.O.C. buses and vice versa just pinged away (as passengers) to slow up the opposition, if you see what I mean. It must have been profitable because, in no time, there came hundreds of “pirates” with some only one owner one bus. From this chaos emerged, eventually, legislation for public ownership of public transport.
But I’m going ahead of events.
I loved the life as messenger, summer and winter. It proved healthy. I liked the bustle of street life. The solid phalanx of people crossing London Bridge morning and evening.
Going to the many offices in the Weston St. Area as far as Leather Market. To deliver and collect messages spanning the world eastwards. To the wharves and offices in Tooley St - eggs, butter, bacon, cheese. Fruit from the overseas countries. The Borough Market. And, walking, walking, walking, time to think.
Time to read. Time to notice the world’s business on the newspaper placards. To notice unemployed people becoming unemployable by the very hopeless rotten world conditions as war’s aftermath. The only really effective monarchy left in Europe - our own - needed to be bolstered up by the “circus” of the Wembley Empire Exhibition in 1922.
Planning for this began about 1920. The then unknown district of Wembley (within fairly easy reach of London) was laid out into “Pavilions” of various parts of the Empire - from Suez to Sydney. All pukkha. Natives. Straw huts. Jungles. Indian temples. Millions of pounds were expended and, I think, the Exhibition lasted about 2 years. The Stadium (Wembley) is all that remains. I went there once and was impressed.
It was historical for one thing though. It was opened officially by King George V and heard (for the first time) by radio. By landline to Savoy Hill (2LO) thence on the air.
Mr. Greenbury - our O/C - had a two valve set (£25.00 at that time and not too reliable). He brought it to 6 Denman St. And those of us “in” at the time heard, faintly, the voice of the king declaring “this Exhibition open.” The first time I heard “the wireless.”
But for 30/- or so one could buy a “crystal set” with earphones. The heart of this contraption was a piece of crystal, a “catswhisker” of wire, and a coil. The wire (catswhisker) was “probed” on the piece of crystal. With luck quite a loud and clear signal came through on the earphones. ‘2LO’ was the call sign from Savoy Hill. Broadcasting for no more than 3 hours daily. This increased to 4 ½ hours finishing at 10.30 pm. Studio conditions were primitive. Still, we enjoyed it all. I was unpopular at home with the one I bought because the rustle of a newspaper annoyed me to screaming pitch!
However, I sensed as I was growing the futility, injustice and stupidity of life. It struck me strongly that to be poor was almost criminal. I read again and again of “the deserving poor,” “the poorer classes,” “Lower classes,” Upper classes,” middle classes.” One thing stood out clearly to me. Education and knowledge were to be increasingly invaluable. They were the keys for opening life’s doors. For the underprivileged that is.
I was, even at that time, far from illiterate by any standard but more, much more, was needed.
I read newspapers. Joined the public libraries. But could find nothing to “crystallize.”
Unfortunately, I relied too heavily on the telegraph company and “promotion.” I applied, and was granted, for permission to go to school one day a week to take examinations for Literature and Maths in Royal Society of Arts. The academic equivalent to City and Guilds. For this, instead of going to Denman St. On Thursday I went all day to Golden Lane School Aldersgate in the City.
I passed the exams - the only telegraph messenger to do so. There were about 300 G.P.O. messengers entered. 60% passed. With these I was presented with the certificates by C.G. Ammon, MP (Labour) for Peckham (I think) a Cabinet Minister in the first Labour Government ever - 1924. Under Ramsay McDonald it was Government in office - not in power since the combined Lib. - Tory members were enough to outvote the Government, who, really, governed by courtesy.
However, my success was conveyed to the E.H Superintendent who sent me a message of congratulations.
(I learned, too late, that I was earmarked for indoor promotion in any event and in due time as “outstanding.”)
But suddenly a message was sent to “all stations” in London that the Board of E.T.C. had decided to “cancel promotion as a right” and sack all messengers at age 18. I was not to know of my personal exception. It would have made no difference anyway since I had, in my own mind, decided to treat “problems of life” as being “right” or “wrong.”
This was, to me, a betrayal, and definitely “wrong.”
So, with enthusiasm I joined lads from all the other offices and went on strike. It was 100%. We all came out and, for a few days, made front page news and had some public sympathy. We lost of course. Telephones were too easy a substitute for us - and quicker.
So at age 17 - in 1924 with many others - millions - I became unemployed with no benefit since I “gave up” work.
Dad of course backed me to the hilt. Dock and other strikes were always taking place.
Industrial unrest was growing. The so-called Labour Government had just no idea of governing.
I did a few weeks as pub barman. A few weeks as stores assistant to a hotel chain. But, too strongly, I realised how - for all my “intelligence” - untrained I was.
I decided eventually to settle to being a baker’s roundsman. For Matthias - corner of Staple St.
For 4 years I did that job. I enjoyed again the outdoor life. But with an increasing interest in politics. At 17 ½ I joined the Bermondsey Labour Party. A very, very active body indeed.
Bermondsey had, but for rare exceptions, always returned a Liberal M.P. My father always voted so and had no room for Tories or those new “Reds.” To me this seemed stupid since reform was a “long time a-coming” from the old political parties.
About that time also prominent public figures were being taken to court for corruption in high places. Lloyd George too had openly admitted “selling” honours to the highest bidders. The proceeds to the Liberal Party. His challenge to Bon
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