London Folk Tales (20 page)

The gentleman was amazed. But when he checked his pocket he was so pleased with the young fellow, you wouldn’t believe. ‘You’ve restored my faith in human nature,’ said he. ‘I’m delighted to meet a young man like you. Where are you from youngster, and what is it you do?’

Well, the lad started to stammer something about working for a shoemaker, but the gentleman was looking at him so intently he found himself slipping into the truth. ‘Well Sir,’ he explained, ‘that is to say, I help with shoes in a way, for I’m a tanner’s bucket boy. But I pretend I’m in the trade, ‘cause I wish I could learn how shoes are made – and anyone can dream, can’t they?’

‘They can indeed,’ said the gentleman, ‘and sometimes dreams come true. I’ve a cousin who makes shoes, good ones too. I’ll see if he needs an apprentice, an honest boy like you. Meet me here this time tomorrow, and I’ll let you know.’ And with that, and a tip of his hat, he was off and away down the street.

Well first the lad was so excited he was walking on air. Then he couldn’t believe it at all; tomorrow the man wouldn’t even be there. Of course it was only a gentleman’s joke, he thought, as he waited next morning. But just as he was giving up hope, the man came round the corner. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but it’s all arranged,’ he called out with a cheery wave. ‘As for apprentice fees, let me pay them now, please. You’re honest enough to trust. Pay me back when you start to trade.’

So that was the start of a whole new life, and the young lad worked like a fiend. He was determined to be the best ‘bespoke shoemaker’ you could find. His fingers were nimble, and his eye was very good, and he was so eager to learn, he did everything he should. At the end of his seven years he was an absolute master. He could do a stitch so very small he did sixty-four to the inch. And he sewed at such speed if there was need for it, no one could work any faster.

The old gentleman, who’d often pop by to visit his cousin, was delighted with his protégée. Once he’d finished his apprenticeship, he paid the lad’s freeman fees. ‘Just so you can trade,’ he said. ‘I look after my investments.’

Now he was a shoemaker, and a freeman of London town, he had the skills to make good shoes, and the right to sell them too. A fine future lay ahead. And there was still only one person he wanted to share it with. Whilst he was an apprentice he had been busy most of the time, but that young girl he wanted to court had always been on his mind. And he wasn’t just seeing her in his imagination, because once he knew he was all set for a real profession, and he’d scrubbed off the lingering stink of his old one, he’d summoned up courage to ask her out. He’d been right about that spark, she’d said ‘Yes’ at once. So he and she had been walking and talking – and so on – ever since.

Where they went depended on when he was free, as he worked all hours. If it was dark, they’d go down by the river, watching the stars gleam on the water. If it was early, in the summer, their favourite place was Golden Lane. The goldsmiths would be working late on tables just outside their shops, taking advantage of the evening light. He’d admire the way they worked; the detail. She’d admire the work they’d done; the design. And they both enjoyed the sparkle. Secretly he also took note of the kind of rings she looked at most, promising himself he’d get her the best one day.

So he started saving a bit from every job he did, putting it aside for that ring. The trouble was, although he had the skills and the rights to do good business, he didn’t have the money or the place to start one. All he could do was work for other people, which was alright to get by, but no way to let him buy. Not the ring he wanted anyway.

And the next thing was, when they were out one day, they both of them got a bit carried away, and he popped the question and she said ‘Yes!’ straight away, like before. So they were to be married, and now he just had to get the best ring he could afford. Which turned out to be the thinnest of gold bands. He only hoped that she would understand. Being the kind of girl she was, she did. When the day came and he slipped it on her finger, she said it was the loveliest ring she had ever seen. She meant it too. He knew that, but it made him all the more determined to give her a ring anyone would be proud of, when he could.

Fortunately luck was on his side. So was the old gentleman. Since his cousin was getting old, and not wanting to work much longer, he persuaded him to take on his apprentice as a partner. So now that lad had half a shop and all the work that he could want. Then he was earning money alright. Before long, enough to buy that ring. The sparkliest one you’d ever seen. Thick gold with a diamond on it. She loved it, but you know what? She kept her little band as well, wouldn’t take it off.

Next thing he had to buy was a little house. Just in time before the baby came. It was right near St Giles-without-Cripplegate, which was handy for the christening. And for the next one too. Lucky the little house had a spare room. And space in the garden if they needed some more. Which was fortunate because she ended up having four. But his shoes and boots were in such high demand by then that money was no longer a real problem. Business was booming and he’d paid all his debts. As he got older he settled into being a man of wealth. Although he was generous with it too, helping other youngsters as he’d been helped himself.

He never complained about doing so much work. The only thing he minded was that now he had to travel a lot. People all over England, and Europe too, wanted to hear what he had to say about handmade shoes. For now there was competition from machines. That was why he was not there when his wife fell ill. They thought she had just fainted, but they couldn’t bring her round. Her breathing grew shallower, and she simply slipped away. Of course they called the doctor, and he came at once. But her heart had stopped, and there was no pulse. There was nothing he could do.

When her husband returned and found she was dead he nearly went out of his mind. He couldn’t forgive himself for being away; perhaps if he’d been there she might have been saved. He walked like a corpse himself with the cortege, and although it was only a step to the church, he had to be helped. Afterwards the children went to a neighbour’s house, and he went home by himself.

It was all so sudden, the grave was not dug, so the coffin was laid in the crypt for the night. Rest In Peace she should have had then. But the sexton had noticed her diamond wedding ring. It had sparkled so, before the coffin closed, and it glittered in his head as he went back home. It was worth such a lot, and she didn’t need it now. No one would know anyhow.

So, he crept back that night with a candle and the keys, and a knife in case of need. He unlocked the doors and went down into the crypt, and prised open the coffin lid. There she lay, arms crossed, and the candlelight caught an answering shine from the stone. What a waste it would have been to consign it to the dark. A diamond so large and hard against his palm.

Her finger was cold, and although it was bent, he managed to ease the ring free. He slipped it in his purse and reached to shut the lid. Then he saw the glint of another ring too, gold and lonely left behind. Waste not want not. He’d have that as well. He reached out again, to repeat his success.

But this little ring seemed to be held fast; he could get it to the knuckle but he couldn’t get it past. He pulled and he twisted. The ring wouldn’t move. But he refused to give up. If the finger wouldn’t straighten it would have to be cut. So he took out the knife, and he sawed and he sliced at the finger of the lady in the coffin. And she, lying there, felt a searing pain that cut through the cold, and cut through the coma, and cut through the numbness that had held her like a corpse. She screamed herself awake and up in her box, and her eyes wide open too.

And the sexton, seeing this avenging ghost, dropped her hand and fled. No time to take the candle, nor to lock the crypt, nor to spare a second glance and see her rising to her feet.

Dazed and confused but joyously alive, she let the candle light her up and out, and home to her husband. That thin little golden band he’d bought had brought them together again.

They say in their second lease of married life, she had four more children before she died, and returned to be buried in St Giles.

As I was a-walking along a London street,

A pretty little oyster girl I chanced for to meet,

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

For to see if she’d got any oysters.

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

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

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

For I see you are a lover of oysters.’

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

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

Where me and my pretty little oyster girl can lie

While we bargain for our basket of oysters?’

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

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

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

But she left me with her basket of oysters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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