Shadows of the Workhouse (10 page)
Read Shadows of the Workhouse Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
“This boy seems to answer your requirements. I give you my assurance that he is hard-working. All our boys are trained to work.”
The coster looked Frank up and down and sucked his teeth. He had only two, one in the upper and one in the lower jaw, both at the front, so he was able to vary his sucking with singularly comic effect.
He pinched Frank’s ear. “You’re a skinny li’l sprog. Can you lift a box of herrings?”
Frank didn’t dare to answer back in front of the Master, so he just nodded.
“Ain’ chew got a tongue, ven?” demanded the coster.
Again Frank nodded.
“Yes, he has and he can use it to good effect when he wants to,” answered the Master.
“Vat’s what I needs, a boy as can holler good and loud like, an’ make ’em all sit up.”
“This is the boy for you, then. He’s got a voice like a foghorn,” said the Master conclusively.
“I’ll take ’im. An’ if he don’t come up to scratch, I’ll bring him back next week.”
Before Frank had time to say a word, he was whisked off to the clothes cupboards, his workhouse uniform removed, and ill-fitting street clothes put on him. The coster took him by the hand and they stepped out into the road together.
Tip was a flashy dresser. Not for him the drab greys and browns of working men. He wore green corduroy trousers and a shirt of vivid blue. His shoes were tied with enormous bows which bore no resemblance to the humble shoelace, and at his throat was tied a silk neckerchief of red and blue. His cap was not your ordinary cloth cap, as worn by the English, nor the beret favoured by the French, yet it bore a close similarity to the French style. Tip’s cap could be described as a very large beret, made of the best velvet, and the colour, neither blue nor green, seemed to change with the light and movement. Tip considered himself a real swell, and his doxy admired him prodigiously.
He glanced down at Frank and his masculine vanity acknowledged that the boy was taking in his elegance. “You gotta look sharp in our trade, titch. No use lookin’ like a bag ’o dirty washin’. The ladies don’ like it. An’ it’s the ladies as wha’ does the buyin’, see? So you gotta please the ladies. That’s rule number one. We’ll ’ave to get you some new clobber. Can’t ’ave you goin’ round lookin’ like vat, queering my pitch. The ladies would run away fritted, vey would. I knows of a Jew as what can fix you up cheap and natty like.”
Tip had started the sentence in his baritone voice, but as he came to the end of it, the words came out in a series of high, unexpected squeaks. Aware that Frank was listening with puzzled attention, he explained.
“It’s the toobs. The toobs what wears out with all that ’ollering. They gives out if you’re a good coster, like what I am, ’cause they’re too delicate to stand all that ’ollerin’. Vat’s what I needs a boy for, to ’oller, along with other fings, lots of other fings, all of which I’ll teach you, but ’ollerin’ will be one of your first jobs. Now let’s ’ear you ’oller. See vat li’l lad over there, playing in vat puddle? Well, you call out, loud as you can now, ‘Hey, mucky, your mum’s comin’.”
Frank caught the spirit of things, and bellowed the words out with all his strength. The boy jumped up and ran round the corner like a greyhound.
Frank roared with laughter, and squeezed Tip’s hand. “Vat’s what I needs,” said Tip. “Reckons as how you’ll suit me, an’ if you can pick up ve other tricks of the trade quick like, we’ll get on famous. Now we’re gettin’ to my lodgings, an’ my doxy’s Doll see, and Doll, she’s a rare ’un, but she won’ stand no lip from boys, see, so don’ you give her no lip an’ you won’t feel the back of ’er ’and.” Tip rubbed the side of his chin reflectively and muttered, “An’ you don’t wanna feel the back of ’er ’and, I can tell yer.”
They climbed a dark and foul-smelling staircase to the fourth floor. A large and shapely woman ambled towards them. She wore a red skirt, frayed and dirty at the hem, and a purple blouse, high at the neck, with a row of jet buttons down the front against which a full bosom pressed, screaming for release. Black jet beads hung to her waist, and heavy black hair hung down around her shoulders. When she smiled, her teeth were also black, as though they had been painted to match her outfit. She looked at them both, then cried out, “Is vis the li’l workhouse kid, ven? Oh, look, he’s thin, the pet,” and she pressed Frank’s head to her bosom, an experience which he found to be not unpleasant, though the smell could have been sweeter. “We’ll ’ave to give ’im some pie dahn Dill’s, eh Tip?”
“Let’s ge’ goin’ ven,” said Tip with a leer.
Doll twisted her hair up on top of her head in a fashionable coil (Frank watched, fascinated) and stuck several pins in. One of them had a bird on the end and this she settled on the top of her head.
“You bet, squire,” she said with a wink. Then she leaned down to Frank. “He’s a nice-lookin’ li’l lad, bu’ thin like. Oh, I don’ like ’a see ’em so thin. What’s yer name an’ all, eh? We’ll ge’ choo some pie, ven. Howzat?”
It was nearly seven o’clock and the streets were filled with people. Apart from marching to school in a crocodile, Frank had not been outside the workhouse gates for years. He was filled with wonder and to linger was irresistible. Here, a family was fighting, the man and woman threatening each other with equal fury; there, some boys were playing skittles; yonder a woman was fetching water from the pump whilst a crowd stood around with their buckets, gossiping as they waited. Frank had not seen women for years, and couldn’t take his eyes off them, until he realised with alarm that Tip and Doll were almost out of sight, and he had to run to catch up with them. They sauntered along, greeting people, chaffing children, Tip pinching the cheeks of young girls, Doll screaming across the street to another woman. They both dressed in a more gaudy fashion than any of their neighbours, and Frank felt proud to be with them, although neither looked round to see if he was still there.
They entered a beer shop, high-ceilinged, bare-walled, with a wooden floor. The serving counter was at one end next to a raised platform with a piano on it. The room was not particularly full, and Tip and Doll seemed to know everyone. Frank was all eyes and ears. This was the high life indeed!
“You standin’ a top o’ reeb [
pot of beer
], Al?”
pot of beer
], Al?”
“Sey [
yes
], I done a doogheno flash [
good deal
] today. But kool ’im [
look at him
]. Who’s he?”
yes
], I done a doogheno flash [
good deal
] today. But kool ’im [
look at him
]. Who’s he?”
“My wen dal [
new lad
] Give ’im some reeb an’ rater” [
beer and water
].
new lad
] Give ’im some reeb an’ rater” [
beer and water
].
Frank took his beer and sipped it, puzzled. Conversation continued.
“Jack, ’e ’ad a regular tosseno tol [
bad luck
]. ’Ad a showful [
bad money
]. Bigger loof [
fool
] ’im.”
bad luck
]. ’Ad a showful [
bad money
]. Bigger loof [
fool
] ’im.”
“He musta bin flash karnurd [
half drunk
] at ve time.”
half drunk
] at ve time.”
“On [
no
], just a dabeno [
bad debt
].
no
], just a dabeno [
bad debt
].
Costers in those days spoke to each other almost entirely in back slang, incomprehensible to an outsider. This continued until well after the Second World War.
Frank’s eyes rested on each of these big, confident men as he spoke, but none was as flamboyant or assured as Tip, and the seeds of hero-worship were sown in this young heart.
He drank his beer. No one seemed to notice him. He was hungry, and Doll, who was flirting with a man sporting a walrus moustache, appeared to have forgotten the pie she had promised him.
The beer shop filled up, cards were brought out and men sat down to the serious business of gambling. A group of boys in a corner were engaged in the equally serious business of ‘three ups’. A piano player started a tune, and everyone sang along, getting louder and louder at each chorus. A girl leaped onto the stage and started dancing with more energy and vigour than grace, accompanied by shouts and catcalls from the audience. The beer flowed and the laughter swelled. Exhausted, Frank fell asleep on the floor.
He was awakened by Doll, screaming, “Oh, the poor li’l nipper. ’Ere, Tip, you’ll ’ave to carry ’im.”
“Take me for a monkey?” said Tip, scornfully. He shook Frank hard and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on, there’s a day’s work ahead.”
Doll was the worse for wear and hung onto Tip’s arm as they walked through the streets. Frank, more asleep than awake, kept close behind them. They climbed the endless steps to the fourth floor, and a straw mattress and a blanket were pulled out from behind the big feather bed and put on the floor under the table for Frank, who was only too thankful to lie down anywhere. He went to sleep to the comforting and familiar sounds of grunting and puffing and rhythmic bed rocking.
Frank was awakened by a flannel soaked in cold water being thrown on his face. He leaped up and banged his head on the table. Stunned, he gasped: “What’s up? Where am I?”
Tip spoke. But it was a very different Tip from the evening before. Gone the flashy clothes, gone the easy swagger and pleasant bonhomie. The morning revealed Tip the coster, Tip the businessman, Tip of the calculating, clever, ruthless eye for a bargain. “Out o’ bed, sharp now. There’s work ’a be done. Billingsgate opens at four, and it’s three o’clock, an’ we’ve gotta get the barrow an’ the gear, an’ be there. Get some clothes on, an’ follow me.”
Tip was already in his work trousers and was pulling on his heavy boots. Frank felt the urgency and leaped out of bed. He was still dressed from the night before and had only to find his boots. He pulled them on hastily and stood up straight.
“Good. Now take vat bag, an’ we’re off.”
Out in the night air, Tip was electric with energy. He kept doing little runs and skips and punching the air with his fists. He gave several short, barking shouts, took in great lungfuls of air and blew it out noisily. He was working himself up to a fever pitch, and Frank caught the energy. He sensed that something significant was happening, and he ran along the dark, quiet street, alive to everything, tingling with anticipation.
They went to a tunnel under a bridge. Other men were there already and each man had a boy. They greeted each other in their own lingo. A door was opened, revealing a pitch-black cavern, and a naptha flare was lit with a match. The flame leaped up, revealing a stack of barrows, trucks, handcarts, donkey carts, bridles, hooks, chains, ropes, tarpaulins – a medley of wood and metal.
Tip growled to Frank, “Watch wot I takes, and be sure you remembers it. If you don’t ge’ the right gear, you can’t do yer job, an’ the tally bloke there, he’ll cheat you if ’e can.”
He selected what would be needed for the day, and paid the rental to the man with the flare. “Push this ’ere, an’ let’s get goin’.”
A boy called out, “Hey, yennun – you.”
Frank took no notice.
The boy kicked him hard. “Don’t you answer ven, yennun?”
Tip explained. “He means ‘new one’. That’s you, see? Take no notice, we got work ’a do. You’ll pick up ve lingo in no time.”
In pain, and limping, Frank pushed the barrow. He had learned to hide all signs of weakness in the workhouse and it had stood him in good stead.
“Now, we mus’ get a move on.” Tip leaned his weight on the barrow and it sped over the cobbles, rattling on solid, iron-framed wheels.
Billingsgate was London’s fish market, and lay on the north bank of the Thames, east of the Monument. Fishing boats came in throughout the night and the market stalls, laden with fresh fish, were ready for business when the market opened at 4 a.m.
Tip’s electric excitement is, if anything, intensified and every nerve in his body seems to be quivering. A fishy, seaweedy smell hits his nostrils, and he inhales deeply. “Beautiful, be-oootiful,” he murmurs appreciatively.
The noise all around is intense. Above the babble of voices Frank can hear the shouts of salesmen, standing on boxes or tables, roaring out their merchandise and their prices. A Babel of competition.
“’Andsome cod, best in the market – all alive.”
“Fine Yarmouth bloaters – oo’s the buyer?”
“Eels O! Eels O! Alive O!”
“Wink, wink, winkles, best for tea.”
“’Ere you are, guvner, fine brill, come an’ look at ’em, guv. You won’t find better.”
“Over ’ere. Finney ’addock. ’Ad – ’ad – ’ad – ’addy ’addock.
“Now or never – whelks, whelks, whelks, I say.”
On all sides everyone is asking “What’s the price?” whilst shouts of laughter from salesmen and customers, bargaining and bantering, pepper the noise of the crowd.
Frank can see, in the semi-darkness of the sheds, the white bellies of turbot shining like mother-of-pearl; living lobsters, their claws flailing helplessly in the air; mounds of herrings with scales glittering like sequins; huge baskets piled with grey oysters, blue mussels, pink shrimps, sackfuls of whelks, their yellow shells piled up high; buckets of grey-and-white eels slithering and sliding all over each other.
Frank sees porters in strangely shaped leather helmets, rather like squashed pagodas, carrying fish baskets on their heads. Eight hundred tons of fish pour in and out of Billingsgate every day and all of it, down to the last herring, is unloaded and portered in this way. A man whose neck is ‘set’ can carry sixteen baskets, each weighing a stone, on his head. These powerful men are the backbone of the fish market, and their history is one of high romance. The quinquereme of Nineveh, laden with spices and precious oils, was unloaded in exactly the same way in medieval London. Caesar’s galleys, rowed up the Thames by chained men, were berthed here, London’s most ancient port, and unloaded by men such as Frank sees.
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