Authors: Victor Gregg
King's Cross Kid (3 page)
5
The arrival of sister Emily changed our lives completely. One morning, less than a month after she was born, Dad went to work and that was the last we ever set eyes on him. It was as quick and abrupt as that: he just jumped ship and vanished into thin air. Gran came round our house every day for weeks, comforting and consoling her daughter. Notices were put in the paper, Gran went to the Salvation Army who were reckoned to be good at finding errant fathers, but the weeks turned into months, and eventually Mum stemmed her tears. After Dad disappeared John and I hardly missed him, but we felt our mum’s pain and that made us sad. Mother, who had been trained as a milliner, managed to get some home work from a firm in Bridle Lane, up near Leicester Square. Granddad came up with a second-hand Singer treadle sewing machine and our front room was turned into a bedroom-cum-dining room-cum-nursery-cum-workshop all in one. John still had six months to go before he was due to start at the infants’ school, and little Emily just lay in the top drawer of a chest of drawers that served as a cot and burbled happily away. I knew Mum was hurt, and hurt very deeply, but she seemed happy enough singing away in time with the treadling whatever gospel song came to her mind.
Every week Mother visited the relief centre, a council building that stood at the lower end of Great College Street. It was the distribution point where the women of the area gathered to plead for and collect their weekly ration of food coupons which could be exchanged at specially designated shops. We called it the ‘Poor House’. My memories of those humiliating visits will remain with me for ever, standing beside my mum, clutching on to her trembling hand while she faced the local council’s poor relief officials, three of them, a man and two unfriendly looking women. I have had problems with authority ever since.
Once I was with my mum sitting down with all the other women when her name was called out. She grabbed my hand and we stood in front of these grown-ups who were going to give my mum her food tickets. The woman sitting behind the table said something to my mum that made her burst into tears, and as she let go of my hand to wipe her eyes I dashed up to the platform and kicked the woman who had made my mum cry. ‘You’re a witch, you made my mum cry, I know what a witch is, you’re a witch.’ I was told that I was shouting and screaming fit to wake the dead. But I was also told that Mum got the extra coupons she had pleaded for.
On the walk home Mum collected what food we needed for the next three or four days. She always included a tin of Tate & Lyle’s Golden Syrup as a special treat for us boys. As well as having it on our morning porridge (which she was a great believer in), it also livened up the dryness of the stale loaves of bread. The only time John and I ever tasted fresh bread was when we were round at Gran’s in Kenton Street. Stale loaves only cost a penny whereas a fresh loaf was threepence and sometimes even more.
When Granddad learnt of my fracas with the relief people he patted me on the back and gave me twopence to buy some sweets. Gran wasn’t so sure: ‘Don’t encourage ’im to be rude to ’is betters, Will, he’s too cheeky for ’is age as it is.’ I still got the twopence.
After little Emily had been with us for six months or more Mum got a permanent job with the firm in Bridle Lane which meant she was a bit better off and we could afford to buy fresh bread instead of the stale bread and, more importantly, she didn’t have to go begging any more.
One evening we were round our gran’s in Kenton Street where our mum used to pick us up on her way home from work. ‘Gran, can we take the babe round the block in the pram? It’s nice and sunny out.’ Gran wasn’t too sure about this. She was frightened of us larking about and tipping the pram over. ‘We’ll be very careful, Gran.’ It worked. Gran tucked little Emily into the pram, making certain that all the straps were tight, and we set off. ‘Where we going then?’ says John. ‘I thought we could go and meet Mum from work.’ ‘That’s miles away,’ he moaned. ‘No it ain’t, twenty minutes that’s all, we can take the babe for a nice ride and Mum can show her to her friends.’ ‘Gran will give us a thump when we get back.’ ‘Nah she won’t, we’re giving her a rest.’ Soon we were in Soho, almost at Bridle Lane, and pushing our way through the people who were rushing out of their offices and shops on the start of their journey home. In Lexington Street, where our Uncle Frank worked, a big policeman appeared in front of us. ‘Where do you think you two are going with that baby, and where did you find it?’ It didn’t take long for a crowd to gather to get a better view of the two scruffs who had nicked some poor mother’s child. The copper bent down to get a look at our Emmy who, because the pram had come to a stop, was beginning to bawl her little head off. ‘You keep yer ’ands off our Emmy,’ I scream at the copper. By this time John was near to tears, but he turned the situation: ‘We’re going to meet our mum from work, Emmy is our baby sister.’ The policeman had now switched his attention away from me and was listening to John, who could make people think that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. The policeman stood aside, the crowd dispersed and we continued the last couple of hundred yards to where Mum worked.
As soon as we got there down came the girls, saying their goodnights and full of the chatter that women are so good at. We both spotted Mum at the same time and in seconds we were surrounded by her friends who all wanted to have a go at holding Emmy. I could see that Mum was very happy showing her baby around, then I saw the copper who was still hanging around. ‘Look, Mum, ’e wanted to pinch our Emmy. ’E was going to lock us up in the cop shop.’ In a few seconds the women’s attention had been diverted from little Emmy to the large figure of the policeman. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yerself. Fancy frightening little boys. Go and fight someone yer own size.’ All the women let the copper have it without mercy. In the end he made the best of the situation and slunk away.
John was still worried about getting a thump from Gran when we got home, but Mum said, ‘Don’t be silly, John. Granny won’t hurt yer, mind yer, she might tell yer both off, quite right too.’
Together John and I used to have a lot of fun pushing little Emmy around in the pram, which to us was nothing more than an outsize toy. Luckily Emmy never suffered any injuries from our many escapades.
6
I was now nearly seven and becoming aware of life outside of the walls of our house. The kids from Wakefield Street played together, likewise the kids from other streets, and as a natural course of events I drifted towards the street nearest to our house, Wakefield Street. The boys I spent my time playing with became my companions for the next ten years.
My first insight into the power of property came when I was standing alone in the playground watching some of the Wakefield kids playing marbles.
Playing marbles was less important than owning a bigger bag of marbles than anyone else. In the game you aimed your own marble at your opponent’s and, if you hit one, that marble became yours. Arguments arose in the wink of an eye; no marble was handed over without resort to a show of fists. I knew that I had to get my hands on some marbles as soon as possible. That evening I asked my mum if I could have a penny to spend. ‘What for?’ ‘I want to buy some marbles, Mum.’ ‘Well, yer won’t get many for a penny’, and she gave me twopence.
The next morning before school started I went to the sweetshop next to the school where you could buy marbles of every kind, from the cheap clay coloured ones to the more popular glass ‘glarnys’ and the grand, ornamental glass ‘Wizards’. The clay marbles sold for about ten for a penny while the real posh ones cost as much as sixpence each. Once acquired, the marbles became a source of riches. If you owned a bag of fifty marbles you could barter them for almost anything; all that was necessary was the initial stake and the ability to get your hands on as many of the other kids’ marbles as you could without losing any of your own.
After a couple of weeks I was the proud possessor of a collection of more than two hundred which I used to take home, and with Mum’s help count them over and over again.
By now I had the full backing of the Wakefield Street kids, but had aroused the envy of the Harrison Street lot who challenged us to a game. The game took place in the playground of the infants’ school; the average age of the combatants was about seven and as far as I can remember there were about fifteen of us. The game ended in a glorious punch-up, after which all the marbles of both sides were confiscated. The head teacher lined us up, read the riot act, told us to hold out our hands and then belted each one of us with a wooden ruler. That finished me with marbles. There had to be other ways to get rich.
John was now at the infants’, too, and when Gran came round to collect us she had to endure a full account of the marbles incident and her grandson’s addiction to violence in the playground. I remember Gran told the teacher that unless she held her tongue when speaking about Victor, who never did anything wrong, she would feel the back of my gran’s hand. Luckily for me Gran failed to tell Granddad what had happened; he had a very heavy hand and believed strongly in the saying ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’.
7
One evening sometime around July, we were all sitting near the window, little Emily safely ensconced on our mum's lap, when the bell rang out on the landing and we heard the sound of several pairs of footsteps climbing the stairs. The door was wide open so there was no need to knock. The next thing our mum was greeting the local rep from the Salvation Army. He was dressed up in his uniform complete with cap and gold braid and accompanied by a young lady in a similar uniform, and another couple in ordinary clothes. The room was full to bursting. John and I sat on the floor ogling these strange people who had suddenly come into our lives. My mum had to answer some questions and I was sure that I spied little tears in her eyes. Then, as suddenly as they came they said their farewells and promised Mum ânot to worry, everything will turn out for the best'. Next day Gran announced that Victor was to be going on a holiday, starting with a train ride with her and Uncle Joe.
What had really happened was that my mother, at her wits' end as to how to cope, had turned to the Salvation Army who had advised her to send me, her eldest, to a home for destitute boys. And so it was that I landed up in one of what were called Shaftesbury Homes.
I left home on a train accompanied by Uncle Joe and my gran. I held her hand for the whole trip; she probably thought she would never see her grandson again. Uncle Joe kept up a non-stop patter, trying to keep me occupied, but neither of them seemed to be very happy.
I discovered later that Joe was Granddad's brother and lived in the buildings off Rosebery Avenue, just down the road. Gran had probably got on to Joe and insisted that he escort her to give her a bit of moral support. There was little finesse about the handover. No doubt the staff at the home were used to the sight of grieving mothers handing over their beloved offspring.
In no time at all my gran and Uncle Joe were bundled into a waiting horse-drawn carriage â perhaps it was an ambulance, I don't really know â and in spite of all the years that have gone by since they left me at the home I can still bring back the loneliness I felt after the two of them had been swept out of the grounds and slowly disappeared from view. The staff, for whom all this must have been familiar, kept me busy, showed me around and kept me occupied. I had entered a new world, a world of light and open spaces, and yet I felt completely lost.
The house was surrounded by green fields and trees, and it had high rooms with huge windows that reached from the floor to the ceiling and highly polished wooden floors. I soon discovered just how much work went into keeping those floors in that high-gloss state.
I was part of a new intake and we were escorted to a room that was painted all white. Sitting at a desk in the centre of the room was a lady in a dark-blue dress with a funny hat to go with it. She told us to address her as âMatron' and that it was her job to make certain that we kept ourselves clean. âRight, boys, get in line, and strip off those dirty clothes.' âWot, everyfing, miss?' âDon't let me hear any of you call me “miss” again, you address me as Matron, yes, everything.' Then she rang the bell on her desk and a man in a white coat came in. He examined our hair and fingernails before telling us to bend over, whereupon there was a further examination.
Then another boy was called who issued us each with a towel and a small bar of soap, then led us into another room where we all stood in line waiting for this man to chop our hair off. We all finished up in the washroom under the showers. They were freezing. The torture only came to an end when we were issued with our new clothing which was a sort of uniform: denim trousers and jackets and a couple of shirts made of the same material. These were called work clothes. There was always two of everything, one on and one in the wash. Then we had a navy-blue coat, shirt and trousers, which were meant to be worn on church parades, which took place twice a week, once in the morning and once in the evening on Sundays. There were also two pairs of socks which were grey wool with a coloured band at the top. These were worn pulled up as far as possible with the tops neatly folded over with the coloured bands level on both legs. Finally, I was issued with a cap for everyday wear, close-fitting with a peak.
Then all the new boys lined up, and by now we didn't know if we were coming or going. Our names were read out along with the name of the house we were being assigned to.
The Shaftesbury was divided by age. The first group was boys like me aged between six and nine, the next group was for the nine- to eleven-year-olds and finally the eleven- to fourteen-year-olds. At the age of fourteen most of the boys were sent to join the dormitories of British naval establishments like Devonport.