over the cobblestones. ‘There’s a few characters still knockin’ about this turnin’,’ George grinned. ‘Just look at that clown Toomey.’
The Toomeys were looked upon as a strange crowd by the street folk. Toby Toomey was a frail, harmless-looking individual who struggled to earn a living by pushing an ancient pram through the streets to collect scrap iron and old newspapers. He invariably wore a battered trilby hat and an overcoat that almost reached his down-at-heel boots. Toby was fearful of his domineering wife Marie, and very much aware that nothing he did was right in her eyes. Marie was a large woman with straight black hair which hung down her back. Her face was always powder-streaked and her eyes dark and brooding. The Toomeys had a daughter Lillian, who was fast gaining a reputation for being a ‘loose woman’. Lillian was in her twenties, and her way of dressing was a constant talking point amongst the street folk. She wore very high-heeled shoes and dresses which were either too short or too tight. She used heavy make-up and outrageous hats and, like her mother, she had raven hair and very dark eyes. Lillian and her mother were a formidable pair and Toby had realised early on that it was useless to argue with them. Nevertheless, he harboured murderous thoughts as he struggled to manoeuvre the pram into his passageway, against a tirade of abuse from Marie.
The decade moved on slowly, and there was no respite from the suffering and deprivation of the poverty-stricken backstreet folk. Pawnshop owners were the only people who could afford to walk around with satisfied smiles on their faces. The pawnbroker shop in the Tower Bridge Road was particularly busy, and it was now a weekly meeting place for many of the women of the area. It had become the usual ritual for the matriarchs of the family to parcel up their husband’s suit or overcoat or maybe a pair of linen sheets and hurry over to Uncles with the bale. They would join the line of patient customers, stretching out from the back room, along the dark passageway, and sometimes out into the street. If the pawnbroker was in a good mood they might get their bale pledged for seven shillings and sixpence if it contained a decent suit or overcoat, and five shillings for a pair of sheets. The articles would be exchanged for a pawn ticket on Monday mornings and redeemed that Friday or Saturday when the few shillings earnings came into the home. It had become a way of life for many, and some pawnbrokers began to take advantage of their customers’ desperate need.
It was a cold autumn Monday morning when Mrs Cosgrove parcelled up her Fred’s best suit. Now in her late sixties, Mrs Cosgrove had been caring for her invalid husband for the past year, and she knew that he would not miss his best blue serge in his condition. It troubled her to have to make the visit, but she could see no alternative. When she reached the pawnshop the queue stretched almost to the door. Waiting in front of her in the line was Mrs Halliday who was carrying a large bundle under her arm.
‘’Ello, girl. What you doin’ ’ere? Buyin’ a bit o’ jew’llery?’ she said.
Mrs Cosgrove gave her a toothless grin. ‘Same as you, Ada. I’m tryin’ ter work the oricle.’
‘Gawd ’elp us, Clara.’
‘I fink ’E’d better. Nobody else seems ter be.’
The queue moved forward and Ada Halliday whispered into Mrs Cosgrove’s ear. ‘I ’ope the old bastard ain’t bein’ too fussy terday. If ’e is I’m in the shit.’
‘Why’s that, Ada?’
Ada looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, then she gave Clara a huge wink. ‘Me mate’s borrered me best coat ter go to a funeral, so I wrapped up me old ironin’ blanket an’ the pissy ole coat the moggie sleeps on an’ I took a chance. If ole ugly’s in a good mood ’e won’t bovver ter open me bundle. Blimey, ’e’s seen enough o’ me this last few months, an’ it’s always bin me best coat
The Toomeys were looked upon as a strange crowd by the street folk. Toby Toomey was a frail, harmless-looking individual who struggled to earn a living by pushing an ancient pram through the streets to collect scrap iron and old newspapers. He invariably wore a battered trilby hat and an overcoat that almost reached his down-at-heel boots. Toby was fearful of his domineering wife Marie, and very much aware that nothing he did was right in her eyes. Marie was a large woman with straight black hair which hung down her back. Her face was always powder-streaked and her eyes dark and brooding. The Toomeys had a daughter Lillian, who was fast gaining a reputation for being a ‘loose woman’. Lillian was in her twenties, and her way of dressing was a constant talking point amongst the street folk. She wore very high-heeled shoes and dresses which were either too short or too tight. She used heavy make-up and outrageous hats and, like her mother, she had raven hair and very dark eyes. Lillian and her mother were a formidable pair and Toby had realised early on that it was useless to argue with them. Nevertheless, he harboured murderous thoughts as he struggled to manoeuvre the pram into his passageway, against a tirade of abuse from Marie.
The decade moved on slowly, and there was no respite from the suffering and deprivation of the poverty-stricken backstreet folk. Pawnshop owners were the only people who could afford to walk around with satisfied smiles on their faces. The pawnbroker shop in the Tower Bridge Road was particularly busy, and it was now a weekly meeting place for many of the women of the area. It had become the usual ritual for the matriarchs of the family to parcel up their husband’s suit or overcoat or maybe a pair of linen sheets and hurry over to Uncles with the bale. They would join the line of patient customers, stretching out from the back room, along the dark passageway, and sometimes out into the street. If the pawnbroker was in a good mood they might get their bale pledged for seven shillings and sixpence if it contained a decent suit or overcoat, and five shillings for a pair of sheets. The articles would be exchanged for a pawn ticket on Monday mornings and redeemed that Friday or Saturday when the few shillings earnings came into the home. It had become a way of life for many, and some pawnbrokers began to take advantage of their customers’ desperate need.
It was a cold autumn Monday morning when Mrs Cosgrove parcelled up her Fred’s best suit. Now in her late sixties, Mrs Cosgrove had been caring for her invalid husband for the past year, and she knew that he would not miss his best blue serge in his condition. It troubled her to have to make the visit, but she could see no alternative. When she reached the pawnshop the queue stretched almost to the door. Waiting in front of her in the line was Mrs Halliday who was carrying a large bundle under her arm.
‘’Ello, girl. What you doin’ ’ere? Buyin’ a bit o’ jew’llery?’ she said.
Mrs Cosgrove gave her a toothless grin. ‘Same as you, Ada. I’m tryin’ ter work the oricle.’
‘Gawd ’elp us, Clara.’
‘I fink ’E’d better. Nobody else seems ter be.’
The queue moved forward and Ada Halliday whispered into Mrs Cosgrove’s ear. ‘I ’ope the old bastard ain’t bein’ too fussy terday. If ’e is I’m in the shit.’
‘Why’s that, Ada?’
Ada looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, then she gave Clara a huge wink. ‘Me mate’s borrered me best coat ter go to a funeral, so I wrapped up me old ironin’ blanket an’ the pissy ole coat the moggie sleeps on an’ I took a chance. If ole ugly’s in a good mood ’e won’t bovver ter open me bundle. Blimey, ’e’s seen enough o’ me this last few months, an’ it’s always bin me best coat
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