King's Cross Kid by Victor Gregg

her own without a man to help. There was nothing untoward about the use of mother’s Christian name, since everybody knew that the Bear knew everyone’s business and nobody expected him to worry about formalities. All the same, I sensed that he was more than a little interested in my mum who, despite the toil and stress, was still a very attractive woman, especially to a man who had lost his wife less than six years before.
    The Bear finished his cuppa and with a look at me said, ‘You tell your mates to keep away from the coal base, young man. Always think of yer mum and don’t cause me any more bovver.’ And with that little homily the Bear left. ‘Good job for you lot that Mr Thomas is such a good man,’ says my mum. ‘Not all policemen are as good as ’im.’
    The greatest fun of all came from our forays up the other end into the West End. There us kids spent our time doing our best to annoy the toffs, that’s of course if they ignored our pleas of ‘Gisusasprazeemister’ (spare us a tanner, mister).
    Another ploy was to stand outside one of the big hotels, where the doorman reigned in all his splendour: black coat and tails, shiny top hat, spotless white gloves and campaign medals polished until they dazzled the eyes. This individual imperiously summoned taxis for the departing guests and beckoned to his underlings to carry the luggage of the incoming clientele, while pocketing an endless flow of tips and largesse which all guests seemed obliged, by custom, to hand over. It was here that we started operations.
    Taking care to stand well back so as to dodge the occasional swipe, we gathered by the railings outside the main door. ‘Wotcher get all those medals for, mister?’ ‘What you do in the war, mister?’ ‘’Ere, mister, is yer name Fatty Arbuckle?’ ‘Come on, mister, givusasprazee.’ Back would come the reply, ‘Bugger off, yer little turds, or I’ll get the rozzers.’ The mention of the rozzers was an outright declaration of war. To show what we thought of him and his posh hotel a couple of us undid our trousers and started weeing in the gutter. This act of outright defiance always worked and without fail the doorman, sensing that all was lost, gave in by slinging a couple of sixpenny pieces along the pavement. ‘I’ll get the lot of yer one of these fine days, yer little whippersnappers.’ On one occasion there were four of us out one afternoon; it must have been in the school holidays. One of us was a lad whose hair was a brilliant red. We used to call him ‘Bloodnut’. After trying without success to cadge some money from the doorkeeper at the Frascatti restaurant at the start of Oxford Street, we are now outside Waring & Gillow, probably the biggest and poshest furniture shop in the whole of London. It stood on the corner of Oxford Street and Upper Regent Street by Oxford Circus. The huge mahogany front doors swung between two highly polished marble pillars and were guarded by a doorkeeper whose job it was to open the doors of the taxis and private cars as they drew up, salute the customers with a flourish and open up the great front doors with a mighty swing of his arms and shoulders.
    What attracted us to this individual was his uniform. Although, like others of his breed, he had a chestful of medals, all highly polished, his coat had no brass buttons; everything was either green or black, even the leather strap that went over his shoulders and was attached to the wide belt round his waist. He wasn’t the usual bulky type that we were used to taking the mickey out of. The four of us stood along the kerbside eyeing this bloke up, each of us thinking how best to get him to hand over the dibs.
    ‘Now you lads, ’oppit.’ ‘Oi, guv’nor, why ain’t yer got a red coat like all the others?’ ‘Was yer in the Salvation Army?’ ‘Oi, mister, was you in the war?’ This barrage of questions was fired out at the top of our voices. We were trying it on, but this man didn’t react