like all the others; he just ignored us as if we weren’t there. It began to cross our minds that we were on a loser. Then a big car drew up and Greenie opens the door. ‘Good afternoon, General,’ says the doorkeeper. ‘Afternoon, Johnson,’ says this man, who is now helping his wife out of the car. ‘I see you’ve got some admirers.’ ‘’Fraid so, General, they’re trying their arm, goes with the job sort of.’ The man who the doorman calls ‘General’ gives us a look. ‘Go back through the years, Johnson, do you recognise them?’ ‘’Fraid so, General.’
The general put his hand into his pocket and brought out a coin. He looked at his wife, she nodded, he pointed to our mate Bloodnut, and said, ‘Share this between yourselves and let this gentleman get on with his job.’ Then he passed over a shilling piece and the pair of them swept through the doors that ‘Johnson’ was holding open for them. ‘Why did he do that, mister?’ ‘Because ’e’s a good man. Now lose yerselves.’ And then he too disappeared inside the store.
Having some dosh in our pockets we decided to retrace our steps back to another cake shop we knew, Cossevelors by name, and get some stale cakes and a bottle of R White’s Lemonade. We were rich.
Another source of entertainment was bunking into the London Zoo in Regent’s Park. The entertainment came from the keepers who, being able to tell at a glance that we didn’t have two halfpennies for a penny, let alone the sixpence entry fee, chased us all around the Zoo.
Regent’s Park had quite a large lake. This lake was a rendezvous point for fishing expeditions. The mums manufactured nets out of old stockings, fixed them with a piece of wire to a bamboo cane, and, so armed, carrying sandwiches and some of us with a penny to spend, off we’d set to spend the day fishing for tiddlers. ‘And don’t come back here soaking wet.’
The day ended when it was impossible to cram another tiddler into the jam jars. Naturally, when we finally arrived back home to proudly display our catch, the poor fish were lifeless, as dead as doornails.
In the summer, a favourite source of enjoyment was the walk to the Tower of London. At low tide it was possible to swim in the river. This was an extremely dangerous pastime and being swept out by the tide was always on the cards. Sometimes the word went around that some boy had drowned. This untimely fate never befell anyone I knew, although I did once have to rescue my brother John from a watery grave when he slipped into the Thames while we were larking about on the steps of Cleopatra’s Needle. We both got a walloping on that occasion for coming home soaking wet.
There were three cinemas in the area: the Euston Cinema, which stood near the corner of Judd Street and the Euston Road, the Tolma, up the other end of the Euston Road in Tolma Square, and the Cobo, so named because it was situated in Copenhagen Street, a little way up the Caledonian Road (the Cally). All three of them were right down to earth flea pits or bug huts. When we could afford the price of entry, threepence (or twopence in the case of the Cobo), off we went to witness the exploits of the famed Tom Mix, Bronco Bill and other favourites.
There were times when not all of us could come up with the money for the tickets. Those who could pay went in and took up seats near the exits, even if it meant threatening the kids who were already sitting there. The attendant who always stood by the doors was told that one of our lot had fainted; the other kids, realising that a ‘bunk in’ was being set up, made it their business to keep the attendant busy while one of us opened the door and let our mates in. Then we sat on the wooden benches and cheered our heroes as they chased the Indians halfway across America, huge shouts and much stamping of feet as another redskin bit the dust. Although these were, of course, all silent films there was nothing silent about the audience: loud
The general put his hand into his pocket and brought out a coin. He looked at his wife, she nodded, he pointed to our mate Bloodnut, and said, ‘Share this between yourselves and let this gentleman get on with his job.’ Then he passed over a shilling piece and the pair of them swept through the doors that ‘Johnson’ was holding open for them. ‘Why did he do that, mister?’ ‘Because ’e’s a good man. Now lose yerselves.’ And then he too disappeared inside the store.
Having some dosh in our pockets we decided to retrace our steps back to another cake shop we knew, Cossevelors by name, and get some stale cakes and a bottle of R White’s Lemonade. We were rich.
Another source of entertainment was bunking into the London Zoo in Regent’s Park. The entertainment came from the keepers who, being able to tell at a glance that we didn’t have two halfpennies for a penny, let alone the sixpence entry fee, chased us all around the Zoo.
Regent’s Park had quite a large lake. This lake was a rendezvous point for fishing expeditions. The mums manufactured nets out of old stockings, fixed them with a piece of wire to a bamboo cane, and, so armed, carrying sandwiches and some of us with a penny to spend, off we’d set to spend the day fishing for tiddlers. ‘And don’t come back here soaking wet.’
The day ended when it was impossible to cram another tiddler into the jam jars. Naturally, when we finally arrived back home to proudly display our catch, the poor fish were lifeless, as dead as doornails.
In the summer, a favourite source of enjoyment was the walk to the Tower of London. At low tide it was possible to swim in the river. This was an extremely dangerous pastime and being swept out by the tide was always on the cards. Sometimes the word went around that some boy had drowned. This untimely fate never befell anyone I knew, although I did once have to rescue my brother John from a watery grave when he slipped into the Thames while we were larking about on the steps of Cleopatra’s Needle. We both got a walloping on that occasion for coming home soaking wet.
There were three cinemas in the area: the Euston Cinema, which stood near the corner of Judd Street and the Euston Road, the Tolma, up the other end of the Euston Road in Tolma Square, and the Cobo, so named because it was situated in Copenhagen Street, a little way up the Caledonian Road (the Cally). All three of them were right down to earth flea pits or bug huts. When we could afford the price of entry, threepence (or twopence in the case of the Cobo), off we went to witness the exploits of the famed Tom Mix, Bronco Bill and other favourites.
There were times when not all of us could come up with the money for the tickets. Those who could pay went in and took up seats near the exits, even if it meant threatening the kids who were already sitting there. The attendant who always stood by the doors was told that one of our lot had fainted; the other kids, realising that a ‘bunk in’ was being set up, made it their business to keep the attendant busy while one of us opened the door and let our mates in. Then we sat on the wooden benches and cheered our heroes as they chased the Indians halfway across America, huge shouts and much stamping of feet as another redskin bit the dust. Although these were, of course, all silent films there was nothing silent about the audience: loud
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