London Born: A Memoir of a Forgotten City
London Born: A Memoir of a Forgotten City
Sidney Day
An extraordinary memoir from a man in his nineties who remembers everyday life in a North London now long gone: the hardships and deprivations of a life of poverty but also the resourcefulness and fortitude of a community determined to survive between the wars.'When I look back, I can picture the old gels chinwagging on their steps in the Bay like it was yesterday. Little did they think that young Sid, passing by with his arse out of his trousers, would one way publish his memoirs!''Ordinary' people do not write their stories, believing their lives to be unremarkable. Some, like Sid, cannot write at all. But, with the aid of his granddaughter Helen Day, Sid has produced an extraordinary memoir of a city and a way of life now lost forever. ‘London Born’ is a book that has appeared against all the odds – as Sid says, 'When me granddaughter Helen Day said she wanted to record the story of the first half of me life and turn it into a book I was astonished. I thought to meself, Well, I've done a lot of things, but I never dreamt I'd get into the book game. You see, I can't write more than me own name.'In ‘London Born’, Sid remembers the city that emerged from the First World War and recreates the daily life of the people living in the notorious street known as 'Tiger Bay'. He describes the drinking and merrymaking, the poverty and unemployment – and the 'villainry'. With relish he relates how youthful high spirits and a refusal to accept the hardship of the times sometimes put him and his friends on the wrong side of the law. He goes on to tell of the wartime mayhem endured by Londoners and his determination to survive. His story closes with demobilisation when he returns to his wife and young family – 'the only thing that ever counted'.This is a memoir from a warm and cheeky voice; from someone who remembers, as if it were yesterday, parading down Archway in his fifty-bob suit, or running rings around Ernie Costen, the local policeman.
London Born
SIDNEY DAY
Compiled and edited by
Helen Day
For Mary
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u2e782a60-d06e-559a-993b-05ef3bf44a74)
Title Page (#u4380b06d-c932-57a4-93fa-4f3f2c91d59d)
Dedication (#ub7e44d33-fd88-592f-b684-a681c00391fc)
Part One (#ua5704914-a9d6-5088-bed0-8e8a16e5b4ac)
I (#u4de76078-fdb5-50a8-a459-5f70bc0e7bcc)
II (#u3e8a01ea-059c-5df0-8058-d75f243273b9)
III (#ufa1e5679-1ce8-5363-bcc4-2aaf448ec019)
IV (#u75608932-0a92-5c0e-851f-815c926539e7)
V (#u93d5e9a7-ff03-5815-9010-f3c16dc9096a)
VI (#uc7c6db60-a902-5918-9c53-8ca021e80a06)
VII (#u49515303-39c4-5ca9-a4a9-5abe47fe0096)
VIII (#u5de10207-2966-56b2-8623-1b0af62d5ef9)
IX (#uce039a25-863a-59d1-97c5-e7878da1d458)
X (#ubcc598fd-bfe8-5fd7-894b-60fd9ebc382f)
XI (#ub6c2a52d-aeff-5462-b7b7-7da5d9c3e105)
Part Two (#u31696785-d627-5c4d-b1c5-ab2e01d08fa0)
I (#u30500fe2-10fb-52e8-9599-616464493f76)
II (#u437c8183-bfb7-5546-a486-e4fbbdbbaaa0)
III (#u0e85b831-479a-5adf-8984-b4dce53f58d6)
IV (#u6e11a60f-cab9-5a51-a2a2-7f88b4cb7e33)
V (#u6ca8a9e5-8597-5b7d-95f7-23b0c56d3238)
VI (#uf875cfd7-57d3-594a-a845-c9f2340b3787)
VII (#u51ba1b6f-dea2-59ef-bd1d-fd390c069e8a)
VIII (#ua08cd222-fb2d-5f19-8934-f188b4b71f40)
IX (#u6065a8a3-a0b1-5296-b6af-e0e8f85c6992)
Part Three (#u03b95ffa-5ec3-543f-91f2-c4de9daf7259)
I (#ueebbe1b7-fca9-5908-94d4-d9a573bc0e07)
II (#u93213249-9f0d-573b-ad00-9827853eb019)
III (#uffb8561e-a8fd-543a-9622-86ee2133c81e)
IV (#u893f1076-e30b-5f8f-9968-a9d72b63ba4a)
V (#u830f2306-5a3b-5703-bacc-46f57714b100)
VI (#u4b6f5d8b-d1aa-5247-8332-71a05b99e801)
Part Four (#u9cab5958-d28e-54e1-9932-801a2d2f9c4c)
I (#u4935d33e-09c3-53f7-aeee-b8ce49972d86)
II (#u9e372fbe-8eea-5fc1-8a6d-4b16e88737d0)
III (#u5e123815-05c9-5acd-93f3-164397d167d4)
IV (#u60e02c75-0b2d-5a49-824c-783c7ba46d82)
V (#u885495ce-c082-5a69-bc9d-c3c185e0b162)
VI (#ue65ff284-588b-5002-9165-b88c9172e204)
VII (#uda619391-597d-555c-9647-90cb75858cb4)
VIII (#u27c76eb7-f9c6-50a3-b7c2-e123c7402bf9)
IX (#uedaddba4-bdd7-5930-b4b2-b9953f18007c)
X (#u80af355a-b6a2-5a16-86bd-a89564bf0920)
XI (#uc3cf16ab-5a85-501c-bd1d-aa611dea4df6)
XII (#ufebcdc03-ac4e-55b0-b390-b0e90cdfa043)
About the Author (#ud33b6e53-c238-5e49-9f6d-22be70ffac1a)
Praise (#u6e970344-dc0d-51e2-881a-d3aa4eeec4d4)
Copyright (#ubdf8fd52-e4d9-5308-8939-c27daa109469)
About the Publisher (#u15f453ad-ee1a-533c-b21e-4395187828e4)
PART ONE (#ulink_88fab37f-1840-51ec-9ce7-7853916e3a73)
I (#ulink_6dfd29c3-6b3e-5558-88e4-fe48c5151e14)
‘Sid…Sid!’ Me mother was calling for me. I’m not kidding you—if there was five hundred people lived in our street, there was five hundred people out on the road, all looking at me. Me mum and a policeman was standing outside our house. Next to them was Mrs Leicester from the shop down the road. I thought about running but they had already seen me.
Me mum says, ‘You’ve had a loaf out of her shop and she wants the fourpence ha’penny for it.’
‘Pay up, you saucy sod,’ says Mrs Leicester.
She had come to find me. I don’t know how she knew it was me stole the bread, but there she was outside our house. I held out tuppence ha’penny. Me mum clumped me round the ear’ole.
‘Get inside!’
The policeman come inside with us. Me mum told him she had given me some money that morning and sent me to get a loaf of bread from Leicester’s shop.
I says, ‘Mrs Leicester weren’t about so I took it.’
I had crept in, picked up a nice crusty cottage loaf and slid out. After I got it home I thought to meself, ‘That’s fourpence ha’penny I’ve saved there.’ So I went up to the faggot shop on the corner of our road and spent tuppence on faggot and pease pudding—two lots on a piece of newspaper.
‘I ought to nick you,’ the policeman says.
But he just gave me a rollicking and it all got washed over at the death. All I got was a bleeding good hiding from me mum. Then she locked me in the bedroom. I was in there for hours. It got late and I could hear them all down in the kitchen. On the next floor up lived Wiggy Lenny. I went to the window and opened it.
I says, ‘Wig!’
After two or three times he opened the window.
‘What do you want?’
‘Got anything to eat? I ain’t had nothing.’
‘I got some melon I nicked.’
‘Give us a bit then—I’m bleeding starving.’
He tied the melon on a piece of string and dangled it down. Just as I grabbed it me mum come in and didn’t she smack me arse.
Me mum never let me get away with anything. She would say, ‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ and then—bang! She gave me some whackings but it only made me worse. The old man was away in the war and so me mum gave the orders. Sometimes, if the old man was home on leave and we made him really angry, he would unthread his Army belt, raise it up and roar at us—but he never hit us. It was me mum who would wring our necks if she found us out. Luckily, she never really knew what we was up to. Every day I nicked something from the shops and stalls round Archway, specially the greengrocer’s. If you are hungry you got to live.
They called me mum Dinah Day, but I think her real name was Alice Maud. Dad was William Day. We lived in Balmore Street, N19, a street where there was so much villainry going on, so many drunks and gambling and Gawd knows what, that at night the police would only come down in twos. Everyone knew it as Tiger Bay.
The house we lived in had two floors and a basement. The Lennys had the top floor and we had the first floor and the airy below. There was Mum, Dad, Alice, Bill, Bob, Jim, me and Lulu. On the pavement outside there was a round hole with a lid that was once the coal hole for the cellar. Me mate, Bill Rudd, who we called Ruddy, slept in the cellar on a mattress that me mum slung down there for him.
Ruddy’s real home was further up the street, four houses past the alley that went down to our school. Before he come to us his mum died and he lived for a while with his sister and his old man. His dad was a very strict old boy—a ‘stiff collar’ sort who liked a drink but never got drunk. He was a grave digger for donkey’s years at Highgate Cemetery, but he earned poor money—very poor money. Ruddy’s sister was a nurse up the hospital. Ruddy come to live with us when she found a bloke and moved out. Every day me mum gave me a cup of tea and a slice of bread and dripping to take down to him. The rest of his food he had to find hisself.
Our garden was just like all the other gardens in the street. We had one toilet for the two families and there was always a row about who should clean it out. The rest of the garden was filled with me dad’s geraniums, and pens and sheds for our chickens, ducks and rabbits. We kept pigeons to race and had an aviary full of wild birds. Our dogs was kept out there too—everyone in the street had dogs.
When I was only about four years old I went into the garden and seen one of our teeny chicks dragging his leg.
I says to me brother, ‘Oh look, Bill, that poor chicken has broke his leg.’
‘Has it?’
‘Yeah, poor thing.’
Bill says, ‘Go along to the chemist shop and get him some sixpenny chicken crutches.’
He gave me a sixpence and I went into the chemist at the end of our street. Inside was Mr Armitage, the tall old boy what owned it.
I says, ‘Can I have a pair of sixpenny crutches for me chicken?’
Didn’t he laugh! When I got home Bill thought it was a great joke.
At the other end of our street a family called the Booths had a greengrocer’s shop. There was nineteen kids in that family and me mum was midwife to the lot. She brought all of them into the world. Cor blimey, what a family! Old Mother Booth was a fat woman with great big breasts, and she was the boss alright. Mr Booth was only a little old boy, no more than five foot high. He maintained Highgate Cemetery and moved big tombstones onto the graves from the stonemason’s next door. His poor old horse, Nobby, had to move them stones round all bleeding day. We called him Rat-tailed Nobby cause he only had a little tail.
The cemetery was right next to our street, so me and me mates was always larking round in there. On Sundays it was filled with dozens of people come to visit graves. It was a long walk from some of the graves to the water tap. We sold clean jam jars to the mourners for a penny each and filled them up with water for a penny more. When they had gone we pinched the flowers off the graves and sold them. We took the wreaths too, pulled the moss off and sold them for a ha’penny back to the florist.
II (#ulink_b9fb2105-adbc-5cea-b760-17cbdaf29e36)
I was five years old when I started school, the year before the fourteen war ended. The sky was filled with observation balloons. There was two blokes sat inside each basket looking for German aircraft coming in. We waved at them from the school playground and they waved back at us. The balloons was up there night and day, hundreds of them, all over the show.
The war never really meant anything to us kids. Me mum would put a blanket all the way round our big table in the kitchen and say, ‘Get under there.’ That table was our air raid shelter. We all got tucked in underneath and thought it was a bit of fun. The Booths would come over to our house and get under the table or under the stairs with us. Sometimes me gran was there too.
Me gran was always in and out of our house or me mum would go up the road to her house. We always shouted out when we passed her sitting on her step. Sometimes she would send me for a jug of black beer and I would drink a drop on the way back. She was a little old Spanish woman with a long black plait down her back. I don’t think I knew her name—we just called her Gran. She was always in black. Her skirt was tight round her waist and it come out down to the floor. She looked like a little tent walking round. Lots of women wore those long dresses dragging the ground and they got filthy at the bottom. Me gran was a nice old lady. Mind you, if you was cheeky to her she slapped you round the ear’ole—bang!—no arguments. She was very strict.
When the war started hotting up we all traipsed down to the tube station and slept on the platform every night. Everybody in the street went down there. Cor blimey, it stunk like merry hell with all the drunken old sods, stunk terrible. The only good thing about it was it was nice and warm. When they knew there was going to be an air raid the fire engine went along the top of the road sounding the sirens. It was a cart with a big tank in the middle and a big pump on it, drawn by horses. When they blew the old bugle you knew there was an air raid coming. Once I seen a fleet of German airplanes come low across over our house, flying in the shape of a tick.
There weren’t a lot of bombing but I can remember four bombs. The very first one hit Highgate Hospital. It landed right on the big iron gates. The gatekeeper weren’t there so nobody got killed—it just blew the gates away. The next one was at the foot of Parliament Hill Fields as you enter from West Hill. We used that one as a swimming pool when it got full up with water. Another fell not far from the Highgate ponds.
The fourth bomb was dropped near the gun on the top of Parliament Hill. It practically landed on me Uncle Fred who ran a gun called Big Bertha. A little dog, a whippet, ran into the fenced off area round the gun during that air raid. Nobody claimed it so me uncle bought it down to our house. He would often come over with some food for us. You could walk it in a quarter of an hour.
Me mum says to him, ‘Ooo he’s a lovely little boy, ain’t he?’
He says, ‘It ain’t a boy it’s a gel. Do you want her?’
‘Yeah, I’ll have her, lovely little dog.’
‘Alright, Dinah. Take her on.’
So we got the dog. Mum called her Nel and kept her for fourteen years. She was me mother’s water bottle. She used to get into the bed and wiggle her way down to the bottom and the old gel would put her feet on her of a night time.
We always had two or three dogs living with us. I had a Bull Terrier, but I don’t know if I ever give him a name. I had him a couple or three years but then he strangled hisself with his tether in the garden. We had another little dog, a black and white Jack Russell, and he could pick a penny up off the floor when you threw it down for him. That wants some doing for a dog. Me favourite dog was called Babs. She was an Airedale with a lovely brown and black coat, all tight curls, a lovely dog. Sometimes I took three dogs out at a time over Parliament Hill Fields. In the war it was a training ground for the Army. I seen many two-wheel gun carriages tip arse over head there. They come flying down the hill pulled by four horses, as fast as they could go. When the carriage tipped over the soldiers would put it back on its wheels and off they would go again, round and round.
All the men was away in the war. Me dad was in the Army. He served the whole length of the war in the Royal Artillery, driving the horses that pulled the guns. That was how he got the name Driver Day. He was short and well built with brown hair and he was covered all over with tattoos. His nose was spread across his chops from fighting. When he had leave from the Army he would come home, straight out of the trenches, mud everywhere, filthy. The poor old bugger had puttees wrapped round his legs up to his knees and the mud was all caked in where they hadn’t been taken off for weeks and weeks. His legs looked like ladders from the marks round them made by the ties.
When me mum said Dad was coming home, Jim and me would wait for him at the top of our road. He was always glad to see us. He brought these great big dog biscuits for us called ‘iron rations’ and we liked to eat them. Mind you, they was only nice cause we had nothing else. You had to have a hammer to break the bleeding things.
Me dad was out in the front line for years in France. He was fit as a fiddle and a keen old fighter. When it was peaceful they put up boxing rings and he would organise boxing exhibitions. He was popular—anybody who done a lot of sport in the Army always got on. As well as boxing they larked about in the trenches, gambling for cigarettes, and sometimes, he told me, they would go into farms, nick a pig, take it back to the trenches and roast it. When a horse got shot in battle, as soon as it was down and out, they would carve it up with their bayonets and eat that as well.
While me dad was away, me mum had to keep the seven of us on rations. I would go round and get food from Bucking-ham’s shop. Mum would say, ‘Take the cup with you and get an haporth of jam, a pennorth of sugar, a bit of tea, a tin of evaporated milk and a lump of margarine.’ We hardly ever see any meat.
III (#ulink_d82b4566-0fc8-5be1-a649-f5abc95b2bfe)
The war ended and me dad come home. After he got gassed in France he never could breathe through his nose properly again. Sometimes he was in so much pain with his nose he would come home from work at dinner time and put his head over a bowl of hot salt water and sniff it up. That was the only way he could shift it.
Me mum’s brother, Bob, who lived right opposite us, was much worse off. He lived with his wife Ginny and their kids. He was a typical looking Spanish man if ever there was one —sharp featured and sticking out black hair. His face always looked black from wanting a shave, what was left of it. He had half his jaw blown off in the war. For a pension he got the big amount of two and sixpence a week. The poor old bugger only had half a jaw and looked a sight but he got used to it at the death. He still knew how to drink a pint of beer.
The men went back to work, if they could find work. On every street corner there was gangs of men chinwagging cause they didn’t have the money to go for a pint. It was hard to get a proper job and that was why so many young blokes from our street joined the Army, even after the war. They sent them out to India after they was trained. I think there was a place called Tiger Bay out there and that is how our street come to get its name.
The winter after me dad come home he got the job of night watchman on the other side of the cemetery where they was putting in some drainage. On his first night me mum sent me up with some food. Dad told me to cut through the cemetery on the way back. I had to walk past the gravestones and stone angels glowing all white in the dark. I did that every night while he was up there and I never told him I was afraid.
Me dad worked mainly in the building. After a day’s work he was always in the pub. He lived there. He loved his pint, they all did. That was all they had to do, let’s face it—drink and make babies. Our two local pubs was called the Totnes and the Brookfield—they was only a few minutes apart. Each of them had two bars and an off licence. One bar was for the navvies, the hard workers, and the other for the shopkeepers and people who had a bob or two. They called that the saloon bar and you had to pay extra for yer booze in there. It was a bit more upmarket, with chairs, tables and flowers. There was a brass rail running along the counter and red velvet curtains hanging round to make it look pretty. The navvies’ bar had big benches, sawdust on the floor and spittoons along the counter.
The pubs opened at five o’clock and kicked out at ten o’clock on the dot unless they had the Law straightened up. The guvnor at the Brookfield always took out a pint of beer to a policeman who drunk it in the outside toilet. Saturday nights there would be hollering and shouting and fighting and blokes up to all manner of things. That was how it was. If you fell out with a bloke you stood up and had a fight. When it was over you was back friends again. Some of them went singing in the streets. They would come down our road from the pub, half drunk, get a comb out and a piece of paper and play a tune and people would give them a ha’penny or a penny. One bloke would put his foot in the door, stand there and sing his heart out and then take his hat inside for pennies.
The next day they was back in the pub. The Irish blokes would go up to St Joseph’s, ‘Holy Joe’s’, at the top of Dartmouth Park Hill. They would confess and give the priest a shilling. Then they would hare down to the Archway Tavern. A while later the priest would go down there too, taking off his dog collar as he walked along and putting a handkerchief round his neck. He would go in, spend all their money and they would all wind up drunk as lords.
On a Sunday morning our road was full up with ponies pulling gigs, come to race. The gigs was painted in bright blues and reds and the ponies had lovely shiny coats. They was all done up with ribbons and bows—a picture to look at. People come from all round to watch them fly up and down and they would bet on all types of things—whose pony would win, whose pony was done up best. The old ponies would prance up and down the street, lifting their hooves up high. They trained them to do that by tying a rope between the pony’s legs and the bridle. As the pony’s head come up his hooves had to follow. After the races and the betting all the ponies and chariots would be tied up outside the pub.
Nearly everybody who went to the Brookfield on a Sunday took a bird in a little carrying cage. Me dad took his cage wrapped up in a red and white spotted navvy’s handkerchief so his bird wouldn’t be afraid. He would put the cage underneath his arm and take off the cloth when he got to the pub. Every man put his bird up on the shelf that ran right the way along the bar. The bar was filled with birds fluttering and singing.
Me dad had dozens of different birds: finches, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds. There weren’t a type of bird that breathed that me dad didn’t have at some time. We caught them by going bush bashing. Me dad made eight foot by three foot double-layered nets out of black cotton. We would loop a net between two trees in Kenwood and then bash the bushes with sticks to scare the birds towards it. When a bird flew through the net it was trapped in a pocket.
I went bird nesting and egg collecting with me brothers, too. We collected eggs, made two holes in them with a pin and blew them empty. Sometimes we took birds when they was near to being fledged. I reared them up, feeding them chewed up bread from me mouth or on a matchstick. I brought up lots of birds, including a sparrowhawk. It was a very pretty bird with zebra markings and I let it go at the finish.
In the pub they bet on the birds. One might say, ‘Me bird will sing longer than yours.’ Another might boast, ‘Mine will sing better than yours,’ and another, ‘Me bird’s plumage is better than yours.’ Then they would have a competition. That bird in its little cage was their pride and joy. Everybody had birds, everybody.
When the Brookfield kicked out after lunch me dad would walk home with his bird. As he turned into the Bay he would stop outside the house of Drummer Hawkins who lived at the top of our road. ‘Hawkins,’ he would shout, ‘come out here, I’ll see to yer!’ Hawkins was twice me dad’s size, a brute of a man. When he heard me dad hollering he would come out and they would whip off their shirts and fight like tigers. There would be blood and snot everywhere. Me dad loved a good fight. That evening they would be drinking together in the pub.
The pubs was always full up with hounds gambling. Me brother Bill worked as runner to a penny bookmaker. He collected the bets and took them in. Sometimes the police would come into the pub and he had to give them five bob beer money. The police looked forward to it—that’s all they went in for, to cop their money off of the bookmakers or the gamblers. On one occasion two plainclothes policemen—two real bastards—come into the Brookfield.
They says to me brother, ‘Come on, cough up.’
He emptied his pockets and they went out and round to the saloon bar. Then in come the Inspector and nicked Bill just the same. He got a thirty bob fine.
The elder ones in the Bay was mostly always drunk. They liked a pint of black beer—the cheapest beer you could buy. A pint of black was five pence and other beer was sixpence a pint. The old biddies liked a drop of biddy wine. It was wine from the bottom of the barrel and it was thick like mud. The old gels would take their bottles into the pub and get three pennorth of it. It was the cheapest form of drink to get drunk on quick—it would blow yer hat off. It was also the favourite drink of worn-out prostitutes. Nearly everyone liked a drop to drink, and plenty drank theirselves to death.
When someone died in our street the family would go in the pub with the collection. They wore black armbands. Everyone would throw in a few coppers, thruppence, sixpence—or whatever—for the family. Most people had a parish funeral cause their families couldn’t afford to pay for a proper one. A proper funeral cost six pounds and it was a big event, everybody turned out. They paraded the coffin through the streets covered in flowers. The glass-sided hearse was pulled by black horses with beautiful plumes sticking right up. They was stabled at the top of our street. The horses’ hooves would be muffled by straw put on the road to stop the noise and everyone would come outside and watch them go by.
Me gran died when I was still very young. I don’t remember her having a funeral but she must have done. The day she died me mum was sitting down with me sisters when I come indoors.
‘Yer granny’s dead,’ she says.
‘Well it won’t burn yer lips to kiss her arse then, will it!’ I says, quick as anything.
It just come out. Didn’t she give me a tanning. I was the youngest son and a bit of a favourite with me mum, but that time I think I really upset her. I suppose I thought nothing of death then. People was always dying or getting born.
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Sidney Day
An extraordinary memoir from a man in his nineties who remembers everyday life in a North London now long gone: the hardships and deprivations of a life of poverty but also the resourcefulness and fortitude of a community determined to survive between the wars.'When I look back, I can picture the old gels chinwagging on their steps in the Bay like it was yesterday. Little did they think that young Sid, passing by with his arse out of his trousers, would one way publish his memoirs!''Ordinary' people do not write their stories, believing their lives to be unremarkable. Some, like Sid, cannot write at all. But, with the aid of his granddaughter Helen Day, Sid has produced an extraordinary memoir of a city and a way of life now lost forever. ‘London Born’ is a book that has appeared against all the odds – as Sid says, 'When me granddaughter Helen Day said she wanted to record the story of the first half of me life and turn it into a book I was astonished. I thought to meself, Well, I've done a lot of things, but I never dreamt I'd get into the book game. You see, I can't write more than me own name.'In ‘London Born’, Sid remembers the city that emerged from the First World War and recreates the daily life of the people living in the notorious street known as 'Tiger Bay'. He describes the drinking and merrymaking, the poverty and unemployment – and the 'villainry'. With relish he relates how youthful high spirits and a refusal to accept the hardship of the times sometimes put him and his friends on the wrong side of the law. He goes on to tell of the wartime mayhem endured by Londoners and his determination to survive. His story closes with demobilisation when he returns to his wife and young family – 'the only thing that ever counted'.This is a memoir from a warm and cheeky voice; from someone who remembers, as if it were yesterday, parading down Archway in his fifty-bob suit, or running rings around Ernie Costen, the local policeman.
London Born
SIDNEY DAY
Compiled and edited by
Helen Day
For Mary
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u2e782a60-d06e-559a-993b-05ef3bf44a74)
Title Page (#u4380b06d-c932-57a4-93fa-4f3f2c91d59d)
Dedication (#ub7e44d33-fd88-592f-b684-a681c00391fc)
Part One (#ua5704914-a9d6-5088-bed0-8e8a16e5b4ac)
I (#u4de76078-fdb5-50a8-a459-5f70bc0e7bcc)
II (#u3e8a01ea-059c-5df0-8058-d75f243273b9)
III (#ufa1e5679-1ce8-5363-bcc4-2aaf448ec019)
IV (#u75608932-0a92-5c0e-851f-815c926539e7)
V (#u93d5e9a7-ff03-5815-9010-f3c16dc9096a)
VI (#uc7c6db60-a902-5918-9c53-8ca021e80a06)
VII (#u49515303-39c4-5ca9-a4a9-5abe47fe0096)
VIII (#u5de10207-2966-56b2-8623-1b0af62d5ef9)
IX (#uce039a25-863a-59d1-97c5-e7878da1d458)
X (#ubcc598fd-bfe8-5fd7-894b-60fd9ebc382f)
XI (#ub6c2a52d-aeff-5462-b7b7-7da5d9c3e105)
Part Two (#u31696785-d627-5c4d-b1c5-ab2e01d08fa0)
I (#u30500fe2-10fb-52e8-9599-616464493f76)
II (#u437c8183-bfb7-5546-a486-e4fbbdbbaaa0)
III (#u0e85b831-479a-5adf-8984-b4dce53f58d6)
IV (#u6e11a60f-cab9-5a51-a2a2-7f88b4cb7e33)
V (#u6ca8a9e5-8597-5b7d-95f7-23b0c56d3238)
VI (#uf875cfd7-57d3-594a-a845-c9f2340b3787)
VII (#u51ba1b6f-dea2-59ef-bd1d-fd390c069e8a)
VIII (#ua08cd222-fb2d-5f19-8934-f188b4b71f40)
IX (#u6065a8a3-a0b1-5296-b6af-e0e8f85c6992)
Part Three (#u03b95ffa-5ec3-543f-91f2-c4de9daf7259)
I (#ueebbe1b7-fca9-5908-94d4-d9a573bc0e07)
II (#u93213249-9f0d-573b-ad00-9827853eb019)
III (#uffb8561e-a8fd-543a-9622-86ee2133c81e)
IV (#u893f1076-e30b-5f8f-9968-a9d72b63ba4a)
V (#u830f2306-5a3b-5703-bacc-46f57714b100)
VI (#u4b6f5d8b-d1aa-5247-8332-71a05b99e801)
Part Four (#u9cab5958-d28e-54e1-9932-801a2d2f9c4c)
I (#u4935d33e-09c3-53f7-aeee-b8ce49972d86)
II (#u9e372fbe-8eea-5fc1-8a6d-4b16e88737d0)
III (#u5e123815-05c9-5acd-93f3-164397d167d4)
IV (#u60e02c75-0b2d-5a49-824c-783c7ba46d82)
V (#u885495ce-c082-5a69-bc9d-c3c185e0b162)
VI (#ue65ff284-588b-5002-9165-b88c9172e204)
VII (#uda619391-597d-555c-9647-90cb75858cb4)
VIII (#u27c76eb7-f9c6-50a3-b7c2-e123c7402bf9)
IX (#uedaddba4-bdd7-5930-b4b2-b9953f18007c)
X (#u80af355a-b6a2-5a16-86bd-a89564bf0920)
XI (#uc3cf16ab-5a85-501c-bd1d-aa611dea4df6)
XII (#ufebcdc03-ac4e-55b0-b390-b0e90cdfa043)
About the Author (#ud33b6e53-c238-5e49-9f6d-22be70ffac1a)
Praise (#u6e970344-dc0d-51e2-881a-d3aa4eeec4d4)
Copyright (#ubdf8fd52-e4d9-5308-8939-c27daa109469)
About the Publisher (#u15f453ad-ee1a-533c-b21e-4395187828e4)
PART ONE (#ulink_88fab37f-1840-51ec-9ce7-7853916e3a73)
I (#ulink_6dfd29c3-6b3e-5558-88e4-fe48c5151e14)
‘Sid…Sid!’ Me mother was calling for me. I’m not kidding you—if there was five hundred people lived in our street, there was five hundred people out on the road, all looking at me. Me mum and a policeman was standing outside our house. Next to them was Mrs Leicester from the shop down the road. I thought about running but they had already seen me.
Me mum says, ‘You’ve had a loaf out of her shop and she wants the fourpence ha’penny for it.’
‘Pay up, you saucy sod,’ says Mrs Leicester.
She had come to find me. I don’t know how she knew it was me stole the bread, but there she was outside our house. I held out tuppence ha’penny. Me mum clumped me round the ear’ole.
‘Get inside!’
The policeman come inside with us. Me mum told him she had given me some money that morning and sent me to get a loaf of bread from Leicester’s shop.
I says, ‘Mrs Leicester weren’t about so I took it.’
I had crept in, picked up a nice crusty cottage loaf and slid out. After I got it home I thought to meself, ‘That’s fourpence ha’penny I’ve saved there.’ So I went up to the faggot shop on the corner of our road and spent tuppence on faggot and pease pudding—two lots on a piece of newspaper.
‘I ought to nick you,’ the policeman says.
But he just gave me a rollicking and it all got washed over at the death. All I got was a bleeding good hiding from me mum. Then she locked me in the bedroom. I was in there for hours. It got late and I could hear them all down in the kitchen. On the next floor up lived Wiggy Lenny. I went to the window and opened it.
I says, ‘Wig!’
After two or three times he opened the window.
‘What do you want?’
‘Got anything to eat? I ain’t had nothing.’
‘I got some melon I nicked.’
‘Give us a bit then—I’m bleeding starving.’
He tied the melon on a piece of string and dangled it down. Just as I grabbed it me mum come in and didn’t she smack me arse.
Me mum never let me get away with anything. She would say, ‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ and then—bang! She gave me some whackings but it only made me worse. The old man was away in the war and so me mum gave the orders. Sometimes, if the old man was home on leave and we made him really angry, he would unthread his Army belt, raise it up and roar at us—but he never hit us. It was me mum who would wring our necks if she found us out. Luckily, she never really knew what we was up to. Every day I nicked something from the shops and stalls round Archway, specially the greengrocer’s. If you are hungry you got to live.
They called me mum Dinah Day, but I think her real name was Alice Maud. Dad was William Day. We lived in Balmore Street, N19, a street where there was so much villainry going on, so many drunks and gambling and Gawd knows what, that at night the police would only come down in twos. Everyone knew it as Tiger Bay.
The house we lived in had two floors and a basement. The Lennys had the top floor and we had the first floor and the airy below. There was Mum, Dad, Alice, Bill, Bob, Jim, me and Lulu. On the pavement outside there was a round hole with a lid that was once the coal hole for the cellar. Me mate, Bill Rudd, who we called Ruddy, slept in the cellar on a mattress that me mum slung down there for him.
Ruddy’s real home was further up the street, four houses past the alley that went down to our school. Before he come to us his mum died and he lived for a while with his sister and his old man. His dad was a very strict old boy—a ‘stiff collar’ sort who liked a drink but never got drunk. He was a grave digger for donkey’s years at Highgate Cemetery, but he earned poor money—very poor money. Ruddy’s sister was a nurse up the hospital. Ruddy come to live with us when she found a bloke and moved out. Every day me mum gave me a cup of tea and a slice of bread and dripping to take down to him. The rest of his food he had to find hisself.
Our garden was just like all the other gardens in the street. We had one toilet for the two families and there was always a row about who should clean it out. The rest of the garden was filled with me dad’s geraniums, and pens and sheds for our chickens, ducks and rabbits. We kept pigeons to race and had an aviary full of wild birds. Our dogs was kept out there too—everyone in the street had dogs.
When I was only about four years old I went into the garden and seen one of our teeny chicks dragging his leg.
I says to me brother, ‘Oh look, Bill, that poor chicken has broke his leg.’
‘Has it?’
‘Yeah, poor thing.’
Bill says, ‘Go along to the chemist shop and get him some sixpenny chicken crutches.’
He gave me a sixpence and I went into the chemist at the end of our street. Inside was Mr Armitage, the tall old boy what owned it.
I says, ‘Can I have a pair of sixpenny crutches for me chicken?’
Didn’t he laugh! When I got home Bill thought it was a great joke.
At the other end of our street a family called the Booths had a greengrocer’s shop. There was nineteen kids in that family and me mum was midwife to the lot. She brought all of them into the world. Cor blimey, what a family! Old Mother Booth was a fat woman with great big breasts, and she was the boss alright. Mr Booth was only a little old boy, no more than five foot high. He maintained Highgate Cemetery and moved big tombstones onto the graves from the stonemason’s next door. His poor old horse, Nobby, had to move them stones round all bleeding day. We called him Rat-tailed Nobby cause he only had a little tail.
The cemetery was right next to our street, so me and me mates was always larking round in there. On Sundays it was filled with dozens of people come to visit graves. It was a long walk from some of the graves to the water tap. We sold clean jam jars to the mourners for a penny each and filled them up with water for a penny more. When they had gone we pinched the flowers off the graves and sold them. We took the wreaths too, pulled the moss off and sold them for a ha’penny back to the florist.
II (#ulink_b9fb2105-adbc-5cea-b760-17cbdaf29e36)
I was five years old when I started school, the year before the fourteen war ended. The sky was filled with observation balloons. There was two blokes sat inside each basket looking for German aircraft coming in. We waved at them from the school playground and they waved back at us. The balloons was up there night and day, hundreds of them, all over the show.
The war never really meant anything to us kids. Me mum would put a blanket all the way round our big table in the kitchen and say, ‘Get under there.’ That table was our air raid shelter. We all got tucked in underneath and thought it was a bit of fun. The Booths would come over to our house and get under the table or under the stairs with us. Sometimes me gran was there too.
Me gran was always in and out of our house or me mum would go up the road to her house. We always shouted out when we passed her sitting on her step. Sometimes she would send me for a jug of black beer and I would drink a drop on the way back. She was a little old Spanish woman with a long black plait down her back. I don’t think I knew her name—we just called her Gran. She was always in black. Her skirt was tight round her waist and it come out down to the floor. She looked like a little tent walking round. Lots of women wore those long dresses dragging the ground and they got filthy at the bottom. Me gran was a nice old lady. Mind you, if you was cheeky to her she slapped you round the ear’ole—bang!—no arguments. She was very strict.
When the war started hotting up we all traipsed down to the tube station and slept on the platform every night. Everybody in the street went down there. Cor blimey, it stunk like merry hell with all the drunken old sods, stunk terrible. The only good thing about it was it was nice and warm. When they knew there was going to be an air raid the fire engine went along the top of the road sounding the sirens. It was a cart with a big tank in the middle and a big pump on it, drawn by horses. When they blew the old bugle you knew there was an air raid coming. Once I seen a fleet of German airplanes come low across over our house, flying in the shape of a tick.
There weren’t a lot of bombing but I can remember four bombs. The very first one hit Highgate Hospital. It landed right on the big iron gates. The gatekeeper weren’t there so nobody got killed—it just blew the gates away. The next one was at the foot of Parliament Hill Fields as you enter from West Hill. We used that one as a swimming pool when it got full up with water. Another fell not far from the Highgate ponds.
The fourth bomb was dropped near the gun on the top of Parliament Hill. It practically landed on me Uncle Fred who ran a gun called Big Bertha. A little dog, a whippet, ran into the fenced off area round the gun during that air raid. Nobody claimed it so me uncle bought it down to our house. He would often come over with some food for us. You could walk it in a quarter of an hour.
Me mum says to him, ‘Ooo he’s a lovely little boy, ain’t he?’
He says, ‘It ain’t a boy it’s a gel. Do you want her?’
‘Yeah, I’ll have her, lovely little dog.’
‘Alright, Dinah. Take her on.’
So we got the dog. Mum called her Nel and kept her for fourteen years. She was me mother’s water bottle. She used to get into the bed and wiggle her way down to the bottom and the old gel would put her feet on her of a night time.
We always had two or three dogs living with us. I had a Bull Terrier, but I don’t know if I ever give him a name. I had him a couple or three years but then he strangled hisself with his tether in the garden. We had another little dog, a black and white Jack Russell, and he could pick a penny up off the floor when you threw it down for him. That wants some doing for a dog. Me favourite dog was called Babs. She was an Airedale with a lovely brown and black coat, all tight curls, a lovely dog. Sometimes I took three dogs out at a time over Parliament Hill Fields. In the war it was a training ground for the Army. I seen many two-wheel gun carriages tip arse over head there. They come flying down the hill pulled by four horses, as fast as they could go. When the carriage tipped over the soldiers would put it back on its wheels and off they would go again, round and round.
All the men was away in the war. Me dad was in the Army. He served the whole length of the war in the Royal Artillery, driving the horses that pulled the guns. That was how he got the name Driver Day. He was short and well built with brown hair and he was covered all over with tattoos. His nose was spread across his chops from fighting. When he had leave from the Army he would come home, straight out of the trenches, mud everywhere, filthy. The poor old bugger had puttees wrapped round his legs up to his knees and the mud was all caked in where they hadn’t been taken off for weeks and weeks. His legs looked like ladders from the marks round them made by the ties.
When me mum said Dad was coming home, Jim and me would wait for him at the top of our road. He was always glad to see us. He brought these great big dog biscuits for us called ‘iron rations’ and we liked to eat them. Mind you, they was only nice cause we had nothing else. You had to have a hammer to break the bleeding things.
Me dad was out in the front line for years in France. He was fit as a fiddle and a keen old fighter. When it was peaceful they put up boxing rings and he would organise boxing exhibitions. He was popular—anybody who done a lot of sport in the Army always got on. As well as boxing they larked about in the trenches, gambling for cigarettes, and sometimes, he told me, they would go into farms, nick a pig, take it back to the trenches and roast it. When a horse got shot in battle, as soon as it was down and out, they would carve it up with their bayonets and eat that as well.
While me dad was away, me mum had to keep the seven of us on rations. I would go round and get food from Bucking-ham’s shop. Mum would say, ‘Take the cup with you and get an haporth of jam, a pennorth of sugar, a bit of tea, a tin of evaporated milk and a lump of margarine.’ We hardly ever see any meat.
III (#ulink_d82b4566-0fc8-5be1-a649-f5abc95b2bfe)
The war ended and me dad come home. After he got gassed in France he never could breathe through his nose properly again. Sometimes he was in so much pain with his nose he would come home from work at dinner time and put his head over a bowl of hot salt water and sniff it up. That was the only way he could shift it.
Me mum’s brother, Bob, who lived right opposite us, was much worse off. He lived with his wife Ginny and their kids. He was a typical looking Spanish man if ever there was one —sharp featured and sticking out black hair. His face always looked black from wanting a shave, what was left of it. He had half his jaw blown off in the war. For a pension he got the big amount of two and sixpence a week. The poor old bugger only had half a jaw and looked a sight but he got used to it at the death. He still knew how to drink a pint of beer.
The men went back to work, if they could find work. On every street corner there was gangs of men chinwagging cause they didn’t have the money to go for a pint. It was hard to get a proper job and that was why so many young blokes from our street joined the Army, even after the war. They sent them out to India after they was trained. I think there was a place called Tiger Bay out there and that is how our street come to get its name.
The winter after me dad come home he got the job of night watchman on the other side of the cemetery where they was putting in some drainage. On his first night me mum sent me up with some food. Dad told me to cut through the cemetery on the way back. I had to walk past the gravestones and stone angels glowing all white in the dark. I did that every night while he was up there and I never told him I was afraid.
Me dad worked mainly in the building. After a day’s work he was always in the pub. He lived there. He loved his pint, they all did. That was all they had to do, let’s face it—drink and make babies. Our two local pubs was called the Totnes and the Brookfield—they was only a few minutes apart. Each of them had two bars and an off licence. One bar was for the navvies, the hard workers, and the other for the shopkeepers and people who had a bob or two. They called that the saloon bar and you had to pay extra for yer booze in there. It was a bit more upmarket, with chairs, tables and flowers. There was a brass rail running along the counter and red velvet curtains hanging round to make it look pretty. The navvies’ bar had big benches, sawdust on the floor and spittoons along the counter.
The pubs opened at five o’clock and kicked out at ten o’clock on the dot unless they had the Law straightened up. The guvnor at the Brookfield always took out a pint of beer to a policeman who drunk it in the outside toilet. Saturday nights there would be hollering and shouting and fighting and blokes up to all manner of things. That was how it was. If you fell out with a bloke you stood up and had a fight. When it was over you was back friends again. Some of them went singing in the streets. They would come down our road from the pub, half drunk, get a comb out and a piece of paper and play a tune and people would give them a ha’penny or a penny. One bloke would put his foot in the door, stand there and sing his heart out and then take his hat inside for pennies.
The next day they was back in the pub. The Irish blokes would go up to St Joseph’s, ‘Holy Joe’s’, at the top of Dartmouth Park Hill. They would confess and give the priest a shilling. Then they would hare down to the Archway Tavern. A while later the priest would go down there too, taking off his dog collar as he walked along and putting a handkerchief round his neck. He would go in, spend all their money and they would all wind up drunk as lords.
On a Sunday morning our road was full up with ponies pulling gigs, come to race. The gigs was painted in bright blues and reds and the ponies had lovely shiny coats. They was all done up with ribbons and bows—a picture to look at. People come from all round to watch them fly up and down and they would bet on all types of things—whose pony would win, whose pony was done up best. The old ponies would prance up and down the street, lifting their hooves up high. They trained them to do that by tying a rope between the pony’s legs and the bridle. As the pony’s head come up his hooves had to follow. After the races and the betting all the ponies and chariots would be tied up outside the pub.
Nearly everybody who went to the Brookfield on a Sunday took a bird in a little carrying cage. Me dad took his cage wrapped up in a red and white spotted navvy’s handkerchief so his bird wouldn’t be afraid. He would put the cage underneath his arm and take off the cloth when he got to the pub. Every man put his bird up on the shelf that ran right the way along the bar. The bar was filled with birds fluttering and singing.
Me dad had dozens of different birds: finches, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds. There weren’t a type of bird that breathed that me dad didn’t have at some time. We caught them by going bush bashing. Me dad made eight foot by three foot double-layered nets out of black cotton. We would loop a net between two trees in Kenwood and then bash the bushes with sticks to scare the birds towards it. When a bird flew through the net it was trapped in a pocket.
I went bird nesting and egg collecting with me brothers, too. We collected eggs, made two holes in them with a pin and blew them empty. Sometimes we took birds when they was near to being fledged. I reared them up, feeding them chewed up bread from me mouth or on a matchstick. I brought up lots of birds, including a sparrowhawk. It was a very pretty bird with zebra markings and I let it go at the finish.
In the pub they bet on the birds. One might say, ‘Me bird will sing longer than yours.’ Another might boast, ‘Mine will sing better than yours,’ and another, ‘Me bird’s plumage is better than yours.’ Then they would have a competition. That bird in its little cage was their pride and joy. Everybody had birds, everybody.
When the Brookfield kicked out after lunch me dad would walk home with his bird. As he turned into the Bay he would stop outside the house of Drummer Hawkins who lived at the top of our road. ‘Hawkins,’ he would shout, ‘come out here, I’ll see to yer!’ Hawkins was twice me dad’s size, a brute of a man. When he heard me dad hollering he would come out and they would whip off their shirts and fight like tigers. There would be blood and snot everywhere. Me dad loved a good fight. That evening they would be drinking together in the pub.
The pubs was always full up with hounds gambling. Me brother Bill worked as runner to a penny bookmaker. He collected the bets and took them in. Sometimes the police would come into the pub and he had to give them five bob beer money. The police looked forward to it—that’s all they went in for, to cop their money off of the bookmakers or the gamblers. On one occasion two plainclothes policemen—two real bastards—come into the Brookfield.
They says to me brother, ‘Come on, cough up.’
He emptied his pockets and they went out and round to the saloon bar. Then in come the Inspector and nicked Bill just the same. He got a thirty bob fine.
The elder ones in the Bay was mostly always drunk. They liked a pint of black beer—the cheapest beer you could buy. A pint of black was five pence and other beer was sixpence a pint. The old biddies liked a drop of biddy wine. It was wine from the bottom of the barrel and it was thick like mud. The old gels would take their bottles into the pub and get three pennorth of it. It was the cheapest form of drink to get drunk on quick—it would blow yer hat off. It was also the favourite drink of worn-out prostitutes. Nearly everyone liked a drop to drink, and plenty drank theirselves to death.
When someone died in our street the family would go in the pub with the collection. They wore black armbands. Everyone would throw in a few coppers, thruppence, sixpence—or whatever—for the family. Most people had a parish funeral cause their families couldn’t afford to pay for a proper one. A proper funeral cost six pounds and it was a big event, everybody turned out. They paraded the coffin through the streets covered in flowers. The glass-sided hearse was pulled by black horses with beautiful plumes sticking right up. They was stabled at the top of our street. The horses’ hooves would be muffled by straw put on the road to stop the noise and everyone would come outside and watch them go by.
Me gran died when I was still very young. I don’t remember her having a funeral but she must have done. The day she died me mum was sitting down with me sisters when I come indoors.
‘Yer granny’s dead,’ she says.
‘Well it won’t burn yer lips to kiss her arse then, will it!’ I says, quick as anything.
It just come out. Didn’t she give me a tanning. I was the youngest son and a bit of a favourite with me mum, but that time I think I really upset her. I suppose I thought nothing of death then. People was always dying or getting born.
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Sidney Day
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Биографии и мемуары
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: An extraordinary memoir from a man in his nineties who remembers everyday life in a North London now long gone: the hardships and deprivations of a life of poverty but also the resourcefulness and fortitude of a community determined to survive between the wars.′When I look back, I can picture the old gels chinwagging on their steps in the Bay like it was yesterday. Little did they think that young Sid, passing by with his arse out of his trousers, would one way publish his memoirs!′′Ordinary′ people do not write their stories, believing their lives to be unremarkable. Some, like Sid, cannot write at all. But, with the aid of his granddaughter Helen Day, Sid has produced an extraordinary memoir of a city and a way of life now lost forever. ‘London Born’ is a book that has appeared against all the odds – as Sid says, ′When me granddaughter Helen Day said she wanted to record the story of the first half of me life and turn it into a book I was astonished. I thought to meself, Well, I′ve done a lot of things, but I never dreamt I′d get into the book game. You see, I can′t write more than me own name.′In ‘London Born’, Sid remembers the city that emerged from the First World War and recreates the daily life of the people living in the notorious street known as ′Tiger Bay′. He describes the drinking and merrymaking, the poverty and unemployment – and the ′villainry′. With relish he relates how youthful high spirits and a refusal to accept the hardship of the times sometimes put him and his friends on the wrong side of the law. He goes on to tell of the wartime mayhem endured by Londoners and his determination to survive. His story closes with demobilisation when he returns to his wife and young family – ′the only thing that ever counted′.This is a memoir from a warm and cheeky voice; from someone who remembers, as if it were yesterday, parading down Archway in his fifty-bob suit, or running rings around Ernie Costen, the local policeman.