by Alf Townsend
Some weeks later my Dad told me I had to see a specialist down Harley Street and if I told a convincing tale about my ‘blinding headaches’ and the ‘terrible pains in the neck’, we would cop a nice few quid from the insurance company. So I rehearsed and rehearsed my story over and over again. Just a few days before seeing the top man at Harley Street, I ‘bunked’ into the pictures with some of my mates. They were showing some corny horror film about a monster with a great big head, great big hands and great big feet. I remember the scientist in the film saying very dramatically that the monster was suffering from ‘acromegaly’. The dictionary describes this as ‘a chronic disease characterised by enlargement of the bones of the head, hands and feet. This is caused by excessive secretion of growth hormones by the pituitary glands’. Funny what the mind stores up, isn’t it? I’ve remembered that word for over sixty years and it still fascinates me!
So a few days later, off I goes with my Dad to the man at Harley Street. As I was ushered into a room I noticed two old blokes in white coats looking at me. One of them said to the other in a thin, reedy, posh voice. ‘Not acromegaly, but slightly acromelagic, don’t you think Mr Brown?’ ‘Mmm,’ mused the other old bloke staring closely at me as if I was some sort of specimen. ‘You could be right, Mr Smith.’
I can still recall the look of total disbelief on their faces to this very day when I snapped back at them. ‘For your information, matey, I was born with a big bonce, and it ain’t got nuffing to do with acromegaly or my accident.’ The two of them were utterly speechless. How could this scruffy, backstreet urchin on an obvious insurance fiddle, possibly know about such a rare disease? These two consultants were completely bewildered and it was a joy for me to see them floundering. Suffice to say, they didn’t believe one little bit of my cock and bull story about blinding headaches and severe neck pains, so my old Dad never got a penny. He should have cut his losses and taken the money he was offered in the first place. It doesn’t pay to be too greedy! As the old saying goes: ‘Little fish are sweet!’
Finally, and after what seemed an eternity, it was time for us to move on. I thought I heard our Mum telling Nan that we were moving to no. 2 Hyphen Street, but when I told this to Auntie Queenie, she fell about laughing. ‘’Ere,’ she said to Auntie Edie, ‘where d’ya think little silda-paper finks he’s moving to?’ She called me that because I couldn’t pronounce ‘silver paper’ when I was a nipper. ‘Go on, Alfie,’ she said, ‘tell your Auntie Edie where you’re a moving to.’ ‘We’re gonna live at no. 2 Hyphen Street,’ I said, not knowing why she was laughing. ‘N-n-no, Alfie,’ said my auntie with the stutter. She started to stutter even more as the tears of laughter ran down her face. ‘You’re m-m-moving t-t-to T-t-twyford Street and its n-n-number b-b-bleedin’ s-s-seven.’
The two of them fell about in fits of laughter, with tears streaming down their faces. I didn’t think it was that funny, but they seemed to think so! As for me, I continued to tell all and sundry that I lived at no. 2 Hyphen Street. Who knows, if I had put that address down on my call-up papers when they arrived on my doorstep some seven years later, maybe I wouldn’t have had to endure two years of National Service in the RAF. But that’s another story for another book and you can read about it in Bad Lads!
Auntie Edie with the stutter lived on the top floor of my Nan’s house in Offord Road with her husband Bert and their rather plump son, Michael. They were certainly a mismatch as a couple. Auntie Edie was tall and skinny, with funny glasses and Uncle Bert was quite the opposite. He was a dapper dresser and could almost be described as raffish. He had light ginger hair, plastered flat on his rather prominent head with Brylcreem. He sported a neat ginger moustache and had freckles on his fattish face. And he invariably wore nice suits with red braces that led down to a large beer belly. I liked Uncle Bert and I think he liked me, because he knew I was a ducker and diver, just like him. I recall once I admired one of his suits and he said, puffing away on his big cigar, with a twinkle in his eyes: ‘First impressions go a long way in this world son and people like to see a nice whistle being worn by someone they’re doing business with. So always remember boy,’ he went on expansively, ‘when you grow up you gotta hit them with that first impression.’
As I mentioned before, all my other uncles, and my Grandad before them, worked down Covent Garden as market porters. But not Uncle Bert, he was a costermonger through and through. I looked up that word recently and discovered it originated centuries ago and came from the word ‘costard’ meaning a large ribbed apple. The word ‘monger’ comes from the Old English word ‘mangere’, meaning a merchant. Thus the word costermonger is a compound word meaning a street merchant who sells apples! London’s Pearly Kings and Queens originated in about 1886 and they all came from London’s vast number of costermongers.
Back to my Uncle Bert, the costermonger. He had a fruit and veg stall down by the Arsenal ground in Holloway Road, right on the corner of Palmer Place, next to the Arsenal Café. One Friday, he said to me right out of the blue while I was playing in the garden: ‘D’ya wanna help me out on the stall tomorrow, Alfie?’
This was music to my ears. I was bored, always getting into trouble and driving my Mum mad. Maybe my Mum had chatted him up to ask me, I wonder? ‘Not ’arf, Uncle Bert,’ I shouted out happily. ‘Alright then, Alfie,’ Uncle Bert said. ‘I’ll give you a shout early tomorrow morning – and I mean early!’
So bright and early the next morning, I set of with Uncle Bert to pick up all his gear. We walked up Offord Road, turned left into Westbourne Road and right into Mackenzie Road then left into Lough Road, next to the railway lines. I distinctly remember that opposite his lock-up there was a black wooden tower, almost like some sort of grain silo. Written on the black tower in huge white swirly writing were the words, ‘Turner Byrne and John Innes, Grain Merchants and Cattle Feed’. Why I should remember that after more than sixty years, God only knows. Uncle Bert opened some iron gates with a big bunch of keys, walked into the yard and there was the head of a horse poking out of the stable door. I was so thrilled! I didn’t even know Uncle Bert had a horse. ‘This is Daisy,’ said Uncle Bert, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. ‘And this is Alfie,’ he went on, pulling me over so I could rub her nose. ‘Just keep talking to her, Alfie, and keep stroking and patting her so she gets used to you,’ said Uncle Bert. ‘I’ll get her out and we’ll hitch her up to the cart, then we’ll put her nosebag on so she can have some grub.’
Uncle Bert led out this beautiful brown horse with the white flash on her nose, hitched her up to the cart and gave her the nosebag. I was delegated to load on all the boxes of fruit and veg from the shed. It was hard work, but I was loving it all in the knowledge that I’d be riding on the cart soon. Uncle Bert took off her nosebag, clambered up on the cart, grabbed the reins and shouted out to me: ‘Come on Alfie, up you get a bit lively.’ What a great adventure! I climbed up on the cart and Uncle Bert made a sort of clicking noise with his mouth. He tapped Daisy lightly on the back and she walked out of the yard. ‘Just hold the reins lightly, Alfie, and I’ll lock up,’ said Uncle Bert jumping down. I just sat there holding the reins, thrilled to bits.
What a great way to spend a Saturday. Out came Uncle Bert, jumped up on the cart, made that funny clicking noise again and off we went heading for Holloway Road. This was really living! We did a left turn into Mackenzie Road, crossed over Liverpool Road into Palmer Place, passing the huge emergency water tank, now the site of a church, and stopped on the right by the corner of Holloway Road. ‘You lead her around the corner on the bridle, Alfie, and I’ll start setting up the stall,’ said Uncle Bert. So, I jumped gingerly off the cart, grabbed hold of Daisy’s bridle, stroked her nose and tried to make that clicking noise like Uncle Bert. Bless her, she let me lead her round the corner by the stall – as good as gold! So, I stroked her again, called her a good girl and put her nosebag back on.
Now the real hard graft began. Uncle Bert put on his garish flat cap, which was almost the colour of his
hair and moustache – a sort of gingery tweed. Then, on went his big apron with the zips across the front to hold the notes. And on some upturned boxes by the front of the stall, he put out the cash till. Well it wasn’t any sort of till that the kids of today would recognise – or even many adults. It was just a lovely shiny block of wood and on the top, someone had carved out three circular holes that were about four inches deep. The biggest hole was about six inches across and the other two were about half that diameter. The holes themselves were curved and all smooth and shiny. ‘Right Alfie,’ said Uncle Bert pointing to the till, ‘always remember to put the shrapnel in the big hole, all the tosheroons and the two-bobs in one of the other holes.’ ‘Okay Uncle Bert,’ I replied knowingly. Then I had a thought. ‘So where do I put the tanners or the joeys? ‘Don’t act dopey Alfie,’ said Uncle Bert, with a look of disdain on his face. ‘Think abaht it son, if you’ve got the bleedin’ two bobs and tosheroons in one hole and the shrapnel in the other, you’ve only got one bleedin’ hole left for the tanners and the joeys ain’t ya?’ ‘Yeah, sorry Uncle Bert,’ I replied with a hang-dog expression on my face. ‘I just didn’t want to mess it up early on and get a rollicking.’ Uncle Bert looked up and smiled across at me with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes as he heaved up a sack of potatoes. So, I knew everything was alright and I was forgiven for being a dummy!
Working on a fruit and veg stall was totally alien to me, as I had yet to learn all the slang names for the produce. Uncle Bert would suddenly shout across to me: ‘Alfie, we’re running low on “new pots”.’ Then he’d shout out loudly for another tray of ‘toms’ or ‘mush’ or half a dozen punnets of ‘straws’ – they were the little boxes of strawberries. But what fascinated me the most was to stand behind him when he was adding up someone’s bill – it was almost like a foreign language. ‘Now, let’s have a tot-up darling,’ he used to say to some old biddy. ‘The pots are a joey, the greens are a deuce, and the old apple and pears come to a tanner. So, the old Jack and Jill with all your other bits and pieces, comes to a kybosh.’
My Uncle Bert’s expertise at slang expressions and rhyming slang never failed to amaze me. I used to earwig him talking to his fellow stall-holders. ‘Naw, the gear’s getting a bit pricey now down the Garden,’ he would say, puffing away on his cigar. ‘I paid a pony for my gear this week, yet last week it was only a score. My Jack and Jill came to a bottle this month and that was a score more than it stood me last month I went there.’ ‘The trouble is, Bert,’ said one of the other costers, ‘the punters round this manor ain’t got the readies to pull up for any extras, ’cos most of ’em are on the Rock and Roll. So you can’t up the ante, otherwise you’ll get lumbered with all the gear’. ‘Naw, you’re right Harry,’ said Uncle Bert. ‘But you’ve only got to go up West and the punters down there ain’t short of a few bob; I reckon we’re working the wrong pitch.’ They all nodded sagely in agreement and carried on puffing away on their fags and drinking their Rosie Lees. Later in the morning, Uncle Bert looked at his watch and shouted out at me. ‘Strewth, Alfie, look at the bleedin’ time, take a dinar out of the till and tell Carlos in the café we want two cheese rolls and two large Rosies. He knows who you are ’cos I told him about you earlier.’ ‘Okay Uncle Bert,’ I said, taking the shilling out of one of the holes. ‘I won’t be a tick.’
I walked into the Arsenal Café and saw this foreign-looking bloke behind the counter pouring tea from a huge, stainless steel pot that looked almost as big as his little head. ‘Two teas and two cheese rolls please, Mr Carlos,’ I said politely. He looked up at me from beneath his big, bushy eyebrows and said in a voice that reminded me of the old gangster films. ‘You got-ta be Bert’s a-nephew Alfie, is that-a-so?’ I nodded back and said: ‘That’s right Mr Carlos.’ ‘Hey Momma,’ he shouted out. ‘Come-a-see little Alfie, who-sa Bert’s-a nephew.’ The beaded curtain behind the counter was suddenly pushed open and out bustled a little, plump lady wearing a black frock with a white apron. ‘He look-a-like a big strong boy, Pappa,’ she said, flashing a big, toothy smile. ‘You like-a helping your Uncle on his a-stall, Alfie?’ ‘Yes thank you, Mrs Carlos,’ I replied. ‘I really enjoy it.’ She let out a loud giggle and both she and her husband looked up at the skies with their hands in the air and started saying something like ‘Mamma Mia.’ ‘No, no Alfie,’ she said, still laughing. ‘That’s-a Carlos Fellucci, she said pointing at her little husband, and I am-a Maria Fellucci from Italy.’ I thanked them, still not knowing why they were laughing, picked up the teas and the cheese rolls and took them back to Uncle Bert.
But I was confused. ‘Can I ask you a question, Uncle Bert?’ He nodded, so I said, ‘How come the Italians were on Jerry’s side, yet Carlos and his missus are both Italians living over here?’ He smiled, put down his cheese roll and his tea and, putting his thumbs into his bright red braces, said in an unusual, solemn voice. ‘Let me explain son. Carlos and his family have lived over in London for donkey’s years. He’s probably more cockney than most of my punters and he’s a long-time Arsenal supporter as well. Now we’re all mates again.’ He took another big puff on his cigar, stared me straight in the face and went on. ‘Wot you ’ave to keep remembering when you grow up, is to make up your own mind about people and not listen to all that crap turned out by different governments who don’t know what they are a-talkin’ abaht. Take Adolf Hitler, as an example. If you woz to listen to ’im talking his crap, you wouldn’t like anyone in the whole bleedin’ world unless they were Jerries.’ Yet another cloud of cigar smoke wafted over me, as he continued a costermonger’s in-depth appraisal of world politics and the human race. ‘Not all Italians are bad, the same as not all Jerries are bad,’ he said. ‘But there again, not all the English people are kosher. So you gotta learn to judge people yourself, Alfie.’ He wasn’t wrong, my Uncle Bert. As you make your way through life you learn to pick out some of the things that make sense. And, my Uncle Bert made good, down-to-earth common sense!
After a long, long day, Uncle Bert looked at his watch and said: ‘Okay Alfie, it’s time to shut up shop and get home and have some grub.’ So, once more I loaded the cart and Daisy took us back to Uncle Bert’s lock-up. I can always remember her big, shiny back moving from side to side as she walked home. I helped to unharness her, put her in her stable and made sure she had plenty of food and clean straw. My reward for the day was a carrier bag of fruit and veg, known to all the market porters as a cochell, plus a half-crown coin for my day’s labour! But again, the spending value of that half-crown in those far-off days was enormous. It would take me to the pictures – trouble was, me and my mates used to bunk in without paying anyway! But it certainly bought me plenty of sweets and chocolate on the Black Market because of rationing and lots of bags of chips!
Alfie the teenager. (Joan Westmore’s collection)
My Saturday job lasted for quite a few weeks and I finally had the ultimate joy of driving the cart by myself. Uncle Bert turned round to me suddenly one day and said: ‘Alfie, we’re running low on pots and greens, ’ere’s the keys and don’t be too bloomin’ long.’ Sitting up on the high seat with the big brake pedal under my sole and talking to Daisy as we made our way back to the lock-up was my idea of heaven. I didn’t want anything else. All the local kids were staring at me and I felt like a king for the day. I would have done this job for nothing – especially when some of the pretty local girls came a-running alongside the cart, all asking for a ride!
But sadly, it all ended soon after when we moved out of our Nan’s house and settled down in Twyford Street and Uncle Bert’s podgy son Michael took over from me. My apologies to Michael for calling him podgy if he happens to read this book. I’ve no doubt he is now a slim, handsome guy in his mid-sixties! Those were happy days on the stall and memories I will never forget.
Soon after that, my Uncle Bert and his family also moved out of our Nan’s house to a different part of London and I’ve never seen my Uncle Bert, Auntie Edie, or their son Michael since that day! Lovely memori
es though, and I’ll treasure them forever!
At the outbreak of the Second World War, Nicolette, my lovely wife for the past five decades, was living with her mother and baby sister in Holford Square, just off Kings Cross Road. It was just under a mile from where I was living. Her father was a regular in the army and one of the first to volunteer for the SAS when it was formed.
During the early days of the Blitz, all the families in the area regularly used the communal shelter in the square. She recalls after one really heavy air raid, returning to their house to find it almost completely destroyed. She remembers seeing the old-fashioned stained-glass window above the street door amazingly still intact, but without the street door which had been blown off. She remembers peering into the passageway and wondering why it was almost full to the ceiling with rubble. Her Mum had lost absolutely everything. The furniture was gone, so had all the kids’ clothes. All of her Mum’s precious bits and pieces of jewellery – even the linen and the kitchenware were destroyed. Worst of all, they had nowhere to live. They were bombed-out as the saying went in those days. But her little old Mum was feisty and resourceful. No way would Jerry beat her. So she attempted to salvage anything she could. Incidentally, the photo depicting Nicolette was actually on the mantelpiece when the bomb exploded and the hole was caused by a piece of shrapnel!
My lovely wife Nicolette as a baby. (Author’s collection)
Nicolette and her younger sister Rosalie. (Author’s collection)
Nicolette as a youngster. The hole in the photograph was caused by shrapnel when bombs destroyed the house. (Author’s collection)