I am proud to publish these excerpts from CHERRY’S CACHE by Cherry Gilchrist, a graduate of my writing course. Cherry set out to research and bring alive the lives of her forebears and her account of Ned Despard is a fascinating example of this. Ned was a man who through his sense of decency found himself fatally at odds with the spirit of his age.

Follow CHERRY’S CACHE

I am taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 6th & 7th. Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.

Click here for details

If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.

Ned Despard by George Romney

I wanted to learn all that I could about my cousin Colonel Edward Marcus Despard (1751-1803), an Irishman of Huguenot descent whom I shall call ‘Ned’. My role here is to draw your attention to his story and celebrate my discovery of him as a relative. I will begin with the end.

On Monday February 21st, 1803, Ned was executed. A crowd of some twenty thousand people gathered to watch him go to his death on a scaffold erected on what is now the South Bank, condemned as a conspirator against King and Country. He asked permission to make a final speech and spoke passionately on the subject of justice and equality. He was then executed, by hanging and decapitation, on a charge of treason.

The evidence against him was flimsy at best and false at worst. He received small mercy in that his sentence of being ‘hanged, drawn and quartered’ – the last man in legal history to receive this sentence – was repealed at short notice to remove the barbaric ‘drawing and quartering’. Even though he had loyal friends, such as his old comrade-in-arms Horatio Nelson, they could not commute his sentence further.

Ned was condemned as a dangerous revolutionary, the charge against him being that he was planning to kill the King and overthrow the government. Yet this was a man who had been loyal to the British Crown through thick and thin, though since returning to London, he had kept company with radicals and was certainly interested in ideals of equality and reform. And in those days, that proved enough to hang him.

He was singled out for infamy at a time when Britain was gripped with paranoia about a possible revolution. The government feared that the French Revolution of 1789 might be replicated on British soil. Youthful idealism for revolution, embraced by the Romantic poets Shelley, Byron, Coleridge and Wordsworth, was no longer acceptable.

Ned had served the British Government faithfully, fighting bravely as a comrade alongside Nelson in campaigns in the Caribbean and Central America, where they managed to recapture Fort Immaculada from the Spanish. Both men suffered disease and hardship in the process.

Afterwards, Ned proved himself as a responsible and conscientious governor in Honduras, and only came back to England when he was completely out of funds, trying to reclaim the expenses owed to him, which he had subsidised out of his own pocket, including providing hurricane relief to the population.

He married Catherine Gordon, a black woman from Jamaica, a bold act at the time, especially when he returned to London with her. Mixed marriages, as opposed to concubinage, were certainly not the norm at the turn of the nineteenth century. One of the reports against him sneered that when Ned was seized from home to be taken to court, he had been ‘found in bed with a black woman’ without mention that she was his lawful wife. Even some of the Despard family and their descendants spoke of her being a housekeeper rather than acknowledging her true position.

In fact, Catherine was an educated woman, her mother had been a ‘free woman’, so neither she nor her daughter was a slave. And Catherine was capable of mixing in upper circles of society. She petitioned for her husband tirelessly during the years he was kept in prison pending his final trial. One of her letters survives, a plea that he should be kept in better conditions.

During his time as First Commissioner & Governor in what is now Honduras, Ned insisted on fairness for all the peoples of his colony, irrespective of their status or colour. He had some awkward folk to deal with – Baymen guarding their plantations and Shoremen with semi-legal trade. There were Maroons, who were runaway slaves, plus Irish convicts and people of assorted ethnicities, including indigenous peoples, all with their different desires and objectives.

Ned’s insistence that there should be equality between people of different colour and race did not go down well with everyone in the colonies. Ironically, when challenged about this, he said that as British law did not discriminate between races, neither would he in its territories.

So were these his Huguenot values coming to the fore, carried through the generations? And did these values later inform Ned’s gallows speech with which I leave you?

‘Fellow Citizens, I come here as you see, after having served my country, faithfully, honourably, and usefully served it, for thirty years and upwards, to suffer death upon a scaffold for a crime of which I protest l am not guilty. I solemnly declare that I am no more guilty of it than any of you who may be now hearing me. But, though His Majesty’s Ministers know as well as I do, that I am not guilty, yet they avail themselves of a legal pretext to destroy a man, because he has been a friend to truth, to Liberty, and to Justice. Because I have been a friend to the poor, and the oppressed. But, Citizens, I hope and trust, notwithstanding, my fate, and the fate of those, who no doubt will soon follow me, that the principle of Freedom, of Humanity, and of Justice, will finally triumph over Falsehood, Tyranny, and Delusion, and every principle hostile to the interests of the human race.’

A mahogany plantation in Honduras

Published account of the trial of Ned Despard

Account from the Aberdeen Press & Journal of Catherine Despard being refused admission to visit her husband

Ned Despard at the gallows

The execution of Ned Despard

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Often when I set out for a walk from Spitalfields, my footsteps lead me to the crossroads outside the Bank of England , at the place where Richard Jefferies – a writer whose work has been an enduring inspiration – once stood. Like me, Jefferies also came to the city from the countryside and his response to London was one of awe and fascination. Whenever I feel lost in the metropolis, his writing is always a consolation, granting a liberating perspective upon the all-compassing turmoil of urban life and, in spite of the changes in the city, his observations resonate as powerfully today as they did when he wrote them. This excerpt from The Story of My Heart (1883), the autobiography of his inner life, describes the sight that met Richard Jefferies’ eyes when he stood upon that spot at the crossroads in the City of London.

“There is a place in front of the Royal Exchange where the wide pavement reaches out like a promontory. It is in the shape of a triangle with a rounded apex. A stream of traffic runs on either side, and other streets send their currents down into the open space before it. Like the spokes of a wheel converging streams of human life flow into this agitated pool. Horses and carriages, carts, vans, omnibuses, cabs, every kind of conveyance cross each other’s course in every possible direction.

Twisting in and out by the wheels and under the horses’ heads, working a devious way, men and women of all conditions wind a path over. They fill the interstices between the carriages and blacken the surface, till the vans almost float on human beings. Now the streams slacken, and now they rush again, but never cease, dark waves are always rolling down the incline opposite, waves swell out from the side rivers, all London converges into this focus. There is an indistinguishable noise, it is not clatter, hum, or roar, it is not resolvable, made up of a thousand thousand footsteps, from a thousand hoofs, a thousand wheels, of haste, and shuffle, and quick movements, and ponderous loads, no attention can resolve it into a fixed sound.

Blue carts and yellow omnibuses, varnished carriages and brown vans, green omnibuses and red cabs, pale loads of yellow straw, rusty-red iron clunking on pointless carts, high white wool-packs, grey horses, bay horses, black teams, sunlight sparkling on brass harness, gleaming from carriage panels, jingle, jingle, jingle! An intermixed and intertangled, ceaselessly changing jingle, too, of colour, flecks of colour champed, as it were, like bits in the horses’ teeth, frothed and strewn about, and a surface always of dark-dressed people winding like the curves on fast-flowing water. This is the vortex and whirlpool, the centre of human life today on the earth. Now the tide rises and now it sinks, but the flow of these rivers always continues. Here it seethes and whirls, not for an hour only, but for all present time, hour by hour, day by day, year by year.

All these men and women that pass through are driven on by the push of accumulated circumstances, they cannot stay, they must go, their necks are in the slave’s ring, they are beaten like seaweed against the solid walls of fact. In ancient times, Xerxes, the king of kings, looking down upon his myriads, wept to think that in a hundred years not one of them would be left. Where will be these millions of today in a hundred years? But, further than that, let us ask – Where then will be the sum and outcome of their labour? If they wither away like summer grass, will not at least a result be left which those of a hundred years hence may be the better for? No, not one jot! There will not be any sum or outcome or result of this ceaseless labour and movement, it vanishes in the moment that it is done, and in a hundred years nothing will be there, for nothing is there now. There will be no more sum or result than accumulates from the motion of a revolving cowl on a housetop.

I used to come and stand near the apex of the promontory of pavement which juts out towards the pool of life, I still go there to ponder. London convinced me of my own thought. That thought has always been with me, and always grows wider.”

Richard Jefferies (1848-1887)

Archive photographs copyright courtesy Bishopsgate Institute

HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ: 6-7th February 2027

This course is suitable for writers of all levels of experience – from complete beginners to those who already have a blog and want to advance or refresh their approach.

We will examine the essential questions which need to be addressed if you wish to write a blog that people will want to read.

“Like those writers in fourteenth century Florence who discovered the sonnet but did not quite know what to do with it, we are presented with the new literary medium of the blog – which has quickly become omnipresent, with many millions writing online. For my own part, I respect this nascent literary form by seeking to explore its own unique qualities and potential.” – The Gentle Author

COURSE STRUCTURE

1. How to find a voice – When you write, who are you writing to and what is your relationship with the reader?
2. How to find a subject – Why is it necessary to write and what do you have to tell?
3. How to find the form – What is the ideal manifestation of your material and how can a good structure give you momentum?
4. The relationship of pictures and words – Which comes first, the pictures or the words? Creating a dynamic relationship between your text and images.
5. How to write a pen portrait – Drawing on The Gentle Author’s experience, different strategies in transforming a conversation into an effective written evocation of a personality.
6. What a blog can do – A consideration of how telling stories on the internet can affect the temporal world and the opportunities it can deliver – writing newspaper and magazine articles, publishing books, talks, walks ann community campaigns.

SALIENT DETAILS

Courses will be held at 5 Fournier St, Spitalfields on 6th-7th February, running from 10am-5pm on Saturday and 11am-5pm on Sunday.

Lunch, tea, coffee & cakes are included within the course fee of £350.

Email spitalfieldslife@gmail.com to book a place on a course.

Please note we do not give refunds if you are unable to attend or if the course is postponed for reasons beyond our control.

Comments by students from courses tutored by The Gentle Author

“I highly recommend this creative, challenging and most inspiring course. The Gentle Author gave me the confidence to find my voice and just go for it!”

“Do join The Gentle Author on this Blogging Course in Spitalfields. It’s as much about learning/ appreciating Storytelling as Blogging. About developing how to write or talk to your readers in your own unique way. It’s also an opportunity to “test” your ideas in an encouraging and inspirational environment. Go and enjoy – I’d happily do it all again!”

“The Gentle Author’s writing course strikes the right balance between addressing the creative act of blogging and the practical tips needed to turn a concept into reality. During the course the participants are encouraged to share and develop their ideas in a safe yet stimulating environment. A great course for those who need that final (gentle) push!”

“I haven’t enjoyed a weekend so much for a long time. The disparate participants with different experiences and aspirations rapidly became a coherent group under The Gentle Author’s direction in a  gorgeous  house in Spitalfields. There was lots of encouragement, constructive criticism, laughter and very good lunches. With not a computer in sight, I found it really enjoyable to draft pieces of written work using pen and paper.Having gone with a very vague idea about what I might do I came away with a clear plan which I think will be achievable and worthwhile.”

“The Gentle Author is a master blogger and, happily for us, prepared to pass on skills. This “How to write a blog” course goes well beyond offering information about how to start blogging – it helps you to see the world in a different light, and inspires you to blog about it.  You won’t find a better way to spend your time or money if you’re considering starting a blog.”

“I gladly traveled from the States to Spitalfields for the How to Write a Blog Course. The unique setting and quality of the Gentle Author’s own writing persuaded me and I was not disappointed. The weekend provided ample inspiration, like-minded fellowship, and practical steps to immediately launch a blog that one could be proud of. I’m so thankful to have attended.”

“I took part in The Gentle Author’s blogging course for a variety of reasons: I’ve followed Spitalfields Life for a long time now, and find it one of the most engaging blogs that I know; I also wanted to develop my own personal blog in a way that people will actually read, and that genuinely represents my own voice. The course was wonderful. Challenging, certainly, but I came away with new confidence that I can write in an engaging way, and to a self-imposed schedule. The setting in Fournier St was both lovely and sympathetic to the purpose of the course. A further unexpected pleasure was the variety of other bloggers who attended: each one had a very personal take on where they wanted their blogs to go, and brought with them an amazing range and depth of personal experience. “

“I found this bloggers course was a true revelation as it helped me find my own voice and gave me the courage to express my thoughts without restriction. As a result I launched my professional blog and improved my photography blog. I would highly recommend it.”

“An excellent and enjoyable weekend: informative, encouraging and challenging. The Gentle Author was generous throughout in sharing knowledge, ideas and experience and sensitively ensured we each felt equipped to start out.  Thanks again for the weekend. I keep quoting you to myself.”

“My immediate impression was that I wasn’t going to feel intimidated – always a good sign on these occasions. The Gentle Author worked hard to help us to find our true voice, and the contributions from other students were useful too. Importantly, it didn’t feel like a ‘workshop’ and I left looking forward to writing my blog.”

“The Spitafields writing course was a wonderful experience all round. A truly creative teacher as informed and interesting as the blogs would suggest. An added bonus was the eclectic mix of eager students from all walks of life willing to share their passion and life stories. Bloomin’ marvellous grub too boot.”

“An entertaining and creative approach that reduces fears and expands thought”

“The weekend I spent taking your course in Spitalfields was a springboard one for me. I had identified writing a blog as something I could probably do – but actually doing it was something different!  Your teaching methods were fascinating, and I learnt a lot about myself as well as gaining  very constructive advice on how to write a blog.  I lucked into a group of extremely interesting people in our workshop, and to be cocooned in the beautiful old Spitalfields house for a whole weekend, and plied with delicious food at lunchtime made for a weekend as enjoyable as it was satisfying.  Your course made the difference between thinking about writing a blog, and actually writing it.”

“After blogging for three years, I attended The Gentle Author’s Blogging Course. What changed was my focus on specific topics, more pictures, more frequency, more fun. In the summer I wrote more than forty blogs, almost daily from my Tuscan villa on village life and I had brilliant feedback from my readers. And it was a fantastic weekend with a bunch of great people and yummy food.”

“An inspirational weekend, digging deep with lots of laughter and emotion, alongside practical insights and learning from across the group – and of course overall a delightfully gentle weekend.”

“The course was great fun and very informative, digging into the nuts and bolts of writing a blog.   There was an encouraging and nurturing atmosphere that made me think that I too could learn to write a blog that people might want to read.  – There’s a blurb, but of course what I really want to say is that my blog changed my life, without sounding like an idiot.   The people that I met in the course were all interesting people, including yourself.   So thanks for everything.”

“This is a very person-centred course.  By the end of the weekend, everyone had developed their own ideas through a mix of exercises, conversation and one-to-one feedback. The beautiful Hugenot house and high-calibre food contributed to what was an inspiring and memorable weekend.”

“It was very intimate writing course that was based on the skills of writing. The Gentle Author was a superb teacher.”

“It was a surprising course that challenged and provoked the group in a beautiful supportive intimate way and I am so thankful for coming on it.”

“I did not enrol on the course because I had a blog in mind, but because I had bought TGA’s book, “Spitalfields Life”, very much admired the writing style and wanted to find out more and improve my own writing style. By the end of the course, I had a blog in mind, which was an unexpected bonus.”

“This course was what inspired me to dare to blog. Two years on, and blogging has changed the way I look at London.”

In 1971, Photographer David Hoffman moved into a squat in Fieldgate Mansions in Whitechapel and found himself at the centre of a lively and vibrant community. Learn the full story and visit Fieldgate Mansions as part of The Gentle Author’s Tour of Whitechapel this Sunday 6th September. Click here to book

Derrick Porter

This is the gentle face of Derrick Porter, craggy and wise, framed by snowy hair and punctuated with a pair of sharp eyes that reveal a hint of his imaginative capacity. Standing against a rural backdrop upon the banks of the river Ching in Essex not far from High Beach where John Clare was confined, Derrick looks every inch an English poet and he is quick to admit his love of nature. Yet, although he acquired an affection for the countryside at an early age and Chingford is his place of residence, the focus of Derrick’s literary landscape and centre of his personal universe is his place of origin – Hoxton.

“It was a place we all wanted to get out of – it was a tough place to live,” Derrick confessed to me, recalling his childhood, “but the the culture of Hoxton and that era was my imaginative education.”

“My interest in literature stems from spending so many years in hospital up to the age of thirteen and they used to read to us – I looked forward to it so much, I learnt to love reading stories,” he confided, explaining that he suffered from tuberculosis as a child and was exiled from London for long stretches in hospitals. “They made us stay out in the fresh air which was the worst possible thing because it actually helped the germs to flourish, when the foggy atmosphere of London was much more beneficial to sufferers – but they didn’t understand that in those days.

My dad worked at the Daily Mail as a printer and my mum was a housewife, but I never saw him until I was six when he returned from the war. He had been captured by the Japanese and was held in a prisoner of war camp. At first, they sent him to America which was where they kept them to build them up again before they came home.

Before the age of ten years old, I lived in a prefab in Vince St next to the Old St roundabout and then we moved to Fairchild House in Fanshawe St. The prefabs were made of asbestos without any insulation and were very cold in winter. As children, we used to break off pieces of asbestos and throw them on to the bonfire to watch them explode. Maybe that affected my health? We had free rein then and we played in the old bombed buildings at the back of Moorgate – that was our playground.

At thirteen, I had an operation to have half of my lung removed and they told my mother that they didn’t know if I would recover. From then on, I took care of my own health and I became a fitness and health junkie. When I left school I thought I’d like to go back to the countryside and, when the teacher asked my ambition, I said, ‘I’m going to work on a farm,’ he told me, ‘You won’t find many in ‘Oxton, Porter.’ My father got me a job as in the general printing trade but it did my lungs in.

I always had this compulsion to get away from Hoxton and write. So I decided to emigrate to Australia on my own. I knew I had to get away. I was nineteen when I went for two years. I was engaged to be married but I broke the engagement and emigrated. I went to writing workshops in Australia and my earliest poems were written while I was there. I got a job as a printer on the Sydney Morning Herald. At first, they told me I couldn’t get a job without a union card, but then there was a bit of skullduggery. They took pity on me and, when I got a job, they gave me a card.

After that, I travelled in the USA with this small bag of my poems. Then, in Las Vegas, I stayed in this $1-a-night fleapit for three nights while I was waiting for the coach to take me to Los Angeles. Twenty minutes after I had boarded the bus, I realised I had left my bag behind with all the poems I had written in the previous two years. I cried, I felt so dismayed. It was a significant loss.

On my return, I moved into Langbourne Buildings off Leonard St in Shoreditch. I was surrounded by my friends and family and this was where I first joined a writing group. It was in Dalston and I started to write regularly. After seven years, I began to write some decent poems and then I read in the Hackney Gazette about Centreprise Literary Trust. So I went along there and met Ken Worpole, and gave him some of my poems. Then he got back in touch and said he’d like to publish them, and that was the first work I ever had in print.

By now I was twenty-nine and married with two young children, and we were offered the opportunity of swapping our flat for a house in Orpington. It was a fabulous house with a garden and we couldn’t refuse, but the rent was three times the price. We lived there for thirty-odd years and my poetry developed, I became a member of the Poetry Society and had my works published in magazines, although I rarely send my poems out because I always think I can do better.

I bought paintings from D & J Simons & Sons Ltd, picture frame and moulding makers, in the Hackney Rd and, when I moved to Orpington, I bought all their ‘second’ picture frames off them and sold them there. I started working for myself, buying reproduction furniture and selling it in Orpington Village Hall and I earned a living from that for twenty years. But all the time I was writing, writing and I had a lot of encouragement from people.

I rework my poems a lot because I’d rather have one good one than a lot of mediocre ones. I have written a lot of poems and discarded most of them because I’d rather just keep my best. I love letter writing and I believe it can be an art if it is done well. As long as I live, I’ll carry on writing.”

Derrick and his childhood friend Roy Wild on the steps of the eighteenth century house in Charles Sq where they played as children

Sitting Under a Tree in Charles Square

The clear urgency of the voice caused me

to look up, my finger marking the place

in the newspaper I was then reading…

How old do you think this tree is? it asked.

I said it was here when I was a boy.

Well, it won’t be for much longer, it said.

The owner of the voice began to circle

the tree before running his hands over

the gnarled trunk as if in search of a precise spot.

From under his coat appeared a long-handled axe.

It would be better if you moved, he said.

But not before the tree had endured

several blows…and a large, older woman, shouted

Are we to suffer this nonsense again?

Come home and do something useful for once.

Instantly the attack ceased and – without

another word passing between them – his steps

quickened to reach, if not overtake, the other.

My thumb then lifted from the newspaper

returning my eye to the Middle East

where, as yet, no allaying voice can be heard.

Derrick standing outside the flat at Fairchild House in Fanshawe St where he grew up

Derby Day in Fairchild House

Walking along our third floor balcony

I can see – before I enter the door – the piano

blocking the view into our living room.

You are watching the TV, circling horses

in The Sporting Life as John Rickman

calls home another of those certainties

you always said you should have backed.

From the kitchen the clang of pots

tells me it’s a Friday and mum’s busy

preparing a stew. A day perhaps

when sand had been kicked into my face

and I’d come home to pump iron.

If so, my bedroom door will be locked

and I’ll be lifting sand-filled-petrol-cans

hung along an old broom handle.

It’s also possible it’s the evening

of the Pitfield Institute’s Weight-Lifting final

when I won my only trophy. Or the day

cash went missing and I bought my first watch.

But as I turn the key and enter the door

I want it to be the day when even

the piano joined in…and Gordon Richards

rode Pinza to victory in the Derby.

The Apprentice

When Mr Hounslow asked the class what jobs

we had in mind, I answered,

Working on a farm, sir. “You won’t find many

in Hoxton” the reply. Come summer

I started work for a musical instrument

supplier in Paul Street, close to the old Victorian

Fire Station later re-sited in Old Street.

For one day a week I was promoted

to van boy and helped deliver to the likes

of Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club in Soho,

a world far removed from that of Hoxton.

Here I saw the upbeat side of the business,

the posh shiny part that could open doors

if you had the right kind of connections.

After a year working with men who enjoyed

nothing better than to send the new boys out

to buy rubber nails and glass hammers,

if never themselves discovering who put

the mouse droppings into their biscuit tin,

I began to question where I was heading.

That summer – while on holiday in Ostend

with the Lion Club – my dad handed in

my notice…and when I returned, was told

I had to start work in the Printing Trade.

Its every aspect – machinery, ink, oil,

noise and dust, the very air – a sort of

road taken, as old Hounslow might have said,

for there being no farms in Hoxton.

Derrick Porter at Fairchild House, Hoxton

Poems copyright © Derrick Porter

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At John Keats House

At Marks & Co, 84 Charing Cross Rd

After I left college and came to London, I rented a small windowless room in a basement off the Portobello Rd and I spent a lot of time trudging the streets. I believed the city was mine and I used to plan my walks of exploration around the capital by visiting all the old bookshops. They were such havens of peace from the clamour of the streets that I wished I could retreat from the world and move into one, setting up a hidden bedroom to sleep between the shelves and read all day in secret.

Frustrated by my pitiful lack of income, it was not long before I began carrying boxes of my textbooks to bookshops in the Charing Cross Rd and swapping them for a few banknotes that would give me a night at the theatre or some other treat. I recall the wrench of guilt when I first sold books off my shelves but I found I was more than compensated by the joy of the experiences that were granted to me in exchange.

Inevitably, I soon began acquiring more books that I discovered in these shops and, on occasion, making deals that gave me a little cash and a single volume from the shelves in return for a box of my own books. In this way, I obtained some early Hogarth Press titles and a first edition of To The Lighthouse with a sticker in the back revealing that it had been bought new at Shakespeare & Co in Paris. How I would like to have been there in 1927 to make that purchase myself.

Once, I opened a two volume copy of Tristram Shandy and realised it was an eighteenth century edition rebound in nineteenth century bindings, which accounted for the low price of eighteen pounds. Yet even this sum was beyond my means at the time. So I took the pair of volumes and concealed them at the back of the shelf hidden behind the other books and vowed to return.

More than six months later, I earned an advance for a piece of writing and – to my delight when I came back – I discovered the books were still there where I had hidden them. No question about the price was raised at the desk and I have those eighteenth century volumes of Tristram Shandy with me today. Copies of a favourite book, rendered more precious by the way I obtained them and now a souvenir of those dusty old secondhand bookshops that were once my landmarks to navigate around the city.

Frank Hollings of Cloth Fair, established 1892

E. Joseph of Charing Cross Rd, established 1885

Mr Maggs of Maggs Brothers of Berkeley Sq, established 1855

Marks & Co of Charing Cross Rd, established 1904

Harold T. Storey of Cecil Court, established 1928

Henry Sotheran of Sackville St, established 1760

Andrew Block of Barter St, established 1911

Louis W. Bondy of Little Russell St, established 1946

H.M. Fletcher, Cecil Court

Harold Mortlake, Cecil Court

Francis Edwards of Marylebone High St, founded 1855

Stanley Smith of Marchmont St, established 1935

Suckling & Co of Cecil Court, established 1889

Images from The London Bookshop, published by the Private Libraries Association, 1971

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Click here to book for The Gentle Author’s Tours

My old friend Clive Murphy regarded himself as a snapper rather than a photographer. Yet Cafe Royal Books have published a splendid zine of his pictures from Spitalfields 1987-1996. Click here to buy a copy for £6.70.

Pauline, Animal Lover, 77 Brick Lane, 16 July 1988

When it comes to photography, Clive Murphy – the novelist, oral historian and writer of ribald rhymes – modestly described himself as a snapper. Yet although he used the term to indicate that his taking pictures was merely a casual preoccupation, I prefer to interpret Clive’s appellation as meaning “a snapper up of unconsidered trifles” – one who cherishes what others disregard.

“I carried it around in my shoulder bag and if something interested me, I would pull out my camera and snap it,” Clive informed me plainly, “I am a snapper because I work instinctively and I rely entirely upon my eye for the picture.”

In thousands of snapshots, every one labelled on the reverse in his spidery handwriting and organised into many shelves of numbered volumes, Clive chronicled the changing life of Spitalfields, of those around him and of those he knew, since he came to live above the Aladin Restaurant on Brick Lane in 1973. These pictures are not those of a documentary photographer on assignment but the intimate snaps of a member of the community, and it is this personal quality which makes them so compelling and immediate, drawing the viewer into Clive’s particular vivid universe in Spitalfields.

One day, we pulled out a few albums and leafed through the pages together, selecting a few snaps to show you, and Clive told me some of the stories that go with them.

Brick Lane, May 1988

Komor Uddin, Taj Stores, 7 December 1990

Columbia Rd Market, 13 November 1988

Jasinghe Ranamukadewasa Fernando (known as Vijay Singh), Holy Man with acolyte, Brick Lane, March 1988 – “Many people in Brick Lane thought he was the new Messiah and the press came down in droves. He was regarded as a very holy man, he held court in the Nazrul Restaurant and people took his potions and remedies. When he died, I joined the crowd to see his body at the Co-op Funeral Parlour in Chrisp St.”

Clive Murphy’s cat Pushkin, 132 Brick Lane, July 1988 – “Pushkin followed me down Brick Lane from Fournier St one night and, when I opened my hall door, he came in with me. So he adopted me, when he was only a kitten and could hardly jump up a step. And I had him for twenty years.”

Neighbour’s doves hoping to be fed, 16 March 1991 – “The Nazrul Restaurant used to keep doves and, when they disappeared, Pushkin was blamed but I assure you he had nothing to do with it.”

Kyriacos Kleovoulou, Barber, Puma Court, 23 February 1990 – “I’ve had a few haircuts there in the past.”

Waiter, Nazrul Restaurant, Brick Lane, 29 May 1988

Harry Fishman, 97 Brick Lane, 19 September 1987 – “He was a godsend to everybody because he cashed any cheque on the spot. I think he was used to being robbed, so he wanted to get rid of the cash. Harry Fishman was the most-loved man on Brick Lane in the seventies, his shop was always full of people wanting to be around him, and I often delivered papers to The Golden Heart for him.”

Harry Fishman’s shop, corner of Quaker St, 19 September 1987

Window Cleaning, Woodseer St, March 1988 – “This man used to run an orchestra and, at all dances and Bengali events, they would play.”

Sunday use of Weinbergs (sold), November 1987 – “It was a printers and when it closed it became a fruit stall. Mr Weinberg was a very jolly fat man, slightly balding, who ordered his staff about. He would say things like, ‘Left, right, left, right, do it properly!’ I dined at his house and I didn’t like the cover of my first novel, so I asked him to redesign it for me. He had a nephew who had never been with a woman and he asked me to find him an escort agency. We all dined in a restaurant behind the Astoria Theatre in the Charing Cross Rd, and then I let them use my front room. But after an hour she came out and said, ‘It’s no use, I give up!’ but we still had to pay, and his nephew never became a man.”

Christ Church Night Tea Stall, October 1987 – “I always went out as the last thing I did before I went to bed, to have a snack.”

Clive’s landlord, Toimus Ali, at The Aladin Restaurant, 6 March 1991 – “He was very taciturn.”

Fournier St, 7 February 1991 – “I used to come here and have lunch with all the taxi-drivers who loved it so much.”

Retired street cleaner, Brick Lane, March 1988

Tramp, Brick Lane, 29 May 1988

Pushkin unwell, Jan 4 1991 – “I was told it would be quite alright to feed my cat on frozen whitebait, but I didn’t thaw it properly and it killed my Pushkin.”

Harry Fishman’s shop after closure, 97 Brick Lane, 27 September 1987

Clive at his desk, 132 Brick Lane, 31 December 1989

Photographs courtesy of the Clive Murphy Archive at the Bishopsgate Institute

You may like to read my other stories about Clive Murphy

A Walk With Clive Murphy

At Clive Murphy’s Flat

Merle Curtis, Sultana Begum, Armagan Middlemast & Husna Begum, Food Bank Volunteers, Bethnal Green, 2022

Since the end of last week, our crowdfund to publish Sarah Ainslie’s WOMEN AT WORK, East End Portraits 1992-2025 has nearly doubled, surging from £8,054 to more than £15,500 thanks to the additional support of over fifty more readers.

I must confess there has been some handwringing behind the scenes over the past three weeks, because – of all the books we have published – this could not be the one that we fail to deliver. Hopefully, we are in the home stretch with less than £9,500 left to raise now and 6 days left.

I believe we can do it.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE CROWDFUND

Here are some more extracts from the book with commentary by Sarah Ainslie.

It was a journey finding, meeting and photographing these women and each workplace was a completely different experience and some were more dramatic than others. This was especially true when I was invited to go out on the beat with WPC Helen Taylor in her car. I was sitting in the back seat when we went into an emergency response mode with the blue light flashing and siren blaring, hurtling through the streets at breakneck speed. It was absolutely terrifying and hard to focus and take photographs. In what seemed ages, but was probably about five minutes, we reached the estate where I had to wait in the car whilst she and her colleague went to investigate, and when they returned I was able to take some pictures.

At Tesco, everyone knows Anita Patel who is often to be found helping customers at the check-out or stacking shelves with the rest of the staff and always happy to show you where a product is. Photographing with her was so much fun as there was much laughter with her colleagues when they wanted to join in. Anita is also very involved in helping to raise money for charities in the community.

Nikki Brewer was someone I located through an agency for tradeswomen, she was working independently and with Amy’s Electric a company of women electricians. I took photographs of her whilst she was working in this very small bathroom, standing on the bath and backed up against the wall as there was hardly any space in the room but she just carried on working. She is very passionate about sharing her skills and knowledge with younger women to encourage them to become electricians. She has since become my electrician.

In the six days since we launched our crowdfund, fifty people have contributed £4,639

Click here to support publication of Sarah Ainslie’s WOMEN AT WORK

Artist and collector, Shaun Caton, currently has an exhibition of his authentically surreal photo-collages at the Bookartbookshop, 17 Pitfield St, Hoxton, N1 6HB, until 8th May, coinciding with the publication of his chapbook Songs Seldom Heard. Sharp-eyed readers may spot images by Harold Burdekin from London Night 1938.

“For want of a more useful occupation, I have been collecting and recording my dreams since 1988. While creating the montages, I had continual dreams that seeped erratically into an ever-evolving visual language, helping to shape the images towards a non-literal iteration. The montages are all interconnected by propagating urban themes and reappearing characters.” Shaun Caton

Montages copyright © Shaun Caton

Today I launch a crowdfund to publish a book of the magnificent portraits of WOMEN AT WORK taken by Spitalfields Life Contributing photographer Sarah Ainslie since 1992.

Please click here to learn more

Sarah celebrates the contribution of female labour in exuberant photographs that capture the passion and struggle of the working life, forming a panoramic survey of social change over four decades.

“My pictures are a testament to the indomitable spirit of women whose work is often unrecognised, whether in factories, working from home or caring for the vulnerable – tradeswomen, community organisers, garment workers, faith leaders, artists, firefighters, shopkeepers, transport workers, cleaners and NHS staff, women who are catering, and many more who sustain and bind together communities with their warmth, labour and fellowship.

The process of searching and building relationships with the women who participate has been an adventure, and these photographs are a celebration of the generosity of these women who welcomed me into their working lives.

It means so much to me and will be an important recognition of all the women I have photographed over the years for this book to be published by Spitalfields Life Books, a perfect home for it.”

Sarah Ainslie

Please help us publish a handsome 200 page hardback to honour the work of these women who shape the fabric of our lives. We are organising a major exhibition of these portraits at the Four Corners photography gallery in Bethnal Green to coincide with publication of the book this autumn.

Please click here to learn more

Loretta Lietch, Electrician 1992 & Evie Spray, Firefighter 2022

Claire Camelo, Bethnal Green Tube Station 2022

Sabeh Miah, Mahmuda Jaigirdas, Cooks 2011 & Sister June, Sister Pam, Cooks 1992

Lanma Horton, Smithfield Market 1992

Lannette Edwards, Machinist 1992 & Hafsa Diallo, Publican, DJ 2022

Sue Venning, Kelly’s Pie & Mash 2011

Click here to book for my next City of London tour on Spring Bank Holiday May 4th

Poet Andy Strowman wrote this memoir and poem as a tribute to his late Uncle Barney whose birthday it is today.

There is a quiet cemetery where you may find yourself the only living soul other than the grave diggers. It is East Ham Jewish cemetery. Amongst the graves is one Barnett Cohen, my Uncle Barney. He is the only Barnett Cohen buried there.

The East End is a sparsely populated Jewish area now. Time has crept away, and Barney and I are of a time long gone. Yet behind each gravestone there is a story.

Uncle Barney was born in Whitechapel in the early twenties, to Milka and Herschel Cohen, refugees who escaped the pogroms, the mass slaughter of Jews, in Eastern Europe.

The memory I have of him is as the personification of kindness. A man with a gentle sense of humour who came to visit our house in Milward St where he had grown up himself, a street that was one hundred and fifty years old when I was born, behind the London Hospital. He was born in Villa, now part of Russia, in 1897 and was married in 1914.

I recall he would always eat an orange after every meal to conclude it. When he visited me and my mum, he would bring us so much joy by doing magic tricks, like holding a penny in place in front of an eye. He confided to me about the time he visited London Zoo dressed in his new suit and a chimpanzee humiliated him. The large creature came to greet him at the side of the cage, then spat water all over his suit while the surrounding crowd laughed.

Yet the bravery of his choice to leave the army during the Second World War as a Conscientious Objector because he did not want to kill anyone revealed the moral courage of the man. Even so, he was ridiculed by North London Jews when he moved there from the East End.

It was something I identified with personally, since when my school moved to Essex, me and my friend were humiliated by Mr Philpott, the head teacher, in front of the school assembly when he said, ‘We will not have children in our school, who live in the gutter and play in the gutter, behaving badly in our school.’ Today I recall those words and how the rest of the school turned to look at us. I still remember how the teacher asked ‘Where’s your pen?’ with the reply, ‘I ain’t got one, Sir.’ To which the teacher said, ‘Speak properly, boy’ and the pupil said ‘I haven’t got one, Sir.’ ‘Not “I haven’t got one”‘ insisted the teacher, ‘I have not got one, Sir.’

So what became of Uncle Barney? He had an arranged marriage to a woman called Dolly. Before I was born, he had lived in the same house where I grew up. His brothers were Jack and David and his sisters were Rachel and Rose. They occupied 17 Milward St behind the London Hospital and their mum and dad were Milka (Millie in English) and Hershel (Harris in English).

I got the feeling that Barney lacked confidence. Much like me, he went to a school where University was not an option. The concern of the day was survival and so he went to work in the garment industry, leaving school at the tender age of fourteen to enter the workplace.

When the World War Two broke out, he enlisted into the army. Sensitivity and inferiority left him unable to hurt anyone and full of fear. He told his sergeant that he did not want to be shipped out to fight. Barney did not want to kill anyone. In all my time of knowing him I never heard him say a bad word about anybody. He was put in the guardhouse and then transferred to Wormwood Scrubs Prison where his weight deteriorated to five and a half stone. Millie, his mother, knew she had to act or risk his death.

She had two sisters who were well-off and lived in North London. One of them went with her to a government office and – as we say in the East End – ‘the old brown envelope’ was handed over and Barney was released.

One retired prison officer told me recently, ‘You wouldn’t have liked it in there. The cells were very small and there was only a tiny courtyard. You could have had someone banging on the wall of the next cell and shouting through the night, and be threatened too. The only time we intervened was if one prisoner hit another.’

Uncle Barney had lost a lot by being in prison and developed a habit of scratching his backside. In the workplace he was not an asset and, if he worked alongside his brother Jack, he continually asked him if it was any good the work he was doing.

When I was sixteen, my mum told me Uncle Barney had endured six sessions of Electro-Convulsive Therapy at Long Grove Hospital, the same place Ronnie Kray went to. The hospital was closed in 1992.

Yet it would be unbalanced to leave out the wonderful kindness bestowed on Uncle Barney that he transferred to others. Nor his sense of humour which he brought out in others with his magic tricks.

Such was his aura and persona that, when I was a child, I did not want Barney to leave. Whenever he visited us at 17 Milward St during his lunch hour from Ellis & Goldstein where he worked and was talking to mum, I crept quietly to the front door and locked it by sliding the bolt across. When my mum struggled to open the door, it prompted a laugh from my Uncle Barney. I must have been about eight years old at the time.

At the tender age of fourteen, my mum was chosen to be bridesmaid at his wedding to Dolly. Marriage can be very hard at times and I am sure the legacy of coming from a poor family and having complex mental health problems demanded much understanding from all the family. In my experience, it can be very challenging not only to get help for it, and good help, but having your family understand what you are going through, because unless they have been through it themselves it can be very straining for them and for the patient.

Barney looking dapper at this son’s wedding

BARNEY

I honour you today

Like an FA cup,

Your eyes glazed by kindness

And your lips sealed by honesty.

Kissing the frontiers of your life

I exchange sugar with Alan Sugar,

Tip toe through the darkness of your life

And strangle the people who ridiculed you.

Hours have passed and light bulbs have died.

We could not stop you going into the Army

Or the mental hospitals,

But we never stopped loving you

For the laughter you gave us.

Daily we watched it grow.

Uncle Barney is fourth from the left at the back at my brother  Howard’s Barmitzvah party. I am seated on the chair at the bottom left.

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Andy Stroman, Poet of Stepney

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