Spitalfields Life

Tickets are available for my walking tour this weekend and throughout July.

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Reflections at Dennis Severs’ House

Over recent months, Contributing Photographer Lucinda Douglas Menzies has begun a series of portraits of those who knew and remember Dennis Severs (1948-99), while I have undertaken the accompanying interviews which reveal different aspects of his multi-facetted personality.

Martin Lane

‘I was his good friend and neighbour. Dennis often came round for coffee or I would come here and sit in the kitchen. Mostly this was in the morning, seldom in the evening. Though, if I was giving a dinner party, I would invite Dennis to make up numbers.

I recall he told stories of his youth in America, coming over to London and meeting people who were interested in old houses and restoration. But details of our frivolous conversation at these drink-fuelled parties are now beyond me to remember.

One was very excited that Dennis had taken a wreck and was recreating it. He was operating on a shoestring and he needed to earn the money to keep it going and he ploughed it back in. It was an endless string of botched rescue jobs with minimal money.

As a member of the public, one was mesmerised by Dennis’ tours. You left the parlour with a tear in your eye at the death of Queen Victoria. Eventually he achieved such a high profile that if anyone interrupted and he did not like them, he simply threw them out of the house.

Dennis slotted in anywhere and could mix with anyone from a dustman to a duke. I liked his style and imagination. I think it took an American to appreciate our local history.

When he first arrived, he was going through his English stage, clean shaven with flowing hair, in a Harris tweed sports jacket. Then there came a time when he grew sufficiently relaxed with his sexuality and became himself, with t-shirt and jeans – the butch look.

Why, once he got the credit for being an American who rescued a bit of British history, should he act any other than as an American? Until the day he died, his bomber jacket hung in Mrs Jervis’ bedroom where he slept with his typewriter.’

Anna Skrine, former secretary of Spitalfields Trust

‘My sister Fiona & I moved into a derelict Georgian house in Wilkes St in the seventies when the houses had been uninhabited for a long time. Bengali people saw us and asked, ‘What are you doing? You’re mad!’

Of course, we met Dennis very quickly. At that time, he was slowly doing up his house and collecting pallets from the old fruit and vegetable market – it was in full swing then – and making panelling out of them. We often saw each other at the Brick Lane junk market too.

We became good mates. Dennis was the most vital person you could meet – effusive, full-on, generous and kind – and with such an interesting take on life, history and imagination. It was incredible what he did, collecting all these chipped bits and pieces, he knew exactly what he needed and would take them back to his house and slot them in.

Of course, his tours were just amazing – magical from the moment you walked in the door. I loved the stories he told about the house. But it was not just the stories, he explained how particular words came into the language too.

There was a side of him that was very intolerant of anyone that did not ‘get’ what he was on about, so occasionally he would tell someone, ‘Off you go, out the door!’ I came on quite a few tours and brought quite a few people because I did love them.

My most special memories are of his Christmas parties. The beauty of the Drawing Room hung with red apples and, on the landing outside, a beautiful piece of china full of the most elegant looking sweets and candied fruits.

Occasionally, we would all dress up in eighteenth century things we found in flea markets and have a get-together here. Once I said something that would have been quite of place in the eighteenth century and Dennis told me later, ‘That was the end of it when you said that!!’

We were great friends for quite a number of years. I was studying nutrition because I wanted to sing and, when he became ill, I used to bring him over healthy salads.’

Stephen Furniss, Antiques Dealer

‘I worked at Bonhams and Dennis turned up one day in 1973 to work as a porter and we became good chums. We were porters together in the picture department.

I understood that his grandfather had built a petrol station in Pasadena and the city grew up around it so they made a large amount of money as the only petrol station.

Most Saturdays, he and I would go to Portobello together. We started off at the Westway and walked the entire length of the market. He would buy damaged items because they were fine for display and I would buy perfect things to sell. He was particularly fond of an English porcelain called ‘Amherst Japan,’ and you have it all downstairs in the kitchen today.

Then he started up his carriage tours and I remember seeing him doing the tours around South Kensington. He was friendly with a lady called Jane Seabrook who ran a florists and one day she looked out of her shop and there was Dennis with the coach going by. She thought he was so marvellous that they became good friends. I remember the three of us went fly-pitching in Brick Lane Market. She was selling flowerpots while Dennis was buying more than he was selling.

One day, Dennis came into Bonhams and said, ‘I’ve just bought this house in Spitalfields.’ I said, ‘Where on earth is that?’ and he explained ‘It’s right out in the East End of London, I’d like you to come and see it.’ So one lunch break, a number of us from Bonhams trooped over here and we had never seen anything like it, it was unbelievable. Firstly, the whole experience of the East End was very Dickensian. Dennis had bought the house with a sitting tenant, an elderly Jewish gentleman, and on the day Dennis signed the lease, the tenant died so he got freehold possession.

Dennis worked on the house room by room and we would come back to see how he was getting on. He invited us for meals, consisting of vegetables that he had picked out of the gutter in the Spitalfields Fruit & Vegetable Market. All the walnuts for the Grinling Gibbons style swags came out of the gutter too!’

Ricardo Cinalli, Artist

‘Dennis & I met in Gloucester Rd once, accidentally. I saw this man with a coach and horses, and a grand hat, formally dressed. I said to myself, ‘This is fantastic, this is London – what a crazy, eccentric person!’

A couple of years later, when I was restoring the door case on Eric Elstob’s house, 14 Fournier St, I saw Dennis standing on the other side of the road. I asked myself, ‘What is he doing in Spitalfields?’ because in the late seventies very few people walked around here. Then I went to the Market Cafe and there he was. And we ate roast beef together and got on like wildfire. We became very close because we were both in the same boat.

I followed his project from the very beginning. The house Eric & I lived in was much grander and Dennis’ house more compact, but it had this atmosphere.

I visited his house for parties – a million parties – they were amazing because you were transported to another time and another life, especially in the Smoking Room where Dennis prepared his delicious punch. They were parties for ‘gentlemen’ in the Smoking Room.

Dennis had a lavish life, a day life and a night life. I always asked ‘Dennis, please take me out at night,’ but he told me ‘You are too soft…’ Except one day, he said, ‘Let’s go to a party’ and we went just around the corner from here. I could not believe it because the place was completely ‘Sodom & Gomorrah,’ full of people and machines. It was a sex dungeon. I was not uncomfortable, but at some point I left.

Dennis was one of the most peculiar characters I ever encountered. He had the most extraordinary life and he was a celebrity too because everybody knew about his house.

He was one of the first men I knew to get HIV and then life was different once he knew he was ill. It was very sad. What happened to Simon Pettet was a tragedy because he was adored by everybody and so talented. The house was a great inspiration to Simon and he made the wonderful fireplace of Delft tiles with all the portraits. Simon was very much loved by Dennis and it was a big blow to him when Simon died.’

Fiona Skrine

‘You could never take California out of Dennis. He was passionate, enthusiastic and very opinionated. It was refreshing. He was a Californian in his use of language, his cutting through stuffiness or fustiness, his enthusiasm – being round the markets collecting all the bits and pieces – and his appreciation of this country. Growing up in California there were not the historic houses that we have, so he just loved it here.

I met Dennis when my sister Anna and I restored an eighteenth century house in Wilkes St. She was the secretary of the Spitalfields Trust, so we knew everybody. The Market Cafe in Fournier St was key for us because we had no windows and barely any floors – a decent lunch was vital – and Dennis would there at the cafe. There would be bickering and gossiping, ‘Have you seen the colour that so-and-so has painted their walls, isn’t it awful?!’ We all fed off each other’s enthusiasm and it was great fun.

I loved his Christmas parties, everyone who had an old house locally was invited. It was great fun, the darkness and the gossip – it was a great opportunity to get into a huddle with somebody and have a really good conversation.

I was a mother with three small children at the time but I used to pop round. I remember he had a couple of assistants who helped him with tours, scurrying around organising sound effects and making sure the smells were just right. I used to hear a lot from other people about doing the tours and who had been thrown for being a Guardian reader or sniggering or not taking Dennis seriously enough. He was pretty brutal in this respect.

I met someone in Ireland the other day who said, ‘I went on one of those tours and I was derogatory because I like things to be authentic and it was not, so we got thrown out.’ ‘They just didn’t get it!’ was what Dennis would say.’

Simon de Courcy-Wheeler, Photographer

‘Dennis was an absolute true eccentric. I did not see a great deal of him but, whenever I did, I thoroughly enjoyed him.

He was a sort of genius and he was in the middle of creating this house. He did most of it through Brick Lane which was full of junk markets them. So he was a real inspiration and the centre of the Spitalfields movement for everybody.

I am a photographer and I was looking for free accommodation because I had very little money. My uncle said, ‘I can help you, you can look after 17 Princelet St.’ And lived there for a couple of years.

At that time, Fiona Skrine (my future wife) lived nearby in Wilkes with her sister Anna who was secretary of the Spitalfields Trust. In those days, everyone knew everyone else – friends one day then falling out the next day and friends again the next!

Dennis, in particular, had a very fiery relationship with all sorts of people, but then he always seemed to make it up again.

Of course, the Spitalfields Fruit & Vegetable Market was still here. There were working girls on the street, and tramps sitting around the bonfire and peeing into your basement. We knew them all by name. It was dirty and there were rats on the street, but everybody was passionate about saving these old houses.

Fiona and her sister fell in love with the idea of doing up a Georgian house – I think they paid fourteen thousand for 14 Wilkes St. It did not have windows or a great many original features but it had enough to be seductive.

Dennis was always organising parties and they were a good craic. There was a lot of drinking and hilarity. It is a sort of environment you do not find anymore. Old Dublin where I come from was like that – a very informal way of entertaining. You just turned up and Dennis’ parties were heaving.

He was a real mover and shaker, and it was tragedy that he and his boyfriend, Simon, both died. Looking back on it now, it was such a loss.’

Grant Burnside

‘I met Dennis in a leather bar, The Coleherne in Earls Court, when I was twenty-two. I was a pretty boy and he liked me because I was cute and had an East London accent. He thought I was rough trade, I was the East End ginger boy and he liked that.

We had a kiss and I found him very attractive. He was a handsome man with a close-shaved beard – a good-looking fella and different to all the other guys. They were dressed in an eighties clone style with vests, leather jackets, moustaches and caps, it was all very Tom of Finland.

Dennis stood out because he was wearing a coloured baseball jacket and cap, and he was American and I had just come back from a trip to New York. I was an Essex boy living with my parents, but itching to discover and explore life.

Then I bumped into him one day in Bishopsgate. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked me and I explained, ‘I work up the road.’ I was working in a bank in Basinghall St as a messenger boy. We often went for a cup of tea in the City Corner Cafe in Middlesex St during my lunch hour.

I didn’t see Dennis again for ten years but then I met him again at the Copacabana in Earls Court Rd which was one of the first bear bars in London. By then I had a boyfriend and there is a photograph of us chatting with Dennis which was published in the ‘Out on the Scene’ section of ‘Boyz’ magazine. He was trying to get us both to come back with him but we were not into that kind of thing.

He was interesting and sexy, and every time we met we had a nice little snog. When he first invited me back to his house, I said, ‘I can’t go back to a house that doesn’t have any lights or hot water! I have to get up in the morning and wash and go to work in a suit.’ I was not so daring in those days but, had I come back here, it might have spoiled a nice connection that we had.

I first visited his house not long after he died and it filled my senses, I thought ‘I can do this,’ and I renovated a grade II listed Georgian cottage in Walmer outside Deal.

I was really sad when I found out he had died.’

Patrick Handscombe, Friend of Simon Pettet & Dennis Severs

“I met Dennis first in the seventies when he was tousle-haired Californian surfing boy.

In 1989 at The Market Tavern, a gay pub at Nine Elms, I met Simon Pettet who came to stand beside me, eating cheese and onion crisps. ‘They smell dreadful,’ I said and he replied, ‘I’m only eating them to stand next to you. Do you want to come back to my place in Spitalfields?’ So we go out to my Rolls Royce and he said, ‘Is this your car?’ and I said, ‘It’s not the most usual car!’ and he said, ‘I live in a very unusual house.’ I replied, ‘I guess you live in Dennis Severs’ House?’

We spent a night of passion, it was wonderful. Dennis was in America but when he returned Simon rang and asked me to dinner. Dennis was delighted Simon had found someone he already knew and Simon was pleased that Dennis approved. I spent a lot of nights here and then I lived here for about nine months, until Simon switched me off. I was floored.

Dennis put me onto Rodney Archer so I lived at 31 Fournier St for four years. Then one morning the phone rang and it was Simon. He said, ‘Don’t panic, I’m in hospital.’ He had pneumonia and the question was where would he live. He knew already that he had HIV but now he had AIDS.

Dennis said Simon could not live in his house any more. He had HIV himself. Deep down, I think he was frightened. Dennis was the love of Simon’s life but, in the end, Dennis was a loner and one of the most promiscuous men in London.

Marianna Kennedy arranged for Simon to live at 27 Fournier St and he lasted a couple of years there until he died at twenty-eight years old. He opened up to me again and I looked after him. There was no treatment then and Simon got ill with different things, but he was terrifically brave.

Late one night, I lost my leg driving Simon’s motorbike – I left it in Lewisham High St. I swerved and caught my leg on an unlit skip, and it ripped my leg off. The bike was undamaged but I lay with my leg hanging off.

I got out of hospital and went back to Simon. The doctor said, ‘If you had not had Simon to look after, you would have wallowed.’’

Photographs copyright © Lucinda Douglas-Menzies

Tickets are available for Dennis Severs’ Tour at Dennis Severs’ House

Dennis Severs House, 18 Folgate St, London, E1 6BX

Tickets are available for my tour this weekend and throughout July.

Click here to book your ticket for THE GENTLE AUTHOR’S TOUR OF SPITALFIELDS

Yesterday a blue plaque was unveiled by Anita Dobson in recognition of the heroic achievements of the Matchgirls at the former Bryant & May Match Factory, Bow Quarter, Fairfield Rd, Bow. Today Samantha Johnson outlines the story of her great-grandmother Sarah Chapman, who was one of the strike leaders.

Sarah Chapman (1862 – 1945)

My great-grandmother was born on 31st October in 1862 to Samuel Chapman and Sarah Ann Mackenzie.  At the time of her birth, her father was employed as a Brewer’s Servant and was also known to have worked in the docks. The fifth of seven children, Sarah’s early years were spent at number 26 Alfred Terrace in Mile End but, by the time she was nine, the family had moved to 2 Swan Court (now the back of the American Snooker Hall on Mile End Rd), where they stayed for the next seventeen years. For a working class family at this time to stay in one place for such a long time was uncommon. Other evidence of the stability of the Chapman family is that Sarah and her siblings were educated, as they were listed as Scholars in the census and could all read and write.

At the age of nineteen, Sarah was working alongside her mother and her older sister, Mary, as a Matchmaking Machinist, and by 1888 she was an established member of the workforce at the Bryant & May factory in Bow. At the time of the Strike, Sarah is listed as working in the patent area of the business, as a Booker, and was on relatively good wages, which perhaps placed her in a position of esteem among other workers. She was certainly paid more than most and this may have been because of her position as a Booker, or perhaps because she just managed to avoid the liberal fines which were meted out by the employers.

There was a high degree of unrest in the factory due to the low wages, long hours, appalling working conditions and the unfair fines system, which caused the women at the factory to grow increasingly frustrated. External influences, particularly the Fabian Society, also provided an impetus for the Strike. Ultimately, 1400 girls and women marched out of the factory, en masse, on that fateful day of 5th July 1888. The next day some 200 girls marched from Mile End down to Bouverie St in the Strand to see Annie Besant, one of the Fabians and a campaigner for women’s rights. A deputation of three (my great-grandmother Sarah Chapman, Mrs Mary Cummings and Mrs Naulls) went into her office to ask for her support. Although Annie was not an advocate of strike action, she did agree to help them organise a Strike Committee.

“We’d ‘ave come out before only we wasn’t agreed”
“You stood up for us and we wasn’t going back on you”

The first meeting of the striking Matchgirls was held on Mile End Waste on 8th July and both the Pall Mall Gazette and The Star provided positive publicity. This was followed by meetings with Members of Parliament at the House of Commons. The Strike Committee was formed and the following Matchgirls were named as members: Mrs Naulls, Mrs Mary Cummings, Sarah Chapman, Alice Francis, Kate Slater, Mary Driscoll, Jane Wakeling and Eliza Martin.

Following further intervention by Toynbee Hall and the London Trades Council, the Strike Committee was given the chance to make their case. They met with the Bryant & May Directors and by 17th July, their demands were met and terms agreed in principle. It was agreed that:

1. All fines should be abolished.
2. All deductions for paint, brushes, stamps, etc., should be put an end to.
3. The 3d. should be restored to the packers.
4. The “pennies” should be restored or an equivalent advantage given in the system of payment of the boys who do the racking.
5. All grievances should be laid directly before the firm, before any hostile action was taken.
6. All the girls to be taken back.

It was also agreed that a union be formed, that Bryant & May provide a room for meals away from where the work was done and that barrows be provided to transport boxes, replacing the practice of young girls having to carry them on their heads. The Strike Committee put the proposals to the rest of the workforce and they enthusiastically approved. Thus the inaugural meeting of the new Union of Women Match Makers took place at Stepney Meeting Hall on 27th July and twelve women were elected, including Sarah Chapman.

An indicator of the belief her fellow workers put in Sarah’s ability, was her election as the first TUC representative of the Match Makers’ Union. Sarah was one of seventy-seven delegates to attend the 1888 International Trades Union Congress in London and at the 1890 TUC she is recorded as having seconded a motion.

On the night of the 1891 census, Sarah was still a Booker at the match factory and living with her mother in Blackthorn St, Bromley by Bow, but in December of that same year, she married Charles Henry Dearman, a Cabinet Maker. By this time she had ceased working at Bryant & May.

Sarah and Charles had their first child, Sarah Elsie in 1892. They had five more children, one was my grandfather, William Frederick, born in 1898 when they had moved to Bethnal Green. Sarah’s two youngest sons, William and Frederick lived with her, on and off, into the thirties and she lived out her years there, dying in Bethnal Green hospital on 27th November 1945 aged eighty-three. She was survived by three of her six children, Sarah, William and Fred.

Sarah was buried alongside five other elderly people in a pauper’s plot at Manor Park Cemetery. It was a sad end to a brave life filled with challenges, not least a leading role in a Strike that was the vanguard of the New Labour Movement and helped establish Trade Unionism in this country.

Sarah as a member of the Matchgirls Union Committee

Sarah with her husband Charles Henry Dearman

Sarah with her grandson, Frederick William

Sarah in later years

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The East End Suffragette Map

Danny Tabi is one of the many local people you will meet on my tour. Tickets are available this weekend and throughout July, so come along and let me show you Danny’s old haunts.

Click here to book your ticket for THE GENTLE AUTHOR’S TOUR OF SPITALFIELDS

At six yesterday morning, Brick Lane was empty of people but Danny Tabi, the last furrier in Spitalfields was already at work when I arrived at Gale Furs. When Danny started in 1963, hundreds worked in the fur trade and the streets thronged with workers from all the different garment industries making their way to work at six, but now there is just Danny.

Today Danny just does repairs and – in response to the controversial nature of the trade – works from an undisclosed address. Others who merely import furs call themselves furriers, but Danny is the only one still working here with a lifetime’s expertise, at an occupation that must surely rate as one of the oldest known to mankind. I sat alone with Danny in the empty workshop at Gale Furs as the sun rose over Whitechapel and he told me his story.

“I was walking down Fournier St looking for a job one day and above the Market Cafe was a furrier, he interviewed me and said could I start on Monday. So I got a job starting the next week. Then, as I came out of there and walked back towards Brick Lane along Fournier St, when I got to Gale furs at number 8, I asked if they had any vacancies. The proprietor, Solly Shamroth, said “yes” and I could start the following day. So I went there rather than the other place and this was how my association started with Gale Furs. If I had turned left rather than right that day in Fournier St, my life would have been different.

I started at the firm, working with a guy called Max Ross, as a nailer. That’s a person that used to shape the furs by stretching them when they were wet. I picked up the nails off the floor and dampened the skins for him, then I used to go downstairs and pick up the needles from between the cracks in the floorboards with a magnet – nothing was wasted. In those days when you started in a firm like that you did everything, swept floors, did errands and got the cheese rolls too. Also on Friday my job was to clean three cars!

I could tell you a million stories of the street and the customers, and all the characters. Everyone had their special way of doing things. Morrie Klass, who taught me how to cut, he turned up for work in detachable collars, immaculately turned out, dapper like a city gent. He read The Guardian and The Times and spoke perfect Queen’s English. Maxie Ross, the nailer, he was a chain smoker always with a cigarette or a cigar. He used to leave a pint of milk on the window sill until it had congealed for a week and drank it sour because he loved it that way. He picked up nails and pieces of string and made use of it. He couldn’t walk past something he could use. One time, he had to go to a funeral but he had no proper black tie, so he wore a bow tie! Maxie was champion ballroom dancer, and he and Morrie won competitions in the ballrooms. That’s where Maxie met his wife, and his son used to play drums for Joe Loss. That was how I got to go to West End clubs because he got complimentary tickets and passed them onto me as a young lad of sixteen and seventeen.

Along the way I learnt all my skills and, as the factory started dwindling in workers, I found myself taking the places of the people who had left. People just retired but no-one came in to the trade, instead they were encouraged to go into office work.When you couldn’t replace them, you had to do certain things yourself. I found myself doing more cutting, making and sewing too. I learnt my trade during the sixties and seventies, then I started using my skills in the late seventies and eighties. During the sixties when there were eighteen people working in the furriers – it was a beautiful thing – turning out coats, collars, cuffs, stoles and hats, you name it we made it. It wasn’t just the work, it was the atmosphere.

Every single time you make a garment, it’s different because fur is a living thing. You work from scratch, one skin at a time, every time – when you match up pieces, the fur has to be same length. It’s definitely an art, you can’t explain what you did from arriving in the morning to going home at night. I’ve enjoyed my work over the years. I made a white collar from fake fur for Princess Diana. I’ve worked for lords and ladies. Katy Price is wearing one of my coats at present, and Kate Moss and Jemima Khan both have pieces of my work. They go to the West End stores to buy stuff but we make them here.

I was born in 136 Brick Lane in the attic in a one room flat, my mother lived there with me and my brother Ray. We weren’t brought up in luxury. At one point we lived in a hostel in Cable St because housing wasn’t available to mixed race families. I’ve worked since I left school, I never claimed benefits and I can count on my two hands the days off. I must be one of the longest-serving people in Brick Lane, I’ve always worked here.

I love walking down Brick Lane at five thirty in the morning, I can hear echoes from the past of when I walked down there suited and booted. I get emotional. People have moved away but I have always been drawn to the area. This used to be the dregs here, but here’s nothing wrong with Brick Lane. I’m pleased to see lots of young people come now. I pop out to get something and there’s crowds of young people. It’s incredible.”

Danny worked for Gale Furs for thirty years before he took it over, and now he is the proprietor and sole employee. Leaving the factory premises at 8 Fournier St in 1994 (it has become a private house now), today Danny works from a small nondescript second floor space on Whitechapel High St. On one side are the rails of coats and other pieces that have come in for renovation and repair, with prime garments displayed upon stands as superlative examples of the furrier’s art, and on the opposite side is the work table, pierced with infinite lines of little holes created when Danny transfers the pattern to the skins. Everywhere, scraps of fur are piled and paper patterns hang in sheaves from the wall.

Danny is justifiably proud of his skill and accomplishments and retains an appealing enthusiasm, shrewd yet bright. I was fascinated to watch Danny work at his cutting table, displaying natural dexterity, confidence and love of what he does, using all the tools that have always been with the company, many of which are a hundred years old or more, but still serviceable and in fact perfectly suited to the job. I felt privileged to be there in this sanctum and to understand that Danny extended his trust and welcome to me.

“It’s going to die a death” he declared without any regret, explaining that the Chinese are now the whole world’s furriers, as he took me through all the various tools of his trade demonstrating the purpose and telling the story for each one. A new world opened to me as Danny outlined the enormous number of processes and techniques that meet in the creation of garments of fur. We kept eye contact, like teacher and pupil, as he took me through what it takes to make a fur coat that might require seven weeks work. Picking up the tools, he mimed how he used them, specifying each of the distinctive requirements of the job and sometimes losing words when there were none to describe the methods of how you work with fur, and I had simply to follow his expert demonstration.

Today, Danny does all the different jobs and possesses all the skills of the eighteen staff that once worked for Gale Furs. He is widely respected for his talent and forty-seven years of experience at the high-end of an exclusive luxury trade. No-one is learning from Danny and, irrespective of your feelings about the origin of fur, there is an undeniable poignancy about the culture of the furrier which is an intricate refined expression of a certain vein of human ingenuity, with its own language, history and tools, and of which Danny is now the last exponent in a place where once so many people pursued this ancient trade.

The tool at the top is for stretching skins. Danny has used these scissors his entire career, they have a perfect balance and silken movement, and are over a hundred years old.

These irons which Danny uses as weights are over a century old too.

Newly acquired rolls of the highest quality silk lining, dated last day of December 1948.

Danny uses this machine from the Fournier St factory, the cloth with pins on it has been there since before he started in the trade. Note the Bishopsgate phone number carved into the wooden base on the right.

The tool on the left is a homemade device for snapping a razor into two triangular blades, it works perfectly. The other two are stretching blocks for stretching skins into shape, the one in the centre is marked with its owner’s initials.

An old weaver’s stool of traditional design that Danny uses when he sits at his sewing machine.

The magnet Danny used to pick up pins from the floor when he started work at Gale Furs in Fournier St in 1963.