Spitalfields Life

NEXT TICKETS AVAILABLE SATURDAY 11th MAY

Local historian Ray Newton died on 30th April aged eighty-four

Ray Newton at the churchyard gate of St Paul’s Shadwell

You do not meet many people who can say they come from Shadwell these days, not in the way that Ray Newton could when he told you his family had been there since at least 1820 – which was only as far he chose to probe yet more than sufficient to claim Shadwell as his place of origin.

Ray dedicated himself to learning the history of Shadwell and, for thirty years, he ran the local history trust with Madge Darby who was his counterpart in Wapping. Between the pair of them they were able to enjoy specialist conversations that traced niceties of historical detail, especially concerning the boundary between their adjoining Thames-side parishes.

“Madge would tell you that the Prospect …” Ray began, referring to the ancient Prospect of Whitby riverside pub by its familiar name, “Madge would tell you that the Prospect is in Wapping because, since the early nineteenth century when the Docks were built, the Wapping people have said that you have to cross water to get to Wapping – yet prior to that the Prospect was in Shadwell.”

In confirmation of this assertion, Ray took me round the back of St Paul’s Church in Shadwell and gestured significantly towards a blank wall before turning one hundred and eighty degrees to indicate a route crossing the Basin towards the Thames. “This used to be Fox’s Path, from the Highway down to the Prospect,” he informed me, “it was raised on stilts across the marshes that were here before the Docks.”

Thus Ray’s thesis about the shifting boundary of Shadwell and Wapping was proven, though it left me with an unfulfillable yearning to cross Fox’s Path upon the long-gone stilts over the marshes and down to the Prospect of Whitby.

“My father, Thomas Newton, was born in 1904 in Cornwall St off Watney St Market but he lived his early life in Juniper St, which was swarming with hundreds of children then. Although it was a big family, my grandfather John Newton had a good job, he was a foreman in a cold store at Bankside, so my father got educated and he could read and write letters for people in Juniper St.

We were lucky because my dad had a secure job and even in the thirties, when there were no jobs, he worked. At twelve years old, my father left school and went to work with my grandfather at the cold store, and his brothers worked there with him too.

When he was fourteen, he went to Broad St Boys’ Club in the Highway that was run by the son of Bombardier Billy Wells (the man who wielded the hammer on the gong at the start of  J. Arthur Rank films) and, at eighteen years old, my father became a professional boxer. He fought against Raymond Perrier, the Champion of France, and beat him and he topped the bill in the twenties. He fought all over the East End but, because he was boxer not a fighter, he had trouble with his eye and he had to have an operation. After that, he couldn’t box anymore so he became a manager and ran a gym in Davenport St above the Roebuck.

My mother, Maria Edgecombe, was born in Gravesend. Her mother was a farmer’s daughter who married my grandfather, who was a waterman who came from Shadwell and worked for the Tilbury Dock Company. When it was taken over by the Port of London Authority, he moved out and worked on the Pierhead and they lived in Cable St, where my mother met my father and they had three boys and a girl.

On my dad’s side, they were all dockers and on my mother’s side they all worked for the Port of London Authority. They were different people, because in the docks it was all casual labour whereas the Port of London Authority was regular employment. It was very hard work in the docks but I never met anyone that didn’t love working there. The docks could find a job for anyone.

When the War came, my dad was still working in the cold store and it was a reserved occupation. He joined the Home Guard and his job was to guard the London Dock and the King Edward VII Memorial Park which was the entrance to the Rotherhithe Tunnel – and he was given five rounds of ammunition. I remember him in his uniform because I was born just before the War.

My father was always into everything sporty and boxing was his life so, when his father died, he become a bookmaker and set himself up as a turf accountant and gave up the docks. Next, he decided to be a publican and bought a pub on the Highway opposite Free Trade Wharf called the Cock but, while I was doing National Service, he became ill. At fifty-one, he was told he had lung cancer and had five years to live, and he died at fifty-six.

He was a lad but he wasn’t a criminal. He was a hard man and he could fight anyone just like that, yet he was also very generous. He was into everything, he organised dances and sold tickets.

We had a boxing gym in the cellar of the pub and he gave away all the equipment to the St Georges Boxing Club in the church crypt – where they produced a world champion, Terry Marsh. I didn’t want him to give it away because I thought they’d damage it but he said to me, ‘You don’t know what it’s like to have no money.’

At twenty-three years old, I took over the pub and I was a publican right on the docks, serving seamen and dockers. So you had to be a little hard – but I’m not. During the days, it was dockers, lightermen and ships’ captains but at nights, and at weekends, local families came. We had a piano player and everyone knew the words, they had competitions – one song in the Saloon Bar then one in the Public Bar. In the Saloon, you could charge what you pleased but in the Public Bar the drinks’ prices were set. Ships’ officers, customs’ men and the management of Free Trade Wharf went into the Saloon and dockers and lightermen went in the Public Bar – they never met, that was the class system.

I ran the pub until it was pulled down to make way for the widening of the Highway and I was rehoused in Gordon House, where I still live today. After the pub came down, I worked for my elder brother – he was a bookmaker – in his betting shops, but it wasn’t me. When he decided to sell the shop in Walthamstow, I stayed on and worked for the new people – for the company which became City Tote.

Yet I realised I didn’t want to do this for the rest of my life so, at thirty-two, I decided to get an education and, after the shop closed at night, I used to go to evening classes. I enrolled for a basic English class and the teacher said, ‘Write something down so I can look at it,’ and when he saw it he said, ‘This ain’t your class but if you help me with teaching the other students, I’ll mark your essay each week.’ So I got a year of personal tuition.

Then I was doing my homework in the betting shop one day, when two young men who were different from the other punters asked what I was doing. I said, ‘I’m doing O levels.’ They were lecturers and they said, ‘We’ll help you with your O levels if you’ll teach us gambling.’ After I did my O levels and A levels, I realised that if I don’t go to university, I’d be disappointed for the rest of my life, so I went to Middlesex Polytechnic and did a four year degree in Social Sciences. While I was a student, I was working as an Adult Literacy volunteer and after I got my degree I became a lecturer in Social Sciences at West Ham College, but the most rewarding thing I did was teaching partially blind people.

After thirty-six years of teaching, I retired and for the past ten years I’ve had an allotment in Cable St Gardens, and I’m secretary of the History of Wapping Trust. I used to teach a Local History class and one day Madge Darby came along, there’s nothing about Wapping she didn’t know. We published over twenty books. We never set out to make money, it is a thing we did for love.

Once upon a time, we were all in the same boat, we all went to the same school, we all went to the same pub, we all had the same doctor and everybody knew everybody. Now nobody knows anybody. I think I was lucky because I worked in a pub at twenty-three and I met the full range of people, and it got me interested in local history.”

Ray upon the steps overlooking Shadwell Basin

Ray shows the stone plaque in the churchyard wall of St Paul’s Shadwell, placed after it was shored up when Shadwell Basin was being excavated between 1828-32 and the church began to slide downhill

Ray pointed out these early nineteenth century doors facing the Highway, in the side of the Vestry at St Paul’s Shadwell, which were once the entrance to Shadwell’s first Fire Station

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NEXT TICKETS AVAILABLE SATURDAY 11th MAY

‘ Me, I’m a barber’ – Costakis Costa

All readers are invited to a free screening of a short film about Mario’s entitled PROBABLY NOT THE HAIRCUT by Idea Space, tomorrow Wednesday 8th May 6:30-7pm at Mario’s Gents’ Hairdressing, 562A High Rd Leytonstone, E11 3DH. Drinks will be served. No need to book.

Mario’s has been a friendly landmark for over half a century, a beloved barbering institution where generations have sought consolation and renewal amidst the rigours of life in Leytonstone.

One quiet afternoon, after Costa – the presiding master of ceremonies – had finished his final haircut of the day, we sat on chairs in the empty salon and he regaled me with his story.

‘Me, I’m a barber. Although my grandfather was a carpenter, two of my grandfather’s brothers were barbers. My dad, Mario, is a barber and my aunt is a hairdresser. My cousin is also a hairdresser and my nephew cuts hair for a living. When I was a toddler, the front room of our family home in Leytonstone was a salon run by my aunt.

This shop was opened by my dad who came from Larnaca, Cyprus, in 1962 to work at his uncle’s shop on Moorgate Station – it doesn’t exist any more. Dad got the business here in 1967 and I joined him in 1980.

I never had any interest but, when I went to my careers officer, he said, ‘Your dad’s got a business, have you considered that?’ So I had a chat with dad and he said ‘It’s up to you. son.’ He never pressured me into anything but I came to the salon and realised ‘This is nice, I can chat to people. They come into the salon willingly, are happy with the result, give you money and you talk bollocks all day.’ It was right up my street, though you don’t realise that until later do you? The careers officer got me a place to learn hairdressing at the London College of Fashion and I never looked back.

When my grandfather said to my dad, ‘Go to England,’ his brother already had a shop here so that was an opportunity. Cyprus had recently got its independence and he could come without a visa. But my dad said ‘There’s this girl.’ My grandfather asked, ‘Whose this girl?’ That was my mum. She came over with my dad and left her family in Cyprus. My grandad, the carpenter, and his three sisters came too. He made the fittings of this salon.

I think about people that migrate today and I wonder how they do it. I could not. My dad could not even speak the language. When he first worked for his uncle, the customers used to say what they wanted and one of the other barbers would translate. He did some evening classes but mostly he learnt by reading newspapers. He retired in 2010 and went back to Cyprus where he still reads British newspapers online.

I’ve got two children but they are not involved in hairdressing, it was never a thing. You bring up your kids to follow their own paths. We used to live in Leytonstone until 1980 when we moved to Enfield in North London, so the business was not in close proximity. If it was, perhaps they would have been influenced? I used to walk past this shop every Saturday morning with my mum on the way to do our shopping.

In my job, you get vibes from customers. People tell me their troubles. I’ve had a few heartfelt moments and they have approached me years later to thank me for helping them through difficult times, just for giving them somewhere to sit.

I enjoy the daily conversations with people. I have three or four generations of families that come into my shop. It is a relationship. They ask me, ‘When you retire, what am I going to do? Where am I going to go for a haircut?’ I don’t know the answer to that question. I still have a great relationship with my wife and I hope to retire one day. We may be older but we are still the same people. We want to spend long weekends in the garden and go on holidays together. I don’t have any regrets. Regrets can destroy you. It’s earning a living, it’s bringing up a family.

There’s developers. But if I have got two or five years left on the lease of this building then happy days. As long as there’s enough people that want me then that’s all I need. This is my place.’

‘My grandad, the carpenter, he made the fittings of this salon’

‘I have three or four generations of families that come into my shop’

‘They come into the salon willingly, are happy with the result, give you money and you talk bollocks all day.’

‘As long as there’s enough people that want me then that’s all I need’

‘I enjoy the daily conversations with people’

Photographs copyright © Zak Crafer

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