Philip Cunningham’s London Docks
Once, the East End had the ‘docks land’ but when the docks closed and the developers moved in they rechristened it the ‘docklands’ – a transformation recorded by Photographer Philip Cunningham
‘My paternal grandfather was a dock labourer all his life. He came from Dublin and was in the Irish gunners during the First World War. He suffered from shell shock afterwards yet managed to carry on working. I never met him as he died the year I was born. When the Docks were moved out of London, the speculators wanted to develop the old wharfs but, whenever they could not get planning consent, the wharfs would mysteriously catch on fire! Very convenient for them. What a grand rip-off it was!’ – Philip Cunningham
Construction of Tower Hamlets’ new Town Hall
Free Trade Wharf, Wapping
King Henry’s Wharf, Wapping
Greenwich
Regent’s Canal
Lusk’s Wharf
‘whenever they could not get planning consent, the wharfs would mysteriously catch on fire’
Three Mills Island, Bow
The Grapes, Limehouse
South of the river
Building frenzy on the Isle of Dogs
Isle of Dogs
London Docklands Development Corporation
Protest against the London Docklands Development Corporation
Philip’s grandfather, Arthur Cunningham, worked as dock labourer his whole life
Photographs copyright © Philip Cunningham
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Philip Cunningham at Mile End Place
Gary Arber At Home
Gary Arber shows off his collection of WWII incendiary bombs
If anyone else showed me their collection of Second World War incendiary bombs, I should be entirely astonished but with Gary Arber it was completely normal behaviour. Over the years, I have come to expect no less of him. Ever since I first visited Gary’s old print shop in the Roman Rd, where he oversaw the family business established by his grandparents a century earlier, I have learnt to appreciate Gary as the custodian of wonders.
Three years ago, when Gary sold up the shop, his magnificent collection of printing presses were hauled off to a new life elsewhere and W.F. Arber & Co Ltd passed into legend in the Roman Rd. Now it has taken its place in history as the print works where Emily Arber printed Suffragette handbills for Mrs Pankhurst, but Bow is a lesser place without Gary Arber as a living connection to the old East End.
Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I realised it was my responsibility to take the train down to Romford to visit Gary and see how he is getting along these days, on behalf of everyone else who misses him in our neck of the woods. Thus it was I came to be standing in Gary’s ramshackle shed last week, gasping in awe as he showed off his collection of incendiary bombs, all now rendered entirely harmless you will be relieved to learn.
Constructed of pieces of other buildings, extended over time and filled with a large collection of old tools, Gary’s shed is a fine specimen of its kind. Yet casting an eye into the shadows, I realised that it descended to another level below ground. Gary explained to me that this subterranean construction was an Anderson Shelter where he, as a child, and Florence, his mother, slept each night during the Second World War while the bombs dropped on Romford.
In 1929, Gary’s father brought Florence down from the East End on an excursion to show her the newly-laid foundations of the house he had bought in which they were to spend their married life and where, in 1931, Gary was born. Apart from a short spell as a pilot in the Royal Air Force, Gary has lived here his whole life and the house exists today as a time capsule more-or-less, with an oxblood and butter paint scheme, an original yellow and black bathroom and a substantial enamelled iron stove in the kitchen. I should be very surprised if there are any other of the original occupants of this long suburban street still resident except Gary.
In this cosy dwelling, Gary and his wife, Ruby, pass their days watching the birds coming to visit the array of feeding devices, hung just outside the picture window in the rear parlour. I was informed the avian population in this particular corner of Romford consume half a ton of bird food annually, and Gary is especially proud of his population of over sixty sparrows that he has nurtured in recent years by making holes in the eaves where they can nest.
A glimpse at the photograph of the immaculately-tended garden with its flawless lawn and formal borders which formerly existed behind the printshop in Roman Rd reveals that Gary’s relaxed horticultural style is in strong contrast to his grandparents. Yet, in his parents’ day, the garden in Romford was similarly prim, with a lawn permitting clock golf which was a popular pastime among the Unitarian Congregation of Bow. Even after they left the East End, Gary’s parents were able to maintain their lively social life enjoyed among members of the congregation, by luring them to Romford with this innocent sport.
Gary is a free spirit in horticulture, scattering packets of wild flower seeds and declaring that there is no such thing as a weed in his garden. The outcome is an exuberant rush of dense growth at this time of year, with bluebells, forget-me-nots, dandelions and aquilega in plenty. It makes an ideal environment for the urban wildlife that Gary cherishes. An upturned boat serves as home to a pair of foxes and their litter of cubs, while a series of ponds provide dwellings for a variety of aquatic life.
As we passed the shed which bisects his garden, Gary pulled back the branches revealing our path ahead and announced, ‘You are now entering the Reserve,’ as if were stepping into an uncharted jungle. Here we stood and peered into the newt pond, hoping to catch glimpse of a golden newt but had to make do with columns of bubbles arising enigmatically from the bed. Most impressive was the carp pool beyond, inhabited by two vast pale creatures of more than twenty years of age and over two feet in length, accompanied by the fattest goldfish I ever saw. Gary stood in silent pleasure, mesmerised as they cruised ceaselessly around in the shadowy depths like ghosts.
Several hours passed while Gary and I negotiated his garden of relatively modest size, and he recounted his stories. Then, once Gary had potted a teazle to accompany the yellow flag iris that he gave me years ago which now occupies a boggy corner of my garden in Spitalfields, we repaired to his house for tea. Since Ruby was taking her afternoon nap in the parlour, we tiptoed through the tidy house with our cups of tea and ascended a creaky metal ladder to Gary’s untidy attic, where he prefers to spend his time while indoors.
Sometime in Gary’s youth, he must have discovered this loft and, out of respect for Ruby’s house-proud nature, today he restricts his stash of clutter and curiosities to this secret den. For my delight, Gary produced his father’s Air Raid Warden helmet, optical novelties for Magic Lanterns, finely-engraved wooden printing blocks and more. It was humid in the attic and I must confess I discovered myself dozing off while Gary regaled me with stories. This is a shameful admission but I include it here as evidence we need harbour no anxiety that Gary is living in a bereft state since his departure from the East End. Obviously, the closure of his grandparents’ printshop in the Roman Rd was an enormous responsibility for Gary which took its toll, physically and emotionally. Yet today Gary Arber is in fine fettle at eighty-six, he has put it all behind him and he is at home in Romford.
Gary feeds half a ton of birdseed to his garden visitors each year
Gary pots a teazle seedling for my garden
Gary’s newt pond in foreground
Anderson shelter in use as a store
Old Carp over two feet long live in Gary’s pond
Gary on holiday with his parents, Walter and Florence Arber in the thirties
Gary’s grandparents, Emily & Walter Francis Arber, who opened the print shop in 1897
Read my other stories about Gary Arber
James Brown at W.F.Arber & Co Ltd
Two Spitalfields Shopkeepers
Last week, I published Steven Harris‘ candid memoir of his childhood at Great Eastern Buildings off Brick Lane and today I present his poignant account of two local shopkeepers, one universally beloved and the other notorious by reputation, yet both well-known Spitalfields personalities at that time.
Everyone I ever spoke with recalled Great Eastern Buildings in affection and, without exception, everyone also knew and loved Harry Fishman, owner of the newsagent on the corner of Quaker Street and Brick Lane. Harry was a legend in his own lifetime who commanded a significant degree of respect and reverence, even though we local kids were forever pinching comics, sweets and even small coins from his shop.
In my childhood, Harry was already in his sixties, around 5’ 8”, a bit chubby and with a receding hairline. He existed as a kindly granddad figure who seemed to have an easy-going attitude and a constant smile on his face, always avuncular and jovial, in contrast to my own granddad, Knacker, who was a mean old goat. We children felt a sense of empathy with Harry despite our small scale pilfering. He was never angry or said anything bad about anyone. Accordingly, we always looked forward to visiting his store, run down as it was. My friend Sheila Bell remembers his generosity and how, in the fifties, she would go to Harry’s, hand over her halfpenny and get a whole cone of sweets. By the mid-sixties, inflation meant our halfpennies only bought four black jacks (chewy liquorice sweets) or fruit salads (multi-coloured chewy sweets) – nothing like a coneful.
Harry was married to Marion who was short and round, and not nearly as easy going as Harry. She was far more aware of our ‘tea leaf’ tendencies and more than willing to challenge us, as Sylvie Pattern confided to me, recounting how Marion gave her a dressing down for the activity of her sons, Stephen and Keith, nicking sweets. Fortunately, Marion was not a regular presence in the shop which permitted us to benefit from Harry’s largesse, turning a blind eye to our pilfering. Though how he managed to ignore one of the local kids, Snudge, once nicking seven large bottles of pop is beyond me.
Harry even rewarded us sometimes. ‘Harris, want to do a bit of work?’ he would occasionally call out to me and whichever other kid was nearby, offering the opportunity to earn maybe a shilling or a big bar of chocolate. Harry was not the greatest at house keeping and neither was Marion who, rumour had it, preferred to keep company with the local brewery workers. So cleaning up his place was a golden opportunity to pry. My Cousin Jackie once claimed to have stumbled upon a supply of pornographic mags, as sold in the shop, while someone else confessed to have eaten several bags of crisps discovered in an open box. Whatever the truth of these tales, it was our chance to poke into Harry’s private life and be guaranteed a reward too.
Harry lived on the two floors above the shop. The place was a mess and he left us with the simple instruction to ‘Get on with it,’ so we did just that. ‘What’s in here?’ was a constant exclamation, with the rejoinder ‘Dunno, better have a look.’ Much of what we found was a mystery to us – invoices, bills and bank statements – exciting things that never seemed to come our way. Whenever we thought he was due to arrive, we rushed about tidying and cleaning to create the impression of working and ensure a good pay out. On one occasion, I got one shilling and sixpence for my efforts but, on another day, only a medium-sized bar of chocolate which drew the verdict of ‘tight bastard’ when I had left the premises. Cousin Jackie once earned half a crown, though I strongly suspect she had actually done some work to earn it, unlike lazy little me.
Harry was generally well-liked in Great Eastern Buildings, allowed credit to the adults and even splitting up packets of cigarettes so people could buy them individually. Rather naughtily, he would also sell single cigarettes to children. Back then, this was simply ‘business’ and smoking was not considered the serious health risk that it is today. Hence, after one or two coughing fits up on the roof of the buildings, I was convinced it was not a good idea. Yet for my cousins Kevin and Leslie, this was the introduction to years of smoking in adulthood.
On most days, you could usually find a packet of five ‘Weights,’ which were the cigarette of choice, on the back shelf at Harry’s, reduced to just two or three fags. If money was tight, then cobbling together one from dog ends was not unknown. God knows the strength of toxins within, thus illustrating the truth of the expression ‘dying for a fag’!
Harry’s goodwill was widely appreciated and he was invited to the weddings of the Harris children when they grew up. I believe he passed away in the mid-eighties, shortly after his shop was compulsorily purchased by the local council for a pitifully low price. By everyone that lived in Great Eastern Buildings, Harry Fishman is warmly remembered to this day.
If Harry was the nice guy of the local retail trade, as far as we were concerned his alter-ego was Leon, a greengrocer who had a small corner shop one hundred yards in the opposite direction down Quaker St. Leon was a short and squat man, no more than 5’ 4” tall and almost equally wide, and we found him simply unpleasant. Unlike Harry, he evinced no humour, no sense of brotherhood or commonality, or even sympathy from the residents of Great Eastern Buildings
When I was reunited with my mother decades later, she recalled how Leon would often try to slip a hand around her waist. He was always trying it on with me until I slapped him, and then I stopped going there,’ she admitted to me. Perhaps wisely, Leon limited the number of kids entering his shop to two at a time. ‘Keep your hands to your sides,’ was his universal greeting barked upon our arrival. I cannot deny our sticky-fingered behaviour yet, equally, he was distinctly threatening to us. He head-butted my school friend Sui Wong, after being informed erroneously that Sui has scratched his car. Perhaps Leon’s hostility was the result of being frequently robbed? I know the Wheler House kids, Willy and Benny Norris, delighted in pilfering his store.
I heard that Sylvie Pattern once got credit or ‘tick’ off Leon but never paid him back, even though he came to her door to collect it. Yet, if Sylvie Pattern had managed to con Leon out of a little credit, he was not averse to such actions himself. Paul Ramsey recalled how his mother sent him to buy groceries and gave him a ten quid note, but Leon only gave him change for a five pounds. Despite Paul’s protests, Leon insisted only a fiver had been passed over yet Paul’s mother had shrewdly made a note of the serial number. When she arrived at Leon’s, there was no ten pound note in the till, although he admitted he had one in his wallet. Once she produced the serial number and matched it with the note in Leon’s wallet, the game was up. Leon grovelled in apology and, by compensation, he gave her a packet of twenty Weights. Leon retired sometime in the late seventies and no one knew what happened to him yet neither – I suspect – did anyone care. Poor Leon, he was never invited to any of our weddings.
Harry Fishman photographed by Clive Murphy, 1987
Harry Fishman’s shop on the corner of Brick Lane and Quaker St photographed by Clive Murphy, 1987
Leon’s shop photographed by Philip Marriage in 1967
Leon’s shop photographed by Alan Dein in the eighties
Steven Harris, aged twelve
If you remember Harry Fishman or Leon the Greengrocer, please add your memories in the comments
You may also like to read Steven Harris’ memoir
In Spitalfields, 1842
George Dodd came to Spitalfields to write this account for Charles Knight’s LONDON published in 1842. Dodds recalls the rural East End that still lingered in the collective memory and described the East End of weavers living in ramshackle timber and plaster dwellings which in his century would be ‘redeveloped’ out of existence by the rising tide of brick terraces, erasing the history that existed before.
Spitalfields Market
It is not easy to express a general idea respecting Spitalfields as a district. There is a parish of that name but this parish contains a small portion only of the silk weavers and it is probable that most persons apply the term Spitalfields to the whole district where the weavers reside. In this enlarged acceptation, we will lay down something like a boundary in the following manner – begin at Shoreditch Church and proceed along the Hackney Rd till it is intersected by Regent’s Canal, follow the course of the canal to Mile End Rd and then proceed westward through Whitechapel to Aldgate, through Houndsditch to Bishopsgate, and thence northward to where the tour commenced.
This boundary encloses an irregularly-shaped district in which nearly the whole of the weavers reside and these weavers are universally known as “Spitalfields” weavers. Indeed, the entire district is frequently called Spitalfields although including large portions of Bethnal Green, Shoreditch, Whitechapel and Mile End New Town. By far the larger portion of this extensive district was open fields until comparatively modern times. Bethnal Green was really a green and Spitalfields was covered with grassy sward in the last century.
It may now not unreasonably be asked, what is “Spitalfields”? A street called Crispin St on the western side of Spitalfields Market is nearly coincident in position with the eastern wall of the Old Artillery Ground and this wall separated the Ground from the Fields which stretched out far eastward. Great indeed is the change which this portion of the district has undergone. Rows of houses, inhabited by weavers and other humble persons, and pent up far too close for the maintenance of health, now cover the green spot now known as Spitalfields.
In the evidence taken before a Committee in the House of Commons on the silk trade in 1831-2, it was stated that the population of the district in which the Spitalfields weavers resided could be no less at that time than one hundred thousand, of whom fifty thousand were entirely dependent on the silk manufacture and remaining moiety more or less dependent indirectly. The number of looms seems to vary between about fourteen to seventeen thousand and, of these, four to five thousand are unemployed in times of depression. It seems probable, as far as the means exist of determining it, that the weavers are principally English or of English origin. To the masters, however the same remark does not apply, for the names of the partners in the firms now existing, point to the French origin of manufacture in that district.
A characteristic employment or amusement of the Spitalfields weavers is the catching of birds. This is principally carried on in the months of March and October. They train “call-birds” in the most peculiar manner and there is an odd sort of emulation between them as to which of their birds will sing the longest, and the bird-catchers frequently lay considerable wagers on this, as that determines their superiority. They place them opposite each other by the width of a candle and the bird who sings the oftenest before the candle is burnt out wins the wager.
If we have, on the one hand, to record the unthrifty habits and odd propensities of the weavers, let us not forget to do them justice in other matters. In passing through Crispin St, adjoining the Spitalfields Market, we see on the western side of the way a humble building, bearing much the appearance of a weaver’s house and having the words “Mathematical Society” written up in front. Lowly and inelegant the building may be but there is a pleasure in seeing Science rear her head in a locality, even if it is humble one.
A ramble through Bethnal Green and Mile End New Town in which the weavers principally reside, presents us with many curious features illustrative of the peculiarities of the district. Proceeding through Crispin St to the Spitalfields Market, the visitor will find some of the usual arrangements of a vegetable market but potatoes, sold wholesale, form the staple commodity. He then proceeds eastwards to the Spitalfields Church, one of the “fifty new churches” built in the reign of Queen Anne and along Church St to Brick Lane. If he proceed northward up the latter, he will arrive, first, at the vast premises of Truman, Hanbury & Buxton’s brewery, and then at the Eastern Counties Railway which crosses the street at a considerable elevation. If he extends his steps eastwards, he will at once enter upon the districts inhabited by the weavers.
On passing through most of the streets, a visitor is conscious of a noiselessness, a dearth of bustle and activity. The clack of the looms is heard here and there, but not to a noisy degree. It is evident in a glance that many of the streets, all the houses were built expressly for weavers, and in walking through them we noticed the short and unhealthy appearance of the inhabitants. In one street, we met with a barber’s shop in which persons could have “a good wash for a farthing.” Here we espied a school at which children were taught “to read and work at tuppence a week.” There was a chandler’s shop at which shuttles, reeds and quills, and the smaller parts of weaving apparatus were exposed for sale in a window in company with split-peas, bundles of wood and red herrings. In one little shop, patchwork was sold at 10d, 12d and 16d a pound. At another place was a bill from the parish authorities, warning the inhabitants that they were liable to a penalty if their dwelling were kept dirty and unwholesome, and in another – we regretted this more than anything else – astrological predictions, interpretations of dreams and nativities, were to be purchased “from three pence upwards.”
In very many of the houses, the windows numbered more sheets of paper than panes of glass and no considerable number of houses were shut up altogether. We would willingly present a brighter picture, but ours is a copy from the life.
Pelham St (now Woodseer St), Spitalfields
Booth St (now Princelet St), Spitalfields
Images courtesy © Bishopsgate Insitute
Thomas Bewick’s Birds of Spitalfields
Coming across an early copy of Thomas Bewick’s ‘History of British Birds’ from 1832 in the Spitalfields Market inspired me to publish this ornithological survey with illustrations courtesy of the great engraver.
I have always known these pictures – especially the cuts of the robin and the blackbird – yet they never cease to startle me with their vivid life, each time I return to marvel at the genius of Bewick in capturing the essence of these familiar creatures so superlatively.
The book reminded me of all the birds that once inhabited these fields and now are gone, yet it is remarkable how many varieties have persisted in spite of urbanisation. I have seen all of these birds in Spitalfields, even the woodpecker that I once spied from my desk, coming eye to eye with it while looking into a tree from a first floor window to discern the source of an unexpected tapping outside.
The Sparrow
The Starling
The Blue Tit
The Great Tit
The Pigeon
The Collared Dove
The Blackbird
The Crow
The Magpie
The Robin
The Thrush
The Wren
The Chaffinch
The Goldfinch
The House Swallow
The Jay
The Woodpecker
Pied Wagtail – spotted by Ash on the Holland Estate, Petticoat Lane
Rose-ringed Parrakeet – an occasional visitor to Allen Gardens
Heron – occasionally spotted flying overhead
Buzzard – spotted over Holland Estate, Petticoat Lane
Swift – spotted by Ian Harper around Christ Church
Raven – spotted by Ian Harper & Jim Howett around Christ Church
Kite – spotted by Ian Harper & Jim Howett around Christ Church
Long-tailed Tit – spotted in Wapping
Willow Warbler – spotted by Tony Valsamidis in Whitechapel
If any readers can add to my list with sightings of other birds in Spitalfields, please drop me a line
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Charles Saumarez Smith’s East London
Charles Saumarez Smith and his wife Romilly have lived in the East End for over forty years, and are custodians of a beautiful old house in the Mile End Rd. Today I present a selection of photographs with captions from his new book EAST LONDON, published by Thames & Hudson.
‘Stepney City Farm – an unexpected piece of hippy rusticity next door to where construction workers are currently tunnelling for Crossrail, with geese, donkeys and chickens wandering freely among the lettuces.’
‘Novo Cemetery – As one walks through the grounds of Queen Mary University, past the engineering building and next to the arts and law faculties, one finds a large, well-preserved Jewish burial ground. It was opened in 1733, next door to Bancroft’s Hospital, and is shown clearly on Roque’s map in the following decade.’
‘I called in on Mile End Place one Christmas morning– one of those snickets of artisan housing, backing on to the Jewish cemetery, with only trees beyond.’
‘I’ve always liked Whitechapel Station, where the District Line emerges blinking into the daylight and curves round to head eastwards towards West Ham and Upminster, while below one could catch the old branch line of the Metropolitan down to New Cross, now revitalised by becoming part of the London Overground. The station opened in 1902 and one used to be able to get the Whitechapel & Bow Railway all the way to Southend. It once had four platforms, but is now reduced to two and is gradually losing its character as it is submerged by the changes required for Crossrail.’
‘Abbey Mills Pumping Station stands proud in the valley of the River Lea on the site of a monastic water mill. It’s an amazing building, with so much decorative care and Byzantine and Gothic detail lavished on Sir Joseph Bazalgette’s powerhouse of engineering. Inside is full of hand dials and maps of London’s sewers and Piranesian vistas, down to the big pipes that transport London’s sewage out to Beckton, all of it constructed after the Great Stink of 1858.’
‘Walking down a road I’ve walked down a thousand times before, not far from our house, I found myself in a time warp of 1890s communitarian social idealism: a well-cared-for courtyard full of plants, a small house for the caretaker, bicycles and beehives. It is Cressy House, austere on the outside, designed by Davis & Emmanuel, architects of the West London Synagogue, for the East End Dwellings Company, with communal staircases leading off the internal courtyard.’
‘Three Mills is an unexpected piece of industrial archaeology, next to Tesco in Bromley-by-Bow. As mills, they were first established before the dissolution of the monasteries to supply grain to the bakeries of Stratford-atte-Bow. They were later acquired in 1727 by three Huguenots to distil gin.’
‘Owen Hopkins’s ‘From the Shadows: The Architecture and Afterlife of Nicholas Hawksmoor’ made me look afresh at Christ Church, Spitalfields, in the light of his very clear account of the way that Hawksmoor was influenced by the interest of his ecclesiastical contemporaries in the churches of the Primitive Christians. This may have given Hawksmoor some of his characteristics of bold, unornamented, structural clarity.’
‘Just off Commercial Road, halfway to Limehouse, is Albert Gardens. A square of nearly perfect, neat, early Victorian houses, it was laid out in the 1840s with a garden in the middle by the Metropolitan Public Gardens Association. A sculpture of a ‘Shepherd Boy’ with sheaf and sickle, dated 1903 and bought in Paris, stands in the centre of the square.’
‘I was walking down Stepney Green past the dwellings at the south end beyond the Manor House, when I realised what fine ironwork and stucco detailing they have. They were built in 1895 by Solomon Joseph for the Four Per Cent Industrial Dwellings Company, founded in 1885 by Nathan Rothschild after an enquiry by the United Synagogue into ‘spiritual destitution’. Stepney Green court provided ‘the industrial classes with commodious and healthy Dwellings at a minimum rent’. Each of the flats had two rooms only and a shared washroom and kitchen, together with a communal club, reading room and baths. The original tenants were mostly Jewish artisans and there was a large synagogue next door, now converted into flats.’
‘It is a pleasure walking past the Geffrye Museum and seeing how the crisp November sun lights up the space in front of the early eighteenth-century almshouses. They were built out of a bequest from Sir Robert Geffrye, a big wheel in the Ironmongers’ Company, appointed Sheriff in 1674 and elected Lord Mayor in 1684. He died in 1703, leaving the residue of his estate to be used to construct fourteen almshouses, with a chapel in the middle and a statue commemorating the founder.’
‘I admire the work that the Spitalfields Trust has done in regenerating the streets off New Road – Turner Street, Walden Street and Varden Street – where the small artisans’ houses have been spruced up’
‘A magnificent piece of surviving industrial lettering incised into a side wall just off the Hackney Road.’
‘Wapping still retains a curious sense of isolation, with areas of greenery around the parish church of St John and Hussey’s, a good old-fashioned butcher, in Wapping Lane. One can get down to the Thames by way of two small alleyways off Wapping High Street. The first is alongside New Crane Wharf.’
Photographs copyright © Charles Saumarez Smith
EAST LONDON by Charles Saumarez Smith is published by Thames & Hudson
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Phil Maxwell in Vallance Rd
Vallance Rd, 1984
Contributing Photographer Phil Maxwell knows Vallance Rd better than most, since he lived in Pauline House at the Whitechapel end of this busy thoroughfare for thirty years, and walked up and down it daily. Yet among the ancient streets of the East End, Vallance Rd is a newcomer. As late as the mid-nineteenth century, maps show Baker’s Row leading north from Whitechapel Rd onto the open common land that still existed to the south of Bethnal Green at that time. By the end of that century, as the terraces spread across the open land, White St extended from Bethnal Green Rd by way of Notts St down to meet Baker’s Row, and thus the route known today linking Whitechapel and Bethnal Green was formalised, acquiring its current name in the early twentieth century. Once, the Whitechapel Workhouse was a formidable landmark in a street that has always been a means of getting from one place to another rather than a destination its own right, as Phil’s photographs testify.
Photographs copyright © Phil Maxwell
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Phil Maxwell in Bethnal Green Rd
