At 31 Fournier St
You may recall my account of meeting Rodney Archer the Aesthete in Fournier St who has Oscar Wilde’s fireplace installed in his first floor drawing room. Now you can visit and see it with your own eyes, because Rodney has entered into a collaboration with Trevor Newton, the Topographical Artist & Dealer in Decorative Arts, to open part of his beautiful old house as a gallery.
“We met quibbling over the price of first editions in the Spitalfields Market,” admitted Rodney, by way of introducing Trevor. “And Rodney said to me, ‘I want to declutter,'” added Trevor, modestly justifying his presence. “It’s as if I had a pack of cards and I’ve thrown up them up into the air,” declared Rodney, spreading his hands dramatically “And I’ve reshuffled them,” continued Trevor helpfully.
“I’ve let go!” shrieked Rodney in gleeful conclusion, turning and disappearing into the darkness of the hallway towards the front door as Trevor led me up to the first floor. “We’ve left a little dust and cobwebs,” he whispered to me, pointing out a fine cluster of grimy specimens on the stairwell lest I should judge him as too radical.
But, even on the stairs, the change was evident as Trevor – with his professional eye – had rehung Rodney’s pictures expertly. In the blue drawing room, the transformation was more pronounced. Oscar Wilde’s fireplace still held pride of place but all the paraphernalia had been swept away in anticipation of the exhibitions that are to come. “We want small numbers of people to look at small things carefully,” explained Trevor, leading me through double doors into the pink library. Here he showed me Rodney’s scrapbooks and collages, alongside his own illustrated Australian travel diaries, and Georgian and Victorian Scrapbooks. “We plan to display small charming things which suit a house like this,” he informed me, proffering a curious series of eighteen-fifties silk designs from Rouen.
With superhuman effort, Trevor has sorted through the archaeological layers of Rodney’s collecting from local markets, an activity for which he has a special talent and which he has pursued continuously since he moved here 1980. Over this last winter, an elaborate editing process has taken place, with the surplus sold online and Rodney’s most-favoured artefacts arranged in a pleasing order by Trevor that they may be better appreciated.
Growing enthusiastic, Trevor revealed their plan is for an exhibition every month from May, each accompanied by a publication illustrating the works on show, and visitors will be asked to book in advance so that the number of people in the gallery at any time may be limited to preserve the intimacy of the house. On this spring morning in March, the sun entered these magnificent chambers as it has done since 1726, with shafts of light illuminating the dust of ages suspended in the air. After forty years of living sequestered on Fournier St, Rodney is taking the bold step of opening his doors to the world – as long as they make an appointment first.
We retraced our steps downstairs to the hallway, where we met Rodney coming back from the antiques market, excited to show his new discoveries and thereby illustrating the necessity of items leaving at the same rate they arrive. Offering my congratulations and wishes of good luck to Rodney and Trevor in their fanciful endeavour, I left filled with eager anticipation for this new chapter in the story of 31 Fournier St.
If you would like to be informed of exhibitions and events at Rodney Archer’s house please email Trevor Newton newtonartist@hotmail.com
In Rodney’s Library
The Blue Room
Trevor Newton
Trevor Newton & Rodney Archer with Oscar Wilde’s fireplace
You may also like to read my original profile
The Foundling Of Shoreditch
Edward Waterson sent me this extraordinary story of his great-great-great-grandfather Henry Cooper, who went down in history as the man “left holding the baby”
Bishopsgate Station, photograph courtesy of National Rail Museum
This is the tale of a country doctor, a mystery woman and a baby with a fortune tucked in its nappy. It is a tale that riveted Victorian England in 1850, yet is all but forgotten today – save for its lasting contribution to the English language. Had it not been for the extraordinary events on Bishopsgate Station in Shoreditch that year, we would not have the pleasure of describing those facing an unwanted problem as being “left holding the baby.”
The doctor was Henry Cooper, a handsome thirty-six year old who ministered to the needs of his patients in the Suffolk village of Ixworth, near Bury St Edmunds. Recently widowed and bringing up three small children on his own, he was not a man to relish disruption in his busy life.
One January morning that year, he donned his best stovepipe hat and travelled into Bury to meet his friend Captain Lloyd with whom he was journeying on the Eastern Counties Railway to London. The train left at ten minutes past eight and they soon settled into their second class carriage for the four and a half hour journey to the terminus at Shoreditch.
They passed through Colchester without incident but ten minutes later, on stopping at Mark’s Tey station, their gentlemanly calm was broken as an elegantly dressed woman stumbled into the carriage. Along with the lady came a baby girl and a small trunk. Clearly unwell and close to collapse, the child’s mother explained that she had been travelling alone in first class but, feeling ill, she had made her way to a carriage where there were other passengers. She could not have chosen better.
Cooper introduced himself and tendered his professional services. Politely declining his offer, the lady explained that her condition was solely due to being unused to travelling on the railway and that she would soon recover. Indeed, by the time the train steamed into Bishopsgate Station she had rallied considerably.
Henry again proffered help but was reassured that she had ordered a carriage and servant to wait for her at the far end of the station. It would – however – be of immense help to her if he might assist by looking after the baby while she went to check if her transport had arrived. So the surgeon gladly took the baby, while the captain stood guard over her trunk, watching their new found acquaintance run down the platform and into the square below, never to be seen again.
Henry Cooper was left holding the baby.
Bewildered by their predicament, the pair gathered up baby and trunk and took a carriage to friends in the city. By the end of the journey, it was already clear that the baby’s nappy needed changing, so the unwilling guardians opened the trunk in hope of finding a replacement. They were delighted to find not only what they were looking for but also a wardrobe of expensive children’s clothing.
Off came the nappy and out dropped two ten pound notes, the equivalent of nearly two thousand pounds today. Attached to them was a letter stating that the child came from a respectable background and that if an advertisement was placed in the newspapers, the parents would make themselves known. Cooper’s friends in London offered to act as temporary foster parents while he returned to Suffolk to attend to his patients.
In the meantime, he placed two advertisements in The Times with inconclusive results. One reply came from a friend of Cooper who was anxious to adopt the baby while another, altogether more sinister, came from a man in Devon – the baby was his and the twenty pounds too. He claimed them both on behalf of the mother and would sue if the child was not handed over.
Henry Cooper was left struggling with an uncomfortable dilemma.
On the thirteenth of February he returned to London, this time to Worship St Magistrates Court, just a stone’s throw from Bishopsgate Station. What – pleaded the unhappy recipient of the baby – did the judge advise him to do with the child?
The Magistrate, Mr Justice Hammill, said it was a very unusual application and regretted that he could be of little assistance. He could only suggest that the baby be handed over to the Officers of the Parish in whose district it had been abandoned, in the hope the parents would be discovered. Cooper knew that to take such a course would mean the workhouse for the child and in the words of The Times reporter – “it was pretty manifest from his manner that he was disinclined to adopt the suggestion thrown out by the bench.” Meanwhile, Cooper’s friend William Makepeace Thackeray composed verse in celebration of the event and such was the fame of The Foundling of Shoreditch that Punch devoted a whole page to the story, complete with a sketch of the unlikely duo.
The child escaped the workhouse and was placed in an unspecified orphanage, supported in part by her hidden legacy, only to disappear later without trace just as her mother did. Henry Cooper, the country doctor, has also long been forgotten but his legacy lives on as the archetype of the one “left holding the baby.”
Henry Cooper – “left holding the baby”
Henry Cooper and the baby portrayed in Punch, February 1850
copyright © Edward Waterson
Long Forgotten London
Old House on Tower Hill
There is the London we know and the London we remember, and then there is the London that is lost to us but recalled by old photographs. Yet beyond all this lies another London which is long forgotten, composed of buildings and streets destroyed before the era of photography. Walter Thornbury’s ‘Old & New London – how it was and how it is‘ of 1873 offers a glimpse into this shadowy realm with engravings of the city which lies almost beyond recognition. It is a London that was forgotten generations ago and these images are like memories conjuring from a dream, strange apparitions that can barely be squared with the reality of the current metropolis we inhabit today.
“Writing the history of a vast city like London is like writing a history of the ocean – the area is so vast, its inhabitants are so multifarious, the treasures that lie in its depths so countless. … The houses of old London are encrusted as thick with anecdotes, legends and traditions as an old ship is with barnacles. Strange stories of strange men grow like moss in every crevice of the bricks … Old London is passing away even as we dip our pen in the ink…” – Walter Thornbury
The Four Swans Inn, Bishopsgate – shortly before demolition
Garraway’s Coffee House – shortly before demolition after 216 years in business
Roman wall at Tower Hill
Dyer’s Hall, College St, rebuilt 1857
Old house in Leadenhall St with Synagogue entrance
Yard of the Bull & Mouth, Aldergsgate 1820
The Old Fountain, Minories
Demolition of King’s Cross in 1845
Clerkenwell in 1820 before the railway came through
Middlesex House of Detention, Clerkenwell
In the Jerusalem Tavern above St John’s Gate, Clerkenwell
Cock Lane, Smithfield
Hand & Shears, Clothfair
Smithfield before the construction of the covered market
Last remnant of the the Fleet Prison demolished in 1846
The Fleet Ditch seen from the Red Lion
Back of the Red Lion seen from the Fleet Ditch
Field Lane 1840
Leather Lane
Exotic pet shop on the Ratcliffe Highway with creatures imported through the London Docks
Sir Paul Pindar’s Lodge, Spitalfields
Room in Sir Paul Pindar’s House, Bishopsgate – demolished for the building of Liverpool St Station
Kirkby Castle, Bethnal Green
Tudor gatehouse in Stepney
With grateful thanks to LIbby Hall for her assistance with this feature
New Season For Carters Steam Fair
Joby Carter
In Berkshire, the blossom is on the thorn and the chestnut buds are bursting – reliable indicators that it is the season for Carter’s Steam Fair to leave the yard in White Waltham on the outskirts of Maidenhead where they overwinter. Traditionally, the season for travelling fairs ends in November with Bonfire Night but now, after months of repair and recuperation, the members of the Carter family and their entourage are eager to set out again, for their thirty-eighth consecutive year on the road with the world’s largest vintage travelling funfair.
Contributing Photographer Colin O’Brien & I took a trip down to visit Carter’s Yard on Sunday to record the final preparations before the column of haulage trucks set out on Monday morning for Battersea where Britain’s only steam fair may be found for the next two weekends – 29th & 30th March, 5th & 6th April.
Arriving at the end of the village where the lane became a dirt track as it reached the fields, we discovered Carters Yard – an enclosure surrounded by tall fences of corrugated iron. Stepping through the gates, we entered another world. In a courtyard, surrounded by a diverse array of sheds, were innumerable trucks, wagons and mobile homes, all painted in differing tones of the Carters’ colours of Oxblood, Scarlet, Cardinal Red and Butter. Men ran in different directions carrying cables and signalling to lorries, as they manoeuvred vehicles from their parking spaces out into the lane where a column was lining up ready for departure.
Inside the paint shop, Anna Carter – who started the fair with her late husband John Carter when they bought the steam-powered gallopers in 1977 – was touching up Britannia’s breastplate with Chrome Yellow upon a decorative panel as a means to distract herself from the drama of heavy goods vehicles being shunted around the yard outside . “I like going,” she admitted to me with a open-hearted delight undimmed by four decades on the road,” but I am anxious about the weather – If it’s too hot you don’t get anyone because they all go to the beach, if it’s too wet they don’t come and if it’s too cold they don’t come.” Given the vagaries of the English climate, Anna’s comment filled me with concern and cast her act of setting out in defiance of meteorology as one of astonishing bravura.
Anna handles the organisation and paperwork while her sons Joby and Seth supervise the crew – transporting, setting up and taking down the rides. Struggling with ever-growing bureaucracy is Anna’s bugbear, along with escalating rents as councils try to earn more from their parks and open spaces. In one instance, Anna quotes a figure of £35,000 for a week’s rental in 2005, now increased to £100,000, which more than justifies her anxiety about the weather – since the fair needs to earn its week’s takings in around seventeen peak hours at the weekend.
Yet with a large extended family all involved and living in touring mobile homes, Carters Steam Fair has acquired an unstoppable momentum and it is Anna’s extraordinary achievement that through her strength of character she has kept the show on the road for all these years. “It seems like a lifetime,” she confessed to me, thinking back fondly over the epic journey.
Maintaining the steam fair with its nineteenth-century rides in tip-top condition requires constant maintenance and restoration. Consequently, the job of painting and repainting never stops, and the seductive aroma of gloss paint followed us around the yard as we explored. We discovered Frank, Carter’s mechanic of thirty years, preoccupied with welding in a shed. “He’s the only one who knows how it all works,” Anna whispered to me.
In the next yard, we met John Todd and his wife Shelley, just putting the finishing touches to the gleaming paintwork of the Dive Bombers and the Penny Arcade. “I’m really looking forward to going out again.” John confided, “We’ve got it all looking nice, and now we can’t wait to go out and show it off.”
Returning to the paint shop, where Anna was just completing Britannia’s breastplate, I asked her what sight would give her joy in the coming months and, “A really crowded fairground with everyone happy and enjoying it,” was her immediate reply. “I work with my daughter Rosie, running the candifloss stall and I see it all from there, in the middle of the candifloss,” she concluded with a blush, “That’s what I’ve come down to, and I quite like it.”
John Todd has been working in the fair since the age of fourteen – “I’m really looking forward to going out again. We’ve got it all looking nice and now we can’t wait to go out and show it off.”
Newly repainted pillars by John Todd and his wife Shelley
Frank has been working with Carters for thirty years as a mechanic
Anna & Frank –“He’s the only one who knows how it all works.”
Anna Carter prepares Chrome Yellow to repaint Britannia’s breastplate
Anna interrupts her painting to show us around the yard
Aaron paints a new set of hand rails in the traditional style
In the paint shop
Aaron repaints the front of a steam organ
Newly cast horses from the originals on the gallopers, awaiting painting
The open road awaits Carters Steam Fair
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
Carters Steam Fair can be found in Battersea Park for the next two weekends – 29th & 30th March, 5th & 6th April. And you may expect Carters in Clissold Park this summer.
Learn about Joby Carter’s Fairground Signwriting Courses here
You may also like to read about
Alan Cox, Master Printer
Alan works at his flatbed offsetting proofing press in Charlotte Rd, Shoreditch
When Master Printer Alan Cox came to Shoreditch more than thirty years ago, he was surrounded by other print trades and furniture manufacturing workshops, but today he is the last artisan still in business on Charlotte Rd. So – before Alan closes up his shop for good at the end of the summer – I took the opportunity of accompanying Adam Dant on a visit to watch him at work, printing the limited edition of Adam’s Map of the Coffee Houses.
You enter a small door in an unmarked shop front and walk into a huge room with a magnificent old worn brick floor and an elaborate wooden roof that has not been painted in a generation. Two tall Brunswick green doors open onto the street, where the cart once came in with deliveries of timber for the furniture factory and then carried the finished items off to showrooms in the West End.
In the centre of the studio sits Alan’s flatbed offsetting proofing press where he produces limited editions of prints for artists. It is a painstaking manual process as Alan rolls the machine back and forth, positioning each sheet carefully and then removing it to place upon a slowly-growing stack. Adam’s prints had already been through the press once to acquire the coffee-brown background tone and we came to witness the second plate which would apply the black lines of his drawing to complete the work.
With relaxed concentration, Alan rolled the press slowly back and forth, producing the last few prints as Adam watched. Then we convened around the stack and, once Adam had given his approval, we settled down in a quiet corner of the print shop upon a couple of bar stools from the Bricklayers Arms for a celebratory cuppa, as Alan told me his story.
“I came here in 1979. One day, I walked past and I saw this guy moving all this machinery out of here. He was selling up after fifty years, so I asked him to give me ring. It’s a strange triangular building, filling the corner space where Charlotte Rd meets Great Eastern St. Across the road was the National Front headquarters, and there was a lot of shouting and bottle smashing in those days. There were no bars, only the Barley Mow and the Bricklayers Arms which closed at the weekends, so it was pretty dire for night life.
I’ve been printing by lithography since the sixties. At first, I had a little print shop in Jubilee St, Whitechapel, and next door was a kosher chicken shop. We got woken to the sound of them slitting the chickens’ throats, but it was a friendly Jewish community even if the neighbourhood was run down. I moved to London in 1961 to study at Central School of Art and was only just setting up after leaving college in 1963. I taught at various colleges, but having a print shop was a way to do my own work and making a living, without getting drawn into the politics.
The print shop got me involved with lots of other artists. It’s interesting to work with other people, because you never work for them – they always ask your opinion as a printmaker and you work together. If John Hoyland asked my opinion, I used to say, ‘Cover it in black’ – I remember once he did that, and it looked fantastic because it wasn’t solid black and all the colours underneath came through in a subtle way. But some artists are very prima-donna-ish and can be bloody awkward.
I started doing lithography because I like working with colour and brushes in a painterly kind of way, and I found etching a little reductive. At Central, I did some screen-printing but everyone else wanted to do it too, so the studio was always busy whereas hardly anyone used the lithography studio – and it was always possible to get on a press and print my own work.
By the mid-seventies, I had moved down to Butler’s Wharf and was getting a lot of recognition, and I had four people working with me on five presses, so I invited different artists to do monotypes. Nobody did it then but now everybody does it! Degas had done small ones in brown but I encouraged artists to do large ones in colour – I worked with Stephen Buckley, John Hoyland and Jim Dine among others. Howard Hodgkin came and did some small ones and then some very big ones.
You can run off four hundred prints in a good hard day’s work on my flatbed offset proofing press but I’d rather do two hundred. I am on the cusp of closing up. It’s quite physically and mentally demanding, because you have to pay attention to every detail. It’s been interesting, but I’m going to to shut the studio down at the end of the summer. I’ll still continue to make work, I won’t be hibernating in the loft!”
Alan Cox & Adam Dant
Damping the plate
Placing the print with the brown tone awaiting the second plate with the black lines
Alan & Adam scrutinise the finished prints
Click on the map to enlarge and read the stories of the Coffee Houses
Copies of Adam Dant’s Limited Edition of his MAP OF THE COFFEE HOUSES printed by Alan Cox can be obtained direct from adamdant@gmail.com
You may also like to read about
In Celebration Of Brick Lane
It is my great delight to announce the publication of BRICK LANE by Phil Maxwell on Thursday 3rd April and to invite you to join me in raising a glass of Truman’s Beer to celebrate!
We have worked with distinguished designer Friederike Huber to create a magnificent three hundred page book of Phil’s photographs in chronological order, from 1982 until the present day, telling the story of volatile social change upon one of Britain’s most celebrated streets.
Published by Spitalfields Life Books and printed in Britain by Butler, Tanner & Dennis, the book costs just £10 and you can pre-order your copy by clicking here.
Additionally, we are giving away one thousand of these beautiful posters, each signed and numbered by Phil Maxwell. Come to the launch to get yours or you can collect one afterwards from some of our favourite shops including Brick Lane Bookshop, Broadway Bookshop, Gardners’ Market Sundriesmen, Rough Trade, Labour & Wait, Leila’s Shop, Newham Bookshop & Townhouse.
Introduction by The Gentle Author
PHIL MAXWELL is the photographer of Brick Lane. Over the last thirty years, no-one has taken more pictures there than he and his astonishing body of work stands unparalleled in the canon of street photography, both in its range and in the quality of human observation that informs these eloquent images.
“More than anywhere else in London, Brick Lane has the quality of being constantly changing, even from week to week,” Phil told me when I asked him to explain his enduring fascination. “Coming into Brick Lane is like coming into a theatre, where they change the scenery every time a different play comes in – a stage where each new set reflects the drama and tribulations of the wider world.”
In 1981, when Phil Maxwell moved to London from Liverpool, he found himself living in a council flat off Brick Lane where he lives to this day. “They told me, ‘You won’t find people in London as friendly, they don’t have the Scouse humour,'” Phil recalled, “But when I moved here I found that Liverpool humour and East End humour were almost the same – developed out of hardship, in which people were able to laugh at their own demise. The East End was a small world and a wonderful place in those days. The area was a desert, so much corrugated iron, so many bombed out buildings, and many old Jewish people with a great sense of humour.”
Phil’s work is distinguished by a strong empathy, drawing the viewer closer. In particular, he succeeded in winning the trust of Bengali people and portraying their community with relaxed intimacy. “That’s because I live on the other side of the tracks and the vast majority of my neighbours are Bengalis,” Phil revealed, “The main problem Bengali families face is overcrowding, with parents and kids living in tiny flats where they cannot socialise freely, and so Brick Lane became the place where they could be themselves in a way they couldn’t at home.”
When I confided to Phil that the lyrical quality of his portraits of older people appealed to me especially, he pointed out the woman with white hair, enfolding herself in her pale overcoat. “She seems bemused by what is happening round her, but in her appearance she is very much part of the built environment that surrounds her,” he said, thinking back over the years, “I find older people have a kind of demeanour which derives from the environment they’ve been living in and that makes them interesting to photograph.”
In its mutable nature, Brick Lane presents an ideal subject for photography – offering an endless source of fleeting moments that expose a changing society within a changing environment and, since the early eighties, Phil Maxwell has made it the focus of his life’s work.
Yet, as well as recording the changes in Brick Lane itself, these pictures also capture many of Phil’s friends. His long-term involvement with his subjects means that he is never merely taking photographs, he is always recording life happening. Thus, every single image is another frame in an ongoing drama, with the same people and places recurring over three decades. For this reason, Phil’s pictures never contain anonymous faces in the street, because these were the people he lived among every day.
It is this affectionate yet unsentimental relationship with his subjects that gives Phil Maxwell’s photographs their special quality. As Phil admitted open-heartedly, “I would be nowhere without these people, they are my constant inspiration. I always have a camera in my pocket and whenever I go out I always see something I have never seen before. I love the different cultures and histories that are on my doorstep. Wherever I travel in the world, I always come back and find a little of it here. I couldn’t live anywhere else now – such a mixture of class, race, cultures, and aspirations and it’s all here in one go.”
CLICK HERE TO PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY OF PHIL MAXWELL’S BRICK LANE FOR £10
So Long, Aaron Biber
In respect for the grief of the Biber family, we have held the announcement until this spring of the death of Aaron Biber, London’s Oldest Barber, last year on November 27th. It seems Aaron was not feeling so well one day and went to hospital to get a check-up. He was kept in for observation and died peacefully there. It was a quiet conclusion to Aaron’s extraordinary career as a barber spanning eight decades and, in spite of the tribulations of life, his triumph was to keep cutting up until the very end.
Aaron Biber cut hair for nearly eighty years, using the same blue steel scissors that his father gave him when he began at twelve years old, which he sharpened himself. At ninety-one years old, Aaron still worked six days a week at his tiny salon in Tottenham, waking each morning at four, driving the five minute journey from his home in Chingford and opening up the salon from six until midday.
After all that time, Aaron could not retire because he knew nothing else. “Three doctors have told me, I would be dead within two months if I stopped,” he admitted to me with a helpless smile,“I can’t stop at home because my wife passed away after seventy years of marriage.”
For more than forty years, Aaron’s business was a going concern in Tottenham until one summer morning, shortly after his wife died, when he arrived for work to discover a crowd of two hundred, including eighty interviewers outside his barber’s shop. The rioters had destroyed Aaron’s salon and he found himself at the centre of an international media storm. “I was on TV all over the world, Canada, Vietnam, Australia, Germany, Japan …” he recalled in bemusement, “And the Archbishop of Canterbury, Boris Johnson and Prince Charles, they all came to see me.”
Although his salon was restored thanks to donations from an internet campaign, Aaron’s customers – many of whom had been coming for decades from all over London – disappeared. On the Monday of the week I visited, Aaron had one customer and on Tuesday also only one customer. No wonder he was delighted when I walked through the door at the end of the morning, on a day that had been a total blank, to interrupt his melancholic discourse with his pal Richard. “I’ve been cutting his hair since he was a baby,” declared Aaron to me, by way of introduction, with an affectionately dismissive flick of the wrist in the direction of his friend. A gesture reciprocated by Richard with a nod of confirmation and a loyal smile.
“They took everything, even my kettle and my chairs!” explained Aaron casting his eyes around at his memories of the destruction, “Luckily, I always carry my scissors with me, so they were safe at home.” Lesser men would be defeated what happened, but Aaron’s experience of life granted him a sense of proportion which permitted a degree of equanimity.
Aaron’s mother and father both came as refugees to the East End from Poland in the eighteen nineties. “My mother grew up on the farm, and the Russians used to ride through the village on horseback and knock people to the ground as they passed,” Aaron informed me, “My father killed a copper who assaulted him and he ran to England to escape.”
“When I was around ten years old, my mother moved out from Myrdle St where we lived because my dad wouldn’t give her a penny. She took all the children – nine sons and four daughters – to Coke St off Commercial Rd near the Bell Foundry. We went to the Jewish Board of Guardians to get an iron token for the soup kitchen, and we got bread and pilchards and kosher margarine. We used to go round the streets searching for money and once we found half a crown, we bought two salt beef sandwiches and had one shilling and eightpence left.
We had to work because we were starving. When I was ten, I went across the road to work for Mr Cohen making beigels for sixpence and then I weighed out sugar for his wife in the shop next door for tuppence, so I had eightpence. I used to wash down the horses, Ginger & Tubby, for Barney Dan, he had a cart and went round delivering stuff. He took me down to Covent Garden. I can tell you all about Covent Garden because I met my wife there, her father Alex Simmons, he designed all the sets for the theatres. I took a room in Tavistock St on the first floor, full of lads cutting hair. Later, I had a place in Hanbury St opposite the market in Spitalfields and I cut all the porters’ hair.
I cut hair for the police for fifty years, they wanted to make me a policeman at seventeen but my father said, ‘No, you don’t!’ I cut the hair for the flying squad for twenty-five years. Everyone wanted me because I cut hair properly. We used to have the police lined up outside the shop, there was a shortage of barbers.
We had all nationalities down in Cable St, Italians, Spanish, Maltese, Ghanese. I picked up all the languages. I can still speak Ghanese. We had the High Commissioner of Ghana come for a hair cut. Everyone got on and we all used to help each other out. I remember the Battle of Cable St, I was by the Royal Mint and the dockers came out of the dock to stop Mosley. I went to one of his rallies in Victoria Park to have a look but my mother warned me, she said, ‘They’ll kill you.’
During the war I was guarding Tower Bridge when Winston Churchill came along and said to me, ‘Shoot any parachutists you see coming down.’ I said, ‘What if they are ours?’ They showed me where they expected me to sleep and I said, ‘Forget it, I’m going home to my mother.’
I could have gone on the Queen Mary to America, cutting hair. There was this bloke in the docks, he said, ‘I’ll fix you up get you a job there, all you have got to do is give me a hundred pounds later.’ Most of the barbers from the East End went to America. My brother Ben opened a salon in Times Sq, but I couldn’t go because I was my mother’s blue-eyed boy, her favourite. She said, ‘No, not with them German submarines you’re not going.’ I never had any children. My mother told me, ‘It’s too much trouble.'”
“Everyone wanted me because I cut hair properly.”
Aaron cuts hair in Cable St in 194o.
“The Archbishop of Canterbury, Boris Johnson and Prince Charles, they all came to see me.”
Aaron outside his salon in St Anne’s Rd in the nineteen fifties.
“I cut the hair for the flying squad for twenty-five years.”
The blue steel scissors given to Aaron by his father seventy-eight years ago when Aaron was twelve years old, wrapped in a nineteen forties linen towel.
“I can still speak Ghanese.”
Aaron’s pal Richard – “I’ve been cutting his hair since he was a baby.”
Aaron’s brother Ben (left) outside his salon in Times Sq, New York.
Aaron’s salon in Tottenham.
“Three doctors have told me, I would be dead within two months if I stopped.”
Visit the Aaron Biber memorial website Keep Aaron Cutting
You may also like to read about
