At Time For Tea
Johnny Vercoutre
I had always assumed the words ‘Time for Tea’ emblazoned upon the fascia of a narrow building in Shoreditch High St indicated that it was an occasional tea shop. But when I enquired the meaning of this sign from Johnny Vercoutre, who has lived there for the past twenty years and who painted the text in question, he gave an unexpected reply. “It’s my philosophy of life,” he declared with a swagger and a smile, brushing his languid moustache with a forefinger as a mischievously pleasurable thought popped into his mind, “I’d like to drive a long truck with a line of dancing girls into the middle of the street and stop all traffic, and serve tea to everybody.”
Johnny came to the East End as child to buy a tortoise at the erstwhile animal market in Club Row. He likes to brag of his early prowess at splayed brickwork, which was a matter of pride to his father who was a builder in Kilburn and proved to be an invaluable asset in the restoration of his eighteenth century house. Originally constructed as the London Savings Bank, it served as the premises of Andrews the Clockmakers who supplied the timepiece to St Leonard’s Shoreditch next door, before becoming a pawnbroker and finally Clarkes the Stationers, when Johnny first visited to purchase envelopes.
The upper floors had been unoccupied since the forties when Johnny moved in twenty years ago. He has preserved the eighteenth century fabric and reinstated lost panelling, using vintage doors and windows in the restoration, yet pursuing a pre-war style of interior design with an Eau-de- Nil and black colour scheme that would make the last residents feel at home if they were ever to return, transported magically through time.
At street level, one door opens into an ancient flagged alley that once led through from Shoreditch High St to the Old Nichol, the notorious slum which was replaced by the Boundary Estate at the end of the nineteenth century. A side door here retains its metal grille from when the building was a pawn shop and a narrow staircase winds up through three storeys. A series of curious intermediary spaces are lit by skylights with stained glass and, at the first floor, the kitchen leads onto an attractive yard enclosed by age-old railings and overlooked by iron fire escapes. In the living room at the front, a box protrudes from the wall containing the mechanics of the clock on the exterior, installed by Andrews the Clockmakers.
Johnny boasts the last of the Nicholls & Clarke Eau-de-Nil ceramic suites in Shoreditch, imparting an underwater atmosphere to his third floor bathroom. Up above, the attic resembles the weavers’ lofts of Spitalfields with long windows granting views towards the City on one side and over the rooftops of Shoreditch on the other. Names painstakingly carved upon the beams and an elaborate anchor motif marked out in nails upon the a floorboard bear witness to those who passed through here in the eighteenth and nineteenth century.
Johnny’ s labour over past decades has brought this unique building back to life and every inch speaks of the history of old Shoreditch. Yet such are the changes in the neighbourhood in recent years – now that Shoreditch has grown rich – he can no longer afford the upkeep and has to sell. Developers are circling and, since the building is not listed, they would be free to gut it to maximize their return on the property and destroy its historic fabric. But perhaps there is someone out there who would like to buy it and cherish it for what it is? If so, Johnny Vercoutre would like to hear from you itstimefortea@googlemail.com
I was concerned how Johnny will occupy himself in future without his house to renovate. “I have a motor yacht that once belonged to Donald Campbell,” he confessed to me. In response to my exclamation of wonder at this information, he revealed it was sunk. “Oh dear,” I exclaimed. “I still have the pieces,” he reassured me, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, “I can put them back together again.”
One of Johnny’s collection of veteran vehicles
The first floor living room
The attic bedroom
The hidden eighteenth century alley with its original flags
A grille from the building’s days as a pawnbroker
An eighteenth century house in Shoreditch High St
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At Boughton House
In the Great Hall at Boughton
To celebrate the plaster being cut off my arm, Charlie de Wet, Director of the Huguenots of Spitalfields Festival, took me on an Easter trip away from the East End to visit her pal the Duke of Buccleuch & Queensberry, and explore Boughton House, his palatial seventeenth century mansion known as ‘The English Versailles.’
The Duke’s ancestor Ralph Montagu was Ambassador to Paris at the end of the seventeenth century and a Huguenot sympathiser, subsequently employing hundreds of refugee Huguenot artists and craftsmen upon the embellishment of Boughton, creating a lavish country house in the French style in the English countryside. Astonishingly, the house and its contents have survived largely unaltered through the centuries, and it stands today as a showcase of the superlative creative talents of the Huguenot artisans.
There was a bitter wind blowing across the Northamptonshire park land as we arrived and we were relieved to enter the warmth of the kitchen, yet the Duke cautioned us not to remove our overcoats. The chill of the old house has contributed to the preservation of its furnishings all these years and as we stepped into the gloom of the vast shuttered rooms, there was a tangible drop in air temperature below the level of the exterior courtyards where pale sunlight was already encouraging spring flowers into bloom.
Sequestered in darkness since the death of Ralph Montagu in 1749, Boughton has been almost frozen in time and the eternal chill of the tomb prevails in the state rooms where I was able to wander alone – opening single shutters to admit a ray of daylight, illuminating ancient tapestries and refracting in clouded seventeenth century mirrors.
Among myriad treasures, I came upon Britain’s oldest woven carpet with a date of 1585 woven into it and the portrait of Shakespeare’s patron, Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton with his cat. Entire galleries of family portraits by Lely gleamed in the half light and extravagant painted ceilings populated by gods and goddesses desporting themselves in cloudscapes glimmered overhead. From my brief stroll through this overwhelming labyrinth of riches, I offer these glimpses I was able to snatch with my camera.
In Fish Court
The Audit Room with paintings by Anthony Van Dyck, Godfrey Kneller and Peter Lely
The state bed was donated to the V&A in 1918 and returned ninety years later
In the unfinished wing – this door leads from one of the state bedrooms
Seventeenth century pagoda, once painted by Canaletto on the Thames-side terrace of Montagu House
The limed staircase
The Duke once kept his pet lion in this yard
The stable block
Britain’s oldest carpet, dated 1585 in the border
Shakespeare’s patron the Earl of Southampton and his cat, seen here confined in the Tower
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Viscountess Boudica’s Easter Celebrations
I cannot celebrate Easter without a return visit to our dearly-beloved Viscountess Boudica also known as ‘Old Mother Goose of Bethnal Green’
She may be no Spring chicken but that does not stop the indefatigable Viscountess Boudica of Bethnal Green from dressing up as an Easter chick!
As is her custom at each of the festivals which mark our passage through the year, Boudica embraces the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly – festooning her tiny flat with seasonal decor and contriving a special outfit for herself that suits the tenor of the day. “Easter’s about renewal – birth, life and death – the end of one thing and the beginning of another,” she assured me when I arrived, getting right to the heart of it at once with characteristic forthrightness.
I feel like a child visiting a beloved grandmother or favourite aunt whenever I call round to see Viscountess Boudica because, although I never know what treats lie in store, I am never disappointed. Even as I walk in the door, I know that days of preparation have preceded my visit. Naturally for Easter there were a great many fluffy creatures in evidence, ducks and rabbits recalling her rural childhood. “When my uncle had his farm, I used to put the little chicks in my pocket and carry them round with me,” she confided with a nostalgic grin, as she led me over to admire the wonder of her Easter garden where yellow creatures of varying sizes were gathering upon a small mat of greengrocer’s grass, around a tree hung with glass eggs, as if in expectation of a sacred ritual.
I cast my eyes around at the plethora of Easter cards, testifying to the popularity of the Viscountess, and her Easter bunting and Easter fairy lights that adorned the walls. There could be no question that the festival was anything other than Easter in this place. “As a child, I used to get a twig and spray it with paint and hang eggs from it,” she explained, recalling the modest origin of the current extravaganza and adding, “I hope this will inspire others to decorate their homes.”
“Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is my favourite,” she confessed to me, chuckling in excited anticipation and patting her waistline warily, “I probably will eat a lot of chocolate on Easter Monday – once I start eating chocolate, I can’t stop.” And then, just like that beloved grandmother or favourite aunt, Viscountess Boudica kindly slipped a chocolate egg into my hands as I said my farewell, and I carried it off under my arm back to Spitalfields as a proud trophy of the day.
Viscountess Boudica writes her Easter cards
“yellow creatures of varying sizes were gathering upon a small mat of greengrocer’s grass, around a tree hung with glass eggs, as if in expectation of a sacred ritual”
Viscountess Boudica turns Weather Girl to present the forecast for the Easter Bank Holiday – “I predict a dull start with a few patches of sunshine and some isolated showers. In the West Country, it will be nice all day with temperatures between sixty and eighty degrees Farenheit. There will be a small breeze on the coast and sea temperature of around fifty-nine degrees Farenheit.”
Easter blessings to you from Viscountess Boudica!
Viscountess Boudica and her fluffy friends
Be sure to follow Viscountess Boudica’s blog There’s More To Life Than Heaven & Earth
Take a look at
Viscountess Boudica’s Domestic Appliances
Viscountess Boudica’s Halloween
Viscountess Boudica’s Christmas
Viscountess Boudica’s Valentine’s Day
Viscountess Boudica’s St Patrick’s Day
Read my original profile of Mark Petty, Trendsetter
and take a look at Mark Petty’s Multicoloured Coats
The Inescapable Melancholy Of Phone Boxes
Red phone boxes are a cherished feature of my personal landscape because, in my childhood, we never had a telephone at home and, when I first made a phone call at the age of fifteen, it was from a box. In fact, for the major part of my life, all my calls were made from boxes – thus telephone calls and phone boxes were synonymous for me. I grew up with the understanding that you went out to make a phone call just as you went out to post a letter.
Yet the culture of mobile phones is now so pervasive I was shocked to discover I had hardly noticed as the red telephone boxes have vanished from our streets and those few that remain stand redundant and unused. So I set out with my camera to photograph the last of them, lest they should disappear without anybody noticing. It was a curious and lonely pilgrimage because, whereas they were once on every street, they have now almost all gone and I had to walk miles to find enough specimens to photograph.
Reluctantly, I must reveal that on my pitiful quest in search of phone boxes, I never saw anyone use one though I did witnessed the absurd spectacle of callers standing beside boxes to make calls on their mobiles several times. The door has fallen off the one in Spitalfields, which is perhaps for the best as it has been co-opted into service as a public toilet while the actual public toilet nearby is now a vintage boutique.
Although I must confess I have not used one myself for years, I still appreciate phone boxes as fond locations of emotional memory where I once experienced joy and grief at life-changing news delivered down the line. But like the horse troughs that accompany them on Clerkenwell Green and outside Christ Church, Spitalfields, phone boxes are now vestiges of a time that has passed forever. I imagine children must ask their mothers what these quaint red boxes are for.
The last phone boxes still stand proud in their red livery but like sad clowns they are weeping inside. Along with pumps, milestones, mounting blocks and porters’ rests these redundant pieces of street furniture serve now merely as arcane reminders of a lost age – except that era was the greater part of my life. This is the inescapable melancholy of phone boxes.
Redundant in Whitechapel
Ignored in Whitechapel
Abandoned in Whitechapel
Rejected in Bow
Abused in Spitalfields
Irrelevant in Bethnal Green
Shunned in Bethnal Green
Empty outside York Hall
Desolate in Hackney Rd
Pointless in St John’s Sq
Irrelevant on Clerkenwell Green
Invisible in Smithfield
Forgotten outside St Bartholomew’s Hospital
In service outside St Paul’s as a quaint location for tourist shots
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John Thomas Smith’s Antiquities Of London
For good reason John Thomas Smith acquired the nickname ‘Antiquity Smith’ – while working as Keeper of Drawings at the British Museum, between 1790 & 1800, he produced a large series of etchings recording all the antiquities of London, from which I publish this selection of favourites today
Old houses in the Butcher Row near Clement’s Inn, taken down 30th March 1798 – the right hand corner house is suggested to have been the one in which the Gunpowder Plot was determined and sworn
A Curious Pump – in the yard of the Leathersellers’ Hall, Bishopsgate
Sir Paul Pindar’s Lodge, Half Moon Alley, Bishopsgate
A Curious Gate in Stepney – traditionally called King John’s Gate, it is the oldest house in Stepney
London Stone – supposed to be the Millinarium of the Romans from which they measured distances
The Queen’s Nursery, Golden Lane, Barbican
Pye Corner, Smithfield – this memorialises the Great Fire of 1666 which ended at Pye Corner
Old house in King St, Westminster – traditionally believed to have been a residence of Oliver Cromwell
Lollards’ Prison – a stone staircase leads to a room at the very top of a tower on the north side of Lambeth Palace, known as Lollard’s Tower
Old house on Little Tower Hill
Principal gate of the Priory of St Bartholomew, Smithfield
Savoy Prison – occupied by the army for their deserters and transports
Mr Salmon’s, Fleet St
Gate of St Saviour’s Abbey, Bermondsey
Rectorial House, Newington Butts
Bloody Tower – the bones of the two murdered princes were found within the right hand window
Traitors’ Gate
The Old Fountain in the Minories – taken down 1793
The White Hart, Bishopsgate
The Conduit, Bayswater
Staple’s Inn, Holborn
The Old Manor House, Hackney
Dissenting Meeting House at the entrance to Little St Helen’s, taken down 1799
Remains of Winchester House, Southwark
London Wall in the churchyard of St Giles Cripplegate
London Wall in the churchyard of St Giles’ Cripplegate
Figures of King Lud and his two sons, taken down from Ludgate and now deposited at St Dunstan’s, Fleet St, in the Bone House
Images courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
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John Thomas Smith’s Ancient Topography
John Thomas Smith’s Vagabondiana
London’s Oldest Buns
I am continuing the festive Easter theme today with my story of London’s oldest hot cross buns
London’s oldest buns photographed by London & Middlesex Archaeological Society in the 1940s
A net of Hot Cross Buns hangs above the bar at The Widow’s Son in Bromley by Bow and each year a sailor comes to add another bun to the collection. Yet no Hot Cross Buns are eaten in the ceremony, they are purely for symbolic purposes – left to dry out and gather dust and hang in the net for eternity, London’s oldest buns exist as metaphors to represent the passing years and talismans to bring good luck but, more than this, they tell a story.
On Good Friday, what could be more appropriate to the equivocal nature of the day than an event which involves both celebration of Hot Cross Buns and the remembrance of the departed in a single custom – such is the ceremony of the Widow’s Buns at Bow.
The Widow’s Son was built in 1848 upon the former site of an old widow’s cottage, so the tale goes. When her only son left to be a sailor, she promised to bake him a Hot Cross Bun and keep it for his return. But although he drowned at sea, the widow refused to give up hope, preserving the bun upon his return and making a fresh one each year to add to the collection. This annual tradition has been continued in the pub as a remembrance of the widow and her son, and of the bond between all those on land and sea, with sailors of the Royal Navy coming to place the bun in the net every year.
Behind this custom lies the belief that Hot Cross Buns baked on Good Friday will never decay, reflected in the tradition of nailing a Hot Cross Bun to the wall so that the cross may bring good luck to the household – though what appeals to me about the story of the widow is the notion of baking as an act of faith, incarnating a mother’s hope that her son lives. I interpret the widow’s persistence in making the bun each year as a beautiful gesture, not of self-deception but of longing for wish-fulfilment, manifesting her love for her son. So I especially like the clever image upon the inn sign outside the Widow’s Son, illustrating an apocryphal scene in the story when the son returns from the sea many years later to discover a huge net of buns hanging behind the door, demonstrating that his mother always expected him back.
When I arrived at the Widow’s Son, I had the good fortune to meet Frederick Beckett who first came here for the ceremony in 1958 when his brother Alan placed the Hot Cross Bun in the net, and he had the treasured photo in his hand to show me. Frederick moved out from Bow to Dagenham fifteen years ago, but he still comes back each year to visit the Widow’s Son, one of many in this community and further afield who delight to converge here on Good Friday for old times’ sake. Already, there was a tangible sense of anticipation, with spirits uplifted by the sunshine and the flags hung outside.
The landlady proudly showed me the handsome fresh Hot Cross Bun, baked by Mr Bunn of Mr Bunn’s Bakery in Chadwell Heath who always makes the special bun each year -” fabulous buns!”declared Kathy, almost succumbing to a swoon, as he she held up her newest sweetest darling that would shortly join its fellows in the net over the bar. There were many more ancient buns, she explained, until a fire destroyed most of them fifteen years ago, and those burnt ones in the net today are merely those few which were salvaged by the firemen from the wreckage of the pub. Remarkably, having opened their hearts to the emotional poetry of Hot Cross Buns, at the Widow’s Son they even cherish those cinders which the rest of the world would consign to a bin.
The effect of several hours drinking beer upon a pub full of sailors and thirsty locals became apparent in the pervasive atmosphere of collective euphoria, heightened by a soundtrack of pounding rock, and, in the thick of it, I was delighted to meet my old pal Lenny Hamilton, the jewel thief. “I’m not here for the buns, I’m here for the bums!” he confided to me with a sip of his Corvoisier and lemonade, making a lewd gesture and breaking in to a wide grin of salacious enjoyment as various Bow belles, in off-the-shoulder dresses with flowing locks and wearing festive corsages, came over enthusiastically to shower this legendary rascal with kisses.
I stood beside Lenny as three o’ clock approached, enjoying the high spirits as the sailors gathered in front of the bar. The landlord handed over the Hot Cross Bun to widespread applause and the sailors lifted up their smallest recruit. Then, with a mighty cheer from the crowd and multiple camera flashes, the recruit placed the bun in the net. Once this heroic task was accomplished, and the landlady had removed the tinfoil covers from the dishes of food laid out upon the billiard table, all the elements were in place for a knees-up to last the rest of the day. As they like to say in Bromley by Bow, it was “Another year, another Good Friday, another bun.”
Baked at Mr Bunn’s Bakery in Chadwell Heath
Peter Gracey, Nick Edelshain and Roddy Urquhart raise a pint to the Widow’s Buns.
Tony Scott and Debbie Willis of HMS President with Frederick Beckett holding the photograph of his brother placing the bun in the net in 1958.
Alan Beckett places the bun on Good Friday, 4th April 1958.
3 pm, Good Friday, 22nd April 2011.
My pal Lenny Hamilton, the jewel thief, at home at The Widow’s Son
A Widow’s Son of Bromley by Bow
by Harold Adshead
A widow had an only son, The sea was his concern, His parting wish an Easter Bun Be kept for his return. But when it came to Eastertide No sailor came her way To claim the bun she set aside Against the happy day. They say the ship was lost at sea, The son came home no more But still with humble piety The widow kept her store. So year by year a humble bun Was charm against despair, A loving task that once began Became her livelong care. The Widow’s Son is now an inn That stands upon the site And signifies its origin Each year by Easter rite The buns hang up for all to see, A blackened mass above, A truly strange epitome Of patient mother love.
Archive photograph of buns courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
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At The Ceremony Of The Widow’s Sixpence
To get everyone in the mood for the forthcoming Easter celebrations, I am publishing my account of the Ceremony of the Widow’s Sixpence held each Good Friday when Hot Cross Buns are distributed to widows in the churchyard of St Bartholomew the Great in Smithfield.
Distribution of buns to widows in the churchyard of St Bartholomew the Great
St Bartholomew the Great is one of my favourite churches in the City, a rare survivor of the Great Fire, it boasts the best Norman interior in London. Composed of ancient rough-hewn stonework, riven with deep shadow where feint daylight barely illuminates the accumulated dust of ages, this is one of those rare atmospheric places where you can still get a sense of the medieval world glimmering. Founded by Rahere in 1123, the current structure is the last vestige of an Augustinian Priory upon the edge of Smithfield, where once martyrs were burnt at the stake as public entertainment and the notorious St Bartholomew Fair was celebrated each summer from 1133 until 1855.
In such a location, the Good Friday tradition of the distribution of charity in the churchyard to poor widows of the parish sits naturally. Once known as the ‘Widow’s Sixpence,’ this custom was institutionalised by Joshua Butterworth in 1887, who created a trust in his name with an investment of twenty-one pounds and ten shillings. The declaration of the trust states its purpose thus – “On Good Friday in each year to distribute in the churchyard of St. Bartholomew the Great the sum of 6d. to twenty-one poor widows, and to expend the remainder of such dividends in buns to be given to children attending such distribution, and he desired that the Charity intended to be thereby created should be called ‘the Butterworth Charity.'”
Those of use who gathered at St Bartholomew the Great on Good Friday morning were blessed with sunlight to ameliorate the chill as we shivered in the churchyard. Yet we could not resist a twinge of envy for the clerics in their heavy cassocks and warm velvet capes as they processed from the church in a formal column, with priests at the head attended by vergers bearing wicker baskets of freshly buttered Hot Cross Buns, and a full choir bringing up the rear.
In the nineteen twenties, the sum distributed to each recipient was increased to two shillings and sixpence, and later to four shillings. Resplendent in his scarlet robes, Rev Martin Dudley, Rector of St Bartholomew the Great climbed upon the table tomb at the centre of the churchyard traditionally used for that purpose and enacted the motions of this arcane ceremony – enquiring of the assembly if there were a poor widow of the parish in need of twenty shillings. To his surprise, a senior female raised her hand. “That’s never happened before!” he declared to the easy amusement of the crowd, “But then, it’s never been so cold at Easter before.” Having instructed the woman to consult with the churchwarden afterwards, he explained that it was usual to preach a sermon upon this hallowed occasion, before qualifying himself by revealing that it would be brief, owing to the adverse meteorological conditions. “God’s blessing upon the frosts and cold!” he announced with a stoic grin, raising his hands into the sunlight, “That’s it.”
I detected a certain haste to get to the heart of the proceedings – the distribution of the Hot Cross Buns. Rev Dudley directed the vergers to start with choir who exercised admirable self-control in only taking one each. Then, as soon as the choir had been fed, the vergers set out around the boundaries of the yard where senior females with healthy appetites, induced by waiting in the cold, reached forward eagerly to take their allotted Hot Cross Buns in hand. The tense anticipation induced by the freezing temperature gave way to good humour as everyone delighted in the strangeness of the ritual which rendered ordinary buns exotic. Reaching the end of the line at the furthest extent of the churchyard, the priests wasted no time in satisfying their own appetites and, for a few minutes, silence prevailed as the entire assembly munched their buns.
Then Rev Martin returned to his central position upon the table tomb. “And now, because there is no such thing as free buns,” he announced, “we’re going to sing a hymn.” Yet we were more than happy to oblige, standing replete with buns on Good Friday morning, and enjoying the first sunlight we had seen in a week.
The Priory Church of St Bartholomew the Great, a century ago.
John Betjeman once lived in this house overlooking the churchyard.
The ceremony of the Widow’s Sixpence in the nineteen twenties.
“God’s blessing upon the frosts and cold!”
A crowd gathers for the ceremony a hundred years ago.
Hungry widows line up for buns.
The churchyard in the nineteenth century.
Rev Martin Dudley BD MSc MTh PhD FSA FRHistS AKC is the 25th Rector since the Reformation.
Testing the buns.
The clerics ensure no buns go to waste.
Hymns in the cold – “There is a green hill far away without a city wall…”
The Norman interior of St Bartholomew the Great at the beginning of the twentieth century.
The Gatehouse prior to bombing in World War I and reconstruction.
Archive images courtesy Bishopsgate Institute
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