The East End in the Afternoon
There is little traffic on the road, children are at play, housewives linger in doorways, old men doze outside the library and, in the distance, a rag and bone man’s cart clatters down the street. This is the East End in the afternoon, as photographed by newspaper artist Tony Hall in the nineteen sixties while wandering with his camera in the quiet hours between shifts on The Evening News in Fleet St.
“Tony cared very much about the sense of community here.” Libby Hall, Tony’s wife, recalled, “He loved the warmth of the East End. And when he photographed buildings it was always for the human element, not just the aesthetic.”
Contemplating Tony’s clear-eyed photos – half a century after they were taken – raises questions about the changes enacted upon the East End in the intervening years. Most obviously, the loss of the pubs and corner shops which Tony portrayed with such affection in pictures that remind us of the importance of these meeting places, drawing people into a close relationship with their immediate environment.
“He photographed the pubs and little shops that he knew were on the edge of disappearing,” Libby Hall confirmed for me, ‘He loved the history of the East End, the Victorian overlap, and the sense that it was the last of Dickens’ London.”
In 1972, Tony Hall left The Evening News and with his new job came a new shift pattern which did not grant him afternoons off – thus drawing his East End photographic odyssey to a close. Yet for one who did not consider himself a photographer, Tony Hall’s opus comprises a tender vision of breathtaking clarity, constructed with purpose and insight as a social record. Speaking of her late husband, Libby Hall emphasises the prescience that lay behind Tony’s wanderings with his camera in the afternoon. “He knew what he was photographing and he recognised the significance of it.” she admitted.
These beautiful streetscapes – published here for the first time – are a selection of pictures from the legacy of approximately one thousand photographs by Tony Hall held in the archive at the Bishopsgate Institute.
Three Colts Lane
Gunthorpe St
Ridley Rd Market
Stepney Green
Photographs copyright © Libby Hall
Images Courtesy of the Tony Hall Archive at the Bishopsgate Institute
Libby Hall & I would be delighted if any readers can assist in identifying the locations and subjects of Tony Hall’s photographs.
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At The George Tavern
Pauline Forster, publican at The George in Commercial Rd
Let me admit, The George in Commercial Rd is one of my favourite pubs in the East End. From the first moment I walked through the door, I knew I had discovered somewhere special. In the magnificently shabby bar room, with gleaming tiles and appealingly mismatched furniture all glowing in the afternoon light filtering through coloured glass windows, there was not a scrap of the tidying up and modernisation that blights the atmosphere of too many old pubs. There was no music and no advertising – it was peaceful, and I was smitten by the unique charisma of The George.
Curious to learn more, I paid a visit upon the owner recently, who has been described to me as one of the last great publicans of the East End, and I was far from disappointed to explore behind the scenes at this legendary institution because what I found was beyond what I ever imagined.
Pauline Forster, artist and publican of The George, brought up her five sons in a remote valley in Gloucestershire. It was only ten years ago that she bought The George and her sons came up to London with her, but in the intervening decade they all met partners in the bar and moved out. Yet such a satisfactory outcome of events was not the result of any master-plan on Pauline’s part, merely the consequence of a fortuitous accident in which she stumbled upon The George when it was lying neglected and fell in love with it, buying it on impulse a week later, even though it had never been her intention to become a publican.
“It’s a beauty, this building!” she declared to me as I followed her along the dark passage from the barroom, up a winding stair and through innumerable doors to enter her kitchen upon the first floor. “When I came to view it, there were twenty others after it but they only wanted to know how many flats they could fit in, none of them were interested in it as a pub.” she informed me in response to my gasps of wonder as she led me through the vast stairwell with its wide staircase and a sequence of high-ceilinged rooms with old fireplaces, before we arrived at her office lined with crowded bookcases reaching towards the ceiling. “The interior was all very seventies but I was hooked, I could see the potential.” she confided, “I gravitated to the bar and I started possessing it. I sat and waited until everyone else had gone and then I told the agent I would buy it for cash if he called off the auction.”
With characteristic audacity, Pauline made this offer even though she did not have the cash but somehow she wrangled a means to borrow the money at short notice, boldly taking possession, exchanging contracts and moving in three days later, before finding a mortgage. It was due to her personal strength of purpose that The George survived as a pub, and thanks to her intelligence and flair that it has prospered in recent years.“I thought, ‘I’ve got to open the bar, it would be a sin not to,'” she assured me, widening her sharp grey eyes to emphasise such a self evident truth, “I decided to open it and that’s what I did.”
Ten years of renovations later, the false ceilings and recently installed modern wall coverings have been stripped away to reveal the structure of the building, and this summer the early nineteenth stucco facade will be revealed in all its glory to the Commercial Rd. “I’m used to taking on challenges and I’m a hardworking person,” Pauline admitted, “I don’t mind doing quite a bit of work myself, you’ll see me up scaffolding chipping cement off and painting windows.”
Yet in parallel with the uncovering of the fabric of this magnificent old building – still harbouring the atmosphere of another age – has been the remarkable discovery of the long history of the pub which once stood here in the fields beside the Queen’s Highway to Essex before there were any other buildings nearby, more than seven hundred years ago. When Commercial Rd was cut through by the East India Company in the early nineteenth century, the orientation of the building changed and a new stuccoed frontage was added declaring a new name, The George. Before this it was known as The Halfway House, referenced by Geoffrey Chaucer in The Reeve’s Tale written in the thirteen eighties when he lived above the gate at Aldgate and by Samuel Pepys who recorded numerous visits during the sixteen sixties.
A narrow yard labelled Aylward St behind the pub, now used as a garden, is all that remains today of the old road which once brought all the trade to The Halfway House. In the eighteenth century, the inn became famous for its adjoining botanic garden where exotic plants imported from every corner of the globe through the London Docks were cultivated. John Roque’s map of 1742 shows the garden extending as far as the Ratcliffe Highway. At this time, William Bennett – cornfactor and biscuit baker of Whitechapel Fields – is recorded as gardener, cultivating as many as three hundred and fifty pineapples in lush gardens that served as a popular destination for Londoners seeking an excursion beyond the city. As further evidence of the drawing power of the The Halfway House, the celebrated maritime painter Robert Dodd was commissioned to paint a canvas of “The Glorious Battle of the Fifth of June” for the dining room, a picture that now resides in the Maritime Museum in Greenwich.
When you have ascended through all the diverse spaces of The George to reach the attic, you almost expect to look from the dormer windows and see green fields with masts of ships on the river beyond, as you once could. I was filled with wonder to learn just a few of the secrets of this ancient coaching inn that predates the East End, yet thanks to Pauline Forster has survived to adorn the East End today, and I know I shall return because there are so many more stories to be uncovered here. I left Pauline mixing pure pigments with lime wash to arrive at the ideal tint for the facade. “I don’t get time to do my own paintings anymore,” she confessed, “This is my work of art now.”
The George is covered with scaffolding while renovation takes place.
Nineteenth century tiling in the bar.
A ceramic mural illustrates The George in its earlier incarnation as The Halfway House.
Stepney in 1600 showing The Halfway House and botanic garden on White Horse Lane, long before Commercial Rd was cut through by the East India Company in the early nineteenth century.
The Halfway House in the seventeenth century.
The Halfway House became The George and the orientation of the building was changed in the nineteenth century when Commercial Rd was cut through. Note the toll booth and early telegraph mast.
The stucco facade is currently under restoration.
The Georgian theatre serves as the pub’s entertainment suite.
In the attic, where Pauline lived when she first moved in.
A selection of Pauline’s paintings.
Pauline’s collection includes the dried-out carcass of a rat from Brick Lane.
Bedroom under the eaves.
Entrance to the attic.
Pauline’s studio.
Living room.
Living room with view down Commercial Rd.
Dining Room.
Wide eighteenth century staircase.
Pauline’s bathroom with matching telephone, the last fragment of the nineteen seventies interior that once extended throughout the building.
In Pauline’s office.
Pauline Forster, Artist & Publican.
Kitchen looking out onto the former Queen’s Highway, now the pub garden.
Pauline’s newly-made Seville marmalade.
Kitchen dresser.
Pauline’s cat keeps close to the fire in the kitchen.
Pauline hits the light-up dancefloor at “Stepney’s” nightclub next door.
The George, 373 Commercial Rd, E1 0LA (corner of Jubilee St).
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Save Clerkenwell Fire Station
Clerkenwell Fire Station is the oldest operating fire station in Britain, serving the people of London continuously from its handsome red brick tower at the junction of Rosebery Avenue and Farringdon Rd since 1872. Contributing Photographer Colin O’Brien grew up a quarter of a mile from here in Victoria Dwellings, a tenement just down the road at the corner of Clerkenwell Rd and Farringdon Rd, and as a young photographer in the nineteen sixties he leaned out of the window to photograph the Clerkenwell firemen when they came to extinguish a conflagration in his building.
So when I learned that there was a possibility that Clerkenwell Fire Station might shut forever, I realised that Colin and I needed to pay a visit upon the firefighters of Clerkenwell, to celebrate these heroic individuals and record their brave endeavours, lest this be the end of their operations here after one hundred and forty years. In spite of the fact that they had all received letters inviting them to take voluntary redundancy, we found them in buoyant mood and it was only towards the end of our visit I learnt that several members of the watch had recently received awards for bravery after saving people trapped in a cradle high above the new University College London Hospital in Gower St.
Firefighters work in “watches” of fourteen and there are four watches at Clerkenwell Fire Station who work alternating shifts, two days of 9:30am until 8pm and two days of 8pm until 9:30am, a total of forty-eight working hours each week followed by three days off, thus providing cover every hour, every day of the year. Colin and I had the privilege of being the guests of Tim Dixey’s watch, arriving in the morning to discover the team around the table in the mess, at the end of the days’s briefing before they headed out to the yard to run through the drill that is a constant of life as a firefighter, designed to hone the co-ordination, proficiency and team work of the watch.
Although the fire station opened in 1872, it is still fully functional and it was a pleasure to see the working parts of the old building cherished – freshly painted, cleaned and maintained in tip-top order, still in daily use for the purpose for which they were built. On the Farringdon Rd side of the building are two wooden doors, a narrower one originally used for the hand cart fire engine and a wider one for the horse drawn engine.
Tim Dixey, a veteran of twenty-nine years in the service who joined at eighteen years old, explained that the founders of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade in 1866 came from a naval background and every station was designed to be sufficient to itself. “They were conceived as ships on land,” he told us. Many of the early firefighters were ex-naval men who were comfortable with heights and familiar with ropework, introducing the structure of shifts and terminology of “watches” that is still used in the fire service today.
Meeting the firefighters of Tim’s watch for the first time, Colin and I were touched by the generosity of spirit and emotional openness with which they accepted our presence. I recognised the depth of trust necessary between those who risk their lives in the course of their work and must depend upon each other absolutely. We were surprised to meet a father and son, Andy Simkins and Dave Smith, working together as firefighters in the same watch, yet it only served to enforce the sense of intimate reliance among the crew.
At Tim’s request, firefighter Gregg Edwards took us on a tour of the upper floors of the station which have been disused for decades. With views across the rooftops to the City, we found the washrooms of the eighteen seventies with huge white sinks lined up for the firemen of a century ago to wash the soot off their faces. In the next room, an elaborate series of metal racks offered arcane facilities for drying wet uniforms in a heated chamber. Walking through another door, we entered the former accommodation of firefighters under the eaves. There were neat delft tied fireplaces and rooms still lined with faded nursery wallpaper. Abandoned in the middle of the last century, when the firefighters sought a degree of independence from their employers, these flats are now designated “unfit for purpose” even though with a modicum of repairs they could be a boon to the firefighters of today, who are unable to afford housing locally and must commute long distances as a consequence.
Then we had the opportunity to watch the fire drill as the watch in their yellow and black overalls, swarming like bumble bees, slid the tall aluminium ladder off the engine, extending it to the highest extremity of the tower. We asked some obvious questions, about the whether the fireman’s lift is still practised and enquired about the frequency of cats stuck in trees. “You’re not supposed to carry people down ladders,” we were told, “But, if it needs that, we will.” We learnt that rescuing felines did not take up a great deal of the fightfighters’ time. “How many skeletons of cats do you see in trees?” quipped Dave Smith, speaking with authority after twenty years in the service.
And then a call came in. Tim Dixey waved a slip of paper that reported a mother who had locked herself out of her flat when the wind blew her front door shut, trapping her baby inside.“We all go and we don’t leave anyone behind,” Tim joked, introducing a personal tenet, as he and his fellow firefighters climbed aboard their engine. In a moment, the truck turned into the Farringdon Rd, disappearing into the traffic as the siren faded into the distance, and Colin and I were left standing.
Colin O’Brien’s photograph of firemen at Victoria Dwellings in the nineteen sixties.
Tower used for firefighting exercises and as a lookout.
Firefighter Craig Wellock, six years in the fire service.
In 1872, the door on the left was for the handcart fire engine and the door on the right for the horse-drawn fire engine.
Firefighter Dave Smith, twenty years in the fire service.
Firefighter Mandy Watts, thirteen years in the fire service.
Wash room from 1872, used by firefighters on their return from duty.
Father and son firefighters, Andy Simkins and Dave White – twenty-six years and six years in the fire service respectively.
Disused furnace to heat the drying room for wet uniforms, dating from 1872.
Firefighters Gregg Edwards, Merrick Josephs and Henry Ayanful.
Firefighters Gregg Edwards, Henry Ayanful, Watch Manager Tim Dixey, Firefighters Nasir Jilani and Merrick Josephs.
The change in the brickwork indicates where the station was expanded in the eighteen eighties.
Firefighter Gregg Edwards.
The view from the accommodation floor where firefighters once lived with their families.
Firefighter Henry Ayanful, twenty-one years in the fire service.
Station Manager Steve Gray, twenty-five years in the fire service.
Watch Manager Tim Dixey – twenty-nine years in the fire service, joined at the age of eighteen.
Firefighters Mandy Watts, Dave Smith, Andy Simkins, Dave White and Craig Wellock.
Clerkenwell Fire Station, Britain’s oldest operating fire station.
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
Sign the petition to save Clerkenwell Fire Station here
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Cecile Moss of Old Montague St
Cecile aged four
Although Cecile Moss lived in Old Montague St for fourteen years, this is the only photograph taken of her in Spitalfields, and it was taken for a precise purpose. A photographer came round to take it in 1955, the year Cecile arrived from Jamaica aged four years old, and the picture was sent back to her family in the Caribbean as evidence that she was attending a proper Catholic school with a smart uniform and therefore all was well in London. Yet in contrast to the image of middle class respectability which Cecile’s mother strove to maintain, the family lived together in one room in a tenement and the reason there are no other photographs is because they had no money for a camera.
Almost no trace survives today of the Old Montague St that Cecile knew – a busy thoroughfare crowded with diverse life, filled with slum dwelllings, punctuated by a bomb site and a sugar factory, and lined with small shops and cafes. There, long-established Jewish traders sat alongside dodgy coffees bars in which Maltese, Somalis, Caribbeans and others congregated to do illicit business. In fact, Old Montague St offered a rich and stimulating playground to a young child filled with wonder and curiosity, as Cecile was.
The novel presence of black people proved a challenge to many East Enders at that time. “Sometimes, they knotted their handkerchiefs when they saw me,” recalled Cecile with mixed emotion, “and they’d say, ‘If you see a black person that’s good luck.'” Fortunately, Cecile’s mother’s professional status as a teacher proved to be an unexpected boost to Cecile in this new society and later Cecile became a teacher herself, an occupation that she pursues today from her home in New Cross Gate where she lives with her children and grandchildren. “Since the new overground train, I’ve spent a lot more time in the East End and I still have a lot of friends there.” she admitted to me when I visited her last week, “As you grow older, you tend to want to go back to your home.”
“We came to England from Jamaica in 1955, me, my sister Clorine and my mother, Marlene Moss, to Old Montague St in Spitalfields. She left my father and came over to live with her sister, Daisy. I was four years old and I didn’t know I was coming to England, I was traumatised. But I remember what I was wearing, I wore a double-breasted coat with a velvet Peter Pan collar and lace-up shoes. My mother was a teacher in Jamaica and she didn’t want us to look like refugees arriving in England. The voyage lasted ten days and we were met by my uncle at Southampton. It was very confined on the boat so that when I got off, I kept on running around.
We lived in a building where the Spitalfields health centre is today. We were 9b, above a shop where two elderly Jewish sisters lived. My mother cried for days because we had to share one toilet with three other floors, so it was really quite disgusting. I was told that I had come to get a doll. But it was an ugly chalky-skinned blond doll, and I was so angry and upset that I threw it away and smashed it, which made my aunt think I was a very ungrateful little girl. My mother,my sister and I all lived in one room. My sister was eleven and she remained silent, whereas my mum and I just cried a lot. I missed my family in Jamaica.
Because we were Catholics, we went to St Anne’s Catholic church and mother got talking to the priest. He told her she could teach in St Gregory, a Secondary Modern in Wood Close, doing supply work. When she started at the school she was shocked. One of the pupils was absent from the register and they said, ‘He’s gone down for GBH.’ My mother came back and asked my aunt, ‘What is this GBH?’ She said she was going introduce Shakespeare to the school but they said,‘We don’t want you bringing any of your kind of rubbish here!’
I went to St Patrick’s school around the back of St Anne’s and my sister, because she had already passed the eleven-plus, went to Our Lady’s convent in Stamford Hill. Yet I only lasted two weeks at St Patrick’s because the kids hit me and pushed me over. I can’t remember if they called me racist names, but I know I was terribly unhappy. My mother took me away and sent me to Stamford Hill too. I was five years old, and she put me on the 653 bus and told the conductor where to let me off. The people on the bus would look after me and I never missed my stop. I felt safe. So we lived in the East End but we went to school in North London. That was unusual but, because my mother was a teacher, we were middle class, even though we lived in Old Montague St which was a slum. Old Montague St had quite a reputation for drugs. There were dark tenements with dark passages with dark dealings.
When my mum got a permanent job at St Agnes’ school in Bow, she took me away from Our Lady’s at seven years old. So I never went back to school in Spitalfields but I used to play out on the street a lot. Most of the children I played with were second generation Irish with names like Touhy, O’Shea, Latimer and Daley – that’s who I grew up with. There was an older Irish boy who looked out for me, he said I was part of the gang. He told us we mustn’t speak to the people on Brick Lane because they were Jewish. He was looked after by his grandmother. She was a character. Every Saturday night, she went to the pub on the corner of Chicksand St and filled a jug with port or whatever and stumbled back singing, ‘Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do.’ And my mother cried and said, ‘Look what we have come down to.’ One day, the old lady, she tied a skipping rope across the street to stop the traffic so that we could play. When the police came along, she said, ‘The children have got nowhere to play.’ And we were all shocked, but later they opened a playground on the corner of Old Montague St and Vallance Rd.
I loved going to Petticoat Lane. Every Friday, my aunt would go and get a chicken – you could choose one and they would kill it for you. There were street entertainers, an organ grinder and man who lay on a bed of hot coals. Walking up Wentworth St, there were all Jewish shops with barrels of pickles and olives outside. I was fascinated but my mother said, ‘That’s not our food.’ A lot of the stallholders were quite friendly to me and my mother because they thought we were the next wave of immigrants. There was a cafe I walked past with my mum, it was full of black-skinned men but I couldn’t understand what they were saying even though they were like us. They were Somalis. The men outside, they’d give me sixpence and put me on their knee. They liked to see me because they were away from their own children. I think we were some of the first West Indians here, there were no other black kids.
I spent a lot of time in the fleapit cinema on Brick Lane on Saturdays. But by the time I turned seven, my mum stopped me playing out. She forbade me, so my wanderings around Spitalfields stopped and I don’t mix with the kids on the street anymore. Instead I became more friendly with the kids I was at school with in Bow.
My aunt Daisy went back to Jamaica and my sister returned when she was eighteen. So it was just me and my mum in the end. We shared a bedroom and we had a sitting room, with the kitchen in the hallway. I was very embarrassed about where I lived and I didn’t bring friends home because it was a slum. All this time, my mother was not divorced, she was still married and it really held her back. She even had to ask a friend to his name down for her to be able to buy a television.
There was a hardware shop and other shops run by Jewish people, where they got on well with my mother. There was a bit of snobbishness because she was a teacher. It used to cushion me too, I was Mrs Moss’ daughter. When she complained, they used to say to her, ‘Never mind, we had it, now it’s your turn.’ Referring the racial prejudice, they meant it was something you put up with, then it would pass. And by the time I left Spitalfields, it was the Bengalis coming in, so it was quite profound what they said – it was a rite of passage at that time.
When I was eighteen, we moved out. Looking back on it, I’ve got to say it was a happy time. I knew when I’d forgotten Jamaica and made my transition to England. I played a lot on the stairs and I pretended to have a ‘post office’ there. One day my mother was there too, washing some clothes on the landing and she corrected my speech. ‘It’s not ‘spag-ETTEE,” she said, ‘It’s ‘spaghetti” And, I realised then, that was because I’d left Jamaica behind and I spoke Cockney.
Today I often teach immigrants, children for whom English is their second language, and I can say to them, ‘I know what you are going through.'”
Old Montague St 1965 by Geoffrey Fletcher
Cecile Moss
Working People & a Dog
Groundsman, E.15 (1965)
“This is the groundsman at the Memorial Ground where I played football aged ten in 1954.”
Some of my favourite people are the shopkeepers and those that do the small trades – who between them have contributed the major part to the identity of the East End over the years. And when I see their old premises redeveloped, I often think in regret, “I wish someone had gone round and taken portraits of these people who carried the spirit of the place.” So you can imagine my delight and gratitude to see this splendid set of photos and discover that during the sixties photographer John Claridge had the insight to take such pictures, exactly as I had hoped.
When John went back ten years later to the pitch near West Ham Station where he played football as a child, he found the groundsman was just as he remembered, with his cardigan and tie, and he took the photograph you see above. There is a dignified modesty to this fine portrait – a quality shared by all of those published here – expressed through a relaxed demeanour.
These subjects present themselves to John’s lens as emotionally open yet retaining possession of themselves, and this translates into a vital relationship with the viewer. To each of these people, John was one of their own kind and they were comfortable being photographed by him. And, thanks to the humanity of John’s vision, we have the privilege to become party to this intimacy today.
Kosher Butcher, E2 (1962) – “The chicken was none too happy!”
Brewery, Spitalfields (1964) Clocking in at the Truman Brewery, Brick Lane.
Lady with Gumball Machine, Spitalfields (1967) – “She came out of her kiosk and asked, ‘Will you photograph me with my gumball machine?'”
Saveloy Stall, Spitalfields (1967) – “It was a cold day, so I had two hot dogs.”
Whitechapel Bell Foundry, E1 (1982) Established in 1598, where the Liberty Bell and Big Ben were cast.
Rag & Bone Man, E13 (1961) – “Down my street in Plaistow, there were not many cars about – all you could hear was the clip-clop of the horse on the wet road.”
Shoe Repairs Closed Saturday, Spitalfields (1969) – “I asked, ‘Why are you open on Saturday?’ He replied, ‘I was just busy.'”
Spice, E1 (1976) – “Taken at a spice warehouse in Wapping. The smells were fantastic, you could smell it down the street.”
Portrait, Spitalfields (1966) – “This is a group portrait of friends outside of their shop. The two brothers who ran the shop, the lady who worked round the corner and the guy who worked in the back.”
Anglo Pak Muslim Butcher, E2 (1962)
Butchers, Spitalfields (1966) -“I had just finished taking a picture next door, when this lady came out with a joint of meat and asked me to take her photograph with it.”
Fishmongers, E1 (1966) Early morning, unloading fish from Grimsby.
Beigel Baker, E2 (1967) -“After a party at about four or five in the morning, we used to end up at Rinkoff’s in Vallance Rd for smoked salmon beigels.”
Newsagent, Spitalfields (1966) -“I said, ‘Shame about Walt Disney dying, can I take your picture next to it?’ and he said, ‘Alright.'”
Selling Shoes, Spitafields (1963) – “My dad used to tell me what his dad told him, ‘If you’ve got a good pair of shoes, you own the world.'”
Strudel, E2 (1962) – “You’ll like this, boy!’ I had just taken a photograph outside this lady’s shop. I said, ‘I think your window looks beautiful.’ and she asked me in for a slice of apple strudel. It was fantastic! But she would not accept any money, it was a gift. She said, ‘You took a picture of my shop.'”
Number 92, Spitalfields (1964)
Tubby Isaac’s, Spitalfields (1982) – “Aaahhh Tubby’s, where I’ve had many a fine eel.”
Junkyard Dog, E16 (1982) – “I was climbing over the wall into this junkyard. All was quiet, when I noticed this pair of forbidding eyes – then I made my exit.”
Photographs copyright © John Claridge
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The Cats of Spitalfields
Contributing Photographer Chris Kelly is renowned for her volume of cat photography The Necessary Cat – A Photographer’s Memoir, so I asked her if she would make a survey of the cats of Spitalfields and am delighted to publish her portraits of local felines and their human slaves.
In the Bell Foundry Office, Whitechapel
Sooty the Bell Foundry Cat
Sooty the Bell Foundry Cat & Kathryn Hughes, Master Bell Founder
“Sooty came from a London charity called Paws for Life, they rehome elderly cats or those with medical problems. He was a fighting tom taken off the streets and is FIV positive. For the first few months here he just hid in corners, but the whole house is his domain now although heʼs not allowed in the foundry.
We got him to deal with the mice and he catches any that come out from under the cooker. He sleeps upstairs with our two girls and follows us around. Itʼs lovely to have him here, especially if any one of us is alone in the house.
We think heʼs about seven or eight. Heʼs fairly scarred and scabbed and half of one ear is missing. He likes to be king of the castle. Heʼs usually fine with girls, although heʼll give ours a nip if theyʼre a bit slow to put out his breakfast. He doesnʼt like men much, especially if theyʼre wearing big boots and he only comes down to the office when the men have gone home.
He loves listening to music but only piano music and singing, he hates the trumpet and violin. He sometimes sits on a chair near the piano when my daughter is playing.
Our previous cat Sandy walked in off the street and stayed for ten years. He was the complete feral cat, he could climb a vertical ladder in the yard and be away over the rooftops. He was never really ours. He was an excellent ratter and there were plenty of the nasty large creatures around when foundations were being rebuilt. Heʼd present them to us, of course.
We acquired the toy cat in the office when Sandy died. Itʼs very lifelike and a source of great amusement and cat jokes.”
Earl
Fitzroy & Rodney Archer
Earl & Fitzroy & Rodney Archer
“I was mourning my last cat for two years and I didnʼt want another cat. But then mice moved into the guest rooms upstairs, so I went to a cat rescue place just before Christmas last year. It was like an adoption agency – I had to be interviewed but there was no problem because Iʼve kept cats for forty years. They phoned me after a while and I had to explain that the cats were undergoing a personality change due to being renamed.
The black and white cat is Earl and the black cat is Fitzroy. Theyʼre named after good friends although one of them is allergic to cats. He does sometimes feed them when Iʼm away though. Because they werenʼt kittens, they came already formed but Iʼm beginning to love them although they do knock things off window ledges and I find vases on the floor. They get on pretty well together even though Earl tends to jump out at Fitzroy, and whereas Earl will sit on the bed, itʼs a huge honour if Fitzroy enters the room.”
Sparkly & Melanie & Harvey Denyer
Sparkly is a curious cat
Sparkly & Melanie & Harvey Denyer
Melanie – “Sparkly came from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home three years ago. Sparkly is quite famous in the area and even before we had the cafe he was always known as The Rag Factory cat. (The Rag Factory on Heneage St is used for rehearsals, filming, classes and exhibitions)
Then he became well known in the cafe too. He liked to be with the customers, and children from the local school would stop and talk to him. Unfortunately, we had a visit from the environmental health people and heʼs banned from the cafe now.
Sparkly was twelve weeks old when he came and my son Harvey was only three, but Battersea are fantastic about matching cats with families. Sparkly was a lot more forgiving then he might have been.
Our worst experience with Sparkly was when he disappeared from The Rag Factory last November. He was missing for five months. We think he must have got into a builderʼs van. He was found in Essex and taken to the PDSA but when they examined him the vet didnʼt find his chip. Then a local shelter fostered him but before he was rehomed he was scanned again and they found the chip. When he came back, he behaved as though heʼd never been away though heʼs a bit more of a homebody now.”
Harvey – “Heʼs my cat really. I named him. We were going to call him Sparkle but I accidentally said Sparkly.”
Carlos & Rupert Blanchard
Carlos & a piece of Rupert’s furniture
Carlos & Sofia & Rupert Blanchard & Polly Benfield
“Rupert Blanchard (cat person) met Polly Benford (dog person) in Swindon in 1999 and in 2003, they moved in together in Hackney.
The guys next door got a pair of cats to deal with mice, but moved to Mexico after having had the cats for only six months. Polly turned into a cat person because, she says, “Carlos is gentle and friendly like a dog” and we inherited the cats. The cats had been named Carlos and Sofia after King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofia of Spain. The first week we had Sofia and Carlos, they presented us with six mice. We havenʼt seen another one since, although one of the cats caught a moth recently.
They have a holiday once a year in the Wiltshire countryside with six other family cats. Just about everyone in the family has cats. Carlos always dominates.
We think they are brother and sister and are about eleven years old. Carlos is strong, healthy and very friendly but gets scared easily by the Hoover. He loves going out onto the rooftops. He also gets into every film and photo shoot possible. Sofia is always in and out of the vets, prefers life under the bed or on an Eames chair and is scared of new people. Both are much loved.”
Theodora
Theodora & Charlie de Wet
Theodora & Charlie de Wet
“Opera is my passion and Theodora is named after an opera. Maybe the next kitty will be called Aida, Nora or Maria Stuada!
Theodora, or “Dorable Dora” as she also is known, is my granny cat. She sleeps twenty-two hours of the day and night in front of the Aga dreaming. During the remaining two hours, always from 2.00am to 4.00am, she climbs three floors to tell me about these dreams. I get a swipe across my face to wake me up to listen. And then she plays like a kitten and relates every detail of her dreams. Aghhhh…but I love her dearly. When Theodora has told me everything she can remember she jumps off the bed and, if I am lucky, I get to sleep. If not, memories of all my furry family come flooding back – Puppy, Gorgeous Ginger Tom, Miss Gingerbits, Debbie & Greta, Dee Dee & Kennington. All were strays and some were in the most appalling condition, but they were all wonderful characters who shared and enhanced my life.
We were a five kitty household and Theodora is the last of that family. She and her sister Miss Fluff Bunny cost £5 each and came from Fiona Wheeler who, fourteen years ago, lived in Wilkes St. Mother Cat had several litters and so quite a few homes in the area have kitties who are related. Before Fitzroy and Earl moved in with Rodney Archer, he used to have a very fine cat called Horace who would drape himself around Rodneyʼs shoulders. He was a cousin of my girls and there must be many more of them …”
Bungy & Sammy Dobkin at Forest Reclaim
Shadow
Bungy & Shadow & Sammy Dobkin at Forest Reclaim
“Iʼve worked here for a couple of years. Itʼs a family business and Daniel the owner is my cousin. Bungy, the black and white cat and Shadow, the black cat, live on the premises. Theyʼre both good mousers and Shadow loves a pigeon. I feed them both – Shadow prefers dry food and Bungy likes wet food.
Shadow turned up about a year and a half ago. He could be from anywhere because he tends to jump into strange vans. Someone put Bungy through the fence when he was just a kitten and heʼs been here for about eight or ten years.
Customers like them and people who are passing often stop and talk to them, but theyʼre spending a lot of time in front of the fire at the moment.”
Madge in the office at Dennis Severs’ House
Madge & David Milne, Curator
The ashes of Madge’s predecessor are in the urn.
Madge & David Milne, Curator at Dennis Severs’ House
“Thereʼs always been a cat here, and the last three have been called Madge. The first Madge was buried in the back yard in September 1991, and the ashes of the second cat are in an urn in the Victorian room beneath a portrait of Dennis Severs.
The current Madge came from a rescue place in Hackney. She was a bit frightened at first but she was only a baby, so we kept her in the office then slowly took her out into the rest of the house. Now she has secret places all over the house, including the attic. We donʼt know where she goes.
Sheʼs often around during visits. Unfortunately, some people think sheʼs a prop and give her a prod. Sheʼll respond with a miaow or a nip. She often sits in the same places and the same chairs that the previous cat liked.
She knows we put food out when the visitors come and she likes licking the butter off the toast. And sheʼs been known to tip over the eggs and eat the yolk.
She likes to be outside on the terrace in warm weather. She has friends too. She goes into Tedʼs house next door. I donʼt live here but Dennis and I were good mates and I always enjoyed the house before I became Curator.
My own cat is an Oriental Havana with emerald eyes. I was on a waiting list for two years for that particular colour and her breeders said, “If she doesnʼt like you, you canʼt have her.” Luckily when I brought her home she came out of her box, had a look round and went to sleep. Sheʼs very possessive and if there are other people in the flat sheʼll bring something to me so that I notice her.”
Lenny, pub cat at The Pride of Spitalfields, with admirer Dean Whatmuff.
Lenny snuggles in a cosy corner.
Lenny napping watched over by Terry Hutton.
Lenny at The Pride of Spitalfields with Anne Butler, landlady & Terry Hutton & Dean Whatmuff, regulars.
Anne Butler – “Lenny is from a Liverpool refuge centre. He is nine years old and immediately took to being among the customers, but moving for no-one. He is very good with my other cat, Patch, although they fight a bit, he is always cleaning him and lets Patch get to his dinner first. He has a real good fan base and affection for all those who give him titbits.”
Terry Hutton – “Iʼve been coming here since I was fourteen. I like the atmosphere – and the cat. I was born in Spelman St and the old chicken market used to be nearby, so there were always a lot of stray cats and sometimes the cat lady used to feed them.”
Dean Whatmuff – “Iʼm from Yorkshire and Iʼve lived in Spitalfields since 1981. I went to the Slade in 1983 and my first studio was near here in the early eighties. Shoreditch was like a ghost town at night then and you had to come to the beigel shop to get something to eat. Iʼve been sketching the customers here for a while now. Itʼs part of a long term project and I hope theyʼll be displayed locally. I do some building work at the pub too and rehang the pictures occasionally. It doesnʼt change much. And Iʼm a DJ at the disco here every Monday at six. Itʼs called ‘mondayvinyl’ and weʼre the ‘one-deck-wonders.’”
Battie
Battie with Philippa Stockley
Battie & Philippa Stockley
“Battie is a rescue cat, heʼs half Bengal and half Fat Tabby. There was a pair of kittens and this little cat on its own in a box looking miserable. Suddenly, he jumped into my arms – and I gave him back because Iʼm heartless. So he walked round my legs and sprayed me like a tree. Iʼd been marked out as his.
He was frightened at first but now heʼs my constant companion. Heʼs nearly seven, heʼs always waiting when I come home and heʼs only happy if Iʼm within smelling distance. And heʼs a most beautiful jumper.”
Ambrosia & Rev Andy Rider, Rector of Christ Church
Ambrosia & Rev Andy Rider, Rector of Christ Church, Spitalfields
“Weʼve only had Ambrosia for four and a half months. We wanted a tortoiseshell and her name had to begin with the letter A, so sheʼs named after my favourite pudding. Our golden retriever, Archie, is her role model. She definitely aspires to be a dog and she doesnʼt realise sheʼs quite small. Sheʼll make a dive and hang on to Archieʼs leg but, luckily, heʼs very tolerant.
I always say Iʼm not all that bothered about pets, but my wife would dispute that. Our first cats here came from Eric Elstob, who lived in Fournier St. He was one of the great champions of the restoration of Christ Church and, when he died in 2003, his house-keeper asked us to take on the two cats Julio & Antonio. Towards the end of their lives, we thought weʼd better have a new cat to take over mousing duties. So far no results from Ambrosia, but weʼre encouraged by some scurrying under kitchen cupboards.
The painting by Alison Neville, where Ambrosia is sitting, was part of an exhibition in the Rectory gallery. Itʼs a detail of St. Johnʼs, Smith Sq and the sale of that church paid for part of the rebuilding work at Christ Church.”
Mittens & Yasmin
Mittens & Rosie Dastgir & her daughter Yasmin
“Mittens came from the 5th Ave Cat Clinic, Brooklyn. Sheʼd been in the window for a while with a sign saying CAT FOR SALE. My daughter Yasmin used to walk past the window and she really wanted this cat. When she saw the SOLD sign she was so disappointed. Luckily for her, Iʼd just bought the cat.
Bringing her back to this country was a complicated business – there were problems with the microchip (the vet put in an American chip instead of a European standard one), there were questions about the size of the crate, she was driven from Heathrow to Aldgate in a Defra endorsed van, and the whole operation cost a fortune.
But now sheʼs taken control of her territory better than she did in New York. There was an aggressive stray where we lived that used to fight with her. We named it Evil Kitty. So far, we find the London cats more friendly.”
Sebastian
Sebastian & Mark
Sebastian & Cordelia & Lindsay Friend & Mark Jackson at IMT Gallery
“Sebastian & Cordelia are Sphinx cats. They are named after characters in Brideshead Revisited and theyʼve grown into their namesakes. Sebastian is a bit roguish and he eats anything he can find – he once tried to eat staples – whereas Cordelia is more sensible, she tells him off and looks after him a bit.
Iʼve always liked this breed. I saw a picture of them in a book once when I was a child and immediately wanted to have one. And theyʼre the friendliest of all breeds. Mark likes them because he studied axolotl salamanders in a biology class and he thinks their faces are similar.
They came from a north London breeder. We just wanted Sebastian, but at our interview Cordelia took a shine to Mark so then we had to have them both. Theyʼre brother and sister and they were three and a half years old in March. Theyʼre quite high maintenance, they have to be bathed once a week and have their ears and claws cleaned.
They live with us at the gallery, so thereʼs constant stimulation and they are always around when people come to the gallery. Our exhibitions are constantly changing and some of our artists produce particularly cat-friendly work. Sebastian & Cordelia joined in during a session of voice recording recently.
The little girl who lives opposite, who is about eight, likes to come and see the cats when theyʼre sitting on the window sill. They adore her and sheʼs transfixed by them. We once overheard her telling her friend, ‘These are my cats. Well, theyʼre not actually my cats but they love me.’ She has two cats of her own now but she still comes to see Sebastian & Cordelia.”
Truman
Stella
Truman & Stella & Chris Dyson
“Truman came from a Mare St pet shop. His father is a Russian Blue and his mother a Norwegian Long Hair. We bought him as a kitten in 2009 and our other cat, Stella, came six months later. We found her very pregnant mother on the doorstep of Number Eleven and took her to Samantha Morton who lives nearby because we knew she looked after cats. So when the cat produced her litter the very next day, we felt obliged to have one of the kittens. And Truman was going slightly nutty on his own – these cats love company, they always want to join the party.
You never know with cats how the chemistry will work. Stella is basically a street cat, sheʼs a mixture of ginger tabby and tortoiseshell and sheʼs always been very nervous. The two of them get on reasonably well although Truman picks on her if he gets bored. But she fights back and now heʼs got a bit of ear missing, so heʼs more careful.
Theyʼve both fallen from the parapet of the gallery. Truman used to run around on the rooftops and, one wet day, he fell off. Fortunately, he landed on all fours but his chin was bruised. He never did it again. Stella has done the same too, so theyʼve both fallen three storeys to solid ground and are still standing.
Truman sometimes disappears for a few days but we know he calls on friends. He likes the girls in offices nearby who feed him titbits and someone else said recently, ‘Your cat calls on me on Thursday afternoons.'”
Photographs copyright © Chris Kelly
Chris Kelly’s THE NECESSARY CAT – A PHOTOGRAPHER’S MEMOIR is available from many independent bookshops including Brick Lane Books, Broadway Books & Newham Bookshop.
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and take a look at these other pictures by Chris Kelly
Chris Kelly’s Columbia School Portraits 1996
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Neville Turner of Elder St
This is Neville Turner sitting on the step of number seven Elder St, just as he used to when he was growing up in this house in the nineteen forties and fifties. Once upon a time, young Neville carved his name upon a brick on the left hand side of the door, but that has been removed and replaced now that these are prized houses of historic importance.
When Neville lived here, the landlords did no maintenance and the building was dilapidated. But Neville’s Uncle Arthur wallpapered the living room with attractive wisteria wallpaper, which became the background to the happy family life they all enjoyed, in the midst of the close-knit community in Elder St during the war and afterwards. Subsequently, the same wisteria wallpaper appeared as a symbol of decay, hanging off the wall, in photographs taken to illustrate the dereliction of Elder St when members of the Spitalfields Trust squatted it to save the eighteenth century houses from demolition.
It was only when an artist appeared – one Sunday morning in Neville’s childhood – sketching the pair of weaver’s houses at number five and seven, that Neville became aware that he was growing up in a dwelling of historic importance. Yet to this day, Neville protests he carries no sentiment about old houses. “This affection for the Dickensian past is no substitute for hot and cold running water,” he admitted to me frankly, explaining that the family had to go the bathhouse in Goulston St each week when he lived in Elder St.
However, in spite of his declaration, it soon became apparent that this building retains a deep personal significance for Neville on account of the emotional history it contains, as he revealed to me when he returned to Spitalfields this week.
“My parents moved from Lambeth into number seven Elder St in 1931 and lived there until they were rehoused in 1974. The roof leaked and the landlords let these houses fall into disrepair, I think they wanted the plots for redevelopment. But then, after my parents were rehoused in Bethnal Green, the Spitalfields Trust took them over in 1977.
I was born in 1939 just before the war began and my mother called me Neville after Neville Chamberlain, who she saw as the bringer of peace. I got a lot of stick for that at school. I had two elder brothers, Terry born in 1932 and Douglas born in 1936. My father was a firefighter and consequently we saw a lot of him. I felt quite well off, I never felt deprived. In the house, there was a total of six rooms plus a basement and an outside basement, and we lived in four rooms on the ground floor and on the first floor, and there was a docker and his wife who lived up on the top floor.
My earliest memory is of the basements of Elder St being reinforced as air raid shelters in case the buildings collapsed – and of going down there when the sirens sounded. Even people passing in the street took shelter there. Pedlars and knife-grinders, they would bang on the door and come on down to the basement. That was normal, we were all part and parcel of the same lot. I recall the searchlights, I found it interesting and I wondered what all the excitement was about. War seemed quite mad to me and, when it ended, I remember the street party with bonfires at each end of the street and everybody overjoyed, but I couldn’t understand why they were all so happy. None of the houses in Elder St were damaged.
We used to play out in the street, games like Hopscotch and Tin Can Copper. All the houses had a door where you could go up onto the roof and it was normal for people in the terrace to walk along the roof, visiting each other. You’d be sitting in your living room and there’d be a knock on the window from above, and it was your neighbours coming down the stairs. As children, we used to go wandering in the City of London, and I remember seeing typists typing and thinking that they did not actually make anything and wondering, ‘Who makes the cornflakes?’ Across Commercial St, it was all manufacturing, clothing, leather and some shoemaking – quite a contrast.
After the war, my father worked as a bookie’s runner in the Spitalfields Market, where the porters and traders were keen gamblers, and he operated from the Starting Price Office in Brushfield St. He never got up before ten but he worked late. They were not allowed to function legally and the police would often take them in for a charge – the betting slips had to be hidden if the police came round. At some parts of the year, we were well off but other parts were call the ‘Kipper Season’ which was when the horse-racing stopped and the show-jumping began, then we had very little. I knew this because my pocket money vanished.
I joined the Vallance Youth Club in Chicksand St run by Mickey Davis. He was only four foot tall but he was quite a strong character. He was attacked a few times in the street on account of being short and a few of us used to call up to his flat above the Fruit & Wool Exchange, so that he could walk with us to the club, but then he got ill and died. Tom Darby and Ashel Collis took over running the club, one was a silversmith and the other was a passer in the tailoring trade. We did boxing, table tennis and football, and they took us camping to Abridge in Essex. We got a bus all the way there and it only cost sixpence.
I moved on to the Brady Club in Hanbury St – it changed my outlook on life. They had a music society, a chess society, a drama society and we used to go to stay at Skeate House in Surrey at weekends. If you signed up to pay five shillings a week, you could go on a trip to Switzerland for £15. Yogi Mayer was the club captain. He called me in and said, ‘This is a private chat. We are asking every boy – If you can’t manage the £15, we will make up the shortfall. But this is between you and I, nobody else will know. I believe that everybody in the East End should be able to have an overseas holiday each year.’ It endeared him to me and made a big impression. When I woke in Switzerland, the sight of the lakes and the mountains was such a contrast to Elder St, and when we came back from our fortnight away I got very down – depressed, you would say now. I was the only non-Jewish person in the Brady Club, only I didn’t realise it. On one of the weekends at Skeate House, I did the washing up and dried it with the yellow towel on a Saturday. But Yogi Mayer said, ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
A friend of my brother’s worked in Savile Row and I thought it would be good for me too. I went to French & Stanley just behind Savile Row and they said they did need somebody but not just yet. So then I went to G.Ward & Co and asked if they wanted anybody, and there was this colonel type and he said, ‘Start tomorrow!’ I was fifteen and a bit, I had left school that Christmas-time. It lasted a couple of years and they were good to me. The cutter would give you the roll of work to be made up and say, ‘It’s for a friend of yours, Hugh Gaitskell.’ When I asked the manager what this meant, he said, ‘We’re Labour and they’re not.’
In 1964, I left Elder St for good, when I got married. I met my wife Margaret at work, she was the machinist and I was the cutter. She used to bring in Greek food and I liked it, and she said, ‘Would you like to come and have it where I live? You’ll have no excuse for forgetting the address because it’s Neville Rd!’
When I started in tailoring, the rateable value of the houses in Elder St was low because of the sitting tenants and low rents, and nobody ever moved. We thought it was good, it was a kind of security. The money people had they spent on decorating and, in my memory, it was always warm and brightly decorated. There was a good sense of well-being, that did seem generally to be the case. We were offered to buy both the houses, five and seven Elder St, for eighteen hundred quid but my father refused because we didn’t want them both.”
Neville with his grandmother.
Neville’s mother Ada Sims.
Neville’s father Charles Turner was in the fire service during the war (fourth from left in back row).
Neville as a schoolboy.
Neville’s ration book.
Coker’s Dairy in Fleur de Lis St used to take care of their regular customers – “If you were loyal to them, they’d give you an extra piece of cheese under the counter.”
Neville aged eleven in 1951, photographed by Griffiths of Bethnal Green.
Neville at Saville Row when he began his career as a pattern cutter at sixteen.
Neville’s friend Aubrey Silkoff, photographed when they hitched to Amsterdam in 1961.
Neville’s father Charles owned the only car in Elder St – “We had a car in Elder St when nobody had a car in Elder St, but it vanished when we had no money.”
Neville as a young man.
A family Christmas in Elder St, 1968 – Neville sits next to his father at the dinner table.
Neville’s father, Charles.
Neville and Margaret.
Margaret and Minas.
Neville, Margaret and their son Minas.
Neville’s Uncle Arthur who hung the wisteria wallpaper.
Minas and Terry.
The living room of number seven photographed by the Spitalfields Trust in 1977 with Uncle Arthur’s wisteria wallpaper hanging off the walls.
Dan Cruickshank and others staged a sit-in at number seven to save the house from demolition in 1977.
Neville Turner outside number seven Elder St where he grew up.
You may also like to read about Neville’s childhood friend
