The Last Fish Porters of Billingsgate Market
John Schofield, porter for thirty years
The fish porters of Billingsgate Market have been abolished. On 28th April this year, a centuries-old way of life came to an end as the porters who have been in existence since Billingsgate started trading in 1699 had their licences withdrawn by the City of London Corporation. Long-established rights and working practises – and a vibrant culture possessing its own language and code of behaviour handed down for generations – were all swept away overnight to be replaced by cheaper casual labour.
Thus, a cut in economic cost was achieved through an increase in human cost by degrading the workforce at the market. The City recognised the potential value of the land occupied by the Billingsgate fish market at the foot of the Canary Wharf towers, and the abolition of the porters was their first step towards moving it out and redeveloping the site.
While the news media all but passed this story by, photographer Claudia Leisinger took the brave initiative herself to be down at the market continuously throughout the last winter, documenting the last days of this historic endeavour, and taking these tender portraits of the porters in the dawn, which record the plain human dignity they have shown as their livelihood and identity were taken from them .
“My interest in the Billingsgate porters’ story stems from a fascination with the disappearance of manual labour, work generally considered menial by our society, yet carried out with a great deal of pride and passion by those small communities involved.” Claudia told me, and it is to her credit that in a moment of such vulnerability these men trusted her to be their witness for posterity.
Bradley Holmes, porter for twenty years.
Nick Wilson, porter for twelve years.
Micky Durrell, porter for forty-five years.
Jeff Willis, porter for twenty-five years.
Gary Simmons, porter for thirty-three years.
Dave Bates, porter for twenty-two years.
Conor Olroyd, apprentice porter.
Three generations – Edwin Singers, porter for fifty-three years, with his son, Leigh Singers, porter, and grandson, Brett Singers, porter.
Steven Black, porter for twenty years.
Tony Mitchell & Steve Martin, both porters for over thirty-two years.
Martin Bicker, porter for twenty-four years.
Andy Clarke, porter for two years.
Laurie Bellamy, porter for thirty-one years.
Alfie Sands, shopboy.
Gary Durden, porter for thirty-one years.
Jack Preston, porter for two years.
Dicky Barrott, porter for twenty years.
Alan Downing, porter for forty-five years, with his grandson Sam who comes down on Saturdays.
Dave Auldis, porter for six years.
Colin Walker, porter for forty-six years.
Brett Singers, shopboy for three years.
Bobby Jones, porter for thirty years.
Basil Wraite, porter for thirty-one years.
Steve Sheet, porter for fifteen years.
Steve Jones, porter for thirty years.
Greg Jacobs, porter for thirty-two years.
Chris Gill, porter for thirty-two years.
Photographs copyright © Claudia Leisinger
See more of Claudia Leisinger’s Billingsgate pictures and hear the voices of the porters by clicking here
You may like to read these other Billingsgate stories
A Walk With Rodney Archer
Rodney with the birch tree he planted in Fournier St in 1985.
Rodney Archer is one of Spitalfields’ most popular long-term residents, and over the years he has seen many come and go as part of the transformation that has overcome the place since he came to live here in 1980. Among the the few occupants that is not a millionaire in Fournier St today, Rodney delights in the patina of ages’ past that dignifies his ramshackle old house, enhanced by all the glorious paraphernalia he has accumulated over the last thirty years, including – most famously – Oscar Wilde’s fireplace which is installed in his living room.
Yesterday, taking advantage of a brief respite of sunshine on a cloudy April afternoon, I asked Rodney to take me on a tour of his personal landmarks in Spitalfields yet, to my surprise, his modest realm did not extend beyond Fournier St. We commenced in Rodney’s shady back garden beneath the majestic silver birch which has become a well-known feature as the largest tree in this hidden space enclosed between the houses of Fournier St, Brick Lane, Princelet St and Wilkes St. “My mother and I planted this in 1985. We got it from the council for £15 when they were encouraging people to plant trees.” he said, slipping an arm round the trunk affectionately,“I was born in London, but it reminds me of the woods where I used to go camping in Ontario where I grew up.”
Across the street from his front door, Rodney showed me the former home of his friends Eric & Ricardo. “I came to Club Row in 1970 to buy kittens, but the first time I was invited over was in the mid-seventies when I came here for lunch. I asked Eric & Ricardo to let me know if a house came up in the street and the first one they called me about was the one I live in now. ” he recalled, “It changed my life. It was the beginning of being happy, and it was Spitalfields that did it. I had never felt comfortable where I lived before.” Rodney came to Spitalfields after his mother broke her hip and the doctor told her she had to live with her son, and so they shared the house in Fournier St. “All the basements were workshops for leather goods then, and there was Mr Lustig the tailor, and Solly at Gale Furs who’d been there since the thirties,” Rodney said, casting his eyes up and down street as he thought back over the years.
A few doors down, we came to another magnificent house where, remarkably, Rodney once mixed the plaster for the walls. “I worked as an unskilled labourer here for fifty hours a week for £67 in 1980, I was a plasterer’s mate and my boss was twenty years old. It was my venture into the working class,” he admitted, raising his eyebrows significantly with a shy smile, “Michael & Donald the couple who lived here were very polite and they never acknowledged me as a neighbour while I was working on site. The Times later described them as ‘a celibate couple’ in Donald’s obituary.” Yet there was another resident in this house who made the biggest impression on Rodney.“Nelly Foreman was a Jewish woman from the nineteen thirties, a sitting tenant who had survived into the nineteen eighties. She’d look out the top window at everybody and always called my mother ‘Violet’ rather than Phyllis. She was moved to the ground floor but she didn’t like looking out the window as much from there and she was very particular about disturbance during the building work, so she and I had a feisty relationship.” he confided to me fondly, “She was the last Jewish woman on Fournier St and she saw everything change.”
Across the street, we stood outside another grand eighteenth century house. “My friend Julian lived here,” Rodney explained gesturing towards the unyielding door with a smile, “He used to give elaborate dinner parties in the eighteenth century style with footmen. There were no lights and the place was painted in the original colours, so it was very dark and atmospheric. At one point, Dennis Severs, Julian and I spent a day scumbling the front room together – we were pretty close.” Today, Julian lives in a castle in Ireland, Rodney informed me.
Passing Wilkes St, as we walked westward, Rodney sat on the steps that previously led to the famous Market Cafe which operated here from 1947 until 1997, run by the brother and sister team of Phylis & Clyde (widely known as Clive). “They arrived around five in the morning, and began serving amazing puddings and roast beef meals from seven o’clock,” Rodney said, rolling his eyes hungrily, “Phylis was a colourful character, always fully made up at five in the morning. If she didn’t like someone, she threw them out. Clyde worked down in the kitchen and, if you were one of the favoured few, you were able to walk past her and order directly from him.”
At the end of Fournier St, we reached The Ten Bells or “Jack the Ripper,” as Rodney knew it in the eighties when it was a strip pub. “I once spent a New Year’s Eve here with the strippers, prostitutes and taxi drivers, when I was feeling sorry for myself. There was part of me, in my loneliness, that identified with them.,” he confessed as we sat in the large tiled bar room, “There was always a certain bleakness here in Spitalfields and it hasn’t shaken it off entirely, even today.”
“In the eighties, property developers realised that, when gay people moved in here, it would go up in value and then straight people would come afterwards. ” he continued, “Yet I don’t understand why people who are drawn to a place for what it is then feel compelled to change it. They complained about the vegetables from the market in the street and they were looking forward to the gentrification, but there were those of us who came here because of the roughness and authenticity of the people and the place. “
As we returned up Fournier St, I was concerned that our walk had been a tour of things which had gone, so I asked Rodney what he had found here and his answer was immediate.“I found myself in Spitalfields,” he assured me, stopping in his tracks, “Until I came here I wasn’t happy in myself, but this place has become part of my being.”
Rodney outside the former home of his friends Eric & Ricardo.
Rodney outside the house where he mixed all the plaster for the walls.
Rodney outside the former home of his friend Julian.
Rodney outside the former Market Cafe, run by brother and sister Phylis & Clyde between 1947 and 1997.
Rodney at The Ten Bells where he once spent New Year’s Eve.
Rodney in his living room with Oscar Wilde’s fireplace.
You may also like to read my original profile
Yet More of Paul Bommer’s Delft Tiles
For those who missed Paul Bommer‘s exhibition in Wilkes St last month, it my pleasure to publish yet more of his faux delft tiles, many inspired by stories here in the pages of Spitafields Life.
Rhyming Slang.
Oranges & Lemons Say the Bells of St Clements.
The Laurel Tree, former pub in Brick Lane.
One for sorrow, two for joy…
Rose Alley, off Bishopsgate.
Turk’s Head, former pub in Wapping.
The Crown & Leek, former pub in Deal St.
Jane Amelia Parker makes jewellery out of clay pipes from the Thames.
Swanfield St, Bethnal Green was once a roosting ground for swans.
Fleur de Lys St, off Commercial St.
Truman, Hanbury & Buxton, brewers of Brick Lane.
Rhyming Slang.
The London Stone in Cannon St is believed by some to date from the origins of the City.
The Romance of Old Bishopsgate.
The symbol of Childs Bank from The Signs of Old London.
Will Somers, Shakespearian clown buried at St Leonards Shoreditch.
Maria Pellicci, The Meatball Queen of Bethnal Green.
At St Dunstans’ Church, Stepney.
“Bran” is the giant from mythology buried under the Tower of London and also the Welsh word for raven.
Stasia Makarewicz of Topolski in Maltby St.
At Alexander Boyd’s Tailoring Workshop.
Images copyright © Paul Bommer
You may like to see the earlier selections of
More of Paul Bommer’s Delft Tiles
and also read about
John Claridge at the Salvation Army
At Booth House, Whitechapel, 1967
William Booth, an ex-pawnbroker, founded the Salvation Army by preaching in a tent upon Whitechapel Waste in July 1865 and, although his mission has spread around the world since then, the East End remains the heartland of this endeavour which began simply as The East London Christian Mission.
Published today for the first time, John Claridge‘s bold, clear-eyed and compassionate photographs were taken while visiting the Salvation Army at Booth House in the Whitechapel Rd between 1959 and 1982, as the result of his long-term interest in their work among the dispossessed. “As a kid, I remember sitting outside the pub with a cream soda and seeing them coming round selling copies of the War Cry,” John told me, “I think the Salvation Army is an essential part of the East End.”
“The early pictures were taken when I used to go wandering around and talking to the guys on the street, and they told me they were going to the Salvation Army, so I followed them.” he recalled, “The later ones were done by invitation as charity work to raise money, and I wanted to document what they were doing because I think they do a fantastic job. Over twenty years, the facilities were updated but the people didn’t seem to change. I met people from all across the social spectrum who were in need of help, most were East Enders without families who couldn’t take care of themselves.
The Salvation Army offer a welcome to lost souls sleeping rough on the street, and they give people some faith in themselves when everything’s going down the drain. Anyone could end up like that, some who I met were well educated, people like you and me. And, as a photographer, I found that if you showed a little respect, they showed you their pain.”
Yet there is a generous humanity in John’s Salvation Army pictures, recording resilience as much as pain, and emphasising strength of character, self-possession and dignity in faces of East Enders riven by the trials of life.
Waiting for the hostel to open in the morning, 1965.
Entering Victoria Home, 1959.
Waiting for the hostel to open, 1960.
On the way to the hostel, Whitechapel Rd, 1959.
At Victoria Home, 1982.
At Booth House, 1982.
In the canteen at Victoria Home, 1982.
At the childcare centre for working mothers in Hoxton, 1982.
At Victoria Home, 1982.
Recipient of home delivery meals, Whitechapel, 1982. “I went with one of the ladies, taking him lunch, and that’s how I got this picture.”
At Victoria Home, 1982.
At a prayer meeting, Booth House, 1982.
Blind pianist at the Hoxton day centre, 1982
At a prayer meeting, Booth House, 1982.
Resident of Hopetown women’s hostel, 1982
At Hopetown, Old Montague St, 1982
Caretaker at Victoria Home, 1982.
Dormitory at Victoria Home, 1982.
Showers at Victoria Home, 1982
Photographs copyright © John Claridge
You may also like to take a look at
Along the Thames with John Claridge
and read these other stories of the dispossessed
The Dosshouses of Spitalfields
The Second Coming in Spitalfields
At Pattern Textiles
Nicola McShane & Ruth Ward-Jackson of Pattern Textiles, showing off their design samples.
In a former clothing factory in Bethnal Green, where once machinists sweated sewing endless identical garments for low wages, a group of astute young women have set up their own business designing patterns for textiles and – in just six years – achieved considerable success in a fiercely competitive industry, selling their designs to the big players in the High St and internationally.
After writing so many stories of the long history of textiles in the East End, it was my pleasure to visit Pattern Textiles and realise that I was meeting those who carry the future of this endeavour. Stepping in from the gloomy weather of a disappointing late spring day, and climbing up the second floor, I entered the large studio teeming with life and colour. Here, patterns were being drawn on paper. Here, patterns were being rendered digitally on screens. Here, with superlative efficiency and speed, patterns were emerging from a vast industrial-sized digital printer. And here, patterns were being printed with a traditional silk screen too. A harmonious atmosphere prevailed, as if everyone knew what to do, and they were getting on with it. As if everyone in the team understood their place in the larger pattern.
Yet the greatest wonder came when Nicola McShane, who began Pattern Textiles in partnership with Ruth Jackson-Ward and Stephanie Neal, threw open a huge suitcase crammed with hundreds of pieces of silk chiffon and, like a conjurer’s assistant, began to pull them out with a flourish, one-by-one, for me to see. Each piece was a unique textile design sewn into the shape of the front of a dress, and she held them up to demonstrate how an experienced buyer could envisage each one as a potential garment. When a design is sold to a maufacturer, the customer keeps the sample and it is taken out of the case. Here in this single well-travelled suitcase was the entire stock in trade of Pattern Textiles – florals and geometrics and leopard skin and stripes, and everything else you care to imagine, designs for women of different ages and to suit different needs, at work, at home, and dressing up for occasions. The versatility of the range is crucial to sales, but the common factor here was a vibrant use of colour, and a positive graphic sense of pattern and texture, imbuing all the designs with a sensuous appeal.
“The three of us used to work in another studio – that’s how we met – and we decided we could set up a studio of our own.” explained Ruth. “It was tough. We built up a collection of our own before we went out to sell it.” continued Nicola, “Ruth specialised in embroidery and embellishment, whereas I had worked as a textile designer for four different companies and Stephanie was very skilled at screen-printing. But in fact, we mixed it up and we all did everything. We gathered together people we thought were good and we recruited from friends. That was six years ago. We started in Hackney Wick because the rent was low, and our first studio was a tiny room where we did screenprinting, dying, sewing, embroidery and calling for appointments to sell our designs. And we got a friend to come in really early on as a saleswoman, because we realised that it wasn’t enough just to design.”
These days, Nicola and her partners fly to New York and Los Angeles once a month, they go to Australia every three months, and take regular day trips around Europe to sell their work, as well as visiting the British retailers such as Marks & Spencer and Top Shop that are major clients for their designs. “The buyers know what they want,” Ruth assured me with wry smile, as she illustrated the routine that permits the customer to choose, holding up an armful of samples and letting them drop one-by-one in the manner of Bob Dylan and his cue cards in “Don’t Look Back.”
As quickly as patterns get sold, the case must be filled up again with new ones, and this is the endless task that preoccupies everyone at Pattern Textiles. “The crux of what we do is to keep the collection fresh. So we have to be constantly looking at new ideas.” admitted Ruth.“We look at what’s on the catwalk to understand the trends, and it’s very enjoyable working with all the designers here and seeing what they produce,” said Nicola, extending Ruth’s thought, “but we also go down Brick Lane to the vintage shops for inspiration too.”
Around a dozen women work at Pattern Textiles and – as I spoke with Ruth and Nicola – elsewhere in the room, sales staff were discussing feedback from buyers, while all around us the business of producing more patterns continued. One woman in a bold print dress, working at designing animal skin prints, confessed to me that she never wore patterns until she came to work here, while her neighbour showed me a range of new Ikat designs she had just created, convincing as if they had always existed. In the midst of all this industry and shrewd thinking to conjure the designs that will draw an emotional response, capturing women’s imaginations and selling clothes, I succumbed to the intangible magic of patterns myself. Mostly abstract, this is an subtle art whose practitioners are barely acknowledged, as if patterns came out of nowhere. Yet patterns are omnipresent and memorable, shaping our experience and perceptions of each other, creating the texture of life and lifting our spirits through their universal language of delight.
Nicola McShane
Silkscreening a sample of a pattern onto a t-shirt.
Charlie Nelson, one of the pattern designers at Pattern Textiles, with some Ikat designs she created.
The team at Pattern Textiles show off examples of their handiwork.
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and Spitalfields’ most famous textile designer, Anna Maria Garthwaite, in
Election Scenes by William Hogarth
An Election Entertainment
Telegraph, 30th April. “Police open probe into alleged voter fraud in East London.”
Canvassing for Votes
Independent, 3rd May. “They knock on the door and ask us to give them our ballot papers.”
The Polling
Evening Standard, 2nd May. “Voters forgot how they signed registration forms.”
Chairing the Member
Independent, 3rd May. “Electoral Commission boss fights for job after claims of fraud.”
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