Maurice Evans, Firework Collector
Maurice Evans has been collecting fireworks since childhood and now at eighty-two years old he has the most comprehensive collection in the country – so you can imagine both my excitement and my trepidation upon stepping through the threshold of his house in Shoreham. My concern about potential explosion was relieved when Maurice confirmed that he has removed the gunpowder from his fireworks, only to be reawakened when his wife Kit helpfully revealed that Catherine Wheels and Bangers were excepted because you cannot extract the gunpowder without ruining them.
This statement prompted Maurice to remember with visible pleasure that he still had a collection of World War II shells in the cellar and, of course, the reinforced steel shed in the garden full of live fireworks. “Let’s just say, if there’s a big bang in the neighbourhood, the police always come here first to see if it’s me,” admitted Maurice with a playful smirk. “Which it often isn’t,” added Kit, backing Maurice up with a complicit demonstration of knowing innocence.
“It all started with my father who was in munitions in the First World War,” explained Maurice proudly, “He had a big trunk with little drawers, and in those drawers I found diagrams explaining how to work with explosives and it intrigued me. Then came World War II and the South Downs were used as a training ground and, as boys, we went where we shouldn’t and there were loads of shells lying around, so we used to let them off.”
Maurice’s radiant smile revealed to me the unassailable joy of his teenage years, running around the downs at Shoreham playing with bombs. “We used to set off detonators outside each other’s houses to announce we’d arrived!” he bragged, waving his left hand to reveal the missing index finger, blown off when the explosive in a slow fuse unexpectedly fired upon lighting. “That’s the worst thing that happened,” Maurice declared with a grimace of alacrity, “We were worldly wise with explosives!”
Even before his teens, the love of pyrotechnics had taken grip upon Maurice’s psyche. It was a passion born of denial. “I used to suffer from bronchitis and asthma as a child, so when November 5th came round, I had to stay indoors.” he confided with a frown, “Every shop had a club and you put your pennies and ha’pennies in to save for fireworks and that’s what I did, but then my father let them off and I had to watch through the window.”
After the war, Maurice teamed up with a pyrotechnician from London and they travelled the country giving displays which Maurice devised, achieving delights that transcended his childhood hunger for explosions. “In my mind, I could envisage the sequence of fireworks and colours, and that was what I used to enjoy. You’ve got all the colours to start with, smoke, smoke colours, ground explosions, aerial explosions – it’s endless the amount of different things you can do. The art of it is knowing how to choose.” explained Maurice, his face illuminated by the images flickering in his mind. Adding, “I used to be quite big in fireworks at one time.” with calculated understatement.
Yet all this personal history was the mere pre-amble before Maurice led me through his house, immaculately clean, lined with patterned carpets and papers and witty curios of every description. Then in the kitchen, overlooking the garden where old trees stood among snowdrops, he opened an unexpected cupboard door to reveal a narrow red staircase going down. We descended to enter the burrow where Maurice has his rifle range, his collections, model aeroplanes, bombs and fireworks – all sharing the properties of flight and explosiveness. Once they were within reach, Maurice could not restrain his delight in picking up the shells and mortars of his childhood, explaining their explosive qualities and functions.
But my eyes were drawn by all the fireworks that lined the walls and glass cases, and the deep blues, lemon yellows and scarlets of their wrappers and casings. Such evocative colours and intricate designs which in their distinctive style of type and motif, draw upon the excitement and anticipation of magic we all share as children, feelings that compose into a lifelong love of fireworks. Rockets, Roman Candles, Catherine Wheels, Bangers, and Sparklers – amounting to thousands in boxes and crates, Maurice’s extraordinary collection is the history of fireworks in this country.
“I wouldn’t say its made my life, but its certainly livened it up,” confided Maurice, seeing my wonder at his overwhelming display. Because no-one (except Maurice) keeps fireworks, there is something extraordinary in seeing so many old ones and it sets your imagination racing to envisage the potential spectacle that these small cardboard parcels propose.
Maurice outgrew the bronchitis and asthma to have a beautiful life filled with fireworks, to visit firework factories around Britain, in China, Australia, New Zealand and all over Europe, and to scour Britain for collections of old fireworks, accumulating his priceless collection. Now like an old dragon in a cave, surrounded by gold, Maurice guards his cellar hoard protectively and is concerned about the future. “It needs to be seen,” he said, contemplating it all and speaking his thoughts out loud, “I would like to put this whole collection into a museum. I don’t want any money. I want everyone to see what happened from pre-war times up until the present day in the progression of fireworks.”
“My father used to bring me the used ones to keep,” confessed Maurice quietly with an affectionate gleam in his eye, as he revealed the emotional origin of his collection, now that we were alone together in the cellar. With touching selflessness, having derived so much joy from collecting his fireworks, Maurice wants to share them with everybody else.
Maurice with his exploding fruit.
Maurice with his barrel of gunpowder
Maurice with his grenades.
Maurice with two favourite rockets.
Firework photographs copyright © Simon Costin
Read my story about Simon Costin, The Museum of British Folklore
Before & After in Fournier St
1995, the sweatshop
2005, the music room
Ten years of renovation lies between these two photographs of the same room in Fournier St – between this snap of the abandoned sweatshop that John Nicolson purchased in 1995 and the swish interior shot by lifestyle photographer Jan Baldwin, that was one of a set taken in 2005 to celebrate the completion of the endeavour. Earlier this week, I showed you the collection of wallpapers dating from 1690 until 1960 and the curios from beneath the floorboards that John salvaged from this ancient house. And today you can see the “before” and “after” pictures which illustrate the breathtaking transformation that has been achieved, bringing new life back to what was once a derelict pile.
The tailoring industry had found its home there from 1720, through successive owners, Huguenot silk weavers, then Jewish tailors, and subsequently Bengali clothing maunfacturers, up until the nineteen nineties – when cheap manufacturing in the Far East made it no longer profitable to continue and the last owner went bankrupt, leaving the house in the ownership of the bank. No-one had lived there since the nineteen thirties, and by 1995 it was one among an entire terrace of abandoned buildings.
After the Fruit & Vegetable Market closed in 1991, many properties used to store fruit and herbs became empty in Spitalfields. The one next to John’s house had been a banana store, which gave him pause for thought when he first explored the property and discovered the yard overrun with exotic spiders. Yet in spite of this discovery, John had the courage to put his arm through a hole in the cladding on the wall on the first floor, reaching through into the darkness and touching what he believed to be eighteenth century panelling.
Many more discoveries were to be made over the coming years, as well as all the wallpapers and the curios mislaid under the floorboards in the previous three centuries. There was the lost cellar which had entirely filled up with silt. Above the false ceilings, there were grand box cornices installed by William Taylor, the joiner who built the house in 1721. Every room but one had its Georgian fireplace which had been covered over, still thick with soot. There was a mysterious brick flue from the cellar that was revealed to be ventilation for the dying of silks.
And all the doors had been taken off their hinges in the nineteenth century and hung the opposite way round from the previous century – because while the Georgians preferred doors to open into a room, offering a moment of grace as someone entered, the Victorians preferred their doors to open against the wall and wall straight into a room. “I’ve restored it to the Georgian etiquette with the doors opening into the rooms,” John admitted to me with a gracious smile, “to give my guests time to prepare for my imminent arrival.”
The house underwent successive alterations, at first to the panelling in the seventeen-eighties, and then the front wall had entirely been rebuilt in the eighteen twenties when a shopfront was added. John set about returned the house to its original proportions, removing partitions to create two rooms over each of the five floors and restoring missing panelling. He also demolished an outbuilding which filled the back garden and replaced the shopfront with a domestic facade consistent with the eighteen twenties work, including a new door case which derived its proportion and design from the eighteen twenties front door that survived. Elsewhere, John supplemented bead and butt boarding from 1900 and brought a sink back into use from this period, that had once served all the residents of the house when it was divided into tiny flats for Jewish refugees.
Today the house retains all its idiosyncratic appeal, a sympathetic amalgam of the successive alterations that speak of its different inhabitants in Fournier St over the last three centuries. Yet now it is a home again, and thanks to ten years of conscientious and imaginative work by John Nicolson, an atmosphere of peace and domesticity reigns once more.
The house as John found it.
Reconstructing the domestic facade.
The rear elevation of 1720 with original windows flush with the level of the wall.
Alternating plain and barley twist spindles from 1720, as John discovered them.
The view from John’s bathroom to the spire of Christ Church, Spitalfields.
Original lead paintwork on this door, rehung in the nineteenth century to open towards the wall, in contrast to the eighteenth century etiquette, of doors always opening into the room – permitting a moment’s grace before someone entered.
The rear basement as John first saw it, once the silt had been dug out.
“Before” photographs copyright © John Nicolson
“After” photographs copyright © Jan Baldwin
You may also like to read my other Fournier St stories
The Wallpapers of Spitalfields
John Player’s Cries Of London
It is my great pleasure to show you these beautiful specimens of John Player’s cigarette cards illustrating the Cries of London, dating from 1916 – as the latest in my ongoing series of portrayals of the street life of our great metropolis down the ages. John Player & Sons put collector’s cards in their cigarette packets from 1893 and it is a measure of the popularity of the Cries of London that the series shown here was the second which was issued.
The jaunty charisma of these gaudy cards with their cheerful hawkers in colourful dress is irresistible, even if historical veracity is sacrificed for the sake of popular appeal. Old London is transformed into a city of swashbuckling romance in these cards, where the streets are as bright as pantomime backdrops and the traders swagger like music hall acts, ready to burst into song – a notion that reached its exuberant apogee in Lionel Bart’s “Who will buy?”
Yet, thumbing through these modest little cards with their corners rounded from use, no-one can deny the affectionate quality of these images and the fond significance that collectors gave to these ephemera, investing them with an emotional meaning which is far beyond mere sentiment or whimsy. The Cries of London celebrate the ingenuity and stamina of those with nothing, who for centuries could eek out a living upon the streets of London by hawking, and use their wits to do it with panache, transforming commerce into popular culture in the process.
In this respect, the Cries of London is the history of poverty retold as the brave and self-respecting history of resourcefulness. And that is why I treasure these lovely cards, enjoying even their quaint self-conscious archaic spellings, their curious anecdotal texts, their grubbiness and their crude printing. Once collected by schoolboys in class and soldiers in the trenches, as minor tokens of intangible value, they passed through so many hands before they arrived in mine – they are rare keepsakes to evoke an entire world.
Two hundred years after Francis Wheatley – the Cries of London tea caddy. When portrait painter Francis Wheatley was elected to the Royal Academy in 1790 in favour of the King’s candidate, it destroyed Wheatley’s career and, when the aristocratic patrons deserted him, he took to painting sympathetic portraits of his wife in the guise of street hawkers instead. He was bankrupt within three years and died in 1801, yet his poignant Cries of London have been celebrated ever since in innumerable prints, cigarette cards, and on biscuit tins and tea caddies – such as mine, shown here.
You may like to take a look at
William Nicholson’s London Types
Francis Wheatley’s Cries of London
Paul Kirby, Upholsterer
Near the top of Brick Lane, where it peters out into Bethnal Green, stands a lone house of mystery – accompanied by the gnarled stump of an old plane tree. Entirely at odds with the bland redevelopment that surrounds it, this edifice is unapologetic in its utilitarian idiosyncrasy and, when the windows glow at dusk on a rainy night, it possesses a magical allure which fascinates me. This is Paul Kirby’s foam shop.
For years, Paul Kirby has held out bravely against the “regeneration” that razed every other building in sight, and has emerged triumphant as the proud custodian of the last weaver’s house in the neighbourhood – built in the eighteenth century and incorporating a ship’s window into the frontage. “There’s been quite a lot of pressure to knock it down, but I took the council to court and won the case!” declared Paul in jubilant satisfaction, clasping his hands as he rocked back and forth in his easy chair.
You walk right in off the street into Paul’s workshop which occupies the entire ground floor of 74 Swanfield St, and is crammed with foam of every colour and description. On the left of this foam-lover’s paradise is the well-worn cutting board and, on the right, the tethered rolls of foam wait eager to spring into spongy life, while the space between is stacked with foam cushions – including a cherished Charles & Diana wedding souvenir foam cushion which, in astonishing testimony to Paul’s foam shop, has kept its bounce far longer than the ill-fated marriage ever did. And at the centre of all this foam sits Paul in his pork pie hat, a proud Englishman at home in his castle.
“I wouldn’t ever leave the East End now,” confided Paul, whose origins are in Mauritius, “I’ve got used to living in the bustling of Bethnal Green with all the cosmopolitans here. They looked down on foreigners when I first came to London in 1953 and it was hard to get a job or a room. Those were the darkest days, but I had some Jewish friends round here. It was a nice place to live, I loved it. It was elegant. I got a room in Code St off Brick Lane for fifty pence a week, from there I bought a lorry and started my own transport business.
Paul was conscripted into the British Army at eighteen years old from his home in Mauritius in 1950. When his mother died unexpectedly while he was in the forces, Paul was adopted by his commanding officer, who subsequently became Brigadier Kirby, and he returned to live in Britain with his new stepfather.
“I stayed with them in Hastings but it was difficult to get a job there, so he wrote me a letter which I took to a company in London and I got a job right away. Then he retired to St Austell in Cornwall and bought a Tudor house, where I used to visit at weekends. Although I was the only black man in St Austell, I had a lovely time. How people treated me there – it was unbelievable! When I got on the bus, they wouldn’t take money off me. They said, ‘Soldiers don’t pay!’
When I first came from Mauritius I was very fascinated by English furniture, especially Chesterfields, and I thought, ‘I’d like to make one of those.’ I’ve always been interested in furniture, so I studied upholstery. Since 1958 until now, I have been involved with upholstery, mostly lounge suites and I’ve made many Chesterfields.
In the sixties, I worked for the owner of this place. They manufactured reproduction furniture and I was their driver. There were scraps of fabric left over and they gave them to me. I asked the two machinists to make up cushion covers which I filled with scrap foam from the floor. And I took them down the market in Brick Lane on a Sunday and sold them for fifty pence each. And I made £20 each weekend and we shared it between us, which was pretty good when you realise that wages were only £8 a week.
I bought a two up/two down house in Bethnal Green, with no bathroom and an outside toilet, for £300. Then, in 1968, the furniture business moved to bigger premises so the boss asked me to run the shop for £8 a week. To start with, I sold secondhand furniture, wardrobes and things, and I just opened on Sunday because that was the only day people were walking about.
In the nineteen seventies, we had a lot of problems with the National Front. Every weekend, there’d be marches and so on. I used to open up my house for the police to use the toilet because there’d be six bus loads of them waiting outside in case of trouble. I was in the middle of it because I was selling Union Jack cushions and some people asked me to stop selling them as it was a symbol adopted by the National Front, but I am an ex-army man and proud to be a citizen of the United Kingdom. It was not a nice time.
Around 1976, I started repairing furniture, recovering old three piece suites and reselling them, then in 1988 I took the place over and moved in and stayed ever since – but now I can’t compete with the big furniture warehouses, so I just do a bit of repair and sell foam, cushions and suchlike to local people. I have another home but I often stay here when I am working late, and most of my neighbours know me by my first name.”
Actively employed at seventy-eight, Paul Kirby is now among the elite who remember when Bethnal Green and Shoreditch were full of cabinet and furniture makers. And Paul has such a relaxed nature that his foam shop is an attractive place to linger to enjoy the peace and quiet, as if the very fabric of the building has now absorbed his personality – or as if the vast amount of foam insulates against the outer world, absorbing discord.
The recipient of kindness, Paul greets everyone who comes through the threshold with an equal generosity of spirit. You can be guaranteed of a welcome and a smile, as long as you have not come to knock down this venerable weaver’s house in the name of “regeneration” – because, after half a century, Paul and his building are one.
Paul Kirby
The mysterious allure of Paul Kirby’s foam shop at dusk.
You may also like to read about other craftmen in Shoreditch
The Wallpapers of Spitalfields
One house in Fournier St has wallpapers dating from 1690 until 1960. This oldest piece of wallpaper was already thirty years old when it was pasted onto the walls of the new house built by joiner William Taylor in 1721, providing evidence – as if it were ever needed – that people have always prized beautiful old things.
John Nicolson, the current inhabitant of the house, keeps his treasured collection of wallpaper preserved between layers of tissue in chronological order, revealing both the history and tastes of his predecessors. First, there were the wealthy Huguenot silk weavers who lived in the house until they left for Scotland in the nineteenth century, when it was subdivided as rented dwellings for Jewish people fleeing the pogroms in Eastern Europe. Yet, as well as illustrating the precise social history of this location in Spitalfields, the wider significance of the collection is that it tells the story of English wallpaper – through examples from a single house.
When John Nicolson bought it in 1995, the house had been uninhabited since the nineteen thirties, becoming a Jewish tailoring workshop and then an Asian sweatshop before reaching the low point of dereliction, repossessed and rotting. John undertook a ten year renovation programme, moving into the attic and then colonising the rooms as they became habitable, one by one. Behind layers of cladding applied to the walls, the original fabric of the house was uncovered and John ensured that no materials left the building, removing nothing that predated 1970. A leaky roof had destroyed the plaster which came off the walls as he uncovered them, but John painstakingly salvaged all the fragments of wallpaper and all the curios lost by the previous inhabitants between the floorboards too.
“I wanted it to look like a three hundred year old house that had been lovingly cared for and aged gracefully over three centuries,” said John, outlining his ambition for the endeavour, “- but it had been trashed, so the challenge was to avoid either the falsification of history or a slavish recreation of one particular era.” The house had undergone two earlier renovations, to update the style of the panelling in the seventeen-eighties and to add a shopfront in the eighteen-twenties. John chose to restore the facade as a domestic frontage, but elsewhere his work has been that of careful repair to create a home that retains its modest domesticity and humane proportions, honouring the qualities that make these Spitalfields houses distinctive.
The ancient wallpaper fragments are as delicate as butterfly wings now, but each one was once a backdrop to life as it was played out through the ages in this tottering old house. I can envisage the seventeenth century wallpaper with its golden lozenges framing dog roses would have gleamed by candlelight and brightened a dark drawing room through the Winter months with its images of Summer flowers, and I can also imagine the warm glow of the brown-hued Victorian designs under gaslight in the tiny rented rooms, a century later within the same house. When I think of the countless hours I have spent staring at the wallpaper in my brief existence, I can only wonder at the number of day dreams that were once projected upon these three centuries of wallpaper.
Flowers and foliage are the constant motifs throughout all these papers, confirming that the popular fashion for floral designs on the wall has extended for over three hundred years already. Sometimes the flowers are sparser, sometimes more stylised but, in general, I think we may surmise that, when it comes to choosing wallpaper, people like to surround themselves with flowers. Wallpaper offers an opportunity to inhabit an everlasting bower, a garden that never fades or requires maintenance. And maybe a pattern of flowers is more forgiving than a geometric design? When it comes to concealing the damp patches, or where the baby vomited, or where the young mistress threw the wine glass at the wall in a tantrum, floral is the perfect English compromise of the bucolic and the practical.
Two surprises in this collection of wallpaper contradict the assumed history of Spitalfields. One is a specimen from 1895 that has been traced through the Victoria & Albert Museum archive and discovered to be very expensive – sixpence a yard, equivalent to week’s salary – entirely at odds with the assumption that these rented rooms were inhabited exclusively by the poor at that time. It seems that then, as now, there were those prepared to scrimp for the sake of enjoying exhorbitant wallpaper. The other surprise is a modernist Scandanavian design by Eliel Saarinen from the nineteen twenties – we shall never know how this got there. John Nicolson likes to think that people who appreciate good design have always recognised the beauty of these exemplary old houses in Fournier St, which would account for the presence of both the expensive 1895 paper and the Saarinen pattern from 1920, and I see no reason to discount this noble theory.
I leave you to take a look at this selection of fragments from John’s archive and imagine for yourself the human dramas witnessed by these humble wallpapers of Spitalfields.
Fragments from the seventeen twenties.
Hand-painted wallpaper from the seventeen eighties.
Printed wallpaper from the seventeen eighties.
Eighteen twenties.
Eighteen forties.
Mid-nineteenth century fake wood panelling wallpaper, as papered over real wooden panelling.
Wallpaper by William Morris, 1880.
Expensive wallpaper at sixpence a yard from 1885.
1895
Late nineteenth century, in a lugubrious Arts & Crafts style.
A frieze dating from 1900.
In an Art Nouveau style c. 1900.
Modernist design by Finnish designer Eliel Saarinen from the nineteen twenties.
Nineteen sixties floral.
Vinyl wallpaper from the nineteen sixties.
Items that John Nicolson found under the floorboards of his eighteenth century house in Fournier St, including a wedding ring, pipes, buttons, coins, cotton reels, spinning tops, marbles, broken china and children’s toys. Note the child’s leather boot, the pair of jacks found under the front step, and the blue bottle of poison complete with syringe discovered in a sealed-up medicine cupboard which had been papered over. Horseshoes were found hidden throughout the fabric of the house to bring good luck, and the jacks and child’s shoe may also have been placed there for similar reasons.
You may like to see The Secret Gardens of Spitalfields
At the 65th Annual Grimaldi Service
The first Sunday in February is when all the clowns arrive in East London for the annual service to honour Joseph Grimaldi (1778-1837), the greatest British clown – held since 1946 at this time of year, when the clowns traditionally gathered in the capital prior to the start of the Circus touring season. Originally celebrated at St James’ Pentonville Rd, where Grimaldi is buried, the service transferred to Holy Trinity, Dalston in 1959 where the event has grown and grown, and where there is now a shrine to Grimaldi graced with a commemorative stained glass window.
By mistake, I walked into the church hall which served as the changing room to discover myself surrounded with painted faces and multicoloured suits. Seeing my disorientation, Mr Woo (in a red wig and clutching a balloon dog) kindly stepped over to greet me, explaining that he was veteran of forty years clowning including a stint at Bertram Mills Circus with the legendary Coco the clown – before revealing it was cut short when he fell over and fractured his leg, illustrating the anecdote by lifting his trouser to reveal a savagely scarred shin bone. “He’s never going to win a knobbly knees contest now!” declared Uncle Colin with alarming levity, Mr Woo’s performing partner in the double act known as The Custard Clowns. “But what did you do?” I enquired, still alarmed by Mr Woo’s injury. “I got a comedy car!” was Mr Woo’s response, accompanied by an unnerving chuckle.
Reeling from the tragic ambiguity of this conversation, I walked around to the church where fans were gathering for the service and there in the quiet corner church dedicated to Joseph Grimaldi, I had the good fortune to shake hands with Streaky the clown, a skinny veteran of sixty-three years clowning. There is a poignant dignity to old clowns such as Streaky with face paint applied to wrinkled skin, because the disparity between the harsh make-up and the infinite nuance of the indelibly lined face beneath cannot fail to make a soulful impression.
At first, the presence of the clowns doing their sideshows to warm up the congregation changed the meaning of the sacred space, as if the vaulted arches were tent poles and we had come to a show rather than a church service, but both were reconciled in the atmosphere of celebration that prevailed. Yet although the children delighted in the comedy and the audience laughed at the gags, I must admit that (as I always have) I found the clowns more funny peculiar than funny ha-ha. But it is precisely this contradiction that draws me to them, because I believe that through wholeheartedly embracing such grotesque self-humilation they expose an essential quality of humanity – that of our innate foolishness, underscored by our propensity to take ourselves too seriously. We need to be startled, or even alarmed by their extreme appearances, their gurning and their dopey japes, in order to recognise our true selves. This is the corrective that clowns deliver with a cheesey grin, confronting us with a necessary sense of the ridiculous in life.
“This is the best job I ever had – to make people smile and get them to laugh,” declared Conk the clown, once he had demonstrated blowing bubbles from his saxophone. “How did you start?” I asked. “I got divorced,” he replied. And everyone within earshot laughed, except me. “I had depression,” Conk continued with a helpless smirk, “so I joined the amateur dramatics, but I was no good at it, so I thought, ‘I’ll be a clown!'” Twelve years later, Conk has no apparent cause to regret his decision, as his mirthful demeanour confirmed. “It’s something inside, a feeling you know – everyone’s got laughter inside them.” he informed me with a wink, before he disappeared up the aisle in a cloud of bubbles pursued by laughing children.
Turning around, I found myself greeted by Glory B., an elegant lady dressed in tones of turquoise and blue, and sporting a huge butterfly upon her hat. Significantly, her face was not painted and she described herself as a “Children’s Entertainer” rather than a “Clown.” “Sometimes children are scared of clowns, “ she admitted, articulating my own thoughts with a gentle smile, “so I work with Mr Woo as a go-between, to comfort them if they are distressed.”
Once the clown organist began to play, everyone took their seats and the parade of clowns commenced, old troupers and young goons, buffoons and funsters, jokers and jesters, enough to delight the most weary eyes, and lift the spirits of the most down-hearted February day. An army of clowns filled the church with their pranking and japes, and their high wattage personalities. The intensity of an army of clowns is a presence that defies description, because even at rest there is such bristling potential for misrule which might be unleashed at any moment.
In their primary coloured parodic suits, I could recognise the styles of many periods, from the twentieth century, the nineteenth century and when a clown stood up to carry the wreath to lay in honour of “Joey Grimaldi,” I saw he was wearing an eighteenth century clown suit. At the climax of the service, the names of those clowns who had died in the year were read out and, for each one, a child carried a candle down the nave. After the announcements of “Sir Norman Wisdom,” “Buddi,” “Bilbo,” and “Frosty,” I saw a feint light travel through the crowd to be lost at the rear of the church and it made tangible the brave purpose of clowning – that of laughing in the face of the darkness which surrounds us.
Mr Woo once worked with Coco the clown at Bertram Mills Circus until he fractured his leg.
Conk the clown once suffered from depression.
Arriving at Holy Trinity, Dalston.
Streaky at Grimaldi’s shrine with the case of eggs recording the distinctive make-up of famous clowns.
Streaky the clown, a veteran of sixty-three years clowning.
Glory B., Children’s Entertainer.
The commemorative window for Joseph Grimaldi.
A wreath for Joseph Grimaldi.
Sunday Morning in the East
Bird Fair, Sclater St
After sixty-eight Sundays reporting to you from Columbia Road Flower Market, I shall be widening the scope of my stories in future to bring you a weekly report from across the Sunday markets of the East End – either Brick Lane Market, Petticoat Lane Market or Columbia Rd Flower Market.
As before, I will be publishing pen portraits of the traders, but you can be assured that I shall also continue to show you pictures of the plants and flowers that I buy at Columbia Rd. To mark this change of gear, I am publishing these short excerpts from “Sunday Morning East & West” written by A. St John Adcock in 1902 for “Living London,” the first mass-market publication to use photography as social reportage. Readers who know these markets today may draw their own comparisons with this description.
“…Across the other side of London at this hour there gathers a surging, struggling, closely-packed mob, elbowing and shouldering hither and thither sturdily. Here the sun glares down upon a dusty malodorous atmosphere, for you are in the East, and this is Middlesex St, unofficially known as Petticoat Lane.
Arriving in Bishopsgate, a little before eleven, you might have seen the tide of well-dressed or decent church-goers and heard the church bells ringing placidly in the West, but the moment you enter the “Lane,” the pealing is inaudible in the nearer clamour of human voices. This tall red building is the Jews’ Free School, and the droning of scholars at their lessons floats out the open windows and mingles with the howls of fish salesman, the wails of the lemon seller, and the raucous patter of the cheapjack. You pass from a butcher’s, to tinware, crockery, toys, fruit, hat and cap stalls, confectioner’s stalls, boot stalls, more cheap jacks, more fish stalls, more clothiers, and pretty well of them are Jews.
Now and then you collide with a man who, having no stall, careers about in the crowd with a stack of trousers on his shoulder, and flourishing a pair in his hand implores you to take your choice from his stock at “a dollar a time.” Opposite an earnest man in his shirt sleeves bellows over a glass tank, “Ere yar! The champiun lemun drink – ‘apenny a glass. ‘Ave yer money back if you don’t like it!” Just beyond, a clothier mad with zeal has leapt upon his stall, and is frantically waving a coat before the eyes of the crowd. “As good as the day it was made!” he shrieks, “Look at it for yerselves.” And he hurls it at the simmering masses and they toss it back to him.
The fair overflows all the streets branching from Petticoat Lane and, diverging to the West, you may penetrate to Cutler St and Phil’s Buildings which are wholly given over to clothiers. Going farther East by way of Wentworth St, which is as rampant as congested as the “Lane” itself, you emerge on Spitalfields, where the Market is half open, trafficking with costermongers, whose trucks and donkey carts are huddled outside it. The turning by the church brings us to Brick Lane, and Brick Lane leads us to Sclater St, locally known as Club Row, where you will find a Bird Fair in full blast. It is Petticoat Lane over again on a much smaller scale, hardly any women, less diversity, no side-shows, no frivolity in short, but strict attention to business.
Most of the shops in Sclater St are kept by bird dealers, and their outer walls up to the first floor have all broken into an eruption of bird cages. Beside the shop doors and in the gutters, hutches and cages, towering one above another, swarm with rabbits, fowls, pigeons, thrushes, canaries, and smaller birds in amazing variety, and the sellers bawl against each other, and the birds crow, coo, quack, scream and sing against each other deafeningly. Men without shops or stands roam in the crowd carrying a cage or two and crying their wares. Men and boys waylay you in the crush, or on the skirts of it, with wriggling heaps of rabbits at the bottom of small sacks, and offer you the pick of the bunch for sixpence.
Escaping through Cygnet St, you stumble into Bethnal Green Rd, for the sale of cycle tyres and second-hand accessories, and meat and vegetable stalls are moderately busy for some distance past it. Noon being gone, as you follow the Bethnal Green Rd and Cambridge Heath Rd to Mile End Gate, people are coming away from Sunday morning services, many in Salvation Army uniforms, and loafers, gathering at street corners, are yearning for the public houses to open.”
In spite of the vast changes in the social landscape that separate us from this report, the markets of the East remain as exuberant with chaotic life as they did a century ago, as any visitor will attest. Even though the Jewish community has departed from Petticoat Lane and the bird market in Club Row is no more, the crowds continue to come unceasingly every weekend, surging through the streets of the East End to visit newer attractions like Columbia Rd Flower Market, the Truman Brewery Markets and the renovated Spitalfields Market. By contrast, Sclater St and Bethnal Green Rd are the last scruffy markets where the spirit of this report still lingers, and there – remarkably – cycle spares are sold on the same spot today as over a century ago.
I hope you will join me each Sunday over the coming weeks, months, and years, as I introduce you to all the traders who carry the life and history of these celebrated markets.
You can watch a film of Petticoat Lane in 1903 by clicking here
A Scene in Brick Lane.
Sunday morning in Middlesex St.
You may also like to take a look at
Ronald Searle & Kaye Webb’s visit to Brick Lane in 1953 Dog Days at Club Row Market.
