Shadows of the Workhouse

it. The room was not particularly full, and Tip and Doll seemed to know everyone. Frank was all eyes and ears. This was the high life indeed!
    “You standin’ a top o’ reeb [ pot of beer ], Al?”
    “Sey [ yes ], I done a doogheno flash [ good deal ] today. But kool ’im [ look at him ]. Who’s he?”
    “My wen dal [ new lad ] Give ’im some reeb an’ rater” [ beer and water ].
    Frank took his beer and sipped it, puzzled. Conversation continued.
    “Jack, ’e ’ad a regular tosseno tol [ bad luck ]. ’Ad a showful [ bad money ]. Bigger loof [ fool ] ’im.”
    “He musta bin flash karnurd [ half drunk ] at ve time.”
    “On [ no ], just a dabeno [ bad debt ].
    Costers in those days spoke to each other almost entirely in back slang, incomprehensible to an outsider. This continued until well after the Second World War.
    Frank’s eyes rested on each of these big, confident men as he spoke, but none was as flamboyant or assured as Tip, and the seeds of hero-worship were sown in this young heart.
    He drank his beer. No one seemed to notice him. He was hungry, and Doll, who was flirting with a man sporting a walrus moustache, appeared to have forgotten the pie she had promised him.
    The beer shop filled up, cards were brought out and men sat down to the serious business of gambling. A group of boys in a corner were engaged in the equally serious business of ‘three ups’. A piano player started a tune, and everyone sang along, getting louder and louder at each chorus. A girl leaped onto the stage and started dancing with more energy and vigour than grace, accompanied by shouts and catcalls from the audience. The beer flowed and the laughter swelled. Exhausted, Frank fell asleep on the floor.
    He was awakened by Doll, screaming, “Oh, the poor li’l nipper. ’Ere, Tip, you’ll ’ave to carry ’im.”
    “Take me for a monkey?” said Tip, scornfully. He shook Frank hard and pulled him to his feet.
    “Come on, there’s a day’s work ahead.”
    Doll was the worse for wear and hung onto Tip’s arm as they walked through the streets. Frank, more asleep than awake, kept close behind them. They climbed the endless steps to the fourth floor, and a straw mattress and a blanket were pulled out from behind the big feather bed and put on the floor under the table for Frank, who was only too thankful to lie down anywhere. He went to sleep to the comforting and familiar sounds of grunting and puffing and rhythmic bed rocking.

    Frank was awakened by a flannel soaked in cold water being thrown on his face. He leaped up and banged his head on the table. Stunned, he gasped: “What’s up? Where am I?”
    Tip spoke. But it was a very different Tip from the evening before. Gone the flashy clothes, gone the easy swagger and pleasant bonhomie. The morning revealed Tip the coster, Tip the businessman, Tip of the calculating, clever, ruthless eye for a bargain. “Out o’ bed, sharp now. There’s work ’a be done. Billingsgate opens at four, and it’s three o’clock, an’ we’ve gotta get the barrow an’ the gear, an’ be there. Get some clothes on, an’ follow me.”
    Tip was already in his work trousers and was pulling on his heavy boots. Frank felt the urgency and leaped out of bed. He was still dressed from the night before and had only to find his boots. He pulled them on hastily and stood up straight.
    “Good. Now take vat bag, an’ we’re off.”
    Out in the night air, Tip was electric with energy. He kept doing little runs and skips and punching the air with his fists. He gave several short, barking shouts, took in great lungfuls of air and blew it out noisily. He was working himself up to a fever pitch, and Frank caught the energy. He sensed that something significant was happening, and he ran along the dark, quiet street, alive to everything, tingling with anticipation.
    They went to a tunnel under a bridge. Other men were there already and each man had a boy. They greeted each other in their own lingo. A door was opened, revealing a pitch-black cavern, and a naptha flare was lit with a match. The flame leaped up, revealing a stack of barrows, trucks, handcarts, donkey carts, bridles, hooks, chains, ropes, tarpaulins – a medley of wood and metal.
    Tip growled to Frank, “Watch wot I takes, and be sure you remembers it. If you don’t ge’ the right gear, you can’t do yer job, an’ the tally bloke there, he’ll cheat you if ’e can.”
    He selected what would be needed for the day,