Shadows of the Workhouse

and paid the rental to the man with the flare. “Push this ’ere, an’ let’s get goin’.”
    A boy called out, “Hey, yennun – you.”
    Frank took no notice.
    The boy kicked him hard. “Don’t you answer ven, yennun?”
    Tip explained. “He means ‘new one’. That’s you, see? Take no notice, we got work ’a do. You’ll pick up ve lingo in no time.”
    In pain, and limping, Frank pushed the barrow. He had learned to hide all signs of weakness in the workhouse and it had stood him in good stead.
    “Now, we mus’ get a move on.” Tip leaned his weight on the barrow and it sped over the cobbles, rattling on solid, iron-framed wheels.
    Billingsgate was London’s fish market, and lay on the north bank of the Thames, east of the Monument. Fishing boats came in throughout the night and the market stalls, laden with fresh fish, were ready for business when the market opened at 4 a.m.

    Tip’s electric excitement is, if anything, intensified and every nerve in his body seems to be quivering. A fishy, seaweedy smell hits his nostrils, and he inhales deeply. “Beautiful, be-oootiful,” he murmurs appreciatively.
    The noise all around is intense. Above the babble of voices Frank can hear the shouts of salesmen, standing on boxes or tables, roaring out their merchandise and their prices. A Babel of competition.
    “’Andsome cod, best in the market – all alive.”
    “Fine Yarmouth bloaters – oo’s the buyer?”
    “Eels O! Eels O! Alive O!”
    “Wink, wink, winkles, best for tea.”
    “’Ere you are, guvner, fine brill, come an’ look at ’em, guv. You won’t find better.”
    “Over ’ere. Finney ’addock. ’Ad – ’ad – ’ad – ’addy ’addock.
    “Now or never – whelks, whelks, whelks, I say.”
    On all sides everyone is asking “What’s the price?” whilst shouts of laughter from salesmen and customers, bargaining and bantering, pepper the noise of the crowd.
    Frank can see, in the semi-darkness of the sheds, the white bellies of turbot shining like mother-of-pearl; living lobsters, their claws flailing helplessly in the air; mounds of herrings with scales glittering like sequins; huge baskets piled with grey oysters, blue mussels, pink shrimps, sackfuls of whelks, their yellow shells piled up high; buckets of grey-and-white eels slithering and sliding all over each other.
    Frank sees porters in strangely shaped leather helmets, rather like squashed pagodas, carrying fish baskets on their heads. Eight hundred tons of fish pour in and out of Billingsgate every day and all of it, down to the last herring, is unloaded and portered in this way. A man whose neck is ‘set’ can carry sixteen baskets, each weighing a stone, on his head. These powerful men are the backbone of the fish market, and their history is one of high romance. The quinquereme of Nineveh, laden with spices and precious oils, was unloaded in exactly the same way in medieval London. Caesar’s galleys, rowed up the Thames by chained men, were berthed here, London’s most ancient port, and unloaded by men such as Frank sees.
    Frank flattens himself against a wall as one of these giants passes, shouting: “Move over – make way, please – gangway.”
    A thin man, trembling under the weight of his load, mutters, through clenched teeth: “Shove to one side, can’ choo?”
    Everywhere ragged, desperate-looking men and boys are clamouring for the job of porterage, hoping to earn a shilling or two before the day’s end.
    Through the arches of the open end of the huge covered building, silhouetted against the grey sky of dawn, Frank can see the masts and tangled rigging of the oyster boats and lobster trawlers. Sails, black against the skyline, shift and tremble. He sees the red caps of sailors as they draw in the sails. He hears the chug-chug of primitive engines as a throttle is opened. He hears the shouts of men as they unload their vessels.
    “Keep close beside me,” Tip growls, “an’ listen to everyfink. Don’t miss nuffink, see? You gotta learn how to buy.”
    He assumes a nonchalant air and saunters down the gangway, whistling as though he were on holiday. He passes through the arches onto the quayside, where the river glides black and secretive, and silver threads of light pierce the wakening sky. They clamber over ropes and rigging to the long row of oyster boats moored close along the wharf – known as “Oyster Street” in the trade – where the fishermen sell direct from their