So there they all are, our dramatis personae, one spring morning in 1921: AW Poppy setting about the solemn business of mantle making, unaware of the lean years ahead when there will no longer be a call for mantles - or certainly not in the quantities he's been used to dealing with; Cecil Jackson popping next door to his friend Achille, to see if the voile that has just come in from France can be dyed a more appetising shade of peppermint green. And, beyond them, Capt. LH Green wondering whether all those months on the Western Front were worth it, if a lifetime spent at the Flour Milling Employers' Federation is really all that awaits him - and beyond him, HJ Woodington, Manager, London Joint City and Midland Bank (King's Road sub-branch) wishing he'd been old enough to join up in the Great War, like that chap Green next door.
And, on the next block, Berte, the bootmaker, threading his needle and Grant, the butcher, slinging another carcase on the hook; Beaumont reading the theatre paper, keen for news of another big show in the West End that might require the services of a really first-class costumiers; Major-Gen Hon Sir Francis Richard Bingham KCMG CB bristling at the impertinence of that upstart Commander Harry Cecil Brand Pipon who claims to be RN but looks more like a con man to him - although at least the chap agrees on two fundamentals, namely, a) that, as a member of the male species, it is shameful that Sidney Smith has taken up the profession of embroiderer and b) that American clothiers should simply not be allowed in SW3 (or indeed anywhere in the country, ideally - standards, dear boy).
George Cobb, the butcher, is absent, meanwhile, from his own establishment, having popped up the road to have a quick look at what exactly his rival, Mr John Grant, is charging for a pound of lamb's liver today. Strolling back, he glances at the offerings of Freeman, Hardy & Willis and is horrified by their prices, before moving on towards the Colonial Stores. His heart swells with pride at the thought of the Empire as he walks by their windows. Shortly afterwards, he finds himself stifling a faint flutter of excitement as he passes the establishment of his friend, the hosier, Herbert Henry Wagstaff, and remembers that he will be seeing his sweetheart tonight and - if he is very lucky - may glimpse a little more of her hosiery than he has before.
Frank Whitwell at the same moment is standing in his doorway, wondering whether anyone will want any fancy draping this morning and, if they do, whether they will approach him or go instead to that interloper William Rees who has just set up three doors down. At No. 74, Chas Legg has no such concerns as he encircles the waist of young Miss Isabel French with his tape measure and, on noting the result, allows himself to speculate about whether she may soon be needing the services of Harry Osborn at 108 and Mr Davis at No. 162, as well as his own - you never can tell with these artist types.
Just a minute or two later, at Pioneer Catering - and some ten minutes after that at Goodman Bros stationers - young Miss Somerset discusses arrangements for her forthcoming wedding, letting slip in the process that she is to marry Alfred George Goodbody and that they met at evening polka classes at Madame Astafieva's, which she'd only gone to on a whim - imagine! - and that she's going to meet Alfred now at Tregellas (Mesdames) - just as soon as she's finished here!
As Miss Somerset chats on, the self-same Alfred steps in for a furtive appointment with Mr John Staple - he has something on order from that gentleman and is extremely anxious that it be ready by his wedding night. He pops into J Passmore, in order to make some purchases, the same occasion still very much in his mind. At Alfred John Smith, he next enquires about the price of champagne and wonders whether marrying is really such a good idea. He considers the apples at Charles Blake, greengrocer - would it be feasible to try making your own cider in a King's Road basement flat and would the wedding guests find it acceptable, even if he could manage to get it ready in time? Wearily he goes into Salmon Gluckstein and buys himself a cheering Havana cigar and thence to Thomas Brown for a currant bun.
Stories, stories, that list of names contains so many untold stories. Who were the Misses Brown, Digby and Olive at164 Radnor Mansions, for example, and what became of them? Did they pair up with George Frederick Wilkins, Major F Johnson Porter or George Guerin, after chance meetings in the Gemini Diningrooms, Edgar Terence Clisby's restaurant or picking up the evening meal, wrapped in newspaper, from Arthur Lloyd, dealer in fried fish? After courtships including visits to the Chelsea Palace music hall and the Cadogan cinema, did they engage Miss O'Dell and Ephraims Solomon, Mrs Emily Dupont and Madame Marthe Hedley to provide wedding clothes and headgear for themselves and their guests?
More importantly, what happened to all these people - the hosiers and teeth makers and perambulator manufacturers - and what have their children and their children's children become? Data entry clerks? Real estate agents? And is the world really so vastly improved now that all those occupations have been swept away or have we lost something?
I think we have: I think we've lost the satisfaction of a life spent practising skilled craftsmanship and, just as importantly, we have lost all the pleasure of sociable interchange that went with dealing with people face to face. I doubt that my children will remember the people we deal with at the supermarket checkout as vividly as my brother and I remember, for instance, Ted, the greengrocer - who operated from a kind of potato lined cave at the bottom of Limerston Street; Ted, whose fabled bruvvers had a stall up the North End Road and, who, thanks to our father, knew the first names of all the ladies in the neighbourhood and would cheerfully yell out as they passed, "Hello, Annie love,' 'How ya goin, Jeannie darlin" - or Frederick Alfred Vedy, aka the Smoking Man (by which renaming he managed, despite his parents' best efforts, to evade a liftetime of Freddie Vedy).
Perhaps it's just nostalgia, but I think life, although possibly less comfortable, was richer then.
As a guy who often feels like a bit of an anachronism, I would gladly step through a door into the world above. (In fact, I just did -- thanks.) My dad's stories of Philadelphia, circa 1940, always make me feel the same way. My grandfather, the butcher, would greet the milkman, delivering in the morning, and wave Angelo, the apple man, as his wagon, pulled by a tired old mule, would slowly roll by on the South Philadelphia street. I think daily living must, indeed, have been richer, then,than it is now. At least, the colors seem to have been so much deeper.
ReplyDeleteAnd, she said, warming to her obsession, if you were a butcher like your grandfather, we would buy meat wrapped in paper from you, instead of meat packaged in polystyrene and plastic from the supermarket, so that would be good for the environment as well.
ReplyDeleteAnd, I'll bet the meat would taste better without all of the hormones and chemicals.(Maybe we'd better stop before we start sounding like Monty Python's "Four Yorkshiremen.")
ReplyDeleteCirca 1925, also Philadelphia, my mother remembers the sound of the horse-driven milk truck in the early morning as being a soothing balm of security in her sometimes insecure childhood.
ReplyDeleteDon't get me started, Chris.
ReplyDeletePolly and Chris - two Philadelphians: was it a particularly idyllic town or is it just coincidence that this strikes a chord with you both?
There is, still, in certain parts of the city a warmth that comes from its deep history, I suppose, especially in the historic areas where 18th century architecture abounds. I have always felt that both Boston and Philly have a similar "feel" as a result of their history. But I think it might be more an issue of the time than the place here; put a clip-clopping milk horse on any quiet, early-morning city street and the magic is bound to happen.
ReplyDeleteA sense of 'deep history' is the element that is missing from Canberra - one of the reasons I need regular doses of Budapest.
ReplyDelete. . . though it is funny: I once had a friend from England visit and I took him to see the things of interest in Philadelphia. He took one look at the Liberty Bell and said: "Big deal. The sidewalk outside of my house is older than this. In fact, my house is older than this." Perspective really is everything.
ReplyDeleteA 'friend', you say?
ReplyDeleteWell, not after that comment. I left him outside of Independence Hall and disappeared into a subway station. Don't know if he ever made it out of town . . .
ReplyDeleteAnd really who cares after the phrase 'Big deal' was uttered?
ReplyDeleteSurprisingly un-British of him, wasn't it? (Maybe my quotation was more of a paraphrase, now that I think about it.) To hell with him, anyway, I say.
ReplyDeleteThat's the spirit.
ReplyDeleteDepends very much on your concept of 'British'.
ReplyDelete