He pinched Frank’s ear. “You’re a skinny li’l sprog. Can you lift a box of herrings?”
Frank didn’t dare to answer back in front of the Master, so he just nodded.
“Ain’ chew got a tongue, ven?” demanded the coster.
Again Frank nodded.
“Yes, he has and he can use it to good effect when he wants to,” answered the Master.
“Vat’s what I needs, a boy as can holler good and loud like, an’ make ’em all sit up.”
“This is the boy for you, then. He’s got a voice like a foghorn,” said the Master conclusively.
“I’ll take ’im. An’ if he don’t come up to scratch, I’ll bring him back next week.”
Before Frank had time to say a word, he was whisked off to the clothes cupboards, his workhouse uniform removed, and ill-fitting street clothes put on him. The coster took him by the hand and they stepped out into the road together.
Tip was a flashy dresser. Not for him the drab greys and browns of working men. He wore green corduroy trousers and a shirt of vivid blue. His shoes were tied with enormous bows which bore no resemblance to the humble shoelace, and at his throat was tied a silk neckerchief of red and blue. His cap was not your ordinary cloth cap, as worn by the English, nor the beret favoured by the French, yet it bore a close similarity to the French style. Tip’s cap could be described as a very large beret, made of the best velvet, and the colour, neither blue nor green, seemed to change with the light and movement. Tip considered himself a real swell, and his doxy admired him prodigiously.
He glanced down at Frank and his masculine vanity acknowledged that the boy was taking in his elegance. “You gotta look sharp in our trade, titch. No use lookin’ like a bag ’o dirty washin’. The ladies don’ like it. An’ it’s the ladies as wha’ does the buyin’, see? So you gotta please the ladies. That’s rule number one. We’ll ’ave to get you some new clobber. Can’t ’ave you goin’ round lookin’ like vat, queering my pitch. The ladies would run away fritted, vey would. I knows of a Jew as what can fix you up cheap and natty like.”
Tip had started the sentence in his baritone voice, but as he came to the end of it, the words came out in a series of high, unexpected squeaks. Aware that Frank was listening with puzzled attention, he explained.
“It’s the toobs. The toobs what wears out with all that ’ollering. They gives out if you’re a good coster, like what I am, ’cause they’re too delicate to stand all that ’ollerin’. Vat’s what I needs a boy for, to ’oller, along with other fings, lots of other fings, all of which I’ll teach you, but ’ollerin’ will be one of your first jobs. Now let’s ’ear you ’oller. See vat li’l lad over there, playing in vat puddle? Well, you call out, loud as you can now, ‘Hey, mucky, your mum’s comin’.”
Frank caught the spirit of things, and bellowed the words out with all his strength. The boy jumped up and ran round the corner like a greyhound.
Frank roared with laughter, and squeezed Tip’s hand. “Vat’s what I needs,” said Tip. “Reckons as how you’ll suit me, an’ if you can pick up ve other tricks of the trade quick like, we’ll get on famous. Now we’re gettin’ to my lodgings, an’ my doxy’s Doll see, and Doll, she’s a rare ’un, but she won’ stand no lip from boys, see, so don’ you give her no lip an’ you won’t feel the back of ’er ’and.” Tip rubbed the side of his chin reflectively and muttered, “An’ you don’t wanna feel the back of ’er ’and, I can tell yer.”
They climbed a dark and foul-smelling staircase to the fourth floor. A large and shapely woman ambled towards them. She wore a red skirt, frayed and dirty at the hem, and a purple blouse, high at the neck, with a row of jet buttons down the front against which a full bosom pressed, screaming for release. Black jet beads hung to her waist, and heavy black hair hung down around her shoulders. When she smiled, her teeth were also black, as though they had been painted to match her outfit. She looked at them both, then cried out, “Is vis the li’l workhouse kid, ven? Oh, look, he’s thin, the pet,” and she pressed Frank’s head to her bosom, an experience which he found to be not unpleasant, though the smell could have been sweeter. “We’ll ’ave to give ’im some pie dahn Dill’s, eh Tip?”
“Let’s ge’ goin’ ven,” said Tip with a leer.
Doll twisted her hair up on top of her head in a fashionable coil (Frank watched, fascinated) and stuck several pins in. One of them had a bird on the end and this she settled on the top of her head.
“You bet, squire,” she said with a wink. Then she leaned down to Frank. “He’s a nice-lookin’ li’l lad, bu’ thin like. Oh, I don’ like ’a see ’em so thin. What’s yer name an’ all, eh? We’ll ge’ choo some pie, ven. Howzat?”
It was nearly seven o’clock and the streets were filled with people. Apart from marching to school in a crocodile, Frank had not been outside the workhouse gates for years. He was filled with wonder and to linger was irresistible. Here, a family was fighting, the man and woman threatening each other with equal fury; there, some boys were playing skittles; yonder a woman was fetching water from the pump whilst a crowd stood around with their buckets, gossiping as they waited. Frank had not seen women for years, and couldn’t take his eyes off them, until he realised with alarm that Tip and Doll were almost out of sight, and he had to run to catch up with them. They sauntered along, greeting people, chaffing children, Tip pinching the cheeks of young girls, Doll screaming across the street to another woman. They both dressed in a more gaudy fashion than any of their neighbours, and Frank felt proud to be with them, although neither looked round to see if he was still there.
They entered a beer shop, high-ceilinged, bare-walled, with a wooden floor. The serving counter was at one end next to a raised platform with a piano on 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.