Part 5 (1/2)

The cheapness and availability of gin made the spirit extremely popular with the poorer cla.s.ses and by the 1720s, London was awash with the stuff. Londoners didn't necessarily have to sit in a gin shop in order to obtain their daily fix. Bottles of the spirit could be purchased virtually anywhere. Street vendors sold it from barrows along the city's major thoroughfares and there were even reports of employers giving gin to their workforce in order to keep them in a compliant state of mind.

Setting up as a gin vendor in the early 18th century was a relatively easy task. No licence was required and there were virtually no restrictions on where or how the commodity could be sold. In 1734, Joseph Forward stood trial at the Old Bailey accused of theft. He was found not guilty of the crime, but the report of the trial demonstrates just how simple it was to set up as a gin seller. Forward's accuser (his landlady, Mrs Ann Chapman) stated in court that a sheet, two candlesticks and a pair of tongs had gone missing from her house after the defendant and his wife took lodgings with her while working at the annual Bartholomew's Fair a huge, annual extravaganza held in Smithfield over four days in August.

Chapman testified 'the Prisoner and his Wife hired a Room from me by the Week on the last Day of April. They staid till Bartholomew-tide, and then he set his Wife up in Bartholomew-Fair to sell Gin and Black-puddings.' Regrettably the Forwards' moneymaking scheme did not go according to plan. Mrs Chapman explained, 'some body stole (Mrs Forward's) Bottle of Gin, and then she was broke'. It was this misfortune that had apparently forced the Forwards into stealing Mrs Chapman's goods however, the jury did not believe her story and found in favour of the defendant.

Due to the excessive quant.i.ties of gin available, prices remained low and Londoners gradually became increasingly reliant on it to get through their day. Many poorer members of the populace would nip out for gin in the same way as we would pop out for a pint of milk today. Gin was an essential part of their daily diet and the resulting drunkenness began to have genuinely horrifying results. Sensational reports began appearing in the newspapers of drunken nurses mistaking babies for logs and putting them on the fire and inebriated mothers killing their children so they could spend more time in the gin shops.

By 1730, it became clear that the country (and London in particular) was in the grip of a gin epidemic and something had to be done to curb the public's insatiable appet.i.te for the drink. A previous attempt to control public consumption of gin through taxation had achieved little so the Government decided to introduce more drastic measures. In 1736, the second Gin Act was pa.s.sed through parliament. Ministers saw that those most addicted to gin were the poor and so they decided to raise the retail tax on the spirit to 20 s.h.i.+llings per gallon (it had previously run at 5 s.h.i.+llings per gallon). In addition to this, gin retailers were now required to take out an annual licence, at a cost of 50.

Generous rewards of 5 were to be awarded to anyone who informed the authorities of illegal trade. The idea behind the ma.s.sive tax increase and annual licence fee was to make gin prohibitively expensive, thus stopping the ma.s.ses from buying it. However, the retailers and distillers were not about to give up their lucrative businesses without a fight. Working on the (correct) a.s.sumption that very few members of the public would risk the wrath of their alcoholic neighbours by ratting on the gin suppliers, most gin shops continued to sell the spirit either under the counter or disguised as an exotically named 'medicinal' beverage. Popular brands at the time included 'My Lady's Eye Water' and 'King Theodore of Corsica'!

Unsurprisingly, the 1736 Act did little to stop the gin epidemic and if anything, consumption increased. Various solutions to the problem were discussed including an ill-advised campaign to encourage drinkers to switch to beer, using Hogarth's famous engraving 'Gin Lane' to ill.u.s.trate the perils of gin drinking. In the end, it was an economic crisis that ended the gin epidemic rather than any Government influence.

During the 1750s, a series of poor grain harvests pushed the price of gin's basic ingredient to an alarming level. As the cost of grain soared, workers were laid off and farmers began supplying the food industry instead of the gin distillers whose alcoholic beverage was not considered as important a commodity as bread. With growing unemployment and higher food prices, the public had less disposable income and so gin consumption began to fall dramatically. Seizing the opportunity to kill off the epidemic for good, the Government pa.s.sed yet another Gin Act, this time lowering the licence fees but severely restricting the number of outlets from which gin could be sold. This time, their efforts worked and by 1757 the gin craze was in its death throes.

However, gin never entirely disappeared from London's streets. Some gin shops survived the mid-eighteenth century recession in trade and by the dawn of the new century, London's burgeoning population was beginning to discover the delights of gin once again. As the city became increasingly overcrowded and living conditions deteriorated, the public sought escape through alcohol-induced oblivion. Seemingly oblivious to the horrors of the gin craze less than a century previously, the Government actively a.s.sisted the gin shop owners in attracting more custom by halving the cost of spirit licences and drastically cutting the duty payable on spirits. By 1830, around 45,000 spirit licenses were being issued in Britain per annum and production of gin had increased by over 50% in little more than five years.

As business took off, the gin shop owners began to give their premises a makeover. Realising that their customers needed a respite from their often dark, squalid homes, they set about making their premises as light and bright as possible. Their interiors were brilliantly lit and large, etched-gla.s.s windows were fitted to the shop-fronts so pa.s.sers-by were stopped in their tracks by the light flooding out onto the dark street. Inside, mirrors lined the walls to create a sense of s.p.a.ce and reflect the light. To the poor, these gin shops, with their bright facades and glitzy interiors were like palaces and became known as such. Charles d.i.c.kens visited some of London's gin palaces while writing Sketches by Boz (1836) and described the one thus: 'All is light and brilliancy... and the gay building with the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the plate-gla.s.s windows surrounded by stucco rosettes, and its profusion of gas-lights in richly-gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are two side aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, enclosed within a light bra.s.s rail, and bearing such inscriptions as ”Old Tom, 459”, ”Young Tom, 360”, ”Samson, 1421” the figures agreeing, we presume, with gallons...

'Beyond the bar is a lofty and s.p.a.cious saloon, full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it, equally well-furnished. On the counter, in addition to the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at the top with wicker-work to prevent their contents being unlawfully abstracted. Behind it are two showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the spirits and ”compounds”.'

d.i.c.kens' description of a gin palace in the 1830s is surprisingly familiar. To this day, the Victorian gin palace survives throughout London and beyond and with it endure the myriad pleasures and problems a.s.sociated with social drinking in Britain. The current alcoholic craze may not be for gin, but it presents the authorities with the same social problems as befell their predecessors. Despite the Government's best attempts, it appears that drinking to excess is an endemic part of British society and will never be eradicated.

While the gin palaces thrived, the old taverns were gradually being replaced by the forerunner of today's pub the beer house. In 1830, the Beer Act lifted restrictions on producing and selling beer and just like the gin palaces before them, beer shops began to spring up on street corners. Trade was good and successful shop owners expanded their premises, sometimes dividing up the bars into 'Public' (for the workers), 'Saloon' (for management) and 'Private' (for their most influential patrons). The most favoured tipple at the beer shops and public houses of Spitalfields was Porter, a dark beer that had been developed in the eighteenth century. London Porter was strong and got the drinker in an inebriated state without them having to spend too much money. Consequently, it became extremely popular with the working cla.s.ses: by 1835, The Black Eagle Brewery in Brick Lane was producing 200,000 barrels a year. Porter remained popular with the labouring cla.s.ses until World War 1, when grain rations all but prevented the production of strong beers in England and the market began to be taken over by Irish brewers such as Guinness.

By the 1850s, there were literally thousands of pubs, beer houses and gin palaces in London. In working cla.s.s areas like Spitalfields, there could be four or five down one street. Naturally, the sheer number of pubs, particularly in cities, made compet.i.tion fierce. Publicans sought new ways to encourage more customers through the doors and once inside, to stay for as long as possible. One of the most successful strategies involved putting on entertainment. An ever-increasing variety of acts were booked and nineteenth century drinkers could expect to be entertained by singers, jugglers, magicians, comedians, contortionists, the list was endless. It was from these pub entertainments that one of the most popular of all Victorian pastimes was born the Music Hall.

Music Halls were an integral part of the social lives of the working cla.s.s. However, they vanished almost as swiftly as they arrived. Despite the valiant efforts of a few music hall groups and distant memories of a television programme called The Good Old Days, the British Music Hall is now obsolete. This is in a way unsurprising because it epitomised a moment in history that is now almost beyond living memory. However, in its heyday, the Music Hall was an incredibly important element of society.

Music Halls first began to emerge in the mid-nineteenth century. In December 1848, a pub landlord named Charles Morton acquired the Canterbury Arms in Upper Marsh, close to Lambeth Palace. Morton had previously worked in theatre and decided to provide entertainment at his new pub in the form of 'harmonic meetings', where gentlemen were invited to come and listen to singers in an informal atmosphere. The harmonic meetings proved to be very successful and in order to increase business, Morton organised 'Ladies' Thursdays', which were so successful that he used the profits to build a new hall on the bowling green at the back of the old pub. The Canterbury Arms' motto was 'One quality only the best' and Charles Morton worked hard to maintain a high standard of entertainment. He employed an in-house choir and regular soloists to perform operatic favourites and guests were provided with baked potatoes (for which The Canterbury became renowned) to soak up the alcohol. In addition to the musical entertainment, Morton operated a bookmaker's from the pub to satisfy his guests who enjoyed a flutter at the races.

In 1856, Morton ploughed his profits back into the business and rebuilt The Canterbury in a much larger and grander style. The new building comprised a main hall and a gallery and was decorated in a sumptuous, palatial style. The walls were adorned with paintings of such quality and value that The Canterbury was nicknamed 'The Royal Academy Across the Water' by one of its patrons. Out went the baked potatoes as the new hall had large tables at which visitors were served a more varied menu.

The increased size of the stage meant that more ambitious productions could be staged. Gounod's Faust was sung for the first time in England at The Canterbury and Morton was responsible for introducing Londoners to the work of Offenbach. Not all the entertainment in The Canterbury was so highbrow; interspersed between opera and ballet performances were displays of tightrope walking, bicycle tricks and animal shows. It was this variety that became the essence of Music Hall as a genre.

Landlords across London took note of the success of Charles Morton's Canterbury Music Hall and soon similar establishments were springing up all over the capital. In 1857, Edward Weston converted the Six Cans and Punch Bowl Tavern on High Holborn into Weston's Music Hall and a year later, the Royal Panopticon of Science and Art in Leicester Square was converted into the exotically-named 'Alhambra Palace' and promptly let to an American circus because the owner, one E. T. Smith, could not obtain a theatre licence. However, a year later, Smith managed to obtain a licence and promptly gave the circus their marching orders. He then set about converting the interior into a theatre. The circus ring became the dining area and the original Panopticon organ, which had loomed over the hall for decades, was sold to St Paul's Cathedral. In the gaping hole that was left, Smith built a stage. The Alhambra Palace Music Hall opened in December 1860 and one of its first major attractions was a trapeze act performed by Jules Leotard, the man who gave his name to the style of dancewear.

Following the success of his first venture across the river in South London, Charles Morton decided to go west and in 1861, opened the Oxford Music Hall on the site of an old tavern called the Boar and Castle Inn, close to the junction of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. Morton used The Canterbury as a blueprint and The Oxford was an instant success. Spurred on by this, Morton decided to sell The Canterbury to a man named William Holland, who promptly redecorated the hall and invited patrons to come and spit on his new thousand guinea carpet! The sale of The Canterbury made Morton financially very secure, but this was to be short-lived as, a month after the sale went through, The Oxford was gutted by fire. Inadequately insured, Morton was forced to sell what remained of the building in an attempt to recoup his losses and never built another music hall.

By the 1870s, there were over 300 music halls all over London. Some were purpose built, like the Alhambra Palace and The Canterbury, others had been straight theatres in a previous life and others were literally the back rooms of pubs. The sheer diversity of the music hall venues meant that there was also a great diversity of talent. Obviously the established stars worked the larger halls almost exclusively while the less popular acts and artists still honing their skills were left to work in the smaller establishments.

This hierarchy provided a good training ground for would-be music hall stars and because the profession did not require any expensive qualifications it attracted a great many talented performers from less than privileged backgrounds. In fact, most of the stars from the heyday of the music hall were from Bethnal Green and Whitechapel rather than Kensington and Chelsea. The most famous star of all happened to be a cousin of Spitalfields landlord Johnny c.o.o.ney. Her name was Marie Lloyd.

Marie Lloyd was born Matilda Victoria Wood on 12 February 1870 in Hoxton. She loved performing in front of an audience from an early age and while still a child, toured with a minstrel group called the Fairy Bells. As she reached adulthood, Matilda realised that she wanted to make a career out of performing and thus began the laborious task of creating a fan base in the local music halls. Her first performance was at the Grecian Saloon in Islington where she sang a couple of songs under the exotic stage name of Bella Delamare. Matilda was paid nothing for this performance, but it did secure her a trial at Belmont's Sebright Hall in the Hackney Road. The proprietor was impressed enough to immediately offer her a week's engagement in return for the princely sum of 15 s.h.i.+llings.

Matilda worked hard at the Halls, sometimes appearing at three in one night and very quickly her career began to take off. The stage name Bella Delamare was dropped in favour of the simpler and apparently cla.s.sier Marie Lloyd and a star was born. By the time she was 18, Marie Lloyd had married a part-time racing tout named Percy Courtenay and had begun to frequent Johnny c.o.o.ney's pub in Hanbury Street after performing at the local music halls such as the Royal Cambridge in Commercial Street. It was probably here that she and her fellow artistes first met Dorset Street landlord, Jack McCarthy and his son, John.

It is not hard to imagine the impression Marie Lloyd made on John McCarthy junior, who at the time was still in his teens. Determined to mirror Lloyd's success, John junior changed his stage name to Steve McCarthy (probably chosen because his mother's maiden name was Stevens) and worked hard on his comedy song and dance act in the smaller halls. It was at one of these halls that he met the girl who was to change his life. Her name was Minnie Holyome but on stage she called herself Marie Kendall.

When Steve McCarthy and Marie Kendall first met, both were struggling to make a name for themselves. Due to his father's burgeoning bank balance and local social standing, Steve possessed a fair degree of confidence that Marie lacked. Although considerably more talented than Steve, she was from a poor home and her parents had struggled to support her in her quest for fame.

Marie Kendall was born in Bethnal Green in 1873 to parents of Huguenot extraction. The unusual surname of Holyome was a corruption of the French Alyome and like so many of the original residents of Spitalfields, her family had originally been skilled silk weavers. However, by the time Marie was born, the silk weaving trade was all but vanished and the family had fallen on hard times. Her father tried a variety of jobs, from fish curing to wood carving, in order to provide for his family and there never seemed to be enough money to go round. However, despite their poverty, the family was close, happy and determined to support their children in their choice of career.

The music halls played a very important part in East End society. As we have seen, most working-cla.s.s families endured exceptionally hard lives. By the time they entered their teenage years, they would be working up to six days per week for very little money. The lack of a good income meant that they were forced to live in dark, damp, cheerless homes that were often cold and overcrowded.

Like the gin palaces, East End music halls were designed to be the complete opposite of the audiences' homes. Bright lights illuminated their frontages and the interiors were warm and sumptuously decorated. These 'mini palaces' offered a much needed escape from life's daily grind at an affordable price (admission charges could be as little as 3d). Consequently, they were an extremely popular form of entertainment in Spitalfields and the surrounding areas.

Despite reasonable admission prices, a trip to the music hall was considered a treat for most families. In July 1886, little Minnie Holyome persuaded her mother Mary to take her to a local music hall to celebrate her twelfth birthday. Keen to give her daughter a night to remember, Mary Holyome sc.r.a.ped together the 12d needed for two seats in the front stalls at the Bow Music Hall on the Bow Road. On the bill that night were a turn called 'The Sisters Briggs' who entertained the audience with a song called 'Don't Look Down On The Irish' (a reference to the racist views held by some older members of the population.) Like most music hall songs of the period, this number had a simple, easily remembered chorus to which the audience were encouraged to sing along. Little Minnie picked up the melody quickly and sang along with such volume and enthusiasm that it stopped the Sisters Briggs in their tracks. After the performance, the Sisters came front of stage and told Minnie's mother that her daughter's exceptional singing voice could prove to be her fortune.

Mary Holyome took the Sisters Briggs' advice with a pinch of salt and took her daughter home, no doubt hoping she would forget what had been said. But Minnie didn't forget and pestered her parents to allow her to train as a music hall singer.

The style of singing in music halls was very different to popular singing today. Microphones were unheard of and artistes had to compete with noise from food and drink being served and an often boisterous and drunken audience. In addition, the songs' lyrics were often highly amusing satires on current affairs and so needed to be heard clearly. Consequently, music hall singers had to enunciate their words extremely precisely in order to be heard over the din of the auditorium. In addition to a good, strong voice and excellent diction, music hall singers had to be supremely confident.

Audiences were notoriously demanding and would regularly pelt artistes they didn't approve of with food, crockery or any other missiles they could lay their hands on. Terrified of the indignities their young daughter might suffer at the hands of the crowd, Mr and Mrs Holyome wisely packed Minnie off to J. W. Cherry's Music Hall Academy, Pentonville Road, for three months so she could learn the basics of performance. This act demonstrates how committed the Holyome's were to their children; music academies were not cheap and at the time, the family had very little money to spare.

Happily, the Holyome's investment in their eldest daughter paid off. Almost as soon as she completed her course at the academy, Minnie secured her first engagement, by coincidence at the same venue as her encounter with the Sisters Briggs. The concert had been staged to raise funds for local tradesmen and Minnie appeared as a male impersonator (a very popular turn at the time), performing three songs written for her by Fred Bullen, the orchestra leader at the Sebright Music Hall. Minnie impressed the proprietor so much that he engaged her for the following week for 18s.

Following her stint at the Bow Music Hall, Minnie (who had temporarily changed her stage name to Marie Chester) practised her act in a number of small halls throughout the United Kingdom. She also went on tour to Europe, appearing in Germany and Holland. On her return to Britain, she changed her stage name to Marie Kendall and continued to secure work as a male impersonator, appearing quite low on the bills. She also often took the role of Princ.i.p.al Boy in pantomime.

As she approached her twentieth birthday, Marie began to despair of her career ever taking off. She had little trouble getting work in the small halls, but was badly paid and those close to her felt her talent was being underused. In October 1892, she met up with her friend Flo Hastings and complained that her career was not going as well as she had initially hoped. Flo listened intently and then suggested that Marie should dispense with the male impersonation act in favour of 'going into skirts' (performing as a woman). In later years, Marie admitted that she didn't like Flo's advice but took it, feeling that she had nothing to lose. It was to be the best move she ever made.

Early in 1893, Marie secured a role in a drama called After Dark, which was playing at the Bedford Music Hall in Camden Town. A singer named Charlie Deane was also working at the Bedford, performing his. .h.i.t song One of the Boys, a laddish ditty that the male half of the audience loved. Marie and her mother heard the song and thought it would be wonderful if they could persuade Deane to write a female version. One morning, they b.u.mped into Deane at York Corner and Mary asked him if he would write the song for her daughter. 'She's a decent little turn,' said Deane, 'and if I can help her I'll be happy to do so'. So it was that Charlie Deane wrote One of the Girls and Marie Kendall got her first hit.

Over the following year, Marie's fortunes turned around. She secured herself a new agent and was soon earning 2 10s per week and playing to packed audiences at halls up and down the country. It was at one her many engagements that she met Steve McCarthy.

Marie Kendall and Steve McCarthy were married on 5 February 1895. Due to their Huguenot roots, Minnie's parents were understandably dead against her converting to her husband's Catholic faith, so the couple were wed at St Mary's, Spital Square; a Protestant church. Steve's sister Margaret and a friend named Robert Buxton acted as witnesses. Steve listed his father John as being a general dealer, a reference to their shop at 27 Dorset Street. Marie cheekily stated that her father William was a 'gentleman'.

By the time of their marriage, Marie Kendall was rapidly becoming one of the country's most successful music hall stars, while Steve had to content himself with having his name much further down the bill. At a time when very few married women enjoyed anything remotely resembling an independent career, Marie's success must have been a bitter pill for Steve to swallow. To his credit, Steve did his utmost to further his wife's career, even being responsible for the discovery of what was to become her biggest hit. However, privately he resented her success and the financial independence it afforded her and his resentment often turned to violence. Even on their wedding day, Steve attacked Marie in the back of a Brougham, cutting her forehead open; an incident that was to repeat itself throughout their married life.

Chapter 20.

The Landlords Enlarge their Property Portfolios.

As Steve and Marie embarked on married life, Jack McCarthy senior had to contend with marked changes in the way he ran his Dorset Street property. In 1894, the police handed control of common lodging houses over to the London County Council. This handover heralded a sea change in the way that this particular business was run. The police had long since regarded common lodging houses as the resorts of criminals rather than homes. Consequently, any inspections concentrated more on the list of inmates than the sanitary conditions therein. This had meant that landlords like Jack McCarthy were under absolutely no pressure to keep up any standard of cleanliness or hygiene.

Once the LCC took over inspections, everything changed. The council officials demanded that all walls in the common lodging houses had to be lime-whited and cleaned every six months 'to remove the evidence of vermin around the beds, etc.' In addition, the makes.h.i.+ft bunk-beds and oilskin mattresses were abolished in favour of proper beds and new, clean bedding. The mixed-s.e.x lodging houses (known colloquially as 'doubles') were also banned since they had long been recognised as being thinly disguised brothels. Most importantly, the new, cleaner lodging houses would be inspected on a regular basis by council officials.

This dramatic change in the way common lodging houses were run had a dramatic effect on the entire business. Many of the smaller lodging house keepers, especially those who rented the properties, simply could not afford to make the changes and gave their businesses up. Others saw a dramatic decline in revenue as their 'doubles' were closed down in favour of single-s.e.x accommodation.