The Worst Street In London Part 6

By 1903, all lodging-house keepers were required to register their properties every year (previously one, initial registration had been sufficient). In addition, each lodging house had to be equipped with certain facilities. For example, a lodging house accommodating between 60 and 100 people had to provide one water closet for every 20 people and all lodgers had to be provided with towels. Previously, landlords had got away with one or two water closets for the entire house so the provision of extra toilets meant that s.p.a.ce had to be converted for the purpose.

The provision of towels also proved a headache. Most of the lodgers were not too interested in personal cleanliness and many were infested with lice and other creepy crawlies. In 1908, the council had to pay for 32 women lodgers from the Salvation Army Women's Shelter in Hanbury Street to be washed at the Poplar Cleansing Station. Consequently, the towels they were given quickly became infested and the lodging house keepers were faced with the old problem that laundries refused to take them. Washing usually fell to some of the local women who, in the absence of appropriate washing facilities, usually made the towels dirtier than they had been before they were washed.

The new laws also made it illegal for lodging houses to be unattended between the hours of 9pm and 6am. This may have proved problematic for the more rural establishments, but the nature of the Spitalfields residents had long since made it necessary for a deputy to be on-site constantly while the house was in use.

The new laws attached to common lodging houses prompted the writer Jack London to investigate them while researching his book The People of the Abyss. Instead of asking local policemen about conditions and touring the area with an armed escort, London decided to experience the lodging houses from the inside. His comments following his research prove that he learnt far more about the problems a.s.sociated with the lodging houses than any councillor could ever hope to. At the time of Jack London's research, there were 38,000 registered common lodging houses in London. London noted: 'There are many kinds of doss-houses, but in one thing they are all alike, from the filthy little ones to the monster big ones paying 5% [to investors] and blatantly lauded by smug middle cla.s.s men who know nothing about them, and that one thing is the uninhabitableness.'

Jack London went on to describe one of the lodging houses he stayed in, in Middles.e.x Street, Whitechapel: 'The entrance was by way of a flight of steps descending from the sidewalk to what was properly the cellar of the building. Here were two large and gloomily lit rooms, in which men cooked and ate. I had intended to do some cooking myself, but the smell of the place stole away my appet.i.te... A feeling of gloom pervaded the ill-lighted place.'

London beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen and decided to go and pay for his bed. After surrendering his money, he was issued with a 'huge, bra.s.s check'; his ticket, which had to be surrendered to the doorman upstairs before venturing to the sleeping quarters. Once upstairs, he gave a brilliantly observed description of what a typical lodging house bedroom looked like at the turn of the century: 'To get an adequate idea of a floor filled with cabins, you have to merely magnify a layer of the paste-board pigeon-holes of an egg crate till each hole is seven feet in height and otherwise properly dimensioned, then place the magnified layer on the floor of a bar-like room, and there you have it. There are no ceilings to the pigeon-holes, the walls are thin and the snores from all the sleepers and every move and turn from your nearer neighbours come plainly to your ears.'

By the beginning of the 20th century, changes to lodging house regulations showed that the powers that be were at least making some effort to improve the lot of the very poor. However, many of the streets in which the lodging houses stood had gained such a nefarious reputation over the years that mere mention of their name caused a sharp intake of breath. In a rather desperate bid to rid the worst streets of their appalling reputation, a council official suggested that a name change might help and so it was that, in 1905, Dorset Street changed overnight into Duval Street. No explanation exists as to why the name Duval was chosen, although it may have been selected to evoke memories of the long departed Huguenot silk weavers that populated the street during happier times. Not surprisingly, the name change did little to improve the general ambience of the street.

In addition to the more stringent lodging house regulations and Dorset Street's name change, the council also attempted to improve the surrounding area. For decades, the churchyard of Christ Church (which was opposite Duval Street, across busy Commercial Street), had been the unofficial meeting place for numerous local drunks and prost.i.tutes. At some point in the past, benches had been placed along the pathways, the intention being that the churchyard could be used as a place of quiet reflection. By the turn of the century, Christ Church churchyard was anything but. Violent rows broke out among the gravestones. Monuments were used as makeshift privies. The benches were used as al fres...o...b..ds and those that reclined on them were so filthy and verminous that the churchyard was known locally as 'Itchy Park' a reference to the constant scratching undertaken by its users.

The problems a.s.sociated with Itchy Park were raised at a London County Council meeting in July 1904. A few months previously, a children's playground had been laid out to the rear of the churchyard. However, parents had complained that in order to gain access to the play area, they and their children had to run the gauntlet of drunks and prost.i.tutes that lined the pathway. The rector of Christ Church (one Reverend W H Davies) was consulted and his representative at the council meeting reported that 'young girls openly ply their prost.i.tution in the churchyard and fights between women are frequent. The people who monopolise this garden are not ordinary poor people, but of the cla.s.s who habitually refuse every opportunity of improving their circ.u.mstances. The result is that the garden which might be of so much use in this densely crowded neighbourhood is a veritable plague spot.'

In its wisdom, the council decided that Itchy Park should henceforth be only accessible to children under 14 years old (and their guardians) during the summer months and that anyone designated to patrol the park should wear a uniform. It is not recorded whether or not this ruling was successful in the short term. However, it should be noted that decades later, musician Steve Marriott wrote about Christ Church churchyard in the Small Faces cla.s.sic song Itchycoo Park. Even if the council managed to rid the park of its verminous visitors, it seems that it failed to erase its nickname.

While the LCC tried its best to begin erasing all traces of the Duval Street area's seedy reputation, subtle changes in the way the street was run were also taking place. On 28 February 1907, landlord William Crossingham, who owned a considerable amount of property in Duval Street and the neighbouring Whites Row and Little Paternoster Row, died of kidney disease at his home in Romford. All property was pa.s.sed to his wife, Margaret but tragedy struck a second time, when just four months later, she succ.u.mbed to breast cancer. The Crossinghams' deaths resulted in all their property being taken over by a builder named William Hunnable. Hunnable continued to run the properties as lodging houses, but Jack McCarthy had lost his long-term neighbour and closest ally.

Chapter 23.

The Beginning of the End.

William Crossingham's death marked the beginning of the end for Duval Street. Increased regulations and regular inspections from the LCC meant that lodging houses were no longer cheap to run and any lodgers that were halfway decent had deserted the area for the suburbs. The only tenants left were those who lived on the very margins of society. Circa 1908, H. A. Jury described the frequenters of women's lodging houses for a council meeting: 'A good proportion are prost.i.tutes, but others are street-vendors and perhaps charwomen, but they all have some vice, even if it is no worse than laziness. It is clear they do not like work. Many pay others to wash their clothes for them and cook their food.'

This aversion to work caused many problems for the landlords as the number of lodgers with the means to pay for a regular bed got smaller and smaller. The area became utterly dest.i.tute. Any visitor to the area would never have believed that Duval Street was once the lively centre of a thriving weaving industry. Women lolled around outside the doors of their lodgings, men drank from morning till night and children ran around the streets in little more than rags. The area looked more like the Third World than part of one of the planet's wealthiest cities. Young men continued to prowl the area in gangs and violence between rival groups remained commonplace. However, by the beginning of the twentieth century, gang warfare took on a deadlier twist as guns became more freely available if you knew where to look.

Local gang member Arthur Harding remembered being involved in a confrontation in Duval Street circa 1907. An a.s.sociate named George King had been arguing with Duval Street resident Billy Maguire and asked for Arthur's help: 'He [King] took me down Dossett [Duval] Street because he wanted to do a fellow named Billy Maguire... I fired at him but Kingie got the blame of it, not me.' Guns were rapidly replacing knives as the gang members' weapons of choice and Duval Street would echo with gunfire intermittently until its final demise.

The criminal fraternity that populated the lodging houses and furnished rooms of Spitalfields was also changing as the new century began. Jewish families that had fled to Spitalfields from Eastern Europe during the closing decades of the nineteenth century had now firmly settled themselves in the area. However, in a bid to escape the grinding poverty endured by their parents, some of the children of Jewish immigrant families resorted to exploiting their neighbours.

Crime throughout the city was gradually becoming more organised and the way was slowly being laid for the likes of the Kray and Nash families to follow. Like many young men before them, Jewish lads from Spitalfields soon found that good money could be made from illegal gambling, extortion and prost.i.tution. Jews that made a living from running prost.i.tution rings were referred to as 'shund.i.c.knicks'. Probably the most fascinating and well known shund.i.c.knick of the era was one Isaac Bogard, known colloquially as 'Darky the c.o.o.n' on account of his curly hair and dark complexion.

Bogard was born in Mile End Old Town in the early 1890s to Russian parents. Contemporary reports suggest that he possessed a quick brain and a courageous nature and no doubt would have excelled in legitimate business, had he been given the opportunity. However, like so many poor East Enders before him, he found criminal activities were much more widely available. By the time he was in his late teens, Bogard was known for inflicting violent a.s.saults on those who wronged him and was described by rivals as vicious. However, despite his obvious flaws, Bogard was also one of the most flamboyant characters of his era. Long before Westerns were popular, he styled himself as a c.o.c.kney urban cowboy and patrolled the streets dressed in a shirt open to the waist and a wide-brimmed hat, with a gun stuck down his belt. Contemporaries even claimed that he cultivated an American accent.

It wasn't just Bogard's apparel that was eccentric. News reports of his exploits also reveal unconventional behaviour. In 1914, the East London Observer reported that after violently attacking a man with a hammer, Bogard bent down and kissed him before running off. A later article tells of how he attempted to ward off police who were trying to arrest him by climbing onto the roof of a nearby outhouse and pelting them with tiles. There is no doubt that Isaac Bogard was unruly and involved in various criminal activities. However, his fearlessness was invaluable during World War 1, where he was allegedly awarded a medal for outstanding bravery.

Chapter 24.

Kitty Ronan.

Criminals like Isaac Bogard tended to stick with their own and generally pestered only Jewish stallholders and shopkeepers for protection money. Behavioural studies also suggest that the brothels they ran were primarily aimed at Jewish men. Therefore, the landlords of the other lodging houses were largely unaffected by the rise of the Jewish underworld. The world of Duval Street continued as normal, in more ways than one.

One day a young woman marched into McCarthy's shop and asked if he had any rooms to let. As it happened, the upper room of number 12 Miller's Court was available and so the woman paid her deposit and moved her meagre amount of belongings in. Little did McCarthy know that this woman would be at the centre of the most strange and terrible coincidence within a matter of weeks.

Kitty Ronan was a young woman of Irish descent and the daughter of Andrew Ronan of Antill Street in Fulham. Like most girls of her station in life, Kitty received virtually no education and by the age of 14, went into service. However, this mundane way of life proved not to suit Kitty and by her early 20s she had found her way to the East End where she tried her hand at a number of jobs including flower selling and clothes laundering. When Kitty was unable to earn enough money to pay the rent, she took to prost.i.tution.

By the time Kitty Ronan appeared on McCarthy's doorstep, she had taken up with a man named Henry Benstead, a news vendor who sold his papers on the main thoroughfares of Spitalfields. She and Henry moved their meagre possessions into the top floor of one of the now crumbling cottages in Miller's Court and tried to enjoy their new life together as much as was possible in such dreadful conditions. However, money was always short and soon Henry's paltry earnings from selling newspapers was not enough to cover the rent. In desperation, Kitty took to the streets.

In the early morning of 2 July 1909, Henry Benstead left his drinking partner at Spitalfields Church and walked across the road into Duval Street and then turned into the narrow alley that led to Miller's Court. On arriving at the front door of number 12, he noticed it was ajar and as he reached the top of the rickety staircase, he realised that the door to his shabby room was also open. Henry pushed the door and stepped inside the room. Due to the absence of any artificial light in the court, it was pitch black. He quickly lit a lamp and noticed that Kitty was lying on the bed, fully clothed. He greeted her but received no response. It was then that he noticed a thick swathe of blood around Kitty's neck that had flowed down into the bed linen.

Henry Benstead shot out of the room, through the court and into Jack McCarthy's shop screaming 'someone has cut Kitty's throat!' In a scene almost identical to that 21 years previously, Jack McCarthy calmly sent for the police, no doubt cursing the fact that this latest murder would attract unwanted attention to his business affairs yet again.

Henry Benstead's histrionics had woken a good few people in Miller's Court and morbid curiosity got the better of many, who climbed the stairs of number 12 to get a look at the body before McCarthy could stop them. Once inside, they found a small penknife, the blade of which was quite blunt, lying on the floor soaked in blood. John Callaghan, a stableman living at Mary Kelly's old address, picked it up to save for the police.

Early in the morning of 2 July, an ambulance arrived to take away Kitty's body. As they had after Kelly's murder, the police interviewed everyone in and around the court. As usual, no one had seen or heard anything untoward. However, two witnesses did come forward and told police that they had seen Kitty go into her room at about midnight with a stranger. About twenty minutes later, the stranger came out of the cottage and, after looking about him in a rather furtive manner, walked out of the court in the direction of Commercial Street.

Despite having a couple of vague descriptions of a suspect and a possible murder weapon, the police's enquiries quickly went cold and many officers a.s.sumed that this, like the murder of Mary Kelly in 1888, would go unsolved. However, 16 days later, events took an unusual turn.

On 18 July, a man calling himself Harold Hall walked into a police station in Bristol claiming to be the killer of Kitty Ronan. Naturally suspicious, the police asked him why he should want to do such a thing and Hall told them the following story. On the evening of 1 July, he had gone to the Sh.o.r.editch Empire for an evening's entertainment. After the performance finished, he came out of the theatre and began to walk down Commercial Street, where he met Ronan plying her trade. She suggested they go back to her room and Hall agreed. Once inside, Kitty asked Hall to light a candle and, while his back was turned, busied herself with rifling through his pockets.

As Hall turned with the lit candle, he caught Kitty with her hand in his jacket pocket and immediately grew incensed as not long before he had been robbed of 30 whilst in a similar situation. According to Hall's story, he grabbed his pocket knife and plunged it into Kitty's neck, killing her almost instantly. Realising what he had done, he fled the cottage leaving the bloodstained murder weapon lying on the floor beside the bed. That night, he walked to Limehouse where he got a bed at the Sailor's Rest lodging house under the name of Johnson.

The police felt that Hall knew an awful lot of details about the story and decided it was worth remanding him in custody and sending him to London. Once back in the capital, Hall was put into an ident.i.ty parade and one of the witnesses picked him out as the man he saw with Kitty on the night of the murder. Hall was charged with murder and imprisoned pending the trial.

The police were no doubt relieved to have seemingly solved this dreadful murder but by the time of the trial, they had grave doubts as to whether they had the right man. Under cross-examination by the defence counsel, the witness who had picked Hall out in the ident.i.ty parade admitted that he had been suffering from a severe hangover at the time and was now unsure that Hall was the man he had seen with Kitty. Another witness was called who claimed that the penknife allegedly used in the murder was exactly the same as one that he and Hall had found whilst working in a paper sorting warehouse. The man claimed the blade was distinctly damaged and this was how he could identify it without doubt. The only problem with this testimony was that it was never conclusively established that the penknife was indeed the murder weapon.

Despite very flimsy evidence, Hall was found guilty. The judge sentenced him to death but the sentence was never carried out and it is unknown what eventually became of Harold Hall. Miller's Court was once again the venue for a murder for which the motive and the perpetrator would be unclear. At the trial it was discovered that Harold Hall was a lonely drifter without friends or close family who had been deserted by his parents at an early age. Did he really kill Kitty Ronan or was he a troubled, lonely man desperate to gain acknowledgement through notoriety?

Despite Duval Street's terrible reputation, the fact that the crumbling properties stood on land in such close proximity to the City meant that they were still worth a considerable amount of money to their owners. In 1910, the Government decided to a.s.sess the capital appreciation of real estate by individually surveying every property in every street in every town. This mammoth undertaking was known as 'Lloyd George's Domesday' and never got completely finished. However, the vast majority of London was surveyed and Duval Street was no exception. By this time, Jack McCarthy owned or leased huge tracts of the road including numbers 2, 3, 4, 8 on one side and numbers 26, 27 (including Miller's Court,) 28, 29, 30, 31 and 31a on the other. In total, these properties were valued at 6,170 a very substantial sum of money despite the fact that most of them were falling to pieces. It transpired that the Valuation Survey was timely. In 1914, the City of London (Various Powers) Act was pa.s.sed which granted the Corporation of London the power to finally widen the streets around Spitalfields Market that had been causing problems for so many years.

The freeholders and leaseholders of properties in Duval Street were all contacted to ascertain whether or not they were in favour of the proposed extension even though there was a good chance that their property would be subject to a compulsory purchase. Jack McCarthy voted in favour of the extension. This might on the surface sound surprising because of his long-standing business interests in the area, not to mention that fact that Duval Street had been his home for nearly 40 years and the place in which he had raised his children. But Jack McCarthy was not a stupid man. He realised that trade was in decline and that the market expansion would go ahead despite any reservations he may have had. His decision to support the expansion was finally cemented when, on 18 February 1914, his wife Elizabeth succ.u.mbed to bronchitis and died at home in the upstairs rooms of 27 Duval Street.

Elizabeth's death marked the end of an era for Jack McCarthy. His children were grown up and able to look after themselves and his old friend and colleague William Crossingham was dead. He was also getting old himself and in his mid-60s, no longer had the energy to a.s.sert the constant control one had to wield over the unruly ruffians and gangs that proliferated the area. It was time to retire and Duval Street was about to lose its most influential resident.

Jack McCarthy's retirement from the day-to-day running of his businesses was swiftly followed by an event that would have a much greater effect on Duval Street than any number of gangs or town planners could ever hope to achieve. On 4 August 1914, the Prime Minister announced that German troops had invaded Belgium. A b.l.o.o.d.y and devastating world war was about to begin that would change the face of Duval Street, Spitalfields, London and all the towns beyond forever.

Chapter 25.

World War 1.

Following the declaration of war, it soon became clear to the Government that more men were needed to fight. In August 1914, the British Army comprised approximately 250,000 regular troops. In contrast, the German Army had 700,000 soldiers and was considered the most efficient war machine in the world.

On 7 August, the War Minister, Lord Kitchener, began a ma.s.sive recruitment campaign where he tried to persuade male civilians between the ages of 19 and 30 to join up. Keen to defend their country from the fearsome Hun and ignorant of the horrors that war could inflict, many young men complied with Kitchener's request and by mid-August, an average of 33,000 men were joining the army every day. This initial flurry of enthusiasm was encouraged further when, at the end of August, the age limit was raised to 35 and by mid-September, half a million men had volunteered.

The casual labourers and market workers that resided in Duval Street and its surrounds were extremely keen to sign up as it offered them an opportunity to do something far more constructive with their lives than their current employment could ever offer them. However, at first many were thwarted in their attempts to join the army, which had certain regulations regarding who could enlist. All new recruits had to be at least 5'6" tall with a chest measurement no less than 35 inches. Many of the poor Spitalfields dwellers had been raised on a very bad diet and consequently were undernourished and small in stature. However, they received a second chance when, in 1915, volunteers began to reduce so the army relaxed its regulations to allow men over 5'3" to sign up.

The age limit was also raised to 40 and by July 1915, the army decided to create what were colloquially known as 'Bantam Battalions', which consisted of men measuring between 5' and 5'3" in height. Many men from Spitalfields and the surrounding areas joined battalions of the City of London Royal Fusiliers. Local boy Arthur Harding later remembered seeing inebriated new recruits gathering at Columbia Road Market before marching off to Waterloo Station bound for training camps in Aldershot. Many of these men were destined never to return.

Although Spitalfields became caught up in the fervent patriotism that was universally prevalent during 1914 and the early months of 1915, there were many men who did not rush to join the queue at the recruitment office. These men had many reasons for not joining their friends and colleagues. Some were fearful of fighting, others objected to war in principle. Most thought it irresponsible to leave their families as they were often the sole wage-earner whose job it was to care not only for their young families, but also for elderly and sick parents. This reluctance by a large proportion of eligible men to join up was country-wide and so the Government hatched an elaborate plan to change these men's views.

The War Propaganda Bureau was set up and amongst other tasks, was a.s.signed the job of persuading more civilian men to join the army. The Propaganda Bureau responded with a highly sophisticated PR campaign that centred on the promotion of fervent patriotism combined with dissemination of terrible stories citing the horrific barbarism of the German army. Popular writers of the time were invited to produce pamphlets that were distributed around the streets. This resulted in the production of persuasive tracts from eminent authors such as Rudyard Kipling, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Arnold Bennett. A highly effective poster campaign was also launched and large businesses were encouraged to set up their own recruitment drives. The Manchester Guardian newspaper for example offered the following privileges to employees who decided to sign up: Four week's wages from date of leaving.

Re-engagement on discharge from service guaranteed.

Half pay during absence on duty for married men from the date when full pay ceases, to be paid to the wife.

Special arrangements for single men who have relatives entirely dependent on them.

Most of the recruitment drives organised by the Propaganda Bureau were successful but some of their schemes were heavily criticised. One such scheme was the creation of the Order of the White Feather. This organisation was set up in August 1914 by Admiral Charles Fitzgerald who believed that he could shame men into signing up. Young, attractive girls were encouraged to patrol the streets and hand out white feathers (signifying cowardice) to any man who looked the right age to fight. The main problem with the concept of the Order of the White Feather was that the young girls had no idea of their victims' backgrounds. Many men that were given white feathers had previously failed the army physical. Many others had resisted joining because of personal tragedy, for example the death of a wife or child. The delivery of the white feather simply added to their misery by making them feel guilty.

Of course, these recruitment drives and PR campaigns cost money and with a hugely increased number of new soldiers to pay, the Government coffers soon began to look decidedly depleted. In a bid to significantly increase their funds, the Treasury introduced the War Loan scheme, a savings plan designed to prop up the economy for the duration of the war. Local businesses, unions, friendly societies, clubs and even private individuals were encouraged to invest money in the scheme. Following a national appeal, the Costermongers' and Street Sellers' Union, whose headquarters were in Spitalfields, generously invested virtually all its funds 800 in the fund. However, not all Spitalfields workers were quite as keen to help the war effort. Some time later, Joseph Goldberg, Joseph Coen and Abraham Applebrook were summoned before a judge accused of selling potatoes at a rate above the fixed price. It is not clear whether the three men were members of the union.

The army recruitment drives also had their detractors. In August 1917, Myer Gritzhandler Smerna, a 27-year-old warehouseman from Spitalfields, was arrested with two a.s.sociates for using 'insulting words and behaviour'. The Times reported that, 'The evidence of two constables was that the men formed part of a crowd of 150 outside the Aliens' Registration Office in Commercial Street at 10 o'clock on Tuesday night.' Mr Smerna's friend cried '**** the army, I am not going to join' and Smerna concurred loudly and enthusiastically. The crowd didn't take too kindly to the men's outburst and in the words of The Times reporter, 'became very hostile towards the prisoners. The Police had considerable trouble getting them to the station.' Smerna and his a.s.sociate were subsequently bound over to keep the peace, the judge sagely noting that they could have found themselves in a very dangerous situation had the police not intervened.

Following the ma.s.sive recruitment drives of 1914 and 1915, London's demographic changed considerably. A vast number of men aged between 19 and 40 vanished from the streets. In some areas, the entire male population vanished. Consequently, businesses that relied on these men suffered considerably and none more so than the common lodging houses.

The average age of a male common lodging house resident in Spitalfields before 1915 had been 35. By 1916, the lodging houses had been emptied of virtually all their labouring clientele and were left with older men and women. The landlords tightened their belts and hoped that the war would soon be over.

In Spitalfields, the landlords were not the only people to be affected by the sudden disappearance of the younger men. The prost.i.tutes also found their trade was severely affected. They had no choice but to lower their prices and find trade where they could. Now with much more time on their hands, they sat and drowned their sorrows in the pubs alongside the lodging-house deputies, the old men and the wives and girlfriends of men away at the front.

As pubs increasingly became a place of refuge for those affected by the sudden disappearance of all the younger men, the Government became concerned at the level of alcohol consumed by the remaining proletariat. Work at munitions factories (which were essential to the war effort) was being constantly disrupted as the beleaguered workers turned up either drunk or severely hung over.

The amount of alcohol consumed by women was of particular concern: A survey of four London pubs revealed that in one hour on a Sat.u.r.day night, alcohol was consumed by 1,483 men and 1,946 women. Keen to resolve this growing problem, the Government announced in October 1915 several measures they believed would reduce alcohol consumption: A 'No Treating' Order meant that pub visitors could only buy drinks for themselves. Taxes on alcohol were raised significantly and pub opening times were reduced to 12pm 2.30pm then 6.30pm 9.30pm. Previously, pubs had been allowed to open from 5am until 12.30am.

These new measures had a huge effect. In 1914, Britain consumed 89 million gallons of alcohol. By 1918, this figure had fallen to 37 million. The number of people arrested for being drunk and disorderly also decreased dramatically. While this was good news for the Government and the local police force, it spelt more bad news for the lodging-house landlords, many of whom (such as Gehringer and c.o.o.ney) owned pubs and relied on drunkenness and alcoholism to fill their beds each night.

Although Londoners' drinking habits were forcibly changed during World War 1, the food they ate remained much the same despite the German navy's attempts to starve Britain into submission. By 1916, German U-Boats were patrolling the seas and destroying about 300,000 tons of shipping per month. In response, Britain became much more self-sufficient and for a while this worked very well indeed although potatoes, sugar and meat proved hard to obtain. This was the one piece of good news for men such as Jack McCarthy who subsidised their losses in the lodging houses by hiking up the prices of the food and household essentials they sold in their shops. They also made a point of being publicly pessimistic about how long Britain could cope with having so much imported food destroyed by the Germans, thus creating panic buying.

Panic buying was not just a feature of London's poorer streets. By the end of 1917, most civilians were genuinely fearful that Britain would soon run out of food. Their panic buying created a food shortage in itself and so in January 1918, the Ministry of Food introduced rationing on sugar and meat.

By this stage, many of the poorer families who had relied on their young husbands and brothers for an income were becoming desperate. As thousands of men died in b.l.o.o.d.y battles fought across French fields, thousands of families back in Britain lost their only source of income for good. Others received their once healthy menfolk back home having been discharged through injuries, some of which were horrific. For poor families, this was worse than receiving the dreaded telegram that informed them of a death as they now had to care for another person, who was often severely disabled.

Many thousands of Londoners suffered terrible injuries from bullets and sh.e.l.ls during their time at the front. However a significant number of servicemen also endured the effects of a deadly new weapon that came in the form of gas. One man who witnessed the horrors of a gas attack was Jack McCarthy's only son, who had been doing his bit for the war effort by entertaining the troops in France.

In April 1915, the German army stationed at Ypres began firing chlorine gas cylinders at French troops. At first the soldiers noticed yellowy-green clouds of smoke coming across the battlefield. Next they noticed a curious smell that seemed reminiscent of pineapples mixed with pepper. Seconds later, they experienced severe chest pains and a burning sensation in their throats. Once the gas had invaded their respiratory systems, it quickly attacked their lungs and the men slowly asphyxiated. Chlorine gas was used numerous times by the German Army and despite frantic efforts to save the victims, doctors could not find any successful treatment. By the end of the war, nearly 2,000 British soldiers had died from the effects of chlorine gas and over 160,000 had been injured by it.

Following the 'success' of chlorine gas attacks, the German Army looked for an even deadlier gas to unleash on the Allies. They found it in mustard gas and in September 1917, they launched their first attack with this devastating weapon. Mustard gas was the most lethal chemical weapon used in World War 1. It was very difficult to detect as it had no odour and took 12 hours to take effect. However, it was devastating for those who breathed it in. Soldiers exposed to mustard gas experienced blistering skin and very sore eyes. Soon after, they were violently sick. As the effects of the gas took hold, they experienced internal and external bleeding followed by the slow stripping of the mucus membrane from the bronchial tubes. Death could take up to five weeks and the soldier's decline was slow and utterly agonising. Many had to be strapped to their beds to stop them thrashing about and their horrific death throes proved highly distressing for the medical staff caring for them, many of whom were young girls.

As the war raged on, those left in Britain began to despair of ever seeing an end to the conflict. London had been surrounded by a ring of barrage balloons in mid-1918, which effectively halted any aerial a.s.saults from German Gothas because it was very difficult to fly the planes over the top. However, the people were becoming increasingly dispirited. Hardly any families escaped the despair of receiving a telegram telling them that a loved one had been killed. Many others were trying to cope with caring for their husbands and sons crippled from war and unable to work. Life had been tough before 1914. The outbreak of war had made it almost unbearable. As usual, those who suffered the most were the very poor. They tried to remain upbeat for their boys still at the front, but for many it was difficult, especially when they received word from the soldiers who themselves were becoming very dispirited. Charles Young, who served in France, told an interviewer in 1984: 'One day I was in the trench and we'd been under attack for days. Well, two blokes with me shot themselves on purpose to try and get sent home and out of the war. One said to me "Chas, I am going home to my wife and kids. I'll be some use to them as a cripple, but none at all dead! I am starving here and they are at home, so we may as well starve together." With that, he fired a shot through his boot. When the medics got his boot off, two of his toes and a lot of his foot had gone. But injuring oneself to get out of it was quite common'.

While self-inflicted injuries were not unusual, some men took an even greater risk that of desertion. Deserting the Army during World War 1 was dangerous to the point of being foolhardy. Firstly, most men were in a foreign land where they did not speak the language, know the geography or understand the culture. Secondly, they not only had to escape from their army, but also from the enemy. Finally, if they got caught, they would most likely be court-martialled and shot. Despite these risks, some men did run away and a few actually managed to get away for good, although the fact that they had left their mates in the trenches must have severely played on their conscience for many years afterwards. In total, 304 British soldiers were caught and, after a court martial, were executed by firing squad.

Henry Morris, a bookmaker's clerk from Spitalfields, had a lucky escape from the death penalty. At some time during the course of the war, Morris had deserted and found his way back to London where he probably would never have been discovered had it not been for his failure to resist his criminal tendencies. Late in 1918, Morris attempted to steal a pocket book from Walter Stacey while riding on an omnibus down Kingsway in Holborn. Unfortunately for him, he was caught red-handed and promptly arrested. Had Morris been arrested one year previously, it is highly likely he would have faced the firing squad. However he was extraordinarily lucky and despite being found guilty, was only sentenced to three months hard labour.

Desertion was not the only offence punishable by death. As the war became more h.e.l.lish, officers became less tolerant of their subordinates. Seventeen men were shot for cowardice, four for disobedience and two were executed for falling asleep at their posts. Some men escaped the death penalty only to suffer Field Punishment Number One, a terrifying ordeal whereby the offender was tied to a post or tree for up to two hours a day, sometimes for months on end. Often, the post to which they were tied was within range of enemy fire.

Horror stories from the battlefield made their way back to Britain and by the early months of 1918, soldiers and civilians alike were desperate to find an end to the conflict. Little did they know that a new horror was on the horizon that would do more damage to civilians than the Germans and their allies could ever have hoped to achieve.

In spring 1918, large numbers of soldiers serving in France started to suffer from headaches, sore throats and high fever. This virus was extremely infectious but only lasted about three days. Doctors decided the soldiers had flu and the illness became known throughout the trenches in France as Spanish Flu (although it probably originated in the US).

For a few months, this new strain of influenza did not make much of an impact on the battlefield. However, as summer approached, the symptoms suddenly got a lot worse and victims began to develop pneumonia, septicaemia and heliotrope cyanosis; a condition where the face turns blue. Nearly all the men that developed heliotrope cyanosis died within a few days.

Of course, soldiers carrying the influenza bug returned to Britain and in May 1918, the virus appeared in Glasgow. It soon spread south and in the next few months, it killed more people than the cholera epidemic of 1849. The poorer areas of the country were particularly affected by the flu epidemic and Spitalfields was no exception. Panic spread among an already exhausted population as the Government took preventative measures in an attempt to halt the virus. Streets were sprayed with chemicals designed to kill the bug and people began wearing masks outside. Some factories waived their no-smoking rules as they thought that tobacco smoke might kill the virus. The newspapers offered bizarre advice on how to avoid catching it. On 3 November 1918, the News of the World told its readers: 'Wash inside nose with soap and water each night and morning; force yourself to sneeze night and morning, then breathe deeply; do not wear a m.u.f.fler; take sharp walks regularly and walk home from work; eat plenty of porridge.'

Unsurprisingly, the newspaper's advice had no effect on the spread of the disease and 228,000 people throughout the UK died.

As Britain was in the grip of the flu epidemic, some hopeful news arrived via Woodrow Wilson, the President of the United States. On 4 October, the German government appealed to Wilson for a ceasefire. In response, Wilson produced the 'Fourteen Points Peace Plan', which set out the conditions under which the Allies would accept a surrender from the Central Powers (namely Germany, Austro-Hungary, Bulgaria and Turkey). An agreement was finally reached on 11 November 1918 and all territories occupied by the Central Powers were abandoned.

News of the war's end was received in London with huge relief. Crowds danced in the streets and families eagerly awaited the return of their boys. However, the servicemen would return to a very different place to the one they had left. London had changed forever. In some streets, one whole generation of men had been wiped out by war. In others, soldiers returned to find their wives and children dead from the flu epidemic. Many ex-soldiers found that although they had left the battlefield, the battlefield refused to leave them. They suffered from anxiety attacks, mood swings and nightmares. In total, 908,371 British soldiers were killed or injured during World War 1. Far more bore psychological scars that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Chapter 26.

The Redevelopment of Spitalfields Market.

Back in Spitalfields, the residents and landlords of Duval Street had known their days were numbered ever since the LCC saw the benefits of widening the roads around Spitalfields Market. World War 1 brought a temporary halt to any development works but it didn't stop council inspectors from slapping condemned notices on the derelict cottages in Miller's Court in 1914. As the war progressed, these notices became largely ignored as no one from the council was around to enforce them. However, as Britain began to recover after the end of the war in 1918, the redevelopment of the market streets resumed.

Just before Christmas 1921, notices concerning the redevelopment of Spitalfields Market were sent to all owners, lessees and occupiers of properties in Duval Street. As part of the redevelopment programme, the Corporation of London proposed that Duval Street be widened so lorries and carts could have better access. In order to do this, the whole of the north side of the street (including Miller's Court) would be demolished and Little Paternoster Row (a narrow alley leading to Brushfield Street) would, in the words of the Corporation, be 'stopped up'. Time pa.s.sed by as the Corporation of London and the LCC discussed how best to approach the proposed redevelopment. As meeting after meeting was arranged, the common lodging houses and furnished rooms in Duval Street continued to attract the same cla.s.s of people they always had. This did not escape the notice of the council officials who were keen not to make the same mistakes as their predecessors. They wanted to change the ident.i.ty of the area surrounding Spitalfields market for good, not just move the undesirable residents across the road to the south side.

Finally, after much deliberation, the Corporation of London began work on a western extension of the market in 1926. For Jack McCarthy, the writing was on the wall and it was only a matter of time before he would have to vacate the mean, vicious little street in which he had made his fortune, brought up his family and become a truly powerful influence. Despite its dreadful reputation, Duval Street was Jack McCarthy's home and it held as many good memories as bad. In addition to this, McCarthy was now an old man and it was with a heavy heart that, in 1927, he locked the doors of his properties, loaded his belongings into a van and headed for a new home near his son in Clapham, South London.

Since his encounter with mustard gas, Steve McCarthy had experienced chronic problems with his health. His marriage to Marie Kendall had been destroyed through a combination of Steve's liking for members of the fairer s.e.x and several violent a.s.saults on his wife; on more than one occasion, he had threatened to kill her. Consequently, the couple had lived apart on a semi-permanent basis since around 1910. Jack McCarthy's arrival in Clapham meant that father and son could care for one another, which is precisely what they did until Jack's death in 1934.

Virtually as soon as Jack McCarthy had left Duval Street, the demolition crew moved in and the north side of the little street that had gone through so such a long decline finally felt its death throes. The once-proud eighteenth-century silk weavers' houses had their hearts torn out as workmen ripped away the ornate fire surrounds, flagstone floors and slate roofs. The fine oak panelling that lined their rooms was dismantled and carted away. The elegant front doors were removed and the sash windows, some of which contained the original gla.s.s were taken out. The bloodstained walls of Mary Kelly's old room were reduced to rubble as were the walls within which poor Kitty Ronan's body was discovered.