It was summer and
the money kept rolling in. I’d pitch the paste table weekends - the Greek guys
always giving me room - pay the Toby and work hard with the selling. I was
good. Very good! No trouble from anyone. The police always passed by with a
smile and our savings began mounting up. Soon we were importing more and more
stock, paying the VAT duty and freight. Then it was tax. It didn’t matter. Soon
we found our way into a main central London market on Sundays all official. The
only problem there were the other traders. Resentment writ large! My wife sold
stuff hand over fist and the notes were only too visible. People liked the
stuff on our stall and walked past the others. The regulars were not amused!
On the Bridge at
Camden everything ran along fine. The money big and invariably the same. The
street inspector took it all in and was pleased. Always asked me how was doing
but I’d learned from the Greeks to be cautious. Nosey bastard they said when I told them. You tell him half!
I told him half okay but he knew better. It was the
height of the tourist season. They came to Camden weekends in droves and Sunday
was heaven. The bastard knew and saw everything. The time came on his round
then that we had to pay more. The ‘rent’ that went into his pocket doubled. I was making enough wasn’t I so what was an
additional tenner? He was right. Even twenty was nothing. Twenty a day that
is. We tried to work out how much he was taking. The Greeks had their own
ideas. Stalls both sides of the street and in some of the side roads. It must
be a packet. Close to three grand a week. More than a Prime Minister I
whistled! Even so everyone paid. Nobody liked it but tough. If you weren’t
earning money you shouldn’t be there. Anyway, we ought to be grateful and were.
Forty’s a favour he liked pointing
out. It was bearable for me but a whole lot less for the brothers. Two pitch
tables and the tally was eighty. They didn’t like it one bit I could see.
October-November
blew wind, rain and cold. Takings went down by half so the tax to the Toby
seemed bigger. Never mind, Christmas was coming. Lissos and Andros told me
about it. Shit in a paper bag time! You could sell just
about anything. The last week in November was El Dorado. I’d have enough fifty
pound notes to keep me warm in the winter.
It was the third
week of the month when we all got the news and the word ran round like
wildfire. Fly pitcher to fly pitcher, bottom end of the drag to the top. The
Toby was doubling the rents. What again?
Forty a pitch for the day and just for a table! If you had anything bigger you
were looking at eighty. Forty a day, eighty the weekend! I could afford it. For
others it wouldn’t be easy. Still, the big weekend was ahead. No-one would drop
out now and the bastard well knew it. Eighty quid! As the phrase went, Christmas was drinks money. Give the
Toby a drink. Have a drink on us as
it used to be said because that’s all he ever got from the shop owners.
A few people
complained on the Saturday and weren’t there the following day. He needed to
make an example and the fly pitchers didn’t like that. The man had the power.
No-one needed reminding. Keep your mouth shut and pay. Christmas was coming!
Anyway, eighty for the weekend wasn’t such a big deal when you were pulling in
thousands. That was the word down the street, muttered with increasing
cynicism. The Toby needed a drink. The price of his beer was rising for
everyone. Rumour had it the man lived in a mansion. It was definitely known he
had a Mercedes. Someone had seen it!
The Greeks were angrier
than anyone. They’d stopped loving him long ago anyway. They’d be forking out a
hundred and sixty. The bastard was taking the piss. I told them to cool it. I
was a friend. There was nothing we could do. It was like they’d once told me. No pay no trade. They still didn’t like
any of it. On the Sunday I heard noise coming hard on my left. One of them
called him a parasite. Even so they’d laid out the money, picked up as I
watched without a smile or a sound. The brothers with hard looks on their
faces. It was okay for an innocent like me, green to the gills when I’d taken
their spot. I hadn’t known any better. But him! A real effing b. He was taking
the piss and no-one ever did that to Greeks. The man was making it personal.
I tried talking to
them. It was business I said. Same for everyone. Nothing about it was
personal.
Lissos got angry.
The man was a parasite, taking blood money. It
was personal for them. I wasn’t disagreeing I said. They were right and everyone
knew it, but that was as far as it went. We couldn’t do anything. None of us
could.
Half way through
the afternoon something strange happened. I remember it well. Some police
walked by the stalls, one of them looking before moving on. Why look? They knew
what we sold on the Bridge! It happened again before packing up time. Different
faces. No-one saying a word and no easy smiles either. I felt uneasy so I could
imagine what it was like for the others. The Toby letting everyone know he had
power and they were fuck nothing. He could get rid of you with a word. These guys are giving me trouble Mister
Policeman…
With the Greek boys
on fire I dreaded to think what would happen. Next week was the big pay day at
the end of November. For fly pitchers and regulars the biggest weekend of the
year, the time that made everything worthwhile. On the Saturday I made a mint,
left my ‘rent’ on the table and gave the man a big smile. By midday Sunday
takings turned into an avalanche. Tens of thousands of people and stock pouring
out of our boxes. I couldn’t sell fast enough but was still doing a pretty good
job. Close to five the Toby rolled up. He was late. He looked at the twenties
I’d laid out and bent his head over my ear. Something
for his wife would be appreciated. Forty more would be fine. I gave him a
look. Neutral no more. I didn’t like it at all but business was business. I
couldn’t let it get personal. I pulled out another two twenties. No problem. Everything fine, I purred,
keeping my feelings in check.
Good boy, he nodded, letting me get on taking money.
I didn’t hear
anything happen at first, just a few sounds. Soon they became a commotion. I
shot a glance left. There was a small crowd, more noise and the sound of
something big going on. It was the Greeks! They’d grabbed hold of the Toby,
Lissos with his hands on his collar, his brother shoving him hard round a table.
They’d give him something for his wife
she wouldn’t expect, Lissos was shouting.
They’d give him a real fucking drink…
I dropped the tree
I was selling and rushed to their tables. Three men in a serious scuffle with
the Toby half over the parapet. Bastard…
Bastard… the brothers were yelling. It happened in seconds. A big heave and
he’d gone. Before I could blink there was a mighty big splash down below.
Everyone looked over the top. There he was in the water like a dirty fat
turtle, shouting his head off. And serious as it was I burst into laughter. I’d
forgotten my sales, forgotten just about everything. I couldn’t help laughing
and the Greeks along with me. The trading inspector bobbing about like a cork
in the filthy canal was a sight for sore eyes. We watched for a while joined by
hundreds of others. Soon someone pulled him out with a boat hook and he
disappeared into Camden Lock Market. Would he call the police or wouldn’t he?
No-one was sure.
In the event no-one
in uniform turned up. Maybe the money he took spoke louder than words. No
police, no trouble so we just carried on selling. By the time my wife arrived
to help me pack up, my pockets were packed out with bundles. We stalled down
then she went for the car. Meanwhile me and the Greeks kept shaking hands,
chuckling and laughing. We’d given the Toby a drink he’d never forget!
The following
Saturday the fly pitchers set up on the High Street like nothing had happened.
The story had made the rounds all the way down the drag. The boys on the Bridge
were famous. We got many a handshake that day. Trading first class then the man
came round for his money as usual. No police, nothing said. I had my ‘rent’ on the table. The full whack he wanted,
and so did the Greeks. No threats exchanged, everything neutral. We paid, he
simply took.
Our spirits rose.
He’d kept quiet! Nothing would happen! He was content taking the money. It made
sense. After all it was business. Nothing
personal… It wouldn’t do him any
good making trouble. The day was a blinder. Huge crowds and everyone spending.
By midday the fly pitchers on a real roll. Today the Toby was early. Sundays he
usually pitched up around three, today he was collecting at one. Money laid out
same as ever. Not a word said.
It was only at two
that we noticed the silence. The street full of people only no usual roar of
the traffic. I went to look for a moment. On the left near the Rail Bridge a
line of police had blocked off the road. Jesus, there were dozens of them. It
was the same to the right as I looked down the High Street. Vans all over the
place and loads of London’s finest in blue. And from that direction I could
hear a whole rumpus going on.
The Greeks were
soon alongside me. Left and right there were police just about everywhere. Then
they moved onto the road bridge and out of holdalls came giant black bin
liners. “Trading illegally,” they were shouting, “we’re confiscating your
stock.”
Half a dozen had
surrounded our tables. At mine one took the cloth at each end, bundled it
together and swung everything into a bag. I got a really bad look. I could go
down to the Station next week if I wanted. I might get my stuff back but then
maybe not. Trading without a licence was a serious offence.
No-one resisted. We
couldn’t. They moved fast along the whole drag clearing everyone out. Well over
a hundred fly pitchers bagged up. The Toby had taken his ‘rent’ for the day
then closed us all down. It wasn’t over yet. We all got a warning. If we turned
up again we’d be arrested. They didn’t want to see any of us there again… ever!
I couldn’t even think
of the guys standing next to me or even the Toby. I still had holdalls of stock
under the table. They couldn’t have seen them or I’d have lost three times as
much. More important was losing the three crucial weeks before Christmas. Going
back was out of the question. Our dreams of big money at Camden were stuffed.
With all the fly
pitchers bagged up the police piled into the vans and left. It had been a whole
scene, and what a performance. Hundreds of players and thousands of extras, punters
all on their way to Camden Lock Market. This time I had nothing to put away.
Just a paste table to fold and bags to keep my eyes on. I shook hands with my
friends. It had been good while it lasted. I can’t repeat everything they said,
only that one day we might meet again. Anyway they hoped so. We’d been good
pals working together. It never happened.
An hour later I was
in a taxi on my way to Covent Garden, my wife amazed I’d turned up. I explained
what had happened. We’d lost Camden and part of our stock. “You’ve got the
other three holdalls?” she enquired. I looked at her then across at her table.
It was two thirds empty! She’d had an absolute blinder. “Eighteen hundred,” she
whispered. I almost passed out. Quick, we had to get more stuff onto the table.
Empty my bags fast as we could. For the rest of the day we’d both sell
together.
We did. What with
her takings and mine we’d had a miracle day.
Okay, now you know
the whole story. How we began our street trading career as fly pitchers and how
the trading inspector got a free drink. Years later, when we were firmly
established on markets, become all respectable, we looked back to our time
chancing it out on the streets. We’d lost part of our street cred and part of
our edge and saw it all through a nice rosy glow. It seemed, dare I say it,
kind of romantic. My wife was completing her doctorate in London and there was
me writing novels, and yes we’d fly pitched, which for those who don’t know is
flicking dead bluebottles out of your window onto teenagers below in the
street!
THE END… And so they came into the promised
land… A land of plenty. And they could do all the things they ever wanted in
life.
AS IT WAS DONE SO LET IT BE WRITTEN!
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