The Stolen Whistle and Flute: Stitch Two

By George Major

George Major's story is a remarkable testament of resilience and determination. Abandoned by his mother in the 1940s, he embarked on a relentless quest to find her, fuelled by his deep connection to the vibrant pearly king tradition, which he knew was rooted in her family. Despite facing an abusive father and the chilling presence of his maiden

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Major
• Release date: Dec 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805413219

Book preview

THE STOLEN WHISTLE AND FLUTE

THE STOLEN WHISTLE AND FLUTE

STITCH TWO

George Major

Copyright © 2023 by George Major

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

ISBNs

978-1-80541-322-6 (paperback)

978-1-80541-495-7 (eBook)

978-1-80541-497-1 (hardcover)

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

In my first book, The Hidden Whistle and Flute – Stitch One, I told you of my tough childhood and that I was abandoned in 1940 by my mother who I have spent years so far trying to find. In this book, my search continues. I also told you how I was drawn into the Pearly Kings’ and Queens’ tradition from the age of seven, a tradition which was in my mother’s family, and of being raised by my abusive father and a truly terrifying Aunt Hilda. I was a terrified little deaf boy aged just four in 1942, dragged up in the smog-filled streets of London during the war. I simply wanted a name and a smile, food, clothing and somewhere safe to sleep, but those things fell on my young shoulders to search for, spending my early years on the dangerous streets of London, at least during the daytime, so that I could escape from the raft of abuse and beatings I was subjected to daily by my father and Aunt Hilda. Then, I told of my Del Boy character in the markets, which was, hilariously, interrupted by my spell in the army, where I never let my deafness prevent me from being involved. Finally, I covered my pearly lore and my one-man fight against hardships to serve my country in the portrait of my disappearing London. Now my story continues on how my childhood affected me for the rest of my life and takes you on a ride with me in my Pearly King’s adventure and its ups and downs. But stop! If you haven’t read my first book, then do so now before you read any further – I wouldn’t want you to miss any of the plot so far...

My new relationship with Uncle Fred and Auntie Vi, who I was seeing more of in Eastbourne, was getting stronger as they must have formed a better opinion of me than the brainwashing they were getting about me from Auntie Hilda. I was seeing them while I was in the army as it was not far from my army barracks on my motorbike. Uncle Fred had offered to teach me how to drive in his old jam jar (car) that I had bought from him, so, with any free time I had, I would travel down to Eastbourne from London by coach to see them and be taught how to drive the old jam jar by Uncle Fred, who had the patience to teach someone to drive – he needed to, I suppose, with someone like me. He took me miles around the Sussex Downs, an ideal place for hill starts as the brakes were knackered on the jam jar and so I had to learn to use the gears as a brake to slow me down. I always seemed to feel relaxed when going to see Auntie Vi and Uncle Fred. They had a daughter Anne and a son Richard but their son sadly died at the age of 16.

They were more of a loving couple, and Auntie Vi was also a very houseproud person and would wipe the clean lino behind you as you walked in. She was also very pretty, unlike her sister, Auntie Hilda, who looked more like a witch. Uncle Fred was a very handsome man who worked for his cousin in a factory making mattresses, mostly for the local hospital. From a very young age, whenever I was taken to Eastbourne by Auntie Hilda (which was very rare), along with my sister Joyce, I would help Uncle Fred in his factory. This was another way for Auntie Hilda to be rid of me, I suppose, while she gossiped with her sister, Auntie Vi.

I had been used to Uncle Fred teaching me things as he had already taught me as a young boy how to make a mattress and how to sew cloth buttons onto the mattresses. Perhaps that is where I got my sewing skills from for making my Pearly suits as well. At Uncle Fred’s factory, I used his eighteen-inch needle which I had to push through the mattress, tying the cloth button onto the top, then back again to the other side to sew on the other cloth button, then tying it up. Uncle Fred gave me bees and honey (money), with which I would then buy Joyce and myself some Eastbourne rock and ice cream and maybe a trip to the pictures. They were the past memories that I had with Uncle Fred in my young days, but now I was a 20-year-old and building on that past sad life, living and being brought up by a brutal father and a terrifying aunt who made me feel like the worst child in the world, a good for nothing, where each day, ringing in my ears was the phrase, Wait till your father gets home, and I knew what that meant – a heavy clout to my head and pushed down the stairs. Many times I felt like I was going to die, but from that day on, I was learning how to fall, and was also learning about me by teaching myself that I was not that person that my father and Auntie Hilda had branded me and was ready to prove otherwise.

I had already had some driving lessons from Uncle Fred while I was in the army and stationed at Crowborough in Sussex, which was about twenty miles away. I had bought the jam jar with part of my savings. I had done a good deal so I had no reason to complain about the jam jar’s condition, which was really falling to bits, but at least it was good enough to learn how to drive, and in those days, with a gallon of petrol only three old shillings – fifteen new pence – it made driving cheaper than today. I had been having driving lessons over a period of eighteen months in between my market work and my visits to my sister Violet at Tooting Bec Hospital, dressed in my Pearly suit to help raise funds. I was also being asked to give talks on our Pearly history, which was a bit rusty at that time, but we all have to start somewhere. I was giving talks mostly at the Derby and Joan clubs and women’s groups, so most of my free time was used up and what time I had left was used up taking driving lessons. I suppose what made my driving more interesting was the state of the jam jar. To start the jam jar, you had a starting handle which you would use to wind up the engine, so I had to hold out the choke with a peg, then wind up the engine, and when it started to turn over, I would rush to the driver’s seat to put my foot hard down on the throttle, take the peg from the choke as quick as I could and rev it up. After a few minutes, the engine would just tick over. Using the starting handle so often had given me extra strength in my arm muscles. Sometimes it would kick back and, if you were not careful, it could break your bloody arm. It sometimes took me as long as ten minutes to start the engine.

When it came time to sit my test, the address that I had used was Uncle Fred and Auntie Vi’s address in Eastbourne. So, when the appointment came for my driving test, it arrived at their address. The night before, I had left my jam jar outside the driving examination building as Uncle Fred would be working and could not take me and the jam jar for the test. I was not going to chance driving on my own with L plates. On the morning of the test, I had walked from Uncle Fred’s house, where I had slept overnight, and went into the examination building to inform them that I had arrived for my driving test. I was told to take a seat and wait for the examiner. While waiting, I was hoping that the examiner liked cockneys; if he did not, then there was a chance I might not pass my test. I had full confidence in my driving; after all, Uncle Fred had taught me and he was good.

George Major, a voice had shouted. How many times I had been called I don’t know but before me stood this red-faced, 50-year-old man who looked as if he had been calling me for quite a while. I am George Major, I answered as I stood up to reach the same height as the man who would take me on my driving test. He was slim and very smartly dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket and snow-white shirt with a Peckham Rye (tie) and wearing smart trousers above his highly polished black shoes. He introduced himself in a very high-pitched voice, which makes it more difficult for me to hear. What also did not help was that I was not wearing my hearing aids anymore as I was not happy with them because they made people aware that you were deaf. I was relying on lip-reading and you can’t lip-read while driving with your passengers. That’s why I am silent when driving, for safety, I suppose. So here I was in a right old two and eight (state). We walked to the jam jar then I was faced with another problem. The passenger door did not open and had been like that for some time as the lock was jammed, so, giving my examiner a cock and bull story about the passenger door, I asked him if he could climb over the driver’s seat to the passenger’s side, where there was a notice on the windscreen saying, ‘tax in post.’ In those days, we never had an M.O.T or the road rules that you have today, which was to be in my favour. In addition, my examiner was an easy-going type of bloke. We already had a deaf soldier; now I was to be the deaf driver.

With my examiner now safely in his passenger seat, holding his clipboard where he was to make his notes on my driving, I got into the driver’s seat in order to pull the choke out and put the peg on to hold the choke before I could use the starting handle to turn the engine over, but it just would not start. I asked the examiner if he could help by putting his foot hard down on the throttle and when the engine started, remove the peg and push the choke in slowly. He then got into my driver’s seat in order to help me. I turned the starting handle, which started the engine but it stalled again. So, I made another effort to wind the engine with the starting handle again. Now my driving examiner was in my driving seat with his foot hard on the throttle as I was turning the handle at the front of the jam jar. After three or four turns, it started for a few seconds then stalled again. I walked to the driver’s door and seeing the examiner had not put the choke in as I had asked, I said to him in a raised voice, You were meant to push the choke in when the motor started and that’s why it has bloody stalled!

I am not supposed to be helping you start your motor, he said.

I replied, God was not supposed to get Mary pregnant, but he did, and with that, he seemed to soften up a bit; perhaps he liked God. I then got to the front of the jam jar again and turned the starting handle, and, after a few turns, the motor started. I then shouted to him, Push in the bloody choke and keep your foot on the throttle. Then I rushed to the driver’s side, putting my left foot on the throttle as he took his foot off then climbed over to the passenger’s seat. He was quite pleased that he had helped me to get my jam jar going. I was now ready for my driving test. Before we go, I need to ask you a few questions, he said. He wanted to confirm my name and address, date of birth and to see my provisional licence. What part of London do you come from? he said. You’re not a local man.

Peckham, I said.

That’s where my family come from, he said. My brother still lives at the Peabody building on the Old Kent Road next to the World Turned Upside Down pub.

Love a duck, I said, I had my coronation there just over a couple of months ago!

Are you royalty, then? he said.

Yes, I am the Pearly King of Peckham.

Blimey! he said. What a small world we live in. My brother was at that coronation of yours and had told me about the good time he had that night. Now, let’s start your driving test, he said, so off we went.

As I was driving along following the jam jar in front of me, the driver was weaving from one side of the road to the other. I blew my hooter as it turned right without any signals or warning. In those days, we all used hand signals to indicate right, left or slowing down, as indicators were not in full use yet. I then shouted at its driver, Get some bloody driving lessons! and put my fingers up. Bloody drivers, I said to my examiner. Hope you don’t pass idiots like that!

Oh no, he said, with a smile on his face. Turn right here, he said, but I had not heard him, then he put his hand up indicating for me to stop. You should have turned right back there, he said.

Sorry, mate, I said, I did not hear you. I have a lot of wax in my ears. This was my go-to excuse for my deafness.

Ok, he said, just carry on.

After many wrong turnings due to my bad hearing, we had to pull up; we were lost. I now had to ask people the way back to the town centre, then halfway back, the worst happened – the jam jar stalled. Fortunately for me, we broke down outside a building site. I shouted out to the workers, Can you give us a push, boys? which they willingly did and as I let out the clutch in second gear, the jam jar started. Thanks, mate! I shouted, putting up my thumb to thank them. At last, we arrived back outside the Ministry of Transport Office to hear the results of my driving test. Well, how did I do? I asked my examiner.

Well, he said, I must admit that I have never been through a nightmare like this before. It was an experience that I have never before encountered and I will never forget this day. I can’t fail you on your cheek and I can’t fail you on your confidence. I can’t fail you on your driving and finally, I can’t fail you on this test. So, you have passed and it’s been nice knowing you. Good luck to you in the future and keep up the good work as the Pearly King.

Well, I just could not Adam and Eve (believe) that I had got away with it and I was glad that it was a Cockney examiner who did understand us Cockneys. I drove home full of pride at passing my test the first time. I have had a clean licence since. So now, I no longer had to return to London by coach. I had my own transport and driving licence and drove back to London feeling quite proud of myself. I pulled up outside Granddad Fred’s flat in Peckham and went up the apple and pears (stairs) to his first-floor flat. On seeing him, I asked him to have a butcher’s (look) out of the window. See that, I said to him, pointing to my black jam jar, this is our new transport for our market work. I have passed my driving test!

Then Brian came over to the window to have a butcher’s as he had just come home and had overheard our conversation. It’s not taxed, he said.

How do you know? I said to Brian. He then said,

Well, for a start, it has a notice on the windscreen that says, ‘tax in the post,’ and for a second, I can’t see George Major giving the Government bees and honey; am I right?

Yes, I said. Anyway, come on, let’s go out for a drive and buy tomorrow’s stock from Whitechapel.

Granddad Fred was not my granddad but an old Costermonger and I respected him, and Brian was our copper’s nark, a lookout for Old Bill, and Granddad and myself called him the plonker. So all three of us jumped into my old banger. Brian climbed from the back passenger’s seat because the front passenger door did not open. With Granddad Fred holding out the choke with his foot hard on the throttle, I started to turn the starting handle on the engine from the front. Granddad Fred got into the back seat as we drove away heading for Millsands in Whitechapel, East London.

Having arrived outside Millsands, a Jewish wholesaler whom I became friends with, he told me that he had many ladies’ stockings that were rejects and that some were of colour, but the price would be right for me if we took the lot. In those days, the craze was stockings; there were no tights like today Then we inspected the boxes of ladies’ stockings, and altogether he had about two thousand pairs. Around half of them were all right but the other half was damaged. Some of them had a foot missing or one leg was shorter than the other, with others twice the length of the standard size. I put in a price for the two thousand ladies’ stockings, based on a price of three old pennies a pair. The retail price of ladies’ stockings at that time was nineteen pennies a pair. Therefore, it would give us a good return for our bees and honey. The problem was getting the two large boxes into my jam jar, so I suggested that Brian got into the passenger’s seat in the front by climbing over the back seat. As he was tall, Granddad Fred got into the driver’s seat to hold out the choke and put his foot on the throttle, as I wound up the engine to start it. After I got the jam jar running, I told Granddad Fred to get into the rear passenger seat. Then I began to unload all the packets of ladies’ stockings from the two big boxes and packed them around him and Brian. By the time I had finished loading the jam jar, it looked as if Granddad Fred and Brian were swimming amongst the stockings fighting for air, so I told them how sexy they looked amongst the stockings. When we arrived home, I opened the rear passenger door to let Granddad Fred out, and half the packets of stockings fell out with him onto the frog and toad (road). We spent the next half an hour carrying them up to his flat to sort the good from the bad, and the bad from the very ugly.

The next day, we set up our barrow to flog our ladies’ stockings for twelve old pennies, that’s one shilling a pair. One of the rules when flogging dodgy goods is to be ready for any complaints with the best patter you can give. We had laid out our packets of stockings on our barrow with the good stock to one side for the O.A.Ps and poor, and the bad stock for the ones who we thought had a few bob or who’s face did not fit. Then Brian started doing his bit as the copper’s nark, which left Granddad Fred and me doing the flogging. Top quality ladies’ stockings, pure English breed at a shilling a pair, once in a lifetime bargain, can never be repeated again. The price brought down to you because they all fell off the back of a lorry! As we were calling out, the queue was getting bigger and longer, with our stockings selling like hotcakes. Some of the ladies were buying up to two pairs at a time, and at this price, we were onto a winner. Come on, girls, show your pretty legs off with our stockings and prove that you have the best legs in Peckham. Genuine English-made quality. Then, unexpectedly, which took us all by surprise, a lady with a plum in her mouth shouted out at the top of her voice for all to hear, while holding up her newly purchased stockings, My stockings have a foot missing! At that point, you have to be quick with the right answer or you can lose the queuing crowd of eager buyers. I shouted back for all to hear, Sorry, ducks, that was for a one-legged woman and we have given you the wrong pair, hoping that all the women in earshot had heard me. They must have done as each one we served kept saying, Two legs, please. After giving the complaining woman a good pair, she wanted some more stockings and we said, Sorry, ducks, they are on ration.

But the war has been ended for years, she moaned.

That may be so, I said, but the war with your kind is still on! From experience, I knew she was worth a few bob, so we did not want too many like her. We would be out of business and on the rock and roll (dole). We sold two thousand pairs in a day and a half, which left many women with one leg.

Later on that same year, my mate Bruce, a car dealer, had a three-wheel Reliant up for sale. Having liked it, I asked him if he would do me a deal and take my car in exchange for the Reliant. For your one, I’ll give you a score for your old jam jar.

Now, you’ve got to do a better deal for me, Bruce. My one has four wheels and your one has three bloody wheels! After a lot of wheeling and dealing, I came up trumps I had a deal for selling London smog in mind. In the winter months in the old days, we had thick smoky fog in London, known as the London smog. A lot was written about our smog and how people lived with it, and that it caused many deaths, so I had in mind a way of cashing in on this and my three-wheeler was to make an earner out of it. American tourists who had come to London had a compassion for our history and would buy anything that reminded them of their visit to London to take home with them. The following day, I said to Brian, Go out tonight and get all the empty half-pint milk bottles before the milkman collects them and put them in our garage.

Brian said, What if people ask what I’m doing?

I said, Just tell them that you are the new milkman, you plonker! But what if they ask where my milk float is?

Just say it’s round the next street and you wanted to stretch your legs!

The next morning, Granddad Fred and I went to our garage and opened the doors. We were bowled over with a garage load of half-pint bottles. That afternoon, all three of us were washing the bottles and making caps to fit the tops and making labels to go on the bottles. Having done that, the next morning, we set out with the bottles in my three-wheeler to Oxford Street to give the Americans the bargain of a lifetime.

There were a few American army personnel stationed around the A40 in those days and they used to come to the city. Armed with dozens of half-pint milk bottles, collected by Brian the night before from people’s doorsteps before the milkman had risen from his bed, we set up our suitcase in Oxford Street to give the Americans a real Cockney bargain of a lifetime, with the labels stuck around the half-pint milk bottles saying, ‘Pure Genuine London Smog, a dollar a bottle’. Granddad Fred and myself were shouting our sales patter; Don’t go home without a bit of genuine Cockney London smog, one dollar a bottle! As we were flogging them, Granddad Fred was going around the corner to get more bottles of our London smog. Brian was smoking himself to death and keeping the car engine running, which was pushing out the smoke fumes from the exhaust pipe into the bottles, then he was sealing the tops of the bottles and placing labels on them. The London smog was giving us a hundred per cent profit, with the three of us making a good day’s living. Poor Brian had to have two days off recovering from the smoke and fumes he had inhaled in his lungs. We refused to give him sick pay, making a point of reminding him that he was on the rock and roll anyway, which was enough to cover him for his sick pay.

So, my jam jar was becoming a good investment as it gave us the opportunity to trade further and further afield from Peckham and to spread our wings throughout all the London markets and beyond. We would even camp out all night in the jam jar, with the hope of making a claim to the best pitch, or a vacant spot if another trader had not turned up for one reason or another. In those days on the markets, it was survival of the fittest, at which I have had plenty of practice anyway in my younger days.

It was 1927 when life for the market trader had started to be made a bit easier when Stepney Council had started to issue street licences, governing who would be able to sell where, and that spread throughout London. Petticoat Lane, with its mass of side streets, made it one of London’s biggest and busiest markets. It was mostly the Jews who pitched up there, but even that market had its problems, as the Christian churches were complaining and were up in arms about Petticoat Lane’s Sunday trading as it was the Christian church’s day of prayer that was being misused. So, it was not just the council or the Old Bill that did not want the markets but the churches as well, who saw that the Jews and the market traders were taking the church’s customers. That is why, even today, you will find church people in every Sunday market, trying to win back the souls of the market customers.

London and its way of life were built on the market scene. Where else could you get the real-life Cockney patter and character of the Cockney slang and the tongue that gives you the real charm and entertainment for free? Markets were full of fun and laughter with the busker joining in as well. It was a place where you could never find yourself alone and what a sight at night seeing the stalls in a mass of blue glow from the Madhya lamps and how the humour surrounded you, but the markets have changed since we were working on them. If it was today and we carried on in the same way, we would have been locked up and the key thrown away. Gone is the laughter, the fun and the patter, the character and charm, with the good old cheeky Cockney tongue. That has all been replaced with an army of inspectors and busybodies, with the council cashing in charging the market trader too much for their pitch and making the council rich and the trader poorer. In doing so, they are running them out of the street market and leaving them to gather dust. I still have no love for the councils or the Old Bill that drove the true market trader to the ground and buried that history. With the old market character gone forever, you can still hear many people recording those old memories when they could unwind and listen to the Cockney patter of the street trader. How they entertained themselves, the victims being sold something that they had not planned to buy. My idea of a good market is to begin your travel at one end of the market, then find yourself buying your own clothes back on reaching the other end.

One of my last court appearances at Tower Bridge Magistrate’s Court was what I always called the winning tickets. It all started when Granddad Fred, Brian and myself were playing snooker in our usual snooker hall in Rye Lane, Peckham, for some bees and honey, against three other street traders. In between games, we were told that when the Old Bill nicked us from now on for illegal street trading, not only would they take us down to the station to be bailed to appear before the old garden gate (magistrate) the next morning, but now they would also take whatever we were flogging as well. That was bad news for us street traders. For most of us, our bees and honey was all tied up in our stock, so that would leave us broke and abandoned. The following day, we saw this happen to a trader from Brixton. The Old Bill took him and his stock in a Black Maria, a closed police van for prisoners, and that was the final proof to us that this was real. This needed action if we were to survive, as this would cripple us. So, the fight was on between us, the council and the Old Bill. I had to come up with an idea and a plan of action that I had to put to some street traders along with Brian and Granddad Fred. After approval of my plan, we had a whip round to cover the cost, that being the fine that you had to pay for illegal trading. So, in the early hours of the morning, we pushed our barrow to Spitalfields wholesaler market in Commercial Street, Whitechapel, to buy anything that would be cheap and to fit in with part of my plan. We searched the market and we came across some sacks of cauliflower, which turned out were only suitable for porter’s money. We asked the wholesaler what he wanted for them and told him our plan. The wholesaler said that we could have them for