ABSTRACT
We were some o f the last ones to be put out o f the Nichol.1 We settled down in Drysdale Street, a little turning at the back of Old Street police station, in Hoxton. It was about 18951 think. It was a three-storey house, and we had one room in the front. I can remember it very vividly. There was a pub opposite - the ‘Red Cow’ - the ‘Blue Cow’2 - something like that. And there was a wood-yard there.3 I can remember that because there was a horse and cart standing outside and I got a potato or an apple and I was feeding it and it bit half my bloody fingers off. All round them streets there were small cabinet-makers (a cabinet-maker could have a room and turn the work out from there, good cabinet-makers and all) and I screamed and my finger was all pouring with blood - part of it was hanging - and one o f these cabinet-makers went and got his glue-pot and glued the bandage on (for years after the top part of my finger was a different colour from the rest, though there’s no sign of it now). I remember the pub too. I remember sneaking in there with my sister Mighty looking for my mother and father. We went in and there was the two of them knocking whiskies back. I found out, many years after, that they’d been up to the county court to get the money which was compensation for my accident. It was only ten pounds, but it was a fortune to them.
