ABSTRACT

When I was about six or seven years of age, I used to go to Spitalfields market and collect waste potatoes. A lot of us kids would go together, through the Wheler Street arch. When you came home from school mother would say, ‘Go and see if you can get some potatoes. Take that sack and I don’t want any specky ones.’ Or a child would say, ‘I’m going over the market, are you coming?’ They’d take a little barrow; the father might make ’em one - an orange box with a couple of pram wheels underneath to help it along. It made an ideal cart. That was one of the chief things for a boy, years ago, to have a cart. The market porters were friendly - they would tip the sack o f potatoes out, knowing the kids would come over. There were some good cockneys up at the market, when they saw us they would shout, ‘Here’s the kids, come over ’ere.’ They were real market people - they knew the kids was hungry. You might get half a bag of potatoes, even tomatoes, but potatoes were more valuable than tomatoes because they were something you could cook easy. When you got home you’d sort them out. You’d run home and shout, ‘ ’ere you are mother.’