The Grind

1. Semi-criminal and illiterate

1

SEMI-CRIMINAL AND ILLITERATE

Outsiders with a critical eye judged residents of Dorset Street down to the very last soul. Registered on the only official map in existence as semi-criminal and illiterate, they were at an immediate disadvantage. Sandwiched behind Spitalfields Market, Dorset Street was a place best avoided. Everybody said so. This, of course, only made it more attractive to those of a certain disposition.

Although there really was no need to take the risk. It was a simple matter to position yourself on the corner with Commercial Street. From there, you could see it all, without getting involved.

First glance would take in the towering, soot-blackened, cash-generating doss-houses - intimidating places that were easy to get lost in because the owners asked very few questions. Whenever darkness fell, they were havens catering to the transient flotsam and jetsam that working ports specialised in.

At first glance, Dorset Street always looked frantic, chaotic. It needed a second look to see that there was room for a little humanity.

Relief existed in the form of public houses both ends of the street. A keen eye would also notice, midway down on the north side, a third drinking establishment. Its sign declared it to be The Blue Coat Boy.

Towards the far end of the street, at Number 7, there was a general store. Now, this place did stand out. It was freshly painted, with polished windows and crates of goods stacked up outside. Its inviting appearance was in stark contrast to the soot-caked filthy buildings either side of it.

One man owned both The Blue Coat Boy and the store. He also had control of two of the largest doss-houses. Old Thomas was a natural entrepreneur. He had built up his little empire in the toughest street in the metropolis, and kept hold of the reins. An achievement that can only be marvelled at.

Thomas had fingers in many pies, friends in many places and an assortment of criminals he could call on when the legal route seemed pointless. He belonged to the alternative community within the community. Long-term residents who played to their own rules. Who felt at home, who liked it here.

If anything, Thomas was pleased by the reputation thrust on Dorset Street. It made it easier for him to conduct his more delicate business dealings, though he wasn’t so thrilled that it was the first port of call when the police were hunting villains or stolen goods. However, he adapted as each situation demanded. You had to round here. Every evening, as dusk fell across the grimy cobbles, those who had scraped together lodging money headed for the sleeping quarters where Thomas’s minions awaited them, prepared to cater for an impossible number of men, women and children.

The long-term residents had endured the conditions for so long, they barely noticed the stench, the fleas, the constant state of high tension. Some had been born here; they actually felt more comfortable the worse things became. Newcomers to the fold were often prepared to accept intolerable conditions when they realised it came with the lifestyle.

Dorset Street never really slept, and many thought Thomas never slept, either. He was always there, from 5am for the first trade, until 2am for the last. He grabbed sleep if it presented itself, which was usually where he sat. He was a permanent fixture at the counter of the store. He watched the crowds stream past the window and seemed able to tell who was going where, no matter how busy it got. The more superstitious among them believed he knew where they all were at all times.

Thomas knew his success depended on putting in the hours. Before dawn, he liked to observe the able-bodied men walking downhill to the dockyard gates. They hoped to be offered a twelve-hour shift in back-breaking conditions, for which they were paid just enough to repeat the whole sorry process for one more day.

By contrast, the long-term residents did not rise particularly early. They had no desire to seek work on the dock. Many spent the whole day in the street, under the permanent shadow of high, dirty, black walls. They liked being hemmed in on the east side by the endless traffic bustling along Commercial Street and to the west by the newly constructed, red brick night refuge.

These anonymous souls drank and gambled, or dozed and rested. They watched each other and waited for darkness. They were visible if anyone cared to look. But with so many rumours abroad, few showed any desire to look closely. Hordes of men could stay here and be effectively invisible to the real world, just staying put until night fell. Then they could disperse, creating mayhem, the ripples of which affected many people right across London. Plotting was how most in Dorset Street filled their days.

The bell of the store rang satisfyingly every time the door was pushed open. It had done so for years. Ever since the Polish man had owned it before Thomas. He had been a lovely old boy, everybody said so. Now he was dead and Thomas had taken his place.

The little shop, with its crates of fresh produce stacked high on the pavement, seemed to do a roaring trade. There was a steady stream of what could be described as customers, coming and going at all hours. Some, dressed in rags, invariably crossed the threshold barefoot, while others arrived by horse-drawn carriage and took an age making their purchases whilst waiting valets guarded the horses. Thus the high-born mixed with the low-born, taking care not to actually rub shoulders. And Thomas watched. Always watched.