Commercial Integrity Conspicuous by Absence Down Petticoat Lane

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26627, 25 November 1947, Page 6

Commercial Integrity Conspicuous by Absence Down Petticoat Lane

For the Daily Times

By Harvey Blanks

LONDON, Nov. 18,

In actual fact," it is a drab, dreary Middlesex street—a narrow thoroughfare running off Whitechapel road, near Liverpool Street Station and the well-known hostelry, “Dirty Dick’s.” Sunday Morning Trading

But every Sunday morning this pro,saic East End street undergoes a transformation. Down Whitechapel road and Bishopsgate come rumbling the barrows, laden with livestock, jellied eels, dubious soft drinks, factory rejects and second-hand china. The street becomes bright with colour and loud with Cockney voices. Soon after 9 o’clock the crowds begin to arrive. Some are East Enders. But the majority know better than to do their buying down Petticoat lane. So most of the shoppers prove to be neatly-dressed middle-class workers from the suburbs.

Here is where you see the “ spivs ” at work. Furtive-looking men in heavily-padded suits, pseudo-Ameri-can hats, too-pointed shoes, yellow or green shirts, and bright speckled bow ties. They will sell you anything from coupon-free shirts and coats to couponed but very cheap stockings. These last are one of their most ,lucrative rackets. The stockings are factory repevts and “spoils.” The spivs collect coupons and resell them in the black market at prices ranging from 2s to 3s each. Some of these men operate, from stalls. ' Others just lounge against a sooty wall with a few pairs of braces draped over one arm. “ ’Ere you are! Elastic braces —only ones in London. Won’t see these again for years. Get ’em while you can.” Ineffective Exhortations On one stall two gramophones scratch away simultaneously—one playing swing, the other opera. This stall always attracts a crowd, and periodically the owner rouses himself to snarl: “ ’Ere! You people think this is a free concert! D’ya wanta buj»a record or don’tya? ” Usually they don’t.

One end of the lane always reeks of cheap scent. Beside a barrow laden with gaudy bottles stands a halfcaste Chinese woman wearing a grimy and tattered Indian sari. “ The Glamour of the East!” cries a placard. “Perfumes formerly exclusive to Society—Yours for 2s 6d.” They find a ready sale. Shopgirls paw over the bottles, unscrew caps, sniff dozens, and finally walk off happily with a bottle of scent manufactured in some local basement. '

Already the results of Sir Stafford Cripps’s export drive can be seen in the shops. Goods which could be readily bought anywhere in London as recently as a few weeks ago—even though of “ utility ” pattern—have disappeared, and there is no likelihood of their reappearing for some years.

So the hunt for “ bargains ” is on, and street markets such as Whitechapel’s Petticoat lane are doing a thriving trade. The most confusing thing about Petticoat lane is that this is not its name at all—a fact which never fails to exasperate visitors to London who try in vain to locate it in street directories and o» city maps.

“Jumping beans, fresh to-day specially flown over from Mexico” enjoy a ready vogue among small boys at 3d each. A swarthy genial rogue standing on a packing case sells dozens of patent apple peelers by expatiating in a loud voice on the evils of apples as a food. “ See this apple? ” he bawls, waving a speckled fruit about in one gnarled hand. “ Never give an apple to a gastric stummick! It’ll kill yer. Seventy-five per cent, of an apple’s water—the rest indigestible rubbish. Eat apples and take years off yer lives! I hates apples. But some people likes ’em. And them what likes ’em has got to peel ’em. Now this gadget’ll peel an apple without removing the outer vitamins. Only a bob. Who wants one? ” Next to this amateur but successful psychologist is a woman with a moustache who offers to guess your weight for sixpence. If sihe fails—and she usually does—she 'gives you a prize. And as this is a plastic brooch worth about 2d, she makes a profit of 4d on every mistake. v Heavy Sufferer from Bombs Petticoat lane was heavily bombed, Broken walls lean drunkenly against each other down one side. A chipped bath hangs precariously from what was a third floor. Underneath it is a stall selling winkles. A seedy little man in a grubby coat pesters customers to accept a Communist pamphlet. If the sun is shining one stall sella paper sunshades. If the weatherchanges, the - shades go under the counter and out come plastic raincoats —“ coupon-free, dirt cheap.” Intriguing snatches of conversation drift up out of the crowd. “But, dad, it is only three bob, and we need one. . . .” “And as soon as I unwrapped it the bleeding thing came apart in me ’and. . . .” “Give me my money back or I’ll call a cop. . . “It was invented by an Australian chief, and all you had to do was smell it. ...” The crowd begins to thin at about 1 p.m. An hour later the stalls start to close, the remaining goods are packed away and the barrows trundle once more over the filthy cobbles. The; last shoppers and sightseers catch theii . buses, and the street is deserted. Old newspapers and straw litter the gutters or lie piled against the shattered walls And old men and small Cockney urchins begin to search among ths litter for cigarette stubs. Petticoat lane is closed for another week. •