London Folk Tales Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Foreword by Steve Roud

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  1 Alba to Brutus

  2 Bran the Blessed

  3 Boudicca

  4 London Bridge

  5 William I and Sons

  6 Rahere

  7 Witch Well

  8 Gilbert Becket’s Crusade

  9 Legends of Thomas à Becket

  10 Blind Beggar’s Daughter

  11 Dick Whittington

  12 Ghosts in Good Company

  13 St Uncumber’s Shoes

  14 The Inns of Court

  15 The Lambeth Pedlar

  16 Rebecca and the Ring

  17 Light-Hearted Highwayman

  18 Lodger of Soho Square

  19 Becky of Bedlam

  20 Lucky Sweep

  21 Wonderful Wife

  22 Tea-leaves, Oysters and Shysters

  23 Tosher’s Tale

  24 Room for One More

  25 Gadgets and Girlfriends

  26 Streatham Wife

  27 Snakes Alive and Pubs Past

  28 Bike Hikers

  29 Secret Cooking Pot

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Copyright

  Illustration of stained-glass window from All Hallows by the Tower; reproduced with permission of the Vicar. The wonderful church of All Hallows, with its Undercroft Museum, spans the centuries from Roman times to present-day London.

  FOREWORD

  The making of books about London continues unabated, but in the welter of information, comment and tourist-targeted coffee-table picture books, there are never enough collections of tales and legends – stories told by and for real Londoners.

  Helen East has pulled together a delightful collection of folk stories, old and new, from across the Greater London area, presenting some well-known tales with others which will be completely new to most readers. The range of subjects and styles is wide, and only in a book from London can Boudicca and Dick Whittington rub shoulders with the Lambeth Pedlar and a strangely touching story of a deceased first wife’s spirit making life uncomfortable for an ordinary widowed woman from Streatham.

  Folk tales and legends can be studied, classified, analysed, pulled apart and debunked, but whatever indignities they are put through they survive by being told and re-told – by professional storytellers and ordinary folk, and in books such as this.

  Steve Roud, 2012

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to the many people who told me stories, especially Joan Cottle, Gertie, Debbie Guneratne, Brian Hayden, Wally Saunders, Liz Thompson and Geoff Wilson.

  Much gratitude to Xanthe Gresham who wrote one (Boudicca).

  Thanks also to: The vicar of All Hallows by the Tower, sculptor Luke Morgan and The Chapter of Southwark Cathedral for permission to reproduce artifacts as illusrations.

  The Folklore Society, Borough, Guildhall, Museum of London and British Libraries

  FLS members: Caroline Oates, Steve Roud, Jeremy Hart and Paul Cowdell

  Friends and family: Amy, Alex, Isabel, Roger and above all Rick for support.

  And Postman Park – for reminders of unsung heroes, and legends of tomorrow.

  Text by Helen East. Illustrations/photographs by Alex Yedigaroff (who has been taking photos ever since he was old enough to hold a camera).

  INTRODUCTION

  LONDON LEGENDS, FOLK TALES AND FIBS

  These stories, ordered roughly chronologically, are as true as I stand here before you. Which is to say that they are not. Yet, in a way, they are too. Just as I may be represented by my words without literally being there, so these stories are full of truths of sorts. Some are wound in and out of history, but embroidered like the Bayeux tapestry; some are fictions hooked onto historical events or physical remains; and some are told to me as true by people who I have every reason to believe, despite them being about things which I have never seen. Then there are those like folk tales, which are true in their depiction of people’s behaviour and emotion, if not in the trappings of the tale that they dress in. And at least one is a porky pie.

  Londoners love playing with words. And possibilities increase with the more languages that join the mix. My grandfather, George – although it transpired when he died that that wasn’t his name after all – was born in Rotherhithe, and he claimed he’d been in earshot of Bow Bells. Hence he was technically cockney, which some say is an egg laid by a cockerel and others a Londoner with a liking for doggerel. He’d tantalise me with words of double meaning and stories that went nowhere, like the one about the ‘three holes in the ground’. All I got was, ‘well, well, well’.

  He also told true tales. He was at the theatre the night Queen Victoria died. The show stopped, they went outside – and London was alive. Shops and stalls all candlelit, selling black bands and ties. ‘How did traders get ready so quick?’

  ‘Word runs down the street.’

  Or in King Edward’s time, the newspaper scam that had every child, woman and man mucky as mudlarks digging the river beach at South Bermondsey for ‘hidden money’.

  ‘Are you sure it’s true?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Yes! The newspaper gives clues.’

  ‘How do you know they’re right?’

  ‘Look – it’s down in black and white.’

  ‘Silly,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe,’ he smiled, ‘but don’t believe and don’t look – you certainly won’t find it.’

  His stories made me reach across the centuries and touch another time. I hope these will do the same for you. Don’t just believe them because you read them. Check the notes at the end to help unravel facts from fibs.

  I saw a pack of cards gnawing on a bone

  I saw a dog sitting on England’s throne

  I saw the Queen shut up in a box

  I saw a shilling talking to a fox

  I saw a man blown round London streets all night

  I saw leaves reading a book by candlelight

  I saw a girl explain how it could be true

  I saw these sights and so perhaps might you.

  Helen East, 2012

  1

  ALBA TO BRUTUS

  Before before, when the world was raw, and all things elemental, the earth gave birth to many monstrous creatures. Amongst them was a race of giants. It is from them, some people say, that mankind came.

  Be that as it may, the giants fitted in as best they could. A few grew taller, others smaller; they bred, and just as naturally they spread. Some settled and then claimed the land; while some battled and renamed the land. Some borders changed and yet old names remained. Europe was one.

  Time passed. Rulers, races and regimes rose and were deposed. Then came a leader of a great dynasty. But amongst his countless children he had thirty-three daughters who brought him no pleasure whatsoever. They were strong and self-willed, they were steadfast and stubborn – even his orders were sometimes ignored. And Alba, the eldest, was worst of them all.

  In a fury, he parted them, locked them all up, and forced them to marry – even those far too young. He found them hard husbands who were heavy handed and harsh-tongued. Men who kept women well under their thumb. But the new brides resisted. The worse they were treated, the stronger they grew. They met with their sisters in secret, and plotted. And one night at a signal from Alba, they acted. All poisoned their husbands – each in their own way.

  By the time they were caught and condemned for this crime, it was clear that each one of them carried a child. Not wanting the blame for destroying the seed, their father had all of them put out to sea. He gave them a ship, but no sails and no oars, no rudder, no water and no food at all. No help and no hope, they still sa
ng as they went, and the moon held them tight in her light, like a net.

  They drifted without aim for days and days, until they came to the place beyond the waves, the lost land to the west, at the back of the north wind. Cold, fog-smothered cliffs cut sharp into the water. There the ship ran aground, and out stepped the thirty-three daughters.

  And from those women came the future of that island, which they called Albion after their sister, and they peopled it with the children that they carried. Alba became the Queen, and she gave birth to a monstrous child, ferocious as his father. But yet she loved him, and she nursed him, and she named him Gogmagog.

  Meanwhile across the seas, on southern winds, in warmer waters, a bloody battle brewed and broke. The Trojans and the Greeks turned friends to foes and wives to widows, all for the sake of honour and a single woman – Helen. All know of that story, and of the endless siege, broken by the wooden horse of Ulysses.

  When the Trojans had been tricked and their city had been sacked, many died, but some survived. Amongst the ones that did, who fled across the sea to safer lands, was a man named Aeneas; and with him was his son. They took a piece of stone from the walls of Troy, so the memory of its glory should not be wholly lost.

  The years passed. New roots grew. The son was married and his wife gave birth. But all the while she struggled, they could hear the Moirae muttering the destiny of the child to come:

  This thread of fate winds dark and light.

  For mother and father he brings death.

  In lands behind the north wind’s breath

  He leads a whole new nation into life.

  Well the birth was hard and the boy was big, and the mother died from the labour. So that was the first warning come true.

  They called the boy Brutus, and he grew swiftly. His father was always his closest companion. But when he was ten years old, the two went hunting and Brutus fired an arrow too much into the wind. It turned in the air and fell straight back, and hit his father in the heart. So that was the second threat proved, too.

  Then his grandfather Aeneas decided it was time for him to go on his way; to test the truth of the third prophecy. He gave him a boat, with silver sails, and the boy chose companions to travel with him, and took the piece of stone from Troy also.

  Away they went as the winds took them, with the land but a shadow on the horizon.

  They sailed for days and for weeks and for years until they were weather-beaten and hardened by their travels. And many adventures they had along the way. But at last they came to a leg of land that jutted out, with nothing beyond but the sea.

  There was a harbour town there where they landed, and the lord of the land came out to meet them. When Brutus told him of their quest he begged them to stay with him and rest.

  ‘And perhaps you will wish to stop here, where it is safe,’ he said. ‘For the land you seek, at the back of the north wind, is the place that we call Death. Beyond the grey cold sea, beyond all life that we know.’

  But Brutus said no – he was following his Fate, and had to see if the words he had heard were true.

  Then the lord sighed and nodded his head. ‘There are some in this town,’ he said, ‘who are strong, adventurous and young, and would wish to travel with you if you would let them come. And amongst them is my son. Like you, he is destined for more than he will find here, though I have always wanted him to stay.’

  Then Brutus was happy, and they met with the young men of the town. And of those that joined them, the strongest and the tallest and the most eager of them all was Corineus, the son of the old lord. He was a giant of a man, and an adventurer after Brutus’ own heart. In no time they were friends, and Corineus became the second in command. And now they were ready to go on.

  Together they travelled; teeth into the north wind and with every day it got colder and darker, and the waves rose higher and wilder. Until, at last, they came to tall white cliffs that seemed to reach from the sea to the sky. And when they landed they saw that it was a place of giants.

  The leader of them all was Gogmagog, twelve cubits high, as hard and harsh as rock. When he saw them climbing up towards him, he laughed with all the force of a storm wind. ‘Come all at once against me,’ he cried, ‘and I will still destroy you with one blow!’

  Then Corineus stepped forward and begged Brutus for a chance to prove his strength alone. And when the right was given him, he turned towards great Gogmagog and challenged him.

  At once the giant caught him in his arms, and gave Corineus a hug so terrible it broke three of his ribs. But the young hero tore himself away, and then, enraged, ran head to belly, knocking him so hard that Gogmagog fell back and smashed his head against the stony ground. Yet, in a moment he was up again as if he’d merely paused to rest in bed. And so the fighting went, Gogmagog with ever-increasing strength at every fall, until, at last, Corineus, forced down onto his knees, pulled out his sword, and with both hands swung it round. He sliced the giant through, so he was cut in two. Both halves fell down upon the earth, but as they lay, the mangled limbs began to move and creep to meet their other parts, and to grow together into one again.

  ‘How can this be, against all nature’s laws?’ Corineus cried.

  ‘But it is not,’ the giant replied. ‘The Earth herself is my great grandmother. In her hold, I will grow whole. She will never see me suffer.’

  Then Corineus understood that he would never win by fighting man to man as he had always done. But in that instant too, he knew what he must do. Catching Gogmagog by surprise, he snatched him up before his wounds had time to fully heal, and heaving him over his shoulder, held him up as high as he could. The giant tried to struggle, but, distanced from the ground, he was weakening fast.

  Then, balancing his burden as best he could, Corineus turned and ran along a jagged splinter of land that reached far out into the sea. At its sharp tip he caught his breath, and then hurled great Gogmagog over the cliff’s edge, plunging him headlong from that great height into the angry water. Down into the foam he fell, far beyond the Earth’s soft touch, sinking deep into the ocean, subject to the Sea’s dominion. And when his body tore upon the ocean floor, the blood came bubbling forth and lay like sunset froth upon the waves, staining the sea, sand, cliffs and land.

  To this day, the earth along that shore is still rich red. And the high point, where Gogmagog fell, is called ‘Langoemagog’. As for that long leg of land touching the sea to the south and the west, it became known as Cornwall, after Corineus, who settled there as governor.

  But Brutus and the rest of his men went on their way, towards the setting sun. After some days they found a stream that trickled from a high-pointed hill. They followed this until it widened into a great river, and flowed at last towards the east and into the sea. But before it came to that, there was a place where it was possible to ford the river, and there was good solid ground rising up on the northern side. There they stopped to rest, and Brutus said this was the place to build a settlement.

  When they had done that, he marked all around to show the extent of the place, and put up defences where it was needed, and then made an entrance way to come in by. On either side of that they made two great figures, as guardians of the gate, and they were known as Corineus and Gogmagog – in memory of the two great fighters, and the battle between them to win the land of Albion.

  And finally Brutus took his talisman, the great stone brought by Aeneas from Troy, and he set it in the centre of the new settlement. Then they named it after the old city, ‘Troynovante’ or New Troy, and Brutus told them that one day it would become a great city too, and the heart of the whole island.

  They say that Brutus renamed the island, and it was known from then as Britain, after him, and the race that he founded were called the Brits, or Britons. As for his settlement, it grew as he had prophesised, into a city that eclipsed even Troy in fame; only the name changed again and again until it became known as London.

  Some say all of this is nothing but a tale. Yet the
Stone of Brutus continues to stands here, and can be seen still within London’s city walls. And the giant guardians are remembered too, although their effigies have had to be remoulded time and again, and their looks and then their names have altered too. Corineus eventually slipped from public memory, and Gogmagog was then split into two. So the images carved in medieval times, guarding the gates of the London Guildhall, or the statues seen today standing in the hallway there, and paraded through the London streets in each Lord Mayor’s show, are now known as brother giants, Gog and Magog, the ancient defenders of the realm.

  2

  BRAN THE BLESSED

  As night follows day, and light and dark are two halves of the same circle, so was King Bran, the Raven, to his sister Branwen, the White One. Bran the Blessed was king of these isles, a giant of a man, and the last of the great race. Tall as an oak, he could wade halfway across the sea to Ireland in the west, without the need of a boat.

  It was to that country he was looking now, and the royal ships arriving from there; for he was hoping that a match between his sister and the king of that land, Matholwch, would bring a union of affection, and a settled peace to them all.

  So it seemed to prove, for when the bridal pair met together, in the palace of Harlech, there was a flame of liking lit between them, which promised to grow into love.

  But Bran and Branwen had two half-brothers by another father, who were in every way the opposite of each other. Nisien was serene, a listener and peacemaker, while his brother Efnisien was resentful and rash, and the centre of endless disputes.

  Because of this Bran decided not to invite Efnisien to the wedding feast. That was his first and his worst mistake – for the circle was broken and Efnisien was insulted. And so, when his chance came, he sowed the seeds of conflict. On the morning of the wedding, he went to the royal stables where the King of Ireland’s beautiful horses were steaming and stamping all ready to ride out with their new friends, the horses of the Isles of Britain.