THE PIE SHOP. Chapter Ten Tommy's Creed

I was up and about early that summer's day in 1954. I looked anxiously out of the window to see if the weather had calmed down a bit. All week it had been windy, and had rained on and off almost every day. "God!" I prayed, "Let today be cool, calm and summery." At least it wasn't raining; though the sky was very overcast with those great, grey fluffy clouds that tell you not to go far without some sort of protection from the rain that will surely follow. The reason I was so concerned? Well… today was the day of the traditional race between my rowing club, the Eton Mission R.C. from Hackney Wick and Eton College. Yes! That Eton College. It was a fixture regarded as important by members of both clubs and was a competition we both wanted to win. This year it was to be held at Eton and the races were to take place on the River Thames.

It may surprise you to hear that the event was a regular one, but it was. It was one of the traditions that had grown from the original "Mission" by Eton College in 1880 "To bring Christianity and Charitable Works to the poor of the East End of London!" In those days the people living in the East End of London needed all the help they could get and from what I remember of the period just after the war to what I have seen just recently they still do. But Eton's Mission should, I think, be judged successful in many respects. From a small beginning a church was established, then built and eventually achieved the status of a parish, a parish that still functions today. The Church sponsored many local activities in an effort to open new horizons for the young people of the area. An area that despite, or maybe because of, high industrialisation, remained dirty, over populated, poorly paid and dreadfully run down.

The Church, St. Mary's in Hackney Wick, was attended by very few of us on a regular basis, mostly christenings, weddings and funerals, but it was still regarded as our Church. The trendy vicar rode a powerful motor-bike dressed in exotic leathers. We all liked and admired him, saw him as 'one of us'. I think he was one of the first "Ton-up" vicars to make headline news. He often popped into the boat-house "To remind us he was there" he said. We gladly made use of the rowing club facilities and eagerly participated in the match with the College. One year we would visit them and race against their crews on the River Thames, the next they would come to our clubhouse and race against our crews on the Hackney Cut. The differences between the two venues were stark and obvious but our visitors never once commented upon them. Alas I think the connection has been severed now. Perhaps it is considered that their mission is complete? I can vouch for the fact that it wasn't in 1954.

The match, we never referred to it as a regatta, attracted considerable interest locally and last Saturday night in The Pie Shop, Maurice had opened a book on the races offering very long odds on a victory for our crews. That was safe enough, we had never beaten them yet. His money was coming from those betting on the number of lengths we would be beaten by, which of our rowers would catch the first crab, and whether any of our boats would sink; loyalty is strong in The Pie Shop! The place had been, as usual late on a Saturday night, full of young men who seemed to be discussing matters of great concern to themselves but of little matter to anyone else, or so we thought! In fact they were deciding to come to Eton as supporters and working out travelling arrangements. We told them the club had already organised coaches with the Grey-Green Bus Company and all they need do was to let the club secretary know how many would be coming.

Geoffrey Jackson, Allan Spencer and myself, being members of the Mission Club, had been training on the Hackney Cut every evening after work, but that glassy surface was no indication of how we would perform on the choppy waters of the River Thames; we'd been discussing that prospect with some concern for weeks. Geoff and I were to row numbers three and five in a coxed eight. Allan was a single sculls man. I can still remember the thrill of feeling the boat shoot through the water as we all pulled at exactly the same instant. Our Cox, we called him Little Lennie on account of his height, he was under five feet, would scream and shout at us to keep to his line and the rhythm set by our stroke. In that boat he was a demon, out of it he rarely said anything to anyone unless spoken to first.

Whatever the weather was going to be, we could do nothing about it so we all turned up at eight-thirty in White Post Lane in good spirits and full of determination that this year would be our year of glory. I was surprised to see two Grey-Green coaches waiting for us, and so many people! Either the club had suddenly attracted a new group of supporters or Maurice was giving better odds than I thought…or maybe they all just fancied a day by the river. I didn't recognise most of them but quite a few from The Pie Shop were there and had brought their girl friends with them.

I saw the red head of Tommy Molton climbing into the first coach. He lived in one of the streets off Hackney Wick and was one of those people who are never left out of anything that is going on. He was the regular first team centre forward for the Victoria Casuals but I had never known him to take part in any other sport. He didn't belong to the Eton Mission Rowing Club and had no interest in rowing that I knew of. He certainly had no connection with anyone who went to Eton, how could he? his entire life centred around Hackney. He carried himself with supreme confidence, had an engaging personality and was one of those people who can walk up to any group and instantly appear to be a part of it.

Unlike many of our group he was never short of money, though where it all came from was a mystery. His job seemed ordinary enough at The Bishopsgate Goods Yard, not that anyone would ever have guessed that from his attitude. He had all the appearances of a 'man of the world', well travelled and connected with all sorts of useful people. He often told us, without the least bit of boastfulness. "If you give the impression you've got money or know the right people you can go anywhere, do anything. Bullshit will always baffle brains!" His attitude and lifestyle seemed to confirm his advice. And there he was, with his latest girlfriend, on the bus heading for Eton College with the rest of us. I can't think why his presence irritated me so much…it still does!

Those of you who have been following my chronicles of the Pie Shop and those who went there, could by now be forgiven for thinking that those using the place on Saturday nights did little else but play football, go dancing, chase girls and eat pies late at night. To a degree you would be right, but some of us did other things too. We took an interest in cricket, having played the game at school but opportunities to play now were rare, instead, I, and a couple of my closer friends, belonged to the Rowing Club and were members of a local cycle racing club too, you know, massed starts, time trials, Herne Hill and all that. It meant that during the summer we had other pursuits to follow instead of just waiting for the football season to start again. These wider sports also had the advantage of bringing us into contact with different social circles too.

For many a lack of money and I fear it must be said a lack of vision, desire or ambition restricted their range of activities. Think about it! Most had left school at the age of fifteen after an undistinguished school career, some stayed on a year or so later but not many. Jobs with any sort of promising future were rare in the East End; most went into a dead-end job in one of the local factories, or a trade of some sort, bricklaying, carpentry, electrics, plumbing, all regarded as 'proper' jobs. A couple of the luckier ones secured an apprenticeship with a printer. Really lucky ones managed to secure an overnight job in Fleet Street with one of the newspapers. Others followed their fathers into the docks, the railway complex at Temple Meads or Bishopsgate Goods Station. A few opted for a life on the wrong side of the law and 'ducked and dived' with one or other of the local villains. The more farsighted tried to use the education they had been given and sought jobs with the local council or government office. Those with ambitions attended night school and set upon a career path in the City of London. Hanging over all and acting rather like a set of brackets in the development of everyone was the prospect of National Service.

At eighteen years of age just three years or so after leaving school, papers would arrive summoning you to a medical examination preparatory to enlistment in the armed forces. You had to stop whatever work you were doing for a couple of years, then start again as if nothing had happened. Employers were expected to hold open the job for you to return to. I am bound to tell you that it rarely worked like that. The experiences during that period of military service had far reaching effects on all those I knew who served, and materially affected them for the rest of their lives. Tommy was an exception, he finished his National Service about a year ago and had resumed his life as if nothing had happened.

The journey to Eton was fast and uneventful, well it was on our coach. I heard later that there had been a bit of a problem on the other one. Someone seems to have got the idea from somewhere that this was some sort of Beano outing and had loaded up the coach with crates of beer. Long before we had reached The Embankment, all the old music hall songs could be heard coming from it and the coach had to stop at The Robin Hood on the old A4 to allow some of the passengers to relieve themselves, oh yes and one of the girls was 'travel sick'. It looked like being quite a day!

Arriving at Eton College we were greeted with warmth and great courtesy by those we were to race against, when I say we, I mean the crews were. It was made clear that our supporters were expected to take care of themselves, unfortunately that included our girlfriends. "There are no facilities to receive the ladies" we were told. They did provide guides to the best vantage points along the River so that they could enjoy the racing! We were taken on a conducted tour of the college. I've often thought since that the whole thing was a turning point in my life. The college, the scholar's strange clothes, (Well they were to us), the buildings, the sense of being surrounded by an atmosphere where history has been fashioned, where a sense of history pervades all. The great names of Old Boys casually but respectfully mentioned by our guides as if they had known them personally. It was all incredibly impressive.

Most impressive of all were the scholars. They all seemed to know exactly what was required of them and attended to their duties with enthusiasm and diligence no matter what they were asked to do. Our slightest request or wish was taken up and dealt with instantly by numerous small boys who seemed to be there solely to satisfy our wishes….until the races of course. The orderliness, discipline and pride they had in their school was obvious and unmistakeable. The facilities in the school and the boathouse were so far ahead of anything we'd ever seen that it seemed as if we had somehow entered another world.

As we came to the racing, the wind resumed the blustery levels it had achieved all week causing the temperature to drop dramatically and the surface of the River Thames to become very choppy and appear grey and menacing. I'd like to move swiftly and silently over the races if I may. Suffice it to say that though the single and double scullers and the light four gave a good account of themselves, they still lost. Our eight? Well if you must know, after getting away to a great start and leading Eton for nearly half the course our stroke caught a monumental crab and nearly sank us. He explained later that. "The water under my oar just seemed to vanish and all my blade hit was air."

All I remember was seeing the blade flash through the air and watching in horror as our stroke fell back onto the man behind him causing a domino effect on those behind him. The chaos that followed was made worse by icy cold water surging over the sides into the boat and sloshing around our feet. We were soon half-full. Of course it happened just as we were passing our supporters, amongst whom was my girlfriend. I could hear the guffaws of laughter from them all at our discomfort and embarrassment. I must confess to being a bit nervous too at that stage because I couldn't swim then. I can now of course but then I was scared stiff of falling into the river. Can you imagine what that felt like? A racing eight is a long, narrow boat, it has a round highly polished bottom and is kept level only by the balance of the oarsmen who at that stage were anything but balanced and falling about all over the place. The River Thames in a choppy mood is no place to be even in a wide and heavy boat, and knowing you can't swim? Well that's how I felt! We eventually managed to get the boat to the river bank, get rid of some of the water and finish the course. That event provided the basis for discussion and merriment in The Pie Shop for months afterwards. I can still recall it vividly all theses years later.

Eton entertained us to tea afterwards each of us hosted by a member of their rowing team who made it his business to satisfy our every need and answer every question we asked. I think we were offered wafer thin sandwiches, a selection of cakes, salads, to be honest I can't remember much about it, I felt so deeply disappointed and embarrassed by our performance I just wanted the day to end and to get away from there. But I confess the whole event impressed me enormously. It was all so smoothly done, no talk of the races they had just won, they asked us about ourselves, what work we did, our ambitions, any subject but rowing. They really did seem interested in us, though I doubt they really were.

I glanced around the long table struck by the differences, the cool self confidence of our hosts, the animated faces of our crews, each in their own way trying to impress the other. All the old clichés trickled through my mind: East meets West, the Haves and the Have-nots, Upper class Lower Class, Upstairs downstairs, that sort of thing. Finally Tommy Molton's words echoed in my mind. "If you give the impression that you've got money or know the right people you can go anywhere, do anything. Bullshit will always baffle brains!" Well that maybe so, but these people didn't need to give the impression they had money, it was obvious that they had lots of it. And as for knowing the right people, well they were the right people, they would be able to go everywhere and do everything they wanted to do. So what sort of bullshit baffles them? Perhaps the kind created by a day at Eton?