As a residential neighbourhood Wapping is perhaps undesirable, though a
considerable population contrives to exist in the narrow streets hemmed
in between the dock walls and the warehouses bordering the river. For
the river itself is completely hidden except where the swing-bridges,
which give entrance to the docks, afford a passing glimpse.
From a picturesque point of view Wapping was no doubt much better
in the days when docks and swing-bridges were unknown; when the
bow-windows of its ancient taverns projected quaintly over the river
and the watermen’s stairs inspired the muse of the song-writer. Then
the raucous bellowings of hurrying steamers were unheard, and sailing
craft thoughtfully waited for tides, while master-mariners sat
drinking in the bow-windows aforesaid.
[Illustration: WHILE MASTER-MARINERS SAT DRINKING IN THE BOW-WINDOWS
AFORESAID]
The old church and the charity school, with the overgrown graveyard
opposite, with its rank grass and dingy trees, are the remains of
those days. The green of the churchyard is a relief to the bricks and
mortar, for trees are scarce in Wapping, though there are a few others
in front of the old-fashioned houses on the breezy pier-head hard
by--trees which, having been coaxed to grow in that uncongenial spot,
conscientiously endeavour to indicate the seasons, and make very few
mistakes considering.
High Street, Wapping, the principal thoroughfare, realising, possibly,
that High Streets are apt to adhere too slavishly to one pattern,
appears to have determined to be original. It sternly eschews the
drapers and hatters, the bootmakers and tailors of other High Streets,
and confines its retail trade almost entirely to coffee-shops and
taverns. The coffee-shops are as conservative as the street, and one
window is much like another--herrings, rejoicing in their strength,
competing for favour with bacon of guaranteed mildness and eggs of
blameless exterior.
Early in the morning the night-watchmen are awakened by vans, and late
at night their sleep is broken by them. For Wapping revels in vans
of all shapes and all sizes, but preferably large, and has put down
granite roads for their especial delectation. The vans are from all
quarters of London, and their drivers from all parts of the country,
but the latter are the willing victims of one dominant idea. It is the
ambition of every carman--the thing for which he plots and plans, and
swears and lies--to be attended to out of his turn. The more out of his
turn the better, and a boy of innocent aspect and no principles, who
will ably second his perjuries, is as the apple of his eye. This, and
sitting in dangerous attitudes on the tail-board of the van, or doing a
double-shuffle on the extreme edge of the kerb, is the van-boy’s part
in life. In his spare moments he watches his chief back horses, for,
as a backer of horses in a blameless sense, the river-side carman has
probably no equal in the world. At one time, in addition to the road,
he had about two feet of pavement to manœuvre on as well, but now he
has been warned off by iron posts of the most upright and rigid bearing.
Down Tower Hill, thinking no evil, comes a mildewed four-wheeler
driven by an elderly cabman, who pulls up so sharply at the bottom of
the hill that the horse slides a yard or two and then tries to sit down.
“Drive on, cabman!” says a shrill voice inside, as the owner of it
knuckles at the glass. “What are you stopping for? It’s farther on!”
“All right, lady,” says the cabman. He knows that the sex requires
humouring, and “clucks” the horse on exactly seventeen inches.
“Any chance o’ gettin’ by, sir?” he inquires with deep respect of a
tall policeman.
The tall policeman eyes the traffic critically and a Pickford’s van
severely. Pickford’s horses are pawing the pavement, while their
tail-board is giving great offence to a pair of horses behind.
“Pickford!” yells the tall policeman with great suddenness.
Half a dozen voices take up the cry of “Pickford,” and Pickford’s
representative not being forthcoming (he is at the present moment
making Language, with a capital L, do for argument with the foreman),
a small boy appears from the depths of the van to see what he can do.
“Put your van back a bit!” says the tall policeman austerely.
The urchin grasps the horses’ heads, brings them forward a bit, thrusts
them back, slipping and stumbling with their heads in the air, and
having made at least a foot more space, pauses triumphantly and asks,
“How’s that?”
The only reply of the tall policeman, who is a man of few words, is to
bawl for “Pickford” again. The cabman, in the most familiar manner,
also calls for “Pickford” and a string of vehicles behind him also call
on the name of “Pickford” with profane fervour. “Pickford” turns up at
last in a heated condition, having signally failed with the foreman,
and grasping his horses’ heads, backs them violently. The commotion
that ensues is tremendous, the docile and intelligent animals behind,
realising that it is a case of _sauve qui peut_, going where they can.
There is now room for the procession to pass, and the cabman, having
brooded over his wrongs until he is word-perfect, tells the carman
his opinion of him as he goes by. It is a long opinion, quite a
character-study in fact and, despite the haste of his fares, he walks
his horse so that the offender shall not miss a word of it.
“Bullen’s Wharf?” he inquires politely of a bystander, turning a deaf
ear to his adversary’s reply.
“Straight ahead,” says the man addressed, “but you can’t get by!”
“Ho! carn’t I?” says the cabman, with the air of a man who has just
done greater things than that. “An’ w’y not?”
“Cos the bridge is swung,” says the other cheerfully.
The cabman swings himself off his box, and opening the door of his
vehicle, breaks the news to his fares. The three ladies lean forward
anxiously, and with one accord blame him for it, one lady remarking
darkly that four-wheelers are all alike, and drawing offensive
comparisons between the present vehicle and a hansom.
“I carn’t ’elp the bridge being swung,” says the cabman. “It ain’t no
pleasure for me standing here listening to you. ’Ow long’ll it be,
mate?”
“I think they’re almost through now,” says the other. “There’s just a
few empty lighters going into the docks--unless the _Evening Star_ is
coming out,” he adds thoughtfully.
Fortunately for all concerned the gallant ship mentioned does not come
out. The bridge swings together again, and the cabman, gathering up his
reins, rattles briskly over the stones to his destination.
If the traffic in the streets is thick, that on the river is almost as
bad. Huge steamers come slowly and cautiously up, moaning plaintively
with their steam-sirens whenever they see anything about to run into
them. At times there appears to be no offing at all, and even penny
steamers--the most expert craft on the river--give a low whistle and
wonder what is going to happen next. It is usual at such moments for
an old and leaky boat, laden with small boys, who prefer this mode
of whiling away the dinner-hour to eating, to stop in mid-stream to
recover an oar. Extraordinary feats of navigation are performed by the
crew before this is accomplished, but they get it at last, and ignoring
the remarks hurled at them from the various craft, settle down to work
again and ram a steam collier.
Work on the wharves is in full swing, and the cranes are busy lowering
goods into the gaping holds beneath. Sometimes the freight drops from
the slings on to the labourers, and once a crane we knew--ordinarily a
well-behaved, reliable worker--took too much aboard and plunged fifteen
feet into the river below. It took the driver with it, and when his
friends got him up, as a preliminary to burying him, they found, to
their astonishment, that he was alive. He was never a man to make much
fuss; and after he had sat on the jetty and been patted on the back, he
looked round at the place the crane had left, and said that perhaps,
as there didn’t seem to be anything for him to do, he might have a
half-holiday for once. He added, as an extra reason, that he felt a
little bit shaken.
It is not until Sunday arrives that Wapping becomes quiet, and then
the change is almost oppressive in its thoroughness. The streets are
practically deserted in the morning, except for a few men who have got
up early by force of habit rather than the promptings of virtue, and a
chance cat slinking furtively along in the shadow of the warehouses,
ready to dart beneath a gateway at the first sign of a dog.