Love and the Ironmonger

by F. J. Randall

The public-houses are disappearing, too; at least, the old ones are, for new ones rise rapidly on the same ground, and "business is carried on as usual during alterations." The beer there is not what it used to be; so say the old hands, and they ought to know, for they've taken it regularly enough, and can speak from experience.

Everything in Upper Thames Street is affected by the march of progress; and nothing more noticeably than the City man's caterer.

Forty years ago you had no choice but to pick a midday meal at the nearest tavern or a cook-shop. In the one you met red-faced men who swore, took snuff, and whipped off a pint of ale like winking; in the other melancholy clerks, with family cares and whiskers, consumed boiled beef and carrots in a "dem'd demp," warm atmosphere, and finished up with light snacks of plum-roll, as greasy and melancholy as themselves. The young man with the clean collar was not catered for then as he is to-day. There were young men then, of course—though not many with clean collars—but they couldn't afford boiled beef, and were not so educated to beer. Where they lunched is a mystery. I suspect that the theory of a venerable dock porter, that "they took a bit o' grub in a handkercher, and ate it by the water-side," is very nearly correct. I suppose the office-boys of those days did the same thing.

Now the midday lunch is one great, wonderful and far-spreading meal. It is as various as it is important; the one touch of interest to midday London. No class of the London worker is neglected; none so obscure, strange, or eccentric as to be forgotten. Boiled beef and carrots have fallen into disuse, except among a few obstinate grey-haired clerks, who would sooner give up clerking than change their habits; tavern lunches are popular enough, among bucolic book-keepers; but the great man, the star luncher in the eye of the up-to-date caterer is the young man with the clean collar.

For him and his kin we have the tea-shop, the dining-rooms, the restaurant, the café, Lyons', the A.B.C., the Mecca, and others. Snacks of fish, vegetarian dinners, quick lunches; smart waitresses to serve him and smile upon him. He sits upon a cushioned seat, looks at himself in a mirror placed obsequiously before him, hangs his hat on a servile, gilded knob, and is requested to acquaint the manager with any uncivil behaviour on the part of the menials of the establishment. When my lord has finished his meal, which may cost anything from twopence upwards, a gorgeous smoking-room yawns for his presence, at no extra cost. Here again the seats are cushioned and the mirrors opposite. Here are draughts, dominoes, and chess, kept specially for him. All for the young man with the clean collar, whose pence are worth fawning for—the best customer of the City caterer.

Upper Thames Street, with its noisy vans and riverside associations, has not been neglected by the caterer. It has its sprinkling of smart tea-rooms and restaurants within easy reach. To various of these the office youths of Fairbrothers' betake themselves daily, and to one in particular go two members whom we will follow.

Henry Cacklin is a junior clerk of three months' service, a connoisseur of cigarettes, smart beyond his sixteen years, and a devil with the girls. His companion, William Budd, is a mere office-boy, sixteen also, but with less business ability; due no doubt to his excessive interest in affairs that don't concern him. Cacklin has a strong partiality for sausage-and-mashed, when he can afford it, which is seldom. When he cannot it is his habit to look over the menu and inquire as to the quality of the present batch of sausages, finally deciding that as the last were so disgustingly bad, he must try a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee.

Billy Budd, who makes no secret of his desire to have plenty for money, favours lemonade and the largest penny buns; a selection that arouses the scorn of Cacklin, who wonders how any "feller" can expect to be chummy with the waitress on "buns"!

"Rotten tack that!" he says, contemptuously, toying delicately with his sandwich. "If you had brain work to do, old chap, you'd soon notice the want of a bit of meat."

"No fear," said Billy. "What about old Busby? I saw him 'aving a bun and milk yesterday."