Tales of London's Docklands (8 page)

Come Regatta Day, Gravesend promenade was packed with local people and visitors who had come to watch the various events, which were always entertaining. There were, first and foremost, the rowing races into which publicans from throughout the town entered teams with dubious rowing skills but who were more than capable of holding their own when it came to sinking a pint or two. It should come as no surprise to the reader to learn that the public house teams were invariably less than sober when they arrived on the promenade, and it was quite normal for some of them to fall into the river off the causeway as they tried to scramble into the boats before their race had even got started. After the race many of them were thrown into the river anyway. The winners, when they left the Regatta, hardly ever made it back to the pub they represented, let alone home. Publicans really knew how to look after their rowing crews, although it was a poor oarsman who remembered anything about the events on the following day or even the day after (except for his headache, that is).

The Clarendon Royal Hotel, East Street, Gravesend, facing the River Thames.
(Author's collection)

The dockers' and stevedores' crews were always competitive. Usually Tilbury dockers rowed against the pulpies (dockers and stevedores who specialized in discharging ships that bought wood pulp from the Scandinavian countries and Canada) or powder monkeys (dockers or stevedores who loaded or discharged ammunition and explosives aboard ships in the lower Thames Estuary). (The downriver anchorages were a precaution in case a ship should explode, the theory being that only the ship, the powder monkeys and the ship's crew would be lost, a minor loss compared with what could be a major catastrophe if a ship's cargo were to explode further upriver nearer an oil installation or a town.)

The dockers and stevedores raced for the coveted King Cup. Their event was always a battle from the start to the finish, especially when the crews got behind the hospital boat that lay just off the causeway that runs into the river off Gravesend promenade and that hid the rowers from the spectators on the river's shore. Then oars would be used like lances to fend off and batter the opposing teams till they turned round the buoy down the river below the hospital boat and were on the home straight. The crews would then sedately swing their craft into the home stretch of water and pull like hell for the finishing line. Butter? Well, it wouldn't melt in their mouths now, would it?

To enhance the sporting events there was always a funfair that played its own music. The music was never so loud that it drowned one's speech or impaired one's hearing. Nor did it overwhelm the cries, cheers and jeers of the crowds as they egged on competitors in the various events that were taking place along the whole length of the promenade. There was a greasy pole, for instance. It was about 20 feet high from the ground to the top, greased along the whole of its length. It was great fun watching all sorts of characters, some drunk and others sober, trying all sorts of tricks to climb that slimy, wretched pole, but it was not a stunt to try oneself. There were also the egg and spoon race, the sack race, the over-60s race, the under-10s race, the ladies' race (although no one would call a few of them ladies if their language was anything to go by). You give a name to a race and there are always competitors available to take part in it. It was all good, harmless fun, till someone accused someone else of cheating, then a glorious punch-up would ensue, enjoyed by all the spectators.

Regatta days are still always great fun for the locals and their children, but it is also true to say they are financially lucrative for the soft drinks, hot dogs and ice-cream vendors. They make a packet of money, as does the licensed publican who is lucky enough to get the sole rights to sell beer and spirits all day and up till midnight in a large marquee set aside specially for the purpose. The marquee is provided and installed by the brewery company whose publican has obtained the licence for the particular event.

The publican chosen to run a bar at the town regatta that is the setting for this tale was none other than Little Fred, Big Dave's friend and bosom pal of yesteryear, that little prankster, who always managed to get Big Dave into some form of trouble with his off-beat antics. Oddly enough – and this fact cannot be emphasized too strongly, especially to exponents of the game – the beer marquee had been erected very close to the bunting-draped, roped-off tug-of-war arena. One of the main guy ropes of the marquee was attached to a heavy steel peg that had been driven into the ground some 20 feet away from the tent's open end. Little Fred was serving at his bar, collecting empty glasses and refereeing at some of the events. This meant he could go walk-about to collect empty glasses when the bar was running short (and get up to mischief, as was his forte).

As the day wore on and the evening began to draw in, the twilight caused the setting sun to turn into a bright-red ball of fire as it prepared itself for bed, and the lights of the fairground area began to come on, causing ripples to reflect from the water of the river's surface. Music from the funfair began to get louder. The stage was set for the tug-of-war teams to get down to business, which they did.

The riverside entrance to the Old Falcon Hotel, East Street, Gravesend, 1920s. It was the haunt of Bawley Bay shrimp fishermen, Thames barge skippers, watermen and lightermen, and merchant seamen returning home after a long voyage.
(Author's collection)

There were four trained tug-of-war teams and four made up of half-drunk hobbledehoys, wretched, pimply-faced youths who had been coerced by fellows of their own ilk to ‘go forward and try your luck' against teams, one of which, they were told, was made up of County Police officers. This was a challenge they just could not resist. The preliminary matches were soon dispensed with as the County Police pulled the pimply-faced hobbledehoys into a pile, and dockers' teams quickly put an end to any thoughts other Jack the Lads had of getting further than the first round. Of course those matches were a laugh in themselves, as the lads, with arms and legs sticking out in all directions, pulled, snatched and yanked at the rope but could not budge the trained teams one inch. When it was obvious the lads were on the point of collapse from their pathetic exertions, the trained opposing team's coach gave the order, ‘Pull-one, pull-two, pull-three!'

Then the white rope marker, together with the inebriated social misfits, some on their feet, others on their backs, came over the line as easily as a cork being extracted from a wine bottle by a professional waiter. Some little time was allowed to elapse for the cheers, jeers, tears and general mayhem to die down. Then came the main event, the final between the County Police and the dockers.

Now I have to admit I may have misled the reader with regard to the constituents of the dockers' team, for I omitted to say that in the preliminary rounds it consisted of seven of the full team and the reserve – and this does have a bearing on the tale.

The referee for the tug-of-war final was to be none other than Little Fred.

‘I'm tossing a coin,' he said. ‘The winner takes the marquee end, the loser takes the canal end. Is that understood?' He asked the police team captain to call.

‘Heads,' he said.

Then without showing either of the team captains the coin, Little Fred simply said, ‘Heads it is. Police to the marquee end; dockers to the canal end.'

The two teams began to line up, with one exception; the dockers' reserve team member walked away into the beer tent – and Big Dave strode out. He walked to the end of the line, took turns of the rope over his shoulder and round his waist, and stood there like the Colossus of Rhodes. Not a sound came from the crowd: they were too numbed with surprise. The police team, too, stood with folded arms, looking at this giant. They were all County Police officers and equal in size and weight to the other members of the dockers' team, but the dockers' secret weapon was a bit more than they had expected.

Big Dave stood his ground, the normal deadpan expression on his face. Little Fred gave the order to take the strain. Both teams laid back, testing the weight and strength of their opponents, neither gaining an inch on the other. Big Dave stood holding the rope with one hand and scratching his head with the other. Then the police team made its move.

The back entrance from the River Thames to the New Falcon, West Street, Gravesend, 1950s.
(Author's collection)

The Beehive public house in West Street, Gravesend. All the public houses in this area of Gravesend were frequented by merchant seamen, barge skippers, watermen and lightermen, dockers and stevedores.
(Author's collection)

‘Pull-one,' their coach called.

Nothing happened. Half a minute passed as slowly as half an hour.

The police coach tried again. ‘Pull-one,' he repeated.

Again nothing happened, the police laid back on the rope to wait for the order for another try, but Eddy didn't give them a chance.

‘Pull-one,' he ordered. The dockers stamped their left feet into the soft turf in unison, moving backwards as if they were one man with a long shadow. The marquee behind the police team began to shake.

‘Pull-one-two,' Eddy called again. The marquee shook again, but the police held their ground, although they were close to going over the line.

‘Again!' roared Eddy. ‘Pull-one-two-three-four-five-six-seven.' As the dockers moved back, with Big Dave straining the rope with all his great strength, the police team came forward, bracing themselves with every sinew, their feet skimming over the evening-dew-covered grass . . . and the marquee behind them began to follow, collapsing in a heap. Yells and screams emanated from within, mostly from customers who were spilling their beer. The police and dockers ran to help those who were trapped. Unbelievably, no one was hurt – this was probably because most of them were too drunk to care. Then questions began to be asked as to why the marquee had collapsed. Big Dave became suspicious; he walked to the police end of the marquee and looked down at the steel peg holding up the main guy line. Little Fred was standing beside him with a blank, but not surprised, expression on his face. Big Dave grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.