Cohen, founder of the modern-day, multi-billion-pound worldwide business,began life as a market trader. His first stall was in Well Street in Hackney, his second in Hoxton and his third in this very same Chatsworth Road, some years before he started the famous Tesco brand name.
We probably used no more than three establishments regularly on the other side of the road. Right at the top, where Chatsworth Road changed its name to Brooksbyâs Walk, was the laundry where we used to take what we called our âbagwashâ once a week. No sitting in front of machines spinning your laundry round in those days. You took your washing in a large bag to the laundry and collected it a few days later, undried and unpressed and reeking of bleach.
Once, the laundry lost our bagwash and, in spite of Dad producing the receipt, they denied all responsibility for losing it. Dad was furious and wrote to our local M.P., Herbert Butler, who took up the case on our behalf. After several letters backwards and forwards, the laundry agreed to pay compensation, though they never accepted liability. It didnât really matter whether they did or not as Dad refused to use that laundry ever again.
Back in Chatsworth Road, the other two shops I loved were next to each other; the first was called the Biscuit Box, and it just sold biscuits. Like the corn merchant, the shop and the pavement outside were piled high with tins of loose biscuits. These were bought by weight, scooped out and placed in a paper bag. The tins of broken biscuits were our favourites, as you got a big variety of different biscuits for a lower price. Next door was Williams Brothers, a grocery store. They operated a loyalty token system. Every time you bought something, the cashier would give you tokens basedon the amount spent and you could use these towards future purchases in the shop.
The only other shops we occasionally used on this side of the road were Macefieldâs, a dark and dingy stationer, and Bowmanâs, a clothes outfitters where I was taken every now and then to be fitted up for new shirts and short trousers.
The two shops in Chatsworth Road we fortunately never needed to go into were the two pawnbrokerâs shops with their three balls hanging up outside. To many, including my family and our neighbours, they were a reminder of the dark days of the 1930s Depression and most people lived in real fear of having to use their services. The windows were full of watches, rings and bracelets that must have once been someoneâs treasured possession. It was all very sad. We never bought anything from them, as my parents were acutely aware that those objects were only there through other peopleâs misfortune.
On Saturday, the streets would be lined with all manner of market stalls. We bought smoked haddock from the fishmongerâs stall, and Mum used to linger for ages at the haberdashery stall, where she would buy sewing materials and wool. The wool came in twisted skeins, so when she bought some I knew that would mean that some time later in the day I would be sat in an armchair with the skein draped round my outstretched arms while she unwound it to make it into a ball.
Mum spent most of her evenings knitting things for Dad or John or me, but very rarely for herself. She also darned all our socks. Itâs easy to forget in todayâs throwaway society that socks were hardly ever discarded. If a hole â known as a âpotatoâ â appeared in the heel, it was darned, and if a hole appeared inthat it was darned again and again and again. It was very rare for a pair of socks to actually be thrown away. Dad always wore what he called âarmy greyâ socks.
One stall I particularly remember was the one belonging to the catâs meat man. This wasnât an open stall like all the others but a narrow enclosed trailer with a counter cut into the side. Here you could buy fresh meat for your cat, liver and such like, but our cat
We probably used no more than three establishments regularly on the other side of the road. Right at the top, where Chatsworth Road changed its name to Brooksbyâs Walk, was the laundry where we used to take what we called our âbagwashâ once a week. No sitting in front of machines spinning your laundry round in those days. You took your washing in a large bag to the laundry and collected it a few days later, undried and unpressed and reeking of bleach.
Once, the laundry lost our bagwash and, in spite of Dad producing the receipt, they denied all responsibility for losing it. Dad was furious and wrote to our local M.P., Herbert Butler, who took up the case on our behalf. After several letters backwards and forwards, the laundry agreed to pay compensation, though they never accepted liability. It didnât really matter whether they did or not as Dad refused to use that laundry ever again.
Back in Chatsworth Road, the other two shops I loved were next to each other; the first was called the Biscuit Box, and it just sold biscuits. Like the corn merchant, the shop and the pavement outside were piled high with tins of loose biscuits. These were bought by weight, scooped out and placed in a paper bag. The tins of broken biscuits were our favourites, as you got a big variety of different biscuits for a lower price. Next door was Williams Brothers, a grocery store. They operated a loyalty token system. Every time you bought something, the cashier would give you tokens basedon the amount spent and you could use these towards future purchases in the shop.
The only other shops we occasionally used on this side of the road were Macefieldâs, a dark and dingy stationer, and Bowmanâs, a clothes outfitters where I was taken every now and then to be fitted up for new shirts and short trousers.
The two shops in Chatsworth Road we fortunately never needed to go into were the two pawnbrokerâs shops with their three balls hanging up outside. To many, including my family and our neighbours, they were a reminder of the dark days of the 1930s Depression and most people lived in real fear of having to use their services. The windows were full of watches, rings and bracelets that must have once been someoneâs treasured possession. It was all very sad. We never bought anything from them, as my parents were acutely aware that those objects were only there through other peopleâs misfortune.
On Saturday, the streets would be lined with all manner of market stalls. We bought smoked haddock from the fishmongerâs stall, and Mum used to linger for ages at the haberdashery stall, where she would buy sewing materials and wool. The wool came in twisted skeins, so when she bought some I knew that would mean that some time later in the day I would be sat in an armchair with the skein draped round my outstretched arms while she unwound it to make it into a ball.
Mum spent most of her evenings knitting things for Dad or John or me, but very rarely for herself. She also darned all our socks. Itâs easy to forget in todayâs throwaway society that socks were hardly ever discarded. If a hole â known as a âpotatoâ â appeared in the heel, it was darned, and if a hole appeared inthat it was darned again and again and again. It was very rare for a pair of socks to actually be thrown away. Dad always wore what he called âarmy greyâ socks.
One stall I particularly remember was the one belonging to the catâs meat man. This wasnât an open stall like all the others but a narrow enclosed trailer with a counter cut into the side. Here you could buy fresh meat for your cat, liver and such like, but our cat
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