No Hawkers, Pedlars Or Salesmen

When I did my early morning paper run for Baird's Newsagents in Morningside I sometimes came across a sign that said 'No pedlars, hawkers or salesmen.' I didn't have a clue what the first two terms meant but I always found the sign interesting. When I read the sentence aloud it had a certain rhythm to it, a bit like the Cher song, 'Gypsies, Tramps or Thieves.' It also seemed quite intriguing too. There is a medieval feel to it recalling the pedlars who featured in the Robin Hood stories.

It made me reflect on how lucky we were in some respects to be brought up in Oxgangs. There was a certain richness of experience in our lives which might have been missing if we'd been brought up elsewhere. We met all those wonderful characters and shared in the vibrancy and colour of communal living. If we'd stayed in the leafy suburbs of Morningside, life would have been quieter and much more solitary. So, 'No Pedlars, Hawkers or Salesmen' certainly wasn't the kind of plate that appeared on any door in The Stair.

Another different aspect of the long school summer holidays was that we would get to see the myriad of interesting hawkers; pedlars; vendors; salesmen and other such visitors who we wouldn’t normally see when we were at school.

There was an extensive array of great characters including Jock the Fishman; and as mentioned Jimmy’s Green Van; then there was The Insurance Man but he came on Friday teatimes so we would see him throughout the year; and of course The Gas Man; and also Onion Johnny; and an exotic Pakistani door to door salesman who Douglas Blades irreverently named ‘Sambo’; and then most exciting of all The Rag ‘n Bone Man.

Jock the Fishman was a real character. He may have been part of the family of R. & Sons Hunnam, Fishmongers, 30 Comiston Road. Jock used to announce his arrival with a loud two second blast of his whistle and a protracted cry of 'Fish!' We thought Jock quite old, but he was probably younger than I am today; he looked like a character straight out of Stevenson - an old sea-dog, but perhaps he never even left dry land. He was always dressed in a big roll neck jersey and a leather waistcoat. He looked a little bit like the actor Sid James. Underneath his flat cap was a weather beaten and lined face; he had a kindly look and a kindly nature. He was friendly and good with his customers and very fond of the children who tagged along with their mums all of which make him the good salesman that he was. One very clever approach which he deployed was to hand out old comics such as the ‘Valiant’ free to his customers' children. I'm unsure where he got his stock from but I seem to recall he encouraged his customers to hand in any old comics which they were finished with; it was similar to an exchange re-distribution system. Although a short visitation it was always an interesting interlude to go to the back of his old red Austin van and see the fish and weigh scales and of course the comics inside; there would be a bit of repartee and he might twist your ear.

An important visit in the year for many families in Oxgangs was when there was a knock at the door and a man wearing a slightly scruffy uniform and chauffeur style cap, carrying a large denoted thick book, would announce his presence -  ‘Gas Man’ - and without a by-your-leave walk straight into your house, turn immediately right into our kitchen and open the first cupboard door. Because it doubled up as a storage area the cupboard always had a distinctive smell with its mix of gas and furniture polish.

The Gas Man wasn't there just to read your meter but also to empty the drawer that contained the shillings (5p). The great excitement came after he had taken the reading and worked out the figure against his notebook - gas rebate time! This was important to families because in hard pressed times the money returned came as a real bonus. However on one occasion to the chagrin of Mother she didn't receive a rebate but instead had to repay the Gas Man. After the previous visit I had discovered that he hadn't replaced the padlock properly. I found that I could easily pull out the drawer and take out a shilling any time I fancied a treat from Jimmy's Green Van. I suppose it could have been worse as I imagine any kind of fiddling with the gas was a criminal offence and I probably got off lightly with just a belting.

Another of the great characters who visited The Stair was Onion Johnny. Onion Johnnies went from door to door selling onions from their bikes. The onions hung drooped over the bicycle's handle-bar and cross bar. Early on in the day it must have been difficult to ride the bicycle and often Onion
Johnny could be seen wheeling his bicycle rather than riding it. Whilst we thought he was unique to Oxgangs there were Onion Johnnies all over the country. Looking back I wonder how our Onion Johnny coordinated his work. Where were the onions stored? How did he organise and replenish his stock throughout the day? Where did he eat and sleep? And, how on earth did he make it pay? After doing a wee bit research, a clearer picture emerged. We were actually very lucky to have our own Onion Johnny as by 1973 there were only 160 of them left in the whole of the United Kingdom. Each year they came over from Breton in northern France bringing across the distinctive red onions after the harvest in July. They rented local barns where the onions were stored, often not returning to France until January of the following year. So perhaps they rented a barn from one of our local farmers at Dreghorn or Swanston. Often they slept on and were wrapped up in their onion-sacks in sheds, barns and derelict houses - tough going as the warmth of summer faded to the cold and frosts of late autumn and winter. It must have been lonely too. It would be decades before the advent of mobile phones. As they strived to earn money to support their families so far from home their relatives must have worried terribly about them and their welfare. And the onion sellers must have missed their wives and children dreadfully.

I’ve since read Ian MacDougall’s (a former work colleague at Midlothian Council) book, ‘Onion Johnnies.’ Evidently they mainly operated out of Leith where they rented an old building to sleep in and store their onions. Some of them tell stories of cycling all the way to beyond Oxgangs out to Fairmilehead to sell their onions.

And then who could forget the rag ’n’ bone man. He would ring a bell or blow his horn and announce his presence. Pavlov in action yet again - as soon as I heard his cries I rushed into the bedroom to grab the nearest item of clothing, on one occasion my beautiful little blue coat so lovingly made by my Nana or the leather jacket brought to me by my father from New York. It too was exchanged for a balloon.

Ken Hoffmann, Aqueduct Race Track, New York 

The irresistible, magnetic draw for me was his large battered old suitcase full of colourful toys, trinkets, puzzles, jokes and balloons which lay inside the open suitcase in the back of his van. It was a mobile Aladdin's Cave in grey Oxgangs magically transported us to a wonderful world of colour and imagination; the rag ‘n’ bone man's suitcase was a veritable box of delights.

Liz Blades (6/6 Oxgangs Avenue) wrote ‘Hi Peter, Yes after our balloons exchange (rag 'n bone man) I also thought of the other salespeople and pedlars who came door-to-door to sell their wares in Oxgangs. Not having ready cash was not a problem because credit was extended which allowed repayment over an extended period, in some ways like a credit card today. There was a certain Mr Duckworth from the Provident. I do not recall ever clothes shopping with my mother - she had neither time not money - so Mr Duckworth was very handy. She would tell him what was needed and he would bring along some items for her to choose from. That was a step up from getting my clothes in boxes from the congregation at St George's West Church! Another salesman was a Pakistani gentleman, who my brother Douglas irreverently named 'Sambo'. I have no idea what his real name was but I always admired him because it took guts to do what he did. He wore a traditional trench coat like Humphrey Bogart, and carried a large brown suitcase stuffed with all manner of goods which he would open as a display once a door was opened. His price range was such that there was always something useful that could be afforded. He must have come in one of the first waves of immigrants from Pakistan. He was always very polite and friendly, and of course some of his range was exotic for the likes of Oxgangs - beautiful silk scarves and ties from India.’

Mother seemed to recall he wore a turban. If he did, he was probably Indian. As Liz said, she admired him. He was impeccably mannered with a ready smile. Because he carried a suitcase full of curiosities he reminded me of the rag ‘n’ bone man, but the only occasion I recall us getting something from him was a little tin of polish which he recommended to me for cleaning my bicycle. Ironically, we didn’t buy it. Instead it was a free sample to tempt us to purchase the normal size tin and other serendipities. The manufacturers produced sample tins for this purpose.

I wonder what happened to him and his family over the subsequent years and decades. His was such an exotic appearance and visitation that he left an indelible mark on my memory. But there’s an interesting book called ‘Moving Worlds, the Personal Collections of Twenty One Immigrants to Edinburgh' which give an insight into the world of the Pakistani or Indian gentleman with the suitcase who used to visit The Stair. And as with Onion Johnny in the 1960s I suspect our exotic salesman wasn't unique and instead there was a small platoon of them out there.

In the book Lal Khatri writes he left the Punjab in 1929 and came to Edinburgh. He was advised by a friend ’If you get a pedlar's licence from the police and you buy some stuff and you sell it, then that will give you some income to live on if you are lucky’. He then goes on to say ’...I managed to get the licence and it was very good from then onwards. Things were hard but I could always get enough money to buy bread and pay for my room and all that sort of thing. We sold all sorts - shirts, dresses and blouses. I sold what I had with me and took orders for anybody wanting anything...the prices were quite reasonable but lots of people had no money. Even one eleven-ha'penny article took two or three visits for customers to pay for. Some people banged the door in front of you...others would open it...Oh, some of those people became friends through that, and others, of course, had no time for you at all.’

Baldev Singh with Pappinder in 1969 

Baldev Singh came to Edinburgh in 1958. He was born in Lahore, Pakistan in 1947. He is a Sikh. He says’...my grandfather came to Edinburgh as a door to door salesman...He used to sell shirts, ties, hankies, blouses, things like that. They all did that when they first came here...But 90% o' Sikhs went roond the doors sellin' with a suitcase, took orders and delivered the stuff. It's freedom to them, you see. Naebody but themselves, naebody tellin' them what to do. They used to go whenever they felt like it..

Jimmy and Jock; Onion Johnny and Baldev- just a few of the colourful, admirable and gutsy hawkers, pedlars and salesmen who served our community and added to the richness of life in Oxgangs during the summer holidays and throughout the other seasons of the year. .