said. ‘You know, the frummers, in their taught me all the music hall songs, and Hatton Garden to an underground river
big hats and long black coats, that’s what I still remember them.’ With that Zuki near Fleet Street, before travelling on
we used to call them, the Whitechapel burst into song on the spot, closing his to Australia. He spoke of the Diamond
Cowboys. Of course most of them have eyes and swaying from side to side as he Club being used by medical students
left here now, but there are still many sang: ‘Darling I am growing old, Silver from Barts for dissecting dead bodies. He
working in Hatton Garden. Some of threads among the gold, Shine upon my recounted stories of highwaymen and
them I have known since they were kids.’ brow today, Life is fading fast away…’ A daring thefts where jewels were scat-
Moving on from tales of the East fit of coughing stopped him mid-song. tered over the pavement, and told tales of
End, he began to talk about Hatton When he regained composure he seemed abandoned monasteries, extra-terrestrial
Garden, which he felt to be far more reluctant to reminisce further but was sightings, hauntings and freak fairs. ‘Did
interesting. He knew the territory well, keen to tell me other stories, relating to you know,’ he said, whilst grabbing my
having begun his working life there the history of Hatton Garden, of which arm tightly, ‘that Hatton Garden was
in the late 1nine.oldstyle20s, as an apprentice in a he had a growing interest. He spoke at once the site of an elegant palace, sur-
large jewellery repair workshop. ‘There great speed, his large eyes expanding rounded by vast gardens, with fountains,
were about twenty people working in widely as he talked. He told me that the vineyards and orchards?’ Before he had a
my department then,’ he said. ‘Mainly entire area floats above a labyrinthine chance to tell me more, one of his friends
older men, some of them had wooden network of subterranean spaces: aban- shouted something to him in Yiddish
legs, they were veterans from the First doned railway platforms buried deep un- and, with a stamp of his foot, he was
World War. There was one old guy derground, decommissioned government back of_f into the throng, arms akimbo,
called Jacob Verns there, he had a wicked bunkers and forgotten rivers. ‘It amazes passionately contributing to the heated
sense of humour. If a new kid started me the entire place doesn’t cave in,’ he debate. I never saw him again. Despite
with us he used to jam a chisel into his said. ‘With the weight of gold and heavy many attempts to find him, it has been
wooden leg and start screaming and metal above and all those ancient, watery impossible to do so. But he did spark my
hollering. Thought it was hilarious. We passageways honeycombing the ground interest in the wider history of the area
had a lot of laughs and we sang all the underneath.’ He told me fragmented that day and, slowly over time, I began
time whilst we worked. Those old boys stories about chaingangs marching from to find out more. ◊
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