A DYING RACE

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23703, 10 January 1939, Page 14

A DYING RACE

LONDON’S FLOWER GIRLS

NO MORE LICENCES

Had Bernard Shaw been born as late as I was, there would never have been an Eliza Doolittle to meet her Pygmalion. For the Eliza Doolittles of Covent Garden, Piccadilly, and the city of London have passed on, states, Rhona Churchill in the Daily Mail. The youngest flower “ girl ” I could find yesterday was one who admitted being 54, then said, “Perhaps you’d better make it 56, dearie.” The oldest was Mrs Norah Ryan, aged 72, who cries "Lovely violets” beside St. Paul’s Churchyard. Her sister, Kathrine. now 78, retired from business at 73, and Mrs Ryan, who looks 60, is determined to carry on till she drops. But it was decided recently that no more licences will be granted to flower girls in the city or in Westminster, The “girls” are a dying race. Their mothers and grandmothers were in the business. Most of them joined the line at the age of 12. Their mothers knew that, when they died, young Eliza or young Sarah would still keep their corner of London bright with flowers. But to-day's flower girl knows that when she dies the dead petals on the pavement by her post will be brushed away for the last time. Most of them feel “ it isn’t much of a life for a girl these days.” Mrs Ellen Hopkinson, aged 62, voiced the general opinion from behind a bouquet of chrysanthemums beside St. Paul’s churchyard when she said: “Trade ain’t what it used to be, lady. Now in the old days, when thirty of us used to stand in the middle of the road under the statue of Robert Peel—the one that first invented policemen—we could make a good living. “ Now there’s only two of us allowed here—Mrs Ryan and me. Young men used to buy posies for their girls. Now the girls come and buy their own. But things brighten up when the carnation season comes along.” Mrs Ryan, standing on the opposite side of the road, _ agreed: “ I wouldn’t put a girl of mine into the flower-selling business nowadays," she said. “What with them red and green lights and one-way streets. . . .” It was the traffic that moved Mrs Ryan and her colleagues to the pavement from the centre of the road. They feel certain dignity has gone from their trade since then. Halfway up Ludgate Hill, 62-year-old Mrs Alice Miller beamed a welcome. She makes 500 buttonholes twice a year for Harrow schoolboys—for Speech Day and for Lord’s. “We used to have a stand in the gutter. Once a copper ran me in for stepping on to the pavement. I was only 14, but had to pay 2s 6d. Now they make -me sit on the pavement and give me a metal licence with a number. , , . _ “ I used to have to fight twelve other girls for customers. Now I have it all my own way.” „ Young Mrs Dinah Wilson, aged 56 she wanted to get away, with 54—was sitting on a wooden chair where Norfolk street joins the Strand. I love the streets,” she said. “ and 111 be here till I die. . “ But it’s no life for a girl nowadays. About twenty of us used to sit outside the old Coach and Horse (Bush House is there now). There was a drinking fountain we could use when we got hoarse.” On what must have been the draughtiest square foot in London, at the foot of Eros, and looking the monarch of all she surveys, I found the typical black-shawled and blackbonneted flower girl—Mrs Mary Beecham. aged 65. There'used to be as many as fifty flower girls round Eros. Now only two have the right to squat there. Circular traffic round the Circus has ruined trade. But Mrs Beecham is happy enough, for she understands business. “Two pounds, no more and no less, for my picture,” she said firmly, when I begged a snapshot in exchange for a half-crown buttonhole.