doused him in a hot tub, donated hosen, shirt, cap, jacket,

a grease-and-beef sandwich for supper and a blanket

smelling of soda and the promise of night’s bliss.

Next morning he was sent to a German sugar bakery

in Whitechapel – to earn his daily bread.

LOUIS

SUGAR BAKING is ze shit vurk of ze devil.

Two years I vurk like pig in schob not fit for monkey.

It arrives on river from Vest Indies looking like dung,

und leaves boiling house sparkling vhite.

I slave in dark cellar und put sugar liquor

in bucket vhich is back breaking und den I run

across cellar to put in basin vhere sugar is bleached, driet out,

und den I shovel it into fucking sugar mountain.

‘Time is money, Herren,’ Master Bumface Kayser say.

We pait piecevork. ‘Too slow no dough!’ he shout.

Sometimes ve vurk from 3 in mornink to 8 at evenink.

Vages more vurse than Irish hod carrier, even.

Ze air is foggy, schmoking und so hot I can’t breaze.

Machine make noise all damnt time und make me deaf.

Sugar make me sick until I don’t schmell no more.

Sugar make me sick until I don’t taste no more.

Sugar schlop from pail und burn bad on my schkin.

Effery day sveat. Vet! Sveat! Vet! Sveat! Vet! Scheisse!

Master giffe uz beer to keep goink, but it make me sick.

Ve vorking-men Germens are schkum of London.

English say Germens haffe no morals und drink too much.

I vill proof them wronk. I am good man, yes, Man!

My two years finish so eat scheisse, Herr Miser-Kayser.

Today I am tventy year old. Tomorrow I get new schob.

Woolwich Dockyard, 1865 –

ICH BIN EIN Master Baker, Louis would proudly declare

years later, twisting the ram’s horns of his moustache,

smoothing down his crisp baker’s apron or inhaling

on his Filet St Omer pipe from Fortnum & Masons,

for he had acquired a taste for the finer things in life.

After an apprenticeship with Brummerhoop & Sons,

he’d set himself up across the Thames with a barrow

to call his own in the garrison town of Woolwich.

Home was a room in Hog Lane in the Dusthole slums

down by the river but he’d traipsed the town battling

rain, snow storms, ice and exhaustion dreaming,

of the shop front that would one day bear his name.

At No 71 Henry Street on South Watson’s Wharf,

Wilkenings sold plaited loaves, fragrant cinnamon buns,

scrumptious sweet bread with a glaze of honey.

His soft crullers were a melt-in-the-mouth delight

and he made pumpernickel especially for his compatriots

who knew the benefits of a good morning dump.

With the purchase of No 72 he was ready, finally,

to find a lady companion and start a clan.

LOUIS

EDWIN and George Huxtable, my chums next door

pop over with ale to go with my pork sausages,

frog march me to fashionable dances to find wife.