Bone Street/Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AMONG THE OUTCASTS
RISING at seven the next morning, he went downstairs, finding the way to the wash kitchen, in which was situated a long narrow trough with several taps. This was the wash trough, and Jack washed in it. The towels like everything else were not too clean, but finding as clean a corner as possible, he used it ; for it was not much use being fastidious in a common lodging-house.
The wash over, he proceeded to prepare breakfast. The menu was again bread and dripping toast with tea.
Several of the loafers were up by now, though the majority were still in bed.
As quickly as possible Jack went outside, glad to get into the air, away from all the misery, but there were vain hopes of securing work that day. Being Saturday, the mills closed down at noon ; nevertheless he applied for two jobs that were advertised, where a porter was wanted, but as usual there were scores of able-bodied men applying, and by ten o’clock he had realised the futility of further searching that day.
Wandering aimlessly about the town, he soon became leg weary, but preferred even that to returning to the lodging-house, and so he turned his steps to the free library, that resting place for the respectable weary.
Inside the library were many like himself, unemployed, passing time away till noon, some intently scanning the advertisement columns, some reading the periodicals, while others sat moodily doing nothing.
Jack being fond of reading was more fortunate than some, for a couple of hours in the library was something more than a place to pass time away, out of the cold, but the pangs of hunger reminded him that time was going on, so he proceeded to a frozen meat shop to purchase a joint for Saturday and Sunday. This consisted of a pound of breast of mutton, price threepence. Breast of mutton is a profitable joint; not only would it last him over the week-end, it would also give some dripping. Calling at the corner shop for a loaf he was soon back at the lodging-house cooking a meal, but a five-hours’ abstinence from food gave him an appetite, so that he would have eaten all the meat, but was compelled to practise restraint, otherwise the cupboard would be empty on the morrow.
Determined not to develop the habit of lounging about the town, Jack packed himself a couple of slices of bread and dripping, and by three o’clock was setting off for a jaunt to his beloved moors. But now there was no heather, no busy insects buzzing round, no warm sun to cheer one, nothing but the memories of the past happy days, that seemed so very far away.
Sadly his thought returned to his dad. Oh, those dear old days. The splendid companionship of his father, the grand walks they had enjoyed together, the rambles over hill and dale, the absolute revelling in Nature’s beauty, and now, what was to become of him?
Would he develop into one of the outcasts, such as he had pitied in the lodging-house only last night?
Presently he straightened himself up. “This won’t do,” he muttered. “I mustn’t give way before I’m downed,” and so he tried to cheer himself up. He thought he knew the worst of the struggle for existence, but fortunately for himself, he didn’t glimpse half of it.
Walking slowly, Jack returned to the town, eventually arriving at the lodging-house, and sat down for a while to rest himself, but he was nauseated by the company, and their foul language. Some were tipsy, and getting boisterous, singing vile songs; others just sat despondently watching it all, till Jack could bear it no longer, so decided to retire to bed. The dim gaslight just enabling him to see the beds, he lay there thinking and thinking, but it was all of no avail, he could not see a way out. Sleep was beginning to claim him when the other lodgers began to come to bed, most of them the worse for drink. One by one they staggered to their beds; some, too drunk to undress themselves, dropped on to their beds with a bang, muttering and grumbling to themselves, oaths punctuating their mutterings, until they too dropped to sleep.
Monday arrived, and he was again ready to seek work, and never did man try harder than Jack.
Commencing at six in the morning he took the mills as they came. Earnest and eager, he interviewed managers and gatemen. If there was the least possible chance of slipping through the gate without being seen, he did so.
That morning he visited over twenty places, and he met with all kinds of answers. Nasty “No’s,” or a supercilious shake of the head; “Full up”; and at one place was told to clear off.
In the afternoon the same thing was repeated.
Oh, the terrible heartbreaking of seeking work. You try another place.
“Can I see the manager, please?” you ask hesitatingly.
“What do you want?” says the clerk or timekeeper.
“I want a job.”
Immediately comes the answer, “No use seeing the manager, we’re full up.”
Oh, the wandering round, hoping against hope, until nightfall, when you wander back to your home or lodgings, tired, hungry, aye and nigh heartbroken.
To the unemployed man it is heartbreaking to see the scornful glance of the comfortable self-satisfied individual who says “No,” and doesn’t understand that he is tearing at your very heart! Sleep! there is none. Instead, a rolling and tossing, visiting and revisiting the places you have applied to during the day, living over again the agony, and tortured by the thoughts of what will become of you unless you do obtain work.
At five o’clock Jack again visited the Free Library, eagerly scanning the early edition of the evening paper. Off he dashed again for a warehouse job. But no luck, it was filled. And night-time found him back again at the miserable lodging-house, to spend another night in physical and mental discomfort.
By Thursday he was at his wits’ end; that night left him with just sufficient to pay for a bed, and an empty cupboard.
He seriously pondered whether to walk the streets that night, and buy food with the fourpence. It was bitterly cold, the rime frost covering the house-tops. If he paid for his bed, there was no food. If he bought food, he would be without a bed. Finally he decided for food, and so had a walk, to endeavour to find a place where he could shelter from the cold.
He stayed in the Free Library till nine o’clock, when the place was closed, and then went off on an exploration tour.
Miserably he trudged about in the cold, aimlessly wandering, his senses numbed by the position in which he found himself. Fortunately he still possessed an overcoat, and his boots were fairly whole, though rapidly approaching the breaking-point.
Homeless and outcast. Not through any fault of his own, but by sheer bad fortune, for had he never met with the accident, he would probably have been still employed at Bramfitt’s.
Midnight still found him walking about, for the cold was too intense to stand, and happening to strike a main road, where the tram-lines were being relaid, he saw a watchman’s fire, and almost frozen with cold he hastened to the huge brazier full of red-hot coals, warming his hands and body with its generous heat.
The fire was situated in front of the watchman’s hut, and the old watchman looking at his visitor, said, “Out late, lad.”
“Aye,” replied Jack, not desiring to say much, for he still felt sensitive, although he was fast losing his pride in this unequal struggle for an existence, but the old man persisted :
“Nowhere to go ?” he asked.
Jack felt a sudden rush of bitterness.
“No,” he replied bitterly ; “I’m homeless. Can I stay here for a while ?”
“Of course tha can,” said the watchman. “Sithee come and sit here : there’s room for two.”
Jack sat himself down by the old man, moodily staring at the fire, while the old watchman gradually drew from him the exact position.
“Nivver mind, lad, make thisen comfortable, tha can stop here till t’work starts at six in t’morning,” and there Jack stayed until the morning.
He leaned back gratefully, surveying the red fire, until sleep claimed him, his head nodding forward, when the fall of his body woke him.
The watchman would mend his fire, while occasionally a policeman called to warm his hands, and give a questioning glance at the nodding youth. He could have taken him for a vagrant, but usually policemen are friendly folk, and so Jack rested unmolested.
Long before six o’clock Jack was fully awakened, and listening to the clatter of clogs, as the mill hands proceeded to their work, again bringing back memories of his younger days.
Jack was off before the first workman arrived on the scene, for he had a deadly fear of being recognised by someone he knew, so with “Thanks, very much,” he bid the watchman adieu.
For another two hours he walked about, for ever keeping his eyes open to disappear should anyone who knew him pass.
At eight o’clock he decided to go to the lodginghouse, and purchasing a loaf, took it in with him, and nobody challenging him, he fed in the place as usual, carefully keeping out of sight of the deputy, for he would know that the customary fourpence had not been spent in paying for a bed.
The night came, and still no work. Again he spent the night wandering round the town, with a few hours round the hospitable watchman’s fire, returning to the lodging-house for a wash, and the remainder of his loaf, for the locker key was still in Jack’s possession.
That morning he had a stroke of luck, for he heard one of the loafers telling another that “Wallingford’s Panorama” was coming to town that day, and as usual they would require someone to distribute tickets and bills. They would engage the men at the Free Trade Hall at eleven that morning.
Jack made a mental note of the time, deciding to be there early. At ten o’clock he arrived at the box office, for, making diligent enquiries, he had found out that what the loafer said was true, some men would be required.
It is remarkable how news travels, for by eleven o’clock forty to fifty men were waiting in the hope of securing a job.
Jack had a strategic position on the doorstep, which meant when the door opened he would be first. The door opened. A man of about thirty years came out, carrying a leather satchel with a long strap attached. Jack, seizing the bag, asked for a job, and carelessly giving him the bag the man said, “Come on.”
There were other men with similar bags, each of whom secured a member of the crowd, and with the disconsolate looks of the remainder following them, they set off into a working-class district.
Making Priory Road the centre, the eight of them proceeded to work street by street, systematically leaving at each house a small ticket, similar to a railway ticket, bearing on it these words:
One week only.
“WALLINGFORD’S PANORAMA.”
HALF-PRICE FAMILY TICKET.
We put the world before you.
Come to the Free Trade Hall, and travel round the world.
Admission to all parts half price on presentation of this ticket.
The man whom Jack was with was evidently in charge of the distributors, and indeed adept at the job, and he amazed Jack by the skill with which he could flick a ticket through an aperture, where the door was only open an inch or two. Steadily he kept them at work until one o’clock, when they returned to the Hall, each man receiving a shilling in payment for his labours.
“Be here at ten o’clock Monday morning,” said the man with whom Jack had been working, “I’ll remember you.”
Jack was ravenous, but in view of his experience the last two preceding nights, he decided to pay for his bed. Although only fourpence was left of the shilling, it would purchase a loaf of bread and some margarine. On this he lived till Monday.
Sunday was spent in the common-room beside the fire, for it was still intensely cold.
After tea there was a diversion from the conversation of the lodgers, for a band of people came from a chapel near by, and for more than an hour the company were exhorted to turn from the path of unrighteousness, and enter the fold of the saved—Jack meanwhile wondering, while one smug-faced creature was preaching to them, how the preacher would fare if their relative positions were changed.
Surely things were topsy-turvy. Men should be helped to keep their manhood before they reached this hopeless pitch, for it was circumstance, not desire, that drove men to such-like places, but he listened the sermon through, the fire being too warm to leave.
Monday morning found him again at the Free Trade Hall, and once more he secured a bag, repeating the job of last week, pitching tickets into doorways. And so for a week Jack did this, receiving a shilling each day, and after the misery of the previous week he was indeed rich. Every day he had meat, frozen meat to be sure, but Jack ate it with relish.
Jack’s good fortune soon deserted him, as the “Panorama” moved on to another town at the end of the week, and three days after their departure he was again nearly spent up. His bed was paid for till Thursday, and there were still a few coppers remaining sufficient to purchase food for that day.
Five-thirty each night found Jack at different mill gates trying to secure a job on the night turn, but without success, for there were scores of others in the same position as him, and they too waited each night until the night boss came out.
The night boss was a big man, without much understanding regarding men who were unfortunate enough to be unemployed; there he would stand at the gate, contemptuously surveying the down-at-heel and out-of-elbow crowd before him.
“I want two men,” he would say, and then addressing one man in particular would ask, “Can ta job cards?” and God help the man who answered “Aye” if he could not successfully do the job. Never a job again. Blacklisted for ever.
All Jack’s striving was in vain, and Friday found him homeless, hungry, and penniless.
He wandered about for two nights, and during the days sat either in the library or lodging-house. Half-starved, he even picked up a slice of bread thrown away by a child going to school. He pounced upon the bread, and heedless of the glances from the passers by hungrily devoured it.
He had been two days without food or shelter. The first morning he was just hungry, in the afternoon he was ravenous, night found him with an aching void, slouching about. The water drunk at the Free Library eased his stomach. He would have cheerfully stolen food had the opportunity presented itself.
On Saturday night, while sitting amongst the loafers, he heard of a new place for fire and warmth, the Salvation Army would take them in, so Saturday midnight found Jack outside the Salvation Army shelter waiting to be allowed in, to sit by the fire till morning, when he was served with a mug of tea, and a slice of bread and margarine, only one slice, not sufficient to satisfy his hunger, but oh, so acceptable.
Leaving the Salvation Army shelter, he walked for a few hours, then returned to the lodging-house fire, but towards tea-time, what with the atmosphere and the oppressive company, he left the fire for the sweeter, purer atmosphere outside.
Walking in Halfmoon Road, who should he run into but Polly, the youngest daughter of his old friend, Marthalice. Jack hung his head, and tried to walk past without speaking, but the girl put her hand on his shoulder, saying, “Hello, Jack, where’ve you been lately?”
Jack murmured an indistinct reply, and the more Polly pressed to know, the more Jack tried to cover up his true position.
Polly looked at him anxiously, and after a while realising that he wouldn’t talk, allowed him to go, so Jack shambled away, occasionally looking back to see if he was being followed, and arriving at the lodging-house hastily turned round to see if his entry into the place was observed. Seeing no one he hurried inside.
Jack was not aware that the girl had been peeping round the corner, and finding where he was staying, hurried home.
While Jack miserably sat in the common-room, Polly was hurrying back to Bone Street, and in a few minutes Marthalice heard the story.
Marthalice was alone, the rest of the family being out, and almost before the story was told, she was up, and, putting on her bonnet and shawl, said to Polly, “Get t’kettle on, and stop here till I come back.”
“The poor bairn,” she said to herself, and off she went.
Arriving at the lodging-house, which was about five minutes’ walk away, she marched straight up to the common-room, which was easily distinguishable by the babel of conversation, and opening the door stood a moment looking for her quarry.
Talk stopped, and all eyes turned to the woman standing in the doorway, but Marthalice took notice of no one but Jack, whom she had observed trying to hide behind a big navvy.
“Come out,” she said, and knowing the futility of resisting her, Jack came out. He crossed the room to her and said: “Come outside, I’ll explain.”
“Tha’ll explain when I get thi home,” she replied, and taking his arm led him out, and to Bone Street.
On arrival at her home, she held him at arm’s length, looking at him steadily, and then came out with, “Well of all the daft folk I ivver met you’re the daftest. Hah long hest a been in Beckton, and why didn’t ta come here instead of going to that hole? Are ta hungry?—of course tha art. Nah, Polly, is t’water boiled?” and she bustled about preparing tea.
Soon the table was laid, cold meat and pickles, and a few tarts left from a previous meal. All the time she was preparing it she was glancing at the despondent, huddled-up figure in the chair. “Poor bairn,” she muttered to herself. “He looks fair clemmed.”
“Come on lad, and get thi tea.”
Poor Jack felt a lump rising in his throat. Beaten he was, and the kind, rough woman was trying to make it easy for him. He tried to keep his composure, but failed. Burying his face in his hands, he burst into tears, his body shaking with sobs.
Marthalice motioned Polly out with a nod, and going to Jack placed her arm on his shoulder.
“Nah then, lad, hush thi nah, tell t’old lass what’s matter. Poor bairn,” she said, smoothing his rough hair. “Come, lad, tell me what’s matter, perhaps I can help thi.”
Gradually the sobs ceased, and Jack felt better.
“Marthalice,” he said, “you don’t know how I feel, and I can’t explain. I’ve tried to get work, God knows how I’ve tried, but I’ve sunk down to the lowest of the low, not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t help it.”
“Hush now,” was the reply. “Come and get thi tea, then tha can tell me all about it,” and Jack, gradually recovering his composure, commenced to eat.
Marthalice told no one about it, but to herself confessed that “Nivver, nivver, in all her days, had she seen such a meal.” Twice she filled his pint pot with tea, and cut him more bread, until his appetite was appeased.
Jack turned his eyes to Marthalice and gratefully commenced to express his thanks, but she cut him short with, “It’s all reight, lad, say nowt abaht it, tha’rt welcome to a bit o’ summat to eat. Nivver mind that, but tell us where tha’s been lately.” And very quietly Jack related his experiences since leaving Beckton.
Marthalice sat amazed while he told her about the North Sea and his life on the trawler, laughed at his mishaps, and mistakes as a cook, listened without a word as she heard the story of how he met with the accident, and wearily tramped back to Beckton. Suddenly Jack stopped his story.
“What’s up, lad?” asked Marthalice.
“Nay,” he replied, “I’ve kept thinking of the farm where I stopped,” and he told her about the old man who gave him breakfast. “There was something about him that attracted me, although he looked so stern. I’ve wished many a time I’d asked him for a job. I think he was waiting for me to do so.” And he pondered a moment over the fine old chap.
Pulling himself together he continued his tale, and when he told Marthalice about the lodging-house, she nearly choked with indignation, although very near to tears.
Quietly she wiped her eyes with her apron, and when the story was told, very, very quietly she came over to his chair.
“Poor lad,” she said, “it seems to me tha’s been through hell. Nah, I’m going to say summat. Tha’d no reight to be so stiffnecked as to keep away from us. I understands thi feelings, but it appears to me that if our lass hadn’t seen thi, tha might have starved to death.” Suddenly recovering herself she said, “Wheer is she? That lass is never in when she’s wanted,” and opening the door called, “Polly, Polly.”
The girl came from next door. “Yes, mother,” she said.
“I want you to fetch ahr Ruth, I expect she’ll be at Albert’s, and tell her to bring Albert along wi’ her, I want to talk to him.”
Polly went right away, while the dear woman explained that Ruth was courting an overlooker at Clayton’s. He was employed on the night turn, and might be able to get him a job.
“It’ll be night turn,” she said, “but better nor nowt.”
Jack agreed.
“Nah, get a wash and tidied up a bit afore they come,” was the instruction of Marthalice.
On arrival Ruth looked at Jack, saying, “Jack Bradley, whereivver has ta been?”
“That’ll do,” said her mother, “sit thi down, lass; sit down, Albert, and let’s see if we can’t do summat,” and turning to Albert said bluntly: “Tha’s got to see that this chap gets a job, can ta do it?”
Albert, who was a pleasant-looking young man of about twenty-six years, replied just as bluntly, but with a smile:
“Have you ever worked in the combing?”
“No,” replied Jack, “but I’ll do my best if I can get in.”
“That’s it,” said Albert. “There’s many experienced men unemployed in the combing, but I think I know a job that you could do.”
“I’ve got a lame arm,” said Jack.
“Oh,” was the reply, “can you use it at all?”
“Yes, a little.”
“That’ll be all right, you can manage this job. You be up at Clayton’s by five to-morrow night, and come right through into the office. I’ll be there. “Don’t worry, mother,” he said to Marthalice. “I’ll manage it all right.”
Marthalice was satisfied.
“Tha’d better,” she said. “Away wi’ ye both, and get on wi’ thi courting. I want to talk wi’ this chap a bit.”
The couple leaving, she pressed on Jack the money for his night’s lodging, instructing him to come straight to her house next morning for breakfast, after which he could go to the baths, and change his underclothes, for the box he had left with her when leaving Beckton contained a change.
“I know a place where tha can get lodgings,” she said. “We’ll visit there to-morn, when tha’t bathed, and has clean clothes on.” So it was arranged.
Tears came into Jack’s eyes as he tried to thank her, but his thanks were brushed away.
So gratefully bidding her good night, he returned to his dirty lodgings full of hope for a brighter and cleaner to-morrow.