The Frobishers/Chapter 8
A CHANGE OF AIR
Night had fallen, although the hour was but six. The sky was obscure; the line where it ended and the horizon began was smurched with lurid flames from furnace chimneys, and punctured with gas lights from windows. Here and there a disregarded heap of cinders and small coal glowed, sent forth flickers and smoked. Here and there a steam puff trailed athwart the black heavens, partially illumined from below. Here and there flashed green and red and orange lamps.
Joan descended from a train on the North Staffordshire line, that crept from station to station, sown at such short intervals that the engine was unable to get up pace between them.
Little expense had been incurred to make the station beautiful or commodious. It consisted of nothing other than two long sheds and a high-spanned covered footway from one platform to the other; and seemed designed mainly for the exhibition of advertisements of teas, baking powders, and soaps on its long, protracted boardings.
Joan issued from the station, having delivered up her ticket, and stood outside on the causeway of indented tiles. No cab was stationed there to invite a fare, no hotel 'bus was in readiness.
She had with her but a Gladstone bag.
Halting on the pavement, holding her bag, she looked along a road deep in mud, with sparse gas lamps reflecting themselves in puddles.
A few houses, stragglers from the town stretching towards the station, coal and timber and clay yards, a mean public-house, a waggon shed—these were all that were revealed by the artificial light.
There was no distant glow thrown up upon the clouds to indicate the presence of a great town. No great towers and spires visible from the station looming up against the flaring furnace lips and fire tongues, showing where was the nucleus of this busy neighbourhood.
A ragged urchin came up.
"Carry your luggage, miss?"
"How far is it into the town?"
"It's all town. What part do you want to go to?"
"The Griffin Hotel."
"All right you are. A mile and an 'arf, but there's the electric tram."
"But where is the tram?"
"Take you to it for twopence and carry yer bag."
"Very well. You shall have the twopence. How far?"
"Take yer two minutes."
The boy shouldered the bag and slouched away. Presently he turned his head and said—
"The tram'll take you right past the Griffin. Tell the chap as has yer penny to set yer down there. You'll do it bloomin' cheap, yer will, owin' to me. Threepence. If yer'd had a cab as I see'd yer squintin' about arter, it would a cost yer a bob, and the cabby 'ud a cussed and swore at yer if yer hadn't put on another sixpence, seein' yer to be an unprotected female and a stranger, and the time—night."
He led Joan to a three-cornered paved place where a road came into that from the station, and where she saw the line of rails, and by the side poles with insulators and wires.
In the midst stood a lamp-post with a flickering gas jet in it. The glass was cracked and a chip was out, allowing the wind to rush in and wanton with the flame.
"You're a bag-woman, for 'ere's yer bag," said the boy, planting Joan's luggage under the lamp and seating himself upon it. "But are yer a professional commercial traveller?"
"No, I am not quite that."
"Nobody comes 'ere but commercials. I don't see why the manerer-fact'rin' bosses don't employ young wimen to trot about with their samples. Blowed if I don't think they'd be more persuadin' by long chalks than the men—they would be with me, if good-lookin', as you are."
"You monkey," said Joan, laughing—to be addressed in this off-hand, familiar tone by a dirty street arab was to her a new experience—
"You monkey! I suppose you expect another penny for the compliment you have paid me."
"Shouldn't object; and I'll throw yer in my blessin' free, gratis, and for nothin'. I wish yer all 'appiness, and luck whatever yer takes in 'and. I couldn't do it more 'andsome. Here you are with your tram. Jump in with all yer legs, and I'll chuck the bag arter you. Driver, set my gal down at the Griffin, don't forget, or I'll withdraw my patronage."
In the tram were but two persons: a gentleman with dark moustache, bushy dark hair, and restless eyes; the other a young and pretty girl. As Joan saw at a glance, he was annoying her with his attentions. She was a modest and reserved girl, and looked with evident relief at Joan as she entered. Joan grasped the situation a moment after she had seated herself, and then changed her place and planted herself deliberately between the man and the girl he was persecuting. She looked him straight in the face, and he, muttering some remark that she did not catch, drew away.
In about ten minutes Joan descended from the car, when at once the girl followed her, and with a smile said, "I thank you."
Joan then went into an inn that was reputed to be the best in the place, but which made no efforts to assert its superiority to others, and to pretend to be of first or even second class order. She entered a narrow passage with the bar on one side and the "Commercial Room" on the other, and inhaled an atmosphere strongly impregnated with spirits. She looked about her with a feeling of bewilderment for someone to whom she might apply for accommodation.
The barmaid was conversing with a party of commercials in the inner apartment, whence flowed fumes of whisky and tobacco, and issued the clink of spoons in tumblers. She either did not notice the arrival of Joan, or did not consider it worth her while to attend to a mere woman, till she had satisfied all the requirements of the gentlemen in the inner snuggery. Presently she sauntered to the bar with careless indifference of manner, and looked coldly at Joan, then turned her head to respond to some sally from a lively bag-man, and only at last asked superciliously—
"May it please?"—
It was too much trouble to complete the question. Joan, however, readily supplied the answer.
"I shall be glad of a bedroom."
The superior young person rang a bell, and a chambermaid responded.
"Selina, number thirteen!"
Then she sped back to that bosom of conviviality, the inner bar.
The maid took Joan's bag and led the way upstairs to a small, clean bedroom, looked into the jug, and satisfied herself that there was water therein—probably of two days' standing, to judge by the film covering it, lighted a candle, and departed. The idea that hot water might be of advantage did not occur to her. However, after having left the room, she put in her head again and asked—
"A commercial?"
"I have not that honour," replied Joan, and the girl withdrew with a face that showed that Joan, by her disclaimer, had forfeited the sole claim she could have advanced to be treated with respect.
When Joan descended, after having washed her face and hands, opened her bag, and arranged her hair, she again stood in hesitation whither to go, when the maid said—
"Into the Commercial Room, if you please; there's no other sitting-room with a fire. I don't fancy there'll be any gentlemen come in, unless they be teetotallers."
"I should like some dinner," said Joan. "At what hour do you dine?"
"Dinner! Lord keep you! We dine at one o'clock; then's the ordinary."
"Well, call it supper. Can I have some?"
"Certainly; anything you please to command."
"Oh, I do not require much; I would leave it to you."
"Then I daresay we could manage a chop."
Joan seated herself by the fire, put her feet on the fender, looked among the glowing coals, and fell into a dream.
After the deference to which she had hitherto been treated, not only by the servants at Pendabury, but by the villagers, by the entire neighbourhood, by the tradesmen and shopkeepers of Lichfield, this was a strange experience. It did not offend her, it amused her. With her clear good sense she was aware that she could not expect the treatment in a strange place to which she had been accustomed at home, and that in her altered circumstances she must expect new surroundings and an altered tone of address.
She was left undisturbed for half an hour, and then the girl came in to lay the cloth at one end of the table.
About the same time a large-built commercial traveller entered, a man with a profusion of dark hair, with shaven cheeks, but a ring of moustache and beard left encircling his mouth. He seated himself at the table and expanded to fill up the entire extremity, and planted his broad fat hands upon his sturdy knees spread wide apart.
"Now then, Jenny," said he to the maid, "I want supper. I've been tootling about all day and have had no time to pick up more than a couple of sandwiches. What can you do for me, my lass? I'm famished as an ogre."
"Anything you please to ask for," responded the maid.
"Well, then, get me mulligatawny soup, a fried sole, and a little shoulder of mutton with onion sauce. For sweets"—
"Lord bless you, sir, it is past seven o'clock. I don't think it could be done. There's no fish—but we might do you a chop."
"And for sweets?"
"I daresay we could manage some bread and marmalade. What will you have to drink?"
"Two whiskies and a large soda."
"This lady is going to have the same," observed the girl.
Joan glanced up, shocked.
"Not the whiskies, please. I will take tea."
The bag-man looked hard at Joan, and asked in a courteous tone—
"I beg pardon, but are you travelling for any firm? I am in the hardware."
"I—oh dear no! That is the third time I have been asked the same question within an hour."
"No wonder. No one comes to this place except on business. There is nothing to be seen, to attract visitors. It leads to nowhere but to coal and marl pits. I am heartily glad to hear, mem, that you are not in the commercial line. The females are cutting us out everywhere, invading every business, storming every profession. There will be nothing left us men to do presently but manual labour. Our branch has hitherto remained sacred, but for how long? In Shakespeare's days no woman was on the stage, and now women delight in taking breeches parts. It is a complaint made by the men in these potteries—the women are rolling up the carpet from under their feet. If they would remain at home and mind their houses and children and cook the meals, it would be the best for all; but no, they will go into the potbanks and ruin the men. Female competition lowers the wages. If they would stick to home, the wages of the men would be higher, and the families would be in every way better off."
He would have talked further, never disrespectful, but inclined to be rather more familiar than Joan cared for in a casual acquaintance of the class.
Her supper, consisting of tea and chops, now made appearance, and as she showed no wish to pursue the conversation, the traveller retired to the bar till his meal was ready. Two small chops were displayed, then a metal cover was lifted, that had not been brightened since it left the shop where purchased; they consisted of much fat and little lean, and this latter underdone. No potatoes were introduced, but a stand of cruets was placed within Joan's reach. It contained a phial of Yorkshire relish with a bit out of the neck, and the contents, very cloudy, had certainly long ago lost all the relish the makers had given it; a mustard pot with a thick discoloured crust and dabs of the condiment on the side, also oil and pepper.
Joan's supper was hardly ended before the gentleman in the hardware line came in, simultaneously with the chops he had commanded. Joan then put on her cloak and hat, and took her umbrella, to sally forth for a stroll. She was tired, for she had had a trying day, but she was not desirous of being drawn into more intimate discourse with the traveller, and she was curious to see something, of the place to which she had come, in its night aspect.
The street was alive with people—full of animation. The shops were doing a good business, especially those of the greengrocers and butchers. Young women clustered about the drapers', dressmakers', and milliners' windows, discussing and eyeing the finery displayed.
A party of three girls, arm in arm, swept down the causeway laughing boisterously, and shouting jokes at the young men that passed, and who retaliated in the same vein. Then a band of the Salvation Army made its presence known playing a frolicsome strain, and halted at a corner, where a man addressed those on their way up and down the street, without, however, arresting their attention. The chorus of Hallelujah lasses and lanky, cadaverous-faced soldiers next brayed out a hymn of the most sacred and solemn import, whereupon the children who had congregated round roared out a ribald chorus in parody of the words of the hymn.
Joan hurried past, her gorge rising with disgust, and saw a flaring gas jet above a stall spread with almond rock, barley sugar, and peppermint sticks, the latter composed of twisted strands of rainbow hues. Around this many boys were assembled, greedily eyeing the delicacies.
Joan halted to examine their faces—some clean, but others very grimy—when one urchin looked up at her, laughed, and winking, said—
"That's my gal, as guy me threepence. Twopence for carryin' her bag and one penny for personal complerment. I say, I'm enj'yin' myself amazin' out of them pennies; that I am, just about. Look 'ere." He held up a stick of peppermint and broke it in half with his dirty hands. "I say! 'ave an 'arf? I give it you with all my 'eart, for a liberal young female you be. Take it."
"You are very good," said Joan, with a natural shrinking. "I will not deprive you of it."
"Oh, take it and welcome. It'll make it all the sweeter to me to share with you. Don't say you're too proud, and make a chap blush for your bad manners."
"I am not too proud," said Joan, smiling, and taking the proffered bit of sweetstuff. It was very sticky, and the boy found some difficulty in disengaging his fingers from it.
"Now look 'ere. Clap it into yer mouth, and let me see yer suck and enj'y it."
And Joan did as desired.
"You're a good un'," said the imp.
Then he suffered her to proceed.
A rapid turn in the street brought her into a throng of a different sort, composed of interested spectators gathered in a ring about a woman prostrate on the ground, whilst another vociferated in coarse and strident tones, and gesticulated excitedly, her brogue clearly an Irishwoman.
"The loidy gave me a black oie. Bedad, you wouldn't have me stand that, would you? So I gave the loidy back what she gave me, and wid interest. There she loies. You may pick her up now and teach her 'ow to address a loidy another time."
Joan worked her way energetically through the crowd; such a spectacle, which afforded absorbing interest to others, revolted her as 'greatly as the holy profanities of the Salvation Army.
She reached the highest point in the street—came out upon a square, or open area, irregularly shaped, from which radiated narrow streets, diving downhill, and becoming apparently dirtier and more shabby as they led away from the centre.
From the point where she stood she could look over ranges of small houses—as she judged by the lights from their windows, and above them wavered and flared the streamers of fire from the furnaces in full blast.
She stood a moment looking, observing, wondering. Then she returned to her inn, took her candle, and retired to bed.
Long into the night sounded the tramp of feet and the clatter of tongues in the street, broken now and then by the shouts of men and women quarrelling, by the disjointed strains of tipsy men in song, by the screams of bold girls, by the grind when the electric tram passed, and by the tolling of its warning bell. Verily Joan was in a world undreamt of by her at Pendabury, and in an atmosphere wholly new to her experience.