by John Masters
‘Why the ’ell not? Cor, that baby’s jumping better than that bloody nag I bet on last race … But p’raps I won’t ask old Harry anything. That factory ’is son’s building’s staring ’im in the face, there, least the foundations are. An’ that’s put ’im out of sorts, I can see. Bet ’e’s thinking what ’e could do with that Yankee money. They’ve been throwing the spondulicks around like water … and that’s the way to get things done, same ’ere as anywhere else in the world.’
Bill was in a good temper. She didn’t understand what he was doing, or what laying off or hedging were: but it was clear, to her immense relief, that he was not really losing the large amounts of money he seemed to be. She said, seizing the opportunity, ‘Can you give me ten pounds, Bill, please?’
‘Wot the ’ell for?’
‘I want to hire Mary Gorse to make clothes for the baby. I could make them myself, but she needs the money. She says it’s getting very difficult to feed everyone.’
‘’Ow many kids ’ave they got?’
‘Four at home, not counting the twins in Walstone, with Probyn. And she had four miscarriages between the twins and Violet.’
‘Someone ought to tell Willum what causes that,’ Bill said. ‘’Ere, take a fiver, and tell ’er not to spend it all on drink.’
Ruth said, ‘Bill, you know Mary Gorse never touches a drop! … You’re teasing me!’
Bill said, ‘ ’Ere comes Milner. Mum’s the word, remember!’
They were waiting for the last race. Bill Hoggin and Milner had had a glass of stout each at a stall and were walking away from the grandstand, heads bent. The crowd had thinned out and no one could overhear their conversation.
‘’Ow much?’ Bill asked.
‘Seventy-six quid today. A hundred and seventy over the two days.’
‘I could lend you fifty.’
‘Thanks, Bill,’ Milner shook his head and his prominent Adam’s apple went up and down as he swallowed. His face was pasty in colour, with red blotches. ‘It’s no good. I’ve pinched three hundred and forty out of the Christmas Club I’m treasurer of, too. Meant to pay it back from the geegees. They won’t find out till next Christmas, of course, but then … I’ll have to get the money somehow or I’m sunk.’
‘Jude’ll take that ’ard, mate. She likes ’er comforts, don’t she? An’ being the wife of one of His Majesty’s principal Food Inspectors.’
Milner groaned … ‘Don’t I know it!’
They walked on another five minutes, turning back towards the grandstand. Bill took the cigar from his mouth and said, ‘I ’ear a lot of bad consignments are turning up at the docks.’
‘They are,’ Milner said. ‘Half the canning machines in South America seem to have gone kerfut. We’ve had to condemn thousands of cases for leakies and blowers.’
Bill said, ‘And all that goes to the pig farmers, eh? Cheap?’
‘Very cheap.’
‘’Ow about me being a pig farmer?’
Milner looked up quickly, but didn’t speak. After a while he said, ‘You know what to do?’
‘Garn, ’course I do! Bore a little ’ole, let out the gas, and seal with solder … under the label’s the best, only it takes more time.’
‘Some of that meat’ll be dangerous, Bill. Botulism.’
‘I know it, mate. But ’ow many people ’ave died of botulism since you became an Inspector? Bloody few, an’ you know thousands of leakies and blowers pass through all the time, that aren’t spotted. And this war’s bloody dangerous all round – don’t see why the civilians shouldn’t share the risk a bit, eh?’
Milner didn’t speak for a minute, then – ‘It’ll mean forging you one of the special permits pig farmers have to get before we can sell unfit meat to them.’
‘Get me one. Five hundred quid for you, Milner, cash. ’Alf when I get that permit, ’alf when I get my first thousand cases an’ after that, another fifty quid for you for every thousand cases.’
It began to rain, a light February drizzle. Neither man took any notice. Milner said, ‘Done.’
‘’Ow long will it take you to get the permit?’
‘A week.’
‘Meet you in the Blind Duck, Monday week, twelve sharp, eh?’
‘All right. And lend me that fifty now, to keep the wolf away till I can get the permit … We could both go to gaol for a long time for this, Bill.’
‘Can – but won’t. ’Cos the people who might send us there are going to ’ave their ’ands put in the jam jar too, whether they know it or not, see?’ He winked, and, at the rail of the grandstand, held an imaginary coin and tapped it on the wood, saying, ‘Money – the root of all evil – and all good, mate.’
They started up the aisle towards Ruth, then Bill grabbed Milner’s arm, crying – ‘Hey, see that little bastard in the mac, weaselling off with his head down? That’s Honest Joe, the bookie! The bookie we have our bets on for the last race!’ He raised his voice in a stentorian bellow, ‘Welsher! Welsher!’
All over the course men and women, soldiers and sailors, turned this way and that, yelling – ‘Welsher! … Where, where?’
‘There, running! The little bastard with his head down! Honest Joe!’
Honest Joe broke into a shambling run, revealing his bookie’s leather satchel which he had been attempting to conceal under the mackintosh. Slipping and sliding in the mud he headed for the railway fence. The crowd ran after him, the nearest and those who had heard Bill’s original yell in front, then others streaming out behind in a fan-shaped tail, all yelling, ‘Stop, stop, welsher!’
The man had a fifty-yard start and would have made it on good footing, but he was no mudder, especially not with thin soles, worn smooth, to his shoes. Bill Hoggin, running hard and yelling fiercely at the same time, came closer and closer and, ten yards from the fence, gave Honest Joe a shove from behind that sent him sliding on his face and belly in the mud.
Bill pounced on him, and kneeling astride him, began to rain blows on him while Honest Joe tried to shield his head. ‘Take that, and that!’ Bill yelled. ‘Bloody welshing bastard!’
‘’Elp, ’elp!’ the bookie gasped, sounding as though he had a bad cold, for his nose was bunged with mud, and bleeding. A dozen other men had come up and one of them said, ‘Let me have a go now.’
Bill stood up slowly, wiping his hands. He said, ‘There’s time to put our bets with someone else, if we ’urry. Empty ’is satchel, Milner, and give everyone money for the slips they can show.’
Not everyone got paid, but most did, and those who didn’t gave Honest Joe a few more punches and kicks before he was allowed to climb the fence, a dishevelled and battered figure with a bloody nose, two black eyes, and torn muddy clothing, to stumble along the railway towards North Hedlington station.
Bill and Milner returned to the grandstand. Ruth was waiting with a worried face … ‘What did you do to that poor man?’
‘Bashed ’im on the conk,’ Bill said briefly. ‘Now, Milner, ’ere’s ten quid. Put it on anything you fancy, an’ if we win, it’s ’alf an’ ’alf. You can’t do worse than I’ve been doing.’
Milner ran down the aisle to place the bet before the race began. Bill rubbed his hands together and said, ‘It cost me a bit, but ’e’s ‘ooked … well an’ truly ’ooked.’
‘What do you mean, Bill?’
‘I mean, keep your trap shut. You’ll be wearing a fur coat by this time next month.’
Twenty minutes later Bill and Ruth were walking south down the Rochester road, on their way home. Ruth walked slowly, feeling that she was waddling like a duck. Bill held her hand, going slowly to keep pace with her. He was in no hurry. He was full of beer, and in excellent humour. He had been prepared to lose twice as much as he actually had to get Milner where he wanted him. It had stopped raining, and the streets were glistening in the early twilight.
‘Well, ’ow are the stuck-up Strattons, Ruthie?’ he asked his wife … ‘’Aven’t seen much of them since I started on Eastchea
p.’
‘Dad and Mum are well,’ Ruth answered. ‘Frank’s at the Front. They had a letter from him. He’d been in a battle but was all right. He’s batman to Mr Charles Rowland, Mr John’s son.’
‘Wot the ’ell’s a batman?’
‘A sort of servant, I think. He said he has to look after Mr Rowland’s clothes and pistol and take messages for him in battle, too … Fred’s here, in the barracks.’
‘The barracks up the hill?’
‘Yes. He’s a 2nd Lieutenant in the Weald Light Infantry, he told me. He goes to dinner with Dad and Mum now and then, and I went over once.’
‘They still trying to marry him off?’
‘Mum would like him to be married. He … well, he has got into trouble with women, you know.’
‘Don’t we all? And that sister, wot’s always crying? The one wot’s married to the dago?’
‘Ethel – ’ Ruth began; then said, ‘Let me rest a bit here, Bill … Could we have a taxi? You can afford one, can’t you?’
‘’Course I can! But walking’s good for you, and the nipper. Sit down on that doorstep there.’
‘I can’t sit here, with people staring,’ she said. She started walking again, feeling more uncomfortable in her body than ever. To take her mind off it she thought of Ethel and said, ‘Mind, you mustn’t tell anyone … Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Dad’s sending her money on the QT, through the woman next door, so Niccolo won’t know about it. Otherwise he’d take it and spend it on gambling and betting, like the rest of the money. He’s got a better job now – at the Savoy Hotel in the dining-room, but he still doesn’t bring home enough money for them to live on. And he still tells Ethel that he’ll get rid of her if she doesn’t have a baby soon.’
‘Sounds as if she ought to walk out, anyway. There’s plenty of better fish in the sea than a bleeding dago waiter wot can’t recognize a three-legged ’orse or a doctored pack of cards.’
‘Anne’s the worst off – Frank’s wife. Frank seems to be happy, battles and all, but she’s miserable. I go round to see her once a week, at least, while you’re in London. She looks as though she’s wasting away, and miserable. She really loves him.’
Bill Hoggin blew his nose with his fingers, heartily expelling the phlegm into the gutter. ‘She’ll be finding someone else to keep her tits warm if Frank’s not careful.’
‘Oh, Bill, Anne’s not that kind of woman!’
‘All women are that kind of woman, if they are lonely enough, long enough.’
Ruth stopped suddenly, her hand jerking out of his. She went dead white, whispering, ‘Oh, oh! … Bill … it’s happened!’
‘Wot’s ’appened?’ Bill cried, alarmed. She was swaying unsteadily, and trembling.
‘The waters just broke.’ She stood with her legs apart, bent over. Bill grabbed her hand and pulled her to a lamp post. ‘’Old on to that, ’old ’ard now!’
He ran into the middle of the road and waved his arm at a car sweeping up towards them. The car stopped a few feet away, brakes squealing, and he ran to the driver’s side, and leaned in – ‘My wife’s ’aving a baby. Take us to the ’ospital!’
The driver was a la-di-da sort with a little moustache and a monocle. He said, ‘But the hospital’s miles away, my good man.’ He was alone in the car.
‘She’s going to the ’ospital, mate, an’ you’re taking ’er, or I’ll knock your fucking block off. Stay ’ere!’ He ran back to the lamp post where Ruth was swaying giddily, seized her, and bundled her into the back seat of the car.
The driver drove off without a word. Ruth began to groan almost at once, crying, ‘It’s coming, Bill. I know it is!’
‘We’ll be there soon, Ruthie,’ he said; and to the driver, ‘Can’t you make this tin snail go any faster, mate?’
The man did not answer. Ruth’s moans grew louder. Bill was sweating heavily, and the palms of his hands were wet. They passed out of North Hedlington and entered Hedlington.
A sign caught Bill’s eye – LADY BLACKWELL’S HOSPITAL – with a painted hand pointing up a wide side street. ‘Up there!’ he cried.
The driver turned the car, saying, ‘It’s an auxiliary hospital, for the military only.’
‘I don’t care a fuck what it is, they ’ave doctors, don’t they?’
The driver stopped his car outside the front door of the big, sprawling building. Bill leant over and pumped the klaxon so that it blared like a sick donkey. The door opened and a nurse came running out, ‘Battle casualty?’ she cried.
‘No. My wife’s ’aving a baby.’
‘This is a …’ the sister began; then she saw Ruth’s frightened face and said, ‘It doesn’t matter. We have some women hurt in the bombing, anyway. Get out of the car, sir, and help me with your wife … This is your first?’
Ruth nodded and said, ‘It’s on the way, now.’
The sister smiled, ‘Not so fast, the first time. Come along now. How many minutes between pains?’
About half-past one in the morning Bill Hoggin, sitting in a small downstairs room in Lady Blackwell’s Hospital, thought he’d have to piss again soon. He’d been to the WC six times already since arriving soon after five the previous afternoon. He stifled a yawn. The beer had got to him early, and he’d felt godawful for an hour or two; then that wore off, and he’d read the paper, and thought about Milner, and how best to dispose of the tinned meat he’d be getting. Sell it direct to the military buying commission if he could. That would mean greasing some palms, which would be further protection … Then he thought about sugar. There’d been a Royal Commission set up to look into the sugar supply situation the month the war started, back in August. Now there were rumours there’d be an allotment … so much per person and factory that used sugar. Sugar was going to be worth its weight in gold. If he could get some, outside the allotment, he could resell it for two or three times the official price.
God, that woman was taking a time … but the hoity toity nurse had assured him that labour of several hours was normal for a woman having her first baby. Nearly nine hours now.
Couldn’t put it off any longer or he’d piss in his trousers. He struggled to his feet and went out into the brightly lit corridor. A young woman was coming along it, carrying a mop and pail. She was just over medium height, with big blue eyes, a large bosom bulging out her hospital helper’s VAD uniform, and a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion, the skin the texture of a rose petal, glowing softly even in the hard glare of the electric light.
He stopped, staring at her. She paused, smiling, and said, ‘Good morning. You must be the husband of the lady who’s having a baby. All the sisters are very excited. It’ll probably be the only baby ever born here.’
As she spoke, her look had changed its character. He thought there was recognition now; and he thought he had seen her before, too.
‘My name’s Hoggin, miss,’ he said. ‘Bill Hoggin.’
Then she was sure. She knew him: and the occasion had not been long ago. But she said, ‘You musn’t worry, Mr Hoggin.’
Nodding, she moved on. He went to the WC, did his business and returned to the little room, thinking. A lady. A young lady. He ought to have asked her name. That might have given him an idea. But …
The door opened and a sister came in, smiling. ‘Mr Hoggin?’
He leaped to his feet.
‘Your wife has just given birth to a 5 lb 7 oz boy. It appears that he’s about three weeks premature, but mother and child are doing well. There are no complications.’
‘Can I see them now?’
‘In half an hour. Your wife insisted on cleaning up before she would see you.’
Daily Telegraph Saturday, February 20, 1915
HOUSEHOLD COOKING
Some Meatless Dishes
Now that there are distinct signs of spring, the economical housekeeper will find that, with a little thought and care, she can serve meatless fare that is both inexpensive and nourishing. The recipes … i
nclude suggestions for rather uncommon, if economical Lenten dishes:
Chestnuts With Sprouts
Slit about 1 lb of chestnuts, boil them in salted water, then drain and remove the shells and inner skins. In another saucepan cook till nearly tender in fast-boiling salted water about lb of Brussels sprouts, previously washed and trimmed. Melt in a clean saucepan I oz of butter or dripping, put in the chestnuts and sprouts, season with salt and pepper, and toss over the fire, or let all simmer gently for a few minutes. A little stock may be added if handy. When quite hot, dish up by arranging a border of chestnuts on a hot dish, and place the remainder of the chestnuts and the sprouts piled up in the centre, then serve.
I know that dish, Cate thought. He’d eaten it many times, served with chipped potatoes and red currant jelly as an accompaniment to roast pheasant. Now, partly for Lent and partly due to war shortages of meat, it was being recommended as a dish in itself. The other suggested recipes, eggs au gratin and Irish vegetable stew, were more ordinary. Indeed, Mrs Abell had served them the latter within the past week.
He frowned at the paper, his thoughts sliding from the particular to the general. Just as there was a great inequality of sacrifice in battle, many risking and giving their lives, many others staying at home and risking nothing, so there was great inequality in this necessity of eating. A Royal Commission had looked into the matter of sugar supply last August, as soon as the war began; but sugar wasn’t the only commodity which needed controlling. There was great inequality in the availability of meat, milk, eggs, and some vegetables; bread was not so bad – if you had the 8d for a loaf. It came down to money: those who had it, ate well: those who didn’t, didn’t … and many of those who didn’t were the dependants of the very same men who were risking their lives in the trenches. A soldier’s wife was in a much worse position than the wife of a factory worker, especially if there were small children to look after, for then the wife was for all practical purposes prevented from earning extra money on the side, and had to depend solely on her husband’s allotment. Broadly defining class as wealth – not quite true, but true enough for the present situation – there was another split developing between the classes … not, as one might have thought, on the battlefield, where the upper class were doing their share and more; but at home, in England’s green and once pleasant land …