The Streets

by Anthony Quinn

  I ought not have been surprised that the liveried footman who answered my knock was far better turned out than I was. (‘The togs on ’im!’ I imagined Jo declaring.) I had put on my one decent suit of clothes, but nervous examination of the jacket as I sat on the upper deck had revealed a telltale shininess at the elbows. My boots, which ought to have been shiny, were the same I wore every day on my tramps around Somers Town, and seemed to protest their fatigue. The footman and I walked, not quite abreast, across a hallway stunned with light from an enormous chandelier, its individual candlepoints doubled in the floor’s gleaming marbled tiles. A wide gilt-framed mirror tracked our progress, reserving judgement. The dazzle of the hall gave way to a shadowed corridor, at the end of which another servant pulled back a door that opened to a vast drawing room. The crimson swagged curtains that reached from ceiling to floor gave the impression of a theatrical set, with thirty or so guests in converse, awaiting stage directions. The men were a loud lot, their voices pitched at a volume appropriate to their entitlement. The ladies provided a tinkling treble. None of them so much as glanced at me as I entered.

  More liveried staff roamed about with drinks on a tray, and I took a glass, succour of the social castaway. Rather than drown in this flood of anonymity, I steered along the edges of the room, pausing to inspect the glazed oil paintings – of hunts and hounds, of bucolic scenes, of bewigged grandees – as if I were a seasoned gallery haunter. As the chatter boomed around me, I pondered the odds of spending an entire evening in company without once being obliged to speak.

  A voice at my shoulder interrupted this reverie. ‘You seem awfully fascinated by that.’ I turned to find a young woman appraising me, head tilted to one side. She had an open, friendly face, pink-cheeked, snub-nosed, with piercingly blue eyes. Her blonde hair was tied back in a girlish bow.

  I realised I had been staring at a portrait of a haughty-looking gentleman posed à la mode, a shotgun crooked under his arm and a shaggy hound at his feet. ‘I’ve been making a keen study of all these paintings,’ I admitted. ‘It helps to have something to do when one doesn’t know a single person in the room.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said pleasantly, extending her hand. ‘Catherine Elder. Call me Kitty. But you must know Papa.’ She gestured at the hunter figure I had been examining on the wall.

  ‘That’s Sir Martin?’

  She looked puzzled by the question. ‘Of course it is. If you don’t know him, then what –’ She stopped herself, perhaps aware that the question forming on her lips would sound discourteous. I hurried into an answer.

  ‘I know of him. I’m his godson, you see – though I’ve never had the honour of an introduction. David Wildeblood.’

  Her eyes widened in candid surprise. ‘Godson?! I didn’t even –’ She stopped herself again, blushing. ‘Well, you must come and meet him.’ And at that she threaded her arm through mine and walked me through the roaring throng. I felt relief inflate my chest; from being a forlorn solitary I could now hold up my head as companion to perhaps the prettiest girl in the room. She had stopped at a grouping of guests and, with a little widening of her eyes to me in reassurance, she tapped the shoulder of a man with his back to us. He turned, and as Kitty introduced us I perceived the likeness from his portrait; Sir Martin seemed too proud of his square jaw to allow a beard to disguise it. Narrow grey eyes were set deep under his brow, and there was a sportsmanlike virility in his bulk. What the painting hadn’t quite conveyed was his tallness. He rose a good two inches above me. The hand he offered was dry but pawlike, with a prehensile strength.

  ‘So we meet at last!’ he said in a rumblingly deep voice, his gaze searching my face. ‘Yes, I see your father in you. How is dear old Tom?’

  ‘He’s well, thank you, sir,’ I replied, though in truth I didn’t know. My father had not communicated with me since I had come to London.

  ‘One of the finest minds I’ve ever known. He could have been, well . . .’ Sir Martin seemed to consider a lost future, and then dismissed it. ‘We were fast friends at the varsity, he and I. You know, I have your father to thank for saving me.’

  I tipped my head in polite enquiry. ‘Saving you – from what?’

  ‘From the Church!’ he said with a disbelieving laugh. ‘As a young man I once considered taking orders.’

  ‘And now instead you just give orders, Papa,’ said Kitty, seizing her moment with a little grin of delight.

  ‘Ah, very good, my dear. Yes . . . it was my ambition to become an Anglican minister when I first went up to Oxford. Strange to think now,’ he said, with the merest glimpse at his baronial surroundings. ‘Tom Wildeblood showed me the error of my ways – and I was grateful to him.’ There was meaning in his tone. I was now beginning to see how my father had ever presumed to seek a favour of Sir Martin, a man so very different from the general run of our acquaintance.

  ‘And now Mr Wildeblood is your godson!’ cried Kitty, declining to pursue the exact nature of her father’s conversion. ‘That makes us almost kin, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Sir Martin with an indulgent chuckle. ‘But you are welcome in our home, sir. Kitty, perhaps you would allow Mr – that is, David – to take you in to dinner. We shall talk again later,’ he said to me, as another couple stepped forward to claim his attention.

  We drew a little away from the throng. ‘I’m afraid your father has burdened you with an obligation – I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mind? Not at all. The men who usually walk me in to dinner are old and fat and limping with gout. You represent an improvement,’ she said, with a candid up-and-down survey of me.

  I smiled and bowed at her pale compliment. ‘He gives many such dinners, then?’

  She nodded tolerantly. ‘I suppose he does, what with the charities and committees and so on. Tonight’s is rather larger than we’re used to.’ She paused, and narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you at one of the big houses?’

  I looked blankly at her. ‘I beg your pardon . . .?’

  ‘I mean, banking house. You do something in the City, yes?’

  This misapprehension startled me. What moneyman of her acquaintance wore such second-rate togs, or boots with the dust of the street on them? ‘Not I,’ I replied with a short laugh. ‘I work on a weekly paper, The Labouring Classes of London – perhaps you know Henry Marchmont?’

  ‘But of course! Everyone knows Henry. He and Papa are very thick with one another. So . . .’ she said, a new light of interest in her gaze, ‘you’re a journalist.’

  ‘Not exactly. Mr Marchmont calls us his “inspectors”. We go out gathering the information and report back to him – the job of writing it up is mostly his. So you see, he’s the journalist, I’m just –’

  ‘His errand boy,’ she said, so carelessly that it could not have been meant to offend – but from overestimating me as a ‘journalist’ she had gone too far in the opposite direction. I only shrugged; it would have seemed conceited of me now to protest. At that moment someone announced that dinner would be served, and Kitty, heedless of her slight, invited me to accompany her. We passed from this vast room to another that was merely immense, dominated by a long mahogany dining table that flamed brilliantly with candelabra. As the begowned ladies and black-coated gentlemen settled themselves along the table’s length, I found to my relief that I was seated right next to Kitty. And then I was plunged into dismay as I read the menu card, set before each diner’s place. The catalogue of courses it described was literally more food than I would have eaten in a week, or perhaps a fortnight. Worse, it was entirely in French. Here and there I recognised a word – caviare I had heard of, and saumon, but I was at a loss to construe tortue claire, or ris de veau, or tournedos, or andouillettes. The arsenal of cutlery to be negotiated was equally inhibiting. I decided then that my best recourse was to imitate Kitty in everything she did.

  At that moment, however, Sir Martin rose from his seat and tapped his wine glass to call for silence. His mouth was set in an austere slotted lin
e, and when he spoke his voice was low and grave.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, it is my melancholy duty to report news that has lately reached us. I have learned that Mr Charles Darwin died this afternoon, suddenly, at his home in Kent.’ He paused, and looked down the table. ‘A great scientist, a brave social pioneer – and a loss to the world. I should consider it fitting if we honoured the gentleman with a toast.’ Slowly, to the sound of scraping chair legs, the assembled rose to their feet, and mumbled in awkward echo of Sir Martin’s baritone: ‘Darwin.’

  A silence, and then we resumed our seats. On my other side was a lady of extravagant circumference whose interest in the menu card, I sensed, was keener than her appreciation of the world’s recent loss. I could not swear that I heard the lady lick her lips, but there was an audible purr of satisfaction as she laid down the card and looked about her. As the only guest not engaged in conversation I became, unavoidably, her object of study. She introduced herself as Mrs Abernathy, and gave me to understand that she was wife of the florid-faced cove diagonally opposite, the Right Honourable Member of Parliament, Augustus Abernathy.

  ‘. . . and I suppose you know of Monsieur Charbonnier?’

  ‘Ahm, no, I’m afraid not,’ I replied, lost.

  ‘Our chef for the evening!’ she replied, tapping the card she had just been scrutinising. ‘One of France’s greatest. He came here some years ago from Paris – an exile from the war, you know.’

  I did not know, either of M. Charbonnier’s talents or of his exile. But my ignorance did not appear to have thrown Mrs Abernathy off her stride, for she was enlarging now upon the career of the Frenchman and his celebrated food. I was a diligent listener, though I could not contribute more than an encouraging mm or really? in between the lady’s long swathes of monologue. Perhaps satisfied that she had had her say, and diverted by the arrival of the much-heralded ‘cuisine’, she eventually paused and asked me about my own dietary arrangements. Did I keep a cook?

  ‘No, I – in truth, I don’t have a kitchen,’ I said.

  Mrs Abernathy blinked at me, uncomprehending. ‘Good heavens! No kitchen? Then you dine at restaurants?’

  ‘Very seldom. I work in a neighbourhood that tends to favour public houses and cheap dining rooms. Most days I eat with a companion of mine at a baked-potato stall.’

  Now she looked at me as if I had just coughed up a lump of gristle onto the table. Ironically, this reminded me of a recent occasion when I had done exactly that. Jo and I were sharing a meat pudding outside a shop on Ossulston Street. The offending lump I had bitten into was as tough as boot leather, and I had spat it out in disgust, much to Jo’s amusement.

  ‘You mean . . . you eat your dinner on the street?’ Pity was grappling with horror in Mrs Abernathy’s voice.

  ‘It is no hardship,’ I replied, deciding to sound cheerful. ‘If I don’t care for a baked-potato one day I can have pickled herring, or eels, meat pie, sheep’s trotters, pea soup. There’s always a great variety, you see.’ She was nodding, rather worriedly, it seemed. It was quite possible she thought I was a derelict in disguise for the evening, and that her descanting on the majesty of M. Charbonnier’s cooking might now seem unfeeling. So I quickly explained to her the nature of my employment, and the convenience of taking one’s daily bread on the street.

  ‘Somers Town, you say. I have heard – is it true? – the people there are terribly poor.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted, and Mrs Abernathy heaved a bosomy sigh of sorrow. ‘Though I should say they would be surprised if they knew you pitied them. There is great companionship and kindness amongst the people. They take real pleasure in buying and selling, and they relish their food – when they can afford it.’

  ‘And . . . if they cannot?’ she said, sucking up a dainty spoonful of the soup – the tortue claire, I gathered – recently set before us.

  ‘They starve,’ I shrugged. ‘Some have to survive on as little as four shillings a week. I did know an old lady –’ I hesitated, and looked at my interlocutor. ‘But perhaps you would prefer not to hear of such distress . . .’

  ‘No, please continue,’ she said earnestly.

  ‘Well, I had interviewed this lady at her home – she earned a little money as a lacemaker, but one could see that her circumstances were dire. Her husband had been ill for a while, and was too old to work in any case. Some weeks later I visited them again, and found that the lady had died. I gather it was from the effects of malnutrition. The husband followed shortly after.’

  ‘Oh! The pity of it,’ cried Mrs Abernathy with feeling. Her tremulous note of lament alerted her husband.

  ‘My dear?’ he said, frowning across the table. She proceeded to repeat, with little sighs, the pathetic account of starvation I had just confided to her. Mr Abernathy listened gravely, then said, ‘The lady ought to have applied to the workhouse. Then she and her husband need not have starved.’

  The man seated next to Abernathy had been following the conversation, and spoke in a manner that recalled Mr Marchmont – that is, addressing no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Quite right. They were undone by their own negligence. How can the state help people who won’t help themselves?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Lobbett –’ protested Mrs Abernathy, but I cut in ahead of her.

  ‘I happen to know why the lady didn’t apply for help. In part it was pride – she had once known a more genteel life – but it was chiefly because the workhouse provided no accommodation for married couples. If they had gone in, they would have been separated. That was what they most dreaded, so the lady decided it was better to try and subsist on outdoor relief.’

  Mr Lobbett, the ends of his moustache twitching, stared at me for a moment. ‘It seems to me they had forfeited the right to be so particular. If people allow themselves to sink into destitution they must be prepared for the consequences.’

  ‘That’s harsh, sir,’ said Mr Abernathy. ‘Better provision should be made for the elderly. But your point is taken – where the vast majority of the poor are concerned, outdoor relief is wasteful. We must accept that there exists a whole underclass prey to vice and drunkenness and what have you – unfortunate, but there it is. This degraded element has to be prevented from infecting the rest of society, and the safest means of doing so is to create a place where they would be, as it were, quarantined. That place is the workhouse.’

  Mr Abernathy’s oration had silenced his listeners; one of them, a man with ginger hair and long whiskers, had been monitoring our conversation with noticeable interest. His watchful blue eyes were fixed upon me. In the little pause that followed Kitty leaned in our direction and said, with innocent gaiety, ‘What are you all talking about?’ The question was a cue, and raising my voice to a Marchmontian resonance I said, ‘Oh, we have just been consigning the poor to oblivion. Whereas we once imagined that their plight was due to a lack of work, or low pay, or illness, or some other hard circumstance, it is now agreed that they are a dangerous class of criminal, and should be incarcerated in the workhouse. Very convenient, I should say!’

  That secured their attention. Even Mrs Abernathy seemed to hear the satire in my tone, for she looked over at her husband for help in responding to this impudence. That gentleman’s eyes were thin with displeasure. ‘Do I know you, sir?’ he said.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I said pleasantly. ‘My work takes me usually to the environs of Somers Town, where I am amongst people you would probably cross the street to avoid. Indeed, some of them are criminals, just the same as you would find in Bayswater and Kensington. But most, in my experience, are not. They are decent and hard-working and as innocent of vice as –’ mischief prompted me – ‘Mrs Abernathy here.’

  Mrs Abernathy, who had food in her mouth, swallowed it very quickly, alarmed to find her name suddenly conjoined with the character of the labouring classes. She looked again to her husband as the most in need of immediate appeasement. ‘Augustus, dear – this young gentleman, um, works
for Henry Marchmont on his weekly periodical – you know the one? . . .’

  Lobbett, with a sneer in his voice, said, ‘Ah. The popular press. Like the poor – always with us. I find myself increasingly at odds with the likes of Henry Marchmont. Can he not find a more edifying purpose in life than to sentimentalise the lower orders?’

  Kitty allowed herself a theatrical intake of breath at this. ‘Don’t let Papa hear you speak ill of Henry. He is revered in this house.’

  Lobbett gave a smile that did not travel to his eyes. ‘Then in deference to our host, I shall say no more of that gentleman. But perhaps his acolyte here could explain to us the concept of the deserving poor. What is it that they deserve?’

  A spasm of rage jolted me at this point, but I remembered where I was, and kept command of myself. ‘I will tell you. They deserve to be free to enjoy their life, instead of worrying and struggling over the means to sustain it. That is the difference between the poor and the rest of us. We are at liberty to ask, “How do I wish to live?” The poor man only asks, “How can I keep myself alive?” If you had ever witnessed the sort of privations and desperate economies that go on in this city, at this very instant, you would not be tempted to wonder at what they “deserve”.’

  ‘Bravo, Mr Wildeblood,’ cried Kitty next to me, ‘that is well said.’

  I tilted my head in thanks to her, though I could tell that approval would be in short supply across the table. Mr Abernathy was flaring his nostrils as if at a rotten fish, though the salmon with sauce mayonnaise on our plates seemed blameless. ‘And who, sir,’ he said, ‘is to pay for this great scheme of improvement? We ourselves contribute to charities for the relief of the poor, but is gratitude their response? No, it is only complaint – about wages, about paying rent. Pauperdom is passed on, like a disease, and I say again, the best way to contain it is in the workhouse.’