by Rosie Clarke
‘It would be a shame to lose this place,’ Robbie murmured, looking round him appreciatively. ‘It’s the thing to sweep away the old and build new at the moment – or it would be if anyone had the money to undertake large projects.’
‘Unfortunately, you’re right,’ John agreed, shaking his head. ‘I should hate to see the whole of old London disappear…’
‘At least we can try and save this place.’
‘Call me if you run into a problem,’ John said with a sigh. ‘I have to get ready for the lunchtime crowd. We’re giving out hot soup and bread as usual and we’ll be busy for a couple of hours. You’re welcome to some soup once we start serving if you’re hungry.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Robbie said. ‘Cheers.’ He picked up his mug of tea and drank a mouthful. It was hot, strong and sweet, just the way most working men liked it. Robbie drank it gratefully and went back to his task. He would be sorry when it was finished and he was back looking for work.
He grimaced, because after some weeks of doing the job he loved it would come hard standing in line again, shivering in the cold wind as he waited to be picked and was always left to the last. The dirtiest jobs were all he’d had offered for months and Robbie had considered going off to look for work elsewhere in the country – but he didn’t know where to try and couldn’t think how to provide for the children while he was gone. Buying a newspaper was something he considered an unnecessary luxury, but he saw the billboards and read the headlines as he passed the newsstands. It was every bit as bad up north and perhaps even worse down in Wales, where pits were closing.
If his wife had still been alive Robbie could have left the children in her care and gone searching for work. He would have done it before now, because it had been made abundantly clear to him that he was never going to get a decent job on the docks again. The gaffer had spread the word; he was branded as a troublemaker – just for standing up for a man who was in even more desperate need of a job than he’d been at the time.
Robbie couldn’t desert his children, and he couldn’t drag them all over the country while he looked for a job that suited his talents. He was caught tight in a noose and struggling only made it worse. He shook his head and looked at the door strut he was about to rip out. He had several weeks of work for fair pay and he must make the most of it. Robbie’s kids would have a good Christmas and after that… well, perhaps he would have more luck if he went to the factories that were still working rather than the docks.
Feeling satisfied at the end of a good day’s work, he left the mission and started to walk home, passing the pub on the corner without a glance. Seeing his son’s friend hanging about near the end of the lane, Robbie beckoned to him and Mick came running. His face looked dirty and his hands were blue with cold.
‘Come and have some supper with us,’ he offered. ‘We’ve got sausages, mash and onion gravy tonight. I bought plenty from the pie shop and you’re welcome to share.’
Mick’s thin face lit up. ‘Thanks, Mr Graham. Dad ain’t home ’cos he’s got a job that took him up West – and I don’t like goin’ back there until he gets in; there’s a bloke… He frightens me.’
Robbie looked at him in concern. Mick was too young to be on the streets all night. ‘Will yer dad get home tonight?’ Mick shook his head. ‘Right – you can sleep on the couch in the kitchen. I’ll give yer a blanket and a pillow – and yer can have a wash while yer here… and we might find yer somethin’ clean to put on.’
Mick nodded, trotting happily down the road beside him.
*
The next day, Mick left the cottage feeling warmer because of the cocoa and the bread and dripping Ben’s father had given him. He wished he didn’t have to leave his friends, because it was the only place he felt safe these days. Even at school the teachers gave him odd looks and told him that if he couldn’t come to class clean he should stay away. Mick didn’t care about learning or the other kids, but he liked Ben and Ruthie was all right, even though he knew she thought he smelled. He’d washed his hands and face in Ben’s sink, but his hair itched and he knew he had nits.
If his mother had still been alive she would have combed them out of his hair and scrubbed him in the sink with carbolic. They’d never had an inside toilet or a bathroom, but Mick’s mother had been fussy about keeping their clothes clean and there was always food waiting on the table when he got home from school. His dad had been different then, more like Ben’s dad, ready to tell him off and give him a clip of the ear if he played up, but not unkind or drunk. These days Mick’s dad was always drunk unless he had work, and sometimes he slapped Mick for no reason. He hadn’t told him about the man who terrorised all the kids because he wouldn’t have listened.
Yet Mick still felt safer when his dad was around. He just wished Taffy would find a proper job and a couple of rooms in a decent house for them rather than the cold, dark slum where they slept now. Ben’s father had lost his wife too but he still had a place for his kids to sleep and he didn’t collapse in a drunken stupor soon after he came home…
Mick’s cheek was damp but he brushed the tears away angrily. He wasn’t a cry baby and he would get by somehow. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could find a job like Ben but as soon as they saw him, shop keepers and landlords turned up their noses and told him to clear off.
The only place that allowed him to sit in the warm was the mission and Mick went there some days, but the trouble was that Scrapper did too and Mick was afraid of him…yet some days the soup and bread were the only food he was given.
*
‘There’s over twenty pounds in the Christmas fund,’ Nurse Mary told John later that morning, when she locked the cash box away in the drawer of the office desk. It was a sturdy roll-top, much scarred from its use at various locations before it finally came to John, almost on its last legs. ‘What are you goin’ to spend it on this year?’
‘What do you suggest?’ John asked. ‘We could give the men cigarettes and the women chocolates, boiled sweets or lollipops for the kids…’
‘I was thinking we should cook a proper Christmas dinner for them rather than waste money on cigarettes and sweets,’ Nurse Mary said and pursed her lips. She was a thin woman with a straight nose and a small tight mouth, her light brown hair scraped back off her face, but although she came over as harsh, she had a kind heart. She worked for meagre wages as a nurse at the infirmary but gave her personal time to his mission for nothing.
‘Yes, that is an option,’ John agreed, brushing his short wiry hair back from his forehead with his fingers. ‘We should need several willing helpers to cook the meal here – and our regulars do appreciate little gifts. I’d hoped to have more in the fund before this – are you sure it was just twenty pounds?’
‘I counted it twice,’ Nurse Mary confirmed. ‘You give them money all the time, John. They come in with their sob stories and you give them five shillings to pay their rent, because otherwise they will be on the streets, or half a crown to buy medicine for their sick child… It all adds up.’
John sighed, because he knew that Nurse Mary was right. He could afford to provide a chicken dinner with all the trimmings for his regulars or he could give them small gifts of five cigarettes, a bar of chocolate and a twist of sweets for the kids; he couldn’t manage to do both.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘A good dinner is a treat for them… I just wish I could do more. Some of those children have never had a proper Christmas present in their lives.’
‘You can’t take all the troubles of the world on your shoulders,’ Nurse Mary said. She looked thoughtful as she heard Robbie hammering in the next room. ‘It must be costing quite a bit for the repairs?’
‘Robbie is working for his wages and we paid the cost of the materials – but that is a different fund, Mary. The Church authorities grant me money for repairs and I couldn’t take that money for our Christmas party. I’m given enough funds to offer the destitute a place to sit in the warm for a few hours, mugs of
tea, bread and a bowl of soup. I have asked for extra money for Christmas but there isn’t much to spare these days and the commissioners turned me down.’
Mary made a little hissing noise. ‘You keep this place running, John. If it weren’t for the tombola evenings and the raffle tickets you sell, this place would close down…’
‘I dare say they would keep it open for just three hours in the middle of the day, which is what was intended; it was just meant to be a soup kitchen, Mary. I fought hard to get them to let me open it at night and to fund it by whatever means I could… raising money by bring-and-buy sales and tombola evenings makes it possible to give our regulars more than a bowl of soup at least one night a week.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She stood up and came round the desk, touching his arm sympathetically. Mary’s heart belonged to this slight, hard-working man, but he would never know. ‘If there was anything I could do… but I don’t know how we can make more money in time to do what you want.’
‘No, of course you don’t, Mary,’ he agreed. ‘You give so much of your time. I know you’ll be one of my volunteers serving that dinner on Christmas Day. It’s my problem and I think your idea is very sensible. A proper dinner is far more valuable than small gifts…’
John knew she was right, of course she was, even though he’d had his Christmas party all planned. A tree with candles, strings of tinsels and little parcels. He’d hoped to provide sausage rolls, mince pies and sandwiches with the help of a few generous ladies who gave to his mission whenever asked to provide food for the tombola. Yet how many of the poor folk who frequented the mission ever had a proper meal, let alone a Christmas dinner?
He went through to the antiquated kitchen, where two ladies wearing turbans and brightly coloured cotton aprons were stirring the vegetable soup they would soon be serving to the large queue that had already started to gather outside. It smelled delicious and he smiled at them.
‘Good morning, Emily and Sal. Thank you for coming in today – that soup smells wonderful. Is it ready?’
‘Yes, Reverend,’ Sal said. ‘It tastes as good as it smells, too. Fancy some?’
‘Later perhaps,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll go and open up – welcome our guests. I think we have the usual queue, perhaps more.’
‘It grows every day,’ Emily said. ‘I sometimes think we’re feeding the poor of London rather than just the dock area and part of Poplar.’
John laughed at that, because sometimes it felt like that to him too, but his smile faded, because the growing queues were a sign that the depression was biting ever deeper. The men and women who came to his door now sometimes included workers, men who looked ashamed of being forced into a position where they had to accept charity. They were decent men who had never been out of work in their lives, proud men who hated it that they had nothing to do but stand about on street corners all day.
John felt sorry for all those who came to his mission seeking help. Some would always need his help. Nurse Mary tended sore feet and nasty boils on the neck and other small ailments that would otherwise go untended, because her patients could not afford to visit a doctor and were afraid of the infirmary, which was still thought of as the workhouse in these parts. Her tongue was often as stringent as her disinfectants, but folk respected her and they trusted her. Sometimes, she told them they must go to the infirmary because there was nothing she could do, but she knew they ignored her. She and John talked about it, but both understood that what they did here would never be enough. All they could do was to offer a warm secure place to be for a while, a little food and a soothing touch where it was needed; there was just too much poverty and sickness to make much difference.
‘It should be free for everyone to see a doctor,’ John had said to Nurse Mary on more than one occasion. ‘Not just the infirmary, which they all hate – but a doctor of your choice. A stay in hospital should not mean that folk run up debts they can never pay.’
‘The authorities talk about it,’ Nurse Mary said. ‘I hear the doctors at the hospital discussing it – some agree with you, others think it is a terrible idea to introduce free medicine and say they would refuse to treat patients if it was brought in.’
‘They should come here and listen to the chests you listen to,’ John had suggested wryly. ‘You do your best, Mary, but you can’t cure the chronically sick. They should be in hospital…’
‘Most of them would rather be sleeping under the bridges or wherever they have a place to lie down,’ she’d told him. ‘I’ve tried sending some of them to hostels where they can have a bed for a night, but they say it’s like being in prison to them. They come here because I don’t question and nor do you…’
‘We’re here to help, not to inquisition,’ John had said with an odd smile. ‘I know why I do it, Mary – but why do you? You already work hard at the hospital. Why give up your free time to work with the destitute?’
‘Because it’s right,’ Nurse Mary had told him. She hadn’t met his eyes as she spoke and he had a feeling there was more to it, but he hadn’t probed. Everyone was entitled to their privacy.
At his mission people came for food, warmth and a place to sit for a while. He asked no questions of them, nor did he demand that they use the showers provided, though they were there with soap and clean towels if needed. He also provided good, clean second-hand clothes for anyone that asked; the Sally Army gave him what they could and any donations were gratefully accepted. Many of the men who came to eat here wore garments that were threadbare, but only a few asked for clothes. There was a rail in the room just off the showers and toilets and John let people decide for themselves if they wanted anything from the rails, all they had to do was just ask to take them.
John looked at the crowd of people waiting outside his door. It was mostly men but some women too, and a few children. Many children were at school and often got a free meal there, but others lived on the streets and those children didn’t go to school. John never asked why they were not at school; he knew that they would run away and forgo their meal rather than explain. He wasn’t here to criticise or enforce the law, only to help where he could.
He opened the door and let the people enter, greeting many of them by name and smiling; he watched, as they went up to the counter and were given a bowl of fragrant soup and a chunk of fresh crusty bread. They helped themselves to mugs of tea at the other end of the table and then found a place to sit down. Soon all the tables were in use and every bench seat was taken. Now men sat on chairs lined up at the side of the room; some squatted on the ground to eat their meal, and still they kept coming. He wondered if they would have enough soup and bread to go round, but then, all of a sudden, everyone had been served.
John went through to the kitchens where two more women had arrived to take a turn at washing the pans and used soup bowls.
‘Jane, Catherine,’ John called to them. ‘Thank you for coming. I thought we might run out of mugs and bowls today. I’m afraid you will have a lot of dishes to wash…’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ Catherine replied easily. ‘Yer know we don’t mind what we do fer yer…’
John smiled at them. He couldn’t manage the mission at all if it were not for his little band of volunteers. There were ten or twelve ladies of the parish who worked tirelessly at the mission, most of them war widows, performing whatever tasks he asked of them cheerfully and with no thought of reward, filling their lonely lives with good works.
‘You’re all angels,’ he told them and looked at his cooks, who were about to leave after finishing their job. ‘That was splendid, ladies.’
‘Anythin’ for you, Rev,’ Sal quipped with a cheeky grin. She winked at the women who had come in to deal with the washing-up. ‘Don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t!’
‘That’s given us plenty of scope,’ Catherine responded and plunged her hands in soda and hot water as she started to clean the piles of soup bowls. ‘We can manage ’ere, Rev,’ she told John with a wink. ‘You’d best keep yer eye op
en out there in case they pinch the silver…’
‘I’d pinch it myself and sell it to buy Christmas treats if we had any…’ John retorted and grinned back. These women were the salt of the earth in his opinion and made his day seem worthwhile.
He walked back through to the large hall where the men and women were drinking tea now and talking. He could smell cigarette smoke and wondered where the money came from for such luxuries, but probably it was butts picked up from ashtrays in cafes, pulled apart and rolled in cigarette papers. Not many of the men looked as if they could afford to buy even a packet of five cigarettes or an ounce of tobacco for roll-ups.
John frowned as he traced the man who was smoking. He was a large man with black hair and a thick dark beard sprayed with grey hairs, bushy eyebrows and filthy clothes. His eyes were a startling blue and looked rather wild, and he was a stranger. Hesitating for a moment, John walked over to him and offered his hand. ‘I haven’t seen you before, sir. Have you come to the area recently?’
‘Yeah; I’ve bin walkin’ lookin’ fer work, but there ain’t none wherever yer go…’ His eyes narrowed menacingly. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Nothing at all,’ John said mildly. ‘This mission is just for a hot meal I’m afraid, sir – but if you’re looking for a bed for the night I can give you an address.’
‘Mind yer own business,’ the man growled. ‘When I want yer advice I’ll ask fer it…’ He turned and walked off, his shoulders hunched.
There was no point in going after him. John hadn’t intended to offend, but the man wasn’t of this parish and not really entitled to come here at all, though John never turned anyone in need away. His intention had been to offer help to a stranger in giving him an address where he might find further help – but the man had taken offence. John shrugged. He seldom offered advice, but something had prompted him to speak to the stranger; now he wished he’d followed his usual path and let the man come to him.