by Louis Stone
“W’y, wot’s the matter, Joe?” cried Mrs Yabsley, all eyes.
Jonah hesitated. Denial was on his tongue, but he looked again at his child, and a lump rose in his throat.
“Oh, nuthin’, missis,” he replied, reddening. “Me an’ the kid took a fancy ter one another long ago.”
He smiled blandly, in exquisite relief, as if he had confessed a sin or had a tooth drawn. He took the child from Ada, and it lay in his arms, nestling close with animal content.
Ada looked in silence, astonished and slightly scornful at this development, jealous of the child’s preference, already regretting her neglect.
Mrs Yabsley stood petrified with the face of one who has seen a miracle. For a moment she was too amazed to think; then, with a rapid change of front, she conquered her surprise and claimed the credit for this result.
“I knowed all along the kid ’ud fetch yer, Joe. I knowed yer’d got a soft ’eart,” she cried. “An’ ’e’s the very image of yer, wi’ the sweetest temper mortal child ever ’ad.”
From that time Sunday became a marked day for Jonah, and he looked forward to it with impatience. It was spring. The temperate rays of the sun fell on budding tree and shrub; the mysterious renewal of life that stirred inanimate nature seemed to touch his pulse to a quicker and lighter beat. He sat for hours in the backyard, once a garden, screened from observation, with the child on his knees. The blood ran pleasantly in his veins; he felt in sympathy with the sunlight, the sky flecked with clouds, and the warm breath of the winds. It broke on him slowly that he was taking his place among his fellows, outcast and outlaw no longer.
Soon, he and the child were inseparable. He learned to attend to its little wants with deft fingers, listening with a smile to the kindly banter of the women. His manner changed to Ada and her mother; he was considerate, even kind. Then he began to drop in on Monday or Tuesday instead of loafing with the Push at the corner. Ada was at the factory; but Mrs Yabsley, sorting piles of dirty linen, with her arms bared to the elbow, welcomed him with a smile. He remarked with satisfaction that a change had come over the old woman. She never spoke of marriage; seemed to have given up the idea.
But one day, as he sat with the child on his knees, she stopped in front of the pair, with a bundle of shirts in her arms, and regarded them with a puzzling smile. The baby lay on its back, staring into space with solemn, unreflective eyes. From time to time Jonah turned his head to blow the smoke of his cigarette into the air.
“You’ll be gittin’ too fond of ’im, if y’ain’t careful, Joe,” she said at last.
“Git work; wot’s troublin’ yer?” said Jonah, with a grin.
“Nuthin’; only I was thinkin’ wot a fine child ’e’d be in a few years. It’s a pity ’e ain’t got no real father.”
“Wot d’yer mean?” said Jonah, looking up angrily. “W’ere do I come in? Ain’t I the bloke?”
“Well, y’are an’ y’ain’t, yer know,” said Mrs Yabsley. “There’s two ways of lookin’ at these things.”
“’Strewth! I niver thought o’ that,” said Jonah, scratching his ear.
“No, but other people do, worse luck,” said Mrs Yabsley.
Jonah stared at the child in silence. Mrs Yabsley turned and poked the fire under the copper boiler. Suddenly Jonah lifted his head and cried:
“I say, missis, I can see a hole in a ladder plain enough! Yer mean I’ve got ter marry Ada?”
The old woman left the fire and stood in front of him.
“Not a bit, Joe. I’ve give up that idea. Marriage wouldn’t suit yous. Your dart is ter be King of the Push, an’ knock about the streets with a lot of mudlarks as can’t look a p’liceman straight in the face. You an’ yer pals are seein’ life now all right; but wait till yer bones begin ter stiffen, an’ yer can’t run faster than the cop. Then it’ll be jail or worse, an’ yous might ’ave bin a good workman, with a wife an’ family, only yer knowed better—”
“’Ere, steady on the brake, missis,” interrupted Jonah, with a frown.
“No, Joe, I don’t mind sayin’ that I ’ad some idea of marryin’ yous an’ Ada, but ye’re not the man I took yer for, an’ I give it up. I don’t believe in a man marryin’ because ’e wants a woman ter cook ’is meals. My idea is a man wants ter git married because ’e’s found out a lot o’ surprisin’ things in the world ’e niver dreamt of before. An’ it’s only when ’e’s found somethin’ ter live for, an’ work for, that ’e’s wot yer rightly call a man. That’s w’y I don’t worry about you, Joe. I can see your time ain’t come.”
“Don’t be too bleedin’ sure,” cried Jonah, angrily.
“Of course I’m only a fat old woman as likes ’er joke an’ a glass o’ beer. I’d be a fool ter lay down the law to a bloke as sharp as yous, that thinks ’e can see everything. But I wasn’t always so fat I ’ad ter squeeze through the door, an’ I tell yer the best things in life are them yer can’t see at all, an’ that’s the feelin’s. So take a fool’s advice, an’ don’t think of marryin’ till yer feel there’s somethin’ wrong wi’ yer inside, fer that’s w’ere it ketches yer.”
“’Ere, ’old ’ard! Can’t a bloke git a word in edgeways?”
Mrs Yabsley stopped, with an odd smile on her face.
Jonah stared at her with a perplexed frown, and then the words came in a rush.
“Look ’ere, missis, I wasn’t goin’ ter let on, but since yer on fer a straight talk, I tell yer there’s more in me than yer think, an’ if it’s up ter me ter git married, I can do it without gittin’ roused on by yous.”
“Keep yer ’air on, Joe,” said Mrs Yabsley, smiling. “I didn’t mean ter nark yer, but yer know wot I say is true. An’ don’t say I ever put it inter yer ’ead ter git married. You’ve studied the matter, an’ yer know it means ’ard graft an’ plenty of worry. There’s nuthin’ in it, Joe, as yer said, an’ besides, the Push is waitin’ for yer.
“Of course, there’s no ’arm in yer cumin’ ’ere ter see the kid, but I ’ope yer won’t stand in Ada’s way w’en she gits a chance. There’s Tom Mullins, that was after Ada before she ever took up wi’ yous. Only last week ’e told Mrs Jones ’e’d take Ada, kid an’ all, if he got the chance. I know yous don’t want a wife, but yer shouldn’t ’inder others as do.”
“Yer talkin’ through yer neck,” cried Jonah, losing his temper. “Suppose I tell yer that the kid’s done the trick, an’ I want ter git married, an’ bring ’im up respectable?”
The old woman was silent, but a wonderful smile lit up her face.
“Yer’ve got a lot ter say about the feelin’s. Suppose I tell yer there’s somethin’ in me trembles w’en I touch this kid? I felt like a damned fool at first, but I’m gittin’ used to it.”
“That’s yer own flesh an’ blood a-callin’ yer, Joe,” cried Mrs. Yabsley, in ecstasy—“the sweetest cry on Gawd’s earth, for it goes to yer very marrer.”
“That’s true, said Jonah, sadly; “an’ ’e’s the only relation I’ve got in the wide world, as far as I know. More than that, ’e’s the only livin’ creature that looks at me without seein’ my hump.”
It was the first time in Mrs Yabsley’s memory that Jonah had mentioned his deformity. A tremor in his voice made her look at him sharply. Tears stood in his eyes. With a sudden impulse she stopped and patted his head.
“That’s all right, Joe,” she said, gently. “I was only pullin’ yer leg. I wanted yer to do the straight thing by Ada, but I wasn’t sure yer’d got a ’eart, till the kid found it. But wot will the Push say w’en—”
“The Push be damned!” cried Jonah.
“Amen ter that,” said Mrs Yabsley. “Gimme yer fist.”
Jonah stayed to tea that night, contrary to his usual habit, for Mrs Yabsley was anxious to have the matter settled.
“Wot’s wrong wi’ you an’ me gittin’ married, Ada?” he said.
Ada nearly dropped her cup.
“Garn, ye’re only kiddin’!” she cried with an uneasy grin.
“Fair dinkum!” said Jonah.
“Right-oh,” said Ada, as calmly as if she were accepting an invitation to a dance.
But she thought with satisfaction that this was the beginning of a perpetual holiday. For she was incorrigibly lazy and hated work, going through the round of mechanical toil in a slovenly fashion, indifferent to the shower of complaints, threats and abuse that fell about her ears.
“Where was yer thinkin’ of gittin’ married, Joe?” inquired Mrs Yabsley after tea.
“I dunno,” replied Jonah, suddenly remembering that he knew no more of weddings than a crow.
“At the Registry Office, of course,” said Ada. “Yer walk in, an’ yer walk out, an’ it’s all over.”
“That’s the idea,” said Jonah, greatly relieved. He understood vaguely that weddings were expensive affairs, and he had thirty shillings in his pocket.
“Don’t tell me that people are married that goes ter the Registry Office!” cried Mrs Yabsley. “They only git a licence to ’ave a family. I know all about them. Yer sign a piece of paper, an’ then the bloke tells yer ye’re married. ’Ow does ’e know ye’re married? ’E ain’t a parson. I was married in a church, an’ my marriage is as good now as ever it was. Just yous leave it to me, an’ I’ll fix yez up.”
Ever since Ada was a child, Mrs Yabsley had speculated on her marriage, when all the street would turn out to the wedding. And now, after years of planning and waiting, she was to be married on the quiet, for there was nothing to boast about.
“Well, it’s no use cryin’ over skimmed milk,” she reflected, adapting the proverb to her needs.
But she clung with obstinacy to a marriage in a church, convinced that none other was genuine. And casting about in her mind for a parson who would marry them without fuss or expense, she remembered Trinity Church, and the thing was done.
Canon Vaughan, the new rector of Trinity Church, had brought some strange ideas from London, where he had worked in the slums. He had founded a workman’s club, and smoked his pipe with the members; formed a brigade of newsboys and riff-raff, and taught them elementary morality with the aid of boxing-gloves; and offended his congregation by treating the poor with the same consideration as themselves. And then, astonished by the number of mothers who were not wives, that he discovered on his rounds, he had announced that he would open the church on the first Saturday night in every month to marry any couples without needless questions. They could pay, if they chose, but nothing was expected.
Jonah and Ada jumped at the idea, but Mrs Yabsley thought with sorrow of her cherished dream—Ada married on a fine day of sunshine, Cardigan Street in an uproar, a feast where all could cut and come again, the clink of glasses, and a chorus that shook the windows. Well, such things were not to be, and she shut her mouth grimly. But she determined in secret to get in a dozen of beer, and invite a few friends after the ceremony to drink the health of the newly married, and keep the secret till they got home. And as she was rather suspicious of a wedding that cost nothing, she decided to give the parson a dollar to seal the bargain and make the contract more binding.
7
A QUIET WEDDING
The following Saturday Mrs Yabsley astonished her customers by delivering the shirts and collars in the afternoon. There were cries of amazement.
“No, I’m quite sober,” she explained; “but I’m changin’ the ’abits of a lifetime just to show it can be done.”
Then she hurried home to clean up the house. After much thought, she had decided to hold the reception after the wedding in the front room, as it was the largest. She spent an hour carrying the irons, boards, and other implements of the laundry into the back rooms. A neighbour, who poked her head in, asked if she were moving. But when she had finished the cleaning, she surveyed the result with surprise. The room was scrubbed as bare as a shaven chin. So she took some coloured almanacs from the bedroom and kitchen, and tacked them on the walls, studying the effect with the gravity of a decorative artist. The crude blotches of colour pleased her eye, and she considered the result with pride.
“Wonderful ’ow a few pitchers liven a place up,” she thought.
She looked doubtfully at the chairs. There were only three, and, years ago, her immense weight had made them as uncertain on their legs as drunkards. She generally sat on a box for safety. Finally, she constructed two forms out of the ironing-boards and some boxes. Then she fastened two ropes of pink tissue paper, that opened out like a concertina, across the ceiling. This was the finishing touch, and lent an air of gaiety to the room.
For two hours past Ada and Pinkey had been decorating one another in the bedroom. When they emerged, Mrs Yabsley cried out in admiration, not recognizing her own daughter for the moment. Their white dresses, freshly starched and ironed by her, rustled stiffly at every movement of their bodies, and they walked daintily as if they were treading on eggs. Both had gone to bed with their hair screwed in curling-pins, losing half their sleep with pain and discomfort, but the result justified the sacrifice. Ada’s hair, dark and lifeless in colour, decreased the sullen heaviness of her features; Pinkey’s, worn up for the first time, was a barbaric crown, shot with rays of copper and gold as it caught the light.
“Yous put the kettle on, an’ git the tea, an’ I’ll be ready in no time,” said Mrs Yabsley. “W’en I was your age, I used ter take ’arf a day ter doll meself up, an’ then git down the street with a brass band playin’ inside me silly ’ead; but now, gimme somethin’ new, if it’s only a bit o’ ribbon in me ’at, an’ I feel dressed up ter the knocker.”
At seven o’clock Jonah and Chook arrived. They were dressed in the height of larrikin fashion—tight-fitting suits of dark cloth, soft black felt hats, and soft white shirts with new black mufflers round their necks in place of collars—for the larrikin taste in dress runs to a surprising neatness. But their boots were remarkable, fitting like a glove, with high heels and a wonderful ornament of perforated toe-caps and brass eyelet-holes on the uppers.
Mrs Yabsley, moved by the solemn occasion, formally introduced Chook and Pinkey. They stared awkwardly, not knowing what to say. In a flash, Chook remembered her as the red-haired girl whom he had chiacked at the corner. As he stared at her in surprise, the impudence died out of his face, and he thought with regret of his ferocious jest and her stinging reply. Pinkey grew uneasy under his eyes. Again the curious pink flush coloured her cheeks, and she turned her head with a light, scornful toss. That settled Chook. In five minutes he was looking at her with the passionate adoration of a savage before an idol, for this Lothario of the gutter brought to each fresh experience a surprising virginity of emotion that his facile, ignoble conquests left untouched. Jonah broke the silence by complimenting the ladies on their appearance.
“My oath, yer a sight fer sore eyes, yous are!” he cried. “I’m glad yer don’t know ’ow giddy yer look, else us blokes wouldn’t ’ave a chance, would we, Chook?”
The girls bridled with pleasure at the rude compliments, pretending not to hear them, feeling very desirable and womanly in their finery.
“Dickon ter you,” said Mrs Yabsley. “Yer needn’t think they’re got up ter kill ter please yous. Its only ter give their clobber an airin’, an’ keep out the moths.”
When it was time to set out for the church, the five were quite at their ease, grinning and giggling at the familiar jokes on marriage, broad as a barn door, dating from the Flood. Mrs Yabsley toiled in the rear of the bridal procession, fighting for wind on account of the hill. She kept her fist shut on the two half-dollars for the parson; the wedding ring, jammed on the first joint of her little finger for safety, gave her an atrocious pain. At length they reached Cleveland Street, and halted opposite the church.
The square tower of Trinity Church threw its massive outline against the faint glow of the city lights, keeping watch and ward over the church, that had grown grey in the service of God, like a fortress of the Lord planted on hostile ground. And they stood together, the grim tower a
nd the grey church, for a symbol of immemorial things—a stronghold and a refuge.
The wedding party walked into the churchyard on tiptoe as if they were trespassers. Then, unable to find the door in the dark, they walked softly round the building, trying to see what was going on inside through the stained-glass windows. Their suspicious movements attracted the attention of the verger, and he followed them with stealthy movements, convinced that they meditated a burglary. When he learned their errand, he took charge of the party. They entered the church like foreigners in a remote land. Another wedding was in progress, so they sat down in the narrow, uncomfortable pews, waiting their turn. When Chook caught sight of the Canon in his surplice and bands, he uttered a cry of amazement.
“Look at the old bloke. ’E’s wearin’ ’is shirt outside!”
The two girls were convulsed, turning crimson with the effort to repress their giggles. Mrs Yabsley was annoyed, feeling that they were treating the matter as a farce.
“I’m ashamed o’ yer, Chook,” she remarked severely. “Yer the two ends an’ middle of a ’eathen. That’s wot they call ’is surplus, an’ I wish I ’ad the job of ironin’ it.”
Order was restored, but at intervals the girls broke into ripples of hysterical laughter. Then Chook saw the organ, with its rows of painted pipes, and nudged Jonah.
“Wot price that fer a mouth-orgin, eh? Yer’d want a extra pair o’ bellows ter play that.”
Jonah examined the instrument with the interest of a musician, surprised by the enormous tubes, packed stiffly in rows, the plaything of a giant; but he still kept an eye on the pair that were being married, with the nervous interest of a criminal watching an execution. The women, to whom weddings were an afternoon’s distraction, like the matinées of the richer, stared about the building. Mrs Yabsley, wedged with difficulty in the narrow pew, pretended that they were made uncomfortable on purpose to keep people awake during the sermon. Presently Ada and Pinkey, who had been examining the memorial tablets on the walls, began to argue whether the dead people were buried under the floor of the church. Pinkey decided they were, and shivered at the thought. Ada called her a fool; they nearly quarrelled.