Jonah

by Louis Stone

  The street-arab in him, used to the freedom of a small shop, recoiled from the thought of Packard’s, the huge factory where you became a machine, repeating one operation indefinitely till you were fit for nothing else. Paasch had taught him the trade thoroughly, from cutting out the insoles to running the bead-iron round the finished boot. As a forlorn hope, he resolved to call on Bob Watkins. Bob, who always passed the time of day with him, had been laid up with a bad cold for weeks. He might be glad of some help. Jonah found the shop empty, the bench and tools covered with dust. Mrs Watkins came in answer to his knock.

  “Bob’s done ’is last day’s work ’ere,” she said, using her handkerchief. “’E ’ad a terrible cold all the winter, an’ at last ’e got so bad we ’ad to call the doctor in, an’ ’e told ’im ’e was in a gallopin’ consumption, an’ sent ’im away to some ’ome on the mountains.”

  “It’s no use askin’ fer a job, then?” inquired Jonah.

  “None at all,” said the woman. “Bob neglected the work for a long time, as ’e was too weak to do it, an’ the customers took their work away. In fact, I’m giving up the shop, an’ going back to business. I was a dressmaker before I got married, and my sister’s ’ad more work than she could do ever since I left ’er. And Bob wrote down last week to say that I was to sell the lasts and tools for what they would fetch. And now I think of it, I wish you would run your eye over the lasts and bench, an’ tell me what they ought to fetch. A man offered me three pounds for the lot, but I know that’s too cheap.”

  “Yer’ll niver get wot ’e gave fer ’em, but gimme a piece of paper, an’ I’ll work it out,” said Jonah.

  In half an hour he made a rough inventory based on the cost and present condition of the material.

  “I make it ten pounds odd, but I don’t think yer’ll git it,” he said at last. “Seven pounds would be a fair offer, money down.”

  “I’d be thankful to get that,” said Mrs Watkins.

  Jonah walked thoughtfully up Cardigan Street. Here was the chance of a lifetime, if a man had a few dollars. With Bob’s outfit, he could open a shop on the Road, and run rings round Paasch and the others. But seven pounds! He had never handled so much money in his life, and there was no one to lend it to him. Mrs Yabsley was as poor as a crow. Well, he would fit up the back room as a workshop, and go on at Packard’s as an outdoor finisher, carrying a huge bag of boots to and from the factory every week, like Tom Mullins.

  When Jonah reached the cottage, he found Mrs Yabsley sorting the shirts and collars; Ada was reading a penny novelette. She had left Packard’s without ceremony on her wedding-day, and was spending her honeymoon on the back veranda. Her tastes were very simple. Give her nothing to do, a novelette to read, and some lollies to suck, and she was satisfied. Ray, who was growing too big for the box-cradle, was lying on a sugar-bag in the shade.

  “W’y, Joe, yer face is as long as a fiddle!” cried Mrs Yabsley, cheerfully. “Wot’ys up? ’Ave yer got the sack?”

  “No, but Dutchy’s got nuthin’ fer me till We’n’sday. I might ’ave known that. An’ anyhow, if I earned more than a quid, ’e’d break ’is ’eart.”

  “Well, a quid’s no good to a man wi’ a wife an’ family,” replied the old woman. “Wot do yer reckon on doin’?”

  She knew that her judgment of Jonah was being put to the test, and she remarked his gloomy face with satisfaction.

  “I’m goin’ ter chuck Dutchy, if I can git a job,” said Jonah. “I went round ter Bob Watkins, but ’e’s in the ’orspital, an’ ’is wife’s sellin’ ’is tools.”

  “Wot does she want for ’em?” asked Mrs Yabsley, with a curious look.

  “Seven quid, an’ they’d set a man up fer life,” said Jonah.

  “Ah! that’s a lot o’ money,” said Mrs Yabsley, raking the ashes from under the copper. “Wait till this water boils, an’ we’ll talk things over.”

  Ada returned to her novelette. Ray, sitting upright with an effort, gurgled with pleasure to see his father. Jonah tilted him on his back, and tickled his fat legs, pretending to worry him like a dog. The pair made a tremendous noise.

  “Oh, gi’ the kid a bit o’ peace!” cried Ada, angry at being disturbed.

  “Yous git round, an’ ’elp Mum wi’ the clothes,” snapped Jonah.

  “Me? No fear!” cried Ada, with a malicious grin. “I didn’t knock off work to carry bricks. Yous married me, an’ yer got ter keep me.”

  Jonah looked at her with a scowl. She knew quite well that he had married her for the child’s sake alone. A savage retort was on his tongue, but Mrs Yabsley stepped in.

  “Well, Joe, now I see yer dead set on earnin’ a livin’, I don’t mind tellin’ yer I’ve got somethin’ up me sleeve. No, I don’t mean a guinea-pig an’ a dozen eggs, like the conjurer bloke I see once,” she explained in reply to his surprised look; “but if yer the man I take yer for, we’ll soon ’ave the pot a-boiling. Many’s the weary night I’ve spent in bed thinkin’ about you w’en I might ’ave bin snorin’. That reminds me. Did y’ever notice yer can niver tell exactly w’en yer drop off? I’ve tried all I know, but ye’re awake one minit, an’ chasin’ a butterfly wi’ a cow’s ’ead the next. But that ain’t wot I’m a-talkin’ about. Paasch ’e’s blue mouldy, an’ couldn’t catch a snail unless yer give ’im a start; an’ if yer went ter Packard’s, yer’d tell the manager ter go to ’ell, an’ git fired out the first week. Yous must be yer own boss, Joe. I’ve studied yer like a book, an yer nose wasn’t made that shape for nuthin’.”

  “W’y, wot’s wrong wi’ it?” laughed Jonah, feeling his nose with its powerful, predatory curve.

  “Nuthin’, if yer listen to me…’Ave yer got pluck enough ’ter start on yer own?” she inquired, suddenly.

  “Wot’s the use, w’en I’ve got no beans?” replied Jonah.

  “I’ll find the beans, an’ yer can go an’ buy Bob Watkins’s shop out as it stands,” said Mrs Yabsley, proudly.

  “Fair dinkum!” cried Jonah, in amazement.

  Ada put down her novelette and stared, astonished at the turn of the conversation. It flashed through her mind that her mother had some mysterious habits. Suppose she were like the misers she had read of in books, who lived in the gutter, and owned terraces of houses? For a moment Ada saw herself riding in a carriage, with rings on every finger, and feathers in her hat, with the childlike faith of the ignorant in the marvellous.

  But Mrs Yabsley was studying some strange hieroglyphics like Chinese, pencilled on the cupboard. She knitted her brows in the agony of calculation.

  “I can lay me ’ands on thirty pounds in solid cash,” she announced. She spoke as if it were a million. Jonah cried out in amazement; Ada felt disappointed.

  “W’ere is it, Mum? In the bank?” asked Jonah.

  “No fear,” said Mrs Yabsley, with a crafty smile. “It’s as safe as a church. I was niver fool enough ter put my money in the bank. I know all about them. Yer put yer money in fer years, an’ then, w’en they’ve got enough, they shut the door, an’ the old bloke wi’ the white weskit an’ gold winkers cops the lot. No banks fer me, thank yer!”

  Then she explained that ever since she opened the laundry, she had squeezed something out of her earnings as one squeezes blood out of a stone. She had saved threepence this week, sixpence that, sometimes even a shilling went into the child’s money-box that she had chosen as a safe deposit. When the coins mounted to a sovereign, she had changed them into a gold piece. Then, her mind disturbed by visions of thieves bent on plunder, she had hit on a plan. A floorboard was loose in the kitchen. She had levered this up, and probed with a stick till she touched solid earth. Then the yellow coin, rolled carefully in a ball of paper, was dropped into the hole. And for years she had added to her unseen treasure, dropping her precious coins into that dark hole with more security than a man deposits thousands in the bank. But the time was come to unearth the golden pile.

  She trembled with excitement when Jonah ripped up the narrow pla
nk with the poker. Then he thrust his arm down till he touched the soft earth. He seemed a long time groping, and Mrs Yabsley wondered at the delay. At last he sat up, with a perplexed look.

  “I can’t feel nuthin’,” he said. “Are yez sure this is the place?”

  “Of course it is,” said Mrs Yabsley, sharply. “I dropped them down right opposite the ’ead of that nail.”

  Jonah groped again without success.

  “’Ere, let me try,” said Mum, impatiently.

  She knelt over the hole to get her bearings, and then plunged her arm into the gap. Jonah and Ada, on their knees, watched in silence.

  At last, with a cry of despair, Mrs Yabsley sat up on the floor. There was no doubt, the treasure was gone! In this extremity, her wit, her philosophy, her temper, her very breath deserted her, and she wept. She looked the picture of misery as the tears rolled down her face. Jonah and Ada stared at one another in dismay, each wondering if this story of a hidden treasure was a delusion of the old woman’s mind. Like her neighbours, who lived from hand to mouth, she was given to dreaming of imaginary riches falling on her from the clouds. But her grief was too real for doubt.

  “Well, if it ain’t there, w’ere is it?” cried Jonah, angrily, feeling that he, too, had been robbed. “If it’s gone, somebody took it. Are yer sure yer niver got a few beers in, an’ started skitin’ about it?” He looked hard at Ada.

  “Niver a word about it ’ave I breathed to a livin’ soul till this day,” wailed Mrs Yabsley, mopping her eyes with her apron.

  “Rye buck!” said Jonah. “’Ere goes! I’ll find it, if the blimey house falls down. Gimme that axe.”

  The floorboards cracked and split as he ripped them up. Small beetles and insects, surprised by the light, scrambled with desperate haste into safety. A faint, earthy smell rose from the foundations. Suddenly, with a yell of triumph, Jonah stooped, and picked up a dirty ball of paper. As he lifted it, a glittering coin fell out.

  “W’y, wot’s this?” he cried, looking curiously at the wad of discoloured paper. One side had been chewed to a pulp by something small and sharp. “Rats an’ mice!” cried Jonah. “They’ve boned the paper ter make their nests. Every dollar’s ’ere, if we only look.”

  “Thank Gawd!” said Mrs Yabsley, heaving a tremendous sigh. “Ada, go an’ git a jug o’ beer.”

  In an hour Jonah had recovered twenty-eight of the missing coins; the remaining two had evidently been dragged down to their nests by the industrious vermin. Late in the afternoon Jonah, who looked like a sweep, gave up the search. The kitchen was a wreck. Mrs Yabsley sat with the coins in her lap, feasting her eyes on this heap of glittering gold, for she had rubbed each coin till it shone like new. Her peace of mind was restored, but it was a long time before she could think of rats and mice without anger.

  9

  PADDY’S MARKET

  Chook was standing near the entrance to the market where his mates had promised to meet him, but he found that he had still half an hour to spare, as he had come down early to mark a pak-ah-pu ticket at the Chinaman’s in Hay Street. So he lit a cigarette and sauntered idly through the markets to kill time.

  The three long, dingy arcades were flooded with the glare from clusters of naked gas-jets, and the people, wedged in a dense mass, moved slowly like water in motion between the banks of stalls. From the stone flags underneath rose a sustained, continuous noise—the leisurely tread and shuffle of a multitude blending with the deep hum of many voices, and over it all, like the upper notes in a symphony, the shrill, discordant cries of the dealers.

  Overhead, the light spent its brightness in a gloomy vault, like the roof of a vast cathedral fallen into decay, its ancient timbers blackened with the smoke and grime of half a century.

  On Saturdays the great market, silent and deserted for six nights in the week, was a debauch of sound and colour and smell. Strange, pungent odours assailed the nostrils; the ear was surprised with the sharp, broken cries of dealers, the cackle of poultry, and the murmur of innumerable voices; the stalls, splashed with colour, astonished the eye like a picture, immensely powerful, immensely crude.

  The long rows of stalls were packed with the drift and refuse of a great city. For here the smug respectability of the shops were cast aside, and you were deep in the romance of traffic in merchandise fallen from its high estate—a huge welter and jumble of things arrested in their ignoble descent from the shops to the gutter.

  At times a stall was loaded with the spoils of a sunken ship or the loot from a city fire, and you could buy for a song the rare fabrics and costly dainties of the rich, a stain on the cloth, a discoloured label on the tin, alone giving a hint of their adventures. Then the people hovered round like wreckers on a hostile shore, carrying off spoil and treasure at a fraction of its value, exulting over their booty like soldiers after pillage.

  There was no caprice of the belly that could not be gratified, no want of the naked body that could not be supplied in this huge bazaar of the poor; but its cost had to be counted in pence, for those who bought in the cheapest market came here.

  A crowd of women and children clustered like flies round the lolly stall brought Chook to a standstill; the trays heaped with sweets coloured like the rainbow, pleased his eye, and, remembering Ada’s childish taste for lollies, he thought suddenly of her friend, Pinkey the red-haired, and smiled.

  Near at hand stood a collection of ferns and pot-plants, fresh and cool, smelling of green gardens and moist earth. Over the way, men lingered with serious faces, trying the edge of a chisel with their thumb, examining saws, planes, knives, and shears with a workman’s interest in the tools that earn his bread.

  Chook stopped to admire the art gallery, gay with coloured pictures from the Christmas numbers of English magazines. On the walls were framed pictures of Christ crucified, the red blood dropping from His wounds, or the old rustic bridge of an English village, crude as almanacs, printed to satisfy the artistic longings of the people.

  Opposite, a cock crowed in defiance; the hens cackled loudly in the coops; the ducks lay on planks, their legs fastened with string, their eyes dazed with terror or fatigue.

  A cargo of scented soap and perfume, the damaged rout of a chemist’s shop, fascinated the younger women, stirring their instinctive delight in luxury; and for a few pence they gratified the longing of their hearts.

  The children pricked their ears at the sudden blare of a tin trumpet, the squeaking of a mechanical doll. And they stared in amazement at the painted toys, surprised that the world contained such beautiful things. The mothers, harassed with petty cares, anxiously considered the prices; then the pennies were counted, and the child clasped in its small hands a Noah’s ark, a wax doll, or a wooden sword.

  Chook stared at the vegetable stalls with murder in his eyes, for here stood slant-eyed Mongolians behind heaps of potatoes, onions, cabbages, beans, and cauliflowers, crying the prices in broken English, or chattering with their neighbours in barbaric, guttural sounds. To Chook they were the scum of the earth, less than human, taking the bread out of his mouth, selling cheaply because they lived like vermin in their gardens.

  But he forgot them in watching the Jews driving bargains in second-hand clothes, renovated with secret processes handed down from the Ark. Coats and trousers, equipped for their last adventure with mysterious darns and patches, cheated the eye like a painted beauty at a ball. Women’s finery lay in disordered heaps—silk blouses covered with tawdry lace, skirts heavy with gaudy trimming—the draggled plumage of fine birds that had come to grief. But here buyer and seller met on level terms, for each knew to a hair the value of the sorry garments; and they chaffered with crafty eyes, each searching for the silent thought behind the spoken lie.

  Chook stared at the bookstall with contempt, wondering how people found the time and patience to read. One side was packed with the forgotten lumber of bookshelves—an odd volume of sermons, a collection of scientific essays, a technical work out of date. And the men, anxious t
o improve their minds, stared at the titles with the curious reverence of the illiterate for a printed book. At their elbows boys gloated over the pages of a penny dreadful, and the women fingered penny novelettes with rapid movements, trying to judge the contents from the gaudy cover.

  The crowd at the provision stall brought Chook to a standstill again. Enormous flitches hung from the posts, and the shelves were loaded with pieces of bacon tempting the eye with a streak of lean in a wilderness of fat. The buyers watched hungrily as the keen knife slipped into the rich meat, and the rasher, thin as paper, fell on the board like the shaving from a carpenter’s plane. The dealer, wearing a clean shirt and white apron, served his customers with smooth, comfortable movements, as if contact with so much grease had nourished his body and oiled his joints.

  When Chook elbowed his way to the corner where Joe Crutch and Waxy Collins had promised to meet him, there was no sign of them, and he took another turn up the middle arcade. It was now high tide in the markets, and the stream of people filled the space between the stalls like a river in flood. And they moved at a snail’s pace, clutching in their arms fowls, pot-plants, parcels of groceries, toys for the children, and a thousand odd, nameless trifles, bought for the sake of buying, because they were cheap. A babel of broken conversation, questions and replies, jests and laughter, drowned the cries of the dealers, and a strong, penetrating odour of human sweat rose on the hot air. From time to time a block occurred, and the crowd stood motionless, waiting patiently until they could move ahead.

  In one of these sudden blocks Chook, who was craning his neck to watch the vegetable stalls, felt someone pushing, and turning his head, found himself staring into the eyes of Pinkey, the red-haired.