by Betty Annand
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When Bert and Tonnie were first married, they were known for their generosity, especially in the winter months when they often donated second-hand clothes to the poorest families. As the water from the pump grew more and more fetid, they began substituting gin or ale, and before long, liquor became their first priority.
Bert was small of stature, but she was blessed with a generous set of lungs. A feisty redhead with a freckled complexion and an hourglass figure, she was the offspring of the poorest of the poor. Therefore, fortune had indeed smiled on her when she married a man who had not only inherited a business, but could also afford to rent a building large enough to accommodate it, as well as living quarters and even a bed.
A bed was a luxury that few people in the slums were fortunate enough to own. The one that Tonnie and Bert owned had an inscription carved into the headboard that once read, “Love keeps his revels where there are but twain.” The bed had been handed down through four generations of Tunner junk collectors. The story was that it had belonged to the Great Bard himself, who had bought it for a certain young lady, only to find that she was nothing of the sort; hence, the bed was sold and bought many times over, until it was eventually handed down to Tonnie and Bert.
By the time they inherited it, three bricks replaced a missing leg, and there was a hole where the word “revel,” had been. Since none of the Tonners were acquainted with the works of Shakespeare, one of them had covered the hole with a piece of board and written the word “grog” on it.
Another benefit of Bert’s marriage was a sturdy wooden rain barrel outside her door. Even though the rain changed from transparent to a murky yellow as it made its way through the pollution that hung over the city, it was far cleaner than the water from the communal well. To her credit, Bert made good use of the barrel-water and kept her home as clean as she possibly could.
Although illiterate, she had a keen mind and a most remarkable memory. When she discovered that her repertoire of lyrics, her adeptness at carrying a tune, and her dancing skills could earn a few extra coins, she took advantage of it, and most evenings, after work, she would discard her soiled pinafore and dust cap, shake out her mop of flaming curls and, along with Tonnie, make the rounds of the neighbourhood pubs. Her talent also resulted in many free drinks, which had helped her addiction progress.
Not as many women as men frequented such establishments, but the ones who did had little appreciation for Bert’s lively dances and flirtations and began to exclude her from their daily gossip. At first, she reacted by shrugging her shoulders, hawking up a ball of phlegm, spitting it on the street, and saying to Tonnie, “That’s what I thinks of them dirty buggers. They’s just jealous, they is!” But in spite of her act of indifference, she missed their inclusion and friendship.
Tonnie was as noticeably large as Bert was small, thus the nickname “Tonnie.” He had a habit of squinting, which was a pity, since his large, bright, brown eyes were his most attractive feature. His nose was straight, but all his other facial features were hidden behind a forest of black hair. He would have displayed an enviable head of thick, black, curly hair if Bert didn’t hack away at it every few weeks with an old pair of chipped shears. Tonnie was known for two things: his good-nature and his extraordinary strength—a fortuitous combination. He also had a talent for song and dance and could swing a woman as large as himself—over seventeen stone—off her feet to the tune of a good Scottish Reel.
Along with the business, Tonnie inherited a four-by-eight-foot wooden cart and an old donkey to pull it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much left of the poor animal but bones and hide, and it died soon after the demise of Tonnie’s father. Without the money to buy another, Tonnie and Bert were forced to take the donkey’s place. As the neighbourhood’s population increased, more and more folks were scratching out a living by collecting junk and selling it. So, in response, they had to work longer and harder in order to collect enough saleable merchandise to pay their rent, satisfy their hunger, and quench their ever-present thirst.
Once a week, they pulled the cart more than a mile to “Warehouse Corner,” usually arriving there before daylight. Warehouse Corner was the nickname given to a street corner on the very outskirts of the slums where the gentry sent their servants with cast-off clothing, rags, and other unwanted articles to be dropped off for the poor. The servants would take the goods that far, but refused to take it any farther, for fear of contracting diseases.
Whoever arrived at the corner first could claim the most advantageous spot. On the days when no servants came, Bert and Tonnie often pulled their cart up and down the streets, and while Tonnie rang an old cowbell, Bert would call out, “Rags, old rags.”
Some days, if they were fortunate enough to have a bottle of ale along, Bert would be in such good spirits that she would make up rhymes and sing them out in a loud voice as she danced around the cart to the ring of the bell.
“Rags, old furnachure, whatever it will be, throw it ’ere, throw it ’ere, we ’auls away for free.” Such antics, difficult to ignore, were often rewarded.
For two months after Gladys was born, Bert stayed home, and Tonnie pushed the cart alone, but he complained so loudly that she began going with him, taking the baby along, wrapped in a blanket and laid in the cart. This seemed to please the child since she cooed and gurgled contentedly as the cart bumped along over the cobblestones. As soon as they arrived at Warehouse Corner, Bert would sit on the side of the road, unfasten her bodice, and proceed to nurse the infant while Tonnie loaded the cart. When they were ready to start back, the infant, pacified with a full belly, would be placed amongst the junk, where she usually slept contentedly all the way home.
One day, Bert and Tonnie waited for two hours at Warehouse Corner, but there were no deliveries. Since they were badly in need of money to buy liquor, they began trudging up and down nearby streets calling out for second-hand goods. It took all day before they had enough to earn them a bottle or two, but when they arrived back at Warehouse Corner, they were surprised and delighted to see that someone had left a load of junk while they were gone. Tonnie unloaded the poor stuff he had in his wagon then reloaded it with the better quality items while Bert fed the baby. When they were ready to leave, Bert found a large enough cavity amongst the junk to put Gladys, and they continued on their way.
It was almost dark by the time they came to another junk yard, owned by Bob Tweedhope, the midwife Sally’s husband, a pleasant and likeable man who was just closing up for the night. Sally suffered with a lung ailment and was unable to assist in pulling a cart, so Bob often bought his merchandise third hand.
When he spotted the Tunners going by, he called out, “Hi! Tonnie, you’re a mite late, aren’t you?”
Tonnie, hearing Bob’s greeting, nodded to Bert and in unison, they dropped the cart handles to the ground. Wiping the sweat off his brow with a dirty rag, Tonnie called back, “If ya wants to talk to me, Bobby, ya lazy old turd, you gotta bring me a drink.”
Bob laughed, then picking up a tankard half full of warm, stale ale, crossed the road, and handed Tonnie the drink before poking around to see if there was anything on the cart worth buying.
Downing the stale ale in one swallow, Tonnie said, “Gawd bless ya, Bob, that there’s the worstest drink I ever drunk!”
Bert grabbed the tankard from Tonnie only to find it empty. “’Ere! Don’t you ever think of nobody but yerself?” she said, as she gave Tonnie a shove with her arm. The empty tankard had intensified her thirst even more. She threw it back to Bob, and snarled, “There’s your goblet; now quit lookin’ round our bloody cart. Come on, Tonnie, let’s get this lot ’ome.”
They were both desperately in need of a drink by this time, but as they started to leave, Bob put his hand on Tonnie’s arm. “Hold on now, Tonnie, what if I was to offer you a good price for the whole cart full?”
“It would ’ave to be a good one. This ’ere
’s the best junk I’ve ’ad in ages.”
Bob had seen enough to know that Tonnie was right, but he started his offer low. They bickered back and forth for a few minutes before Bert, who was so in need of a drink that she was beginning to shake, told Tonnie to take whatever he could get, so they could be on their way. Tonnie wasn’t in much better shape, and realizing they could get to the pub twice as fast without the cart, he said, “Tell ya what, Bob; you gives me ten quid and you can ’ave the bloody lot if you unloads the cart yourself an’ brings it to me tomorrow.”
Bob agreed, and after the cart was in the yard, he counted out the money and handed it to Bert. It had been a long time since she had held that much money, and, looking down at it, all she could think about was the grand amount of thirst-quenching liquor it could buy. She grabbed hold of Tonnie’s hand and they hurried off to the nearest pub. By this time, darkness had fallen, and Bob decided to put off the unloading until the next day. Throwing a canvas over the load, he closed the gate behind him and went home to his wife two streets away.
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Not long after Bob left the yard, it began to rain. When it turned into a downpour, the noise woke the baby. Although she usually slept through the night, the noise and the confinement of being tucked into such a tiny space under an upside-down, broken rocking chair frightened her. She began to cry, softly at first, but then, when no one came to her rescue, she started to howl and kick her feet. Unfortunately, her struggles shook the cart, causing the untied canvas to slip off the load and onto the ground. After a time, her cries became sobs that grew weaker and weaker until the only noise in the junk yard was the sound of the rain pounding down on an old piece of tin lying on top of a barrel.
In the morning the rain had subsided, but when Bob arrived at his junkyard he could see the canvas had come off the cart, and his merchandise was soaked. He began going through the junk to see what he could salvage, and when he came to what he mistook for a bundle of clothes, he pulled back the blanket, hoping some were still dry. It was then that he found the baby. At first he was sure the infant was dead; her skin was the colour of skim milk, and her lips were purple. For a second, he was too shocked to do anything but stare at the little creature, but then, when he bent over and gently picked her up, she uttered a weak moan, startling him so much, he almost dropped her.
“My God, you’re still alive! Why you must be the Tunners’ babe. I’d better get you to Sal. Maybe she can save you.”
He took off his jacket, wrapped it around the infant and hurried home. Sally was appalled when she saw the baby’s condition. “I don’t know if I can save her, Bob, she’s pretty far gone. You had better go and find her mother. She’s far too weak to cry, but she must be starving. I simply cannot understand how any mother could leave her baby like this. What sort of a woman is she?”
Bob said it had to be the Tunners’ little one and that they had probably been too drunk to miss her. Sally remembered how beautiful and healthy the baby was when she was born, and she couldn’t believe that Bert could abandon such a child. She also remembered the promise Bert had made, and she shook her head in disgust.
“Go on now, Bob, hurry and find her. I shall try to get a little warm milk into her until you come back.” After Bob left, Sally took off the baby’s damp, soiled gown and wrapped her in a clean blanket, then she warmed some milk and tried to feed her.
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It had been two years since she and Bob had lost their infant twins, a girl and a boy. They had died of cholera a year after they were born, in spite of Sally’s expert care. Sally hadn’t always lived in the slums. She came from a fairly well-to-do family and had lived in one of the better districts of London where her father, a doctor, was fortunate enough to have a number of wealthy patients. Although her mother objected, Sally often accompanied her father when he made his rounds, and sometimes she would be called upon to assist him in his work, but when she revealed her plans to become a nurse, her father was shocked, and he refused to allow it.
Hospitals were ill kept, and female nurses had almost no training. Most came from the slums and were given the most despicable chores. Because it was practically impossible for a woman to become a doctor, and Sally wanted to spend her life tending the sick, she may have gone against her father’s wishes if it weren’t for a cruel turn of events that caused him to be sent to prison. One night he had received two calls for help at the same time—one to attend a very wealthy woman, and the other to a nearby factory where a young father of six had his arm caught in a machine. Knowing both parties, he had no trouble deciding who to see first. If the young man didn’t survive, his family would be sent to the workhouse. The woman, on the other hand, was a spoiled hypochondriac and was in the habit of sending for him if she so much as sneezed.
Unfortunately, both patients died that night. The woman, who was grossly overweight, suffered a heart attack, and the poor man died of internal bleeding. The wealthy family took the doctor to court on a charge of neglect. Sally and her mother spent all their money hiring lawyers, but they all failed to prove the doctor’s innocence. Sally’s mother had a brother-in-law who was a lawyer, but he was a stingy and self-righteous man and refused to help the family financially or professionally. After a time, Sally and her mother had nothing left and were forced to move to the slums. A short time later Sally’s mother died of a broken heart. Her father passed away in prison two weeks after his wife.
Unable to find employment of any kind, Sally would have had to resort to begging in order to pay her rent if Bob, who lived in the same building, hadn’t offered to share his one room with her. They were married a short time later.
Although she’d had no intention of becoming the neighbourhood’s midwife, Sally had heard a pregnant neighbour screaming in pain one night, and felt obliged to offer assistance. From the moment she delivered that first baby, there was no turning back. It seemed to Bob that each delivery took its toll on his wife’s health, especially if the baby didn’t survive. He wanted her to stop, but her conscience wouldn’t allow it. After a time, she began to disassociate the loss of her two babies with the ones she delivered, and the job became easier. But now, holding this poor little creature close to her breast, tears ran down her cheeks. She would have said a prayer, but so many of her prayers had gone unanswered that she superstitiously thought it would do more harm than good.
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After spending most of the money Bob had given them on liquor, Bert and Tonnie had staggered home and passed out on their bed. In the morning, Bert woke up with a sodden blouse and very sore and swollen breasts. In order to ease her discomfort, she reached over the side of the bed to pick up Gladys from the box where she slept, but was shocked to find it empty. “Tonnie! Tonnie! Wake up Tonnie! The baby’s gone!”
Tonnie mumbled, “What baby’s gone?”
“Our baby! Our Gladdy! Somebody’s took ’er! Oh, Tonnie, someone’s took our Gladdy! Go and find ’er.” When Tonnie didn’t move, Bert reached under the bed for the chamber pot and hit him over the head with it. “Go find our Gladdy. Now!”
Tonnie was on his way out the door rubbing the bump on his head when Bob came running down the street calling, “Mrs Tunner, Mrs Tunner!”
Some ladies were outside talking and stopped him before he reached the Tunners’ door. “What’s all the ta-do about, Bob?”
“She’s left her babe in the cart all night in the rain,” Bob answered. Then noticing Tonnie he called out, “Here, Tonnie, you’d better get that woman of yours up to my place, and she’d better hope her baby is still alive when she gets there, or I’ll be having the constabulary after you.”
Tonnie started to tell Bob to go to hell, but the word “constabulary” softened his anger. He went back into the house, grabbed a sobbing Bert by the arm, and tried to explain what had happened as he pushed her toward the door.
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Gladys survived, tha
nks to Sally, who threatened to call the law—although she knew it would do little good—if Bert ever did such a thing again. In spite of what had happened, Bert did love Gladys, and she was relieved to find her alive. However, she resented Sally’s threat and that, along with feelings of guilt, shame, and envy, would forever embitter her towards the woman who had saved her daughter’s life, for as long as she lived.
Chapter Two
By the time Gladys was five, her parents were settled deeply into their addiction, and they often showed more affection for a drink of gin than they did for her. Nevertheless, she adored them both and never tired of watching them dance and sing. Like her mother, Gladys had an uncanny memory for songs, and nothing pleased her more than the odd times when Bert would encourage her to join in on a song or two. Those were the only times Gladys felt she was truly loved.
When she was old enough to wander around on her own, Bert and Tonnie seldom took notice of Gladys’s whereabouts. Fortunately, she had made friends with a small group of other waifs and strays, who spent their days darting in and out of alleys like a group of foraging monkeys, looking for food or whatever they could find to sell for a penny. Her best friend and protector was a boy of eight who, because of his ingenuity, had earned the role of leader. He went by the name of “Toughie,” a nickname his father had given him. It proved to be a name well-suited, as he had survived on his own since the age of five.
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Toughie’s father, Hugh Matthews, was regarded as a hero when he, his wife, Maria, and his young son, Angelo, lived on Nichol Street. Hugh had saved the life of a young child from the third floor of a burning building, then had returned to the raging inferno to save another. Unfortunately, by the time they exited the building, the child had died of smoke inhalation, and the smoke had damaged Hugh’s lungs beyond repair.
A year after the rescue, his shortness of breath had become so acute that he was unable to continue with his job in a blacksmith shop. Hugh could no longer pay his rent, and eventually he was forced to move his family to the poorest part of the slums, where he and Maria had to beg in order to pay rent for a ten-by-ten foot room in the basement of a house of ill repute.