He looked at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll slip out the back way so nobody sees me. I told Parker to go on ahead and get himself a place. Olivia is going to apply for outdoor relief at the local depot and see if she can pick anything up from the other paupers.” He scratched again. “Information, I mean, I’m already getting plenty of the other kind.”
“If you don’t reappear in two days, shall I come in search of you, Sir?”
“You’d better, George. I can’t imagine the casual ward at the House of Industry is on a par with the Avonmore.”
“You never know. One of the councillors was complaining in the News the other day that the casuals are getting better treatment than some decent folk.”
“Well, I’m about to find out.”
Once he was outside, Murdoch was glad he’d taken Olivia’s advice and bought a second pair of socks to wear as mitts. There was a fierce cold wind blowing, but he deliberately didn’t protect his face. Twenty minutes wasn’t going to turn his skin the colour of tanned leather, but it would have to do. He’d walked no more than ten minutes when he began to hobble. The socks were well darned and that combined with the stiff unyielding boot quickly rubbed a blister on his heel. It was getting close to five when he reached the corner of Bay Street and Elm, sharp stabs of pain shooting up from his foot. A large constable was walking his beat along Dundas Street and Murdoch quickly turned his head away, pretending to wipe his nose with his sleeve. He recognized the policeman from the police games last summer. He’d almost won the fat man’s race. Fortunately, he didn’t recognize him, but Murdoch was aware that the officer had given him a good once over.
The casuals who were applying for a night’s lodging at the House of Industry were expected to go to the rear of the building and when he arrived there, Murdoch groaned. About forty men and a few women were already lined up on each side of the big double doors. Ed Parker was fairly near the front. Crabtree had found him a pair of crutches and he was drooping over them.
Murdoch joined the end of the line. There was a tramp in front of him, with a grizzled beard and shaggy hair sticking out at wild angles from under his plaid cap. His weatherbeaten face was deeply lined, but he was big-boned and seemed strong so it was hard to say what his age was. He nodded in a friendly manner to Murdoch.
“New, are you?”
Murdoch shrugged, not sure which answer, yes or no, would take him further.
“You ain’t bin a wayfarer long, I knows that,” said the man.
“Just got the bird two months ago,” replied Murdoch.
“Wife and nippers to feed, I bet.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head.”
The man scrutinized Murdoch for a few moments, his grey eyes disconcertingly shrewd. “What did you do before you was sent packing?”
“I was a lumberjack up in Huntsville. Good one, if I do say so myself. Then I went and hurt my back. The bloody bosses said it was my own fault and they wouldn’t wait for me to get better. Out I go, arse over turkey. So I came down to the Queen city, see if I could get work.”
“Family still up there, are they?”
“That’s right.”
“You ain’t going to be much help to ’em in the workhouse.”
“I know that, but I’m not gonna be much help if I starve to death either, am I?”
A shambling youth in front of them suddenly giggled and at first Murdoch thought it was in response to his mild witticism, but then he recognized the loose smile and vacant eyes of a simpleton. If his brother Bertie had lived, he would have been like this man, although, God forbid, Murdoch wouldn’t have let him beg for a bed in the workhouse. The lad saw his glance and ducked his head quickly.
“Don’t mind him,” said the tramp. “He’d laugh if a bird shit on his head, wouldn’t you, Alfred?” The simpleton giggled again in delight, but Murdoch was glad the tramp’s voice had been kind not contemptuous. “We need folks like him in this gloomy world, where men haul off and kill each other over an eggshell.”
“Or a pair of boots.” Murdoch thought he’d throw in a little bait.
The other man grimaced. “When you’ve been a tramp longer, you’ll know that is a very good reason for killing somebody. Good boots is worth their weight in gold.” He looked down at Murdoch’s feet. “Yours ain’t so good, brother, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“They’re bloody vile. I might as well be wearing horse shoes.”
Alfred was giggling up a storm as they talked and he was drawing attention to them, which was something Murdoch didn’t want. He stuck out his hand to the older tramp.
“My name’s Williams.” The tramp had a dirty old sack, tied at the neck with string, slung over his shoulder and he lowered it to the ground. He was wearing filthy woollen mittens, cut off at the fingers.
“Jack Trevelyan at your service, but everybody calls me Traveller. Like name like nature.” They shook hands. The tramp’s grip was strong and Murdoch lowered the estimate of his age a few years.
“Alf, shake hands with our new friend Williams,” Traveller said to the simpleton, who promptly grabbed Murdoch’s hand and pumped it vigorously, smiling happily.
“Good morning, good morning to you.”
Finally, he let go and began to stare into space, muttering to himself words that Murdoch couldn’t understand.
“Wouldn’t have any baccy on you, would you?” Traveller asked.
Murdoch started to reach in his pocket, then he realized he’d left his pipe and pouch back at the station in his own clothes.
“No, I don’t. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry, they won’t let us smoke anyway, but I was gonna warn you that if you did have a pinch you should hide it. They’re not above searching your pockets and if they find baccy or booze, out you go. Same with money. If you’ve got more than a few coins, you’d better stow it in your boot. They’ll take it from you otherwise. You have to be skint to stay the night.”
“I don’t have a cent on me.”
Murdoch hoped his nefarious plan would be excused by the seriousness of his investigation. Heaven forbid he be a burden on the taxpayers.
He glanced at the lineup in front of them. Many of the men were carrying sacks with billy cans tied to them.
“What’ve you got in your sack?” he asked Traveller. “Your good clothes?”
The tramp laughed, showing a sparse crop of stained teeth. “I don have any clothes but these uns on me back. It’s mostly old newspapers I’m carrying. You never know when they’ll come in handy. That and me tin which I use for me tea and sugar. I’ve got me pipe in there and me baccy pouch, but they’re wrapped in the papers so I’m hoping they won’t find it.”
“Do they always search?”
“’Course they do, but they leave the job to the old-timers who live here and have to work off their keep. Most of them, thank the Lord, are usually too feeble to know what they’re doing. What they’re really on the lookout for is the demon drink. You’re crossed off the list for the rest of the season if you try to smuggle in liquor. ’Course that ain’t so hard if you know how.”
Two men joined the line behind them. One was young and rough-looking and Murdoch could see he’d been in a fight recently. There was a goose egg over his eye and a raw scrape on his jaw. His companion was older and his face had the purplish colour and puffy look of a drunkard and he smelled like it too. He’d heard this last remark.
“It’s bleeding hard to get through the night. No baccy, no grog, no food. We’re supposed to go to sleep, but how can you when you’re sharing a ward with forty men whose bellies are rumbling like a goddam army band and whose nerves are screaming for a bit of comfort?”
“Don’t we get any supper?” Murdoch asked in dismay. This was another thing he hadn’t taken into consideration and he hadn’t had anything to eat since this morning.
“God forbid any of us tobies should be treated like human beings,” growled the other tough. “It’s tea and turn
out here. It’d cost all the fat coves too much dash if us had a bit of food in our bellies before bed. Sean here is right. You ain’t going to get much sleep, what with the bronchitis, the consumption, the drunks craving their tots. You’ll see.” He touched his knuckles to his forehead the way sailors do. “Name’s Bettles. My partner’s Sean Kearney.”
“Williams.” Murdoch was prepared to shake hands, but the other man made no move to do so. Instead he jabbed his finger at Traveller. “You, I know.”
Traveller returned the salute but his expression was mocking. “Old pals, aren’t we, Ned? How’d you get that mouse? Did you win?”
Bettles scowled. “None of your business.”
“He ran into a door,” said his pal. “Ned won.”
Bettles rubbed his hands together. He had no gloves. “Ain’t they open yet? It’s frigging perishing.”
It was much colder now that the last vestige of daylight was gone and neither of the newcomers had overcoats.
“We wouldn’t be standing out here if they was open, would we,” said Traveller.
“You might be. You gaggers all look ignorant enough.”
Murdoch stiffened at this gratuitous bit of nastiness, but Jack grinned in such a way that the display of his yellowing canines gave the impression he’d use them if he had to.
“Ah brother, we are but mirrors,” Traveller said.
Before Bettles could respond, there was a shifting and ripple of movement down the lineup and Murdoch saw that one of the doors had opened. A tall man in a long black mackintosh and black leather cap stepped through. He held up his hands for attention, which he got immediately.
“For those of you who are new here, I’m Gowan and I’m your tramp major. That means you listen to me if you know what’s good for you. Now, I’m telling you right now we don’t brook no insubordination here so don’t think you can break the rules and get away with it. You won’t. Rules are to be obeyed. For your own good, mind you. We’ve got everybody’s welfare at heart here. And no bellyaching about the bed or the food. You’re bloody lucky you’re being given a free place for the night. Bloody lucky. I don’t get anything for free. I work. Is that clear? Do we all know where we stand?”
Some of the men nodded but most didn’t respond. Murdoch saw anger cross Bettles’s face. Traveller didn’t show any expressions but he muttered, “I know for sure I’m bloody well standing outside the bloody workhouse, mate. That is very clear to me. I’m not confused about that at all.”
Alf giggled and Murdoch grinned at him, but the others were too intent on watching Gowan.
“Hands up if you were here last night.”
A dozen or so men held up their hands, including Traveller, Kearney, and Bettles. Good, thought Murdoch, that limited the number of men he had to watch.
“You repeaters, you know what to do then,” said Gowan. “You get to go into the bathhouse first. Chances are you’ll be less filthy than those who are here for the first time although some of you will get lousy in twenty-four hours if I know anything about it.” He stepped back. “Come on then. Report to Hastings at door A. The rest of you lot go in door B and give your name to the man there. Tell him where you’ve come from and where you’re going to after here.”
“Heaven, I hope,” whispered Traveller. “They’ll be sure not to run into Mr. Gowan there.”
The men started to move in the direction of the gate, but Gowan raised his arms and bellowed again. “Hold on, where’s your manners?” He put his hand to his eyes as if he were searching for something. “Any ladies here?” He guffawed. “No, of course not. You women then, come on through. Door on the right.”
Three women, all elderly, shuffled through the gate, their heads bent, their bodies shrunk into their shawls.
Gowan let them through, then stepped aside from the gate. “Let’s move, you toffs.” There was a surge forward and Murdoch was forced to move with them, not sure what to do next. It wouldn’t do him much good to be with the newcomers. He was saved by Traveller, who caught him by the sleeve.
“Get in with the repeat group. The bath’s a lot cleaner if you’re in first.”
“I’m not registered.”
“Leave it to me.”
Behind the iron gates was the lumberyard where Murdoch knew the casuals were expected to chop and cut wood during the day to earn their keep. The so-called labour test had been in existence for two years now and the city councillors considered it a great success. The elderly and infirm were excused, but the others had to work or leave.
On the far side of the yard were two arches and in front of each one was an elderly man in a black mackintosh and beakless cap like Gowan’s. They held ledgers in front of them. The smaller group of tramps moved to the archway on the left, which had a large A over the lintel. Parker was hopping on his crutches and he’d exchanged a quick glance with Murdoch as he was pushed past him by the throng of men. At the entrance, they stopped abruptly and formed a ragged line. Bettles and Kearney had shoved to the front, but Traveller had got a firm grip on Murdoch’s arm and they were close behind.
“Hurry up, goddamn it,” said Bettles as the elderly clerk fumbled with the pages in the ledger. He was checked off, Kearney followed, and behind him came Alfred, who for all his simplemindedness knew enough to muscle his way to the front of the line. Next was Traveller.
“Jack Trevelyan,” he said and the clerk began to search for the name.
Traveller leaned over and pointed with his finger. “There I am. And there’s the fellow behind me. Thompson, Joseph.” He turned around to Murdoch. “Right, mate?”
“Right.”
The clerk gazed at Murdoch with bleary eyes. “I don’t remember –”
“Come on, Hastings,” called one of the remaining men. “We’re freezing out here. Check him off, for God’s sake.”
The clerk did so and with Traveller leading the way, Murdoch went through archway A.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
TRAVELLER HAD MURDOCH by the sleeve, which was just as well because the men were shoved and pushed as they hurried toward the stairs at the far end of a whitewashed corridor. The new casuals were slower getting through their arch because their names had to be written down, but two or three of them came through their door at the farther end and some of the men in Murdoch’s group yelled at them to keep back. They scrambled down a short flight of steps, turned at a sharp angle, and went through yet another door that another palsied elderly man held open for them. He was bleating feebly, “Gentlemen, slow down, please slow down,” but nobody paid him any heed.
Murdoch was thrust through into a long, dimly lit room. The air was suffocatingly humid, which felt good after the cold, but there was a strong smell of carbolic that made his eyes sting. At the far end of the room were two huge boilers and facing them a row of bathtubs, partitioned by wooden walls. The tubs were already filled with steaming water. To the right was a set of shelves and next to them stacks of wooden boxes. He was pushed toward the shelves where another nabber in a holland apron was calling out, “Put your clothes in a box. Don’t forget your chit. All clothes in the box. Boots on the shelves.” The men started to strip off their clothes.
Traveller grabbed two boxes and gave one to Murdoch. Looped around the handle was a strip of leather with a wooden numbered chit. Traveller unfastened it. “Don’t lose this. Hang it around your neck. You won’t get your clothes back until the morning. They fumigate them.” He grinned. “We’re cleaner than most good citizens, if you ask me.”
Murdoch took off the fedora and his sealskin overcoat and dropped them into the box. There was a long bench underneath the shelves where several men were sitting and removing their boots. Murdoch could see how easy it would be to switch his for somebody else’s. Most of the boots were shabby and in bad condition, which confirmed his suspicion that the original owner of the good boots Parker had stolen would have raised a ruckus unless it was in his interest not to do so. All of the tramps, including Traveller, had strips of cloth woun
d around their toes and as they unwrapped them, Murdoch recoiled at the stench. Their clothes might be fumigated but they weren’t washed.
Caught up in the surrounding sense of urgency, Murdoch peeled off his mud-caked jersey and trousers and struggled out of his union suit. Traveller was on one side of him, Alf on the other. Ed seemed to have been shoved to the end of the row and was hopping awkwardly as he tried to get his trousers off without putting his sprained ankle to the ground.
Alf, giggling nonstop, was already naked. His body was soft and hairless but his torso was dotted with bedbug bites. Traveller was wearing a truss and he hung it up on a peg, then tapped Murdoch on the arm. “Come on, take that tub at the end. It’s warmer by the boiler.”
He padded off across the floor, which was some kind of hard granite tile, and headed for the line of bathtubs, half of which were already occupied. Traveller’s body was pallid except for his weathered neck and lower arms. Murdoch was shocked to see a crisscross of stripes across his back. Jack Trevelyan had been flogged at some point in his life. Murdoch hurried after him to the adjoining tub. The water was very hot and he jerked his foot back when it touched the surface. Then he gritted his teeth and climbed in, slowly lowering his rear end into the bath. There was just enough water to cover his hips and he saw his legs turn red. The carbolic in the water caused his blistered heels to sting painfully.
“You ’ave ten minutes. ’Ere is soap,” said a voice at this ear. Another nabber. He had a French accent and his hair and moustache were thick and dark, worn long the way favoured by the Frenchies at the logging camp. He gave Murdoch a small piece of soap and shuffled off to the next tub. He limped badly and Murdoch could see his left foot was twisted inward.
Murdoch rubbed the soap between his palms. It was poor quality, gave as much lather as a stone, and smelled strongly of tar, but he washed as best he could, then sank down into the hot water. At home, he usually bathed once a week on Saturdays, in a small zinc tub in the kitchen. The workhouse bathtub was longer and he could stretch out his legs. It seemed that he had been in the water hardly more than two minutes when he heard a shrill whistle and the Frenchman called, “Finis. Finis. Out, if you please. Next group in.”
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