What about us?

by Jacqui Henderson

  “Implants connected to synapses in my brain.” he said, tapping the side of his head. “They automatically adjust the language to the location and time. Actually, they do much more than that; I don’t have to translate what’s being said, I’m completely fluent in the language of whatever place and time period I’m in. Yet another good piece of kit!”

  Unsurprisingly, he always had the advantage and to me at least, he sounded just a little bit smug.

  “Explain please.” I demanded a bit crossly.

  “The first travellers were linguists. Their job was to study all languages and the way they changed over time.” he said, slurping his tea from the saucer, as some other people were doing.

  I must have looked confused, but clearly he wanted me to understand and he became quite animated as he started to explain.

  “Grace, imagine being somewhere when something momentous is happening, yet not being able to understand exactly how it came about or why. One of the things that has always marked our development as a species has been communication skills, or more specifically, language.

  “Think about it. In your day, there are texts in the museums from all over the ancient world. Some are written languages and it is thought that these texts can be translated using the similarities between them and modern languages thousands of years later. Scholars also learn from the way a word is placed, or how often it’s used and in how many different kinds of texts it is found. But what of the subtleties, like how the inflexion on one part of a word changes the meaning completely, or why one word was chosen over another when they appear to mean the same thing? These small details are vitally important to the meaning.

  “Not all the information is in words. Some used pictures; Ancient Egyptian, for example. How can we ever be sure about the language that was spoken, just by looking at pictures? You see Grace, if we are going to use information from the past to help us create the future, we can’t afford to make assumptions or mistakes. We have to have certainties, or else why bother? It’s not enough to just witness what happened. I have to understand why it happened at that precise moment in time and not another. In order to do that, I have to understand exactly what is being said all around me. Only then will I truly know why people acted in the way they did.”

  I thought about what he was saying. He was talking about words. Words can be taken for granted, they can hurt horribly, they can make you laugh or cause nothing but confusion, yet they can all be the same words. I thought about myself in 1888 as opposed to myself in 2001. In both times there were many words that I didn’t know, or I knew but didn’t use, or didn’t know how to use properly and how often that made me feel stupid.

  I don’t think I said any of this, but maybe I did, because he went on as though he knew what I was thinking.

  “There are always some people who have power over others. Sometimes it’s just because they know how to use the right words in the right way and at the right time. Often it’s nothing more than that. Sometimes terrible things happen because some words have been misunderstood, or because some words have been used in exactly the right way to bring that event about. So the linguists had to go first. Only then could the historians follow and make sense of what they were seeing and hearing.”

  It occurred to me then that Jack’s natural language probably wasn’t English, something he confirmed when I asked him.

  “Language is as alive or as dead as the people who speak it. Even if the world hadn’t changed as much as it has by my time and even if I came from London, you wouldn’t recognise much of the English that I’d speak, much less the language that is my mother tongue.”

  “Jolly useful piece of kit then, those implants.” I told him, tapping his head gently, while silently thanking the unknown techie who’d enabled us to communicate so well. Not that we always needed words; we had other ways of expressing ourselves to each other and those cold winter nights gave us plenty of opportunities to do just that.

  We made Napier Street our home for the whole winter. It was a sweet little house; two up and two down, with a small yard at the back and the front door opening straight onto the street. The kitchen and scullery were downstairs at the back and our living room was at the front. Upstairs we had a bedroom and we turned the smaller room into a study. Keeping house took up most of my time. Mum had never been that fussed about how the flat looked and left to her, it was always a tip; as it had become the day after I’d moved out. Nan though, had been the opposite and right from when I was small, I loved to help her make it ‘spick and span’ as she used to say.

  The problem was, I didn’t know how or where to start. There were none of the things I’d taken for granted and grumbled about in my own life. No Hoover, instead there was a broom. No washing machine. No army of plastic squirty bottles claiming to work miracles on grease and grime. No microwave, there wasn’t even a cooker that I could recognise. It was called a range and had to be fed coal all the time and then once I’d got it burning brightly, it either incinerated things or only made them lukewarm and if you took your eyes off it, it went out. The fireplaces had to be cleaned out and relit every day or we froze. And the toilet! Well, what can I say about that?

  Water didn’t come into the house; it had to be collected from a standpipe in the street several times a day, carried back and then boiled before we could use it for anything. Although Jack said by that time the water in London was the safest it had ever been, thanks to the sewer system and the treatment plants, but we still weren’t taking any chances. At least the cold weather meant that the lack of a fridge or a freezer wasn’t too much of a problem. I wasn’t sure how we were going to cope in the summer, but I decided to cross that bridge when we came to it and not before.

  Despite all of this I was not going to be beaten and nor was I going to become the ‘slut’ Nan always called Mum. We were going to have a proper home, even if it killed me. I was that determined.

  Winnie was my angel in those first few weeks. She took one look at my hands and laughed when I asked her to help me choose the best products to clean my home.

  “Always had servants then? So how would you know pet and growing up in a strange place as well.” she said, tutting and referring I hoped, to my American birthplace.

  I just stood there amazed, as she bustled about the shop putting a parcel together. She cut different soaps from blocks, telling me to grate this one for clothes, this one to rub straight onto the surfaces or the floor, that one for the bath, another for the dishes, except if they were really greasy, to use the same one as for the floor, only to grate it first. If only I could remember which one that had been.

  Then there was polish for the brass, blacking for the range and the fireplaces and some thick beeswax for the wood. The vinegar was for all sorts of things as far as I could tell and then there was rose water, lavender water, a vile smelling bag of ‘salts’, another bag of crystals for something else, some cloths and some scrubbing brushes; not just one but four! Finally she put in a kneepad, telling me that I’d need to go to Mr Jonstone’s shop for rat poison and powder to deal with the bed bugs!

  I looked on in horror as the pile grew. It wasn’t the cost; I think the whole lot came to less than two shillings, not even ten pence in my world. I was frantically trying to remember everything she’d said and after less than five minutes, most of it was already gone. Except the news about the bed bugs; that was firmly lodged, never to be forgotten. I think she must have seen the panic on my face, because she patted my arm and made a suggestion.

  “Listen pet. Elsie Grundy’s eldest at number twenty-eight has just had a little ‘un. She lost her job up at one of the big houses for her trouble and Elsie has enough on her plate without another two mouths to feed and no extra money coming in. For a square meal and a shilling a day she’ll do all your heavy work, as long as you don’t mind her bringing the baby with her. You could do each other a favour.”

  The relief I felt at her words was incredible. I could have hugged her and I’m not normall
y a tactile person. She told me not to bother trying to carry it all; she’d send her Henry round with it later.

  “You go along and see Elsie, tell her I sent you. Anything else you need to know or want, you come here first Grace; you’re too trusting by far.”

  With that she shooed me out and I knew I’d made a friend.

  Elsie’s eldest was called Sal. She was fourteen and already a mother. The father was never mentioned by her, although the neighbours had plenty to say on the matter. Sal had a foul mouth and the strength of an ox, with an appetite to match, despite the fact that she was clearly malnourished. But she worked hard for her shilling a day and I didn’t begrudge her a mouthful of food.

  As Winnie had said she would, she did all my heavy work. She went and got the water and she scrubbed every surface and every visible bit of floor, including the doorstep and pavement outside, making her poor hands red and sore in the process. She swept, she emptied all the cupboards, cleaned inside them and their contents. She polished the range, the wood and the brass as though her life depended on it and my windows never had a smear on them. You’d never know that my pots and pans had ever been used, they sparkled so.

  In return I made sure there was milk for the child, as well as for her. His name was Charlie and he was a scrawny, sickly baby of about six months when they first arrived, but over the winter he filled out and smiled more often and more naturally than his mother ever did. There would always be a good bit of breakfast waiting for her when she arrived and when she’d finished her day’s work there’d be a hearty lunch for her and we’d mash some of it up in the milk for the baby. Every day she took whatever leftovers there were back to the family. Because Elsie had another seven mouths to feed as well as Sal and Charlie, I always made more than we needed and of course every week there was six shillings for her.

  Even with all Sal’s hard graft there was still so much to do. My Nan would have been proud of me as I became the housewife. Even though it was bloody hard work, there was a great sense of satisfaction to it and it gave my week a pattern that I liked. It was normal and that in itself was new for me.

  The soot and dust went everywhere, so I dusted most days. The fires had to be cleared, then re-laid and kept going. The ‘potties’, for want of a better word, had to be emptied and new soil spread over the sewage in the earth closet in the garden. The house wasn’t on the mains for anything except gas and that was just for the lights. However, everyone was talking about the men from the waterworks, who were supposed to be coming soon to lay pipes in the street. That caused a lot of excitement.

  The laundry was done at the communal wash house a few streets away. Winnie took me there the first time and I went with her every week after that. Her mother minded the shop and in return Winnie did her washing. She was too old to give things a ‘proper seeing to’ according to Winnie and I think they both enjoyed the day away from home. It was hard work washing the bedding and the towels. Not that I recognised them as towels; they were more like thin blankets. Then there were the soot and dust filled lace curtains and the clothes, all of which had to be scrubbed by hand.

  The good thing was, that you helped others and they helped you. Then everything had to be wrung out before being carted home to dry. It was a social but tiring day out with the ‘girls’ and despite most people not having much more than a pot to piss in and the clothes on their backs, there was always plenty to laugh about.

  It was during one of our wash house sessions that I asked Winnie if she wanted the vote. I’d only voted once in my life and I sort of understood how important it was that I could, but these women couldn’t yet. She looked at me in shock for a moment, then considered the question seriously for a minute or two, while we rhythmically slapped items of clothing against the wet tiles.

  “Me? Personally yes. It wouldn’t flummox me and given a bit of time I’d work it out alright and wouldn’t waste it. But look around you. Would you want to live in a land governed by this lot? I ask you! Although to be fair, this lot’d probably do better than their men-folk. It’s a good thing most of them don’t have the vote. My Henry’s got it ’cos of the shop. It’s ours and that shows responsibility; he’s got summat to lose. Most of the men in the street never had anything in the first place and if they did, they probably lost it long ago to the bottle or the pipe. No, you can’t go giving the vote just like that.” she huffed. “There’d be consequences, bound to be.”

  I looked around at the many shapes and sizes of the women who were now familiar to me. What I saw was a lot of faces made old before their time through hard work and not enough of most of the basic things in life and as it stood, not much hope of changing things either.

  “But if you could work it out Winnie, why couldn’t they?” I asked.

  “Oh Grace you are a one.” she laughed. “There’s a reason why them that are the ruling classes rule and why we do the work. For most of this lot to work it out, those that rule would have to make it a lot simpler and why would they want to do that? Why would they want to change anything? They’ve got too much to lose, that’s why!”

  She turned to Betty, the big Irish woman who always had a smile for me.

  “What would you vote for Bet?”

  Betty threw her head back and gave a big belly laugh. “Me? I’d vote for any bleeder who’d send me someone to come and do this once a week, while I put me feet up.”

  We all laughed with her.

  “And you Lil, who’d get your vote?” Winnie asked more gently.

  Lilly was too thin and too pale. She coughed all the time and was always bruised.

  “Anyone who promised me milk and honey and took the threat of the Workhouse away.” she said quietly.

  This time nobody laughed. The threat of the Workhouse was all too real for most of the women there.

  “As for me,” shouted Rose from down the line, “All I want is cheaper gin!”

  “If you got your gin any cheaper it’d rot your boots while you stood in them. As it is you could pickle onions in the stuff you chuck down your throat and no one’d be any the wiser.” Betty told her and we all laughed again.

  “Got your answer?” Winnie said, winking at me.

  But I was uneasy. These women, for whom life was so hard, had no say at all and it seemed wrong to me. I remembered what Jack had told me.

  “Things can only happen when they did. You can’t speed them up; not for a good reason, or for a bad one.”

  At least it’ll happen one day, I muttered to myself.

  Of course once the washing was dry, it had to be ironed and that took the best part of another day. The blessed thing got cold in minutes, so then you had to put it back on the fire to warm up again and as there were no settings on it, you couldn’t let your mind wander or you’d scorch something and ruin it.

  The rugs were taken out into the back yard once a week and beaten. Jack helped me with that, but my muscles began to grow I can tell you. It’s no wonder that gyms as I knew them were not invented back then. Baking had to be done at least twice a week and I learnt how to do all sorts of breads, pies and cakes. Then there was the shopping. No supermarkets, no fridge or freezer and no convenience foods, or none that I was prepared to trust anyway. So most of my days involved some shopping, some cleaning and a fair bit of cooking; I was taking no more chances with food poisoning.

  While I kept house, Jack went out and about, collecting information and attending many of the workers meetings that were being held. We read the papers every day over breakfast and then he’d spend the day down at the docks talking to sailors and people about to embark on a journey, as well as those that had just arrived. It was surprising how much people would tell him; usually only for the price of a pint. Some of the stories he came back with were fascinating, but I’m not always sure they were all true, while others were just unbelievably sad. On the whole, it seemed that lots of people just kept on moving and kept on hoping that they were travelling away from trouble and towards something better. In that sense
we weren’t so different.

  When he wasn’t at the docks he’d be wandering around London and he walked blooming miles; it’s no wonder he was always so hungry. When he came home we’d try to put all the pieces together with whatever I could add and see what kind of picture it made. I loved helping him and he always made me feel as though it was important that I was there.

  “We’re a team,” he’d say. “It wouldn’t be the same without the bits you add.”

  One afternoon, as Sal was having her lunch, I was looking over what we’d written the night before. Charlie lay in a box in front of the range, all nicely tucked up and warm, as we usually made sure he was. She slowly put her knife and fork down and looked up at me.

  “You could pay me less and teach me the letterin’...”

  The words came out in a rush and I realised just how much courage it had taken to make this request.

  I put the papers down and looked at her as she stared right back at me, almost defiantly and I knew she was deadly serious.

  “I’ve never taught anyone in my life before Sal, so you’d be doing me a favour. Maybe if I’m any good, I could get a job at it. We’ll start as soon as you’ve finished.”

  She nodded, set her mouth in a grim line and pushed her food away.

  “Do it now, afore I lose me nerve.” she said.

  So that’s what we did and we continued every day after that. She was keen and a quick learner and we had fun during our lessons, partly because I learnt as much as she did.

  Some evenings Jack and I went out; when it was dry anyway. Being wet in all those thick clothes was a nightmare and in those days the ‘chills’ really did kill people. Sometimes we just wandered through the streets, watching life as it happened in front of us and sometimes we went to the music hall, which I loved. They were such cheery, friendly places and I quickly got the hang of the chorus that the audience was supposed to sing along to.