Love on the Dole

by Walter Greenwood

  Mrs Nattle winked: ‘Ah’ll,’ she said, referring to those whose pledges she negotiated on commission: ‘Ah’ll see my customers, Mrs Dorbell, an’ thank y’ for the ‘int and hinformation.’ Mrs Dorbell looked at her as a head waiter might look at a departing’ millionaire who had left a threepenny piece as gratuity. Mrs Nattle sensed her disappointment, pondered a moment then added, impulsively: ‘Well, go on, then. Call round arter Ah’ve finished me business. There’s a drop left i’ bokkle.’

  Mrs Dorbell licked her lips and …

  Conversation hushed. Mr Price appeared carrying day. book, ledger, perforated sheets of pawntickets, bag of silver, packets of copper and bundles of treasury notes. Reverent gazes watched the fascinating rite of long, bony fingers caressing the ready and stowing it into the proper compartments in the till of the cash drawer.

  A moment later the drawer was shut: Mr Price gazed at the suit Mrs Dorbell had fetched: ‘Same agen,’ she said: ‘An’ it,’ nudging Mrs Nattle with her knee: ‘It’s in the pocket, as oosual. Ahem!’

  Without a word Mr Price conveyed the suit to the front shop where was the safe. The door was heard to open and close. Mrs Nattle looked at Mrs Dorbell and nodded, wisely. Price returned: ‘Four an’ six on the suit, Mrs Dorbell. Fraying at the turn-ups,’ he said briskly.

  ‘Oh, go on wi’ y’ blarney,’ protested Mrs Dorbell, pouting: ‘Y’know Ah’ve t’ get it out o’ week’end.’

  ‘Four and six,’ replied Mr Price, unmoved: ‘Hung or folded?’ (An extra charge was made if a suit or frock was put on a coat hanger instead of being done up, anyhow, in a bundle, which would, of course, fill it as full of creases as a concertina.)

  ‘ ‘Ang it,’ muttered Mrs Dorbell, sulkily. To Mrs Nattle: That lodger o’ mine’s eyes like ‘awks’ for creases in his Sunday suit. It may as well be here, say I, as hangin’ up at home doin’ no good t’ nobody. But he don’t believe i’ pawnshops nor don’t believe in obligin’ his landlady. Dammim.’

  ‘Blue suit, four and six,’ cried Mr Price, loudly: ‘Hung.’ Harry made out the tickets, one for Mrs Dorbell as a receipt and one to pin to the suit, afterwards entering the item in the day book. Referring to the old age pension book Mr Price cried: ‘And “goods”, half a crown. Same name.’ Mrs Nattle gently pushed her arm against Mrs Dorbell’s, who coughed.

  Harry passed the tickets to Mr Price then blew into his purple fingers. He tore a fragment from his blotting-paper to wrap round the upper steel portion of his pen; it had been as though the steel was ice. Then he tucked his hands under his waistcoat armholes, hunched his shoulders and dithered staring, unseeing at the blank wall in front, the cold creeping under his scalp and giving him a sensation as though his hair was standing bolt upright. A voice in his brain said: ‘Seven o’clock, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Five hours and then dinner time.’ Five hours, though! Back again at one o’clock, then another seven-hour penance in this dim, perishing alcove until he put up the shop shutters at eight o’clock, or, more likely, half past, since there was always a last-minute rush.

  A lump rose to his throat; he wanted to cry. He shuddered at the thought of having to take up pen, to remove his frozen hands from the warmth under his armpits. He felt his stomach cleave with hunger as a vision of a steaming cup of tea floated, with maddening vividness, through his brain. Suddenly, a light of alarm appeared in his eyes; he removed his hands from their snug nest and thrust them into his coat pockets. Yes! In his eager excitement of the morning he had forgotten his lunch. It was the last straw. He gulped. Five hours. He turned his face to the wall, sniffed and commenced to weep. If only it were eight o’clock tonight and he could go home. Even the thought of

  Marlowe’s in the morning brought no comfort; he wanted to go home. If only he had not finished his schooling. His tears ceased as he paused, wondering, amazed at the full revelation of the awful fate he had missed by getting work at Marlowe’s. If he had not succeeded there, this present would have been a daily experience. This dark foreboding corner would have been his daily prison indefinitely. At Marlowe’s was warmth, variety, new experiences, companionship of boys his own age, and, above all, free evenings and Saturday afternoons. He marvelled anew; clung to the soon-to-be realized dream, trying not to hear the voice of Mr Price concluding the morning’s first transaction which heralded the approach of a second. Ah, yes! His mother would be here soon to buy the overalls for him: he could ask her to fetch him some bread and butter. He licked his lips in anticipation, ran his cuff along his wet nose and sniffed. He felt his spirits returning.

  ‘Half a crown and four an’ six is seven shillings,’ Mr Price was bawling: ‘Threepence for hanging the suit and twopence for tickets leaves six and sixpence. Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Six an’ seven, it leaves, if Ah’m not mistaken,’ corrected Mrs Nattle, eyeing the pawnbroker with a steely, suspicious glance. Mrs Dorbell gazed at her friend in gratitude.

  ‘My mistake,’ replied Mr Price, gruffly. ‘Six an’ seven, ma’am. Next please,’ he banged the money down while Mrs Dorbell’s hovering claw gathered it together. Meanwhile a wave of restlessness animated the customers. All pushed and squeezed, loudly proclaiming that they were next to be served. And Mrs Nattle, being the loudest voiced, the most domineering character and the most plausible liar present, prevailed, silencing, ultimately, a tiny woman by the name of Mrs Jike, a transplanted sprig of London Pride from Whitechapel, who, extra to other accomplishments, was gifted oracularly, being able to read the future in teacups and playing cards. Mrs Jike wore a man’s cap and a late Victorian bodice and skirt; she was an inexpert performer upon the concertina, a student of the Court and Personal column of her penny daily and dated the world’s decay from the time of the passing of Victoria the Good. She complained, to Mrs Nattle: ‘Shime on y’ … . Y’ know my bloke wownt gow to work till he gets money for his dinner beer. Yaah, measly old ‘ooman, y’ … . Gow to Petney.’

  Mrs Nattle ignored her, turning to Mrs Dorbell and asking her to wait, afterwards facing Mr Price in readiness for the bargaining. All present sighed, patiently, shifted the weights of their bodies to their rested legs and wondered how long it would take for Mrs Nattle’s barricade of pledges to be transferred to the other side of the counter.

  Negotiations commenced. Finally Harry handed to Mr Price four full sheets of pawntickets not one detached from its perforations.

  Muttered conversation on the part of the spectators regarding Mrs Nattle while Mr Price totalled up the sums due to her. She was ‘a marvel’, an ‘amazin’ old ‘ooman’. ‘How she remembers what she wants on all them there, I - don’t - know.’ ‘Second natur’; her’s bin doin’ it for ‘ears an’ ‘ears.’

  Mrs Nattle heard all; stood there, aloof, clothed in professional pride. In a moment she had departed, hands full of money and pawntickets, Mrs Dorbell, shuffling and sniffling, tailing on behind.

  Business was resumed. A constant stream of women coming with pledges and departing with money. All kinds, lively and garrulous, morose and silent, young and old; coughing, spittings, wheezings, complaints; births, marriages, deaths and causes; illnesses, remedies, matrimonial differences; court news (police and royalty); cost of living, state of employment, scandal and all the gossip that trips from the tongue when women meet.

  But not a sign of Mrs Hardcastle.

  She had promised to put in an appearance before eight o’clock. It now wanted minutes of noon. For hours past Harry had started, eagerly, each time some customer had entered by the sales department; each time he had been disappointed. Sulky expressions had abided on his face most of the morning. He had been filled with self-pity. Didn’t his mother know that he was weak with hunger? Hadn’t she seen, remembered that he had not taken a lunch? Besides, what of the overalls she had promised to buy? Was she going to disappoint him in this, too?

  Things were always happening this way: you looked forward to something, and, sure enough, you’d be disappointed. Sullen anger gnawed his heart

  T
hen, when he least expected her, he heard his name whispered from the front shop. He slipped from his stool, went to the sales department, raised his brows and said, petulantly: ‘Where y’ bin, ma. I bin waitin’ all mornin’. I’ve had no lunch neither.’

  She gazed at him apologetically: ‘I bin busy lad. It’s washin’ day,’ she murmured.

  He frowned, depressed. He noticed her hands and arms were wrinkled and uncommonly clean from long immersion in water. The tiny kitchen would be full of steam, table wet and soapy; clothes would be bubbling in the copper; the peggy tub would be in the way; everywhere would be damp; no chance of snatching a moment’s warmth from the fire; clothes, draping the maiden would screen its heat from the room. Worst of all there would be a makeshift dinner, cold and unpalatable. Washing day! Ooo, wait until he fetched wages home from Marlowe’s; then, perhaps, his mother would be able to afford the services of a laundry.

  He noticed that his mother was licking her lips and glancing, nervously, over his head. He turned. Mr Price was standing behind him slowly rubbing his hands.

  ‘Ah want t’ get lad pair overalls, Mr Price. So Ah’ve - ‘ She lifted her coarse sacking apron to the counter and out of it withdrew Hardcastle’s spare suit. As Price picked it up to examine it, she added: ‘Ah’ll have t’ get it out o’ week-end.’

  He hummed and ha’d, and said: ‘Six shillings, ma’am,’ then directed Harry to make out the ticket.

  The boy returned with it: money was exchanged. Meanwhile Harry went over to the rack where the boiler suits and overalls were stored, reaching out a suitable pair. A ticket pinned thereon said ‘5s. 6d.’ and, in code: ‘US/-‘ which, to Harry’s experienced eye, meant that each overall cost Mr Price two shillings and sevenpence, or, thirty-one shillings a dozen less 5 per cent, cash in seven days.

  The key to the code was written on a postcard pinned up for reference in a dark corner by the safe. On every article for sale, the cost price was written in code over the retail so that Mr Price could tell, if circumstances demanded it, by how much he could reduce the marked price without missing a sale and without selling below cost.

  Itself, the code was a piece of advice all Mr Price’s customers were unsuccessfully, but perpetually, striving to obey.

  SHUNPOVERTYX 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  Privately Mr Price took good care to shun it: professionally was a different matter; lacking it in others there would not have been a Mr Price. Anyway, so as none could tell how much profit he was making out of them he used the simple code of which he was author. If he wished to indicate that such and such a thing had cost him nine shillings and sixpence, he first looked at the letter above the number nine ‘R’, then at the letter above the number six ‘O’, placed a stroke between them ‘R/O’ and there it was, plain as a pikestaff, nine and sixpence cost Under it, also as plain as a pikestaff, the retail price: ‘19/11.’

  Business.

  Unconcerned with Price’s cryptic markings Harry was absorbed in holding the overalls in front of him. Yes, they had the long, narrow, intriguing pocket down the leg side for the reception of the two-foot steel rule. And, look, the trousers leg reached to his ankle. No more would he be ashamed of his spindle shanks. Farewell, embarassment!

  Mrs Hardcastle blinked at Price: ‘How much are they?’ she asked. He hummed and ha’d anew, took the garment from Harry, looked at the ticket and inspected the stuff and seams with the assiduity of an ape vermin hunting. Harry and his mother stared at him. For her part she had always looked upon him with awe; it amounted to downright reverence since he had been made magistrate.

  ‘They are the best,’ said Mr Price, warningly, staring at her and slowly rubbing his hands: ‘They are the best, ma’am. … Five and sixpence they’re marked, ma’am. … But - er - h’m - ah!’ squinting at the ceiling and pulling his lower lip: ‘Suppose we say five and fou - five and threepence. A little discount.’ He laid stress on the ‘dis’ instead of the ‘little’.

  She laid the money on the counter. And Mr Price picked it up. Harry reached for a sheet of brown paper. Mr Price, hearing the rustle, said, quietly, without looking at the boy: ‘I’d roll them and put them under the arm, Hardcastle. No use wasting paper.’

  Mrs Hardcastle’s heart beat faster for the boy. She said, hurriedly: ‘Ah’m sorry lad’s leavin’ y’, Mr Price. ‘Taint our wish as he should go engineerin’. … Ah’d rather he was kep’ wi’ you.’

  Harry blushed. His mother was apologetic! She spoke as though indebted to Price! ‘But Ah don’t want t’ stay, ma,’ he complained, indignantly, red in the face. She embarrassed him. Why hadn’t she held her tongue.

  ‘Hush, lad, hush,’ she murmured, her lips parched. She was glad Mr Price was looking elsewhere. Harry shouldn’t have said that; Mr Price might be offended.

  Price, looking at his fingernails, murmured: ‘After careful consideration, I find I would have had to get another boy in any case, ma’am. There isn’t enough work here for a full-time clerk. Things’re bad.’

  Then isn’t - Don’t y’ want me this afternoon?’ Harry asked eagerly.

  ‘Well,’ answered Price, shrugging: ‘You may as well finish the day out now that you are here … ‘

  Mrs Hardcastle murmured something and went out, fumbling awkwardly with the latch. Harry, disappointed, found himself watching Mr Price who had opened a drawer in the counter, had reached out Indian ink, brush, piece of Bristol board and now was writing, in bold letters:

  Boy Wanted Must Be Good Handwriter Part Time Good Wages

  ‘Aye,’ said Harry, to himself: ‘He calls half a crown a week good wages.’ He was annoyed, resented a successor in a way. The thought that, when he had left, business would proceed as before made him feel rather negligible, unimportant Still -

  Who cared? He became happily conscious of the overalls under his arm. … Lathes, milling machines, engineering, 2510 and evenings, and Saturday afternoons free! FREE !

  Suddenly the air was filled with the concerted blasts of factory, mill and workshop sirens. The noon respite. His eyes kindled. Listen to Marlowe’s! With rising spirits he said: ‘Dinner-time, Mr Price,’ slid over the counter and went outside.

  CHAPTER 5 - GIRLS MAKE HIM SICK

  CLATTER of clogs and shoes; chatter of many loud voices; bursts of laughter. Hundreds of girl operatives and women from the adjacent cotton mills marching home to dinner arm in arm, two, three, four and five abreast. They filled the narrow pavements and spread into the roadway.

  A generation ago all would have been wearing clogs, shawls, tight bodices, ample skirts and home-knitted, black wool stockings. A few still held to the picturesque clogs and shawls of yesterday, but the majority represented modernity: cheap artificial silk stockings, cheap short-skirted frocks, cheap coats, cheap shoes, crimped hair, powder and rouge; five and a half days weekly in a spinning mill or weaving shed, a threepenny seat in the picture theatre twice a week, a ninepenny or shilling dance of a Saturday night, a Sunday afternoon parade on the erstwhile aristocratic Eccles Old Road which incloses the public park, then work again, until they married when picture theatres became luxuries and Saturday dances, Sunday parades and cheap finery ceased altogether.

  Harry, gaze fixed on the pavement, was become acutely self-conscious of the incongruity of his schoolboy clothes and believed that every girl he passed must be similarly impressed. He felt a fool to be wearing such now that he was a Marlowe employee. Why hadn’t he had the foresight to slip on the overalls before he came out of the shop? He then could have walked proud and unashamed in the centre of the roadway. Still, he was always doing things like that; always upside down. And another thought was bothering him.

  ‘Hallo, Harry.’ A girl’s voice; belonging to her whom the bothering thought concerned. He looked up. Helen Hawkins beamed on him with her winning smile. Her shapeless coat was open revealing a short print frock faded from many washings: she was hatless and the cotton fluff adhered to her hair like a veil of blown snow.

  She beamed on him
: he did not like it. There was a concentrated, undivided fixity in her gaze, an expectant questioning: he felt uncomfortable. Her smile was eloquent, unique, existed for none but him. And because of what he was thinking it filled him with a creeping self-reproach, or with that conflicting emotion named being at ‘sixes and sevens’ with oneself.

  Things were changed, now. Time had been, lately, when, in his moods of black despair concerning the servitude at Price and Jones’s, he had been grateful of Helen’s sympathetic ear attentive to his troubles. He felt that her acceptance of his confidences had placed him under a puzzling kind of obligation to her; a vague, tacit understanding that irked but could not be hinted at or expressed, that gave her the privilege to take a proprietary interest in his affairs. He felt uneasy. He sensed a restraining influence, a lack of freedom to associate himself with the boys. And that was impossible now that he had to work with them. Though Helen knew nothing of this, yet. It would come to her as something of a shock when he told her.