Love on the Dole

by Walter Greenwood

  He looked at her, pleased, surprised: ‘D’ y’, Helen?’ he murmured, with a tiny smile.

  She glanced this way and that, then, lowering her head, kissed him, hastily, sitting up again immediately afterwards to assure herself that they had not been seen. She saw that the other couples were too preoccupied with their own love affairs to be concerned with those of others.

  She gazed at Harry again, a faint tinge of colour in her cheeks.

  ‘Do it agen, Helen,’ he murmured, his hand closing on hers.

  ‘Nooo,’ she replied, feeling it to be her womanly duty to deny him: ‘Nooo. Somebody’ll see us.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ he urged: ‘Let ‘em. I don’t care.’

  ‘No… No,’ she said, with finality, as she glanced about her again. Hastily, she pressed her lips to his whilst he placed his disengaged hand about her neck in a protracted embrace. So that when he released her she was flushed, her hair and hat awry. ‘You should ha’ let me go, Harry,’ she protested, straightening her hat and trying to restrain her smiles. His answer was to close his eyes and sigh, contentedly.

  As he lay there, a curious sense of luxurious indolence, of brain-laziness stole over him. With Helen by his side he felt safe and secure from what he did not know. Safe and secure; tranquil, lulled into a state of harmonious quiescence, of peace and quiet breathing.

  He took a deep, sighing breath. He opened his eyes, reluctantly. Helen, leaning on an elbow was bending over him. They smiled at each other.

  ‘Are y’ happy, Harry?’ she asked.

  He sighed anew: ‘Eee, Ah am,’ he murmured: ‘Just then, when Ah closed my eyes, Ah’d such a lovely feelin’ about me an’ you.’

  ‘What was it?’

  He stared at the sky; tried to find words with which to express himself: ‘Ah dunno,’ he murmured: ‘It was all nice, that’s all. It made me feel sleepy-like.’

  She did not answer; stroked his hair whilst her gaze roved over his shabbiness. She discovered that she was profoundly grateful for his present circumstances: tremors of fear disturbed her as she thought on what might have been the consequences had he taken up office work. Suppose, in the place of that soiled mercerized cotton scarf he had worn collar and tie; a nice suit instead of oily overalls; neat shoes instead of hobnailed boots. She never would have dared expose her own shabbiness alongside him, even if he had been agreeable. Perhaps he would have found a different circle of acquaintances; might never have given her a glance. Oh, what rubbish. Might have been was only might have been; precious reality was hers.

  She said: ‘Would y’ rather be here wi’ me than wi’ street-corner lads, Harry?’ She gazed at him with steadfast anxiety.

  He did not answer, straightaway, stared, unblinkingly into the sky. Her question recalled days that were gone; days when he could anticipate, regularly, the three shillings a week spending money instead of the miserable shilling as at present. What the devil could a fellow do with a shilling? he needed more money now than ever; he wanted to demonstrate his affection for Helen in buying her things: wanted to buy clothes so that he might appear smartly dressed. But - he frowned; some restless part of him writhed, impotently.

  His hesitation chilled her; his frown was frightening. Could it be that he still was in doubt regarding his need of her companionship?

  ‘Would y’?’ she repeated, searching his face apprehensively.

  He sat up, made a deprecating pass with his hand and replied: ‘No fear. Ah ain’t goin’ wi’ them no more …’ He did not hear her sigh. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes as he drew up his knees, clasped them and rested his chin atop, staring at the scene below.

  At the foot of the sandfaced hill, at the other side of the un-paved road, is a large railway siding; there are main line tracks atop a high embankment, and engine sheds and more rail lines on the embankment’s farther side. Express passenger trains, bound for Liverpool and the northwest coast resorts roar by periodically. Shunting takes place perpetually: goods engines puff about the network of lines with seeming leisurely aimlessness: detached wagons in motion deceive the eye as to their destination, rumbling between the stationary rows of wagons when one fully expects them to collide, then, colliding, with a crashing of buffers when one expects them to proceed.

  Although the noise was considerable Harry was not attentive. He murmured: ‘It troubles me, though, havin’ nowt t’ spend on y’, Helen. There’s many a time Ah’d like t’…’

  She pressed his arm and nestled closer: ‘Ah don’t want nowt, Harry. Ah only want you.’

  Daylight was declining: darkness crept stealthily from nowhere and spread its dim veil over the townscape. A train that rattled along the far embankment whistled shrilly, its uncurtained windows gleaming brightly and emphasizing the gloom.

  The bestarred universe of the Two Cities twinkled as lamplighters went about their work. There was no moon.

  ‘All the same,’ murmured Harry. ‘Ah wish Ah had more money so’s we could have a bit more fun.’ He noticed the passing train. The incredible appreciation that he never had been aboard one in his life, dawned on him, startlingly. He swallowed, hard, paused awhile as a daring thought tempted his mind; then he blurted out: ‘Ah want t’ be able t’ tek you an’ me away for holiday, Helen… ‘

  She interrupted: ‘Oh, Harry,’ in awed tones: ‘But where could we get money for holiday?’

  Her tones of voice nettled him: ‘Aw, Ah’ll get it,’ he muttered: ‘You see if Ah don’t. …’ A voice reminded him that a shilling a week saved was only two pounds twelve in a year’s time. He concluded, lamely: ‘Ah’m havin’ a threepenny treble (a wager upon three horses in which the winnings from the first horse, if any, are re-invested in a compound manner upon the second-named and then upon the third-named animals). Ah’m havin’ a threepenny treble every week wi’ Sam Grundy. An’ Ah’m havin’ a go at competitions in newspaper,’ confidently: ‘Oh, you see, Ah’ll pull it off one o’ these days.’

  ‘Oh, Ah don’t care if y’ never have nowt, Harry,’ she murmured: ‘S’long as we’re happy, that’s all that matters.’

  Her arm stole about his waist. They sighed, simultaneously.

  CHAPTER 3 - ‘RASPBERRY, GOOSEBERRY…’

  SALLY, an expression of preoccupation on her face, came out of the house and sauntered down North Street. Although she was dressed in her dance frock, her dawdling gait and her bemused expression suggested that such a way of spending the evening failed to please.

  She had dallied over dressing; had, indeed, once made up her mind not to go, but the thought of there being nothing else to do but to sit mooning about the house, had forced her, in desperation, to her original, half-hearted intention. Her vague desire was to be enabled to have a room to which she could retire where to feel secure from trespass; some place where she could think in quietude; where there would be no family interruption. She did not know what she wanted to think about except that there was a feeling of irksome restlessness gnawing within her. She felt that she wanted something urgently, but what it was she wanted she did not know.

  She did know that there was no privacy in the house: knew that if she stayed in the bedroom her mother, sure enough, would shout upstairs: ‘Sal, what’re y’ doin’ up there all this time?’ The same if she, as sometimes she did, used the tiny privy in the backyard as a retiring room: ‘What’re y’ doin’ there,’ would remind her that seclusion, as she desired it, was not to be had at home.

  Oh, and this dancing in the arms of such as Ned Narkey. She was disgusted with it, had had enough and more than enough. It was worse than no substitute for what it was she lacked. If only she knew what she wanted. If only she could rid herself of these dreadful feelings of aimlessness, of this perplexing sensation of being lost, out of place.

  She sighed, heavily, wearily, as she halted by the Duke of Gloucester public-house.

  A group of children were playing a game close by; their piping voices merged into that of a street-corner orator who was addressing
a handful of people on the other side of the street She was too engrossed in her thoughts to heed either. She stood on the edge of the kerb, staring into the roadway as one absorbed in the orator’s argument.

  Ned Narkey, dressed in a smart suit, came out of the public-house wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He caught sight of Sally standing there and frowned. ‘Hey,’ he said, sourly: ‘What d’y’ mean keepin’ me waitin’?’

  She looked up: ‘Eh?’ she said. He repeated his utterance, adding: ‘Why did’n y’ come in pub an’ tell me you was here?’ darting a glance at the orator across the street: ‘Ah suppose y’ was more interested i’ that muck he’s spoutin’, eh?’

  ‘Who’re y’ talkin’ to, Narkey?’ she snapped, her eyes kindling: ‘Who d’y’ think you are?’

  ‘You kept me waitin’…’

  ‘Aye, an’ a fine place y’ was waitin’ in, too … ‘

  ‘Here,’ he replied, warmly: ‘Who d’you think y’re talkin’ to?’ raising his brows: ‘Blimey, y’ might be Queen of Sheba,’ warningly; ‘but Ah’ve had enough o’ your frisky ways. Ah can get tarts ten a penny, aye, an’ them’s don’t keep a feller waitin’, neither. D’y’ understand? Ah’m gettin’ sick o’ tailin’ you around like a shadder an’ all for nowt.’

  She narrowed her eyes: ‘You’re a dirty dog, y’know, Narkey. An’ y’ain’t the only one as is sick. Ah’m sick of you and the rest o’ the crowd y’ muck around wi’. Allus you want out o’ girls is one thing only. But y’ don’t get it out o’ me. d’y’ understand. Best thing you can do is to go wi’ them as is ten a penny.’

  He swallowed his mortification and forced a smile: ‘Aw, come on, Sal,’ he cried: ‘Ah was on’y kiddin’. You know me.’

  ‘No,’ she said: ‘Ah’m not goin’ dancin’.’

  ‘Why?’ he snapped, frowning: ‘Y’ve got ready t’ come.’

  ‘Ah’m not goin’. Ah’ve changed me mind.’

  His lips tightened across his teeth. His impulse was to strike her; she was maddeningly provocative; she was overwhelmingly desirable. Oh, to embrace her, crush her, hurt her. Why was it that out of all the girls and women of his acquaintance, she, who was so unattainable should be so desirable? Perhaps that was the reason. But that she should treat him with indifference! He swelled with anger: ‘Aaach,’ he snarled: ‘Aw right, then, if y’ don’t want t’ go. Y’ain’t th’only tart around here,’ sneeringly: ‘P’raps y’d rather listen t’ him and his blather.’ He stamped off, fuming, promising himself that this high-handed attitude towards her would teach her a lesson and that she would come back to him of her own accord to ask his pardon.

  She shrugged her shoulders and stood there, unmoved: ‘P’raps y’d rather listen t’ him and his blather.’ She was puzzled as to Narkey’s meaning. Then she became conscious of the orator opposite. Twice Narkey had referred to him. It was Larry Meath. Evidently Narkey was jealous of him. Jealous of Larry Meath, though! Imagine having her name coupled with Larry’s, even though only in the imagination of a jealous mind!

  Well, why not? She found that she was vastly pleased, immensely flattered by Narkey’s jealousy. Her spirits, for some reason, soared like a rocket; a sudden, animated expression stole across her features. She smiled, breathed deeply, felt delightfully perturbed and nervous. She called herself a fool; yet she did not walk away, stood there, gazing at Larry, fixedly; found herself indulging in a cross-examination of herself regarding him. Why should she feel so towards him now and at no time before? She remembered having regarded him, previously, with something akin to awe. Not that she had never spoken to him: contrary of ten-times he had paused to pass a pleasant word with her. Imagine it, they bad spoken to each other, previously. She tried to recall the words that had passed between them on those occasions. She could only remember herself as someone shy and tongue-tied. Larry’s presence, somehow, seemed to demand your best behaviour. You became so very conscious of the loose way of your speech when you heard him speaking. She suddenly discovered a thousand faults in herself, and, for a moment felt dispirited at their enormity.

  The moment passed: she listened to what he was saying.

  ‘… And to find the cost of this present system you have only to look at our own lives and the lives of our parents and their parents. Labour never ending, constant struggles to pay the rent and to buy sufficient food and clothing; no time for anything that is bright and beautiful. We never see such things. All we see are these grey depressing streets; mile after mile of them; never ending. … And the houses in which we are compelled to live are as though they have been designed by fiends in hell for our especial punishment. When work is regular we are just able to live from week to week: there is no surplus. But for ever, there hangs over us that dread threat of unemployment. Unemployment that can and does reduce most honest working folk to pauperdom, that saddles them with a debt that takes years to repay. Even at its best I say that this is not life. And it is not the lot of one or two individual families. Look around you here in Hanky Park; not a part but the whole of it is so affected. This existence is what is fobbed off on to us as Life. And Hanky Park is not the whole of England. In every industrial city of the land you will find such places as this, where such people as us who do the work of the world are forced to spend their days. That is the price we will continue to pay until you people awaken to the fact that Society has the means, the skill, and the knowledge to afford us the opportunity to become Men and Women in the fullest sense of those terms.’ He stepped down; another man took his place.

  He crossed the road. In her direction. Her cheeks flamed, her pulse quickened; she felt excited, elated, yet, at the same time, wished to withdraw so that he might not see her. She stood her ground, eyeing him, fascinated.

  He glanced at her as he passed. He stopped, smiled, as one who is pleasantly surprised. ‘Hallo, Sally,’ he said, warmly, adding, with mock incredulity: ‘Don’t tell me I’ve made a convert’

  She laughed, murmured something incoherently, then averting her gaze, said: ‘I was listening. But I don’t know nowt - er - anything about politics.’ She raised her eyes to his. The street lamp’s beams caught her upturned face, and enhanced, in the pale contrast of her skin the glowing darkness of her eyes.

  She blushed; thought she perceived an appreciative attentiveness in his gaze. Or was it imagination on her part? He had not yet answered; they still were looking at each other. She was embarrassed but could not avert her gaze.

  ‘I was listening. But I don’t know anything about politics,’ she had said. He suddenly roused himself. She thrilled to notice an unwonted awkwardness in his demeanour. He said: ‘Why not join us at the Labour Club?’ a light laugh: ‘It isn’t all politics there, Sally. … Though you can’t altogether escape them. … There’s the Sunday rambles into Derbyshire; they should interest you; and they’re a jolly crowd of young folks who go

  ‘I’d like it,’ she said. ‘You go, don’t you?’ hesitantly: ‘I don’t know anybody there.’ I … I…’ she smiled at him.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d take you. They’re a sociable lot of people, you know. If you’d care to come up - let me see. … I’m engaged speaking at two or three street meetings tonight. If you’re free tomorrow evening we could go to the club and I’d introduce you.’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  A pause. They eyed each other, smiling. Tomorrow evening, then,’ he said, raised his hat, wished her goodnight and departed. There was a mysterious, nameless, perturbing significance about the episode that astounded him. But it invoked the most pleasurable sensations. As he strode along he found himself impatiently anticipating tomorrow evening whilst the vivid recollection of her upturned face and haunting eyes lingered in his mind. He marvelled that such emotions as now were his should have been engendered by one whom he had seen and spoken to time and time again. He whistled a gay tune.

  Sally stood there on the kerb enchanted. He had raised his hat to her. Charming? Who amongst the other men would have dreamed of such a ges
ture? Who…

  Her mother, passing by, interrupted her thoughts. Mrs Hardcastle said: ‘Ah’m just goin’ t’ Mrs Jike’s, Sal. We’re havin’ a spiritualis’s meetin’ in her kitchen. Ah’ve left Harry in th’ ‘ouse. He ses that if Ah saw y’ to tell y’ as he wants y’….’ She crossed the street to Mrs Jike’s home. Sally turned and sauntered homewards. As she passed the group of children playing in the roadway their sing-song voices struck her ear. She smiled as she heard:

  ‘Raspberry, gooseberry, apple jam tart. Tell me the name of your sweetheart… ‘

  2

  When she entered the house she found Harry standing by the slopstone staring into the small mirror suspended there. Around his neck was a collar far too large for him, one of a number given to him by Larry Meath who had discarded them. He had accepted them with beaming gratitude; they were such as he always had dreamed of possessing, for, outside working hours, Larry was always neat about the neck. Even though the collars required altering, a glance at their effect upon him through the glass was sufficient to waken in his heart an abysmal discontentment with his shabbiness. Lacking a new suit would make the wearing of these incongruous. A new suit; a proper new suit; one made to special measurement, shaped at the waist, not a reach-me-down that fitted like a sack.

  As Sally came into the kitchen he was imagining himself wearing the desired garment. It was made of blue serge; it embraced him, creaseless, precise.

  She frowned as she looked at him. She wanted to be alone to think. She said, rousing him: ‘What’re y’ gawping - I mean staring at y’self, for? You’re worse than a girl.’

  He started, removed the collar, turned, gazed at her and said: ‘Would y’ like t’ mek these to fit me, Sal?’ He held out the collar, adding, persuasively: ‘Go on, Sal, y’re a good sewer.’