‘It ain’t daft at all,’ said her mother: ‘Ma Jike tells fortunes true. Come on, let’s go across to her house.’ She straightened her apron and went to the front door. Sally hesitated for the millionth part of a second, then she followed.
2
As Mrs Hardcastle raised her hand to knock upon Mrs Jike’s front door Sally arrested the movement; there was a suggestion of relief in her voice as she said: There’s no light in house, ma. She must be out. Aw, come on, let’s go back home.’
Mrs Hardcastle shook her off then raised a finger to her lips: ‘Husht! Her’s in.’ There came sounds of Mrs Jike’s voice speaking within. ‘Her’s holding a circle t’night, lass,’ explained Mrs Hardcastle, ‘that’s why light’s out. If we knock we’ll scare spirits away then Ma Jike’ll be riled.’
Sitting round a light bamboo table in the pitch dark kitchen were tiny Mrs Jike, withered Mrs Dorbell and stout Mrs Bull. The tips of their fingers rested upon the table top, feet, save Mrs Jike’s, were firmly planted on the floor, Mrs Jike’s feet rested upon a stool, this elevating her knees to within an inch of the table’s underpart. A necessity if communication was to be had with the spirits who conversed through questions and in negatives and affirmatives only. A double knock signified a negative, a treble, an affirmative. Mrs Jike, being the medium through which questions were answered, permitted her knees to supply the necessary motive power.
Addressing the shades, she said: ‘Is the spirets present here tonight? Answer three for “yes” and two for “no”.’ She saw nothing contradictory in the capacity of the ‘spirets’ to be able to say, in effect, by a double knock: ‘Yes, we are not present tonight.’
However, her knee bobbed three times, and three times the table legs bumped upon the floor.
Outside, Mrs Hardcastle said: ‘Ay, Ah wisht we’d ha’ come sooner. We could ha’ joined in circle.’
‘Has anybody,’ asked Mrs Jike, in businesslike tones: ‘Has anybody got anything to ask the spirets about?’ She pronounced the word ‘spirits’ in her peculiar way out of a belief that the pronunciation constituted good manners, which, of course, was essential when presuming to address the departed. One never knew to whom one might be speaking.
‘Ya,’ said Mrs Dorbell, ‘Mrs Nakkle’s got a ticket in Irish Sweep an’ her wants me t’ go shares. Ask spirits if Ah do will ticket draw horse.’
Having read in the newspaper that the odds to anyone’s ticket drawing a horse were millions to one against, Mrs Jike concluded that there could only be one answer. The table bumped twice,
‘Right. An’ thank y’,’ said Mrs Dorbell: ‘Her can keep her owld ticket. Ah want none of it.’
‘Hush, Mrs Dorbell, hush,’ chided Mrs Jike: ‘Spirets don’t like too much talking. Any more questions?’
‘Ask if Jack Tuttle’s there,’ suggested Mrs Bull.
Knowing that Mrs Bull had laid out Jack Tuttle only a fortnight ago, and consequently, since he was dead and buried there could be no contradiction as to his whereabouts, Mrs Jike caused the table to bump three times.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Bull: ‘Y’ there, Jack, lad, a’ y’?’ In the darkness, her companions could not see the roguish twinkle in her eyes: ‘Well, hark t’ me. When Ah laid thee out, lad, Ah found half-crown i’ th’ pocket an’ Ah wus hard up so Ah tuk it. Ah knew tha wouldna need it where tha’s gone, an’ Ah’m on’y tellin’ y’ this so’s y’d not think Ah’d pinched it How d’y’ find things where tha art. Jack? Is it owt like that tha thowt it’d be?’
Three bumps.
‘Eh, lad,’ continued Mrs Bull, hardly able to suppress her smiles as she gazed at Mrs Jike in the gloom: ‘Eh, lad, God forgie me for sayin’ it, but it tuk thee a long time t’ go. For ‘ears an’ ‘ears Ah was expectin’ y’ goin’ every day.’
‘Ask questions, Mrs Bull,’ interrupted Mrs Jike: ‘The spirets don’t like y’ to be too familiar.’
Mrs Dorbell, whose interest in the seance had flagged now that she had learned what she wished to know, saw Mrs Hardcastle and Sally through the window. She said: There’s somebody at door, Mrs Jike.’
‘Now - !’ said Mrs Jike, with simulated annoyance: ‘Now y’ve done it. They’ve gorn.’ She rose and went to the door. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it, Mrs Hardcastle. An’ Sally, too! Well, I never. Come in. Half a mo’. I’ll mike a light in back room. There’s a fire there and it’s more comfortable.’
Sally and her mother entered. Mrs Hardcastle closed the door and said: ‘We heard y’ havin’ circle, so we waited till y’ was done.’ She added, as the gas popped in the other room, revealing faces: ‘How are y’, Mrs Bull? How d’y’ do, Mrs Dorbell?’
Mrs Dorbell complained of her cough. Mrs Bull, winking at Sally, said: ‘Ah just come t’ ease me conscience, Mrs ‘Ardcastle,’ to Sally: ‘What’s brought you here, lass? Come t’ ‘ave y’ fortune told?’
‘Cards or tea leaves?’ piped Mrs Jike from the other room. There followed the hollow sound of a marble rolling around the kettle as Mrs Jike lifted the receptacle to see whether or no there was water in it. ‘Kekkle’s empty,’ she said: ‘Ik’ll have t’ be cards. Will y’ all come in here, now?’
Sally said, in answer to Mrs Bull: ‘Ah don’t know why Ah’ve come, Mrs Bull, cos Ah don’t believe in it.’
‘Who does?’ Mrs Bull chuckled: ‘It’s a bit o’ fun an’ it costs nowt.’
‘Anyway,’ said Mrs Dorbell, blowing her moist nose lusciously, on her filthy apron: ‘Anyway, Ah’d ha’ bought share o’ ticket if spirits had said it was gonna draw horse, fun or no fun. Eee! Fancy me winnin’ thirty thousan’ quid! Ah’d buy meself a fur coat an’…’
‘Aye,’ Mrs Bull grunted, quite unable to visualize the possibility: ‘Aye, an’ Ah’d be layin’ y’ out in a month, drunk t’ death, fur coat an’ all.’
‘Ah’d risk it, too,’ sniffed Mrs Dorbell: ‘Ah’d have a good once, anyway I’
They all went into the back room where, sitting on the table,
Mrs Jike was shuffling a pack of greasy cards: ‘Cut ‘um,’ she said, to Sally: Three times, dearie.’
And, whilst Sally obeyed, Mrs Jike remembered that Ned Narkey had little chance of winning Sally’s affections; that there was more likelihood of Larry Meath’s success in this direction, and, finally, she did not overlook the fact that rumour had it that Sam Grundy had his eye on Sally. In a word she concluded that Sally was a most fruitful and interesting subject on which to practise her clairvoyance.
Half-heartedly, Sally turned up the ten of spades, the king of diamonds and the knave of hearts. Her mother watched with eager interest, Mrs Dorbell gazed stolidly, Mrs Bull rubbed her nose.
‘Strike me pink!’ cried Mrs Jike: ‘Look at that!’ She picked up the king of diamonds: ‘Money! Lots of money!’
‘In t’ bank,’ chuckled Mrs Bull.
Mrs Jike ignored her, looking at the card beneath which was the deuce of diamonds: ‘And in a two,’ she added. To Mrs Hardcastle: ‘Might be two weeks or two months, or two years. But there’s money, and plenty of it.’
Mrs Hardcastle sighed: ‘Ah do hope it comes true,’ she said, fervently.
‘Y’d be daft if y’ didn’t,’ Mrs Bull grunted.
Mrs Jike was shaking her head. She had picked up the ten of spades and was reminded by it of Ned Narkey. She put her mouth to one side and said, to Sally: ‘I down’t like this here. D’y’ know a tall, dark man?’
Sally frowned. The silliness of all this rigmarole was becoming unbearable. She shook her head: Think hard, lass,’ her mother urged: Think hard,’ she gazed at her daughter, anxiously.
‘Whether y’know one or y’ down’t,’ said Mrs Jike: ‘Cards siy there is one. He ain’t y’ colourin’. So be on y’ guard. He means dinejer.’
‘Tall or short, fair or dark, they’re all same if they ain’t got no money,’ said Mrs Bull, chuckling, irreverently.
‘Will y’ hush, Mrs Bull, will y’ hush,’ protested Mrs Jike plaintively.
She picked up the last
cut, the knave of hearts: ‘Ah,’ she said, with relish: ‘Here he is!’
Sally found herself gazing at her mother. Her expression of concentrated undivided attention was sickening. She remembered a time when this kind of thing would have affected her as it now was affecting her mother. She shrank from the thought of what she imagined Larry would think were he to learn of her having been a party to such triviality. She hated herself, flushed hotly. Eyes sparkling, she surprised her mother and Mrs Jike by flaring out with ‘Aw, Ah’m sorry Ah came. This is all daft, this is, an’ Ah’m going.’
‘Well!’ gasped Mrs Jike, as Sally left: ‘Well! she gasped, the cards falling from her hand: ‘Well! Now - did - y’ - ever!’
‘Eh, Ah’m sorry for what she’s done, Mrs Jike,’ mumbled Mrs Hardcastle, apologetically: ‘She’s a strange, wayward lass, is Sal. An’ just when y’ was gonna tell her summat about him, too!’
Mrs Jike looked hurt and disappointed, a fact noticed by Mrs Dorbell who said, ‘Ne’er heed, Mrs Jike, y’ can tell us mine.’
Mrs Bull rose to go; she paused by the door gathering her shawl about her, and glancing at Mrs Dorbell’s bent-backed, withered, shawl-shrouded frame, said: ‘Ah can tell it, lass, an’ Ah’m no fortune teller. Tha’ll keep on drawin’ thy owld age pension and then tha’ll dee. Ah’ll lay thee out an’ parish’ll bury y’.’ She waddled away, chuckling.
Mrs Jike reshuffled the cards.
CHAPTER 6 - LOW FINANCE
MRS NATTLE, pushing a dilapidated bassinette down North Street stopped by the door of No. 35. The soiled card suspended in the window by a piece of dirty string said:
AGENT FOR THE
GOOD SAMARITAN CLOTHING CLUB
Beneath appeared in Mrs Nattle’s laborious handwriting:
Pawning on Comission. Naybores Obliged.
Yours truly Mrs Nattle.
The triple underscoring had a cryptic significance. It referred to one of Mrs Nattle’s illicit and profitable activities. Though this was conducted on very orthodox lines; to be precise, none other than those of the Bank of England’s or of any other large money-lending concerns. Having no licence to lend money the triple underscoring of the significant word was a covert advertisement of the opportunities Mrs Nattle offered.
Conducted on very orthodox lines. Interest was charged, security - note of hand, or, preferably, a more material asset - demanded. The markets, or stocks that she watched, and from which she formed her conclusions as to whether or no her prospective patron was safe for a loan - or overdraft - was the labour market. If a woman was reputable and her husband working and of the kind who meets his obligations faithfully, that patron’s stock, as it were was gilt edged and a short term loan (seven days) would be forthcoming. Otherwise the application would be referred to Alderman Grumpole who, if he took it up, would pay Mrs Nattle a ‘commission’ for the introduction of the business. Nobody would have been more surprised than Mrs Nattle to have been told that her business methods were closely related to those of the Bank of England. In this regard, though, she was in the company of that host of credulous Philistines who, though far from being deficient of their full share of capacity, permit themselves to be awed and humbled by the imperious patronizing demeanours of the expert. Philistines whose ordinary common sense leads them, unconsciously, into the successful undertaking of such tasks which, under a different name and in a more luxurious and refined environment, the experts would have everybody believe are capable of performance by themselves only.
She opened her door and walked into the stinking hove! leaving the door wide open so that the house’s pestilential odours swept, an inexhaustible river, into the street.
She grunted and emptied the contents of her placket on to the table, pushing up the newspaper tablecloth and the accumulation of soiled crockery so that a foot square or so was left clear. Then she spent a few moments arranging numerous pawntickets in rows, placing upon each the appropriate amount of money. When she had finished, the table’s corner had a resemblance to a game of draughts.
With another grunt Mrs Nattle seated herself to wait.
Presently, sluthering footsteps sounded, footsteps of someone who was wearing shoes or slippers far too large for their feet: accompanying came the sounds of someone’s speaking to themselves. The footsteps halted by the door and a voice asked: ‘A’ y’ in, missis?’
‘Is that you, Nancy?’
Nancy shuffled in. It was Mrs Dorbell, shawl wrapped tightly about her skinny person, dewdrop at the end of her beak-like nose: ‘Ah,’ she grunted, staring at Mrs Nattle with rheumy gaze: ‘Ah, y’ there. Ah must ha’ missed y’.’
‘Sit down, lass. Mek thisel’ at home.’
Mrs Dorbell complied, sighing. ‘Ne’er,’ she began: ‘Ne’er got a wink o’ sleep agen las’ night. Cough, cough, cough, cough till Ah could hardly breathe.’ Mrs Dorbell’s way of telling her friend that her cough had kept her awake for about a quarter hour: ‘Ah’d give owt for a nip, Ah would,’ a long sigh: ‘Ay, Mrs Nakkle, glad Ah am as y’ve tuk my advice. Ah knew as y’ wouldn’t be out o’ pocket wi’ it.’ She glanced at Mrs Nattle who was regarding her with mute interrogation. She nodded and concluded: ‘The oosual.’
Without answering, Mrs Nattle rose, placed a chair near the cupboard, opened the door, stood on the chair seat and strained after something on the top shelf. There followed the ‘chink-chink’ of glass against glass; her hand reappeared gripping the neck of a whisky bottle. Her other hand sought the cupboard for a number of small glasses. She stepped down with a jog and a grunt. Mrs Dorbell, eyeing the bottle with alarm, urged her to be careful.
Mrs Nattle could not answer since she had withdrawn the bottle’s cork with her teeth where she held it so that it looked as though she was smoking the butt end of a cigar; then she lifted a small glass in a line with her eye and poured out a minute quantity of spirits with the care of a pharmacist dispensing a poison prescription. She replaced the cork and glanced at Mrs Dorbell who was licking her lips furtively: ‘Drop o’ hot water?’ she asked. Mrs Dorbell shook her head and produced her purse from beneath her shawl: ‘Thrippence,’ said Mrs Nattle, and the transaction was complete.
‘Habout that there sweep ticket,’ said Mrs Nattle, picking the threepence up:’ ‘Ave y’ decided?’
Mrs Dorbell raised the glass to her nose and took a long sniff. She did not put it to her lips. Queen Victoria, in a chipped picture frame with a broken glass, looked down upon Mrs Dorbell as she answered: ‘Ah’ve decided Ah ain’t botherin’ … Ah can’t afford it.’ Mrs Nattle grunted and a pause ensued.
The growing silence was dismissed by the sounds of more than one pair of approaching feet; voices conversed; the footsteps halted outside the open door. Instantly, Mrs Nattle whipped the bottle off the table and concealed it beneath her dirty apron. Mrs Dorbell placed the hand holding the glass beneath her shawl. Both women assumed expressions of bleak innocence.
The visitors entered. Mrs Nattle, identifying them all, sighed, replaced the bottle and said, apropos its concealment: ‘Pays y’ t’ be careful, these days.’
Mrs Bull eyed the bottle and voiced a monosyllabic exclamation: ‘Huh! paused and added: ‘Three penn’orth. Somebody’s bin doin’ ‘emselves well. Bokkle was nearly full yesterday.’ She eyed Mrs Nattle suspiciously.
Mrs Nattle, however, was attending to those ‘naybores’ whom she had ‘obligded’ on ‘comission’, shy, retiring types of womanhood for the most part. To have asked them to do their own pawning would have been asking the impossible; their consciences never would have forgiven them had once they passed through Mr Price’s shop door. Happily, the enormity of the crime was lessened when indulged vicariously; Mrs Nattle’s services were a blessing. They accepted pawnticket and money gratefully from Mrs Nattle who first deducted the few coppers ‘comission’, then they disappeared, each to her own way which, doubtless, led to some local hovel within whose walls were daily played the same scenes by the same cast with brain-dulling monotony.
The transactions were completed, everybody satisfied. Mrs
Nattle announced, with a gleam of pride in her eyes: ‘Promp’ sekklements, that’s me. ‘An’some is ‘s ‘an’some does, say I, an’ve allus said it an’ allus will,’ to Mrs Bull: ‘Now, Mrs Bull, threepenn’orth, y’said?’
‘Aye, ‘n Iuk sharp about it. Froat’s nearly cut,’ with a sour expression: ‘Some folks know how t’ make money, by gum they do! Agent for owld Grumpole’s clubs, pawnin’ f naybores, obligin’, wi’ three lines under it, an’ sellin’ nips. Ah’ll bet y’ve a tidy pile hid away somewhere i’ this house, Sair Ann!’ Mrs Dorbell shifted in her seat: she had always thought exactly the same and nursed a secret hope concerning the hidden pile that, should ever Mrs Nattle drop down dead in the house, she, Mrs Dorbell, would be lucky enough to make the discovery. She had everything planned in readiness for such an eventuality. Though, to repeat, this was a secret.
Sair Ann, first measuring out the nip with customary care, replaced the cork and said, in answer to Mrs Bull: ‘When a ‘ooman’s left a widder her’s got t’ do summat t’ live. Thrippence, please.’
More footsteps outside: disappearance of bottle and glasses.
‘It’s ownly me,’ said a voice, and Mrs Jike, the tiny lady from London, wearing an old cap of her husband’s, a shawl loose about her shoulders, entered the house: ‘Ay,’ she said: ‘I’ve ownly jest got thet blowke o’ mine off to work.’ She set threepence upon the table, sat down next Mrs Dorbell on the couch, tipped the cap over her eyes and scratched the back of her head: ‘He jest wown’t gow to work wivout his dinner beer money. Cont’ary, cont’ary through an’ through, like all the rest o’ the men,’ brightly, as she set her cap straight, composed her hands on her bosom and gave herself a tiny hug. ‘Well, gels, how are y’all this morning?’ reaching out her snuff-box: ‘ ‘Ere, have a pinch o’ Birdseye, gels.’
Mrs Dorbell raised her mournful eyes and skeletonic yellow hand, took a pinch and sniffed it in with the dewdrop. Mrs Nattle passed Mrs Jike a nip, picked up the threepence and helped herself to the snuff as did Mrs Bull, who, lowering the glass from her mouth said: ‘Yaa - Ah don’t know what’s comin’ o’er folk these days. Ah remember time when ne’er a day hardly passed without there was a confinement or a layin’ out to be done,’ bitterly: ‘Young ‘uns ain’t havin’ childer as they should. An’ them as die’re bein’ laid out by them as they belong to which weren’t considered respectable in th’owld days. When Ah was a gel a ‘ooman wasn’t a ‘ooman till she’d bin i’ childbed ten times not countin’ miscarriages. Aaach! How d’ they expect a body t’ mek a livin’ when childer goin’ t’ school know more about things than we did arter we’d bin married ‘ears?’ Nobody had an explanation to offer.
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