Policemen!
An idea struck him. He gazed at Narkey and smiled with forced expansiveness: ‘Luk here, Ned, lad,’ he said, paternally, good-naturedly, raising a hand to Narkey’s shoulder. Ned knocked it away, savagely: ‘Don’t you come the soft soap on me,’ he snapped: ‘Wot was y’ sayin’ to her about me, eh?’ He thrust his face forward.
Sam sighed in simulated despair: ‘Suppose Ah told y’ it was for y’r own good, eh? Suppose Ah told y’ Ah knew y’ was out o’ work an’ that Ah could fix a good job for y’ - if on’y y’d do as y’ bid,’ warming to the subject as he perceived the impression he was making on Ned: ‘Suppose Ah told y’ that y’ wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance o’ gettin’ it the way y’ carry on about every bit o’ skirt as teks y’ fancy,’ mildly reproachful: ‘Eh, Ned lad, Ned lad, an’ you a married man.’
‘Wot about y’ self?’ countered Ned, petulantly, puzzled as to Grundy’s intentions. He still was suspicious.
‘Ne’er mind me. Ah’m in no need of a job,’ warmly: ‘But you. … Ha! Y’d be a fool, all right, t’ let a bit o’ skirt ruin y’ chance o’ becomin’ a copper,’ winking and slapping Ned on the chest with the back of his hand: Three ten a week, lodgin’ allowance, uniform and boots an’ all y’ bloody holidays paid for…. On’y for walking about streets eight hours a day.’
Ned blinked; his fists unclenched; his tensed muscles relaxed: ‘Me -? Y’ can get me on as a copper …?’ he murmured, staring at Grundy, blankly.
Sam thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes, smiled and winked: ‘Ah’ve a bit o’ influence,’ he remarked, casually.
Ned stared at him, dubiously. He muttered, suspiciously: ‘But what’s y’ game, Grundy? How is it y’ve on’y just found Ah’m alive?’
‘On’y just, eh? Ha! Ah like that,’ he put his hand to the side of his mouth and strained up to Ned’s ear: ‘Ah’ve bin asked by a certain party t’ recommend a likely lad or two. You’re an owld sweat an’ y’ve Military Medal. Ah can see to it that y’ name guz in first … but y’ve got t’ lay off the skirt. If y’ don’t it’ll put paid t’ y’ chances. They won’t have anybody, y’ know,’ resuming his original position and glancing shrewdly at Ned: ‘But, think on, now, how y’ got job ain’t nobody’s business. Mum’s the word. An’ see as y’ don’t let me down.’ He reached into his pocket for a cigar.
Ned licked his lips. Seventy shillings a week regularly; holidays paid for and clothes free. Better than being in the army for, here, after the eight hours duty, one was a civilian for the remainder of the day: ‘An’ when do Ah start, Sam?’ he murmured, with suppressed eagerness.
Sam tapped him on the shoulder, jerked his thumb towards the open doors of the Duke of Gloucester: ‘Come’n have a couple wi’ me an’ Ah’ll explain,’ he said.
Ned went in first, Sam followed, the smoke from his cigar curling gracefully over his shoulder like the flung ends of a conspirator’s cloak.
CHAPTER 9
NOW IT’S DRIVING HER BARMY
‘COME in,’ said Larry, from the back kitchen, as a knock sounded on the open front door of his lodgings. He was alone in the house as generally was the case since his landlady’s and her husband’s occupations - they were stewards and caretakers of the Labour Club rooms - kept them from home for the greater part of the day. He paused in his shaving to listen.
Sally entered smiling and announced herself. He asked her to be seated until he had finished shaving.
She complied, sighed contentedly, and relapsed into silence as her gaze idly roved this, his room. Exactly the same kind of front room as at No. 17, yet how different. It and its furnishings breathed his name. Books arranged on shelves either side the fireplace. A comforting sight; so extraordinary a furnishing of a North Street front room. Their presence enhanced, lent an intangible part of themselves to the meagre rickety furniture provided by the landlady.
She sighed anew; felt the blood coursing quicker about her body as she visualized herself, within a week’s time, dusting those volumes with loving care and in a home of their own. Tonight they were to inquire concerning the tenancy of a house in the next street. Then -. Fly time!
In the room at the back Larry stood staring at the slopstone as he dried his shaving tackle mechanically. His fagged brain cast about listlessly, wearily, for a way out of this present predicament. There was only one solution: his thoughts returned to it with the inevitability of a magnetic needle to the pole: ‘I’ll have to tell Sal that we’ll have to postpone the wedding.’ To marry on the money they would give him at the dole would be the height of folly. Seventeen shillings a week was an impossible pittance. No, not seventeen shillings, even: in the interests of national economy this had now been reduced to fifteen shillings.
Was it all a dream? Could life be really so inexorable and harsh? He stood staring at the slopstone drying his shaving tackle mechanically.
You’re sacked, and there’s a girl in the other room whom you’ve promised to marry. His dizzied brain revolved. Then a sensation of suffocation insinuated itself; he felt cramped, stifled, exhausted. His breath caught in his throat and, next moment he was seized with a paroxysm of violent coughing.
Instantly, Sally, full of anxiety appeared in the doorway. Her heart rose apprehensively as she stared, fascinated, mute, frightened. Suppose she had been premature in condemning as unjustifiable Mrs Bull’s comment on Larry’s health: ‘Yon lad’ll have t’ be tuk care of, lass. That there cough ain’t no ordinary cough an’ calls for doctor if Ah know owt about it. You see as he guz, lass. Men allus neglec’ ‘emselves. Allus.’ Sally had deprecated the idea. Who hadn’t a cough at this time of the year in Hanky Park? She had only just rid herself of one.
Yet - apprehensive tremors fluttered her heart as Larry straightened himself. His eyes were brimming, his cheeks burned, he panted and steadied himself by leaning on the table: ‘A’y’ all right, Larry V she murmured, stealing to his side.
He nodded, raised the towel he was holding to his eyes and to his perspiring brow: ‘It was a touch of a cough, Sal,’ he said: ‘I’m all right, now.’
She regarded him with an interrogative stare, puzzled, indecisive. Suddenly, she cried, accusingly: ‘Y’ should ha’ bin t’ the doctor before now,’ she continued, warmly: ‘It ain’t fair to you and it ain’t fair to me … us going to be married.’
The last phrase of her utterance froze him. His pulse quickened; he felt afraid. He laid aside the shaving tackle, regarded her and murmured, in a voice that sounded unreal: ‘We’ll have to postpone it, Sally … I’m come out of work.’ He blushed; his dry lips parted slightly. Like a boy waiting on tenterhooks for a firework to explode he held his breath listening for her answer.
She raised her brows; her eyes widened, her mouth opened slightly and her hands fell to her side limply: ‘Postponed … ? But … ‘
‘As soon as I find work we’ll be married,’ he said.
She remembered her brother. Helen Hawkins had confessed that Harry had promised her similarly: their marriage was further off than ever. If Harry did succeed in finding work it would take six months of his wages to replenish his clothing. He was walking about in shameful condition. She flushed. Was Helen Hawkins’s experience to be hers too? Her breathing quickened: ‘Why can’t we be married as we arranged?’ she demanded, impatiently. She brushed aside his attempt at interruption and continued: ‘There’s nowt t’ stop us. You’d get your dole, and I’m working.’
A humiliating picture of himself living under such an arrangement flashed through his mind. It stank: it smacked of Hanky Park at its worst. He felt weak, powerless, capable of no resistance. Then he fancied he could feel the district’s tentacles feeling to get a grip on him, feeling for a hold with which to pull him down: ‘No … ‘ he said, sharply, suddenly animated: ‘No, no, Sal. No, I can’t do it.’
‘Y’ don’t want to do it,’ she flashed back, here eyes staring. An expression of bitterness contorted her face.
‘I … ‘ he repli
ed, warmly, then he checked himself. Some panic-stricken part of him forbade him speech; forbade him hazard her irreplaceable companionship in tempestuous words. He dared not, could not risk losing her. Should he, after all, capitulate? What else remained Sally but her present attitude in the face of so keen a disappointment? He composed himself with an effort: ‘Listen Sal,’ he said: ‘It’s as hard on me as it is on you. … Don’t you think that I’m as disappointed as you are? I’ll soon find another job … ‘ pause; he compressed his lips to stop their nervous trembling; then, in an unguarded moment, and as he noticed that her expression of bitterness was unrelaxed: ‘Aw, I should never have encouraged you in the first place.’
Hotly: Then why did y’?’
Wearily: ‘Why, oh, why? I did encourage you, didn’t I? I still love you.’
She curled her lip: ‘Fine way this is o’ showing it’
He looked at her appealingly: ‘Can’t you understand, Sal?’ He felt bothered, harassed by this need of continual explanation; felt his patience and composure crumbling. Was this himself saying: ‘I’m tired of it all. Sick and tired of everything. How the devil d’y’ think I’m going to manage on fifteen bob a week …?’ He stopped short. Inconsequently a vivid appreciation of the present situation spouted in his mind. ‘This present was love’s young dream. This, which should be the peak of lovers’ happiness, harshly shattered by lack of money. What recourse was there? ‘Please, sir, are there any vacancies?’ ‘Please, sir, please let me live.’ ‘Please, sir, in God’s name let me work.’ He saw himself, these past few nights, chalking pavements and walls with the legend: Thursday next, 10.30 a.m. Unemployed Rally. Mass Protest Demonstration and March to Two Cities’ Town Hall.’
What was he thinking about now? Was he going off his head altogether? He gathered his wits and said, staring at her: ‘It’s no use arguing, Sally. It’d be daft to do it. Yaa! Fifteen bob a week! D’y’ think I’m going to sponge on you. What the devil d’y’ take me for?’
‘Don’t you talk like that … ‘ she cried, shrilly: ‘Don’t you talk like that!’ her voice rose; hysteria contorted her face: ‘Ah’m sick o’ hearin’ y’. … Y’re drivin’ me barmy. Why don’t them Labour Councillors as’re allus makin’ a mug out o’ y’ find a job for y’? They’re all right, they are; don’t care a damn for us. They’ve all landed good jobs for ‘emselves. And - Oh, I - I - Ah hate y’.’ She turned and ran sobbing to the front door, burying her face in an old coat of his hanging there.
He stood staring at the floor; felt himself diminishing in stature; felt a helpless fool, utterly negligible.
After a minute or so the riot in her brain subsided; she began to hate herself. What must he think of her? Obstinately she told herself that she didn’t care what he thought Reproach stung her. It was as though she had taken advantage of him. She half turned, sniffed, paused, took a hesitant step and paused again. Head bent she retraced her steps to the room at the back.
What a fool she made of herself in her tantrums; making things uncomfortable for him whom she was supposed to love; making things unbearable at a time when he needed her kindnesses most of all. Look at Helen Hawkins’s example. She, Sal Hardcastle, wasn’t the only woman in the world who’d been disappointed.
In a sudden access of remorse and affection she rushed to him and flung her arms about him: ‘Ah’m sorry, Larry. Ah’m sorry,’ she buried her face in his bosom.
He put his arms about her, closed his eyes and rested his cheek on her soft hair. Oh, the utter, complete, ineffable solace! He felt a tightening in the throat, did not speak, hugged her tightly, jealously.
CHAPTER 10
HISTORICAL NARRATIVE
HARRY HARDCASTLE was staggered: ‘Y’ what …? What did y’ say?’ he asked, staring, incredulously, at the unemployment exchange clerk on the other side of the counter.
‘A’ y’ deaf?’ retorted the clerk, pettishly: he added, snappily: There nowt for y’. They’ve knocked y’ off dole. Sign on of a Tuesday for future if y’ want y’ health insurance stamp. Who’s next?’
The man behind Harry shouldered him away. Dream-like, he turned and paused, holding the dog-eared, yellow unemployment card in his hand. This was catastrophic: the clerk was joking, surely; a mistake must have been made. He hadn’t asked the clerk the reason why they had stopped paying him his unemployment benefit: ‘Gor blimey,’ he muttered: ‘Hell, what am Ah gonna do?’ He remembered Helen, instantly. The people here didn’t realize, didn’t know that he’d got to marry her. Nobody but themselves and Sally were aware that she was an expectant mother. He licked his lips, and, dazed, turned to the counter once again in time to hear his unspoken question answered indirectly. The man who had succeeded him was angrily demanding an explanation of the clerk; those in the queue behind and those on either side listened attentively. That which passed concerned them all.
Hearing the man’s indignant expostulations, a policeman, on duty at the door, came nearer, silently. The man, grey-haired, middle-aged, a stocky fellow in corduroys, clay-muddied blucher boots and with ‘yorks’ strapped about his knees, exclaimed: ‘What d’y’ mean? Nowt for me. Ah’m out o’ collar ain’t Ah?’
The clerk put aside his pen and sighed, wearily: ‘Doan argue wi’ me,’ he appealed: ‘Tain’t my fault If y’ want t’ know why, go’n see manager. Blimey, you blokes’re bloody well drivin’ me barmy this mornin’.’
‘Manager, eh?’ the man snapped: ‘You bet Ah’ll see the manager. Wheer is ‘e?’ The clerk jerked his thumb towards the far end of the counter. ‘Ask at “Enquiries”,’ he said: ‘Who’s next?’
Harry followed the man.
The manager ordered a clerk to look up the man’s particulars; the clerk handed over some documents after a search in a filing cabinet. His superior, after perusing some notes written upon the forms, looked at the applicant and said: ‘You’ve a couple of sons living with you who are working, haven’t you?’
‘Aye,’ the man answered: ‘One’s earnin’ twenty-five bob an’ t’other a couple o’ quid, when they work a full week. An’ th’eldest … ‘
‘In view of this fact,’ the manager interrupted: The Public Assistance Committee have ruled your household’s aggregate income sufficient for your needs; therefore, your claim for transitional benefit is disallowed.’ He turned from the man to glance interrogatively at Harry.
The man flushed: The swine,’ he shouted: ‘Th’ eldest lad’s gettin’ wed … ‘as ‘e t’ keep me an’ th’ old woman?’ raising his fist: ‘Ah’ll. … ‘ But the attendant policeman collared him and propelled him outside, roughly, ignoring his loud protestations.
Harry learnt that, in the opinion of the Public Assistance Committee his father’s dole and Sally’s wages were sufficient to keep him. No more dole would be forthcoming. And when he asked whether he could re-state his case the manager informed him that there was no appeal. He didn’t argue; went outside, dazed.
A quite different atmosphere from the usual enlivened the adjacent streets. Police were conspicuous. Knots of men barred pavements and roadways listening and interjecting as various spokesmen voiced heated criticisms of this, the latest economy move on the part of the National Government. Occasionally, the spokesmen’s words would be lost in rowdy, jumbled torrents of cursings and abusive oaths. From the labour exchange there came a continuous trickle of men wearing appropriate expressions as became their individual dispositions. Men of Harry’s kind dazed, mystified, staring at the ground; more spirited individuals, flushed with anger, lips trembling, eyes burning with resentment. They joined the groups, finding a sorry sort of relief in the knowledge that all here assembled were similarly affected. Most of those more fortunate ones whose benefits had remained untouched cleared off home jealously hugging their good fortune and telling themselves that what was passing was no concern of theirs.
Harry’s thoughts, in general, represented those of his companions. This sudden cessation of their pittances was as an unexpected douche of cold water. Unexpected. Of
course, all had known that something was in the air: all had received the official forms which had inquired, thoroughly, into their means. But nobody had believed that they themselves would fall victim. To them all it had concerned others than themselves; each had found adequate excuse and reason why his benefit should be continued, though each had selected somebody else who, in his opinion, would suffer no hardship in having his unemployment pay stopped. ‘Ha! Means Test, eh? They can’t knock me off. Blimey, it’s tekkin’ us all our time t’ manage as it is…. Now him as lives next door; Ah could understand ‘urn knockin’ him off. He’s got more coming in than me. Yaach, they won’t touch the likes of us. They daren’t. There’d be a bloody revolution.’
Like an unexpected douche of cold water. And dismay was made all the more complete by the knowledge of their own impotence. What could they do about it? What?
Crowds of ill-dressed men, growing crowds on whom the heavens had just fallen.
Suddenly, the several crowds integrated into one large assembly as a youngish man, wearing an open-neck shirt was lifted shoulder high: ‘Comrades,’ he shouted, spiritedly, and proceeded to an inflammatory speech which communicated restless animation to his audience. In conclusion he invited them to follow him to the place where hundreds of unemployed already were assembled preparatory to marching to the city hall in protest against the Means Test. They followed in a body, some arguing volubly, some wearing grim expressions, some grinning or laughing and treating the affair as a joke; over all, the confused tramping of many feet.
A stone’s-throw distant was the assigned meeting place. A patch of waste land upon which the biting north-east wind descended ruthlessly. To the right rose huge gasometers, to the left slumdom squatted. The place was black with men and youths continually augmented by batches of new arrivals. Shabby fellows, scrawny youths mostly wearing caps, scarves and overalls, coughing, spitting, those on the fringe of the crowd stamping their feet and beating their arms against their sides. Blowsy women, limp hair blowing about their faces, stood in large groups at the street corners opposite, their arms and hands enwrapped in their aprons as shelter from the perishing wind. Bitter expressions contorted their lips as they loudly criticized the Means Test and the presence of the strong force of uniformed and plain-clothes police, the latter mingling with the great crowd of men across the way, some surreptitiously making shorthand notes of speeches, the former lining the pavements, one every yard or so, most of them wearing expressions similar to Ned Narkey’s, who, too, was on duty, regarding the proceedings with amused tolerance.
Love on the Dole Page 21