Gradually, her perturbation subsided: she mumbled: ‘If only y’ could get a job, Harry. Ah wouldn’t care nowt for nobody.’
‘Oh, it’ll come, you see if it won’t,’ warmly: ‘Y’ ne’er know what’s in store for us. … Why, just imagine it, Helen, Ah’ve on’y t’ get a job an’ …’ awed: ‘Blimey! A job!’ The immense consequences that hinged on the possibility amazed him, made him forget everything but itself; for a moment he was staggered by its full significance. She, too, was similarly affected.
They walked along. a shabby, insignificant couple, contributing the negligible quantities of their presence to the hurly-burly of the main thoroughfare; two young people, too preoccupied, too full of their own immediate woes and hopes of relief to suspect like emotions in the hearts of the other passers-by.
They paused outside the workhouse and stared at each other with expressions of shamefaced self-consciousness. Helen withdrew a ten shilling note from her pocket, limp with the perspiration of the hand that had been clutching it. She offered it to Harry: ‘Here it is, Harry,’ she said: ‘Ah borrowed it from a girl at mill. She says we can pay her back when y’ get work.’
He took it, slipped it into his waistcoat pocket, then, coughing nervously, licking his lips and running a finger round his loose neckcloth, blinked at her and said: ‘Come on, ‘Elen. Let’s get it over with.’ He led the way, she following as he, blushing
Love on the Dole hotly, walked up the steps of the entrance to a door marked:
REGISTRAR’S OFFICE EAST DISTRICT
2
Mrs Dorbell, her threadbare shawl wrapped about her head and skeletonic shoulders, shuffled into North Street muttering aloud to herself. Her concealed hands held, in the one, her purse and doorkey; the other, under her chin, clutched a handful of the shawl’s folds pulling the covering as tight as a bandage about her face. Now and again the nostrils of her hook nose gave an upward jump as she sniffed, lusciously. Coming to a standstill outside the open door of Mrs Nattle’s home, she muttered, concluding her remarks with: They wanted enough for their money, an’ me wot’s a pore widder ‘ooman wi’ nobody at back of her. But Ah’m all there, Ah am. Nobody’s gunna get best o’ me.’ She stared at the door-knob for a moment and added: ‘Ah don’t see why Ah shouldn’t.’ She bowed, as it were, slightly, to the open door, and, keeping her heavy-lidded gaze fixed upon the chipped black door-knob, asked …
Mrs Nattle within, pricked her ears as she heard the shuffling footsteps cease outside the door. She quickly drained the glass which lay on the breakfast-littered table, then concealed both glass and bottle beneath her trailing skirts. Afterwards she composed her hands across her stomach, assumed an innocent expression, and waited, a seemingly unconscionable time for the familiar voice which asked: ‘A’ y’ in, missis?’
In response to the invitation, Mrs Dorbell entered: ‘Ah’ve just bin,’ she began: ‘Ah’ve just bin t’ draw me owld age. Ah’ll sit me down for a minnit if y’ don’t mind.’ She did, and it was with a long-drawn groan which employed every vowel in the language: ‘Aeiou! Ah’m none so well this mornin’.’
Mrs Nattle sympathized with a glance and with many shakes of the head: ‘P’raps,’ she suggested: ‘P’raps a likkle nip’d do y’ good.’
Mrs Dorbell produced her purse, laid the new ten shilling
note, her old age pension, upon the table, and said: Three penn’orth, Sair Ann.’
The bottle and glass appeared; the drink was carefully dispensed. Mrs Nattle passed the glass to her friend, picked up the ten shilling note, and, nursing the bottle as she would have a baby, took it with her so that Mrs Dorbell might not be led into temptation, saying, as she passed through the doorway to the room at the back: ‘Ah’ll have t’ get y’ change, Nancy.’
An intense silence fell on the house. Mrs Dorbell strained her hearing in the hope of learning the approximate hiding place where Mrs Nattle lodged ‘it’. Mrs Nattle, Mrs Dorbell knew, distrusted banks, and, in view of her multifarious business affairs, it was obvious that she must have a considerable sum in store somewhere in the house. The obsessing, oft-recurring vision in which Mrs Dorbell saw herself, one day, finding Mrs Nattle a lonely corpse in the house would have done justice to a rightful legatee. It intoxicated her to imagine coming across ‘it’ under such circumstances.
Mrs Nattle had her suspicions though. And this accounted for the fact of her precaution, every old age pension day, of having handy, on top of the chest of drawers in the room at the back, an amount of silver and copper in anticipation of the demand for change. Thus, she, entering the back room, could stuff the treasury note in a jug, noiselessly pick up nine shillings and ninepence change, then stand there awhile, bottle in arm, listening to Mrs Dorbell’s listening, and congratulating herself on the confusion and disappointment she knew her silence was causing Nancy.
Sounds of the ‘clop-clop’ of clogs, the blending of voices in the street induced a succession of coughs in Mrs Nattle. She shuffled her feet as though returning from some farther removed corner then returned to the front room: ‘Nine and ninepence change, Nancy,’ she said, handing the money over. In reference to the approaching footsteps: ‘Sounds like Mrs Bull and Mrs Jike.’ Nevertheless, although she guessed the identity of her prospective visitors, she hid the bottle beneath her skirts, composed her hands in the customary place, excusing her caution with: ‘Pays t’ be careful, Nance, when y’ ain’t got a spirit licence. Put y’ glass away, lass, y’ ne’er know who’s sneakin’ round. Dammum!’
‘Ah’m comin’ in,’ said the voice of Mrs Bull from the door. She entered, stared at Mrs Nattle and Mrs Dorbell grunting a greeting. Mrs Jike, smiling and wearing her husband’s cap, followed: ‘Hallo, Mrs Nakkle,’ she said, brightly, then turned to Mrs Dorbell: ‘Ah, you’re there, too, Mrs Dorbell. How’s y’ pore old cough, love?’ She fumbled in her placket and withdrew her snuff-box, first proffering it to her companions, then putting a pinch on the back of her hand and sniffing it, deeply. She seated herself next Mrs Dorbell on the sofa: ‘How’s y’ cough, love?’ she asked Mrs Dorbell once again.
‘As oosual,’ replied Mrs Dorbell with a melancholy glance: ‘It don’t do me no good, thank y’.’
Mrs Bull was about to say something when Mrs Dorbell interrupted her, saying, to the company in general: ‘Me spare room’s tuk, thank God,’ adding, after a slight pause: ‘Furnished,’ she sniffed and gazed at Queen Victoria’s picture on the wall.
Mrs Jike drew back open-mouthed, folded her arms, tightly, and, staring at Mrs Dorbell’s Punch-like profile, said, in tones of great surprise: ‘Y’ down’t siy! Well, did y’ ever, now!’
Mrs Bull chuckled: ‘Furnished,’ she scoffed: ‘Furnished! Wermin an’ all.’
Mrs Nattle, scenting the likelihood of a new ‘naybore’ who might find cause to wish to be ‘obligded’, regarded Mrs Dorbell with intense interest: ‘Oo is it?’ she asked: ‘Hanybody we know?’
‘It’s,’ answered Mrs Dorbell: ‘It’s ‘im as got that lass o’ Hawkinses into trouble. Hardcastle’s lad. His pa wouldn’t have him fetch a wife home him bein’ out o’ work. They bin married at registry office and she’s expectin’ soon … ‘ to Mrs Jike, as though in warning: That’s wot comes o’ sittin’ on Dawney’s Hill wi’ lads, an’ going’ away holidayin’ together. Ah’d like t’ see feller as’d get me sittin’ up there wi’ him.’ She pushed her shawl back and scratched her dirty hair.
‘Well,’ responded Mrs Jike, breathlessly: ‘Y’ down’t siy!’ To Mrs Bull who was chuckling and placing three pennies on the table: That’ll be a job for you, dearie, when the gel’s confined,’ sighing: ‘Ah, well, eccidents will heppen. An’ it’s one wiy o’ gettin’ y’ blowke.’
Mrs Bull, still chuckling, received the glass of Mrs Nattle. She sipped, then, ceasing chuckling, regarded Mrs Dorbell suspiciously: ‘Didn’t y’ say young Harry’d bin knocked off dole?’
Mrs Dorbell nodded and looked very sad: They’ve told me all their perticlers. She’s earnin�
�� eighteen bob at mill when she gets a full week in.’
‘Wot about when she’s confined?’ Mrs Jike asked: ‘She wown’t be able to work then. How’ll they piy y’ the rent?’
‘Ah suppose,’ said Mrs Nattle, curling her lip and putting her head back: ‘Ah suppose they’ll g’ t’ their Sally an’ ask her t’ ask Sam Grundy for a bit o’ help,’ opening her eyes very wide: ‘Ah heard o’ a party wot ‘appened t’ be passin’ Duke o’ Gloucester not very long ago. An’ they saw a likkle bit o’ business bein’ done a-tween her an’ him. Gev’ her a bungle o’ notes, he did. Wery nice, Ah must say. An’ in broad daylight, too!’ narrowing her eyes and nodding her head, knowingly ‘ “Ah’ll pay y’ back,” ses she t’ him when she saw this certain party passin’. Huh! As though we don’t know how she’ll pay him back. Nice carryin’s on amongst y’r own naybores. Ah must say. Wery nice, indeed. An’ him what she was supposed t’ marry not buried a month!’
‘Yaaa,’ snapped Mrs Bull: ‘Leave lass a-be (alone). If y’ want t’ know it was me wot put her up t’ ask Sam Grundy. An’ if y’ can’t mind y’r own business then y’d better know wot she wanted money for - It was t’ pay funeral expenses o’ Larry Meath. Now a’ y’ satisfied?’
‘All same,’ mumbled Mrs Nattle, who, obviously, was not satisfied: ‘All same, Sam Grundy’n her are gettin’ pretty thick. Ah see his moteycar everlastin’ hangin’ about street corner nowadays,’ warmly: ‘He’ll be gettin’ his way wi’ her … ‘
‘More power t’ t’ lass if he does,’ Mrs Bull responded: ‘For the more Ah see o’ men an’ wedlock wi’ the likes of us, the more Ah - Aw, what is it, anyway, scratchin’ an’ scrapin’ week arter week; killin’ y’ sel’ mekkin’ ends meet an’ havin’ kids wot y’ can’t afford t’ keep. … Yaa, an’ there ain’t no goin’ on strike for us women. Neglec’ y’ childer an’ y’re hauled afore t’ beak….
Gor blimey, they think we’re magicians, an’ Ah ain’t sure that we ain’t… Anyway, if a lass like Sal Hardcastle gets chance t’ see summat different an’ get a few quid in her pocket, then more power to her. … Even though it don’t last for ever she will ha’ seen summat different. That’s more’n Ah can say for meself.’ She glanced at Mrs Dorbell and caused that lady’s brows to elevate by saying: ‘An’ ne’er heed owld Ma Dorbell. She ain’t one t’ go nowt short. Trust her. By time she’s finished wi’ young Harry he’ll know all tricks o’ the trade.’
Nancy looked hurt and indignant: They’ve got t’ give ‘em their rent at workhouse,’ she protested, ‘no matter wot comes or guz,’ adding, warmly: ‘An’ Ah don’t see wot or why a pore, lone, widder ‘ooman should go bout her due for sake o’ a young feller’s pride,’ with emphasis: ‘You betcha! Ah’ll show him the ropes. Nancy Dorbell’s lived too long t’ go owt short. Huh!’
Mrs Jike, who, for the past few moments had been listening to what she thought was the approaching voices of newspaper boys, cried suddenly: ‘Hark! Ain’t that the one o’clock?’ She rose and hurried to the door as one of the boys tore down the street: ‘Hiy! Here, sonny,’ she shouted, and, as she gave the penny in exchange for the sheet, asked, eagerly: ‘What are they backin’? What d’ y’ know?’
‘Dusty Carpet in t’ two-thirty,’ said the boy, adding, with a snigger: ‘It’ll want some beatin’.’ And he was off in a jiffy, calling his newspapers as he ran fetching many people to their front doors with pennies in their hands.
Mrs Jike muttered something and returned to her companions where to consult the inspired prophecy of the tipster journalists.
CHAPTER 15
‘LEANOVER’
FOR a while Harry was perplexed by his new circumstances. Waking in a strange ramshackle bed in a strange bare room and finding Helen by his side chilled and frightened him. He would lie there, staring at the dirty ceiling or at the colour-washed walls mapped with patches of damp; stare at them feeling as a stranger in a strange town. Then, to escape the fears that plagued him, he would put an arm round Helen, move closer to her to find what comfort and solace he could in her companionable presence, trying to evade the disturbing remembrances which, one after another, jostled him with heart-raising jolts.
He was severed from the old way of life at home, now. Mother, father and sister were as strangers. He lived separated from them! He soon would be a father himself! The thought made him feel scared, guiltily scared. He marvelled at Helen’s seeming composure. She did not seem at all disturbed now that they were married. He, a father though! He, a silly, incompetent boy dressed in the ill-fitting clothes of manhood. ‘A father! Me, a father!’ Sometimes he couldn’t make sense out of it. Surely everybody must suspect his secret opinion of his own immaturity. He felt afraid to be seen abroad for fear of pointing fingers and muttering mouths.
Then he would be filled with a timid curiosity, a titillating expectation, a shy impatience to know and to see the baby. It was not altogether unpleasant. After all, why need he be ashamed? Ashamed? nay, he was proud. Yet it seemed absurd, really. In his eyes other fathers filled the part. Was he miscast or was he merely scared of himself? He could not decide; could only waver between apprehensive misgiving and secret anticipation. He was grateful that Helen appeared to be insensible to his state of mental unease. Though he dared not delve too deeply into the assumption of her being free from a like tyranny; he liked to think that she transcended it; that she had strength to balance his weakness.
Use, though, accustomed him to the changed conditions; memories of the old way of life receded, became the past After all, if ever he wished to see the old home it was only a few doors away. Strangely enough, when he did pluck up courage to call on his parents, he found that he had no desire to return. The place, in some mysterious way, was not as it used to be though everything was there. Why, his new circumstances were infinitely to be preferred in one sense. They were trying, betimes, certainly, but there were compensations. There was Helen’s home-coming of an evening, a growing source of pleasure. And the preparations for her return was pleasantly disturbing - though this was his own secret; he never told Helen how much he looked forward to seeing her after work. Making the place presentable; putting fresh newspaper on the table: making up the fire with coal that he had picked out of the huge dirt-heap of the Agecroft pit where his father had worked and which now was closed down for ever; setting the kettle in the blaze and cutting the bread and margarine. Altogether new experiences, though, sometimes, the pleasure would be vitiated by remembrances of Jack Lindsay’s voice, speaking during those times they sat in Swinbury Park discussing marriage: ‘Why don’t t’ get wed. They’re all doin’ it. Tarts go out t’ work, nowadays, while th’ owld man stops at home. …’ It made him feel mean, parasitical, irresponsible, an urgent, desperate yearning for work made him squirm. ‘Ah ne’er thought Ah’d be one o’ them fellers whose wives went out t’ work,’ he mumbled, to the table. Nevertheless, such moments were transitory and would fade with Helen’s home-coming. Helen’s home-coming! There was a whiff of the holiday spirit about it which gave a flavour to the meagre meal. For brief magic moments when Mrs Dorbell was out on her mysterious errands and they alone in the house, they spent happy moments in each other’s arms, furnishing the place after their fancies and finding in their visions momentary relief from harsh reality. The delight of the moments spurred him to renewed efforts in the search for work. But it was the old story. Footsore, weary and dispirited he would return, a prey to gnawing pessimism.
The world was changed. The boys of yesterday - Where were they? Bill Simmons, Jack Lindsay, Sam Hardie and Tom Hare. Two in jail. Sam Hardie - He hadn’t seen him this past week or so. Jack Lindsay, the erstwhile merry soul. There was little merriment in his make-up nowadays. Instead, Harry saw a dismal, depressing young fellow shuffling about with a slouching gait in broken boots and shabby suit, a lost expression of worried preoccupation on his face.
‘Aye, aye, Jack … ‘
‘Aye, aye, ‘Arry. Any signs yet (of work)?’
No a
nswer; at least, no answer was the answer. They stood in silence leaning against Mr Hulkington’s, the grocer’s shop window.
Slowly, there unfolded in Harry’s brain, a panorama of this very spot years agone; the meeting place of the boy and girlhood of the district. Halcyon days! Money in pocket and the Flecky Parlour of a Saturday night. And a job to go to on Monday. All gone. Two lads in jail; and Sam Hardie …
‘Hey, Jack,’ he said, suddenly: ‘What’s become o’ Sam these days?’
Jack looked up: ‘Ain’t y’ heard? He’s joined th’ army cause he had to.’
‘Had to?’ repeated Harry.
‘Aye, bloody well had to. His pa kicked him out o’ th’ ‘ouse when he was knocked off dole. Told him t’ clear out ‘n join th’ army cause he wasn’t gonna keep him. He wus livin’ i’ one o’ them doss houses i’ Garden Place. Poor devil couldn’t afford price of a bed. Tuk him all his time t’ find for a tupp’ny leanover.’
Harry gazed at Jack, puzzled: ‘Tupp’ny leanover. Wha’ d’y’ mean?’
Jack shrugged: ‘Y’ should go ‘n have a luk at it. It’s for t’ real down and outs as can’t afford price of a bed. They charge y’ tuppence t’ lean o’er a rope all night. Hell, y’ should see ‘em. About forty blokes sittin’ on forms in a line an’ leanin’ o’er a rope … elbow t’ elbow all swayin’ fast asleep, except the old bastards who’re dyin’ and can’t sleep for spittin’ an’ coughin’ their guts away. … Aye. ‘n Sam wouldn’t ha’ bin able t’ afford that if he hadna gone buskin’. … Jesus! That’s work for y’ if y’ like. … Trapesin’ streets singin’ in t’ perishin’ cold, an’ sometimes nobody’d give him a stiver. Anyway, he’s joined th’ army,’ pause, then, savagely: ‘Jesus, that’s where honesty gets y’. Yaa, luk at me, sellin’ these lousy bloody things,’ he produced a few packets of cheap contraceptives and a bundle of obscene postcards: ‘An’ luk at Bill Simmons an’ Tom Hare.’
Love on the Dole Page 25