Love on the Dole

by Walter Greenwood

  Approaching the street corner he peered at a girl standing by a stationary motor-car. Was it. … It was Sally. She was standing staring at the pavement, an expression, eloquent of indecision, on her face. Sam Grundy’s head and a shoulder were out of the car window: he was leaning towards Sally, speaking to her in low persuasive tones. Harry increased his pace, and, coming closer, heard Sam saying: ‘Blimey, Sal, wot are y’ feared of?’ mildly indignant: ‘Ah’m not askin’ y’ t’ tek a dose o’ poison! Blimey!’ For Harry there was nothing significant in the utterance; he hardly listened, was bursting with his news: ‘Oh, Sal …!’ he exclaimed, breathlessly. Sam frowned and glared as he relaxed into the car, a sulky expression superseding the one of undivided concentration.

  ‘Oh, Sal! Helen’s bin tuk bad. Ma Bull’s wi’ her now … ‘

  Sally was confused, momentarily. A tinge of colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘She’s…?’

  ‘Aye,’ Harry nodded, eagerly.

  She pursed her lips, decisively: ‘Come on,’ she said, forgetting Sam.

  ‘Hey, Sal,’ cried Sam, from the car: ‘Hey. Gerrin car. Ah’ll run y’ ‘ome in a jiffy, you an’t’ lad.’

  Already he was out of the car and holding open the door: ‘Gome on, Sal,’ he urged. She shrugged and stepped inside, Harry following, babbling the inconsequent news of his successful application for Poor Relief, and he had scarcely finished when the car pulled up outside Mrs Dorbell’s home. Those few neighbours remaining, pursed their lips, exchanged significant glances, winked and nodded knowingly as Sally stepped out, followed by Harry. They smiled, forcedly, as Sam explained his presence and the car as a result of a fortuitous meeting: ‘How’s the lassie?’ he concluded: ‘Is it o’er?’

  ‘It’s a gel,’ replied one of the women, and she was prevented from further speech by her uncollared, unwashed, dishevelled-headed husband standing in the doorway of their home and demanding, loudly and angrily: ‘Hey, you, wha’r’about me tea? Come inside wi’ y’ … standin’ gassin’ there … ‘ glaring at her as she passed him on the threshold: ‘Ah suppose it’ll be chips’n’ fish agen, eh? Y’ll have had no time t’ do any cookin’, eh? Ah’. … ‘ He slammed the door; a moment later, a child, carrying a basin, appeared and made a bee line for the fried fish shop.

  In the Dorbell kitchen, Harry, in the company of Mrs Dorbell, Mrs Nattle, Mrs Bull and his mother, was grinning and blushing, endeavouring to assume an air of composure. His embarrassment was acute; as keen as his desire to be upstairs with Helen that he might smile upon her and glimpse his daughter for the first time. His daughter! He felt choked; his brain refused to lend credence to the unique event; its significance eluded him. The women were speaking to him but he did not hear what they said; smiled and nodded mechanically and fingered, nervously, the greasy gas flex hanging from the gas fitting and fixed to the gas ring on one corner of the food and crockery-littered table. Oh, why couldn’t the women clear off so that he might go to Helen…

  In the room above Sally sat on the edge of the bed nursing the baby to her bosom. Helen, smiling, watched her through half-closed eyes, complacent, proud, flattered by the implied jealousy of Sally’s present meditative attitude.

  As she nursed the baby, vain, agonizing thoughts paced slowly through her dulled brain filling her with a deep brooding. But for a malignant fate this present consummation of Helen’s might have been hers, too. Might have been! The phrase, steeped in the venom of bitter impotence, stabbed her. Might have been! Yaa! Her being rose in high revolt; she felt sickened, disgusted, at a harsh discord with life.

  Life? Now that Larry was gone what had it to offer to her? He had been her prospect; whilst he had lived everything was, and anything would have been, bearable. For he was there, here, at the end of the day.

  What remained now? Bleakness; daily slaving at the mill: ‘clack-clack-clack-clack’, the hideous noise of the shuttle’s traverse ‘seared her brain with its intolerable dinning. Nineteen shillings a week if work was to be had and if they didn’t foist inferior warp and weft on to you. Day in and day out, an eternal grind; coming home at night to sit there, brooding with reproachful thoughts of what might have been as companions. Brother a pauper: They’re gonna gie me money at workhouse, Sal.’ Parents dependent on her; scratching and scraping until the distraught brain shrank and retarded and the mouth sagged and the eyes lost their lustre. And nevermore to see Larry. God, if only he was alive, hall alive; anything if only he breathed, could look at and smile at her.

  Was that his warm breath she felt upon her lips? Her breathing quickened. Fancy spread its wings, and, for a brief moment that was an age she soared in the upper regions of exquisite joy, living with him anew in a synthesis of all their happiness.

  It was gone; her spirits tumbled to earth, stunned and gathered themselves together with slow bewilderment, ever increasing despair. Reality was encompassing, crushing her in, suffocatingly; she felt exhausted; no spirit even to protest.

  In the swirling chaos of her brain a solitary thought insinuated itself, growing to dominating proportions; Sam Grundy.

  Sam Grundy. How long had he importuned her? She had him grovelling at her feet through no effort on her part. He had everything to offer; she had nothing to offer. He had money. Money, change of life. Money, the fast conveyance in the search of forgetfulness; money that would give the quietus to gnawing memory, that would heal this open wound. What was there to hamper her? Compunction pinched her as she imagined what Larry might say to this characterless capitulation to impulse.

  Larry? Ha! Dead, and so was Sally Hardcastle. Aaach! Who cared what happened now. It was idle to live in the past. Let things take their course. The worst was over; life could hurt her never more.

  She did not hear Harry enter the room with trepidation; did not see the shy fond smile on his lips nor the soft light in his eyes as he peered at Helen over the rusty bed head. She did not see or hear anything, sat there motionless, prey to an irresistible surge of reckless abandonment that blinded all save itself.

  Sam Grundy was waiting below.

  Suddenly, with burning eyes and flushed cheeks, she replaced the baby by Helen’s side and astonished both Helen and Harry by departing, impulsively, without a word.

  Harry, amazed, came to the bedside and stared at Helen who returned his wide-eyed questioning: ‘Well …’ said Harry. The baby stirred. Helen put her arm about it. Harry smiled, dropped on to his knees and instantly forgot Sally in the all-absorbing contemplation of his daughter.

  CHAPTER 18

  NO VACANCIES

  ‘YAAA,’ said Mrs Bull, impatiently: ‘Fuss y’ mek of it. Ah reckon she might ha’ gone farther an’ fared worse.’ She was sitting in the Hardcastle kitchen, she, Mrs Hardcastle and Mrs Cranford.

  ‘It’s him,’ Mrs Hardcastle whimpered: ‘He’ll murder her if ever he finds out. Ah know her father. … An’ it’s such a disgrace. Everybody’ll be talkin’. … Ah’m feared.’ She began to tap with her toes; her hand resting on the table drummed its top with nervous agitation.

  Mrs Bull shrugged and grunted: Talk’s cheap enough,’ she said, then listened as the latch of the front door clicked: ‘She’s here now,’ said Mrs Bull.

  Sally entered the room with an air of studied unconcern; she greeted the company airily. Her mother eyed her anxiously. Rising, Mrs Bull said: ‘Eh, well, Ah guess Ah’d best be goin’.’ Mrs Cranford also rose, heavily, to her feet: ‘Ah’ll see y’ agen, Mrs Hardcastle,’ she said: ‘It’s a shillin’ a dozen the Jew pays for window leather makin’. Y’ve t’ find y’r own thread. But there won’t be no more work for a week or two, he ses. Ah’m havin’ t’ tek in washin’ meself. But when he comes agen Ah’ll send him across.’

  ‘Eh, thank y’. Mrs Cranford,’ muttered Mrs Hardcastle, gratefully.

  ‘Y’ve no need t’ go,’ said Sally, gazing at the two women, steadfastly- ‘Ah suppose th’ whole street knows all my business by this time,’ with animation, defiance: ‘Well, Ah ain’t ashamed.’

&
nbsp; ‘Y’d be a damn fool if y’ was,’ murmured Mrs Bull. She sat down again; Mrs Cranford followed suit Here was something of interest to be had without payment. Mrs Bull continued, on a sigh: ‘Ay, lass, when y’ get as owld as me y’ll have learned that there ain’t nowt worth worritin’ y’ head about save where next meal’s comin’ from. Be God, y’ will.’

  Sally dropped into the rocker chair, carelessly, linked a leg over the chair arm, leaned against the table edge and stared, thoughtfully, arms folded, into the tiny fire: ‘Aye,’ she murmured: ‘It seems t’ me that things allus turn out different to what y’ expect. … Ah thought Ah’d bin married by now. Huh!’

  Mrs Cranford lifted her lip: ‘Married,’ she said, bitterly: ‘You ain’t missed nowt wi’ missin’ that. Oh, God, if Ah’d me time t’ go o’er agen Ah’d ne’er get wed. Naow, not t’ t’ best feller breathin’ wot hadn’t enough t’ keep me on proper. An’ Ah know o’ no married woman i’ Hanky Park wot wouldn’t do same. Marriage, eh? Yaaa. Y’ get wed for love an’ find y’ve let y’sel’ in for a seven day a week job where y’ get no pay. An’ y’ don’t find it out till it’s too late. Luk at me, Sal. Luk at me. Worritin’ me guts out tryin’ t’ mek ends meet, an’ a tribe o’ kids t’ bring up on what he and me can earn.’

  ‘Ha! Then they say we ain’t eddicated,’ said Mrs Bull. With a grin: ‘Ne’er heed, Mrs Cranford, wait till the tribe’s all growd up an’ bringin’ y’ wages home.’

  ‘Aye, an’ then they’ll all get married, like Ah did, damn fool that Ah was. … Stichin’ till Ah’m blind. Then when there ain’t no work i’ that line Ah’m washin’ from Monday till Thursday an’ kids t’ be tuk t’ t’ clinic. Aw, Gord! Ah wish Ah wus dead an’ out o’ t’ way…’

  ‘Naterally dismal, Mrs Cranford,’ said Mrs Bull: ‘That’s allus up wi’ you. Y’ jest naterally dismal. Y’ve a lot t’ learn, lass, a lot t’ learn. Ne’er in all my life have Ah seen anybody as tuk things so serious. Allus y’ want’s a nip o’ Scotch now an’ agen. Mek y’ forget y’ troubles.’

  ‘Aye, ‘n wot’d happen t’ t’ kids if Ah started that …?’

  ‘They’d tek no harm,’ said Mrs Bull: ‘Wot’ll happen to ‘em anyway? Same as happened t’ you, don’t worry.’

  ‘Well, that ain’t for me,’ said Sally. She sighed: ‘Ah can’t have what Ah wanted so Ah’ve tuk next best thing. Sick an’ tired Ah am o’ slugging an’ seem’ nowt for it. Ne’er had holiday i’ me life, Ah ain’t. But Ah knows what money means, now. An’ he’s got it an’ by God Ah’ll mek him pay. Ah’m gonna tek things easy while Ah’ve got chance.’

  ‘More fool you if y’ didn’t, lass,’ murmured Mrs Bull: Though Ah’d get Sam Grundy t’ mek a sekklement on y’. There’s nowt like havin’ the brass in y’r own name. Y’ may as well be wed if y’ ain’t done that. An’ now’s y’ chance afore he cools.’

  Sally shrugged and opened her handbag: ‘Ah’ve seen to that. He’s stinkin’ wi’ brass. He’s as daft as the rest of his kind. Ach! What fools they do look slobberin’ around y’;’ a hard light appeared in her eyes: ‘But there was nothin’ doin’ until Ah got my way. He can chuck me over as soon as he’s a mind now.’ She reached three one-pound notes out of her handbag and offered them to her mother. Mrs Cranford licked her lips and stared at the money fixedly; Mrs Bull rubbed her nose. ‘Here, Ma,’ said Sally: They won’t be the last, either.’

  Mrs Hardcastle shrank a little as Sally held out the money: ‘N’ - n’ - no, lass. Ah daren’t. What’d y’ father say?’ wringing her hands: ‘Oooo, Ah don’t know what’s come o’er ye. Y’ ain’t same girl.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ snapped Sally, impatiently; ‘Ah’ll have enough from him when he comes in, Ah suppose….’ The latch clicked again. Sal snatched at her mother’s purse lying on the table top and stuffed the money inside.

  An expectant silence fell on the room. Sal’s air of unconcern was superseded by one of stubborn determination. Mrs Bull coughed, Mrs Cranford looked at the floor, Mrs Hardcastle, scared stiff, held her breath as she heard her husband pause to hang his hat and coat behind the front door, then his heavy footfalls thumped across the floor of the outer room.

  He paused on the threshold; had eyes for none but Sally. Lips set, fists clenched, he demanded, tersely, instantly: ‘What’s these tales Ah’m hearin’ about thee an’ Sam Grundy?’

  She was on her feet in a flash, facing him with bold defiance: ‘Well,’ she retorted: ‘What about it?’ Her bosom heaved, agitatedly; her staring eyes assumed an added lustre.

  ‘Why, y’ brazen slut!’ he exclaimed, incredulously: ‘Have you got cheek t’ stand theer an’ tell me it’s true?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she replied, hotly: ‘An’ Ah’ll tell y’ summat else. It’s sick Ah am o’ codgin’ owld clothes t’ mek ‘em luk summat like. An’ sick Ah am o’ workin’ week after week an’ seein’ nowt for it. Ah’m sick o’ never havin’ nowt but what’s bin in pawnshop. … Oh, Ah’m sick o’ the sight o’ Hanky Park an’ everybody in it…’

  Hardcastle narrowed his eyes: ‘So y’d go whorin’ an’ mek respectable folk like me an’ y’ ma the talk o’ the neighbourhood, eh? Damn y’! Y’ain’t fit t’ be me dowter.’

  ‘Yaaa, who cares what folk say? There’s none Ah know as wouldn’t swap places wi’ me if they’d chance. Y’d have me wed, wouldn’t y’? Then tell me where’s feller around here as can afford it? Them as is workin’ ain’t able t’ keep themselves, ne’er heed a wife. Luk at y’self …. An luk at our Harry. On workhouse relief an’ ain’t even got a bed as he can call his own. Ah suppose Ah’d be fit t’ call y’ daughter if Ah was like that, an’ a tribe o’ kids like Mrs Cranford’s at me skirts. … Well, can y’ get our Harry a job? I can an’ Ah’m not respectable …’

  Hardcastle pointed to the front door: ‘Get out …!’ he snarled.

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ his wife whimpered: ‘Oh, Harry,’ she gripped handfuls of the folds of her apron.

  ‘Right,’ replied Sally, defiantly: ‘Ah can do that, too. Ah can get a place o’ me own any time. Y’ kicked our Harry out because he got married an’ y’ kickin’ me out ‘cause Ah ain’t. … ‘ Unwisely, in her agitation and in efforts to justify herself, she persisted in the same provocative strain: ‘You’d have me like all rest o’ the women, workin’ ‘emselves t’ death an’ gettin’ nowt for it. Luk at me ma. … Luk at Mrs Cranford. … Well, there ain’t no man breathin’, now that Larry’s gone, as’d get me like … ‘ she stabbed the air in the direction of her terrified mother: ‘…. Get me like that for him!’ Her voice rose high and shrill.

  ‘Aaaach! Y’ brazen bitch,’ snarled Hardcastle, thickly. He rushed at her: ‘Tek that …’ he lashed out; his fist caught her on the mouth.

  She stumbled sideways, saved herself from falling by clutching the head of the couch. Her mother screamed and rushed to her side. The other two women rose to their feet in protest. ‘Hey, don’t be a damn fool, Harry,’ said Mrs Bull: ‘Luk what y’ve done t’ t’ lass.’

  Hardcastle, white, fists clenched, breathing heavily, ignored them: ‘Now,’ he said to Sally, harshly: ‘Now gerrout o’ here: an’ Ah don’t want t’ see y’ agen,’ to his wife: ‘Come away from her….D’y’ hear? Come away.’

  Sally rose to her feet, hair tumbled about her face, mouth bleeding. Mrs Bull took her arm: ‘Come on, lass,’ she said, quietly: ‘Come an’ stay wi’ me while y’ want’; to Hardcastle: ‘Y’ bad tempered devil, y’.’

  For a moment Sally gazed at her father, then she burst into sobbing. Mrs Bull led her away, Mrs Cranford following.

  Mrs Hardcastle flopped on the couch and buried her face in her hands, weeping bitterly.

  Her husband stood there, motionless, his anger subsiding like a retreating wave the instant Mrs Bull slammed the front door. Beached on the bleak shore of remorse and self pity he felt he would have given anything to have been able to undo what had been done. Echoes lingered in his mind of Sally’s barbed, burning accusations ‘… ne’er havin�
� nowt but what’s bin in pawnshop. … Luk at y’self. … Luk at our Harry … workhouse relief … ain’t even a bed t’ call his own. … Ah’d be fit t’ call y’ daughter if Ah was like that, an’ a tribe o’ kids like Mrs Cranford’s at me skirts .. Y’d have me like all rest o’ the women…. Luk at me ma. … No man breathin’ 11 get me like that. … Kicked our Harry out because he got married an’ y’re kickin’ me out ‘cause Ah ain’t….’ Her biting phrases lacerated him; such exquisite pain to which the dull senses could not respond, filled the brain with a cowed submission. He sought the support of the rocker chair; seated himself, heavily. Stark truth wouldn’t let him alone; it embraced and crushed.

  What had he done for his children? Out of his despair rose a counter question which he clutched as a drowning man might a straw: What had he been able to do other than what had been done? The responsibility wasn’t his. He’d worked all his life; he had given all he had to give…

  He felt his confidence slipping again. Sally, too, had given her all; so had Harry. They had been living on each other. These last few months since he had been knocked off the dole he had been living on Sally’s earnings. Living on a woman, his daughter, whom he had just dismissed for living on a man! She was gone now; had taken her income with her. What was he to do to meet the home’s obligations? The workhouse for pauper relief? He shrank from the prospect. Then there only remained Sally. And, to him, the source of her present income was corrupt. Oh, why the devil couldn’t they give him work? The canker of impotence gnawed his vitals. He felt weak; as powerless as a blind kitten in a bucket of water.

  His wife, frightened by his silence, looked at him through her tears to see him sitting there, head bent, sparse grey hair catching the fire’s glimmer, an arm resting on the table, the other on his knee, his hand dangling limply.

  2

  Mrs Hardcastle, one hand at her throat, the other gripping a fold of the ragged lace curtain, gazed fearfully through the window at her husband standing indecisively outside the closed door of Mrs Bull’s home on the other side of North Street.