Love on the Dole (32 page)

‘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.

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 answer; 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.’

‘Why …?’ said Harry, with interest: ‘What’s up wi’ …’

‘Here’s Bill now,’ Jack interrupted: ‘Ask him.’ He relapsed into silence, stowed the postcards and contraceptives into his pocket again and stared moodily at the toes of his broken boots.

Harry turned his head to smile a welcome to Bill Simmons who approached at a brisk walk. This was the first intimation he had had that Bill had been released, and he could not but feel rather astonished to notice Bill’s air of self-confidence and his prosperous appearance. He was puzzled. One would have thought that Bill would be filled with shame, embarrassment and remorse. Quite the contrary.

‘Aye, aye, Harry. What ho, Jack,’ he cried, breezily, stopping in front of them, grinning and rubbing his hands together: ‘How’s things?’

‘They luk all right wi’ you, anyway, Bill,’ replied Harry, eyeing Bill attentively.

‘Wi’ me? Ha! You bet Ah’m workin’, y’ know.’ His grin broadened; he felt in his pocket and withdrew a shilling packet of cigarettes: ‘Have a tab?’ Harry’s eyes opened wider. Such affluence! He accepted a cigarette without a word, Jack likewise. Harry looked at Bill questioningly, almost suspiciously. Bill laughed: ‘Oh, it’s all right, Harry,’ he said: ‘Ah didn’t pinch these. Bought ‘em, Ah did, out o’ me own money.’

‘Where y’ workin’?’ Harry asked, enviously.

Bill winked: ‘Th’ East City Buses,’ he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, and with a self-satisfied smirk: ‘Fifty bob a week without overtime an’ all clothes found. Y’ can’t whack (improve on) it, lad. Y’ can’t - whack - it.’

‘Ay, Ah shouldn’t think so,’ replied Harry, in a monotone, adding, with a puzzled expression: ‘But how did y’ get it?’

‘Ah,’ Bill grinned, with mock secrecy, then, facetiously: ‘Allus y’ve got to do is t’ get y’self pinched and sent to quod, do y’ time, an’ when y’ come out Probation Officer or Court Missionary does rest. It’s th’ on’y way t’ get a job nowadays,’ a pause: Bill added, with raised brows: ‘Ain’t either of y’ bin down t’ t’ bus offices t’ try t’ get tuk on?’

Jack made a wry face: ‘Bin down. Yach! Ah’m sick o’ goin’ down an’ fillin’ forms in. What’s the use when they’ve a bloody big board stuck up: “No Vacancies”?’ vehemently: ‘Christ, it meks y’ sick, it does. Y’ve a cat in hell’s chance o’ gettin’ tuk on if y’ ain’t got nobody t’ speak for y’. If y’ ain’t got a councillor or somebody else wi’ ‘fluence behind y’, y’ may as well
..
. Aw,’ disgustedly: ‘Ah’m sick o’ the whole blindin’ show…’ precipitately, he turned and slunk away, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, a bulge in his coat pocket where were the obscene postcards and the packets of cheap contraceptives.

Bill put out his lips and raised his brows. Then he shrugged and touched his hat to Harry in a mock salute: ‘Well, Harry, Ah’m off for a game o’ pills (billiards). Ah’ll be seein’ y’. S’ long.’

‘S’ long,’ murmured Harry, stabbed to the heart with envy.

He stood there, leaning against the window lost in meditation and cursing his prudence and fear that had prevented him from being one of Bill’s accomplices when he was apprehended.

Then the newer and younger end of the neighbourhood’s unemployed drifted to where he was standing. Blimey, was he to them as Billy Higgs had been to him? He glanced at them, dully, and betook himself out of their way.