The Week before Christmas
During the next week Owen painted a sign on the outer wall of one of
the workshops at the yard, and he also wrote the name of the firm on
three of the handcarts.
These and other odd jobs kept him employed a few hours every day, so
that he was not actually out of work.
One afternoon—there being nothing to do—he went home at three o’clock,
but almost as soon as he reached the house Bert White came with a
coffin-plate which had to be written at once. The lad said he had been
instructed to wait for it.
Nora gave the boy some tea and bread and butter to eat whilst Owen was
doing the coffin-plate, and presently Frankie—who had been playing out
in the street—made his appearance. The two boys were already known to
each other, for Bert had been there several times before—on errands
similar to the present one, or to take lessons on graining and
letter-painting from Owen.
“I’m going to have a party next Monday—after Christmas,” remarked
Frankie. “Mother told me I might ask you if you’ll come?”
“All right,” said Bert; “and I’ll bring my Pandoramer.”
“What is it? Is it alive?” asked Frankie with a puzzled look.
“Alive! No, of course not,” replied Bert with a superior air. “It’s a
show, like they have at the Hippodrome or the Circus.”
“How big is it?”
“Not very big: it’s made out of a sugar-box. I made it myself. It’s not
quite finished yet, but I shall get it done this week. There’s a band
as well, you know. I do that part with this.”
“This” was a large mouth organ which he produced from the inner pocket
of his coat.
“Play something now.”
Bert accordingly played, and Frankie sang at the top of his voice a
selection of popular songs, including “The Old Bull and Bush”, “Has
Anyone seen a German Band?”, “Waiting at the Church” and
finally—possibly as a dirge for the individual whose coffin-plate Owen
was writing—“Goodbye, Mignonette” and “I wouldn’t leave my little
wooden hut for you”.
“You don’t know what’s in that,” said Frankie, referring to a large
earthenware bread-pan which Nora had just asked Owen to help her to
lift from the floor on to one of the chairs. The vessel in question was
covered with a clean white cloth.
“Christmas pudding,” replied Bert, promptly.
“Guessed right first time!” cried Frankie. “We got the things out of
the Christmas Club on Saturday. We’ve been paying in ever since last
Christmas. We’re going to mix it now, and you can have a stir too if
you like, for luck.”
Whilst they were stirring the pudding, Frankie several times requested
the others to feel his muscle: he said he felt sure that he would soon
be strong enough to go out to work, and he explained to Bert that the
extraordinary strength he possessed was to be attributed to the fact
that he lived almost exclusively on porridge and milk.
For the rest of the week, Owen continued to work down at the yard with
Sawkins, Crass, and Slyme, painting some of the ladders, steps and
other plant belonging to the firm. These things had to have two coats
of paint and the name Rushton & Co. written on them. As soon as they
had got some of them second-coated, Owen went on with the writing,
leaving the painting for the others, so as to share the work as fairly
as possible. Several times during the week one or other of them was
taken away to do some other work; once Crass and Slyme had to go and
wash off and whiten a ceiling somewhere, and several times Sawkins was
sent out to assist the plumbers.
Every day some of the men who had been “stood off” called at the yard
to ask if any other “jobs” had “come in’. From these callers they heard
all the news. Old Jack Linden had not succeeded in getting anything to
do at the trade since he was discharged from Rushton’s, and it was
reported that he was trying to earn a little money by hawking bloaters
from house to house. As for Philpot, he said that he had been round to
nearly all the firms in the town and none of them had any work to speak
of.
Newman—the man whom the reader will remember was sacked for taking too
much pains with his work—had been arrested and sentenced to a month’s
imprisonment because he had not been able to pay his poor rates, and
the Board of Guardians were allowing his wife three shillings a week to
maintain herself and the three children. Philpot had been to see them,
and she told him that the landlord was threatening to turn them into
the street; he would have seized their furniture and sold it if it had
been worth the expense of the doing.
“I feel ashamed of meself,” Philpot added in confidence to Owen, “when
I think of all the money I chuck away on beer. If it wasn’t for that, I
shouldn’t be in such a hole meself now, and I might be able to lend ’em
a ’elpin’ ’and.”
“It ain’t so much that I likes the beer, you know,” he continued; “it’s
the company. When you ain’t got no ’ome, in a manner o’ speakin’, like
me, the pub’s about the only place where you can get a little
enjoyment. But you ain’t very welcome there unless you spends your
money.”
“Is the three shillings all they have to live on?”
“I think she goes out charin’ when she can get it,” replied Philpot,
“but I don’t see as she can do a great deal o’ that with three young
“uns to look after, and from what I hear of it she’s only just got over
a illness and ain’t fit to do much.”
“My God!” said Owen.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Philpot. “I’ve been thinking we might get up
a bit of a subscription for ’em. There’s several chaps in work what
knows Newman, and if they was each to give a trifle we could get enough
to pay for a Christmas dinner, anyway. I’ve brought a sheet of foolscap
with me, and I was goin’ to ask you to write out the heading for me.”
As there was no pen available at the workshop, Philpot waited till four
o’clock and then accompanied Owen home, where the heading of the list
was written. Owen put his name down for a shilling and Philpot his for
a similar amount.
Philpot stayed to tea and accepted an invitation to spend Christmas Day
with them, and to come to Frankie’s party on the Monday after.
The next morning Philpot brought the list to the yard and Crass and
Slyme put their names down for a shilling each, and Sawkins for
threepence, it being arranged that the money was to be paid on
payday—Christmas Eve. In the meantime, Philpot was to see as many as he
could of those who were in work, at other firms and get as many
subscriptions as possible.
At pay-time on Christmas Eve Philpot turned up with the list and Owen
and the others paid him the amounts they had put their names down for.
From other men he had succeeded in obtaining nine and sixpence, mostly
in sixpences and threepences. Some of this money he had already
received, but for the most part he had made appointments with the
subscribers to call at their homes that evening. It was decided that
Owen should accompany him and also go with him to hand over the money
to Mrs Newman.
It took them nearly three hours to get in all the money, for the places
they had to go to were in different localities, and in one or two cases
they had to wait because their man had not yet come home, and sometimes
it was not possible to get away without wasting a little time in talk.
In three instances those who had put their names down for threepence
increased the amount to sixpence and one who had promised sixpence gave
a shilling. There were two items of threepence each which they did not
get at all, the individuals who had put their names down having gone
upon the drunk. Another cause of delay was that they met or called on
several other men who had not yet been asked for a subscription, and
there were several others—including some members of the Painters
Society whom Owen had spoken to during the week—who had promised him to
give a subscription. In the end they succeeded in increasing the total
amount to nineteen and ninepence, and they then put three-halfpence
each to make it up to a pound.
The Newmans lived in a small house the rent of which was six shillings
per week and taxes. To reach the house one had to go down a dark and
narrow passage between two shops, the house being in a kind of well,
surrounded by the high walls of the back parts of larger
buildings—chiefly business premises and offices. The air did not
circulate very freely in this place, and the rays of the sun never
reached it. In the summer the atmosphere was close and foul with the
various odours which came from the back-yards of the adjoining
buildings, and in the winter it was dark and damp and gloomy, a
culture-ground for bacteria and microbes. The majority of those who
profess to be desirous of preventing and curing the disease called
consumption must be either hypocrites or fools, for they ridicule the
suggestion that it is necessary first to cure and prevent the poverty
that compels badly clothed and half-starved human beings to sleep in
such dens as this.
The front door opened into the living-room or, rather, kitchen, which
was dimly lighted by a small paraffin lamp on the table, where were
also some tea-cups and saucers, each of a different pattern, and the
remains of a loaf of bread. The wallpaper was old and discoloured; a
few almanacs and unframed prints were fixed to the walls, and on the
mantelshelf were some cracked and worthless vases and ornaments. At one
time they had possessed a clock and an overmantel and some framed
pictures, but they had all been sold to obtain money to buy food.
Nearly everything of any value had been parted with for the same
reason—the furniture, the pictures, the bedclothes, the carpet and the
oilcloth, piece by piece, nearly everything that had once constituted
the home—had been either pawned or sold to buy food or to pay rent
during the times when Newman was out of work—periods that had recurred
during the last few years with constantly increasing frequency and
duration. Now there was nothing left but these few old broken chairs
and the deal table which no one would buy; and upstairs, the wretched
bedsteads and mattresses whereon they slept at night, covering
themselves with worn-out remnants of blankets and the clothes they wore
during the day.
In answer to Philpot’s knock, the door was opened by a little girl
about seven years old, who at once recognized Philpot, and called out
his name to her mother, and the latter came also to the door, closely
followed by two other children, a little, fragile-looking girl about
three, and a boy about five years of age, who held on to her skirt and
peered curiously at the visitors. Mrs Newman was about thirty, and her
appearance confirmed the statement of Philpot that she had only just
recovered from an illness; she was very white and thin and
dejected-looking. When Philpot explained the object of their visit and
handed her the money, the poor woman burst into tears, and the two
smaller children—thinking that this piece of paper betokened some fresh
calamity—began to cry also. They remembered that all their troubles had
been preceded by the visits of men who brought pieces of paper, and it
was rather difficult to reassure them.
That evening, after Frankie was asleep, Owen and Nora went out to do
their Christmas marketing. They had not much money to spend, for Owen
had brought home only seventeen shillings. He had worked thirty-three
hours—that came to nineteen and threepence—one shilling and
threehalfpence had gone on the subscription list, and he had given the
rest of the coppers to a ragged wreck of a man who was singing a hymn
in the street. The other shilling had been deducted from his wages in
repayment of a “sub” he had had during the week.
There was a great deal to be done with this seventeen shillings. First
of all there was the rent—seven shillings—that left ten. Then there was
the week’s bread bill—one and threepence. They had a pint of milk every
day, chiefly for the boy’s sake—that came to one and two. Then there
was one and eight for a hundredweight of coal that had been bought on
credit. Fortunately, there were no groceries to buy, for the things
they had obtained with their Christmas Club money would be more than
sufficient for the ensuing week.
Frankie’s stockings were all broken and beyond mending, so it was
positively necessary to buy him another pair for fivepence
three-farthings. These stockings were not much good—a pair at double
the price would have been much cheaper, for they would have lasted
three or four times longer; but they could not afford to buy the dearer
kind. It was just the same with the coal: if they had been able to
afford it, they could have bought a ton of the same class of coal for
twenty-six shillings, but buying it as they did, by the hundredweight,
they had to pay at the rate of thirty-three shillings and fourpence a
ton. It was just the same with nearly everything else. This is how the
working classes are robbed. Although their incomes are the lowest, they
are compelled to buy the most expensive articles—that is, the
lowest-priced articles. Everybody knows that good clothes, boots or
furniture are really the cheapest in the end, although they cost more
money at first; but the working classes can seldom or never afford to
buy good things; they have to buy cheap rubbish which is dear at any
price.
Six weeks previously Owen bought a pair of second-hand boots for three
shillings and they were now literally falling to pieces. Nora’s shoes
were in much the same condition, but, as she said, it did not matter so
much about hers because there was no need for her to go out if the
weather were not fine.
In addition to the articles already mentioned, they had to spend
fourpence for half a gallon of paraffin oil, and to put sixpence into
the slot of the gas-stove. This reduced the money to five and
sevenpence farthing, and of this it was necessary to spend a shilling
on potatoes and other vegetables.
They both needed some new underclothing, for what they had was so old
and worn that it was quite useless for the purpose it was supposed to
serve; but there was no use thinking of these things, for they had now
only four shillings and sevenpence farthing left, and all that would be
needed for toys. They had to buy something special for Frankie for
Christmas, and it would also be necessary to buy something for each of
the children who were coming to the party on the following Monday.
Fortunately, there was no meat to buy, for Nora had been paying into
the Christmas Club at the butcher’s as well as at the grocer’s. So this
necessary was already paid for.
They stopped to look at the display of toys at Sweater’s Emporium. For
several days past Frankie had been talking of the wonders contained in
these windows, so they wished if possible to buy him something here.
They recognized many of the things from the description the boy had
given of them, but nearly everything was so dear that for a long time
they looked in vain for something it would be possible to buy.
“That’s the engine he talks so much about,” said Nora, indicating a
model railway locomotive; “that one marked five shillings.”
“It might just as well be marked five pounds as far as we’re
concerned,” replied Owen.
As they were speaking, one of the salesmen appeared at the back of the
window and, reaching forward, removed the engine. It was probably the
last one of the kind and had evidently just been sold. Owen and Nora
experienced a certain amount of consolation in knowing that even if
they had the money they would not have been able to buy it.
After lengthy consideration, they decided on a clockwork engine at a
shilling, but the other toys they resolved to buy at a cheaper shop.
Nora went into the Emporium to get the toy and whilst Owen was waiting
for her Mr and Mrs Rushton came out. They did not appear to see Owen,
who observed that the shape of one of several parcels they carried
suggested that it contained the engine that had been taken from the
window a little while before.
When Nora returned with her purchase, they went in search of a cheaper
place and after a time they found what they wanted. For sixpence they
bought a cardboard box that had come all the way from Japan and
contained a whole family of dolls—father, mother and four children of
different sizes. A box of paints, threepence: a sixpenny tea service, a
threepenny drawing slate, and a rag doll, sixpence.
On their way home they called at a greengrocer’s where Owen had ordered
and paid for a small Christmas tree a few weeks before; and as they
were turning the corner of the street where they lived they met Crass,
half-drunk, with a fine fat goose slung over his shoulder by its neck.
He greeted Owen jovially and held up the bird for their inspection.
“Not a bad tanner’s-worth, eh?” he hiccoughed. “This makes two we’ve
got. I won this and a box of cigars—fifty—for a tanner, and the other
one I got out of the Club at our Church Mission ’all: threepence a week
for twenty-eight weeks; that makes seven bob. But,” he added,
confidentially, “you couldn’t buy ’em for that price in a shop, you
know. They costs the committee a good bit more nor that—wholesale; but
we’ve got some rich gents on our committee and they makes up the
difference,” and with a nod and a cunning leer he lurched off.
Frankie was sleeping soundly when they reached home, and so was the
kitten, which was curled up on the quilt on the foot of the bed. After
they had had some supper, although it was after eleven o’clock, Owen
fixed the tree in a large flower-pot that had served a similar purpose
before, and Nora brought out from the place where it had been stored
away since last Christmas a cardboard box containing a lot of
glittering tinsel ornaments—globes of silvered or gilded or painted
glass, birds, butterflies and stars. Some of these things had done duty
three Christmases ago and although they were in some instances slightly
tarnished most of them were as good as new. In addition to these and
the toys they had bought that evening they had a box of bon-bons and a
box of small coloured wax candles, both of which had formed part of the
things they got from the grocer’s with the Christmas Club money; and
there were also a lot of little coloured paper bags of sweets, and a
number of sugar and chocolate toys and animals which had been bought
two or three at a time for several weeks past and put away for this
occasion. There was something suitable for each child that was coming,
with the exception of Bert White; they had intended to include a
sixpenny pocket knife for him in their purchases that evening, but as
they had not been able to afford this Owen decided to give him an old
set of steel graining combs which he knew the lad had often longed to
possess. The tin case containing these tools was accordingly wrapped in
some red tissue paper and hung on the tree with the other things.
They moved about as quietly as possible so as not to disturb those who
were sleeping in the rooms beneath, because long before they were
finished the people in the other parts of the house had all retired to
rest, and silence had fallen on the deserted streets outside. As they
were putting the final touches to their work the profound stillness of
the night was suddenly broken by the voices of a band of carol-singers.
The sound overwhelmed them with memories of other and happier times,
and Nora stretched out her hands impulsively to Owen, who drew her
close to his side.
They had been married just over eight years, and although during all
that time they had never been really free from anxiety for the future,
yet on no previous Christmas had they been quite so poor as now. During
the last few years periods of unemployment had gradually become more
frequent and protracted, and the attempt he had made in the early part
of the year to get work elsewhere had only resulted in plunging them
into even greater poverty than before. But all the same there was much
to be thankful for: poor though they were, they were far better off
than many thousands of others: they still had food and shelter, and
they had each other and the boy.
Before they went to bed Owen carried the tree into Frankie’s bedroom
and placed it so that he would be able to see it in all its glittering
glory as soon as he awoke on Christmas morning.