The Beginning of the End
During the months of January and February, Owen, Crass, Slyme and
Sawkins continued to work at irregular intervals for Rushton & Co.,
although—even when there was anything to do—they now put in only six
hours a day, commencing in the morning and leaving off at four, with an
hour’s interval for dinner between twelve and one. They finished the
“plant” and painted the front of Rushton’s shop. When all this was
completed, as no other work came in, they all had to “stand off” with
the exception of Sawkins, who was kept on because he was cheap and able
to do all sorts of odd jobs, such as unstopping drains, repairing leaky
roofs, rough painting or lime-washing, and he was also useful as a
labourer for the plumbers, of whom there were now three employed at
Rushton’s, the severe weather which had come in with January having
made a lot of work in that trade. With the exception of this one
branch, practically all work was at a standstill.
During this time Rushton & Co. had had several “boxing-up” jobs to do,
and Crass always did the polishing of the coffins on these occasions,
besides assisting to take the “box” home when finished and to “lift in”
the corpse, and afterwards he always acted as one of the bearers at the
funerals. For an ordinary class funeral he usually put in about three
hours for the polishing; that came to one and nine. Taking home the
coffin and lifting in the corpse, one shilling—usually there were two
men to do this besides Hunter, who always accompanied them to
superintend the work—attending the funeral and acting as bearer, four
shillings: so that altogether Crass made six shillings and ninepence
out of each funeral, and sometimes a little more. For instance, when
there was an unusually good-class corpse they had a double coffin and
then of course there were two “lifts in”, for the shell was taken home
first and the outer coffin perhaps a day or two later: this made
another shilling. No matter how expensive the funeral was, the bearers
never got any more money. Sometimes the carpenter and Crass were able
to charge an hour or two more on the making and polishing of a coffin
for a good job, but that was all. Sometimes, when there was a very
cheap job, they were paid only three shillings for attending as
bearers, but this was not often: as a rule they got the same amount
whether it was a cheap funeral or an expensive one. Slyme earned only
five shillings out of each funeral, and Owen only one and six—for
writing the coffin plate.
Sometimes there were three or four funerals in a week, and then Crass
did very well indeed. He still had the two young men lodgers at his
house, and although one of them was out of work he was still able to
pay his way because he had some money in the bank.
One of the funeral jobs led to a terrible row between Crass and
Sawkins. The corpse was that of a well-to-do woman who had been ill for
a long time with cancer of the stomach, and after the funeral Rushton &
Co. had to clean and repaint and paper the room she had occupied during
her illness. Although cancer is not supposed to be an infectious
disease, they had orders to take all the bedding away and have it
burnt. Sawkins was instructed to take a truck to the house and get the
bedding and take it to the town Refuse Destructor to be destroyed.
There were two feather beds, a bolster and two pillows: they were such
good things that Sawkins secretly resolved that instead of taking them
to the Destructor he would take them to a second-hand dealer and sell
them.
As he was coming away from the house with the things he met Hunter, who
told him that he wanted him for some other work; so he was to take the
truck to the yard and leave it there for the present; he could take the
bedding to the Destructor later on in the day. Sawkins did as Hunter
ordered, and in the meantime Crass, who happened to be working at the
yard painting some venetian blinds, saw the things on the truck, and,
hearing what was to be done with them, he also thought it was a pity
that such good things should be destroyed: so when Sawkins came in the
afternoon to take them away Crass told him he need not trouble; “I’m
goin’ to ’ave that lot,” he said; “they’re too good to chuck away;
there’s nothing wrong with ’em.”
This did not suit Sawkins at all. He said he had been told to take them
to the Destructor, and he was going to do so. He was dragging the cart
out of the yard when Crass rushed up and lifted the bundle off and
carried it into the paint-shop. Sawkins ran after him and they began to
curse and swear at each other; Crass accusing Sawkins of intending to
take the things to the marine stores and sell them. Sawkins seized hold
of the bundle with the object of replacing it on the cart, but Crass
got hold of it as well and they had a tussle for it—a kind of tug of
war—reeling and struggling all over the shop, cursing and swearing
horribly all the time. Finally, Sawkins—being the better man of the
two—succeeded in wrenching the bundle away and put it on the cart
again, and then Crass hurriedly put on his coat and said he was going
to the office to ask Mr Rushton if he might have the things. Upon
hearing this, Sawkins became so infuriated that he lifted the bundle
off the cart and, throwing it upon the muddy ground, right into a pool
of dirty water, trampled it underfoot; and then, taking out his clasp
knife, began savagely hacking and ripping the ticking so that the
feathers all came falling out. In a few minutes he had damaged the
things beyond hope of repair, while Crass stood by, white and
trembling, watching the proceedings but lacking the courage to
interfere.
“Now go to the office and ask Rushton for ’em, if you like!” shouted
Sawkins. “You can ’ave ’em now, if you want ’em.”
Crass made no answer and, after a moment’s hesitation, went back to his
work, and Sawkins piled the things on the cart once more and took them
away to the Destructor. He would not be able to sell them now, but at
any rate he had stopped that dirty swine Crass from getting them.
When Crass went back to the paint-shop he found there one of the
pillows which had fallen out of the bundle during the struggle. He took
it home with him that evening and slept upon it. It was a fine pillow,
much fuller and softer and more cosy than the one he had been
accustomed to.
A few days afterwards when he was working at the room where the woman
died, they gave him some other things that had belonged to her to do
away with, and amongst them was a kind of wrap of grey knitted wool.
Crass kept this for himself: it was just the thing to wrap round one’s
neck when going to work on a cold morning, and he used it for that
purpose all through the winter. In addition to the funerals, there was
a little other work: sometimes a room or two to be painted and papered
and ceilings whitened, and once they had the outside of two small
cottages to paint—doors and windows—two coats. All four of them worked
at this job and it was finished in two days. And so they went on.
Some weeks Crass earned a pound or eighteen shillings; sometimes a
little more, generally less and occasionally nothing at all.
There was a lot of jealousy and ill-feeling amongst them about the
work. Slyme and Crass were both aggrieved about Sawkins whenever they
were idle, especially if the latter were painting or whitewashing, and
their indignation was shared by all the others who were “off”. Harlow
swore horribly about it, and they all agreed that it was disgraceful
that a bloody labourer should be employed doing what ought to be
skilled work for fivepence an hour, while properly qualified men were
“walking about”. These other men were also incensed against Slyme and
Crass because the latter were given the preference whenever there was a
little job to do, and it was darkly insinuated that in order to secure
this preference these two were working for sixpence an hour. There was
no love lost between Crass and Slyme either: Crass was furious whenever
it happened that Slyme had a few hours’ work to do if he himself were
idle, and if ever Crass was working while Slyme was “standing still”
the latter went about amongst the other unemployed men saying ugly
things about Crass, whom he accused of being a “crawler”. Owen also
came in for his share of abuse and blame: most of them said that a man
like him should stick out for higher wages whether employed on special
work or not, and then he would not get any preference. But all the
same, whatever they said about each other behind each other’s backs,
they were all most friendly to each other when they met face to face.
Once or twice Owen did some work—such as graining a door or writing a
sign—for one or other of his fellow workmen who had managed to secure a
little job “on his own”, but putting it all together, the coffin-plates
and other work at Rushton’s and all, his earnings had not averaged ten
shillings a week for the last six weeks. Often they had no coal and
sometimes not even a penny to put into the gas meter, and then, having
nothing left good enough to pawn, he sometimes obtained a few pence by
selling some of his books to second-hand book dealers. However, bad as
their condition was, Owen knew that they were better off than the
majority of the others, for whenever he went out he was certain to meet
numbers of men whom he had worked with at different times, who
said—some of them—that they had been idle for ten, twelve, fifteen and
in some cases for twenty weeks without having earned a shilling.
Owen used to wonder how they managed to continue to exist. Most of them
were wearing other people’s cast-off clothes, hats, and boots, which
had in some instances been given to their wives by “visiting ladies”,
or by the people at whose houses their wives went to work, charing. As
for food, most of them lived on such credit as they could get, and on
the scraps of broken victuals and meat that their wives brought home
from the places they worked at. Some of them had grown-up sons and
daughters who still lived with them and whose earnings kept their homes
together, and the wives of some of them eked out a miserable existence
by letting lodgings.
The week before old Linden went into the workhouse Owen earned nothing,
and to make matters worse the grocer from whom they usually bought
their things suddenly refused to let them have any more credit. Owen
went to see him, and the man said he was very sorry, but he could not
let them have anything more without the money; he did not mind waiting
a few weeks for what was already owing, but he could not let the amount
get any higher; his books were full of bad debts already. In
conclusion, he said that he hoped Owen would not do as so many others
had done and take his ready money elsewhere. People came and got credit
from him when they were hard up, and afterwards spent their ready money
at the Monopole Company’s stores on the other side of the street,
because their goods were a trifle cheaper, and it was not fair. Owen
admitted that it was not fair, but reminded him that they always bought
their things at his shop. The grocer, however, was inexorable; he
repeated several times that his books were full of bad debts and his
own creditors were pressing him. During their conversation the
shopkeeper’s eyes wandered continually to the big store on the other
side of the street; the huge, gilded letters of the name “Monopole
Stores” seemed to have an irresistible attraction for him. Once he
interrupted himself in the middle of a sentence to point out to Owen a
little girl who was just coming out of the Stores with a small parcel
in her hand.
“Her father owes me nearly thirty shillings,” he said, “but they spend
their ready money there.”
The front of the grocer’s shop badly needed repainting, and the name on
the fascia, “A. Smallman”, was so faded as to be almost indecipherable.
It had been Owen’s intention to offer to do this work—the cost to go
against his account—but the man appeared to be so harassed that Owen
refrained from making the suggestion.
They still had credit at the baker’s, but they did not take much bread:
when one has had scarcely anything else but bread to eat for nearly a
month one finds it difficult to eat at all. That same day, when he
returned home after his interview with the grocer, they had a loaf of
beautiful fresh bread, but none of them could eat it, although they
were hungry: it seemed to stick in their throats, and they could not
swallow it even with the help of a drink of tea. But they drank the
tea, which was the one thing that enabled them to go on living.
The next week Owen earned eight shillings altogether: a few hours he
put in assisting Crass to wash off and whiten a ceiling and paint a
room, and there was one coffin-plate. He wrote the latter at home, and
while he was doing it he heard Frankie—who was out in the scullery with
Nora—say to her:
“Mother, how many more days to you think we’ll have to have only dry
bread and tea?”
Owen’s heart seemed to stop as he heard the child’s question and
listened for Nora’s answer, but the question was not to be answered at
all just then, for at that moment they heard someone running up the
stairs and presently the door was unceremoniously thrown open and
Charley Linden rushed into the house, out of breath, hatless, and
crying piteously. His clothes were old and ragged; they had been
patched at the knees and elbows, but the patches were tearing away from
the rotting fabric into which they had been sewn. He had on a pair of
black stockings full of holes through which the skin was showing. The
soles of his boots were worn through at one side right to the uppers,
and as he walked the sides of his bare heels came into contact with the
floor, the front part of the sole of one boot was separated from the
upper, and his bare toes, red with cold and covered with mud, protruded
through the gap. Some sharp substance—a nail or a piece of glass or
flint—had evidently lacerated his right foot, for blood was oozing from
the broken heel of his boot on to the floor.
They were unable to make much sense of the confused story he told them
through his sobs as soon as he was able to speak. All that was clear
was that there was something very serious the matter at home: he
thought his mother must be either dying or dead, because she did not
speak or move or open her eyes, and “please, please, please will you
come home with me and see her?”
While Nora was getting ready to go with the boy, Owen made him sit on a
chair, and having removed the boot from the foot that was bleeding,
washed the cut with some warm water and bandaged it with a piece of
clean rag, and then they tried to persuade him to stay there with
Frankie while Nora went to see his mother, but the boy would not hear
of it. So Frankie went with them instead. Owen could not go because he
had to finish the coffin-plate, which was only just commenced.
It will be remembered that we left Mary Linden alone in the house after
she returned from seeing the old people away. When the children came
home from school, about half an hour afterwards, they found her sitting
in one of the chairs with her head resting on her arms on the table,
unconscious. They were terrified, because they could not awaken her and
began to cry, but presently Charley thought of Frankie’s mother and,
telling his sister to stay there while he was gone, he started off at a
run for Owen’s house, leaving the front door wide open after him.
When Nora and the two boys reached the house they found there two other
women neighbours, who had heard Elsie crying and had come to see what
was wrong. Mary had recovered from her faint and was lying down on the
bed. Nora stayed with her for some time after the other women went
away. She lit the fire and gave the children their tea—there was still
some coal and food left of what had been bought with the three
shillings obtained from the Board of Guardians—and afterwards she
tidied the house.
Mary said that she did not know exactly what she would have to do in
the future. If she could get a room somewhere for two or three
shillings a week, her allowance from the Guardians would pay the rent,
and she would be able to earn enough for herself and the children to
live on.
This was the substance of the story that Nora told Owen when she
returned home. He had finished writing the coffin-plate, and as it was
now nearly dry he put on his coat and took it down to the carpenter’s
shop at the yard.
On his way back he met Easton, who had been hanging about in the vain
hope of seeing Hunter and finding out if there was any chance of a job.
As they walked along together, Easton confided to Owen that he had
earned scarcely anything since he had been stood off at Rushton’s, and
what he had earned had gone, as usual, to pay the rent. Slyme had left
them some time ago. Ruth did not seem able to get on with him; she had
been in a funny sort of temper altogether, but since he had gone she
had had a little work at a boarding-house on the Grand Parade. But
things had been going from bad to worse. They had not been able to keep
up the payments for the furniture they had hired, so the things had
been seized and carted off. They had even stripped the oilcloth from
the floor. Easton remarked he was sorry he had not tacked the bloody
stuff down in such a manner that they would not have been able to take
it up without destroying it. He had been to see Didlum, who said he
didn’t want to be hard on them, and that he would keep the things
together for three months, and if Easton had paid up arrears by that
time he could have them back again, but there was, in Easton’s opinion,
very little chance of that.
Owen listened with contempt and anger. Here was a man who grumbled at
the present state of things, yet took no trouble to think for himself
and try to alter them, and who at the first chance would vote for the
perpetuation of the System which produced his misery.
“Have you heard that old Jack Linden and his wife went to the workhouse
today,” he said.
“No,” replied Easton, indifferently. “It’s only what I expected.”
Owen then suggested it would not be a bad plan for Easton to let his
front room, now that it was empty, to Mrs Linden, who would be sure to
pay her rent, which would help Easton to pay his. Easton agreed and
said he would mention it to Ruth, and a few minutes later they parted.
The next morning Nora found Ruth talking to Mary Linden about the room
and as the Eastons lived only about five minutes’ walk away, they all
three went round there in order that Mary might see the room. The
appearance of the house from outside was unaltered: the white lace
curtains still draped the windows of the front room; and in the centre
of the bay was what appeared to be a small round table covered with a
red cloth, and upon it a geranium in a flowerpot standing in a saucer
with a frill of coloured tissue paper round it. These things and the
curtains, which fell close together, made it impossible for anyone to
see that the room was, otherwise, unfurnished. The “table” consisted of
an empty wooden box—procured from the grocer’s—stood on end, with the
lid of the scullery copper placed upside down upon it for a top and
covered with an old piece of red cloth. The purpose of this was to
prevent the neighbours from thinking that they were hard up; although
they knew that nearly all those same neighbours were in more or less
similar straits.
It was not a very large room, considering that it would have to serve
all purposes for herself and the two children, but Mrs Linden knew that
it was not likely that she would be able to get one as good elsewhere
for the same price, so she agreed to take it from the following Monday
at two shillings a week.
As the distance was so short they were able to carry most of the
smaller things to their new home during the next few days, and on the
Monday evening, when it was dark. Owen and Easton brought the remainder
on a truck they borrowed for the purpose from Hunter.
During the last weeks of February the severity of the weather
increased. There was a heavy fall of snow on the 20th followed by a
hard frost which lasted several days.
About ten o’clock one night a policeman found a man lying unconscious
in the middle of a lonely road. At first he thought the man was drunk,
and after dragging him on to the footpath out of the way of passing
vehicles he went for the stretcher. They took the man to the station
and put him into a cell, which was already occupied by a man who had
been caught in the act of stealing a swede turnip from a barn. When the
police surgeon came he pronounced the supposed drunken man to be dying
from bronchitis and want of food; and he further said that there was
nothing to indicate that the man was addicted to drink. When the
inquest was held a few days afterwards, the coroner remarked that it
was the third case of death from destitution that had occurred in the
town within six weeks.
The evidence showed that the man was a plasterer who had walked from
London with the hope of finding work somewhere in the country. He had
no money in his possession when he was found by the policeman; all that
his pockets contained being several pawn-tickets and a letter from his
wife, which was not found until after he died, because it was in an
inner pocket of his waistcoat. A few days before this inquest was held,
the man who had been arrested for stealing the turnip had been taken
before the magistrates. The poor wretch said he did it because he was
starving, but Aldermen Sweater and Grinder, after telling him that
starvation was no excuse for dishonesty, sentenced him to pay a fine of
seven shillings and costs, or go to prison for seven days with hard
labour. As the convict had neither money nor friends, he had to go to
jail, where he was, after all, better off than most of those who were
still outside because they lacked either the courage or the opportunity
to steal something to relieve their sufferings.
As time went on the long-continued privation began to tell upon Owen
and his family. He had a severe cough: his eyes became deeply sunken
and of remarkable brilliancy, and his thin face was always either
deathly pale or dyed with a crimson flush.
Frankie also began to show the effects of being obliged to go so often
without his porridge and milk; he became very pale and thin and his
long hair came out in handfuls when his mother combed or brushed it.
This was a great trouble to the boy, who, since hearing the story of
Samson read out of the Bible at school, had ceased from asking to have
his hair cut short, lest he should lose his strength in consequence. He
used to test himself by going through a certain exercise he had himself
invented, with a flat iron, and he was always much relieved when he
found that, notwithstanding the loss of the porridge, he was still able
to lift the iron the proper number of times. But after a while, as he
found that it became increasingly difficult to go through the exercise,
he gave it up altogether, secretly resolving to wait until “Dad” had
more work to do, so that he could have the porridge and milk again. He
was sorry to have to discontinue the exercise, but he said nothing
about it to his father or mother because he did not want to “worry”
them...
Sometimes Nora managed to get a small job of needlework. On one
occasion a woman with a small son brought a parcel of garments
belonging to herself or her husband, an old ulster, several coats, and
so on—things that although they were too old-fashioned or shabby to
wear, yet might look all right if turned and made up for the boy.
Nora undertook to do this, and after working several hours every day
for a week she earned four shillings: and even then the woman thought
it was so dear that she did not bring any more.
Another time Mrs Easton got her some work at a boarding-house where she
herself was employed. The servant was laid up, and they wanted some
help for a few days. The pay was to be two shillings a day, and dinner.
Owen did not want her to go because he feared she was not strong enough
to do the work, but he gave way at last and Nora went. She had to do
the bedrooms, and on the evening of the second day, as a result of the
constant running up and down the stairs carrying heavy cans and pails
of water, she was in such intense pain that she was scarcely able to
walk home, and for several days afterwards had to lie in bed through a
recurrence of her old illness, which caused her to suffer untold agony
whenever she tried to stand.
Owen was alternately dejected and maddened by the knowledge of his own
helplessness: when he was not doing anything for Rushton he went about
the town trying to find some other work, but usually with scant
success. He did some samples of showcard and window tickets and
endeavoured to get some orders by canvassing the shops in the town, but
this was also a failure, for these people generally had a ticket-writer
to whom they usually gave their work. He did get a few trifling orders,
but they were scarcely worth doing at the price he got for them. He
used to feel like a criminal when he went into the shops to ask them
for the work, because he realized fully that, in effect, he was saying
to them: “Take your work away from the other man, and employ me.” He
was so conscious of this that it gave him a shamefaced manner, which,
coupled as it was with his shabby clothing, did not create a very
favourable impression upon those he addressed, who usually treated him
with about as much courtesy as they would have extended to any other
sort of beggar. Generally, after a day’s canvassing, he returned home
unsuccessful and faint with hunger and fatigue.
Once, when there was a bitterly cold east wind blowing, he was out on
one of these canvassing expeditions and contracted a severe cold: his
chest became so bad that he found it almost impossible to speak,
because the effort to do so often brought on a violent fit of coughing.
It was during this time that a firm of drapers, for whom he had done
some showcards, sent him an order for one they wanted in a hurry, it
had to be delivered the next morning, so he stayed up by himself till
nearly midnight to do it. As he worked, he felt a strange sensation in
his chest: it was not exactly a pain, and he would have found it
difficult to describe it in words—it was just a sensation. He did not
attach much importance to it, thinking it an effect of the cold he had
taken, but whatever it was he could not help feeling conscious of it
all the time.
Frankie had been put to bed that evening at the customary hour, but did
not seem to be sleeping as well as usual. Owen could hear him twisting
and turning about and uttering little cries in his sleep.
He left his work several times to go into the boy’s room and cover him
with the bedclothes which his restless movements had disordered. As the
time wore on, the child became more tranquil, and about eleven o’clock,
when Owen went in to look at him, he found him in a deep sleep, lying
on his side with his head thrown back on the pillow, breathing so
softly through his slightly parted lips that the sound was almost
imperceptible. The fair hair that clustered round his forehead was damp
with perspiration, and he was so still and pale and silent that one
might have thought he was sleeping the sleep that knows no awakening.
About an hour later, when he had finished writing the showcard, Owen
went out into the scullery to wash his hands before going to bed: and
whilst he was drying them on the towel, the strange sensation he had
been conscious of all the evening became more intense, and a few
seconds afterwards he was terrified to find his mouth suddenly filled
with blood.
For what seemed an eternity he fought for breath against the
suffocating torrent, and when at length it stopped, he sank trembling
into a chair by the side of the table, holding the towel to his mouth
and scarcely daring to breathe, whilst a cold sweat streamed from every
pore and gathered in large drops upon his forehead.
Through the deathlike silence of the night there came from time to time
the chimes of the clock of a distant church, but he continued to sit
there motionless, taking no heed of the passing hours, and possessed
with an awful terror.
So this was the beginning of the end! And afterwards the other two
would be left by themselves at the mercy of the world. In a few years’
time the boy would be like Bert White, in the clutches of some
psalm-singing devil like Hunter or Rushton, who would use him as if he
were a beast of burden. He imagined he could see him now as he would be
then: worked, driven, and bullied, carrying loads, dragging carts, and
running here and there, trying his best to satisfy the brutal tyrants,
whose only thought would be to get profit out of him for themselves. If
he lived, it would be to grow up with his body deformed and dwarfed by
unnatural labour and with his mind stultified, degraded and brutalized
by ignorance and poverty. As this vision of the child’s future rose
before him, Owen resolved that it should never be! He would not leave
them alone and defenceless in the midst of the “Christian” wolves who
were waiting to rend them as soon as he was gone. If he could not give
them happiness, he could at least put them out of the reach of further
suffering. If he could not stay with them, they would have to come with
him. It would be kinder and more merciful.