A NIGHT IN A SALVATION ARMY SHELTER.
Having occasion to spend a week in a southern city, I determined to do
what I could to ascertain the condition of its common lodging-houses, in
order to find out whether the same problems existed as in the northern
towns.
I was willing to go into a women's lodging-house, but, not having my
fellow tramp, it was desirable to make enquiries. These enquiries
revealed a state of things so bad that I did not feel it was safe to
sample any of the common lodging-houses alone. Briefly, what had
happened in this old town was this: A certain quarter possessed houses,
which, having once been occupied by the better classes, would be fairly
roomy, but would, of course, only have the sanitary arrangements
intended for one family. These houses had courts at the back, which
perhaps had been long ago gardens, but were now built over, access being
through the house. A number of these houses had gradually become common
lodging-houses. So profitable is this trade, that the successful owner
of one, even if only of the same low class as frequent the houses, could
go on annexing others, till, as I was told, a whole street had fallen
into the possession of one person, who was quite unconcerned about
anything but private gain. The most speedy way of gaining wealth was to
let rooms, in connection with the lodging-house, "for married couples."
The buildings in the back courts could easily be so let, and the police
had no access. Therefore the whole of this district was honeycombed with
immorality, while even in the more respectable houses the conditions
must be filthy and insanitary.
But my surprise was greatest at finding that in H---- _there did not
exist a lodging-house for women only_ apart from the charitable
institutions. The only refuge for a destitute woman, therefore, was the
common lodging-house with men and women (ostensibly married). I felt
that to go alone into one of these would be like putting my head into a
lion's den, for I was told that one of the men had put his arm round the
waist of a lady visitor with the easy freedom born of sex relations
there prevailing. What must have been the conditions for women in a town
of this size before the erection of the Army Shelter some four years
ago? The common lodging-houses, poor as they were, afforded shelter, I
was assured, only for about seventy women, including those really
married. But _between_ service, or respectable occupation of any kind,
and the common lodging-house, existed in all its ramifications, like a
spider's web, "the life," as a way out of destitution. Only those who
fell out of this life through illness or from other causes, as a rule
descended to the "lowest depths," the common lodging-houses, which
therefore contained only the most abandoned women. Some efforts to reach
these were being made, but the helpers despaired of really raising them,
and with good cause. It is evident that though hope must not be
abandoned for anyone, a woman who has sunk into poverty even out of a
life of vice, and who still retains all her desire for it (which she
indulges in if it is obtainable) must be a woman out of whom womanhood
is perishing, love of drink taking hold in most instances. Yet God
forbid that we should judge these poor creatures, often capable of love
to one another, and of kindnesses which might make us blush. We do not
know what circumstances, for which we may be responsible in God's sight,
gave them the push downward.[100]
But, evidently, unless in this town there were charitable institutions
dealing with the problem of destitution among women, a life of vice
would be their only alternative, simply from the fact that a certain
degree of poverty would force them to lodge with those to whom it was
familiar, and they would naturally succumb.[101]
I had no means of ascertaining what other homes or remedial agencies
existed, except that I was told there did exist one other
semi-charitable refuge to which the police took girls found on the
streets. I gathered, however, that this was more of the nature of a home
than of a lodging-house. The municipality was building a large men's
lodging-house, but not one for women.
It appeared, therefore, that the only real attempt to tackle the problem
was that of the Salvation Army, and, thinking that I should probably
hear something from the women themselves about the lodging-houses, I
resolved to "try the Army," as so many poor destitute women have
done--not in vain.
I obtained the requisite clothing to be one of the poor, and set out,
about nine o'clock, to find the street where the Army Shelter was. One
thing was agitating my mind, which doubtless, though for a different
reason, weighs in the mind of many poor women against entering any kind
of charitable Shelter. What questions would they ask? I had determined,
if absolutely necessary, to reveal my real identity. But how much should
I be forced to tell? Would it be possible to escape personal
interrogation? The "bullying" in the Workhouse was fresh in my mind, and
in contrast with this the perfect freedom of the common lodging-house
has its attractions. You may come and go, and "mind your own business."
No one has any right to interfere with you as long as you "pay your
way." I did not, of course, expect anything but kindness, but I thought
I might be interrogated "personally," questioned as to my antecedents,
and possibly about my soul. It would then, of course, be impossible for
me to preserve my "incognito."
In thus thinking I was probably sharing the feelings of my poor sisters
(your feelings undergo a curious assimilation to those of the class you
represent). Many a woman may be deterred from entering a suitable Home
by fear of cross-questioning. Poor thing! The only thing that belongs to
her is her past.
However, my fears were needless. I only relate them to illustrate the
reasons why a woman may hold back from places where she might find
friends.
I asked several women the way to the Shelter, whom I met in the street.
One said it was "right enough," another said, "I should think it was
better than going into the common lodging-house among a lot of
'riff-raff;' you can put up with it for a night anyhow." A third, with a
child in her arms, said she had lived there some time, and "was very
comfortable." So encouraged, I found the place. It was a large,
clean-looking building, fronting the street, with apparently two doors.
While I was hesitating as to which was the right one, and as to whether
I must ring or enter, a man on the other side of the street came and
offered me a drink. I, of course, refused. But at the very door of
salvation a poor tempted woman might be lost.
There was a large notice, "Clean, comfortable beds," but not an open
door as in most common lodging-houses. I feel diffident in recommending
anything to the Army, their methods are so tried and proved, even to
minute particulars, but it struck me that it would be well to have an
inside and an outer door--the latter standing open, as a clear
indication of the place of entry. You can walk into a common
lodging-house as far as the deputy's room or office without ringing. It
is a small matter, but a timid woman might not have the courage to knock
or ring.
The door was opened by a pleasant-faced young woman in uniform, who
asked me in. One word went to my heart. She called me "my dear!" She
said in reply to my request for a bed, "Yes, my dear, we have twopenny
bunks, but I should recommend you to try the fourpenny beds with nice,
clean sheets."
I was glad to consent, for though I should have liked for some reasons
to "try the bunks," I had already seen them in London, and I wished to
ascertain what the Army was able to offer at the current price of
fourpence, and also whether the beds would bear inspection. But what a
contrast such a reception was to the workhouse! Nothing but my name was
asked, not even as in the Bradford Shelter, my destination, and where I
came from. There was no "heckling," no inquisition, nothing but
kindness. God bless the officer who said, "My dear" to a poor stranger
in Christ's name.
I was asked if I would like to go to bed, as it was already late. I
wanted, however, to see something of other inmates, so said, "No." The
officer took me into the fourpenny sitting room, which was pleasant and
beautifully clean, but had no fire lit. As it was lonely, the officer
asked me if I would like to sit with the "twopenny women" for company. I
gladly assented, and was shewn into another day-room in which was a
cheerful fire, by the side of which were shelves for pots and pans. It
was furnished with wooden tables and benches, and all was clean, except
for recent use. Two or three women were in possession. I asked them if I
could get anything on the premises to eat. They said I could get coffee
and bread and butter for a penny! It was the cheapest meal I ever had. I
asked the officer for them, and she fetched them herself--a good mug
full of thick brown coffee, with rather a peculiar taste, but similar to
some I got in Manchester at a cheap breakfast shop, only about half as
much again in quantity. It had sugar and milk in it, and was palatable.
With it were two thick slices of bread and butter, quite sufficient for
a meal, the butter tasted good.[102]
I sat and ate my supper and watched the other women. They had lived
there some time, and were evidently accustomed to "the ways of the
place." They said they were very comfortable, and that the beds were
good. One of them explained the scarcity of utensils. (So far as I could
see, one kettle, one saucepan, and one frying-pan seemed to be the
stock-in-trade.) She said people stole so, even taking cups and saucers,
and the sheets off the beds. The officers in consequence had to reduce
the supply and to keep a sharp look-out!
I sat and listened. A woman came in with a baby; the same woman I had
seen in the street. She exclaimed about the difficulty she had had in
getting money for the night. Apparently she had been begging, going
round to one and another whom she knew, and getting a penny or halfpenny
from each. She said the man who accosted me had given her a penny. Her
boy was a fine little fellow, very well nourished and contented. She was
very proud of his little fat legs! She undressed him to his shirt. One
bit of pride remained even in poverty. She said she "wouldn't let her
child sleep in a bunk!" She seemed to prefer being out all night, which
had, I believe, been her case recently, when she could not make her
bed-money.[103] She was a widow.
One of the other women had had a day's charing, and was congratulating
herself that she was "set up for a bit." It had been hard work, but well
paid. She was generous to those worse off.
An unsolicited testimonial to one of the officers was given. "Captain
is back to-day." "Is she, bless her; I do love that woman, _though she
never gave me anything_!"
It is much to the credit of the Army, and of the individual officers,
that in the free conversation I heard no real complaint. One of the
officers was alluded to as "a sharp 'un." No doubt a necessary quality
in dealing with some cases. One woman grumbled at the coffee, and
another "carried on" because she was stopped from talking in the
bedroom, where she was disturbing others, but the general feeling seemed
to be one of thankfulness. "Thank God I have got in to-night," came
involuntarily from several lips.
I resolved to go to bed, as it was ten o'clock. The officer who had
admitted me, when I went to her to ask, showed me upstairs into a large
light room. Apparently the building had once been a mill or warehouse.
The floor was beautifully clean, the beds not inconveniently crowded,
and the promise of "good, clean beds" was amply redeemed.[104] I can
hardly understand how they could be so clean, for when the women were
undressed (and, of course, like all their class they slept in their
day-garments, partially undressing), their under-garments were dirty and
ragged in almost all cases, even when their outside appearance was
respectable. Hardly one had a whole or clean garment, and among this
class a nightgown is unknown, or unused. One woman kept on a black
knitted jersey, though it was summer-time!
My bed was beautifully clean, and the others looked so. The most careful
arrangements were made to insure cleanliness. The wire mattress had a
piece of clean brown wrappering tied over it, which could be removed and
washed. The mattress, which was very comfortable, was covered, and under
the covering was a mackintosh. There were two thick dark blankets, not
divided. I suppose this would make it difficult to steal them. The
sheets were white, and so was the pillowslip. There was a good soft
flock pillow.
I noticed several wise precautions. The gases were too high to be
reached, and no taps were visible. The gas was turned on or off outside
the room. No one could light a pipe.
The crevices close to the wall were filled in with wood, so that insects
could not harbour. Each person had a well-scrubbed wooden box by the
bedside, on or in which to place their clothes. There was, in a lavatory
adjoining, a spacious sink, to which hot and cold water was laid on.
There was one roller-towel, but no soap. It is usual in lodging-houses
to find your own. There was a well-flushed w.c. Beyond were some
cubicles at sixpence a night.
Several women were in bed. One had had some drink, and was disturbing
others by talking. It was found out afterwards that she was in the
wrong room, having only paid twopence. She was a married woman, and her
husband had apparently deposited her in safety, but only paid twopence!
She was, or pretended to be, very wroth, and she was also foul-mouthed.
When it was discovered, the little Lieutenant really could not eject
her, and had to be satisfied with telling her she must pay the other
twopence next day!
It was a very interesting occupation to try for about an hour and a half
to gather from conversation some hints as to the character of the "waifs
and strays" who were temporarily my room-mates.
A young woman next me was a servant temporarily out of place. An amusing
scene took place. Another young woman came in and spoke to her before
going to her cubicle. Evidently there was some animosity between them,
for the only greeting she got was, "Shut up." Finding she could make no
impression, the newcomer began to insinuate.
"I wouldn't stand with the Army and then go into public-houses!"
The other girl at first made no reply, except, "Get out with you!"
But as the insinuation was repeated, she began to get wroth.
"Why don't you speak to me, Mary?"
She half sat up in bed.
"Get out with you, you----"
Then they began to slang one another in earnest:--
"It's all very well to go to an Army meeting and then take two men into
a pub!"
"Well, I never! What will she say next, I wonder!"
And so the conversation waxed louder and louder. At length the girl in
bed half sprang out.
"I shall go and tell the Lieutenant how you're talking. She'll put you
out!"
With that the offender moved off to her cubicle.
The other girl kept muttering, "Well, I never! Did ever you hear! Me
that has never been inside a pub! I'll tell the Lieutenant in the
morning."
It was fortunate that the offender had paid for a sixpenny bed, as at
one time they seemed almost coming to blows.
The noisy woman in a bed on the opposite side kept up a conversation
with herself, or with anyone who would speak to her. Finally, the
Lieutenant, who seemed to keep a sort of patrol, but was not round
frequently enough to preserve peace, caught her talking, though not at
her loudest. She was engaged in relating portions of her past life to a
woman who said it was the anniversary of her wedding-day. The story of
the courtship and marriage took some time to tell, but the crowning
incident was that, having been ill for some days, her friends encouraged
her to take "a small whisky," which apparently led to more, and she
became so "blind drunk" that she remembered nothing further.
Several women with children came in. Some on meeting congratulated each
other on having money enough to get in.
"Thank God I'm in to-night," said one.
It made me realise how many are living on the very edge of starvation,
for several had only lodging-money, not a halfpenny for food.[105]
The interruptions were a bar to sleep. I think the Bradford plan of
letting the women go up to the dormitory at the hour, and not between,
was a good one, and would make superintendence easier.
At length, past eleven, all grew sleepy, the little Lieutenant had, I
think, given place to a night watcher, who stole quietly in to turn the
gas down, and again to admit a late girl to the cubicles, and once or
twice during the night, when all were sleeping, to look at her
safely-folded sheep, going lovingly round the beds, apparently to notice
who was safe "under her wing."
I did not stir, or show I was awake, but I said mentally, "God bless
you, sister, and God bless the Army!"
For here, safely folded in peace and comfort were just those whose
presence on our streets is a disgrace to our civilisation, and a social
danger. It was abundantly evident that they were those who needed a
helping hand. Few realise how terribly hard the present conditions of
our social system press upon women. If a girl, a woman, or worse--a
mother and child--are forced to remain out all night, God pity
them.[106] Yet it is terribly hard for a woman, once down in the
friendless state, with no one to speak for her, with clothing getting
daily more dirty and ragged, to obtain any employment. What can the
widow do? What about the deserted wife? The cry of the widow and orphan,
the suffering of the friendless is daily before the eyes of the God
England professes to serve.
Only one who is daily receiving the stories of the manifold ways in
which women drop out or are forced out of homes, can understand the
silent disintegration of womanhood that is forced upon many. Sometimes
they are carefully reared, with a parent's love as protection, shielded
from any real knowledge of life's hardships. But the protector dies and
the struggle begins, a hard struggle for daily bread. No one is forced
to keep them, save the workhouse. This they shun, or in some cases have
extreme difficulty in gaining admission, the relieving officers having
to be "begged and prayed," sometimes unsuccessfully, to admit even a
starving woman, putting them off on one excuse or another.
Meanwhile, by degrees everything that can be turned into money goes for
food. What wonder that the poor soul, desperate at losing all that makes
life worth having, easily yields to the man ever ready to "treat" her?
Such men are everywhere.
"Come and get a drink," is the usual way of accosting a woman. Yet if a
solitary woman once acquires the drink habit, it is nearly impossible to
lift her up, the craving is too strong. In the temporary "elevation" of
drink she regains her past, forgets the poor bedraggled "low woman" she
has become, and dreams of "better days." Suppose she resists drink, at
any rate keeping apparently steady, and lives as a "charwoman," it is a
most precarious existence, varying with the "times." Such women are
taken "on" and sent "off" without compunction. It needs a "good
connection" to make a livelihood, at any rate it requires a capacity for
continuous hard work, which all do not possess. There are some few
trades for destitute women hardly worth calling "trades," yet in some
hand-to-mouth fashion thousands of solitary women exist, who are not
idle, but try hard to "keep out of the house," so retaining their last
possession--liberty! Is it not desirable that these our struggling
sisters should live under the conditions that will preserve for them
some sort of a "home" feeling?
The "pit" lies just beneath them, that terrible pit, where honour, love,
and womanhood are swallowed up. They cling to those who love them, and
many of them struggle, oh, so hard! just to keep afloat. God pity them!
Every night in this England of ours our sisters are driven by poverty to
sin.
"I _must_ get my lodging money and a bit of food," they say. Money, even
twopence, is not within the reach of every widow and orphan, and our
poor-law conditions are almost prohibitive. Save as a temporary
expedient, the casual ward, with its continual "move on," is no refuge.
To descend to the common lodging-house is the last stage, just above
utter homelessness. There the drink temptations are such that few women
can withstand them. In many towns there do not exist lodging-houses for
women only.
Yet above all, these women need to be protected, to live under good
sanitary conditions, if in poverty. Such a shelter, therefore, as I was
sleeping in, is a real social need. It would prevent countless women
from drifting into vice if there was somewhere for them to live out of
temptation during the night hours. As they grow old especially, their
state grows more and more pitiable. They end their days in the workhouse
usually, but stave off the evil day as long as they can. I do not
believe that even women from the higher ranks can well help drifting to
destitution if from any cause friends and foothold are lost. Most people
distrust a friendless woman. Yet in many cases it is a matter of
clothes!
There is a theory that "a good worker is always worth her salt!" So she
may be, but if she looks down-trodden no one will give her the chance to
earn it! In spite of the constant dearth of servants it is not likely
that a woman will get employment unless she has character and clothes.
There are, besides, quantities of semi-"unemployable" women, women who
would--after a fashion--succeed in looking after their own home and
rearing children; but who, divorced from home, are not "worth their
salt." Besides these, preyed upon, alas! by human sharks, are the
defenceless "feeble-minded," and half-imbecile.
Meditating on the woes of womanhood I fell asleep. All my sisters
apparently slept soundly and well. Very early the officer in charge
stole in to call a sleeper. Every now and then someone, self-roused, got
up for toil. It was a contrast to the heavy sleep and utter absence of
any provision for going forth to toil which I had seen in a _private_
women's lodging-house, inhabited by girls and women evidently living by
sin.[107] There they were called at 9.30!
By 6.30 a considerable number had got up, and promptly the lieutenant
appeared with a whistle, which she playfully blew, not only for the
room, but also near each sleeper, calling them by name. "Now, Mary, get
up!" "Now, Jane, don't go to sleep again!"
So I also arose and found my way to the sitting-room, where a woman was
frying a chop (using a lot of unnecessary sticks). It was the woman who
was "in luck." She made a great can of tea, and shared with others,
especially with some of the mothers with children. Poor little things!
They looked sleepy, for most had not gone to bed much before eleven.
One by one women came in, hawkers, cleaners, widows, about whom one
wondered how they kept afloat. Some were evidently very dirty, insect
pests were in evidence on the person, and it was surprising that the
place was so clean. I learnt that you might remain till ten, and
re-enter at twelve. Probably the necessary cleansing of the day-rooms
was done in the interval. The kitchen filled. All seemed very poor; some
had no breakfast save a borrowed drink. I had some dry bread and sugar,
but no tea, so I asked if I could get a penny breakfast.
Yes! Early as it was, the officers were already in the kitchen, and at
seven o'clock breakfast could be obtained. I sat and waited. Three
mothers had children; one brought down in a shift was badly bitten. One
woman was to wash for "the Army" that day, and so was "in luck." There
was, I heard, a good laundry, and under certain regulations, inmates
could wash their clothes.
It would not have been a bad bit of investigation to stay a week and
learn the life of the inmates. But my time was brief. I made one of a
string of women standing at the kitchen door, waiting for the penny
breakfast, and received in my turn a good cup of tea (not a mug, but a
cup and saucer) and two thick slices of bread and butter. The eating
habits of my friends in the twopenny room were not very appetising, so I
sought the fourpenny room, a plain, clean, sitting-room with spotless
table and forms, by this time nearly filled.
The inmates of this room were, as might be expected, superior in dress
and manners; the personal appearance of most was clean, and they were
fairly well clothed, at least outwardly, but the night view had shewn me
that "appearances were deceitful."
One poor woman had a baby in arms, five months old. Her husband had
cruelly ill-used her; she had a black eye. He had been sent to prison
for a month, and she, with feeble health, and a babe in her arms, had
come to this refuge. How would she fare in a common lodging house?
Another mother, with a good face, but very poor, had a little boy, very
nicely mannered. She made him say grace before he took his food, and
reproved him for taking a bite first out of a piece of bread and butter,
given him by a kindly girl who had gone in for a whole pennyworth. This
woman looked as if the Army had claimed her life for God. She was going
to a day's cleaning, and said thankfully that she had a good place, and
more than she could eat, so she always brought something "home" for her
boy, "as she couldn't bear to think she was eating and he had none." I
suppose she would make some arrangement for him to be looked after. How
would he fare in a common lodging house?
As a contrast to her there was a rather loud-spoken girl, whom the
officer evidently knew. To judge by her face she knew sin and shame. She
was, however, very good-natured. She nursed the baby with evident
pleasure, and she shared her breakfast with others.
Several of the girls were quite young, and might be servants out of
place. One by one they went out to some occupation or other. It was
still early, but time for me to go. I returned my cup, saucer, and
plate, and passed out with no interrogation.
The streets were full of young women just going to business. In the free
life of to-day, when so many women earn their own living, often away
from their homes, how slight an accident may shipwreck a life! Is it not
evident that we should make provision for such a certain need? We make
charts of our coasts, we know each shoal, we bell-buoy our sand-banks,
we build warning lighthouses, and we make safe harbours. But probably
the lives lost on our coasts are not a tithe of the lives--the
souls--lost on our streets. A floating shipwrecked woman immersed in the
waves, in peril of death, would call for a host of rescuers. But in
many towns in England there is no Rescue home. Even where there are such
homes, they are usually _for those who have gone under_. We need some
provision for those who manage to keep themselves just above water, but
are in daily peril. Nothing is so effective as such _preventive_ work.
If we were about to build a harbour, we should entrust the work to a
firm that understood harbour-building.[108]
In the Salvation Army we have a branch of the Christian Army and Navy of
Salvation accustomed to harbour-building. Let us employ them. If Army
methods succeed, it is only common-sense to finance the firm that can do
the work!
Many of our refuges are but ill adapted for the needs of the class that
most needs help, the struggling, self-supporting woman, who may be kept
from falling further.
We must approximate, as the Army does, to the needs of the class we
cater for. We must have "Women's Hostels" for the needs of various
classes, under regulations that attract them. We need not bribe them
into what seems to be a species of imprisonment, and keep them
expensively for long terms. This may be _necessary_ for the fallen, but
not for _preventive_ work.
The Army succeeds better than most in making its shelters almost
self-supporting, when once initial expenses have been met. It has an
immense advantage in its system of training officers specially for such
work, which requires daily self-sacrifice.
It may also be that military discipline has its advantages where a
certain precision of detail, an invariable routine, similar to workhouse
regulations, but more free, is a _sine qua non_. In our workhouses large
bodies of people live under discipline, who, without it, would most of
them be a danger or a drag on the community. Could we induce the
"floating population" of men and women to live a less restricted life,
yet a sanitary and wholesome one, much would be accomplished in a
generation.[109] The policy of allowing the catering for the needs of
this class to drift in a "happy-go-lucky" way into the hands of anybody,
has resulted in many accumulated evils. To redress evil we must live the
self-sacrificing life, and we may think ourselves happy that there are
still men and women who will in a very real sense "lay down their lives"
to minister in Christ's name to His poor, who count nothing too trivial
to be well done for the Master, and who strive to unlock hearts by the
magic key of love.
Surely upon them rests the blessing, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto
one of these, my sisters, ye have done it unto Me."
Can we not have an Army Women's Shelter or its equivalent in every large
town?[110]
FOOTNOTES:
[100] See Appendix VII.
[101] See Chap. V.
[102] Contrast tramp ward fare, pp. 112, 124, 152.
[103] See Appendix VII.
[104] See p. 48, note.
[105] See Appendix VII.
[106] See p. 132.
[107] See Chap. V.
[108] See page 49. Lodging-houses for women do not exist in many towns,
there are only common lodging houses, worse still than the above. See
pp. 96-105, also Chap. VI.
[109] See pp, 45, 50.
[110] See Chap. II., pp. 130-135, also Appendix VII.