My new quarters were in the poorer district which stands at the back of
Bayswater.
The street was a cul-de-sac (of some ten small houses on either side)
which was blocked up at the further end by the high wall of a factory
for the "humanization" of milk, and opened out of a busy thoroughfare of
interior shops like a gully-way off a noisy coast.
My home in this street was in number one, and I had been attracted to it
by a printed card in the semi-circular fan-light over the front door,
saying: "A ROOM TO LET FURNISHED."
My room, which was of fair size, was on the first floor and had two
windows to the street, with yellow holland blinds and white muslin
curtains.
The furniture consisted of a large bed, a horse-hair sofa, three
cane-bottomed chairs, a chest of drawers (which stood between the
windows), and a mirror over the mantelpiece, which had pink paper, cut
into fanciful patterns, over the gilt frame, to keep off the flies.
The floor was covered with linoleum, but there were two strips of
carpet, one before the fire and the other by the bed: the walls were
papered with a bright red paper representing peonies in bloom; and there
were three pictures--a portrait of a great Welsh preacher with a bardic
name ("Dyfed"), an engraving entitled "Feed my Sheep" (showing Jesus
carrying a lamb), and a memorial card of some member of the family of
the house, in the form of a tomb with a weeping angel on either side.
I paid five shilling a week for my room, and, as this included the use
of kettle, cooking utensils, and crockery, I found to my great delight
at the end of the first week that providing for myself (tea, bread and
butter, and eggs being my principal food) I had only spent ten shillings
altogether, which, according to my present needs, left me enough for my
time of waiting and several weeks beyond.
Every morning I went out with a little hand-bag to buy my provisions in
the front street; and every afternoon I took a walk in the better part
of Bayswater and even into the Park (Hyde Park), which was not far off,
but never near Piccadilly, or so far east as Bloomsbury, lest I should
meet Sister Mildred or be recognized by the old boarders.
I had no key to my lodgings, but when I returned home I knocked at the
front door (which was at the top of a short flight of steps from the
pavement) and then a string was pulled in the cellar-kitchen in which
the family of my landlady lived, whereupon the bolt was shot back and
the door opened of itself.
Finding it necessary to account for myself here as at the
boarding-house, I had adhered to my former name, but said I was the
widow of a commander lately lost, at sea, which was as near to the truth
as I dared venture.
I had also made no disguise of the fact that I was expecting a child, a
circumstance which secured me much sympathy from the kind-hearted souls
who were now my neighbours.
They were all womanly women, generally the wives of men working in the
milk factory, and therefore the life of our street was very regular.
At five in the morning you heard the halting step of the old "knocker
up," who went up and down the street tapping at the bedroom windows with
a long pole like a fishing-rod. A little before six you heard the
clashing of many front doors and the echoing footsteps of the men going
to their work. At half-past seven you heard the whoop of the milkman and
the rattling of his cans. At half-past eight you heard the little feet
of the children, like the pattering of rain, going off to the Board
School round the corner. And a little after four in the afternoon you
heard the wild cries of the juvenile community let loose from lessons,
the boys trundling iron hoops and the girls skipping to a measured tune
over a rope stretched from parapet to parapet.
After that, our street hummed like a bee-hive, with the women, washed
and combed, standing knitting at their open doors or exchanging
confidences across the areas until darkness fell and each of the mothers
called her children into bed, as an old hen in the farmyard clucks up
her chickens.
These good creatures were very kind to me. Having satisfied themselves
from observation of my habits that I was "respectable," they called me
"our lady"; and I could not help hearing that I was "a nice young
thing," though it was a little against me that I did not go to church or
chapel, and had confessed to being a Catholic--for several of our
families (including that of my landlady) were members of the Welsh Zion
Chapel not far away.
Such was the life of the little human cage to which I had confined
myself, but I had an inner life that was all my own and very sweet to
me.
During the long hours of every day in which I was alone I occupied
myself in the making of clothes for my baby--buying linen and flannel
and worsted, and borrowing patterns from my Welsh landlady.
This stimulated my tenderness towards the child that was to come, for
the heart of a young mother is almost infantile, and I hardly know
whether to laugh or cry when I think of the childish things I did and
thought and said to myself in those first days when I was alone in my
room in that back street in Bayswater.
Thus long before baby was born I had christened her. At first I wished
to call her Mary, not because I cared for that name myself, but because
Martin had said it was the most beautiful in the world. In the end,
however, I called her Isabel Mary (because Isabel was my mother's name
and she had been a far better woman than I was), and as I finished my
baby's garments one by one I used to put them away in their drawer,
saying to myself, "That's Isabel Mary's binder," or "Isabel Mary's
christening-robe" as the case might be.
I dare say it was all very foolish. There are tears in my eyes when I
think of it now, but there were none then, for though there were moments
when, remembering Martin, I felt as if life were for ever blank, I was
almost happy in my poor surroundings, and if it was a cage I had fixed
myself in there was always a bird singing inside of it--the bird that
sang in my own bosom.
"When Isabel Mary comes everything will he all right," I used to think.
This went on for many weeks and perhaps it might have gone on until my
time was full but for something which, occurring under my eyes, made me
tremble with the fear that the life I was living and the hope I was
cherishing were really very wrong and selfish.
Of my landlady, Mrs. Williams, I saw little. She was a rather hard but
no doubt heavily-laden woman, who had to "do" for a swarm of children,
besides two young men lodgers who lived in the kitchen and slept in the
room behind mine. Her husband was a quiet man (a carter at the dairy)
whom I never saw at all except on the staircase at ten o'clock at night,
when, after winding the tall clock on the landing, he went upstairs to
bed in his stocking feet.
But the outstanding member of the family for me was a shock-headed girl
of fourteen called Emmerjane, which was a running version of Emma Jane.
I understood that Emmerjane was the illegitimate daughter of Mrs.
Williams's dead sister, and that she had been born in Carnarvon, which
still shimmered in her memory in purple and gold.
Emmerjane was the drudge of the family, and I first saw her in the
street at dusk, mothering a brood of her little cousins, taking Hughie
by one hand and Katie by the other and telling Gwennie to lay hold of
Davie lest he should be run over by the milk vans.
Afterwards she became my drudge also--washing my floor, bringing up my
coals, and cleaning my grate, for sixpence a week, and giving me a great
deal of information about my neighbours for nothing.
Thus she told me, speaking broad cockney with a Welsh accent, that the
people opposite were named Wagstaffe and that the creaking noise I heard
was that of a mangle, which Mrs. Wagstaffe had to keep because her
husband was a drunkard, who stole her money and came home "a-Saturday
nights, when the public-houses turned out, and beat her somethink
shockin'," though she always forgave him the next day and then the
creaking went on as before.
But the greatest interest of this weird little woman, who had a
premature knowledge of things a child ought not to know, was in a house
half-way down the street on the other side, where steam was always
coming from the open door to the front kitchen.
The people who lived there were named Jones. Mrs. Jones "washed" and had
a bed-ridden old mother (with two shillings from the Guardians) and a
daughter named Maggie.
Maggie Jones, who was eighteen, and very pretty, used to work in the
dairy, but the foreman had "tiken advantage of her" and she had just had
a baby.
This foreman was named Owen Owens and he lived at the last number on our
side, where two unmarried sisters "kept house" for him and sat in the
"singing seat" at Zion.
Maggie thought it was the sisters' fault that Owen Owens did not marry
her, so she conceived a great scheme for "besting" them, and this was
the tragedy which, through Emmerjane's quick little eyes and her
cockney-Welsh tongue, came to me in instalments day by day.
When her baby was a month old Maggie dressed it up "fine" and took it to
the photographers for its "card di visit." The photographs were a long
time coming, but when they came they were "heavenly lovely" and Maggie
"cried to look at them."
Then she put one in an envelope and addressed it to Owen Owens, and
though it had only to cross the street, she went out after dark to a
pillar-box a long way off lest anybody should see her posting it.
Next day she said, "He'll have it now, for he always comes home to
dinner. He'll take it up to his bedroom, look you, and stand it on the
washstand, and if either of those sisters touch it he'll give them
what's what."
After that she waited anxiously for an acknowledgment, and every time
the postman passed down our street her pretty pale face would be at the
door, saying, "Anything for me to-day?" or "Are you _sure_ there's
nothing for me, postman?"
At length a letter came, and Maggie Jones trembled so much that she
dared not open it, but at last she tripped up to her room to be "all of
herself," and then . . . then there was a "wild screech," and when
Emmerjane ran upstairs Maggie was stretched out on the floor in a dead
faint, clutching in her tight hand the photograph which Owen Owens had
returned with the words, written in his heavy scrawl across the
face--_Maggie Jones's bastard_.
It would be impossible to say how this incident affected me. I felt as
if a moral earthquake had opened under my feet.
What had I been doing? In looking forward to the child that was to come
to me I had been thinking only of my own comfort--my own consolation.
But what about the child itself?
If my identity ever became known--and it might at any moment, by the
casual recognition of a person in the street--how should the position of
my child differ from that of this poor girl?
A being born out of the pale of the law, as my husband would say it must
be, an outcast, a thing of shame, without a father to recognise it, and
with its mother's sin to lash its back for ever!
When I thought of that, much as I had longed for the child that was to
be a living link between Martin and me, I asked myself if I had any
right to wish for it.
I felt I had no right, and that considering my helpless position the
only true motherly love was to pray that my baby might be still-born.
But that was too hard. It was too terrible. It was like a second
bereavement. I could not and would not do it.
"Never, never, never!" I told myself.