1
It was the first Saturday afternoon in August; it had been broiling
hot all day, with a cloudless sky, and the sun had been beating down
on the houses, so that the top rooms were like ovens; but now with the
approach of evening it was cooler, and everyone in Vere Street was out
of doors.
Vere street, Lambeth, is a short, straight street leading out of the
Westminster Bridge Road; it has forty houses on one side and forty
houses on the other, and these eighty houses are very much more like
one another than ever peas are like peas, or young ladies like young
ladies. They are newish, three-storied buildings of dingy grey brick
with slate roofs, and they are perfectly flat, without a bow-window or
even a projecting cornice or window-sill to break the straightness of
the line from one end of the street to the other.
This Saturday afternoon the street was full of life; no traffic came
down Vere Street, and the cemented space between the pavements was
given up to children. Several games of cricket were being played by
wildly excited boys, using coats for wickets, an old tennis-ball or a
bundle of rags tied together for a ball, and, generally, an old
broomstick for bat. The wicket was so large and the bat so small that
the man in was always getting bowled, when heated quarrels would
arise, the batter absolutely refusing to go out and the bowler
absolutely insisting on going in. The girls were more peaceable; they
were chiefly employed in skipping, and only abused one another mildly
when the rope was not properly turned or the skipper did not jump
sufficiently high. Worst off of all were the very young children, for
there had been no rain for weeks, and the street was as dry and clean
as a covered court, and, in the lack of mud to wallow in, they sat
about the road, disconsolate as poets. The number of babies was
prodigious; they sprawled about everywhere, on the pavement, round the
doors, and about their mothers' skirts. The grown-ups were gathered
round the open doors; there were usually two women squatting on the
doorstep, and two or three more seated on either side on chairs; they
were invariably nursing babies, and most of them showed clear signs
that the present object of the maternal care would be soon ousted by a
new arrival. Men were less numerous but such as there were leant
against the walls, smoking, or sat on the sills of the ground-floor
windows. It was the dead season in Vere Street as much as in
Belgravia, and really if it had not been for babies just come or just
about to come, and an opportune murder in a neighbouring doss-house,
there would have been nothing whatever to talk about. As it was, the
little groups talked quietly, discussing the atrocity or the merits of
the local midwives, comparing the circumstances of their various
confinements.
'You'll be 'avin' your little trouble soon, eh, Polly?' asked one good
lady of another.
'Oh, I reckon I've got another two months ter go yet,' answered Polly.
'Well,' said a third. 'I wouldn't 'ave thought you'd go so long by the
look of yer!'
'I 'ope you'll have it easier this time, my dear,' said a very stout
old person, a woman of great importance.
'She said she wasn't goin' to 'ave no more, when the last one come.'
This remark came from Polly's husband.
'Ah,' said the stout old lady, who was in the business, and boasted
vast experience. 'That's wot they all says; but, Lor' bless yer, they
don't mean it.'
'Well, I've got three, and I'm not goin' to 'ave no more bli'me if I
will; 'tain't good enough--that's wot I says.'
'You're abaht right there, ole gal,' said Polly, 'My word, 'Arry, if
you 'ave any more I'll git a divorce, that I will.'
At that moment an organ-grinder turned the corner and came down the
street.
'Good biz; 'ere's an organ!' cried half a dozen people at once.
The organ-man was an Italian, with a shock of black hair and a
ferocious moustache. Drawing his organ to a favourable spot, he
stopped, released his shoulder from the leather straps by which he
dragged it, and cocking his large soft hat on the side of his head,
began turning the handle. It was a lively tune, and in less than no
time a little crowd had gathered round to listen, chiefly the young
men and the maidens, for the married ladies were never in a fit state
to dance, and therefore disinclined to trouble themselves to stand
round the organ. There was a moment's hesitation at opening the ball;
then one girl said to another:
'Come on, Florrie, you and me ain't shy; we'll begin, and bust it!'
The two girls took hold of one another, one acting gentleman, the
other lady; three or four more pairs of girls immediately joined them,
and they began a waltz. They held themselves very upright; and with an
air of grave dignity which was quite impressive, glided slowly about,
making their steps with the utmost precision, bearing themselves with
sufficient decorum for a court ball. After a while the men began to
itch for a turn, and two of them, taking hold of one another in the
most approved fashion, waltzed round the circle with the gravity of
judges.
All at once there was a cry: 'There's Liza!' And several members of
the group turned and called out: 'Oo, look at Liza!'
The dancers stopped to see the sight, and the organ-grinder, having
come to the end of his tune, ceased turning the handle and looked to
see what was the excitement.
'Oo, Liza!' they called out. 'Look at Liza; oo, I sy!'
It was a young girl of about eighteen, with dark eyes, and an enormous
fringe, puffed-out and curled and frizzed, covering her whole forehead
from side to side, and coming down to meet her eyebrows. She was
dressed in brilliant violet, with great lappets of velvet, and she had
on her head an enormous black hat covered with feathers.
'I sy, ain't she got up dossy?' called out the groups at the doors, as
she passed.
'Dressed ter death, and kill the fashion; that's wot I calls it.'
Liza saw what a sensation she was creating; she arched her back and
lifted her head, and walked down the street, swaying her body from
side to side, and swaggering along as though the whole place belonged
to her.
''Ave yer bought the street, Bill?' shouted one youth; and then half a
dozen burst forth at once, as if by inspiration:
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
It was immediately taken up by a dozen more, and they all yelled it
out:
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road. Yah, ah, knocked 'em in the Old
Kent Road!'
'Oo, Liza!' they shouted; the whole street joined in, and they gave
long, shrill, ear-piercing shrieks and strange calls, that rung down
the street and echoed back again.
'Hextra special!' called out a wag.
'Oh, Liza! Oo! Ooo!' yells and whistles, and then it thundered forth
again:
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
Liza put on the air of a conquering hero, and sauntered on, enchanted
at the uproar. She stuck out her elbows and jerked her head on one
side, and said to herself as she passed through the bellowing crowd:
'This is jam!'
'Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road!'
When she came to the group round the barrel-organ, one of the girls
cried out to her:
'Is that yer new dress, Liza?'
'Well, it don't look like my old one, do it?' said Liza.
'Where did yer git it?' asked another friend, rather enviously.
'Picked it up in the street, of course,' scornfully answered Liza.
'I believe it's the same one as I saw in the pawnbroker's dahn the
road,' said one of the men, to tease her.
'Thet's it; but wot was you doin' in there? Pledgin' yer shirt, or was
it yer trousers?'
'Yah, I wouldn't git a second-'and dress at a pawnbroker's!'
'Garn!' said Liza indignantly. 'I'll swipe yer over the snitch if yer
talk ter me. I got the mayterials in the West Hend, didn't I? And I
'ad it mide up by my Court Dressmiker, so you jolly well dry up, old
jellybelly.'
'Garn!' was the reply.
Liza had been so intent on her new dress and the comment it was
exciting that she had not noticed the organ.
'Oo, I say, let's 'ave some dancin',' she said as soon as she saw it.
'Come on, Sally,' she added, to one of the girls, 'you an' me'll dance
togither. Grind away, old cock!'
The man turned on a new tune, and the organ began to play the
Intermezzo from the 'Cavalleria'; other couples quickly followed
Liza's example, and they began to waltz round with the same solemnity
as before; but Liza outdid them all; if the others were as stately as
queens, she was as stately as an empress; the gravity and dignity with
which she waltzed were something appalling, you felt that the minuet
was a frolic in comparison; it would have been a fitting measure to
tread round the grave of a _première danseuse_, or at the funeral of a
professional humorist. And the graces she put on, the languor of the
eyes, the contemptuous curl of the lips, the exquisite turn of the
hand, the dainty arching of the foot! You felt there could be no
questioning her right to the tyranny of Vere Street.
Suddenly she stopped short, and disengaged herself from her companion.
'Oh, I sy,' she said, 'this is too bloomin' slow; it gives me the
sick.'
That is not precisely what she said, but it is impossible always to
give the exact unexpurgated words of Liza and the other personages of
the story, the reader is therefore entreated with his thoughts to
piece out the necessary imperfections of the dialogue.
'It's too bloomin' slow,' she said again; 'it gives me the sick. Let's
'ave somethin' a bit more lively than this 'ere waltz. You stand over
there, Sally, an' we'll show 'em 'ow ter skirt dance.'
They all stopped waltzing.
'Talk of the ballet at the Canterbury and South London. You just wite
till you see the ballet at Vere Street, Lambeth--we'll knock 'em!'
She went up to the organ-grinder.
'Na then, Italiano,' she said to him, 'you buck up; give us a tune
that's got some guts in it! See?'
She caught hold of his big hat and squashed it down over his eyes. The
man grinned from ear to ear, and, touching the little catch at the
side, began to play a lively tune such as Liza had asked for.
The men had fallen out, but several girls had put themselves in
position, in couples, standing face to face; and immediately the music
struck up, they began. They held up their skirts on each side, so as
to show their feet, and proceeded to go through the difficult steps
and motions of the dance. Liza was right; they could not have done it
better in a trained ballet. But the best dancer of them all was Liza;
she threw her whole soul into it; forgetting the stiff bearing which
she had thought proper to the waltz, and casting off its elaborate
graces, she gave herself up entirely to the present pleasure.
Gradually the other couples stood aside, so that Liza and Sally were
left alone. They paced it carefully, watching each other's steps, and
as if by instinct performing corresponding movements, so as to make
the whole a thing of symmetry.
'I'm abaht done,' said Sally, blowing and puffing. 'I've 'ad enough of
it.'
'Go on, Liza!' cried out a dozen voices when Sally stopped.
She gave no sign of having heard them other than calmly to continue
her dance. She glided through the steps, and swayed about, and
manipulated her skirt, all with the most charming grace imaginable,
then, the music altering, she changed the style of her dancing, her
feet moved more quickly, and did not keep so strictly to the ground.
She was getting excited at the admiration of the onlookers, and her
dance grew wilder and more daring. She lifted her skirts higher,
brought in new and more difficult movements into her improvisation,
kicking up her legs she did the wonderful twist, backwards and
forwards, of which the dancer is proud.
'Look at 'er legs!' cried one of the men.
'Look at 'er stockin's!' shouted another; and indeed they were
remarkable, for Liza had chosen them of the same brilliant hue as her
dress, and was herself most proud of the harmony.
Her dance became gayer: her feet scarcely touched the ground, she
whirled round madly.
'Take care yer don't split!' cried out one of the wags, at a very
audacious kick.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Liza, with a gigantic
effort, raised her foot and kicked off his hat. The feat was greeted
with applause, and she went on, making turns and twists, flourishing
her skirts, kicking higher and higher, and finally, among a volley of
shouts, fell on her hands and turned head over heels in a magnificent
catharine-wheel; then scrambling to her feet again, she tumbled into
the arms of a young man standing in the front of the ring.
'That's right, Liza,' he said. 'Give us a kiss, now,' and promptly
tried to take one.
'Git aht!' said Liza, pushing him away, not too gently.
'Yus, give us a kiss,' cried another, running up to her.
'I'll smack yer in the fice!' said Liza, elegantly, as she dodged him.
'Ketch 'old on 'er, Bill,' cried out a third, 'an' we'll all kiss
her.'
'Na, you won't!' shrieked Liza, beginning to run.
'Come on,' they cried, 'we'll ketch 'er.'
She dodged in and out, between their legs, under their arms, and then,
getting clear of the little crowd, caught up her skirts so that they
might not hinder her, and took to her heels along the street. A score
of men set in chase, whistling, shouting, yelling; the people at the
doors looked up to see the fun, and cried out to her as she dashed
past; she ran like the wind. Suddenly a man from the side darted into
the middle of the road, stood straight in her way, and before she knew
where she was, she had jumped shrieking into his arms, and he, lifting
her up to him, had imprinted two sounding kisses on her cheeks.
'Oh, you ----!' she said. Her expression was quite unprintable; nor can
it be euphemized.
There was a shout of laughter from the bystanders, and the young men
in chase of her, and Liza, looking up, saw a big, bearded man whom she
had never seen before. She blushed to the very roots of her hair,
quickly extricated herself from his arms, and, amid the jeers and
laughter of everyone, slid into the door of the nearest house and was
lost to view.
2
Liza and her mother were having supper. Mrs. Kemp was an elderly woman,
short, and rather stout, with a red face, and grey hair brushed tight
back over her forehead. She had been a widow for many years, and since
her husband's death had lived with Liza in the ground-floor front room
in which they were now sitting. Her husband had been a soldier, and
from a grateful country she received a pension large enough to keep
her from starvation, and by charring and doing such odd jobs as she
could get she earned a little extra to supply herself with liquor.
Liza was able to make her own living by working at a factory.
Mrs. Kemp was rather sulky this evening.
'Wot was yer doin' this afternoon, Liza?' she asked.
'I was in the street.'
'You're always in the street when I want yer.'
'I didn't know as 'ow yer wanted me, mother,' answered Liza.
'Well, yer might 'ave come ter see! I might 'ave been dead, for all
you knew.'
Liza said nothing.
'My rheumatics was thet bad to-dy, thet I didn't know wot ter do with
myself. The doctor said I was to be rubbed with that stuff 'e give me,
but yer won't never do nothin' for me.'
'Well, mother,' said Liza, 'your rheumatics was all right yesterday.'
'I know wot you was doin'; you was showin' off thet new dress of
yours. Pretty waste of money thet is, instead of givin' it me ter sive
up. An' for the matter of thet, I wanted a new dress far worse than
you did. But, of course, I don't matter.'
Liza did not answer, and Mrs. Kemp, having nothing more to say,
continued her supper in silence.
It was Liza who spoke next.
'There's some new people moved in the street. 'Ave you seen 'em?' she
asked.
'No, wot are they?'
'I dunno; I've seen a chap, a big chap with a beard. I think 'e lives
up at the other end.'
She felt herself blushing a little.
'No one any good you be sure,' said Mrs. Kemp. 'I can't swaller these
new people as are comin' in; the street ain't wot it was when I fust
come.'
When they had done, Mrs. Kemp got up, and having finished her half-pint
of beer, said to her daughter:
'Put the things awy, Liza. I'm just goin' round to see Mrs. Clayton;
she's just 'ad twins, and she 'ad nine before these come. It's a pity
the Lord don't see fit ter tike some on 'em--thet's wot I say.'
After which pious remark Mrs. Kemp went out of the house and turned
into another a few doors up.
Liza did not clear the supper things away as she was told, but opened
the window and drew her chair to it. She leant on the sill, looking
out into the street. The sun had set, and it was twilight, the sky was
growing dark, bringing to view the twinkling stars; there was no
breeze, but it was pleasantly and restfully cool. The good folk still
sat at their doorsteps, talking as before on the same inexhaustible
subjects, but a little subdued with the approach of night. The boys
were still playing cricket, but they were mostly at the other end of
the street, and their shouts were muffled before they reached Liza's
ears.
She sat, leaning her head on her hands, breathing in the fresh air and
feeling a certain exquisite sense of peacefulness which she was not
used to. It was Saturday evening, and she thankfully remembered that
there would be no factory on the morrow; she was glad to rest.
Somehow she felt a little tired, perhaps it was through the excitement
of the afternoon, and she enjoyed the quietness of the evening. It
seemed so tranquil and still; the silence filled her with a strange
delight, she felt as if she could sit there all through the night
looking out into the cool, dark street, and up heavenwards at the
stars. She was very happy, but yet at the same time experienced a
strange new sensation of melancholy, and she almost wished to cry.
Suddenly a dark form stepped in front of the open window. She gave a
little shriek.
''Oo's thet?' she asked, for it was quite dark, and she did not
recognize the man standing in front of her.
'Me, Liza,' was the answer.
'Tom?'
'Yus!'
It was a young man with light yellow hair and a little fair moustache,
which made him appear almost boyish; he was light-complexioned and
blue-eyed, and had a frank and pleasant look mingled with a curious
bashfulness that made him blush when people spoke to him.
'Wot's up?' asked Liza.
'Come aht for a walk, Liza, will yer?'
'No!' she answered decisively.
'You promised ter yesterday, Liza.'
'Yesterday an' ter-day's two different things,' was her wise reply.
'Yus, come on, Liza.'
'Na, I tell yer, I won't.'
'I want ter talk ter yer, Liza.' Her hand was resting on the
window-sill, and he put his upon it. She quickly drew it back.
'Well, I don't want yer ter talk ter me.'
But she did, for it was she who broke the silence.
'Say, Tom, 'oo are them new folk as 'as come into the street? It's a
big chap with a brown beard.'
'D'you mean the bloke as kissed yer this afternoon?'
Liza blushed again.
'Well, why shouldn't 'e kiss me?' she said, with some inconsequence.
'I never said as 'ow 'e shouldn't; I only arst yer if it was the
sime.'
'Yea, thet's 'oo I mean.'
''Is nime is Blakeston--Jim Blakeston. I've only spoke to 'im once;
he's took the two top rooms at No. 19 'ouse.'
'Wot's 'e want two top rooms for?'
''Im? Oh, 'e's got a big family--five kids. Ain't yer seen 'is wife
abaht the street? She's a big, fat woman, as does 'er 'air funny.'
'I didn't know 'e 'ad a wife.'
There was another silence; Liza sat thinking, and Tom stood at the
window, looking at her.
'Won't yer come aht with me, Liza?' he asked, at last.
'Na, Tom,' she said, a little more gently, 'it's too lite.'
'Liza,' he said, blushing to the roots of his hair.
'Well?'
'Liza'--he couldn't go on, and stuttered in his shyness--'Liza,
I--I--I loves yer, Liza.'
'Garn awy!'
He was quite brave now, and took hold of her hand.
'Yer know, Liza, I'm earnin' twenty-three shillin's at the works now,
an' I've got some furniture as mother left me when she was took.'
The girl said nothing.
'Liza, will you 'ave me? I'll make yer a good 'usband, Liza, swop me
bob, I will; an' yer know I'm not a drinkin' sort. Liza, will yer
marry me?'
'Na, Tom,' she answered quietly.
'Oh, Liza, won't you 'ave me?'
'Na, Tom, I can't.'
'Why not? You've come aht walkin' with me ever since Whitsun.'
'Ah, things is different now.'
'You're not walkin' aht with anybody else, are you, Liza?' he asked
quickly.
'Na, not that.'
'Well, why won't yer, Liza? Oh Liza, I do love yer, I've never loved
anybody as I love you!'
'Oh, I can't, Tom!'
'There ain't no one else?'
'Na.'
'Then why not?'
'I'm very sorry, Tom, but I don't love yer so as ter marry yer.'
'Oh, Liza!'
She could not see the look upon his face, but she heard the agony in
his voice; and, moved with sudden pity, she bent out, threw her arms
round his neck, and kissed him on both cheeks.
'Never mind old chap!' she said. 'I'm not worth troublin' abaht.'
And quickly drawing back, she slammed the window to, and moved into
the further part of the room.
3
The following day was Sunday. Liza when she was dressing herself in
the morning, felt the hardness of fate in the impossibility of eating
one's cake and having it; she wished she had reserved her new dress,
and had still before her the sensation of a first appearance in it.
With a sigh she put on her ordinary everyday working dress, and
proceeded to get the breakfast ready, for her mother had been out late
the previous night, celebrating the new arrivals in the street, and
had the 'rheumatics' this morning.
'Oo, my 'ead!' she was saying, as she pressed her hands on each side
of her forehead. 'I've got the neuralgy again, wot shall I do? I dunno
'ow it is, but it always comes on Sunday mornings. Oo, an' my
rheumatics, they give me sich a doin' in the night!'
'You'd better go to the 'orspital mother.'
'Not I!' answered the worthy lady, with great decision. 'You 'as a
dozen young chaps messin' you abaht, and lookin' at yer, and then they
tells yer ter leave off beer and spirrits. Well, wot I says, I says I
can't do withaht my glass of beer.' She thumped her pillow to
emphasize the statement.
'Wot with the work I 'ave ter do, lookin' after you and the cookin'
and gettin' everythin' ready and doin' all the 'ouse-work, and goin'
aht charring besides--well, I says, if I don't 'ave a drop of beer, I
says, ter pull me together, I should be under the turf in no time.'
She munched her bread-and-butter and drank her tea.
'When you've done breakfast, Liza,' she said, 'you can give the grate
a cleanin', an' my boots'd do with a bit of polishin'. Mrs. Tike, in
the next 'ouse, 'll give yer some blackin'.'
She remained silent for a bit, then said:
'I don't think I shall get up ter-day. Liza. My rheumatics is bad. You
can put the room straight and cook the dinner.'
'Arright, mother, you stay where you are, an' I'll do everythin' for
yer.'
'Well, it's only wot yer ought to do, considerin' all the trouble
you've been ter me when you was young, and considerin' thet when you
was born the doctor thought I never should get through it. Wot 'ave
you done with your week's money, Liza?'
'Oh, I've put it awy,' answered Liza quietly.
'Where?' asked her mother.
'Where it'll be safe.'
'Where's that?'
Liza was driven into a corner.
'Why d'you want ter know?' she asked.
'Why shouldn't I know; d'you think I want ter steal it from yer?'
'Na, not thet.'
'Well, why won't you tell me?'
'Oh, a thing's sifer when only one person knows where it is.'
This was a very discreet remark, but it set Mrs. Kemp in a whirlwind of
passion. She raised herself and sat up in the bed, flourishing her
clenched fist at her daughter.
'I know wot yer mean, you ---- you!' Her language was emphatic, her
epithets picturesque, but too forcible for reproduction. 'You think
I'd steal it,' she went on. 'I know yer! D'yer think I'd go an' tike
yer dirty money?'
'Well, mother,' said Liza, 'when I've told yer before, the money's
perspired like.'
'Wot d'yer mean?'
'It got less.'
'Well, I can't 'elp thet, can I? Anyone can come in 'ere and tike the
money.'
'If it's 'idden awy, they can't, can they, mother?' said Liza.
Mrs. Kemp shook her fist.
'You dirty slut, you,' she said, 'yer think I tike yer money! Why, you
ought ter give it me every week instead of savin' it up and spendin'
it on all sorts of muck, while I 'ave ter grind my very bones down to
keep yer.'
'Yer know, mother, if I didn't 'ave a little bit saved up, we should
be rather short when you're dahn in yer luck.'
Mrs. Kemp's money always ran out on Tuesday, and Liza had to keep
things going till the following Saturday.
'Oh, don't talk ter me!' proceeded Mrs. Kemp. 'When I was a girl I give
all my money ter my mother. She never 'ad ter ask me for nothin'. On
Saturday when I come 'ome with my wiges, I give it 'er every farthin'.
That's wot a daughter ought ter do. I can say this for myself, I
be'aved by my mother like a gal should. None of your prodigal sons for
me! She didn't 'ave ter ask me for three 'apence ter get a drop of
beer.'
Liza was wise in her generation; she held her tongue, and put on her
hat.
'Now, you're goin' aht, and leavin' me; I dunno wot you get up to in
the street with all those men. No good, I'll be bound. An' 'ere am I
left alone, an' I might die for all you care.'
In her sorrow at herself the old lady began to cry, and Liza slipped
out of the room and into the street.
Leaning against the wall of the opposite house was Tom; he came
towards her.
''Ulloa!' she said, as she saw him. 'Wot are you doin' 'ere?'
'I was waitin' for you ter come aht, Liza,' he answered.
She looked at him quickly.
'I ain't comin' aht with yer ter-day, if thet's wot yer mean,' she
said.
'I never thought of arskin' yer, Liza--after wot you said ter me last
night.'
His voice was a little sad, and she felt so sorry for him.
'But yer did want ter speak ter me, didn't yer, Tom?' she said, more
gently.
'You've got a day off ter-morrow, ain't yer?'
'Bank 'Oliday. Yus! Why?'
'Why, 'cause they've got a drag startin' from the "Red Lion" that's
goin' down ter Chingford for the day--an' I'm goin'.'
'Yus!' she said.
He looked at her doubtfully.
'Will yer come too, Liza? It'll be a regular beeno; there's only goin'
ter be people in the street. Eh, Liza?'
'Na, I can't.'
'Why not?'
'I ain't got--I ain't got the ooftish.'
'I mean, won't yer come with me?'
'Na, Tom, thank yer; I can't do thet neither.'
'Yer might as well, Liza; it wouldn't 'urt yer.'
'Na, it wouldn't be right like; I can't come aht with yer, and then
mean nothin'! It would be doin' yer aht of an outing.'
'I don't see why,' he said, very crestfallen.
'I can't go on keepin' company with you--after what I said last night.'
'I shan't enjoy it a bit without you, Liza.'
'You git somebody else, Tom. You'll do withaht me all right.'
She nodded to him, and walked up the street to the house of her friend
Sally. Having arrived in front of it, she put her hands to her mouth
in trumpet form, and shouted:
''I! 'I! 'I! Sally!'
A couple of fellows standing by copied her.
''I! 'I! 'I! Sally!'
'Garn!' said Liza, looking round at them.
Sally did not appear and she repeated her call. The men imitated her,
and half a dozen took it up, so that there was enough noise to wake
the seven sleepers.
''I! 'I! 'I! Sally!'
A head was put out of a top window, and Liza, taking off her hat,
waved it, crying:
'Come on dahn, Sally!'
'Arright, old gal!' shouted the other. 'I'm comin'!'
'So's Christmas!' was Liza's repartee.
There was a clatter down the stairs, and Sally, rushing through the
passage, threw herself on to her friend. They began fooling, in
reminiscence of a melodrama they had lately seen together.
'Oh, my darlin' duck!' said Liza, kissing her and pressing her, with
affected rapture, to her bosom.
'My sweetest sweet!' replied Sally, copying her.
'An' 'ow does your lidyship ter-day?'
'Oh!'--with immense languor--'fust class; and is your royal 'ighness
quite well?'
'I deeply regret,' answered Liza, 'but my royal 'ighness 'as got the
collywobbles.'
Sally was a small, thin girl, with sandy hair and blue eyes, and a
very freckled complexion. She had an enormous mouth, with terrible,
square teeth set wide apart, which looked as if they could masticate
an iron bar. She was dressed like Liza, in a shortish black skirt and
an old-fashioned bodice, green and grey and yellow with age; her
sleeves were tucked up to the elbow, and she wore a singularly dirty
apron, that had once been white.
'Wot 'ave you got yer 'air in them things for?' asked Liza, pointing
to the curl-papers. 'Goin' aht with yer young man ter-day?'
'No, I'm going ter stay 'ere all day.'
'Wot for, then?'
'Why, 'Arry's going ter tike me ter Chingford ter-morrer.'
'Oh? In the "Red Lion" brake?'
'Yus. Are you goin'?'
'Na!'
'Not! Well, why don't you get round Tom? 'E'll tike yer, and jolly
glad 'e'll be, too.'
''E arst me ter go with 'im, but I wouldn't.'
'Swop me bob--why not?'
'I ain't keeping company with 'im.'
'Yer might 'ave gone with 'im all the sime.'
'Na. You're goin' with 'Arry, ain't yer?'
'Yus!'
'An' you're goin' to 'ave 'im?'
'Right again!'
'Well, I couldn't go with Tom, and then throw him over.'
'Well, you are a mug!'
The two girls had strolled down towards the Westminster Bridge Road,
and Sally, meeting her young man, had gone to him. Liza walked back,
wishing to get home in time to cook the dinner. But she went slowly,
for she knew every dweller in the street, and as she passed the groups
sitting at their doors, as on the previous evening, but this time
mostly engaged in peeling potatoes or shelling peas, she stopped and
had a little chat. Everyone liked her, and was glad to have her
company. 'Good old Liza,' they would say, as she left them, 'she's a
rare good sort, ain't she?'
She asked after the aches and pains of all the old people, and
delicately inquired after the babies, past and future; the children
hung on to her skirts and asked her to play with them, and she would
hold one end of the rope while tiny little ragged girls skipped,
invariably entangling themselves after two jumps.
She had nearly reached home, when she heard a voice cry:
'Mornin'!'
She looked round and recognized the man whom Tom had told her was
called Jim Blakeston. He was sitting on a stool at the door of one of
the houses, playing with two young children, to whom he was giving
rides on his knee. She remembered his heavy brown beard from the day
before, and she had also an impression of great size; she noticed this
morning that he was, in fact, a big man, tall and broad, and she saw
besides that he had large, masculine features and pleasant brown eyes.
She supposed him to be about forty.
'Mornin'!' he said again, as she stopped and looked at him.
'Well, yer needn't look as if I was goin' ter eat yer up, 'cause I
ain't,' he said.
''Oo are you? I'm not afeard of yer.'
'Wot are yer so bloomin' red abaht?' he asked pointedly.
'Well, I'm 'ot.'
'You ain't shirty 'cause I kissed yer last night?'
'I'm not shirty; but it was pretty cool, considerin' like as I didn't
know yer.'
'Well, you run into my arms.'
'Thet I didn't; you run aht and caught me.'
'An' kissed yer before you could say "Jack Robinson".' He laughed at
the thought. 'Well, Liza,' he went on, 'seein' as 'ow I kissed yer
against yer will, the best thing you can do ter make it up is to kiss
me not against yer will.'
'Me?' said Liza, looking at him, open-mouthed. 'Well you are a pill!'
The children began to clamour for the riding, which had been
discontinued on Liza's approach.
'Are them your kids?' she asked.
'Yus; them's two on 'em.'
''Ow many 'ave yer got?'
'Five; the eldest gal's fifteen, and the next one 'oo's a boy's
twelve, and then there are these two and baby.'
'Well, you've got enough for your money.'
'Too many for me--and more comin'.'
'Ah well,' said Liza, laughing, 'thet's your fault, ain't it?'
Then she bade him good morning, and strolled off.
He watched her as she went, and saw half a dozen little boys surround
her and beg her to join them in their game of cricket. They caught
hold of her arms and skirts, and pulled her to their pitch.
'No, I can't,' she said trying to disengage herself. 'I've got the
dinner ter cook.'
'Dinner ter cook?' shouted one small boy. 'Why, they always cooks the
cats' meat at the shop.'
'You little so-and-so!' said Liza, somewhat inelegantly, making a dash
at him.
He dodged her and gave a whoop; then turning he caught her round the
legs, and another boy catching hold of her round the neck they dragged
her down, and all three struggled on the ground, rolling over and
over; the other boys threw themselves on the top, so that there was a
great heap of legs and arms and heads waving and bobbing up and down.
Liza extricated herself with some difficulty, and taking off her hat
she began cuffing the boys with it, using all the time the most lively
expressions. Then, having cleared the field, she retired victorious
into her own house and began cooking the dinner.
4
Bank Holiday was a beautiful day: the cloudless sky threatened a
stifling heat for noontide, but early in the morning, when Liza got
out of bed and threw open the window, it was fresh and cool. She
dressed herself, wondering how she should spend her day; she thought
of Sally going off to Chingford with her lover, and of herself
remaining alone in the dull street with half the people away. She
almost wished it were an ordinary work-day, and that there were no
such things as bank holidays. And it seemed to be a little like two
Sundays running, but with the second rather worse than the first. Her
mother was still sleeping, and she was in no great hurry about getting
the breakfast, but stood quietly looking out of the window at the
house opposite.
In a little while she saw Sally coming along. She was arrayed in
purple and fine linen--a very smart red dress, trimmed with velveteen,
and a tremendous hat covered with feathers. She had reaped the benefit
of keeping her hair in curl-papers since Saturday, and her sandy
fringe stretched from ear to ear. She was in enormous spirits.
''Ulloa, Liza!' she called as soon as she saw her at the window.
Liza looked at her a little enviously.
''Ulloa!' she answered quietly.
'I'm just goin' to the "Red Lion" to meet 'Arry.'
'At what time d'yer start?'
'The brake leaves at 'alf-past eight sharp.'
'Why, it's only eight; it's only just struck at the church. 'Arry
won't be there yet, will he?'
'Oh, 'e's sure ter be early. I couldn't wite. I've been witin' abaht
since 'alf-past six. I've been up since five this morning.'
'Since five! What 'ave you been doin'?'
'Dressin' myself and doin' my 'air. I woke up so early. I've been
dreamin' all the night abaht it. I simply couldn't sleep.'
'Well, you are a caution!' said Liza.
'Bust it, I don't go on the spree every day! Oh, I do 'ope I shall
enjoy myself.'
'Why, you simply dunno where you are!' said Liza, a little crossly.
'Don't you wish you was comin', Liza?' asked Sally.
'Na! I could if I liked, but I don't want ter.'
'You are a coughdrop--thet's all I can say. Ketch me refusin' when I
'ave the chanst.'
'Well, it's done now. I ain't got the chanst any more.' Liza said this
with just a little regret in her voice.
'Come on dahn to the "Red Lion", Liza, and see us off,' said Sally.
'No, I'm damned if I do!' answered Liza, with some warmth.
'You might as well. P'raps 'Arry won't be there, an' you can keep me
company till 'e comes. An' you can see the 'orses.'
Liza was really very anxious to see the brake and the horses and the
people going; but she hesitated a little longer. Sally asked her once
again. Then she said:
'Arright; I'll come with yer, and wite till the bloomin' old thing
starts.'
She did not trouble to put on a hat, but just walked out as she was,
and accompanied Sally to the public-house which was getting up the
expedition.
Although there was still nearly half an hour to wait, the brake was
drawn up before the main entrance; it was large and long, with seats
arranged crosswise, so that four people could sit on each; and it was
drawn by two powerful horses, whose harness the coachman was now
examining. Sally was not the first on the scene, for already half a
dozen people had taken their places, but Harry had not yet arrived.
The two girls stood by the public-door, looking at the preparations.
Huge baskets full of food were brought out and stowed away; cases of
beer were hoisted up and put in every possible place--under the seats,
under the driver's legs, and even beneath the brake. As more people
came up, Sally began to get excited about Harry's non-appearance.
'I say, I wish 'e'd come!' she said. ''E is lite.'
Then she looked up and down the Westminster Bridge Road to see if he
was in view.
'Suppose 'e don't turn up! I will give it 'im when 'e comes for
keepin' me witin' like this.'
'Why, there's a quarter of an hour yet,' said Liza, who saw nothing at
all to get excited about.
At last Sally saw her lover, and rushed off to meet him. Liza was left
alone, rather disconsolate at all this bustle and preparation. She was
not sorry that she had refused Tom's invitation, but she did wish that
she had conscientiously been able to accept it. Sally and her friend
came up; attired in his Sunday best, he was a fit match for his
lady-love--he wore a shirt and collar, unusual luxuries--and be
carried under his arm a concertina to make things merry on the way.
'Ain't you goin', Liza?' he asked in surprise at seeing her without a
hat and with her apron on.
'Na,' said Sally, 'ain't she a soft? Tom said 'e'd tike 'er, an' she
wouldn't.'
'Well, I'm dashed!'
Then they climbed the ladder and took their seats, so that Liza was
left alone again. More people had come along, and the brake was nearly
full. Liza knew them all, but they were too busy taking their places
to talk to her. At last Tom came. He saw her standing there and went
up to her.
'Won't yer change yer mind, Liza, an' come along with us?'
'Na, Tom, I told yer I wouldn't--it's not right like.' She felt she
must repeat that to herself often.
'I shan't enjoy it a bit without you,' he said.
'Well, I can't 'elp it!' she answered, somewhat sullenly.
At that moment a man came out of the public-house with a horn in his
hand; her heart gave a great jump, for if there was anything she
adored it was to drive along to the tootling of a horn. She really
felt it was very hard lines that she must stay at home when all these
people were going to have such a fine time; and they were all so
merry, and she could picture to herself so well the delights of the
drive and the picnic. She felt very much inclined to cry. But she
mustn't go, and she wouldn't go: she repeated that to herself twice as
the trumpeter gave a preliminary tootle.
Two more people hurried along, and when they came near Liza saw that
they were Jim Blakeston and a woman whom she supposed to be his wife.
'Are you comin', Liza?' Jim said to her.
'No,' she answered. 'I didn't know you was goin'.'
'I wish you was comin',' he replied, 'we shall 'ave a game.'
She could only just keep back the sobs; she so wished she were going.
It did seem hard that she must remain behind; and all because she
wasn't going to marry Tom. After all, she didn't see why that should
prevent her; there really was no need to refuse for that. She began to
think she had acted foolishly: it didn't do anyone any good that she
refused to go out with Tom, and no one thought it anything specially
fine that she should renounce her pleasure. Sally merely thought her a
fool.
Tom was standing by her side, silent, and looking disappointed and
rather unhappy. Jim said to her, in a low voice:
'I am sorry you're not comin'!'
It was too much. She did want to go so badly, and she really couldn't
resist any longer. If Tom would only ask her once more, and if she
could only change her mind reasonably and decently, she would accept;
but he stood silent, and she had to speak herself. It was very
undignified.
'Yer know, Tom.' she said, 'I don't want ter spoil your day.'
'Well, I don't think I shall go alone; it 'ud be so precious slow.'
Supposing he didn't ask her again! What should she do? She looked up
at the clock on the front of the pub, and noticed that it only wanted
five minutes to the half-hour. How terrible it would be if the brake
started and he didn't ask her! Her heart beat violently against her
chest, and in her agitation she fumbled with the corner of her apron.
'Well, what can I do, Tom dear?'
'Why, come with me, of course. Oh. Liza, do say yes.'
She had got the offer again, and it only wanted a little seemly
hesitation, and the thing was done.
'I should like ter, Tom,' she said. 'But d'you think it 'ud be
arright?'
'Yus, of course it would. Come on, Liza!' In his eagerness he clasped
her hand.
'Well,' she remarked, looking down, 'if it'd spoil your 'oliday--.'
'I won't go if you don't--swop me bob, I won't!' he answered.
'Well, if I come, it won't mean that I'm keepin' company with you.'
'Na, it won't mean anythin' you don't like.'
'Arright!' she said.
'You'll come?' he could hardly believe her.
'Yus!' she answered, smiling all over her face.
'You're a good sort, Liza! I say, 'Arry, Liza's comin'!' he shouted.
'Liza? 'Oorray!' shouted Harry.
''S'at right, Liza?' called Sally.
And Liza feeling quite joyful and light of heart called back:
'Yus!'
''Oorray!' shouted Sally in answer.
'Thet's right, Liza,' called Jim; and he smiled pleasantly as she
looked at him.
'There's just room for you two 'ere,' said Harry, pointing to the
vacant places by his side.
'Arright!' said Tom.
'I must jest go an' get a 'at an' tell mother,' said Liza.
'There's just three minutes. Be quick!' answered Tom, and as she
scampered off as hard as she could go, he shouted to the coachman:
''Old 'ard; there' another passenger comin' in a minute.'
'Arright, old cock,' answered the coachman: 'no 'urry!'
Liza rushed into the room, and called to her mother, who was still
asleep:
'Mother! mother! I'm going to Chingford!'
Then tearing off her old dress she slipped into her gorgeous violet
one; she kicked off her old ragged shoes and put on her new boots. She
brushed her hair down and rapidly gave her fringe a twirl and a
twist--it was luckily still moderately in curl from the previous
Saturday--and putting on her black hat with all the feathers, she
rushed along the street, and scrambling up the brake steps fell
panting on Tom's lap.
The coachman cracked his whip, the trumpeter tootled his horn, and
with a cry and a cheer from the occupants, the brake clattered down
the road.
5
As soon as Liza had recovered herself she started examining the people
on the brake; and first of all she took stock of the woman whom Jim
Blakeston had with him.
'This is my missus!' said Jim, pointing to her with his thumb.
'You ain't been dahn in the street much, 'ave yer?' said Liza, by way
of making the acquaintance.
'Na,' answered Mrs. Blakeston, 'my youngster's been dahn with the
measles, an' I've 'ad my work cut out lookin' after 'im.'
'Oh, an' is 'e all right now?'
'Yus, 'e's gettin' on fine, an' Jim wanted ter go ter Chingford
ter-day, an' 'e says ter me, well, 'e says, "You come along ter
Chingford, too; it'll do you good." An' 'e says, "You can leave
Polly"--she's my eldest, yer know--"you can leave Polly," says 'e,
"ter look after the kids." So I says, "Well, I don't mind if I do,"
says I.'
Meanwhile Liza was looking at her. First she noticed her dress: she
wore a black cloak and a funny, old-fashioned black bonnet; then
examining the woman herself, she saw a middle-sized, stout person
anywhere between thirty and forty years old. She had a large, fat face
with a big mouth, and her hair was curiously done, parted in the
middle and plastered down on each side of the head in little plaits.
One could see that she was a woman of great strength, notwithstanding
evident traces of hard work and much child-bearing.
Liza knew all the other passengers, and now that everyone was settled
down and had got over the excitement of departure, they had time to
greet one another. They were delighted to have Liza among them, for
where she was there was no dullness. Her attention was first of all
taken up by a young coster who had arrayed himself in the traditional
costume--grey suit, tight trousers, and shiny buttons in profusion.
'Wot cheer, Bill!' she cried to him.
'Wot cheer, Liza!' he answered.
'You are got up dossy, you'll knock 'em.'
'Na then, Liza Kemp,' said his companion, turning round with mock
indignation, 'you let my Johnny alone. If you come gettin' round 'im
I'll give you wot for.'
'Arright, Clary Sharp, I don't want 'im,' answered Liza. 'I've got one
of my own, an' thet's a good 'andful--ain't it, Tom?'
Tom was delighted, and, unable to find a repartee, in his pleasure
gave Liza a great nudge with his elbow.
''Oo, I say,' said Liza, putting her hand to her side. 'Tike care of
my ribs; you'll brike 'em.'
'Them's not yer ribs,' shouted a candid friend--'them's yer
whale-bones yer afraid of breakin'.'
'Garn!'
''Ave yer got whale-bones?' said Tom, with affected simplicity,
putting his arm round her waist to feel.
'Na, then,' she said, 'keep off the grass!'
'Well, I only wanted ter know if you'd got any.'
'Garn; yer don't git round me like thet.'
He still kept as he was.
'Na then,' she repeated, 'tike yer 'and away. If yer touch me there
you'll 'ave ter marry me.'
'Thet's just wot I wants ter do, Liza!'
'Shut it!' she answered cruelly, and drew his arm away from her waist.
The horses scampered on, and the man behind blew his horn with vigour.
'Don't bust yerself, guv'nor!' said one of the passengers to him when
he made a particularly discordant sound. They drove along eastwards,
and as the hour grew later the streets became more filled and the
traffic greater. At last they got on the road to Chingford, and caught
up numbers of other vehicles going in the same direction--donkey-shays,
pony-carts, tradesmen's carts, dog-carts, drags, brakes, every
conceivable kind of wheel thing, all filled with people, the
wretched donkey dragging along four solid rate-payers to the pair
of stout horses easily managing a couple of score. They exchanged
cheers and greetings as they passed, the 'Red Lion' brake being
noticeable above all for its uproariousness. As the day wore on
the sun became hotter, and the road seemed more dusty and threw up a
greater heat.
'I am getting 'ot!' was the common cry, and everyone began to puff and
sweat.
The ladies removed their cloaks and capes, and the men, following
their example, took off their coats and sat in their shirt-sleeves.
Whereupon ensued much banter of a not particularly edifying kind
respecting the garments which each person would like to remove--which
showed that the innuendo of French farce is not so unknown to the
upright, honest Englishman as might be supposed.
At last came in sight the half-way house, where the horses were to
have a rest and a sponge down. They had been talking of it for the
last quarter of a mile, and when at length it was observed on the top
of a hill a cheer broke out, and some thirsty wag began to sing 'Rule
Britannia', whilst others burst forth with a different national ditty,
'Beer, Glorious Beer!' They drew up before the pub entrance, and all
climbed down as quickly as they could. The bar was besieged, and
potmen and barmaids were quickly busy drawing beer and handing it over
to the eager folk outside.