Authors: Walter Greenwood
Some of the works anticipated such callers as he; there were notices at the entrances:
‘no hands wanted.’
He ignored them. You never knew but what somebody had just been sacked.
‘Please, sir, d’ y’ want any hands?’ A holding of the breath, an anxious stare.
‘Do we hell as like. Go on, sod off. Can’t y’ read? Blimey, we’re sackin’ ‘em ‘usselves. An’ don’t bang the door when y’ go out, either, or Ah’ll be after y’ an’ kick y’r backside.’
There were no more places to visit.
He trudged homewards, staring, a strangulating sensation in his throat, a feeling in his heart as though he had committed some awful crime in which he was sure to be found out
A solitary figure in the midst of busy commerce; a solitary figure wearing a surprised expression, hands thrust into pockets, white mercerized cotton scarf loose about his neck, the down of youth on his pale cheeks. He tried to explain it all to himself, to reason it out. There was no response to thought, only a mystified silence.
As he approached Hanky Park he heard the discordances of the noonday sirens. The sound was prostrating. Those sounds were no concern of his now; they weren’t addressed to him telling him that it was time for him to refrain from work for an hour.
‘Ah’m not workin’. … Ah’m out o’ work.’ Someone else had his place at Marlowe’s and no other firm required him. He was
OUT.
He felt icily alone.
A tinge of shame coloured his cheeks; he licked his lips and slunk along by the walls. Then a burst of resentment swelled his heart. Didn’t the people responsible know what this refusal to give him work meant to him? Didn’t they know he now was a man? Didn’t they know he wanted a home of his own? Didn’t they know he’d served his time? Didn’t they know he was a qualified engineer? Was he any concern of anybody’s? Oh, what use was there in asking the air such questions? What sense in …
‘Hallo, Harry.’
It was Helen.
‘Oh, hallo, Helen,’ he forced a smile. She regarded him, perceiving instantly that there was something amiss: ‘Why, what’s matter, Harry?’ she asked, all concern.
‘Ah’m out o’ collar,’ he muttered, looking from her. She knew, now.
‘Well,’ she answered, brightly: ‘Y’ knew y’d have t’ finish at Marlowe’s when y’ came out o’ y’ time, didn’t y’? It’ll be better for us both when y’ find a job, now.’ She was amazed at his gloom. Here was their opportunity.
Her attitude was surprising. He said, dolefully: ‘Aye, but Ah’ve just bin round Trafford Park. They don’t want nobody.’ He stared at her with misgiving.
‘Well, y’ don’t expect t’ walk into a job straightaway. Pooh, y’ ain’t bin out o’ work half a day,’ confidently: ‘Y’ll find one soon.’
Her optimism was infectious: ‘D’y’ think so?’ he said, smiling eagerly.
‘Of course. You see.’
His eyes kindled, he smiled, intensely relieved: ‘My,’ he murmured, fervently: ‘Won’t it be grand for us both when Ah do?’
THE rain hissed and bounced on the pavements choking soughs and forming large pools in the roadways; air was full of the sounds of gushing water; downspouts a-rush, cascades from the eaves where gutterings were perished.
Mrs Nattle, sitting by the table in her stinking kitchen stared through the streaming windows wondering when her patrons would appear.
The table top said that the day was Monday. It was set out with many rows of pawntickets, many more than usual, each partly covered by a small heap of silver and copper. Also there were a half dozen tumblers handy, and, unbeknown to anybody except Mrs Nattle, a three-quarter-full bottle of whisky stood on the floor between her feet entirely obscured by her trailing skirts. She said, to the cat curled on the arm of the dilapidated horsehair couch: ‘It’s rain wot’s keepin’ ‘um away,’ adding, as an afterthought: ‘Dammit.’
Shuffling footsteps without; sounds of someone’s holding a conversation with themselves: Mrs Nattle pricked her ears: a voice asked, as the footsteps ceased outside the front door: ‘A’ y’ in, missis?’
‘Is that you, Nancy?’
Mrs Dorbell came in, drenched.
‘Tek y’ shawl off. Spread it in front o’ fire,’ said Mrs Nattle.
Mrs Dorbell complied: ‘Wot weather,’ she said: ‘Ne’er stopped for a week.’ She turned, eyed the glasses, sniffed, glanced at Mrs Dorbell and said: ‘The oosual,’ and, while Mrs Nattle reached for the bottle hid beneath her skirts Mrs Dorbell, pressing down her thin hair with her thin yellow hands sat down on the couch and said, mournfully, that she had not had a wink of sleep all the night owing to her ‘cough, cough, cough … ‘
Further complainings were not possible since she was interrupted by the appearances of portly Mrs Bull and tiny Mrs Jike who both entered uninvited and unannounced and who divested themselves of their dripping shawls simultaneously. Mrs Jike also removed her husband’s cap from her head and hung it to dry on the rusty knob of the oven door. She sat next Mrs Dorbell, gave herself a tiny hug and said, brightly: ‘Well, gels, how a’ y’ all this mornin’?’
‘As oosual. Bad,’ said Mrs Dorbell.
‘Ah’d be all right on’y for a twinge o’ rheumatic,’ said Mrs Bull, ‘but Ah don’t worry none. There’s a rare lot on ‘em i’ Weaste (cemetery) as’d be glad of a twinge or two.’
‘Ay, aye,’ said Mrs Jike: The Lord loves a cheerful soul,’ feeling in her placket for her snuff-box: ‘Here, have a pinch o’ Birdseye,’ to Mrs Nattle as the snuff-box went round: Three penn’orth, Mrs Nakkle,’ she grinned ingratiatingly and made a wrinkle-nosed grimace.
Mrs Bull eyed the many rows of pawntickets and put out her lower lip: she said: ‘All this here unemployment’s doin’ somebody some good, Sair Ann.’
Sair Ann glanced at her, sharply, pausing in her occupation of dispensing drinks: ‘What ails y’ now?’ she asked.
Mrs Bull grunted, her copious belly shook and her pendulous bosom wobbled: ‘Luk at table. Full o’ pawntickets. Why, y’ ne’er had quarter as many customers a year ago.’
Things is bad, that’s why,’ murmured Mrs Dorbell, gloomily, holding glass in one hand and pinch of snuff in the other; she added, with relish, after she had consumed the snuff: ‘But thank God, unemployment or no, they can’t touch me owld age pension. Wot a blessin’, wot a blessin’.’
Mrs Jike laughed: ‘That ne’er gowse on short time,’ seriously: ‘Eh, but did y’ ever see sich a crowd as is at Price and Jones’s nowadays? My - my - my! Full to the doors an’ a queue all way round beck entry and half-way up street like it might be the Elbert ‘All.’
Mrs Dorbell added her refrain: Things is bad.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Nattle, corking the bottle with a flourish after pouring out a generous drink for herself: ‘Well,’ she said, replacing the bottle beneath her skirts then glancing at Mrs Bull, significantly: ‘Well, there’s nowt like worry for poppin’ folk off. An’ that’ll be no ill wind for thee, chargin’ like y’ do for layin’ folk out. Wot Ah’ve seen o’ some folk round about here - worritin’ their guts out like damn fools - What
Ah’ve
seen of ‘em there’ll be plenty o’ work for you, soon enough.’
‘Yaaach. They … ‘
A knock, sounding upon the door, caused glasses to disappear as by magic. ‘Who’s there?’ cried Mrs Nattle, suspiciously: ‘Come in. Don’t stand in pours o’ rain.’
It was Mrs Hardcastle. She was smiling with apologetic nervousness and, her own shoes being useless save for the house, she wore Hardcastle’s clogs: ‘Ah’ve on’y come for … ‘ she said: glancing from one to the other, timidly: ‘Ah’d t’ pawn me wed-din’ ring. Though
he
don’t know this is a brass ‘un Ah’m wearin’. He’d murder me if he found Ah’d bin t’ pawnshop wi’ it. So Mrs Nakkle tuk it for me - An’, Ah’ve come … ‘ she smiled, expectantly, at Mrs Nattle.
There ‘tis, lass,’ replied Mrs Nattle, picking up one of the pawntickets and the money thereon: There ‘tis. Y’ wanted hafe a crown on ring. But Ah on’y asked for two an’ five. Y’see, if Ah’d ha’ got y’ hafe a crown y’d have had three’a’pence interes’ t’ find. But being as it’s under hafe a crown owld Price can’t charge more’n a penny. So, two an’ five, wi’ a penny for pawnticket an’ tuppence for me trouble, leaves two and two. There y’are, lass. Two an’ tuppence.’ She gave her the money, adding: ‘Now, what about y’ Good Samaritan?’
‘Well, y’ see,’ murmured Mrs Hardcastle:
‘He’s
finished at pit till further notice. An’ our Harry ain’t found a job yet … It’s gettin’ on for nine months sin’ he’s bin out an’ no signs yet. Ah don’t know what Ah’d do if it weren’t for our Sal’s bit…’
‘Aw,’ said Mrs Bull, with impatience: ‘Damn owld Grumpole an’ his Good Samaritan. Thee put thy money in y’ belly, Mrs Hardcastle and mek him wait’
‘Tek no notice of her,’ snapped Mrs Nattle: ‘Y’ wouldn’t like y’ husband t’ get a summons, would y’, now?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Mrs Hardcastle, alarmed: ‘Here, y’d better tek a shillin’. Ah can’t spare any more. There ain’t a bite o’ food in house for their teas. An’ y’ know what a temper our Sal’s got. Eee, though, she’s a changed lass e’er since she’s bin goin’ out wi’ that Larry Meath,’ she looked at Mrs Bull and smiled: ‘Did y’ know they’re gettin’ wed in a fortnight?’ to them all: Though they want it kep’ a secret.’
‘Now I
am
pleased,’ said Mrs Jike, turning to Mrs Dorbell: ‘A weddin’ in street. Did you ever?’
‘Ay,’ answered Mrs Dorbell, shaking her head: ‘These weddin’s today ain’t like when Ah wus a gel. There wus free beer an’ jig-gin’ in street i’ them days.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bull to Mrs Hardcastle: ‘Larry’s a gradely lad an’ that lass o’ thine’s. lucky t’ ha’ gotten him. He ain’t o’ the strongest, though, an’ he’d do better if he luked to his health more. Ah don’t like that there cough of his. An’ all that politi-cianin’ he’s bin doin’ lakely in this kind o’ weather should ne’er have bin done,’ emphatically: ‘Luk what’s happened wi’ all his talk. National Gover’ment, an’ Labour nowhere. ‘Tain’t no use talkin’ socialism to folk. ‘Twon’t come in our time though Ah allus votes Labour an’ allus will.’
‘Ah votes for none on ‘em,’ said Mrs Dorbell: ‘Me ma an’ her ma was blue (Conservative) or they wus red (Liberal), just depended on which o’ t’ two gev most coal an’ blankets. But there ain’t none o’ that now as kerridge folk’ve left Eccles Owld Road.’
‘Yaa, y’ owld scut,’ snapped Mrs Bull, contemptuously: ‘Yew and y’ kerridge folk. Tuh! Y’d sell y’ soul for a load o’ coal, some o’ y’. Y’ - make - me - sick. Eddicated an’ well-read fellers like Larry Meath talkin’ till they’re blue in face and you … ‘ disgustedly: ‘Aw, what’s use o’ me talkin’?’
‘Ah ne’er bothers me head about wot don’t concern me,’ replied Mrs Dorbell unruffled: ‘Ah understands nowt about politics, an’ nowt Ah want t’ understand. But Ah do understand a load o’ coal.’
Mrs Nattle made a face and raised her glass to it: They’re all same once they get i’ parleyment. All on ‘em, red, white or blue.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bull, draining her glass: ‘Wot Larry Meath said long enough ago’s all comin’ true. Everybody’s comin’ out o’ work. Not house in street but what somebody’s finished or feard o’ finishin’ any day. Aye, even Larry Meath, too. He told me he’s feard for it any week-end. Him wi’ a safe job, too. And how’re t’others gonna go on? It’s gonna be hard on youngsters; specially them gels as is in family way like poor Kate Malloy. She ses him as did it - though she won’t say his name - can’t afford t’ marry her. What d’ y’ make o’ that?’ to Mrs Hardcastle: ‘Aye, an’ if Larry does come out it’ll put paid t’ weddin’.’ Mrs Hardcastle shook her head as did Mrs Bull who concluded: ‘Ay, Ah don’t know what’s gonna come of us all. Ah ne’er remember nowt like it in all my born days and Ah’ve seen some hard times.’
Mrs Jike tittered: ‘We’ll all end up in workhouse. Somebody’ll have to keep us,’ with a bright smile: ‘It down’t do to look on dark side,’ offering her empty glass to Mrs Nattle: ‘Another sip, Sair Anne. While y’ve got it, enjoy it, say I. If it down’t gow one wiy it’ll gow another.’
2
Sally, nostrils dilating, stared at Kate Malloy who stood in front of her, quavering; she demanded, on a note of incredulity: ‘An’ he said he ain’t to blame?’
Kate, fearful of the consequences of Sal’s impetuosity, laid a restraining hand on her arm and replied, anxiously: ‘He don’t mean it, though, Sal. Drunk he was when he said it. He loves me…. He told me he did.’
She shook Kate’s arm away impatiently: ‘Oh, what a
tool
you are,’ she declared, vehemently: ‘Fancy bein’ such a mug to let a thing like that muck about wi’ you. Ya! Just like him it is. Him all o’er,’ staring at Kate, pityingly: ‘An’ y’ still want t’ marry him?’
Kate fingered the link of Woolworth beads round her neck, licked her lips and regarded Sal with a hungry light in her eyes. She did not speak. Sally shrugged and added, resolutely: ‘Well there’s no two ways about it. If he won’t marry y’ he’s got t’ give y’ summat towards its keep. Where is he?’
‘Duke o’ Gloucester,’ Kate murmured: ‘But you won’t do nowt rash, will y’, Ned - Ah mean, Sal. Oh, Ah don’t want him t’ …’
‘Ne’er heed what
you
want.’
They had been conversing on the doorstep of No. 17; the street lamps had just been lit; children were playing around the lamp-posts; groups of the neighbourhood’s young men stood talking at the street corners. Frequently middle-aged and old men and women passed to and fro carrying jugs filled, or to be filled, with supper beer. A blaze of light flooded the pavement immediately outside the open doors of the Duke of Gloucester: from where Kate and Sally stood they could hear, above the conversation, laughter and the rattle of glasses, the hoarse voice of the bar-tender calling: Time, gen’l’men. Time there, please.’