The Secret
World of the
Victorian
Lodging House
‘With gratitude to Fiona Ashton for her
sharp eye and true ear.’
The Secret
World of the
Victorian
Lodging House
Joseph O’Neill
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Pen & Sword History
an imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
47 Church Street
Barnsley
South Yorkshire
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Copyright © Joseph O’Neill 2014
ISBN 978 1 78159 393 6
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Contents
Preface
Introduction: ‘Without Seeming to Care for Each Other’
Chapter 1 ‘Enough to Raise the Roof Off My Skull’: Working Class Housing in the Nineteenth Century
Chapter 2 ‘A Stain of Blood Bigger than a Man’s Hand’: Aversion to the Poorhouse and the Draw of the Fire
Chapter 3 ‘Stains on the Walls and Floorboards’: The Location of Lodging Houses
Chapter 4 Fighting with a Dog: Precarious Employment
Chapter 5 Harvesters, Hucksters and Harpists: The Common Lodging House in the County Towns
Chapter 6 ‘Aint Eaten for Five Days’: Beggars and Tramps
Chapter 7 ‘Put a Man’s Eye Out with a Poker’: Children
Chapter 8 Blowers and Blow-ins: Fallen Women and Foreigners
Chapter 9 Ferdinando Ferina and the Man Who Spits Fire and Glass: The Lodging House Owner and Keeper
Chapter 10 ‘Whitewashed, Cleansed and Purifed’: Regulation and Decline
Bibliography and Sources
Index
Preface
I jolted awake. In an instant I was at the window. A chill moon lit the backyard. But there was no movement, nothing amiss. What had woken me? Then the gate moved on its hinges, opened a few inches, then closed with a ‘chug’ against the bricks. That was it – the gate banging. I crossed the room, back to the bed, my feet cold on the linoleum. Then I heard it: a clatter of aluminium.
Now there was light under my door, feet on the stairs, my mother’s voice near and my father’s further away. Then I was out on the stairs, my heart skittish to be up at this unknown hour, down the three fights of stairs, along the hall which was chill with the night air and running into my mother’s back at the door of the kitchen. I pushed my head between her hip and the jamb of the door.
Jack lay amid the ruins of the table, its four legs like those of a stricken spider with it’s back broken and about him pans and sieves, pots, jars and ladles, once housed on the shelves he had brought cascading from the wall.
The demolition of the kitchen was never broached and after a while I began to think that I had imagined the whole thing. Circumstantial evidence, however, confrmed my recollection: a new deal table appeared in the kitchen the next day. Besides, Jack was a prodigious drinker, given to concluding his evenings in the most inhospitable of places. On one occasion he was found comatose with his back resting against the door of a telephone box and on another across the bonnet of an Austin A30. The kitchen incident was akin to the evening he embraced the motoring revolution.
In the following days and weeks the lodgers continued to sit around the walls of the living room waiting for their dinner while shielded from my view by their open newspapers, as close as Roman soldiers with their shields locked together in turtle formation. They read the Manchester Evening News, the Cork Weekly Examiner, the Irish Independent and the Western People, while Radio Eireann undulated in the background. On one occasion, irked by the bookish atmosphere, I took a poker from the fre and sought to obliterate Harold Macmillan’s moustache from the front page of the Inishowen Independent. In a furry of fames and fapping the room flled with smoke and the entire newspaper was consigned to the hearth. My father’s ire wilted in the face of the Inishowen man’s indulgent laughter and some of the lodgers supported my actions, adding that ‘burning is too good for that Macmillan.’
As always, they forgave me. They continued to give me half-crowns on pay day and to take me to High Mass, when occasionally during the homily my guardian would step outside to suck deep on a Sweet Afton. Back home, I marvelled at their big boots encrusted in ochre clay, their trousers stiff with mud, the odour of wet wool and damp earth they exuded when recently home from work and the smell of brilliantine and stale Guinness from their blue Sunday suits. Almost weekly, one of them disappeared, off to Kilburn or Digbeth, to be replaced by another from Connemara or Kilkenny.
But most of all, I wondered about why these men lived with us and not in their own homes, with their own wives and children. Who were these fourteen men my mother fed in relays each evening?
When I asked, my father said they were lodgers, men who had left home to fnd work. For as long as I can remember they have fascinated me. Rootless, yet of a specifc time and place, they lived in a twilight place, neither at home nor settled away from home. Without the fnancial or social responsibilities of adults, in many ways they exemplifed the ideals of working class masculinity – tough, strong and independent.
The lodging house I grew up in the 1950s was one of the last of its kind. Social and economic changes, developing patterns of migration and innovations in the building industry reduced the demand for the navvy. But the lodging house, the abode of Britain’s itinerant workers, has a long and fascinating history, little of which is available to the general reader. I hope this book, the result of a long-term interest, helps to fll that gap.
Joseph O’Neill, 2014
Introduction: ‘Without Seeming to Care for Each Other’
‘And you did not notice, madam?’ The coroner’s face was puckered in an expression of outraged incredulity.
‘No, sir,’ replied Mary Wood, indignant at the suggestion that she was in any way blameworthy.
‘The man’s face was black, madam. He was in a state of decomposition’, said the coroner. ‘You saw him on the Wednesday and Thursday subsequent to his retiring to bed and thought nothing of it?’ The coroner clearly found it impossible to imagine a situation in which a lodger could be dead in his be
d for several days without his landlady noticing.
‘I have known some of my lodgers,’ Mary replied, ‘ who have been out upon the spree to lay in bed for three days together without a bit of a sup and then they have gone out to their work as well and as hearty as ever they was in their lives; I have known it often to have been done.’
The coroner shook his grey head. ‘And there were seven other beds in this room?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mary replied.
‘And how many lodgers occupied these beds?’
‘Seventeen,’ she answered.
‘So,’ said the coroner, ‘seventeen people shared a room with a putrefying corpse for three days and not one of them noticed anything amiss?’
‘My lodgers comes and goes and minds their own business,’ said Mary with the manner of one bestowing the highest possible accolade. ‘They goes in and out without seeming to care for each other.’
The inquest into the death of 36-year-old James Parkinson, one of London’s many dealers in cats’ meat, in a common lodging house in West Street, Saffron Hill, in February 1834, allowed the middle classes to peep into the world of the lodging house. Their response, like that of the coroner, was appalled incredulity, with the story confrming their conviction that the common lodging house was the embodiment of evil and everything that threatened good order and human progress. The denizens of the common lodging house, it seemed, were barely human and lived in a manner that shamed a great nation.
It is impossible to peruse any local newspaper of the period without fnding some mention of this ubiquitous institution and its links with crime, prostitution, drunkenness, disease, squalor, juvenile delinquency, violence and murder. To cite but one example: Jack the Ripper’s victims all lived in an area in which every second house was a lodging house and at least two of the women he murdered inhabited such places.
The very term ‘common lodging house’, seemed to raise the hackles of the respectable. Consequently, those investigative journalists who ventured into them were sure of a rapt readership. The world their articles described was no less exotic than that of the Kalahari Bushmen and Maasai warriors; yet the lodger and the lodging house were as much features of Victorian life as the beggar and the pub. They were at the heart of every one of Britain’s cities and towns and were central to working class life.
The 1851 census, for instance, shows that one in three Irishmen between 20 and 44 years of age living in England resided in lodgings. In the same year one in eight homes included a lodger of some sort. In many parts of the country, such as Nottingham and York, it was as high as one in fve. There were 1,401 lodging houses listed in the London post offce directory 20 years later, and this was certainly only a fraction of the true number.
Lodging houses were not new to the nineteenth century. As early as 1749 the worst part of one of London’s most notorious rookeries, the streets around George Street and Church Lane, attracted the attention of Henry Fielding. The area, he said, contained ‘a great number of houses set apart for the reception of rogues and vagabonds who have been lodging there for two pence a night.’ He goes on to mention one woman ‘who alone owns seven of these houses, all with miserable beds from cellar to garret … these beds are several in the same room, men and women, often strangers to each other lie promiscuously. Gin is sold to them at a penny a quart.’
By the mid-nineteenth century lodging houses were a feature of every city and town and formed a system of accommodation linking most parts of the country and making them accessible to travellers of small means. Most towns had a number of streets – in some cases whole districts – where several lodging houses were to be found. In the 1860s Manchester had 472 lodging houses concentrated in specifc areas of the city, and 10 years later 1 in 14 people in the city’s rookeries lived in one.
Yet, though they aroused widespread interest in Victorian times, there has been little written about lodging houses since. As one academic working in this area notes, ‘Despite the signifcance of lodging in nineteenth century urban society it is rather surprising that it has received so little attention from researchers’. Speaking of the importance of the lodging house in the economy of Leicester in the nineteenth century, S.F. Page remarks on the unaccountable fact that ‘it has received so little attention from researchers’. The same may be said of those who used the lodging houses. As another student of this area says, ‘lodgers rarely receive suffcient attention in historical studies’.
Given the British obsession with housing, this is very curious: we imbibe details of house prices as if our entire economic well-being depends on them. Today social commentators assure us that we have a housing crisis. One recently told BBC Radio 4 that the government should put the same resources into housing as it does the NHS. These concerns are not new: Britain has been short of suitable accommodation since at least the late eighteenth century.
While our concerns about housing have remained constant, our perception of the problem has changed. Today it is a crisis if people are fnding it diffcult to buy their own homes. In our age of owner occupiers, in which seventy per cent of people own their own homes, it is diffcult for us to grasp the prevalence of lodging in the Victorian era. As late as 1918, seventy-seven per cent of British people did not own the roof over their head – nor could they take it for granted. The majority rented or lodged. But many could not afford to pay even one week’s rent in advance. Others were mobile and renting in the normal way was of no use to them even if they could afford it.
The most attractive solution for a single person was to go into a private house as a lodger – someone who provides his own food – or a boarder – one who eats with the family. In practice, the distinction between a lodger and a boarder was often blurred: many of those described as lodgers in census records were living in the home of a family member – a brother or sister, cousin, uncle or aunt – and shared family meals.
Failing that, for most of the nineteenth century there was little choice but the common lodging house, which played a signifcant part in working class life and in that of the underclass. Yet until now the lives of these people and their experience of the lodging house have not been discussed in a form accessible to the general reader.
Any attempt to depict the life of Victorian lodging houses must begin by placing them within the context of contemporary working class housing and tackling some of the widely accepted notions about their nature and clientele. How did these establishments compare with the other accommodation available to working people? Why were so many attracted to them, even when better accommodation was to be had at no cost? Why did they acquire such a poisonous reputation? Were all lodging houses the vile dens of thieves and tramps? Were all lodgers rogues and the people who ran the houses all professional criminals, as so many commentators believed? Why did they become such a prominent feature of working class life that hardly a centre of population anywhere in Britain did not have at least one? Were they scattered randomly or were they clustered in certain areas? What attempts were made to eliminate their undesirable features and if so, how successful were they? And fnally, why did the lodging house, so prominent a feature of working class life, virtually disappear in the years immediately before the First World War?
One of the problems of discussing the common lodging house, which also bedevilled legislators, is defning exactly the sort of places with which we are concerned. The defnition used for the census was a building that ‘accommodates lodgers who provide themselves with food in common kitchens shared with other inmates’. The term came into widespread use in Victorian times and referred to cheap accommodation in which clients lodged in shared eating and sleeping facilities with people who were not family members. This is how it shall be used here. It shall not be used to refer to buildings used primarily as family homes in which one or a small number of non-family members also lived in common.
Fascinating as the history of the common lodging house is in its own right, it also has a wider signifcance: it serves as a measure of the quality
of life of those who existed in that ever-shifting nether world where the poor merged with the criminal classes. It was on this opaque realm, where people defy neat categorisation and criminals rubbed shoulders with aspiring workmen, that respectable society’s fears focused.
Chapter One
‘Enough to Raise the Roof Off My Skull’: Working Class Housing in the Nineteenth Century
In 1899 journalist Robert Blatchford went undercover in Manchester for the Sunday Chronicle. He walked less than half a mile from the city centre, his feet echoing through the empty streets. All the gin palaces, pubs and beerhouses had closed and the last of their patrons gone to their beds sodden with drink. The only movements were those of the cats, watching him with yellow-eyed curiosity. As he reached his destination he was conscious of a curious smell: it was the unmistakable reek of the slums, that distinctive odour of human waste and rotting rubbish. He gagged, while around his feet the cats seemed to have multiplied, a milling horde of soiled creatures, their whiskers twitching with curiosity at this outsider. Blatchford raised his head. Pushing back his shoulders, he stepped from the pavement into the narrow passageway.
Within minutes, he was lost in the ‘miles of narrow, murky streets … involuted labyrinths of courts and passages and covered ways where a devilish ingenuity shuts out light and air. Everywhere there was filth, broken pavements, ill-set roads covered with rubbish, stagnant pools of water, and dark, narrow, dilapidated, built-in hovels.’
His middle-class readers were appalled. Many refused to believe it, accusing him of exaggeration, if not blatant lies. After all, Blatchford was not reporting from darkest Africa or the bowels of a teeming oriental city. He was describing Manchester, the great industrial powerhouse which was remaking Britain, shaping the country in its own image and likeness. The horrors of which he spoke were only a few hundred yards from the city’s sumptuous emporia, their plate-glass windows aglow with the light of chandeliers, displaying every luxury produced by the greatest Empire in history. Yet what Blatchford wrote was verified by other social investigators; the Reverend Bass found in Birmingham conditions as bad as those in Manchester, while others vouched that every provincial city and town had pockets of squalor to equal those of the industrial heartland.
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