Love on the Dole

by Walter Greenwood

  ‘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 d
on’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.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Sally, with determination, as the patrons of the public-house noisily vacated the place.

  Ned was one of the last to leave. The doors slammed behind him and the bolts were shot as he stepped heavily into the street where he stood awhile thumbs in belt, staring about him with an air of indecision.

  Sally tapped him on the arm. He turned. She interrupted his unspoken greeting, eyes blazing, breathing quick and sharp. She said: ‘Ah want t’ talk to you.’ She turned about, walked a half-dozen paces or so from the groups in front the public-house. With a blank expression of mystification he followed, not seeing Kate standing by the dark house walls staring at him with fascinated fixity.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, perplexed, halting in front of Sally and staring down at her.

  She curled her lip: ‘You ought to know what’s up. You and Kate Malloy,’ glaring at him: ‘Well, what about it?’

  ‘Worrabout wot? Worrabout wot?’ he asked, his mouth slightly agape, brows raised.

  ‘Kate’s in family way and you’re father.’

  ‘Me? Me?’ he blustered: ‘Aw, come off’n it! Blimey, Ah ain’t th’ only one as’s bin wi’ her.’

  ‘Ooo! You dirty dog. You’re a specimen, you are,’ she exclaimed, supremely contemptuous. She turned to Kate who was holding a hand to her mouth and whimpering: ‘Come here, Kate,’ she said. Kate obeyed, avoiding Narkey’s frowning expression: ‘Y’ heard what he said. D’ y’ still want t’ have owt t’ do w’ such a rotten lot?’

  “Ere, ‘ere. Shut y’ trap, or Ah’ll shut it for y’,’ Narkey cried, savagely.

  ‘Yes, and the likes o’ you would, too,’ she snapped back, defiantly: ‘You. … You …’ eyeing him from head to foot: ‘Yaa! You ain’t a man. Ten a penny, that’s what your kind are. Ten a penny. Allus y’ fit for’s t’ tek best out of a girl like Kate what’ll let y’ do what y’ like, then blame it on somebody else.’

  ‘What about that bloody swine as y’ let muck about wi’ you? How many times has ‘e had wot ‘e wants?’ he demanded, thickly: ‘Up another street wi’ him, eh?’

  ‘Leave him out of it,’ she replied. Tossing her head, proudly: ‘He’s doin’ more for me than you’ll do for her. He will marry me.’

  ‘An’ so would Ah ha’ done. Ah asked y’ … ‘

  ‘An’ y’ asked Kate, too… Till y’ got what y’ wanted out of her… ‘

  ‘Augh! Her!’ He turned on Kate, angrily: ‘Y’ gawmless-lookin’ bitch, y’. Why didn’t y’ do as Ah told y’? Ma Haddock would ha’ shifted it for y’. Jesus,’ desperately: ‘ ‘n how do Ah know it’s mine.’

  ‘Oh, Ned, Ned,’ Kate whimpered: ‘Y’ know there ain’t nobody but you.’

  ‘More fool you, Kate. You shouldn’t ha … ‘

  ‘You shut it,’ snapped Narkey. He raised his fist and sent Sally reeling against the wall with a blow to her bosom: Think on, y’ bloody interferin’ bitch, y’. Ah’ll get even with that bastard y’ sweet on. S’elp me. Ah ain’t done wi’ him. Don’t you forget it.’

  White, holding her hand to the injured spot, she faced him and forced a provocative smile. She tossed her head.

  ‘Ah’ll … ‘ he began. Then a sudden thought arrested further speech. He paused. If he declined to marry Kate there would be an affiliation order which wouldn’t take into consideration the uncertainty of his work. But, if he married Kate he could send her to work after her confinement! She was complaisant, was passionately infatuated with him; the kind who would obey him absolutely, who never would have the nerve to question his comings or goings or the manner he wished to spend his time and with whom he wished to spend it. She would be perfectly subservient. He turned to Sally: ‘Ah’ll show y’ what kind of a bloke Ah am. Ah’ll marry her,’ to Kate: ‘D’y’ hear?’ with rising impulsiveness: ‘Ah’ll marry y’ this week-end,’ to Sally: ‘D’y’ hear, y’ interferin’ bitch?’

  ‘So y’ ought Y’ doin’ her no favour.’

  He snarled an oath, turned on his heel and stamped off to his lodgings, nursing bitter grudges against Sally, Larry and Kate. Already he was repenting his impulsiveness. Kate followed in his shadow, a timid smile transfiguring her face.

  Sally sighed, stood there awhile staring into nothingness, responding expansively, to the inevitable comparison between Larry and Ned.

  Within a fortnight she and Larry would be married! At last she had overcome his caution. Yes, and in the face of their inability to save enough money to buy their furnishings cash down. What few pounds had been saved had been given as deposit against the hire purchase of the furniture now in store. He hadn’t anything left, now. Neither had she. And they were in debt to the tune of the balance of the furniture money. Well, she would prove to him that happiness did not depend on money. She would show him how quickly her wages would pay off the debt. She would prove him to be wrong. A soaring of the spirits; an intoxicating picture of themselves in a home of their own.

  A door opened opposite; an oblong beam of gaslight stabbed her eyes and attracted her attention. A shabby young man came out and closed the door. He thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders and trudged to No. 17 with a slouching gait

  She frowned petulantly; pouted, asking herself, plaintively, whether she could help it if her father and Harry were unemployed. Anyway, Harry should have taken the job in an office when he left school; he wouldn’t be advised. Oh, she couldn’t take all the world’s troubles on her shoulders. Hadn’t she enough of her own? Peeved, she followed Harry into the house.

  CHAPTER 6

  A MAN OF LEISURE

  IT got you slowly, with the slippered stealth of an unsuspected, malignant disease.

  You fell into the habit of slouching, of putting your hands into your pockets and keeping them there; of glancing at people, furtively, ashamed of your secret, until you fancied that everybody eyed you with suspicion. You knew that your shabbiness betrayed you; it was apparent for all to see. You prayed for the winter evenings and the kindly darkness. Darkness, poverty’s cloak. Breeches backside patched and re-patched; patches on knees, on elbows. Jesus! All bloody patches. Gor’ blimey!

  ‘Remember t’ day when me ma bought me new pair overalls !’ he murmured, to himself.

  He halted, unconsciously, by a street corner, stood staring at nothing, seeing himself, on that occasion, stalking the streets a beaming smile on his lips: rejuvenated, full of confidence and daring. Unashamed; hopeful.

  Daring! Round Trafford Park and to all the other engineering shops: ‘Any chance of a job, mister?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any vacancies, mate?’

  Snappily: ‘Get off, out of it Open y’ eyes,’ a thumb jerked towards a board: NO HANDS WANTED.

  Trudging home, dispirited, tired. Pausing on Trafford Bridge to stare at the ships in the Ship Canal.

  Ships! Cliffs; afterglow on calm seas; gulls; blue skies, heather and gorse; tiny, whitewashed cottage ‘To Let’, half a crown a week. Walking home with Helen in the bright moonlight.

  Helen! He saw her face in the murky water below; felt tight in the throat, turned away to slink homewards. Home! His spirits retched with nausea. How much longer? Daren’t go to see Helen. Couldn’t bear to look at that question eternally in her eyes: ‘Have you got a job, yet?’

  No money. She’d be like you, fed up. ‘Ah’m goin
’ barmy. Ah’ll jump in cut one o’ these days.’

  There was a dull vacuity in his eyes nowadays; he became listless, hard of hearing, saying, ‘Eh?’ when anybody asked him a question.

  Nothing to do with time; nothing to spend; nothing to do tomorrow nor the day after; nothing to wear; can’t get married. A living corpse; a unit of the spectral army of three million lost men.

  Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, he would slink round the by-streets to the billiard hall, glad to be somewhere out of the way of the public gaze, any place where there were no girls to see him in his threadbare jacket and patched overalls. Stealing into the place like a shadow to seat himself in a corner of one of the wall seats to watch the prosperous young men who had jobs and who could afford billiards, cigarettes and good clothes.

  Watch that bloke there, Harry. … He’ll be chucking his tab-end away in a minute. There it goes! Stoop, surreptitiously, pretend you are fastening your bootlace. Grab the cigarette end now … there’s no one looking. Aaaah! A long puff; tastes good. But it wasn’t always so easy as that Sometimes his vigilant eyes would see the butt end disappear into the spittoon, or its careless owner might crush it beneath his heel.

  At other times his heart would vomit at the thought of the billiard hall. He would saunter about the streets, aimlessly; kick at a tin can lying in the gutter, shoo an alley cat: ‘Pshhhh! Gerrout of it!’ hum or whistle some daft jazz tune, stand transfixed at street corners, brain a blank. Then, waking to a deep hungering for a smoke, would drift inevitably, to the billiard hall. Or he might forget where he was going; have his attention diverted by the play-bills of the picture theatres; half-naked tarts being mauled by dark haired men in evening clothes. Daft Sometimes there were interesting police notices in the chip shop window: ‘Lost, a Toy Dog. £5 Reward.’ Jesus! A fiver for a blasted mongrel. Go’n look for it, Harry. A fiver, though! ‘Wanted for Murder’. A fellow who’s murdered a bank clerk for money: ‘All y’ve got t’ do, Harry, is t’ sneak into a bank, land the clerk a good ‘un over the head then help y’self.’