Vaguely, in fleeting glimpses of a lost and distant childhood, the neat room at auntie’s was a princess’s little bower. Illusory memory made even the hostel seem a pleasant and superior place. Most people, however, are not crushed by worsening circumstances. They become used to them. The new life is the normal. This is what happened quite rapidly to Grace.
She never expected much from life. As much as to any other of the poor the future had always been a darkness to be feared. Only pleasant things were to be thought of, and warm visions dreamed, the kind of visions supplied by her twopenny romances. Since she was, however, a practical girl, she did not let the visions intrude too much. On her level of life the one unalterable dream, the one haven for which everyone prayed, was to have and keep “a good place”. This marriage was to Grace “a good place”. And if it was in the kind of surroundings she had always dreaded, she consoled herself with the standard formulas of the unfortunate. “It could be worse.” “Might as well make the best of it.”
So she adapted; and so, rapidly, became outwardly and with no awareness of change, a different person from the prim, scared, hardworking hostel girl. She became adept at making the best of it. She could stay in bed till nine o’clock. Dido seemed to be pleased rather than put out when she did so. Once she let herself do it, she realised what a blissful, positively aching luxury it was. She could read her books to her heart’s content. She bought boxes of lovely soft-centre chocolates, for Dido left her plenty of money. One had to be sociable, so sometimes she went downstairs, made a pot of tea and exchanged a few words with Mrs Peach. She even began to eat more and Dido said her face was filling out. All the ill-effects of her pregnancy had gone. She had never felt better than now.
She was also quite used to Dido at nights. Not that there was anything wonderful about it, the way some of the girls had said. But Dido was quieter now. She felt rather nice holding this man like a big baby while he did it. He was so hard and frightening by day and during those interludes in bed she felt that it was her turn to have the upper hand; for he was never again mad and fierce like on that first night — he was quick and quiet and never said a word, and soon turned over with his back to her and fell asleep.
This was a terrible place to live in if she stopped to think of it. But it never did to think too much. She could be a lot worse off. And after all, she was a married woman.
Dido was also contented with life. He looked back on that frenzy of his wedding night with no deep scrutiny but all the same he felt a certain mild puzzlement. Pulling all his clothes off like that! What a way for a man to behave!
He would never think of doing it again, yet half-consciously he savoured the memory of skin upon skin. Those moments were the only time in his life since he was a babe in arms when he had achieved something of which he was starved and for which his unsuspected self craved — closeness to another human being. Not that he was aware of this. The contact had been only half-achieved. Each time as he spent himself there had been a sag of bitterness in him, as he acknowledged once more that “there was nothing in it.”
Yet there was pleasure in having her next to him in bed every night. He did not want her all that often now, but she settled comfortably up against him when he did, and she put her arms round him. He slept well afterwards; and he had a satisfied feeling as if here was something he securely owned.
They never spoke at these times. But then, they didn’t speak much during the daytime. He didn’t want her asking questions about his life. It was not a secret, but the more she got used to him, the more naturally she would accept things as she found them out. They had quite nice chats about things to buy for their room.
She was bored at home all day. He asked mother how she got on with Grace and she said, “All right.” He asked Grace how she got on with mother and she answered, “All right.” He did not know what women got up to. They must pass the time somehow, but Grace never went out. She could not very well hobnob with the other women on the pavement or in the shops and she said she was frightened to walk up to the main road where the buses ran. He could understand a sensitive girl like her being frightened.
He made it up to her by taking her out in the evenings and he, too, found these evenings enjoyable. He had never enjoyed company like this before. They went to music-halls and picture palaces, for walks in the City, bus rides; and they looked forward to the warmer weather when they could enjoy some fresh air in the parks. He did not mind going up the street with her on his arm; on the contrary it stung him with pride at the fine clothes he had bought her, and with contempt for the people on the doorsteps who would start jabbering as soon as he had gone past. Grace was more than ever an assurance that he was not their sort.
The traders were paying up like lambs these days — those with the money. Well, they could afford it. Thanks to him they had never lived so peaceful and quiet. Perhaps they thought they owed him nothing just because things were always quiet now. That was silly. As soon say there was no need for the army because it was not fighting, or that the police should not be paid because the streets were quiet. Those shopkeepers would soon find someone robbing and squeezing them if he wasn’t here.
There was no doubt life was treating him better. He had never had this easy enjoying feeling before. A man certainly needed a wife. He gave Grace credit for her part and he sometimes wanted to say nice things to her. In bed sometimes he only wanted to pat her on the shoulder and say, “You’re a good girl.” It was strange, he could not get himself to say anything of this sort. A man could not be expected to talk sloppy. He could not think of a set of words that would say what he felt without sounding sloppy. During their evening out they could walk for quite a while without talking but not feeling embarrassed. They both had their own thoughts. She seemed to have no curiosity at all about what he did during the day. He was grateful for that, too. He showed his gratitude by encouraging her to go out. She could not stay indoors all the time. It was like being in prison. She admitted so herself.
He gave her a couple of sovereigns and told her to go for a ride up West and buy something. That gave her the courage. She went out and bought a hat and a lot of ribbons and some material to make a dress at home. She showed him these things and it gave them something to talk about in a nice and friendly way.
After that she went out on her own more often and he gave her more money to spend. It was better than words.
The daytime when he was on his own was difficult to pass. There were no more sociable spells with the neighbours. He could not go and sit in the teashop any more. He took to riding out with Tommy Long, the rag-and-bone man. Usually Dido took the reins and left Tommy to his street cries and his chaffering for wares. Dido loved the sturdy pony, and his pleasure was to turn into a long, broad street and set the alert beast to a trot so brisk that Tommy complained he had no chance to do business. “What do you think this is?” Tommy said as they rattled home one evening, “A bleed’n’ Roman chariot?”
Dido slowed down as they approached Rabbit Marsh. Soon the pony was stabled and rubbed down. Tommy said, “Goin’ up the brick?”
“My place to.”
“Come with yer.”
“No. Go on my own.”
Dido walked away; down the street, past his own house and across the road to “The Railway”.
As he drew near he heard a caterwauling female voice sing the chorus of “Lily of Laguna”, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano. Other voices joined in discordantly and over them all sounded the piano, a din as if the player crashed bunches of knuckles into the approximate neighbourhood of the notes he wanted.
The tune ended as Dido pushed the door open. The clamour of applause and talk died to a hush. Everyone looked at him.
At the far end of the room a table stood in front of the partition. Behind this sat Meek, the publican. He was dressed in his best suit. On the table in front of him was a plate full of silver and copper coins.
Chairs were set in front of the bar to one side, all occupied by men in
their best and women in draggled finery. Facing them, on the benches against the wall, sat the Murchisons: all who were old enough to be admitted and were not in jail. This was the brick — the traditional collection and tribute to the dead.
Dido walked steadily between the two subdued rows. As the greatest enemy of the deceased, it was his duty to make the largest contribution. Dido did not look to right or left, but he saw a man start from his seat as he went by. It was Keogh. He heard the mutter of anger and glimpsed two other men holding Keogh back by the shoulders.
He stopped in front of the chairman’s table. He said, “’Evenin’, Sam.”
“’Evenin’, Dido.”
Dido put a sovereign in the plate. He turned, and at that moment Keogh pulled free from the restraining hands, stood up, shivered the base of a bottle against the wall and stood in Dido’s path, the jagged end of the bottle towards him.
From all parts of the room came reproachful murmurs. “Respec’.”
“Respec’.”
Dido walked towards the door.
“Respec’.”
“Sit down.”
“Respec’ the dead.”
Men moved forward and seized Keogh by both arms. He strained, glaring with rage, but he made no sound. Dido walked past without looking at him.
Keogh did not turn his head to look after Dido. He sighed and went slack, and let himself be disarmed. He sat down again even before the door had closed behind Dido.
A crowd gathered in Brick Lane to see Ginger Murchison off. There were three carriages and a hearse drawn by two glossy black horses with huge black plumes, paid for by the brick.
Two men stood apart from the crowd, on a corner near Jaggs Place. They were Mr Merry and Weldon. They were talking and laughing to each other, and they did not stop when the hearse went past; but they both took off their hats.
Chapter Fifteen
At the beginning of May Shonny started in his new post. The minister had got him into a surveyor’s office in Bishopsgate. Mrs Peach had taken Shonny for the interview. She had been awed by the stiff gentleman who sat behind the table but exalted by the fact that this great personage had approved of her neat, shining and respectful boy.
Shonny felt very frightened on the morning that he set out to begin a new life. It had its consolations, though. There were three other boys in the office. They were all bigger than him though none of them looked much older. At first their unfriendly stares had intimidated him but the one who showed him in for the interview had winked at him. Perhaps he would have fun with them like in the boys’ books he read. They were all smart-looking fellows and he saw himself strolling round the City with them, publicly smoking Woodbines. Then the gentleman had explained that part of his job would be to carry documents to and from other offices. This, too, was a relief, even a promise of excitements. He would still have the freedom of the streets. And he would from now on really be a man; for he would bring home five shillings a week.
He set off just as his mother had imagined him. He wore a dark-grey gent’s suit, stiff collar and straight black tie, bowler hat and polished new boots; and he carried his sandwiches in a tiny fibre attache-case. The suit made him feel especially grand and grown-up; for, an incredible experience, he had gone to a tailor’s with Dido and been measured for it.
His mother stooped to kiss him. Her eyes were wet and her voice broke as she murmured, “Be a good boy.”
Grace gave him a kiss and said, “You look a real gentleman.”
Chas was already at work; but he had slipped a packet of five fags into Shonny’s new jacket before he left; and now Dido looked down at him, with a stern smile. “You be a credit to mother,” Dido said. “I want you to get on. Here —” Dido gave him a half-crown. “Money in your pocket you’re beholden to nobody.”
Shonny walked away down the sunny street like a little man, feeling frightened and proud.
Later, when Dido had left the house, Grace went upstairs. She smiled at the picture of Shonny as a stiff, solemn and (she was woman enough to sense it) scared little man, walking away down the street. She loved him. She always wanted to hug him. No one else ever made her feel like that. She could not say that she felt loving about Dido. She liked him. He did his best for her. But there was nothing in him to make a woman go soft and warm like there was in Shonny. Shonny was a little red apple that she could eat. She went into her new drawing-room; the back room on the top floor, next to her bedroom, and she opened the window wide. The sun touched her face benignly and a light breeze made the air as sweet as a cool drink, free from its usual taste of sulphur and soot. The house-backs that faced her across the back yards were stamped black and sharp against a blue sky dappled with puffs of white cloud. It was good to be alive; even here.
She heard the rumble of the mangle in the yard below. A little figure stood turning the handle, a ragamuffin hired at half a crown a week. Today he would take Shonny’s place with the barrow. The sight of him made her smile at another memory of Shonny, this time in his old street garb. She thought she preferred Shonny in his ragamuffin guise. It made him look such a cheerful and cheeky little tinker.
Of course (the memory of Shonny at the barrow made her thoughts run again) she had known almost all along that the business only employed one small boy. She had sized the situation up quickly enough. She knew that Dido had spun her a yarn before their marriage. She ought to know by now. She had been in this house two months and indoors most of the time. She had never seen any other employee but Shonny or the street arab down there now. It was obviously a very small business. Dido was a proud sort of chap. It was like him to feel ashamed of having such a small shabby business. All the same, it paid. She could see that, too. He was never short of money and he never kept her short. His mother always kept a good table. It was silly of him, there was no need to be ashamed of a business that paid.
She certainly would not shame him by letting him know that she had seen through him. A still tongue meant a wise head, especially for a wife. The first thing a wife had to learn was to act as if she knew who wore the trousers. The more the husband felt that, the more she would learn to manage him, as long as she took her time.
Then, in the end, she would get her way about moving to a nice home. After he had brushed aside her first suggestion she had not raised it again. It didn’t do to nag. She must let time do its work. And then she would also open his eyes about the business. She was sure it could be built up. It only needed ambition and push. Dido needed someone behind him, otherwise he would have got out of this house long ago. Why, in the end he might have just the kind of flourishing business he had romanced about that time (ages ago, it seemed) in the teashop. And he would have his wife to thank for it.
In the meantime she could not complain. He did anything she asked. Think of what led up to this new drawing-room. It began one night when the Irish were making a noise in the next room. She sat on the edge of the bed and told him that she couldn’t stand it any more. She was not hysterical. She simply told him that she had stuck it as long as she could and she couldn’t bear any more of it.
“I’ll tell ’em to be quiet,” he said.
“You’re always telling them to be quiet. You can’t stop children crying. It’s no use telling them. I just can’t stand them. They’re awful. They’re a danger to health. How can you keep bugs down with them living in there in dirt?”
Dido pondered. “Only get someone else if they go.”
And the flash of inspiration had come to her. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you got any ideas?” she cried. “Do we always have to live in one room? It’s not right living in one room.”
“We don’t live in one room.”
“You mean sharing the kitchen with your family? One room. And it’s not right for people in business. We might have friends to entertain.”
“Who would we entertain?”
“One day we shall want to bring children home to play with our little one. Childr
en of a nice class. Perhaps their parents will come. And are we going to bring a child up in one room?”
Dido brooded again. At last he said, simply, “Right.”
He certainly was a terror when he started. The next morning she heard Dido talking to the Irishman on the landing. Their voices rose. She heard the man swearing. Then she heard a blow and a tumbling noise. She was afraid to open the door but Dido came in and she said, “What happened?”
“Raised ’is hand to me. Knocked ’im down the stairs.” Her Dido was a strange chap. She couldn’t say why but there were moments when he frightened her. It was the hard, narrow way he looked at a person sometimes. Anyway, the Irish went, and now here she was with a drawing-room of her own.
Everything was rich, the dark floral wallpaper, the thick, flowered carpet that she loved to walk on in her stockinged feet, the sofa and heavy curtains in dark green velvet, the china cabinet, table and chairs of rich, red mahogany. She spent hours polishing the mahogany; and hours on the sofa, sleeping, daydreaming with books and thinking no more than a cat with a good place on the hearth. One day she would get a piano. It would be nice to learn the piano.
Not many girls had two fine rooms — a flat as you might say — two months after they were married. She had no cause to grumble. She stretched out on the sofa and took up a romance and was lost for a long time. She paid no attention when the Westminster chime of the mantelpiece clock sounded the quarter hours; but she answered to the stroke of eleven. She put her book away and went into the bedroom to prepare for her visit.
She put on her latest costume; a plum-coloured coat of corduroy velvet with deep revers. Rich was the word for this, too. It was a beautiful rich colour and the hat matched. The coat set off her figure. She admired herself in the mirror. She really was filling out. She wasn’t big yet — goodness she was hardly four months gone, but her cheeks had a good colour. She had a lovely oval line and she had a bosom at last. She used to be depressed by her thin sallow face and flat chest. Marriage had certainly done her good. It wasn’t only the baby. For the first time since her childhood with auntie she was eating good meals with plenty of meat, milk and butter; and when she lay on her new sofa she was popping chocolates into her mouth all the time. Yes, a full figure suited her. It made her look womanly; and what was more, prosperous.
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