Within the next few days Crass resumed the role he had played when Hunter was ill during the summer, taking charge of the work and generally doing his best to fill the dead man’s place, although – as he confided to certain of his cronies in the bar of the Cricketers – he had no intention of allowing Rushton to do the same as Hunter had done. One of his first jobs – on the morning after the discovery of the body – was to go with Mr Rushton to look over a house where some work was to be done for which an estimate had to be given. It was this estimate that Hunter had been trying to make out the previous evening in the office, for they found that the papers on his table were covered with figures and writing relating to this work. These papers justified the subsequent verdict of the Coroner’s jury that Hunter committed suicide in a fit of temporary insanity, for they were covered with a lot of meaningless scribbling, the words wrongly spelt and having no intelligible connection with each other. There was one sum that he had evidently tried repeatedly to do correctly, but which came wrong in a different way every time. The fact that he had the razor in his possession seemed to point to his having premeditated the act, but this was accounted for at the inquest by the evidence of the last person who saw him alive, a hairdresser, who stated that Hunter had left the razor with him to be sharpened a few days previously and that he had called for it on the evening of the tragedy. He had ground this razor for Mr Hunter several times before.
Crass took charge of all the arrangements for the funeral. He bought a new second-hand pair of black trousers at a cast-off clothing shop in honour of the occasion, and discarded his own low-crowned silk hat – which was getting rather shabby – in favour of Hunter’s tall one, which he found in the office and annexed without hesitation or scruple. It was rather large for him, but he put some folded strips of paper inside the leather lining. Crass was a proud man as he walked in Hunter’s place at the head of the procession, trying to look solemn, but with a half-smile on his fat, pasty face, destitute of colour except one spot on his chin near his underlip, where there was a small patch of inflammation about the size of a threepenny piece. This spot had been there for a very long time. At first – as well as he could remember – it was only a small pimple, but it had grown larger, with something the appearance of scurvy. Crass attributed its continuation to the cold having ‘got into it last winter’. It was rather strange, too, because he generally took care of himself when it was cold: he always wore the warm wrap that had formerly belonged to the old lady who died of cancer. However, Crass did not worry much about this little sore place; he just put a little zinc ointment on it occasionally and had no doubt that it would get well in time.
53
Barrington Finds a Situation
The revulsion of feeling that Barrington experienced during the progress of the election was intensified by the final result. The blind, stupid, enthusiastic admiration displayed by the philanthropists for those who exploited and robbed them; their extraordinary apathy with regard to their own interests; the patient, broken-spirited way in which they endured their sufferings, tamely submitting to live in poverty in the midst of the wealth they had helped to create; their callous indifference to the fate of their children, and the savage hatred they exhibited towards anyone who dared to suggest the possibility of better things, forced upon him the thought that the hopes he cherished were impossible of realization. The words of the renegade Socialist recurred constantly to his mind:
‘You can be a Jesus Christ if you like, but for my part I’m finished. For the future I intend to look after myself. As for these people, they vote for what they want, they get what they vote for, and, by God! they deserve nothing better! They are being beaten with whips of their own choosing, and if I had my way they should be chastised with scorpions. For them, the present system means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature death; and they vote for it and uphold it. Let them have what they vote for! Let them drudge and let them starve!’
These words kept ringing in his ears as he walked through the crowded streets early one fine evening a few days before Christmas. The shops were all brilliantly lighted for the display of their Christmas stores, and the pavements and even the carriageways were thronged with sightseers.
Barrington was specially interested in the groups of shabbily dressed men and women and children who gathered in the roadway in front of the poulterers’ and butchers’ shops, gazing at the meat and the serried rows of turkeys and geese decorated with coloured ribbons and rosettes. He knew that to come here and look at these things was the only share many of these poor people would have of them, and he marvelled greatly at their wonderful patience and abject resignation. But what struck him most of all was the appearance of many of the women, evidently working men’s wives. Their faded, ill-fitting garments and the tired, sad expressions on their pale and careworn faces. Some of them were alone; others were accompanied by little children who trotted along trustfully clinging to their mothers’ hands. The sight of these poor little ones, their utter helplessness and dependence, their patched unsightly clothing and broken boots, and the wistful looks on their pitiful faces as they gazed into the windows of the toy-shops, sent a pang of actual physical pain to his heart and filled his eyes with tears. He knew that these children – naked of joy and all that makes life dear – were being tortured by the sight of the things that were placed so cruelly before their eyes, but which they were not permitted to touch or to share; and, like Joseph of old, his heart yearned over to his younger brethren.
He felt like a criminal because he was warmly clad and well fed in the midst of all this want and unhappiness, and he flushed with shame because he had momentarily faltered in his devotion to the noblest cause that any man could be privileged to fight for – the uplifting of the disconsolate and the oppressed.
He presently came to a large toy shop outside which several children were standing admiring the contents of the window. He recognized some of these children and paused to watch them and to listen to their talk. They did not notice him standing behind them as they ranged to and fro before the window, and as he looked at them, he was reminded of the way in which captive animals walk up and down behind the bars of their cages. These children wandered repeatedly, backwards and forwards from one end of the window to the other, with their little hands pressed against the impenetrable plate glass, choosing and pointing out to each other the particular toys that took their fancies.
‘That’s mine!’ cried Charley Linden, enthusiastically indicating a large strongly built waggon. ‘If I had that I’d give Freddie rides in it and bring home lots of firewood, and we could play at fire engines as well.’
‘I’d rather have this railway,’ said Frankie Owen. ‘There’s a real tunnel and real coal in the tenders; then there’s the station and the signals and a place to turn the engine round, and a red lantern to light when there’s danger on the line.’
‘Mine’s this doll – not the biggest one, the one in pink with clothes that you can take off,’ said Elsie; ‘and this tea-set; and this needlecase for Mother.’
Little Freddie had let go his hold of Elsie, to whom he usually clung tightly and was clapping his hands and chuckling with delight and desire. ‘Gee-gee!’ he cried eagerly. ‘Gee-gee. Pwetty Gee-gee! Fweddy want gee-gee!’
‘But it’s no use lookin’ at them any longer,’ continued Elsie, with a sigh, as she took hold of Freddie’s hand to lead him away. ‘It’s no use lookin’ at ’em any longer; the likes of us can’t expect to have such good things as them.’
This remark served to recall Frankie and Charley to the stern realities of life, and turning reluctantly away from the window they prepared to follow Elsie, but Freddie had not yet learnt the lesson – he had not lived long enough to understand that the good things of the world were not for the likes of him; so when Elsie attempted to draw him away he pursed up his underlip and began to cry, repeating that he wanted a gee-gee. The other children clustered round trying to coax and comfort him by telling him that no
one was allowed to have anything out of the windows yet – until Christmas – and that Santa Claus would be sure to bring him a gee-gee then; but these arguments failed to make any impression on Freddie, who tearfully insisted upon being supplied at once.
Whilst they were thus occupied they caught sight of Barrington, whom they hailed with evident pleasure born of the recollection of certain gifts of pennies and cakes they had at different times received from him.
‘Hello, Mr Barrington,’ said the two boys in a breath.
‘Hello,’ replied Barrington, as he patted the baby’s cheek. ‘What’s the matter here? What’s Freddie crying for?’
‘He wants that there ’orse, mister, the one with the real ’air on,’ said Charley, smiling indulgently like a grown-up person who realized the absurdity of the demand.
‘Fweddie want gee-gee,’ repeated the child, taking hold of Barrington’s hand and returning to the window. ‘Nice gee-gee.’
‘Tell him that Santa Claus’ll bring it to him on Christmas,’ whispered Elsie. ‘P’raps he’ll believe you and that’ll satisfy him, and he’s sure to forget all about it in a little while.’
‘Are you still out of work, Mr Barrington?’ inquired Frankie.
‘No,’ replied Barrington slowly. ‘I’ve got something to do at last.’
‘Well, that’s a good job, ain’t it?’ remarked Charley.
‘Yes,’ said Barrington. ‘And whom do you think I’m working for?’
‘Who?’
‘Santa Claus.’
‘Santa Claus!’ echoed the children, opening their eyes to the fullest extent.
‘Yes,’ continued Barrington, solemnly. ‘You know, he is a very old man now, so old that he can’t do all his work himself. Last year he was so tired that he wasn’t able to get round to all the children he wanted to give things to, and consequently a great many of them never got anything at all. So this year he’s given me a job to help him. He’s given me some money and a list of children’s names, and against their names are written the toys they are to have. My work is to buy the things and give them to the boys and girls whose names are on the list.’
The children listened to this narrative with bated breath. Incredible as the story seemed, Barrington’s manner was so earnest as to almost compel belief.
‘Really and truly, or are you only having a game?’ said Frankie at length, speaking almost in a whisper. Elsie and Charley maintained an awestruck silence, while Freddie beat upon the glass with the palms of his hands.
‘Really and truly,’ replied Barrington unblushingly as he took out his pocket-book and turned over the leaves. ‘I’ve got the list here; perhaps your names are down for something.’
The three children turned pale and their hearts beat violently as they listened wide-eyed for what was to follow.
‘Let me see,’ continued Barrington, scanning the pages of the book. ‘Why, yes, here they are! Elsie Linden, one doll with clothes that can be taken off, one tea-set, one needlecase. Freddie Easton, one horse with real hair. Charley Linden, one four-wheeled waggon full of groceries. Frankie Owen, one railway with tunnel, station, train with real coal for engine, signals, red lamp and place to turn the engines round.’
Barrington closed the book: ‘So you may as well have your things now,’ he continued, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘We’ll buy them here; it will save me a lot of work. I shall not have the trouble of taking them round to where you live. It’s lucky I happened to meet you, isn’t it?’
The children were breathless with emotion, but they just managed to gasp out that it was – very lucky.
As they followed him into the shop, Freddie was the only one of the four whose condition was anything like normal. All the others were in a half-dazed state. Frankie was afraid that he was not really awake at all. It couldn’t be true; it must be a dream.
In addition to the hair, the horse was furnished with four wheels. They did not have it made into a parcel, but tied some string to it and handed it over to its new owner. The elder children were scarcely conscious of what took place inside the shop; they knew that Barrington was talking to the shopman, but they did not hear what was said – the sound seemed far away and unreal.
The shopman made the doll, the tea-set and the needlecase into one parcel and gave it to Elsie. The railway, in a stout cardboard box, was also wrapped up in brown paper, and Frankie’s heart nearly burst when the man put the package into his arms.
When they came out of the toy shop they said ‘Good night’ to Frankie, who went off carrying his parcel very carefully and feeling as if he were walking on air. The others went into a provision merchant’s near by, where the groceries were purchased and packed into the waggon.
Then Barrington, upon referring to the list to make quite certain that he had not forgotten anything, found that Santa Claus had put down a pair of boots each for Elsie and Charley, and when they went to buy these, it was seen that their stockings were all ragged and full of holes, so they went to a draper’s and bought some stockings also. Barrington said that although they were not on the list, he was sure Santa Claus would not object – he had probably meant them to have them, but had forgotten to put them down.
54
The End
The following evening Barrington called at Owen’s place. He said he was going home for the holidays and had come to say goodbye for a time.
Owen had not been doing very well during these last few months, although he was one of the few lucky ones who had had some small share of work. Most of the money he earned went for rent, to pay which they often had to go short of food. Lately his chest had become so bad that the slightest exertion brought on fits of coughing and breathlessness, which made it almost impossible to work even when he had the opportunity; often it was only by an almost superhuman effort of will that he was able to continue working at all. He contrived to keep up appearances to a certain extent before Rushton, who, although he knew that Owen was not so strong as the other men, was inclined to overlook it so long as he was able to do his share of work, for Owen was a very useful hand when things were busy. But lately some of the men with whom he worked began to manifest dissatisfaction at having him for a mate. When two men are working together, the master expects to see two men’s work done, and if one of the two is not able to do his share it makes it all the harder for the other.
He never had the money to go to a doctor to get advice, but earlier in the winter he had obtained from Rushton a ticket for the local hospital. Every Saturday throughout the year when the men were paid they were expected to put a penny or twopence in the hospital box. Contributions were obtained in this way from every firm and workshop in the town. The masters periodically handed these boxes over to the hospital authorities and received in return some tickets which they gave to anyone who needed and asked for them. The employer had to fill in the ticket or application form with the name and address of the applicant, and to certify that in his opinion the individual was a deserving case, ‘suitable to receive this charity’. In common with the majority of workmen, Owen had a sort of horror of going for advice to this hospital, but he was so ill that he stifled his pride and went. It happened that it turned out to be more expensive than going to a private doctor, for he had to be at the hospital at a certain hour on a particular morning. To do this he had to stay away from work. The medicine they prescribed and which he had to buy did him no good, for the truth was that it was not medicine that he – like thousands of others – needed, but proper conditions of life and proper food; things that had been for years past as much out of his reach as if he had been dying alone in the middle of a desert.
Occasionally Nora contrived – by going without some other necessary – to buy him a bottle of one of the many much-advertised medicines; but although some of these things were good she was not able to buy enough for him to derive any benefit from them.
Although he was often seized with a kind of terror of the future – of being unable to work – he fought agains
t these feelings and tried to believe that when the weather became warmer he would be all right once more.
When Barrington came in Owen was sitting in a deck-chair by the fire in the sitting-room. He had been to work that day with Harlow, washing off the ceilings and stripping the old paper from the walls of two rooms in Rushton’s home, and he looked very haggard and exhausted.
‘I have never told you before,’ said Barrington, after they had been talking for a while, ‘but I suppose you have guessed that I did not work for Rushton because I needed to do so in order to live. I just wanted to see things for myself; to see life as it is lived by the majority. My father is a wealthy man. He doesn’t approve of my opinions, but at same time he does not interfere with me for holding them, and I have a fairly liberal allowance which I spend in my own way. I’m going to pass Christmas with my own people, but in the spring I intend to fit out a Socialist Van, and then I shall come back here. We’ll have some of the best speakers in the movement; we’ll hold meetings every night; we’ll drench the town with literature, and we’ll start a branch of the party.’
Owen’s eye kindled and his pale face flushed.
‘I shall be able to do something to advertise the meetings,’ he said. ‘For instance, I could paint some posters and placards.’
‘And I can help to give away handbills,’ chimed in Frankie, looking up from the floor, where he was seated working the railway. ‘I know a lot of boys who’ll come along with me to put ’em under the doors as well.’
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists Page 76
