Читать книгу THE EAST END TRILOGY: Tales of Mean Streets, A Child of the Jago & To London Town - Morrison Arthur - Страница 8

Lizer was some months short of twenty-one when her third child was born. The pickle factory had discarded her some time before, and since that her trade had consisted in odd jobs of charing. Odd jobs of charing have a shade the better of a pickle factory in the matter of respectability, but they are precarious, and they are worse paid at that. In the East End they are sporadic and few. More over, it is in the household where paid help is a rarity that the bitterness of servitude is felt. Also, the uncertainty and irregularity of the returns were a trouble to Billy Chope. He was never sure of having got them all. It might be ninepence, or a shilling, or eighteenpence. Once or twice, to his knowledge, it had been half a crown, from a chance job at a doctor’s or a parson’s, and once it was three shillings. That it might be half a crown or three shilling again, and that some of it was being kept back, was ever the suspicion evoked by Lizer’s evening homing. Plainly, with these fluctuating and uncertain revenues, more bashing than ever was needed to insure the extraction of the last copper; empty-handedness called for bashing on its own account; so that it was often Lizer’s hap to be refused a job because of a black eye.

Lizer’s self was scarcely what it had been. The red of her cheeks, once bounded only by the eyes and the mouth, had shrunk to a spot in the depth of each hollow; gaps had been driven in her big white teeth; even the snub nose had run to a point, and the fringe hung dry and ragged, while the bodily outline was as a sack’s. At home, the children lay in her arms or tumbled at her heels, puling and foul. Whenever she was near it, there was the mangle to be turned; for lately Billy’s mother had exhibited a strange weakness, sometimes collapsing with a gasp in the act of brisk or prolonged exertion, and often leaning on whatever stood hard by, and grasping at her side. This ailment she treated, when she had twopence, in such terms as made her smell of gin and peppermint; and more than once this circumstance had inflamed the breast of Billy her son, who was morally angered by this boozing away of money that was really his.

Lizer’s youngest, being seven or eight months old, was mostly taking care of itself, when Billy made a welcome discovery after a hard and pinching day. The night was full of blinding wet, and the rain beat on the window as on a drum. Billy sat over a small fire in the front room smoking his pipe, while his mother folded clothes for delivery. He stamped twice on the hearth, and then, drawing off his boot, he felt inside it. It was a nail. The poker-head made a good anvil, and, looking about for a hammer, Billy bethought him of a brick from the mangle. He rose, and, lifting the lid of the weight-box, groped about among the clinkers and the other ballast till he came upon a small but rather heavy paper parcel. “‘Ere — wot’s this?” he said, and pulled it out.

His mother, whose back had been turned, hastened across the room, hand to breast (it had got to be her habit). “What is it Billy?” she said. “Not that; there’s nothing there. I’ll get anything you want, Billy.” And she made a nervous catch at the screw of paper. But Billy fended her off, and tore the package open. It was money, arranged in little columns of farthings, halfpence, and three penny pieces, with a few sixpences, a shilling or two, and a single half-sovereign. “Oh,” said Billy, “this is the game, is it? —‘idin’ money in the mangle! Got any more?” And he hastily turned the brickbats.

“No, Billy, don’t take that — don’t!” implored his mother. “There’ll be some money for them things when they go ‘ome —‘ave that. I’m savin’ it, Billy, for something partic’ler; s’elp me Gawd, I am, Billy!”

“Yus,” replied Billy, raking diligently among the clinkers, “savin’ it for a good ol’ booze. An’ now you won’t ‘ave one. Bleedin’ nice thing, ‘idin’ money away from yer own son!”

“It ain’t for that, Billy — s’elp me, it ain’t; it’s case anything ‘appens to me. On’y to put me away decent, Billy, that’s all. We never know, an’ you’ll be glad of it t’elp bury me if I should go any time —”

“I’ll be glad of it now,” answered Billy, who had it in his pocket; “an’ I’ve got it. You ain’t a dyin’ sort, you ain’t; an’ if you was, the parish ‘ud soon tuck you up. P’r’aps you’ll be straighter about money after this.”

“Let me ‘ave some, then — you can’t want it all. Give me some, an’ then ‘ave the money for the things. There’s ten dozen and seven, and you can take ’em yerself if ye like.”

“Wot-in this ’ere rain? Not me! I bet I’d ‘ave the money if I wanted it without that. ‘Ere — change these ’ere fardens at the draper’s wen you go out: there’s two bob’s worth an’ a penn’orth; I don’t want to bust my pockets wi’ them.”

While they spoke, Lizer had come in from the back room. But she said nothing: she rather busied herself with a child she had in her arms. When Billy’s mother, despondent and tearful, had tramped out into the rain with a pile of clothes in an oilcloth wrapper, she said sulkily, without looking up: “You might ‘a’ let’er kept that; you git all you want.”

At another time this remonstrance would have provoked active hostilities; but now, with the money about him, Billy was complacently disposed. “You shutcher ‘ead,” he said, “I got this any’ow. She can make it up out o’ my rent if she likes.” This last remark was a joke, and he chuckled as he made it. For Billy’s rent was a simple fiction, devised, on the suggestion of a smart canvasser, to give him a parliamentary vote.

That night Billy and Lizer slept, as usual, in the bed in the back room, where the two younger children also were. Billy’s mother made a bedstead nightly with three chairs and an old trunk in the front room by the mangle, and the eldest child lay in a floor-bed near her. Early in the morning Lizer awoke at a sudden outcry of the little creature. He clawed at the handle till he opened the door, and came staggering and tumbling into the room with screams of terror. “Wring ‘is blasted neck!” his father grunted, sleepily. “Wot’s the kid ‘owlin’ for?”

“I’s ‘f’aid o’ g’anny — I’s ‘f’aid o’ g’anny!” was all the child could say; and when he had said it, he fell to screaming once more.

Lizer rose and went to the next room; and straightway came a scream from her also. “Oh, oh, Billy! Billy! Oh, my Gawd! Billy come ’ere!”

And Billy, fully startled, followed in Lizer’s wake. He blundered in, rubbing his eyes, and saw.

Stark on her back, in the huddled bed of old wrappers and shawls, lay his mother. The outline of her poor face, strained in an upward stare of painful surprise, stood sharp and meager against the black of the grate beyond. But the muddy old skin was white, and looked cleaner than its wont, and many of the wrinkles were gone.

Billy Chope, half-way across the floor, recoiled from the corpse, and glared at it pallidly from the door-way.

“Good Gawd!” he croaked, faintly, “is she dead?”

Seized by a fit of shuddering breaths, Lizer sunk on the floor, and, with her head across the body, presently broke into a storm of hysterical blubbering, while Billy, white and dazed, dressed hurriedly and got out of the house.

He was at home as little as might be until the coroner’s officer carried away the body two days later. When he came for his meals, he sat doubtful and querulous in the matter of the front room door’s being shut. The dead once clear away, however, he resumed his faculties, and clearly saw that here was a bad change for the worse. There was the mangle, but who was to work it? If Lizer did there would be no more charing jobs — a clear loss of one third of his income. And it was not at all certain that the people who had given their mangling to his mother would give it to Lizer. Indeed, it was pretty sure that many would not, because mangling is a thing given by preference to widows, and many widows of the neighborhood were perpetually competing for it. Widows, moreover, had the first call in most odd jobs where unto Lizer might turn her hand: an injustice whereon Billy meditated with bitterness.

The inquest was formal and unremarked, the medical officer having no difficulty in certifying a natural death from heart disease. The bright idea of a collection among the jury, which Billy communicated, with pitiful representations, to the coroner’s officer, was brutally swept aside by that functionary, made cunning by much experience. So the inquest brought him naught save disappointment and a sense of injury . . .

The mangling orders fell away as suddenly and completely as he had feared: they were duly absorbed among the local widows. Neglect the children as Lizer might, she could no longer leave them as she had done. Things, then, were bad with Billy, and neither threats nor thumps could evoke a shilling now.

It was more than Billy could bear; so that: “‘Ere,” he said, one night, “I’ve ‘ad enough o’ this. You go and get some money; go on.”

“Go an’ git it?” replied Lizer. “Oh, yus. That’s easy, ain’t it? ‘Go an’ git it,’ says you. ‘Ow?”

“Any’ow —! don’t care. Go on.”

“Wy,” replied Lizer, looking up with wide eyes, “d’ye think I can go an’ pick it up in the street?”

“Course you can. Plenty others does, don’t they?”

“Gawd, Billy! wot d’ye mean?”

“Wot I say; plenty others does it. Go on; you ain’t so bleed’n’ innocent as all that. Go an’ see Sam Cardew. Go on —‘ook it.”

Lizer, who had been kneeling at the child’s floor-bed, rose to her feet, pale-faced and bright of eye.

“Stow kiddin’, Billy,” she said. “You don’t mean that. I’ll go round to the fact’ry in the mornin’; p’r’aps they’ll take me on temp’ry.”

“Damn the fact’ry!”

He pushed her into the passage. “Go on — you git me some money, if ye don’t want yer bleed’n’ ‘ead knocked auf.”

There was a scuffle in the dark passage, with certain blows, a few broken words, and a sob. Then the door slammed, and Lizer Chope was in the windy street.