Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (332 page)

She bought a large copy-book — her unschooled handwriting demanded room — and in it she wrote the story of her war; boldly, as befits a general, and for no other eyes than her own and those of the Reverend Eustace Hanna. Long ere the pages were full the mottled cover had been soaked in kerosene — Lascar Loo’s mother, defrauded of her percentage on her daughter’s custards, invaded Badalia’s room in 17 Gunnison Street, and fought with her to the damage of the lamp and her own hair. It was hard, too, to carry the precious ‘pork-wine’ in one hand and the book in the other through an eternally thirsty land; so red stains were added to those of the oil. But the Reverend Eustace Hanna, looking at the matter of the book, never objected. The generous scrawls told their own tale, Badalia every Saturday night supplying the chorus between the written statements thus:

Mrs. Hikkey, very ill brandy 3d. Cab for hospital, she had to go, 1s. Mrs. Poone confined. In money for tea (she took it I know, sir) 6d. Met her husband out looking for work.

‘I slapped ‘is face for a bone-idle beggar! ‘E won’t get no work becos ‘e’s — excuse me, sir. Won’t you go on?’ The curate continued’

Mrs. Vincent. Confid. No linning for baby. Most untidy. In money 2s. 6d. Some cloths from Miss Evva.

‘Did Sister Eva do that?’ said the curate very softly. Now charity was Sister Eva’s bounden duty, yet to one man’s eyes each act of her daily toil was a manifestation of angelic grace and goodness — a thing to perpetually admire.

‘Yes, sir. She went back to the Sisters’ ‘Ome an’ took ‘em off ‘er own bed. Most beautiful marked too. Go on, sir. That makes up four and thruppence.’

Mrs. Junnet to keep good fire coals is up. 7d.

Mrs. Lockhart took a baby to nurse to earn a triffle but mother can’d pay husband summons over and over. He won’t help. Cash 2s. 2d. Worked in a ketchin but had to leave. Fire, tea, and shin of beef 1s. 7½d.

‘There was a fight there, sir,’ said Badalia. ‘Not me, sir. ‘Er ‘usband, o’ course ‘e come in at the wrong time, was wishful to ‘ave the beef, so I calls up the next floor an’ down comes that mulatter man wot sells the sword-stick canes, top o’ Ludgate-’ill. “Muley,” sez I, “you big black beast, you, take an’ kill this big white beast ‘ere.” I knew I couldn’t stop Tom Lockart ‘alf drunk, with the beef in ‘is ‘ands. “I’ll beef ‘m,” sez Muley, an’ ‘e did it, with that pore woman a-cryin’ in the next room, an’ the top banisters on that landin’ is broke out, but she got ‘er beef-tea, an’ Tom ‘e’s got ‘is gruel. Will you go on, sir?’

‘No, I think it will be all right. I’ll sign for the week,’ said the curate. One gets so used to these things profanely called human documents.

‘Mrs. Churner’s baby’s got diptheery,’ said Badalia, turning to go.

‘Where’s that? The Churners of Painter’s Alley, or the other Churners in Houghton Street?’

‘Houghton Street. The Painter’s Alley people, they’re sold out an’ left.’

‘Sister Eva’s sitting one night a week with old Mrs. Probyn in Houghton Street — isn’t she?’ said the curate uneasily.

‘Yes; but she won’t sit no longer. I’ve took up Mrs. Probyn. I can’t talk ‘er no religion, but she don’t want it; an’ Miss Eva she don’t want no diptheery, tho’ she sez she does. Don’t you be afraid for Miss Eva.’

‘But — but you’ll get it, perhaps.’

‘Like as not.’ She looked the curate between the eyes, and her own eyes flamed under the fringe. ‘Maybe I’d like to get it, for aught you know.’

The curate thought upon these words for a little time till he began to think of Sister Eva in the gray cloak with the white bonnet ribbons under the chin. Then he thought no more of Badalia.

What Badalia thought was never expressed in words, but it is known in Gunnison Street that Lascar Loo’s mother, sitting blind drunk on her own doorstep, was that night captured and wrapped up in the war-cloud of Badalia’s wrath, so that she did not know whether she stood on her head or her heels, and after being soundly bumped on every particular stair up to her room, was set down on Badalia’s bed, there to whimper and quiver till the dawn, protesting that all the world was against her, and calling on the names of children long since slain by dirt and neglect. Badalia; snorting, went out to war, and since the hosts of the enemy were many, found enough work to keep her busy till the dawn.

As she had promised, she took Mrs. Probyn into her own care, and began by nearly startling the old lady into a fit with the announcement that ‘there ain’t no God like as not, an’ if there is it don’t matter to you or me, an’ any’ow you take this jelly.’ Sister Eva objected to being shut off from her pious work in Houghton Street, but Badalia insisted, and by fair words and the promise of favours to come so prevailed on three or four of the more sober men of the neighbourhood, that they blockaded the door whenever Sister Eva attempted to force an entry, and pleaded the diphtheria as an excuse. ‘I’ve got to keep ‘er out o’ ‘arm’s way,’ said Badalia, ‘an’ out she keeps. The curick won’t care a — for me, but — he wouldn’t any’ow.’

The effect of that quarantine was to shift the sphere of Sister Eva’s activity to other streets, and notably those most haunted by the Reverend Eustace Hanna and Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease. There exists, for all their human bickerings, a very close brotherhood in the ranks of those whose work lies in Gunnison Street. To begin with, they have seen pain — pain that no word or deed of theirs can alleviate — life born into Death, and Death crowded down by unhappy life. Also they understand the full significance of drink, which is a knowledge hidden from very many well-meaning people, and some of them have fought with the beasts at Ephesus. They meet at unseemly hours in unseemly places, exchange a word or two of hasty counsel, advice, or suggestion, and pass on to their appointed toil, since time is precious and lives hang in the balance of five minutes. For many, the gas-lamps are their sun, and the Covent Garden wains the chariots of the twilight. They have all in their station begged for money, so that the freemasonry of the mendicant binds them together.

To all these influences there was added in the case of two workers that thing which men have agreed to call Love. The chance that Sister Eva might catch diphtheria did not enter into the curate’s head till Badalia had spoken. Then it seemed a thing intolerable and monstrous that she should be exposed not only to this risk, but any accident whatever of the streets. A wain coming round a corner might kill her; the rotten staircases on which she trod daily and nightly might collapse and maim her; there was danger in the tottering coping-stones of certain crazy houses that he knew well; danger more deadly within those houses. What if one of a thousand drunken men crushed out that precious life? A woman had once flung a chair at the curate’s head. Sister Eva’s arm would not be strong enough to ward off a chair. There were also knives that were quick to fly. These and other considerations cast the soul of the Reverend Eustace Hanna into torment that no leaning upon Providence could relieve. God was indubitably great and terrible — one had only to walk through Gunnison Street to see that much — but it would be better, vastly better, that Eva should have the protection of his own arm. And the world that was not too busy to watch might have seen a woman, not too young, light- haired and light-eyed, slightly assertive in her speech, and very limited in such ideas as lay beyond the immediate sphere of her duty, where the eyes of the Reverend Eustace Hanna turned to follow the footsteps of a Queen crowned in a little gray bonnet with white ribbons under the chin.

If that bonnet appeared for a moment at the bottom of a courtyard, or nodded at him on a dark staircase, then there was hope yet for Lascar Loo, living on one lung and the memory of past excesses, hope even for whining sodden Nick Lapworth, blaspheming, in the hope of money, over the pangs of a ‘true conversion this time, s’elp me Gawd, sir.’ If that bonnet did not appear for a day, the mind of the curate was filled with lively pictures of horror, visions of stretchers, a crowd at some villainous crossing, and a policeman — he could see that policeman — jerking out over his shoulder the details of the accident, and ordering the man who would have set his body against the wheels — heavy dray wheels, he could see them — to ‘move on.’ Then there was less hope for the salvation of Gunnison Street and all in it.

This agony Brother Victor beheld one day when he was coming from a death-bed. He saw the light in the eye, the relaxing muscles of the mouth, and heard a new ring in the voice that had told flat all the forenoon. Sister Eva had turned into Gunnison Street after a forty- eight hours’ eternity of absence. She had not been run over. Brother Victor’s heart must have suffered in some human fashion, or he would never have seen what he saw. But the Law of his Church made suffering easy. His duty was to go on with his work until he died, even as Badalia went on. She, magnifying her office, faced the drunken husband; coaxed the doubly shiftless, thriftless girl-wife into a little fore-thought, and begged clothes when and where she could for the scrofulous babes that multiplied like the green scum on the untopped water-cisterns.

The story of her deeds was written in the book that the curate signed weekly, but she never told him any more of fights and tumults in the street. ‘Mis’ Eva does ‘er work ‘er way. I does mine mine. But I do more than Mis’ Eva ten times over, an’ “Thank yer, Badalia,” sez ‘e, “that’ll do for this week.” I wonder what Tom’s doin’ now long o’ that — other woman. ‘Seems like as if I’d go an’ look at ‘im one o’ these days. But I’d cut ‘er liver out — couldn’t ‘elp myself. Better not go, p’raps.’

Hennessy’s Rents lay more than two miles from Gunnison Street, and were inhabited by much the same class of people. Tom had established himself there with Jenny Wabstow, his new woman, and for weeks lived in great fear of Badalia’s suddenly descending upon him. The prospect of actual fighting did not scare him; but he objected to the police- court that would follow, and the orders for maintenance and other devices of a law that cannot understand the simple rule that ‘when a man’s tired of a woman ‘e ain’t such a bloomin’ fool as to live with ‘er no more, an’ that’s the long an’ short of it.’ For some months his new wife wore very well, and kept Tom in a state of decent fear and consequent orderliness. Also work was plentiful. Then a baby was born, and, following the law of his kind, Tom, little interested in the children he helped to produce, sought distraction in drink. He had confined himself, as a rule, to beer, which is stupefying and comparatively innocuous: at least, it clogs the legs, and though the heart may ardently desire to kill, sleep comes swiftly, and the crime often remains undone. Spirits, being more volatile, allow both the flesh and the soul to work together — generally to the inconvenience of others. Tom discovered that there was merit in whisky — if you only took enough of it — cold. He took as much as he could purchase or get given him, and by the time that his woman was fit to go abroad again, the two rooms of their household were stripped of many valuable articles. Then the woman spoke her mind, not once, but several times, with point, fluency, and metaphor; and Tom was indignant at being deprived of peace at the end of his day’s work, which included much whisky. He therefore withdrew himself from the solace and companionship of Jenny Wabstow, and she therefore pursued him with more metaphors. At the last, Tom would turn round and hit her — sometimes across the head, and sometimes across the breast, and the bruises furnished material for discussion on doorsteps among such women as had been treated in like manner by their husbands. They were not few.

But no very public scandal had occurred till Tom one day saw fit to open negotiations with a young woman for matrimony according to the laws of free selection. He was getting very tired of Jenny, and the young woman was earning enough from flower-selling to keep him in comfort, whereas Jenny was expecting another baby, and most unreasonably expected consideration on this account. The shapelessness of her figure revolted him, and he said as much in the language of his breed. Jenny cried till Mrs. Hart, lineal descendant, and Irish of the ‘mother to Mike of the donkey-cart,’ stopped her on her own staircase and whispered ‘God be good to you, Jenny, my woman, for I see how ‘Tis with you.’ Jenny wept more than ever, and gave Mrs. Hart a penny and some kisses, while Tom was conducting his own wooing at the corner of the street.

The young woman, prompted by pride, not by virtue, told Jenny of his offers, and Jenny spoke to Tom that night. The altercation began in their own rooms, but Tom tried to escape; and in the end all Hennessy’s Rents gathered themselves upon the pavement and formed a court to which Jenny appealed from time to time, her hair loose on her neck, her raiment in extreme disorder, and her steps astray from drink. ‘When your man drinks, you’d better drink too! It don’t ‘urt so much when ‘e ‘its you then,’ says the Wisdom of the Women. And surely they ought to know.

‘Look at ‘im!’ shrieked Jenny. ‘Look at ‘im, standin’ there without any word to say for himself, that ‘ud smitch off and leave me an’ never so much as a shillin’ lef’ be’ind! You call yourself a man — you call yourself the bleedin’ shadow of a man? I’ve seen better men than you made outer chewed paper and spat out arterwards. Look at ‘im! ‘E’s been drunk since Thursday last, an’ ‘e’ll be drunk s’ long’s ‘e can get drink. ‘E’s took all I’ve got, an’ me — an’ me — as you see — ’

A murmur of sympathy from the women.

‘Took it all, he did, an’ atop of his blasted pickin’ an’ stealin’ — yes, you, you thief — ’e goes off an’ tries to take up long o’ that ‘ — here followed a complete and minute description of the young woman. Luckily, she was not on the spot to hear. ‘‘E’ll serve ‘er as ‘e served me! ‘E’ll drink every bloomin’ copper she makes an’ then leave ‘er alone, same as ‘e done me! O women, look you, I’ve bore ‘im one an’ there’s another on the way, an’ ‘e’d up an’ leave me as I am now — the stinkin’ dorg. An’ you may leave me. I don’t want none o’ your leavin’s. Go away. Get away!’ The hoarseness of passion overpowered the voice. The crowd attracted a policeman as Tom began to slink away.

‘Look at ‘im,’ said Jenny, grateful for the new listener. ‘Ain’t there no law for such as ‘im? ‘E’s took all my money, ‘E’s beat me once, twice an’ over. ‘E’s swine drunk when ‘e ain’t mad drunk, an’ now, an’ now ‘e’s trying to pick up along o’ another woman.’ I’m I give up a four times better man for. Ain’t there no law?’