Love on the Dole (14 page)

Pawning
on Comission. Naybores Obliged.

Yours truly Mrs Nattle.

The triple underscoring had a cryptic significance. It referred to one of Mrs Nattle’s illicit and profitable activities. Though this was conducted on very orthodox lines; to be precise, none other than those of the Bank of England’s or of any other large money-lending concerns. Having no licence to lend money the triple underscoring of the significant word was a covert advertisement of the opportunities Mrs Nattle offered.

Conducted on very orthodox lines. Interest was charged, security - note of hand, or, preferably, a more material asset - demanded. The markets, or stocks that she watched, and from which she formed her conclusions as to whether or no her prospective patron was safe for a loan - or overdraft - was the labour market. If a woman was reputable and her husband working and of the kind who meets his obligations faithfully, that patron’s stock, as it were was gilt edged and a short term loan (seven days) would be forthcoming. Otherwise the application would be referred to Alderman Grumpole who, if he took it up, would pay Mrs Nattle a ‘commission’ for the introduction of the business. Nobody would have been more surprised than Mrs Nattle to have been told that her business methods were closely related to those of the Bank of England. In this regard, though, she was in the company of that host of credulous Philistines who, though far from being deficient of their full share of capacity, permit themselves to be awed and humbled by the imperious patronizing demeanours of the expert. Philistines whose ordinary common sense leads them, unconsciously, into the successful undertaking of such tasks which, under a different name and in a more luxurious and refined environment, the experts would have everybody believe are capable of performance by themselves only.

She opened her door and walked into the stinking hove! leaving the door wide open so that the house’s pestilential odours swept, an inexhaustible river, into the street.

She grunted and emptied the contents of her placket on to the table, pushing up the newspaper tablecloth and the accumulation of soiled crockery so that a foot square or so was left clear. Then she spent a few moments arranging numerous pawntickets in rows, placing upon each the appropriate amount of money. When she had finished, the table’s corner had a resemblance to a game of draughts.

With another grunt Mrs Nattle seated herself to wait.

Presently, sluthering footsteps sounded, footsteps of someone who was wearing shoes or slippers far too large for their feet: accompanying came the sounds of someone’s speaking to themselves. The footsteps halted by the door and a voice asked: ‘A’ y’ in, missis?’

‘Is that you, Nancy?’

Nancy shuffled in. It was Mrs Dorbell, shawl wrapped tightly about her skinny person, dewdrop at the end of her beak-like nose: ‘Ah,’ she grunted, staring at Mrs Nattle with rheumy gaze: ‘Ah, y’ there. Ah must ha’ missed y’.’

‘Sit down, lass. Mek thisel’ at home.’

Mrs Dorbell complied, sighing. ‘Ne’er,’ she began: ‘Ne’er got a wink o’ sleep agen las’ night. Cough, cough, cough, cough till Ah could hardly breathe.’ Mrs Dorbell’s way of telling her friend that her cough had kept her awake for about a quarter hour: ‘Ah’d give owt for a nip, Ah would,’ a long sigh: ‘Ay, Mrs Nakkle, glad Ah am as y’ve tuk my advice. Ah knew as y’ wouldn’t be out o’ pocket wi’ it.’ She glanced at Mrs Nattle who was regarding her with mute interrogation. She nodded and concluded: ‘The oosual.’

Without answering, Mrs Nattle rose, placed a chair near the cupboard, opened the door, stood on the chair seat and strained after something on the top shelf. There followed the ‘chink-chink’ of glass against glass; her hand reappeared gripping the neck of a whisky bottle. Her other hand sought the cupboard for a number of small glasses. She stepped down with a jog and a grunt. Mrs Dorbell, eyeing the bottle with alarm, urged her to be careful.

Mrs Nattle could not answer since she had withdrawn the bottle’s cork with her teeth where she held it so that it looked as though she was smoking the butt end of a cigar; then she lifted a small glass in a line with her eye and poured out a minute quantity of spirits with the care of a pharmacist dispensing a poison prescription. She replaced the cork and glanced at Mrs Dorbell who was licking her lips furtively: ‘Drop o’ hot water?’ she asked. Mrs Dorbell shook her head and produced her purse from beneath her shawl: ‘Thrippence,’ said Mrs Nattle, and the transaction was complete.

‘Habout that there sweep ticket,’ said Mrs Nattle, picking the threepence up:’ ‘Ave y’ decided?’

Mrs Dorbell raised the glass to her nose and took a long sniff. She did not put it to her lips. Queen Victoria, in a chipped picture frame with a broken glass, looked down upon Mrs Dorbell as she answered: ‘Ah’ve decided Ah ain’t botherin’ … Ah can’t afford it.’ Mrs Nattle grunted and a pause ensued.

The growing silence was dismissed by the sounds of more than one pair of approaching feet; voices conversed; the footsteps halted outside the open door. Instantly, Mrs Nattle whipped the bottle off the table and concealed it beneath her dirty apron. Mrs Dorbell placed the hand holding the glass beneath her shawl. Both women assumed expressions of bleak innocence.

The visitors entered. Mrs Nattle, identifying them all, sighed, replaced the bottle and said, apropos its concealment: ‘Pays y’ t’ be careful, these days.’

Mrs Bull eyed the bottle and voiced a monosyllabic exclamation: ‘Huh! paused and added: ‘Three penn’orth. Somebody’s bin doin’ ‘emselves well. Bokkle was nearly full yesterday.’ She eyed Mrs Nattle suspiciously.

Mrs Nattle, however, was attending to those ‘naybores’ whom she had ‘obligded’ on ‘comission’, shy, retiring types of womanhood for the most part. To have asked them to do their own pawning would have been asking the impossible; their consciences never would have forgiven them had once they passed through Mr Price’s shop door. Happily, the enormity of the crime was lessened when indulged vicariously; Mrs Nattle’s services were a blessing. They accepted pawnticket and money gratefully from Mrs Nattle who first deducted the few coppers ‘comission’, then they disappeared, each to her own way which, doubtless, led to some local hovel within whose walls were daily played the same scenes by the same cast with brain-dulling monotony.

The transactions were completed, everybody satisfied. Mrs

Nattle announced, with a gleam of pride in her eyes: ‘Promp’ sekklements, that’s me. ‘An’some is ‘s ‘an’some does, say I, an’ve allus said it an’ allus will,’ to Mrs Bull: ‘Now, Mrs Bull, threepenn’orth, y’said?’

‘Aye, ‘n Iuk sharp about it. Froat’s nearly cut,’ with a sour expression:
‘Some
folks know how t’ make money, by gum they do! Agent for owld Grumpole’s clubs, pawnin’ f naybores, obligin’, wi’ three lines under it, an’ sellin’ nips. Ah’ll bet y’ve a tidy pile hid away somewhere i’ this house, Sair Ann!’ Mrs Dorbell shifted in her seat: she had always thought exactly the same and nursed a secret hope concerning the hidden pile that, should ever Mrs Nattle drop down dead in the house, she, Mrs Dorbell, would be lucky enough to make the discovery. She had everything planned in readiness for such an eventuality. Though, to repeat, this was a secret.

Sair Ann, first measuring out the nip with customary care, replaced the cork and said, in answer to Mrs Bull: ‘When a ‘ooman’s left a widder her’s got t’ do
summat
t’ live. Thrippence, please.’

More footsteps outside: disappearance of bottle and glasses.

‘It’s ownly me,’ said a voice, and Mrs Jike, the tiny lady from London, wearing an old cap of her husband’s, a shawl loose about her shoulders, entered the house: ‘Ay,’ she said: ‘I’ve ownly jest got thet blowke o’ mine off to work.’ She set threepence upon the table, sat down next Mrs Dorbell on the couch, tipped the cap over her eyes and scratched the back of her head: ‘He jest wown’t gow to work wivout his dinner beer money. Cont’ary, cont’ary through an’ through, like all the rest o’ the men,’ brightly, as she set her cap straight, composed her hands on her bosom and gave herself a tiny hug. ‘Well, gels, how are y’all this morning?’ reaching out her snuff-box: ‘ ‘Ere, have a pinch o’ Birdseye, gels.’

Mrs Dorbell raised her mournful eyes and skeletonic yellow hand, took a pinch and sniffed it in with the dewdrop. Mrs Nattle passed Mrs Jike a nip, picked up the threepence and helped herself to the snuff as did Mrs Bull, who, lowering the glass from her mouth said: ‘Yaa - Ah don’t know what’s comin’ o’er folk these days. Ah remember time when ne’er a
day
hardly passed without there was a confinement or a layin’ out to be done,’ bitterly: ‘Young ‘uns ain’t havin’ childer as they should. An’ them as die’re bein’ laid out by them as they belong to which weren’t considered respectable in th’owld days. When Ah was a gel a ‘ooman wasn’t a ‘ooman till she’d bin i’ childbed ten times not countin’ miscarriages. Aaach! How d’ they expect a body t’ mek a livin’ when childer goin’ t’ school know more about things than we did arter we’d bin married ‘ears?’ Nobody had an explanation to offer.

Mrs Dorbell fetched a deep sigh: ‘Things,’ she said, dismally, Things ain’t bin same since genklefolk left th’owld Road,’ her reference was to the bosky Eccles Old Road, the westerly continuation of Broad Street which runs at the top of Hanky Park. Until the coming of the electric trams in the early years of the century, the Old Road was the place of residence of many millionaires whose source of wealth was cotton plus seven generations of operatives to each of masters. In those days the road was termed ‘millionaires’ mile’. The mansions still remain. ‘I’
them
days,’ Mrs Dorbell continued, ‘I’
them
days a body could allus depend on summat new t’ pawn,’ reminiscently: ‘Ay, aye, Ah remember when Ah was a likkle gel how my owld ma - God rest her soul i’ peace - ‘ she crossed herself with the hand that held the glass: ‘My owld ma used t’ fetch us all in out o’ street when charity ladies came round i’ their kerridges hinquirin’ for them as wus hard up: “Come on, now,” she used t’ say: “Offn wi’ them pinnies an’ y’ clogs an’ stockin’s.” Then she’d send us out into street an’ ladies’d tek us names for a new rig out. Ay, many a bright shillin’ they’ve fetched at pawnshop. Many an’ many a bright shillin’. Y’ don’t see nowt like that nowadays. If y’ve got nowt y’ get nowt an’ nobody cares. Ah, aye, oh ‘twas a sad day for likes of us when kerridge folk left th’ Owld Road. If my owld ma was alive t’ see things t’day she’d turn o’er in her grave, indeed she would.’

Mrs Jike, who had been shaking her head all the while, sighed: The world’s ne’er been the sime since the old Queen died.’ She eyed her Majesty on the wall with reverence: ‘Look at Lenden! I see in me piper this morning as they’re havin’ boxin’ matches in the ‘Elbert ‘All!’ scandalized: The
‘Elbert
‘All!’ holding up a hand then narrowing her eyes: ‘Eh,
she’d
give ‘em snuff if she were alive. She would thet. But they wouldn’t ha’ dared t’ done it. Naow … I mind the time when she was alive - Phoo! Talk about gentry! Strike me pink! Y’ couldn’t get wivin miles and
miles
o’ the ‘Elbert ‘All for kerridges ‘n pairs.
Real
gentry they were, too; none o’ y’ jumped-up uns; wore fortunes on their backs,’ a sigh and a shake of the head: ‘Look at ‘Elbert ‘All now - Boxin’ matches …’ words failed her.

Mrs Nattle uncorked the bottle and poured out for herself an outsize nip. She wished all present a good health, sipped, took a deep breath preparatory to saying something when furtive footsteps at the door caused a general concealment of evidence: ‘Who’s there?’ cried Mrs Nattle, staring with mixed apprehension and suspicion at the door.

Mrs Hardcastle poked her head round the door, smiled at Mrs Nattle ingratiatingly, then, as she noticed the other old women, her smile faded, she licked her lips and made as though to withdraw, saying: ‘Ah, didn’t know y’ ‘ad comp’ny, Mrs Nakkle.’

‘Oh, come in, lass, come in,’ responded Mrs Nattle, warmly. Evidence reappeared; all breathed more freely.

‘It’ll do agen when y’ ain’t busy,’ said Mrs Hardcastle: ‘Ah’m in no ‘urry.’ Mrs Nattle repudiated the idea of being busy. She pressed Mrs Hardcastle to state her requirements.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Hardcastle, hesitantly, shooting nervous glances at everybody: ‘It’s … Ah - Y’see, Mrs Nakkle, our Harry wants a new suit’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Nattle: ‘Y’ mean y’ want a club check?’ Mrs Hardcastle beamed, relieved. That’s easy sekkled. How much did y’ want it for, Mrs Hardcastle?’

‘Well,’ she said indecisively: ‘He did say he wanted it made t’ measure.’

‘He’ll get one for three pahnds, Mrs Hardcastle,’ said Mrs Jike, ‘Which is wot I pide for my ole man’s.’

Mrs Hardcastle agreed to the sum. Laboriously, Mrs Nattle filled up a form of application requiring much information, of Hardcastle’s occupation, length of tenancy at 17 North Street, name and address of his employers, how long he had worked there and in what capacity. ‘Get y’ ‘usbant t’ sign here, missis, then Ah’ll see as owld Grumpole gets it an’ he’ll send th’ inspector t’ see y’ rent an’ insurance books so’s he can tell whether y’re a good payer. Then y’ll get check. … There’ll be three bob interest t’pay afore y’ get it then there’ll be three bob a week for twenty weeks. Y’understand?’ Mrs Hardcastle nodded and took the form of application.

Mrs Bull, glancing at the ceiling, said, off hand: ‘Y’can put me down, too, for a check for five pounds, Sair Ann.’

Had Mrs Bull been looking at Sair Ann a glance at her expression would have been enough: ‘Ah’ll do nowt o’ t’ kind,’ she said: ‘Wot about last one y’ had?’ to the others: ‘Went an’ sold it for fifty bob cash down an’ made owld Grumpole sing for his money cause he knows it ain’t no use puttin’
her
in court, bein’ as she can tell beak a good tale and ain’t got change for a penny,’ gazing at Mrs Bull: ‘Five pounds, indeed. Huh! Such as you as get street a bad name. Grumpole’s talking about puttin’ it on blacklist’