Love on the Dole (26 page)

‘… turning
me
down.
Me,
an’ all Ah could gie y’! Turning me down for
him.
Yaa! y’ barmy.’ Sam Grundy the fat bookmaker, eyed Sally with an expression of forced amusement as he stood, thumbs in waistcoat armholes, billycock at the back of his head, barring her path at the corner of North Street immediately outside the doors of the Duke of Gloucester. She flashed him a glance of scorn: ‘Gerr out o’ me way,
you,’
she snarled: ‘Ah don’t want t’ even talk t’ the likes o’ you. You ‘n Narkey mek me sick. Luk better o’ y’ both if y’d spend more time wi’ y’ wives ‘stead o’ pestering girls as wouldn’t wipe their feet on y’,’ threateningly: ‘Y’d better luk out if y’ won’t let me be…’

‘Oh, now, Sal, now. That ain’t way t’ talk to a friend wot wants t’help y’,’ solicitously: ‘Has that Narkey bin pesterin’ y’ agen?’

At that moment Ned Narkey stepped out of the public-house wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He glowered as he heard Sam’s interrogation. He hitched his belt, set his jaw and took the step separating him from Sam and Sally: ‘Eh?’ he said, glaring at Sam: ‘Eh? Wot’s that? Wot was y’ saying about me?’

‘Augh!’ cried Sally, with a toss of her head: ‘Augh. let me pass.’ She pushed by Sam Grundy and strode down the street tingling with indignation.

The empty condition of Ned’s pocket reflected itself in his temper. The landlord of the Duke of Gloucester, regretfully, but firmly, had just informed him that no more credit could be given him: ‘You’ll have to ease up now on the slate, Ned,’ adding, hurriedly, as he noticed the scowl appear on Ned’s face: ‘Though it’ll be all right agen, y’know, when y’ get back t’ work.’

Ned snarled an oath, raised his glass and drained it: ‘Y’re all same, all the lot o’ y’. … A feller’s on’y welcome wi’ a full pocket…. But Ah’ll remember.’

‘Aw, now Ned, now Ned. Ah’m on’y thinkin’ about y’ o’ weekend when y’ve t’ sekkle up. Y’ ain’t a single feller no more, y’ know.’

Ned swore, swung around and stamped out of the public-house in time to hear Sam Grundy saying to Sal Hardcastle: ‘… Narkey bin pesterin’ y’ agen?’

‘Eh? Wot’s that?’ he snapped, glaring at Sam: ‘Wot was y’ sayin’ about me?’ He eyed Grundy balefully; did not hear what Sally said nor took any notice of her.

Instantly he appreciated Grundy’s prosperity, its easy source, the smug complacency of the man, his affluence, influence and ability to indulge his every whim. Comparing it with his own barren indigence made his poverty doubly maddening. Blind hate and envy dominated him: his impulse was to snatch at Grundy’s throat, fling him to the floor and kick his brains out as he had done those German boys, who, scared stiff, he had captured in a pill-box, a feat of heroism which had earned him the medal and the commander’s commendatory remarks. He could feel a torrent of energy rushing down his arms and tingling his fingertips.

Grundy’s tongue peeped furtively between his suddenly parched lips. Narkey’s ugly mood was genuine. He flashed a quick glance up and down the street to see whether there was a policeman about. There were none.

Policemen!

An idea struck him. He gazed at Narkey and smiled with forced expansiveness: ‘Luk here, Ned, lad,’ he said, paternally, good-naturedly, raising a hand to Narkey’s shoulder. Ned knocked it away, savagely: ‘Don’t you come the soft soap on me,’ he snapped: ‘Wot was y’ sayin’ to her about me, eh?’ He thrust his face forward.

Sam sighed in simulated despair: ‘Suppose Ah told y’ it was for y’r own good, eh? Suppose Ah told y’ Ah knew y’ was out o’ work an’ that Ah could fix a good job for y’ - if on’y y’d do as y’ bid,’ warming to the subject as he perceived the impression he was making on Ned: ‘Suppose Ah told y’ that y’ wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance o’ gettin’ it the way y’ carry on about every bit o’ skirt as teks y’ fancy,’ mildly reproachful: ‘Eh, Ned lad, Ned lad, an’ you a married man.’

‘Wot about y’ self?’ countered Ned, petulantly, puzzled as to Grundy’s intentions. He still was suspicious.

‘Ne’er mind me. Ah’m in no need of a job,’ warmly: ‘But you. … Ha! Y’d be a fool, all right, t’ let a bit o’ skirt ruin y’ chance o’ becomin’ a copper,’ winking and slapping Ned on the chest with the back of his hand: Three ten a week, lodgin’ allowance, uniform and boots an’ all y’ bloody holidays paid for…. On’y for walking about streets eight hours a day.’

Ned blinked; his fists unclenched; his tensed muscles relaxed: ‘Me -? Y’ can get me on as a copper …?’ he murmured, staring at Grundy, blankly.

Sam thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat armholes, smiled and winked: ‘Ah’ve a
bit o’
influence,’ he remarked, casually.

Ned stared at him, dubiously. He muttered, suspiciously: ‘But what’s y’ game, Grundy? How is it y’ve on’y just found Ah’m alive?’

‘On’y just, eh? Ha! Ah like that,’ he put his hand to the side of his mouth and strained up to Ned’s ear: ‘Ah’ve bin asked by a certain party t’ recommend a likely lad or two. You’re an owld sweat an’ y’ve Military Medal. Ah can see to it that y’ name guz in first … but y’ve got t’ lay off the skirt. If y’ don’t it’ll put paid t’ y’ chances. They won’t have anybody, y’ know,’ resuming his original position and glancing shrewdly at Ned: ‘But, think on, now,
how y’
got job ain’t nobody’s business. Mum’s the word. An’ see as y’ don’t let me down.’ He reached into his pocket for a cigar.

Ned licked his lips. Seventy shillings a week regularly; holidays paid for and clothes free. Better than being in the army for, here, after the eight hours duty, one was a civilian for the remainder of the day: ‘An’ when do Ah start, Sam?’ he murmured, with suppressed eagerness.

Sam tapped him on the shoulder, jerked his thumb towards the open doors of the Duke of Gloucester: ‘Come’n have a couple wi’ me an’ Ah’ll explain,’ he said.

Ned went in first, Sam followed, the smoke from his cigar curling gracefully over his shoulder like the flung ends of a conspirator’s cloak.

‘COME in,’ said Larry, from the back kitchen, as a knock sounded on the open front door of his lodgings. He was alone in the house as generally was the case since his landlady’s and her husband’s occupations - they were stewards and caretakers of the Labour Club rooms - kept them from home for the greater part of the day. He paused in his shaving to listen.

Sally entered smiling and announced herself. He asked her to be seated until he had finished shaving.

She complied, sighed contentedly, and relapsed into silence as her gaze idly roved this, his room. Exactly the same kind of front room as at No. 17, yet how different. It and its furnishings breathed his name. Books arranged on shelves either side the fireplace. A comforting sight; so extraordinary a furnishing of a North Street front room. Their presence enhanced, lent an intangible part of themselves to the meagre rickety furniture provided by the landlady.

She sighed anew; felt the blood coursing quicker about her body as she visualized herself, within a week’s time, dusting those volumes with loving care and in a home of their own. Tonight they were to inquire concerning the tenancy of a house in the next street. Then -. Fly time!

In the room at the back Larry stood staring at the slopstone as he dried his shaving tackle mechanically. His fagged brain cast about listlessly, wearily, for a way out of this present predicament. There was only one solution: his thoughts returned to it with the inevitability of a magnetic needle to the pole: ‘I’ll have to tell Sal that we’ll have to postpone the wedding.’ To marry on the money they would give him at the dole would be the height of folly. Seventeen shillings a week was an impossible pittance. No, not seventeen shillings, even: in the interests of national economy this had now been reduced to fifteen shillings.

Was it all a dream? Could life be really so inexorable and harsh? He stood staring at the slopstone drying his shaving tackle mechanically.

You’re sacked, and there’s a girl in the other room whom you’ve promised to marry. His dizzied brain revolved. Then a sensation of suffocation insinuated itself; he felt cramped, stifled, exhausted. His breath caught in his throat and, next moment he was seized with a paroxysm of violent coughing.

Instantly, Sally, full of anxiety appeared in the doorway. Her heart rose apprehensively as she stared, fascinated, mute, frightened. Suppose she had been premature in condemning as unjustifiable Mrs Bull’s comment on Larry’s health: ‘Yon lad’ll have t’ be tuk care of, lass. That there cough ain’t no ordinary cough an’ calls for doctor if Ah know owt about it. You see as he guz, lass. Men allus neglec’ ‘emselves. Allus.’ Sally had deprecated the idea. Who hadn’t a cough at this time of the year in Hanky Park? She had only just rid herself of one.

Yet - apprehensive tremors fluttered her heart as Larry straightened himself. His eyes were brimming, his cheeks burned, he panted and steadied himself by leaning on the table: ‘A’y’ all right, Larry
V
she murmured, stealing to his side.

He nodded, raised the towel he was holding to his eyes and to his perspiring brow: ‘It was a touch of a cough, Sal,’ he said: ‘I’m all right, now.’

She regarded him with an interrogative stare, puzzled, indecisive. Suddenly, she cried, accusingly: ‘Y’ should ha’ bin t’ the doctor before now,’ she continued, warmly: ‘It ain’t fair to you and it ain’t fair to me … us going to be married.’

The last phrase of her utterance froze him. His pulse quickened; he felt afraid. He laid aside the shaving tackle, regarded her and murmured, in a voice that sounded unreal: ‘We’ll have to postpone it, Sally … I’m come out of work.’ He blushed; his dry lips parted slightly. Like a boy waiting on tenterhooks for a firework to explode he held his breath listening for her answer.

She raised her brows; her eyes widened, her mouth opened slightly and her hands fell to her side limply: ‘Postponed … ? But … ‘

‘As soon as I find work we’ll be married,’ he said.

She remembered her brother. Helen Hawkins had confessed that Harry had promised her similarly:
their
marriage was further off than ever. If Harry did succeed in finding work it would take six months of his wages to replenish his clothing. He was walking about in shameful condition. She flushed. Was Helen Hawkins’s experience to be hers too? Her breathing quickened: ‘Why can’t we be married as we arranged?’ she demanded, impatiently. She brushed aside his attempt at interruption and continued: ‘There’s nowt t’ stop us. You’d get your dole, and I’m working.’

A humiliating picture of himself living under such an arrangement flashed through his mind. It stank: it smacked of Hanky Park at its worst. He felt weak, powerless, capable of no resistance. Then he fancied he could feel the district’s tentacles feeling to get a grip on him, feeling for a hold with which to pull him down: ‘No … ‘ he said, sharply, suddenly animated: ‘No, no, Sal. No, I can’t do it.’

‘Y’ don’t
want
to do it,’ she flashed back, here eyes staring. An expression of bitterness contorted her face.

‘I … ‘ he replied, warmly, then he checked himself. Some panic-stricken part of him forbade him speech; forbade him hazard her irreplaceable companionship in tempestuous words. He dared not, could not risk losing her. Should he, after all, capitulate? What else remained Sally but her present attitude in the face of so keen a disappointment? He composed himself with an effort: ‘Listen Sal,’ he said: ‘It’s as hard on me as it is on you. … Don’t you think that I’m as disappointed as you are? I’ll soon find another job … ‘ pause; he compressed his lips to stop their nervous trembling; then, in an unguarded moment, and as he noticed that her expression of bitterness was unrelaxed: ‘Aw, I should never have encouraged you in the first place.’

Hotly: Then why did y’?’

Wearily: ‘Why, oh, why? I
did
encourage you, didn’t I? I still love you.’

She curled her lip: ‘Fine way this is o’ showing it’

He looked at her appealingly: ‘Can’t you understand, Sal?’ He felt bothered, harassed by this need of continual explanation; felt his patience and composure crumbling. Was this himself saying: ‘I’m tired of it all. Sick and tired of everything. How the devil d’y’ think I’m going to manage on fifteen bob a week …?’ He stopped short. Inconsequently a vivid appreciation of the present situation spouted in his mind. ‘This present was love’s young dream. This, which should be the peak of lovers’ happiness, harshly shattered by lack of money. What recourse was there? ‘Please, sir, are there any vacancies?’ ‘Please, sir,
please
let me live.’ ‘Please, sir, in God’s name let me work.’ He saw himself, these past few nights, chalking pavements and walls with the legend: Thursday next, 10.30 a.m. Unemployed Rally. Mass Protest Demonstration and March to Two Cities’ Town Hall.’

What was he thinking about now? Was he going off his head altogether? He gathered his wits and said, staring at her: ‘It’s no use arguing, Sally. It’d be daft to do it. Yaa! Fifteen bob a week! D’y’ think I’m going to sponge on you. What the devil d’y’ take me for?’

‘Don’t you talk like that … ‘ she cried, shrilly: ‘Don’t you talk like that!’ her voice rose; hysteria contorted her face: ‘Ah’m sick o’ hearin’ y’. … Y’re drivin’ me barmy. Why don’t them Labour Councillors as’re allus makin’ a mug out o’ y’ find a job for y’? They’re all right, they are; don’t care a damn for us. They’ve all landed good jobs for ‘emselves. And - Oh, I - I - Ah
hate
y’.’ She turned and ran sobbing to the front door, burying her face in an old coat of his hanging there.

He stood staring at the floor; felt himself diminishing in stature; felt a helpless fool, utterly negligible.