Love on the Dole (30 page)

Mrs Bull grunted, then glanced at Mrs Nattle: ‘Y’ll be goin’ round fall t’ neighbours collectin’ for a wreath for t’ lad, won’t y’, Sair Ann?’

‘Aye, Ah suppose so,’ Mrs Nattle answered, adding, with a shake of the head: Though Ah ain’t confidentialo’ getting’ much. Things’re too bad. It’s comin’ t’ summat, Ah must say, when even pop-shop guz bankrupt. Did y’ hear tell o’ that one i’ William Street? Everybody pawnin’ an’ nobody gettin’ ‘em out. An’ Ah seed bum-bailiffs in yesterday tekkin’ all the bungles away on a cart. “Thank God,” Ah sez to meself Ah ses: “Thank God as all my customerses bungles is at Price and Jones’s.” That’s what comes o’ not goin’ to a ‘igh-class pop-shop.’

Before Mrs Nattle had finished speaking, Mrs Bull, who had not been listening to her, turned to Sally and said: ‘Where are y’ buryin’ the lad, Sal?’

‘He ain’t bein’ buried,’ replied Sally, tonelessly.

‘Eh?’ said Mrs Bull, incredulously: ‘Eh? Not buryin’ him …?’ All stared at Sally, amazed.

Without looking at any of them Sally answered, in the same toneless voice: ‘I’m going to have him cremated. He allus said it was proper way.’

‘Cremated!’ said Mrs Bull: ‘Well, did you ever,’ to the others: That’s fust time
that’s
happened in Hanky Park,’ incredulously: ‘Well, now, what d’ y’ think o’ that?’

‘Gie me a grave, proper an’ Christian like,’ said Mrs Dorbell: ‘Ah wus brought up t’ read Bible, Ah wus.’

Tiny Mrs Jike shivered: a thought plagued her as to how Larry would fare on the day of resurrection; particularly was she troubled in regard to his ‘spiref: the consequences seemed so complex that she could find no words with which to express her intense puzzlement. She licked her lips and stared at Sally apprehensively.

‘Naa,’ said Mrs Nattle, putting out her lips and shaking her head: ‘Ah ain’t bin allus Ah should ha’ bin i’ me time, but if that’s what them there socialis’ fellers believe in, then
Ah’m
ne’er gonna vote for ‘urn. Huh! Nobody’s gonna burn
me,
not if
Ah
know it’

A thoughtful silence.

Mrs Bull contracted her brows and gazed at Sally: ‘It’s gonna cost y’ a tidy penny, ain’t it, Sal?’

Mrs Dorbell pricked her ears: she said, eagerly: ‘How much did y’ have ‘im in for?’ She referred to the amount, if any, of Larry’s insurance.

Sally answered Mrs Dorbell: ‘He wasn’t in for nowt He didn’t believe in it.’

Mrs Dorbell’s eyes opened wide: ‘Didn’t believe in insurance…?’

Mrs Nattle’s mouth opened; she said, in such tones as plainly said that it was inconceivable that anybody could not believe in insurance: Then how - what - who did ‘e expect ‘d
pay
for his funeral,’ she was as indignant as she would have been had the bill for the funeral expenses been addressed to herself.

‘Aaach,’ snapped Sally, with sudden animation: ‘What was good o’ him talkin’ to a lot o’ owld geysers like you?’ with a rising voice: ‘He didn’t care what become o’ him, no more do I.’ fiercely- ‘He’s gone, now d’y’ hear? He’s gone!’ Her eyes blazed; she stared piercingly at Mrs Nattle.

‘Huh!’ said Mrs Nattle, folding her arms and tossing her head: ‘Huh! If y’ gonna act like that wi’ them as is try in’ t’ sympathize wi’ y’, y’d best be left t’ y’sel”; to Mrs Dorbell: ‘Come on, Nancy,’ adding, to Mrs Dorbell as the pair stalked away: ‘Ungrateful madam.’ Mrs Jike mumbled some excuse and hurried after her two friends.

‘Sally,’ said Mrs Bull, when they had gone: ‘Tek no heed on ‘em, lass. Ah’d many a crack wi’ that lad o’ thine about one thing an’ another, an’ he spoke a lot o” sense, he did. Ah’ve seen too much i’ my time t’ be tuk in by all parson’d like y’ t’ swallow. Ah’ve had no eddication but Ah do know that there ne’er was parson breathed wot preached sermon about resurrection on empty belly, an’ mine’s bin empty many a time. S’easy for them as live house an’ light free an’ a regular wage

comin’ in Let ‘em try clemmin’ (going hungry) like us have

t’ do every day o’ our lives. Pay ‘em wot they pay them on t’ dole an’ y’d see plenty o’ parsons jobs goin’ beggin’. Yaach. What’s good o’ botherin’ about us when we’ve snuffed it? Luk better o’ some folks if they’d do us a bit o’ good while we’re alive,’ pause: ‘As for that lad o’ thine, Sal, lass, don’t you wish him back. All me life Ah’ve lived, lass, Ah’ve bin waitin’ for summat that’s never come. Ah don’t wish a day of it back agen. There’s nowt for the likes of us t’ live for, Sal. Nowt. Religion, eh? Pah. Ah’ve no patience wi’ it.’

‘No, nor me neither,’ muttered Sally, adding, bitterly: ‘Ah’ve patience wi’ nowt nor nobody, now.’

A pause. Then Mrs Bull gazed at Sally perplexed: ‘But tell me, lass. How
are
y’ gonna manage t’ pay for funeral if all y’ve got’s this here five quid they’re giving y’ for his things?’

Sally sighed wearily, and stared at the roadway: ‘God knows,’ she said: ‘Owld Fogley said it’ll cost me twice more than what Ah’ve got. Ah’ve offered t’ pay him so much a week but he won’t take it that way. An’ people we bought furniture off won’t give us deposit money back. They say that it’s in papers that Larry signed that we lose what we paid if we don’t have the furniture … ‘ half to herself: ‘Ooo, Ah wish Ah knew somebody as’d lend it t’ me…’

‘Five quid’s a lot o’ money, Sal,’ Mrs Bull murmured, thoughtfully, slowly lifting the hem of her apron upon which she blew her nose: ‘Five quid. … Ah wonder, now. …’ She glanced at Sally sharply: ‘Wot about Sam Grundy, eh, Sal? He ain’t a bad feller at heart, y’ know. He’d do it for y’.’

Sally shrugged: ‘Ah know he would. Do it for what he’d like t’ get out o’ me.’

Mrs Bull grunted: That’s fault wi’ all o’ the men. But they don’t allus get what they want. Still, Sal, Ah’d think it o’er if Ah was you,’ glancing up the street: ‘Ah, well, Ah must be off, Sal. Ah’ve a rare pile o’ ironin’ t’ do t’ neet. Poor soul wi’ a tribe o’ kids as lives in next street’s bin confined agen. They’d ha’ charged her ten bob for t’ washin’ if she’d ha’ sent it t’ t’ laundry. Couldn’t even afford t’ pay me for tendin’ her i’ childbed, an’ him workin’, too! Blimey, wot a life, Sal, wot a life.’ She shook her head and made as though to go, then she paused and added: ‘Ah’ll come wi’ y’ t’ t’ funeral if y’ don’t mind, Sal. Ah’ve allus wanted t’ see how they do it.’ She waddled away to borrow a flat iron from Mrs Cranford, her next door neighbour.

One of the furniture broker’s men, a tall, gaunt individual with skin-tight clothes, a luxurious moustache and prominent eyes, came to the door of the house carrying a pile of Larry’s books slung about with a length of cord. He pushed past Sally then dropped the books on to the pavement as he stared, astounded, at the scene in front of his eyes.

Children everywhere. Swarming and dancing upon the cart bottom; swinging on the choke rail, lying on the axle bars, a couple of boys astride the listless horse, ineffectually urging it to move; another demonstrating his daring by lifting one of the animal’s forefeet; one unhooking the traces, another unfastening every buckle he could find; a crowd in front of the horse’s head feeding it on stolen handfuls of corn taken from the nosebag swinging on a hook by the shafts; lastly, two small boys who, having first lighted the cart’s lamps, now competed with each other in creating the largest flame by turning the wicks higher and higher until thick wisps of smoke began to ascend.

The man, knocking his rusty billycock to the back of his head, stared for a second, aghast. Then, with his intense hatred of all the juvenile world reflecting itself in his suddenly flushed face, he bawled, in a voice amplified by his indignation: ‘Hoi!’

Instant silence from the cart alow and aloft. All regarded him impudently: none made the least suggestion of stirring. It was maddening. The man made a sudden rush: ‘Gerrout of it, y’ little devils y’, gerrout,’ he roared: ‘Blind owld Riley. Ah’ll break y’ bloody backs if … ‘ spotting the smoke: ‘Blimey, they’ve set the cart afire!’ He dived beneath to extinguish the lamps: ‘An’. … Gor. … Blimey! They’d ha’ pinched the horse if Ah hadn’t come out. Hoi, George!’ His mate appeared, a short, snub-nosed, pot-bellied man wearing a check waistcoat, a cap and an interrogative expression: ‘Wot’s up, Bill?’ he asked.

‘Wot’s up, eh? Wot
ain’t
up. Bloody kids … they’re like bloody monkeys,’ raising his brows extraordinarily high: ‘Even had the ‘orse unharnessed. ‘S a wonder owld Sam didn’t gallop offn ‘urt somebody.’

George guffawed: ‘He ain’t done no gallopin’ sin’ he were in t’ Fire Brigade,’ assuming a stern expression which was extremely incongruous to the humorous cast of his features; turning to the horde of children standing off at a safe distance and in the form of a semi-circle: ‘Go on, now. Be off wi’ y’ or y’ll have a bobby round y’ tails.’ He stopped, picked up the pile of books which George had dropped and flung them on to the cart bottom where they fell with a dull thud.

Sally turned away: it was poignant. She could scarcely lend credence to these happenings; her disbelief sicklied them over with the quality of a dream; to try to convince herself otherwise induced only a dazed torpor of the brain. It was absurd, this imperturbable knowledge that she never would see Larry again. Never? It stunned her. She sighed, wearily, fretfully, felt pinioned; a wild bleakness, a yearning, a striving filled her heart. There was no place she wanted to go; nothing she wanted to see or do. The streets suffocated her, the encompassing walls oppressed her; she felt reckless, desperate, rebellious. She stared about her, wildly - then the sensation subsided; she felt weary again, remembered dully, that she had five pounds to find from somewhere.

She found herself paused by the open doors of the Duke of Gloucester. Sam Grundy’s motor-car stood pulled up by the kerb; she heard his raucous laugh within the public-house.

‘Five pounds,’ the words repeated themselves monotonously.

After all, why shouldn’t she ask the favour of him? Why? What a question. What alternative was there? Who in Hanky Park possessed such a sum of money: and who, possessing it, would lend it to her knowing her circumstances. Oh, money, money, money. A listlessness overwhelmed her; made her feel as powerless as a straw buffeted on turbulent waters. Then, sudden anger took hold of her, rousing her from her dazed state of brain weariness. She needed money; Sam Grundy had it. With kindling eyes and flushed cheeks she asked herself why she should refrain.

She turned and went into the public-house.

As she entered by the outdoor department the landlord stared at her over the beer engine. Her appearance was arresting; dark hair blown about her face, lustrous eyes burning brighter, as staring over the landlord’s shoulder, she caught sight of Ned Narkey, in civilian clothes sitting with a number of other men, among whom was Sam Grundy, in the taproom. Their eyes met Ned leered, shifted in his seat and spat on to the sawdusted floor. Her nostrils dilated; she passed a hand across her hair and looked at him with a wide-eyed, intense stare. His gaze wavered and fell; he passed a hand across his mouth and turned to speak to his nearest companion.

‘Tell Sam Grundy Ah want t’ see him,’ she murmured, to the landlord, without removing her gaze from Ned. Then she turned and walked out to stand on the pavement, brooding. She did not see Sam’s approach; was not aware that her sudden request had so perturbed him as to cause him to lay aside his freshly lit cigar and to leave his double Scotch untouched, both of which later, were dispatched, mysteriously, by whom none knew. Though Ted Munter left earlier than was usual for him.

Sam’s agitation was apparent; he moistened his lips, furtively, coughed nervously; there was a stare in his beady eyes: he was at a loss, completely, for reasons to account for this totally unexpected summons: ‘What’s up, Sal?’ he asked, anxiously: ‘What’s up, Sal? What d’y’ want?’

She looked at him awhile, lip curling: ‘Ah was going to ask y’ t’ lend me five pounds,’ she said. She paused, interrupted him as, an expression of deep relief causing his features to relax, he took a deep breath and was about to reply with broad gestures of generous compliance - she interrupted him: ‘But I’m not so sure I want y’ help, now.’

He raised his brows and said, in hurt tones: ‘Why, Sal, what d’y’ mean?’

‘Aaach, Ah’m not so fond of the company y’ keep.’

‘Company Ah keep? Who d’y’ mean?’

Her breathing quickened; she inclined her head, sharply, towards the Duke of Gloucester: ‘You know who Ah mean,’ with flashing eyes: ‘Him. Ned Narkey, that pal o’ yours …’

Sam’s mouth contorted, wryly:
‘Him.
Yah! He ain’t no pal o’ mine, nor none of his kidney, neither.’

She eyed him, suspiciously: ‘Y’ seemed t’ be enjoyin’ his company.’

‘Aw,’ he replied, with a note of querulous appeal in his voice: ‘Y’ve got to be civil to ‘em. He’s a copper. An’ they can turn nasty. On’y last week they booked a couple o’ my men an’ it cost me ten quid in fines. Yah! He’s no pal o’ mine. How he got on force Ah don’t know,’ a pause, then, with suppressed ardour and with a nervous glance towards the door of the public-house: ‘Come on, Sal. Come a drive round in me car. Y’ don’t want t’ talk business where everybody can hear.’

She frowned, and, with a sharp gesture of the hand, replied: ‘Ah want t’ borrow five pounds. Ah want no drives in no cars. An’ Ah’m feard o’ nobody hearin’,’ gazing at him, frankly: ‘Will y’ lend it? Ah’ll pay back when mill starts on full time agen … ‘

Instantly he was fumbling abjectly in his pocket He withdrew a bundle of one pound treasury notes and passed her a number: ‘Here. Sal,’ he said, with intense eagerness: ‘Here, Sal, will that be enough?’ adding, as she took them: ‘Y’ve no need to pay me back.’ His eyes shone as he looked at the notes in her hand; his overripe complexion took on a deeper shade; he felt unaccountably nervous, pleased with himself.