The Complete Novels Of George Orwell (71 page)

CHARLIE
[
singing
]: Cheer up, cully, you’ll soon be dead! Brrh! Perishing Jesus! Ain’t my fish-hooks blue! [
Double marks time and beats his arms against his sides
.]

DOROTHY:
Oh, but how can you stand it? How can you go on like this, night after night, year after year? It’s not possible that people can live so! It’s so absurd that one wouldn’t believe it if one didn’t know it was true. It’s impossible!

SNOUTER:
— possible if you ask me.

MR TALLBOYS
[
stage curate-wise
]: With God, all things are possible.

[
Dorothy sinks back on to the bench, her knees still being unsteady
.]

CHARLIE:
Well, it’s jest on ’ar-parse one. Either we got to get moving, or else make a pyramid on that perishing bench. Unless we want to perishing turn up our toes. ‘Oo’s for a little constitootional up to the Tower of London?

MRS MCELLIGOT:
‘Twon’t be me dat’ll walk another step tonight. Me bloody legs’ve given out on me.

GINGER:
What-o for the pyramid! This is a bit too bleeding nine-day-old for
me. Less scrum into that bench–beg pardon, Ma!

DADDY
[
sleepily
]: Wassa game? Can’t a man get a bit of kip but what you must come worriting ’im and shaking of ’im?

CHARLIE:
That’s the stuff! Shove in! Shift yourself, Daddy, and make room for my little sit-me-down. Get one atop of each other. That’s right. Never mind the chats. Jam all together like pilchards in a perishing tin.

MRS WAYNE:
Here! I didn’t ask you to sit on my lap, young man!

GINGER:
Sit on mine, then, mother–’sall the same. What-o! First bit of stuff I’ve ’ad my arm round since Easter.

[
They pile themselves in a monstrous shapeless clot, men and women clinging indiscriminately together, like a bunch of toads at spawning time. There is a writhing movement as the heap settles down, and a sour stench of clothes diffuses itself. Only Mr Tallboys remains marching up and down
.]

MR TALLBOYS
[
declaiming
]: O ye nights and days, ye light and darkness, ye lightnings and clouds, curse ye the Lord!

[
Deafie, someone having sat on his diaphragm, utters a strange, unreproducible sound
.]

MRS BENDIGO:
Get off my bad leg, can’t you? What you think I am? Bloody drawing-room sofa?

CHARLIE:
Don’t ole Daddy stink when you get up agen ’im?

GINGER:
Bleeding Bank ’oliday for the chats this’ll be.

DOROTHY:
Oh, God, God!

MR TALLBOYS
[
halting
]: Why call on God, you puling deathbed penitent? Stick to your guns and call on the Devil as I do. Hail to thee, Lucifer, Prince of the Air! [
Singing to the tune of ‘Holy, holy holy’
]: Incubi and Succubi, falling down before Thee!…

MRS BENDIGO:
Oh, shut up, you blarsphemous old sod!’E’s too bloody fat to feel the cold, that’s what’s wrong with ’im.

CHARLIE:
Nice soft be’ind you got, Ma. Keep an eye out for the perishing flattie, Ginger.

MR TALLBOYS:
Malecidite, omnia opera!
The Black Mass! Why not? Once a priest always a priest. Hand me a chunk of toke and I will work the miracle. Sulphur candles, Lord’s Prayer backwards, crucifix upside down. [
To Dorothy
] If we had a black he-goat you would come in useful.

[
The animal heat of the piled bodies had already made itself felt. A drowsiness is descending upon everyone
.]

MRS WAYNE:
You mustn’t think as I’m
accustomed
to sitting on a gentleman’s knee, you know…

MRS MCELLIGOT
[
drowsily
]: It took my sacraments reg’lar till de bloody priest wouldn’t give me absolution along o’ my Michael. De ole get, de ole getsie!…

MR TALLBOYS
[
striking an attitude]: Per aquam sacratam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc fado
….

GINGER:
‘Oo’s got a fill of ’ard-up? I’ve smoked by last bleeding fag-end.

MR TALLBOYS
[
as at the altar
]: Dearly beloved brethren we are gathered together in the sight of God for the solemnization of unholy blasphemy. He
has afflicted us with dirt and cold, with hunger and solitude, with the pox and the itch, with the headlouse and the crablouse. Our food is damp crusts and slimy meat-scraps handed out in packets from hotel doorways. Our pleasure is stewed tea and sawdust cakes bolted in reeking cellars, bar-rinsing sand spittle of common ale, the embrace of toothless hags. Our destiny is the pauper’s grave, twenty-feet deep in deal coffins, the kip-house of underground. It is very meet, right and our bounden duty at all times and in all places to curse Him and revile Him. Therefore with Demons and Archdemons [
etc., etc., etc
.].

MRS MCELLIGOT
[
drowsily
]: By holy Jesus, I’m half asleep right now, only some b—’s lyin’ across my legs and crushin’’em.

MR TALLBOYS:
Amen. Evil from us deliver, but temptation into not us lead [
etc., etc., etc
.].

[
As he reaches the first word of the prayer he tears the consecrated bread across. The blood runs out of it. There is a rolling sound, as of thunder, and the landscape changes. Dorothy’s feet are very cold. Monstrous winged shapes of Demons and Archdemons are dimly visible, moving to and fro. Something, beak or claw, closes upon Dorothy’s shoulder, reminding her that her feet and hands are aching with cold
.]

THE POLICEMAN
[
shaking Dorothy by the shoulder
]: Wake up, now, wake up, wake up! Haven’t you got an overcoat? You’re as white as death. Don’t you know better than to let yourself sprawl about in the cold like that? [
Dorothy finds that she is stiff with cold. The sky is now quite clear, with gritty little stars twinkling like electric lamps enormously remote. The pyramid has unrolled itself
.]

MRS MCELLIGOT:
De poor kid, she ain’t used to roughin’ it de way us others are.

GINGER
[
beating his arms
]: Brr! Woo!’Taters in the bleeding mould!

MRS WAYNE:
She’s a lady born and bred.

THE POLICEMAN:
Is that so?–See here, Miss, you best come down to the M.A.B. with me. They’ll give you a bed all right. Anyone can see with half an eye as you’re a cut above these others here.

MRS BENDIGO:
Thank you, constable,
thank
you!’Ear that, girls?’A cut above us,’’e says. Nice, ain’t it? [
To the policeman
] Proper bloody Ascot swell yourself, ain’t you?

DOROTHY:
No, no! Leave me, I’d rather stay here.

THE POLICEMAN:
Well, please yourself. You looked real bad just now. I’ll be along later and take a look at you. [
Moves off doubtfully
.]

CHARLIE:
Wait’ll the perisher’s round the corner and then pile up agen. Only perishing way we’ll keep warm.

MRS MCELLIGOT:
Come on, kid. Get underneath an’ let’m warm you.

SNOUTER:
Ten minutes to — two. Can’t last for ever, I s’pose.

MR TALLBOYS
[
chanting
]: I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: My heart also in the midst of my body is like unto melting wax!…

[
Once more the people pile themselves on the bench. But the temperature is now not many degrees above freezing-point, and the wind is blowing more cuttingly. The people wriggle their wind-nipped faces into the heap like
sucking pigs struggling for their mother’s teats. One’s interludes of sleep shrink to a few seconds, and one’s dreams grow more monstrous, troubling, and undreamlike. There are times when the nine people are talking almost normally, times when they can even laugh at their situation, and times when they press themselves together in a kind of frenzy, with deep groans of pain. Mr Tallboys suddenly becomes exhausted and his monologue degenerates into a stream of nonsense. He drops his vast bulk on top of the others, almost suffocating them. The heap rolls apart. Some remain on the bench, some slide to the ground and collapse against the parapet or against the others’ knees. The policeman enters the Square and orders those on the ground to their feet. They get up, and collapse again the moment he is gone. There is no sound from the ten people save of snores that are partly groans. Their heads nod like those of joined porcelain Chinamen as they fall asleep and reawake as rhythmically as the ticking of a clock. Three strikes somewhere. A voice yells like a trumpet from the eastern end of the Square:
’Boys! Up you get! The noospapers is come!’]

CHARLIE
[
starting from his sleep
]: The perishing papers! C’m on, Ginger! Run like Hell!

[
They run, or shamble, as fast as they can to the corner of the Square, where three youths are distributing surplus posters given away in charity by the morning newspapers. Charlie and Ginger come back with a thick wad of posters. The five largest men now jam themselves together on the bench, Deafie and the four women sitting across their knees; then, with infinite difficulty (as it has to be done from the inside), they wrap themselves in a monstrous cocoon of paper, several sheets thick, tucking the loose ends into their necks or breasts or between their shoulders and the back of the bench. Finally nothing is uncovered save their heads and the lower part of their legs. For their heads they fashion hoods of paper. The paper constantly comes loose and lets in cold shafts of wind, but it is now possible to sleep for as much as five minutes consecutively. At this time-between three and five in the morning–it is customary with the police not to disturb the Square sleepers. A measure of warmth steals through everyone and extends even to their feet. There is some furtive fondling of the women under cover of the paper. Dorothy is too far gone to care
.

By a quarter past four the paper is all crumpled and torn to nothing, and it is far too cold to remain sitting down. The people get up, swear, find their legs somewhat rested, and begin to slouch to and fro in couples, frequently halting from mere lassitude. Every belly is now contorted with hunger. Ginger’s tin of condensed milk is torn open and the contents devoured, everyone dipping their fingers into it and licking them. Those who have no money at all leave the Square for the Green Park, where they will be undisturbed till seven. Those who can command even a halfpenny make for Wilkins’s café not far from the Charing Cross Road. It is known that the café will not open till five o’clock; nevertheless, a crowd is waiting outside the door by twenty to five
.]

MRS MCELLIGOT:
Got your halfpenny, dearie? Dey won’t let more’n four of us in on one cup o’tea, de stingy ole gets!

MR TALLBOYS
[
singing
]: The roseate hu-ues of early da-awn–

GINGER:
God, that bit of sleep we ’ad under the newspapers done me some good. [
Singing
] But I’m dancing with tears–in my eyes–

CHARLIE:
Oh, boys, boys! Look through that perishing window, will you? Look at the ’eat steaming down the window pane! Look at the tea-urns jest on the boil, and them great piles of ’ot toast and ’am sandwiches, and them there sausages sizzling in the pan! Don’t it make your belly turn perishing summersaults to see ’em?

DOROTHY:
I’ve got a penny. I can’t get a cup of tea for that, can I?

SNOUTER:
— lot of sausages we’ll get this morning with fourpence between us. ’Alf a cup of tea and a — doughnut more likely. There’s a breakfus’ for you!

MRS MCELLIGOT:
You don’t need buy a cup o’ tea all to yourself. I got a halfpenny an’ so’s Daddy, an’ we’ll put’m to your penny an’ have a cup between de t’ree of us. He’s got sores on his lip, but Hell! who cares? Drink near de handle an’ dere’s no harm done.

[
A quarter to five strikes
.]

MRS BENDIGO:
I ’d bet a dollar my ole man’s got a bit of ‘addock to ‘is breakfast. I ‘ope it bloody chokes ‘im.

GINGER
[
singing
]: But I’m dan-cing with tears–in my eyes–

MR TALLBOYS
[
singing
]: Early in the morning my song shall rise to Thee!

MRS MCELLIGOT:
You gets a bit o’ kip in dis place, dat’s one comfort. Dey lets you sleep wid your head on de table till seven o’clock. It’s a bloody godsend to us Square Tobies.

CHARLIE
[
slavering like a dog
]: Sausages! Perishing sausages! Welsh rabbit!’Ot dripping toast! And a rump-steak two inches thick with chips and a pint of Ole Burton! Oh, perishing Jesus!

[
He bounds forward, pushes his way through the crowd and rattles the handle of the glass door. The whole crowd of people, about forty strong, surge forward and attempt to storm the door, which is stoutly held within by Mr Wilkins, the proprietor of the café. He menaces them through the glass. Some press their breasts and faces against the window as though warming themselves. With a whoop and a rush Florry and four other girls, comparatively fresh from having spent part of the night in bed, debouch from a neighbouring alley, accompanied by a gang of youths in blue suits. They hurl themselves upon the rear of the crowd with such momentum that the door is almost broken. Mr Wilkins pulls it furiously open and shoves the leaders back. A fume of sausages, kippers, coffee, and hot bread streams into the outer cold
.]

YOUTHS’ VOICES FROM THE REAR:
Why can’t he — open before five? We’re starving for our — tea! Ram the — door in! [
etc., etc
.]

MR WILKINS:
Get out! Get out, the lot of you! Or by God not one of you comes in this morning!