II. The Second Night.
Returning at 10 o'clock, we purchased, at the little shop which caters for this lodging-house, a loaf of bread for 2¼d., two ounces of boiled ham, a penny tin of condensed milk, and a pennyworth of sugar; tea and butter we had with us. Armed with these, in the kitchen we speedily obtained hot water and made our tea-supper. We took it into the dining-room for coolness' sake, and established ourselves at a table. This room had three long wooden tables and forms. It was an oblong room with one fireplace, and out of it was another kitchen with fireplace and gas stove.
There were hardly any girls in when we entered, and, to our great disappointment, our acquaintance of the day before was out. She had gone out at nine o'clock. She was not out long, but returned drunk; she had been "in luck." She had had "two small whiskies and a soda," and they had bowled her over. She had plenty of money now, and was talkative, and staggering. We felt we could not do anything with her that night. She came and talked to us a little, asking us our "luck," to which we replied "that we had done very well," and were going on to another town next day. I had improved my appearance, wearing hat, tie, and belt, so this bore out my story.
The proprietress as we entered had told us not to mind a woman who was "gone dotty" with drink. She also was in this room, properly maudlin. She had a chemise, which she kept tucking into her breast, pulling up her under-garments, and examining her stockings. She was taking more drink still, brought in in a bottle, and though warned, I believe she insisted presently on sallying forth, and would probably fall into the hands of the police. The other women present humoured her to avoid a quarrel.
By this time we felt quite "at home," knowing the faces of a good many of the inmates. Most were out, but one and another we recollected came dropping in, in some cases to go out again. Our dark friend came and questioned us as to how we had got on. We told her we had done very well. She said, "I suppose you have been round the town?" Evidently she was fishing for our occupation, and I fear she would gather the wrong impression from our affirmative reply; but we really had been about and could not "give ourselves away." This little person seemed to keep from drink, though she told us she had lost her last place through buying, with her own money, bottles of stout, and so horrifying her mistress, who, she said, was "a religious woman, but a regular pig." This mistress took drink herself, but "would not own it," and "suffered from indigestion." She had the doctor, and he recommended change, society, etc., but she lazed about most of the day and drank. Little Dark Hair said she could have stood it if the woman had been straight, if she had told her she took drink and it wasn't good for her; but to call it "indigestion," and dismiss her servant for buying in a few bottles of stout out of her own money, it was too disgusting! She left, and didn't feel like asking for a character, as what she said was regarded as cheek! She was evidently very low-spirited, for she said she wished she was "in a bandbox," and then explained she meant her coffin. She said she would get out of this if she had a home; but she had no home, no friends. She was soon to become a mother—she would soon have to go to the workhouse. We gave her the address of a friend who would help her, but could not ourselves do so because of our incognito.
There was a great difference in the characters and appearance of the various women. One old woman apparently got her living by running errands and doing odd jobs for the girls. I think one woman was a pedlar. The former woman showed by her conversation that she had lived an immoral life. There were several women about thirty or forty, who behaved quietly and were dressed comparatively modestly and cleanly. Some looked quite superior to their position, but I believe they had only acquired the wisdom of reticence, as they dressed themselves up and went out like the others, and one I thought particularly quiet, who seemed to watch us a good deal, smoked like the others, after she had been out. Some explanation of the probable life of these elder women was afforded next morning by a woman, rather stout, and more talkative. She had gone out overnight, setting off for her regular place, which was apparently some way off in a suburb. A "toff" took her to have a drink, and promised her money to go with him to an hotel. He afterwards gave her the slip, leaving her penniless. Another girl, young and pretty, said she was given in the dark two pennies silvered over! A dark girl told her she "wasn't so soft; she always felt the edges of her money in the dark and knew by that."
There were no old women, except the one or two who seemed to live on the others, by cleaning or by sewing or running errands. One girl was said to get her living by doing this, and "drank all she got." Most of the younger ones seemed to get more or less drunk every day. They had to drown thought, but drink and dissipation were fast playing havoc with their good looks, and several had very severe coughs, due to exposure to night air. A girl who did not gather lodging money might be out all night, as our friend the runaway had been, and none were very warmly clad. They had to take off underclothing and replace it after it was washed, apparently being almost all improvident. One or two, notably "Dot," a small dark girl, who kept herself clean, and was pretty, with a kind of perky prettiness that hid vulgarity, seemed to be better fitted up. She had a basket of clothes, and seemed to be going somewhere by appointment. We heard it several times mentioned that Mr. S—— wanted one and another, and that they must have "a note" from him, or "a paper." He was "the landlord."
But I am anticipating the morning. We sat watching until we were weary, between eleven and twelve, and then went to our bedroom. The same beds were reserved, and one woman who was said to work for her living, and had a very bad cough, was already in bed. We were speedily in bed also, and for a while were quiet. The room was very stuffy, in spite of two ventilators; the sheets not very clean, but still fairly so. The beds were filled by degrees, all but one, that previously occupied by the Scotch woman. One girl who came in late said she was not on the streets; that she had begged money for her lodging, as she was out too late to return to her place. It was holiday time, being Whit week.[113] One girl who came in late, and had had drink, which made her talkative, said she was a servant, and had just left a place where she had been ten months. She said she had been to a pleasure resort all the night before with her young man; that her mistress begged her not to come to this lodging-house; she was very good to her, but she said she had had some drink, and it got late, and she couldn't go anywhere else. She had no money to buy breakfast, and had an appointment with her young man at eight o'clock next morning. He promised to give her some money. She meant to "enjoy herself" over the holiday and then go to service again.[114] She did get up early, complaining she felt poorly, and she went to her appointment, but I think he did not meet her. We offered her some breakfast before she went, and she joyfully recognised us when she returned without it, and we gave her the rest of our provisions.
One girl who had been in before grumbled that her bed had been slept in, and was dirty; but her own underlinen was far from clean. No one seemed to possess a nightgown; all slept in their underlinen.
We had the door a little ajar, and far into the night the door bell kept ringing, and girls were admitted and laughter and conversation drifted up the stairs. Our room settled down some time past midnight, but the girl who was drunk several times tried to begin a conversation. At last we all slept; two, however, had bad coughs. I woke at intervals through the night, and finally, at 6.30, I woke longing for fresh air. I put on a skirt and went down to enquire the time, and decided to get up and go out for a quiet stroll. The bath-room was empty. The bath had old papers in it, and did not look as if it was often used. There was a table with looking-glass, and a good deal of rouge about. The w.c. had a good flush of water. The washing basin was very small, and no soap was provided. There was a roller towel for everybody. We had learned by experience to take our own soap and towel, and we lent the soap several times. Articles of clothing seemed to be frequently lent. We saw girls trying on each other's hats, and there were complaints that they were also stolen. Several locked boxes were in the bath-room, and some empty ones. No convenience existed for keeping things privately except this. Some women had a few things in drawers in the kitchen, but they were not locked. The woman in charge had a sitting-room and a piano, and she kept knives in her room. You paid a penny to have one, and it was returned to you when you gave back the knife. Knives also were lent from one to another. A girl whose head was questionably clean wanted to borrow my friend's shawl to go an errand, but we made an excuse and did not lend it.
My friend got up more slowly, so I slipped out to the bright freshness of a May morning, and walked in the direction of a park. There were plenty astir, trams running, and people going holiday-making. The park was not open, as it was not yet seven, but just outside I found a resting-place. What a contrast the fresh budding life of the trees was to that perversion and decay of budding womanhood I had left behind me! A tree cut down in its prime to make way for building furnished me with a parallel. What artificial conditions of man's making are pressing on those young lives, snapping them off from true use to rottenness and decay? Why do they not grow healthily? A crowded bedroom, an uneasy couch, a bare dining-room, wooden slats and tables, a precarious livelihood—these are not things to draw a girl, and the excitement of "the life" has to be covered by drink and degradation. Is it true, that once in it, it is too difficult to get out, and that a girl may be trapped unawares and wound round and round as in a spider's web by a multitude of threads of circumstance which prevent her escape? Is there even at the back an organised system, seeking victims and preying on them? This much is certain, that there is room for an alliance of greed and wickedness against defenceless and destitute womanhood. For if a woman "cannot get work," where is she to go? What is she to do? Can all our Homes and Shelters together prevent many from drifting "on the streets"? Do we not need a national provision for migration and temporary destitution among women?[115]
Musing thus, I returned to my friend, and we went out together and sat about half an hour on some public seats. The open air refreshed us, and once more we returned to get our breakfast. I found a cup and saucer with difficulty, for by this time most were in requisition. Every one had her own provisions, but they all seemed to live from hand to mouth; there was nowhere to keep them, and there were complaints that they were stolen. Bread and butter, tea, bacon, or ham, or an egg, were the staple diet. There were no forks, only a very common blunt knife to be had for the penny, and tin spoons rusty with use. The walls were bare, except for a print of the infant Christ bearing a cross, over the kitchen mantelpiece. "Oh, Christ!" was a favourite exclamation. The language was often foul. The girls chatted together also about their previous night's experiences, but mostly in groups of two or three exchanging confidences. We asked A—— to join us, and she offered me an egg, and went out and fetched herself some tea, butter, and crumpets. We were now going to make a struggle for this girl's salvation, but it was very difficult to do so without exciting suspicion. We tried to persuade her to go to B——. I had written overnight to secure a place for her; but she would not do this, or go home, fearing her father's wrath. She was also wretched after her previous night's indulgence, and ashamed of herself, and in a difficult irresolute state. Reference to her mother made her weep, and this attracted attention. The woman of the house came, without any apparent reason, and borrowed her shawl. We asked her to go out with us, and her shawl was not returned, but a small grey one was lent her.
I spoke to the little dark young woman, and she gratefully received an address to which she might apply for help after her confinement.
We succeeded in getting A—— to give us her mother's address, and promised to write for her. With this, I think, we should have been content, but she offered to go out with us after all a little way, and we hoped to persuade her. We knew of a Shelter near by, and we actually succeeded in getting her there; but she would not remain, and we had to let her return, fearing that she would probably drink again to drown recollection. We spent altogether nearly two hours in trying to get her to some satisfactory resolution. Meanwhile the girls were talking, laughing, singing, or dancing about the room. Two were particularly playful; both handsome girls, but already dissipated in looks. Both had an abundance of fair hair, apparently "all their own." One girl sportively asked one of them to "lend her her hair." I thought she was joking, but presently she crossed the room, and untwisted a lock of hair from the head of one of them and twisted it up and fixed it on her own! It was many shades fairer, and was speedily returned to its owner. These two girls were constantly striking up bits of comic songs, or larking with one another or dancing "the cake walk."
I fear in our endeavour to secure our young friend we lost other opportunities. But it was a continually-changing scene. Most sat round comparatively quiet; some, very weary, lay on the forms or lolled on one another; some smoked cigarettes, some talked, and one or two were washing their clothes in another room. One girl took off her stockings to wash them. There were one or two strikingly handsome girls—one had a face that reminded me of some painting I had seen—but the majority were only good-looking when rouge and powder had effaced dissipation or accentuated their good points; by morning light they looked flabby, coarse, and unhealthy. One girl, Joy, with a pink-and-white complexion that bore the light, had to go to the Lock Hospital. Apparently most of these girls had outgrown the fear of this or of prison. "Bless you! they don't mind being 'pinched,'" said one woman; "it gives them a rest." Here, then, was womanhood devoid of fear! Social restraints had vanished—as with the tramp, so with the harlot![116]
The only fear left was that of each other's opinion, and this had sufficient force to draw back to "the life" the one we wished to rescue. On her soul lay the knowledge of the horror of respectable society towards what she had become, and the attraction of the fellowship of those who would receive her freely. We succeeded in getting her to go out with us in a small borrowed shawl, and we coaxed her to a place where she would have received shelter till her friends were communicated with. But it was no use—she must go to her friends. Persuasion was useless. We would have taken her with us, but she would go back. All we could do was to give her the address of a friend and take that of her parents, in the hope of a chance to save her.
It is, I believe, hardly possible to rescue a girl deep in harlotry, though it might be possible to steer poor souls who have passed disillusionment to some harbour of refuge where moral purity was to be recovered. They must "get their living." Who would knowingly employ them? The national recognition of the right of the individual to employment and subsistence seems to me to be the remedy for the harlot as for the tramp. The harlot is the female tramp, driven by hard social conditions to primitive freedom of sex relationship.[117]
III. The Third Night.
During the week that intervened before we could again visit, we succeeded in finding out that there was a "welcome home" for the wanderer. Armed with a letter from her mother, but with some misgivings as to success, we went to the lodging-house, intending to see her quietly; but when we reached the door the woman in charge stood there. We asked for the girl by name. She said she was not there; that a letter had come for her, but they had not been able to give it to her, as she had left. We asked where she had gone. She did not know. Baffled, but uncertain as to whether she was telling the truth, we stood hesitating, when who should come to the door but the girl herself! The woman was so nonplussed that she gave way and invited us in! We gave the girl her mother's letter, and watched her read it. The girl's face changed, softened. She cried, but she only said, "My sister has written it," when an elderly woman came and began talking to us. As the girl was opposite us we could no longer speak privately. After a while, however, she changed her place so as to get near me, and we began talking, but a young woman also came and asked if she were going out with her. We did not wish to attract too much attention, so it was only by degrees we could tell her we were ready to send her away next morning, having had the money to do so given us.
She made difficulties about being ashamed to go home in dirty clothes. We asked her to wash them. She said if she left them to dry overnight they would be stolen. We told her to exchange them for others. She wanted to go out and get money for some things, and go home well dressed. We were not sure as to what might happen if she did this, and urged her to give up "the life" for her mother's sake and meet us in the morning. Fearing too much pressure would act in the wrong direction, we decided to leave her, trusting to God to bring her to the right decision. This He did, for she went out and had "bad luck," and received only two halfpennies!
We set out once more to search for lodgings, intending to make straight for a street we had heard of by name. We took a penny tram-ride to the heart of the town, and asking directions of a woman, got a very bad impression from her of the street whither we were bound, a mild recommendation to one lodging-house, and a warm one, coupled with an invitation, to the one whither she was going. However, we "preferred the worst," and so with thanks we left her. When, however, after a long walk we found the street, it was narrow and unsavoury, and the lodging-houses were all small cottages. We looked through open doors at a few interiors—and flinched! We knew what they would be like only too well![118] Besides, as we wanted to see as much "life" as possible, we preferred a larger one. We could be sure of what these low-class ones were, if a slightly better one was unsatisfactory. So we sought a street near by, which we had also heard mentioned, and which, being a principal thoroughfare, was flanked by houses of a larger type, once inhabited by the well-to-do, but which now had descended to be lodging-houses.
A female lodging-house (next door to a men's lodging-house) looked clean and respectable, although through the open door we caught a glimpse of a girl who was dressing, and who attracted some attention from passers-by by her condition of half-undress. We paid sixpence each, and secured two beds in the same room. We then were "free of the house," which consisted of a long passage leading to a small kitchen. Leading from the passage was a front parlour occupied by the "deputy" and her husband, a larger dining-room furnished as usual with tables and forms, and a door leading to a yard with sanitary conveniences. A stairway with oak balustrading led above; a door which could be locked had been placed at the bottom, and no one was allowed upstairs till they went to bed—a good precaution for cleanliness and decency.
In the kitchen there was a fire, and hot water in a boiler by the side. A couple of tables and two forms, accommodating each about four people, were the only furniture besides a rack in the wall and some shelves filled with hats and other clothes. There was no room for more, as a small sink with hot and cold water occupied the corner by the fire. There were a few pots in much request, and two large tins. These formed the only apparatus for washing of all kinds. We saw them used overnight for bathing the feet, etc., one girl washing her feet in them; we knew they were used for washing clothes, and we saw them full of dirty pots in the morning. As we heard the state of one girl alluded to as contagious, "but she won't go to hospital," it is easy to be imagined that we could not bring ourselves to eat and drink there. Nor did we consider it safe to use any sanitary convenience except upstairs, for it was easy to see the character of the house. We sat on the form in the kitchen for nearly an hour, while the girl we had seen made her elaborate toilet. She had a most severe cough, and could hardly speak, yet she sat, often in full view of the front door, in a low chemise and skirt, both of good quality if they had only been clean, which they were not. She had finished her washing process, but there were many others. She powdered her face and breast, she rouged herself with great care (being chaffed meanwhile by some of her companions), she burnt a match and blackened her eyebrows, and then by slow degrees she did her hair in numerous rolls, finishing up by curling the little ends and putting a net over all. Then, after some discussion as to which hat suited her (apparently hats, though they had owners, were common property), she put on first a very thin muslin blouse with a hole at the shoulder, then a clean skirt and a costume skirt and jacket (the latter very open at the neck), and finally the selected hat. She looked, when thus disguised, a handsome young woman, but her face was really thin and wan, and it was almost death to her to go out, as she did, into the cold night air with only a thin tie to protect her chest. She returned in the morning, saying she had been at the C—— Hotel all night, and had been drinking all the time, and had not slept at all. She looked very weary, and rolled up some clothes and lay full length on a form to attempt to sleep. She could not long survive such a life. One girl had died the previous week there.
While her long toilet was taking place, a succession of girls entered, most of them going out again after a brief rest. The first, who sat by me and told her story, was not, as yet, on the streets.[119] She had been sent when five years old to an orphanage, and from that to a laundry home, where she had received a good education, and from which she got a good situation. She was not strong, however, and, becoming anæmic, was sent to hospital. There she was questioned as to her parents, whom she had not seen for years, and sent, when discharged, to the town where they lived to seek for them. She found her mother living in sin with another man, by whom she had children. Her father was a drunkard, who had been many times convicted; he lived with her sister in lodgings. She clung to him as her own, and all the right feelings cultured in her gave intensity to her affection for her long-lost father. He kicked and ill-used her, but promised amendment. He broke out again, and had that morning been sent down for a month. She had nowhere to go. Her sister was cold to her and to her father; probably she took after her mother, and had reason enough not to love her father, who had, however, in his way looked after her. She was working and could support herself, but this poor girl was stranded. Her one cry was that she must meet her father when he came from prison; she was sure he would do better. She had no money, and feared she should have to walk the streets. I paid her lodging, and one or two of the girls gave her a little food. She said she intended next morning to seek work in a laundry. We urged her, if she did not obtain it, to go to a relief agency we knew, and she seemed quite willing to do so, and a woman present also recommended it. She was in the same mind the next morning, so I hoped she would do so, as she did not seem to wish to drift to evil. Her father, bad as he was through drink, was not bad in that way. Her mother was a thoroughly immoral woman. This girl, well intentioned and well brought up, but feeble in health, ought never to have drifted to such a place.
I have before had occasion to notice the harm done by hospital authorities in sending friendless girls, without sufficient enquiry (or even though knowing they are quite friendless), back to their native town. Girls such as this should be passed on to some agency that would "mother" them. It is easy to see how a little indecision, and the pressure of hunger, might anchor a girl to sin.[120] For most of those who entered were openly leading a life of shame. Girl after girl came in, rested, and went out. We learnt their "by-names," and those of others. "Red Jinny," distinguished from "Scotch Jinny" and other Jinnies, was living with a companion in prostitution.
The pathetic history of a young woman who began her toilet by having a foot-bath (in one of the tins), her legs being swollen with varicose veins, will illustrate this life. She had a good home, a kind and strict father. The way home was always open to her, for her parents had not the slightest idea she was living in sin. They thought she was in service. She had actually been home over the week-end, and thoroughly enjoyed herself, going on Sunday to church and Sunday school. ("I wish I was as good!" sighed one when she heard it.) Yet for two or three years she had really led the life of a prostitute. Her history was a sad one. She kept company five years, and then her young man betrayed her. She managed to conceal this from her parents, and in order to maintain her baby she went on the streets. For two and a half years she lived with a prostitute friend, and worked and struggled for her little one, coming home one day to find her scalded and her companion "blind drunk." However, the child survived, only to perish of bronchitis and pneumonia. Her mother had worked for her and clothed her with her own fingers, making all her clothes herself. She was clever, for as she talked she unpicked a hat and twisted and turned it to new account. After her child died she left her companion—or was deserted by her—and now for some months she had been living here, except for home visits. She found it hard to get out of "the life," because she had kept up the deception that she was entangled in. "Her father would die" if he knew she was in such a place! But he must get to know in the long run unless she got out of "the life." Already she had been twice in the hands of the police—once for drink, and once for accosting. The second time she got off for "first offence." She gave an assumed name and paid the fine, but next time she would have to "go down." We got a good opportunity to press her to go where we knew she would find friends, as she was the only one in bed in our room by twelve o'clock. She did not go out because of a superstitious feeling that "something was going to happen," which, she said, had also preceded her being taken up. She said she wished she was at home in her own good bed, which was always kept for her; that she was getting to drink and swear, and this life would soon kill her. We placed before her as strongly as we could the path to safety, and urged her to struggle free for the sake of father and child. It made one long to go and live continuously with these girls, gradually acquiring influence, and being able to speak to them as a Christian woman, and save them from the web in which they were entangled. Such work would be difficult and delicate, for it would be necessary to live quietly, maintaining oneself among them and acting by character, not by profession.
But surely something more is possible. There should be large, well-ventilated, well-provided women's lodging houses, open even to the prostitute, but under the care of wise, motherly women. Here it was impossible for a girl even to keep her own property; there was not a locker or any place to put anything away. Girls slept with their hats on their beds for security. Everything was "borrowed" or "made off with." A little care would keep a decent girl steady and safe, and bring many a wanderer back to goodness. Here everything tended to demoralisation. The sanitary arrangements were deficient. I cannot defend the shameless toilet in full view of an open door to the street, which we saw repeated, even to half-nudity, several times over. But this kitchen was the only place in which to wash and dress, and the door must needs be open. The constant talk was filthy—not on the part of all, but on that of many—and the life most were leading not in the least disguised. The more successful girls were sometimes out all night. Two or three came in very drunk and were piloted to bed by friends. Shameless expressions which cannot be repeated were used with regard to actions which decency conceals. Yet listening were other girls not so far gone in sin.
A young girl in a shawl, hardly more than a child, came in apparently on an errand, and stayed some time. She was asked if she was going to "mash for a quid." An old woman called "Old Mackintosh," from her wearing a long mackintosh cloak, and also affectionately called "Ma," was apparently the sport of the girls, and yet regarded with a sort of affection. They teased her and stole her things, and even hit her. She had a bad temper, and scolded, which afforded them amusement; but if they went too far they made it up by embracing her. Poor woman! I fear drink was her trouble. They said she had hardly anything under her cloak. She seemed ravenously hungry, and how she got her living I don't know. One or two elderly women were apparently not prostitutes, but earned money by cleaning. It was, however, rather difficult to settle how they lived. One woman was very coarse and fat, with an ugly scar on her shoulder, which she exhibited in the morning when she indulged in the luxury of "a good wash," but was not clean. She put on a ragged bodice, the silk of which was hanging in shreds, and which had a big hole under the arm showing a great patch of bare flesh; yet over all she put a most respectable cloak, and a bonnet that would have done credit to a Quaker. I was astonished to see her emerge as almost a lady! Evidently the "clothes philosophy" is well understood in Slumdom, for whatever purposes it is used. Indeed, it has given me somewhat of a shock to realise that many of these, even if dwellers in actual filth and disease, would not be distinguishable in any way from ordinary individuals.
Nothing was more noticeable in both lodging-houses than the existence of at least three descriptions of prostitutes. There was the apparently quiet, modest one, whom you would take to be a respectable girl. One of these gave an account of how "her boy" had met her and spent an hour or two trying to persuade her to go away and get work. He even cried! But apparently he did not move her. She promised him as a put-off. This quiet sort of girl is most to be dreaded; she may act as a tempter.
There was, in the second place, the good-natured girl, naturally affectionate. "Everyone likes me wherever I go," said the girl who had a home. This girl should have been a happy wife and mother. Her fate lies at the door of him who wronged her. Once in "the life," the ties of friendship and a vivacious, sociable disposition would draw her to it again and again.
The third kind may be the second gone to ruin, or those who, having had a worse bringing up, are naturally more shamelessly immoral. Drink has fascinations for them. They go "on the town" to get drink. One such, who was drunk over night, gave a long and involved history of her doings in the morning. She had received money and drink from three soldiers, but she declined to descend to the level of "Soldiers' Jinny," whose unmentionable doings were related at length. She left them and got more drink, piloted a couple to a "safe house" and was tipped for it, was treated to "bottled stout"—much to her disgust, as she preferred other drink—came along certain streets gloriously drunk, daring policemen, and arrived home happy, just sufficiently quarrelsome to get a free berth from everyone. She was a handsome dark girl of a low class. Her language was unspeakably foul, every sentence being interspersed with gory adjectives. She evidently expected admiration from her hearers for a sort of dare-devilry.
It was pitiable, as the evening went on, to see the state of many. Two elderly women in the other room carried on a maudlin conversation, just on the edge of a quarrel, the substance of which was that they "understood one another," and would not blab each other's secrets!
All the time this was going on a man, and sometimes other men, were in the passage frequently. There was in this passage a locked door, constantly unlocked, leading to the next door men's lodging-house. Apparently the husband caretaker in our house was also caretaker in this, hence comings and goings. I have no reason to suppose there was any illicit communication as regards the house itself; but girls were frequently asked for by name, and the presence of a man or men was not desirable. The caretaker himself was familiarly addressed as "Pa."
The hours slowly wore away. One girl sat patiently for eleven o'clock to strike. She "never went out till eleven," she said. She was a quiet girl, not very good looking. About half-past eleven two girls in shawls came in and had something to eat. From conversation between them (they slept in our room), they seemed to be working girls who had been turned out of home. One worked at a mackintosh warehouse, the other, I think, at tin-plate. One at least intended to go to work in the morning, but was not up when I came away.[121] And this was not wonderful, for with the best intentions youth and sleepiness would make them lie long in the morning; for at twelve, when I went to bed, only a few had gone upstairs, and right on till two o'clock at least the interruptions were far too numerous for rest.
Besides the usual comings and goings, locking and unlocking of doors, drunken stumbling upstairs, and loud good-nights exchanged, a tragedy that turned to a comedy was being enacted. A woman known as the "Mussel Woman," who carried an empty basket on her arm—which those who knew her called a "blind," as she hardly ever had anything to sell—came and claimed a lodging, having nothing to pay. After a good deal of "language," she was made to understand that she could not have it, whereupon she said she should "keep shouting all night" if they did not let her in. She was as good as her word for half an hour at least, shouting at the top of her voice the most abusive personal language, and banging the door at intervals. I do not know whether seasons of quiet were due to police rounds, but she shouted and banged, and then desisted at intervals, for quite two hours. No sooner was everything quiet than she again appeared. Several angry colloquies took place with the deputy. Once she was let in, saying "Jinny" would pay for her, and came all round the beds looking for "Jinny" with the deputy. "Jinny" was not found, and she was again ejected, I believe; but finally a policeman intervened, said he could not have her in the street, and forced the lodging-house keeper to accept her, money or no money. I should not like the berth of a "deputy"; she could have had no rest till two at the earliest, yet was up cleaning and sweeping before seven.
Our beds and bedroom could not be called clean, yet were not dirty; at any rate in this respect, that we did not see any insects. That is a great deal to be thankful for. I woke after a brief and broken slumber at 6.30. All were young in my room save my companion and myself, and all slept soundly. There was nothing to tell the time, so I dressed without disturbing them, and on arriving downstairs found it was ten minutes past seven. I washed my face at the sink with my own soap and flannel, and sallied out in search of a clean and cheap breakfast. I succeeded beyond my expectation, finding on enquiry a small shop where I got a cup of coffee for ½d. and a good substantial ½d. bun. Thus fortified I spent a pleasant hour looking at pictures in shop windows and observing passers by, and returned about 8 o'clock to wake my friend. She had gone to bed at 9.30 the previous night with a bad headache, which was no better for a disturbed night, so we escaped as quickly as possible to fresh air and a cup of coffee, and then by tram to keep our appointment with the girl we wished to save.
We entered the house by the open door and sought the dining-room to look for her, but were met by reproof on the part of the deputy. She said we had no right in when we hadn't slept there. She had allowed it as a favour the day before, but could not again permit it. To solve this difficulty my friend paid for her bed for the night, and was then of course free of the house. I had to leave her to wait to see the girl, and if possible to send her to her mother; and I am glad to say that she succeed in dispatching her safely to the far-distant home, where I trust loving hearts may hold her too closely for return.
I have tried to tell a plain, unvarnished tale—in which nevertheless much is left out that would not bear printing—of the way in which these our young sisters live. The pity of it is that though some may from sheer wickedness seek it, more—perhaps most—are drawn in by frivolity and misfortune. It may be exceedingly difficult to rescue them when contaminated, surrounded as they are by all those invisible ties of friendship which chain a woman's heart. We make elaborate institutions to rescue them, which are often surrounded by such restrictions that they defeat their own end.
Can we not do something to solve the problem by providing suitable and sufficient women's lodging-houses under good management, where freedom is not interfered with unduly, but influence for good is steady?
In Christian England a friendless girl should never want a friend and a home. And to guard our girls is to preserve our nation from the worst of evils—the corruption of a 'trade' based on greed and dishonour. Yet how else can a destitute girl get her living without a friend?
When all else is sold she sells herself to live![122]
CHAPTER VI.
COMMON LODGING-HOUSE LIFE.
I. In a Northern Town.
There are certain elementary considerations of decency with regard to accommodation for women that we might expect would receive attention in every town of considerable size, especially those along the main thoroughfares by which travel takes place. To leave provision for a certain need entirely in private hands is to ensure in the end great public expense. It is not to private advantage to provide maximum but minimum comfort. The margin of profit is small, and the class provided for will put up with a great deal. Inspection may swoop down on flagrant neglect, but does not avail to prevent a state of things most undesirable from every point of view.[123]
Under the conviction that nothing but investigation into the actual state of things will shed light on the nature of the reforms needed, my friend and I set out once more on pilgrimage, our object being to investigate the state of things in a town not twenty miles from Manchester, on the line of constant travel, with regard to accommodation for women.
Thinking it desirable to make some preliminary inquiries, we first visited a friend who belonged to "the Army"; we could, however, get little information, so we visited the Captain, hoping to learn something useful. We found that "the Army" visited the men's lodging-houses, and that there were frequent inquiries for a Shelter, but they did not possess one in this town. Finally we learned that there was not in the whole town a lodging-house for women only! Possibly there may be some charitable institutions. But for a woman coming to the town not absolutely destitute, able to beg or earn fourpence for a bed (which means, it must be remembered, two-and-fourpence a week, without food), there were only three places, and in each "married couples" were also taken.[124]
One was described to us as "full of gay girls," a second was small, and the single men had to pass through the sitting-room to bed; we were assured, however, that the proprietress did her best to prevent "carryings on." The third being described as "the best in the town," we decided to try it. But it is obvious that no town can be considered in a satisfactory condition that makes no provision for homeless women, apart from men. Widows and friendless girls are to be found everywhere, and it is most important that a safe place of refuge should exist to arrest, if possible, a downward career.[125]
We found a group of men outside the lodging-house, and one of them kindly showed us the way to the office, a lighted room up a sort of court. There was a movable square of glass in the window of this room, and through this we paid our money, sixpence for a double bed. We were told we should have to come through that room to bed and that we must go "up a stair to the right," and with this our communication with our host or hostess begun and ended, for there was no one in the room when we passed through to bed, and when we came away there was only a child in possession, half-dressed.
The room up the short stair, in which we found ourselves, was lofty and airy and might have been pleasant,—if it had been clean. There was a large fireplace with a fine range.[126] On the mantelpiece some wag had drawn, upon a round piece of board, a clock face, with the hands pointing to five-to-twelve, and the legend written underneath,
"No tick hear (sic) all stopped to-day."
Also a large frying-pan hanging on the wall bore the humorous inscription, "Out of work."
The walls were painted light above and dark below, various shawls and hats were hanging up, shelves by the side of the fire contained a non-descript collection of food and other possessions, and there was the usual stock-in-trade of frying-pans and saucepans, but no kettle. Hot water for any purpose (and cold also) had to be fetched from the "single men's" side of the building.
There was a small sink in one corner, but the water was cut off. There was absolutely no convenience for washing of all kinds—personal, family, or for culinary purposes—save this sink.[127] Men and women alike must fetch water from the other room, even to wash the "pots." A card on the wall informed the lodgers that they were expected to wash their own. The "pots" were a few enamelled basins, soup-plates, and tea-pots, some very much worse for wear. The sanitary conveniences were out in the yard, and apparently common to both men and women.
We took our seat at one of the tables, which, with wooden forms, were the only furniture, except what has been already alluded to. We then began to take stock of our fellow-lodgers.
On the other side of our table, a man with dark hair (and plenty of it) was employed in "cobbling" his wife's boots. It took him most of the evening to fasten on pieces of leather with nails, and to knock the nails down. His job was then pronounced "first-rate" by the men, but the wife reserved her opinion till they had been tested by the next day's march! He confided to us that she was "no walker" and "took an hour to walk a mile" (this is the gist of his speech, which was much garnished). She claimed to have walked five miles. I should not have liked to walk in her shoes.
Meanwhile at another table several men and women were sitting, some eating, some smoking (women as well as men). Also on the short forms by the fire were several people and children, and there were two perambulators, each with a sleeping child, against the wall in the background.
In a little while we were better able to disentangle the relationships of the various groups. A young and rather good-looking woman was the mother of three small children, one a babe at the breast, the next hardly more than a baby, and the third about four, apparently quite able to take care of herself and go to shop for the family! They were all very healthy, and the baby was much admired; the father seemed kind, and helped his wife to nurse. They did not seem destitute, but one wondered how they lived, whether they were "on the road," or crowded out of a home; the perambulator and the healthiness of the children favoured the former hypothesis. Another pretty little child seemed almost "unattached," but next day we identified her father; she was fair, and had long golden curls and a black velvet dress, and thus dirt did not show. It was most amusing to see this child, not more than six, take possession of the only washing bowl, get water, and proceed in the most business-like fashion to wash out three pocket handkerchiefs (one of which had lace round the edge), they were then placed on the rack over the fire to dry.
A man and woman were very busy making paper mats in a very quiet and steady fashion; they also began again next morning, and had a small tin box in which they kept their stock in trade. It was really curious to see such fancy articles made in such a place, and kept clean. For the dirt must not be left out of my description. The boarded floor was sanded over, the walls were clean, as far as could be seen, but under the tables and forms, and in every corner, there was a miscellaneous collection of sweepings of all sorts. Remains of food, dirty papers, filthy sand, dust and dirt, remained there unswept, and was still there when we came away. No attempt had been made to clear them, and what cleaning of pots and pans was done was expected of the lodgers, probably the room received a clearing up once a week, possibly a sweeping later in the day.
It is impossible for human beings to be or keep clean under such circumstances, and clean they were not. Yet I think most of them were as clean as they could be under these conditions, and, as will be seen later, there were degrees of uncleanliness to which they were very sensitive.
There were several working men who got into conversation about the doings of the Manchester corporation:
"Taking on two or three hundred at stone-breaking out of thousands!"
"Breaking granite! It's not much as them as aren't accustomed to it will make of that!"
"A man can't claim the Union unless he's resided two years."
"But I will say this, there's nowhere worse than Manchester for men knocking about as doesn't belong to it."
Two of the men settled down into earnest conversation about the state of employment, but, owing to the incessant knocking of the cobbler, I could not catch what they said, even when I moved nearer. A pleasing interlude from serious talk was afforded by the following humorous conversation (I omit the various unsavory adjectives with which it was interlarded, as I cannot do justice to them, and they were probably meaningless):
Enter the mother and baby.
"What's his name?"
"Oh! don't you know? he's Billy Bailey!"
"Bill Bailey? eh! There was a man as had a bicycle accident, fell off and lay in the road. A chap came along. 'What's the matter?' 'Broken a rib,' says he; 'can't move.' 'What's your name?' says the man. 'Bill Bailey,' says he. 'Bill Bailey!' says the man, and goes off and leaves him. He lies there half an hour, then another chap comes along. 'What's up?' says he. 'Run and get me a doctor, for God's sake,' says the man. 'My name is Bill Bailey,' says he. So the chap runs off and tells the nearest doctor that there's a man down the road wants him. 'What's his name?' says the doctor. 'He says he's called Bill Bailey.' 'Bill Bailey!' says the doctor. 'Get along with you!' says he. So he wouldn't go. At last the man got a doctor to go who didn't ask the chap's name; but the poor fellow lay there two hours with a broken rib, all because his name was Bill Bailey."
"There were a chap that went into a beer-house," struck in another man; "there was some glasses of beer called for, and a chap ordered one and went in the yard; when he came back his glass were drunk. 'Who's done this?' he says. 'Bill Bailey,' says someone. 'Where is he?' says he. 'Just gone out,' says the man. 'I'll be even with him,' says he; with that he goes back in the yard, and, as luck would have it, there were a chap there called Bill Bailey. 'Where's Bill Bailey?' he sings out, ''cause he's wanted.' 'What for?' says Bill Bailey. 'I'll give you what for,' says the man; and with that he pitches into him, and gives him a right-down good thrashing. And all the while the chap doesn't know what it's all about!"
After these humorous incidents had raised a good laugh, the conversation became general and hard to follow.
A woman, who was afterwards one of my room-mates, seemed to consider it her duty to supply liquor to the company; she apparently had money given her by the men, and went and fetched beer in a quart bottle. I counted at least six times. But the liquor did not appear to take effect on such "old stagers," except, perhaps, to loosen the tongues still more.
One man, who sent most frequently, had a nose that betrayed his proclivities, and to him this woman paid considerable attention. By this time the evening was growing late. Already there had been two loud thumps at the door, accompanied by the shout, "Bed!"
Apparently this summons came at the hours, and then those who wished to go cleared off. One or two went as early as eight o'clock, a few more at nine—mostly, as it seemed, working men with their wives—politely wishing us all "good night."
We went out to a little corner shop and got something to eat and a pennyworth of tea and sugar, and made some tea.
None of the children had as yet gone to bed, but towards ten the mothers undressed them, of course in public. One child had its face washed in the soapy water that had been used for the handkerchiefs; this was all the toilet we saw.
When we came away about nine in the morning, three of them were still running about, unwashed and undressed, in the scanty garb of one garment, shift or skirt. These little things, each pretty if only clean, tried each in their own way to find amusement. One got three sticks and tried to hammer them together as the cobbler was doing to the shoe! One in the morning tied himself to a post with an old scarf, and went round and round. It was almost pathetic to see the childish love of play developing amidst such untoward surroundings. The baby was fed and became sleepy. At last ten o'clock came and another summons. As only about six were staying up, we decided to go ourselves.
We went through the sitting-room of the landlord, which was empty, and stumbling up a narrow stair, found a young woman who was arranging the lodgers and allotting beds.
We were shown into a small room, which we afterwards heard was the only one for single women. It had two large double beds and a single bed. We were given a very small candle-end, which was put to flare down on the mantelpiece.
By the dim light the sheets looked fairly clean. Two women came to bed at the same time, and one of them, a single woman apparently, explained that she did not know who would be her bed-fellow; she hoped it would be some one decent and clean; she had "a terror of a woman" the night before—so bad, in fact, that "Jim" (who apparently was the lodging-house keeper) had to turn her out; she didn't mind if it was a decent body. Fortunately for our night's repose, she did not till morning make to us any revelations concerning our bed. She said she had been there six weeks.
She was not very communicative about herself. "Times were bad; she had never seen them worse, but there were some good folks in the town." We gathered that her "trade" was begging.
The candle-end went out before we were fairly in bed. It was not possible to investigate, but we soon knew that the bed was not untenanted! It is long drawn-out torment to lie in the dark and know that you are being investigated by an uncertain number of "insect pests"! The only comfort was that daylight would come some time, and that the worse it proved to be, the more such a state of things needed to be exposed. Is it not a shame that with all our boasted "civilisation," a poor respectable woman cannot be sure of getting a clean bed though she pays at the rate of two-and-fourpence a week?
We got what sleep we could. At eleven another woman came to bed: she said she had been sitting downstairs, but would have come to bed if she had known there was anyone in her room to talk to! We did not particularly welcome her conversation at that hour. Next day I heard two of the other women call her a "cheeky thing," who wanted to know "every one's business," and then went and told the "missus." Various sounds of "revelry by night" came up the stair, and "Move off" from a policeman outside.
At last, towards half-past eleven or twelve, silence reigned. The long night passed slowly. Both of us were "plagued" and restless. We feared the worst, but hoped the best.
Morning dawned, and welcome daylight. No one called us, and we found our room door was locked outside. It seems, however, that you might be called "by request." At eight no one had stirred. One of our fellow-lodgers said it was "all right if you were down by nine, and on Sunday you could lie till further orders."[128]
This did not seem to us much of a boon, as we longed to escape from torture, so about eight we began to dress, or rather to "slaughter"! I am not enough of an entomologist to be able to name the animals we found, as I had never before made the acquaintance of their species. Big and little, all sorts and sizes! It took us fully half-an-hour to get moderately free. While on this unpleasant subject, I must state deliberately that I do not believe that a woman who slept in that bed could possibly get free again under lodging-house conditions. Her cleanliness would be effectually destroyed by that one night.
Without the advantages of a bath, carbolic soap, and privacy, such as is unobtainable in a lodging-house, she could not get free.[129]
The woman in the next bed said it was a shame, she remarked to another woman on what we had suffered. Evidently she appreciated cleanliness of that sort. She told us that a very dirty woman with a bad leg had slept for six weeks in our bed.
"Lizzie was not a bad sort," she said, "but she wouldn't keep herself clean." She gave her a garment out of pity, as she had "nothing to change into." She got her living by begging, and got lots of things given her, but pawned them for drink. At last the lodging-house keeper sent her away, for "she was not fit to stop."
Nevertheless, knowing the state this woman was in, the lodging-house keeper put us into the bed, perfunctorily changing the sheets. The woman said she was "terrified" to put her things on the bed, or to step on the floor, and as "Lizzie" would sit on her bed, she "found things." She was not very clean, but evidently her standard was miles above "Lizzie's."
But surely in view of the possibility, nay, the probability, of this kind of lodger, there ought to be care exercised. The commonest precautions were not in evidence. The floor was bare board, very dirty, and under the beds was dirty oilcloth very dirty and frayed at the edge, itself sufficient to harbour any amount of vermin. The bed was flock, without a removable cover, and not clean. Surely, if the house was managed in the interests of the lodgers and not solely in the interest of the proprietor, it would seem right to do something to prevent such a state of things. It is the folly of "laisser faire" that has allowed the supply of a public need to be so entirely in private hands, that, even in apparently well-managed lodging-houses, private profit over-rides public convenience.[130] We "pay the piper" in small-pox hospitals, workhouses and hospitals, for where the commonest matters of cleanliness are neglected how can infection be avoided?
It seems the height of folly on the one hand to erect costly sanitary apparatus,[131] and on the other by insufficient inspection, and by want of enforcement of right conditions (even in "certified" houses) to actually connive at sanitary conditions below that of the class which most needs raising higher.
When one first enters a common lodging-house, one charitably hopes, in the uncertain light, that it may be a particularly good specimen of its class. Evening covers defects, but an experience of such a night reveals, as nothing else can, the essentially uncleanly nature of the arrangements. If men and women herd together in small space, with no opportunity for proper ablution, with no privacy, with all the culinary operations done in the one living room, and if, as a guarantee for care you have only the selfish interest of a proprietor who stands in small fear of the infrequent "inspection," how can things requisite for public welfare be attended to. Practically the house is no cleaner than the dirtiest person in it, and is a most ingeniously contrived hot-bed of infection.[132]
After such a night, to descend to the unswept "living-room," to see the débris of yesterday, possibly of days, lying in unsavoury dusty heaps under the tables, to watch your fellow-lodgers proceed, without washing, to cook bacon in greasy pans, half washed at the only sink, to see the clothes, worn perhaps day and night, in various stages of uncleanliness, and above all to see little children growing up untutored, save in the reverse of what we recognise as right, is to feel heart-broken for the "evils to come" that must spring from such neglect of the "stranger within our gates."
Hospitality, which has perished as a personal virtue to a large degree, must now devolve on the community. It is not to its interest that it should be neglected. Especially would I point out with all the strength I possess, the folly of indiscriminate herding together of the sexes, without the commonest precautions for decency and sanitation. If it does not pay to have in every town a lodging-house for single women, under sufficient control to secure decency, such a lodging-house should be provided. To this the married women with children might with advantage be admitted, for if a father cannot provide a decent home for his wife and children, he ought not to drag them down with him, but to be glad if they are a little better provided for. If women were accommodated apart from men, proper sanitary provision for each sex would be easier to arrange. It would be no hardship to insist on separating the sexes, for a man can always, with a little extra exertion, obtain a furnished apartment for himself and family, and though these also need careful sanitary inspection and are open to many evils, they do, at any rate, preserve a vestige of family life, and there is not that indiscriminate herding together of the sexes, which is a cover for all sorts of immorality, as well as a danger to sanitation.[133] I believe, from personal investigation, extended to towns in different parts of England, that it is exceptional to find a town that has any adequate provision for lodging single women apart from men—except as a matter of charity in more or less restricting institutions. Yet the preponderance of single women, necessitated by the excess of one sex over the other, implies, without widowhood and desertion, a floating population of women who fall an easy prey to wrong conditions. If a woman is not the carefully-guarded inmate of a sheltering home, on whom devolves the duty of caring for her? Surely on the manhood of the nation. The community that fails to shield its women to the utmost of its power will either be roused to its duty by the trumpet call of flagrant wrong, or will perish by decay of manhood and of the family.
There are not wanting signs that such decay is upon us. If side by side with large aggregations of men, living under insanitary and unnatural conditions, we allow the mixed common lodging-house—unclean in every sense of the word, what can we expect?
I do not mean to imply that it is impossible to live, even as a single woman, a moral life in a common lodging-house, or that many of the proprietors do not do their best to secure morality. But if, in any stratum of society, men and women herded together under such conditions, it would be only exceptional characters that could stand the strain. Young men and women can, and do, go and live together in common lodging-houses. You may go in on Sunday afternoons and find crowds of young people, not all inmates, but all imbibing the fatal atmosphere of unrestrained vile talk. In some of these lodging-houses older women live who make a practice of tempting in younger girls, who thus are lost. It would be much more easy to control many public evils if lodging-houses were provided, decent and sanitary, and the sexes kept distinct.[134] We exercise control over the inn, but the lodging-house, which is the hostel of the travelling working-man, is not even sanitary in many cases.
We did not feel able to eat breakfast under such conditions. I waited for my friend in the living-room, and an amusing incident occurred. One of my room-mates came down in a skirt—forgetting her top skirt. But she had not forgotten another adornment, namely, a huge pocket suspended round her waist behind, which proclaimed her as a "moucher"! She exclaimed:—
"Look what I've been and done! I've been over to the shop like this! Good job a 'bobby' didn't see me!"
There was room enough in this capacious pocket to "pinch" any number of articles, but we will write her down "beggar" not "thief"!
We left the children, undressed and unwashed, but some of them breakfasting, at nine o'clock, and found our way to a cheap restaurant where we got a good plain breakfast for fourpence each.
Then we returned home to sundry necessary ablutions, as prelude to a civilised existence. Alas! for those who cannot escape, but must needs drift. Whither?
It must be remembered that to a woman, for respectable existence, cleanliness is an absolute necessity. An unemployed man may obtain work at various occupations to which dirt is no hindrance. In fact, to some occupations, respectability would be a bar. But a woman must "look tidy," or no one will employ her. Therefore conditions destructive to cleanliness are for her equivalent to forcing her down lower and lower into beggary and vice. Once at a certain stage she cannot rise, "no one would have me in their house," say, rightly enough, poor miserable creatures "with scarcely a rag to their back." Those in this lodging-house were not so badly off, but why? Because they had learned to prey on society that rejected them. Each single woman was probably supported by that foolish "charity" that acts as a salve to the conscience of those who pity but do not bless the poor.