it was winter-time, and the cold damp fog had fallen like a heavy cloud on east london. the pavements were grimy and greasy; travelling, either on foot or by conveyance, was slow and dangerous. the voices of children were not heard in the streets, but ever and again the hoarse voice of some bewildered driver was heard asking his way, or expostulating with his horse. occasionally a tell-tale cough came from some foot-passenger of whose proximity i had been unaware, but who, like myself, was slowly groping his way to a desired haven.
i found my objective at last, and i entered a queer room possessing two doors—one the ordinary street door; the other, of which the upper part was glass, opened into an outhouse at a right angle with the house door. this annexe had once been a greengrocer's shop, and fronted a side-street; now it was used as a coal and coke depot, and to it resorted the poor for their winter's supply of coal and coke.
the proprietor was ill, had been ailing for years, and now the shadows of eternity hovered around[pg 199] him. it was afternoon, and he was resting. i sat talking with his wife, an elderly woman, who sat at a machine making a new pair of knickers out of an old garment for a neighbour who had many children, the while a girl waited to have a new frock made out of an old dress that had been purchased probably at a street causeway auction, when, "a penn'orth of coal, please, mrs. jenkins!" the voice came from the coal depot. mrs. jenkins got up from her machine. "john, can you come down and attend to the shop?" i heard a step on the bedroom floor above me, and presently john, weak and gasping, descended the stairs, passed through the little room and through the glass door, and served the pennyworth of coal; came back, and, delivering the penny to his wife, gasped his way upstairs again. "how much coal do you give for a penny?" i asked mrs. jenkins. "six pounds." "why, that is above one shilling and sixpence halfpenny per hundredweight—nearly thirty-two shillings per ton," i said. "yes, sir, it is dear buying it by penn'orths, but i can't sell it any cheaper." "how much do you give for a ton?" i asked, for i had not then been in the coal depot, or i need not have asked. "oh, sir, we never get a ton; i buy it by the hundredweight from the trolly-man, and give one and fourpence the hundredweight." "do you get full weight from the trolly-man?" "well, we don't get anything over; but the london county council has looked after them so sharply that they dare not give us short weight now." "but there is some dirt and slack in every sack you buy." "yes, but i burn that myself with a bit of coke." she[pg 200] then continued: "i wish the poor people would always buy fourteen pounds." "why?" "well, it would be better for them, you see; we only charge them twopence farthing for fourteen pounds, so it comes cheaper to them." "yes," i said, "they would save one halfpenny when they had bought eight lots of coal." "yes, sir. i make just twopence on a hundredweight when they buy it like that." "no," i said, "you don't, for you cannot make eight complete lots out of one sack."
"fourteen pounds of coal, please, mrs. jenkins!" again a voice came from the depot. "john! john!" again john came wearily downstairs to weigh the coal. he returned with twopence halfpenny, which he handed to his wife, and said: "a farthing change."
mrs. jenkins searched her small pile of coppers, but failed to find a farthing. "is it mrs. brown?" she asked her husband. "yes," was the reply. "oh, then give her the halfpenny back, and tell her to owe me the farthing." john went into the shop, taking the halfpenny with him, and i heard a discussion going on, after which john returned with the coin, and said: "she won't take it." but mrs. brown followed him into the room with her fourteen pounds of coal in a small basket. "no, mrs. jenkins, i can't take it; i owe you two farthings now. if you keep the ha'penny i shall only owe you one, and i'll try and pay that off next time." "never mind what you owe me, mrs. brown; you take the ha'penny. you have little children, and have no husband to work for[pg 201] you like i have," was mrs. jenkins's reply. but mrs. brown was not to be put down, so after a protracted discussion the halfpenny remained in the possession of mrs. jenkins, and poor feeble john retired to rest.
i sat wondering at it all, quite lost in thought. presently mrs. jenkins said: "i wish mrs. brown had taken that ha'penny." "why?" i said. "well, you see, she has little children who have no father, and they are so badly off." "but you are badly off, too. your husband is ill, and ought to be in the hospital; he is not fit to be about." "i rest him all i can, but this afternoon i have these knickers and frock to make; that work pays better than coal when i can get it." "how much rent do you pay?" "fifteen shillings and sixpence a week, but i let off seven and sixpence, so my rent comes to eight shillings." "but you lose your tenant sometimes, and the rooms are empty?" "yes." "and sometimes you get a tenant that does not pay up?" "yes." "and sometimes you allow poor women to have coal on credit, and you lose in that way?" "yes," she said, and added slowly: "i wish i could have all that is owing to me." "show me some of your debts." we went into the coal depot. "i have had to stop that woman," she said, pointing to a name and a lot of figures chalked up on a board. she owes me one and elevenpence farthing." i reckoned up the account. "quite correct," i said.
"she had sixteen lots of coal for one and elevenpence farthing; she can't pay me at all now, she is so far behind. i ought to have stopped her[pg 202] before, but i did not like to be hard on her." several other "chalked up" accounts confronted me—one for sixpence, another for ninepence—but that one and elevenpence farthing was the heaviest account. it was too pitiful; i could inquire no further.
the difficulty of obtaining even minute quantities of coal constitutes one of the great anxieties of the very poor, and exposes them to unimaginable suffering and hardship.
to poor old women with chilly bones and thin blood, who especially need the glow and warmth of a substantial fire, the lack of coal constitutes almost, and in many cases quite, tragedy.
the poorest class of home-workers, who require warmth if their fingers are to be nimble and their boxes or bags are to be dried, must have some sort of a fire, even if it be obtained at the expense of food. small wonder, then, that their windows are seldom opened, for the heat of the room must not be dissipated; they must be thrifty in that respect. during the winter, generally in january, i set out on a tour of discovery, my object being to find out old widows who manage to keep themselves without parish relief, and get their little living by making common articles for everyday use. formerly i experienced great difficulty in finding the brave old things; i have no difficulty now, for at a day's notice i can assemble five hundred self-supporting widows to whom a single hundredweight of coal would loom so large that it would appear a veritable coal-mine.
so i ask my readers to accompany me on one[pg 203] of these expeditions—in imagination, of course. come, then, through this side-door, for it stands open, though not invitingly so, for the stairs are uncarpeted and dirty and the walls are crumbling and foul.
we pass the room on the ground-floor, and observe that it is half workshop and half retail-shop, for old furniture is renovated and placed in the shop-window for sale. up one flight of unwashed stairs and past another workshop—this time a printer's. up again! the stairs are still narrow, and the walls are still crumbling, the stairs still unwashed. we pass another workshop, mount more stairs, and then we come to a small landing and some narrow, very narrow, stairs that are scrupulously clean, though innocent of carpet or linoleum.
we are now at the very top of the house and in semi-darkness, but we discover the door of the room we are looking for. on rapping, we are told to "come in." it is a small attic, just large enough to contain a bed, a table, and a small chest of drawers.
she sat at the table underneath the dormer window, and was busy at work making paper bags: a widow alone in the world, seventy-eight years of age, who had never received one penny from the parish in her life. take notice of the little bedroom grate. it is a very small one, but you notice it is made much smaller by two pieces of brick being placed in it, one on each side, and between them a very small fire is burning, or trying to burn. she tells us that she gets fivepence per thousand for her paper bags, and that she buys[pg 204] her own paste; that she works for her landlord, who stops her rent every week out of her earnings. she buys her coal by the quarter of a hundredweight, which costs her fivepence; she does not buy pennyworths. sometimes the men below give her bits of wood, and the printer lets her have scraps of cardboard. she can't do with less than two quarters in the week, it is so cold, but she manages with a bit less in the summer-time. so the brave old woman gabbles on, telling us all we want to know. i produce some warm clothing, and her old eyes glisten; i give her a whole pound of tea in a nice canister, and i think i see tears; but i take her old skinny hand, all covered with paste, and say: "you must buy a whole hundredweight of good coal with that, or give it back to me; you must not use it for anything else." ah, this was indeed too much for her, and she burst out hysterically: "oh, don't mock me—a hundredweight of coal! i'll soon have those bricks out."
come with me into another street. we have no stairs to climb this time, for the house consists of but two stories, and contains but four small rooms. we enter the front room on the ground-floor, and find three old women at work. there being no room or accommodation for us to sit, we stand just inside and watch them as they work. two are widows bordering on seventy years of age; the other is a spinster of like years. one sits at a machine sewing trousers, of which there is a pile waiting near her. as soon as she has completed her portion of work she passes the trousers on to the other widow, who finishes them—that[pg 205] is, she puts on the buttons, sewing the hem round the bottom of the trousers, and does all the little jobs that must needs be done by hand. when her part of the work is completed, she passes the trousers on to the spinster, who has the heaviest part of the task, for she is the "presser," and manipulates the hot and heavy iron that plays such an important part in the work. each of them occupies one of the four rooms in the house, but for working purposes they collaborate and use the widow machinist's room; for collaboration increases their earnings and lessens their expenses, for the one room is also used for the preparation and consumption of food. one kettle, one teapot, and one frying-pan do for the three. old and weak as they are, they understand the value of co-operation and the advantages to be obtained by dividing labour. but they understand something else much better, for "one fire does for the three," and the fire that heats the iron warms the room for three, and boils the kettle for three. talk about thrift! was there ever seen that which could eclipse these three old women in the art and virtue of saving? thrift and economy! why, the three poor old souls fairly revelled in it. they could give points to any of the professional teachers of thrift who know so much about the extravagance of the poor. one gaslight served for the three, and when a shilling was required to gently induce the automatic gas-meter to supply them with another too brief supply of light, the shilling came from common funds; and when the long day's work was done, and the old widow machinist prepared to lie down in the little[pg 206] bed that had been erstwhile covered with trousers, the other widow and aged spinster went aloft to their little rooms to light their little lamps and to count themselves happy if they possessed a bit of wood and a few crumbs of coal wherewith to make the morning fire. if not so fortunate, then, late and cold though the night be, they must sally forth to the nearest general shop, and with a few hardly-earned coppers lay in a fresh stock, and return laden with one pint of paraffin oil, one halfpennyworth of firewood, one pennyworth of coal, and most likely with one pennyworth of tea-dust. and in such course their lives will run till eyesight fails or exhausted nature gives way, and then the workhouse waits.
it is the old widow machinist that talks to us, but she keeps on working. her machine whirrs and creaks and rattles, for it is an old one, and its vital parts are none too good; and the old woman speaks to it sometimes as if it were a sentient thing, and reproves it when a difficulty arises. in her conversation with us frequent interjections are interposed that sometimes appeared uncomplimentary to us: "now, stupid!" "ah! there you are at it again!" but when she explained that she was referring to her machine and not to us, we forgave her.
"i have had this machine for twenty-one years, and it has been a good one. i bought it out of my husband's club and insurance money." "how much did you have altogether?" "twenty pounds, and i paid for his funeral and bought my mourning and this machine, and it's been a friend to me ever since, so i can't help talking to it;[pg 207] but it wants a new shuttle." "how much will that cost?" "five shillings!" "let me buy one for you." "i don't want to part with the old one yet. it will perhaps last my time, for i want a new shuttle, too. we are both nearly worn out;" and the machinist kept on with her work, and the other widow with her finishing, and the aged spinster with her pressing.
oh, brave old women! we are lost in wonder and veneration. utilitarians and the apostles of thrift tell us that the poor are demoralized by "charity," and of a surety indiscriminate giving without knowledge and personal service is often ill bestowed. but in the presence of three old women possessed of heroic souls, living as they lived, working as they worked, who cares for utilitarianism or political economy either? a fig for the pair of them!
"but," say our teachers, "you are in reality subsidizing their employers, who exploit them and pay them insufficiently." another self-appointed teacher says: "ah! but you are only helping them to pay exorbitant rents; the landlord will profit." who cares? others, in very comfortable circumstances, who themselves are by no means averse to receiving gifts, say: "don't destroy the independence of the poor." wisdom, prudence, political economy, go, hang yourselves! we cry. our love is appealed to, our hearts are touched, our veneration is kindled, and we must needs do something, though the landlord may profit, though the employer may be subsidized—nay, though we run the terrible risk of tarnishing the glorious privilege and record of these independent old[pg 208] women—a record nearly completed. help them we must, and we bid defiance to consequences. so we find the "trolly-man," and three separate bags of good coal are borne into three separate rooms. a whole hundredweight for each woman! where could they put it all? what an orgie of fire they would have! would the methodical thrift of the old women give way in the face of such a temptation?
we don't care: we have become hardened; and we even promise ourselves that other bags of coal shall follow. then we examine their tea-caddies, and throw this tea-dust on the fire—a fitting death for it, too—and further demoralize the ancient three with the gift of a pound of good tea, each in a nice cannister, too. a hundredweight of coal and a pound of tea! why, the teapot will be always in use till the pound is gone. the poor drink too much tea. perhaps so; but what are the poor to drink? they have neither time, inclination, nor money for the public-house. coffee is dear if it is to be good. cocoa is thick and sickly. water! their water!—ugh! at present poor old women have the choice of tea or nothing. then leave them, we beseech you, their teapot, but let us see to it that they have some decent tea. so, with five shillings in silver for each of them, we leave the dauntless three to their fire, their teapots, and wonder, and go into the streets with the feeling that something is wrong somewhere, but what it is and how to right it we know not.
i could, were it necessary, multiply experiences similar to the above, but they would only serve to prove, what i have already made [pg 209]apparent, that the worries and sufferings of the very poor are greatly aggravated by their inability to procure a reasonable supply of coal. slate-clubs, men's meetings, and brotherhoods have of late years done much to secure artisans and working men who are earning decent wages a supply of good coal all the year round. weekly payments of one shilling and upwards enable them to lay in a store when coal is cheap—if it is ever cheap—or to have an arrangement with the coal merchant for the delivery of a specified amount every week. people possessed of commodious coal-cellars may buy largely when coal prices are at their lowest; but the poor—the very poor—can neither buy nor store, for they have neither storehouses nor barns. even if they could, by the exercise of great self-denial, manage to pay a sum of sixpence per week into a local coal-club, they have nowhere to put the supply when sent home to them. they must needs buy in very small quantities only. the advantages of co-operation are not for them, but are reserved for those that are better off. one scriptural injunction, at any rate, the community holds with grim tenacity: "to him that hath it shall be given."
yet i have seen attempts at co-operation among the poorest, for one christmas-time, when the weather was terribly severe, and when, as becomes a christian country, the one great necessity of life among the poor was put up to a fabulous price, i knew four families living in one house to contribute threepence per family wherewith to purchase fifty-six pounds of coal that they might[pg 210] have extra fire at that happy season. some of the very poor buy pennyworths of coke to mix with their coal, but though coke seems cheaper, it only flatters to deceive, for it demands greater draught, and it must be consumed in larger quantities. if for economy's sake a good draught and a generous supply be denied, it sullenly refuses to burn at all, and gives off fumes that might almost challenge those of a motor-car. the lives of many young children have been sacrificed by attempts to burn coke in small rooms where the draught necessary for good combustion has not existed. certainly coke is no friend to the very poor. there are still meaner purchases of firing material than pennyworths of coal or pennyworths of coke, for halfpennyworths of cinders are by no means uncommon. a widow of my acquaintance who had several young children startled me one day when i was in her room by calling out, "johnny, take the bucket and run for a ha'porth of cinders and a farthing bundle of wood." the farthing bundle of firewood i knew of old—and a fraudulent fellow i knew him to be, made up especially for widows and the unthrifty poor—but the halfpennyworth of cinders was a new item to me. i felt interested, and decided to remain till johnny returned. he was not long away, for it was the dinner-hour, and the boy had to get back to school. he was but a little fellow, and by no means strong, yet he carried the bucket of cinders and firewood easily enough. when the boy had gone to school the widow turned to me as if apologizing for wasting three farthings. "i must have some fire for the children when they come[pg 211] in." "aren't you going to make the fire up for yourself? it will soon be out, and it is very cold to-day." "no; i am going to work hard, and the time soon goes. i shall light it again at half-past four," said the unthrifty widow. meanwhile i had inspected the cinders, which i found to be more than half dirt, fit only for a dust-destructor, but certainly not fit to burn in a living-room. "do you buy cinders by weight or measure?" "i think he measures them." "how much have you got here?" "two quarts." "do you see that quite half is dirt?" "they are dirty. i expect he has nearly sold out. when he has a fresh lot we get better cinders, for the small and the dirt get left till the last." "i suppose he will not have a fresh supply in till he has cleared the last?" "no; he likes to sell out first. one day when i complained about them he said: 'ah! they are pretty bad. never mind! the more you buy, the sooner they'll be gone; then we'll have a better lot.'" "how many fires will your cinders make?" "two, if i put a bit of coal with them." "do you ever buy a hundredweight of coal?" "not since my husband died. i try to buy a quarter twice a week." "how much do you give for a quarter?" "five-pence." "how many fires can you light with your farthing bundle of wood?" "two, if i don't use some of it to make the kettle boil." "how much rent do you pay?" "five shillings for two rooms."
poor widow! because ye have not, even the little that ye have is of a truth taken from you.
