Chapter II. Dripping Potatoes,
Diplomatic Charity, and
Christmas Carols
CONTRARY to his promise, Uncle did not write to us announcing his arrival. In fact, for some strange reason, no letter had arrived by the end of summer. After the leaves had gone and the trees were left stripped by the fall winds, no word had come to comfort us from America.
Aunt and I had tried to keep the shop open, but we saw every day that we had not the skill to make it a success. Already, in the minds of the townspeople, we had failed. It was not long before we were selling nothing but the smoked and dried fish with which the shop was stocked. We could get no fresh fish on credit. Even the grocer would not longer trust us, and shut off supplies. We tried to make out as well as we could, but not philosophically, on dry bread, smoked fish, and tea, with monotonous regularity. Aunt Millie was the wrong kind of person to live with in reduced circumstances. She took away the taste of a red herring by her complaints and impatient tirades against the author of our misfortune. The failure of letters, too, only increased her anger. There was heated complaint for dessert at every meal. That Scriptural word, “Better is a dinner of herbs where love is,” might have meant much to me during those hungry days.
Then our collateral had to go, a piece at a time. Bob, the one-eyed horse, friend of those early years, harnessed to his cart, brought in some money with which we could buy a little fresh stock which I tried to peddle in a hand-cart. But I could not get around very skilfully, and as I trudged over the same route where previously my uncle had gone with his humorous shout of “Mussels alive! Buy ’em alive!” people did not trade with me, but pitied me, and stroked my head in sympathy. When the stock was gone, and it was soon gone, my aunt thought that she had better give up the fight and sell out at auction!
By this time winter was full on us. There were snow and dismal winds which made lonely sounds down our chimney. Old Torvey, the town-crier, was called in for a consultation, and the auction definitely planned. The following Saturday, in the morning, while the housewives were busy polishing their fenders, Old Torvey, clanging his hand-bell with great unction, came up the middle of the road, stopping at strategic points, and when the aproned housewives and their children stood at their doors alert, he solemnly announced, in his sing-song way: “To—be—sold—at—Public—Auction—this—day—at—two—in—the—afternoon—all—the—stock—in—trade—of—Stanwood—Brindin—at—his—shop—at—the—head—of—Station—Road—together—with—all—the—movable—fixtures—therein—and—any—other—items—not—herein—mentioned—Sale—to—begin—sharply—on—time—and—goods—to—go—to—the—highest—bidder—Terms—cash—and—all—bids—welcomed—Come—one—and—all—Two—in—the—afternoon. Now—get—back—to—your—cleaning—before—your—chaps—get—whom!”—this last as a sally for the women, “whom” meaning “home.”
All the afternoon, while the auction was in session, aunt and I sat in the parlor of our house, behind the flower-pots, watching all who went in. Aunt kept up a running commentary: “Yes, you go in, too, Jane Harrup. You wouldn’t come near me to buy, would you? Um, that blood-sucker, Thompson! What a crowd of vampires a sale can bring out! I didn’t think that you were looking for bargains from us, Martin Comfort. It’s beyond me how folks do gather when you are down!”
Then, when the last of the curious crowd had gone and the shop had passed from our control, there came anxious shopmen demanding the settlement of their bills. And when the last item had been paid there was hardly a shilling left. We had merely succeeded in settling the honor of our house.
The next week the town-crier once more paraded the streets of the town, announcing: “To—be—sold—at—public—auction—at—two—in—the—afternoon—many—of—the—household—effects—of—Stanwood—Brindin—etc.” This time our parlor was stripped of its piano, several ornamental pieces of furniture, and various bric-à-brac. When the bidders had carted away their “bargains,” my aunt said to me, “Here is one room less to look after, Al. I suppose I ought to be thankful enough, but I’m not!” After that, we lived entirely in the kitchen.
So, with only a few shillings from the proceeds of the last auction, aunt and I faced the winter. We were buoyed up by the hope that Uncle Stanwood would send us a letter despite his strange silence. But day by day the coal grew less and less in the cellar, the wood was burned up, and the larder needed replenishing.
There came to our ears whispers of gossip that were spreading through the town: that uncle had parted from aunt and would never live with her again, that our financial perplexities were really ten times worse than people imagined, that we should eventually be forced into the workhouse!
Behind that door, which only opened every now and then in answer to a friendly knock, a real battle with poverty was fought. Dry bread and tea (the cups always with thick dregs of swollen, soaked leaves which I used to press with a spoon to extract every possible drop of tea) finally formed the burden of unnourishing meals. Even the tea failed at last, and the bread we ate was very stale indeed. Yet I found dry bread had a good taste when there was nothing else to eat.
It was in the middle of December that Aunt bethought herself of some herring-boxes piled in the garret over the empty shop. She had me split them into kindlings, tie them into penny bundles, and sent me out to peddle them at the doors of our friends. Aunt made me wait until darkness when I first went out with the kindling. She did not want me to be seen in the daylight carrying the wood. That day we had eaten but a breakfast of oat-cake and water, and I was very hungry and impatient to sell some wood that I might have something more to eat. But aunt was firm, so that it was six o’clock and very dark when I took two penny bundles. The cotton mills had all their lights out. The street-lamps were little dismal spots in the silent streets. Warm glows of light came from front windows, and the shadows of housewives serving supper were seen on many window blinds. My own hunger redoubled. I hurried to the first house on a side street, gave a timid knock, and waited for an answer. A big, rosy-cheeked woman opened the door, and peered down on me, saying, “Where art’?”
“Please, ma’am, if you please,” I replied, “I’m Al Priddy, and me and Aunt haven’t got anything to eat for tea, and I’m selling bundles of dry wood for a penny apiece.”
“Bless ’is little ’eart,” exclaimed the big woman. “Bless th’ little ’eart! ’is belly’s empty, that it is. Come reight in, little Priddy lad, there’s waarm teigh (tea) and ’ot buttered crumpets. Sarah Jane,” she shouted towards the rear of the house from whence came the tinkle of spoons rattling in cups and a low hum of voices, “get that tu’pence from under th’ china shep’erdess on’t mantle and bring it reight off. Come in, Priddy, lad, and fill th’ belly!”
“If you please, ma’am,” I said, “I can’t stop, if you please. Aunt Millie hasn’t got anything to eat and she’s waiting me. I think I’ll take the money, if you please, and be sharp home, thank you!”
“Bless ’is little ’eart,” murmured the big woman, “’ere’s tuppence ’apenny, an’ come ageen, wen tha has’t moor wood to sell.”
“If you please,” I interposed, “it’s only tu’pence. I can’t take more; aunt said so!”
“Bless ’is ’eart, that’s so,” said the big woman. “Is th’ sure th’ won’t eat a waarm crumpet, little Priddy, lad?”
I had to refuse again, and clutching the two pennies, I ran exultantly down the road toward home, where aunt was sitting near the very tiny light that a very tiny piece of coal was giving in the big fireplace. With one penny I purchased a warm loaf and with the other I bought some golden treacle, and that night there was not a lord in England whose supper had the taste to it that mine had.
Two days after that, when we were once more without food in the house, and when I had had but a scant breakfast, I met a rough-garbed boy not much older than myself, a homeless waif, known and condemned by the name of “Work ’Ouse Teddy.” This day that I met him, he performed his usual feat of wriggling his fingers on his nose, a horrible, silent, swear gesture, and called out to me, “Hey, Fishy, got a cockle on your nose?”
“No,” I replied, being secretly afraid of him, “I’ve not. I’m hungry. I haven’t had any dinner.”
“Aw, yer got chunks of money, you have, I knows. Don’t taffy me like that or I’ll squeege yer nose in my thumbs, blast me, I will!” and he made a horrible contortion of his face to frighten me.
“I am hungry!” I protested. “We are poor now, Teddy.”
Then I told him all our story, as well as I could, and when I told him about selling the kindling, he laughed and said, “Blow me, you codger! You oughter get your meals like I gets um. Say, now, blokey, wot you say to—well, let’s see,” and he mused awhile.
Then, “Well, say, wot would yer say to ’taters in gravy, some meat-pie, cold, and a drink of coffee?”
“Oh,” I gasped, “that would be rich.” Then Teddy winked, a broad, meaningful wink. “I’m yer Daddy, then,” and after that, “make a cross over yer ’eart, and say, ‘Kill me, skin me, Lord Almighty, if I tell!’” and when I had so sworn, he explained, “Now yer won’t let on where I keep things, so come on, blokey, I’m yer Daddy!” and he laughed as merrily as if he did not have to sleep out like a lost sheep of society or to dodge the police, who were ever on his tracks trying to get him put back into the workhouse.
Teddy led me through the open gates of the mill-yard when darkness had come on. The firemen, in the glow of their furnaces, called out, cheerily, “Blast th’ eyes, Teddy, don’t let the boss catch thee!” and, “Got a chew of thick twist (tobacco) for me, Ted, lad?” After he had given the man a chew, and had boxed a round with the other stoker, Teddy came to where I stood, and said, “They let me sleep here nights. They’re good blokes. Now, here’s where I keeps things.” So saying, he led me to a corner of the immense coal heap, and there, in a box amidst thick heaps of coal powder, he drew out a pitcher with the lip gone and only a useless fragment of the handle left. He also drew out a sort of pie plate and a small fruit basket. “I keeps ’em there to keep the dust off,” he explained, and handed me the basket. “Now we get ready to eat dripping potatoes and meat-pie, bloke.” Then he took me near the furnaces, behind a heap of coal, so that the boss watchman would not find us, and elaborately explained to me the procedure to be followed in getting so tasty a supper.
“When the mill lets out at six, me an’ you’ll stand there at the gates, you standin’ on one side and me on t’ther. You don’ be shy, bloke, but speak up, and say, ‘Any leavin’s, good folks!’ ‘Give us yer leavin’s!’ Some on um’ll grumble at you, an’ some’ll say, ‘Get off, you bloke, we’ll tell the Bobby,’ but they won’t. You’ll find some that’ll open their boxes and turn ’em inside out for you right in the basket. Then you just come over to my side, and I’ll show you. Just remember that it’s dripping ’taters an’ meat-pie an’ ’ot coffee! Don’t that make yer mouth water, bloke?”
I said that it would be a regular feast.
At six o’clock, when the clang of a big bell in the mill tower let itself out in a riot of din, the Whole inside of the factory seemed to run down with a deepening hum, then the quiet precincts of the yards became filled with a chattering, black army. Teddy and I stood on our respective sides of the big gateway, and waited for the exodus. I grew suddenly afraid that I should be trampled under foot, afraid that my voice would not be heard, afraid that I should be jailed. So I let most of the crowd past unsolicited, and then I grew afraid that Teddy would perform all manner of horrible and grewsome tortures on me if I did not try, so I darted my basket almost into the stomach of a tall man, and piped, “Got any leavings, sir?” He paused, looked me over, took the dirty pipe from his mouth as he further extended his contemplation, and said, “Sartinly, lad,” and deposited in my basket a currant bun and a slice of cold meat, and went on muttering, “It might be my own, God knows!”
The gas lights were out in the mill, and the huge bulk was merely part of the silent night, when I went across and showed Teddy what I had obtained. He laughed, “Not at all bad—for a learner, that!” he commented. “It takes practice to get dripping ’tato and meat-pie, bloke. I got it and a jug o’ coffee. We’ll eat near the bilers,” and he led the way into the yard, making me dodge behind a pile of boxes as the night watchman came to lock the gates. The firemen allowed Teddy to warm the coffee and the food, and then we sat in the glow of the opening doors, in a bed of coal dust, and ate as sumptuous a meal as had passed my lips for some time.
When I expressed my thanks, Teddy said, “Be on deck to-morrer, too, bloke. It’ll be fish then. Would you like fish?”
“I do like fish,” I agreed. “I will come to-morrow, Teddy, thank you kindly.”
“I’ll go to the gate with yer an’ give yer a leg o’er. The gate’s locked, bloke.” After many slips, Teddy at last had me over, and as he said good-night through the pickets, I said, “Will you sleep out in the snow, to-night, Teddy?”
He laughed, “Oh, no, blokey, not me. Wot’s the matter with a snooze near the bilers with a cobble o’ coal for a piller, eh?” Knowing that he would be perhaps warmer than I, I left him, and ran home to tell my aunt what a good supper I had picked up.
When I had finished the recital of the adventure, my aunt grew very indignant and gave me a severe whipping with a solid leather strap. “Shamin’ me up and down like that!” she cried. “Beggin’ at a mill gate! I’ll show you!” and I had to swear not to have anything more to do with Work’ouse Teddy.
But evidently through that experience, and on account of my having sold the kindling wood, our friends were at last apprised of the actual poverty in our house, and for a while there seemed to be no end to the little offerings of food that were brought in. I shall always remember with pride the diplomacy with which most of the food was given. When Mrs. Harrup brought in a steaming pigeon-pie, wrapped in a spotless napkin, she said, “Mrs. Brindin, I had more meat than I knew what to do with and some pie-crust left to waste, so I says to our Elizabeth Ann, ‘Lizzie Ann, make up a little pie for Mrs. Brindin, to let her see how well you’re doing with crust. She knows good crust when she tastes it, and I want you to let her pass judgment on it, Lizzie Ann.’ I said, likewise, ‘Lizzie Ann, if thy pie-crust doesna’ suit Mrs. Brindin, then thy ’usband’ll never be suited.’ So here’s it, Mrs. Brindin. Never mind washing the dish, please.”
Mrs. Harrow, the iron monger’s demure wife, herself a bride of but two months, came in one morning, dangling a long, lank hare. She had a doubtful expression on her face, and, as soon as she had crossed the threshold of our kitchen, she made haste to fling the hare on our table, exclaiming, “There, Mrs. Brindin. There it is for you to tell us on’t. I bought it yestere’en down’t lower road and it come this morning, early. I was going to stew it, but then I smelled it. It’s not a bit nice smell, is’t? I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the stew. I made a pudding and dumpling dinner ’stead. Just you sniff at it, Mrs. Brindin. You know about ’em, bein’ as you sold ’em, mony on ’em. It don’t smell tidy, do it?” She looked anxiously at aunt. “Why, Mrs. Harrow,” said my aunt, “’Ares always are that way. It all goes off in the cooking. It’s nothing to bother over.”
“Uh,” said the iron monger’s wife, “come off or not, I could never eat it. I never could. I wonder, Mrs. Brindin, if you will let Al, there, throw it away or do something with it. I will never have such a thing in my house!” and she hurried out of the kitchen.
“Al,” smiled aunt, a rare smile, “here’s stew and pie for near a week.”
Our neighbors could not always be doing such diplomatic acts, and after a while we had to go back to treacle and bread, hourly expecting word from America. We had faith that Uncle Stanwood would let us hear from him, though his long, disheartening silence worried us considerably. Aunt did not go to work, because she hoped at any day to hear the call, “Come to America.” Then in desperation Aunt had her name put on the pauper’s list for a shilling a week. I had to go to the parish house on Monday mornings, and stand in line with veteran paupers—“Barley-corn Jack,” the epileptic octogenarian, Widow Stanbridge, whose mother and grandparents before her had stood in this Monday line, Nat Harewell, the Crimean hero, who had a shot wound in his back, and many other minor characters who came for the shilling. The first Monday I stood in’t, I chanced to step in front of “Barley-corn” Jack, who, unknown to me at the time, was usually given the place of honor at the head of the line. He clutched me by the nape of the neck, whirled me around, lifted up my upper lip with a dirty finger, and grinned, “Got a row of ’em, likely ’nough! Screw th’ face, young un, screw it tight, wil’t?”
I was so terror stricken, and tried to escape his clutch with such desperation, that Nat Harewell interjected, “Lend ’im hup, Jack, lend ’im hup, owld un!” and Jack did let me go with a whirl like a top until I was dazed. I fell in line near the Widow, who laughed at me, showing her black teeth; and then, while she twisted an edge of her highly flavored and discolored shawl, and chewed on it, she asked, “Was’t ale ur porter ’at browt thee wi’ uns, laddie?”
I replied that I was Al Priddy and that I was “respectable.” With that, the line began to move past the clerk’s window, and there was no more talking.
In such circumstances we reached the Christmas season, and still we had no word from America. It was the night before Christmas, and a night before Christmas in an English town is astir with romance, joy, and poetic feeling. The linen draper had a white clay church in his window, with colored glass windows behind which burned a candle. The butcher had his pink pig in his window with a hat on its head, a Christmas grin on its face, and a fringe of pigs’ tails curled into spirals hanging in rows above him. There were tinsel laden trees with golden oranges peeping out from behind the candy stockings, wonderlands of toys, and The Home of Santy, where he was seen busy making toys for the world. I had gone down the row with my aunt, looking at all that, for aunt had said, “Al, there’s to be a sorry Christmas for you this time. You had better get all you can of it from the shop windows.” We were pushed this way and that by the crowds that went by doing their shopping. Once we had been with them in the Christmas spirit, now we dwelt apart because of our poverty.
“My,” commented aunt, with the old bitterness in her tone, “the fools! Parading afore us to let us see that they can have a good time of it!”
Our dark home had a more miserable aspect about it than ever when we got back. “Get right up to bed,” commanded aunt, “there’s no coal to waste. You can keep warm there!” and though her manner of saying it was rough, yet I heard a catch in her voice, and then she burst into tears.
“Never mind, Aunt Millie,” I comforted, “uncle will write, I feel sure!” She looked up, startled, and seemed ashamed that I had found her crying and had struck her thought so.
“Who’s whimpering?” she cried fiercely. “Mind your business!” But I noticed that when she came in my room that night and thought me asleep, when in reality I was keeping my ears open for the carols, she kissed me very tenderly and crept away silently.
When the carols first strike a sleeping ear, one imagines that the far-away choirs of Heaven are tuning up for the next day’s chorus before God. The first notes set such dreams a-spinning as are full of angels and ethereal thoughts. Then the ear becomes aware of time and place, and seizes upon the human note that may be found in Christmas carols when they are sung by mill people at midnight in winter weather. Then the ear begins to distinguish between this voice and that, and to follow the bass that tumbles up and down through the air. Then there is a great crescendo when the singers are right under one’s window, and the words float into the chamber, each one winged with homely, human tenderness and love. So I was awakened by the carol singers that Christmas night. The first tune sung for us was, “Christians Awake,” and when its three verses had awakened us, and we had gone to the window to look down on the group, “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,” was followed by a soaring adaptation of Coronation. It was a group of about fifteen. There were Old Bill Scroggs with his concertina, Harry Mills with his ’cello, and Erwind Nichols with his flute. Torvey was there, though he could not sing. He carried the lantern, caught the money that was dropped into his hat from the windows, and kept the young men and women from too much chattering as they approached the different stands. When they had finished their anthems, aunt called from the window, “Happy Christmas good folks. It was kind of you to remember us so. It’s real good.” Old Torvey answered back, “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Brindin. We must get along.” Then the crowd sent up a confused “Merry Christmas,” and passed on.
Then it was back to bed again to sleep until awakened by an unnatural pounding on our door below. “What is it, aunt?” I cried. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Put on your clothes and get down before they break in the door!” I dressed hurriedly, inserted the massive iron key in the lock, gave it a turn only to have the door thrust open wide by Old Torvey, who cried excitedly, as he waved a letter in the air, “It’s from Hammerica, from him!”
My aunt ran down at that, partly dressed, and screamed in her excitement. With fluttering, nervous fingers she tore open the envelope, and examined the contents in a breathless minute.
“Stanwood sent it,” she laughed, “there’s tickets for America and a money order for five pounds!” and then she gave in to a hysterical relapse which required the calling in of the green-grocer’s wife. It was a Merry Christmas!