Chapter Twelve.
Somebody Dead.
Going about the streets of London on errands of mercy, naturally makes one observant of everything that seems in any way connected with trouble or sorrow. If I see a family moving, with all the discomforts of leaving one home for another, I immediately begin to wonder whether it is a voluntary affair or whether it is the result of misfortune. Again, a funeral always takes my attention and I find myself wondering whether the mourners could be helped or comforted by me, and I note whether the dead is young or old by the funeral trappings, and too often see that it is some tender child, though the grief is as great or greater when it is some dear wife or mother, or may be the father—the stay of some family.
My friends ought to consider me a doleful miserable person but they do not, and they never think it eccentric of me to take so much interest in houses with the window blinds drawn or shutters up, but rather give me their sympathy and help.
Noticing such matters it will be no cause for surprise that I had often marked the black crape band worn upon the arm of their uniform coats by soldiers and volunteers. The first time then that I saw driver after driver of the omnibuses along a busy line of route with a tiny black crape bow fastened on his whip I naturally became eager to know why this was, or rather who might be the important personage to whom the sign of respect was paid.
I felt as if I could give anything for an hour’s chat with one of the drivers, but how was it to be obtained? I knew they were for long hours upon the box, and that during the short time they were at home it would be hard work to get either of them to tell me what I wanted, so I set to and pondered.
I don’t know that I should have felt any compunction in taking a seat outside an omnibus, though now-a-days it would seem a very out of the way place for a lady in London streets. But I thought that if I could find one going out through the suburbs to some pleasant village it would be no more extraordinary than for a lady to take a seat upon a stage coach for a ride through one of the outlying districts beyond the reach of the rail.
The difficulty was solved, for I thought of the Richmond omnibuses, and making my way to the White Horse Cellar, in Piccadilly, I found no difficulty, for a ladder was placed for me, and I was able to climb to the vacant seat beside the driver, who looked at me askant as if suspicious of me. I saw him give a peculiar look at the conductor, and I smiled to myself as I nestled beneath the great tarpaulin apron, and watched the care with which he guided his two stout well-fed horses through the maze of conveyances, the crape bow like a strange black butterfly seeming to flit to and fro before my eyes.
Nothing to him is the task, as through narrow channels he steers his way, pouncing upon a passenger here, another there; rarely using his whip, never in collision, but stopping short now in obedience to a “ting” from the conductor’s bell; started again by the same means; and seeming to have that huge, heavily-laden vehicle, with twenty-eight people in and upon it, as much under control as if he sat a few inches from the ground in a pony-drawn basket carriage, driving in a country road.
But here it was again and again, a crape bow upon whip after whip, and many of those whip handles, and their holders’ elbows, raised in the well-known salute to my driver, though it seems strange that when drivers salute each other they should always do it in that singular elbowish way, their eyes being all the while carefully inspecting their fellow’s horses.
Somebody important must be dead for there to be so general a display of mourning, and I soon found out that I was right. Somebody of consequence had passed away.
No one of the Royal Family, surely? No. Not an eminent statesman, or the papers would have recorded the fact. Man of science, philanthropist, preacher, teacher, author, actor, musician? No, none of these. Somebody of importance? Yes; somebody of importance.
To the world?
Yes, to his own little world.
Who might it be then?
An omnibus driver.
But you said a man of importance!
Yes; a man of importance—the father of a family, the man whose patient toil produced, Saturday night by Saturday night, the sum of money that should keep respectably his wife and six little ones;—the man who had no rest on Sundays; but seven days a week—hail, rain, sunshine, or bitter frost—goes on his monotonous journeys for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen hours per day, with hardly time allowed him to supply the wants of nature—a rough-looking, weather-stained, hoarse-voiced, ignorant man; but a true, faithful husband, a loving father, and a patient toiler—the sole prop, stay, support of the weeping ones at home.
A man of importance called away from this busy, competitive, stirring world—somebody of importance dead, gainsay it who will.
So I found from my driver, who, after being exceedingly gruff and distant for a time, gradually seemed to thaw, and, as I asked question after question, became quite loquacious, as he made the black crape butterfly flit from side to side in the act of caressing his horses with the whip. I did not see him lash them once; and at last he spoke out as if he had known me for years.
“Seems a sort of mark of respect for the poor chap, and we generally do it. Worth nothing, of course, for a kind thought and an honest tear in memory of an old friend’s worth, to my way of thinking, all the crape and black feathers and velvet palls, and hearses and mourning coaches, in the world. Don’t say I’m right, ma’am; and though I talk of tears I don’t say that I drop em. I leave that for the women to do, but I’ve had a few thoughts about poor Sam, who got off his box come Sunday three weeks dead beat, poor chap.”
No, my driver did not seem at all the man given to tears, but in consequence of the cutting wind blowing right into our faces, there was a slight humidity in his eyes, and he sniffed twice very loudly, and then put his whip in the hand that held the reins, took off his hat, and fished out a red cotton handkerchief, with which he blew his nose loudly.
“Strange bad colds we ketches up on the box here sometimes,” he said apologetically. “It’s enough to kill anybody—the hours are so long; but then, it’s no use to grumble—not a bit. If you don’t like it you can go, and there’s hundreds of men who can handle the ribbons ready to pop into your seat. It’s a precious sight easier to get out of collar than it is to get in again, I can tell you; so I don’t grumble, but keep on.
“Look healthy? well, pr’aps I do; but all this red colour in one’s face ain’t fresh air and weather. One’s drops have something to do with it, for some chaps may stand it, I dare say, but I can’t, and I find a drop of beer with some gin in it warms you better than most things. I like temperance as well as any man, but I really can’t do without a drop in the bitter weather, and those who can must be made of different stuff to me.
“Now, take one of our London winter days—which you like—a regular keen frost, or a yaller fog, or a soaking rain, or one of those cold, mizzly, clinging, go-through-your-very-marrow sort of days. Get your breakfast in a hurry, and be off to the yard and get on the box. All’s ready for us, for we don’t clean horses or ’busses; there’s men on purpose to do that. Well, I’m well wrapped up, and I get on my box at eight o’clock in the morning, and begin my City journey. There we are all times; we mustn’t go no faster, nor we mustn’t go no slower; time’s time, and we have to keep it if we can, but sometimes we can’t, and do what we will, we’re late—with extra passengers, or a block, or something wrong with a horse, or one thing or another; and then, if it happens to be near dinner time, we have to start back as usual, and often and often, I haven’t got off the box, but swallowed a mouthful of something where I sat, and been off again.
“Drive, drive, and pull up, all the afternoon, with about five or six minutes for my tea, and then up and at it again, hour after hour, till the last journey’s done, and then I’ve got off the box hardly able to stand, I’ve been so cramped; while scarcely ever before eleven, and generally twelve, I’ve got home, worn out, to my bit of supper. Fifteen or sixteen hours, Sunday and weekday, is too much of a good thing, ain’t it? And on such days as I’ve been talking about, when you can’t feel your feet, and your hands won’t hardly hold rein or whip, and the cold goes through and through you, don’t you think as one wants something to comfort one a bit? because if you don’t, I should like them as grumbles to try it on for a month and see.
“Coats, of course, keeps out a deal, but the coat ain’t been made that will keep out all the cold and wet. Oilskins and macintoshes always acts on me rheumatically, and gives me pains all over in the jynts; so I puts on as many reg’lar coats and weskits as I can get on one above another, and wraps up my legs. But in all that long time, it’s no use, the cold creeps in somewhere like the thin edge of a wedge, and lets in ever so much more, and though we mostly gets a shilling or so a day more than the conductors, I don’t know but what I’d rather have their life, on account of the jumping up and down.
“I get very tired of it by the time night comes; but a good sleep and the little bit of home comfort one gets seems to put one right before morning, though, I’m blest if I think a sea captain could know much less of his children than we ’bus drivers do of ours. But there, it can’t last for ever, and I s’pose some day I shall be lifted off my box as Sam was. Couldn’t get down, poor chap, for he stuck to it right to the very last, though his missis wanted him to lay up long before.
“‘Just for a few days, Sam,’ she says, but he shook his head, poor chap, thinking of pay night, and not wanting to go on his club; and so she used to wait at a corner for him, and bring him drops of warm broth and cups of tea, and little things she thought he’d fancy, for the poor fellow was like a horse off his feed; but it was all of no use.
“I used to drive mostly the ’bus that went afore his and used to see her, pale-faced and anxious, waiting at the corner till he came, which was only ten minutes after mine—this being a busy time, you know; and Sam and I having been friends, I used to nod to her, for it’s no use to come the reg’lar s’loot with the whip you know. But, as I said afore, it was all no use; and Sam got worse and worse—reg’lar touched, poor chap—and one night, as he was coming back off his last journey, pulls up sudden like aside the road gives the office with his whip to the conductor, and then drops the reins. Held out to the very last he had, like a Briton, and then as I said they had to lift him down, when the conductor sent him home in a cab, collected the fares, then got up and drove the rest of the journey himself.
“Terrible bad Sam was, poor chap, and first one and then another of us went to sit up with him, for he was delirious best part of the time. My turn came twice over, and I went after I’d had a bit of supper—tripe and onions, and a drop o’ dog’s nose we had that night, and out and out it was, too, for my missus said that them as sat up with sick people ought allus to have something supporting—which I say, you know, just to show that we didn’t have tripe and onions every night; for, you know, the wages wouldn’t run to it.
“So I gets there and finds all made comfortable and him bedded down for the night—for his missus was as good a sort as ever a driver married: snug bit of fire; kettle singing on the hob; easy chair aside the fire, Sam’s medicine on a little table, ready to give him when he woke up; one of his rugs to wrap round me when I got shivery towards morning; and my medicine on the chimney-piece—drop of gin, tumbler, teaspoon, and sugar, with half a lemon on a plate.
“‘I’ll come down about five, and make you a cup of tea,’ says Sam’s wife.
“‘No you won’t,’ I says gruffly. ‘I’ll call you about seven,’ I says, ‘for I must be off then; so you’d better get a good-night’s rest.’
“She didn’t say much, for, poor thing! she’d got into a way then of breaking down and crying at the least word; but she went and straightened Sam’s bed a bit, just as you’ve seen a woman do when the bed don’t want touching; then she leaned over and kissed him, and went off upstairs with the children.
“Plain furnished place theirs was; but, bless you, it was like a little palace, for Sam’s wife had a knack of making things show off to the best advantage, and that, too, without being one of them horrible cleaning women, who seems to think as furniture and carpets was made a purpose to be rubbed up and shook, while floors wasn’t for nothing else but scrubbing.
“Sam seemed fast asleep, and after giving a look at him I made myself as comfortable as I could in the easy chair, with the rug, in front of the fire, and sat there thinking about the onions I had for supper. Not as I wanted to, you know, but onions is things as will make you think about ’em afterwards, and that ain’t the worst of it, for they takes precious good care that every one else shall know you’ve had ’em. About half-past two I had a weak mixing of gin and water, and all that time poor Sam hadn’t stirred; but just as I’d finished my glass, which was about three, for I took time over it and smoked a pipe, sending all the smoke up the chimney—just as I’d done I heard Sam stir and say something; but he was quiet again directly, and my orders were to wait till he asked for his medicine. So all I had to do was to sit still and wait.
“It was hard work keeping awake between four and five, but I managed it; for I took off my boots, and walked up and down the room softly, trying to count up how many streets I passed on the near side from Piccadilly to the Mansion House and how many coming back again; and though I tried at it for an hour, I never got it right, for the streets seemed to dodge from one side to the other, and bothered me; but I kept awake, and sat down at five o’clock, feeling rather shivery, to another taste of gin and water, and all that time poor Sam never moved—only breathed softly when I went to listen.
“Seven o’clock came at last by Sam’s watch, standing in the little sand-castle on the chimney-piece; and then I called his wife gently, and in a few minutes more she was down, and wanted to get me some breakfast; but I said ‘No!’ for I knew it would be ready at home; and I was just going when I heard her give a shriek by the bedside, and down she went upon the floor—fainted dead away.
“He never give more than a sigh, mum, or I must have heerd him; for my eyes never closed that night, and though p’raps last time I looked I ought to have seen it, yet, not thinking of anything, my sight being not so keen as that of his own wife, who, poor woman! I lifted into a chair, and called for help.
“That’s what the bits of crape are for, mum, it’s a way we have with us. What complaint? Well, I only have my ideas, and thinks that if you run a hoss too hard he’s soon wore out, and I fancy as men can be run too hard as well. It seems to me as Natur’ never meant men to keep on day after day all them hours at a stretch; and though it ain’t like hard labour, yet you’re at it all the time; and, besides, what were Sundays made for if not for a rest? Seems to me, mum, that if a day of rest hadn’t been wanted, Sunday would have been left out altogether, and we should have gone right on from Saturday to Monday at once.
“P’raps ’tain’t for me to complain; but I have my own ideas about poor Sam.”