PART IV.
CHAIRS!
It so chanced that I did not see Belinda Ann for some long time after the launch.
Illness and a trip to Switzerland came between us, and when I returned to England the Club had not yet resumed its winter meetings.
The moment it did so, however, I took an early opportunity of visiting it, and to my joy Belinda Ann arrived shortly after me.
I pounced on her at once and drew her into a secluded corner, where we could talk unobserved.
“Belinda,” I began eagerly, “I want you to take me to your Feather Club one day. Will you?”
She put her head on one side and glanced at me sideways, as was her way when in doubt, and remarked—
“There ain’t nothink ter see, yer know. We just pys in our money every week, an’ the one who draws the winnin’ number gits the feather that week, an’ then we begins all over agyne, but I’ve left that an’ jined a furniture club now,” and she gave me another sidelong look.
I was so full of my own ideas that I did not particularly notice her evident desire to be asked why, but exclaimed—
“I did not know you had other sorts of clubs.”
“Bless yer, yuss!” retorted Belinda Ann, with all her old contempt for my lamentable ignorance. “There’s furniture clubs, an’ crockery clubs, an’ photergraph clubs, an’ draperies an’ boot clubs, an’ I dun know what all!”
“And how much do you pay?” I asked.
“Well, it depends,” she replied cautiously. “It runs from anythink from thruppence to five bob, accordin’ ter succumstances, but I’ll tyke yer ter one ef yer like, though there ain’t nothink whatever ter see.”
I closed with the offer at once, and then asked what she had been doing all this time.
“’Eaps!” she answered laconically; and then remarked in a would-be off-hand manner, “I’m a-walkin’ hout with a young feller down our court.”
“Oh!” I replied, not specially impressed, as this was a very everyday affair.
“An’ ’e’s sed ‘Chairs’ ter me!” she added, with an elaborate assumption of indifference and an unsuccessful attempt not to look triumphant.
“Oh, Belinda!” I exclaimed, grasping at once what this meant, “I am glad. That is why you joined the furniture club?”
She nodded, pleased at my intelligence, and added complacently—
“An’ I’ve jined the sewin’ class, so’s I ken myke my own trossax.”
I fully approved of this, and inquired as to when the marriage was to take place.
She pursed up her lips and shook her head solemnly, as she replied—
“Not yet awhile. I’ve no fancy fer startin’ too soon an’ bein’ brought up with a jerk, an’ I wants ter myke sure of a comferble plyce ter begin with,” which showed me what I had always known, namely, that Belinda Ann was in many ways above her class.
“I means ter ’ave a room ter myself any’ow,” she went on. “Why, ef you’ll berlieve me”—warming with her subject—“down Spitalfields wy there was once four families as ’ad one room atween ’em. They each ’ad one corner, an’ one man lived in the middle, but dear, they didn’t mind, an’ got on well enough till the man in the middle took in a lodger, an’ then there was a row ’cos they sed that was jest a little too much.”
I heartily agreed, though the story was not new to me any more than it will be to you.
We parted, having made an appointment for the following week, so a few days afterwards found me under her guidance, trying to find out something about the clubs.
As we walked she showed me notices in various shop-windows of “Clubs held here,” but the one we finally entered was of a very humble description, and the proprietress, a wizened little hunchback, looked suspiciously at me and was most reluctant, even at Belinda Ann’s request, to explain the mode of procedure.
There was not much to tell, she said stiffly, and nothing to see.
The girls just paid their sixpence a week, and the number of members, of course, had to tally with the value of what they wanted.
Hers was a boot-club, and, as coster girls are notoriously fastidious about the quality of their boots, seven-and-six and eight-and-six is the price aimed at, so she had fifteen members just now, and a friend of hers had seventeen.
They were strictly honourable, and always “stood up” to what they had undertaken, even though they might find it a tax to produce the weekly subscription regularly; and when a girl had secured the article for which she had joined the club, she never by any chance “cried off,” but went on paying till all the members were supplied.
Of course it was not everyone who could be admitted to these privileges, and, as a rule, strangers were not particularly welcomed unless well vouched for by an old member, as there was always the chance of their being winners early and then “crying off” the rest of their subscription.
The club was mainly composed of friends who rarely met at the “club-holder’s,” except on the occasion of the weekly draw.
Of course, if a girl could spare the money, there was no objection to her buying two tickets, thus enjoying two chances and also helping to hasten matters, and there had been cases where the members, hearing that one of their old “chums” (or “pals,” as they call it) was in sore want, voluntarily kept the club going another week, and then handed it all over to her, with the club-holder’s consent, of course.
The usual method was to put fifteen pieces of paper in a bag, on one being written the number of weeks the club was old, and the member who drew out the marked paper was able to buy the boots that week, and so on.
“Then it really is a lottery!” I remarked meditatively.
“No, t’ain’t,” she snapped sharply; “it’s a club!” And after that I could not get another word out of her, but I gathered later on that she derived her profit from the draper or bootshop visited, who allowed her so much for every “ticket” presented to him, and that she often had more than one club running at a time.
Belinda Ann was so obviously crestfallen at the poor result of our excursion that I hastened to inquire after her “young man,” upon which she brightened up, informed me his name was Joe, that he was in the coster line and owned a “barrer an’ moke” of his own. He sold anything that was in season, and Belinda Ann had grave thoughts of giving up her present occupation and accompanying him on his rounds.
I privately thought this would be a “come-down” for her, remembering the draggle-tailed, slatternly women who usually pursue this line of business, but she was so visibly elated over the whole business that I could not bear to be a wet blanket.
She was dying to introduce Joe to me, and as I was no less curious to see him, I agreed to attend the sewing-class one night, as she proudly remarked, “’E allus fetches me ’ome ’isself, which is more nor what most blokes ’ud do,” and indeed I found this to be the case, as courtship in the East End is a very prosaic and matter-of-fact affair, conducted on both sides with scant romance and without any of those little amenities usual in the West End.
Accordingly I attended the next sewing meeting, at which Belinda Ann showed me with pride the neat nightgowns she was making, with little tucks and a frill of embroidery down the front, having already completed a serviceable stout petticoat or two.
She was the best worker in the class and the others readily acknowledged her superiority, coming to her for assistance or advice, and admiring her skill with a whole-hearted generosity which had not a trace of jealousy or envy about it.
I was sure Belinda Ann was not sorry to let me see her in a new light, and as I sat apart and watched her I saw and appreciated the subtle change that her new prospects had wrought in her. She was sobered and softened, more womanly and more responsible. She had perhaps lost the bizarre and picturesque charm which had been hers, but she had gained in qualities which would be more useful to her in the battle of life, and of which she might have dire need. There had always been the makings of a noble woman in the rough undisciplined factory-girl, and no true friend of hers could regret the disappearance of characteristics which, while making her more interesting and less commonplace, were not likely to help her much in her struggle for existence.
Not that she was less ready than of yore with “chaff,” and I heard her joining more than once in the shrieks of laughter called forth by an oddly-shaped pattern or an ill-cut garment.
The ladies at the head of the class were wise enough to join in, even when the joke was against themselves, and to take in good part the various disrespectful and scornful remarks about their knowledge of needlework made in stage-whispers all round them.
I do not think any of the girls really cared about sewing, and some of them were frightfully slow workers. One girl had been at work on the same garment for over a year, and as she came late and left early, it seemed likely to last another twelve months at least.
The nominal hours were from eight to ten, but they dropped in at all times, and some only stayed a few minutes.
One girl put in about three stitches and then rolled her work up in an untidy bundle, crammed it into her bag (a lady had presented each girl with a bag in which to keep her work clean), and remarking, “I carn’t sew with coarse cotton like that,” disappeared with not another word of explanation or apology. They could bring their own materials if they liked, but long-cloth and flannelette were provided, and they could then purchase the garments they made at cost price.
There was a piano in the room, but music as a rule was impossible, the girls’ healthy lungs preventing anything short of a drum being heard. One started a song and the others joined in, which was all right as long as they all sang the same, but when half-a-dozen different tunes were all being shouted out at once, the noise was rather appalling.
By degrees the room emptied till only Belinda Ann and myself were left, even the founders having retired to a neighbouring class-room to put on capes and bonnets. I ought to have mentioned before that the meeting was held in a Board School which the authorities kindly lent for the one night in the week.
Well, the clock began to strike ten, and I felt really sorry for Belinda Ann, whose anxious glances at the door were getting more and more frequent.
The tardy arrival of the swain, whose devotion she had been extolling, was doubly vexing to a proud girl of her calibre, since it would, she considered, make me think that she had been “gassing” unduly about him, besides which she was not at all likely to put up with neglect in any shape or form.
The slow minutes dragged inexorably on, and she was just rolling up her work with a great show of nonchalance, when a lumpy and by no means fairy footfall sounded on the flagged yard outside, and a healthy whistle (in which, however, a nice ear might have detected some trepidation) gave us to understand that the owner had “knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road.”
I glanced at Belinda, who stopped folding as if she had been shot, hastily unrolled everything and started sewing again with her nose in the air and the light of battle in her eye.
I was not at all sure that even my presence would save the unlucky Joe from a sound rating, but when the whistling and the footsteps abruptly ceased together, and an apologetic double-shuffle at the door forced her to look round, she evidently considered that the scolding had better wait, and merely said haughtily—
“Ow, there y’are at larst! Come on an’ show yerself ter ther lydy an’ mind yer manners!”
This was scarcely calculated to set him entirely at his ease, and as I could plainly see he was already suffering agonies of bashfulness I met him half-way (literally as well as metaphorically) and, having said how pleased I was to see him, held out my hand.
He was evidently unprepared for this, and having wiped his own elaborately on his corduroys, he gave it a final polish with his cap before venturing to respond.
A rather awkward pause ensued, which was happily broken by the ladies, who now returned to the room ready to go home, and who all seemed to know Joe very well. While he was answering their questions, I was able to have a good look at him, and I must admit I was disappointed in his appearance.
I had not expected anything heroic or romantic, of course, but, really, Belinda Ann’s betrothed was distressingly plain.
His hair was an unmistakable red, and cropped so short as to suggest his having lately lodged at Her Majesty’s expense. His eyes were a watery grey, with very pink rims and no eyelashes to speak of, and his mouth was so capacious it really quite alarmed you when he yawned, as he did presently with engaging frankness.
He was obviously a good bit younger than the bride-elect, but this is not unusual, and besides Belinda Ann would always have been the leading spirit anyhow.
He was physically smaller, too, being so stunted in growth as to make her look like a young giantess, and a stubbly attempt at a moustache made him seem even more boyish.
By the time I had completed my survey we were all ready to go, and as the other ladies were returning by the Underground, Joe and Belinda offered to escort me to the omnibus.
“Joe’s got two tickets for the Vic. to-morrer night,” Belinda remarked presently.
It seemed to me a pity that Joe should spend his hard-earned and much-needed money on so questionable an amusement, and I ventured to say so, in very delicate language of course.
“Ow, ’e ain’t pyd fer ’em!” returned Belinda Ann reassuringly, “a friend o’ ’is goes on in the crowd, an’ ken pass in two friends when ’e likes. Thet’s ’ow it is.”
The next time I attended the sewing-class I asked her how she liked it, and nearly had my nose snapped off in return. For some reason (I shrewdly suspected that Joe and she had had a “tiff”) she was in a grievously bad temper, and had already quarrelled with everyone in the room except me. Now it was my turn, and as she turned on me with a gloomy frown I felt sorry I had spoken.
“Like it?” she remarked, viciously biting off her cotton with her strong white teeth. “I never seed anythink more morotonous in all my born days! Call thet a ply? I calls it a reglar ’owlin’ swindle!”
“Why? What was the matter with it?” I inquired mildly. “What was it called?”
“Fust!” she retorted ferociously, and for a minute I wondered what she meant, till it dawned on me that she probably meant Faust.
“Well, what happened?” I coaxed. “You might just tell me, Belinda.”
“Ow, I dun know,” she answered sulkily. “There was a sort of a cellar plyce, kinder prison, with a old cove a-reading in a book, an’ then ’e began ter jaw, and ’e could do it too. I thought ’e’d never leave off, an’ I’d jest said ter my Joe, ‘What’s thet there old cove a-doing of?’ when there comes fireworks, an’ someone in red ’ops out of ’em, an’ if ’e don’t bergin ter jaw! My word, it was sick’nin’!” and she relapsed into gloomy silence.
“But, Belinda,” I put in, “they are obliged to talk to let you know what the story is about. If they did it all without speaking, you might not understand it.”
“An’ small loss,” she retorted uncompromisingly. “I didn’t understand it as it was. In one part three or four people went into a church, an’ I says, sarcastick-like, ‘It must be a weddin’, sech lots o’ people agoin’ to church,’ but Joe says it was meant there was a service agoin’ on, an’ all I ken say is it was a werry poor congregeration.”
“Oh, of course, it is all make-believe,” I said soothingly. “They had not really got a church there, you know, and the people were not attending a service inside but only pretending to.”
“Well, I ’aven’t got the time nor the money ter spend on lookin’ at things wot ain’t true,” she replied with decision, “an’ wot’s more, I sha’n’t let my Joe go neither. It ain’t wuth it,” which was astonishingly sensible of her, I thought.
While heartily approving of her decision, I could not resist asking her whether what she called “fireworks” had not pleased her.
“Purty well,” she replied reflectively, “I’ve seen better ones, but at leastes they was real. There was one scene with a founting where the gals shunted that cove in red, an’ then the founting ran fire, but I spose that was make-believe too,” and, alas, I was unable to deny it.
I was rather relieved to find that her first visit to the theatre was likely to be her last, and had certainly not given her a taste for that sort of amusement (which I had been half afraid it might), and, by dint of great exertion on my part, I managed to restore her wonted good-humour before we parted.
(To be continued.)