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]