All the women, with the exception of Mrs. K., are notable managers, and all but Mrs. K. and Mrs. P. are extremely tidy and clean. Mrs. K., who has five sons and a daughter, is more happy-go-lucky than the others, as, fortunately for her, her husband “can’t abide ter see the ’ouse bein’ cleaned,” and when it is clean “likes to mess it all up agen.” Mrs. K. doesn’t go in for worryin’ the boys, either. Her eldest child is Louie, the only girl, who is thirteen, and rather good at school, but doesn’t do much to help at home, as Mrs. K. likes to see her happy. With all her casual ways, Mrs. K. has a delicate mind, and flushes deeply if the visitor alludes to anything which shocks her. Louie’s bed is shared by only one small brother; Louie’s clothes are tidy, though Mr. and Mrs. K. seem to sleep among a herd of boys, and Mrs. K.’s skirt looks as though rats had been at it, and her blouse is never where it should be at the waist.
Mrs. P. is under thirty, and, when she has time to look it, rather pretty. Her eldest child is only ten. The tightest economy reigns in that little house, partly because Mr. P. is a careful man and very delicate, and partly because Mrs. P. is terrified of debt. It was she who discovered the plan of buying seven cracked eggs for 3d. As she said, it might lose you a little of the egg, but you could smell it first, which was a convenience. She is clean, but untidy, very gentle in her manner, and as easily shocked as Mrs. K. Her mother rents one of her rooms, and, much beloved, is always there to advise in an unscientific, inarticulate, but soothing way when there is a difficulty. The children are fair and delicate, and are kept clean by their tired little mother, who plaintively declared that she preferred boys to girls, because you could cut their hair off and keep their heads clean without trouble, and also because their nether garments were less easily torn. When in the visitor’s presence the little P.’s have swallowed a hasty dinner, which may consist of a plateful of “stoo,” or perhaps of suet pudding and treacle, taken standing, they never omit to close their eyes and say, “Thang Gord fer me good dinner—good afternoon, Mrs. R.” before they go. Mrs. P. would call them all back if they did not say that.
Mrs. B. is a manager who could be roused at any moment in the night and inform the inquirer exactly what money she had in her purse, and how many teaspoonfuls of tea were left, before she properly opened her eyes. She likes to spend exactly the same sum on exactly the same article, and the same amount of it, every week. Her menus are deplorably monotonous—never a flight into jam, when the cheapest “marge” goes farther! Never an exciting sausage, but always stew of “pieces” on Wednesday and stew warmed up on Thursday. When bread goes up it upsets her very much. It gives her quite a headache trying to take the exact number of farthings out of other items of expenditure without upsetting her balance. She loved keeping accounts. It was a scheme which fell in with the bent of her mind, and, though she is no longer visited, she is believed to keep rigorous accounts still. She and all her family are delicate. Her height is about 5 feet, and when the visitor first saw her, and asked if Mr. B. were a big man, she replied, “Very big, miss—’e’s bigger than me.” She was gentle with children, and liked to explain to a third person their constant and mysterious symptoms. She dressed tidily, if drably, and always wore a little grey tippet or a man’s cap on her head.
Mrs. L. is older and larger and more gaunt—a very silent woman. Mr. L. talks immensely, and takes liberties with her which she does not seem to notice. She is gentle and always tidy, always clean, and very depressed in manner. When her baby nearly died with double pneumonia, she sat up night after night, nursed him and did all the work of the house by day, but all she ever said on the subject was, “I’d not like ter lose ’im now.” She looked more gaunt as the days went on, but everything was done as usual. When the baby recovered she made no sign. Before marriage she had been a domestic servant in a West-End club, receiving 14s. a week and all found. Her savings furnished the home and bought clothes for some years.
Mrs. S. could tell you a little about Mr. S. if you pressed her. He was a “good ’usbin’,” but not desirable on Saturday nights. She was a worn, thin woman with a dull, slow face, but an extraordinary knack of keeping things clean and getting things cheap. All her bread was fetched by her eldest boy of thirteen from the back door of a big restaurant once a week. It lived in a large bag hung on a nail behind the door, and got very stale towards the end of the week; but it was good bread. She could get about 100 broken rolls for 1s. 9d. When she lost her children she cried a very little, but went about much as usual, saying, if spoken to on the subject, “I done all I could.’ E ’ad everythink done fer ’im,” which was perfectly true as far as she was concerned, and in so far as her means went. She loved her family in a patient, suffering, loyal sort of way which cannot have been very exhilarating for them.
All of these women, with, perhaps, the exception of Mrs. K., seemed to have lost any spark of humour or desire for different surroundings. The same surroundings with a little more money, a little more security, and a little less to do, was about the best their imaginations could grasp. They knew nothing of any other way of living if you were married. Mrs. K. liked being read to. Her husband, hearing that she had had “Little Lord Fauntleroy” read aloud to her at her mothers’ meeting, took her to the gallery of a theatre, where she saw acted some version, or what she took for some version, of this story. It roused her imagination in a way which was astonishing. She questioned, she believed, she accepted. There were people like that! How real and how thrilling! It seemed to take something of the burden of the five boys and the girl from her shoulders. Did the visitor think theatres wrong? No, the visitor liked theatres. Well, Mrs. K. would like to go again if it could possibly be afforded, but of course it could not. At the mothers’ meeting they were now having a book read to them called “Dom Quick Sotty.” It was interesting, but not so interesting as “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” though, of course, that would be Mrs. K.’s own fault most probably. Mrs. K.’s criticism on “Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch,” later, was that it was a book about a queer sort of people.
The children of these five families were, on the whole, well brought up as regards manners and cleanliness and behaviour. All of them were kindly and patiently treated by their mothers. Mrs. P., who was only twenty-eight, was a little plaintive with her brood of six. Mrs. K., as has been explained, was unruffled and placid. The other three were punctual, clean, and gentle, if a trifle depressing. Want of the joy of life was the most salient feature of the children as they grew older. They too readily accepted limitations and qualifications imposed upon them, without that irrational hoping against impossibility and belief in favourable miracles which carry more fortunate children through many disappointments. These children never rebel against disappointment. It is their lot. They more or less expect it. The children of Mrs. K. were the most vital and noisy and troublesome, and those of Mrs. B. the most obedient and quiet, and what the women themselves called “old-fashioned.” All the children were nice creatures, and not one of them was a “first-class life” or gave promise of health and strength.
Note.—In dissecting budgets in this and following chapters the writer has not reckoned in the extra nourishment which was provided for mother and child. It is obvious that general calculations based upon such temporary and unusual assistance would be misleading with regard to the whole class of low-paid labour.