Yet I have seen attempts at co-operation among the poorest, for one Christmas-time, when the weather was terribly severe, and when, as becomes a Christian country, the one great necessity of life among the poor was put up to a fabulous price, I knew four families living in one house to contribute threepence per family wherewith to purchase fifty-six pounds of coal that they might have extra fire at that happy season. Some of the very poor buy pennyworths of coke to mix with their coal, but though coke seems cheaper, it only flatters to deceive, for it demands greater draught, and it must be consumed in larger quantities. If for economy's sake a good draught and a generous supply be denied, it sullenly refuses to burn at all, and gives off fumes that might almost challenge those of a motor-car. The lives of many young children have been sacrificed by attempts to burn coke in small rooms where the draught necessary for good combustion has not existed. Certainly coke is no friend to the very poor. There are still meaner purchases of firing material than pennyworths of coal or pennyworths of coke, for halfpennyworths of cinders are by no means uncommon. A widow of my acquaintance who had several young children startled me one day when I was in her room by calling out, "Johnny, take the bucket and run for a ha'porth of cinders and a farthing bundle of wood." The farthing bundle of firewood I knew of old—and a fraudulent fellow I knew him to be, made up especially for widows and the unthrifty poor—but the halfpennyworth of cinders was a new item to me. I felt interested, and decided to remain till Johnny returned. He was not long away, for it was the dinner-hour, and the boy had to get back to school. He was but a little fellow, and by no means strong, yet he carried the bucket of cinders and firewood easily enough. When the boy had gone to school the widow turned to me as if apologizing for wasting three farthings. "I must have some fire for the children when they come in." "Aren't you going to make the fire up for yourself? It will soon be out, and it is very cold to-day." "No; I am going to work hard, and the time soon goes. I shall light it again at half-past four," said the unthrifty widow. Meanwhile I had inspected the cinders, which I found to be more than half dirt, fit only for a dust-destructor, but certainly not fit to burn in a living-room. "Do you buy cinders by weight or measure?" "I think he measures them." "How much have you got here?" "Two quarts." "Do you see that quite half is dirt?" "They are dirty. I expect he has nearly sold out. When he has a fresh lot we get better cinders, for the small and the dirt get left till the last." "I suppose he will not have a fresh supply in till he has cleared the last?" "No; he likes to sell out first. One day when I complained about them he said: 'Ah! they are pretty bad. Never mind! the more you buy, the sooner they'll be gone; then we'll have a better lot.'" "How many fires will your cinders make?" "Two, if I put a bit of coal with them." "Do you ever buy a hundredweight of coal?" "Not since my husband died. I try to buy a quarter twice a week." "How much do you give for a quarter?" "Five-pence." "How many fires can you light with your farthing bundle of wood?" "Two, if I don't use some of it to make the kettle boil." "How much rent do you pay?" "Five shillings for two rooms."
Poor widow! Because ye have not, even the little that ye have is of a truth taken from you.
CHAPTER XII OLD BOOTS AND SHOES
One hundred pairs of old boots and shoes that have been cast off by the very poor present a deplorable sight—a sight that sets one thinking. Many times I have regretted that I did not call in a photographer before they were hurried off to the local dust-destructor. What a tale they told! or rather what a series of tragedies they revealed! There was a deeply pathetic look about every pair: they looked so woefully, so reproachfully, at me as I contemplated them. They seemed to voice not only their own sufferings, but also the wrongs and privations of the hundred poor widows who had discarded them; for these widows, poor as they were, had cast them off. The boots and shoes seemed to know all about it, and to resent the slight inflicted on them; henceforth even the shambling feet of poor old women were to know them no more. They had not a coy look among them; not an atom of sauciness or independence could I discover; but, crushed and battered, meek and humiliated, they lay side by side, knowing their days were over, and pitifully asking for prompt dissolution. What a mixed lot they were! No two pairs alike. Some of the couples were not pairs, for a freak of fortune had united odd boots in the bond of sufferings and the gall of poverty. Many of them had come down in life; they had seen better days. Well-dressed women had at some time stepped daintily in them, but that was when the sheen of newness was upon them and the days of their youth were not ended. In those days the poor old boots were familiar with parks, squares, and gardens, and well-kept streets of the West; but latterly they have only been too familiar with the slums and the grime of the East. How I wished they could speak and tell of the past! How came it about that, after such a splendid beginning, they had come to such a deplorable end? Had the West End lady died? Had her wardrobe been sold to a dealer? What had been the intermediate life of the boots before they were placed, patched and cobbled, in the dirty window of a fusty little second-hand shop in Hoxton? I know the widow that bought them and something of her life; I can appreciate the effort she made to get possession of them. She paid two shillings and sixpence for them, but not all at once—oh dear, no! Week by week she carried threepence to the man who kept the fusty little shop. He cheerfully received her payments on account, meanwhile, of course, retaining possession of the coveted boots. It took her four months to pay for them, for her payments had not been quite regular. What would have become of the payments made if the widow had died before the completion of purchase, I need not say, but I am quite sure the boots would have speedily reappeared in the shop window. But, after all, I am not sure that the old cobbler was any worse in his dealings with the poor than more respectable people are; for pawnbroking, money-lending, life assurance, and furniture on the hire system among the poor are founded on exactly the same principles. How much property has been lost, how many policies have been forfeited, because poor people have been unable to keep up their payments, we do not know; if we did, I am quite sure that it would prove a revelation. In this respect the thriftiness of the poor is other people's gain.
It was a triumph of pluck and grit, for at the end of four long months the widow received her cobbled boots. Her half-crown had been completed. "I had them two years; they lasted me well—ever so much better than a cheap new pair," the widow told me; nevertheless, she was glad to leave them behind and go home with her feet shod resplendently in a new pair of seven-and-elevenpenny. She might venture to lift the front of her old dress now as she crossed the street, and I am sure that she did not forget to do it, for she was still a woman, in spite of all, and had some of that quality left severe people call vanity, but which I like to think of as self-respect.
"How is it," I was asked by a critical lady, "that your poor women let their dresses drag on the pavement and crossings? I never see any of them lift their dresses behind or in front. They must get very dirty and insanitary." "My dear madam," I replied, "they dare not, for neither their insteps nor their heels are presentable; but give them some new boots, and they will lift their dresses often enough and high enough."
There was another pair, too, that had come down, and they invited speculative thought. They were not born in the slums or fitted for the slums, but they came into a poor widow's possession nevertheless. They had not been patched or cobbled, and just enough of their former glory remained to allow of judgment being passed upon them. They had been purchased at a "jumble sale" for threepence, and were dear at the price. The feet that had originally worn them had doubtless trodden upon carpet, and rested luxuriantly upon expensive hearthrugs. They were shoes, if you please, with three straps across the insteps, high, fashionable heels, buckles and bows in front. But their high heels had disappeared, the buckles had long since departed, the instep straps were broken and dilapidated, the pointed toes were open, and the heels were worn down. When completely worn out and unmendable, some lady had sent them to a local clergyman for the benefit of the poor. I gazed on them, and then quite understood, not for the first time, that there is a kind of charity that demoralizes the poor, but it is a charity that is not once blessed.
Here was an old pair of "Plimsolls," whose rubber soles had long ago departed; there a pair of shoes that had done duty at the seaside, whose tops had originally been brown canvas, and whose soles had been presumably leather; here a pair of "lace-ups"; there a pair of "buttons"—but the lace-holes were all broken, and buttons were not to be seen.