Known to the Police

by Thomas Holmes

But whatever their style and make had been, and whoever might have been their original wearers, they had now one common characteristic—that of utter and complete uselessness. I ought to have been disgusted with the old rubbish, but somehow the old things appealed to me, though they seemed to reproach me, and lay their social death to my charge and their present neglect to my interference. But gladness was mixed with pathos, for I knew that a hundred widows had gone to their homes decently booted on a dismal Christmas Eve.

But now, leaving the old boots to the fate that awaited them, I will tell of the women who had so recently possessed them.

It had long been a marvel to me how the very poor obtained boots of any sort and kind. I had learned so much of their lives and of their ways and means that I realized boots and shoes for elderly widows or young widows with children must be a serious matter. Accordingly, at this particular Christmas I issued, on behalf of the Home Workers' Aid Association, invitations to one hundred widows to my house, where each widow was to receive a new pair of boots and Christmas fare. They came, all of them, and as we kept open house all day, I had plenty of time to converse with them individually. I learned something that day, so I want to place faithfully before my readers some of the things that happened and some of the stories that were told.

One of the first to arrive was an elderly widow, accompanied by her epileptic daughter, aged thirty. I looked askance at the daughter, and said to the widow: "I did not invite your daughter." "No, sir; but I thought you would not mind her coming." "But I do mind, for if every widow brings a grown-up daughter to-day I shall have two hundred women instead of one hundred." "I am very sorry, sir; but I could not come without her." They sat down to some food, and my wife looked up a few things for the daughter. "Now for the boots," I said. "Of course, we cannot give your daughter a pair." "No," said the widow; "we only want one pair." I knew what was coming, for I had taken stock of the daughter, who was much bigger than her mother. "What size do you take?" "Please, sir, can my daughter try them on?" "No; the boots are for you." "Oh yes, sir, they will be my boots, but please let my daughter try them on." It was too palpable, so I said: "Your daughter has bigger feet than you have." "Yes, sir." "And you want a pair that will fit either of you?" "Yes, sir." "Then when you go out you will wear them?" "Oh yes, sir." "And when your daughter goes out, she will wear them—in fact, you want a pair between you?" "Yes, sir," the reply came eagerly from both. "Well, put your right feet forward." They did, and there was no doubt about it: mother and daughter both stood sadly in need, though they scarcely stood in boots; no doubt, either, as to the relative sizes. The daughter required "nines" and the mother "fives." I gave them a note to a local shopkeeper, where the daughter was duly fitted, so they went away happy, because they jointly possessed a new pair of "seven-and-elevenpenny's." But whether the widow ever wore them, I am more than doubtful. It is the self-denial of the very poor that touches me. It is so wonderful, so common, perhaps, that we do not notice it. It is so unobtrusive and so genuine. We never find poor widows jingling money-boxes in the streets and demanding public contributions because it is their "self-denial week." Their self-denial lasts through life, but the public are not informed of it. I fancy that I should have had an impossible task if I had asked, or tried to persuade, the widow to go into the streets and solicit help because she had denied herself a pair of boots for the sake of her afflicted daughter. Oh, it is very beautiful, but, alas! it is very sad. The poor couple worked at home in their one room when they had work to do and when the daughter's fits did not prevent. They made "ladies' belts," and starved at the occupation.

Another widow had four young children; her feet were partly encased in a flimsy pair of broken patent slippers. She, too, had her note to the shoemaker's.

A deep snow fell during the night, and on the morning of Boxing Day it lay six inches deep. I thought of the widows and their sound boots, and felt comforted; but my complacency soon vanished. I was out early in the streets, warmly clad, spurning the snow—in fact, rather enjoying it—and thinking, as I have said, with some pleasure of the widows and their boots, when I met the widow who has four young children. She was for hurrying past me, but I stopped her and spoke. "A bitter morning, this." "Yes, sir; is it not a deep snow?" "I am so glad you have sound boots. You had them just in time. Your old slippers would not have been of much use a morning like this." "No, sir." "Did you get what suited you?" "Yes, sir." "Fit you all right?" "Yes, sir." "Did you have buttons or lace-up?" "Lace-up, sir." "That's right. Lift up the front of your dress. I want to see whether the shopman has given you a good pair." She began to cry, and, to my astonishment, the old broken patent slippers were revealed, half buried in the snow. "Don't be cross," she burst out. "I did not mean to deceive you. I got two pairs for the children: they wanted them worse than I do."

I learned afterwards from the shopman that she added a shilling to the cost of a pair for herself, and the shopman, being kind-hearted, gave her another shilling, so she went home with her two pairs of strong boots for her boys. Of course, I told her that she had done wrong—I even professed to be angry; but I think she saw through my pretence. What can be done for, or with, such women? How can anyone help them when they are so deceitful? However, I forgave her, and confirmed her in her wickedness by next day sending the shop assistant to her home with several pairs of women's boots that she might select a pair for herself. That kind of deceit has an attraction for me.

"How long have you been a widow?" I asked one of the women. "Twelve years, sir." "How long is it since you had a new pair of boots?" "Not since my husband's funeral, sir." Twelve long years since she felt the glow of satisfaction that comes from the feeling of being well shod; twelve years since she listened to the ringing sound of a firm heel in brisk contact with the pavement; twelve years she had gone with that muffled, almost noiseless sound so peculiar to poor women, telling as it does of old slippers or of boots worn to the uppers! What a pity, when so many shoemakers are seeking customers! There is a tremendous moral force in a new pair of boots that possess good firm heels. Everybody that hears them knows instinctively what the sound means, and the neighbours say: "Mrs. Jones is getting on a bit: she is wearing a new pair of boots. Didn't you hear them?"

Hear them! Of course they had heard them, and had been jealous of them, too; but that kind of music is not heard every day among London's very poor, and for a time Mrs. Jones was on a higher plane than her neighbours; but by-and-by she comes back to them, for the heels wear away, and she has no others to put on whilst they are repaired, so gradually they slip down to the chronic condition of poor women's boots; then Mrs. Jones's ringing footsteps are heard no more.