Pictures and Problems from London Police Courts

by Thomas Holmes

In the top room of one of these houses I met with the most wonderful instance of sisterly devotion it has ever been my lot to meet with. I will picture it. Two sisters, only servant-girls, but their room is scrupulously clean, and even tastily furnished. The furniture is old, but the best is made of it. A pretty screen keeps the draught from the bed, on which lies one of the sisters, who is twenty-four years of age, and has lain there seven years. A piece of linen steeped in eau-de-Cologne is across her forehead; underneath her half-closed eyes are dark rings; the cartilage of her nose is almost as thin as writing-paper, and is constantly quivering; her face is pale as death itself, and her faint breath comes in quick vibrations from the top of her throat. Yonder sits her sister, at work with her needle; she is almost as pale as the invalid, and suffers from occasional hæmorrhage. Ten years ago both parents died, and the elder sister made a promise to her dying father that she would ‘look after’ the younger. Some of the furniture was put safely by, and hand in hand into service both girls went, and a year or two passed. But the younger one was delicate. The influenza soon got hold of her, and remained with her so long that she had to leave service—but not for the hospital or infirmary.

An empty room was taken, the remains of their parents’ furniture was put into it, and to her lonely room and bed the younger one was taken. Four-and-sixpence weekly was paid for that empty room. They had saved a little money, but a servant’s wages are small, and it soon went. After the influenza came all sorts of complications, paralysis and spinal disease, etc.; so the younger sister, a child in appearance but a woman in years, has lain on her bed ever since, nursed, waited on, lifted in and out of bed by her sister, who worked for the pair. For the first four years the elder sister remained in service, nursing and keeping house for two old ladies, visiting her sister every morning, washing her, tidying the room, and putting her food to hand; this had to be liquid food, in a baby’s sucking-bottle; for this was the only way in which the younger could take nourishment, and, her right arm being helpless, the bottle had to lie close to the left. Every night, after she had put her old ladies to bed, the elder would return again to the younger sister, and arrange for her comfort during the night. The younger one was left alone day and night except for the sister’s visits. This was their life for years; but her wages were not enough to keep the pair and pay rent. So she took in plain sewing, unknown to her sister or the old ladies, and sat regularly into the small hours of the morning, stitching away for private customers—hence her cough and hæmorrhage. But the old ladies died and were buried, and had no more need of her services, so now the sisters are living together, and stitch, stitch, stitch is the order of the day and night. She does not work for the factory or the sweater, but for private customers, who like their work done by hand and done well.

Done by hand! and her earnings are no better than the match-box makers or the blouse-makers, for a shilling a day is the average. Yet she never complains, but goes on steadfastly, quietly, and persistently with her work and her duty. Seeking no help, and hiding her poverty from the world, on she goes, no change, no holiday, no rest, excepting when she herself is ill; then, to keep the knowledge of that illness from her poor little sister, she wraps herself in a rug and takes her rest—not on the bed, but on the hearthrug.

And very thoughtless many ladies are. A couple of months the elder sister worked nearly a week, and earned five shillings. The work was all for one lady, who praised the work when it was taken home, saying she would send her more and pay for them altogether, when the work was finished. Weeks passed on, and there came no more work nor the five shillings that were so badly wanted. Four applications by letter were made before a postal order was received to discharge the debt, and the poor creature lost fourpence in postage.

‘Evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as want of heart,’ is a truth that I have often seen illustrated in our police courts. A woman about thirty-six years of age once stood in the dock, charged with being drunk. Her head was bandaged, and her mantle, which had seen much better days, was covered with blood. She had fallen from a tramcar, was picked up insensible and smelling of drink, was taken by the constable to the police station, and the doctor fetched to attend to her injuries, who stated that she was recovering from the effects of drink. So she was charged. She gave no name, no address, nor occupation, and when before the magistrate she was silent except for protesting tearfully that she was not drunk. She was ordered to pay the doctor’s fee, and having no money, was placed in the cells. Through the little trap-door I spoke to her, when I noticed that she had a parcel with her, also bespattered with blood. She was badly hurt, and quite broken-hearted at being a prisoner. I might have paid her three-and-sixpence, but I saw that she was ill and not fit to go home by herself, so I begged her to tell me where she lived, that I might see her friends. She resolutely declined at first, but after an hour in the cell she sent for me and told me where she lived, but asked me not to call till two o’clock, as her aunt, who lived with her, would not be home before.

At a quarter past two I called, and the rap I gave at the door told me that there was no linoleum on the passage floor, and but little furniture in the house. To my surprise a nicely dressed and beautiful girl of about sixteen came to the door. I told her that I had called to see the aunt, and had come from the niece, who was injured, but not seriously. She told me they had been anxious about her mother, who went to take some work home the day before, and had not returned. I did not tell the girl where her mother was, but took stock of the house. There was no carpet on the floor, and three Windsor chairs, a deal table, and a sewing-machine formed the only furniture—no other goods, save two oil-paintings without frames on the wall. I looked at them and said to the girl: ‘Whose portraits are these?’ ‘Grandpa’s and grandma’s,’ was the answer. ‘They were gentlepeople?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘we used to have a carriage when I was little.’

Just then I heard someone fumbling with a latch-key at the door, and presently in came the aunt, old and wrinkled, bent with age and trouble. Dressed in old-fashioned and badly-worn clothing, black cotton gloves an inch too long for her fingers, she stood and looked at me askance. I told her my errand, for the girl had left us alone. The trembling old woman sat down, put her glove-covered hands to her face, and rocked herself backward and forward, and I could see the tears trickling down. Presently she stood up, and tremblingly drew off one of her gloves, and said, ‘That’s all we have in the world, sir, and that is my parish allowance; I have just been to fetch it.’ I looked at her old skinny hand, and there in the palm lay a solitary half-crown. The girl was called in again, when I told her that I was taking her aunt to her mother, and that shortly both would be back again. The old lady was so feeble and excited that I had to support her till we got a conveyance. When we got to the court, I had again to give her my arm; but when I had paid the doctor’s fee and the cell-door was opened to her niece, she wanted none of my support; for, as soon as she saw her niece coming up the passage, she loosed her hold of me and with eager steps and a pitiful cry ran toward the tottering woman; and presently their arms were round each other, and the bruised face of the younger woman was laid against the furrows and wrinkles of the older woman, while their tears blended together.

I thought it best to see them ‘home,’ but they did not offer to tell me who they were; they did, however, tell me that the girl was a member of a well-known choir, and was only ‘home’ for a short holiday. I found out, though, what had brought the younger woman to the police court. She had taken home some finished work to a lady, who praised it and gave her more work to do. Unfortunately, she did not think of paying her, but more unfortunately still, she gave her a glass of spirits. Doubtless it was meant kindly, but it was disastrous; for the woman was weak for want of proper food, and in just that condition of body and mind when some food would have been most useful. Having to return home by tramcar, and the inside being full, she had to mount the outside. Just as she got to the top, and before she could get a seat, the car started, and overboard she went. The spirits had doubtless made her a bit giddy, but she told me that she would not have fallen but for the car starting too soon—in fact, before she was off the steps. I called again to see them. The girl had rejoined her choir; the wrinkled old lady sat in the almost empty house, thinking, thinking, everlastingly thinking of the past; the younger one with her bruised face and head still bandaged, sat at her machine. Once more I called, and the house was empty, and a bill was in the window. They were gone—and I never knew where. Neither did I ever learn whence they came or who they were; but this much I did gather, that the aunt’s means, as well as the fortune of the family, had been squandered by the husband of the younger woman.

So many gently-born come down into our slums, and compete with the poorest of the poor for a bare and miserable existence; but they mix not with the coarse and the lewd that abound around them; they seek no help, and never flaunt their poverty. Silently and in obscurity they go down to their doom of starvation. Sometimes they will come to the court and gasp their sorrow out to the magistrate, but not often, unless, indeed, it is some man or woman brought low by their vices. In such self-respect is dead, and they are ever ready to trade upon their past affluence, and are by no means ashamed to beg; but those who have been brought low by the wrong-doing of others present a pathetic spectacle.

I have before me now an old letter which came to me at the police court. It reads as follows: