The day of the funeral we were to meet at St Thomas’s Hospital, where we were to join the rest of the Chaplins and from there drive out to Tooting Cemetery. Sydney could not come, as he was working. Mother and I arrived at the hospital a couple of hours before the allotted time because she wanted to see Father before he was enclosed.
The coffin was enshrouded in white satin and around the edge of it, framing Father’s face, were little white daisies. Mother thought they looked so simple and touching and asked who had placed them there. The attendant told her that a lady had called early that morning with a little boy. It was Louise.
In the first carriage were Mother, Uncle Albert and me. The drive to Tooting was a strain, for she had never met Uncle Albert before. He was somewhat of a dandy and spoke with a cultured accent; although polite, his attitude was icy. He was reputed to be rich; he had large horse ranches in the Transvaal and had provided the British Government with horses during the Boer War.
It poured with rain during the service; the grave-diggers threw down clods of earth on the coffin which resounded with a brutal thud. It was macabre and horrifying and I began to weep. Then the relatives threw in their wreaths and flowers. Mother, having nothing to throw in, took my precious black-bordered handkerchief. ‘Here, sonny,’ she whispered, ‘this will do for both of us.’ Afterwards the Chaplins stopped off at one of their pubs for lunch, and before leaving asked us politely where we desired to be dropped. So we were driven home.
When we returned there was not a particle of food in the cupboard except a saucer of beef dripping, and Mother had not a penny, for she had given Sydney her last twopence for his lunch money. Since Father’s illness she had done little work, and now, near the end of the week, Sydney’s wages of seven shillings as a telegraph boy had already run out. After the funeral we were hungry. Luckily the rag-and-bone man was passing outside and we had an old oil stove, so reluctantly she sold it for a halfpenny and bought a halfpenny worth of bread to go with the dripping.
Mother, being the legal widow of my father, was told the next day to call at the hospital for his belongings, which consisted of a black suit spotted with blood, underwear, a shirt, a black tie, an old dressing-gown, and some plaid house slippers with oranges stuffed in the toes. When she took the oranges out, a half sovereign fell out of the slippers on to the bed. This was a godsend!
For weeks I wore crêpe on my arm. These insignia of grief became profitable when I went into business on a Saturday afternoon, selling flowers. I had persuaded Mother to loan me a shilling, and went to the flower market and purchased two bundles of narcissus, and after school busied myself making them into penny bundles. All sold, I could make a hundred per cent profit.
I would go into the saloons, looking wistful, and whisper: ‘Narcissus, miss!’ ‘Narcissus, madame!’ The women always responded: ‘Who is it, son?’ And I would lower my voice to a whisper: ‘My father,’ and they would give me tips. Mother was amazed when I came home in the evening with more than five shillings for an afternoon’s work. One day she bumped into me as I came out of a pub, and that put an end to my flower-selling; that her boy was peddling flowers in bar-rooms offended her Christian scruples. ‘Drink killed your father, and money from such a source will only bring us bad luck,’ she said. However, she kept the proceeds, though she never allowed me to sell flowers again.
There was a strong element of the merchant in me. I was continuously preoccupied with business schemes. I would look at empty shops, speculating as to what profitable businesses I could make of them, ranging from fish and chips to grocery shops. It had always to do with food. All I needed was capital – but how does one get capital? Eventually I talked Mother into letting me leave school and get a job.
I became a veteran of many occupations. First I was an errand boy in a chandler’s shop. Between errands I was delightfully occupied in the cellar, immured in soap, starch, candles, sweets and biscuits, sampling all the sweetmeats till I made myself sick.
Then I was a doctor’s boy for Hool and Kinsey-Taylor, insurance doctors in Throgmorton Avenue, a job I inherited from Sydney, who recommended me. It was lucrative, and I was paid twelve shillings a week to act as receptionist with the duties of cleaning out the offices after the doctors had gone. As a receptionist I was a great success and charmed all the waiting patients, but when it came to cleaning up the offices my heart was not in it – Sydney was much better. I did not mind emptying the phials of urine, but cleaning those ten-foot office windows was indeed a gargantuan task; so that the offices grew dimmer and dustier until I was told politely that I was too small for the job.
When I heard the news I broke down and wept. Dr Kinsey-Taylor, married to a very wealthy lady with a large house in Lancaster Gate, took pity on me and said he would fit me in as a page-boy in his house. Immediately my heart lightened. A page-boy in a private house, and a very posh one at that!
It was a happy job, for I was the pet of all the housemaids. They treated me like a child and kissed me good night before I went to bed. But for Fate I might have become a butler. Madame wanted me to clean out
