In Darkest London

In Darkest London

By Ada Elizabeth Chesterton.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Foreword
4. In Darkest London
   1. I: “I Walked with Other Souls in Pain …”
   2. II: The Fight to Work
   3. III: The Hard-Faced Woman of Charity Square
   4. IV: The House in Kennedy Court
   5. V: The Price of a Bed
   6. VI: The Black Plush Coat
   7. VII: Knocking at the Gate
   8. VIII: The Awful Business of the Door-Handle
   9. IX: Kitty and the Widow Who Drugged
   10. X: A Very Gallant Gentleman
   11. XI: Womanhood—In Extremis
   12. XII: A Word to the Well-Fed
   13. XIII: The Trap of the Institution
   14. XIV: At St. Crispin’s
   15. XV: The Whole Conclusion of the Matter
5. Endnotes
6. Colophon
7. Uncopyright

Imprint

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Foreword

It is continually being said⁠—with that fatal facility which obscures the truth beyond all hope of recognition⁠—that for a woman who is willing to work, employment can always be found. Dislike of effort⁠—bone laziness it is called⁠—a vagabond love of a shiftless life, an ingrained determination to live on other people’s generosity; these are some of the reasons advanced for destitution.

I have never believed in these glib assertions. I have always known that things were very different, and I determined to put my belief to the test. I decided to see what would happen if I started from zero with nothing but my personality to stand on. In the course of my travels I met with many adventures and amazing kindliness; but over and above all this, I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that for a woman to get employment, in any recognised calling, without reference or status of some sort, is tragically impossible.

How then does the outcast live?

I have answered the question, in some degree at least, in these pages.

The Author.

In Darkest London

I

“I Walked with Other Souls in Pain⁠ ⁠…”

London is a city of sudden and violent contrasts. You can step from comfort and security of existence into destitution within a few minutes. This sounds incredible; but it can be done as I have proved. I wanted to find out how the woman without a home, without a reference, without money, friends or a decent wardrobe, supports life. Well, I did find out, and what I have learned has impressed itself upon my mind with a rigidity that time itself cannot reduce.⁠ ⁠…

I left my home one evening in February. I wore my own clothes, which were shabby, but not ragged. I had watertight shoes and a raincoat⁠—and not one penny in my pocket. I had determined to start life from an entirely new angle. I would arrive in London with nothing but my personality between me and starvation. To do this I went to Euston, and mingled with the crowd of passengers on the 9:20 arriving from Liverpool.

It was an odd sensation to be derelict in a crowd without one familiar association. Everybody seemed to have a friend to meet, and I pictured the sort of homes that they were going to. I had never troubled about this before when I arrived at a terminus, I was always too engrossed with my own personal affairs. But when the crowd cleared off and I found myself left solitary on the platform, the first stirring of that loneliness I was later on to fathom to the full, made itself felt in me. It was one of the bitterest nights of a very cold winter, and the wind cut the skin like the lash of a whip. I pulled myself together and went right up to a policeman.

I have always admired the London police, but I never realised before that they were so tall. I was very conscious of my destitute condition, and I looked up at him wistfully, and a little afraid.

“I haven’t any money,” I said, “and I want a bed for the night. Can you tell me where to go?”

He looked down at me, mildly interested, taking in the brown paper parcel that I carried containing a nightdress, brush and comb and other toilet necessaries.

“Have you lost your money, then?”

I nodded. “I left my bag in the waiting room at Liverpool Station. I have come to London to get work.”

“Well, that’s a very silly thing, you know,” said he. “There isn’t any work in London. What can you do?”

I explained that I could cook, and the policeman’s face changed miraculously.

“Oh, a cook,” he said, “that’s a very different thing. You won’t find much trouble in getting work if that’s the case.” I thanked him for the admission, and once again asked where I could obtain a lodging for the night.

“There’s a Salvation Army Hostel off the Tottenham