It is the kitchen of the L.C.C.-inspected lodging house in Kennedy Court.
The floor is of asphalt, the walls whitewashed, with a shelf running round at easy distance from the ground—just the right height for tired backs to lean against. In front of the shelf are wooden benches, straight and uncompromising, and every evening these are closely packed with women. The first night I went there I came straight from the bitter rain into the blaze of a huge coke fire jutting out into the room, which is lit by a dim gas burner that occasionally flames into erratic brightness.
Through dark arches on either side of the fireplace is a vista of another room, gloomy and chill. Here comes the homeless who have collected the price of a bed.
The place was crowded when I entered, but I was not stared at, and nobody minded when I asked a woman near the door if I might sit down. She gave me a cheery welcome, and invited me to get warm. In the world of the destitute there is a diversity of morals, but only one code of manners. You ask no questions; a newcomer speaks only when spoken to; and observes a due diffidence in the choice of a seat, respectfully keeping at a distance from the fire. Moreover, criticism is ruled out. The woman next you may be a gaol-bird, a pickpocket, a hardworking office cleaner, an itinerant char or street vendor, or, as often happened, just a prostitute. It makes no difference. You never comment—you observe, listen and try to understand.
That night, it seemed to me, every type was present. Women in the raw, emotionally speaking, expressing themselves without reserve, in a tongue that has a knife behind each word. The majority of my fellow lodgers were young, pretty and attractively dressed. They all wore sunset silk stockings from the very cheapest kind to a better variety. Their slim little trocks were well cut, and their coats, save for the quality, might have been brought in the West End. There was a sprinkling of elderly women and a few middle-aged. They all sat about and talked and laughed, and occasionally one of the girls would go out and return with chocolate, fruit, or a bottle of lemonade. Intoxicants must not be brought into a public lodging house. It is one of the few rules which the L.C.C. insist should be observed.
A decrepit old creature in black, who might have been hundreds of years old, rose from her seat by the fire and shuffled towards me. She was an “official” of the house, paid by the proprietor, and kept a close espionage on all his clients.
“Have you paid for your bed?” she asked. It is a parrot cry, which punctuates all the emotional stress and storm occasionally let loose in that queer kitchen.
“It’s one and tuppence,” she quavered. “Go to the window up the courtyard and ask for bed number 28. Don’t forget it’s one and tuppence.”
You can imagine how thankfully I fingered the two coppers I had received for my last box of matches. In the cruel cold of that night, the warm, close kitchen seemed a paradise. Another old woman sat at a table by the open window up in the courtyard. She took my money and I waited for a ticket or some form of receipt. I need not have troubled, however. There seems to be some subtle form of communication between the window and the aged crone, for if ever some poor thing tries to get a bed on the nod, insisting to “Ida” that she has deposited the cash, the ruse always fails.
“You haven’t paid your money!” That high-pitched, quavering voice must sound to many like the trump of doom.
The kitchen was still crowded when I returned, and I listened to a babel of voices. Very few of the women were Londoners, they mostly seemed to hail from the provinces. Quite a number from Liverpool, some from Wales and Ireland with bonny Scotland holding its own. A sturdy young woman with bright eyes was industriously marking up her face. She wore the inevitable sunset stockings and her patent shoes, brightly polished, were painfully thin.
“I’ve had awful bad luck today,” she said. “But I’m going to have another shot before I turn in. There’ll be time before the pubs close to go up to the park, and maybe, I’ll get a man to buy me a drink.”
A dark faced, bobbed haired girl said she would go too, though, as she explained, she was rather tired, and had already walked from Hendon, where, among other things, she had been shying for coconuts. With the lavish generosity of her type, she handled round large pieces which we all accepted. The two went off together to try their luck, I hoped sincerely they already had the price of their beds. There was something inexpressibly tragic in the thought that these two young things had to go to the park, not for a drink alone, but to earn a pitifully small sum for the hire of their bodies.
Several girls came in to “arrange their faces,” and one, a very slender, piquant creature, took out of her Dorothy bag an entire set of silk underclothing, which she had washed at the public baths and brought into the kitchen to dry. She held them before the coke fire, chatting the while of her experiences.
“Any luck, dearie?” said a soft-voiced Irishwoman.
“No, luck’s right out,” said the slim one. “I tell you I’m getting fed up with bits and scraps of things. I haven’t had a whole night with a man for six weeks.” She made the statement with a complete frankness that had not the least touch of obscenity, and her sentiment was generally applauded. You must understand that the attitude of these young people towards sex cannot be described as immoral; nor is it immoral.
