I shook my head. “I haven’t any money,” I answered. “I’ve come to London to get work.”
“Well, well,” she said. “We’ll see about that in the morning. Tell me your name and I’ll take you to bed.”
Annie Turner was the name I had assumed for my wanderings, and the lieutenant noted it with a smile. Now I had expected to be severely questioned. I had anticipated being faced with innumerable forms, interrogating me as to my family history, where I was born, how educated, what disease my parents had died from, and other intimate details. There was nothing like that at all. I was asked no questions as to character or past employment. I might have been a thief, or a drunkard—it didn’t matter. I was homeless, destitute. That was enough. I appeared, a stranger out of the night, and the Salvation Army took me in.
I don’t think anything has ever surprised me more than this. I had not dreamed that such a thing could happen. The homeless woman has so much insult and contumely to bear; all the pomps and panoplies of existence are against her. But this one thing remains. The outcast can find shelter and kindliness in Mare Street, Hackney, and for this reason it will always be to me a blessed place.
My guide led the way along dark passages, over a courtyard paved with cobblestones, into a huge room. In the dim light which filtered through the five tall windows I could see rows of beds against the wall and down the middle of the floor. Each held a sleeping figure. My bed was pointed out to me, and “Good night, dear. God bless you,” said my guide.
She went and took the candle with her. I sat upon the edge of my bed, and all at once I felt spiritually isolated, utterly cut off. There is something terrible in being with a number of strange people who are asleep. Waking, I could have found community with any of them. But sleeping, they suggested dark and almost sinister things. The room was full of the sound of breathing, the breathing of strange sleeping bodies. Awake I could have felt myself one with them, but asleep these unknown souls and tired limbs cowed me. I was slowly, but surely, surrounded by terror—an almost ungovernable impulse urged me to flight. The five tall windows were pitiless—I fell into the depths of unknown misery. I had set sail on an uncharted sea, and the waters lapped cold and deathly on my spirit.
And then the terror that walks in darkness was shattered by a cry. From the far corner of the room someone screamed for help and immediately the sleeping figures stirred and the room was full of life.
“It’s Millie,” said a tired voice, “she’s mental, you know. It’s all right, Millie, go to sleep.”
Mental! The explanation was not entirely comforting. I had a vision of Millie approaching near my bed and strangling me with horrid cries. But the explanation still continued.
“She’s often like that, you know. Mental people always are.”
“Mental, I don’t think,” said someone. “It’s a nice way of putting it. The poor thing lost her husband and five sons in the war.”
“Oh, yes,” said the first speaker, “but she gets a lot of money for it. Millie has a fine pension.”
It was an unaccustomed point of view, but its utter lack of sentiment attracted me, and I was still puzzling over the respective attractions of a fine pension and a family when the girl in the bed next to mine sat up. By this time I had slipped off my things and was in between the sheets. The bed was quite comfortable and the clothing clean and warm. It wasn’t a pauper bed by any means.
“You were in very late,” said my neighbour. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I just wanted a lodging,” I answered.
“Are you going to have a baby, dear?” she queried. “Most of us are, here.”
I reassured her on the point, and she told me, very simply, that she expected her child to be born in three months. She explained that the Shelter was a kind of clearing house for the Salvation Army. All sorts of conditions of women in every kind of trouble went there and were sorted out, some to maternity homes, others to situations, and others again to the Colonies. I shall have more to say as to the working of this particular centre later on.
I found plenty to think about from what I had already been told. I did not get any sleep that night, but watched the grey dawn lighten the window panes until, at half-past five, signs of life began to appear; the officers in charge, captain and lieutenant, got up and dressed. The gas was turned on and I could see the room quite plainly. At the far end was a row of basins and jugs and by the side of each bed a carpet mat. That was all the furniture. There were no chairs and every woman laid her clothes across the end of the bed—except those who slept in them. We were allowed to rest until half-past six when a bell rang and we all turned out. We stripped our beds and were sent to fetch water to wash with. I took a tin jug and went across the courtyard. It was the coldest morning I ever remember—and by the time I reached the tap my hands were almost numb. I suffered acutely at the thought of the cold water which would presently emerge. But a miracle happened and a warm, kindly stream gushed forth. It is a very childish thing to admit, but when I found it was hot water I had to wash in I could have cried. At that moment I could have believed in the existence of God—which for an agnostic is something of an admission!
There was no looking glass in the sleeping room, but we did our hair by sense
