A second argument is that were the casual put to do economic work, it would be in defiance of trade union rules and regulations. I admit the validity of the contention within limits. It would obviously be improper to institute any kind of workshop or factory from which goods could be marketed. The same objection would hold good were the goods simply for local consumption. But there can be nothing to prevent the women being set to do jobs which would materially affect the well being of all casuals. They could wash the nightgowns, etc., used by the inmates or make new ones. They could hem tea cloths and dusters; they could make up garments from the rolls of material sent by the charitable. They could even knit shoes and frocks for the babies born in the Infirmary. Those with an aptitude for cooking, could work in the kitchen. Two or three hours constructive labour would amply pay for their bed, and at the same time conserve that human dignity to which we are all entitled. The imposition of useless, meaningless tasks has a humiliating effect; they are the outcome of deliberate design.
These and similar reforms could be brought about without any derangement of the civil machinery. If the women who sit as Poor Law Guardians would only rid themselves of the belief that destitution is the outcome of moral delinquency, instead of the result of economic pressure, much could be accomplished. But the majority of women who hold official positions on public bodies are convinced that the casual is an economic, rather than a human problem, and should be dealt with at the cheapest possible rate. It seems to have passed the consciousness of the majority of citizens that any man or woman has the right to claim a bed, inasmuch as they have contributed to the rates. For rights are the last thing that the destitute are held to possess, and the pauper, casual or residential, is only regarded as a source of national trouble and expense.
One last word I have to say regarding the Casual Ward. When the women are not engaged in the repetition of meaningless tasks, there is nothing for them to do in the way of recreation. Books are not provided—the day room did not boast even a single paper or magazine when I was there. With only bare walls on which to gaze, and nothing but weary hours to look forward to, it is to me a miracle that the mind of the woman who migrates from House to House does not become an utter blank.
X
A Very Gallant Gentleman
To spend a whole night in the streets is an experience that has a permanent effect on the psychology.
My first adventure of this kind found me unprepared. I was compelled to walk about, not from lack of money to pay for a bed, but because I could not find any place that would take me in.
It was on a Saturday night, and I had had a good day. I had got into touch with my friend of the plush coat, and had secured from her a number of cigarette cases which I had sold at profit to myself. After I had bought myself a meal and a glass of port, I was the proud possessor of three shillings and sixpence, and I felt entitled to a luxurious time. I had learned from my fellow outcasts that the beds at the Church Army Shelter in Great Peter Street were very cosy, and I anticipated an agreeable lodging. Sunday, I knew, there would not be much trade astir, so I could stay in bed as long as they would let me, buy myself a bit of lunch, and resume my commercial activities in the evening, reinvigorated and refreshed.
Such was the programme I mapped out—and I recall to this moment the pleasurable feeling with which I sauntered down Whitehall. My open-air life, in spite of the biting weather, had given me an added strength, of which hunger and lack of sleep could not deprive me. After all, I thought, there is a lot to be said for the physical existence which consists of a continual struggle to provide the body with essentials and leaves untouched the field of the mind. This may sound fantastic, but it holds much validity. Later on, when you have led the life of the homeless at a continuous stretch, your imagination comes into play, and the old appetite for ideas returns, invigorated. But at the outset the material blocks all other avenues of approach; you want to feed your belly, as Kitty would say, and rest your limbs, and your body is clamorous until these things are accomplished.
It was just after nine when I arrived at the Church Army Shelter. The house has an appearance of prosperity that a little chilled me. Through the wide open door I caught a glimpse of white paint and shining brass, which made me very conscious of my bedraggled skirts. But, after all, I had nothing to fear. I could pay for my bed, and I had experienced so much humanity, such ready kindliness in my travels, that I had forgotten the other side of the picture. A woman directed me to the Sister. I went along a passage, and turning to the right, found myself on a small landing, from which a flight of stairs led down into a very bright and pleasant little kitchen. A young woman, in official cap and apron, was frying sausages which sent forth a most appetising smell.
I made to go down the stairs,
