There was a simplicity of approach about his method which took away all suggestion of any possible offence. After all, it was very natural to suppose that a homeless woman should like the attentions of a homeless man, and I could imagine that my friend was a very kindly creature, with a strong and comforting arm.
But custom and training, and some of that fastidiousness which even destitution cannot kill, made his request impossible. I thanked him very kindly, told him that I must hurry on, and left him, puzzled and protesting.
Throughout my many adventures I never chanced on a brutal or uncivil man. There is a gentle chivalry among those who from destitution, or by reason of their employment, are in the streets at night. There is no fear that a workman or a tramp will take you for what you are not, and the suggestion that I might like an arm round my waist is but the equivalent of an invitation to sit out for a dance. The only difference is that in the world of the homeless you just seize the moment as it flies; tonight you may be on Victoria Embankment, tomorrow may find you at Streatham Hill, or Kensal Green.
I have a very precious memory of one particular night. The bitter weather had broken, and it was mild, almost warm. I had come down the Embankment to go to the Metropolitan Asylums’ Board Office under Hungerford Bridge. There, as I have said, you may apply between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. for a bed. The lucky ones are sent off to the Salvation Army Shelters, where they are housed free of charge, others are despatched to the Church Army, and the latest comers are sent to Southwark Casual Ward.
I was not lucky on this particular night. The shelters had taken their quota, and there only remained the workhouse. I did not want to repeat my experience; indeed, to tell the truth, I was a little frightened of venturing inside institutional doors again. So when they had given me my admission form and the red counters for my tram fare, I went back to the Embankment and sat down, waiting for something to turn up.
Now, as I always found in this strata of society, silence is a master card. You must leave it to others to speak to you. Two men came and sat beside me. They had been on night shift on some engineering works. They had also been chums in the war and recounted many experiences. I sat and listened with proper admiration, as becomes a woman, and I had my reward.
“George,” turned towards me.
“Aren’t you the young lady wot I saw come out of the Asylums Board, just now?”
I said that was the case.
“Did you get a bed, my gal?”
“They gave me an order for the workhouse, but I shan’t go there, I can’t stick it.”
“I should say not,” said George. “Did you hear that, Dick?” and he motioned to his friend.
“The workhouse ain’t any good,” said Dick. “Look here, my gal, you come on and have a cup o’ cawfee.”
I went with him meekly to a coffee stall near Savoy Hill. He bought me a cup of steaming hot coffee of excellent flavour, and offered me a piece of cake.
“You’re kindly welcome,” he said, politely, and seemed quite hurt when I refused. He told me he went to work every afternoon at four o’clock and got off just before midnight, when he always went for an airing before going home.
“It’s a treat to see the dawn come up in St. James’ Park. I fair love to sit in the Mall, and the lights across the river ain’t so dusty … Ain’t you got any friends, my gal?”
I said I had some friends, but they were very far away—as indeed they were during the whole of my adventure.
“I live with my father,” said Dick. “He’s just on seventy-three.” He told me the details of his family life, with a simple continuity, almost wholly lacking in the more sophisticated members of society.
“He’s a good old man, though it’s a bit dull sometimes. I shan’t get married while he lives, you know, there’s nobody else to look after him.”
I commended his affection and deplored the lack of responsibility evinced by his other relations.
“What do you say to having a walk round St. Thomas’s Hospital, my gal. It’s pleasant tonight.”
But I had had enough of South London and St. Thomas’s seemed a long way off.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Let’s go over to the Embankment and look at the river.”
I shall never forget the look in his eyes when I said this.
“None of that, my gal,” said he. “None of your looking at the river like that, you know.”
I did not realise what he meant, and leaned over the parapet, watching the lights and rather amused.
“Look here, my gal,” said he. “It ain’t a bit of good trying to throw yourself in, ’cause I shan’t let you. Things aren’t as bad with you as that, eh?”
There was a warm urgency in his voice, a real solicitude, utterly devoid of any artificiality. I was a woman in distress and the innate strength of the male was stirred in response to my need. He wasn’t going to let me hurt myself if he could help it.
“Oh, I’m not like that,” said I. “I shouldn’t throw myself in the river just because I was hard up.”
“Look here!” His kindly Cockney face peered into mine. “Let me give you your bed money. I can stand it all right.”
“It’s very kind of you.” It was a little difficult to speak, “but I don’t think I want a bed tonight. I’ll just go up to a lodging house I know and see if they’ll let me sit in the kitchen.”
“But you’re welcome, you know, you’re welcome!”
I knew that and told him so with considerable fervour.
“I’ve taken a liking to
