Many of these women could afford a few pence if there were accommodation for them. But social reformers, political leaders, charitable workers, do not see the necessity for such provision. They are outcasts—let them sleep in the streets—and the same individual who will fight fiercely to secure man his human rights, will remain unmoved by an urge to do the same for woman.
I sat down beside an old, old crone, so frail it seemed a miracle that she could bear her slight body on her attenuated limbs. Her face was of the colour that comes of long years of bad feeding and ill-sleeping, but her eyes were bright and her mouth had not lost its humour. She had a wide knowledge of London’s lodging houses and told me that on a Sunday it was hard to get in anywhere.
“I’d advise you to go to Hanbury Street, Whitechapel,” she said, “to the Salvation Army Shelter. If they’ve got a bed, you’ll get in there for fivepence.”
It did not sound alluring, but there was no choice. I could not face the streets the second night, and I got a district train to Whitechapel.
The capital of the East End was in full flare. The broad pavements were crowded with well dressed women and sleek young men, talking many and foreign tongues. A number of cafés were open and brilliantly lighted windows showed model hats and dresses, Paris shoes and bags, all in the latest style and at moderate prices. Life in the West End at this hour on a Sunday is stagnant; in Whitechapel the current is strong. The foreign faces gleam, the quick and eager conversation has a vibrant influence; one feels very much alive.
Whitechapel to so many is still the synonym for drab wretchedness, that is perhaps excusable here to point out that the splendid wide road that bisects the district is one of the finest in the metropolis, and still suggests the imperial straightness of the old Roman road on which it stands. There are no mean dwellings in the main thoroughfare, and spacious and leafy squares lie to the north and south. You have to penetrate into the congeries of alleys and byways before you come across the slum area which, even at its worst, is incomparably better than the purlieus of Benthal Green and Dalston.
I asked my way to Hanbury Street of an attractive little Cockney—one of the few I encountered in this neighbourhood.
“It’s early yet,” she said, “and you’re pretty sure of getting a bed. Come along with me and have a cup of cawfee.”
I was ready for companionship, and eagerly accompanied her to a dingy-looking place in a back street, where they run a sort of club. The room was large and cheery, with whitewashed walls on which were hung attractive posters, Continental, and some clever sketches. There was a bar at the far end of the room, where they served salad and other delicatessen, and strong sweet coffee and chocolate. There was no drink served on the premises; indeed, throughout my wanderings in the underworld, I came across no illicit drinking shop, nor can I think that such an establishment could pay. It is only people with money to burn, who can afford to buy bad liquor at exorbitant rates at illegal hours, and even these do not so much want the drink as to protest against the foolish restriction which seeks to treat adult people like small boys and girls.
The room was fairly crowded with men and women. Most of the former were Jews who had lately come to this country. Their broken English was picturesque, and though they looked revolutionary their sentiments were amiable. There was a strong mixture of the Slav element, both Russian and Polish Jews discussing the respective tyrannies of their adopted countries with animus and emphasis. For the moment England contented them—wages were higher over here, and I gathered they were just a little astonished to find that free speech—within four walls at any rate—still remains free.
It is common knowledge that police spies frequent these places, but the police have a shrewd idea as to where they will obtain evidence sufficiently important to secure promotion. The club where I was, and very many others like it, has no value to the aspirants of Scotland Yard. The happy hunting ground of narks lies elsewhere, more noticeably in the West Central district, than in the East End of London.
The women of the company were a mixed lot. Some of them worked at millinery and dressmaking, slop shops, i.e., establishments where sweated rates are paid, or in more reputable emporiums. There were some prostitutes, but, as I have always found them, they were quite well mannered, and contributed their quota of gaiety. My Cockney friend was very entertaining. A man handed her a Russian cigarette, which she accepted with delighted abandon.
“There now, dearie,” she exclaimed, “with a cup of tea and a slice of lemon I shall be quite Russo Ballo!”
The cup of tea was forthcoming, with a small plate of sausage, brown bread and butter and some chocolollies, a succulent form of sour pickle, much esteemed in the foreign quarters. A large, placid looking woman with Tartar eyes, consumed vast quantities of borscht—a Slav soup made from beetroot and other condiments—conversing the while with a Chinese looking youth, with long, nervous hands, and a black tail coat.
My Cockney friend, having quite clearly “got off,” to use her own phraseology, I decided that it was time to depart. It would be no act of friendship on my part to interfere with a deal, so I slipped out of the club as easily as I had come in, with, at bottom, a feeling of regret. That little Whitechapel club, of which there are so many in the district, is the nearest approach to the familiar café of the continent.
