Prostitutes, indeed, form a fair proportion of the lodgers in licensed houses, and for this reason I suppose the L.C.C. continues to remain extraordinarily lax in the matter of inspection. It would seem that prostitutes may be put to sleep in soiled sheets and on insanitary mattresses; that their lack of chastity should debar them from the use of baths, and that the process of washing shall assume the form of a penance in the winter and an odorous experience in the summer. Prostitutes, in fact, may be exploited by anyone whom the L.C.C. decides to license, and none of the excellent gentlemen and virtuous ladies, who are elected to a seat on the council, are concerned to raise a finger on their behalf.
There are many women speakers who grow eloquent upon the platform on the subject of equal immorality for both sexes. But while they demand ample scope for the practice of free love, they are quite indifferent to the housing conditions of the freelance in the sisterhood. The fact, apparently, that “a little money passes” is sufficient to shut out the less successful harlot from the smallest amenity of life. Thus, while the male party to a sex transaction in a back alley may straightway depart to a bed in Rowton House, clean, well ordered, with the fullest lavatory accommodation, the partner of his moral lapse must be content with unsavoury surroundings at the same price.
An illogical and indefensible position.
There is yet another category of the destitute. Women, who, as I was, are in need of temporary shelter: who are neither tramps nor prostitutes, but simply down on their luck, and for the time being are without any shelter or unable to get one when they have the money to pay for it. The first named have certain places where they can go free of charge. Of these the largest and most kindly run is a Catholic Shelter in Crispin Street under the auspices of the Sisters of the neighbouring Convent of Mercy. This place will be dealt with in a chapter to itself. I have already referred to it, and I mention it now as being on the list of refuges for the penniless, without distinction of creed, and regardless of record. Other shelters include Mare Street, Hackney, and the Christian Herald Mission in Union Street, Southwark, which I shall also describe. A third and smaller shelter is in King’s Road, Chelsea. Primarily a home for discharged women prisoners, there are a few beds reserved for the homeless, and even when these are filled it is rarely that anyone is turned away. When we add to these the casual ward of Southwark Workhouse, we cover the free lodgings to be found in London, with the exception, possibly, of some small charitable houses known only to the few.
For the woman who can pay, there are only the public lodging houses, and when these are full, she must either walk the streets, or claim a corner in one of these free shelters.
The last category of the destitute can be described as rovers. Unlike my friend of the plush coat, they do not suggest a romantic, or a criminal past. Neither are they heavy drinkers, nor addicted to dope. They are born with that migratory instinct which prevents them from permanently settling to anything or in any place. They preserve their personality undimmed, for the reason that when times get too bad, they have sufficient resilience to emerge from the underworld and do profitable work.
The rovers are invariably artistic. Men and women, and I have met both, they always possess the gift of expression. They are musicians, singers, and can spontaneously dramatise a situation or a story. Some of them are clever draughtsmen and can dash off a pencil portrait of an onlooker with a sureness of line that is amazing. Their tastes are not expensive, they can be as charming and as content in a shelter as in a restaurant or studio. The one thing they cannot and do not bear is any measure of routine.
Outcasts of this type then find their way to the Crispin Refuge. One such case I remember where a woman of undoubted genius continually returned to claim a bed. She was a brilliant pianist, with exceptional execution, and when she touched the notes you sat up at attention, recognising a master hand. A handsome woman, with a fine head, her accent was cultured, and she could talk on any subject. I was told that this woman’s daughter came to see her at the refuge. She was in a good position, with a husband and children and was always trying to persuade her mother to settle down. It seems that the latter was the widow of a clergyman, who, apparently unable to bear parochial restraint after his death, went forth into the wide world. There was not any money forthcoming from the deceased gentleman, but the daughter explained that she could give her mother a home, and that friends would be pleased to help, and in any case there was always her gift for music.
The “rover” allowed the daughter to take her out to dinner and to buy tickets for a concert. But further than that she would not go. She stayed her allotted time
