And of this proportion a certain percentage will not ask for help. It is a mistake to suppose that those women whom you can see any night huddled up in doorways, in back streets, cowering under the arches by the river, are not conscious of their rags and dirt. Believe me, they have no preference for dirt, but to be clean costs money, and such is their state that even if they could spare a few coppers necessary for a wash, no public baths or lavatories would admit them. Thus, it is but seldom that Mare Street receives a call from the utterly down and out. All women have their personal pride; it is perhaps the last thing that leaves us. Such as I refer to go elsewhere for a bed. If they have as much as fivepence they can get a clean, not too hard, bed at another Army Shelter in Hansbury Street, Whitechapel. This I shall describe later. I mention it now as one of the few places where matchsellers and kindred traders can get a bed without fear of inspection, or even criticism.
In relation to Mare Street Shelter, it is good to know that it is held in the memory of very many with affectionate gratitude. And, once more, I take pleasure in dealing with an argument the ignorant are continually advancing. It is often said that a girl who has “fallen”—most hideous and obscene description—once, will “fall” again, and that the majority of unmarried mothers find their way to prostitution. This is contradicted alike by figures, facts and experience. My little Madonna of the club foot, about to have her second baby, will remain the same brave, kindly and hardworking woman should she have twenty illegitimate children rather than two. According to the matron, the majority of unmarried mothers who have been through their hands are doing very well, earning enough to keep their child at a foster mother’s or even, in many cases, getting enough to make a home for them both.
Something of what these girls feel is expressed in a letter I received when I was writing an account of my experiences for a Sunday newspaper. I had many letters, but this, I think, was the most poignant and revealing.
“I happen to know 259, Mare Street, Hackney, rather well. I am still indebted to them for a free and deliciously warm dinner, which came as a veritable gift from the gods, one cold, wet winter’s day, some two years ago, after I, like one of the women you write of, had been walking—walking—till my whole body ached.
“Later I went to another Salvation Army Rescue Home—this time more thoughtfully called ‘Home for Mothers and Babies.’ There I remained for seven months, hiding from a curious and unsympathetic world, the shame I had brought on myself, living with just the sort of girl you saw at Mare Street that night, and many other sorts too; girls taken from practically every walk of life, ex-chorus, factory, office, shop and servant girls, with here and there a waitress or a farmer’s daughter; plenty of types, plenty of different perspectives, and always plenty of courage; that was the most wonderful part of it all, the courage which these girls, mostly the victims of an unfortunate fate, displayed in the face of overwhelming tragedy. A hopeless, blank future, with the added burden of an illegitimate child to support.
“The tragic look of your dark-eyed Jewess recalls to my mind the look of the girls who were with me waiting to ‘go down.’ It seemed they always wore that dull, frightened stare, and their smiles were so rueful!
“Later they would return from the Woman’s Hospital at Clapton, hugging tightly their precious woollen, cuddly bundle of humanity, their faces paler and manner subdued; some were only eighteen, mostly all in their early twenties, but they have lived and seen life.
“As week succeeded week, and the end of the six months (the ordered time to remain after baby is born) draws to a close, you would see they get perturbed. The fatal day arrives—the parting is hard, ah, how hard only God knows! Tomorrow those arms will be empty. That baby will be in a strange foster home, that mother will be breaking her heart, working feverishly, possibly taking her first place (as a general servant in a Jewish household) working like grim death to kill the ache. Oh, the horror of that first night in a strange bed, with no cot to rock, a nameless child, perhaps, but a mother’s baby for all that. Today as she says ‘Goodbye, girls,’ she smiles, yes, even laughs outright, shrilly, and when someone says ‘Good luck, dear,’ the tears will trickle down her cheeks, still she smiles, waves her hand almost flippantly. ‘Thanks, awfully. See you again.’ The big, brown door swings on its hinges—she is gone—gone—to face—what?
“I have seen several of them again quite recently, those girls who shared a tragic period with me. I think they have nearly all altered, they are happy enough and quite smart, too, some of them—not all; marvellous how it is done on, say nine shillings weekly dress allowance and pin money, for baby and self, isn’t it? The ones I have in my mind’s eye are not prostitutes, just ordinary girls living ordinary lives to the best of their ability, making and getting the very best they can out of what is left from the wreck.
“Yes, and you mention, I notice, the ‘Good night’ and ‘God bless you,’ of that Salvation Army officer. Did that cheer you? It cheered me more than once when I lay on a tear-drenched pillow night after night; made me
