It is interesting to note that the majority of Londoners speak much better nowadays, than, say, within the last ten or fifteen years. Among the younger outcasts the Cockney twang is very rare; their grammar may be faulty, but their intonation is astonishingly correct. For this reason, I suppose, my own accent did not raise comment, while as for manners and customs, nowhere is a more rigid code of etiquette exacted than in a common lodging-house—as I shall have occasion to point out. To a great extent the same standard is observed in Mare Street. You ask no impertinent questions, you answer civilly when spoken to, and the newest comer waits to be addressed. At any rate, for whatever reason, I was never once challenged as to my origins. I was never asked by my companions if I had seen better days, or interrogated as to why I had come down. Personally, I found it infinitely stimulating to be reckoned up apart from the social value set by clothes and other trifles. In the bedrock of life, these things slip past you, and you are gauged by character alone.
I remember looking at the list of addresses on that dull and bitter morning, wondering how women found the courage to go on, day after day, looking for work when I, who had been at it only for a few hours, already felt dejected. It was ten o’clock, but even so early the shadow of that problem which nightly must be faced was on me; the problem that the outcast walks with all the day–how and where to find a bed. It was this, I think, that spurred me to sudden effort. I went to the nearest place; a dull, unhappy looking house, let out in floors. The mistress apparently did not like the look of me—at any rate she said she had not any work. I suddenly felt utterly valueless—it was the bitterest slap that I had ever had. Hurt vanity, cold and fatigue (remember I had not slept all night), had brought me to a sorry pass. I have always tried to endure physical hardship without flinching, but ever since my childhood there has been one thing I cannot bear without tears. When my hands get frozen, so that my nails ache with the cold, I inevitably weep! It is a deplorable confession, and I regret it—but it is so, and on that morning I stood in Hackney Road and cried like a little child.
I did not cry for long, unheeded. I wish I had words that adequately could describe what happened, the sudden blessed sense of comfort that warmed my soul. Through my distress there loomed the large and kindly figure of a workman.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“I—I’m cold,” said I.
“It’s a bitter morning,” he answered. “What you wants is a cup o’ cawfee.”
I nodded, and more with the desire to terminate the interview than any hope of assistance, I told him that I hadn’t any money.
“That’s all right,” he said, “I’ll treat you.”
There was nothing but the purest chivalry in the invitation. He was distressed that I was cold and, manlike, wanted to give me succour. He took me to one of the little eating houses which abound in Hackney, and ordered a steaming bowl of hot, sweet coffee.
“Bread and butter?” he asked, cheerily. I shook my head, I could not swallow any food. He watched me revive with real pleasure, and told me to take my time. I explained I was a cook and he encouraged me to hope for work. He was employed on the railway and, as he delicately hinted, was well able to afford to pay my score. When I had finished the coffee, with a shy gesture he offered me some coppers. “It’ll help a bit,” said he.
I thanked him–never have thanks been more sincere—but I could not take the money, and we parted with a cheery good morning in the street outside. I suppose nothing like this could have happened outside a poor district. In a more sophisticated quarter one would have expected a less generous sequel. But my workman was of finer stuff. He never even asked my name. A Knight Errant on the road of life, he gave simple and beautiful service, unsought and unrewarded.
After this, I felt prepared to wrestle with beasts at Ephesus; I determined at least I would get a charing job. Luck was with me, for at the third house I called at, I was told I could clean steps, and was given a pail of water, some hearthstone, and a flannel. I was not allowed inside the door and I set to work on one of the most hideous tasks that female flesh is heir to. And here I must protest against this business of step-cleaning; it should be abolished either by fire or Act of Parliament. It is a loathsome job, unfit for man or beast, and it has nothing of the aesthetic to condone its degradation. There can be no more hideous sight than hearthstoned steps, and I hope that everyone who indulges in such monstrosities, will have their carpets ground to pieces by the surplus white
