Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (read novel full TXT) 📖

Chapter 51

The Widow’s Son

 

The next morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o’clock

Hunter told them that there was nothing to do, but that they had

better come on Monday in case some work came in. They accordingly

went on the Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday, but as nothing `came

in’ of course they did not do any work. On Thursday morning the

weather was dark and bitterly cold. The sky presented an unbroken

expanse of dull grey and a keen north wind swept through the cheerless

streets. Owen - who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of

the conservatory at Sweater’s house the previous week - did not get to

the yard until ten o’clock. He felt so ill that he would not have

gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be able to earn

if there was anything to do. Strange though it may appear to the

advocates of thrift, although he had been so fortunate as to be in

employment when so many others were idle, they had not saved any

money. On the contrary, during all the summer they had not been able

to afford to have proper food or clothing. Every week most of the

money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even

whilst he was at work they had often to go without some of the

necessaries of life. They had broken boots, shabby, insufficient

clothing, and barely enough to eat.

 

The weather had become so bitterly cold that, fearing he would be laid

up if he went without it any longer, he took his overcoat out of pawn,

and that week they had to almost starve. Not that it was much better

other weeks, for lately he had only been making six and a half hours a

day - from eight-thirty in the morning till four o’clock in the

evening, and on Saturday only four and a half hours - from half past

eight till one. This made his wages - at sevenpence an hour -

twenty-one shillings and sevenpence a week - that is, when there was

work to do every day, which was not always. Sometimes they had to

stand idle three days out of six. The wages of those who got sixpence

halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence - when they worked every

day - and as for those who - like Sawkins - received only fivepence,

their week’s wages amounted to fifteen and sixpence.

 

When they were only employed for two or three days or perhaps only a

few hours, their `Saturday night’ sometimes amounted to half a

sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less. Then most

of them said that it was better than nothing at all.

 

Many of them were married men, so, in order to make existence

possible, their wives went out charing or worked in laundries. They

had children whom they had to bring up for the most part on `skim’

milk, bread, margarine, and adulterated tea. Many of these children -

little mites of eight or nine years - went to work for two or three

hours in the morning before going to school; the same in the evening

after school, and all day on Saturday, carrying butchers’ trays loaded

with meat, baskets of groceries and vegetables, cans of paraffin oil,

selling or delivering newspapers, and carrying milk. As soon as they

were old enough they got Half Time certificates and directly they were

fourteen they left school altogether and went to work all the day.

When they were old enough some of them tried to join the Army or Navy,

but were found physically unfit.

 

It is not much to be wondered at that when they became a little older

they were so degenerate intellectually that they imagined that the

surest way to obtain better conditions would be to elect gangs of

Liberal and Tory land-grabbers, sweaters, swindlers and lawyers to

rule over them.

 

When Owen arrived at the yard he found Bert White cleaning out the

dirty pots in the paintshop. The noise he made with the scraping

knife prevented him from hearing Owen’s approach and the latter stood

watching him for some minutes without speaking. The stone floor of

the paint shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a

tomb. The boy was trembling with cold and he looked pitifully

undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old apron girt

about him. Because it was so cold he was wearing his jacket with the

ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them clean, or to prevent them

getting any dirtier, for they were already in the same condition as

the rest of his attire, which was thickly encrusted with dried paint

of many colours, and his hands and fingernails were grimed with it.

 

As he watched the poor boy bending over his task, Owen thought of

Frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would

ever be in a similar plight.

 

When he saw Owen, the boy left off working and wished him good

morning, remarking that it was very cold.

 

`Why don’t you light a fire? There’s lots of wood lying about the

yard.’

 

`No,’ said Bert shaking his head. `That would never do! Misery

wouldn’t ‘arf ramp if ‘e caught me at it. I used to ‘ave a fire ‘ere

last winter till Rushton found out, and ‘e kicked up an orful row and

told me to move meself and get some work done and then I wouldn’t feel

the cold.’

 

`Oh, he said that, did he?’ said Owen, his pale face becoming suddenly

suffused with blood. `We’ll see about that.’

 

He went out into the yard and crossing over to where - under a shed -

there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of

places where Rushton & Co. had made alterations, he gathered an armful

of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins accosted him.

 

`You mustn’t go burnin’ any of that, you know! That’s all got to be

saved and took up to the bloke’s house. Misery spoke about it only

this mornin’.’

 

Owen did not answer him. He carried the wood into the shop and after

throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and,

applying a match, produced a roaring fire. Then he brought in several

more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop. Bert

took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of

them because he was afraid there would be trouble when Misery came,

but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and

shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the

benefit of the heat.

 

Owen waited for about half an hour to see if Hunter would return, but

as that disciple did not appear, he decided not to wait any longer.

Before leaving he gave Bert some instructions:

 

`Keep up the fire with all the old paint that you can scrape off those

things and any other old paint or rubbish that’s here, and whenever it

grows dull put more wood on. There’s a lot of old stuff here that’s

of no use except to be thrown away or burnt. Burn it all. If Hunter

says anything, tell him that I lit the fire, and that I told you to

keep it burning. If you want more wood, go out and take it.’

 

`All right,’ replied Bert.

 

On his way out Owen spoke to Sawkins. His manner was so menacing, his

face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the

latter thought of the talk there had been about Owen being mad, and

felt half afraid of him.

 

`I am going to the office to see Rushton; if Hunter comes here, you

say I told you to tell him that if I find the boy in that shop again

without a fire, I’ll report it to the Society for the Prevention of

Cruelty to Children. And as for you, if the boy comes out here to get

more wood, don’t you attempt to interfere with him.’

 

`I don’t want to interfere with the bloody kid,’ grunted Sawkins. `It

seems to me as if he’s gorn orf ‘is bloody crumpet,’ he added as he

watched Owen walking rapidly down the street. `I can’t understand why

people can’t mind their own bloody business: anyone would think the

boy belonged to ‘IM.’

 

That was just how the matter presented itself to Owen. The idea that

it was his own child who was to be treated in this way possessed and

infuriated him as he strode savagely along. In the vicinity of the

Slave Market on the Grand Parade he passed - without seeing them -

several groups of unemployed artisans whom he knew. Some of them were

offended and remarked that he was getting stuck up, but others,

observing how strange he looked, repeated the old prophecy that one of

these days Owen would go out of his mind.

 

As he drew near to his destination large flakes of snow began to fall.

He walked so rapidly and was in such a fury that by the time he

reached the shop he was scarcely able to speak.

 

`Is - Hunter - or Rushton here?’ he demanded of the shopman.

 

`Hunter isn’t, but the guv’nor is. What was it you wanted?’

 

`He’ll soon - know