Begging for Words
Michael Sutton
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© Copyright 2011
Michael Sutton
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ISBN-978 1 78069 010 0
First Published 2006 in paperback by Vanguard Press
First Published as an e-book 2011
E-Books Publisher
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CONTENTS
One
1865’ish In London Town
John Dobbins peered out of his cardboard box through the Cellophane window. The drip, drip of the miserable rain could be heard as it splashed in grey puddles next to his home. It was just a small corner of ‘cardboard city’. John stretched; his back ached as did his knees and ankles. Rheumatism, the curse of the damp poor. He hadn’t worked for several years now as his several prison convictions were against him.
His cardboard tube was actually dry because the local church minister, who was a kindly sort, brought the men, sleeping rough here, polythene sheeting with which to protect themselves. Inside he had a quilt that was donated by a lady from the Salvation Army.
Everybody knew John Dobbins because in the day time he sat on an apple box at King’s Cross Station, on the platform. He set his cap for silver on the ground where a regular crowd of people waited for their trains. He always had a smile, shaved every day in the Men’s Washroom and combed his hair. But affording a hair-cut was another matter. People got used to his long hair; they took him as a loving creature. His one possession was a trusty old guitar, with which he earned his living, if it can be called that.
The Victorian gas lamp lighting was not very effective; obviously King’s Cross was urgently in need of modernisation. This morning it was a little cold. There was a bite in the air as the London smog curled about your hair, neck and clung to your clothing. The steam and soot of the steam trains didn’t help. As soon as the engines pulled away they belched out great clouds of black soot from the funnel as the fireman piled on the coal. The boiler was large so the stoker had to shovel hard to fuel the furnace that heated the boiler. But fuel was no problem, for in Victorian times there was coal aplenty, from surface grading and from underground mines.
There was a nip in the air, as autumn was approaching. Last night, John Dobbins had seen the first frost of the season that was washed away by the dank and grey drizzle of the early morning. However, the sun was out now and up above it was a bright sunny day. So inspired, John sang about a sunny day in London. His audience huddled together on the cramped space of the platform, listened with interest because to one another, they were just strangers. John’s humour brought a little happiness into their otherwise mundane lives.
‘Oh sunny someday,
Oh how I wish for you everyday,
You brighten up my life
Me all alone with no wife.
Oh sunny someday,
You are with me today
Now I share you with all the people
A little happiness for today’.
A lady in a fox fur, probably of some position, dropped a florin into John’s cap.
“Thank you my lady. Good day to you.”
“You are welcome. It’s so good to hear a cheery voice.”
Then, animated conversation sprang up about the guitar player and on impulse or because of ‘fox fur’s’ kind gesture, several people placed coins in John’s cap. A shilling, a sixpence, several thrupenny bits and a number of coppers.
The train whooshed and hissed into King’s Cross Station, applied its brakes and a great deal of squealing took place, as at last it came to rest against the buffers at the end of the platform, where several men in top hat and bowlers were buying the daily papers at the news stand.
“All aboard!” shouted the guard and the passengers carrying several belongings piled into the carriages, except the First Class passengers who had their own private cabins. The Station Master watched as the doors were slammed shut down the entire length of the train. He blew his whistle. The guard stepped onto the platform of the guard’s van, and then leant out and waved his green flag to signal to the engine driver that it was all-clear to depart. The engine started to chug; the wheels initially slipping a bit as the steam valve was opened. Then the wheel pistons started their work and in great spurts of steam forming clouds of mist on the morning air, the engine moved away. At the same time the furnace chugged out clouds of black coal smoke until the whole train got up to speed with a rat-a-tat-tat and disappeared from the station.
John Dobbins, more than pleased with his most fortunate morning’s earnings, got up and guitar in hand, on an apple box seat, went back to his cardboard house and quietly put away his seat and his guitar. In this cardboard city there was honour among the down-and-outs, which meant his possessions would be safe.
He knocked on the cardboard door of the next ‘house’.
“What do you want? No money here!” called out a voice.
“It’s me Dave. I’ve had a good morning and I’ve come to buy you breakfast.”
David Hemingway, peered out, unshaven and unkempt.
“What time is it?”
“Gone nine O’clock.”
“And don’t I know it, my stomach’s rumbling.”
“How much you got?”
“About four-and-six.”
“Bloody hell, meet some rich people?”
“A lady in a fox fur gave me a florin. It’s my lucky day.”
“Reason to celebrate then. I can smell the bacon already.”
“Tidy yourself up first.”
David was hungry, so his wash and brush up in the Men’s Room was a hurried affair. One good thing about King’s Cross Station was that there was always soap and a towel to be used. Mind you, they couldn’t normally afford to pay the attendant but today John handed over a shiny penny.
The little cafe just around the corner was no more than a ‘greasy spoon’, but it was cheap, fairly clean and warm. Mrs Hobson who ran the cafe, a middle-aged plump, cheery woman, served all the down-and-outs and many hard-up labourers as well. It was a working class establishment that many of the bowler-hatted briefcase-wielding well-to-do gave a wide berth.
“Your luck must be up – both of you shaved?”
“Today Flo,” (which was her name and was used by favourite regulars), “we shall have a full Englishman’s breakfast and toast.”
“Can you afford it?”
“Today we can.”
“For the two of you it’ll cost you a shilling.”
“Don’t worry Flo; we have the money to pay.”
So David and John sat down to a full commuter’s breakfast of eggs, bacon, beans and toast.
“Nothing changes in the papers David, the politicians are spouting again about how Queen Victoria is not amused and Parliament is pointing out the same old story about helping the poor and how the slums should be pulled down.”
“It’s all very well Members of Parliament saying we should do away with the poor, but the question is, where are they going to be re-housed and who’s going to pay for it all?”
“Discussing putting the world to rights as usual, are you?” asked a merry Flo.
“More tea, boys?”
“We’d like to but we have to watch our pennies.”
“Tea’s on the house, ‘cause I think you are a good cause.”
“Blimey! It must be the sunshine.”
“No my boys, as you know I have a big heart. I know you sleep in a cardboard box next to King’s Cross Station, so I say to myself, if I was in such a fix, I would like somebody to help me.”
“I think Flo, perhaps we should adopt you as our auntie.”
“Get on with you, drink up your tea and be on your way.”
As soon as they stepped out of the door, people were rushing about in both directions.
“Dave I’m going to do you a favour today, you need new trousers and a coat.”
“And what bank are we going to rob?”
“Don’t even joke about that, that’s the reason we are both in cardboard city.”
“Then how are we going to pay?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
They tramped a long way until they came to St. Barnabas’s Church.
“Holy Mother, is it to church you are taking me?”
“Yes and no. Come inside.”
“And what can I do for you two gentlemen?”
“Its not for myself but for David here, my friend. He needs a coat and a pair of trousers.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a Christian soldier. I work for God and William Booth.”
“Never heard of the man?”
“That’s because we are a new movement called the Salvation Army. This is 1865, a year to remember. William Booth is a man of compassion. He hears the call of the poor and is aware of the abject poverty all around the City of London. This is a charity shop. It’s not free but at a price the poor can afford. This coat has come from a rich man.”
“Gosh that’s expensive. Did he leave it behind?”
“No he donated it to the poor. To you who are in need it is sixpence and a pair of trousers is tuppence.”
“I have about two and six, so I am glad to buy the coat and the trousers for my friend Dave here.”
“Go on Dave try the coat on. It looks like it’s wool.”
In the old cracked mirror on the church wall David admired his reflection.
“I’ll take it. I look like a gentleman. Now for a pair of trousers.”
“Before you go, how about a donation to the fund of the Salvation Army? It is for charity after all.”
John donated two coppers, and was left with one and eight pence.
Just as he was about to leave, John spotted a cloth cap that had seen some wear.
“How much for a cap to keep Dave’s head warm and dry?”
“Take it, on the mercy of God and William Booth.”
“Thank you kindly sister and bless your William Booth.”
Outside, David asked John how he knew of the Salvation Army.
“From the newsstand at King’s Cross Station. It was the vendor’s cry this morning, so I read the morning paper.”
“You can afford to buy the London Times?”
“No, no, no. A gentleman left his newspaper after he had read it on a bench at the station, when he boarded the train.”
“I don’t understand it, the city’s full of crime and poverty, and you, an educated man cannot get employment.”
“Who will employ an ex-con?”
“OK I know the problem. We’re both in the same boat. So what do we do now?”
“We await an opportunity.”
“What, like getting knocked down by a horse and cart or the tram?”
“Electricity, that’s the answer. The future’s in the power of electricity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at the underground. Is that not a great invention?”
“Yes it is but what’s the Victoria Line got to do with anything?”
“The roads are a jumble of horse and carts, carriages, bicycles and trams, and that joke of an idea of cars, which go eight-miles-per-hour so boys have to run in front waving a red flag.
“Now cars may be dangerous to pedestrians but they are the future.”
“They’ll never catch on. They’re noisy, belch out fumes and get in everybody’s way. What’s more they frighten the horses and cause them to bolt.”
“Well the trams are electric and the underground trains run by electricity. And I say because there is no coal-burning smoke and no steam, electric trains are cleaner and safer. And probably more reliable.”
“How comes John, you are so interested in electricity?”
“Well it’s not exactly the electricity; it’s the future I like to think about. Look at the houses, they burn coal gas, which in itself, any miner will tell you, it’s dangerous and potentially explosive.”
“Now, John, that’s a good invention. The gas lighting may not be as good as daylight but it’s a lot better than no light or just candles.”
“Candles were the cause of the Great Fire of London. Remember Pudding Lane?”
“Maybe so, maybe not so. If the houses weren’t built of wood and built one touching the next, the fire wouldn’t have spread so much, and the ill-equipped Fire Brigade would have had a better chance.”
“The point is David, what if somebody was to invent electricity for lights instead of gas. Now that would be something because electricity isn’t dangerous, you can’t smell it, it doesn’t make a mess and it could be wired up from house to house. You know, like electric railway lines and overhead tram lines that go from pole to pole.”
“You have a great thinking brain John. Perhaps you should go to the British Science Museum and talk to all those inventors who are making engines work and experimenting with electricity and batteries.”
“I see, David, you also read the papers. Faraday says if he can make a glass bulb with a wire in it, he can make light. At least for a short while.”
“OK, John, friend and scientist, tell me why Faraday’s light only works for a short while?”
“The answer is oxygen. If you have oxygen around a filament of wire that electricity is flowing through, the wire will quickly burn, snap and break the circuit, and thus the light goes out.”
“How do you know this?”
“I was taught this by my foreman in the shipyard, where we welded the ship’s seams. The fuel was acetylene gas, which can burn by itself, but if you add oxygen gas to a flame it burns that much more intensely, producing a far greater heat. So Faraday’s problem is getting rid of the oxygen.”
“Can he do that?”
“I have no idea. I’m intelligent and understand what I see at the British Museum and what I read in the papers, but I’m no scientist.”
“Well thanks for the breakfast John. I’m going back to my ‘house’ now.”
***
John enjoyed his morning walk. It was a long way to Regent’s Park but he stole a lift on the footplate of a passing carriage. The driver rarely noticed and if he did he often turned a blind eye; for a cab driver was only one step away from the workhouse and poverty was waiting for him, for the cabs were owned by the rich who lived in places like Piccadilly and Pall Mall.
The park was a favourite place of nannies who wore starched uniforms and paraded their perambulators around the carefully kept flower beds along the stone-faced pathways. The higher up the social ladder you were the more prominent was the coachwork on the perambulators, and some, even had a coat of arms on the panel work – marked by appointment to H.R.H. her Royal Highness, Victoria.
In the park, ladies strolled with their parasols as they chatted, avoiding the direct sunlight on their pale skin. The fashion was to walk very straight-backed, wearing a hat, in a haughty air of arrogance and self-preservation. Then there were the girls selling boxes of matches and flowers. The men bought the ha’penny matches and the fashionable ladies, of course, bought the flowers. It was a criminal offence to pick the flowers in the park and the police constables always arrested anybody reported doing so. The girls went out at dawn before it was light and picked the flowers: the profit was worth the risk.
During the day men came on bicycles from the markets with huge baskets full of flowers to sell to the owners of the big Victorian houses. They would clang the fierce brass doorknockers and inevitably a servant would answer the door.
“Is the Mistress of the house home? Beautiful flowers today, tulips and roses for a rose?”
As the vendors and the servants were working class, the maids took sympathy and instead of sending them away they would inform their betters above stairs that the flower seller was calling.
***
Away from the park on street corners, children as young as six or seven years stood with single phosphorous matches on a tray tied around their necks; the sort with blue or red heads that you could strike on the soles of your shoes. These were sold two for a farthing. These single rather large matches with their big flame were made a long time before safety matches were invented but were ideal for the gentlemen passing by to light their pipes. For in Victorian times pipes were very much in fashion and the well-to-do smoked expensive tobacco like Old Holborn or Virginia while the poor rarely smoked, unless it was a special treat: though many labourers smoked to the detriment of their wife and children’s basic needs. Those who could afford a large Havana cigar sometimes gave the ‘matchstick urchins’ a shiny penny. A penny to a wretched child was enough to buy a pound of new potatoes, a real treat to any poverty stricken home, where potato peelings were cooked up to make potato soup, to which was added a bit of carrot but not much else. Anything was better than nothing.
In the workhouses of which there were many in London (sprawled out around the Olde City of London) lived many poor. The City of London was that area where you could hear Bow Bells. The prosperous financial heart of London clustered around the River Thames with the bridges connecting the north and south. London Bridge was a village in itself. On both sides stood small houses all clustered together leaving only horse and cart space down the middle. The rich and the poor jostled shoulder to shoulder as people crossed over the bridge to get to their places of work.
The Lord Mayor of London imposed a penny toll on the bridge for two reasons. One, to help with its upkeep and two, to deter the working class who walked across in their dozens getting in the way of the carriages. Children were regularly getting run over by horse and carriage, their owners shouting for the abject poor to get out of the way. If their parents complained, blaming the owners, the owners immediately called the constable and affluence won the day, for the poor, if fined, would be sent to the debtor’s prison because they had no chance of paying it.
On other corners not far away from the factories stood girls of teenage years who could earn a lot more money than a conventional twelve hour shift in a factory. Some of them stood out during the day and these were the brazen ones. Others waited at night under street gas lights, especially on a Friday night when the men rushed home with their pay packets of a few shillings.
Sometimes the girls did the men a favour, so at least they would have some money left after spending a shilling. This was because some went into the ale house and drank until they were drunk, which invariably meant they were robbed on the way home, only taking home a few coppers to their wives if they were lucky. In Victorian times the women had nine to twelve children because they were invariably pregnant; it was a long time before contraception was invented. Also there were many still births and a terrible infant mortality rate. This was because, as John observed, there were very poor hygiene levels and malnutrition was the curse of the working classes.
John Dobbins hitched a ride on the back of a carriage and made his way back to his cardboard ‘house’ near King’s Cross Station. He reckoned himself fairly secure; he had no dependants to support, a bed to sleep on and no factory work twelve hours a day. He could sing and write music and from this he managed a living. The local police rarely moved John along for they knew he was a decent man and caused offence to no one.
***
A long time ago, John had lived in the country, which was green and smelt of animal manure, or was golden with fields of ripe wheat. This was when he was single before he married. He was a good man but got in with a bad lot and was easily led. When he first held up a post office he thought he was clever, especially at all the money the men made off with, so he was encouraged to rob a store by himself. He held up a shop, but unfortunately for him the shopkeeper recognised him. Then it wasn’t many days after the incident that the police caught up with him. His parents and brothers and sisters all turned their back on him because he was a disgrace to the family name.
In prison John met up with David who came from a poor background. He had had very little education. His father, himself a self-confessed tea-leaf set a very bad example, and so, David could see very little point to attending school. He set about playing truant and instead went about thieving, which (copying his father) he thought was a good thing to do. The courts in the Youth Division took, at first, a lenient view as the magistrate was a man with a sensitive ear who realised the boy was being set a bad example. But after repeated appearances at the same court the magistrate lost patience and sent David to the regular court to face a conviction, which would inevitably lead to a jail sentence.
So, to the present day, in their thirties, John and David had a string of convictions, and as a result of that became unemployable, with the exception of the work house which employed anybody who was prepared to be abused and paid poverty wages. For any position references were required other than the work house, which meant both John and David were excluded as a result of that.
***
Night time approached and the smog of London town with its dirty cloud of pea-green soup descended on the people and the streets. In winter the air was bad for the lungs. The fog wasn’t just water vapour like in the countryside; it was acrid smoke from thousands of coal fires and factory chimneys being driven downwards by the northern air. The cold air made it difficult for the chimney smoke to rise up out of the houses and instead the damp heavy air, carrying with it smoke, dropped down into fireplaces saturating living rooms. The filthy black smoke belching from tall factory chimneys was also a victim of the north wind. It swirled around falling slowly to the ground on the houses between half and one mile away. It wasn’t known in 1865 that ‘acid rain’ actually existed. The crumbling stonework on certain early nineteenth century houses was thought to be normal wear and tear, not the work of high industrial chimneys blown about by the winds and brought down by the rains. In the cold of winter around the slum areas where the poverty stricken lived, when it rained through a thick smog, it rained a dirty dull colour as the cumulonimbus deposited its soot back onto the people from where it came.
Inside his acetate-wrapped cardboard house, with his acetate window, John was wrapped securely about in his blankets, safe from the London fog and the cold damp of winter.
Relief came also in the winter of 1865, when William Booth’s Army of Salvation Soldiers opened up a soup kitchen for the poverty stricken. The kitchen in a basement of the church was a welcome relief to those living on the streets, the tramps and the mentally insane included. They stood in a long line in the wet miserable conditions until they were through the door and in a heaven of a dry room where the soldiers matter-of-factly served out a ladle of piping hot soup and a heel of bread. The men were most grateful as they took their bowl or tin cup or whatever they could carry their soup in. Some used tin cans salvaged from house ash bins. They sat, mostly unshaven and unshorn, against the basement wall as so many saved souls. The women-folk did their work as an act of charity. The money for the soup kitchen came from donations made by well-off socialites with a conscience.
“Beef soup John, and tasty,” said David, as they sat down with their tin mugs full of hot steaming soup.
“Will you look at these fellahs. What a motley crew they are.”
“Keep your voice down David they may have their reasons why they are living like this?”
“‘Tis sure true sonny,” said an indeterminably old Irishman, “I took up with a young woman one night when I was in my cups and me missus has thrown me out. Jesus Christ if that isn’t the truth.”
“Is your wife a good Christian lady?”
“Be Jesus she is. A devout Catholic and that is why she says I have been thrown out.”
“But surely,” pressed John, “Jesus preached forgiveness for our sins?”
“Mary, that’s the wife, is not an easy woman to live with. I don’t think she has a forgiving bone in her body.”
“Well if she’s mad at you, it is only to be expected but can’t you say you’ve learnt your lesson and get down on your knees in front of her and ask for forgiveness?”
“What’s your name son?”
“It is John, sir. Who are you?”
“I’m Patrick Mahoney. I was a factory worker until I got this crippled leg.”
“Do you have a family, Patrick?”
“Do I have a family?! Twelve of them. That’s the problem. The three eldest are working in the factory and they see Mary is all right. The others are too young for proper work. So you see while they are getting by, Mary says I’m not needed as I cannot now produce a good day’s work. There isn’t much manly employment for a man who walks with crutches.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but surely if you go home and say you’re sorry for your moment of weakness your wife will take you back in.”
“I’m a changed man these last few weeks, tramping the streets of London and begging tea and bread every day just to stay alive. I’ve taken to going back to church and rededicating myself to our Saviour the Lord Jesus Christ. I go every day and say a prayer for Mary and confess to God my one and only mortal sin and ask for forgiveness. In confession, sometimes, the priest will give me a penny so that I can buy bread to keep me from starving.”
“Patrick, you sound to me as if Jesus has won a convert. Now go home, visit your family and tell them you have made a new start.”
“It’s hard for me John, for I am ashamed of what I did and how I am now, so unkempt. I am unclean and unshaven and my children will be ashamed of me.”
“Come with me to the barber. I will pay him a shiny new penny for your hair cut and another for you to be shaved and receive a splash of cologne to make you smell better!”
John took Patrick to Riley’s the Back Street barbers, a scruffy place but cheap and efficient where you can get a quick short back and sides. A short back and sides was a penny ha’penny with a quick shave, but a splash of cologne was a ha’penny extra.
“Riley, here’s two shiny pennies. Give Patrick here the quick once over.”
“In the chair Patrick. What’s your problem? Afraid of soap and water?”
“Been down on my luck this last month.”
“Put your head forward. Now I’m giving you a wash for free ‘cause I can’t bear to see a fellow Irishman in such a bad way and ‘cause your hair smells.”
So roughly, but thoroughly, Riley cleaned Patrick up. He chopped his long lank hair off and shaved away his beard and whiskers, so that by the time he had finished he looked a new man and many years younger. John suddenly realised that he was probably only in his late thirties. It was his condition and the dirt on his skin that made him look old and tramp-like.
Looking in the mirror, Patrick saw his old, former self as he looked when Mary or one of the girls cut his hair.
“You’re a marvel Riley, and thanks John for the pennies. I think now I’m ready to go home and face Mary.”
“Where do you live John? You haven’t told me a thing about yourself?”
“Oh, I have my own house.”
“A house to yourself. Did someone leave it to you in a will?”
“No nothing like that. I live in a cardboard box under the viaduct, below King’s Cross Station.”
“Sorry to hear that. How do you eat?”
“No problem. I busk on the station platform every morning as the business people commute to their places of work. Many come in from the country from their big country estates, so they have money to spare.”
“And that’s how you make your living?”
“It beats killing yourself in the work houses.”
“But what about in the middle of winter when it’s freezing? How do you cope then?”
“The passengers take pity on me in the winter, especially when it’s snowing outside. One man buys me a cup of tea nearly every morning. He’s a decent gent.”
“Well blow me down if I don’t believe you, making a living in a railway station. What about your children?”
“I don’t have any relatives left and I’ve never been married, so I don’t have any children.”
“That’s a pity a fine man like you should have a wife.”
“I’m an ex-con. Nobody will employ me. That’s why I live in a cardboard box. With no regular work I couldn’t possibly rent a small house to live in, not even a two roomed back-to-back.”
“Well thanks for the moral support John. I think I’ll go home now you’ve made me see sense. I’m better off than I thought I was. Good day to you John.”
***
David and John walked the streets together.
“Say John why don’t you take your guitar to Regent’s Park. Plenty of wealthy people walk there taking-the-air as they call it.”
“Tomorrow David. For now, how about a piece of apple pie?”
“You can afford it?”
“While I have money, yes. Why just look into the baker’s window if we can afford to buy.”
John bought two slices for tuppence and they sat on the nearest bench with pigeons cooing about them, waiting to be fed.
Now John liked the pigeons so he broke off a corner of crust and threw it to the nearest one, which immediately attracted another dozen.
“That’s your lot boys. I need to eat this pie. Are you like us, no homes to fly away to?”
On the bench next to theirs arrived the ‘birdman’; an unkempt old man probably in his seventies. He had a long white beard but was bald on top. His jacket and trousers were both patched but he had a friendly way about him and a kind looking face. He had a gnarled walking stick in one hand and a bag of bird seed in the other. He put his stick down on the bench and then placed seed on his shoulders and in the cupped hands of his outstretched arms. The pigeons with an eye for seed swooped down. First there were about twenty or so, and then as if on some signal had called them the air about the old man was filled with fluttering pigeons – some white, others grey and yet more a sandy-brown colour. There must have been a hundred or more, all over the bench and the foreground where the seed fell and on the birdman’s head, shoulders and arms; and of course eating out of his outstretched palms.
“Come on my beauties, come to daddy.”
“How extraordinary!” said Phylis to Humphrey as he accompanied her pushing the perambulator past the birdman.
“May I take your photograph, sir?” asked Humphrey.
“It’ll cost you thrupence,” said the old man. “That’s to pay for the birdseed, you see sir.”
“Well it’s worth it. Just stand still while I wind on my Brownie.”
Henry, (for that was his name), stood rock still while the pigeons clambered all over him.
“There you are my good man, thrupence as promised.”
“Father,” said Andrew, “could I have my picture taken with the birds?”
“Well son, we’ll have to ask the kindly old gentleman.”
“As you are a gentleman sir and have paid me, your boy can have his photograph taken with my birds for free.”
Andrew walked across to the man who immediately placed some seeds on his jacket shoulders and in the lad’s outstretched hands.
“They like you boy. You must be a friendly type as they won’t come to just anyone.”
“When you’re ready sir. The seed doesn’t last for long.”
“Right you are my man,” and Humphrey took his picture of his son standing next to the birdman.
As soon as the picture was taken, John walked across the pathway to Henry and shook his hand.
“Mister, you’ve frightened all the birds away!” protested eight-year-old Andrew.
“No matter son, they’ve been fed and are happy now. This is John, a friend of mine.”
“I say, I know you don’t I?” questioned Humphrey.
“Can’t say as I know you sir?”
“Yes you do, you play a guitar and busk on the platform where I wait for my train in the mornings.”
“Then sir, you have the better of me, for it is true, I do busk on the platform.”
“You should know me, for I buy you a cup of tea nearly every day.”
“Well bless my soul; you’re the bowler-hatted gentleman. Forgive me sir, I didn’t recognise you without your spectacles.”
“A fine wife you have there and pretty too.”
“Mummy should we speak to these ruffians?” asked a snobbish Andrew.
“Well they are not tramps, just down on their luck. I can’t speak for the old man mind you. I’ve never met him before.”
“My name’s Henry sir. Keep meself to meself. My only true friends are my birds. Thrupence is a devil of a lot to spend on birdseed. The shopkeeper says he’s sorry it’s so expensive but he says some of the seeds come from abroad. Comes up the Thames on a barge you know. Around the Thames Docks there’s always a lot of foreigners about, all selling something to the merchants. I used to work in a large warehouse but then I inherited from the owner who died, as gratitude in his will for a lifetime’s dedication of work to him. Well that was a couple of years ago. I sold the business to a rich merchant. Made a nice profit and bought meself a one-bedroomed house and put the rest of the money in the bank. So now I’m just a birdman. I take a walk everyday because the doctor told me it’s good for my constitution, and not to overdo it at my age.”
“Well Mr Henry, you sound like a jolly good sort of fellow. I’m glad you’re happy with your birds. My family wishes you a good day and continued health.”
And with that Henry set off with his stick for a walk and David and John went back towards King’s Cross Station.
***
Back at King’s Cross Station there was a commotion. A crowd was gathered and there was pushing and shoving. On getting closer John could see what was the cause of it. Inside the ring of onlookers a scrappy fight was taking place between a scruffy individual and a chap in a pinstripe suit.
“Bloody thief! Take that and that!” said the respectable looking gentleman, who was obviously good with his fists.
Derek from cardboard city, swiped him round the head and the gentleman’s bowler hat went flying. As he bent down to retrieve it, Derek kicked him hard in the backside and the be-suited commuter went sprawling across the platform.
It was then that John recognised Derek, a fellow from cardboard city. He pushed himself to the front and shouted, “No Derek! Don’t do it!”
For Derek had produced a knife, a sharp looking affair.
“Now back off you big lug before I stick you.”
The gentleman righted himself and came at Derek.
“You’re a thief. A beating’s too good for you. I’ll see to it that you go back to prison where you belong.”
“Put the knife down Derek, it’s not worth it!” shouted John.
Everybody was shouting at once. Some wanted to see a good fight; others wanted to call a policeman.
“I’m not afraid of your knife!” called out the gentleman. “I’ve trained in the forces and you’re going to lose.”
He took off his jacket, wrapped it about his right arm and then charged in. Derek, fearful now for his own life, hesitated and in that moment the knife was wrestled away from him.
“Take that you thieving bastard!” and Lord Harwick punched Derek solidly on the chin. Derek’s knees buckled and he went down.
Whistles blasted and an authoritative voice called out, “make way, make way there now, police!”
Two bobbies appeared, saw the situation and immediately placed Derek under restraint with his hands cuffed behind his back.
“Officer, this man’s a thief. He took my wallet and tried to run away, but I caught him.”
“Can you identify the wallet sir?”
“Yes, I am Lord Harwich and my wallet is brown with a golden ‘H’ on it.”
“Bert, search his pockets.”
“Well, well, what have we got here then? A brown wallet emblazoned with a golden ‘H’. You my lad are under arrest for robbery.”
“Officers, do I need to come with you, or is that evidence enough that this ruffian should be locked up?”
“Yes your Lordship, you do need to come with us. We need you to make a witness statement. This individual will be up before the magistrate in the morning.”
“Damned inconvenient. I was on my way to a business meeting.”
“If you want this man locked up sir, we need your support.”
“Oh very well, I’ll come along.”
“Very good sir. You can ride up front with the driver.”
John put himself in the policeman’s way. “Constable, I saw what happened. Derek was probably hungry. The gentleman’s got his wallet back so what harm is there? Couldn’t you let him off with a warning?”
“Who are you?”
“John Dobbins, officer. A friend of Derek here.”
“Well I’m sorry, but there’s the matter of assault on this gentleman and being threatened with a deadly weapon. We have to take him in. He’s a criminal. Now if you don’t mind sir, I have my duty to perform.”
“Right Bert put him in the back.”
The Black Maria drove off leaving John behind.
***
In the morning Derek was up before Justice Donald Emery, at Bow Street Magistrates Court.
“Will the defendant please stand. For the record please state your name and address.”
“Derek Richardson of ‘cardboard city’.”
“What did he say?” Justice Emery asked the Clerk of the Court.
“He says, Your Honour, that he lives in cardboard city.”
“That’s what I thought he said.”
“Derek Richardson, where is this cardboard city?”
“It’s underneath the viaduct next to King’s Cross Station, Your Honour. It’s not a real city, just a lot of desperate and hungry people living in cardboard boxes.”
“And you live there?”
“Yes Your Honour. That’s my address.”
“Would the police please proceed with this case.”
“Yes Your Honour. I was on my beat when I was called to a disturbance on the platform at King’s Cross Station, yesterday afternoon.” “What did you witness officer? Please tell the court.”
“Inside a ring of bystanders there was a fight between the defendant here and a Lord Harwich. The defendant was menacing him with a knife.”
“Tell the court, what was the fight about?”
“Your Honour, the defendant had stolen Lord Harwich’s wallet, which was found at the site of the incident in the defendant’s pocket.”
“Stand up Derek Richardson. What am I to do with you? It’s no good me placing you in a Debtor’s Prison as you obviously have no money, and no home, and presumably no relatives to pay your fine or to feed you in prison. I shall sentence you not for stealing, not for being hungry, which is the curse of the working classes, but for threatening Lord Harwich with a dangerous weapon.”
“Your Honour, may I say a few words in his defence?”
“Who are you to speak at this late opportunity, and speaking from the Public Gallery?”
“Excuse me speaking out of turn, Your Honour, but I’m a friend of Derek Richardson.”
Addressing the Clerk of the Court: “Why wasn’t this man put forward as a witness?”
“He wasn’t listed as a witness Your Honour.”
“Young man do you wish to take the witness stand?”
“Yes Your Honour, if it pleases you.”
“It doesn’t please me but do come down.”
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do so swear.”
“Proceed. State your name and address for the record.”
“I am John Dobbins of cardboard city. I’ve known Derek, the defendant, for two years. He has never put a foot wrong. Just recently his parents died of illness and left him nothing. He has himself been ill with severe depression. He has been in a suicidal state and he bought the knife not to threaten other people with but to take his own life. He hasn’t been eating this last week as he has a death wish and is starving himself to death. His attack on Lord Harwick, Your Honour, is a cry for help. He needs, sadly, help not punishment.”
“Have you finished John Dobbins?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“Then you may step down.”
“Stand up Derek Richardson. Your friend, luckily for you, has spoken up for you. Under the circumstances I am prepared to be lenient. You will be placed in a work gang. One year’s hard labour. And know this, Derek Richardson, at least in a work gang you will be fed and have a bed at night. I hope during your time you come to terms with yourself.”
“You’re a good man John,” said David Hemingway.
“I don’t know about that, but I care for people who have or may face injustice. What we see on the surface is not always all there is to a man’s life. Everybody as an act of human nature is too quick to judge.”
“I think John; you would make a good judge. You have the knack to see both sides of an argument.”
“Well thank you David. I’m glad you can see the goodness in me. My father gave me a strict upbringing giving me a strong sense of right from wrong.”
“In that case John ,where did you go wrong?”
“Looking back, it was in my late teenage years. I was introduced to marijuana, you know, the hemp plant. They say it has only a mild intoxicating effect as compared to the resin from the flowering tops of the female hemp plant, which is far stronger and can cause hallucinatory effects or an unreal dream state. But when you are under the influence of marijuana you brag and believe you have super human power and anything is possible. So through this false bravado you commit crimes, which at the time don’t seem like crimes. A gun is just a weapon to obtain money, so you are neither afraid nor realise you are doing wrong. I held up shops then got braver and held up a bank. In the morning, in the cold light of day, you have a bad headache and realise what an arse you have been.”
“Don’t knock yourself out explaining John; I went on the same trips. Been there, been just as irresponsible. So I know the score.”
David and John went back to their cardboard city and it being a fine day, sat outside and together composed a new song. While they were sitting there strumming and David was humming the tune, a teenage girl sat down beside them.
“Hello, where did you come from?” asked John.
“From the City of London.”
“Your father will miss you. Hadn’t you better be getting back?”
“I don’t have a father.”
“Everybody has a father.”
“No they don’t. Mine’s dead. I only have a step father, I hate him!”
“Have you run away then?”
“Yes. I’ve heard about people who live in cardboard city. It was in the news on the radio. They said teenagers fell out with their parents and slept rough with a quilt or a sleeping bag in shop doorways and begged for food in the daytime.”
“It’s a hard life, not for young girls. Now go back home.”
“I can’t. I haven’t any money for a train fare. Could I stay with you, please?”
“Have you eaten?”
“I ate this morning.”
“Have you eaten since?”
“No, nothing, I haven’t any money.”
“Come with me, I’ll take you to Mrs Hobson.”
“Flo, give this girl a slice of toast and a cup of tea.”
“Tomorrow when I have busked you will go back home.”
“No I won’t. My stepfather beats me and he has made advances towards me. That’s why I have left home.”
“What about your mother?”
“She loves me but she’s afraid of him and he beats her too, regularly. Usually when he comes home from the pub in a drunken state.”
“I see, what about looking for a job? You’re only young. How old are you anyway?”
“I’m nineteen and I’m called Jane. I don’t have any work experience.”
“Have you just finished school?”
“Yes, I have two A levels; English and History.”
“Then I’d say you were educated, educated enough to work in an office or one of those up market stores. You’re too good and clever to be an ordinary shop assistant.”
“But where will I live? It’s winter and I’m getting cold.”
“There’s nowhere for you here, and anyway it’s nearly all men.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll share as long as there is a bit of shelter from the snow and rain.”
“But a man sharing with a girl could look bad. What will others think?”
“I don’t care. I’m a woman and I can think for myself.”
“Looks to me John like you’re stuck with her?”
“I’m not a her. My name’s Jane.”
“Please Mr John; let me stay at least for tonight.”
“There won’t be much room.”
“I don’t care!” And with that she was so overwhelmed that she grabbed hold of John by both arms and kissed him on the forehead.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” and she crawled into John’s house.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t sleep in my clothes, they’d get ruined.” She had taken off her jumper and trousers.
John realised then how innocent she was and his natural male loins were aroused, but he decided to be on his best behaviour. John took his coat and boots off and pushed the coat under him to make more of a mattress. Jane snuggled up to John and buried her head in his chest. John reciprocated and drew her close to him, feeling the firmness of her young breasts protruding into him. He gripped her buttocks and pulled her close in their cramped space.
“For tonight Jane, you’re my teddy bear and I shall enjoy your closeness but you should go back home.” He kissed her on the top of her head. “Good night sweetheart. Let’s just share our bodily warmth for tonight.”
She slept soundly in John’s arms and woke up with the morning light.
“John, John, I need a wee! Where do I go?”
“In the station toilet.”
“Oh show me the way, I’m bursting.”
“Then get your trousers on. Be careful don’t break my box.”
It was a cold, grey, drizzly morning outside and they ran across the open area until they were under cover of King’s Cross Station.
“See the ‘Ladies’ sign, that’s where you go.”
She came out a few minutes later.
“God it’s freezing in there.”
“Come with me.”
They went together into the Waiting Room.
“Good morning Ronald,” said John.
“See you’re stoking up the coal fires ready for the passengers.”
“Its half past six John, the first lot will be in any time now.”
“Too early for me. See you later.”
“This is wonderful, a warm room, a toilet and a wash room. I could live here?” said a hopeful Jane. “Pity I can’t afford to go in the canteen.”
“Come on let’s go back inside. It’s too early for me. It might only be a cardboard house but at least it’s dry and warm.”
“See you later John,” called out the Station Keeper as they both went out into the cold.
Back inside John’s cardboard house, Jane pulled her jumper up over her head and with it came her bra.
“Nice, very nice. Are they for me?”
“Maybe,” said Jane, and quickly tucked them back inside her bra.
Then her trousers came off as she snuggled down in the tight space inside John’s sleeping bag.
“It’s morning now and I’m awake. I don’t think you should undress in front of me, especially when we are pressed together for warmth.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can trust you. You’re like a father to me.”
John didn’t like the thought of that he as was only in his thirties.
“How old are you anyway?”
“Not old enough to be your father, and I think you are naive.”
“Naive? You mean I don’t know about men?”
“Well you’ve never been with a man that’s for sure.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, it’s obvious. You are offering yourself to me to have sex with you.”
“I am not, but I like the way you hold me and protect me. I feel wanted.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. If it was anybody but me, you would have been raped by now, and maybe, even fallen pregnant.”
“Do you want to have sex with me? I wouldn’t mind. I often wonder what it would be like?”
“Exactly, you’re a virgin. You should get out before my natural male hormones take over and ravish you.”
“Please don’t send me away. Look, what do you think of these,” she said taking her bra off.
“That’s not fair,” said John as her breasts were pushed up into his face.
He held them gently and kissed each nipple in turn.
Jane’s natural desire was aroused and the effect on her loins was powerful. She rubbed her pubic bone against John, who immediately got an erection. Then they kissed each other and embraced tightly. John looked at her and drank in her beauty. He knew she had an hourglass figure by the feel of her waist and hips.
“Luckily for you there is so little room in my sleeping bag that I couldn’t possibly make love to you.”
“Don’t stop John, I want you to.”
“No, feeling each other is as far as it goes. I have to have respect for your virginity and your age.”
“I’m not a baby. Many girls younger than me are married with children.”
“That’s exactly it, they are married, you are not. What would your parents say?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s not my father, just my stepfather. He’s a bully. He treats my mother rotten and he beats her if there’s a row. I hate it when they row. If I say anything I get a right smack around the face. My mum’s had loads of nose bleeds and black eyes.”
“I can understand now why you ran away, but you don’t seem to realise, a young woman, especially a pretty one like you will only be helped by men with money if they agree to be their mistress.”
“What’s a mistress?”
“A kept woman who has a full sexual affair with a married man.”
“But what about the wife?”
“She wouldn’t know and that’s the whole point.”
“You mean he goes behind her back? That’s sneaky and rotten!”
“If you were engaged to be married to your finance`, and then you came and had regular sex with me, you would be my mistress. Understand?”
“But I wouldn’t mind that because you’re a nice person, and anyway, I’m not engaged so if I have sex with you it would be all right, wouldn’t it?”
“No it wouldn’t and you’re not going to and put your jumper back on before I throw you out!”
Alarmed at his sudden hard tone, Jane did as she was told and put her bra and jumper back on.
“Please don’t throw me out! I thought you were my friend?”
“I’ve only just met you. We are both no more than strangers. I have a bed for the cold nights but you have nowhere. You should really go back home.”
Annoyed, Jane wriggled out of John’s quilt, put her trousers back on and went outside. John being so disturbed decided he had no chance of going back to sleep, so he got up.
“Come on,” he grabbed his guitar and took her into King’s Cross Station.
They first went to the canteen room, which was warm and steamy from the kettles and bought two ha’penny teas.
“Hey that costs money!” shouted the attendant as Jane spooned in four heaped teaspoons of sugar.
“Sorry, I’m sure,” quipped back Jane.
After their tea, John took Jane down onto his regular platform and started singing in tune with his guitar. To John’s astonishment, Jane took off her coat and started dancing ballerina style.
Everybody listened and watched as John sang and played and Jane danced daintily, showing off her perfect young woman’s figure. When she stopped several people applauded. Quick thinking, Jane took off one of her shoes and held it out to a gentleman.
“Spare a sixpence please. I have no home and my father’s dead,” pleaded Jane.
The wealthy businessman put a shilling in her dancing shoe. Then she offered it to others who gave sixpences, thrupenny bits and several pennies.
John smiled to himself and started a new song, putting his cap down on the ground to receive his usual handful of pennies. But Jane was something else.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?”
“At Drama and Music School. Do you like it?”
“It’s not a matter of whether I like it. The train commuters definitely liked it. You are so graceful.”
“Well thank you Master John.”
“No Jane, I am not being patronising. You really are good. Maybe you could join a theatre company and dance professionally?”
“Well maybe, I don’t know?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go take you for an audition.”
“I don’t know where to go?”
“But I do, follow me.”
“But what do I say to the people when I get there?”
“Leave it to me. Don’t worry your pretty head.”
At Ruby Lane Theatre, John had a word with the doorman, where it said, ‘Entrance Cast Only’.
“Hello Jack, you won’t believe this but I think I’ve found a new star.”
“You know John, you’re a friend but I shouldn’t let you in.”
John put a thrupenny bit in Jack’s hand and that did the trick.
“Best of luck young lady!” called out Jack.
“This is terrible Roger, these young women are supposed to be able to dance. They were sent by the Show Girl Agency, so some of them must have experience.”
“Hello there!”
“What do you want? Who let you in here? You can’t just come walking in here.”
“What do you mean, what do we want? I think it’s a matter of what do you want?” spoke up John.
“Impertinent young man! I do the auditions.”
“Then have your men play some nice mood music for Jane to dance to.”
“O.K. you’re the last act. I’ve had enough for today. Music please.”
The brass section played something from a play or a musical John didn’t recognise, but Jane did. Her School of Music and Drama stood her in good stead. She swept across the stage demonstrating all her taught footwork. She was both entertaining and gracious.
Roger, the Director, for once, didn’t know what to say. He just sat there and drank in the performance with a face like a goldfish out of water.
“Stop the music. Come down here. What’s your name?”
“Just, Jane.”
“Well just Jane, I like the way you move. Could you wear a tutu and ballerina shoes and do it again, for I sense through that jumper and trousers you have a good figure but I have to be sure before I sign anyone on.”