Chapter Thirty-Two
THE DOOR OPENED and the old nabber, Hastings, came in carrying a handbell, which he began to shake vigorously.
“Wake up, men. Wake up. It’s six o’clock. Wake up.”
The men stirred in a movement that rolled down the ward like a feather bed being shaken by an energetic servant. Some of the men sat up quickly, others groaned and rolled over, but nobody stayed asleep. Traveller sat up and got out of bed at once.
“Nothing else happened, I presume?” he asked Murdoch.
“We were quiet as the grave. I’d better pinch myself to know I’m alive.”
Traveller chuckled. “Well my stomach and my bladder are telling me I’m still quick. Do you have to use the bucket?”
“I do indeed.”
“Use it now then. The last one has to empty it.”
He hardly finished when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Alf was standing behind him.
“Can I come in with you?” he asked and nodded nervously in the direction of Bettles and Kearney.
“Of course.”
“Line up in front of the door,” the nabber called.
“Come on,” said Traveller. “It’s best to be at the front of the line for the dining room.”
Murdoch and Alf followed him, shoving through the other men, and got into the first group already waiting at the door.
“You five men at the back, you bring down the buckets,” called the nabber before leading the way down to the long hall where they’d left their clothes. Murdoch thought they must have looked a proper sight, sixty men of all ages and sizes, shuffling along in their nightshirts and boots. It was cold in the corridor and he was glad of the warmth of the bodies pressing around him. Alf hung on to Murdoch’s shirt as if he were a child with his father. They halted at the door past the bathhouse.
The nabber hopped on a small stool by the door and rang his bell.
“Find your clothes and get dressed quickly. Put your nightshirts in the bin provided. Don’t forget to hand over your tabs. When you’re ready, wait in front of the doors at the far end.”
“Are we in the army?” Murdoch asked Traveller.
“More like jail,” he replied.
As they stepped over the threshold, an overpowering rotten egg smell hit Murdoch’s nose.
“Phew, what’s that?”
“It’s the burning sulphur they use to fumigate our clothes. Stinks, doesn’t it?”
Hunger and cold made all of them move speedily and within ten minutes they had lined up facing the opposite doors. Murdoch hadn’t enjoyed getting into his dirty clothes but at least he was warmer. All the men were dressed for the outdoors, clothes piled on top of clothes when they had them. Murdoch was struck by the hats the men were wearing: battered fedoras, plaid caps, fur forage hats, anything to keep their heads warm.
The nabber shoved his way through the crowd and jumped onto yet another stool.
“For those of you who haven’t been here before, I will tell you that you will be served two slices of bread and one bowl of skilly. One mug of tea. Don’t moan and complain because you won’t get any more than that. It’s not our fault. That’s all the council allows us.”
“I could eat that four times over,” Murdoch whispered to Traveller.
“Not here you won’t unless somebody’s sick and can’t eat, and who gets his food is a matter of luck.”
Hastings opened the door, leading the way back upstairs.
Because of Traveller, their little trio was among the first to spill into the room. The dining room was long and narrow with several wooden tables and benches in rows down the centre. Traveller took them directly to a long serving table where four men, old and withered, were standing ready to serve them. Two of them dished out the oatmeal, the third man had a bin of slices of unbuttered bread, and the fourth was filling mugs from an urn with a liquid so pale it was hard to believe it was tea.
Murdoch collected his bowl of skilly, his two slices of bread, and a mug of tea. Following Traveller, he went to one of the tables and slid into the bench, Alf close beside him.
His stomach was growling painfully and he spooned up some of the oatmeal as fast as he could. It was watery, lukewarm, and tasteless.
“Put some salt in it, it’ll taste better,” said Traveller. There were metal shakers spotted along the table and Traveller smothered his oatmeal. Nobody spoke while they consumed the unappetizing meal. Murdoch was ravenous, but even so, it was hard to enjoy dry bread that was on the verge of being stale. He followed Traveller’s advice with the bread too and dipped it in his mug of tea. Both Alf and Traveller finished before he did and he saw them scouting the table to see if anybody was dawdling over the oatmeal and who might be persuaded to give it up. There wasn’t anybody, even though Murdoch could see several of the out-of-work labourers were pulling faces and muttering to each other.
Bettles and Kearney had taken seats at the end of their table and Murdoch glanced over at them casually and without pausing in his gulping down the porridge, Bettles managed to flick him the thumb.
Traveller, who didn’t seem to miss anything, jerked his head in a warning.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“He’s riding me.”
“’Course he is but you’re the winner if you keep your temper. Besides, t’ain’t nothing to do with you, son. That son of a bitch was just hoping to best me, is the truth. You’re the bait.”
“Why do you say that?”
Traveller didn’t answer immediately, wiping the inside of the mug with his last piece of bread.
“Traveller’s the king,” giggled Alf. “They’s always going for the king.”
Trevelyan grinned. “You ain’t been going around the circuit like we have, Mr. Williams. Us regular tramps become like a court, you might say. We knows each other and we knows our place. I ain’t the oldest, Jesse over there is the oldest, but I’m the strongest and I know the ropes. Sooner or later one of the bucks wants to challenge my position. It’s happened to me since I was a nipper. I was born big and stayed big. And there’s always some cull wants to best me so he can be king.” His keen eyes met Murdoch’s. “They’re too stupid to realize that they’re going to be king of a court filled with courtiers who wear rags and are society’s castouts.”
“Let them have it, then.”
“If it were a matter of stepping aside so they could have first go for the pig’s food they serve us, I’d do it willingly, but it ain’t that simple. Some of these fellows like Bettles won’t be satisfied till they see blood. It’s what you might call primitive. Us men are the same as the wild creatures. We’ve got to prove who’s got the biggest cock, excuse my language. So as long as I’ve got the strength, I’ve got to fight them.”
“And when you don’t have the strength?”
“Then there’ll be a new king, won’t there?”
Murdoch couldn’t tell how old Traveller was. Certainly close to middle age. He was big and looked strong, but more than that he had a formidable presence.
Jesse, the old tramp who was sitting next to Traveller, apparently lost in his own world, suddenly said, “Here, Jack. I can’t stand this tea. Do you want the last of it yourself?”
He shoved his mug toward Traveller.
“Thank you kindly. Even this cat’s piss is better than none at all, though I’d give my right fingers for a good hot, strong cup of char with heaps of sugar.”
He gulped down the tea, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Murdoch would liked to have gone on talking to him, but Hastings appeared again with his bell.
“Listen up, all of you. This meal is being served to you courtesy of the taxpayers of this city. In return you are expected to work. You will follow me to the lumberyard, where you cut and split wood. Those who are physically capable of this work must do it or you will forfeit your dinner. If you are incapable you will be excused and if you can prove that you have prospects of getting work if you leave this morning, you must say so. I will remind you, however, that we are experienced here in the ways of tramps so don’t think you can pull the wool over our eyes. Who here is going for a position this morning?”
Of all sixty men, a half dozen raised their hands.
“You can leave then, but report to the manager in the lumberyard first. Don’t try any gammon, we’ll know.”
Murdoch nudged Traveller. “Why aren’t more of the men trying to find proper work?”
“’Cos there ain’t any to be found. It’s easier to stay here and chop wood than trudge around the city and get turned down every time you try for something. At least you’re guaranteed a bowl of soup for dinner.”
The nabber saw them talking and he scowled. “Quiet, you two. I haven’t finished. Is there anybody here who ain’t going to pay for their keep?”
Four men raised their hands.
“You’ve got to move on then.”
“That’s what I was planning to do,” growled one grizzled tramp. He must have gone through the bathhouse, but his clothes were so wretched and dirty, his skin so weatherbeaten, he seemed filthy. The other three men were similar and Murdoch gathered they were at the end of their permitted three days and preferred to take their chances on getting dinner and leave the workhouse. He hoped none of them was the one he was looking for and he tried to memorize what they looked like.
“Are you going to work?” he asked Traveller.
“I am, I’ve got one more day here.”
“What about your hernia? Will it give you trouble?”
Jack winked. “I never know when that damn thing is going to act up. Sometimes I can’t do anything, sometimes I can. Today, I’m all right.”
The nabber rang his bell again. He must enjoy doing that, thought Murdoch.
“The rest of you follow me. Orderly and quiet now.”
The men at the table began to move out from the benches.
“Hang back,” Traveller muttered. “It’s better to be with the last group in the lumberyard. They might not have enough piles for everybody.”
They followed the nabber out of the dining room and back down the stairs. He pushed open a heavy door.
“Don’t think you can get away with shirking because you can’t. Remember, you can still be turned out.”
As he walked out to the lumberyard, Murdoch entertained himself with the fantasy of stuffing the old codger’s head into his own bell.