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Jones’s Alley
by
Mrs Aspinall went to the court–it was a small local court. Mrs Next-door was awfully sorry, but she couldn’t possibly get out that morning. The contractor had the landlord up as a witness. The landlord and the P.M. nodded pleasantly to each other, and wished each other good morning….Verdict for plaintiff with costs…Next case!…”You mustn’t take up the time of the court, my good woman.”.. “Now, constable!” ..”Arder in the court!”…”Now, my good woman,” said the policeman in an undertone, “you must go out; there’s another case on-come now.” And he steered her–but not unkindly–through the door.
“My good woman” stood in the crowd outside, and looked wildly round for a sympathetic face that advertised sympathetic ears. But others had their own troubles, and avoided her. She wanted someone to relieve her bursting heart to; she couldn’t wait till she got home.
Even “John’s” attentive ear and mildly idiotic expression would have been welcome, but he was gone. He had been in court that morning, and had won a small debt case, and had departed cheerfully, under the impression that he lost it.
“Y’aw Mrs Aspinall, ain’t you?”
She started, and looked round. He was one of those sharp, blue or grey-eyed, sandy or freckled complexioned boys-of-the-world whom we meet everywhere and at all times, who are always going on towards twenty, yet never seem to get clear out of their teens, who know more than most of us have forgotten, who understand human nature instinctively–perhaps unconsciously–and are instinctively sympathetic and diplomatic; whose satire is quick, keen, and dangerous, and whose tact is often superior to that of many educated men-of-the-world. Trained from childhood in the great school of poverty, they are full of the pathos and humour of it.
“Don’t you remember me?”
“No; can’t say I do. I fancy I’ve seen your face before somewhere.”
“I was at your place when little Arvie died. I used to work with him at Grinder Brothers’, you know.”
“Oh, of course I remember you! What was I thinking about? I’ve had such a lot of worry lately that I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels. Besides, you’ve grown since then, and changed a lot. You’re Billy–Billy—“
“Billy Anderson’s my name.”
“Of course! To be sure! I remember you quite well.”
“How’ve you been gettin’ on, Mrs Aspinall?”
“Ah! Don’t mention it–nothing but worry and trouble–nothing but worry and trouble. This grinding poverty! I’ll never have anything else but worry and trouble and misery so long as I live.”
“Do you live in Jones’s Alley yet?”
“Yes.”
“Not bin there ever since, have you?”
“No; I shifted away once, but I went back again. I was away nearly two years.”
“I thought so, because I called to see you there once. Well, I’m goin’ that way now. You goin’ home, Mrs Aspinall?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll go along with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Thanks. I’d be only too glad of company.”
“Goin’ to walk, Mrs Aspinall?” asked Bill, as the tram stopped in their way.
“Yes. I can’t afford trams now–times are too hard.”
“Sorry I don’t happen to have no tickets on me!”
“Oh, don’t mention it. I’m well used to walking. I’d rather walk than ride.”
They waited till the tram passed.
“Some people”–said Bill, reflectively, but with a tinge of indignation in his tone, as they crossed the street–“some people can afford to ride in trams.
“What’s your trouble, Mrs Aspinall–if it’s a fair thing to ask?” said Bill, as they turned the corner.
This was all she wanted, and more; and when, about a mile later, she paused for breath, he drew a long one, gave a short whistle, and said:
“Well, it’s red-hot!”
Thus encouraged, she told her story again, and some parts of it for the third and fourth and even fifth time–and it grew longer, as our stories have a painful tendency to do when we re-write them with a view to condensation.
But Bill heroically repeated that it was “red-hot.”
“And I dealt off the grocer for fifteen years, and the wood-and-coal man for ten, and I lived in that house nine years last Easter Monday and never owed a penny before,” she repeated for the tenth time.