She was a fool, of course, my mother. Her mother said so: 'Bella is a fool, I'm afraid, a weak fool. Here she is marrying a common workman, one who drinks and is not a good Christian. She will never know happiness now.' You would think the old lady was great shakes herself to hear her. And she was in her way. Not that she had any money ever, but she made poverty respectable. She brought up a large family in a small upstairs flat in Bath Lane Terrace under the hazard of a husband frequently sacked from a large number and variety of jobs for drinking. At her back-door lay the middens of the Oystershell Lane slum but the front looked out on a row of freshly-whitened doorsteps and well-polished doorhandles. The family attitude had to be eyes front, while she kept the back-door slum at bay with a Bible, a black cape and a trick of grinding her teeth at anyone who crossed her. She reigned there like another Queen Victoria, orbed and sceptred against the threat of commonness and firm in her knowledge that if ever poverty got the better of respectability she'd see her family sink into the nineteenth-century maelstrom of casual labour, drinking, pawning, wife-beating and gaol.
My father respected her, but could never come under her command. He stood over her like a northern barbarian, too huge for her reprimand, making jokes about Jesus, and every now and then rising on his toes and bringing his whole weight back on his heels so that the old house shook, and the flower-vase standing on the family Bible trembled and looked like toppling over. He won, but was doomed. The old lady and the Old Testament knew. They were right.
True, my parents made a handsome couple but, though they did not know this then were totally unsuited to one another. They were brought into each other's orbit purely by chance. It happened in the street. My mother had a regular date with two girl-friends going to the theatre, sitting in the gallery where they ate chocolates, were more or less enraptured with the show and delighted to be just girls together. I expect that was wearing thin a bit, though, as the moving years began to point to thirty. Anyway, they came out into the gas-lit street one night, linking arms so as to make a way along the crowded pavements and not get swept under the passing horse-trams which were the main traffic menace of the period. Three shopgirls, all bright and happy, one blonde with puffed-out frizzy hair; one pleasant-faced, but marred by a large birthmark down her cheek; and my mother, dark-ringleted and ruddy as a rose, with delicately-tiny curled nostrils and peeping black eyes, all laughing and talking as they swayed in and out the mixed Saturday night crowd. The main-street pubs they passed flared with rows of gas-jets, their brass doors flashing as they swung. From one of them a group of young men staggered out, flushed and noisy with drink. The girls were halted temporarily to a barrage of street-cracks—'Oh, oh, what-ho, she bumps! Does your mother know you're out? My, ain't she lovely!' and so on. The last of the young men to come out of the pub stood over the rest, handsome and gigantic. As the girls giggled and looked down at each other edging away, this man pushed through the others making towards my mother. Whatever he was going to say he didn't. But my mother had seen something in his face and when they were free of the group she alone turned her head. He stood there still, his pals trying to move him on. Seeing her look, he suddenly pointed and loudly called, 'That girl, the one with the curls, that's the girl I'm going to marry.'
He did too. The marriage took place precisely as announced outside the Westgate Road boozer that Saturday night, and he was drunk on his wedding day. The doom was working out already, you see. Both ways, for mother was quite unreasonably upset over an occurrence which seemed quite normal in his circle, so loggerheads were appearing right from the start. She soon learned what the old lady had in mind when she deplored marriage to a working-man. The old lady was no snob, she believed in work and was harsh on idlers even if they had money, but she knew what a working-man's wife had to put up with. My father was now a locomotive fireman, earning about eighteen shillings a week in hours that varied from fourteen to sixteen a day, all round the clock. Compared to this his wife had a lady's life, earning more than he did as cashier in a wholesale jeweller's with a bit of buying'and selling on the side. Her leisure was full, too. She sang in a choir, she danced (at highly respectable balls), she read a great deal, she went to church and to theatres. He had hardly time to live.
His job dictated even where they must live. It had to be in the calling area close to the engine sheds, so that the caller (or knocker-up) could reach him any hour of the night. There'd be a sharp rapping of heels along the pavement, a quick knock, father's yawning 'Hallow', and the caller's cry "Three-twenty-five, Special to York. D'ye hear?' 'Aye, aye, three-twenty-five', my father groaned and so did the bed as he heaved out. At first, mother wanted to get up and make him breakfast, but he wouldn't have that. 'Had away back to bed, woman, I'll do for meself.' She was allowed to put up his bait and that was all. So she lay listening to him putting on the kettle, splashing through his wash, giving vent to a loud fart now and then, and finally banging his way out to the quiet street without any good-byes. He wanted no fuss about die dull matter of going to work.
But the long hours he was away hung drearily on her. She was ambitious of making money by the mysterious process of 'buying and selling', and to that end attended auction sales, bought bargains and advertised them for sale again in the local paper. Her triumphs were nothing to father, though; he thought the whole thing dishonest, and a reflection on his own inability to earn much money. Moreover, he didn't like her gadding about and he had the general fear of the railwaymen of that period that their absences would be taken advantage of and adultery go on behind their backs. In any case, more often than not it was an empty house she returned to, an empty house in a hateful suburb. She loved the town and was happiest in company, with the full household of her childhood. True, she was very much in love with her husband. She'd sit up far into the night waiting for his return, a pleasant enough parcel of pretty wifehood for any man to find at the end of the day's work. But he didn't like it. He was shamed, shamed in his manhood that he was kept like a slave away from her and could only slink back in the late hours when work had done with him and left him too tired and irritable to toss the nice nothings of love towards his waiting fancy. He spoke sharp and hurt her. He didn't want to hear about the people she'd met in town that day; if they were men, they were possible rivals that might take advantage of her loneliness; if they were women they would tend to take her back to her own world. She didn't know that he felt this. She knew that he admired her, but not that he resented his cultural inferiority to her. During their courtship,, for instance, he painfully taught himself to write because she wanted letters from him when a backshift submerged him for a week, sitting shirt-sleeved in his lodgings and slowly pushing a fist round the curves of some conventional phrase —only to be told later that there was nothing in his letters. When she wanted to show off her handsome husband-to-be to her friends, the occasion was always spoilt. The women fell for him, of course, and weren't very kind to her in consequence. The men tended to talk very cleverly on topics they felt sure he was ignorant of; then when he came into the conversation it was with the loud voice of a man used to talking above the noise of a running locomotive and a ruth-lessness of debate which they thought caddish. He was shy, of course. He didn't look it, and she never suspected it, but he was shy. Not knowing what was biting him, so to speak, she was disappointed to be brusquely ordered off to bed with all her little tales untold and her niceness going for nothing.