Love on the Dole Read Online Free PDF Page A

deplored, especially in one so young. Where is the handkerchief? Blow the nose.’
    Harry’s desire was to retort, rudely; his indignation, though, robbed him of speech, and the glassy stare in Mr Price’s eyes gave no encouragement. Still he could say something with impunity; this was to be his last day in the pawnbroker’s employ. He said, with stammering impulsiveness: ‘Ah’m leaving here today. … Start at Marlowe’s in morning.’ He quaked, inwardly, as he spoke in spite of the impatience he felt towards himself for so doing.
    Mr Price said, as though Harry had not spoken: ‘Hold the umbrella. Over me … over me …’
    He felt Price had made a fool of him: he stared at the pawn’ broker, resentfully, remembering the past three years in Price’s employ: memories of the dreary mornings and the interminable evenings when his friends were free as birds whilst he was chained to the desk, crowded to his mind to resolve themselves into a frigid seizure of the spirits, a terrific recollection that made him helpless with incredulity to know that it had been a fact and not a nightmare. That it now belonged to the past was equally incredible. Tomorrow, Marlowe’s! He took a deep breath: henceforward would be one long holiday.
    Keys rattled. Mr Price, fetching out an enormous bunch, fitted one to the padlock and opened the gate. The front door was secured, extra to the ordinary lock, by a forged iron hasp and staple and another padlock. Keys rattled again; the door opened. The pungent odour of new sheets, blankets, quilts and what not floated out of the sales department; a revolting stench reminiscent of the unspeakable. Price entered, lit the gases and disappeared to put away his things. Harry removed the shutters, gleefully picturing himself replacing them tonight.
    From the backyard came the confused buzz of conversation: through the iron barred windows Harry, if he had wished, could have seen a backyard full of women, their shawls so disposed as to conceal from the elements whatever it was they carried in their arms. They looked like fat, cassocked monks with cowls drawn. They had obtained access to the backyard by one of their number thrusting an arm through one of the peepholes and withdrawing the bolt. Harry cried: ‘Shall I let ‘em in, Mr Price?’ and an exultant voice in his head added, with relish: ‘Last time y’ll say that, Harry.’ He grinned.
    Mr Price, wherever he was, made no answer.
    Voices from outside, all in wheedling tones:
    ‘Eh, ‘Arry, lad, open door.’
    ‘ ‘Arry, we’re perished.’
    ‘Come on, now, ‘Any, lad. We bin standin’ here hours.’
    He glanced at the barred windows to see what he had seen every morning these years past, a crush of unwashed women, hair tumbled, come to raise the wind so that they might have money to spend on food. Though, to him, custom had acquainted him with the notion that they merely had come to pawn things.
    He glanced at them, blew into his blue fingers ostentatiously to indicate that he, too, was cold. Next moment, caught unawares, he received the fright of his life from Mr Price, who, creeping up to him, silently, stooped and whispered into his ear: ‘You may let them in, Hardcastle.’
    He climbed the counter, went to the back door, and, after shooting the three stout bolts, turned tail, a rowdy, pushing, shoving, squeezing crowd of women hot on his heels. By the time he was on the other side of the counter again the place was full. In the staring gas light, the women, throwing back their shawls from their dishevelled hair revealed faces which, though dissimilar in features, had a similarity of expression common, typical, of all the married women around and about; their badge of marriage, as it were. The vivacity of their virgin days was with their virgin days, gone; a married woman could be distinguished from a single by a glance at her facial expression. Marriage scored on their faces a kind of preoccupied, faded, lack-lustre air as though