The Journal of Dora Damage Read Online Free PDF Page A

served him his tea without a word. He took off his round spectacles, and ate quickly and without pleasure. Between mouthfuls
     he lectured me about the arguments being bandied around at the Society for the Representation of Bookbinders of South London.
    ‘They laid off twelve men – twelve men – today at Remy’s, including Frank and Bates. They’ve taken on twenty women – or girls, I should say – since Christmas, and
     they’re all staying. It’s an outrage, an utter disgrace. And there’s Frank with six children to support, and Annie dead of
     child-bed fever, the Lord bless her, and Bates on his knees, and on the street now, no doubt, with the rest of his family.
     Twelve men – twelve men! – with wives and Lord knows how many hungry mouths to feed.’
    He waved his fork at me; a strand of egg twirled around it, splattering yolk in a circle.
    ‘Why women? That’s what I ask. They’re not strong enough; nay, they are not straight enough. Bookbinding requires a linear mind, a firm hand, a sense of direction and rectitude. They cannot apply themselves
     to one task. They are used to the circular process of housework; an occupation to which there is no end .’ For all his curves, Peter thought in straight lines. ‘To finish a job is too great a burden for them. Granted, give them the lower-quality work, granted, give them magazines, if we must,
     and let them headband, let them mend paper, let them sew, let them fold, and let them even hammer sometimes, but let that
     be the end of it.’
    And then he took another mouthful, and recommenced his talking straight after, all potato and spittle.
    ‘Where’s the security? Women are meantimers ! “I’ll get married soon but I’ll work in the meantime.” If that’s not selfish, I don’t know what is. And then to work beyond
     that, with a husband bringing in another wage! And then, even when they have a family! And what do they have? Children neglected
     by their mother, while the upright man with a dutiful wife and mother to several children struggles to feed them all on his
     solitary income!’
    He swallowed hastily, and followed it down with a glass of water. Then he took another mouthful, but water seeped out at the
     corners of his lips, so he turned his head to one side, lifted his right shoulder and wiped his mouth across his shirt so
     he wouldn’t have to let go of his knife and fork, and continued talking.
    ‘Their standards are lower. They will sell shoddier work, for less. And their expectations are lower. They charge tuppence
     an hour! I need a shilling! And I would not give away the work which they sell for tuppence! It is inferior; it is not worth any amount!’
    He stabbed at another potato with his fork, but it crumbled into floury chunks around the prongs. He tried again.
    ‘Too many machines,’ he grumbled. ‘Machination equals fem-in-i-cation , but that’s not to say it adds up. I’ve promised I’ll go to the Society tomorrow to lend a hand.’
    And one more failed stab led him to drop his fork, and as he struggled to pick it up again I saw him wince, and then he gave
     up entirely, rubbed his joints, and stumbled into an awkward silence, and the real reason behind his rage.
    For his fingers were now fatter than the cigars he used to smoke at the end of a day’s work before he took up the pipe. With
     his sleeves rolled up I could see the engorgement of his wrists and arms too; I could scarcely make out the joints between
     them. The urge crept over me to pierce him with a needle from my work-basket, not out of malice, but with just one prick,
     it seemed, the gallons of water trapped in his tissues would come pouring out and relieve him of his suffering.
    It had rained constantly from January to November. Any other bookbinder would have rejoiced, as damp keeps leather moist and
     pliable. Peter certainly bemoaned the summer before, along with the rest of his trade, when I had to bring in damp towels
     every hour to drape over