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The following morning Agnes was out of bed early and down for breakfast before nine o’clock. Today was Saturday, and Agnes wanted to post her letter at the Post Office in time for the mid-day mail collection. She had more confidence posting it there than in the box down the street. At least an hour earlier, her mother began her morning jobs, and was currently clattering and thumping downstairs as she worked through her chores. Mary was on her hands and knees and in the process of trying to light the fire in the back room; it was after all, late Spring; the morning was very cold and wet and the house felt chilly and damp. Most London houses at this time used coal fires for heating, and forty-six Shadwell Street was no exception. There was a hearth in the back room as well as the front room, and although they seldom used the room at the front of the house, Mary kept firewood and coal ready in scuttles in case of special occasions when the room was brought into use. There were also hearths in two of the upstairs bedrooms, but boarded up as they had not been used for many years. Mary thought that fires in the bedroom were unhealthy. Her view was that a fire consumed all the usable air in the room to suffocate the unfortunate sleeper. Plants in the bedroom could also absorb this same vital air, and Mary kept these away too. These beliefs were deeply ingrained, and therefore, the grates in the bedrooms remained cold, and no pot-plants graced the side tables. Agnes was not sorry, the task of keeping bedroom fires alight and the back breaking toil of lugging buckets of coal upstairs would fall to her, and bedsides, plants were best consigned to hospital patients to cheer them up after surgery.
‘Good morning Mother,’ said Agnes, entering the back room and glancing at her mother’s backside.
‘Good morning dear, humph! I don’t know what the world is coming to,’ grumbled her mother, poking about with crumpled newspaper and splinters of wood in the hearth. ‘It’s turning out to be a very bad cold year — look at the summer; we had far too much rain; who would think that we need a fire today?’ She struck a match and held it to the paper that caught alight and crackled. ‘Ah! That’s better,’ she said, rubbing her hands, ‘I called in to see Mr. Black on the way home yesterday and his men can deliver a load of coal later this morning; I am pleased, it’s a bit cheaper, as it’s summer prices, so I asked him to deliver a ton. What doesn’t go in the bunker they can tip to the side; can you let them in dear? I have my shopping to do and then me and your father want to meet a man about that allotment?’
‘I don’t want to let a troop of coal-men into the house,’ said Agnes, ‘I want to go out as well, can’t you wait until they arrive? I have an urgent letter to post, it must go today, and then I thought I shall go to the library.’
‘Well, I think you are being selfish,’ said her mother, ‘we’ve set a time with the allotment man as he has to unlock the gate. I am going to make sure your father is given a good plot well in the middle, and not one of those near the shed as I don’t want him skiving in there all day smoking; the coalmen are due this morning, and you will not have long to wait.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Agnes in a huff, ‘but if I give you my letter can you post it for me at the post office? There is a collection at midday on Saturday and it is important it goes today.’
‘Thank you dear; yes, I will post it, give me the letter and I will pop it in the box — now where is your father as we don’t want to be late?’ Mary went into the hall to peer up the stairs; she called to him and listened for his reply. Harry thumped and hammered in his workshop and called to say he will be down in a minute. He continued hammering and then came a grating sound like metal upon metal, then a loud twang, and then a crash followed by a string of muffled oaths. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘your father is working on his clocks.’
Harry clumped down the stairs in his heavy shoes; he had been in his workshop taking an old clock to pieces when the mainspring became detached and wrapped itself round his arm like convolvulus. He had cut his arm and walked into the kitchen dabbing at it with his handkerchief.
‘What is it, and what’s that thing on your arm?’ asked Mary, her eyes wide in alarm.
‘A spring,’ said Harry, with annoyance, ‘get this spring ‘orf me will ‘yer, it’s cut me up good and proper.’
‘Oh dear, that’s nasty,’ said Mary, ‘you and your clocks! Agnes, help me there’s a dear.’ The two women carefully unwound the spring and tied a handkerchief around his cut arm.
‘I am sure that will do for now,’ said Agnes, who was looking in vain for a sticking plaster, ‘there are no more in the tin so your hanky will have to do.’
‘Nah! It’s not bleedin’ too bad, let’s go before the rain starts again,’ said her father, pulling on his jacket, ‘we’ll have to stop at the chemist for a sticking plaster, if there’s none left in the tin.’
‘We shan’t be long then Agnes,’ said her mother, ‘I have rolled up the mats and the lid is off the bunker; all you have to do is make sure they bring in twenty sacks, mind you count them, and don’t let them touch the walls.’ With these parting requests, she opened the front door and pushed Harry out, berating him about his clocks, and reminding him how they were more trouble than they were worth.
Agnes sat in the back room and picked up the morning paper. She was feeling annoyed and lit a cigarette. The news was depressing, the weather was depressing, and even the newspaper had a discouraging damp feel to it. Agnes’s thoughts drifted off to reminisce on the lives of the wealthy. She read in a magazine how a butler smoothed and warmed the morning newspaper with an iron before placing it on the breakfast table. Oh! Such luxury she thought, if only dad could win that seventy-five thousand on the football pools — having a servant would be wonderful. Her mind wandered off to think of her father working all those years and having nothing at the end — that too was depressing. Winning the football pools was Harry’s greatest dream; a recurring dream that unfortunately never came to reality. Harry loved football and supported his local team West Ham, affectionately known as The Hammers. Football was the main motive behind buying the television and aside from the excitement of checking the football pools on Saturday afternoons, there was the thrill of watching a match played live in the comfort of home. True, it lacked the atmosphere and camaraderie of being at the ground, but television allowed him to follow his team wherever they played.
Agnes turned on the radio. The set buzzed and crackled as it warmed up and a song about a runaway train was playing. ‘Children’s Favourites,’ muttered Agnes, ‘with Uncle Mac; well, he will need a mac today.’ The rain started again, and Agnes entered the front room to look into the deserted street. Everything was gray; the houses, the road, the sky; even the rain looked gray. Agnes turned to leave the room but the grating of gears and the chugging sound of a diesel engine made her return to the window. Yes, the coal delivery lorry had arrived and was driving slowly down the street to enable the driver’s mate to read the house numbers. It juddered to a halt outside with the engine going boggler, boggler, boggler, and emitting clouds of greasy smoke. Agnes opened the front door and then hurried through the house to open the other doors into the back yard.
‘This fordy-six lov?’ drawled a huge swarthy fellow clad in a filthy canvas jacket who walked up and slouched by the front door.
‘I am not your love and yes, this is number forty-six,’ replied Agnes, bristling with indignation.
‘We’ve a ton of Welsh, and where d’yer want it? I know where I’d like to shove it.’ He turned and said the last part to his mate who arrived at the door with the first sack of coal. Luckily, Agnes did not hear this remark as the kitchen door had slammed in the wind and she was trying to wedge it open.
‘In the bunker, out the back,’ said Agnes, returning to the door, ‘make sure you wipe your feet on the mat, and don’t wipe your sacks on the walls; twenty of them, and I am counting.’
The coal man’s mate carrying the first sack grunted as he hoisted it higher on his back and entered the house, exhaling as he did so last night’s beer and stale tobacco; this odour was complemented by his jacket, which exuded a sweaty tarry smell. Agnes stepped into the front room to let him pass, her face screwed up in disgust. She watched him stumble his way into the yard to discharge his load into the bunker and checked to make sure he did not drop any on the way. The other coal man then followed with the next sack, and this continued until they had delivered twenty sacks.
‘There yer go luv,’ said the first coal man, walking back with an empty sack over his arm, ‘I’ve put the lid back on for you if it’s worth a drink.’
‘A drink, a drink!’ cried Agnes, outraged by the suggestion, ‘do you mean you want a tip? Why should I give you a tip? You have done what you are paid to do, and I did not ask you to replace the lid, my father can do that when he comes home. I do not get tips at work, so why should you?’
‘Ah come on lady, it’s a wet day ‘and we ain’t made no mess, ‘jus ‘alf a crown for a couple of beers, me and the lad.’
‘You have both consumed quite enough beer in my opinion,’ retorted Agnes, ‘I can smell it from here; I have to go out now so let me sign the delivery note and you can be on your way.’
With the departure of the coal men, who clambered back into their lorry muttering and casting dark glances from their darker coal-stained faces, Agnes prepared herself to go to the library. It was well before twelve o’clock and she would have made it in time for the post after all, but that didn't matter, as she was confident that her mother remembered to drop it into the box at the post office.
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Meanwhile, a few miles away, south of the Thames, and in a Brixton lodging house, Inga was also having a trying morning. She ran out of money for the electric meter in her room, and then discovered her bottle of milk had turned sour. Keeping food fresh was a problem. The kitchen did contain a big refrigerator, but it did not work very well, and it was always full with the tenant’s food. To add to the difficulties, there were frequent arguments over missing food or things thrown away. There were even accusations of theft when a choice piece of cheese or cut of bacon went missing. As a result, Inga tended to keep food in her room, but then the milk turned into cheese, the cheese became mouldy, the mould then grew a fur coat, and so it was much easier just to buy food when required. Due to all the people squeezed into the house, it was also hard trying to cook a meal in the shared kitchen using the very limited facilities, and an informal sort of rota system was in place to prevent bottlenecks at peak times. Inga, like the others, cooked her meals when the kitchen was available, and then she could eat the finished delights or horrors at leisure, usually in her own room. Inga was a skilled and experienced cook, but sadly, she could not spread her culinary wings in this environment.
Inga went down the stairs to the ground floor where the kitchen was located. One of the new tenants, the African man was using the stove this morning, and his ponderous bulk leaned over that appliance, dwarfing it. He was heating a saucepan containing a bubbling mass that looked like soup but with big white lumps floating in it. Inga stared at him; he was a huge man in his mid-twenties, well over six feet tall, and of stout build; his bulky appearance was still more emphasised by a thick woollen pullover that looked hand-knitted. His skin was like polished ebony, and down each cheek ran three deep but healed scars. He turned and grinned broadly when he saw Inga, revealing flashing white teeth.
‘Hello, I saw you the other day when I arrived,’ he said, ‘I won’t be long cooking this as I am just finishing; this is my attempt at matoke, it is a kind of African stew, and made with what I could buy in Brixton market. I’d like to offer you a taste but I don’t think you would like unripe bananas.’ At this deduction, he burst into a rumble of hearty laughter and slapped his sides. ‘My name is Michael.’ He held out a hand the size of a tennis racquet. ‘Michael Odide and I’m happy to meet you.’
‘My name is Inga,’ she replied smiling, ‘I am pleased to meet you too, I am in no hurry; this milk, it is bad, I am to pour it down the sink.’
‘You are welcome to try some of this, it’s done,’ said Michael, scraping the sides of the pot with his spoon, ‘you are quite welcome, and it is one of those meals that tastes better than it looks. I know the first taste should be with the eye but we can’t have it every way, ha, ha!’
‘No, I thank you verr much,’ answered Inga, ‘I am sure it is nice. I am just wanting to boil the kettle for a cup of coffee but I will have to have it black.’
Michael looked up for a second, and then roared with laughter so loud that it startled her. ‘Here, I have milk, take mine.’ He stretched out a massive arm and picked up a bottle from the adjacent table. ‘I was out shopping this morning, early and bought twelve bottles. Milk..., I drink a lot of it, and I find it keeps out the cold.’
‘I know you are feeling the cold,’ said Inga, ‘I saw you bring in the heater and it’s still summer.’
‘This is one thing about England that I cannot get used to, it is the cold,’ said Michael, ‘it is nearly summer time, or it is supposed to be nearly summer, but it is so cold and wet, I cannot get used to it and that is why I am wearing this — he picked at his jumper.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Inga. ‘I am from Scandinavia, Denmark where it is also very cold but we have different cold in Copenhagen, dry cold — here, it is damp cold and that eats into you — is this your first time to England?’
‘No, I was here before as a boy at boarding school; my father sent me away to school, he is a chief man in our village, we live in Nigeria and he wanted to give me an English education, ha, ha! and he is still trying. Now I am back again, this time to study law. No boarding school this time, but he gives me an allowance and I have to find my own way and somewhere to live; this is the third house I have been in since arriving six months ago. Are you also here to study?’
‘No,’ replied Inga, ‘not study but learning to improve my English, I want to become a school teacher but my English lets me down.’
‘Ah! That’s a pity,’ said Michael pouring his stew into a bowl, ‘the children have missed out; your English sounds wonderful, and the schools are too fussy. When I was at school, one of the masters was always so drunk in the mornings; we couldn’t make out one word he said until after dinner time, ha, ha! You are sure you won’t try some matoke Inga?’
‘No, thank you verr much, I am sure it is verr nice but I will have a coffee instead, will you be liking one too?’
Michael grinned and nodded while Inga, made two cups of Camp coffee, and added milk. She sat at the table and sipped the beverage while Michael devoured his meal with a ravenous appetite.
‘You were turned down by the school, but have you another job?’ asked Michael, wiping his mouth, ‘I thought you were a student, this house is full of them.’
‘I did work in a school,’ said Inga, ‘I helped in the kitchen during the school term, now, I am not working there.’
‘Hmm! I see, so you currently have no job?’
‘I do have a job,’ replied Inga, ‘but it is a small job, I help, I clean and sometimes cook for a man, a man of business who lives alone in a flat. The money, it helps until I can get something better; I am going to classes to help my English but there is more I am needing to learn, I am needing to understand all the funny ways of the English.’
‘Keep trying Inga,’ said Michael, ‘we British are a funny lot but I am sure something will come along one of these days; you must look on the sunny side, although it is hard with this weather, ha, ha! But now back to my studies.’ Michael stood up from the table and picked up the bowl and spoon. ‘Yes, I must get back to it, studies will never cease, like the English rain.’ He went to the sink to wash his spoon, bowl, and saucepan; he stopped and turned to Inga. ‘Have you eaten any breakfast this morning?’ You have a lean and hungry look to you although you turned down my stew, ha, ha! I have something, wait let me find it.’ He rummaged through a cardboard box and produced a paper bag containing apples and another one containing pears. ‘I have fruit, please help yourself, I buy a lot of fruit, there is not much of a choice, but you are welcome to help yourself.’
‘Thank you verr much,’ said Inga, taking an apple, ‘I was going out for breakfast at the cafe but this will do instead.’
Inga returned to her room and prepared to go out. In her attempt to fend off the rain, she bought a plastic raincoat from a cheap stall in Brixton market. It turned out to be a horrid garment that stuck to her legs when wet and possessed an unpleasant plastic smell. Inga nevertheless, thrust her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up to her chin as dark rain clouds loomed over the Brixton sky. Today being Saturday, the agency through which Inga obtained her housekeeper work was open for just two hours to allow the likes of Inga, and others who worked all week, an opportunity to collect their pay, and she had to hurry to catch it open.