homeless with an inexpensive place to sleep.
Whereas penniless people are driven to sleep in foggy streets, public parks, or under bridges, those slightly more fortunate attain shelter in a doss-house at night. For the price of fourpence, a dirty straw mattress is obtained upon which to lie, or for tu’pence, a length of stretched rope which, threaded beneath the arms and across the chest, supports the exhausted as they sleep side by side in a row, sitting upright on a long wooden bench.
Liquid sewage seeps into cellars, flea-infested wallpaper hangs in strips and stair handrails, long ago burnt as firewood, are missing.
Whilst this insidious decay and wanton damage is extensive throughout these draughty dwellings, the residents of these vile houses, seemingly unaware of anything amiss, endure these atrocious conditions with a listless indifference.
With a solitary hissing gas-jet casting flickering light over its grubby walls and paper strewn floorboards, the communal kitchen is effectively the heart of a doss-house. Moderate in size, it contains a red-hot coke fire, where haggard women, principally prostitutes, gather to bake the occasional potato, or simply to gossip, whilst keeping warm. Idle chatter between these desperate, hardened women, although genial most of the time, can erupt into violent scuffles over the silliest of disputes.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Punched in the face, Annie Chapman, brown wavy hair, blue eyes and a thick nose, hurtles backwards and, dropping a piece of hardened soap, collapses to the floor.
Eliza Cooper, tall and sinewy, steps forward and stands over her, “Want more?”
Annie clamps a hand over her left eye, “I’ll git yer fer this.”
Eliza scoffs, “Yer an’ who else?”
Seated on a stool near the open coke fire, Polly Nichols, greying hair, small scar on her forehead and slightly discoloured teeth, leans forward to grab the piece of soap.
Eliza snatches the item from her reach, “I’m a whore just like yer, Nichols.” She glares at Annie, “An’ yer, Chapman.”
Briskly dropping to one knee, Eliza seizes Annie by the throat, “But I don’t rob me own kind. Do it agin an’ I’ll slit yer bleedin’ throat.”
Annie contemptuously spits in her face.
With spittle running down one side of her nose and chin, Eliza raises her fist, “All right, Chapman, yer goin’ t’ ’ospital.”
Robustly built, resident housekeeper Mary Russell approaches Eliza from behind and grabs her by the hair, “Mind I don’t send yer there first.”
Russell jerks Eliza to her feet, “Yer bleedin’ trouble, Cooper. Now, out!” She shoves Eliza towards an outer kitchen door, “Go on, ’op it, b’fore I git really riled.”
Eliza looks over her shoulder and snarls at Annie, “I’ll git yer fer this, Chapman.”
Russell yanks the kitchen door open and pushes Eliza out into a gloomy passage, “Come ’ere agin an’ it’ll be yer funeral.”
She slams the door shut.
Helping Annie to her feet, Russell inspects her swelling eye, [78] “Cor blimey, would yer [79] Adam an’ Eve it? The Almighty’s given yer a right bleedin’ [80] shiner.”
Annie groans despondently, “Can’t go out like this, Mrs Russell.”
Russell sighs, “Lookin’ fer sympathy, are yer? Should ’ave thought o’ that b’fore yer [81] swiped ’er soap.” She stares at Annie suspiciously, “As a rule, yer bed down at Crossingham's in Dorset Street. Wot yer doin’ ’ere, then?”
Annie gently touches her bruised eye, “Only ’ad the rope. Can’t sleep like that”
Russell cocks her head enquiringly, “Got fourpence?”
Annie nods and produces four [82] Bun Penny coins.
Taking the coins, Russell indicates an inner kitchen door, paint peeling from its surface like a skin disease, “Yer’ll git yer mattress through there.”
Holding her hand over her swollen eye, Annie solemnly totters to the door, opens it and leaves the kitchen, entering the doss-house proper.
Russell turns to
Whereas penniless people are driven to sleep in foggy streets, public parks, or under bridges, those slightly more fortunate attain shelter in a doss-house at night. For the price of fourpence, a dirty straw mattress is obtained upon which to lie, or for tu’pence, a length of stretched rope which, threaded beneath the arms and across the chest, supports the exhausted as they sleep side by side in a row, sitting upright on a long wooden bench.
Liquid sewage seeps into cellars, flea-infested wallpaper hangs in strips and stair handrails, long ago burnt as firewood, are missing.
Whilst this insidious decay and wanton damage is extensive throughout these draughty dwellings, the residents of these vile houses, seemingly unaware of anything amiss, endure these atrocious conditions with a listless indifference.
With a solitary hissing gas-jet casting flickering light over its grubby walls and paper strewn floorboards, the communal kitchen is effectively the heart of a doss-house. Moderate in size, it contains a red-hot coke fire, where haggard women, principally prostitutes, gather to bake the occasional potato, or simply to gossip, whilst keeping warm. Idle chatter between these desperate, hardened women, although genial most of the time, can erupt into violent scuffles over the silliest of disputes.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Punched in the face, Annie Chapman, brown wavy hair, blue eyes and a thick nose, hurtles backwards and, dropping a piece of hardened soap, collapses to the floor.
Eliza Cooper, tall and sinewy, steps forward and stands over her, “Want more?”
Annie clamps a hand over her left eye, “I’ll git yer fer this.”
Eliza scoffs, “Yer an’ who else?”
Seated on a stool near the open coke fire, Polly Nichols, greying hair, small scar on her forehead and slightly discoloured teeth, leans forward to grab the piece of soap.
Eliza snatches the item from her reach, “I’m a whore just like yer, Nichols.” She glares at Annie, “An’ yer, Chapman.”
Briskly dropping to one knee, Eliza seizes Annie by the throat, “But I don’t rob me own kind. Do it agin an’ I’ll slit yer bleedin’ throat.”
Annie contemptuously spits in her face.
With spittle running down one side of her nose and chin, Eliza raises her fist, “All right, Chapman, yer goin’ t’ ’ospital.”
Robustly built, resident housekeeper Mary Russell approaches Eliza from behind and grabs her by the hair, “Mind I don’t send yer there first.”
Russell jerks Eliza to her feet, “Yer bleedin’ trouble, Cooper. Now, out!” She shoves Eliza towards an outer kitchen door, “Go on, ’op it, b’fore I git really riled.”
Eliza looks over her shoulder and snarls at Annie, “I’ll git yer fer this, Chapman.”
Russell yanks the kitchen door open and pushes Eliza out into a gloomy passage, “Come ’ere agin an’ it’ll be yer funeral.”
She slams the door shut.
Helping Annie to her feet, Russell inspects her swelling eye, [78] “Cor blimey, would yer [79] Adam an’ Eve it? The Almighty’s given yer a right bleedin’ [80] shiner.”
Annie groans despondently, “Can’t go out like this, Mrs Russell.”
Russell sighs, “Lookin’ fer sympathy, are yer? Should ’ave thought o’ that b’fore yer [81] swiped ’er soap.” She stares at Annie suspiciously, “As a rule, yer bed down at Crossingham's in Dorset Street. Wot yer doin’ ’ere, then?”
Annie gently touches her bruised eye, “Only ’ad the rope. Can’t sleep like that”
Russell cocks her head enquiringly, “Got fourpence?”
Annie nods and produces four [82] Bun Penny coins.
Taking the coins, Russell indicates an inner kitchen door, paint peeling from its surface like a skin disease, “Yer’ll git yer mattress through there.”
Holding her hand over her swollen eye, Annie solemnly totters to the door, opens it and leaves the kitchen, entering the doss-house proper.
Russell turns to
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