Bad Fan

A Misty evening in mid-October; a top room in one of the small dingy houses on the north side of Moon Street, its floor partially covered with pieces of drugget carpet trodden into rags; for furniture, an iron bed placed against the wall, a deal cupboard or wardrobe, a broken iron cot in a corner, a wooden box and three or four chairs, and a small square deal table; on the table one candle in a tin candlestick gave light to the two occupants of the room. One of these a woman sitting in a listless attitude before the grate, fireless now, although the evening was damp and chilly.

She appeared strong, but just now was almost repulsive to look at as she sat there in her dirty ill-fitting gown, with her feet thrust out before her, showing her broken muddy boots. Her features were regular, even handsome; that, however, was little in her favour when set against the hard red colour of her skin, which told of habitual intemperance, and the expression, half sullen and half reckless, of her dark eyes, as she sat there staring into the empty grate. There were no white threads yet in her thick long hair that had once been black and glossy, unkempt now, like everything about her, with a dusky dead look in it.

On the cot in the corner rested or crouched a girl not yet fifteen years old, the woman's only child: she was trying to keep herself warm there, sitting close against the wall with her knees drawn up to enable her to cover herself, head included, with a shawl and an old quilt. Both were silent: at intervals the girl would start up out of her wrappings and stare towards the door with a startled look on her face, apparently listening. From the street sounded the shrill animal-like cries of children playing and quarrelling, and, further away, the low, dull, continuous roar of traffic in the Edgware Road. Then she would drop back again, to crouch against the wall, drawing the quilt about her, and remain motionless until a step on the stair or the banging of a door below would startle her once more.

Meanwhile her mother maintained her silence and passive attitude, only stirring when the light grew very dim; then she would turn half round, snuff the wick off with her fingers, and wipe them on her shabby dirty dress.

At length the girl started up, throwing her quilt quite off, and remained seated on the edge of her cot, the look of anxiety increasing every moment on her thin pale face. In the matter of dress she seemed even worse off than her mother, and wore an old tattered earth-coloured gown, which came down to within three or four inches of her ankles, showing under it ragged stockings and shoes trodden down at heel, so much too large for her feet that they had evidently belonged to her mother. She looked tall for her years, but this was owing to her extreme thinness. Her arms were like sticks, and her sunken cheeks showed the bones of her face; but it was a pathetic face, both on account of the want and anxiety so plainly written on it and its promise of beauty. There was not a particle of colour in it, even the thin lips were almost white, but the eyes were of the purest grey, shaded by long dark lashes; while her hair, hanging uneven and disordered to her shoulders, was of a pure golden brown.

"Mother, he's coming!" said the girl.

"Let him come!" returned the other, without looking up or stirring.

Slowly the approaching footsteps came nearer, stumbling up the dark, narrow staircase; then the door was pushed open and a man entered-a broad-chested, broad-faced rough-looking man with stubbly whiskers, wearing the dress and rusty boots of a labourer.

He drew a chair to the table and sat down in silence. Presently he turned to his wife.

"Well, what have you got to say?" he asked, in a somewhat unsteady voice.

"Nothing," she returned. "What have you got?"

"I've got tired of walking about for a job, and I want something to eat and drink, and that's what I've got."

"Then you'd better go where you can get it," said she. "You can't find work, but you can find drink, and you ain't sober now."

For only answer he began whistling and drumming noisily on the table. Suddenly he paused and looked at her.

"Ain't you done that charing job, then?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes; and what's more, I got a florin and gave it to Mrs. Clark," she replied.

"You blarsted fool! what did you do that for?"

"Because I'm not going to have my few sticks taken for rent and be turned into the street with my girl. That's what I did it for; and if you won't work you'll starve, so don't you come to me for anything."

Again he drummed noisily on the table, and hummed or tried to hum a tune. Presently he spoke again:

"What's Fan been a-doing, then?"

"You know fast enough; tramping about the streets to sell a box of matches. A nice thing!"

"How much did she get?"

To this question no answer was returned.

"What did she get, I arsk you?" he repeated, getting up and putting his hand heavily on her shoulder.

"Enough for bread," she replied, shaking his hand off.

"How much?" But as she refused to answer, he turned to the girl and repeated in a threatening tone, "How much?"

She sat trembling, her eyes cast down, but silent.

"I'll learn you to answer when you're spoken to, you damn barstard!" he said, approaching her with raised hand.

"Don't you hit her, you brute!" exclaimed his wife, springing in sudden anger to her feet.

"Oh, father, don't hit me-oh, please don't-I'll tell-I'll tell! I got eighteenpence," cried the girl, shrinking back terrified.

He turned and went back to his seat, grinning at his success in getting at the truth. Presently he asked his wife if she had spent eighteenpence in bread.

"No, I didn't. I got a haddock for morning, and two ounces of tea, and a loaf, and a bundle of wood," she returned sullenly.

After an interval of a couple of minutes he got up, went to the cupboard, and opened it.

"There's the haddy right enough," he said. "No great things-cost you thrippence, I s'pose. Tea tuppence-ha'penny, and that's fivepence-ha'penny, and a ha'penny for wood, and tuppence-ha'penny for a loaf makes eightpence-ha'penny. There's more'n ninepence over, Margy, and all I want is a pint of beer and a screw. Threepence-come now."

"I've nothing to give you," she returned doggedly.

"Then what did you do with it? How much gin did you drink-eh?"

"As much as I could get," she answered defiantly.

He looked at her, whistled and drummed, then got up and went out.

"Mother, he's gone," whispered Fan.

"No such luck. He's only going to ask Mrs. Clark if I gave her the florin. He won't be long you'll see."

Very soon he did return and sat down again. "A pint and a screw, that's all I want," he said, as if speaking to himself, and there was no answer. Then he got up, put his hand on her shoulder, and almost shook her out of her chair. "Don't you hear?" he shouted.

"Let me alone, you drunken brute; I've got nothing, I tell you," she returned, and after watching his face a few moments settled down again.

"All right, old woman, I'll leave you," he said, dropping his hands. But suddenly changing his mind, he swung round and dealt her a heavy blow.

She sprang up with a scream of anger and pain, and taking no notice of Fan's piteous cries and pleadings, rushed at him; they struggled together for some moments, but the man was the strongest; very soon he flung her violently from him, and reeling away to some distance, and unable to recover her balance, she finally fell heavily on to the floor.

"Oh, mother, mother, he has killed you," sobbed Fan, throwing herself down beside the fallen woman and trying to raise her head.

"That I will, and you too," remarked the man, going back to his seat.

The woman, recovering from the shock, struggled to her feet and sat down again on her chair. She was silent, looking now neither angry nor frightened, but seemed half-dazed, and bending forward a little she covered her eyes with her hand.

"Oh, mother, poor mother-are you hurt?" whispered Fan, trying to draw the hand away to look into the bowed face.

"You go back to your corner and leave your mother to me," he said; and Fan, after hesitating a few moments, rose and shrank away.

Presently he got up again, and seizing his wife by the wrist, dragged her hand forcibly from her face.

"Where's the coppers, you blarsted drunkard?" he shouted in her ear. "D'ye think to get off with the little crack on the crown I've giv' you? I'll do for you to-night if you won't hand over."

"Oh, father, father!" cried the girl, starting up in an agony of terror. "Oh, have mercy and don't hit her, and I'll go out and try to get threepence. Oh, father, there's nothing in the house!"

"Then go, and don't be long about it," he said, going back to his seat.

The mother roused herself at this.

"You sha'n't stir a step to-night, Fan," she said, but in a voice not altogether resolute. "What'll come to you, going into the streets at this time of night?"

"Something grand, like what's come to her mother, perhaps," said he with a laugh.