James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“You infernal blood-selling Judas, if it wasn’t for the boy’s sake I’d strangle you!”

There was a great mystery about this bloodselling business. Ready as was my father to throw it in her teeth, as the saying is, on the slightest provocation, or on no provocation at all, he never went into the details of the case, and, more extraordinary still, she never seemed to expect that he should. She never replied, “It is false,” or inquired what he meant by it That is, to my knowledge. It is very possible that she may have denied it until she grew tired of doing so, finding that it was better to bear the reproach silently.

Again, whatever was my mother’s crime, father had his reasons for not making it public. Often enough while quarrelling with her, he would bellow it out loud enough for the whole alley to hear; but if any one—even his most intimate chum—met him next day, and gave a hint that he would like to hear further particulars, my father never would gratify him. I know this as a fact; for at that time I had just come into my first suit of corduroys, and father was very proud, and liked to take me about. He used to take me to the barber’s on Sunday mornings, to get his weekly shave, and I used to sit by his side on the form while he was waiting his turn to be lathered.

“Isn’t he a star?” one of my father’s companions would observe to another, in reference to me. “He all’us looks as though he’d just been fresh ’arthstoned—don’t he, Bob?”

“He do so. I never see such a kid; he’s a credit to your old woman, Jim, anyhow?”

“Yes, she’s a werry good mother, no doubt on it,” my father would answer, shortly.

“And a werry good wife, Jim?”

“Strickly as such, there’s no denying on it,” was Jim’s answer.

“P’r’aps you puts it a little too strickly, Jim?”

“Ah! who ses so?

“No, no; nobody ses so. But you do let her have it awfully hot sometimes, Jim—now don’t you?”

“No hotter than she deserves,” my father replies, growing fierce, and turning round on his interrogator; “can you, or any man here, stand before me and say as she do get it hotter than she ought?”

“Well, ’course she must deserve it, or else you wouldn’t call her”—

“What?” interrupted my father, getting up on his feet.

“Well, names. Of course, nobody can tell why you call ’em her, ’cos nobody knows.”

“And nobody ain’t going to know,” replies father, in the tones a man uses when he wishes it to be understood that there has been enough said on the subject. “It ain’t nobody’s business to know, nor yet to inquire. She knows, and that’s enough. When she comes a-grumbling to you, and telling you her grievances, you come and tell me; then we’ll see about it.”

I by no means promise that the little light I am able to throw on the blood-selling of which my mother was accused will be entirely satisfactory to the reader. I simply offer it as the best I can give. How it came to my knowledge, whether I was an eye-witness, or heard it from her lips, I shouldn’t like to say. Most likely I am indebted pretty equally to both sources.

It was all about my Uncle Benjamin, who was my father’s brother. He was a younger man than my father by several years, and slimmer, and more genteel in build. He was better looking, too, and better off; though why he should be, considering that my father worked from morning till night, and Uncle Benjamin never appeared to work at all, was not quite clear. He was a swaggering, joking sort of young man, and smoked cigars. He didn’t come much to our house, and I was very glad of it; for although whenever he came he invariably gave me a sixpence, and sent for something to drink for my mother and father, sure as ever he was gone there would be a tremendous row, which was sure to begin out of nothing at all. As, for instance, mother would say, “Don’t touch that little drop of gin that’s left, Jim; it is for my lunch to-morrow. Ben said so.”

“Oh! when did Ben say so? Not in my hearing!”

“He said so when you was down-stairs, Jim.”

“Burn you and Ben too; you’re always talking, and whispering, and sniggering together when I’m down-stairs, or somewhere else out of sight; butcher me if you ain’t. He’s a butchering sight too fast; and so are you, you——!”

In this, or a similar way, the row invariably began and was continued. This, however, was before Uncle Ben got married.

He married a girl named Eliza, who was employed at gaiter-making somewhere in the city. After they got married, Uncle Benjamin came less frequency than ever to our house. Indeed, I think my mother was against the match, as she used to speak in a very cross way about it, and say, “A pretty doll she is to be any man’s wife!”

And at this my father would turn on her with an ugly laugh, and exclaim, “I dessay; very sorry for poor Ben, ain’t you, Poll?”

“Sorry? of course I am. So ought you to be; he’s your brother!” my mother would answer.

“Ba-a-a! you take me for a poor, soft-headed fool, don’t you?” would be my father’s next remark. “Don’t I know you? Haven’t I remarked it, over and over again? Turkey’s the place for you, marm!”

There must have been another dreadful mystery couched in this sneer about “Turkey;” for, the first time my father ventured to mention it, my mother flew at him like a tiger, and shook him by the collar of his jacket, at the same time screaming out at him talk of a sort which I did not understand, but he evidently did, and which, combined with the shaking, seemed to completely astonish and take him all aback, making him look quite pale and cowed—so much so, that there was an end to the row, and father took up his cap and went off.

If, however, my poor mother imagined that she had effectually conquered him of his sneering about Turkey, she was grievously mistaken. Without doubt, my father had been turning the subject over in his mind, and upbraiding himself for being such a coward as he had shown himself. The very next evening there was another row, and scarcely was it commenced when father called her something, and told her to “go to Turkey!” Presuming, as I suppose, on her previous success, mother flew at him again; but this time he was cool, and prepared for her. He caught her a hit in the face that sent her staggering to the fender.

“You won’t try that again, my beauty,” said my father.

And she did not. Whenever he spoke of the eastern country in question as being a proper place for her to reside in, (which was neither more nor less than every time he quarrelled with her,) she would make no reply save a look of contempt, and utter a little laugh that set my father foaming almost.

Uncle Benjamin and Aunt Eliza lived in furnished apartments, in a street somewhere near St. Martin’s Lane, Westminster. They ate and drank of the best, and wore such fine clothes as made everybody in Fryingpan Alley stare when, by a rare chance, they came to see us. The business in which Ben Ballisat (my name is James Ballisat, at the reader’s service) was engaged was a flourishing one. Each succeeding visit saw him richer than the preceding; till, finally, he came wearing kid gloves and patent-leather boots, while Aunt Eliza was attired in a dress of peach-colored silk, and a bonnet that excited in our alley a universal hum of astonishment and admiration.

Occasionally, my mother went to see Aunt Eliza. She never seemed to care about seeing Uncle Ben, and that was easily avoided if she chose her time; for my uncle invariably went out at about three in the afternoon, and remained out until late. He told Aunt Eliza that he held a situation at a fashionable tavern at the west-end of the town, where there were billiard tables kept.