its people objectively. What he saw was poverty. A lack of nourishment in all areas. A community badly housed and badly educated, dressed in old clothes made drab through repeated washing, pressing and repairing. The make-do-and-mend ethic shot through every aspect of their lives. A cold, hard life lived in cold, hard houses. Just bodies piled upon bodies. Existing, not living. No heating or water. Children playing in the streets dirty and ragged.
Jack found it hard to believe they were on the winning side.
He walked on with no direction.
He didnât want to go home, back to the house he had grown up in and in which his mother, father, brother and sister still lived. It was too small and no longer a home to him, just a place he slept, usually uncomfortably. He needed something to do, somewhere to go.
He put his hand in his pocket. His fingers curled over a piece of paper. Finding it unfamiliar, he drew it out and unfolded it. It was a flyer. He read:
MEN:
WHEN YOU RETURNED HOME VICTORIOUS FROM FIGHTING FOR YOUR COUNTRY, DID YOU EXPECT SOMETHING MORE? WE AGREE. WE ALSO BELIEVE IN THE ENRICHMENT OF LIFE.
IF YOU ARE LIKE-MINDED, JOIN US TONIGHT
AT 7.30 AT THE ROYAL ARCADE.
THE SPEAKER WILL BE MR. DANIEL SMITH.
SOCIALIST SOCIETY
Men had been handing out leaflets as he had entered the slaughterhouse that morning. He had absently accepted it but never looked at it. He looked at it again, read it slowly, picked out what were, to him, key words:
Socialist Society. Enrichment of life. Did you expect something more?
He stopped walking, looked around.
Poor, badly housed and badly educated.
He folded the paper, replaced it.
Did you expect something more?
Seven thirty, Royal Arcade.
He would be there.
Monica walked down the street, absently pushing chips into her mouth. The chips were hot, salty and vinegar-soggy. They burned her mouth as they went in, blistered her gums. She didnât care. She wanted them to hurt, wanted to feel something that would block out the earlier pain.
Her tears had stopped. The man had given her a handkerchief to wipe them away before her father picked her up. She had cleaned herself up all over with it. It stank. She obviously wasnât the first person to have used it.
Her father walked alongside her, eating his chips and fish from old newspaper. They walked slowly: he to make his meal last, she because she hurt. They said nothing to each other. Under his arm he carried a boxed doll. She had looked at it once when he had picked her up, but she hadnât touched it. She wasnât in a hurry to play with it. It seemed small and inappropriate, like a bandage that wouldnât cover and didnât heal a wound.
She opened the battered fish with her fingers. Hot steam escaped. She picked a piece up, fat and batter burning her fingers, and shoved it in her mouth. More pain.
âHey, careful,â her father said. âYouâll burn yourselâ.â
She chewed, ignoring him. Tears came into her eyes, whether from the pain of the food or the earlier pain she didnât know. She didnât care. She fought them back, swallowed. There were no children playing on the street now. They had all gone home. Home, she thought.
Her father finished his meal, threw the grease-sodden newspaper in a bin.
âGood, that,â he said. âAlways nice to have a treat.â
Monica looked down. Her shoes were scuffed and there were bruises developing on her legs. Her feet hit the pavement indiscriminately. She no longer avoided the cracks. She walked on as many as possible. The paving stones wouldnât protect her.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up. Her father was looking down at her, smiling.
âYouâre a good lass, you know that?â
Monica said nothing. Smelled the beer on his breath. Beer and whatever was in the hip flask in his coat pocket.
âA good lass. You know, youâre special. A special little girl.â
Monica said nothing.
He
Jack found it hard to believe they were on the winning side.
He walked on with no direction.
He didnât want to go home, back to the house he had grown up in and in which his mother, father, brother and sister still lived. It was too small and no longer a home to him, just a place he slept, usually uncomfortably. He needed something to do, somewhere to go.
He put his hand in his pocket. His fingers curled over a piece of paper. Finding it unfamiliar, he drew it out and unfolded it. It was a flyer. He read:
MEN:
WHEN YOU RETURNED HOME VICTORIOUS FROM FIGHTING FOR YOUR COUNTRY, DID YOU EXPECT SOMETHING MORE? WE AGREE. WE ALSO BELIEVE IN THE ENRICHMENT OF LIFE.
IF YOU ARE LIKE-MINDED, JOIN US TONIGHT
AT 7.30 AT THE ROYAL ARCADE.
THE SPEAKER WILL BE MR. DANIEL SMITH.
SOCIALIST SOCIETY
Men had been handing out leaflets as he had entered the slaughterhouse that morning. He had absently accepted it but never looked at it. He looked at it again, read it slowly, picked out what were, to him, key words:
Socialist Society. Enrichment of life. Did you expect something more?
He stopped walking, looked around.
Poor, badly housed and badly educated.
He folded the paper, replaced it.
Did you expect something more?
Seven thirty, Royal Arcade.
He would be there.
Monica walked down the street, absently pushing chips into her mouth. The chips were hot, salty and vinegar-soggy. They burned her mouth as they went in, blistered her gums. She didnât care. She wanted them to hurt, wanted to feel something that would block out the earlier pain.
Her tears had stopped. The man had given her a handkerchief to wipe them away before her father picked her up. She had cleaned herself up all over with it. It stank. She obviously wasnât the first person to have used it.
Her father walked alongside her, eating his chips and fish from old newspaper. They walked slowly: he to make his meal last, she because she hurt. They said nothing to each other. Under his arm he carried a boxed doll. She had looked at it once when he had picked her up, but she hadnât touched it. She wasnât in a hurry to play with it. It seemed small and inappropriate, like a bandage that wouldnât cover and didnât heal a wound.
She opened the battered fish with her fingers. Hot steam escaped. She picked a piece up, fat and batter burning her fingers, and shoved it in her mouth. More pain.
âHey, careful,â her father said. âYouâll burn yourselâ.â
She chewed, ignoring him. Tears came into her eyes, whether from the pain of the food or the earlier pain she didnât know. She didnât care. She fought them back, swallowed. There were no children playing on the street now. They had all gone home. Home, she thought.
Her father finished his meal, threw the grease-sodden newspaper in a bin.
âGood, that,â he said. âAlways nice to have a treat.â
Monica looked down. Her shoes were scuffed and there were bruises developing on her legs. Her feet hit the pavement indiscriminately. She no longer avoided the cracks. She walked on as many as possible. The paving stones wouldnât protect her.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up. Her father was looking down at her, smiling.
âYouâre a good lass, you know that?â
Monica said nothing. Smelled the beer on his breath. Beer and whatever was in the hip flask in his coat pocket.
âA good lass. You know, youâre special. A special little girl.â
Monica said nothing.
He
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