 CHAPTER 25 THE POPPER AND THE OLD-AGE PENCHAN On January 1st, the receipt of poor law relief ceases to be a disqualification for old-age pensions. And some interesting statistics have been compiled by The Daily Mail, which show that only about 17% of all people in the workhouses are applying for their five shillings per week. These are the figures for England and Wales. In the metropolitan area where rents are high and the smallest room cannot be had under two shillings, or half a crown a week, the proportion will be lower still. At first sight these figures are very disappointing and it seems to some of us who have counted so much on this reform, as if we cannot escape from the evils of the workhouse system. But a little thought will show how impossible it is for this generation of old folk to take advantage of the change. The wished-for has come too late. They have burnt their ships, or rather their beds, sold up the little ome. They have neither bag nor baggage, bed nor clothing. They are like snails with broken shells. There is no protection against the rude world, and once having made the sacrifice, few people over seventy have the pluck to start life afresh. It is hardly worthwhile. For them the bitterness of death is past. A committee of our board has held three special sessions for the purpose of interviewing these old people, and the answer has come with varying monotony. No thank you. Five shillings would be no good to me. I have nowhere to go. Some have sons and daughters, but heavy families and crowded rooms dry up filial piety. There is no place for the aged father or mother in our rack-rented city, and the old people accept their fate with the quiet philosophy of the poor. The long string of human wreckage files past us, some bowed and bent with the weight of years, others upright and active, some with the hoary heads of the traditional prophets, others black-haired and keen-eyed still, for the high living of the work-house, as is often remarked, preserves youth in a miraculous way. Some are crippled and half-blind, others suffer with deafness, an ailment of poverty, which very naturally grows worse under inquisitive questioning, and nearly all have rheumatism. Akuret once told me that he was summoned to a sick parishioner who was troubled in mind and wanted to make his peace with heaven, but the only sin he could remember was the rheumatics. The disease seems to be a national sin. One hears the country accents of the United Kingdom, the Burr of Northumbria, the correct English of East Anglia, the rough homeliness of Yorkshire and the Midlands, the soft accents of Devonshire and the West, the precision of the foreign English of the Welsh Mountains, the pleasant ring of the Scottish tongue, the brogue of Old Ireland, few seam Londoners. Take any group of people and see how few of her children London seems to bring to maturity. It is our last meeting today, and we go to visit those who cannot attend, the sick and bed-ridden and the infirmary, a mere form. For these are vassals which will sail no more, sea-battered, half derelict, nearing port, and for them the dawn will break in the New Jerusalem. Some are palsied and paralyzed and half-senile, but now and again keen old eyes look at us from the whiteness of the rate-payer sheets and regret they are too old to apply. Very ancient folk live in these wards, and their birthdays go back to the tens and twenties of last century, one old lady being born in the historic year of 1815. An old man jealous of her greater glory says he is one hundred and nine. What our register of age gives a comparatively recent date of 1830. Few of them seem to have any friends or visitors. Children are dead, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren have forgotten them, but they do not complain. Age mercifully deadens the faculties. Though their terrible loneliness was once graphically written on my brain by the speech of an old Irish woman. I am quite alone, lady. I have no friends but you and the Almighty God. We have interviewed a hundred and three, and only eleven have applied for the pension, the wished for. As I have said, has come too late, but another generation will be saved from the house, and will be able to die outside. So often the last wish of the aged. The merciful alteration of the law will save this generation of outdoor poor. Old people in the late sixties have no longer been dying of starvation in the terror of losing the pension through accepting poor relief, and the greater independence of the state pensioner is heartening many. On the imperial taxes said an old gentleman, with a somewhat low standard of cleanliness. I can be as dirty as ever I like. Footnote Act Amended, 1911 End of Chapter 25, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 26 of Workhouse Characters This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by John Brandon Workhouse Characters by Margaret Nevenson Chapter 26 The Evacuation of the Workhouse 1915 The Workhouse is being evacuated. The whole premises, infirmary and house, have been taken over by the War Office as a military hospital. After weeks of waiting, final orders have come. And today, motor omnibuses and ambulances are carrying off the inmates to a neighboring parish. One feels how widespread and far-reaching are the sufferings caused by war. And in spite of this bright May sunshine, one realizes that the whole earth is full of darkness and cruel habitations. The white blossoms of the spring seem like funeral flowers and the red tulips glow like a field of blood. It never occurred to me before that anyone could have any feeling except repugnance towards the Workhouse. But someone, I think it was the prisoner of chilling, grew attached to this prison, and evidently it is the same with these old folk. Old faces work painfully. Tears stand in bright old eyes, knotted old fingers, clutch ours in farewell, and some of the old women break down utterly and sub-viterally. On the journey some of them lose all sense of control, take off their bonnets and let down their hair, obeying a human instinct of despair, which scholars will remember dates back to the Siege of Troy. It's all the home I've known for twenty years and I'll be right sorry to go, says an aged man, as he shakes my hand. Folks live long in the Workhouse and seventy and eighty years are regarded as comparative youth by the older people of ninety and upwards. To the aged any change is upheaval. They have got used to their bed, their particular chair, their daily routine, and to have to leave the accustomed. Looms in the light of a perilous adventure. Perhaps heaviest of all is the sense of exile. It is a long walk to the adjoining parish, and bus fares will be hard to spare with bread at nine pence a quarter. I've been on the danger list and my son came every day to see me, says one old lady, but he won't be able to get so far now. Alarming rumors are being spread by a pessimist much-traveled in vagrant wards, but they are speedily contradicted by an optimist, also an expert in poor law both in theory and practice. We try to cheer them, but our comfort is not wholehearted. We can guess how the chafing of the unaccustomed, the new discipline, the crowds of unfamiliar faces will jar upon the aged. We try to impress upon them the joy of self-sacrifice, the needs of our wounded soldiers, the patriotic pride in giving up something for them. Oh yes, they know all that. The guardians had been and talked to them. Just like a meeting, they understand about the soldiers. They want to do their best for them, but it is hard. The workhouse is nothing if not military in its traditions. Heroes of South Africa, of Veliklava, and the Crimea have found asylum in the whitewashed wards. Many of the present inmates have been soldiers, and are few who have not some relatives, grandsons and great-grandsons, fighting in the trenches. One of the oldest of the grannies, aged 93, went off smiling, proud, as she said to do her bit. The sake of being brought down now into the ambulances, the physical, the paralytic, the bedridden, blinking in the sunlight from their mattress tomb, one poorer woman stricken with blindness and deafness, who in spite of nervousness looks forward to her first motor drive. These are less troubled, they are younger, and the sick hope ever for a quick cure, and the majority are only in for temporary illness. Then come the babies, astonishingly smart and well-dressed, including the youngest inmate, aged but eight days. The costumes are odd and eccentric, and in spite of misery a good deal of good-tempered chafe flies round. All inmates are to leave in their own clothes, and strange garments have been brought to the light of day. Whilst much concern is expressed about excellent coats and skirts moth-eaten, or mislaid in the course of 25 years, the storage of the workhouse often suffers strain, and the wholesome practice of stoving all clothes does not improve the colors nor contribute to the preservation of what modest call la ligne. Fortunately, all fashions come round again, and we try to assure the women that the voluminous skirts and high collars of last century are la Dernier Cree in Bond Street. But it is difficult for one woman to deceive another over the question of fashion. For twelve hours the buses and ambulances have plied backwards and forwards, and now the last load home has started, and tired nurses and harassed officials waive their last goodbye. Thankful, the long day has come at length to an end. In a few days other loads will arrive. All young these and all soldiers. Many of them, perhaps as the advertisements say, belonging to the nobility and gentry. The workhouse has ceased to be. From today it will be no longer rate-supported. The nurses and the whole staff draw rations and are in the pay and service of the war office. As soon as possible guilt letters will announce it as a military hospital. On the table before me lies a copy of the local paper, and I read with surprise the thanks of a public body. For our offer to give up the workhouse as a military hospital, and expressing appreciation of the patriotic action of the guardians in the matter. In my opinion we made no offer. We merely obeyed a command, and the people who did a patriotic action were those who turned out of their home, such as it was, but in this world credit is given where it is not due. And thanks are bestowed on the wrong people. We reap where we have not sown, and gather where we have not strawed.