"The Day of Silence"
(1893)
For a week the mid-day thermometer
had marked eighty or more in the shade. Golden weather for those who could lie
and watch the lazy breakers on a rocky shore, or tread the turf of deep
woodland, or drink from the cold stream on some mountain side. But the by-ways
of Southwark languished for a cloud upon the sun, for a cooling shower, or a
breath from its old enemy, the east. The cry of fretful children sounded
ceaselessly. Every window was wide open; women who had nothing to do lounged in
the dusk of doorways and in arched passages, their money all gone in visits to
the public-house. Ice-cream men found business at a standstill; it was Friday,
and the youngsters ha'pence had long ago come to an end. Labourers who depended
upon casual employment chose to sleep through the thirsty hours rather than go
in search of jobs; a crust of bread served them for a meal. They lay about in
the shadowed spots, shirt and trousers their only costume, their shaggy heads
in every conceivable attitude of repose.
Where the sun fell the pavement burned like an
oven floor. An evil smell hung about the butchers' and the fish shops. A
public-house poisoned a whole street with alcoholic fumes; from sewer-grates
rose a miasma that caught the breath. People who bought butter from the little
dealers had to carry it away in a saucer, covered with a piece of paper, which
in a few moments turned oily dark. Rotting fruit, flung out by costermongers,
offered a dire regale to little ragamuffins prowling like the cats and dogs.
Babies' bottles were choked with thick-curdling milk, and sweets melted in
grimy little hands.
Among the children playing in a court deep down
by Southwark Bridge was one boy, of about seven years old, who looked healthier
and sweeter than most of his companions. The shirt he wore had been washed a
week ago, and rents in it had obeyed the needle. His mother-made braces
supported a pair of trousers cut short between the knee and ankle, evidently
shaped out of a man's garment. Stockings he dispensed with; but his boots were
new and strong. Though he amused himself vigorously, he seemed to keep cool;
his curly hair was not matted with perspiration, like that of the other
youngsters; the open shirt -- in this time of holiday coat and waistcoat were
put away to be in a good condition when school began again -- showed a body not
ill-nourished, and his legs were of sturdy growth. A shouting, laughing,
altogether noisy little chap. When his shrill voice rang out, it gave his
playmates the word of command; he was ready, too, with his fists when occasion
offered. You should have seen him standing with arms akimbo, legs apart, his
round little head thrown back and the brown eyes glistening in merriment. Billy
Burden, they called him. He had neither brother nor sister -- a fortunate
thing, as it enabled his parents to give him more of their love and their
attention than would have been possible if other mouths had clamoured for
sustenance. Mrs. Burden was very proud of him, and all the more decent women in
the court regarded Billy with affectionate admiration. True, he had to be kept
in order now and then, when he lost his temper and began to punch the heads of
boys several years older than himself; but his frank, winsome face soon
overcame the anger of grown-up people.
His father, Solomon Burden by name, worked
pretty regularly at a wharf on the Middlesex side, and sometimes earned as much
as a pound a week. Having no baby to look after, his mother got a turn of work
as often as possible, chiefly at warehouse-cleaning and the like. She could
trust little Billy to go to school and come home at the right time; but
holidays, when he had to spend the whole day out-of-doors, caused her some
anxiety, for the child liked to be off and away on long explorations of unknown
country -- into Lambeth, or across the river to the great London streets, no
distance tiring him. Her one fear was lest he should be run over. To-day he had
promised to keep well within reach of home, and did so. At Mrs. Burden's return
from a job in
Of course, they had only one room -- an attic
just large enough to hold a bed, a table, and Billy's little mattress down on
the floor in a corner. Their housekeeping was of the simplest: a shelf of
crockery, two saucepans, and a frying-pan supplied Mrs. Burden with all she
needed for the preparation of meals. Apparel was kept in a box under the bed,
where also was the washing-basin. Up to a year ago they had had a chest of
drawers; but the hard winter had obliged them to part with this.
When Mrs. Burden unlocked and opened the door,
the air within was so oppressive that she stood for a moment and drew a deep
breath. The sound of the key wakened Billy, who sprang up joyfully.
'Ain't it been 'ot again, mummy!' the boy
exclaimed. 'There was a 'bus-horse fell dead. Ben Wilkins seen it!'
'I a'most feel as if I could drop myself,' she
answered, sinking upon the bed. 'There ain't no hair to breathe: I wish we
wasn't under the roof.'
She stood up again and felt the ceiling -- it
was some six inches above her head.
'My gracious alive! It's fair bakin'.'
'Let me feel -- let me feel!'
She lifted him in her arms, and Billy proved
for himself that the plaster of the ceiling was decidedly warm. Nevertheless,
sticks had to be lighted to boil the kettle. Father might come home any moment,
and he liked his cup of tea.
As she worked about, the woman now and then
pressed a hand to her left side, and seemed to breathe with difficulty.
Sweat-drops hung thick upon her face, which was the colour of dough. On going
downstairs to draw water for the kettle she took a quart jug, and after filling
this she drank almost the whole of it in one long draught. It made her perspire
still more freely; moisture streamed from her forehead as she returned to the
upper story, and on arriving she was obliged to seat herself.
'Do you feel bad, mummy?' asked the child, who
was accustomed to these failings of strength when his mother came home from a
day's work.
'I do, Billy, hawful bad; but it'll go in a
minute. Put the kittle on -- there's a good boy.'
She was a woman of active habits, in her way a
good housewife, loving moderate cleanliness and a home in order. Naturally, her
clothing was coarse and begrimed; she did the coarsest and grimiest of work.
Her sandy hair had thinned of late; it began to show the scalp in places. There
was always a look of pain on her features, and her eyes were either very glassy
or very dull. For thirty years -- that is, since she was ten years old --
struggle with poverty had been the law of her life, and she remained
victorious; there was always a loaf in the house, always an ounce of tea; her
child had never asked in vain for the food demanded by his hearty appetite. She
did not drink; she kept a guard upon her tongue in the matter of base language;
esteemed comely by her equals, she had no irregularity of behaviour wherewith
to reproach herself. Often enough at variance with her husband, she yet loved
him; and Billy she loved more.
About seven o'clock the father came home; he
clumped heavily up the stairs, bent his head to pass the doorway, and uttered a
good-natured growl as he saw the table ready for him.
'Well, Bill, bwoy, can you keep warm?'
'Sh' think so,' the child answered. 'Mummy's
bad again with the 'eat. There ain't no air in this bloomin' 'ouse.'
'Kick a 'ole in the roof, old chap!'
'Wish I could!'
Solomon flung off his coat, and turned up the sleeves
of his shirt. The basin, full of water, awaited him; he thrust his great head
into it and made a slop over the floor. Thereat Mrs. Burden first looked, then
spoke wrathfully. As his habit was, her husband retorted, and for a few minutes
they wrangled. But it was without bitterness, without vile abuse. Domestic calm
as understood by the people who have a whole house to themselves is impossible
in a Southwark garret; Burden and his wife were regarded by the neighbours, and
rightly, as an exemplary pair; they never came to blows, never to curses, and
neither of them had ever been known to make a scene in public.
Burden had a loud, deep voice; whether he spoke
angrily or gently, he could be heard all over the house and out in the court.
Impossible for the family to discuss anything in private. But, like all their
neighbours, they accepted such a state of things as a matter of course.
Everybody knew all about everybody else; the wonder was when nothing
disgraceful came to listening ears.
'Say, Bill,' remarked the man, when he had at
length sat quietly down to his tea, 'how would you like to go in a boat
tomorrow afternoon?'
'Shouldn't I just!'
'Old Four-arf is goin' to have a swim,' Burden
explained to his wife; 'wants me to go with him; and I feel it 'ud do me good,
weather like this. Bunker's promised him a boat at
Mrs. Burden looked uneasy, and answered
sharply.
'What's the good 0' asking when you've spoke of
it before the boy ?'
'Well, why shouldn't I take him? You might come
along, too: only we're a-goin' to strip up beyond
This was kindness, and it pacified the wife.
'I couldn't go before six,' she said.
'What's the job?'
'Orfices near St. Bride's -- Mrs. Robins wants
'elp; she sent her Sally over to me this mornin'. It'll be an all-day job;
eighteen-pence for me.'
'Bloomin' little, too. You ain't fit for it
this weather.'
'I'm all right!'
'No, you ain't. Billy just said as you'd been
took bad, an' I can see it in yer eyes. Have a day at 'ome, mother.'
'Don't you go fidgetin' about me. Take Billy,
if you like; but just be careful. No puttin' of him into the water.'
''Tain't likely.'
'Cawn't I bathe, dad?' asked Billy.
'Course you cawn't. We're going to swim in the
middle of the river, Jem Pollock an' me -- where it's hawful deep, deep enough
to drownd you fifty times over.'
'The other boys go bathin',' Billy
remonstrated.
'Dessay they do,' cried his mother, 'but you
won't -- so you know! If you want for to bathe, arst Mrs. Crowther to lend you
her washin'-tub, and fill it with water. That won't do you no 'arm, and I don't
mind if you make a bit of a splash, s'long as you don't wet the bed through.'
After all it was a home, a nesting place of
human affections -- this attic in which the occupants had scarcely room to take
half-a-dozen steps. Father, mother, and child, despite the severing tendency of
circumstances, clung together about this poor hearth, the centre of their
world. In the strength of ignorance, they were proof against envy; their
imaginations had never played about the fact of social superiority, which,
indeed, they but dimly understood. Burden and his wife would have been glad,
now and then, of some addition to the weekly income; beyond that they never
aspired. Billy, when he had passed the prescribed grades of school, would begin
to earn money: it did not much matter how: only let the means be honest. To
that the parents looked forward with anticipation of pride. Billy's first
wages! It would warm their hearts to see the coins clutched in his solid little
fist. For this was he born, to develop thews and earn wages.
It did not enter into their conception of
domestic happiness to spend the evening at home, sitting and talking together.
They had very little to say: their attachment was not vocal. Besides, the
stifling heat of the garret made it impossible to rest here until the sun had
long set. So, when tea was finished, Billy ran down again into the street to
mingle with his shouting comrades; Mrs. Burden found a seat on the doorstep,
where she dozed awhile, and then chatted with bare-armed women; and Solomon
sauntered forth for his wonted stroll 'round the 'ouses.' At ten o'clock the
mother took a jug to the neighbouring beerhouse and returned with a 'pot' --
that is to say, a quart -- of 'four ale', which she and Solomon drank for
supper. The lad was lying sound asleep on his mattress, naked but for the thin
shirt which he wore day and night; the weather made bedclothes a superfluity.
Saturday morning showed a change of sky. There
were clouds about, and a wind blew as if for rain. At half-past six Solomon was
ready to start for work. Billy still slept, and the parents subdued their
voices lest they should wake him.
'If it's wet,' said Mrs. Burden, 'you won't go
on the river -- will you?'
'Not if it's thorough wet. Leave the key with
Billy, and if we go you'll find it on the top of the door.'
He set forth as usual: as he had done any day
these eight years, since their marriage. Word of parting seemed unnecessary. He
just glanced round the room, and with bent head passed on to the landing. His
wife did not look after him; she was cutting bread and butter for Billy.
Solomon thought only of the pleasant fact that his labour that day ended at one
o'clock, and that in the afternoon he would perhaps have a swim. Mrs. Burden,
who had suffered a broken night, looked forward with dreary doggedness to ten
hours or more of scrubbing and cleaning, which would bring in eighteen-pence.
And little Billy slept the sleep of healthy childhood.
By mid-day the clouds had passed, but the heat
of the sun was tempered; broad light and soft western breeze made the
perfection of English summer. This Saturday was one of the golden days of a
year to be long remembered.
When he came home from work, Solomon found
Billy awaiting him, all eagerness. They went up to the attic, and ate some
dinner which Burden had brought in his pocket -- two-pennyworth of fried fish
and potatoes, followed by bread and cheese. A visit to the public-house, where
Billy drank from his father's pewter, and they were ready to start for
Blackfriars Bridge, where Solomon's friend, Jem Pollock -- affectionately known
by the name of his favourite liquor, 'Four-half' -- had the use of a boat
belonging to one Thomas Bunker, a lighterman. It was not one of the nimble
skiffs in which persons of a higher class take their pleasure upon the Thames,
but an ungainly old tub, propelled by heavy oars. Solomon and his friend, of
course, knew that the tide would help them upwards; it wanted about an hour to
flood. He was a jovial fellow, this Jem Pollock, unmarried, and less orderly in
his ways of life than Sol Burden; his nickname did him no injustice, for
whenever he had money he drank. A kindly temper saved him from the worst
results of this bibulous habit; after a few quarts of ale he was at his best,
and if he took more it merely sent him to sleep. When Solomon and Billy found
him on the stairs at the south side of the bridge he had just taken his third
pint since dinner, and his red, pimply face beamed with contentment.
'Come along there!' he roared from below.
'Brought that bloomin' big son of yours for ballast, Sol?'
'He can steer, can Bill.'
'He won't 'ave a chawnce. There ain't no
bloomin' rudder on this old ship.'
Billy stepped into the boat, and his father
followed; but their friend was not yet ready to depart. The cause of his delay
appeared when a lad came running down the stairs with a big jar and a tin mug.
'You don't s'ppose I'm a-goin' without a drop
0' refreshment,' Pollock remarked. 'It's water, this is; the best supplied by
the Lambeth Water Company. I've took the pledge.'
This primitive facetiousness helped them
merrily off. Billy sat in the stern; the men each took an oar; they were soon
making good way towards Westminster.
Their progress was noisy: without noise they
could not have enjoyed themselves. The men's shouts and Billy's shrill pipe
were audible on either bank. Opposite the Houses of Parliament they exchanged
abusive pleasantries with two fellows on a barge; bellowing was kept up until
the whole distance between Lambeth Bridge and that of Westminster taxed their
lungs. At Vauxhall Jem Pollock uncorked his jar and poured out a mugful of
tawny ale, vastly to the boy's delight, for Billy had persisted in declining to
believe that the vessel contained mere water. All drank. Solomon refused to let
Billy have more than half a mug, to the scorn of Jem Pollock, who maintained
that four-ale never did anything but good to man, woman, or babe.
At Chelsea the jar was again opened. This time
Pollock drank an indefinite number of mugs, and Solomon all but quarrelled with
him for continuing to tempt Billy. The child had swallowed at least a pint, and
began to show the effect of it: he lay back in the stern, laughing to himself,
his eyes fixed on the blue sky.
A sky such as London rarely knows: of exquisite
purity -- a limpid sapphire, streaked about the horizon with creamy cloudlets.
All the smoke of the city was borne eastward; the zenith shone translucent as
over woodland solitudes. The torrid beams of the past week were forgotten; a
mild and soothing splendour summoned mortals to come forth into the ways of
summer and be glad.
With the last impulse of the flowing tide they
reached the broad water beyond Battersea Bridge, where Solomon began to prepare
himself for a delicious plunge. The boat could not be left to Billy alone;
Pollock was content to wait until Burden had had the first swim. Quickly
stripped, the big-limbed fellow stood where his boy had been sitting, and of a
sudden leapt headlong. Billy yelled with delight at the great splash, and
yelled again triumphantly when his father's head rose to the surface. Solomon
was a fair swimmer, but did not pretend to great achievements; he struck out in
the upward direction and swam for about a quarter of a mile, the boat keeping
along with him; then he was glad to catch hold of the stern. Pollock began to
fling off his clothes.
'My turn, old pal!' he shouted. 'Tumble in, an'
let's have a feel of the coolness.'
Solomon got into the boat, and sat naked at one
of the oars, Billy managing the other. Five minutes saw Jem back again: he had
wallowed rather alarmingly, a result of the gallon or two of ale which
freighted him. Then Burden took another plunge. When he had swum to a little
distance, Pollock whispered to the boy:
'Like to have a dip, Bill?'
'Shouldn't I just! But I can't swim.'
'What's the odds? Go over the side, an' I'll
'old you by the 'ands. Orff with yer things sharp, afore yer fawther sees what
we're up to.,
Billy needed no second invitation. In a minute
he had his clothes off. Pollock seized him by both arms and let him down over
the side of the boat. Solomon swam ahead, and, as the tide had ceased to drift
the boat onwards, he was presently at some distance. With firm grip, Pollock
bobbed the child up and down, the breadth of the tub allowing him to lean
cautiously without risk.
Then the father turned to look, and saw what
was going on. He gave a terrific shout.
'Damn your eyes, Jem! Pull him in, or I'll ----'
''Old yer jaw,' roared the other, laughing.
'He's all right. Let the kid enjoy hisself -- cawn't yer?'
Solomon struck out for the boat.
'He's a-comin'!' said Pollock, all but helpless
with half-drunken laughter.
'Pull me in!' said the child, fearful of his
father's wrath. 'Pull me up!'
And at the same moment he made an effort to
jump upon the gunwale. But Jem Pollock also had bent forward, and the result of
the two movements was that the man overbalanced himself. He fell plump into the
water and sank, Billy with him. From Burden sounded a hoarse cry of agony.
Already tired with swimming, the terrified man impeded himself instead of
coming on more quickly; he splashed and struggled, and again his voice sounded
in a wild shout for help.
There was a boat in sight, but far off. On the
Battersea side a few people could be seen; but they had not yet become aware of
what had happened. From the other bank no aid could be expected.
Pollock came to the surface and alone. He
thought only of making for the boat, as the one way of saving Billy, for he had
no skill in supporting another person whilst he himself swam. But the stress of
the moment was too much for him: like Burden, he lost his head, and by
clutching at the boat pulled it over, so that it began to fill. A cry, a
heartrending scream, from the helpless child, who had just risen, utterly
distracted him; as the boat swamped, he clung madly to it; it capsized, and he
hung by the keel.
Billy was being wafted down the river. Once or twice
his little head appeared above the water, and his arms were flung up. The
desperate father came onwards, but slowly; fear seemed to have unstrung his
sinews, and he struggled like one who is himself in need of assistance. Once
more his voice made itself heard; but Pollock, who was drifting with the boat,
did not answer. And from the drowning child there came no sound.
A steamer was just putting in at Battersea pier
-- too far off to be of use. But by this time some one on the bank of the old
church had seen the boat bottom upwards. An alarm was given.
Too late, save for the rescue of Jem Pollock.
Burden had passed the boat, and was not far from the place where his child had
gone down for the last time; with ordinary command of his strength and skill he
might easily have kept afloat until help neared him; but he sank. Only his
lifeless body was recovered.
And Billy -- poor little chap -- disappeared
altogether. The seaward-rushing Thames bore him along in its muddy depths,
hiding him until the third day; then his body was seen and picked up not far
from the place whence he had started on his merry excursion.
This disaster happened about four of the clock.
Two hours later, Mrs. Burden, having done her day's work and received her pay,
moved homeward.
Since noon she had been suffering greatly;
whilst on her knees, scrubbing floors and staircases, she had several times
felt herself in danger of fainting; the stooping posture intensified a pain
from which she was seldom quite free; and the heat in this small-windowed
warehouse, crowded among larger buildings in an alley off Fleet Street, was
insufferably oppressive; once or twice she lay flat upon the boards, panting
for breath. It was over now: she had earned the Sunday's dinner, and could
return with the feeling of one who had done her duty.
On Monday she would go to Guy's Hospital and
get something for that pain. Six months had passed since her last visit to the
doctor, whose warnings she had heeded but little. It won't do to think too much
of one's ailments. But they must give her a good large bottle of medicine this
time, and she would be careful to take it at the right hours.
She came out into St. Bride's Churchyard, and
was passing on towards Fleet Street when again the anguishing spasm seized upon
her. She turned and looked at the seats under the wall of the church, where two
or three people were resting in the shadowed quiet. It would be better to sit
here for a moment. Her weak and weary limbs bore her with difficulty to the
nearest bench, and she sank upon it with a sigh.
The pain lasted only a minute or two, and in
the relief that followed she was glad to breathe the air of this little open
space, where she could look up at the blue sky and enjoy the sense of repose.
The places of business round about were still and vacant, closed till Monday
morning. Only a dull sound of traffic came from the great thoroughfare, near at
hand as it was. And the wonderful sky made her think of little Billy who was
enjoying himself up the river. She had felt a slight uneasiness about him, now
and then, for Jem Pollock was a reckless fellow at all times, and in weather
like this he was sure to have been drinking freely; but Solomon would look
after the boy.
They would get back about eight o'clock, most
likely. Billy would be hungry; he must have a bit of something for supper --
fried liver, or perhaps some stewed steak. It was time for her to be moving on.
She stood up, but the movement brought on
another attack. Her body sank together, her head fell forwards.
Presently the man who was sitting on the next
bench began to look at her; he smiled -- another victim of the thirsty weather!
And half-an-hour passed before it was
discovered that the woman sitting there in the shadow of St. Bride's Church was
dead.
That night Jem Pollock went to the house in
Southwark where Solomon Burden and his wife and his child had lived. He could
hear nothing of Mrs. Burden. The key of the attic lay on the ledge above the
door; no one had been seen, said the neighbours, since father and son went away
together early that afternoon.
In the little home there was silence.
(National Review, 1893)
(Provided by Mitsuharu Matsuoka, Nagoya
University, Japan,
on 28 October 1997.)