East End (London, England) -- Fiction; London (England) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
So the eleven-five car started sooner than it might have done. As it was
spattering with rain, I boarded it, sharing the conductor's forlorn
hope, but taking care to sit at the extreme fore-end inside. In the
broad street the market clamored and flared, its lights and shadows
flickering and fading about the long churchyard and the steeple in the
midst thereof; and toward the distant lights, the shining road sparkled
in long reaches, like a blackguard river.
A gap fell here and there among the lights where a publican put his gas
out; and at these points the crowds thickened. A quiet mechanic came in,
and sat near a decent woman with children, a bundle, a basket, and a
cabbage. Thirty yards on the car rumbled, and suddenly its hinder end
was taken in a mass of people--howling, struggling, and blaspheming--who
stormed and wrangled in at the door and up the stairs. There were lads
and men whooping and flushed, there were girls and women screaming
choruses; and in a moment the seats were packed, knees were taken, and
there was not an inch of standing room. The conductor cried, "All
full!" and tugged at his bell-strap, whereunto many were hanging by the
hand; but he was swept from his feet, and made to push hard for his own
place. And there was no more foothold on the back platform nor the
front, nor any vacant step upon the stairway; and the roof was thronged;
and the rest of the crowd was fain to waylay the next car.
This one moved off slowly, with shrieks and howls that were racking to
the wits. From divers quarters of the roof came a bumping thunder as of
cellar-flapping clogs. Profanity was sluiced down, as it were by
pailfuls, from above, and was swilled back as it were in pailfuls from
below. Blowses in feathered bonnets bawled hilarious obscenity at the
jiggers. A little maid with a market-basket, hustled and jostled and
elbowed at the far end, listened eagerly and laughed when she could
understand; and the quiet mechanic, whose knees had been invaded by an
unsteady young woman in a crushed hat, tried to look pleased. My own
knees were saved from capture by the near neighborhood of an enormous
female, seated partly on the seat and partly on myself, snorting and
gulping with sleep, her head upon the next man's shoulder. (To offer
your seat to a standing woman would, as beseems a foreign antic, have
been visited by the ribaldry of the whole crowd.) In the midst of the
riot the decent woman sat silent and indifferent, her children on and
about her knees. Further along, two women ate fish with their fingers
and discoursed personalities in voices which ran strident through the
uproar, as the odor of their snack asserted itself in the general fetor.
And opposite the decent woman there sat a bonnetless drab, who said
nothing, but looked at the decent woman's children as a shoeless brat
looks at the dolls in a toyshop window.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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