The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [33]
Basil did not feel able to mention the considerable moneys he disbursed to charities.
Humphry went on. He described the furious decline of the state of an injured worker—a man with a crushed hand or foot, or an eye blinded by splinters. In no time at all he had no house, no food, his children starved, their clothes were pawned, they slept in the workhouse or in the streets, his wife had to sell herself for bread. Mr. Booth and Mr. Rowntree had looked into schooling. At times of no special distress, they found, there were 55,000 children in London schools alone who were too weak from hunger to be expected to learn anything. “Fifty-five thousand is a large number. Now, imagine them one by one, child by child…”
Basil said that he was not a meeting, to be worked up. He would like to find practical solutions to the problem of poverty. He did not think it would be solved by fomenting revolution, or blowing up public buildings and injuring innocent bystanders.
Humphry said, as he had said before in meetings,
“I once walked through Poplar behind two ragged men. They bent continuously to the pavement, picking up orange peel and apple cores, grape stems and crumbs. They cracked the pits of plums between their teeth for the kernels inside. They picked single undigested oats out of horse dung. Can you imagine?”
Florence Cain, who was lifting a shrimp patty to her lips, dropped it on the grass.
Violet said “Really, Humphry, I see no need to disgust and upset the children.”
“Don’t you?” said Humphry. “I hope they will remember, and remember again when they are choosing how to live.”
The boys and girls listened. Tom tasted the plum kernels and oats in his dry mouth. He knew he would sleep badly. Philip wrinkled his brow and backed away. Those lives held up to horrify were his life. He was one of the many who were poor. And he had left his poor mother, and made his sisters poorer. He felt dully angry—not with Basil, the rich man, but with Humphry, who had made him into an object, had appropriated his hunger.
Charles Wellwood was truly affected. He had a logical mind and a Christian upbringing. In school chapels and Sunday services, chaplains and parsons in speckless surplices repeated Christ’s injunction. “Sell all thou hast and give to the poor.” Charles thought this was quite clear, and his mentors and family were either foolish or sinful not to understand. The Christian message was levelling and anarchic. Nobody appeared to hear it. Except possibly his uncle Humphry, who was possibly also writhing with discomfort about the creature comforts that lay about him. He thought he might ask Humphry, one of these days, what was to be done. Out of earshot of his parents. His mother was a good and fearful Lutheran, who gave away both time and money, visiting hospitals for the poor, organising bazaars and clothing collections. But she ate from Meissen porcelain with silver spoons. There were hideous inconsistencies.
Dorothy said to Griselda “Let’s go away and look at the lanterns in the orchard. You’ll have to mind your nice shoes.”
“Silly shoes,” said Griselda, following her cousin.
Geraint automatically sympathised with anyone who was not shouting. He admired Basil’s self-restraint. He loved the sheen on his waistcoat and the sparkle of his studs. There was a mystery in correct dress. There was a mystery in money.