A Poor Stick by Arthur Morrison of Stories of Troubled Marriages

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section three of Stories of Troubled Marriages. This is a
library Vox recording. All liberyvox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit liberyvox dot org.
Recording by leanne Yoo. Stories of Troubled Marriages. A Poor

(00:23):
Stick by Arthur Morrison Tales of Mean Streets, London, Methuine
and Co. Eighteen ninety four, Published by permission of Methuine
and Co. Missus Jennings or Ginnins, as the neighbors would
have it, ruled absolutely at home when she took so
much trouble as to do anything at all there, which

(00:46):
was less often than might have been. As for Robert,
her husband, he was a poor stick, said the neighbors.
And yet he was a man with enough of hardihood
to remain a non unionist in the erector's shop at
Maidments all the years of his service. No mean test
of a man's fortitude and resolution, as many a sufferer
for independent opinion might testify. The truth was that Bob

(01:09):
never grew out of his courtship blindness. Missus Jennings governed
as she pleased, stayed out, or came home as she
chose and cooked a dinner, or didn't, as her inclination stood.
Thus it was for ten years, during which time there
were no children, and Bob wore all things uncomplaining, cooking
his own dinner when he found none cooked, and sewing

(01:30):
on his own buttons. Then of a sudden came children,
till in three years there were three, and Bob Jennings
had a nurse and to wash them as often as not.
Missus Jennings at this time was what is called rather
a fine woman, a woman of large scale and full development,
who slatternly habit, left a coarse black hair to tumble

(01:53):
in snake locks about her face and shoulders half the day,
who clad in half hooked clothes, bore herself notoriously and
unabashed in her fullness, and of whom ill things were said.
Regarding the lodger the gossips had their excuse. The lodger
was an irregular young cabinet maker who lost quarters in
halves in whole days, who had been seen abroad with

(02:16):
his landlady. What time Bob Jennings was putting the children
to bed at home, who on his frequent holidays brought
in much beer, which he and the woman shared while
Bob was at work. To carry the tale to Bob
would have been a thankless errand, for he would have
none of anybody's sympathy, even in regard to Miseri's plain
to his eye. But the thing got about in the workshop,

(02:39):
and there his days were made bitter. At home things
grew worse. To return at half past five and find
the children still undressed, screaming, hungry and dirty was a
matter of habit to get them food, to wash them,
to tend the cuts and bumps sustained through the day
of neglect before lighting a fire, and getting tea himself

(03:01):
were matters of daily duty. Ah, he said to his sister,
who came at intervals to say plain things about missus Jennings.
You shouldn't go forward to set a man again His
wife jin mellya doin' like work, I know, but that's
natural to her. She ought to marry the swell stead
of me. She might have done easy if she liked
beIN such a fine girl, but she's guarded, is malyio,

(03:24):
and she can't help being a little thoughtless. Whereat his
sister called him a fool, it was her customary good bye,
at such times, and took herself off. Bob Jennings's intelligence
was sufficient for his common needs, but it was never
a vast intelligence. Now, under a daily burden of dull misery,

(03:45):
it clouded and stooped the base wit of the workshop.
He comprehended less and realized more slowly than before, and
the jaffer cursed him for a sleepy dolt. Missus Jennings
ceased from any pretense of housewife, and would sometimes sit,
perchance not quite sober, while Bob washed the children in

(04:06):
the evening, opening her mouth only to express a contempt
for him and his establishment, and to make him understand
that she was sick of both. Once exasperated by his quietness,
she struck at him, and for a moment he was
another man. Don't do that, Melia, he said, else I
might forget myself. His manner surprised his wife, and it

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was such that she never did do that again. So
was Bob Jennings without a friend in the world, except
a sister who cheered him, and the children who squalled
at him. When his wife vanished with the lodger, the
clock a shade of wax flowers. Bob's best boots, which
fitted the lodger and a silver watch. Bob had returned

(04:53):
as usual to the dirt and the children, and it
was only when he struck a light that he found
the clock was gone. Mammy took to thetoc, said Milly,
the eldest child, who had followed him in from the door,
and now gravely observed as movements. She took to the
tooc and went tartar, and she took to Vivijawers. Boblet

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the paraffin lamp with a green glass reservoir, and carried
it and its evil smell about the house. Some things
had been turned over, and others had gone plainly. All
Mallia's clothes were gone, the lodger was not in, and
under his bedroom window, where his box had stood, there
was nought but an oblong patch of conspicuously clean wall paper.

(05:41):
In a model of doubt and perplexity, Bob found himself
at the front door, staring up and down the street.
Divers women neighbors stood at their doors and eyed him curiously.
For missus Webster moralist opposite, had not watched the day's proceedings,
nor those of many other days for nothing, nor had

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she kept her story to herself. He turned back into
the house, a vague notion of what had befallen percolating
feebly through his bewilderment. I dunno, I dunno. He faltered,
rubbing his ear. His mouth was dry, and he moved
his lips uneasily as he gazed with aimless looks about

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the walls and ceiling. Presently, his eyes rested on the
child and Milly, he said, decisively, come and have your
face washed. He put the children to bed early and
went out in the morning, when a sister came because
she had heard the news. In common with everybody else,

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he had not returned. Bob Jennings had never lost more
than two quarters in his life, but he was not
seen at the workshop all this day. His sister stayed
in the house, and in the evening, at his regular
homing time, he appeared haggard and and began his preparations
for watching the children. When he was made to understand

(07:05):
that they had been already attended to, he looked doubtful
and troubled for a moment. Presently he said, I ain't
found her yet, jin. I was an hope she might
have been back by this I I don't expect she'll
be very long. She was always a bit larky, was malyar,
but very good hearted. His sister had prepared a strenuous

(07:27):
lecture on the theme of I Told you so, But
the man was so broken, so meek, and so plainly
unhinged in his faculties, that she suppressed it. Instead, she
gave him comfortable talk and made him promise in the
end to sleep that night and take up his customary
work in the morning. He did these things, and could

(07:49):
have worked placidly enough had he but been alone. But
the tale had reached the workshop, and there was no
lack of brutish chaff to disorder him. This the decent
men would have no part in, and even protested against,
but the ill conditioned kept their way till at the
cry of bello, when all were starting for dinner, one
of the worst shouted, the cruelest jarb of all, Bob Jennings,

(08:13):
turned on him and knocked him over a scrap peep.
A shout went up from the hurrying workman with a
chorus of serve ye right, and the fallen joker found
himself awkwardly confronted by the shop bruiser. But Bob had
turned to a corner and buried his eyes in the
bend of his arm, while his shoulders heaved and shook.

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He slunk away home and stayed there, walking restlessly to
and fro, and often peeping down the street from the window.
When at twilight his sister came again, he had become
almost cheerful and said, with some briskness, I'm a going
to meet her jin at seven. I know where she'll
be waitin. He went upstairs, and after a little while

(08:57):
came down again in his best black coat, smoothing a
tall hat of obsolete shape with his pocket handkerchief. I
ain't war it for years, he said, I ought to
a war it. It might have pleased her. She is
to say she wouldn't walk with me in no other
When he's to meet her in the evenin at seven o'clock,
he brushed assiduously and put the hat on. I'd better

(09:20):
have a shave round the corners. I go along, he added,
fingering his stubby chin. He received as one, not comprehending
his sister's persuasion to remain at home, But when he
went she followed at a little distance. After his penny shave,
he made for the main road, where company keeping couples
walked up and down all evening. He stopped at a

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church and began pacing slowly to and fro before it,
eagerly looking out each way as he went. His sister
watched him for nearly half an hour, and then went home.
In two hours more, she came back with her husband.
Bob was still there walking to and fro Oh, Bob said,
his brother in law. Come along home and get to bed.

(10:03):
There's a good chap. You'll be all right in the mornin.
She ain't turned up, Bob complained, or else I've missed her.
This is the regular place where I always used to
meet her. But she'll come to morrow. She used to
leave me in the lurch, sometimes, being naturally larky, but
very good hearted, mind yer, very good hearted. She did

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not come the next evening, nor the next, nor the
evening after, nor the one after that. But Bob Jennings,
howbeit depressed and anxious, was always confident. Something's prevented her.
To night, he would say, But she'll come to morrow.
I'll buy a blue tie to morrow. She used to
like me in a blue tie. I won't miss her tomorrow.

(10:51):
I'll come a little earlier, so it went. The black
coat grew ragged in the service, and hobbled. Ahoys finding
him sa sport smashed the tall hat over his eyes.
Time after time he wept over the hat and straightened
it as best he might. Was she coming night after night,

(11:12):
and night and night, but to morrow? End of section three,
A Poor Stick by Arthur Morrison, recording by Leanne Yoo