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Chapter 5
HENRY and HENRY
THE NEXT DAY WAS SUNDAY; I resolved to take Sally to a proper tea. We greeted Sunday with a certain measure of joy, as Sunday represented a brief respite from factory work. Being good Anglican Christians, even the soulless management of WSPFS did not require us to work on Sunday. Sunday was ostensibly a day of rest. Aside from morning prayers, on Sunday, we were free for the most part to do as we pleased. Of course, since there wasn’t any factory work, Sundays included numerous domestic chores like sweeping the barracks, airing out of the dormitory and laundry. If one worked diligently, sometimes there was time in the late afternoon to pursue leisure.
It wasn’t as if we were exactly prisoners of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. In theory, slavery was abolished in Great Britain in 1770 much to the haughty superior and forward thinking House of Lords, who looked down upon their neighbors across the pond. These same legislative superiors never hesitated one instant to profit from an institution that required our English-speaking cousins to fight a bloody civil war to accomplish the same legislative achievement.
I should probably explain that even though I worked some sixty-eight hours a week, I never saw any money. I was never paid so much as a brass farthing; I was in fact in debt. I owed my wages to the company. Each month I received a bill detailing the cost of my housing, found and upkeep. The long and the short of the argument was, despite any haughty notion of emancipation by act of Parliament in 1770, we were for practical purposes slaves of the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory. First, there was nowhere to go; secondly, we were all destitute. I owed my soul to the company store. Some of us were so in debt that even if we worked five-hundred hours a week we could never be free. This was the harsh reality of the mercantile system of the nineteenth century.
On this morning, on this particular Sunday, I was so happy. I had a whole shilling in my purse. At first, I didn’t know what to do with such leisure, money in my pocket. This was a new experience. We scrubbed our faces and put on what amounted to our best clothes and rode the lift down to the Greene street exit. Sally and I set out on the streets of London to have a proper tea. We left our troubles, the dark gloom of the brick Asch building behind. We set out on a Sunday afternoon lark. Walking in fresh air, blue birds in summer, on a glorious Sunday afternoon, this was the one happy pursuit that the London Mercantile and Shirtwaist factory had not yet figured out how to charge to the company store. Sally and I walked; we walked past the powerhouse, we set off towards Wilmington square.
We were summarily turned away from the first establishment. The proprietor turned his nose up at us.
"We don't serve your kind here!"
I looked at Sally, and looked down at my own grey smock. It was worn but clean, our faces and hands were scrubbed bright, we had on fresh crisp aprons and our best poke bonnets. Even though I had a shilling in my pocket, it seemed as though we were second class-citizens. The second place we tried we had more luck, it wasn't so fancy as homey. It was run by an elderly couple, they fussed over us. It was such a lovely tea, with crisp cucumber sandwiches, lemon curd, and strawberry tarts. We had two full pots of tea, lemon, sugar. It was the loveliest experience of my life. It cost eight pence, but I was glad to pay.
After our tea, Sally and I walked in the warm afternoon sun to Wilmington Square, where the streets converged there was a park, a pleasant place where families gathered under the shade of noble oaks. In the center was a great statue of King George III, and his court of noisey, hungry pigeons. This is the place where Sally and I came to sit that afternoon, this is where I met Domino. This is how I met my two life-brothers, Henry and Henry. I already had eight brothers, who could have thought I needed two more?
Domino, he was so friendly, he came up to us at once, tail wagging. Sally said she didn’t much care for dogs, but I couldn’t resist. Domino was a beautiful black and white spotted Dalmatian. Growing up in the Welsh countryside, I had never seen a Dalmatian and he seemed most exotic. I think it was mostly that I missed my own dog Jack. That Domino instantly stole my heart. Domino, that was his name, even though I didn’t know it at the time. I alternated between calling him “Dog” and “Boy” before finally settling on “Wacky” for White and black and because he was so silly and full of fun. Domino he was a prince. He was the grandest and most wonderful dog I had ever met. We played in the park until we were silly.
Domino, he was so much fun that was I was caught quite by surprise when the gong of the fire bell sounded.
“WACKY! COME BACK!”
People think that the Dalmatian firehouse dog is a tradition, just a mascot. Dalmatians it seems get along exceptionally well with horses. In the age of the steamer, horses and fire runs, nothing could be further from the truth. It was the job of the firehouse dog, to clear the way, to clear the street for the thundering steeds as they exited the firehouse.
Domino he knew he was important. He was a coach dog; he took off like an electric charge. Before I knew it, Domino was gone across the street racing for the firehouse. All pandemonium broke loose. It was organized chaos of the first order. The horses, they knew what to do, the jangle of the alarm bells; they left their stalls and fell into line behind the fire pumper. Domino, he charged into the fray like a sergeant, barking orders as the horses, the firefighters spilled down this long shinny steel pole. With in three minutes the horses were hitched and great gouts of black smoke poured from the steam boiler. Only then, did the Fire Captain lash the team, the fire bell clanged, the company thundered from the firehouse. I watched as Domino charged fearlessly, under the flashing hooves of the horses. It was the most thrilling experience of my life.
I always felt a little bit guilty, poor Sally, I think I paid more attention that afternoon to Domino than I did my friend Sally. He must have made an impression on me, because next Sunday, early, despite Sally's protests, I was ensconced like a schoolgirl in the park across from the Wilmington Street firehouse, I waited for Domino, I waited for the fire bell to ring.
In the summer of 1878, I had very little hope to occupy my life. I was a skinny little vagabond nothing. My hair, my beautiful hair had started to grow back, my natural hair was silky fine with just the slightest tinge of strawberry blonde. The oppressive factory work took its toll on my hair, it seemed I never had time or spirit to take care of myself. My hair hung in hanks, in greasy unkempt clumps, I was hideous.
I always thought it unfair how God could have given me such beautiful hair and such an awful body. I was so boyish and gangly; I was nothing really to look at. I was worked to the bone; any hint of puberty was stunted by malnutrition. My boobs, such as they were, my burgeoning womanly shape may have eventually precluded me from crawling under machinery, but I never thought my breast were such as to be attractive to men. Clad in my factory smock, I was a drab little barefoot creature; a was a penniless, destitute, skinny, malnourished girl with no hope, no prospects, no family and no future.
Domino, he didn’t care, he didn’t know . . . He didn't know I was a hideous little gamine. He came up to me without judgment, with joy in his heart. We played in front of the Wilmington square firehouse. One shilling, remember the shilling? Twelve pence, I still had four pence left. I found out for two pence I could buy some nice scraps of meat from the butcher. I ended up spending the rest of the shilling on treats for Domino. Domino he wolfed them down. Sally disapproved; she said it was a sin to waste money on feeding a dog. I said it was my money and I could do as I pleased. Domino was happy to oblige.
Domino, he didn’t much care, he didn’t know I was a scrawny little nothing. He came to me with joy in his heart. I had some kidneys wrapped in brown paper. Domino was hungry as usual. We played in front of the statue of King George. It was here, in Wilmington Square on a Sunday afternoon that I met Henry. Sally, she was always jealous of me. Even though we had our understanding, she always liked me more than I wanted to like her. When I met Henry, when Henry became important in my life, Sally and I had our big falling out.
Why Henry ever noticed me, to this day, I will never know. I always thought Sally was so much better looking, she was taller, more mature, and her boobs were bigger than mine.
“Oy, Mate, that’s my dog!”
'Oy yourself, and I'm not your Mate."
"Sorry, but that's my dog."
I looked up, it was man, a boy really, he had a ruddy cheerful face, sandy blonde hair. He was trying to grow a mustache. Domino he was such a sport, he broke the ice and got us over our awkward moment. Domino wolfed the kidneys greedily.
"My name is Henry . . . this is Domino."
Henry and Henry were two brothers, second-generation fire fighters at the Wilmington Square Pumper Co. 99 Firehouse. Their father, Henry Sr. was Captain of the firehouse until his death in 1876. Firefighting it seemed was both a dangerous and a family business. His son, Henry Jr. was twenty-eight. Henry Jr. was born sickly and not expected to live. Therefore, when his younger brother was born, he also was named Henry. In the firehouse, this never seemed to cause any confusion. Henry Jr. was the acting Fire Captain. His younger brother, Henry III, my Henry, was seventeen; he was the second assistant engineer.
Henry’s older brother, Henry Jr. was the senior Fireman, the boiler engineer, and acting Fire Captain. He was very serious in regards to the care and service of his fire wagon. There was no foolishness with Henry Jr. He kept a constant low fire in boiler number two. The horses were trained, ready and groomed. Domino he knew what to do. If the telegraph alarm sounded a mere couple of shovels of coal and Henry Jr. could have full head of steam, in the same amount of time it took his men to slide down the pole and harness the horses, they could be off. This was a source of great pride, and great importance to Henry Jr.
Henry and I hit it off from the start.
"Are you a real fireman?" I ask.
"Second assistance to the boiler engineer." Henry said proudly, "That's my brother Henry Jr., he's the engineer on Pumper no. 99."
"You brother's name is Henry?" I was confused.
"My Father's name is Henry too." Henry laughed, "Henry Sr. he was the Captain of the fire house, he got burnt to death last year, when part of a wall collapsed. Three other firemen were killed that day too." I said I was sorry, then not knowing what else to say, added that I thought firefighting must be grim business.
"Not all the time, some days it's bloody exciting. What say we pop 'round back and I'll show you the horses!"
Henry took us across the street to the firehouse, Henry showed us the horses, a white, "Hokey," a dapple-grey, "Pokey," and a black horse named "Smokey." I brushed their soft noses. Domino was all very interested, he circled the fire house and watched our every move. Henry showed us the brass bell on the pumper wagon and the gauges where Henry Jr. monitored the steam pressure.
"So how do you know when there's a fire?" I was immediately embarrassed because I thought my question stupid.
Henry didn't think so at all, and he was more than happy to explain. The firehouse was connected by telegraph, to every Police call box in the whole of London. When there was a fire, a Bobby turned a key that sent a telegraph message to the fire house. If there was a fire anywhere in the city, they knew within minutes. I never knew such a wonderful and romantic job existed. Compared to crawling around on a factory floor half-naked, Henry's job seemed a world a way.
I was fascinated with the fire pole.
"Wanna give it a go?"
"Oh, no I couldn't."
"Com'on."
We climbed an iron spiral staircase up to the second floor where the firemen ate and slept. We walked past a row of raincoats and boots always at the ready. Henry took us to the edge of the black hole periced by a shinny steel pole.
"Have a go, it's easy, like falling off a log."
"That's the problem," I muttered under my breath. Henry leapt to the pole and neatly slid down to the ground. I must say, it did look like fun.
"It's much faster than the stairs, well, com'on!"
Sally was afraid, I was afraid too. But I wasn't going to let Sally know just how scared I was. I closed my eyes and leapt into space. Its a wonder I didn't break my fool neck. It was the scariest and most exhilarating thing I had ever done in my whole life. After a few more trys, I was sliding down that pole like a real fireman.
Henry laughed, "There now, Bob is your uncle!"
Eventually, even Sally worked up enough nerve to try it. We had so much fun, we laughed so hard, before we knew it, the afternoon was gone.
I was up front with Henry from the start, I told him I had no money, I had no family. I was an indentured employee at the London Shirtwaist factory and I only had every other Sunday afternoon off. I told him I was only thirteen-years-old. Henry, he didn’t seem to care; he said he’d wait for me. I told him I didn't see why he should wait for me, I wasn’t pretty, I didn’t think I was pretty at all.
“I think you’re beautiful.” Henry said, “When I get enough money saved, I’m going to come for you, I’m going to buy your contract, I'm going to take you away from all of this.”
I shook my head, it wasn't possible. "My contract is four pounds, nine shillings. How much money can you earn as a second assistant to the fireman?”
“You just watch, I’ll work weekends, I’ll work seven days a week. I’ll clean the horses’ stalls if I have too, I’ll come for you baby.”
Henry’s promise gave me purpose in life. For the first time since being kidnapped, dragged from my home and sold into indenture-ship, I looked to the future. I worked; I worked harder than I ever worked in my life. I even volunteered for extra shifts so I could manage to save a few farthings. Every day, each hour, I thought that brought me that much closer to Sunday, and Sunday meant freedom; I could see Henry, and Domino.
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