Board and Residence Page #2

"Board and Residence" is a short story by Australian author Henry Lawson, exploring the lives of poor laborers in the urban landscape of Australia. Set in a boarding house, the narrative delves into the struggles and camaraderie among tenants, depicting their daily hardships, aspirations, and the impact of economic challenges on personal relationships. Lawson's vivid storytelling captures the essence of life in early 20th-century Australia, highlighting themes of class disparity, resilience, and the quest for dignity amidst adversity. Through his poignant prose, Lawson offers a powerful reflection on human experience and community in a rapidly changing society.

• Short story

								

for eighteen shillings per week; she generally took the first week in
advance. We asked him to have a beer--for the want of somebody else to
ask--and after that he said that Mrs Jones was a kind, motherly body,
and understood young fellows; and that we'd be even more comfortable
than in our own home; that we'd be allowed to do as we liked--she wasn't
particular; she wouldn't mind it a bit if we came home late once in
a way--she was used to that, in fact; she liked to see young fellows
enjoying themselves. We afterwards found out that he got so much
on every boarder he captured. We also found out--after paying in
advance---that her gentlemen generally sent out their white things to be
done; she only did the coloured things, so we had to pay a couple of bob
extra a week to have our “biled” rags and collars sent out and done; and
after the first week they bore sad evidence of having been done on the
premises by one of the frowsy daughters. But we paid all the same. And,
good Lord! if she keeps the best table in town, we are curious to see
the worst. When you go down to breakfast you find on the table in front
of your chair a cold plate, with a black something--God knows what it
looks like--in the centre of it. It eats like something scraped off the
inside of a hide and burnt; and with this you have a cup of warm grey
slush called a “cup of tea.” Dinner: A slice of alleged roast beef or
boiled mutton, of no particular colour or taste; three new spuds,
of which the largest is about the size of an ordinary hen's egg, the
smallest that of a bantam's, and the middle one in between, and which
eat soggy and have no taste to speak of, save that they are a trifle
bitter; a dab of unhealthy-looking green something, which might be
either cabbage leaves or turnip-tops, and a glass of water. The whole
mess is lukewarm, including the water--it would all be better cold. Tea:
A thin slice of the aforesaid alleged roast or mutton, and the pick
of about six thin slices of stale bread--evidently cut the day before
yesterday. This is the way Mrs Jones “does” for us for eighteen
shillings a week. The bread gave out at tea-time this evening, and a
mild financial boarder tapped his plate with his knife, and sent the
bread plate out to be replenished. It came back with one slice on it.

The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling the
landlady that he'll have to shift next week--it is too far to go to
work, he cannot always get down in time; he is very sorry he has to go,
he says; he is very comfortable here, but it can't be helped; anyway, as
soon as he can get work nearer, he'll come back at once; also (oh, what
cowards men are when women are concerned), he says he wishes she could
shift and take a house down at the other end of the town. She says
(at least here are some fragments of her gabble which we caught and
shorthanded): “Well, I'm very sorry to lose you, Mr Sampson, very sorry
indeed; but of course if you must go, you must. Of course you can't be
expected to walk that distance every morning, and you mustn't be getting
to work late, and losing your place... Of course we could get breakfast
an hour earlier if... well, as I said before, I'm sorry to lose you and,
indeed... You won't forget to come and see us... glad to see you at any
time...  Well, any way, if you ever want to come back, you know, your bed
will be always ready for you, and you'll be treated just the same, and
made just as comfortable--you won't forget that” (he says he won't);
“and you won't forget to come to dinner sometimes” (he says he won't);
“and, of course... You know I always try... Don't forget to drop in
sometimes... Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent
young fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you'll be sure
to send him to me, will you?” (He says he will.) “Well, of course,
Mr Sampson, etc., etc., etc., and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on,
and-so-on,...” It's enough to give a man rats.

He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless
convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.

This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing to
break away and take to the bush.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes