Jones's Alley Page #2

"Jones's Alley" is a short story by Australian writer Henry Lawson, first published in 1892. The narrative offers a vivid portrayal of life in a working-class neighborhood in Sydney, capturing the struggles and camaraderie of its residents. Through the lens of poverty and hardship, Lawson explores themes of friendship, community, and resilience, painting a poignant picture of the human experience. The story is marked by Lawson's characteristic use of humor and irony, highlighting the juxtaposition of despair and hope in the lives of ordinary people.

• Short story

								

assistance, which offer was received in breathlessly indignant silence.
It was Mother Brock who first came to the assistance of Mrs Aspinall's
child when the plaster accident took place (the mother being absent at
the time), and when Mrs Aspinall heard of it, her indignation cured her
of her fright, and she declared to Mrs Next-door that she would give
“that woman”--meaning Mother Brock--“in char-rge the instant she ever
dared to put her foot inside her (Mrs A.'s) respectable door-step
again. She was a respectable, honest, hard-working woman, and---” etc.

Whereat Mother Brock laughed good-naturedly. She was a broad-minded
bad woman, and was right according to her lights. Poor Mrs A. was a
respectable, haggard woman, and was right according to her lights, and
to Mrs Next-door's, perfectly so--they being friends--and vice versa.
None of them knew, or would have taken into consideration, the fact that
the landlord had lost all his money in a burst financial institution,
and half his houses in the general depression, and depended for food for
his family on the somewhat doubtful rents of the remainder. So they were
all right according to their different lights.

Mrs Aspinall even sought sympathy of “John,” the Chinaman (with whom she
had dealt for four months only), and got it. He also, in all simplicity,
took a hint that wasn't intended. He said: “Al li'. Pay bimeby. Nexy
time Flyday. Me tlust.” Then he departed with his immortalized smile. It
would almost appear that he was wrong--according to our idea of Chinese
lights.

Mrs Aspinall went to the court--it was a small local court. Mrs
Next-door was awfully sorry, but she couldn't possibly get out that
morning. The contractor had the landlord up as a witness. The landlord
and the P.M. nodded pleasantly to each other, and wished each other good
morning.... Verdict for plaintiff with costs... Next case!... “You
mustn't take up the time of the court, my good woman.”.. “Now,
constable!”...“Arder in the court!”... “Now, my good woman,” said the
policeman in an undertone, “you must go out; there's another case
on-come now.” And he steered her--but not unkindly--through the door.

“My good woman” stood in the crowd outside, and looked wildly round
for a sympathetic face that advertised sympathetic ears. But others had
their own troubles, and avoided her. She wanted someone to relieve her
bursting heart to; she couldn't wait till she got home.

Even “John's” attentive ear and mildly idiotic expression would have
been welcome, but he was gone. He had been in court that morning,
and had won a small debt case, and had departed cheerfully, under the
impression that he lost it.

“Y'aw Mrs Aspinall, ain't you?”

She started, and looked round. He was one of those sharp, blue or
grey-eyed, sandy or freckled complexioned boys-of-the-world whom we meet
everywhere and at all times, who are always going on towards twenty, yet
never seem to get clear out of their teens, who know more than most of
us have forgotten, who understand human nature instinctively--perhaps
unconsciously--and are instinctively sympathetic and diplomatic; whose
satire is quick, keen, and dangerous, and whose tact is often superior
to that of many educated men-of-the-world. Trained from childhood in the
great school of poverty, they are full of the pathos and humour of it.

“Don't you remember me?”

“No; can't say I do. I fancy I've seen your face before somewhere.”

“I was at your place when little Arvie died. I used to work with him at
Grinder Brothers', you know.”

“Oh, of course I remember you! What was I thinking about? I've had such
a lot of worry lately that I don't know whether I'm on my head or my
heels. Besides, you've grown since then, and changed a lot. You're
Billy--Billy---”

“Billy Anderson's my name.”

“Of course! To be sure! I remember you quite well.”

“How've you been gettin' on, Mrs Aspinall?”

“Ah! Don't mention it--nothing but worry and trouble--nothing but worry
and trouble. This grinding poverty! I'll never have anything else but
worry and trouble and misery so long as I live.”

“Do you live in Jones's Alley yet?”

“Yes.”

“Not bin there ever since, have you?”

“No; I shifted away once, but I went back again. I was away nearly two
years.”

“I thought so, because I called to see you there once. Well, I'm goin'
that way now. You goin' home, Mrs Aspinall?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'll go along with you, if you don't mind.”

“Thanks. I'd be only too glad of company.”

“Goin' to walk, Mrs Aspinall?” asked Bill, as the tram stopped in their
way.

“Yes. I can't afford trams now--times are too hard.”

“Sorry I don't happen to have no tickets on me!”

“Oh, don't mention it. I'm well used to walking. I'd rather walk than
ride.”

They waited till the tram passed.

“Some people”--said Bill, reflectively, but with a tinge of indignation
in his tone, as they crossed the street--“some people can afford to ride
in trams.

“What's your trouble, Mrs Aspinall--if it's a fair thing to ask?” said
Bill, as they turned the corner.

This was all she wanted, and more; and when, about a mile later, she
paused for breath, he drew a long one, gave a short whistle, and said:

“Well, it's red-hot!”

Thus encouraged, she told her story again, and some parts of it for the
third and fourth and even fifth time--and it grew longer, as our stories
have a painful tendency to do when we re-write them with a view to
condensation.

But Bill heroically repeated that it was “red-hot.”

“And I dealt off the grocer for fifteen years, and the wood-and-coal
man for ten, and I lived in that house nine years last Easter Monday and
never owed a penny before,” she repeated for the tenth time.

“Well, that's a mistake,” reflected Bill. “I never dealt off nobody
more'n twice in my life.... I heerd you was married again, Mrs
Aspinall--if it's a right thing to ask?”

“Wherever did you hear that? I did get married again--to my sorrow.”

“Then you ain't Mrs Aspinall--if it's a fair thing to ask?”

“Oh, yes! I'm known as Mrs Aspinall. They all call me Mrs Aspinall.”

“I understand. He cleared, didn't he? Run away?”

“Well, yes--no---he---”

“I understand. He's s'posed to be dead?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's red-hot! So's my old man, and I hope he don't resurrect
again.”

“You see, I married my second for the sake of my children.”

“That's a great mistake,” reflected Bill. “My mother married my
step-father for the sake of me, and she's never been done telling me
about it.”

“Indeed! Did your mother get married again?”

“Yes. And he left me with a batch of step-sisters and step-brothers to
look after, as well as mother; as if things wasn't bad enough before. We
didn't want no help to be pinched, and poor, and half-starved. I don't
see where my sake comes in at all.”

“And how's your mother now?”

“Oh, she's all right, thank you. She's got a hard time of it, but she's
pretty well used to it.”

“And are you still working at Grinder Brothers'?”

“No. I got tired of slavin' there for next to nothing. I got sick of my
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