It was enough. I could read men a little. To Mick
women--all women--were sacred creatures. In the scheme of nature woman
was good and man was evil. Passion was a male attribute, an evil fire
that scorched and burned and rendered impotent the protesting innocence
of hapless femininity....
So we tramped. One public works after the other we made, always with
the same result--no chance of a take-on. Often we got a lift in food,
ale, or even cash from some gang where one of us was known, but that
was all. Everywhere the reply to our request for a job was the same:
Full Up. And then we made Liverpool.
My favourite kip in Liverpool was Bevington House in the Scotland Road
district, but on this occasion I had news that Twinetoes, an old mate
of mine, had taken in that night at a private doss-house, and the
probability was that he would not only give us a lift but would be able
to tell us pretty accurately what was the state of the labour market.
It was a rotten kip. Four men were squabbling over the frying pan when
we entered, and over against the far wall sat an old crone, crooning an
Irish song.
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