Seven Christmas Eves: Being the Romance of A Social Evolution

Being a plain person, accustomed to call a spade a spade, and so hope do not give offence—I, the undersigned Mary Cheevers, washer-woman, being called on by some as I have reason, the dear Lord knows, to love and reverence, write my plain story in my own plain way, and with the best of intentions, though a difficulty with the spelling—Eliza’s Grace’s Emmeline not being always handy—and a cramped hand from soaking in the tub for many, many labouring years.

Me and Cheevers was newly married at the time I am asked to go back to, and in poor circumstances, but hopeful, Cheevers doing a small trade in coke an’ cheap vegetables, and me taking in what washing I could get, which was mostly that of poor folks; but poverty will sometimes ’ide a empty cravin’ under a clean shirt, and all the more credit I says, as my motto have been throughout my whole life— and I have seen some ups and downs in my time—Keep Yourself Respectable.

Me and Cheevers lived on the ground floor in Lemon’s-passage East, one room—and glad to keep that over our heads—with the bed kept under the counter in the daytime, and the sacks of coke and greens with bundles of kindling and a package of sulphur matches forming what might be called the stock-in-trade.

You might have expected to see soap, but there was little if any call for such an article—except in my way of business—neither yellow nor mottled, as when only used on Saturday nights one bar will last a wonderful time, and who is to blame you if—your walk in life being a grimy one—you gets into the habit six days out of the seven of going grimy yourself?

Talking of grime, I never see two poor little souls more smothered in it than Them Two.

Being boy and girl and always together, I took it for granted they was brother and sister, but presently found no relations—and made the story pitifuller in my eyes, which Cheevers jeered at as my woman’s way of taking an interest in anything by the nature of sweethearting.

Bless their poor little hearts! Being not more than seven year old, when first my attention was drew to ’em, what could they know of such a thing? But their being both alone in the world, and both half-naked—for such rags I never did see—and both more than half-starved, brought them together; and, if grown people find it impossible to live without something to love and be loved by, how much more two innocent children?

Seven year old, I should say, when first I began to notice them paddling in the gutter or sitting on the warm, greasy step of the fried-fish shop; and though a Jewess—and something unpleasant in a general oiliness—with black ’air you might ’a seen your face in, and garnet rings on yellow, dirty hands—more honour to her for the daily scraps she give ’em.

It was she who told me their names—for Cheevers relished her fried potatoes and eels, though they went against me—and Nick and Nan they were then, and are now, though in such different circumstances, as you might fancy a fairy tale, if not known to be true, and told by an old woman as owes O! many, many prayers for ’em and blessin’s on ’em, more than a grateful heart can ever call down on them two grateful hearts.

So I began by nodding as they passed my door, and them—with their dirty little thumbs in their mouths at first—by and by nodded back; and me, with no more an idea, that they lived by themselves, like two wild animals up in that hole in the roof—which I would not insult a decent attic by giving it the name—until Mr. Rumsey called for his rent on a Saturday, the twenty-fourth of one bleak December, being Christmas Eve, and him stopping to pass a remark or two in a friendly way—for me and Cheevers paid our rent regular—gave me a turn, quite surprising by telling me how the land lay.

“The boy was brought here at three year old or thereabouts,” says he, “by a woman, who gave herself out as his mother, and was, I believe, because of a certain likeness between them.