Michael, indeed, was surprised by the solidity and neatness of the twenty young Augustinians. Judging by the streets from which they came and the mothers who were there to see them off, their families had evidently gone ‘all out’ to get them in condition for Leatherhead.
He stood grinning amiably, while they were ushered out on to the glowing pavement between the unrestrained appreciation of their mothers and sisters. Into the van, open only at the rear, they piled, with four young ladies to look after them.
‘Four-and–twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,’ murmured Michael.
His aunt laughed.
‘Yes, poor little dears, won’t they be hot! But aren’t they good?’ She lowered her voice. ‘And d’you know what they’ll say when they come back after their fortnight? “Oh! yes, we like it all very much, thank you, but it was rather slow. We like the streets better.” Every year it’s the same.’
‘Then, what’s the use of sending them, Aunt May?’
‘It does them good physically; they look sturdy enough, but they aren’t really strong. Besides, it seems so dreadful they should never see the country. Of course we country-bred folk, Michael, never can realize what London streets are to children – very nearly heaven, you know.’
The motor-van moved, to an accompaniment of fluttered handkerchiefs and shrill cheering.
‘The mothers love them to go,’ said his aunt; ‘it’s kind of distinguished. Well, that’s that! What would you like to see next? The street we’ve just bought, to gut and re-gut? Hilary’ll be there with the architect.’
‘Who owned the street?’ asked Michael.
‘He lived in Capri. I don’t suppose he ever saw it. He died the other day, and we got it rather reasonably, considering how central we are, here. Sites are valuable.’
‘Have you paid for it?’
‘Oh! no.’ Her eyebrows twitched. ‘Post-dated a cheque on Providence.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘We had to have the street. It was such a chance. We’ve paid the deposit, and we’ve got till September to get the rest.’
‘How much?’ said Michael.
‘Thirty-two thousand.’
Michael gasped.
‘Oh! We shall get it, dear, Hilary’s wonderful in that way. Here’s the street.’
It was a curving street of which, to Michael, slowly passing, each house seemed more dilapidated than the last. Grimy and defaced, with peeling plaster, broken rails and windows, and a look of having been abandoned to its fate – like some half-burnt–out ship – it hit the senses and the heart with its forlornness.
‘What sort of people live here, Aunt May?’
‘All sorts – three or four families to each house. Covent Garden workers, hawkers, girls in factories, out-of–works – every kind. The unmentionable insect abounds, Michael. The girls are wonderful – they keep their clothes in paper bags. Many of them turn out quite neat. If they didn’t, of course, they’d get the sack, poor dears.’
‘But is it possible,’ said Michael, ‘that people can want to go on living here?’
His aunt’s brows became intricate.
‘It isn’t a question of want, my dear. It’s a simple economic proposition. Where else can they live so cheaply? It’s more than that, even; where else can they go at all, if they’re turned out? The authorities demolished a street not long ago up there, and built that great block of workmen’s flats; but the rents were prohibitive to the people who had been living in the street, and they simply melted away to other slums. Besides, you know, they don’t like those barracky flats, and I don’t wonder. They’d much rather have a little house, if they can; or the floor of a house if they can’t. Or even a room. That’s in the English nature, and it will be till they design workmen’s dwellings better. The English like to live low down: I suppose because they always have. Oh! here’s Hilary!’
Hilary Charwell, in a dark-grey Norfolk suit, a turn-down collar open at the neck, and no hat, was standing in the door-way of a house, talking to another spare man with a thin, and, to Michael, very pleasant face.
‘Well, Michael, my boy, what think you of Slant Street? Each one of these houses is going to be gutted and made as bright as a new pin.’
‘How long will they keep bright, Uncle Hilary?’
‘Oh! That’s all right,’ said Hilary, ‘judging by our experiments so far. Give ’em a chance, and the people are only too glad to keep their houses clean. It’s wonderful what they do, as it is. Come in and see, but don’t touch the walls. May, you stay and talk to James. An Irish lady in here; we haven’t many. Can I come in, Mrs Corrigan?’