tickets,please

Tickets, Please

by D. H. LAWRENCE

There is in the Midlands a single-line tramway system which boldly leaves

the county town and plunges off into the black, industrial countryside, up hill and

down dale, through the long ugly villages of workmen's houses, over canals and

railways,

past

churches

perched

high

and

nobly

over

the

smoke

and

shadows,

through stark, grimy cold little market-places, tilting away in a rush past cinemas

and shops down to the hollow where the collieries are, then up again, past a little

rural church, under the ash trees, on in a rush to the terminus, the last little ugly

place of industry, the cold little town that shivers on the edge of the wild, gloomy

country beyond. There the green and creamy coloured tram-car seems to pause and

purr with curious satisfaction. But in a few minutes

—

the clock on the turret of the

Co-operative Wholesale Society's Shops gives the time

—

away it starts once more

on

the

adventure.

Again

there

are

the

reckless

swoops

downhill,

bouncing

the

loops:

again

the

chilly

wait

in

the

hill-top

market-place:

again

the

breathless

slithering round the precipitous drop under the church: again the patient halts at

the loops, waiting for the outcoming car: so on and on, for two long hours, till at

last the city looms beyond the fat gas- works, the narrow factories draw near,

we

are in the sordid streets of the great town, once more we sidle to a standstill at our

terminus,

abashed

by

the

great

crimson

and

cream-coloured

city

cars,

but

still

perky,

jaunty,

somewhat

dare-devil,

green

as

a

jaunty

sprig

of

parsley

out of

a

black colliery garden.

T

o ride on these cars is always an

adventure. Since we are in war-time, the

drivers are men unfit for active service: cripples and hunchbacks. So they have the

spirit of the

devil

in

them.

The

ride

becomes

a

steeple-chase.

Hurray!

we

have

leapt in a clear jump over the canal bridges

—

now for the four- lane corner. With a

shriek and a trail of sparks we are clear again. T

o be sure, a tram often leaps the

rails

—

but what matter! It sits in a ditch till other trams come to haul it out. It is

quite common for a car, packed with one solid mass of living people, to come to a

dead halt in the midst of unbroken blackness, the heart of nowhere on a dark night,

and for the driver and the girl conductor to call, 'All get off

—

car's on fire!' Instead,

however, of rushing out in a panic, the passengers stolidly reply: 'Get on

—

get on!

We're

not

coming

out.

We're

stopping

where

we

are.

Push

on,

George.'

So

till

flames actually appear.

The reason for this reluctance to dismount is that the nights are howlingly

cold, black, and windswept, and a car is a haven of refuge. From village to village

the miners travel, for a change of cinema, of girl, of pub. The trams are desperately

packed. Who is going to risk himself in the black gulf outside, to wait perhaps an

hour for another tram, then to see the forlorn notice 'Depot Only', because there is

something wrong! Or to greet a unit of three bright cars all so tight with people

that they sail past with a howl of derision. T

rams that pass in the night.

This,

the

most

dangerous

tram-service

in

England,

as

the

authorities

themselves declare, with pride, is entirely conducted by girls, and driven by rash

young men, a little crippled, or by delicate young men, who creep forward in terror.

The girls are fearless young hussies. In their ugly blue uniform, skirts up to their

knees, shapeless old peaked caps on their heads, they have all the sang-froid of an

old non-commissioned officer. With a tram packed with howling colliers, roaring

hymns downstairs and a sort of antiphony of obscenities upstairs, the lasses are

perfectly

at

their

ease.

They

pounce

on

the

youths

who

try

to

evade

their

ticket-machine. They push off the men at the end of their distance. They are not

going to be done in the eye

—

not they. They fear nobody

—

and everybody fears

them.

'Hello, Annie!'

'Hello, T

ed!'

'Oh, mind my corn, Miss Stone. It's my belief you've got a heart of stone, for

you've trod on it again.'

'Y

ou should keep it in your pocket,' replies Miss Stone, and she goes sturdily

upstairs in her high boots.

'T

ickets, please.'

She is peremptory, suspicious, and ready to hit first. She can hold her own

against ten thousand. The step of that tram-car is her Thermopylae.

Therefore,

there

is

a

certain

wild

romance

aboard

these

cars

—

and

in

the

sturdy

bosom

of

Annie

herself.

The

time

for

soft

romance

is

in

the

morning,

between

ten

o'clock

and

one,

when

things

are

rather

slack:

that

is,

except

market-day and Saturday. Thus Annie has time to look about her. Then she often

hops off her car and into a shop where she has spied something, while the driver

chats in the main road. There is very good feeling between the girls and the drivers.

Are

they

not

companions

in

peril,

shipments

aboard

this

careering

vessel

of

a

tram-car, for ever rocking on the waves of a stormy land?

Then, also, during the easy hours, the inspectors are most in evidence. For

some reason, everybody employed in this tram-service is young: there are no grey

heads. It would not do. Therefore the inspectors are of the right age, and one, the

chief, is also good-looking. See him stand on a wet, gloomy morning, in his long

oil-skin, his peaked cap well down over his eyes, waiting to board a car. His face

is ruddy, his small brown moustache is weathered, he has a faint impudent smile.

Fairly tall and agile, even in his

waterproof, he springs aboard a car and

greets

Annie.

'Hello, Annie! Keeping the wet out?'

'T

rying to.'

There are only two people in the car. Inspecting is soon over. Then for a long

and impudent chat on the foot-board, a good, easy, twelve-mile chat.

The inspector's name is John Thomas Raynor

—

always called John Thomas,

except sometimes, in malice, Coddy. His face sets in fury when he is addressed,

from a distance, with this abbreviation. There is considerable scandal about John

Thomas in half a dozen villages. He flirts with the girl conductors in the morning,

and

walks out with them in the dark night, when they leave their tram-car at the

depot. Of course, the girls quit the service frequently. Then he flirts and walks out

with the newcomer: always providing she is sufficiently attractive, and that she

will consent to walk.

It is remarkable, however, that most of the girls are quite

comely, they are all young, and this roving life aboard the car gives them a sailor's

dash

and

recklessness.

What

matter

how

they

behave

when

the

ship

is

in

port.

T

omorrow they will be aboard again.

Annie, however, was something of a Tartar, and her sharp tongue had kept

John Thomas at arm's length for many months. Perhaps, therefore, she liked him

all the more: for he always came up smiling, with impudence. She watched him

vanquish one girl, then another. She could tell by the movement of his mouth and

eyes, when he flirted with her in the morning, that he had been walking out with

this lass, or the other, the night before. A

fine cock-of-the-walk he was. She could

sum him up pretty well.

In this subtle antagonism they knew each other like old friends, they were as

shrewd with one another almost as man and wife. But Annie had always kept him

sufficiently at arm's length. Besides, she had a boy of her own.

The Statutes fair, however, came in November, at Bestwood. It happened that

Annie had the Monday night off. It

was

a drizzling ugly

night,

yet she dressed

herself up and

went to the fair ground. She was alone, but she expected soon to

find a pal of some sort.

The roundabouts were veering round and

grinding out their music, the side

shows were making as much commotion as possible. In the coco-nut shies there

were no coco-nuts, but artificial war- time substitutes, which the lads declared were

fastened into the irons. There was a sad decline in brilliance and luxury. None the

less, the ground was muddy as ever, there was the same crush, the press of faces

lighted up by the flares and the electric lights, the same smell of naphtha and a few

fried potatoes, and of electricity.

Who

should

be

the

first

to

greet

Miss

Annie

on

the showground

but

John

Thomas? He had a black overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a tweed cap pulled

down over his brows, his face between was ruddy and smiling and handy as ever.

She knew so well the way his mouth moved.

She was very glad to have a 'boy'. T

o be at the Statutes without a fellow was

no fun. Instantly, like the gallant he was, he took her on the dragons, grim-toothed,

round-about switchbacks. It was not nearly so exciting as a tram-car actually. But,

then,

to

be seated

in

a shaking,

green

dragon,

uplifted

above

the sea of

bubble

faces,

careering

in

a

rickety

fashion

in

the lower

heavens,

whilst John

Thomas

leaned over her, his cigarette in his mouth, was after all the right style. She was a

plump, quick, alive little creature. So she was quite excited and happy.

John Thomas made her stay on for the next round. And therefore she could

hardly for shame repulse him when he put his arm round her and drew her a little

nearer to him, in a very warm and cuddly manner. Besides, he was fairly discreet,

he kept his movement as hidden as possible. She looked down, and saw that his

red, clean hand was out of sight of the crowd. And they knew each other so well.

So they warmed up to the fair.

After the dragons they went on the horses. John Thomas paid each time, so

she could but be complaisant. He, of course, sat astride on the outer horse

—

named

'Black

Bess'

—

and

she

sat

sideways,

towards

him,

on

the

inner

horse

—

named

'Wildfire'. But of course John Thomas

was not going to sit discreetly on 'Black

Bess', holding the brass bar. Round they spun and heaved, in the light. And round

he swung on his wooden steed, flinging one leg across her mount, and perilously

tipping up

and

down, across the space, half lying back, laughing at her. He was

perfectly happy; she was afraid her hat was on one side, but she was excited.

He threw quoits on a table, and won for her two large, pale-blue hat- pins. And

then,

hearing

the

noise

of

the

cinemas,

announcing

another

performance,

they

climbed the boards and went in.

Of course, during these performances pitch darkness falls from time to time,

when

the

machine

goes

wrong.

Then

there

is

a

wild

whooping,

and

a

loud

smacking of simulated kisses. In these moments John Thomas drew Annie towards

him. After all, he had a wonderfully warm, cosy way of holding a girl with his arm,

he seemed to make such a nice fit. And, after all, it was pleasant to be so held: so

very comforting and cosy and nice. He leaned over her and she felt his breath on

her hair; she knew he wanted to kiss her on the lips. And, after all, he was so warm

and she fitted in to him so softly. After all, she wanted him to touch her lips.

But the light sprang up; she also started electrically, and put her hat straight.

He left his arm lying nonchalantly behind her. Well, it was fun, it was exciting to

be at the Statutes with John Thomas.

When the cinema was over they went for a walk across the dark, damp fields.

He had all the arts of love-making. He was especially good at holding a girl, when

he sat with her on a stile in the black, drizzling darkness. He seemed to be holding

her in space, against his own warmth and

gratification.

And his kisses were soft

and slow and searching.

So

Annie

walked

out

with

John

Thomas,

though

she

kept

her

own

boy

dangling in the distance. Some of the tram-girls chose to be huffy. But there, you

must take things as you find them, in this life.

There was no mistake about it, Annie liked John Thomas a good deal. She felt

so rich and warm in herself whenever he was near. And John Thomas really liked

Annie,

more

than

usual.

The

soft,

melting

way

in

which

she

could

flow

into

a

fellow

, as if she melted into his very bones, was something rare and good. He fully

appreciated this.

But with a developing acquaintance there began a developing intimacy. Annie

wanted to consider him a person, a man; she wanted to take an intelligent interest

in him,

and to have an intelligent response. She did not

want a mere nocturnal

presence, which was what he was so far. And she prided herself that he could not

leave her.

Here

she

made

a

mistake.

John

Thomas

intended

to

remain

a

nocturnal

presence; he had no idea of becoming an all-round individual to her. When she

started

to

take

an

intelligent

interest

in

him

and

his

life

and

his

character,

he

sheered off. He hated intelligent interest. And he knew that the only way to stop it

was to avoid it. The possessive female was aroused in Annie. So he left her.

It is no use saying she was not surprised. She was at first startled, thrown out

of her count. For she had been so very sure of holding him. For a while she was

staggered,

and

everything

became

uncertain

to

her.

Then

she

wept

with

fury,

indignation, desolation, and misery. Then she had a spasm of despair. And then,

when he came, still impudently, on to her car, still familiar, but letting her see by

the movement of his head that he had gone away to somebody else for the time

being, and was enjoying pastures new

, then she determined to have her own back.

She had a very shrewd idea what girls John Thomas had taken out. She went

to

Nora

Purdy.

Nora

was

a

tall,

rather

pale,

but

well- built

girl,

with

beautiful

yellow hair. She was rather secretive.

'Hey!'

said

Annie,

accosting

her;

then

softly,

'Who's John

Thomas

on

with

now?'

'I don't know

,' said Nora.

'Why tha does,' said Annie, ironically lapsing into dialect. 'Tha knows as well

as I do.'

'Well, I do, then,' said Nora. 'It isn't me, so don't bother.'

'It's Cissy Meakin, isn't it?'

'It is, for all I know

.'

'Hasn't he got a face on him!' said Annie. 'I don't half like his cheek. I could

knock him off the foot-board when he comes round at me.'

'He'll get dropped- on one of these days,' said Nora.

'A

y, he will, when somebody makes up their mind to drop it on him. I should

like to see him taken down a peg or two, shouldn't you?'

'I shouldn't mind,' said Nora.

'Y

ou've got quite as much cause to as I have,' said Annie. 'But we'll drop on

him one of these days, my girl. What? Don't you want to?'

'I don't mind,' said Nora.

But as a matter of fact, Nora was much more vindictive than Annie.

One by one Annie went the round of the old flames. It so happened that Cissy

Meakin left the tramway service in quite a short time. Her mother made her leave.

Then John Thomas was on the qui-vive. He cast his eyes over his old flock. And

his eyes lighted on Annie. He thought she would be safe now

. Besides, he liked

her.

She arranged to walk home with him on Sunday night. It so happened that her

car would be in the depot at half past nine: the last car would come in at 10:15. So

John Thomas was to wait for her there.

At

the

depot the

girls

had

a

little

waiting-room

of

their own.

It

was

quite

rough, but cosy, with a fire and an oven and a mirror, and table and wooden chairs.

The half dozen girls who knew John Thomas only too well had arranged to take

service this Sunday

afternoon. So, as the cars began to come in, early, the girls

dropped into the waiting-room. And instead of hurrying off home, they sat around

the

fire

and

had

a

cup

of

tea.

Outside

was

the

darkness

and

lawlessness

of

wartime.