-
'Tickets, Please!'
D. H.
Lawrence
1919
There is in
the North a single-line system of tramcars 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 dark, 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 bolt 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
blue
and creamy coloured tramcar 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 gasworks, 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
jerky,
jaunty,
somewhat
daredevil,
pert
as
a
blue-tit
out
of
a
black
colliery garden.
To
ride
on
these
cars
is
always
an
adventure.
The
drivers
are
often
men
unfit
for
active service: cripples and
hunchbacks. So they have the spirit of the devil
in them.
The
ride
becomes
a
steeplechase.
Hurrah!
we
have
leapt
in
a
clean
jump
over
the
canal bridges
—
now
for the four-lane corner! With a shriek and a
trail of sparks we
are clear again. To
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
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?
Trams 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, or
else by invalids
who creep forward in terror. The girls are
fearless young hussies. In
their ugly
blue uniforms, 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.
'Halloa, Annie!'
'Halloa,
Ted!'
'Oh,
mind
my
corn,
Miss
Stone!
It's
my
belief
you've
got
a
heart
of
stone,
for you've trod on it again.'
'You should keep it in your pocket,'
replies Miss Stone, and she goes sturdily upstairs
in her high boots.
'Tickets, please.'
She is peremptory, suspicious, and
ready to hit first. She can hold her own against
ten
thousand.
Therefore there is a certain wild
romance aboard these
cars
—
and in the sturdy bosom
of Annie herself. The romantic time is
in the morning, between ten o'clock and one,
when things are rather slack: that is,
except market-day and Saturday. Then Annie has
time to look about her. Then she often
hops off her car and into a shop where she has
spied something, while her driver chats
in the main road. There is very good feeling
between the girls and the drivers. Are
they not companions in peril, shipmates aboard
this careering vessel of a tramcar, for
ever rocking on the waves of a hilly land?
Then, also, in 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 oilskin, 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.
'Halloa, Annie!
Keeping the wet out?'
'Trying to.'
There
are
only
two
people
in
the
car.
Inspecting
is
soon
over.
Then
for
a
long
and
impudent chat on the
footboard
—
a good, easy,
twelve-mile chat.
The
inspector's name is John Joseph Raynor: always
called John Joseph. His face sets
in
fury
when
he
is
addressed,
from
a
distance,
with
this
abbreviation.
There
is
considerable
scandal
about
John
Joseph
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 tramcar at the
depot. Of course, the girls quit the service
frequently. Then
he
flirts
and
walks
out
with
a
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?
Tomorrow they will be aboard again.
Annie,
however,
was
something
of
a
tartar,
and
her
sharp
tongue
had
kept
John
Joseph 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. She could sum him up
pretty well.
In their
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
fully
at
arm's length. Besides,
she had a boy of her own.
The Statutes fair, however, came in
November, at Middleton. It happened that Annie
had the Monday night off. It was a
drizzling, ugly night,
yet she dressed
herself up
and
went
to
the
fairground.
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
coconut
shies
there
were
no
coconuts,
but
artificial
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 fried potatoes and electricity.
Who should be the first to
greet Miss Annie, on the show-ground, but John
Joseph!
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 hardy as ever. She knew
so
well the way his mouth moved.
She was very glad to have a
'boy'. To 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 tramcar, 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 Joseph
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 Joseph made her stay on for the
next round. And therefore she could hardly for
shame to 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 Joseph paid each time, 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
Joseph
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
her
two
large,
pale-blue
hatpins.
And
then,
hearing the noise of
the cinema, 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
Joseph 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
nonchalant
behind
her.
Well,
it
was
fun,
it
was
exciting
to
be
at
the
Statutes with John Joseph.
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 Joseph,
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
Joseph
a
good
deal.
She
felt
so
pleasant
and
warm
in
herself,
whenever
he
was
near.
And
John Joseph
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
gratifying.
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 Joseph
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 was 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
eyes 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 Joseph had taken out. She went to Nora
Purdy. Nora was a tall, rather pale,
but well-built girl, with beautiful yellow hair.
She
was somewhat secretive.
'Hey!' said Annie, accosting her; then,
softly: 'Who's John Joseph 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.'