Extracts from Shan
Bullock, Robert Thorne: the Story of a
London Clerk. London: T. Werner Laurie 1907.
[Shan Bullock
(1865-1935) was an Ulsterman raised on a large estate to which his father was
bailiff. Robert Thorne is intensely
autobiographical: Bullock spent the whole of his working life as a government
clerk in London. In the novel, his hero is the son of a Devon schoolmaster who,
to the horror of his father, seeks a 'Man clerkship in the Civil Service' after
hearing about the pleasures of London from Jack, a visiting friend. As soon as
he takes up his post a cynical friend, Oliver, puts him right about life as a
clerk in the Tax Office. These extracts make an interesting comparison with
Pooter's life in the Diary.]
I heard a great deal about Jack's office, much of it I fear a little rose-coloured. His picture of official life pleased me: easy hours, easy work, pleasant company, long holidays, good pay and prospects. It was just the thing, said Jack, for decent fellows who wanted a safe billet. The examination was nothing. A while's grinding with a good Coach, a clear head and a bit of luck, and the thing was done. Why did I not have a go? It was ridiculous, said Jack, wasting one's life in the country. No fun, no chance, no anything (4).
[Robert Thorne's father objects violently to his son's proposal to become a clerk:]
'You want to be like him, perched on a stool all day with your nose to a ledger. You want his pale face, and his slouch, and his simper. I suppose he's been telling you about his London experiences too and all the devilments he's learnt. . . . 'Sir,' cried father at last, 'haven't I told you better. Haven't I taught you that what a man owes to himself is to strive after manhood. A clerk with a clerk's narrow little soul -- is that your idea of a man! I'd rather see you carrying letters like Job Hawkins. I'd sooner see you serving cheese behind Jago's counter . . .
'No, you can't help yourself. And why? Because yourself is not worth helping. You have the spirit of a slave, sir. A clerk! A creature with a pen behind its ear!' (6-7)
At Mr Cherry's bidding I hung my hat on a certain peg, signed my name in the attendance book, and in a round-backed wooden chair sat down. I was initiated. I was one of Her Majesty's servants. On everything about me, the table, the chair, the hat-rack, the tumblers and water-bottle on the mantel, the pens and pencils and paper which Mr Higgs, otherwise Bill, brought me, on the blue and white duster with which Mr Cherry polished my table, was stamped the potent V.R.; yes, and I myself was branded, and already, whatever might happen now, I had right to one three hundred and sixty-fifth part of eighty pounds a year (37).
[Thorne's friend Oliver puts him right about working as a clerk:]
'You didn't choose the Tax Office, I suppose? No. Of course not. What place had you on the list? Eighty-sixth. I thought so. If you'd been a bit higher up they might have given you a chance somewhere; as it is -- ' Oliver gave a vicious stab at the fire and flung the poker into the fender. 'Well, you're here,' he finished.
I hardly knew what he meant; but I gathered that, for some reason, he was not content. 'Isn't the Tax Office a good one, then?' I asked.
'It isn't, then. It's one of the worst. Wait till you've been here a while -- five years, we'll say, like myself -- and you'll know. A man gets no chance. What chance have we, anyway? They take us and call us Men clerks. Men clerks! Just as they talk of Buck niggers. And they put us in gangs in offices, and there we are with prospect of two-fifty a year some time when we're grey headed and the kick-out at sixty with what they call a pension.'
Such talk was not pleasant to hear, and it was mystifying. 'But one needn't stay a Man clerk,' I ventured.
'Oh, no. That's true. I used to think like that myself. We all do. Of course you've got the usual notions. You're going to study and get on. . . . Yes. Well, I won't call you a fool,' said Oliver, with his harsh little laugh, 'but I'll bet you my month's screw that before two years you're thinking more of marrying than studying.'
'Oh,' said I, and thought instantly of Nell. 'Do you really think that? And why?'
'Because I know,' answered Oliver. 'There's something in the air -- there's something in the breed of us. I suppose we're fit for nothing else. D'you think if we were men we'd be content to sit here toasting our toes at an office fire? Not likely! We'd be out doing something -- policemen, or driving a bus or something.'
It was almost father's talk; only less sincere, I thought. 'Then why are you here?' I asked.
'Because I'm of the breed,' said Oliver. 'I was born to be a fossil. I gave up studying some time ago. I'm --'
'What, married?'
Oliver nodded and bent towards the fire. I noticed then how worn he was, how shabby too and not very cleanly; and I understood also why he did not have even ninepennyworth of food in the basement. 'Yes, I'm married,' he said. 'Of course I am. Clerks are made to get married and keep up the population. . . .' He sat back and put his feet upon the mantelshelf. 'No matter,' he said. 'Another year of London diggings would have killed me. Where are you staying?'
I told him; then, by way of satisfying my curiosity, asked if there were not chances for Men clerks even in the Tax Office.
He shrugged his shoulders, and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. 'There's what you might call outside chances,' he answered, ' -- about a hundred to one. Oh, that's another delusion of the greenhorn. Wait a minute.'
He rose, went to a drawer, and came back with an office Establishment list. 'This will show you the chances. See all these men,' he said and drew a finger down a long list of names. 'Well, they're the top-hats of this establishment -- Commissioners, Chiefs, Principals, Heads of Sections, and all the rest. Look at their salaries, anything from two thousand to four hundred. How they got there is no matter. Some of them deserve their luck. Hughes does. Philpot does. Winter does -- maybe you've seen him -- he's a real good un. . . . The rest, well, some of them are better than old Cherry-blossom, and the others aren't. What's wanted here is another Cromwell that knows how to purge. The Tax Office will never be worth tuppence till most of that gang is cleared out and the big thick line wiped with it. What's the Line? There it is. It's what's below them and above us, and it's what we can't pass. We're not good enough. We aren't class enough. Look at us, a hundred and twenty Men clerks all in a bunch like sheep in a pen. Do you see how we're labelled, each man with his little Mister, and his little salary? That's official etiquette. Above the Line you're an Esquire, below it you're plain Mister and be damned to you! . . . Here's my name down here. Yours will be there at the bottom one of these days. And there we'll stay, never any higher -- not a derned inch except someone above us cuts his throat. Garn!' said Oliver and flung the office list upon his table. 'I wonder we don't put dynamite in the cellars, like the Fenians.' (40-2)
[Thorne is moved to the Secretarial Branch]
Mr Hope was the head of our room. His official position was just over the thick black Line. Age forty-six. Salary about three hundred pounds a year. In person he was middle-sized, somewhat portly and florid; his face a little weak, a little stupid; his mouth hidden beneath a thick grey moustache; his crown bald and shining; his eyes good-natured, heavy, tired. In his worn frock-coat, striped trousers, spotted double-breasted waistcoat, full black scarf, thick square-toed shoes and drab gaiters, he had a decorous and respectable air. He was always clean and neat as a new pin; always wore a frock-coat and silk hat; always carried an umbrella; always in official hours had protectors of cartridge paper over his cuffs. As a man he was kindly, just, narrow in mind and rigid, a thorough Tory, a staunch Churchman, without pretensions to education or culture; but what Mr Hope was, as man and citizen, does not matter I think. Before everything, in everything, he was an official. He lived for the office. It had his heart, filled his thoughts. Through the most of thirty years he had slaved devotedly; had shaped himself and been shaped into an almost perfect part of the machine. He never made a mistake. He knew every strand of the ropes. He seemed tireless. He was order itself. Like a planet he moved in eternal routine. You might set your watch by his doings. At ten o'clock precisely he came in; at eleven drank a glass of water; at one-fifteen cleansed and brushed himself, drew his chair near a window, spread a red silk handkerchief over his knees, and spent half-an-hour in munching sandwiches, sipping water, and slowly assimilating the political leader of the morning's Times. Luncheon done he carefully folded his sandwich-tin in brown paper and laid it beside his gloves on the mantel; then wiped his fingers on a duster; then lighted a cigarette, returned to the window, and for ten minutes stood looking upon the world without. So, for nearly every day of nearly thirty years, at the same minutes of every hour, Mr Hope had stood smoking his cigarette and gazing out upon London. He never wearied of the sight. He loved all that -- the Embankment, the traffic, the trees, the river and all upon it, the buildings, the bridges, the murky sky, the colour, the very smell of London. It was part of his existence, of his career, of his tape-swathed self. London and the office: there was Mr Hope. (141-2)
[Mr Hope warns against labour agitation:]
'By the way, I hear you fellows are still busy with your agitation. Hum. Can't see that you're very wise. Nothing can come of trying to force the hands of the Authorities. I may have grievances myself, but would never dream -- it's not dignified, Thorne. We public officials should be above that kind of thing. . . .'
'Yes, but you forget, Mr Hope, that what we want is only a chance. Why shouldn't we be able to rise?'
'Conditions of service, Thorne. Conditions of service. It's all down in black and white. I knew what to expect when I entered. You fellows knew exactly what to expect when you entered. I have no right of complaint. Neither have you fellows. . . .'
At last we came to Mr Hope's residence in Uffra Road, Brixton. It was a semi-detached villa of red brick; a grass patch between iron railing and bow window in front, a longer patch bordered with flower beds behind; cork-faced plant boxes on the sills; flat brass bands adorning the bedroom windows; right and left a hundred other residences exactly like it. (144)
'Not a bad little place I have here, Thorne? Quiet, commodious, and all that. Bought it through a Building society. Best way. Nothing like having your own house. . . . Great convenience these patent dust-bins. . . . Shall we -- ah -- go in? Perhaps you'd like to see my little snuggery?'
The snuggery was a small back room on the first floor, simply furnished with a chair and table, a square of carpet, and a little bookcase holding dictionaries, some yellow-backed novels, and a complete set of Tax Office reports. On the walls were a few framed photographs of London. The table might have been the same at which Mr Hope laboured every day -- trays, inkpots, pencils, scissors, all complete. Here of an evening he toiled often over papers that he had carried home in a despatch bag; here sat engaged on the documents and books of his private affairs. The documents were tied about with red tape. The books, as he pridefully explained, were kept on strict official principles, each item of receipt and expenditure with its own Vote and elaborate system of Sub-heads. Vote I. -- Household Expenses, 102. Vote II. -- Personal Expenses, 25. Vote V. -- Coals, 7: and so on.
'Like to know where I am, Thorne,' said Mr Hope. 'Order -- economy -- system, those are my principles. Quite impossible it is for there to be any extravagance without discovering it. Waste of coals, or gas, by the servant: there is last year's expenditure. Butcher, baker, provision merchant: here they all are. Outlay on clothes: here it is. Boots -- soap -- kindling wood -- furniture -- tobacco -- liquors -- postage stamps: here is the amount allotted to each and the expenditure to a farthing. . . . . (145-7)
[Thorne meets two 'seniors' both bachelors while wheeling out the pram on Peckham Rye on a Sunday. Neither know he is married and a father. Hull greets him: ]
I felt like hitting the man. I knew now that he was contemning me, thinking at the back of his head, 'By Jove -- little Thorne married -- and with a kid. Whew! And the fellow can't have much more than a hundred a year. Little bounder in his silk hat, and wheeling a perambulator like any counter-jumper. This is now the Service is let down by bringing in these Board School cads.' I do not say that I gave Hull credit just then for all of that, but I did afterwards, and for more than that. 'Yes,' I replied stoutly, 'I'm taking him for a ride. I always do on Sunday mornings. Perhaps I'll meet you both here again. Good-bye.' And I passed on with the pram-pram (211).