1926
A blast from the past by strzeka
Adrian Bell and his gentleman friend Arthur Callahan survived the war years and the Spanish Flu. This is a glimpse at their lives over a few weeks in spring 1926. Read “1914” for events leading to their situation.
Arthur woke first, alerted by the unmistakable sound of Smiffy moving around upstairs. It was only ten to six. Arthur looked at the sleeping Adrian and decided to let him snooze for another ten minutes. He worked his way out of bed, leaned over to grab his peg leg and stood. He strapped his leg on, threw his dressing gown over his shoulders and quietly limped to the toilet. Relieved, he put the kettle on and set the breakfast table. Six o’clock. Time to wake Adrian. He pegged back into the bedroom and ruffled Adrian’s hair. Adrian opened his eyes.
– Good morning, squire. Sun’s up.
– Ugh! Good morning. What time is it?
– Six. Monday morning. Come on, lazy bones. The kettle’s on.
Adrian smiled at Arthur and pushed himself up. Arthur stood by as Adrian donned his own peg and helped his man stand. He handed Adrian his crutches and kissed his scratchy face.
– Leave me some water in the kettle. I need a shave.
– You should grow a beard. Think of the time you’d save.
– And what would the customers think if they were confronted with some kind of bohemian? Go and make the tea. I’ll join you in a minute.
The naked Adrian kicked his peg leg into motion and crutched his way to the toilet.
– Ready!
Adrian returned to the bedroom and lowered himself onto their bed. Arthur followed him and assisted in dressing his man. Socks, trousers, shirt, collar and tie.
– Stand up, Ade, and I’ll tuck you in.
Arthur quickly tucked Adrian’s shirt-tails into his trousers and neatened the empty left trouser leg.
– Neat as a pin, squire. Will you be requiring anything else?
– Just some toast and marmalade and a nice cuppa.
– Come on, then. It’s all ready and waiting.
Dressing Adrian was one of the things which Arthur insisted on doing. It not only saved time in the mornings, it was a way of demonstrating his love. Adrian had never shown him anything other than the greatest respect and friendship. Arthur’s self-respect and social standing had grown enormously during the years they had been together. They sometimes shared each other’s bodies, their mutual leglessness providing its own peculiar problems to coitus but the sensation of stumps sliding across each other and the urge to force their bodies into positions which their non-existent legs could not allow was intensely erotic and exciting.
Adrian took the last of the warm water and shaved carefully. Art was right. He could grow a beard and save all this bother every morning. Perhaps he should start with a moustache. Who would care? He left his upper lip unshaven and carefully wiped his neck and chin. He threw the small towel protecting the front of his shirt aside.
– If you’re ready, Art, we could make tracks.
– Be with you shortly. Let me get my shoe on.
Arthur helped his man into his smart jacket and opened the front door. Adrian crutched out onto the street, already busy with motor lorries making deliveries and cars dodging them. They stood at the kerb, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Arthur was more assertive and saw nothing amiss in walking into the road and stopping traffic with an upraised hand for his legless man to cross in safety. They entered the metropolitan station and made their laborious way up to Platform One. They rode to Stepney Green, twenty stations to the east. The journey took forty minutes each way but the time could be used fruitfully by perusing a newspaper. Adrian often enjoyed a bowlful of Cavendish on the way. His peg leg had had a knee joint since he had started travelling from Parsons Green. The rigid peg was for emergencies and his flesh-coloured artificial leg was for special occasions only. It had a handsome black Oxford shoe on its wooden foot. Adrian wore it when he visited his recently-widowed mother in Paddington. Crutching along the street with his artificial leg, he looked like any other one-legged man of his age on crutches.
Bell & Callahan Ltd was an inconspicuous shopfront on Stepney High Street. Its surround was a handsome maroon and its name rendered in a modern grotesque typeface above the store with the text Est. 1919 squeezed in underneath. Its front window displayed examples of the goods produced within. An artificial leg, an artificial arm and two orthopaedic surgical boots. A description of the establishment’s services was propped up on a miniature easel. Passers-by rarely stopped to admire the wares. B&C’s customers knew of its existence by word of mouth and the excellent reputation of the proprietors.
Adrian had worked through the war years with Ben producing artificial arms for the war injured. Cohen Senior, the owner, learned of his only son’s drowning in a U-boat attack in the North Atlantic in 1916. He was heart-broken but patriotically soldiered on until the outbreak of peace in late 1918. Within weeks, he announced he would be discontinuing business from the start of the new year. His heart was no longer in it. There was no-one to leave the business to and he felt his life’s work was done. His employees begged him to reconsider but everyone could see the jolly and vital man had shrunk to a shell, a husk of his former self. He had lost the will to live. Chaim had been the apple of his eye and without his beloved son, nothing else mattered.
Adrian discussed the alarming situation with his father at Christmas. Adrian and Arthur were guests for a festive lunch and dinner in 1918. His father had used his influence to acquire an enormous turkey which Adrian’s mother had roasted slowly for very many hours in her most unreliable range. The result was a complete success. The meal was delicious, filling and memorable. Adrian already had his artificial leg, manufactured that autumn, and Arthur sat at one end of the table where his rigid peg leg would not impinge on the others’ comfort.
Adrian explained that his employer was about to close his business and that several of his workmates, amputees to a man, would need new employment. They were all East Enders, the poor end of town, and none of them could hope to establish a business which might continue to provide artificial limbs for the tens of thousands of young war amputees in the London area. Adrian suggested to his father that with a small loan, he might set up his own business with Arthur by his side.
The premises on Charing Cross Road were too expensive to consider purchasing. They were also too large. It had been an advantage during the war years, when hundreds of prosthetic limbs were needed in short order. During peacetime, a slower but still steady pace of production was the name of the game. Arthur knew the streets around Shoreditch and found their new premises. It had been rented by a bespoke tailor who had retired after fifty years. There was a small shop front, suitable for a reception, and a long area leading to the back of the premises lined on both sides with workbenches and shelving to accommodate components for artificial limbs. The back yard was eminently suited to accepting deliveries and also for amputees to stroll around, testing their new limbs, weather permitting. Adrian’s father acted as guarantor for his son and his business partner and in February 1919, Bell & Callahan Ltd opened its doors to the public. Five of Cohen’s staff joined either as employees or as freelance artisans and the business continued to serve much the same grateful clientele.
Now, in the spring of 1926, trouble was in the air. The miners’ union was fighting for better working conditions and wages. The government refused to lend an ear to their complaints and mine owners had already locked their workers out. There was an untapped well of bitterness among all working folk who supported the miners. Everyone remembered the promise of how the country would become a land fit for heroes. There was no sign of it. People were angry.
Arthur opened the front door of the shop and held it open for Adrian. There was a low step at the threshold which had caught Adrian unawares more than once and he had fallen, his artificial leg collapsing under him and once injuring his stump. He stayed home and used a wheelchair until it healed. Adrian lifted his tin leg high into the air and stepped forward into the shop. It was always a pleasure to enter early on a Monday morning. The scent of leather and wood mingled with the piquant perfumes of varnish and oil paint. It was their own unique smell which would soon dissipate. They changed their street clothes for long brown overalls. Adrian put the kettle on. The others would enjoy a cuppa as soon as they arrived. It might be spring but it was nippy outside. A cuppa would be welcome. It was a moment when the staff were together and Adrian could make any particular announcements he might have. This morning there was only one.
Tom Wade and Walter Sherman were the first to arrive via the rear entrance. They both lived locally, as did almost all the staff. Only Adrian and Arthur had long commutes from the other side of town. Tom was a double amputee, having lost his lower legs to trench foot in summer 1918. Tom specialised in legs for below knee patients. Walter had lost his leg in a road accident as a schoolboy and walked on a long tin leg similar to Adrian’s. He worked with Adrian on artificial arms. Only Ben Goldfarb was missing. He had a longer trip from Golder’s Green. Ben had taught Adrian everything he knew at Cohen’s and had followed him to Shoreditch. Adrian regarded Ben as an equal. There was no particular hierarchy in the shop. Everyone had their speciality and needed no exhortations or encouragement from a foreman or shop steward. The four men were seated along one of the work benches when they heard Ben arrive. Ben still wore the two wooden legs he had made for himself at Cohen’s. They had been refurbished since the War but with luck, they would last many more years. Ben threw off his greatcoat and homburg, settled his yarmulka and joined the others with a mug of hot tea in his hand. He remained standing. Adrian looked around at his colleagues.
– I want to say something about the situation if the strike starts. It looks like more and more unions are trying to persuade their members to down their tools and take to the streets. I can’t imagine anything like that happening but things might become uncertain. I’ve decided that if the strike actually goes ahead, I’ll keep the shop closed. For one thing, some of you won’t be able to get here if the trams aren’t running and secondly, I don’t think it would look good for businesses to be open and operating when everyone else is out. We’d get a reputation for being strike breakers or worse.
– What about our pay, though? I can’t afford to be out of work for long.
– No, none of us can. I’ve created a kitty with a few bob in it and you can borrow some if you need to. I can’t say better than that, I’m afraid.
– That’s more than most people can expect. Thanks, Adrian. So we just stay home, do we?
– Yeah. If the strike starts, don’t bother coming in. I don’t think the metropolitan will run. Or the trams. You can join the protests or whatever else is going on if you feel up to it. Let’s hope the miners can get back to work before the situation deteriorates even further.
But the situation did deteriorate. The government broke agreements with the unions signed years previously and the miners were furious. Their wages had dropped to less than four pounds a week. It was not a living wage. At the beginning of May, word spread that a General Strike would begin at midnight on the fourth. The country would come to a standstill until the government relented.
The last week of April rolled by with an ever deeper sense of doom. Newspapers were snatched up from vendors as the thirst for the latest information grew. There was a clear split across the nation between working folk and liberal and conservative thinking citizens. Neither side showed the slightest understanding of the other. Whatever the outcome of the next few weeks, irreparable damage was being done to the very fabric of the nation. In the workshop of Bell & Callahan, customers being fitted with new or refurbished artificial limbs spoke of nothing else. Ex‑servicemen were especially vociferous.
– Fit for bleedin’ ’eroes, they said. And just look at the government now. Gawd almighty, who would’ve believed it, eh?
– Lift your stump, will you?
– An’ after all the trouble we had getting back into work, now they want to lock us out. What is the point of it all? That’s what I want to know. What is the point?
– Does that feel alright, sir? Not too tight?
– No, it’s fine. Not too tight. Not as tight as the bleedin’ employers, that’s for sure. Where’s it goin’ to end, I ask you.
– I really have no idea. But I can tell you that we’ll be closed for the duration so it’s lucky you can collect your arm this week. Put the harness on and test your arm. How does the hook feel?
– I need another band on it. I want to be able to grab hold of stuff. I’d like to grab the government by the throat, so help me.
It was a trying week. It was no easier for the owners of small businesses like Adrian and Arthur than it was for the miners. If everything came to a halt, there would be no supplies, no deliveries and most of the customers would find it difficult or impossible to reach them. On Saturday morning, Adrian and Arthur stayed behind after they shut up shop at one-thirty. Adrian had succumbed to his upstairs neighbour’s enthusiastic suggestion and finally had Thomas manufacture a stubby for him. Since his injury in the bombing at The Post in 1914, Adrian had either sat in a wheelchair or used a peg leg until he started his own business. He condescended to wearing a normal tin leg for two reasons. The first being convenience. It was easier to commute on the metropolitan if he could sit instead of gripping a support while standing. And the second reason was purely professional. He wanted to demonstrate the prowess of his own business. He was instantly recognisable as an amputee but only a few people, usually his customers, knew that his sole leg was also artificial. Now he was getting a stubby, not unlike a long stump, fashioned by Tom and covered in an excellent mahogany-coloured leather. A suitable pair of short crutches waited by Tom’s work bench.
The neighbour who had persuaded Adrian to make such an adjustment was none other than Albert Smith-Hall, Smiffy, one of Adrian’s first customers who had been fitted with an artificial arm and working hook soon after the outbreak of hostilities in 1914. By luck or providence, they had become neighbours in the same house in Parson’s Green. Smiffy had never worn anything more than short peg legs or, more recently, stubbies. He was the only one of the four amputees at Cripple’s Corner who had not succeeded in finding gainful employment and made his way each morning to King’s Cross station where he deposited his stubbies and prosthetic arm at left‑luggage and dragged himself to a busy crossroads where arriving passengers and Underground railway commuters would have to pass him. He splayed his naked thigh stumps and waved his upper arm stump at passers-by to attract attention. On a good morning, he could receive thirty shillings. There were several other invalids scattered around and outside the station. Smiffy’s severely mutilated body, his smart clothes and handsome face had regular commuters dropping a coin or two into his cap most mornings and he often accrued more than his other fellow amputee beggars. Soon after midday, Smiffy collected his spare parts from the left-luggage and sat on the counter-top replacing his artificial arm and stubbies. He painstakingly descended the stairs to the Northern and City platforms and made his way home after changing twice to the Wimbledon line. Every Friday afternoon, he took his week’s collection of coins to the local bank, where a respectable sum of money would be credited to his account. He kept it confidential, but he had nearly a thousand pounds to his name. He had no fear of the future. His stumps guaranteed his income for the foreseeable.
Headlines and pavement endorsements proclaimed the inevitable. GENERAL STRIKE FROM MIDNIGHT! Adrian and Arthur had stayed late with Tom to test the new stubby. It was a couple of inches longer than Adrian’s natural thigh. Arthur handed his lover the new short crutches and watched Adrian marching up and down between the work benches.
– This feels perfectly fine, Tom. You are to be congratulated. If all your customers receive such excellent workmanship, you deserve a pay rise. We’ll discuss it later. This feels excellent. Just like a natural leg.
– If you’re that taken with it, squire, we might as well celebrate by a quick visit to the local. What do you say? Tom, would you like to come with us? It’s on the house.
– In that case, I’ll join you with pleasure. I do think we have reason to celebrate. I never thought I would see Adrian wearing a stubby.
– Have you ever seen Adrian’s peg leg, Tom? He wore it for five years. What a sight that was! You’ve never seen a man more cruelly maimed. Just one rigid peg and crutches.
– I still wear it occasionally. I prefer it to this tin leg, truth be told. I don’t think I’d ever put my trust in an artificial knee completely.
– Well, your stubby has no knee to let you down. I must say, Adrian, you look remarkably fine with the new stubby. I think it suits you.
– Thank you kindly. Now let’s go before the tavern runs out of ale.
Adrian checked the front door and switched the electric lights off. They left via the back yard and locked the gate. Adrian set the pace for the three legless men. Arthur watched his lover swinging himself along. The stature his new stubby provided did suit him. A smart jacket and matching trousers, tucked up now, crowned with Adrian’s ubiquitous bowler and a new pair of shortened crutches. It was unusual these days to still see men on stubbies but Adrian pulled it off with aplomb. Perhaps he would adopt his stubby for everyday use. Arthur had no wish to experiment with an artificial leg. He had a collapsible peg leg which he kept locked rigid except when seated and had no intention of even trying a tin leg. The peg was his identity and with his shortened trouser leg, he displayed his amputee status proudly. He was one of the first war amputees and felt that his peg leg, which at the time had been rigid from top to toe, so to speak, allowed other mutilated men the opportunity to see how normal life could go on with an amputation and simple peg.
The ‘tavern’ Adrian had referred to was an ordinary public house favoured at this time of the evening by workers from local businesses and retail. Few of the clientele lived locally. There was little chance of meeting an acquaintance. There were many more customers than on a usual Monday evening. Tom looked around for the War Invalids’ reserved table. Ah, there it was in the corner, as usual. He carefully worked his way through the crowd and wished the four gents sitting there a good evening. Adrian and Arthur approached behind him. The seated patrons grabbed their pints and rose to their feet, squeezing out between the vacant chairs. The amputees thanked them and sat, rearranging their pegs to a convenient position. They worked out what they wanted to drink and Tom made his way to the bar to place his order for three pints of bitter. Adrian extracted his short billiard and filled it with shag.
– No work tomorrow, then.
– No. Any other time, we could go in and do a bit of inventory. How are we for leather?
– Alright for another few weeks. I’ve let Barratt know what we’re after and he said he’ll see to it.
Adrian exhaled blue smoke into the room. Barratt was the nearby tannery and supplier of fine leathers. It was Arthur’s remit to maintain adequate levels of stock including leather, steel, brass and wood. The lads at Barratt’s had used the company’s cart to help Adrian move to Cripple’s Corner in 1914. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Tom returned with three pints and lowered them to the table. He held on the edge of it and sat carefully.
– Your very good health, gentlemen.
– Cheers!
– How do you like the stubby, Adrian?
– I was trying to work out if I prefer the feeling of a short leg or the long peg. This one feels more easy to control, if you know what I mean. Easier to balance on. It seems more secure.
– Not like the tin leg, then?
– No, nothing like that. That’s another kettle of fish entirely. It took me weeks, months, before I felt comfortable on that, knowing how the knee might let me down, literally. I came a cropper quite a few times but eventually I got the hang of it. But this one is something new, and I have to admit, I rather like it.
– I wonder if you could wear another on your right.
– I have next to no stump on that side, Tom. Just an inch of thigh bone.
– Even so, it should be possible to make you a stubby attached to a belt. I’m pretty certain that even wearing one which you couldn’t move, you’d still be able to stand without needing crutches. And to walk, you’d simply swing both stubbies ahead of you like you do now.
– You know, I’ve never given much thought to having anything made for the nub. I’ve always reckoned that it would have to be another tin leg which would only get in the way and a second peg leg seemed unnecessary and very cumbersome. But suddenly, wearing a stubby for the first time, I must admit there is some sense in having a pair. It would certainly be a useful experiment, if only to be able to advise our customers.
– Imagine being able to return legless men back to their families on two legs. It would be quite the achievement.
– What do you think, Arthur? You’re very quiet. Can finances stretch to giving me another stubby leg? I believe they can.
– Yes, they can. I was trying to imagine you with two legs. I’ve never seen you with anything other than your single peg and now the tin leg. I say have another stubby made, mate. You never know where it might lead.
– Good! That’s settled. As soon as we get back, let work commence. Let’s drink to that. What are you going to do, Tom, while the strike’s on?
– Haven’t really thought about it. It’s been quite sudden, when you think about it. It will be interesting to see if people do stay out. I can’t really imagine it. I dare say I’ll find a couple of jobs need doing at home. And if I can’t find them, the missus will.
Tom fetched another couple of pints. They listened in to other nearby conversations, all of them concerning the general strike. The general attitude seemed to be one of support for the miners. They had been treated poorly, undeniably.
Arthur woke first, as always, at the usual time. He glanced at his watch on the bedside table and at Adrian, who had shifted sideways during the night and whose stump was poking at Arthur’s backside. Arthur moved away slowly and reached for his peg. He pulled the blanket back over Adrian. This morning, he could sleep as long as he needed. Arthur relieved himself and brewed a pot of tea. He toasted a couple of slices of stale bread under the grill and ate them, waiting and listening for Adrian. It would be interesting to see which device he chose to wear today. He usually wore his long peg at home and now he had the mahogany-coloured stubby too. If he chose the tin leg, it would almost certainly mean that he intended to go out and about. He would wait for Ade to rise before dressing. If they were going out, he wanted to look the part. He wore much smarter clothes since they had started their business. He had even taken to wearing a bowler. It was surprisingly comfortable and suited many situations. Arthur had just finished his second cuppa when he heard Adrian yawning. He pegged into the bedroom.
– Good morning, squire. Sleep well? Are you ready to get up?
– Good morning to you too. As ready as I’ll ever be. Can you hand me my leg?
– Oh! Are we going out?
– We might very well be going out. See what’s going on.
Arthur picked up a clean pair of underwear and a stump sock from Adrian’s drawer, grabbed the tin leg and went to Adrian, who had sat up in bed and was resting on his hands. He had a fine erection but now was not the time for games. Adrian quickly dressed in his shorts and Arthur began slipping the sock onto Adrian’s stump, followed by the leather-lined prosthesis. Adrian tightened its belt around his waist and held out his hands for Arthur to pull him up. Arthur had the crutches ready. The tin leg straightened and locked and Adrian crutched carefully to the tiny bathroom. Arthur looked in the wardrobe for casual clothes which were smart enough to be seen in.
Arthur brewed another pot of tea and more toast. Adrian liked to slather marmalade onto his toast without butter.
– What were you thinking of doing?
– I thought we might take a walk down to the main road to see if there’s anyone about. I don’t know if there’d be a pub open but it would be nice to have a pint around lunchtime.
– A very appropriate idea, squire. Let’s do that. Shall we get dressed? I’m wearing that woollen waistcoat. I don’t think it’s all that warm out.
– In that case, I’ll wear the fisherman’s pullover with the brown corduroys.
– Oh. I’ll put your brown boot on the leg, shall I? Keep the Oxford for best?
– Yeah, if you would. Can you pull me up?
Arthur helped Adrian dress. He could manage himself but it was another gesture of intimacy which both men enjoyed.
– Are you going to shave?
– No.
– Oh. Are you growing a moustache, by the way?
– I thought I might. See how it suits my face. Did you not say I should grow a beard?
– I did. I didn’t expect you to do it.
– Ha! We’ll see what it looks like in a couple of weeks and if you don’t like it, I’ll shave it off.
Adrian was dressed. Arthur pulled his corduroys on, and made sure that the hem of the half leg was neat. He pulled Adrian up again, handed him his crutches and Adrian collected his pipe and tobacco from the living room. It was a sure sign that Adrian expected to be away for several hours. They went to the hallway and locked the door. There was music, far away. A military march. They looked at each other questioningly.
– That’s coming from down the street.
Arthur opened the front door and the volume increased. From their right, they could see a brass band approaching the railway bridge. They were playing a familiar march from the war years. It seemed out of place until the realisation struck. This was a war, a genuine struggle for survival. The band approached Cripple’s Corner and the amputees watched it pass, both still standing together with the door open. Arthur heard the upstairs front window open and shouted a greeting to Smiffy or his mate.
– We’re going out and then for a drink at the Green Man. Shall we see you there?
– Green Man at noon? Alright. See you.
Adrian stepped over the threshold and Arthur pulled the door closed. They stood on the pavement watching the dozens, perhaps hundreds of men marching silently in formation, many carrying placards with their demands printed on them, many with Union Jacks. Ordinary, decent common folk who wanted to show their support for the miners and their lack of respect for the government and for the liars who ran it. They spotted a familiar face in an unfamiliar guise. One of their disabled friends whom they saw regularly in their local was sitting in a tricycle and being pushed by another man.
– Look! There’s Jonesy. Let’s walk along with them.
Adrian and Arthur raised their hands in greeting and strutted into the road and joined in alongside the legless one-armed ex-Brigadier Herbert Jones. His peg legs pointed straight ahead. They said hello to the man pushing the trike and quickly exchanged names.
– This is quite the palaver, isn’t it? Have you come from home?
– We were waiting outside the White Hart and joined in there. Couldn’t be bothered with m’legs this morning. Eddie doesn’t mind giving me a bit of a push, do you, mate?
– Always a pleasure. How are you gents doing? No work this morning, eh? Feels strange, don’t it?
– It does. We’re not exactly on strike but we stayed home out of sympathy for those who are. It looks better, we thought.
– Very civil of you.
The group of marchers reached the end of the road and conglomerated around the new war memorial. The men were serious and stony faced. Few felt any pleasure in demonstrating their solidarity. The situation for millions of working people had been dire for years and the government showed no interest in anything other than supporting the employers. Something would have to be done. The General Strike was at least a start. After half an hour, another much larger procession approached from the south. They were led by union leaders who vociferously proclaimed their complaints, supported by slogans daubed on placards and large banners and flags of many unions and their departments. It soon became clear that the idea was for the smaller group to amalgamate with the larger and continue towards town. The amputees quickly agreed that they were not prepared to march several miles and as their group’s numbers dwindled, several invalids on prosthetic legs or in invalid carriages like Jonesy crossed the road to the Green Man to wait for Smiffy and Charlie to turn up. Eddie assisted in getting Jonesy out of his trike onto his peg legs and inside the pub.
Unsurprisingly, there was only one topic of conversation but the dearth of news soon put a cap on it. Speculation was useless and the main conclusion after twenty minutes was that they would have to wait and see. They sat back and enjoyed the liberty of having a lunchtime beer with friends in the middle of the week. Smiffy and Charlie turned up, as promised, both dressed in their Sunday best. Smiffy squashed himself onto the bench next to Jonesy and began a discussion of the advantages of peg legs over wooden legs. Smiffy was wearing the vintage pegs he had inherited from his legless uncle and maintained his balance with a short walking stick. Charlie brought over their first pints of best, one in each hook. Smiffy had left his arm at home and gestured freely with the stump to emphasise a point. Word reached them that the marchers’ progress had been blocked by soldiers or policemen, it was not clear which, and a fight had broken out. Everyone agreed that they had made the right decision to visit the pub instead. All too soon, it was time to finish their drinks and make tracks. The pub was closed between two o’clock and six, a wartime measure intended to persuade workers to return to their jobs and which now served no purpose.
The foursome made their way back to Cripple’s Corner, discussing ways to spend the rest of the day. How long might the strike last? Would it look bad to spend the day at work? But how would they get there? The metropolitan was not running. Neither, apparently, were the trams. It was quite the conundrum. They passed the short row of shops and noticed a handwritten sign stating no milk on the grocer’s door. The greengrocer would soon run out of produce if there were no deliveries. And the baker’s was shut. No fresh bread today. It was worrying, although they had enough provisions at home to last three or four days.
Arthur made lunch. Sausage and mash. It was soon eaten, the plates washed and dried. What to do for the rest of the day? Adrian went to the bedroom and changed his tin leg for the new stubby. It was more comfortable and more reliable.
– What about your second stubby?
– I’m not sure. I think it would be a little cumbersome. I don’t really see how I could walk on it. As I understand, it wouldn’t bend from my hip. It would be quite rigid.
– I think the idea is that you’d be able to stand on the stubbies without needing your crutches. You’d not need the stubby to bend in that case.
– True enough.
– And when you walk, you’d just swing your stubbies along together instead of walking left right left right.
– Yes, I would have to.
– And in that case, you could have longer stubbies. Be a bit taller. Wouldn’t you like that, Ade?
– Nothing wrong with being this height, is there? I can be tall on my peg and tin leg, can’t I?
– I thought longer stubbies might look better.
– More imposing.
– Exactly the word I was looking for, squire. Shall I start ordering in the leather? You do want leather, don’t you?
– Leather looks better. I like this dark mahogany colour.
– Very exclusive. Alright, I’ll get on to Barratt’s and make sure we have some quality wood. The new stubby can just be hollow. Half inch thick? That should do it.
– That would be ample. I think I’ll want them two foot long.
– Oh! As long as that. Very well, squire. All we need to do now is get you measured up.
– If only it were that simple.
Adrian settled in an armchair and continued reading a book he had started weeks previously. There was seldom time to relax these days. They both worked long hours and much of their leisure time was spent in the company of wartime acquaintances and fellow amputees. The four amputees at Cripple’s Corner were close friends, not quite one large household but they relied on each other’s occasional assistance to a far greater extent than was common between neighbours. Charlie was especially grateful for Arthur’s help and advice regarding his artificial arms and hooks. Arthur had become quite the expert over the past seven years. Charlie knew there were more modern hooks and wrist attachments available but he was accustomed to his large brass split hooks, their broad curves and swashbuckling appearance. They were probably some of the first split hooks ever made, experimental in design. Newer hooks were all smaller, more practical. The upstairs household relied heavily on Smiffy’s solitary hand. He was usually content to bare his arm stump at home.
The afternoon passed quietly. Arthur doffed his peg and dozed on the bed for a couple of hours. Adrian fell asleep in the armchair. It was still light when they woke. Seeing the sun late in the afternoon was still a delight after the gloom of winter. Arthur crutched into the living room to see if Adrian was awake. His silent presence alerted Adrian who opened his eyes to see his companion and lover leaning on crutches, grinning at him.
– I had an idea.
– Oh. And what pray might that be?
– Let’s go out. I’m keen to find out about the strike. We could go up the road and have a pint in the White Hart. There’s sure to be people in there who were on the march. I wanna find out what happened.
– Alright. We’ll do that. Are you going like that?
– Yeah, I think so.
– Does your peg hurt?
– No but it feels good not to wear it.
– Alright. Let me spend a penny and I’ll be right with you.
The two men had listened for sounds of movement from upstairs and deduced that Smiffy and Charlie were not at home. Smiffy’s short peg legs made an unmistakable sound on their wooden floor. You always knew when he was home. Without attempting to invite their neighbours, they crutched out onto the street and turned right, passing under the railway bridge and up the long rise to the road junction and the White Hart inn on the corner. A courting couple were arriving as they approached and the young man courteously held the door open for the two cripples to enter before taking his girl’s hand and guiding her away from the sight of them. Arthur spotted Charlie buying a pint and shouted out a greeting.
– Shoulda guessed you’d be in here. We were gonna call on you but didn’t think you were home. Do you mind if we join you?
– Course not. Hallo Adrian, mate. Come and sit down. Whatta you having? Let me get these.
– Very civil of you, squire. Two pints of bitter, I reckon. Where are you sitting?
– By the snug.
– The invalid’s table. Right. Come on, Ade. They’ve kept a place for us.
– Jolly good. Hello, Smiffy. Didn’t expect to see you in here.
– Well, we had an early dinner and were both dying to know what was goin’ on, so here we are. Ralph had the latest gen, so it was worth the effort.
– Who’s Ralph?
– The landlord.
– Oh. I didn’t know. So what could Ralph tell you?
– Tell you in a minute. I see you’re on crutches, Arthur. I hope your stump is not playing you up?
– No, nothing like that. Took it off to have a snooze and just thought I’d leave it off.
– It would be nice if I could just decide to leave my pegs off when I felt like it. I could crawl around on my arse, I suppose.
– They don’t pain you, do they?
– No, not really. At least, if they do, I’m so used to it, I don’t even notice. It doesn’t worry me. We’ve known each other for coming on ten years, right? And I’ve always been on me pegs. Nah, these are fine.
Charlie carefully brought his three pints of beer from the bar, one at a time. His hooks were splayed out as far as possible and he gripped the gnarled pint mugs on each side.
– Thank you kindly. So tell us what Ralph the landlord said. What was going on up the road? We heard the police were there.
– Bleedin’ ’ell! The police were right at ’em! Wouldn’t let ’em pass over the bridge. They wanted to go as far as Hyde Park, see? There was a big meeting of all the unions but apparently half the people on the marches couldn’t get there. So it looked like the unions didn’t have half the support they had for real, if you get my drift.
– And the police were fighting with the marchers, is that right?
– Not only the police. The army is out too. Although shouldn’t start blaming the boys. They’re only doing what they’re told to and someone said they’ve been driving lorries and delivering stuff to shops. You know, bread and milk.
– But the army wasn’t doing the fighting, right?
– Not as far as I know. But they were blocking the roads.
– It’s the government. I’ll never forgive them.
– No. Things are going to have to change once the strike is over.
– Do you reckon it’ll last for long?
– Don’t know. Have to wait and see.
– – – – – – -
The strike dragged on. The main worry was getting groceries. Stocks were not being replaced with any regularity. The butcher usually had only offal or expensive meats by the time Adrian or Arthur called in. News was sparse. The union published its own newspaper since the presses at all other publishers were stopped. Adrian read a copy he found in the Green Man one evening. It was full of rage and fury. Not especially newsy. There was little point in reading propaganda.
Smiffy and Charlie knocked on the door one morning. Arthur answered.
– Morning, squire. We was wondering if you’d like to accompany us to the main road. One of my mates let on yesterday that he was volunteering at the tram depot. Smiffy said we should go and have a look.
– Well, it would be something to do. Did you hear that, Ade? Fancy a stroll up to the main road?
– I don’t mind.
Adrian appeared and stood behind Arthur on his long peg leg.
– Are the trams running?
– Well, one or two here and there. Smiffy said if we see his mate driving one, we could hop on and go for a ride.
– Alright, shall we go, Art? We haven’t been anywhere for a week.
They put jackets on and Adrian grabbed his pipe and tobacco. The foursome made their laborious way the half mile to the main road and settled themselves on the wooden benches encircling the war memorial. Smiffy had thoughtfully worn his newer and longer peg legs. They were beech, elegantly finished with smooth curves and burnished to a high shine. Fat rubber ferrules improved their performance and Smiffy was able to peg along at a decent clip, well able to keep up with Adrian whose solitary long peg leg let him stride along at a normal pace. Arthur walked alongside Charlie, the only one of the four with his own legs, his trademark black peg leg glinting in the springtime sunshine. Onlookers were intrigued, astonished or disturbed by the friends when they were together but the invalids were completely comfortable with their artificial limbs after ten years and nary gave them a second thought. It was as ordinary a process for Charlie to slip his hooks on or for Adrian to don his peg leg each morning for the entire day as it was for a normal man to put on a shirt and tie.
They sat watching the quietened main road. There was next to no traffic, hardly any pedestrians. A man walking his dog passed them. He doffed his cap and wished them a good morning. They nodded an acknowledgement and Charlie saluted with a brass hook. He never missed an opportunity to demonstrate them. He was proud of being so proficient with his dual hooks. He knew very well that other bilateral arm amputees had been driven to suicide by the way others reacted to the loss of their hands. Hooks were a highly visible and constant reminder of disability and maiming. Many handless men came back to families or wives who were horrified by the gnarly stumps or the ugly leather prosthetics their men would wear every day for the rest of their lives. Their distaste drove the men to desperation and oblivion. Cemeteries were filling with young soldiers who had returned missing a limb or two and whose families rejected them. The four amputees sitting by the war memorial had taken their fate into their own hands and become independent, accepting each other with all their scars and discovering a comfortable masculine comradeship unsuspected by normal men.
The sound of a rasping engine demanded attention. An old General double-decker bus was approaching. Its open top deck was full of men waving flags and banners, calling out to pedestrians who stopped and looked at the moving bus in wonder. Several of the top deck passengers noticed the invalids and saluted as they passed. Adrian sniggered. They watched the bus trundle away. In the distance, an electric flash announced the approach of a tram. As it drew closer, Charlie rose to his feet and pointed with a hook.
– That must be my mate driving that. I’m gonna take a look.
He strode off and stood at the crossroads. The distinctive whine of an old tram’s motor grew louder as the driver engaged and released the power throttle. It was Charlie’s friend. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt with a red bandanna tied around his neck. Charlie waved and his friend brought the old tram to a stop.
– Are you getting on?
– My mates are over there.
– Well, ask them over. Go on! I’ll wait.
– Alright, I will.
Charlie looked around and made sure he had the others’ attention. He waved his prosthetic arm, beckoning them over. Arthur helped Adrian onto his peg and steadied Smiffy as he found his balance on his own peg legs. Smiffy took Arthur’s arm for support and the trio approached the obsolete old tram which had last been in service before the war. With a little undignified pulling and pushing, the legless men were aboard and pulled themselves upright. Charlie’s friend introduced himself as George Mason and asked his new passengers to hold tight. They sat as close to George as possible, watching him twist the accelerator wheel, pulling and pushing the power lever and keeping a close eye on the road. He had few passengers. No-one expected to see a tramcar out and about, especially not one which deserved to be in a museum. Charlie stood on the front platform with his friend, watching closely, an unlikely idea forming in his mind. The tram rocked from side to side on uneven track, the sound of electricity crackling from the overhead wire.
– I could drive this!
– Are you sure, mate? With two hooks?
– That won’t stop me. I’ve been watching you. You turn this to go and pull that to stop.
– That’s about all there is to it.
– Could I try? I’ve always wanted to drive a tram.
– I suppose today it would be safe enough. Alright. Next time I stop her, you can take over. But I’ll stand here to make sure you’re doing it right.
– Thanks very much.
Charlie stood a little to one side, itching to get his hooks on the controls. Both of them were ornate brass, unintentionally ideally suited for a man wielding bilateral hooks to operate. George approached a tram stop and braked.
– Here you are. She’s all yours. Spread your feet a little for balance. That’s right. When you’re ready, push the lever to engage the motor and turn the wheel for speed.
Charlie looked back at his friends, all of them grinning and watching him. George hit the bell. The tram jerked into motion. Charlie altered his position slightly, his artificial arms spread out each side of him across the control panel. The tram rocked along the almost empty road at jogging speed.
– Another stop coming up but no-one’s waiting. You can drive by if you want.
Charlie wanted to use the controls and reduced power in preparation for stopping. He checked that no-one wanted to alight and drove past the stop at walking pace. Another road junction. He cut the power and returned the accelerator to neutral. A brewer’s cart pulled by two venerable horses turned onto the road and the driver raised a hand in greeting. Charlie waved back, causing some surprise. Once again, George sounded the bell and Charlie put the old tram into motion. He was having the time of his life. He peered ahead looking for the next tram stop, keeping an eye on two boys on bicycles who would probably try to grab onto the back of the tram.
George took over from Charlie when they approached the depot. There was a tangle of points outside and George wanted to make sure they were set correctly. The tram’s usual route terminated outside the depot but this morning, he had been running a mile or so further into town. He handed back to Charlie when the depot was behind them. There were actually passengers waiting at the next stop looking very pleased to get a ride. They boarded at the back and entered the saloon, joining the three amputees. They waited with their penny fares ready for the conductor who was not on board. The rides were free.
Charlie provided a slow and safe journey to the reversing track at Putney Bridge where the route terminated. Everyone left except for the three legless men who had attracted considerable attention from the other passengers. Four peg legs blocking the front exit were an uncommon sight. George jumped down with his switch handle and set the points for the return journey.
– Do you want to drive back, mate? I can take over if you’ve had enough.
– Not on your life! I’m only getting the hang of it. You know, I reckon I could do this for real. You know, get a job as a tram driver. If they look at my hooks and claim I couldn’t manage, I can say I’ve already proved I can. You’d back me up, wouldn’t you?
– I’m not so sure about that, Charlie. This tram isn’t supposed to be out in the first place. You’d better keep it to yourself what we’re doing today but you could always apply and demand to be assessed despite your injuries. There’s always a shortage of tram drivers as the oldies retire and the young ones would rather drive buses.
– You know, I think I’ll do that.
Charlie drove as far as the Green Man. He shook his friend’s hand and helped the three legless men safely to the ground. The tram moved off and the four men paid the pub a quick visit before closing time. They made their way home and felt as if they had been on holiday.
– – – – – – -
The General Strike lasted ten days. According to whom you listened to, the miners’ union capitulated or the government was beaten into submission. Most miners returned to work. Businesses reopened and life quickly returned to normal except for those which had been driven into debt. Adrian and Arthur were able to return to their shop. They could hear the rumble of the Metropolitan & District trains as they crossed the railway bridge nearby. They left home early wearing their workday prostheses, Adrian with his tin leg and Arthur with his collapsible peg. The first arrival was a through train and they found seats as far as Aldgate. An extra penny paid for a tram ride closer to their shop.
The shop smelled fusty. Adrian opened the back and front doors for a few minutes to air the shop. Arthur busied himself by brewing a pot of tea. There were no appointments booked for the entire week. With any luck, the artisans could concentrate on manufacture. There were three artificial legs on the books and a solitary wooden leg lay on a bench needing a repair to the knee joint and new leather straps. It would be as good as new after it was refurbished. Wooden legs were almost indestructible. Tom and Ben arrived while Adrian was checking the order book and helped themselves to a mug of tea. Arthur brought up the matter of Adrian’s new stubbies.
– Are you busy this week, Tom?
– I thought I might make a start on the below knee leg. That was next on my agenda before the strike.
– Jolly good. Work on that as far as you can. Adrian and me’ve been working on an idea to get him on two long stubbies. One on his stump and the other held on by a belt.
– Ah! That sounds interesting. And you’d like me to make a start on that, right?
– If you could. We have all the measurements but you might want to take a cast. Better do that when there are no customers in.
– I could do that this very morning if that suits you, Adrian.
– By all means.
Adrian’s long matching stubbies were the first new project after the return to work. Tom and Adrian retired behind a modesty curtain and worked in tandem to produce a plaster cast of Adrian’s waist and right thigh nub. Tom envisioned a steel framework riveted to a hard leather shell which would envelop Adrian’s short stump and to which the new stubbies could be attached by steel shanks. They could be bolted or riveted to the framework. Adrian approved the design and suggested that the stubbies be attached to the frame with broad-headed screws. They would hold the short legs securely and be easily removed for whatever reason. Adrian’s left stubby would have a hinge at the waist to allow him to move it back and forth. The right would remain rigid and immobile.
– The cast needs to dry before I can continue but I’ll let you know when the positive mould is ready and you can take a look at it before we start the leatherwork.
– Fine. Thank you, Tom. I look forward to it.
Noise in the workshop grew steadily as projects revived. Adrian and Arthur reviewed the stock and made note of materials and components to be at hand during the next few weeks. Customer enquiries resumed mid-morning when an elegantly dressed woman entered with a boy not yet twenty. She explained her business. Her son had lost a hand in an unspecified manner and now that the stump had healed, she would appreciate it if the lad could be fitted with an artificial arm of the latest design. Adrian spoke with her and appraised the stump.
– This is the ideal shape and length for use with an artificial arm. I assume you would like a functioning hook rather than a wooden replica hand?
– Yes. I would like to learn to use a hook. I’m sure I could.
– I’m sure too.
They discussed the approximate price, the timetable, the manufacturing process and the deadline. The mother was relieved by the unexpectedly low cost and impressed by Adrian’s courteous and professional manner. The boy was fascinated by the description of his future leather and steel arm. He had seen ex-soldiers wearing the new type of hook and developed a desire to have one for himself. He contrived an accident which had crushed his right hand and wrist. He was one of the first self-harming amputees inspired by split hooks and the fascinating mechanics of the rigid leather sockets. The idea of inserting his stump into a hollow leather socket excited him and he fought to control his emotion while the handsomely bearded man handled his fresh stump. An appointment was made for the coming Thursday and the pair departed.
Tom worked on Adrian’s socket during the week. The positive plaster mould had dried and a large sheet of thick leather, stained a deep mahogany colour, was slowly coaxed to adopt its form. The material was pliable when damp and dried to a resilient and durable shape which would shortly be further braced with steel bands. The stubby legs would be attached to them by three lines of screws at the front, back and side. Tom called Adrian to test the socket several times during various stages of its manufacture. Adrian was tremendously impressed by Tom’s skilful workmanship. Unsurprisingly, he considered the commercial aspect of the work regarding severely disabled customers. The socket was slow and labour-intensive to produce but so far the results were promising. If the end product proved to be useful, further sockets such as his might be offered successfully to amputees missing the entirety of one or even both their legs. Adrian felt the excitement familiar to children during the days before Christmas. He would soon be standing on two legs again, legs with their own deviant elegance. He would be five foot tall.
The young man who had lost his right hand returned alone for his appointment. Ben introduced himself and explained the process. They discussed the various options for the socket. The lad had not realised that it could be crafted from wood. Ben had long since preferred to work with leather, which provided a better, more secure fit and was adjustable to some degree. The solid rigidity of a wooden socket was much more to the boy’s taste. Ben explained how a wooden artificial arm would be heavier and thicker than one with a leather socket but the boy insisted on wood. And it should not be painted. It would look better if it were polished and the natural grain remained visible. Ben agreed. They discussed the appearance of the cuff, which would be leather in any case and the material for the harness. The boy wanted leather but Ben persuaded him to accept black canvas. The prosthesis would be worn for many hours every day and leather would soon become uncomfortable. Canvas would conform better around his shoulders and help prevent aches. Ben set about measuring the stump and the length of the remaining arm. It would not be a difficult case. The stump was adequate in length, the patient was otherwise healthy and appeared interested and positive about using an artificial arm. Finally, Ben showed a small selection of hooks. Brass was no longer used. It had proved less durable than steel. There were several designs available. The boy’s eyes lit up as he inspected the hooks. He was not interested in practicality or efficiency. He wanted a prominent hook, something extrovert. There was a large curved hook, not dissimilar to the unwieldy devices supposedly used by maritime pirates. He imagined his stump inside its wooden socket bearing the large split hook. He chose it in preference over smaller, more practical ones. Ben was reluctant to dissuade him from choosing the extravagant version. A few week’s experience would probably result in the boy’s return to purchase a more suitable hook. After reviewing his order, the boy thanked Ben and departed. Ben mentioned the boy’s choice of hook to Adrian who agreed that it was probably a poor decision but the chap seemed to know what he wanted. They would make his order as requested and hope that the young man would learn from his experience.
Tom advanced to the metalwork phase of Adrian’s stubbies. It was the most time-consuming stage but essential to hold the various components together. It was time to discuss the stubby legs themselves. They would be produced on the lathe before being attached to the steel framework and finished with the mahogany leather. The thick rubber soles would be added last of all. Tom also made sure that there was a suitable pair of crutches available in stock for a five foot tall adult. Adrian had other pairs to hand at home but having a dedicated pair was always the most convenient. The crutches Adrian used with his short stubby and the tall pair he used with his peg leg and tin leg were unsuitable for adjustment to suit the new stubbies.
– – – – – – -
Charlie made the extra effort to ensure his shave was perfect. It was a slow process. He gripped his safety razor between his stumps and guided the blade carefully over his face. He teased the cap off a small bottle of 4711, holding it between his knees, and splashed the alcohol on to kill the smell of shaving soap. He shrugged his hooks on, dressed in his smartest clothes and slipped his feet into his boots. He had an unannounced appointment with the manager at Putney tram depot. Smiffy had already departed for the morning. He was an early riser, eager to reach King’s Cross before the busy hour was in full swing.
Charlie waited for the busy hour to finish before setting off. He was unlikely to detain the manager for long but wanted to indicate that he appreciated the man had more urgent business. Charlie strolled at a good pace along the road to the Green Man where the tram stop was. He paid his penny fare to the clippie and climbed to the upper deck. It was a familiar journey but he was more excited about it than he had been for quite a while. The tram slowed to cross through the tangle of rails outside the depot before stopping. Charlie jumped off and entered the depot. A couple of drivers in their white summer dustcoats stood by a number thirty-seven, the conductor waiting on the rear platform for his driver to finish his smoke.
– ‘Scuse me. Sorry to disturb. Where might I find a manager?
The drivers took in the man’s eager expression, his unusually smart attire and the hooks.
– If you go in past that number five over there and turn left, you’ll see an office. He should be in there.
– Thank you very much. Very kind of you.
They watched him for a few seconds.
– What do you think he wants? Lost his hands by the looks, poor bugger.
Charlie found the small office. The front was glass, the interior was lit by a few naked electric lamps. Someone inside was standing with his back facing the window. Charlie tapped on the door’s window. The man turned and on seeing a smartly dressed member of the public, extricated himself between his chair and a filing cabinet to enquire the man’s business.
– Good morning, sir. May I assist you with something?
– Good morning to you. I certainly hope so. I have a matter which may be of interest.
– Come in, do. I was just about to brew a fresh pot. Would you like a cuppa?
– That would go down very well.
– Do take a seat. Milk and sugar?
– One spoonful, if you please.
The shift manager manoeuvred his way back to his long desk from which he could see the entire depot, assuming the number five moved out of the way. He had noticed his visitor’s brass hooks and placed the mug of builder’s tea on the table.
– Thank you kindly.
– Now, what can I do for you?
– It’s quite simple, really. I met a tram driver acquaintance during the strike who tells me that there is a shortage of tram drivers. According to my friend, all the young newcomers are most keen to drive petrol buses rather than tramcars.
– That is very true. It is a problem for scheduling.
– Well, if I may cut a long story short, I have stood at the controls of a tramcar and am quite sure that I would be quite able to drive one even with my disability, which I am sure you have noticed.
– Indeed I have. A war injury?
– Yes. I was lucky to survive with just this.
He lifted his hooks and rotated his arms. Both men watched the hooks. They were not offensive in themselves. Their shock value was in the fact that they existed at all.
– It’s been ten years.
–You’re quite used to wearing them?
– Oh yes. I can use them for everything I need to do. As I was saying, my friend was of the opinion that I should present myself to you and offer my services as a tram driver. You see, the controls on a tramcar are uniquely suited for use by a man such as myself with a pair of hooks.
The manager raised his eyebrows and thought for a moment.
– I do believe you are correct, sir. I wonder if I might ask you outside for a moment. As you no doubt noticed, this number five is blocking my aspect. Would you mind if I stood by as you drive it to the front of the depot? I will indicate how to operate the controls.
– Thank you, sir. I believe I already know their function but you will be the judge.
– Let’s get on with the job. Take your position, sir.
The manager took out a leatherbound wallet full of keys and selected one. He inserted it into the starter motor which whined into life.
– When you’re ready.
Charlie adjusted the position of his hooks and gripped the power wheel on his left and the controller on his right. He moved the controller forward, listening for the familiar sound of an electric motor at rest and carefully pulled on the wheel to coax the old vehicle into motion. The steel wheels rolled slowly through the depot.
– Stop just inside the entrance, if you would.
Charlie nodded. He twisted the wheel back to neutral and set the controller to zero. The tram stood ready to depart into traffic.
– That was perfect and if I may make so bold, rather remarkable. I must tell you, however, that the company has never employed amputee drivers and there may be a degree of resistance.
– Need it be mentioned at all, sir? To all intents and purposes, I would be merely another applicant. If I can pass muster, despite my injury, there should be no objection to my employment.
The manager looked at Charlie’s earnest face. He was completely correct. The depot was short at least a dozen drivers. Here was a capable man, eager to prove himself. There were no introductory courses for tram drivers in the offing simply because of the dearth of applicants.
– I am of a mind to give you the benefit of the doubt, sir. I will arrange it so that I or one of my colleagues will give you instruction after hours. Shall we say from six to nine, before the light fades? Are you familiar with the rules of the road?
– Yes sir. I believe so. I ride a bicycle and have long since learned the safety regulations.
– And you know the traffic signs?
– Indeed, sir.
– Excellent. Let us go back to my office and I can sort out an official application.
The job was soon done. The manager filled in the application on Charlie’s behalf, despite Charlie being quite capable of producing neat block letters. Another mug of tea was drunk. The manager asked about Charlie’s wartime experiences and how he had adapted to his new life after hostilities had ended. Charlie left after a two hour encounter with his future foreman feeling like he had found a new friend. He would shortly begin training as London’s first amputee tram driver and gain a small degree of fame as his notoriety spread beyond Putney depot.
– – – – – – -
Ben completed his work on the wooden artificial arm. He included a hinged elbow which linked the socket to the cuff with polished steel struts. The wrist mechanism was a hemispherical attachment of chrome plate into which the five inch wide split hook attached. It was a splendid piece of kit. The wood shone with a deep amber glow. Anyone would be proud to sport such an item. The young man received a postcard announcing an invitation to call in to collect his order. He arrived within the hour.
– Please remove your jacket and shirt, young man. May I suggest that in future, you wear a full singlet over which you wear the arm? It will be more comfortable for you around your shoulders.
Ben held his handiwork and explained the correct way to don the device. The young amputee donned a cotton sock and inserted his long muscular stump into the cool socket for the first time, feeling its smooth enveloping surface. Ben helped him place the control loop around his opposing arm and directed him to stretch and push on the socket with his remaining stump and shoulder muscles. The over-large hook opened wide and snapped shut. The patient tested the range of movement and discovered the limitations dictated by the mirror steel bracing. The new forearm could move up and down but hardly at all to the side. He was quite restricted in his movements. The hook would extend to only a very limited range. The sensation was unexpected and very much to the young man’s liking. He had been born into extreme wealth which had been diminished by the war. Now his widowed mother supported them both with an amount barely into the thousands per annum from annuities and rents. The artificial arm was intended merely as a sleeve filler. It need have no practical purpose. The young man could continue to live a life of relaxed academia, using his extravagant steel hook to turn the pages of the Greek authors he favoured. He settled his account with Adrian who held the door as the young man departed, holding the hook with his left hand.
Adrian pegged back to the workshop to check on progress of the current orders. Tom had interrupted his work on Adrian’s new stubbies while he worked on the repairs to the wooden leg but promised that for the rest of the week, Adrian would be able to test the new stubbies. He anticipated several hours of adjustment. It was the first device of its kind which Tom had worked on. The basic theory was clear enough. Practice was another matter. Both Tom and Adrian were interested to see how well the long stubbies suited a user. The new mid-length crutches were ready, nestling in a corner between the workbench and the wall. Adrian had no idea they were for him.
The socket, however, was ready. Adrian waited until after the shop was closed. Tom and Arthur assisted in attaching the device to Adrian’s hip. A wide leather belt of the same dark red material held the socket in place. Adrian was delighted with the sensations he felt. There was just enough room inside the socket to allow him to move his minimal stump, enough to prevent fatigue caused by restriction. Adrian assured Tom that he was satisfied beyond all expectation and requested Tom to continue with his new legs as and when opportunity presented itself. He was personally excited to try out a new set of legs but put his customers’ requirements first. Tom already had two adequate lengths of wood for the stubbies. They would taper slightly to circular feet four inches in diameter with inch thick rubber soles. The fitting was over. Adrian reattached his tin leg and dressed. The streets had quietened and the two men pegged along to the Underground station for their return journey.
– – – – – – -
Tom worked diligently on the two artificial legs which had been ordered before the strike. He received notice that one of the customers would be out of the country for three weeks and available for appointments only from the middle of the next month. It gave Tom ample time to craft Adrian’s stubby legs. Only one of them needed especial care to fit Adrian’s thigh stump. The other could simply be hollowed out to save as much weight as possible. Tom stood at the lathe for many hours, meticulously checking dimensions and tolerances. The stubby legs were long enough to be unwieldy and required firm support at both ends. Gradually the rough surface revealed the virgin wood beneath and the rigid legs took shape. Adrian inspected Tom’s handiwork regularly and came to the conclusion that the legs looked superb as they were. The mahogany leather intended to cover the stubbies would not be required and could be re-purposed. His stubby legs would be polished to a high shine with beeswax and he would sport matching wooden legs.
Charlie started his training. He visited the depot every evening for two weeks between six and nine and met a friendly group of men to whom he spent most of his teabreaks explaining how he had been injured and giving demonstrations of how his artificial arms and hooks worked. He heard supportive stories about brothers and cousins and uncles who had come back without a limb or two. One evening he was called into the manager’s office where he met two senior officials who had got wind of an amputee under training at Putney garage. It was most irregular. The manager was initially reprimanded for taking the business into his own hands but a five minute acquaintance with Charlie assured them that the man was educated, civil, enthusiastic and completely capable of handling a company tramcar. He was asked a series of questions about traffic regulations and his knowledge of the routes out of Putney. The seniors were impressed, thanked him and Charlie returned to his practical lessons. The manager received a brief apology and was left in peace. It looked very much as if Charlie was going to become a tram driver.
The four cripples spent a pleasant hour or two in the Green Man on Sunday morning. Adrian left home wearing his full-length black peg leg. He felt most comfortable wearing it. It felt familiar and he stood at the same height as his friends. Adrian and Arthur were an unmistakable pair together, both sporting pegs, Adrian with his crutches. Charlie was bursting to tell the others how he had been getting on and how his future colleagues had reacted to him and his hooks. Adrian brought up a matter which he had wanted to discuss with Charlie.
– I’ve read reports of a new wooden hand being manufactured in America, Charlie. It had been designed specifically to help men who have lost hands to drive a car. I was wondering if it might be of use to you.
– Well, that sounds interesting. These hooks are fine at the moment but I suppose that if I had something which looks more natural, more like a pair of hands, I might not stand out so much. I mean, anyone can tell at a glance that I’ve lost my hands.
– Exactly. So I was wondering if you’d be interested in getting a pair. I’m afraid I can’t give you much of a discount and one hand costs seventeen pounds. I could order you a pair for thirty pounds if you are interested.
– That’s very generous of you, Adrian. I am interested but I’d like to see a photo and a description of the hands first. Wooden, you say?
– Apparently, the palm is wooden with steel spring fingers which can grasp an object. Much more than that I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. But I’m interested in seeing a patient test them for us. If we have some experience of them, we could start importing them for British amputees. Get a bit of an edge on the market, if you get my meaning.
– Yes, I see. Well, I am interested to see them. Perhaps you could order a pair which I could test, although thirty quid is quite a sum.
– Don’t worry about that. You could pay on the never-never. Ten bob a week, something like that.
– That sounds very attractive. Shall we go ahead? Please order a pair and I will test them.
Unknown to Adrian or Arthur, Tom had borrowed Ben’s key and let himself into the workshop. By the end of Friday, both stubby legs were shaped and ready for testing. However, there was no reason why they should not also be polished and completed with the steel bars along them which would screw into the steel framework around the socket. Tom had adapted an emery polisher to function as a wood polisher. A little beeswax went a long way and after a morning’s work, the stubbies were glowing. They looked superb. Tom let himself out and ate lunch in a greasy spoon under the viaduct. He reviewed in his mind the remaining stages. Attaching the legs to the framework at the correct angle, adjusting the left leg’s hinge, ensuring the apparatus stood evenly. He drank a cuppa after his meal and returned to complete his work. By six, he was ready. He stood back and looked at his handiwork. Adrian’s stubby legs looked like a pair of short peg legs, wooden and rigid but enabling the man to stand independently for the first time in many years. It would be the first time Adrian had two legs under him in twelve years, almost to the day. He would still need his crutches to walk but he need not be so completely reliant on them any longer. He admired the stubbies for a little longer and locked up. Adrian would have a surprise in the morning and he hoped Adrian would have benefit from Tom’s efforts.
– – – – – – -
Summer wore on. There were still miners in the north of the country striking for their rights but public interest elsewhere had waned. The disruption caused by the General Strike had taken the country by surprise. Many businesses were still struggling with the after-effects of lost production and missed deadlines. The men of Cripple’s Corner were fortunate to have incomes.
Charlie had passed his induction exam with flying colours and drove a thirty-seven between Sutton and Putney. He had a small band of admiring followers, often schoolboys, who stood watching how the brass hooks clattered over the controls. The house magazine published a short story about the first amputee tram driver and included a grainy photo of Charlie in his driver’s uniform and cap saluting the camera.
Smiffy continued to make his way to King’s Cross every weekday morning and left his artificial limbs with the left-luggage. He also had his admirers who would walk out of their way in order to drop a copper or two in Smiffy’s enamel mug. They would exchange a few words about late trains or the weather, anything which allowed them to stare at Smiffy’s leg stumps for a few seconds.
Adrian adopted his long wooden stubbies as his permanent legs. He devised an efficient gait, a twisting motion which forced his stump forward, followed by the rigid stubby. The stubby with the stump was lengthened slightly in order to make it easier to swing the rigid leg. The wooden legs were usually concealed under shortened suit trousers but the broad circular tips were visible. Adrian could stand again and use his hands without needing to rely on his crutches. At home, he and Arthur often wore baggy shorts, surplus military apparel bought for a song from Army & Navy stores. Standing five feet tall, Adrian was an impressive figure on his wooden legs, boasting a magnificent full beard and moustache.
Arthur received a small package from the United States which he had ordered back in early summer. It contained the pair of wood and steel hands which Charlie had agreed to try out. He took them upstairs in the evening and showed them to Charlie who was most impressed. Adrian removed his brass hooks, replaced them with the hands and saw to some minor adjustments to the cabling. Charlie held his new hands in front of his face and turned them from side to side, remembering how his arms had once been. The thumb and fingers could open up and by increasing tension on the cables, Charlie found he could persuade them to hold on to an object. He could easily imagine himself at work using the hands, perhaps with leather gloves on to protect the finish and to improve their grip. Smiffy arranged to pay for the hands and over the next weeks, Charlie became a convert. His large brass hooks were placed in a drawer and retired. Charlie no longer attracted so much attention in public or at work. The wooden hands were ideal for driving a tram and riding a bicycle. Charlie soon learned to hold a knife and fork with them and set about learning to write in a slightly different way.
Arthur stood by Adrian. Their friendship had long since settled into a privately homosexual relationship which was never so much as hinted at. Arthur admired his legless hero, who had taken a common Cockney boy and nurtured him into a successful prosthetist and respected businessman. Both men were proud of their prosthetic limbs and their crippled status and frequently took pleasure in each other’s bodies while wearing their peg legs. The sound of wooden limbs colliding was an intrinsic element to their love-making. Their injuries and resultant stumps had brought them together and their prosthetic experiences had bonded them, recasting both their lives in a way neither could have imagined and for which they were mutually grateful.
- 1926 -
