A SPECIMEN DAY
By A RENT COLLECTOR.
[In response to requests we have decided to publish a few of the articles, describing a characteristic day's work or experience, which were sent in for a recent competition in the Spectator.] m EDICAL science having done. all it possibly could to turn a partially disabled man into a fairly able one, I took the first and only thing that offered in the shape of a job, and am now that hated thing "the landlord's agent." My pay won't run to a motor-car, of course, so I do my daily rent-round on my trusty bike.
• My specimen day begins about 7.00. Dressing is accomplished quickly considering my crocked-up hand, and I usually cook the bacon or make the porridge while puj wife washes and dresses the finest and most engaging little daughter in the world ! After breakfast I. mount my wheel and away I go, generally to the most distant part of the town first, and work back.
First house—no trouble. The rent is paid ; the book signed, a pleasant "good morning" and I pass on to the next one. "I'm sorry, Mr. X, but I've got no rent for you to-day. My husband's been out of work." So down go another few shillings on the arrears column, and I pass on to the next. Here, although it is after 10 o'clock, the housewife is not up, and when at last she does appear, she explains the fact by saying she always feels • so " lacksidacksical " in the mornings. Next one ; I hold my nose as I knock at the open door. - A dirty, bedraggled woman shuffles towards me along the grimiest of passages : "You ain't goin' to 'ave no rent 'ere—not till the repairs is done ! Week after week I've told you about it, and nothin' done yet." "Well Ma'am, you see our men are very busy and they take. you all in turn. Your turn will come next I expect." "Well, when I sees them you'll 'ave your money, and not before, so that's that." Nothing for it, but off again. To another street this time, and glad of the spin to inhale some fresh air.
Tidy little houses these with more or less pleasant occupants, even when parting with so large a sum for so. small a dwelling. I get through a dozen or so with very little trouble, and then off to another part of the town. Here there seems to be an epidemic of misfortune. In one house the boiler's burst ; there is no fire, and every- thing is in a mess. "When will the men come to see to it ? " In another, the outside drain is choked, and the water is coming into the scullery. In vain I try to point out that those who choke drains should clear them again. Nobody knows how it happened, but it is believed to be the landlord's business to clear the drains as well as to keep the roof tight. .
A .few :doors lower down our men arc opening up a drain because a scrubbing brush, a clothes peg and a rag or two have been dropped down the W.C. by the children. When will the "care of drains" be added to the schoollessons ?
On once more ; and gladly I turn in to the nearest bank to lodge my load of very dirty money.
Home to -dinner, a smoke, and a game with my lively girlie, but there's no time to waste. No matter what the weather, I must away_ again to another part of the town. There are quite fifty more houses to be visited, and in nearly every house the tenant has a grouse. In one the floor has given way ; in another the roof leaks. Yet again, and the sash . cords are gone ; or the bottom has fallen out of the- kitchen grate. Another, where a lorry had knocked the garden wall down, and "Will you please send a man at once to build it up ? " All these. are noted in my, " Complaint " book, and I pedal along to the next street. Here one can't pay at all because her husband has just died and there's the funeral to pay for. Another has had to buy boots' for her children and there's no money left. Another, as is plainly to be seen, has spent nearly all her husband's wages in the " pub " round the corner and nothing is to be had there.
Then there are the "notices to quit" to be posted.. One to the man who keeps a monkey and a rabbit or two in his one room ; another to the quarrelsome woman who makes herself a nuisance to her neighbours ; one to the "disorderly house" keeper, and one to the thriftless laggard who has exhausted the landlord's patience by getting pounds behind with the rent. It is not all pleasant by any means, and I am glad when the last. visit and the last rent for the day are paid, and I am once more again in the shelter of my own little home at 6 p.m.
But the work isn't over yet. After a good tea, and a tune or two on the gramophone, there are the books to make up- and the cash to balance. Then, and then only, can I read my favourite papers, or "listen in." Before- the War I could play a musical instrument, but since have had to be content with wireless and the gramophone. In long summer evenings I tend my little garden, which brings us much happiness, if it were not for the procession. of cats which often do not mind undoing much of my work.
At first I did not cotton to the life ; but now I am used to it, and, even with many of the risks it involves, it is, at any rate, mostly spent in the open air, which is something at least for which to be thankful. It also gives one" peeps behind the scenes" of other lives, which tend to increase the thankfulness for one's own many blessings.
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