My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (find a book to read .txt) 📗

another three weeks to go before Sydney’s return. Although Mother continued working at her sewing machine, what she earned was not enough to keep us going. Consequently we were in another crisis.

But I was resourceful. Mother had a pile of old clothes, and, as it was Saturday morning, I suggested that I should try and sell them in the market place. Mother was a little embarrassed, and said they were quite worthless. Nevertheless, I wrapped them up in an old sheet and wended my way to Newington Butts and there laid my ignoble congeries on the pavement – a drab and sorry sight – then stood in the gutter and shouted: ‘Here!’ – picking up an old shirt, then a pair of old corsets – ‘what will you give me? – a shilling, sixpence, threepence, twopence?’ Not even at a penny could I make a sale. People would stop, look astonished, then laugh and go on their way. I began to feel embarrassed, especially when the occupants of a jeweller’s shop opposite began looking at me through the shop window. However, nothing deterred me. Eventually a pair of gaiters that did not look so depressing sold for sixpence. But the longer I stayed the uneasier I felt. Later the gentleman from the jeweller’s shop came over to me and asked, in a thick Russian accent, how long I had been in business. In spite of his solemn face, I detected humour in his remark and told him I had just started. He walked slowly back to his two grinning partners, who were looking through the shop window at me. That was enough! I thought it time to wrap up my wares and return home. When I told Mother I had sold a pair of gaiters for sixpence, she was indignant. ‘They should have brought more,’ she said. ‘They were a beautiful pair!’

At this juncture we were not too concerned about paying rent; that problem was easily solved by being out for the day when the rent man called, and, as our belongings were of little value, it would cost more than we owed to cart them away. However, we moved back to 3 Pownall Terrace.

At this time I came to know an old man and his son who worked in a mews at the back of Kennington Road. They were travelling toy-makers who came from Glasgow, making toys and selling them as they wandered from town to town. They were free and unencumbered and I envied them. Their profession needed little capital. With as small an investment as a shilling they could start in business. They would collect shoe-boxes, which every shoe-shop was only too pleased to give them, and cork sawdust in which grapes were packed which they also got gratis. Their initial outlay consisted only in the purchase of a pennyworth of glue, a pennyworth of wood, twopence worth of twine, a pennyworth of Christmas coloured paper and three twopenny balls of coloured tinsel. For a shilling they could make seven dozen boats and sell them for a penny apiece. The sides were cut from shoe-boxes and were sewn on to a cardboard base, the smooth surface was covered with glue, then poured over with cork sawdust. The masts were rigged with coloured tinsel, and blue, yellow and red flags were stuck on the topmast and on the end of the booms, fore and aft. A hundred or more of these little toy boats, with their coloured tinsel and flags, was a gay and festive sight that attracted customers, and they were easy to sell.

As a result of our acquaintance I began helping them to make boats, and very soon I was familiar with their craft. When they left our neighbourhood I went into business for myself. With a limited capital of sixpence, and at the cost of blistered hands through cutting up cardboard, I was able to turn out three dozen boats within a week.

But there was not enough space in our garret for Mother’s work and my boat-making. Besides, Mother complained of the odour of boiling glue, and that the glue pot was a constant menace to her linen blouses, which, incidentally, crowded most of the space in the room. As my contribution was less than Mother’s, her work took precedence and my craft was abandoned.

We had seen little of Grandfather during this time. For the past year he had not been doing too well. His hands were swollen with gout, which made it difficult for him to work at his shoe-repairing. In the past he had helped Mother when he could afford with a couple of bob or so. Sometimes he would cook dinner for us, a wonderful bargoo stew composed of Quaker Oats and onions boiled in milk with salt and pepper. On a wintry night it was our constitutional base to withstand the cold.

As a boy I thought Grandpa a dour, fractious old man who was always correcting me either about my manners or my grammar. Because of these small encounters, I had grown to dislike him. Now he was in the infirmary with rheumatism, and Mother would go every visiting day to see him. These visits were profitable, because she usually returned with a bag full of fresh eggs, quite a luxury in our recessional period. When unable to go herself, she would send me. I was always surprised when I found Grandpa most agreeable and happy to see me. He was quite a favourite with the nurses. He told me in later life that he would joke with them, saying that in spite of his crippling rheumatism not all his machinery was impaired. This sort of rodomontade amused the nurses. When his rheumatism allowed him, he worked in the kitchen, whence came our eggs. On visiting days, he was usually in bed, and from his bedside cabinet would surreptitiously hand me a large bag of them, which I quickly stowed in my sailor’s tunic before departing.

For weeks we lived on eggs,