Joe worked two jobs

Joe worked two jobs

Worth of hours,

Sweating hard labour

On the land

Six days a week

Half a day on a Sunday,

When he had a hot bath

In front of the fire

He attended the Methodist Chapel

For the singing of hymns,

Jerusalem was his favourite.

And stole an hour to walk barefoot

On England's greensward

Between working and studying

For his law degree.

His life was a plan

Laid out, plotted on a graph

Pinned up on his bedroom door

Achievements ticked off

Methodically, one by one.

He had a lot more to tick.

The law was his passion

He was determined to help

Men and women like himself.

Not everybody had his opportunity

A small stipend

From his uncle’s will,

A fearful man

Given to issuing decrees

From the dinner table

About the natural order of things

And if he heard even a pin drop

Mid-flow,

“So help me god…little boys

Should be seen and not heard.”

But he had loved Joe

In his own way.

And the scholarship he had funded

Was a good foundation.

The pupilage he had arranged

Through an old friend

From his army days

On the Somme,

Was to start in September.

But before then Joe needed

To replace his parent's frayed stair carpet,

It was dangerous.

Somebody might hit a snag

And lose their footing.

He couldn’t bear the thought of that.

His dad might have to stay downstairs

If his breathing got any worse.

Joe needed to

Fix the loose tiles on the roof

And mend the fence.

His dad was too ill with black lung

To do much of anything

Other than grumbling

About the weather

Or a badly poured Guinness.

Between coughing and spitting

There wasn’t much space left

For house repairs.

He always had a spittoon next to his chair

It was made from brass

Donated by the pub landlord,

Kept polished

Since before Napoleon

Had been exiled

So he reckoned.

Joe loved his dad

But he worshipped his Ma

And all he could do to help

Ease her burden he would.

Her small hands were red and swollen

From working too hard

Washing other people’s clothes

Kneading pastry for pies, cakes and bread

She was a good baker

But everything was sold

To get by.

The stone floor in the kitchen was cold

And uncovered

Except for a threadbare mat

He was determined to do something about that

Before he left for the city

Everything would be titivated

“Spruced up”

As his mother would say.

He would send money

It was the least he could do

Until he was qualified

And then he would buy a house

For them all

On a Georgian Crescent

Like the ones he had seen

When he went for his interview

At the law office in the cloisters

The juniors had nicknamed the Inns of Court

When it was just a wide yard

With a few solicitors,

Sharing the space

And the self-employed clerks

As if they were in London.

Maybe he would work there one day

Appear at the Old Bailey,

Present a case of significance.

Fighting for justice,

Helping the innocent go free.

Not that he saw himself as

A hero of the working class

But it was something to be.