This Study Guide consists of approximately 38 pages of chapter summaries, quotes, character analysis, themes, and more - everything you need to sharpen your knowledge of The Road to Wigan Pier. It was lighted only by a skylight, for on one side of it was the shop and on the other the larder, which opened into some dark subterranean place where the tripe was stored. The Brookers had large numbers of sons and daughters, most of whom had long since fled from home. On the day when there was a full chamber-pot under the breakfast table I decided to leave. At the time I imagined that this was because tripe was too expensive; I have since thought that it was merely because we knew too much about it. They seemed to feel him there, eating their substance day after day, as though he had been a living worm in their bowels. For supper there was the pale flabby Lancashire cheese and biscuits. As we moved slowly through the outskirts of the town we passed row after row of little grey slum houses running at right angles to the-embankment. The fat one, the grandfather, used to fall asleep with his head on a pile of forms.

You cannot disregard them if you accept the civilization that produced them. Although the snow was hardly broken the sun was shining brightly, and behind the shut windows of the carriage it seemed warm. They handed their weekly ten shillings over to the Brookers and in return got the kind of accommodation you would expect for ten shillings; that is, a bed in the attic and meals chiefly of bread-and-butter. You'll like a cream cracker with your cheese'--thus glozing over the fact that there was only cheese for supper. It struck me that this place must be fairly normal as lodging-houses in the industrial areas go, for on the whole the lodgers did not complain. Old Jack they could just tolerate, because he kept out-of-doors most of the day, but they really hated the bedridden one, Hooker by name. He used to tell me tales of fights with savage horses in the narrow galleries underground. They couldn't, they complained perpetually, get the kind of lodgers they wanted--good-class 'commercial gentlemen' who paid full board and were out all day. The other, called by everyone Old Jack, was an ex-miner aged seventy-eight who had worked well over fifty years in the pits. Even in the early morning when he descended into the mysterious den behind Mrs Brooker's sofa and fished out the tripe, his hands were already black. The second half is a long essay on his middle-class upbringing, and the development of his political conscience, questioning British attitudes towards socialism. The Scotchman paid a pound a week, but he was indoors most of the day and they 'didn't like him always hanging round the place', as they put it. Mrs Brooker used to lament by the hour, lying on her sofa, a soft mound of fat and self-pity, saying the same things over and over again.' google_color_border = "993333"; When that happened they could at least draw the insurance money. It does seem 'ard, don't it now ?' The whole of the industrial districts are really one enormous town, of about the same population as Greater London but, fortunately, of much larger area; so that even in the middle of them there is still room for patches of cleanness and decency.

Blackbeetles were said to swarm there. Earlier than that, I suppose, there were factory whistles which I was never awake to hear. The whole place had the unmistakable dusty, flyblown air of a business that is going down. The ingratitude of it! 'The filthy bloody bastards!' The newspaper-canvassers were a type I had never met before. The earth is so vast and still so empty that even in the filthy heart of civilization you find fields where the grass is green instead of grey; perhaps if you looked for them you might even find streams with live fish in them instead of salmon tins. The Brookers had insured the lives of both old-age pensioners with one of the tanner-a-week companies. The train bore me away, through the monstrous scenery of slag-heaps, chimneys, piled scrap-iron, foul canals, paths of cindery mud criss-crossed by the prints of clogs. My bed was in the right-hand corner on the side nearest the door. The Scotch miner was a bore when you got to know him.

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