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MRS BINDLE
SOME INCIDENTS FROM THE DOMESTIC LIFE OF THE BINDLES
WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT
Ever since the success achieved by _Bindle_, Herbert Jenkins has been urged to write giving Mrs. Bindle's point of view. This book is the result.
Among other things, it narrates how Mrs. Bindle caught a chill, how a nephew was born to her and what effect it had upon her outlook.
It tells how she encountered a bull, and what happened to the man who endeavoured to take forcible possession of her home.
She is shown as breaking a strike by precipitating a lock-out, burning incense to her brother-in-law, Mr. Hearty, and refusing the armistice that was offered.
One chapter tells of her relations with her neighbours. Another deals with a musical evening she planned, and yet a third of how she caught a chill and was in great fear of heaven.
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
BINDLE 2s. 6d. net. THE NIGHT CLUB 2s. 6d. net. ADVENTURES OF BINDLE 2s. 6d. net. JOHN DENE OF TORONTO 2s. 6d. net. MALCOLM SAGE, DETECTIVE 2s. 6d. net. PATRICIA BRENT, SPINSTER 2s. 6d. net. THE RAIN-GIRL 2s. 6d. net. THE RETURN OF ALFRED 2s. 6d. net. THE BINDLES ON THE ROCKS 2s. 6d. net. THE STIFFSONS and other stories 2s. 6d. net.
MRS BINDLE
SOME INCIDENTS FROM THE DOMESTIC LIFE OF THE BINDLES
BY HERBERT JENKINS
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED YORK STREET ST. JAMES'S S.W.1.
_Ninth printing, completing 104,643 copies_
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS, PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON
TO ARTHUR COMPTON RICKETT M.A., LL.D.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MRS. BINDLE'S LOCK-OUT 9
II. MRS. BINDLE'S WASHING-DAY 38
III. MRS. BINDLE ENTERTAINS 60
IV. THE COMING OF JOSEPH THE SECOND 89
V. MRS. BINDLE BURNS INCENSE 108
VI. MRS. BINDLE DEFENDS HER HOME 125
VII. MRS. BINDLE DEMANDS A HOLIDAY 150
VIII. THE SUMMER-CAMP FOR TIRED WORKERS 168
IX. MR. HEARTY ENCOUNTERS A BULL 188
X. THE COMING OF THE WHIRLWIND 209
XI. MRS. BINDLE TAKES A CHILL 237
XII. MRS. BINDLE BREAKS AN ARMISTICE 263
XIII. MRS. BINDLE'S DISCOVERY 283
MRS BINDLE
CHAPTER I
MRS. BINDLE'S LOCK-OUT
I
"Well! What's the matter now? Lorst your job?"
With one hand resting upon the edge of the pail beside which she waskneeling, Mrs. Bindle looked up, challenge in her eyes. Bindle'sunexpected appearance while she was washing the kitchen oilcloth filledher with foreboding.
"There's a strike on at the yard," he replied in a tone which, in spiteof his endeavour to render it casual, sounded like a confession ofguilt. He knew Mrs. Bindle; he knew also her views on strikes.
"A what?" she cried, rising to her feet and wiping her hands upon thecoarse canvas apron that covered the skirt carefully festooned about herhips. "A what?"
"A strike," repeated Bindle. "They give Walter 'Odson the sack, so weall come out."
"Oh! you have, have you?" she cried, her thin lips disappearingominously. "And when are you going back, I'd like to know?" She regardedhim with an eye that he knew meant war.
"Can't say," he replied, as he proceeded to fill his pipe from a tintobacco-box. "Depends on the Union," he added.
"The Union!" she cried with rising wrath. "I wish I had them here. I'dgive them Union, throwing men out of work, with food the price it is.What's going to 'appen to us? Can you tell me that?" she demanded, herdiction becoming a little frayed at the edges, owing to the intensity ofher feelings.
Bindle remained silent. He realised that he was faced by a crisis.
"Nice thing you coming 'ome at eleven o'clock in the morning calmlysaying you've struck," she continued angrily. "You're a lazy,good-for-nothing set of loafers, the whole lot of you, that's what youare. When you're tired of work and want a 'oliday you strike, and spendyour time in public-'ouses, betting and drinking and swearing, and uswomen slaving morning, noon and night to keep you. Suppose I was tostrike, what then?"
She undid her canvas apron, and with short, jerky movements proceeded tofold and place it in the dresser-drawer. She then let down the festoonsinto which her skirt had been gathered about her inconspicuous hips.
Mrs. Bindle was a sharp, hatchet-faced woman, with eyes too closely settogether to satisfy an artist.
The narrowness of her head was emphasised by the way in which her thin,sandy hair was drawn behind each ear and screwed tightly into a knot atthe back.
Her lips were thin and slightly marked, and when she was annoyed theyhad a tendency to disappear altogether.
"How are we going to live?" she demanded. "Answer me that! You and yourstrikes!"
Bindle struck a match and became absorbed in lighting his pipe.
"What are you going to do for food?" She was not to be denied.
"We're a-goin' to get strike pay," he countered, seizing the opening.
"Strike pay!" she cried scornfully. "A fat lot of good that'll do. Apound a week, I suppose, and you eating like a--like a----" she pausedfor a satisfactory simile. "Eating me out of 'ouse and 'ome," sheamended. "'Strike pay!' I'd give 'em strike pay if I had my way."
"It'll 'elp," suggested Bindle.
"Help! Yes, it'll help you to find out how hungry you can get," sheretorted grimly. "I'd like to have that man Smillie here, I'd give him abit of my mind."
"But 'e ain't done it," protested Bindle, a sense of fair play promptinghim to defend the absent leader. "'E's a miner. We don't belong to 'isUnion."
"They're all tarred with the same brush," cried Mrs. Bindle, "agood-for-nothing, lazy lot. They turn you round their little fingers,and then laugh at you up their sleeves. I know them," she added darkly.
Bindle edged towards the door. He had not been in favour of the strike;now it was even less popular with him.
"I suppose you're going round to your low public-house, to drink andsmoke and tell each other how clever you've been," she continued. "Thenyou'll come back expecting to find your dinner ready to put in yourmouth."
Mrs. Bindle's words were prophetic. Bindle _was_ going round to TheYellow Ostrich to meet his mates, and discuss the latest strike-news.
"You wouldn't 'ave me a blackleg, Lizzie, would you?" he asked.
"Don't talk to me about such things," she retorted. "I'm a hardworkingwoman, I am, inchin' and pinchin' to keep the home respectable, whileyou and your low companions refuse to work. I wish I had them all here,I'd give them strikes." Her voice shook with suppressed passion.
Realising that the fates were against him, Bindle beat a gloomy retreat,and turned his steps in the direction of The Yellow Ostrich.
At one o'clock he returned to Fenton Street, a little doubtful; but veryhungry.
He closed the gate quietly, Mrs. Bindle hated the banging of gates.Suddenly he caught sight of a piece of white paper pinned to the frontdoor.
A moment later he was reading the dumbfounding announcement:
"I have struck too.
"E. BINDLE."
The words, which were written on the back of a coal-merchant'sadvertisement, seemed to dance before his eyes.
He was conscious that at the front window on either side a face waswatching him intently. In Fenton Street drama was the common property ofall.
With a puzzled expression in his eyes, Bindle stood staring at the pieceof paper and its ominous message, his right hand scratching his headthrough the blue and white cricket cap he habitually wore.
"Well, I'm blowed," he muttered, as Mrs. Grimps, who lived at No. 5,came to her door and stood regarding him not unsympathetically.
At the sight of her neighbour, Mrs. Sawney, who occupied No. 9, alsoappeared, her hands rolled up in her apron and her arms steaming. Shehad been engaged in the scullery when "'Arriet," who had been set towatch events, rushed in from the front room with the news that Mr.Bindle was coming.
"Serves you right, it does," said Mrs. Sawney. "You men," she added, asif to remove from her words any suggestion that they were intended aspersonal. Bindle was very popular with his neighbours.
"Strikes you does, when you ain't feeling like work," chorused Mrs.Grimps, "I know you."
Bindle looked from one to the other. For once he felt there was nothingto say.
"Then there's the kids," said a slatternly-looking woman with a hardmouth and dusty hair, who had just drifted up from two doors away. "Alot you cares. It's us wot 'as to suffer."
There was a murmur from the other women, who had been reinforced by twoneighbours from the opposite side of the street.
"She 'as my sympathy," said Mrs. Sawney, "although I can't say I likes'er as a friend."
During these remarks, Bindle had been searching for his latch-key, whichhe now drew forth and inserted in the lock; but, although the latchresponded, the door did not give. It was bolted on the inside.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered again, too surprised at this new phaseof the situation to be more than dimly conscious of the remarks of thoseabout him.
"My sister's man struck three months ago," said one of the new arrivals,"and 'er expectin' 'er fifth. Crool I calls it. They ought to 'ave 'emtheirselves is wot I say. That'ud learn 'em to strike."
A murmur of approval broke from the others at this enigmaticalutterance.
"It's all very well for them," cried Mrs. Sawney; "but it's us wot 'asto suffer, us and the pore kids, bless 'em. 'Arriet, you let me catchyou swingin' on that gate again, my beauty, and I'll skin you."
The last remark was directed at the little girl, who had seized themoment of her mother's pre-occupation to indulge herself in an illicitjoy.
Without a word, Bindle turned and walked down the flagged path to thegate, and along Fenton Street in the direction of The Yellow Ostrich,leaving behind him a group of interested women, who would find in histragedy material for a week's gossip.
His customary cheeriness had forsaken him. He realised that he was facedby a domestic crisis that frankly puzzled him--and he was hungry.
As he pushed open the hospitable swing-door of The Yellow Ostrich, hewas greeted by a new and even more bewildering phase of the situation.
"'Ere, Bindle," cried an angry voice, "wot the blinkin' 'ell's yourmissis up to?"
"You may search me," was Bindle's lugubrious reply, as he moved acrossto the bar and ordered a pint of beer, some bread, and "a bit o' thecheese wot works the lift."
"You was agin us chaps striking," continued the speaker who had greetedBindle on his entrance, a man with a criminal forehead, a loose mouth,and a dirty neck-cloth.
"Wot's your complaint, mate?" enquired Bindle indifferently, as helifted his pewter from the counter, and took a pull that half emptied itof its contents.
"Wot's your ruddy missis been up to?" demanded the man aggressively.
"Look 'ere, 'Enery, ole sport," said Bindle quietly, as he wiped hislips with the back of his hand, "you ain't pretty, an' you ain't good;but try an' keep yer mouth clean when you speaks of Mrs. B. See?"
A murmur of approval rose from the other men, with whom Bindle waspopular and Henry Gilkes was not.
"Wot's she mean a-goin' round to my missis an' gettin' 'er to bolt meout?"
"Bolt you out!" cried Bindle, with a puzzled expression. "Wotjer talkin'about?"
"When I goes 'ome to dinner," was the angry retort, "there's a ticket onthe blinkin' door sayin' my missis 'as struck. I'll strike 'er!" headded malevolently. "The lady next door tells me that it's your missiswot done it."
For a moment Bindle gazed at his fellow-sufferer, then he smacked histhigh with the air of a man who has just seen a great joke, which forsome time has evaded him.
"'Enery," he grinned, "she's done it to me too."
"Done wot?" enquired Henry, who, as a Father of the Chapel, felt he wasa man of some importance.
"Locked me out, back _and_ front," explained Bindle, enjoying his mate'sbewilderment. "Wot about the solidarity of labour now, ole sport?" heenquired.
Henry Gilkes had one topic of conversation--"the solidarity of labour."Those who worked with him found it wearisome listening to his views onthe bloated capitalist, and how he was to be overcome. They preferreddiscussing their own betting ventures, and the prospects of the Chelseaand Fulham football teams.
"Done it to you!" repeated Gilkes dully. "Wot she done?"
"I jest nipped round to get a bit o' dinner," explained Bindle, "andthere was both doors bolted, an' a note a-sayin' that Mrs. B. 'adstruck. Personally, myself, I calls it a lock-out," he added with agrin.
Several of his hearers began to manifest signs of uneasiness. They hadnot been home since early morning.
"I'll break 'er stutterin' jaw if my missis locks me out," growled aheavily-bearded man, known as "Ruddy Bill" on account of the intensityof his language.
"Jest the sort o' thing you would do," said Bindle genially. "You got asweet nature, Bill, in spite of them whiskers."
Ruddy Bill growled something in his beard, while several of the othermen drained their pewters and slipped out, intent on discovering whetheror no their own domestic bliss were threatened by this new andunexpected danger.
From then on, the public bar of The Yellow Ostrich hummed with angrytalk and threats of what would happen if the lords, who there gloriedand drank deep, should return to their hearths and find manifestationsof rebellion.
Two of the men, who had gone to investigate the state of their owndomestic barometers, were back in half an hour with the news that theytoo had been locked out from home and beauty.
About three o'clock, Ruddy Bill returned, streams of profanity flowingfrom his lips. Finding himself bolted out, he had broken open the door;but no one was there. Now he was faced with a threat of ejectment fromthe landlord, who had heard of the wilful damage to his property, plusthe cost of a new door.
Several times that afternoon the landlord of The Yellow Ostrich, himselfregarded as an epicure in the matter of "language," found it necessaryto utter the stereotyped phrase, "Now gents, if _you_ please," which,with him, meant that the talk was becoming unfit for the fo'c'sle of atramp steamer.
II
Left to herself by the departure of Bindle for The Yellow Ostrich, Mrs.Bindle had, for some time, stood by the dresser deep in thought. She hadthen wrung-out the house-flannel, emptied the pail, placed them underthe sink and once more returned to the dresser. Five minutes' meditationwas followed by swift action.
First she took her bonnet from the dresser-drawer, then unhooking a darkbrown mackintosh from behind the door, she proceeded to make her outdoortoilet in front of the looking-glass on the mantelpiece.
She then sought out ink-bottle and pen, and wrote her defiance with anink-eaten nib. This accomplished, she bolted the front-door on theinside, first attaching her strike-notice. Leaving the house by thedoor giving access to the scullery, she locked it, taking the key withher.
Her face was grim and her walk was d
etermined, as she made her way tothe yard at which Bindle was employed. There she demanded to see themanager and, after some difficulty, was admitted.
She began by reproaching him and ordering him to stop the strike. When,however, he had explained that the strike was entirely due to the actionof the men, she ended by telling him of her own drastic action, and herdetermination to continue her strike until the men went back.
The manager surprised her by leaning back in his chair and laughinguproariously.
"Mrs. Bindle," he cried at length, as he wiped the tears from his eyes,"you're a genius; but I'm sorry for Bindle. Now, do you want to end thestrike in a few hours?"
Mrs. Bindle looked at him suspiciously; but, conscious of the veryobvious admiration with which he regarded her act, she relentedsufficiently to listen to what he had to say.
Ten minutes later she left the office with a list of the names andaddresses of the strikers, including that of the branch organisingsecretary of the Union. She had decided upon a counter-offensive.
Her first call was upon Mrs. Gilkes, a quiet little woman who had beensubdued to meekness by the "solidarity of labour." Here she had to admitfailure.
"I know what you mean, my dear," said Mrs. Gilkes; "but you see, Mr.Gilkes wouldn't like it." There was a tremor of fear in her voice.
"Wouldn't like it!" echoed Mrs. Bindle. "Of course he wouldn't like it.Bindle won't like it when he knows," her jaws met grimly and her lipsdisappeared. "You're afraid," she added accusingly.
"That's it, my dear, I am," was the disconcerting reply. "I never 'ad no'eart for a fight, that's why Mr. Gilkes 'as come it over me like 'e'as. My sister, Mary, was sayin' only last Toosday--no it wasn't, it wasWe'n'sday, I remember because it was the day we 'ad sausages wot Mr.Gilkes said wasn't fresh. 'Amelia,' she says, 'you ain't got the 'eartof a rabbit, or else you wouldn't stand wot you do,'" and, looking upinto Mrs. Bindle's face, she added, "It's true, Mrs. Gimble, although Ididn't own it to Mary, 'er bein' my sister an' so uppish in 'er ways."
"Well, you'll be sorry," was Mrs. Bindle's comment, as she turnedtowards the door. "I'll be no man's slave."
"You see, I 'aven't the 'eart, Mrs. Gimber."
"Bindle!" snapped Mrs. Bindle over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Spindle, my mistake."
Mrs. Bindle stalked along the passage, through the front door and out ofthe gate, leaving Mrs. Gilkes murmuring deprecatingly that she "'adn'tno 'eart for a fight."
Although she would not own it, Mrs. Bindle was discouraged by thefailure of her first attempt at strike-breaking. But for hergood-fortune in encountering Mrs. Hopton at her second venture, shemight even have relinquished the part of Lysistrata and have returnedhome to prepare Bindle's dinner.
It was with something like misgiving that she knocked at No. 32 WesselsStreet. This feeling was accentuated when the door was opened with greatsuddenness by an enormously big woman with a square chin, fighting eyes,and very little hair.
With arms akimbo, one elbow touching either side of the passage, as ifimbued with the sentiments of Horatius Cocles, Mrs. Hopton stood withtightly-shut mouth regarding her caller. As soon as Mrs. Bindle had madeher mission known, however, Mrs. Hopton's manner underwent an entirechange. Her hands dropped from her hips, her fixed expression relaxed,and she stood invitingly aside.
"I'm your woman," she cried. "You come in, Mrs.----"
"Bindle!" prompted Mrs. Bindle.
"You come in, Mrs. Bindle, you got the woman you want in Martha 'Opton.Us women 'ave stood this sort of thing long enough. I've always saidso."
She led the way into an airless little parlour, in which a case ofwax-fruit, a dusty stuffed dog and a clothes-horse hung with thefamiliarities of Mrs. Hopton's laundry, first struck the eye.
"I've always said," continued Mrs. Hopton, "that us women was too meekand mild by half in the way we takes things. My man's a fool," she addedwith conviction. "'E's that easily led by them arbitrators, that's wot Icall 'em, that they makes 'im do just wotever they wants, dirty, lazyset o' tykes. Never done a day's work in their lives, they 'aven't, notone of 'em."
"That's what I say," cried Mrs. Bindle, for once in her life finding acongenial spirit outside the walls of the Alton Road Chapel. "I'velocked up my house," she continued, "and put a note on the door thatI've struck too."
The effect of these words upon Mrs. Hopton was startling. Her head wentback like that of a chicken drinking, her hands rose once more to herhips, and her huge frame shook and pulsated as if it contained ahigh-power motor-engine. Mrs. Bindle gazed at her with widened eyes.
"Her-her-her!" came in deep, liquid gutturals from Mrs. Hopton's lips."Her-her-her!" Then her head came down again, and Mrs. Bindle saw thatthe grim lips were parted, displaying some very yellow, unprepossessingteeth. Mrs. Hopton was manifesting amusement.
Without further comment, Mrs. Hopton left the room. In her absence, Mrs.Bindle proceeded to sum-up her character from the evidence that her homecontained. The result was unfavourable. She had just decided that herhostess was dirty and untidy, without sense of decency or religion, whenMrs. Hopton re-entered. In one hand she carried a piece of paper, in theother a small ink-bottle, out of which an orange-coloured pen-holderreared its fluted length.
Clearing a space on the untidy table, she bent down and, with squaredelbows and cramped fingers, proceeded to scrawl the words: "I havestruck too. M. Hopton."
Then, straightening herself, she once more threw back her head, andanother stream of "Her-her-her's" gushed towards the ceiling.
"Now I'll come with you," she said at length. Without waiting to doncloak or bonnet, she proceeded to pin the notice on the front door,which she bolted on the inside. She then left by the scullery door,locking it, just as Mrs. Bindle had done, and carrying with her the key.
Although Mrs. Bindle felt that she suffered socially from being seenwith the lumbering, untidy Mrs. Hopton, she regarded it as a sacrificeto a just cause. It was not long, however, before she discovered thatshe had recruited, not a lieutenant, but a leader.
Seizing the list of names and addresses from her companion's hand, Mrs.Hopton glanced at it and turned in the direction of the street in whichlived the timid Mrs. Gilkes. As they walked, Mrs. Bindle told the storyof Mrs. Gilkes's cowardice, drawing from the Amazon-like Mrs. Hopton thesignificant words "Leave 'er to me."
"Now then, none of this," was her greeting to Mrs. Gilkes as she openedher front door. "Out you comes and joins the strike-breakers. None o'your nonsense or----" she paused significantly.
Mrs. Gilkes protested her cowardice, she grovelled, she dragged in hersister, Mary, and the wrathful Gilkes; but without avail. Almost beforeshe knew what had happened, she was walking between Mrs. Hopton andMrs. Bindle, the back-door key clasped in one hand, striving to tie thestrings of her bonnet beneath a chin that was obviously too shallow forthe purpose. In her heart was a great terror; yet she was conscious of astrange and not unpleasant thrill at the thought of her own daring. Shecomforted herself with Mrs. Hopton's promise of protection against herlord's anger.
The overpowering personality of Mrs. Hopton was too much for the otherwives. The one or two who made a valiant endeavour to stand out wereoverwhelmed by her ponderous ridicule, which bordered upon intimidation.
"'Ere, get a pen an' ink," she would cry and, before the reluctanthousewife knew what had happened, she had announced that she too hadstruck, and Mrs. Hopton's army had been swelled by another recruit.
At one house they found the husband about to sit down to an earlydinner. That gave Mrs. Hopton her chance.
"You lazy, guzzling, good-for-nothing son of a God-damn loafer!" sheshouted, her deep voice throbbing with passion. "Call yourself a man?Fine sort of man you are, letting your wife work and slave while youstrike and fill your belly with beef and beer. I've seen better thingsthan you thrown down the sink, that I 'ave."
At the first attack, the man had risen from the table in bewilderment.As Mrs. Hopton emptied upon him the vials of her anger, he had s
lowlyretreated towards the scullery door. She made a sudden movement in hisdirection; he turned--wrenched open the door, and fled.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mrs.----"
"Bolton," said the neat little woman.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bolton," said Mrs. Hopton; "but we're going to breakthis 'ere strike, me and Mrs. Bindle and all these other ladies." Shewaved her hand to indicate the army she had already collected.
Then she went on to explain; but Mrs. Bolton was adamant against all herinvitations to join the emancipationists.
"I suppose we got to fight your battle," Mrs. Hopton cried, andproceeded to drench her victim with ridicule; but Mrs. Bolton stoodfast, and the strike-breakers had to acknowledge defeat.
It was Mrs. Bindle's idea that they should hold a meeting outside theorganising secretary's house. The suggestion was acclaimed withenthusiasm.
"Let's get a tidy few, first," counselled Mrs. Hopton. "It'll make 'imthink 'arder."
At the end of an hour, even Mrs. Hopton was satisfied with the number ofher supporters, and she gave the word for the opening of hostilities.
That afternoon, just as he was rising from an excellent meal, Mr. JamesCunham was surprised to find that his neatly-kept front-garden wasfilled with women, while more women seemed to occupy the street.Neighbours came out, errand-boys called to friends, that they might notmiss the episode, children paused on their way to school; all seemed torealise the dramatic possibilities of the situation.
Mrs. Hopton played a fugue upon Mr. Cunham's knocker, bringing him tothe door in person.
"Well, monkey-face," she boomed. There was a scream of laughter from herfollowers.
Mr. Cunham started back as if he had been struck.
"Want to starve us, do you?" continued Mrs. Hopton.
"What's all this about?" he enquired, recovering himself. He was a manaccustomed to handling crowds, even unfriendly crowds; but never had heencountered anything like the cataract of wrathful contumely that nowpoured from Mrs. Hopton's lips.
"Just 'ad a good dinner, I suppose," she cried scornfully. "Beenenjoyin' it, eh? Cut from the joint and two vegs, puddin' to follow,with a glass of stout to wash it down. That the meenyou, eh? What doesit cost you when our men strike? Do you 'ave to keep 'alf a dozenbellies full on a pound a week?"
There was a murmur from the women behind her, a murmur that Mr. Cunhamdid not like.
"Nice little 'ouse you got 'ere," continued Mrs. Hopton critically, asshe peered into the neat and well-furnished hall. "All got out o'strikes," she added over her shoulder to her companions. "All got on thedo-nothin'-at-all-easy-purchase-system."
This time there was no mistaking the menace in the murmur from the womenbehind her.
"You're a beauty, you are," continued Mrs. Hopton. "Not much sweat aboutyour lily brow, Mr. Funny Cunham."
Mr. Cunham felt that the time had come for action.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Why have you come here, andwho are you?"
"Who are we?" cried Mrs. Hopton scornfully. "He asks who we are," shethrew over her shoulder.
Again there was an angry murmur from the rank and file.
"We're the silly fools wot married the men you brought out on strike,"said Mrs. Hopton, looking the organising secretary up and down as if hewere on show. "Creases in 'is trousers, too," she cried. "You ain't 'alfa swell. Well, we just come to tell you that the strike's orf, becausewe've struck. Get me, Steve?"
"We've declared a lock-out," broke in Mrs. Bindle with inspiration.
Back went Mrs. Hopton's head, up went her hands to her hips, anddeep-throated "Her-her-her's" poured from her parted lips.
"A lock-out!" she cried. "Her-her-her, a lock-out! That's the stuff togive 'em!" and the rank and file took up the cry and, out of theplenitude of his experience, Mr. Cunham recognised that the crowd washopelessly out of hand.
"Are we down-hearted?" cried a voice, and the shrieks of "No!" thatfollowed confirmed Mr. Cunham in his opinion that the situation was notwithout its serious aspect.
He was not a coward and he stood his ground, listening to Mrs. Hopton'sinspiring oratory of denunciation. It was three o'clock before he sawhis garden again--a trampled waste; an offering to the Moloch ofstrikes.
"Damn the woman!" he cried, as, shutting the door, he returned to theroom he used as an office, there to deliberate upon this new phase ofthe situation. "Curse her!"
III
It was nearly half-past ten that night when Bindle tip-toed up thetiled-path leading to the front door of No. 7 Fenton Street.
Softly he inserted his key in the lock and turned it; but the doorrefused to give. He stepped back to gaze up at the bedroom window; therewas no sign of a light.
It suddenly struck him that the piece of paper on the door was not thesame in shape as that he had seen at dinner-time. It was too dark to seeif there was anything written on it. Taking a box of matches from hispocket, he struck a light, shielding it carefully so that it shouldshine only on the paper.
His astonishment at what he read caused him to forget the lighted match,which burnt his fingers.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "If this ain't it," and once more heread the sinister notice:
"You have struck. We women have declared a lock-out.
"E. BINDLE."
After a few minutes' cogitation, he tip-toed down the path and round tothe back of the house; but the scullery door was inflexible in itsinhospitality.
He next examined the windows. Each was securely fastened.
"Where'm I goin' to sleep?" he muttered, as once more he tip-toed up thepath.
After a further long deliberation, he lifted the knocker, gave threegentle taps--and waited. As nothing happened, he tried four taps ofgreater strength. These, in turn, produced no response. Then he gave aknock suggestive of a telegraph boy, or a registered letter. At eachfresh effort he stepped back to get a view of the bedroom window.
He fancied that the postman-cum-telegraph-boy's knock had produced aslight fluttering of the curtain. He followed it up with something thatmight have been the police, or a fire.
As he stepped back, the bedroom-window was thrown up, and Mrs. Bindle'shead appeared.
"What's the matter?" she cried.
"I can't get in," said Bindle.
"I know you can't," was the uncompromising response, "and I don't meanyou shall."
"But where'm I goin' to sleep?" he demanded, anxiety in his voice.
"That's for you to settle."
"'Ere, Lizzie, come down an' let me in," he cried, falling to cajolery.
For answer Mrs. Bindle banged-to the window. He waited expectantly forthe door to be opened.
At the end of five minutes he realised that Mrs. Bindle had probablygone back to bed.
"Well, I can't stay 'ere all the bloomin' night, me with various veinsin my legs," he muttered, conscious that from several windows interestedheads were thrust.
Fully convinced that Mrs. Bindle was not on her way down to admit him,he once more fell back upon the knocker, awakening the echoes of FentonStreet.
At the sound of the window-sash being raised, he stepped back and lookedup eagerly.
"'Ere, wot the ----!"
Something seemed to flash through the night, and he received thecontents of the ewer full in the face.
"That'll teach you to come waking me up at this time of night," came thevoice of Mrs. Bindle, who, a moment later, retreated into the room.Bindle, rightly conjecturing that she had gone for more water, retiredout of reach.
"You soaked me through to the skin," he cried, when she re-appeared.
"And serve you right, too, you and your strikes."
"But ain't you goin' to let me in?"
"When the strike's off the lock-out'll cease," was the oracular retort.
"But I didn't want to strike," protested Bindle.
"Then you should have been a man and said so, instead of letting thatlittle rat make you do everything he wants, him sitting down to a gooddin
ner every day, all paid for out of strikes."
There were sympathetic murmurs from the surrounding darkness.
"But----" began Bindle.
"Don't let me 'ear anything more of you to-night, Joe Bindle," came Mrs.Bindle's uncompromising voice, "or next time I'll throw the jug an' allat you," and with that she banged-to the window in a way that convincedBindle it was useless to parley further.
"Catch my death o' cold," he grumbled, as he turned on a reluctant heelin the direction of Fulham High Street, with the intention of claiminghospitality from his sister-in-law, Mrs. Hearty. "Wot am I goin' to dofor duds," he added. "Funny ole bird I should look in one of 'Earty'sfrock-coats."
IV
The next morning at nine o'clock, the wives of the strikers met byarrangement outside the organising secretary's house; but the strikersthemselves were before them, and Mr. Cunham found himself faced with theugliest situation he had ever encountered.
At the sight of the groups of strikers, the women raised shrill cries.The men, too, lifted their voices, not in derision or criticism of theirhelpmates; but at the organising secretary.
The previous night the same drama that had been enacted between Bindleand Mrs. Bindle had taken place outside the houses of many of the otherstrikers, with the result that they had become "fed up to the blinkin'neck with the whole ruddy business."
"Well!" cried Mrs. Hopton as, at the head of her legion of Amazons, shereached the first group of men. "How jer like it?"
The men turned aside, grumbling in their throats.
"Her-her-her!" she laughed. "Boot's on the other foot now, my prettycanaries, ain't it? Nobody mustn't do anythink to upset you; but you cando what you streamin' well like, you lot o' silly mugs!
"Wotjer let that little rat-faced sniveller turn you round 'is littlefinger for? You ain't men, you're just Unionists wot 'ave got to do wot'e tells you. I see 'im yesterday," she continued after a slight pause,"'aving a rare ole guzzle wot you pays for by striking. 'Ow much does itcost 'im? That's wot I want to know, the rat-faced little stinker!"
At that moment "the rat-faced little stinker" himself appeared, hat onhead and light overcoat thrown over his arm. He smiled wearily, he wasnot favourably impressed by the look of things.
His appearance was the signal for shrill shouts from the women, and agrumbling murmur from the men.
"'Ere's Kayser Cunham," shouted one woman, and then individual crieswere drowned in the angry murmur of protest and recrimination.
Mr. Cunham found himself faced by the same men who, the day before, hadgreeted his words with cheers. Now they made it manifest that if he didnot find a way out of the strike difficulty, there would be trouble.
"Take that!" roared Mrs. Hopton hoarsely, as she snatched something froma paper-bag she was carrying, and hurled it with all her might at theleader. Her aim was bad, and a small man, standing at right angles tothe Union secretary, received a large and painfully ripe tomato full onthe chin.
Mrs. Hopton's cry was a signal to the other women. From beneath cloaksand capes they produced every conceivable missile, including a number ofeggs far gone towards chickenhood. With more zeal than accuracy of aim,they hurled them at the unfortunate Mr. Cunham. For a full minute hestood his ground valiantly, then, an egg catching him between the eyesbrought swift oblivion.
The strikers, however, did not manifest the courage of their leader.Although intended for the organising secretary, most of the missilesfound a way into their ranks. They wavered and, a moment after, turnedand fled.
Approaching nearer, the women concentrated upon him whom they regardedas responsible for the strike, and their aim improved. Some of theirshots took effect on his person, but most of them on the front of thehouse. Three windows were broken, and it was not until Mrs. Cunham cameand dragged her egg-bespattered lord into the passage, banging-to thestreet door behind her, that the storm began to die down.
By this time a considerable crowd of interested spectators had gathered.
"Just shows you what us women can do if we've a mind to do it," was theoracular utterance of one woman, who prided herself upon having been thefirst arrival outside the actual combatants.
"She ain't 'alf a caution," remarked a "lady friend," who had joined hersoon after the outbreak of hostilities. "That big un," she added,nodding in the direction of Mrs. Hopton, who, arms on hips and headthrown back, was giving vent to her mirth in a series of"her-her-her's."
A policeman pushed his way through the crowd towards the gate. Mrs.Hopton, catching sight of him, turned.
"You take my advice, my lad, and keep out of this."
The policeman looked about him a little uncertainly.
"What's the matter?" he enquired.
"It's a strike and a lock-out," she explained, "an' they got a bitmixed. We ain't got no quarrel with a good-looking young chap like you,an' we're on private premises, so you just jazz along as if you 'adn'tseen us."
A smile fluttered about the lips of the policeman. The thought ofpassing Mrs. Hopton without seeing her amused him; still he took noactive part in the proceedings, beyond an official exhortation to thecrowd to "pass along, please."
"Well, ladies," said Mrs. Hopton, addressing her victorious legions;"it's all over now, bar shoutin'. If any o' your men start a-knockin'you about, tell 'em we're a-goin' to stand together, and just let meknow. We'll come round and make 'em wish they'd been born somethink wotcan't feel."
That morning the manager at the yard received a deputation from the men,headed by Mr. Cunham, who, although he had changed his clothes and takena hot bath, was still conscious of the disgusting reek of rotten eggs.Before dinner-time the whole matter had been settled, and the men wereto resume work at two o'clock.
Bindle reached home a few minutes to one, hungry and expectant. Thenotice had been removed from the front door, and he found Mrs. Bindle inthe kitchen ironing.
"Well," she demanded as he entered, "what do you want?"
"Strike's orf, Lizzie," he said genially, an anxious eye turned to thestove upon which, however, there were no saucepans. This decided himthat his dinner was in the oven.
"I could have told you that!" was her sole comment, and she proceededwith her ironing.
For a few minutes Bindle looked about him, then once more fixed his gazeupon the oven.
"Wot time you goin' to 'ave dinner, Lizzie?" he asked, with all thegeniality of a prodigal doubtful of his welcome.
"I've had it." Mrs. Bindle's lips met in a hard, firm line.
"Is mine in the oven?"
"Better look and see."
He walked across to the stove and opened the oven door. It was as bareas the cupboard of Mrs. Hubbard.
"Wot you done with it, Lizzie?" he enquired, misgiving clutching at hisheart.
"What have I done with what?" she snapped, as she brought her iron downwith a bang that caused him to jump.
"My little bit o' groundsel."
"When you talk sense, perhaps I can understand you."
"My dinner," he explained with an injured air.
"When you've done a day's work you'll get a day's dinner, and notbefore."
"But the strike's orf."
"So's the lock-out."
"But----"
"Don't stand there 'butting' me. Go and do some work, then you'll havesomething to eat," and Mrs. Bindle reversed the pillow-case she wasironing, and got in a straight right full in the centre of it, whilstBindle turned gloomily to the door and made his way to The YellowOstrich, where, over a pint of beer and some bread and cheese, hegloomed his discontent.
"No more strikes for me," said a man seated opposite, who was similarlyengaged.
"Same 'ere," said Bindle.
"Bob Cunham got a flea in 'is ear this mornin' wot 'e's been askin'for," said the man, and Bindle, nodding in agreement, buried his face inhis pewter.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hopton was explaining to a few personal friends how itall had happened.
"She done good work in startin' of us orf," was her tribute
to Mrs.Bindle; "but I can't say I takes to her as a friend."
Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles Page 1