Jim did not answer her, but walked on. At last he turned round to the people who were following and said:
‘Na then, wot d’you want ‘ere? You jolly well clear, or I’ll give some of you somethin’!’
They were mostly boys and women, and at his words they shrank back.
‘‘E’s afraid ter sy anythin’ ter me,’ jeered Mrs. Blakeston. ‘‘E’s a beauty!’
Jim entered his house, and she followed him till they came up into their room. Polly was giving the children their tea. They all started up as they saw their mother with her hair and clothes in disorder, blotches of dried blood on her face, and the long scratch-marks.
‘Oh, mother,’ said Polly, ‘wot is the matter?’
‘‘E’s the matter.’ she answered, pointing to her husband. ‘It’s through ‘im I’ve got all this. Look at yer father, children; e’s a father to be proud of, leavin’ yer ter starve an’ spendin’ ‘is week’s money on a dirty little strumper.’
Jim felt easier now he had not got so many strange eyes on him.
‘Now, look ‘ere,’ he said, ‘I’m not goin’ ter stand this much longer, so just you tike care.’
‘I ain’t frightened of yer. I know yer’d like ter kill me, but yer’ll get strung up if you do.’
‘Na, I won’t kill yer, but if I ‘ave any more of your sauce I’ll do the next thing to it.’
‘Touch me if yer dare,’ she said, ‘I’ll ‘ave the law on you. An’ I shouldn’t mind ‘ow many month’s ‘ard you got.’
‘Be quiet!’ he said, and, closing his hand, gave her a heavy blow in the chest that made her stagger.
‘Oh, you —— !’ she screamed.
She seized the poker, and in a fury of rage rushed at him.
‘Would yer?’ he said, catching hold of it and wrenching it from her grasp. He threw it to the end of the room and grappled with her. For a moment they swayed about from side to side, then with an effort he lifted her off her feet and threw her to the ground; but she caught hold of him and he came down on the top of her. She screamed as her head thumped down on the floor, and the children, who were standing huddled up in a corner, terrified, screamed too.
Jim caught hold of his wife’s head and began beating it against the floor.
She cried out: ‘You’re killing me! Help! help!’
Polly in terror ran up to her father and tried to pull him off.
‘Father, don’t ‘it ‘er! Anythin’ but thet — for God’s sike!’
‘Leave me alone,’ he said, ‘or I’ll give you somethin’ too.’
She caught hold of his arm, but Jim, still kneeling on his wife, gave Polly a backhanded blow which sent her staggering back.
‘Tike that!’
Polly ran out of the room, downstairs to the first-floor front, where two men and two women were sitting at tea.
‘Oh, come an’ stop father!’ she cried. ‘‘E’s killin’ mother!’
‘Why, wot’s ‘e doin’?’
‘Oh, ‘e’s got ‘er on the floor, an’ ‘e’s bangin’ ‘er ‘ead. ‘E’s payin’ ‘er aht for givin’ Liza Kemp a ‘idin’.’
One of the women started up and said to her husband:
‘Come on, John, you go an’ stop it.’
‘Don’t you, John,’ said the other man. ‘When a man’s givin’ ‘is wife socks it’s best not ter interfere.’
‘But ‘e’s killin’ ‘er,’ repeated Polly, trembling with fright.
‘Garn!’ rejoined the man, ‘she’ll git over it; an’ p’raps she deserves it, for all you know.’
John sat undecided, looking now at Polly, now at his wife, and now at the other man.
‘Oh, do be quick — for God’s sike!’ said Polly.
At that moment a sound as of something smashing was heard upstairs, and a woman’s shriek. Mrs. Blakeston, in an effort to tear herself away from her husband, had knocked up against the wash-hand stand, and the whole thing had crashed down.
‘Go on, John,’ said the wife.
‘No, I ain’t goin’; I shan’t do no good, an’ ‘e’ll only round on me.’
‘Well, you are a bloomin’ lot of cowards, thet’s all I can say,’ indignantly answered the wife. ‘But I ain’t goin’ ter see a woman murdered; I’ll go an’ stop ‘im.’
With that she ran upstairs and threw open the door. Jim was still kneeling on his wife, hitting her furiously, while she was trying to protect her head and face with her hands.
‘Leave off!’ shouted the woman.
Jim looked up. ‘‘Oo the devil are you?’ he said.
‘Leave off, I tell yer. Aren’t yer ashimed of yerself, knockin’ a woman abaht like that?’ And she sprang at him, seizing his fist.
‘Let go,’ he said, ‘or I’ll give you a bit.’
‘Yer’d better not touch me,’ she said. ‘Yer dirty coward! Why, look at ‘er, she’s almost senseless.’
Jim stopped and gazed at his wife. He got up and gave her a kick.
‘Git up!’ he said; but she remained huddled up on the floor, moaning feebly. The woman from downstairs went on her knees and took her head in her arms.
‘Never mind, Mrs. Blakeston. ‘E’s not goin’ ter touch yer. ‘Ere, drink this little drop of water.’ Then turning to Jim, with infinite disdain: ‘Yer dirty blackguard, you! If I was a man I’d give you something for this.’
Jim put on his hat and went out, slamming the door, while the woman shouted after him: ‘Good riddance!’
‘Lord love yer,’ said Mrs. Kemp, ‘wot is the matter?’
She had just come in, and opening the door had started back in surprise at seeing Liza on the bed, all tears. Liza made no answer, but cried as if her heart were breaking. Mrs. Kemp went up to her and tried to look at her face.
‘Don’t cry, dearie; tell us wot it is.’
Liza sat up and dried her eyes.
‘I am so un’appy!’
‘Wot ‘ave yer been doin’ ter yer fice? My!’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Garn! Yer can’t ‘ave got a fice like thet all by itself.’
‘I ‘ad a bit of a scrimmage with a woman dahn the street,’ sobbed out Liza.
‘She ‘as give yer a doin’; an’ yer all upset — an’ look at yer eye! I brought in a little bit of stike for ter-morrer’s dinner; you just cut a bit off an’ put it over yer optic, that’ll soon put it right. I always used ter do thet myself when me an’ your poor father ‘ad words.’
‘Oh, I’m all over in a tremble, an’ my ‘ead, oo, my ‘ead does feel bad!’
‘I know wot yer want,’ remarked Mrs. Kemp, nodding her head, ‘an’ it so ‘appens as I’ve got the very thing with me.’ She pulled a medicine bottle out of her pocket, and taking out the cork smelt it. ‘Thet’s good stuff, none of your firewater or your methylated spirit. I don’t often indulge in sich things, but when I do I likes to ‘ave the best.’
She handed the bottle to Liza, who took a mouthful and gave it her back; she had a drink herself, and smacked her lips.
‘Thet’s good stuff. ‘Ave a drop more.’
‘Na,’ said Liza, ‘I ain’t used ter drinkin’ spirits.’
She felt dull and miserable, and a heavy pain throbbed through her head. If she could only forget!
‘Na, I know you’re not, but, bless your soul, thet won’ ‘urt yer. It’ll do you no end of good. Why, often when I’ve been feelin’ thet done up thet I didn’t know wot ter do with myself, I’ve just ‘ad a little drop of whisky or gin — I’m not partic’ler wot spirit it is — an’ it’s pulled me up wonderful.’
Liza took another sip, a slightly longer one; it burnt as it went down her throat, and sent through her a feeling of comfortable warmth.
‘I really do think it’s doin’ me good,’ she said, wiping her eyes and giving a sigh of relief as the crying ceased.
‘I knew it would. Tike my word for it, if people took a little drop of spirits in time, there’d be much less sickness abaht.’
They sat for a wh
ile in silence, then Mrs. Kemp remarked:
‘Yer know, Liza, it strikes me as ‘ow we could do with a drop more. You not bein’ in the ‘abit of tikin’ anythin’ I only brought just this little drop for me; an’ it ain’t took us long ter finish thet up. But as you’re an invalid like we’ll git a little more this time; it’s sure ter turn aht useful.’
‘But you ain’t got nothin’ ter put it in.’
‘Yus, I ‘ave,’ answered Mrs. Kemp; ‘there’s thet bottle as they gives me at the ‘orspital. Just empty the medicine aht into the pile, an’ wash it aht, an’ I’ll tike it round to the pub myself.’
Liza, when she was left alone, began to turn things over in her mind. She did not feel so utterly unhappy as before, for the things she had gone through seemed further away.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘it don’t so much matter.’
Mrs. Kemp came in.
‘‘Ave a little drop more, Liza.’ she said.
‘Well, I don’t mind if I do. I’ll get some tumblers, shall I? There’s no mistike abaht it,’ she added, when she had taken a little, ‘it do buck yer up.’
‘You’re right, Liza — you’re right. An’ you wanted it badly. Fancy you ‘avin’ a fight with a woman! Oh, I’ve ‘ad some in my day, but then I wasn’t a little bit of a thing like you is. I wish I’d been there, I wouldn’t ‘ave stood by an’ looked on while my daughter was gettin’ the worst of it; although I’m turned sixty-five, an’ gettin’ on for sixty-six, I’d ‘ave said to ‘er: “If you touch my daughter you’ll ‘ave me ter deal with, so just look aht!”’
She brandished her glass, and that reminding her, she refilled it and Liza’s.
‘Ah, Liza,’ she remarked, ‘you’re a chip of the old block. Ter see you settin’ there an’ ‘avin’ your little drop, it mikes me feel as if I was livin’ a better life. Yer used ter be rather ‘ard on me, Liza, ‘cause I took a little drop on Saturday nights. An’, mind, I don’t sy I didn’t tike a little drop too much sometimes — accidents will occur even in the best regulated of families, but wot I say is this — it’s good stuff, I say, an’ it don’t ‘urt yer.’
‘Buck up, old gal!’ said Liza, filling the glasses, ‘no ‘eel-taps. I feel like a new woman now. I was thet dahn in the dumps — well, I shouldn’t ‘ave cared if I’d been at the bottom of the river, an’ thet’s the truth.’
‘You don’t sy so,’ replied her affectionate mother.
‘Yus, I do, an’ I mean it too, but I don’t feel like thet now. You’re right, mother, when you’re in trouble there’s nothin’ like a bit of spirits.’
‘Well, if I don’t know, I dunno ‘oo does, for the trouble I’ve ‘ad, it ‘ud be enough to kill many women. Well, I’ve ‘ad thirteen children, an’ you can think wot thet was; everyone I ‘ad I used ter sy I wouldn’t ‘ave no more — but one does, yer know. You’ll ‘ave a family some day, Liza, an’ I shouldn’t wonder if you didn’t ‘ave as many as me. We come from a very prodigal family, we do, we’ve all gone in ter double figures, except your Aunt Mary, who only ‘ad three — but then she wasn’t married, so it didn’t count, like.’
They drank each other’s health. Everything was getting blurred to Liza, she was losing her head.
‘Yus,’ went on Mrs. Kemp, ‘I’ve ‘ad thirteen children an’ I’m proud of it. As your poor dear father used ter sy, it shows as ‘ow one’s got the blood of a Briton in one. Your poor dear father, ‘e was a great ‘and at speakin’ ‘e was: ‘e used ter speak at parliamentary meetin’s — I really believe ‘e’d ‘ave been a Member of Parliament if ‘e’d been alive now. Well, as I was sayin’, your father ‘e used ter sy, “None of your small families for me, I don’t approve of them,” says ‘e. ‘E was a man of very ‘igh principles, an’ by politics ‘e was a Radical. “No,” says ‘e, when ‘e got talkin’, “when a man can ‘ave a family risin’ into double figures, it shows ‘e’s got the backbone of a Briton in ‘im. That’s the stuff as ‘as built up England’s nime and glory! When one thinks of the mighty British Hempire,” says ‘e, “on which the sun never sets from mornin’ till night, one ‘as ter be proud of ‘isself, an’ one ‘as ter do one’s duty in thet walk of life in which it ‘as pleased Providence ter set one — an’ every man’s fust duty is ter get as many children as ‘e bloomin’ well can.” Lord love yer— ‘e could talk, I can tell yer.’
‘Drink up, mother,’ said Liza. ‘You’re not ‘alf drinkin’.’ She flourished the bottle. ‘I don’t care a twopanny ‘ang for all them blokes; I’m quite ‘appy, an’ I don’t want anythin’ else.’
‘I can see you’re my daughter now,’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘When yer used ter round on me I used ter think as ‘ow if I ‘adn’t carried yer for nine months, it must ‘ave been some mistike, an’ yer wasn’t my daughter at all. When you come ter think of it, a man ‘e don’t know if it’s ‘is child or somebody else’s, but yer can’t deceive a woman like thet. Yer couldn’t palm off somebody else’s kid on ‘er.’
‘I am beginnin’ ter feel quite lively,’ said Liza. ‘I dunno wot it is, but I feel as if I wanted to laugh till I fairly split my sides.’
And she began to sing: ‘For ‘e’s a jolly good feller — for ‘e’s a jolly good feller!’
Her dress was all disarranged; her face covered with the scars of scratches, and clots of blood had fixed under her nose; her eye had swollen up so that it was nearly closed, and red; her hair was hanging over her face and shoulders, and she laughed stupidly and leered with heavy, sodden ugliness.
‘Disy, Disy! I can’t afford a kerridge. But you’ll look neat, on the seat Of a bicycle mide for two.’
She shouted out the tunes, beating time on the table, and her mother, grinning, with her thin, grey hair hanging dishevelled over her head, joined in with her weak, cracked voice —
‘Oh, dem golden kippers, oh!’
Then Liza grew more melancholy and broke into ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
‘Should old acquaintance be forgot And never brought to mind?
For old lang syne’.
Finally they both grew silent, and in a little while there came a snore from Mrs. Kemp; her head fell forward to her chest; Liza tumbled from her chair on to the bed, and sprawling across it fell asleep.
‘Although I am drunk and bad, be you kind, Cast a glance at this heart which is bewildered and distressed. O God, take away from my mind my cry and my complaint. Offer wine, and take sorrow from my remembrance. Offer wine.’
12
About the middle of the night Liza woke; her mouth was hot and dry, and a sharp, cutting pain passed through her head as she moved. Her mother had evidently roused herself, for she was lying in bed by her side, partially undressed, with all the bedclothes rolled round her. Liza shivered in the cold night, and taking off some of her things — her boots, her skirt, and jacket — got right into bed; she tried to get some of the blanket from her mother, but as she pulled Mrs. Kemp gave a growl in her sleep and drew the clothes more tightly round her. So Liza put over herself her skirt and a shawl, which was lying over the end of the bed, and tried to go to sleep.
But she could not; her head and hands were broiling hot, and she was terribly thirsty; when she lifted herself up to get a drink of water such a pang went through her head that she fell back on the bed groaning, and lay there with beating heart. And strange pains that she did not know went through her. Then a cold shiver seemed to rise in the very marrow of her bones and run down every artery and vein, freezing the blood; her skin puckered up, and drawing up her legs she lay huddled together in a heap, the shawl wrapped tightly round her, and her teeth chattering. Shivering, she whispered:
‘Oh, I’m so cold, so cold. Mother, give me some clothes; I shall die of the cold. Oh, I’m freezing!’
But after awhile the cold seemed to give way, and a sudden heat seized her, flushing her face, making her break out into perspiration, so that she threw everything off and loosened the things about her neck.
‘Give us a drink,’ she said. ‘
Oh, I’d give anythin’ for a little drop of water!’
There was no one to hear; Mrs. Kemp continued to sleep heavily, occasionally breaking out into a little snore.
Liza remained there, now shivering with cold, now panting for breath, listening to the regular, heavy breathing by her side, and in her pain she sobbed. She pulled at her pillow and said:
‘Why can’t I go to sleep? Why can’t I sleep like ‘er?’
And the darkness was awful; it was a heavy, ghastly blackness, that seemed palpable, so that it frightened her and she looked for relief at the faint light glimmering through the window from a distant street-lamp. She thought the night would never end — the minutes seemed like hours, and she wondered how she should live through till morning. And strange pains that she did not know went through her.
Still the night went on, the darkness continued, cold and horrible, and her mother breathed loudly and steadily by her side.
At last with the morning sleep came; but the sleep was almost worse than the wakefulness, for it was accompanied by ugly, disturbing dreams. Liza thought she was going through the fight with her enemy, and Mrs. Blakeston grew enormous in size, and multiplied, so that every way she turned the figure confronted her. And she began running away, and she ran and ran till she found herself reckoning up an account she had puzzled over in the morning, and she did it backwards and forwards, upwards and downwards, starting here, starting there, and the figures got mixed up with other things, and she had to begin over again, and everything jumbled up, and her head whirled, till finally, with a start, she woke.
The darkness had given way to a cold, grey dawn, her uncovered legs were chilled to the bone, and by her side she heard again the regular, nasal breathing of the drunkard.
For a long while she lay where she was, feeling very sick and ill, but better than in the night. At last her mother woke.
‘Liza!’ she called.
‘Yus, mother,’ she answered feebly.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 11