‘Git us a cup of tea, will yer?’
‘I can’t, mother, I’m ill.’
‘Garn!’ said Mrs. Kemp, in surprise. Then looking at her: ‘Swop me bob, wot’s up with yer? Why, yer cheeks is flushed, an’ yer forehead — it is ‘ot! Wot’s the matter with yer, gal?’
‘I dunno,’ said Liza. ‘I’ve been thet bad all night, I thought I was goin’ ter die.’
‘I know wot it is,’ said Mrs. Kemp, shaking her head; ‘the fact is, you ain’t used ter drinkin’, an’ of course it’s upset yer. Now me, why I’m as fresh as a disy. Tike my word, there ain’t no good in teetotalism; it finds yer aht in the end, an’ it’s found you aht.’
Mrs. Kemp considered it a judgment of Providence. She got up and mixed some whisky and water.
‘‘Ere, drink this,’ she said. ‘When one’s ‘ad a drop too much at night, there’s nothin’ like havin’ a drop more in the mornin’ ter put one right. It just acts like magic.’
‘Tike it awy,’ said Liza, turning from it in disgust; ‘the smell of it gives me the sick. I’ll never touch spirits again.’
‘Ah, thet’s wot we all says sometime in our lives, but we does, an’ wot’s more we can’t do withaht it. Why, me, the ‘ard life I’ve ‘ad—’ It is unnecessary to repeat Mrs. Kemp’s repetitions.
Liza did not get up all day. Tom came to inquire after her, and was told she was very ill. Liza plaintively asked whether anyone else had been, and sighed a little when her mother answered no. But she felt too ill to think much or trouble much about anything. The fever came again as the day wore on, and the pains in her head grew worse. Her mother came to bed, and quickly went off to sleep, leaving Liza to bear her agony alone. She began to have frightful pains all over her, and she held her breath to prevent herself from crying out and waking her mother. She clutched the sheets in her agony, and at last, about six o’clock in the morning, she could bear it no longer, and in the anguish of labour screamed out, and woke her mother.
Mrs. Kemp was frightened out of her wits. Going upstairs she woke the woman who lived on the floor above her. Without hesitating, the good lady put on a skirt and came down.
‘She’s ‘ad a miss,’ she said, after looking at Liza. ‘Is there anyone you could send to the ‘orspital?’
‘Na, I dunno ‘oo I could get at this hour?’
‘Well, I’ll git my old man ter go.’
She called her husband, and sent him off. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, rough-visaged and strong-armed. Her name was Mrs. Hodges.
‘It’s lucky you came ter me,’ she said, when she had settled down. ‘I go aht nursin’, yer know, so I know all abaht it.’
‘Well, you surprise me,’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘I didn’t know as Liza was thet way. She never told me nothin’ abaht it.’
‘D’yer know ‘oo it is ‘as done it?’
‘Now you ask me somethin’ I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Kemp. ‘But now I come ter think of it, it must be thet there Tom. ‘E’s been keepin’ company with Liza. ‘E’s a single man, so they’ll be able ter get married — thet’s somethin’.’
‘It ain’t Tom,’ feebly said Liza.
‘Not ‘im; ‘oo is it, then?’
Liza did not answer.
‘Eh?’ repeated the mother, ‘‘oo is it?’
Liza lay still without speaking.
‘Never mind, Mrs. Kemp,’ said Mrs. Hodges, ‘don’t worry ‘er now; you’ll be able ter find aht all abaht it when she gits better.’
For a while the two women sat still, waiting the doctor’s coming, and Liza lay gazing vacantly at the wall, panting for breath. Sometimes Jim crossed her mind, and she opened her mouth to call for him, but in her despair she restrained herself.
The doctor came.
‘D’you think she’s bad, doctor?’ asked Mrs. Hodges.
‘I’m afraid she is rather,’ he answered. ‘I’ll come in again this evening.’
‘Oh, doctor,’ said Mrs. Kemp, as he was going, ‘could yer give me somethin’ for my rheumatics? I’m a martyr to rheumatism, an’ these cold days I ‘ardly knows wot ter do with myself. An’, doctor, could you let me ‘ave some beef-tea? My ‘usbind’s dead, an’ of course I can’t do no work with my daughter ill like this, an’ we’re very short—’
The day passed, and in the evening Mrs. Hodges, who had been attending to her own domestic duties, came downstairs again. Mrs. Kemp was on the bed sleeping.
‘I was just ‘avin’ a little nap,’ she said to Mrs. Hodges, on waking.
‘‘Ow is the girl?’ asked that lady.
‘Oh,’ answered Mrs. Kemp, ‘my rheumatics ‘as been thet bad I really ‘aven’t known wot ter do with myself, an’ now Liza can’t rub me I’m worse than ever. It is unfortunate thet she should get ill just now when I want so much attendin’ ter myself, but there, it’s just my luck!’
Mrs. Hodges went over and looked at Liza; she was lying just as when she left in the morning, her cheeks flushed, her mouth open for breath, and tiny beads of sweat stood on her forehead.
‘‘Ow are yer, ducky?’ asked Mrs. Hodges; but Liza did not answer.
‘It’s my belief she’s unconscious,’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘I’ve been askin’ ‘er ‘oo it was as done it, but she don’t seem to ‘ear wot I say. It’s been a great shock ter me, Mrs. ‘Odges.’
‘I believe you,’ replied that lady, sympathetically.
‘Well, when you come in and said wot it was, yer might ‘ave knocked me dahn with a feather. I knew no more than the dead wot ‘ad ‘appened.’
‘I saw at once wot it was,’ said Mrs. Hodges, nodding her head.
‘Yus, of course, you knew. I expect you’ve ‘ad a great deal of practice one way an’ another.’
‘You’re right, Mrs. Kemp, you’re right. I’ve been on the job now for nearly twenty years, an’ if I don’t know somethin’ abaht it I ought.’
‘D’yer finds it pays well?’
‘Well, Mrs. Kemp, tike it all in all, I ain’t got no grounds for complaint. I’m in the ‘abit of askin’ five shillings, an’ I will say this, I don’t think it’s too much for wot I do.’
The news of Liza’s illness had quickly spread, and more than once in the course of the day a neighbour had come to ask after her. There was a knock at the door now, and Mrs. Hodges opened it. Tom stood on the threshold asking to come in.
‘Yus, you can come,’ said Mrs. Kemp.
He advanced on tiptoe, so as to make no noise, and for a while stood silently looking at Liza. Mrs. Hodges was by his side.
‘Can I speak to ‘er?’ he whispered.
‘She can’t ‘ear you.’
He groaned.
‘D’yer think she’ll get arright?’ he asked.
Mrs. Hodges shrugged her shoulders.
‘I shouldn’t like ter give an opinion,’ she said, cautiously.
Tom bent over Liza, and, blushing, kissed her; then, without speaking further, went out of the room.
‘Thet’s the young man as was courtin’ ‘er,’ said Mrs. Kemp, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb.
Soon after the Doctor came.
‘Wot do yer think of ‘er, doctor?’ said Mrs. Hodges, bustling forwards authoritatively in her position of midwife and sick-nurse.
‘I’m afraid she’s very bad.’
‘D’yer think she’s goin’ ter die?’ she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.
‘I’m afraid so!’
As the doctor sat down by Liza’s side Mrs. Hodges turned round and significantly nodded to Mrs. Kemp, who put her handkerchief to her eyes. Then she went outside to the little group waiting at the door.
‘Wot does the doctor sy?’ they asked, among them Tom.
‘‘E says just wot I’ve been sayin’ all along; I knew she wouldn’t live.’
And Tom burst out: ‘Oh, Liza!’
As she retired a woman remarked:
‘Mrs. ‘Odges is very clever, I think.’
‘Yus,’ remarked another, ‘she got me th
rough my last confinement simply wonderful. If it come to choosin’ between ’em I’d back Mrs. ‘Odges against forty doctors.’
‘Ter tell yer the truth, so would I. I’ve never known ‘er wrong yet.’
Mrs. Hodges sat down beside Mrs. Kemp and proceeded to comfort her.
‘Why don’t yer tike a little drop of brandy ter calm yer nerves, Mrs. Kemp?’ she said, ‘you want it.’
‘I was just feelin’ rather faint, an’ I couldn’t ‘elp thinkin’ as ‘ow twopenneth of whisky ‘ud do me good.’
‘Na, Mrs. Kemp,’ said Mrs. Hodges, earnestly, putting her hand on the other’s arm. ‘You tike my tip — when you’re queer there’s nothin’ like brandy for pullin’ yer togither. I don’t object to whisky myself, but as a medicine yer can’t beat brandy.’
‘Well, I won’t set up myself as knowin’ better than you Mrs. ‘Odges; I’ll do wot you think right.’
Quite accidentally there was some in the room, and Mrs. Kemp poured it out for herself and her friend.
‘I’m not in the ‘abit of tikin’ anythin’ when I’m aht on business,’ she apologized, ‘but just ter keep you company I don’t mind if I do.’
‘Your ‘ealth. Mrs. ‘Odges.’
‘Sime ter you, an’ thank yer, Mrs. Kemp.’
Liza lay still, breathing very quietly, her eyes closed. The doctor kept his fingers on her pulse.
‘I’ve been very unfortunate of lite,’ remarked Mrs. Hodges, as she licked her lips, ‘this mikes the second death I’ve ‘ad in the last ten days — women, I mean, of course I don’t count bibies.’
‘Yer don’t sy so.’
‘Of course the other one — well, she was only a prostitute, so it didn’t so much matter. It ain’t like another woman is it?’
‘Na, you’re right.’
‘Still, one don’t like ’em ter die, even if they are thet. One mustn’t be too ‘ard on ’em.’
‘Strikes me you’ve got a very kind ‘eart, Mrs. ‘Odges,’ said Mrs. Kemp.
‘I ‘ave thet; an’ I often says it ‘ud be better for my peace of mind an’ my business if I ‘adn’t. I ‘ave ter go through a lot, I do; but I can say this for myself, I always gives satisfaction, an’ thet’s somethin’ as all lidies in my line can’t say.’
They sipped their brandy for a while.
‘It’s a great trial ter me that this should ‘ave ‘appened,’ said Mrs. Kemp, coming to the subject that had been disturbing her for some time. ‘Mine’s always been a very respectable family, an’ such a thing as this ‘as never ‘appened before. No, Mrs. ‘Odges, I was lawfully married in church, an’ I’ve got my marriage lines now ter show I was, an’ thet one of my daughters should ‘ave gone wrong in this way — well, I can’t understand it. I give ‘er a good education, an’ she ‘ad all the comforts of a ‘ome. She never wanted for nothin’; I worked myself to the bone ter keep ‘er in luxury, an’ then thet she should go an’ disgrace me like this!’
‘I understand wot yer mean. Mrs. Kemp.’
‘I can tell you my family was very respectable; an’ my ‘usband, ‘e earned twenty-five shillings a week, an’ was in the sime plice seventeen years; an’ ‘is employers sent a beautiful wreath ter put on ‘is coffin; an’ they tell me they never ‘ad such a good workman an’ sich an ‘onest man before. An’ me! Well, I can sy this — I’ve done my duty by the girl, an’ she’s never learnt anythin’ but good from me. Of course I ain’t always been in wot yer might call flourishing circumstances, but I’ve always set her a good example, as she could tell yer so ‘erself if she wasn’t speechless.’
Mrs. Kemp paused for a moment’s reflection.
‘As they sy in the Bible,’ she finished, ‘it’s enough ter mike one’s grey ‘airs go dahn into the ground in sorrer. I can show yer my marriage certificate. Of course one doesn’t like ter say much, because of course she’s very bad; but if she got well I should ‘ave given ‘er a talkin’ ter.’
There was another knock.
‘Do go an’ see ‘oo thet is; I can’t, on account of my rheumatics.’
Mrs. Hodges opened the door. It was Jim.
He was very white, and the blackness of his hair and beard, contrasting with the deathly pallor of his face, made him look ghastly. Mrs. Hodges stepped back.
‘‘Oo’s ‘e?’ she said, turning to Mrs. Kemp.
Jim pushed her aside and went up to the bed.
‘Doctor, is she very bad?’ he asked.
The doctor looked at him questioningly.
Jim whispered: ‘It was me as done it. She ain’t goin’ ter die, is she?’
The doctor nodded.
‘O God! wot shall I do? It was my fault! I wish I was dead!’
Jim took the girl’s head in his hands, and the tears burst from his eyes.
‘She ain’t dead yet, is she?’
‘She’s just living,’ said the doctor.
Jim bent down.
‘Liza, Liza, speak ter me! Liza, say you forgive me! Oh, speak ter me!’
His voice was full of agony. The doctor spoke.
‘She can’t hear you.’
‘Oh, she must hear me! Liza! Liza!’
He sank on his knees by the bedside.
They all remained silent: Liza lying stiller than ever, her breast unmoved by the feeble respiration, Jim looking at her very mournfully; the doctor grave, with his fingers on the pulse. The two women looked at Jim.
‘Fancy it bein’ ‘im!’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘Strike me lucky, ain’t ‘e a sight!’
‘You ‘ave got ‘er insured, Mrs. Kemp?’ asked the midwife. She could bear the silence no longer.
‘Trust me fur thet!’ replied the good lady. ‘I’ve ‘ad ‘er insured ever since she was born. Why, only the other dy I was sayin’ ter myself thet all thet money ‘ad been wisted, but you see it wasn’t; yer never know yer luck, you see!’
‘Quite right, Mrs. Kemp; I’m a rare one for insurin’. It’s a great thing. I’ve always insured all my children.’
‘The way I look on it is this,’ said Mrs. Kemp— ‘wotever yer do when they’re alive, an’ we all know as children is very tryin’ sometimes, you should give them a good funeral when they dies. Thet’s my motto, an’ I’ve always acted up to it.’
‘Do you deal with Mr. Stearman?’ asked Mrs. Hodges.
‘No, Mrs. ‘Odges, for undertikin’ give me Mr. Footley every time. In the black line ‘e’s fust an’ the rest nowhere!’
‘Well, thet’s very strange now — thet’s just wot I think. Mr. Footley does ‘is work well, an’ ‘e’s very reasonable. I’m a very old customer of ‘is, an’ ‘e lets me ‘ave things as cheap as anybody.’
‘Does ‘e indeed! Well Mrs. ‘Odges if it ain’t askin’ too much of yer, I should look upon it as very kind if you’d go an’ mike the arrangements for Liza.’
‘Why, certainly, Mrs. Kemp. I’m always willin’ ter do a good turn to anybody, if I can.’
‘I want it done very respectable,’ said Mrs. Kemp; ‘I’m not goin’ ter stint for nothin’ for my daughter’s funeral. I like plumes, you know, although they is a bit extra.’
‘Never you fear, Mrs. Kemp, it shall be done as well as if it was for my own ‘usbind, an’ I can’t say more than thet. Mr. Footley thinks a deal of me, ‘e does! Why, only the other dy as I was goin’ inter ‘is shop ‘e says “Good mornin’, Mrs. ‘Odges.” “Good mornin’, Mr. Footley,” says I. “You’ve jest come in the nick of time,” says ‘e. “This gentleman an’ myself,” pointin’ to another gentleman as was standin’ there, “we was ‘avin’ a bit of an argument. Now you’re a very intelligent woman, Mrs. ‘Odges, and a good customer too.” “I can say thet for myself,” say I, “I gives yer all the work I can.” “I believe you,” says ‘e. “Well,” ‘e says, “now which do you think? Does hoak look better than helm, or does helm look better than hoak? Hoak versus helm, thet’s the question.” “Well, Mr. Footley,” says I, “for my own private opinion, when you’ve got a nice brass plite in the middle,
an’ nice brass ‘andles each end, there’s nothin’ like hoak.” “Quite right,” says ‘e, “thet’s wot I think; for coffins give me hoak any day, an’ I ‘ope,” says ‘e, “when the Lord sees fit ter call me to ‘Imself, I shall be put in a hoak coffin myself.” “Amen,” says I.’
‘I like hoak,’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘My poor ‘usband ‘e ‘ad a hoak coffin. We did ‘ave a job with ‘im, I can tell yer. You know ‘e ‘ad dropsy, an’ ‘e swell up — oh, ‘e did swell; ‘is own mother wouldn’t ‘ave known ‘im. Why, ‘is leg swell up till it was as big round as ‘is body, swop me bob, it did.’
‘Did it indeed!’ ejaculated Mrs. Hodges.
‘Yus, an’ when ‘e died they sent the coffin up. I didn’t ‘ave Mr. Footley at thet time; we didn’t live ‘ere then, we lived in Battersea, an’ all our undertikin’ was done by Mr. Brownin’; well, ‘e sent the coffin up, an’ we got my old man in, but we couldn’t get the lid down, he was so swell up. Well, Mr. Brownin’, ‘e was a great big man, thirteen stone if ‘e was a ounce. Well, ‘e stood on the coffin, an’ a young man ‘e ‘ad with ‘im stood on it too, an’ the lid simply wouldn’t go dahn; so Mr. Browning’, ‘e said, “Jump on, missus,” so I was in my widow’s weeds, yer know, but we ‘ad ter git it dahn, so I stood on it, an’ we all jumped, an’ at last we got it to, an’ screwed it; but, lor’, we did ‘ave a job; I shall never forget it.’
Then all was silence. And a heaviness seemed to fill the air like a grey blight, cold and suffocating; and the heaviness was Death. They felt the presence in the room, and they dared not move, they dared not draw their breath. The silence was terrifying.
Suddenly a sound was heard — a loud rattle. It was from the bed and rang through the room, piercing the stillness.
The doctor opened one of Liza’s eyes and touched it, then he laid on her breast the hand he had been holding, and drew the sheet over her head.
Jim turned away with a look of intense weariness on his face, and the two women began weeping silently. The darkness was sinking before the day, and a dim, grey light came through the window. The lamp spluttered out.
THE MAKING OF A SAINT
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 12