Maybelle was careful of Frank’s “food.” But no such concern was exhibited in the Worden household. The children, including the rachitic baby, ate everything wherever found: on the table, on the chairs, on the mantelpiece, on the stove, in the skullery. One even found remnants of cake on the beds, where they could be munched in happy immediacy. The Wordens ran heavily to fish and chips, generously sprinkled with salt and deliciously pungent with vinegar. Frank was not allowed much of this delicacy in his own home, as Maybelle condemned it as unfit for young stomachs. But the Wordens had no such repressions. Mrs. Worden, right in the midst of weary washing at the wooden tubs, would shake her macerated hands free of soap and water, and “put on a pan” for chips. (There was fish only occasionally.) Then, delicious sound! the fat would pop and crackle, and a cloud of steam would arise as the raw potato chips were dropped in the boiling grease, and the children would crowd around, dancing in anticipation. The older girls would eagerly roll newspaper into cornucopias, and lay them ready on the splintered wooden table. The rain would drench the dirty window in cataracts; the fire would play shafts of ochre light over the chaotic kitchen and over the children’s excited faces. The chips would turn yellow, faintly brown. The pan would be removed from the grid with a grating sound. Mrs. Worden would take a ladle and smile with fond wanness at the avid eyes. Now each hand held a waiting cone of newspaper, on which shocked headlines reported the San Francisco earthquake. The ladle hovered over each cone, the smoking chips fell therein, imparting a heart-lifting warmth to chilled little fingers. Up to the brims of paper relating tales of devastation, death, fire and horror poured the chips. Then there was a rush for the crusted salt-shaker on the table, the bottle of vinegar through whose cork a small hole had been bored. Then the piquant fragrance would fill the kitchen, a fragrance combined of mouth-watering tartness, hot fat and crisp potato. The children would run about the kitchen, looking for places to sit and enjoy and savor. Heads and bodies would tumble to the hearth; others perched on the table, pushing aside dishes caked with egg and crumbs; others stood near the stove, devouring. Frank always had his twist of newspaper filled with chips, and never again in his life would he taste anything half so delicious.
But Shrove Tuesday was the delight of all delights. It was a holy day, and sixteen-year-old Bertha came home from the mills at noon, and the children were not at school. Bertha, who was the acknowledged expert at pancakes, would deliberately set about her preparations to bring the food of the gods down into the Worden kitchen. Long before she made her appearance, wrapped voluminously in a faded apron, the children were gathered, waiting for her. She had the air of a priestess. Not for her the loud voices, the clattering, dancing clogs, the shrieks and clapping of hands, which her mother countenanced. The children had to find places to sit, and be quiet, and there they would crouch, hands clenched together, every face turned toward the stove as toward an altar, every exalted and dedicated young profile outlined with leaping firelight.
First, a big yellow bowl, then wooden spoons, then flour and salt and sugar and carefully skimmed milk standing in its white, cracked pitcher. Flour poured in a snowy cataract; the sugar was measured with the care of an alchemist, the salt was sparsely used, the milk was poured, drop by white drop, into the batter. Now came the tattoo of the spoons, beating against the hollow sides of the bowl. Now seven-year-old Helen, newly initiated, was allowed to put the great black frying-pan on the heated stove, and to drop a lump of precious golden butter into it, where it melted with a subdued and reverential splutter.
Frank forgot the faces of all the other Wordens, but he never forgot Bertha, with her pale bright tendrils of hair curling about her pale, pretty face, her snub nose, her coral mouth set in concentration and solemnity, her slender figure with the very full breasts, and her plump, work-scarred young hands. She was priestess of all the rites; she was Hebe and Athena, Diana and Juno. He never forgot the eternal rain that poured against the windows, the fire, the smell of melting butter, the intensity of emotion that simmered all through the clammy, odoriferous old kitchen.
Now the excruciating moment arrived. Bertha moved solemnly to the stove, so absorbed in her religious rites that she was unaware, ostensibly, of her neophytes, her altar boys, her as yet mute chorus of voices soon to be raised in orisons. A big spoon, dripping with cold white nectar, lifted, dropped its burden slowly and religiously into the pan. Splutter! Pop! Seethe and crackle! Now one or two children stole, trembling, to the stove, to watch the whiteness spread, expand, become thin and bubbling. Bertha permitted this to only one or two at a time, then their places would be taken by others, in subdued order. One might see the nectar seeping to the outermost rim of the black and fuming pan, another might see the bubbles begin to appear, another would see the edges turn up, crisp and yellow, another would see the last rite, as the huge thin pancake was turned, and its crusty brown back appeared, hissing, succulent and unbearably luscious.
Plates were waiting at the table. The children were lined up in order. Jim, eleven years old, presided over the sugar bowl. The children, too excited to speak, brought their plates to him, fragrant plates that almost fell from shaking fingers. Jim, his mouth pursed judiciously, would sprinkle a thin layer of sugar on the steaming pancake, then the grimy fingers of the owner would roll it up. Then back to the allotted corner, with a fork, and bliss unimaginable.
Some of the older children, slightly blasé with memory, would taste critically, and give vent to such comments as: “Rich.” “Lovely.” “Better than last year’s.” “Well, I don’t know. A bit soggy, mine is.” “A bit more salt, perhaps, Bert.” But the younger children, unspoiled by worldliness and recollection, enjoyed, speechless with rapture, taking slow sips of hot weak tea on the side.
Oh, happy, happy days of shelter and fire and smells and soapsuds, gray water in everlasting wooden wash-tubs, and chips and hot grease and sugary pancakes! Oh, days of supreme delight for all the palate! Oh, days of acceptance and peace and rich sensation, and warmth and squabbling children’s voices! Much of England was forgotten by little Frank Clair, but never Shrove Tuesday, never Bertha and her yellow bowl and her ladle and her smoking pans, and her big brown teapot.
Forgotten was the livid rain, the hatred at school, the fear, the bewilderment, the pain, the silence, the loneliness. It was the Lenten season, and Shrove Tuesday was its summit of glory. The English pancake remained, for Frank, the holy bread of the crucifixion. It was God’s manna on the poor, the true sacrament of His body and His blood.
All guilt was washed away with the tea. All fear and self-conviction were dissolved with the pancakes. Now he was at peace. His was the grace of the temporarily redeemed. His soul expanded with knowledge, with prayerful tranquillity.
CHAPTER 7
He could not understand why the Worden children seemed so happy, self-confident, serene and sturdy. They had a robust objectivity of temperament, though they were so miserably poor and lived so precariously. They were loud of voice and blustering, and had human faults. Their clothing, patched, neatly mended, reflected the catholic tastes of more prosperous neighbors. But, with the exception of the rachitic baby, most of them had rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and a ready laugh. Their little father, a twisted, black little gnome of a man, often smelling of beer, and possessing a profane tongue, had a droll way with him, and he could whistle and imitate with fidelity many birds. His meekness was not craven, as was Francis Clair’s; rather, it was a “respect for his betters” which did not reduce his own natural dignity in the slightest. He had no ambitions, except the simple one of keeping his job, of marrying off his daughters to “sound” young men, and helping his sons to jobs beside him in the mill. On Saturdays, he had his “pint of beer,” and his cricket or football games, and his fish and chips at night. On Sundays, he had his “good sleep” of a morning, a “jolly good breakfast,” his place by the fire with his newspapers, his walk after a dinner of boiled meat, hot potatoes, cabbage, suet pudding and tea, and his long arguments with
his fellow-workers on the streets, during which politics were discussed and much dark head-shaking indulged in. “That Kaiser feller, now, I don’t trust him; though, mind you, he’s the old Queen’s grandson. Ah, it’s not been the same since she died, God bless her. There’s goin’s on in London, these days, as couldn’t be investigated, and I daresay we’ll never know. There’s a barmy feelin’ in the air; not like in the old days. The papers tell you nothin’.”
Jim Worden possessed the ancient pride of the English workingman, the inviolate faith, the knowledge that his house was his castle. He could “look the bobby in the eye” and know himself for an honest man. He had none of the pretensions of the wretched “middle class” to which Francis Clair belonged. He had none of their fears, their anxieties, their pallid concern for caste, their necessity to “hold their heads up.” And he was richer in his dignity than they were in their cautious and pitiable snobbery. He did not quail before a haughty glance; he was never afraid that he had “said something” which might not be genteel.
He had no fears, except the ones of being “sacked” and of his daughters “going wrong.” So long as these fears did not materialize, he was happy and secure. He loved his wife, in the half-bullying, half-affectionate way of his class, regretted that she was so fecund, and honored King and God, in that order. He brooded tenderly over the photographs of the royal family which appeared in his newspapers. He discussed their affairs intimately, sometimes with scorn, sometimes with perplexity, but always with affection. He knew that they lived in their palaces because he acquiesced. He knew that it was by his will that they were guarded well, and he was proud and delighted when he saw magic-lantern pictures of the noble grenadiers’ red coats. The carriages in which they drove, the jewels they wore, the garments which clothed their backs, were theirs by his consent. Without arrogance, but with honest beaming pride, he knew his power. He knew the power of the millions like him, who had only to rise in their might for all this granted panoply to disappear, for those gilded coaches to disintegrate into firewood, for those palaces to be made empty. And it was because of the knowledge of his potency that he loved them, brooded over them as if they were his dependent children, and cherished them. He was prepared to fight for them to the very death, for they represented his enormous power of consent, his unshakable stability, his invulnerable dignity, his strength as an Englishman. He pitied the Americans, who changed their Presidents regularly. He scorned the Germans, who were ruled, rather than rulers. He despised the Russians, who were oppressed by bloody czars and murderous clergy. There was no peace in change, no dignity in being ruled, and no manhood in slavery. He, an Englishman, accepted the laws he had made, for he had made them; he loved his rulers, for he had vouchsafed to them the honor of ruling him. Who could prevail against him, except death?
He looked at such as Francis Clair, and laughed: “Bloody little snobs! Can’t call their souls their own!” He went to his local chapel of a Sunday, and grinned to see the shabby but haughty middle-class going into the “High Church.” He did not mind the “High Church.” It existed because he allowed it to exist, because he was a tolerant, just Englishman. But just let anyone try to “come over him” with their “fathers” and their “nuns” and their “popery.” He’d “show ’em, he would!” Live and let live, was his credo. But God help the man who tried to change that by a jot or a tittle.
He thought Maybelle Clair a “nice little woman.” But he had nothing but disdain for Francis, whom he would greet with a curt nod of the head. Like most Englishmen, he was not overly fond of children, and sometimes scowled at little Frank, when he found him hovering wistfully in the noisy, crowded kitchen. Then he would shrug and mutter: “Poor little beggar,” and go about his business.
Frank found comfort in the Wordens, though they robustly ignored him, or teased him on occasion. They had no malice. They visited no bestialities on him, as did the children at his school. They openly pitied him because he did not attend their own huge, roaring school, and because his mother would not let him wear clogs. They did not think buttoned shoes superior. Did they not each possess a pair to wear on Sundays? They were stronger than he, and they often had chips to eat, and they could have a sip of beer when their father was generously inclined. They knew, instinctively, that the penny they each received on Saturdays was far more valuable than the many pennies which Frank possessed. They were, much richer in the bag of toffy they could buy only at weekends than he was, because he could buy toffy almost any time he wished. He had many toys; the one or two poor cheap things they received at Christmas were infinitely more precious. So, they pitied him, suffered him, out of their riches, and their magnanimity, and were kind to him in their indifferent way.
He never remembered attending any church or church-school, and only the fact that his mother possessed a certificate which testified that he had been “christened” guaranteed that he was not a heathen. Maybelle, who was a Baptist, dared not suggest that the boy attend the local Baptist “chapel,” so Frank must have accompanied his father to the “High Church.” If he did, he retained no memory of that event, or events.
Once he asked his mother why the Wordens did not attend his father’s church. “Well, it’s this way,” said Maybelle, reflectively, not knowing in her simplicity that nothing she would ever say again in her lifetime would have so profound an effect upon her son, “some people believe one thing, and some another. There’s the McNultys, across the road. They’re Romans. They go to that little church on Sandy Lane, near the fish shop. And there’s the Horowitzes on the corner, him that’s a tailor. They go to their own church. Your pa goes to his, and sometimes I go to mine. Some likes music with their sermons, and some don’t. Some likes candles, and some wouldn’t have candles for love nor money. Some goes to a certain church because they’re snobs and put on airs. Shabby genteel. And some goes to other churches because they’re handy. Mrs. McNulty likes her church because she can drop in any day or time, and say a prayer. That’s nice. My church is open only on Sundays. And there’s the Seventh Day Adventists, who think Saturday is the Sabbath.
“It’s all the way they look at it, Bunting. No one really knows. But they do their best, and that’s what matters in the long run. It’s the same God. But some people think they’re the only ones as have God’s ear. Like kids, who think they’re their pa’s pet. When all the time God is thinking of all His children, and no favorites.”
She paused, and looked with astonishment at her son, her reddish eyelashes stuck out sharply from her wide brown eyes. “You know, Bunting, people used to kill one another because they thought God liked them best and hated the others! That’s what your pa tells me. I couldn’t say. Sometimes I don’t believe it. Rum, isn’t it?”
They laughed together, deliciously, completely incredulous of this rumored absurdity. Later, many years later, Frank remembered his mother’s rich laughter, which seemed the wisest comment on hatred he had ever heard, or would ever hear. His mother’s words were, to him, all that was England, and for that reason alone he was to cherish for England the reverent respect and love which one gives freely to a great and honorable man.
Once, when he was out with his mother on her “messages,” he saw his first dark-skinned man, who, his mother explained, must have “come from some place called India.” The man wore conventional English clothes, but his head was wrapped in a turban. His features were beautiful, his skin the color of Maybelle’s cherished mahogany settee. A crowd of curious little boys, silent but unafraid, staring but without hostility, followed him. He appeared not to care. In fact, a small half-smile tugged at the corner of his handsome mouth.
Frank was immensely interested, but his mother would not allow him to follow. “Embarrassin’ to the man,” she said, severely. “Though God knows why those kids follow him, like kittens after a cat. He’s got a darker skin than ours, but is that any reason people should stare? God made red and white and blue flowers, and everything’s different in the world, yet some people are ninnie
s enough to think it’s eccentric to be different. What do they expect? Everybody to have the same gawps as they do?”
Even when he was still a child he gathered that politics were the life-blood of the Englishman, no matter how poor he was, or how preoccupied with his terrible necessity to keep from starving. Even the uneducated Englishman’s comments on politics were pungent, wise and apt, and the doings of Parliament were of the most immediate concern to him. It was in America that he was to discover that politics were the degraded circus of the fools, the pantomime of idiots, the “hobby-horses” of rascals. The superior American, either out of inertia or dismay, avoided them.
He often listened to Jim Worden, in Reddish, and to his father, and he acquired for all government a deep respect and reverence. For it was evident to the Englishman that his government was himself, and he must preserve that self from indignity, defilement and mendacity. The “nobs” might “swank abaht” in their carriages, but the Englishman knew that before the law he and the “nobs” were equal, that one suffered the same punishment for the same crime as did the other. The government did not declare that “all men were equal,” but unhampered by this hypocritical fallacy, it could administer the law with full justice. British law declared that the privileged man and the underprivileged both owed a duty to the laws they had made and sanctioned, and that duty was neither increased nor decreased by social position or wealth. It was inexorable.
There Was a Time Page 7