‘What for? There was nothin’ front o’ me but my own shame an’ God’s croolty. I couldn’t ever get ’Arry – ’ow could I? I knowed it must go on burnin’ till it burned me out.’
‘Aie!’ said Mrs Fettley, reaching for the wrist again, and this time Mrs Ashcroft permitted it.
‘Yit ’twas a comfort to know I could try this for ’im. So I went an’ I paid the green-grocer’s bill, an’ put ’is receipt in me hand-bag, an’ then I stepped round to Mrs Ellis – our char – an’ got the ’ouse-keys an’ opened the ’ouse. First, I made me bed to come back to (God’s Own Name! Me bed to lie upon!). Nex’ I made me a cup o’ tea an’ sat down in the kitchen thinkin’, till ’long towards dusk. Terrible close, ’twas. Then I dressed me an’ went out with the receipt in me ’and-bag, feignin’ to study it for an address, like. Fourteen, Wadloes Road, was the place – a liddle basement-kitchen ’ouse, in a row of twenty-thirty such, an’ tiddy strips o’ walled garden in front – the paint off the front doors, an’ na’un done to na’un since ever so long. There wasn’t ’ardly no one in the streets ’cept the cats. ’Twas ’ot, too! I turned into the gate bold as brass; up de steps I went an’ I ringed the frontdoor bell. She pealed loud, like it do in an empty house. When she’d all ceased, I ’eard a cheer, like, pushed back on de floor o’ the kitchen. Then I ’eard feet on de kitchen-stairs, like it might ha’ been a heavy woman in slippers. They come up to de stairhead, acrost the hall – I’eard the bare boards creak under ’em – an’ at de frontdoor dey stopped. I stooped me to the letter-box slit, an’ I says: “Let me take everythin’ bad that’s in store for my man, ’Arry Mockler, for love’s sake.” Then, whatever it was ’tother side de door let its breath out, like, as if it ’ad been holdin’ it for to ’ear better.’
‘Nothin’ was said to ye?’ Mrs Fettley demanded.
‘Na’un. She just breathed out – a sort of A-ah,like. Then the steps went back an’ downstairs to the kitchen – all draggy – an’ I heard the cheer drawed up again.’
‘An’ you abode on de doorstep, throughout all, Gra’?’
Mrs Ashcroft nodded.
‘Then I went away, an’ a man passin’ says to me: “Didn’t you know that house was empty?”“No,” I says. “I must ha’ been give the wrong number.” An’ I went back to our ’ouse, an’ I went to bed; for I was fair flogged out. ’Twas too ’ot to sleep more’n snatches, so I walked me about, lyin’ down betweens, till crack o’ dawn. Then I went to the kitchen to make me a cup o’ tea, an’ I hitted meself just above the ankle on an old roastin’-jack o’ mine that Mrs Ellis had moved out from the corner, her last cleanin’. An’ so – nex’ after that – I waited till the Marshalls come back o’ their holiday.’
‘Alone there? I’d ha’ thought you’d ’ad enough of empty houses,’ said Mrs Fettley, horrified.
‘Oh, Mrs Ellis an’ Sophy was runnin’ in an’ out soon’s I was back, an’’twixt us we cleaned de house again top-to-bottom. There’s allus a hand’s turn more to do in every house. An’ that’s ’ow ’twas with me that autumn an’ winter, in Lunnon.’
‘Then na’un hap – overtook ye for your doin’s?’
Mrs Ashcroft smiled. ‘No. Not then. ’Long in November I sent Bessie ten shillin’s.’
‘You was allus free-’anded,’ Mrs Fettley interrupted.
‘An’ I got what I paid for, with the rest o’ the news. She said the hoppin’’ad set ’im up wonderful. ’E’d ’ad six weeks of it, and now ’e was back again carterin’ at Smalldene. No odds to me ’ow it ’ad ’appened – ’slong’s it ’ad. But I dunno as my ten shillin’s eased me much. ’Arry bein’dead, like, ’e’d ha’ been mine, till Judgment ’Arry bein’ alive, ’e’d like as not pick up with some woman middlin’ quick. I raged over that. Comespring, I ’ad somethin’ else to rage for. I’d growed a nasty little weepin’ boil, like, on me shin, just above the boot-top, that wouldn’t heal no shape. It made me sick to look at it, for I’m clean-fleshed by nature. Chop me all over with a spade, an’ I’d heal like turf. Then Mrs Marshall she set ’er own doctor at me. ’E said I ought to ha’ come to him at first go-off, ’stead o’ drawin’ all manner o’ dyed stockin’s over it for months. ’E said I’d stood up too much to me work, for it was settin’ very close atop of a big swelled vein, like behither the small o’ me ankle. “Slow come, slow go,”’e says. “Lay your leg up on high an’ rest it,” he says, “an’’twill ease off. Don’t let it close up too soon. You’ve got a very fine leg, Mrs Ashcroft,”’e says. An’ he put wet dressin’s on it.’
‘’E done right.’ Mrs Fettley spoke firmly. ‘Wet dressin’s to wet wounds. They draw de humours, same’s a lamp-wick draws de oil.’
‘That’s true. An’ Mrs Marshall was allus at me to make me set down more, an’ dat nigh healed it up. An’ then after a while they packed me off down to Bessie’s to finish the cure; for I ain’t the sort to sit down when I ought to stand up. You was back in the village then, Liz.’
‘I was. I was, but – never did I guess!’
‘I didn’t desire ye to.’ Mrs Ashcroft smiled. ‘I saw ’Arry once or twice in de street, wonnerful fleshed up an’ restored back. Then, one day I didn’t see ’im, an’’is mother told me one of ’is ’orses ’ad lashed out an’ caught ’im on the ’ip. So ’e was abed an’ middlin’ painful. An’ Bessie, she says to his mother, ’twas a pity ’Arry ’adn’t a woman of ’is own to take the nursin’ off ’er. And the old lady was mad! She told us that ’Arry ’ad never looked after any woman in ’is born days, an’ as long as she was atop the mowlds, she’d contrive for ’im till ’er two ’ands dropped off. So I knowed she’d do watch-dog on me, ’thout askin’ for bones.’
Mrs Fettley rocked with small laughter.
‘That day,’ Mrs Ashcroft went on, ‘I’d stood on me feet nigh all the time, watchin’ the doctor go in an’ out; for they thought it might be ’is ribs, too. That made my boil break again, issuin’ an’ weepin’. But it turned out ’twadn’t ribs at all, an’’Arry ’ad agood night. When I heard that, nex’ mornin’, I says to meself, “I won’t lay two an’ two together – yit. I’ll keep me leg down a week, an’ see what comes of it.” It didn’t hurt me that day, to speak of– ’seemed more to draw the strength out o’ me like – an’‘’Arry ’ad another good night. That made me persevere; but I didn’t dare lay two an’ two together till the week-end, an’ then, ’Arry come forth e’en a’most ’imself again – na’un hurt outside ner in of him. I nigh fell on me knees in de wash-house when Bessie was up-street. “I’ve got ye now, my man,” I says. “You’ll take your good from me ’thout knowin’ it till my life’s end. O God send me long to live for ’Arry’s sake!” I says. An’ I dunno that didn’t still me ragin’s.’
‘For good?’ Mrs Fettley asked.
‘They come back, plenty times, but, let be how ’twould, I knowed I was doin’ for ’im. I knowed it. I took an’ worked me pains on an’ off, like regulatin’ my own range, till I learned to ’ave ’em at my commandments. An’ that was funny, too. There was times, Liz, when my trouble ’ud all s’rink an’ dry up, like. First, I used to try an’ fetch it on again; bein’ fearful to leave ’Arry alone too long for anythin’ to lay ’old of. Prasin’ly I come to see that was a sign he’d do all right awhile, an’ so I saved myself.’
‘’Ow long for?’ Mrs Fettley asked, with deepest interest.
‘I’ve gone de better part of a year onct or twice with na’un more to show than the liddle weepin’ core of it, like. All s’rinked up an’ dried off. Then he’d inflame up – for a warnin’ – an’ I’d suffer it. When I couldn’t no more – an’ I ’ad to keep on goin’ with my Lunnon work – I’d lay me leg high on a cheer till it eased. Not too quick. I knowed by the feel of it, those times, dat ’Arry was in need. Then I’d send another five shillin’s to Bess, or somethin’ for the chillern, to find out if, mebbe, ’e’d took any hurt through my neglects. ’Twas so!Year in, year out, I worked it dat way, Liz, an’’e got ’is good f
rom me ’thout knowin’ – for years and years.’
‘But what did you get out of it, Gra’?’ Mrs Fettley almost wailed. ‘Did ye see ’im reg’lar?’
‘Times – when I was ’ere on me ’ol’days. An’ more, now that I’m ’ere for good. But ’e’s never looked at me, ner any otherwoman ’cept ’is mother. ’Ow I used to watch an’ listen! So did she.’
‘Years an’ years!’ Mrs Fettley repeated. ‘An’ where’s ’e workin’ at now?’
‘Oh, ’e’s give up carterin’ quite a while. He’s workin’ for one o’ them big tractorisin’ firms – plowin’ sometimes, an’ sometimes off with lorries – fur as Wales, I’ve ’eard. He comes ’ome to ’is mother ’tween whiles; but I don’t set eyes on him now, fer weeks on end. No odds! ’Is job keeps ’im from continuin’ in one stay anywheres.’
‘But – just for de sake o’ sayin’ somethin’ – s’pose ’Arry did get married?’ said Mrs Fettley.
Mrs Ashcroft drew her breath sharply between her still even and natural teeth. ‘Dat ain’t been required of me,’ she answered. ‘I reckon my pains ’ull be counted agin that. Don’t you, Liz?’
‘It ought to be, dearie. It ought to be.’
‘It do ’urt sometimes. You shall see it when Nurse comes. She thinks I don’t know it’s turned.’
Mrs Fettley understood. Human nature seldom walks up to the word ‘cancer.’
‘Be ye certain sure, Gra’?’ she asked.
‘I was sure of it when old Mr Marshall ’ad me up to ’is study an’ spoke a long piece about my faithful service. I’ve obliged ’em on an’ off for a goodish time, but not enough for a pension. But they give me a weekly ’lowance for life. I knew what that sinnified – as long as three years ago.’
‘Dat don’t prove it, Gra’.’
‘To give fifteen bob a week to a woman ’oo’d live twenty year in the course o’ nature? It do!’
‘You’re mistook! You’re mistook!’ Mrs Fettley insisted.
‘Liz, there’s no mistakin’ when the edges are all heaped up, like – same as a collar. You’ll see it. An’ I laid out Dora Wickwood, too. She ’ad it under the arm-pit, like.’
Mrs Fettley considered awhile, and bowed her head in finality.
‘’Ow long d’you reckon ’twill allow ye, countin’ from now, dearie?’
‘Slow come, slow go. But if I don’t set eyes on ye ’fore next hoppin’, this’ll be goodbye, Liz.’
‘Dunno as I’ll be able to manage by then – not ’thout I have a liddle dog to lead me. For de chillern, dey won’t be troubled an’ – O Gra’! – I’m blindin’ up – I’m blindin’ up!’
‘Oh, dat – was why you didn’t more’n finger with your quilt-patches all this while! I was wonderin’ … But the pain do count, don’t ye think, Liz? The pain do count to keep ’Arry – where I want ’im. Say it can’t be wasted, like.’
‘I’m sure of it – sure of it, dearie. You’ll ’ave your reward.’
‘I don’t want no more’n this – if de pain is taken into de reckonin’.’
‘ ’Twill be – ’twill be, Gra’.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘That’s Nurse. She’s before ’er time,’ said Mrs Ashcroft. ‘Open to ’er.’
The young lady entered briskly, all the bottles in her bag clicking. ‘Evenin’, Mrs Ashcroft,’ she began. ‘I’ve come raound a little earlier than usual because of the Institute dance to-na-ite. You won’t ma-ind, will you?’
‘Oh, no. Me dancin’ days are over.’ Mrs Ashcroft was the self-contained domestic at once. ‘My old friend, Mrs Fettley ’ere, has been settin’ talkin’ with me a while.’
‘I hope she ’asn’t been fatiguing you?’ said the Nurse a little frostily.
‘Quite the contrary. It ’as been a pleasure. Only – only – just at the end I felt a bit – a bit flogged out like.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The Nurse was on her knees already, with the washes to hand. ‘When old ladies get together they talk a deal too much, I’ve noticed.’
‘Mebbe we do,’ said Mrs Fettley, rising. ‘So, now, I’ll make myself scarce.’
‘Look at it first, though,’ said Mrs Ashcroft feebly. ‘I’d like ye to look at it.’
Mrs Fettley looked, and shivered. Then she leaned over, and kissed Mrs Ashcroft once on the waxy yellow forehead, and again on the faded grey eyes.
‘It do, count, don’t it – de pain?’ The lips that still kept trace of their original moulding hardly more than breathed the words.
Mrs Fettley kissed them and moved towards the door.
2 Hop-picking
THE GARDENER
One grave to me was given,
One watch till Judgment Day;
And God looked down from Heaven
And rolled the stone away.
One day in all the years,
One hour in that one day,
His Angel saw my tears,
And rolled the stone away!
Every one in the village knew that Helen Turrell did her duty by all her world, and by none more honourably than by her only brother’s unfortunate child. The village knew, too, that George Turrell had tried his family severely since early youth, and were not surprised to be told that, after many fresh starts given and thrown away, he, an Inspector of Indian Police, had entangled himself with the daughter of a retired noncommissioned officer, and had died of a fall from a horse a few week’s before his child was born. Mercifully, George’s father and mother were both dead, and though Helen, thirty-five and independent, might well have washed her hands of the whole disgraceful affair, she most nobly took charge, though she was, at the time, under threat of lung trouble which had driven her to the South of France. She arranged for the passage of the child and a nurse from Bombay, met them at Marseilles, nursed the baby through an attack of infantile dysentery due to the carelessness of the nurse, whom she had had to dismiss, and at last, thin and worn but triumphant, brought the boy late in the autumn, wholly restored, to her Hampshire home.
All these details were public property, for Helen was as open as the day, and held that scandals are only increased by hushing them up. She admitted that George had always been rather a black sheep, but things might have been much worse ifthe mother had insisted on her right to keep the boy. Luckily, it seemed that people of that class would do almost anything for money, and, as George had always turned to her in his scrapes, she felt herself justified – her friends agreed with her – in cutting the whole noncommissioned officer connection, and giving the child every advantage. A christening, by the Rector, under the name of Michael, was the first step. So far as she knew herself, she was not, she said, a child-lover, but, for all his faults, she had been very fond of George, and she pointed out that little Michael had his father’s mouth to a line; which made something to build upon.
As a matter of fact, it was the Turrell forehead, broad, low, and well-shaped, with the widely spaced eyes beneath it, that Michael had most faithfully reproduced. His mouth was somewhat better cut than the family type. But Helen, who would concede nothing good to his mother’s side, vowed he was a Turrell all over, and, there being no one to contradict, the likeness was established.
In a few years Michael took his place, as accepted as Helen had always been – fearless, philosophical, and fairly good-looking. At six, he wished to know why he could not call her ‘Mummy,’ as other boys called their mothers. She explained that she was only his auntie, and that aunties were not quite the same as mummies, but that, if it gave him pleasure, he might call her ‘Mummy’ at bedtime, for a pet-name between themselves.
Michael kept his secret most loyally, but Helen, as usual, explained the fact to her friends; which when Michael heard, he raged.
‘Why did you tell? Why did you tell?’ came at the end of the storm.
‘Because it’s always best to tell the truth,’ Helen answered, her arm round him as he shook in his cot.
‘All right, but when the troof’s ugly I don’t thin
k it’s nice.’
‘Don’t you, dear?’
‘No, I don’t, and’ – she felt the small body stiffen – ‘now you’ve told, I won’t call you “Mummy” any more – not even at bedtimes.’
‘But isn’t that rather unkind?’ said Helen softly.
‘I don’t care! I don’t care! You’ve hurted me in my insides and I’ll hurt you back. I’ll hurt you as long as I live!’
‘Don’t, oh, don’t talk like that, dear! You don’t know what—’
‘I will! And when I’m dead I’ll hurt you worse!’
‘Thank goodness, I shall be dead long before you, darling.’
‘Huh!’ Emma says, ‘“Never know your luck.”’ (Michael had been talking to Helen’s elderly, flat-faced maid.) ‘Lots of little boys die quite soon. So’ll I. Then you’ll see!’
Helen caught her breath and moved towards the door, but the wail of ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ drew her back again, and the two wept together.
At ten years old, after two terms at a prep school, something or somebody gave him the idea that his civil status was not quite regular. He attacked Helen on the subject, breaking down her stammered defences with the family directness.
‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ he said, cheerily, at the end. ‘People wouldn’t have talked like they did if my people had been married. But don’t you bother, Auntie. I’ve found out all about my sort in English Hist’ry and the Shakespeare bits. There was William the Conqueror to begin with, and – oh, heaps more, and they all got on first-rate. ’Twon’t make any difference to you, my being that – will it?’
‘As if anything could—’ she began.
‘All right. We won’t talk about it any more if it makes you cry.’ He never mentioned the thing again of his own will, but when, two years later, he skilfully managed to have measles in the holidays, as his temperature went up to the appointed one hundred and four he muttered of nothing else, till Helen’s voice, piercing at last his delirium, reached him with assurance that nothing on earth or beyond could make any difference between them.
The Mark of the Beast and Other Fantastical Tales Page 77