Deep Waters, the Entire Collection

by W. W. Jacobs

  You've what?" demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully onits stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family.

  "Struck," repeated Mr. Porter; "and the only wonder to me is we've stoodit so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we've 'ad to put up withI don't suppose you'd believe me."

  "Very likely," was the reply. "You can keep your fairy-tales for themthat like 'em. They're no good to me."

  "We stood it till flesh and blood could stand it no longer," declaredher husband, "and at last we came out, shoulder to shoulder, singing.The people cheered us, and one of our leaders made 'em a speech."

  "I should have liked to 'ave heard the singing," remarked his wife. "Ifthey all sang like you, it must ha' been as good as a pantermime! Do youremember the last time you went on strike?"

  "This is different," said Mr. Porter, with dignity.

  "All our things went, bit by bit," pursued his wife, "all the money wehad put by for a rainy day, and we 'ad to begin all over again. What arewe going to live on? O' course, you might earn something by singing inthe street; people who like funny faces might give you something! Whynot go upstairs and put your 'ead under the bed-clothes and practise abit?"

  Mr. Porter coughed. "It'll be all right," he said, confidently. "Ourcommittee knows what it's about; Bert Robinson is one of the bestspeakers I've ever 'eard. If we don't all get five bob a week more I'lleat my 'ead."

  "It's the best thing you could do with it," snapped his wife. She tookup her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumedher work.

  Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortableslowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of agood breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the freshair, passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfullyhe went briskly downstairs.

  It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the airthe kitchen-grate was cold and dull. Herring-bones and a disorderlycollection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed andangry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door,stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should havehad a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on abox in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at acigarette.

  "Susan!" he exclaimed.

  Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume ofsmoke. "Halloa!" she said, carelessly.

  "Wot--wot does this mean?" demanded her husband.

  Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. "I made it come out of my nosejust now," she replied. "At least, some of it did, and I swallowed therest. Will it hurt me?"

  "Where's my breakfast?" inquired the other, hotly. "Why ain't thekitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you're doing of?"

  "I'm not doing anything," said his wife, with an aggrieved air. "I'm onstrike."

  Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. "Wot!" he stammered. "Onstrike? Nonsense! You can't be."

  "O, yes, I can," retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministeringto it hastily with the corner of her apron. "Not 'aving no Bert Robinsonto do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am."

  She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands onher plump knees, eyes him steadily.

  "But--but this ain't a factory," objected the dismayed man; "and,besides --I won't 'ave it!"

  Mrs. Porter laughed--a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch ofhardness in it.

  "All right, mate," she said, comfortably. "What are you out on strikefor?"

  "Shorter hours and more money," said Mr. Porter, glaring at her.

  His wife nodded. "So am I," she said. "I wonder who gets it first?"

  She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting apaper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stubof the first.

  "That's the worst of a woman," said her husband, avoiding her eye andaddressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; "they do things withoutthinking first. That's why men are superior; before they do a thing theylook at it all round, and upside down, and--and--make sure it can bedone. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing youdo--not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first--is to go onstrike. If you'd thought for two minutes you'd see as 'ow it'simpossible for you to go on strike for more than a couple of hours orso."

  "Why?" inquired Mrs. Porter.

  "Kids," replied her husband, triumphantly. "They'll be coming 'ome fromschool soon, won't they? And they'll be wanting their dinner, won'tthey?"

  "That's all right," murmured the other, vaguely.

  "After which, when night comes," pursued Mr. Porter, "they'll 'ave to beput to bed. In the morning they'll 'ave to be got up and washed anddressed and given their breakfast and sent off to school. Then there'sshopping wot must be done, and beds wot must be made."

  "I'll make ours," said his wife, decidedly. "For my own sake."

  "And wot about the others?" inquired Mr. Porter.

  "The others'll be made by the same party as washes the children, andcooks their dinner for 'em, and puts 'em to bed, and cleans the 'ouse,"was the reply.

  "I'm not going to have your mother 'ere," exclaimed Mr. Porter, withsudden heat. "Mind that!"

  "I don't want her," said Mrs. Porter. "It's a job for a strong, healthyman, not a pore old thing with swelled legs and short in the breath."

  "Strong--'ealthy--man!" repeated her husband, in a dazed voice."Strong--'eal---- Wot are you talking about?"

  Mrs. Porter beamed on him. "You," she said, sweetly.

  There was a long silence, broken at last by a firework display ofexpletives. Mrs. Porter, still smiling, sat unmoved.

  "You may smile!" raved the indignant Mr. Porter. "You may sit theresmiling and smoking like a--like a man, but if you think that I'm goingto get the meals ready, and soil my 'ands with making beds andwashing-up, you're mistook. There's some 'usbands I know as would setabout you!"

  Mrs. Porter rose. "Well, I can't sit here gossiping with you all day,"she said, entering the house.

  "Wot are you going to do?" demanded her husband, following her.

  "Going to see Aunt Jane and 'ave a bit o' dinner with her," was thereply. "And after that I think I shall go to the 'pictures.' If you 'avebloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the bones."

  "I forbid you to leave this 'ouse!" said Mr. Porter, in a thrillingvoice. "If you do you won't find nothing done when you come home, andall the kids dirty and starving."

  "Cheerio!" said Mrs. Porter.

  Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. Aglance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair inthe dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate.

  He made a hearty breakfast at a neighbouring coffee-shop, and, returninghome, lit the fire and sat before it, smoking. The return of the fourchildren from school, soon after midday, found him still wrestling withthe difficulties of the situation. His announcement that their motherwas out and that there would be no dinner was received at first instupefied silence. Then Jemmy, opening his mouth to its widest extent,acted as conductor to an all-too-willing chorus.

  The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with thetribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferatingorders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife hadtaken of his affection for his children. He took some money from hispocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with theassistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up the breakfast thingsand placed one of them in the dustbin.

  The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, andwatched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausagewhich had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh ofrelief heralded its return to the pan.

  "Mother always--" began the eldest boy.

  Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smac
ked thecritic's head.

  The dinner was not a success. Portions of half-cooked sausages returnedto the pan, and coming back in the guise of cinders failed to find theirrightful owners.

  "Last time we had sausages," said the eight-year-old Muriel, "theymelted in your mouth." Mr. Porter glowered at her.

  "Instead of in the fire," said the eldest boy, with a mournful snigger.

  "If I get up to you, my lad," said the harassed Mr. Porter, "you'll knowit! Pity you don't keep your sharpness for your lessons! Wot country isAfrica in?"

  "Why, Africa's a continent!" said the startled youth.

  "Jes so," said his father; "but wot I'm asking you is: wot country is itin?"

  "Asia," said the reckless one, with a side-glance at Muriel.

  "And why couldn't you say so before?" demanded Mr. Porter, sternly."Now, you go to the sink and give yourself a thorough good wash. Andmind you come straight home from school. There's work to be done."

  He did some of it himself after the children had gone, and finished upthe afternoon with a little shopping, in the course of which he twicechanged his grocer and was threatened with an action for slander by hisfishmonger. He returned home with his clothes bulging, although a coupleof eggs in the left-hand coat-pocket had done their best to accommodatethemselves to his figure.

  He went to bed at eleven o'clock, and at a quarter past, clad all toolightly for the job, sped rapidly downstairs to admit his wife.

  "Some 'usbands would 'ave let you sleep on the doorstep all night," hesaid, crisply.

  "I know they would," returned his wife, cheerfully. "That's why Imarried you. I remember the first time I let you come 'ome with me,mother ses: 'There ain't much of 'im, Susan,' she ses; 'still, arf aloaf is better than--'"

  The bedroom-door slammed behind the indignant Mr. Porter, and the threelumps and a depression which had once been a bed received his quiveringframe again. With the sheet obstinately drawn over his head he turned adeaf ear to his wife's panegyrics on striking and her heartfelt tributeto the end of a perfect day. Even when standing on the cold floor whileshe remade the bed he maintained an attitude of unbending dignity, onlyrelaxing when she smote him light-heartedly with the bolster. In a fewill-chosen words he expressed his opinion of her mother and herdeplorable methods of bringing up her daughters.

  He rose early next morning, and, after getting his own breakfast, put onhis cap and went out, closing the street-door with a bang that awoke theentire family and caused the somnolent Mrs. Porter to open one eye forthe purpose of winking with it. Slowly, as became a man of leisure, hestrolled down to the works, and, moving from knot to knot of hiscolleagues, discussed the prospects of victory. Later on, with a littlenatural diffidence, he drew Mr. Bert Robinson apart and asked his adviceupon a situation which was growing more and more difficult.

  "I've got my hands pretty full as it is, you know," said Mr. Robinson,hastily.

  "I know you 'ave, Bert," murmured the other. "But, you see, she told melast night she's going to try and get some of the other chaps' wives tojoin 'er, so I thought I ought to tell you."

  Mr. Robinson started. "Have you tried giving her a hiding?" he inquired.

  Mr. Porter shook his head. "I daren't trust myself," he replied. "Imight go too far, once I started."

  "What about appealing to her better nature?" inquired the other.

  "She ain't got one," said the unfortunate. "Well, I'm sorry for you,"said Mr. Robinson, "but I'm busy. I've got to see a Labour-leader thisafternoon, and two reporters, and this evening there's the meeting. Trykindness first, and if that don't do, lock her up in her bedroom andkeep her on bread and water."

  He moved off to confer with his supporters, and Mr. Porter, afterwandering aimlessly about for an hour or two, returned home at mid-daywith a faint hope that his wife might have seen the error of her waysand provided dinner for him. He found the house empty and the bedsunmade. The remains of breakfast stood on the kitchen-table, and apuddle of cold tea decorated the floor. The arrival of the children fromschool, hungry and eager, completed his discomfiture.

  For several days he wrestled grimly with the situation, while Mrs.Porter, who had planned out her week into four days of charing, two ofamusement, and Sunday in bed, looked on with smiling approval. She evenoffered to give him a little instruction--verbal--in scrubbing thekitchen-floor.

  Mr. Porter, who was on his knees at the time, rose slowly to his fullheight, and, with a superb gesture, emptied the bucket, which alsocontained a scrubbing-brush and lump of soap, into the back-yard. Thenhe set off down the street in quest of a staff.

  He found it in the person of Maudie Stevens, aged fourteen, who lived afew doors lower down. Fresh from school the week before, she cheerfullyundertook to do the housework and cooking, and to act as nursemaid inher spare time. Her father, on his part, cheerfully under-took to takecare of her wages for her, the first week's, payable in advance, beingbanked the same evening at the Lord Nelson.

  It was another mouth to feed, but the strike-pay was coming in verywell, and Mr. Porter, relieved from his unmanly tasks, walked thestreets a free man. Beds were made without his interference, meals wereready (roughly) at the appointed hour, and for the first time since thestrike he experienced satisfaction in finding fault with the cook. Thechildren's content was not so great, Maudie possessing a faith in thevirtues of soap and water that they made no attempt to share. They weregreatly relieved when their mother returned home after spending a coupleof days with Aunt Jane.

  "What's all this?" she demanded, as she entered the kitchen, followed bya lady-friend.

  "What's all what?" inquired Mr. Porter, who was sitting at dinner withthe family.

  "That," said his wife, pointing at the cook-general.

  Mr. Porter put down his knife and fork. "Got 'er in to help," hereplied, uneasily.

  "Do you hear that?" demanded his wife, turning to her friend, Mrs.Gorman. "Oh, these masters!"

  "Ah!" said her friend, vaguely.

  "A strike-breaker!" said Mrs. Porter, rolling her eyes.

  "Shame!" said Mrs. Gorman, beginning to understand.

  "Coming after my job, and taking the bread out of my mouth," continuedMrs. Porter, fluently. "Underselling me too, I'll be bound. That's whatcomes of not having pickets."

  "Unskilled labour," said Mrs. Gorman, tightening her lips and shakingher head.

  "A scab!" cried Mrs. Porter, wildly. "A scab!"

  "Put her out," counselled her friend.

  "Put her out!" repeated Mrs. Porter, in a terrible voice. "Put her out!I'll tear her limb from limb! I'll put her in the copper and boil her!"

  Her voice was so loud and her appearance so alarming that theunfortunate Maudie, emitting three piercing shrieks, rose hastily fromthe table and looked around for a way of escape. The road to thefront-door was barred, and with a final yelp that set her employer'steeth on edge she dashed into the yard and went home via theback-fences. Housewives busy in their kitchens looked up in amazement atthe spectacle of a pair of thin black legs descending one fence,scudding across the yard to the accompaniment of a terrified moaning,and scrambling madly over the other. At her own back-door Maudiecollapsed on the step, and, to the intense discomfort and annoyance ofher father, had her first fit of hysterics.

  "And the next scab that comes into my house won't get off so easy," saidMrs. Porter to her husband. "D'you understand?"

  "If you 'ad some husbands--" began Mr. Porter, trembling with rage.

  "Yes, I know," said his wife, nodding. "Don't cry, Jemmy," she added,taking the youngest on her knee. "Mother's only having a little game.She and dad are both on strike for more pay and less work."

  Mr. Porter got up, and without going through the formality of sayinggood-bye to the hard-featured Mrs. Gorman, put on his cap and went out.Over a couple of half-pints taken as a sedative, he realized the growingseriousness of his position.

  In a dull resigned fashion he took up his household duties again, madeharder now than before by the scandalous gossip of t
he aggrieved Mr.Stevens. The anonymous present of a much-worn apron put the finishingtouch to his discomfiture; and the well-meant offer of a fair neighbourto teach him how to shake a mat without choking himself met with areception that took her breath away.

  It was a surprise to him one afternoon to find that his wife had so farunbent as to tidy up the parlour. Ornaments had been dusted and polishedand the carpet swept. She had even altered the position of thefurniture. The table had been pushed against the wall, and the easy-chair, with its back to the window, stood stiffly confronting six orseven assorted chairs, two of which at least had been promoted from alower sphere.

  "It's for the meeting," said Muriel, peeping in.

  "Meeting?" repeated her father, in a dazed voice.

  "Strike-meetings," was the reply. "Mrs. Gorman and some other ladies arecoming at four o'clock. Didn't mother tell you?"

  Mr. Porter, staring helplessly at the row of chairs, shook his head.

  "Mrs. Evans is coming," continued Muriel, in a hushed voice--"the ladywhat punched Mr. Brown because he kept Bobbie Evans in one day. He ain'tbeen kept in since. I wish you----"

  She stopped suddenly, and, held by her father's gaze, backed slowly outof the room. Mr. Porter, left with the chairs, stood regarding themthoughtfully. Their emptiness made an appeal that no right-minded mancould ignore. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes watered.

  He spent the next half-hour in issuing invitations, and at half-pastthree every chair was filled by fellow-strikers. Three cans of beer,clay pipes, and a paper of shag stood on the table. Mr. Benjamin Todd,an obese, fresh-coloured gentleman of middle age, took the easy-chair.Glasses and teacups were filled.

  "Gentlemen," said Mr. Todd, lighting his pipe, "afore we get on to thebusiness of this meeting I want to remind you that there is anothermeeting, of ladies, at four o'clock; so we've got to hurry up. O'course, if it should happen that we ain't finished----"

  "Go on, Bennie!" said a delighted admirer. "I see a female 'ead peepingin at the winder already," said a voice.

  "Let 'em peep," said Mr. Todd, benignly. "Then p'r'aps they'll be ableto see how to run a meeting."

  "There's two more 'eads," said the other. "Oh, Lord, I know I sha'n't beable to keep a straight face!"

  "H'sh!" commanded Mr. Todd, sternly, as the street-door was heard toopen. "Be'ave yourself. As I was saying, the thing we've got to considerabout this strike----"

  The door opened, and six ladies, headed by Mrs. Porter, entered the roomin single file and ranged themselves silently along the wall.

  "Strike," proceeded Mr. Todd, who found himself gazing uneasily into theeyes of Mrs. Gorman----"strike--er--strike----"

  "He said that before," said a stout lady, in a loud whisper; "I'm surehe did."

  "Is," continued Mr. Todd, "that we have got to keep this--this--er--"

  "Strike," prompted the same voice.

  Mr. Todd paused, and, wiping his mouth with a red pocket-handkerchief,sat staring straight before him.

  "I move," said Mrs. Evans, her sharp features twitching with excitement,"that Mrs. Gorman takes the chair."

  "'Ow can I take it when he's sitting in it?" demanded that lady.

  "She's a lady that knows what she wants and how to get it," pursued Mrs.Evans, unheeding. "She understands men--"

  "I've buried two 'usbands," murmured Mrs. Gorman, nodding.

  "And how to manage them," continued Mrs. Evans. "I move that Mrs. Gormantakes the chair. Those in favour--"

  Mr. Todd, leaning back in his chair and gripping the arms, gazeddefiantly at a row of palms.

  "Carried unanimously!" snapped Mrs. Evans.

  Mrs. Gorman, tall and bony, advanced and stood over Mr. Todd. Strong menheld their breath.

  "It's my chair," she said, gruffly. "I've been moved into it."

  "Possession," said Mr. Todd, in as firm a voice as he could manage, "isnine points of the law. I'm here and--"

  Mrs. Gorman turned, and, without the slightest warning, sat downsuddenly and heavily in his lap. A hum of admiration greeted theachievement.

  "Get up!" shouted the horrified Mr. Todd. "Get up!"

  Mrs. Gorman settled herself more firmly.

  "Let me get up," said Mr. Todd, panting.

  Mrs. Gorman rose, but remained in a hovering position, between which andthe chair Mr. Todd, flushed and dishevelled, extricated himself in allhaste. A shrill titter of laughter and a clapping of hands greeted hisappearance. He turned furiously on the pallid Mr. Porter.

  "What d'you mean by it?" he demanded. "Are you the master, or ain't you?A man what can't keep order in his own house ain't fit to be called aman. If my wife was carrying on like this----"

  "I wish I was your wife," said Mrs. Gorman, moistening her lips.

  Mr. Todd turned slowly and surveyed her.

  "I don't," he said, simply, and, being by this time near the door, fadedgently from the room.

  "Order!" cried Mrs. Gorman, thumping the arm of her chair with a large,hard-working fist. "Take your seats, ladies."

  A strange thrill passed through the bodies of her companions andcommunicated itself to the men in the chairs. There was a moment's tensepause, and then the end man, muttering something about "going to seewhat had happened to poor old Ben Todd," rose slowly and went out. Hiscompanions, with heads erect and a look of cold disdain upon theirfaces, followed him.

  It was Mr. Porter's last meeting, but his wife had several more. Theylasted, in fact, until the day, a fortnight later, when he came in withflushed face and sparkling eyes to announce that the strike was over andthe men victorious.

  "Six bob a week more!" he said, with enthusiasm. "You see, I was rightto strike, after all."

  Mrs. Porter eyed him. "I am out for four bob a week more," she said,calmly.

  Her husband swallowed. "You--you don't understand 'ow these things aredone," he said, at last. "It takes time. We ought to ne--negotiate."

  "All right," said Mrs. Porter, readily. "Seven shillings a week, then."

  "Let's say four and have done with it," exclaimed the other, hastily.

  And Mrs. Porter said it.

  DIRTY WORK