green-tiled tops on which were placed tin vases containing dried ferns.
A few bluebottles darted away from the tortuous remains of what had once
apparently been a ham, lurking behind tall bottles of sweets on the
counter. The room smelt of soda and pickles. Edwin rapped on the table
for some time, but no one came. At last a woman entered from the front
door leading to the garden. She was fat and out of breath.
Edwin coughed and said:
“Good-mornin’, madam. May I have a bite of somethin’?”
The woman looked at him and continued panting. When her pulmonary
contortions had somewhat subsided she said:
“I s’pose you ’aven’t seen a pale young man up the lane?”
It was difficult to know what made him do it, but Edwin lied. He said:
“No.”
“Oh!” she replied. “I don’t know where ’e’s got to. ’E’s not s’posed to
go out of the garden. ’E’s been ill, you know.”
“Really!”
“’E’s my nefyer, but I can’t always keep an eye on ’im. ’E’s a bright
one, ’e is. I shall ’ave ’im sent back to the ’ome.”
“Ah, poor fellow! I suppose he was—injured in the war?”
“War!” The plump lady snorted. She became almost aggressive and
confidential. She came close up to Edwin and shook her finger backwards
and forwards in front of his eyes.
“I’ll tell yer ’ow much war ’e done. When they talked about conscription,
’e got that frightened, ’e went out every day and tried to drink himself
from a A1 man into a C III man, and by God! ’e succeeded.”
“You don’t say so!”
“I do say so. And more. When ’is turn came, ’e was in the ’orspital with
Delirious Trimmings.”
“My God!”
“’E’s only just come out. ’E’s all right as long as ’e don’t get ’old of
a little money.”
“What do you mean?”
“If ’e can get ’old of the price of a few whiskies, ’e’ll ’ave another
attack come on! What are yer goin’ ter ’ave—tea or cocoa?”
“I must go! I must go!” exclaimed the only customer Mrs. Boggins had had
for two days, and gripping his umbrella he dashed out of the shop.
“Good Lord! there’s another one got ’em!” ejaculated the good landlady.
“I wonder whether ’e pinched anything while I was out? ’Ere! Come back,
you dirty little bow-legged swipe!”
But Mr. Pothecary was racing down the lane, muttering to himself: “Yes,
that was a good action! A very good action indeed!”
A mile further on he came to a straggling village, a forlorn unkempt
spot, only relieved by a gaudy inn called “The Two Tumblers.” Edwin
staggered into the private bar and drank two pints of Government ale and
a double gin as the liquid accompaniment to a hunk of bread and cheese.
It was not till he had lighted his pipe after the negotiation of these
delicacies that he could again focus his philosophical outlook. Then he
thought to himself: “It’s a rum thing ’ow difficult it is to do a good
action. You’d think it’d be dead easy, but everythin’ seems against yer.
One must be able to do it _somewhere_. P’raps one ought to go abroad,
among foreigners and black men. That’s it! That’s why all these ’ere
Bible Society people go out among black people, Chinese and so on. They
find there’s nothin’ doin’ over ’ere.”
Had it not been for the beer and gin it is highly probable that Edwin
would have given up the project, and have returned to fish and chips.
But lying back in a comfortable seat in “The Two Tumblers” his thoughts
mellowed. He felt broad-minded, comfortable, tolerant ... one had to make
allowances. There must be all sorts of ways. Money wasn’t the only thing.
Besides, he was spending too much. He couldn’t afford to go on throwing
away seven-and-sixpences. One must be able to help people—by helping
them. Doing things for them which didn’t cost money. He thought of Sir
Walter Raleigh throwing down his cloak for Queen Elizabeth to walk over.
Romantic but—extravagant and silly, really a shrewd political move, no
doubt; not a good action at all. If he met an ill-clad tramp he could
take off his coat and wrap round his shoulders and then—? Walk home to
Quince Villa in his braces? What would Mrs. Pothecary have to say? Phew!
One could save people from drowning, but he didn’t know how to swim.
Fire! Perhaps there would be a fire. He could swarm up a ladder and save
a woman from the top bedroom window. Heroic, but hardly inconspicuous;
not exactly what he had meant. Besides, the firemen would never let him;
they always kept these showy stunts for themselves. There _must_ be
something....
He walked out of “The Two Tumblers.”
Crossing the road, he took a turning off the High Street. He saw a
heavily-built woman carrying a basket of washing. He hurried after her,
and raising his hat, said: “Excuse me, madam, may I carry your basket for
you?”
She turned on him suspiciously and glared:
“No, thanks, Mr. Bottle-nose. I’ve ’ad some of that before. You ’op it!
Mrs. Jaggs ’ad ’ers pinched last week that way.”
“Of course,” he thought to himself as he hurried away. “The trouble is
I’m not dressed for the part. A bloomin’ swell can go about doin’ good
actions all day and not arouse suspicions. If I try and ’elp a girl off a
tram-car I get my face slapped.”
Mr. Pothecary was learning. He was becoming a complete philosopher, but
it was not till late in the afternoon that he suddenly realized that
patience and industry are always rewarded. He was appealed to by a maiden
in distress.
It came about in this way. He found the atmosphere of Northern London
entirely unsympathetic to good deeds. All his action appeared suspect. He
began to feel at last like a criminal. He was convinced that he was being
watched and followed. Once he patted a little girl’s head in a paternal
manner. Immediately a woman appeared at a doorway and bawled out:
“’Ere, Lizzie, you come inside!”
At length in disgust he boarded a south-bound ’bus. He decided to
experiment nearer home. He went to the terminus and took a train to the
station just before his own. It was a small town called Uplingham. This
should be the last dance of the moral philanderer. If there was no one in
Uplingham upon whom he could perform a good action, he would just walk
home—barely two miles—and go to bed and forget all about it. To-morrow
he would return to Fish-and-chips, and the normal behavior of the normal
citizen.
Uplingham was a dismal little town, consisting mostly of churches,
chapels and pubs, and apparently quite deserted. As Edwin wandered
through it there crept over him a sneaking feeling of relief. If he met
no one—well, there it was, he had done his best; and he could go home
with a clear conscience. After all it was the spirit that counted in
these things....
“O-o-oh!”
He was passing a small stone church, standing back on a little frequented
lane. The maiden was seated alone in the porch and she was crying. Edwin
bustled through the gate and as he approached her he had time to observe
that she was young, quietly dressed, and distinctly pretty.
“You are in trouble,” he said in his most feeling manner.
She looked up at him quickly, and dabbed her eyes.
“I’ve lost my baby! I’ve lost my baby!” she cried.
“Dear, dear, that’s very unfortunate! How did it happen?”
She pointed at an empty perambulator in the porch.
“I waited an hour here for my friends and husband and the clergyman. My
baby was to be christened.” She gasped incoherently. “No one turned up.
I went across to the Vicarage. The Vicar was away. I believe I ought to
have gone to St. Bride’s. This is St. Paul’s. They didn’t know anything
about it. They say people often make that mistake. When I got back the
baby was gone. O-o-o-oh!”
“There, there, don’t cry,” said Mr. Pothecary. “Now I’ll go over to St.
Bride’s and find out about it.”
“Oh, sir, do you mind waiting here with the perambulator while I go? I
want my baby. I want my baby.”
“Why, yes, of course, of course.”
She dashed up the lane and left Mr. Pothecary in charge of an empty
perambulator. In fifteen minutes’ time a thick-set young man came
hurrying up to the porch. He looked at Edwin and pointing to the
perambulator said:
“Is this Mrs. Frank’s or Mrs. Fred’s?”
“I don’t know,” said Edwin, rather testily.
“You don’t know! But you’re old Binns, ain’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
The young man looked at him searchingly and then disappeared. Ten minutes
elapsed and then a small boy rode up on a bicycle. He was also out of
breath.
“Has Mrs. George been ’ere?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Edwin.
“Mr. Henderson says he’s awfully sorry but he won’t be able to get away.
You are to kiss the baby for ’im.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“This is St. Bride’s, isn’t it?”
“No, this is St. Paul’s.”
“Oh!” The boy leapt on to the bicycle and also vanished.
“This is absurd,” thought Edwin. “Of course, the whole thing is as plain
as daylight. The poor girl has come to the wrong church. The whole party
is at St. Bride’s, somebody must have taken the baby on there. I might as
well take the perambulator along. They’ll be pleased. Now I wonder which
is the way.”
He wheeled the perambulator into the lane. There was no one about to ask.
He progressed nearly two hundred yards till he came to a field with a
pond in it. This was apparently the wrong direction. He was staring about
when he suddenly became aware of a hue and cry. A party of people came
racing down the lane headed by the thick-set man, who was exclaiming:
“There he is! There he is!”
Edwin felt his heart beating. This was going to be a little embarrassing.
They closed on him. The thickset man seized his wrists and at the same
time remarked:
“See he hasn’t any firearms on him, Frank.”
The large man alluded to as Frank gripped him from behind.
“What have you done with my baby?” he demanded fiercely.
“I ’aven’t seen no baby,” yelped Mr. Pothecary.
“Oh! ’Aven’t yer! What are yer doin’ with my perambulator then?”
“I’m takin’ it to St. Bride’s Church.”
“Goin’ in the opposite direction.”
“I didn’t know the way.”
“Where’s the baby?”
“I ’aven’t seen it, I tell yer. The mother said she’d lost it.”
“What the hell! Do you know the mother’s in bed sick? You’re a liar, my
man, and we’re goin’ to take you in charge. If you’ve done anything to my
baby I’ll kill you with my hands.”
“That’s it, Frank. Let ’im ’ave it. Throw ’im in the pond!”
“I tell yer I don’t know anythin’ about it all, with yer Franks, Freds
and Georges! Go to the devil, all of yer!”
In spite of his protestations, some one produced a rope and they
handcuffed him and tied him to the gate of the field. A small crowd
had collected and began to boo and jeer. A man from a cottage hard by
produced a drag, and between them they dragged the pond, as the general
belief was that Edwin had tied a stone to the baby and thrown it in and
was then just about to make off.
The uproar continued for some time, mud and stones being thrown about
rather carelessly.
The crowd became impatient that no baby was found in the pond. At length
another man turned up on a bicycle and called out:
“What are you doing, Frank? You’ve missed the christening!”
“What!”
“Old Binns turned up with the nipper all right. He’d come round the wrong
way.”
The crowd was obviously disappointed at the release of Edwin, and the
father’s only solatium was:
“Well, it’s lucky for you, old bird!”
He and his friends trundled the perambulator away rapidly across the
fields. Edwin had hardly time to give a sigh of relief before he found
himself the center of a fresh disturbance. He was approaching the church
when another crowd assailed him, headed by the forlorn maiden. She was
still in a state of distress, but she was hugging a baby to her.
“Ah! You’ve found the baby!” exclaimed Edwin, trying to be amiable.
“Where is the perambulator?” she demanded.
“Your ’usband ’as taken it away, madam. He seemed to think I—”
A tall frigid young man stepped forward and said:
“Excuse me, I am the lady’s husband. Will you please explain yourself?”
Then Edwin lost his temper.
“Well, damn it, I don’t know who you all are!”
“The case is quite clear. You volunteered to take charge of the
perambulator while my wife was absent. On her return you announce that it
is spirited away. I shall hold you responsible for the entire cost—nearly
ten pounds.”
“Make it a thousand,” roared Edwin. “I’m ’aving a nice cheap day.”
“I don’t wish for any more of your insolence, either. My wife has had a
very trying experience. The baby has been christened Fred.”
“Well, what’s the matter with that?”
“Nothing,” screamed the mother. “_Only that it is a girl!_ It’s a girl
and it has been duly christened Fred in a Christian church. Oh! there’s
been an awful muddle.”
“It’s not this old fool’s fault,” interpolated the elderly woman quietly.
“You see, Mrs. Frank and Mrs. Fred Smith were both going to have their
babies christened to-day. Only Mrs. Frank was took sick, and sent me
along with the child. I went to the wrong church and thinkin’ there was
some mistake, went back home. Mrs. Frank’s baby’s never been christened
at all. In the meantime, the ceremony was ready to start at St. Paul’s
and Frank ’isself was there. No baby. They sends old Binns to scout
around at other churches. People do make mistakes—finds this good lady’s
child all primed up for christening in the church door, and no one near,
carries it off. In the meantime, the father had gone on the ramp. It’s
him that probably went off with the perambulator and trounced you up
a bit, old sport. It’ll learn you not to interfere so much in future
perhaps.”
“And the baby’s christened Fred!” wailed the mother. “My baby! My
Gwendoline!” And she looked at Edwin with bitter recrimination in her
eyes.
There was still a small crowd following and boys were jeering, and a
fox-terrier, getting very excited, jumped up and bit Mr. Pothecary
through the seat of his trousers. He struck at it with his stick, and
hit a small boy, whose mother happened to be present. The good lady
immediately entered the lists.
“Baby-killer.... Hun!” were the last words he heard as he was chased up
the street and across the fields in the direction of his own village.
When he arrived it was nearly dark. Mr. Pothecary was tired, dirty,
battered, torn, outraged, bruised and hatless. And his spirit hardened.
The forces of reaction surged through him. He was done with good actions.
He felt vindictive, spiteful, wicked. Slowly he took the last turning and
his eye once more alighted on—the Peels’s fowl house.
And there came to him a vague desire to end his day by performing some
action the contrary to good, something spiteful, petty, malign. His
soul demanded some recompense for its abortive energies. And then he
remembered that the Peels were away. They were returning late that
evening. The two intensive fowl-houses were at the end of the kitchen
garden, where all the young spring cabbages and peas had just been
planted. They could be approached between a slit in the narrow black
fence adjacent to a turnip field. Rather a long way round. A simple and
rather futile plan sprang into his mind, but he was too tired to think of
anything more criminal or diabolic.
He would creep round to the back, get through the fence, force his way
into the fowl-house. Then he would kick out all those expensive Rhode
Island pampered hens and lock them out. Inside he would upset everything
and smash the place to pieces. The fowls would get all over the place.
They would eat the young vegetables. Some of them would get lost, stolen
by gypsies, killed by rats. What did he care? The Peels would probably
not discover the outrage till the morrow, and they would never know who
did it. Edwin chuckled inwardly, and rolled his eyes like the smooth
villain of a fit-up melodrama. He glanced up and down to see that no one
was looking, then he got across a gate and entered the turnip field.
Within five minutes he was forcing the door of the fowl-house with a
spade. The fowls were already settling down for the night, and they
clucked rather alarmingly, but Edwin’s blood was up. He chased them all
out, forty-five of them, and made savage lunges at them with his feet.
Then he upset all the corn he could find, and poured water on it and
jumped on it. He smashed the complicated invention suspended from the
ceiling, whereby the fowls had to reach up and get one grain of corn
at a time. To his joy he found a pot of green paint, which he flung
promiscuously over the walls and floor (and incidentally his clothes).
Then he crept out and bolted both of the doors.
The sleepy creatures were standing about outside, some feebly pecking
about on the ground. He chased them through into the vegetable garden;
then he rubbed some of the dirt and paint from his clothes and returned
to the road.
When he arrived home he said to his wife:
“I fell off a tram on Waterloo Bridge. Lost my hat.”
He was cold and wet and his teeth were chattering. His wife bustled him
off to bed and gave him a little hot grog.
Between the sheets he recovered contentment. He gurgled exultantly at
this last and only satisfying exploit of the day. He dreamed lazily of
the blind rage of the Peels....
It must have been half-past ten when his wife came up to bring him
some hot gruel. He had been asleep. She put the cup by the bedside and
rearranged his pillow.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m right,” he murmured.
She sat on a chair by the side of the bed and after a few minutes
remarked:
“You’ve missed an excitement while you’ve been asleep.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A fire!”
“A fire?”
“The Peels came home about an hour and a half ago and found the place on
fire at the back.”
“Oh?”
“Their cook Lizzie has been over. She said some straw near the wash-house
must have started it. It’s burnt out the wash-house and both the
fowl-houses. She says Mr. Peel says he don’t care very much because
he was heavily insured for the lot. But the funny thing is, the fowls
wasn’t insured and they’ve found the whole lot down the field on the
rabbit-hutches. Somebody must have got in and let the whole lot out. It
was a fine thing to do, or else the poor things would have been burnt up.
What’s the matter, Ned? Is the gruel too hot?”
THEM OTHERS
THEM OTHERS
I
It is always disturbing to me when things fall into pattern form, when
in fact incidents of real life dovetail with each other in such a manner
as to suggest the shape of a story. A story is a nice neat little thing
with what is called a “working-up” and a climax, and life is a clumsy,
ungraspable thing, very incomplete in its periods, and with a poor sense
of climax. In fact, death—which is a very uncertain quantity—is the only
definite note it strikes, and even death has an uncomfortable way of
setting other things in motion. If, therefore, in telling you about my
friend Mrs. Ward, I am driven to the usual shifts of the story-teller,
you must believe me that it is because this narrative concerns visions:
Mrs. Ward’s visions, my visions, and your visions. Consequently I
am dependent upon my own poor powers of transcription to mold these
visions into some sort of shape, and am driven into the position of a
story-teller against my will.
The first vision, then, concerns the back view of the Sheldrake Road,
which, as you know, butts on to the railway embankment near Dalston
Junction station. If you are of an adventurous turn of mind you shall
accompany me, and we will creep up to the embankment together and look
down into these back yards. (We shall be liable to a fine of 40/-,
according to a bye-law of the Railway Company, for doing so, but the
experience will justify us.)
There are twenty-two of these small buff-brick houses huddled together
in this road, and there is surely no more certain way of judging not
only the character of the individual inhabitants, but of their mode of
life, than by a survey of these somewhat pathetic yards. Is it not,
for instance, easy to determine the timid, well-ordered mind of little
Miss Porson, the dressmaker at number nine, by its garden of neat mud
paths, with its thin patch of meager grass, and the small bed of skimpy
geraniums? Cannot one read the tragedy of those dreadful Alleson people
at number four? The garden is a wilderness of filth and broken bottles,
where even the weeds seem chary of establishing themselves. In fact, if
we listen carefully—and the trains are not making too much noise—we can
hear the shrill crescendo of Mrs. Alleson’s voice cursing at her husband
in the kitchen, the half-empty gin-bottle between them.
The methodical pushfulness and practicability of young Mr. and Mrs.
Andrew MacFarlane is evident at number fourteen. They have actually grown
a patch of potatoes, and some scarlet-runners, and there is a chicken run
near the house.
Those irresponsible people, the O’Neals, have grown a bed of hollyhocks,
but for the rest the garden is untidy and unkempt. One could almost swear
they were connected in some obscure way with the theatrical profession.
Mrs. Abbot’s garden is a sort of playground. It has asphalt paths,
always swarming with small and not too clean children, and there are
five lines of washing suspended above the mud. Every day seems to be
Mrs. Abbot’s washing-day. Perhaps she “does” for others. Sam Abbot is
certainly a lazy, insolent old rascal, and such always seem destined to
be richly fertile. Mrs. Abbot is a pleasant “body,” though. The Greens
are the swells of the road. George Green is in the grocery line, and both
his sons are earning good money, and one daughter has piano lessons.
The narrow strip of yard is actually divided into two sections, a
flower-garden and a kitchen-garden. And they are the only people who have
flower-boxes in the front.
Number eight is a curious place. Old Mr. Bilge lives there. He spends
most of his time in the garden, but nothing ever seems to come up. He
stands about in his shirt-sleeves, and with a circular paper hat on his
head, like a printer. They say he was formerly a corn merchant but has
lost all his money. He keeps the garden very neat and tidy, but nothing
seems to grow. He stands there staring at the beds, as though he found
their barrenness quite unaccountable.
Number eleven is unoccupied, and number twelve is Mrs. Ward’s.
We now come to an important vision, and I want you to come down with me
from the embankment and to view Mrs. Ward’s garden from inside, and also
Mrs. Ward as I saw her on that evening when I had occasion to pay my
first visit.
It had been raining, but the sun had come out. We wandered round the
paths together, and I can see her old face now, lined and seamed with
years of anxious toil and struggle; her long, bony arms, slightly
withered, but moving restlessly in the direction of snails and slugs.
“O dear! O dear!” she was saying. “What with the dogs, and the cats, and
the snails, and the trains, it’s wonderful anything comes up at all!”
Mrs. Ward’s garden has a character of its own, and I cannot account for
it. There is nothing very special growing—a few pansies and a narrow
border of London Pride, several clumps of unrecognizable things that
haven’t flowered, the grass patch in only fair order, and at the end of
the garden an unfinished rabbit-hutch. But there is about Mrs. Ward’s
garden an atmosphere. There is something about it that reflects her
placid eye, the calm, somewhat contemplative way she has of looking right
through things, as though they didn’t concern her too closely. As though,
in fact, she were too occupied with her own inner visions.
“No,” she says in answer to my query, “we don’t mind the trains at all.
In fact, me and my Tom we often come out here and sit after supper. And
Tom smokes his pipe. We like to hear the trains go by.”
She gazes abstractedly at the embankment.
“I like to hear things ... going on and that. It’s Dalston Junction a
little further on. The trains go from there to all parts, right out into
the country they do ... ever so far.... My Ernie went from Dalston.”
She adds the last in a changed tone of voice. And now perhaps we come to
the most important vision of all—Mrs. Ward’s vision of “my Ernie.”
I ought perhaps to mention that I had never met “my Ernie.” I can only
see him through Mrs. Ward’s eyes. At the time when I met her, he had been
away at the war for nearly a year. I need hardly say that “my Ernie” was
a paragon of sons. He was brilliant, handsome, and incredibly clever.
Everything that “my Ernie” said was treasured. Every opinion that he
expressed stood. If “my Ernie” liked any one, that person was always
a welcome guest. If “my Ernie” disliked any one they were not to be
tolerated, however plausible they might appear.
I had seen Ernie’s photograph, and I must confess that he appeared a
rather weak, extremely ordinary-looking young man, but then I would
rather trust to Mrs. Ward’s visions than the art of any photographer.