A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
It was past ten o'clock, and one by one, with a sudden, swift collapse,
each shop in Botany Road extinguished its lights, leaving a blank gap
in the shining row of glass windows. Mrs Yabsley turned into Cardigan
Street and, taking a firmer grip of her parcels, mounted the hill
slowly on account of her breath. She still continued to shop at the
last minute, in a panic, as her mother had done before her, proud of
her habit of being the last customer at the butcher's and the grocer's.
She looked up at the sky and, being anxious for the morrow, tried to
forecast the weather. A sharp wind was blowing, and the stars winked
cheerfully in a windswept sky. There was every promise of a fine day,
but to make sure, she tried the corn on her left foot. The corn gave
no sign, and she thought with satisfaction of her new companion, Miss
Perkins.
For years she had searched high and low for some penniless woman to
share her cottage and Jonah's allowance, and her pensioners had gone
out of their way to invent new methods of robbing her. But Miss
Perkins (whom she had found shivering and hungry on the doorstep as she
was going to bed one night and had taken in without asking questions,
as was her habit) guarded Mrs Yabsley's property like a watchdog. For
Cardigan Street, when it learned that Mrs Yabsley only worked for the
fun of the thing, had leaped to the conclusion that she was rolling in
money. They knew that she had given Jonah his start in life, and felt
certain that she owned half of the Silver Shoe.
So the older residents had come to look on Mrs Yabsley as their
property, and they formed a sort of club to sponge on her methodically.
They ran out of tea, sugar and flour, and kept the landlord waiting
while they ran up to borrow a shilling. They each had their own day,
and kept to it, respecting the rights of their friends to a share of
the plunder. None went away empty-handed, and they looked with
unfriendly eyes on any new arrivals who might interfere with their
rights. They thought they deceived the old woman, and the tea and
groceries had a finer flavour in consequence; but they would have been
surprised to know that Mrs Yabsley had herself fixed her allowance from
Jonah at two pounds a week and her rent.
"That's enough money fer me to play the fool with, an' if it don't do
much good, it can't do much 'arm," she had remarked, with a mysterious
smile, when he had offered her anything she needed to live in comfort.
The terrible Miss Perkins had altered all that. She had discovered
that Mrs Harris was paying for a new hat with the shilling a week she
got for Johnny's medicine; that Mrs Thorpe smelt of drink half an hour
after she had got two shillings towards the rent; that Mr Hawkins had
given his wife a black eye for saying that he was strong enough to go
to work again. Mrs Yabsley had listened with a perplexing smile to her
companion's cries of indignation.
"I could 'ave told yer all that meself," she said, "but wot's it
matter? Who am I to sit in judgment on 'em? They know I've got more
money than I want, but they're too proud to ask fer it openly. People
with better shirts on their backs are built the same way, if all I 'ear
is true. I've bin poor meself an' yer may think there's somethin'
wrong in me 'ead, but if I've got a shillin', an' some poor devil's got
nuthin', I reckon I owe 'im sixpence. It isn't likely fer you to
understand such things, bein' brought up in the lap of luxury, but
don't yer run away with the idea that poor people are the only ones who
are ashamed to beg an' willin' to steal."
Mrs Yabsley had asked no questions when she had found Miss Perkins on
the step, but little by little her companion had dropped hints of
former glory, and then launched into a surprising tale. She was the
daughter of a rich man, who had died suddenly, and left her at the
mercy of a stepmother and she had grown desperate and fled, choosing to
earn her own bread till her cousin arrived, who was on his way from
England to marry her. On several occasions she had forgotten that her
name was Perkins, and when Mrs Yabsley dryly commented on this, she
confessed that she had borrowed the name from her maid when she fled.
And she whispered her real name in the ear of Mrs Yabsley, who
marvelled, and promised to keep the secret.
Mrs Yabsley, who was no fool, looked for some proof of the story, and
was satisfied. The girl was young and pretty, and gave herself the
airs of a duchess. Mrs Swadling, indeed, had spent so much of her time
at the cottage trying to worm her secret from the genteel stranger that
she unconsciously imitated her aristocratic manner and way of talking,
until Mr Swadling had brought her to her senses by getting drunk and
giving her a pair of black eyes, which destroyed all resemblance to the
fascinating stranger. Mrs Swadling had learned nothing, but she
assured half the street that Miss Perkins's father had turned her out
of doors for refusing to marry a man old enough to be her father, and
the other half that a forged will had robbed her of thousands and a
carriage and pair.
Cardigan Street had watched the aristocracy from the gallery of the
theatre with sharp, envious eyes, and reported their doings to Mrs
Yabsley, but Miss Perkins was the first specimen she had ever seen in
the flesh. In a week she learned more about the habits of the idle rich
than she had ever imagined in a lifetime. Her lodger lay in bed till
ten in the morning, and expected to be waited on hand and foot. And
when Mrs Yabsley could spare a minute, she described in detail the
splendours of her father's home. She talked incessantly of helping Mrs
Yabsley with the washing, but she seemed as helpless as a child, and
Mrs Yabsley, noticing the softness and whiteness of her hands, knew
that she had never done a stroke of work in her life. Then, with the
curious reverence of the worker for the idler, she explained to her
lodger that she only worked for exercise.
When Miss Perkins came, she had nothing but what she stood up in; but
one night she slipped out under cover of darkness, and returned with a
dress-basket full of finery, with which she dazzled Mrs Yabsley's eyes
in the seclusion of the cottage. The basket also contained a number of
pots and bottles with which she spent hours before the mirror, touching
up her eyebrows and cheeks and lips. When Mrs Yabsley remarked bluntly
that she was young and pretty enough without these aids, she learned
with amazement that all ladies in society used them. Mrs Yabsley never
tired of hearing Miss Perkins describe the splendours of her lost home.
She recognized that she had lived in another world, where you lounged
gracefully on velvet couches and life was one long holiday.
"It's funny," she remarked, "'ow yer run up agin things in this world.
I never 'ad no partic'lar fancy fer dirty clothes an' soapsuds, but in
my time, which ever way I went, I never ran agin the drorin'-room
carpet an' the easy-chairs. It was the boilin' copper, the scrubbin'
brush, an' the kitchen floor every time."
She was intensely interested in Miss Perkins's cousin, who was on his
way from England to marry her. She described him so minutely that Mrs
Yabsley would have recognized him if she had met him in the street.
His income, his tastes and habits, his beautiful letters to Miss
Perkins, filled Mrs Yabsley with respectful admiration. As a special
favour Miss Perkins promised to read aloud one of his letters
announcing his departure from England, but found that she had mislaid
it. She made up for it by consulting Mrs Yabsley on the choice of a
husband. Mrs Yabsley, who had often been consulted on this subject,
gave her opinion.
"Some are ruled by 'is 'andsome face, an' some by 'ow much money 'e's
got, but they nearly all fergit they've got ter live in the same 'ouse
with 'im. Women 'ave only one way of lookin' at a man in the long run,
an' if yer ask my opinion of any man, I want ter know wot 'e thinks
about women. That's more important, yer'll find in the long run, than
the shape of his nose or the size of 'is bankin' account."
Mrs Yabsley still hid her money, but out of the reach of rats and mice,
and Miss Perkins had surprised her one day by naming the exact amount
she had in her possession. And she had insisted on Mrs Yabsley going
with her to the Ladies' Paradise and buying a toque, trimmed with jet,
for thirty shillings, a fur tippet for twenty-five shillings, and a
black cashmere dress, ready-made, for three pounds. Mrs Yabsley had
never spent so much money on dress in her life, but Miss Perkins
pointed out that the cadgers in Cardigan Street went out better dressed
than she on Sunday, and Mrs Yabsley gave in. Miss Perkins refused to
accept a fur necklet, slightly damaged by moth, reduced to
twelve-and-six, but took a plain leather belt for eighteen pence. They
were going out to-morrow for the first time to show the new clothes,
and she had left Miss Perkins at home altering the waistband of the
skirt and the hooks on the bodice, as there had been some difficulty in
fitting Mrs Yabsley's enormous girth.
Mrs Yabsley's thoughts came to a sudden stop as she reached the steep
part of the hill. On a steep grade her brain ceased to work, and her
body became a huge, stertorous machine, demanding every ounce of
vitality to force it an inch farther up the hill. Always she had to
fight for wind on climbing a hill, but lately a pain like a knife in
her heart had accompanied the suffocation, robbing her of all power of
locomotion. The doctor had said that her heart was weak, but, judging
by the rest of her body, that was nonsense, and a sniff at the medicine
before she threw it away had convinced her that he was merely guessing.
When she reached the cottage she was surprised to find it in darkness,
but, thinking no harm, took the key from under the doormat and went in.
She lit the candle and looked round, as Jonah had done one night ten
years ago. The room was unchanged. The walls were stained with grease
and patches of dirt, added, slowly through the years as a face gathers
wrinkles. The mottoes and almanacs alone differed. She looked round,
wondering what errand had taken Miss Perkins out at that time of night.
She was perplexed to see a sheet of paper with writing on it pinned to
the table. Miss Perkins knew she was no scholar. Why had she gone out
and left a note on the table? The pain eased in her heart, and
strength came back slowly to her limbs as the suffocation in her throat
lessened. At last she was able to think. She had left Miss Perkins
busy with her needle and cotton, and she noticed with surprise that the
clothes were gone.
With a sudden suspicion she went into the bedroom with the candle, and
looked in the wardrobe made out of six yards of cretonne. The black
cashmere dress, the fur tippet, and the box containing the toque with
jet trimmings were gone! She shrank from the truth, and, candle in
hand, examined every room, searching the most unlikely corners for the
missing articles. She came back and, taking the note pinned to the
table, stared at it with intense curiosity. What did these black
scratches mean? For the first time in her life she wished she were
scholar enough to read. She had had no schooling and when she grew up
it seemed a poor way to spend the time reading, when you might be
talking. Somebody always told you what was in the newspapers, and if
you wanted to know anything else, why, where was your tongue? She
examined the paper again, but it conveyed no meaning to her anxious
eyes.
And then in a flash she saw Miss Perkins in a new light, The woman's
anxiety about her was a blind to save her money from dribbling out in
petty loans. Mrs Yabsley, knowing that banks were only traps, still
hid her money so carefully that no one could lay hands on it. So that
was the root of her care for Mrs Yabsley's appearance. She held up the
note, and regarded it with a grimly humorous smile. She knew the truth
now, and felt no desire to read what was written there--some lie, she
supposed--and dropped it on the floor.
Suddenly she felt old and lonely, and wrapping a shawl round her
shoulders, went out to her seat on the veranda. It was near eleven,
and the street was humming with life. The sober and thrifty were
trudging home with their loads of provisions; gossips were gathered at
intervals; sudden jests were bandied, conversations were shouted across
the width of the street, for it was Saturday night, and innumerable
pints of beer had put Cardigan Street in a good humour. The doors were
opened, and the eye travelled straight into the front rooms lit with a
kerosene lamp or a candle. Under the veranda at the corner the Push
was gathered, the successors of Chook and Jonah, young and vicious, for
the larrikin never grows old.
She looked on the familiar scenes that had been a part of her life
since she could remember. The street was changed, she thought, for a
new generation had arrived, scorning the old traditions. The terrace
opposite, sinking in decay, had become a den of thieves, the scum of a
city rookery. She felt a stranger in her own street, and saw that her
money had spoilt her relations with her neighbours. Once she could
read them like a book, but these people came to her with lies and many
inventions for the sake of a few miserable shillings. She wondered
what the world was coming to. She threw her thoughts into the past with
an immense regret. A group on the kerbstone broke into song:
Now, honey, yo' stay in yo' own back yard,
Doan min' what dem white chiles do;
What show yo' suppose dey's a-gwine to gib
A little black coon like yo'?
So stay on this side of the high boahd fence,
An', honey, doan cry so hard;
Go out an' a-play, jes' as much as yo' please,
But stay in yo' own back yard.
The tune, with a taking lilt in it, made no impression on the old
woman. And she thought with regret that the old tunes had died out with
the people who sang them. These people had lost the trick of enjoying
themselves in a simple manner. Ah for the good old times, when the
street was as good as a play, and the people drank and quarrelled and
fought and sang without malice! A meaner race had come in their stead,
with meaner habits and meaner vices. Her thoughts were interrupted by
a tinkling bell, and a voice that cried:
"Peas an' pies, all 'ot!--all 'ot!"
It was the pieman, pushing a handcart. He went the length of the
street, unnoticed. She thought of Joey, dead and gone these long
years, with his shop on wheels and his air of prosperity. His widow
lived on the rent of a terrace of houses, but his successor was as lean
as a starved cat, for the people's tastes had changed, and the
chipped-potato shop round the corner took all their money. She thought
with pride of Joey and the famous wedding feast--the peas, the pies,
the saveloys, the beer, the songs and laughter. Ah well, you could say
what you liked, the good old times were gone for ever. Once the street
was like a play, and now...Her thoughts were disturbed again by a
terrific noise in the terrace opposite. The door of a cottage flew
open, and a woman ran screaming into the road, followed by her husband
with a tomahawk. But as the door slammed behind him, he suddenly
changed his mind and, turning back, hammered on the closed door with
frantic rage, calling on someone within to come out and be killed.
Then, as he grew tired of trying to get in, he remembered his wife, but
she had disappeared.
The crowd gathered about, glad of a diversion, and the news travelled
across the street to Mrs Yabsley on her veranda. Doughy the baker,
stepping down unexpectedly from the Woolpack to borrow a shilling from
his wife, had found her drinking beer in the kitchen with Happy Jack.
And while Doughy was hammering on the front door, Happy Jack had
slipped out at the back, and was watching Doughy's antics over the
shoulders of his pals. Presently Doughy grew tired and, crossing the
street, sat on the kerbstone in front of Mrs Yabsley's, with his eye on
the door. And as he sat, he caressed the tomahawk, and carried on a
loud conversation with himself, telling all the secrets of his married
life to the street. Cardigan Street was enjoying itself. The crowd
dwindled as the excitement died out, and Doughy was left muttering to
himself. From the group at the corner came the roar of a chorus:
You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee,
I'd like to sip the honey sweet from those red lips, you see;
I love you dearly, dearly, and I want you to love me;
You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee.
Doughy still muttered, but the beer had deadened his senses and his
jealous anger had evaporated. Half an hour later his wife crossed the
street cautiously and went inside. Doughy saw her and, having reached
the maudlin stage, got up and lurched across the street, anxious to
make it up and be friends. Quite like the old times, thought Mrs
Yabsley, when the street was as good as a play. And suddenly
remembering her dismal thoughts of an hour ago, she saw in a flash that
she had grown old and that the street had remained young. The past, on
which her mind dwelt so fondly, was not wonderful. It was her youth
that was wonderful, and now she was grown old. She recognized that the
street was the same, and that she had changed--that the world is for
ever beginning for some and ending for others.
It was nearly midnight, and, with a shiver, she pulled the shawl over
her shoulders and took a last look at the street before she went to
bed. Thirty years ago since she came to live in it, when half the
street was an open paddock! If Jim could see it now he wouldn't know
it! The thought brought the vision of him before her eyes. She was an
old woman now, but in her mind's eye he remained for ever young and for
ever joyous, the smart workman in a grey cap, with the brown moustache
and laughing eyes, who was nobody's enemy but his own. Something
within her had snapped when he died, and she had remained on the
defensive against life, expecting nothing, surprised at nothing,
content to sit out the performance like a spectator at the play.
She thought of to-morrow, and decided to pay a surprise visit to the
Silver Shoe before the people set out for church. There was something
wrong with Ada, she felt sure. Jonah had failed to look her in the eye
when she had asked news of Ada the last time. Well, she would go and
see for herself, and talk Ada into her senses again. She locked the
door and went to bed.
She gave Jonah and Ada a surprise, but not in the way she intended. On
Sunday morning it happened that Mrs Swadling sent over for a pinch of
tea, and, growing impatient, ran across to see what was keeping Tommy.
She found that he could make no one hear, and growing suspicious,
called the neighbours. An hour later the police forced the door, and
found Mrs Yabsley dead in bed. The doctor said that she had died in
her sleep from heart failure. Mrs Swadling, wondering what had become
of Miss Perkins, found a note lying on the floor, and wondered no more
when she read:
DEAR MRS YABSLEY,
I am sorry that I can't stay for the outing to-morrow, but my cousin
came out of Darlinghurst jail this morning, and we are going to the
West to make a fresh start. All I told you about my beautiful home was
quite true, only I was the upper housemaid. I am taking a few odds and
ends that you bought for the winter, as I could never find out where
you hid your money. I have searched till my back ached, and quite
agree with you that it is safer than a bank. I left your clothes at
Aaron's pawnshop, and will post you the ticket. When you get this I
shall be safe on the steamer, which is timed to leave at ten o'clock.
I hope someone will read this to you, and tell you that I admire you
immensely, although I take a strange way of showing it.
In haste,
MAY