'Will yer?'
She did not speak, but kept beating down on his hand.
'Liza,' he said again, his voice growing hoarse and thick--'Liza, will
yer?'
She still kept silence, looking away and continually bringing down her
fist. He looked at her a moment, and she, ceasing to thump his hand,
looked up at him with half-opened mouth. Suddenly he shook himself,
and closing his fist gave her a violent, swinging blow in the belly.
'Come on.' he said.
And together they slid down into the darkness of the passage.
8
Mrs. Kemp was in the habit of slumbering somewhat heavily on Sunday
mornings, or Liza would not have been allowed to go on sleeping as she
did. When she woke, she rubbed her eyes to gather her senses together
and gradually she remembered having gone to the theatre on the
previous evening; then suddenly everything came back to her. She
stretched out her legs and gave a long sigh of delight. Her heart was
full; she thought of Jim, and the delicious sensation of love came
over her. Closing her eyes, she imagined his warm kisses, and she
lifted up her arms as if to put them round his neck and draw him down
to her; she almost felt the rough beard on her face, and the strong
heavy arms round her body. She smiled to herself and took a long
breath; then, slipping back the sleeves of her nightdress, she looked
at her own thin arms, just two pieces of bone with not a muscle on
them, but very white and showing distinctly the interlacement of blue
veins: she did not notice that her hands were rough, and red and dirty
with the nails broken, and bitten to the quick. She got out of bed and
looked at herself in the glass over the mantelpiece: with one hand she
brushed back her hair and smiled at herself; her face was very small
and thin, but the complexion was nice, clear and white, with a
delicate tint of red on the cheeks, and her eyes were big and dark
like her hair. She felt very happy.
She did not want to dress yet, but rather to sit down and think, so
she twisted up her hair into a little knot, slipped a skirt over her
nightdress, and sat on a chair near the window and began looking
around. The decorations of the room had been centred on the
mantelpiece; the chief ornament consisted of a pear and an apple, a
pineapple, a bunch of grapes, and several fat plums, all very
beautifully done in wax, as was the fashion about the middle of this
most glorious reign. They were appropriately coloured--the apple
blushing red, the grapes an inky black, emerald green leaves were
scattered here and there to lend finish, and the whole was mounted on
an ebonised stand covered with black velvet, and protected from dust
and dirt by a beautiful glass cover bordered with red plush. Liza's
eyes rested on this with approbation, and the pineapple quite made her
mouth water. At either end of the mantelpiece were pink jars with blue
flowers on the front; round the top in Gothic letters of gold was
inscribed: 'A Present from a Friend'--these were products of a later,
but not less artistic age. The intervening spaces were taken up with
little jars and cups and saucers--gold inside, with a view of a town
outside, and surrounding them, 'A Present from Clacton-on-Sea,' or,
alliteratively, 'A Memento of Margate.' Of these many were broken, but
they had been mended with glue, and it is well known that pottery in
the eyes of the connoisseur loses none of its value by a crack or two.
Then there were portraits innumerable--little yellow cartes-de-visite
in velvet frames, some of which were decorated with shells; they
showed strange people with old-fashioned clothes, the women with
bodices and sleeves fitting close to the figure, stern-featured
females with hair carefully parted in the middle and plastered down on
each side, firm chins and mouths, with small, pig-like eyes and
wrinkled faces, and the men were uncomfortably clad in Sunday
garments, very stiff and uneasy in their awkward postures, with large
whiskers and shaved chins and upper lips and a general air of
horny-handed toil. Then there were one or two daguerreotypes, little
full-length figures framed in gold paper. There was one of Mrs. Kemp's
father and one of her mother, and there were several photographs of
betrothed or newly-married couples, the lady sitting down and the man
standing behind her with his hand on the chair, or the man sitting and
the woman with her hand on his shoulder. And from all sides of the
room, standing on the mantelpiece, hanging above it, on the wall and
over the bed, they stared full-face into the room, self-consciously
fixed for ever in their stiff discomfort.
The walls were covered with dingy, antiquated paper, and ornamented
with coloured supplements from Christmas Numbers--there was a very
patriotic picture of a soldier shaking the hand of a fallen comrade
and waving his arm in defiance of a band of advancing Arabs; there was
a 'Cherry Ripe,' almost black with age and dirt; there were two
almanacks several years old, one with a coloured portrait of the
Marquess of Lorne, very handsome and elegantly dressed, the object of
Mrs. Kemp's adoration since her husband's demise; the other a Jubilee
portrait of the Queen, somewhat losing in dignity by a moustache which
Liza in an irreverent moment had smeared on with charcoal.
The furniture consisted of a wash-hand stand and a little deal chest
of drawers, which acted as sideboard to such pots and pans and
crockery as could not find room in the grate; and besides the bed
there was nothing but two kitchen chairs and a lamp. Liza looked at it
all and felt perfectly satisfied; she put a pin into one corner of the
noble Marquess to prevent him from falling, fiddled about with the
ornaments a little, and then started washing herself. After putting on
her clothes she ate some bread-and-butter, swallowed a dishful of cold
tea, and went out into the street.
She saw some boys playing cricket and went up to them.
'Let me ply,' she said.
'Arright, Liza,' cried half a dozen of them in delight; and the
captain added: 'You go an' scout over by the lamp-post.'
'Go an' scout my eye!' said Liza, indignantly. 'When I ply cricket I
does the battin'.'
'Na, you're not goin' ter bat all the time. 'Oo are you gettin' at?'
replied the captain, who had taken advantage of his position to put
himself in first, and was still at the wicket.
'Well, then I shan't ply,' answered Liza.
'Garn, Ernie, let 'er go in!' shouted two or three members of the
team.
'Well, I'm busted!' remarked the captain, as she took his bat. 'You
won't sty in long, I lay,' he said, as he sent the old bowler fielding
and took the ball himself. He was a young gentleman who did not suffer
from excessive backwardness.
'Aht!' shouted a dozen voices as the ball went past Liza's bat and
landed in the pile of coats which formed the wicket. The captain came
forward to resume his innings, but Liza held the bat away from him.
'Garn!' she said; 'thet was only a trial.'
'You never said trial,' answered the captain indignantly.
'Yus, I did,' said Liza; 'I said it just as the ball was comin'--under
my breath.'
'Well, I am busted!' repeated the captain.
Just then Liza saw Tom among the lookers-on, and as she felt very
kindly disposed to the world in general that morning, she called out
to him:
''Ulloa, Tom!' she said. 'Come an' give us a ball; this chap can't
bowl.'
'Well, I got yer aht, any'ow,' said that person.
'Ah, yer wouldn't 'ave got me aht plyin' square. But a trial
ball--well, one don't ever know wot a trial ball's goin' ter do.'
Tom began bowling very slowly and easily, so that Liza could swing her
bat round and hit mightily; she ran well, too, and pantingly brought
up her score to twenty. Then the fielders interposed.
'I sy, look 'ere, 'e's only givin' 'er lobs; 'e's not tryin' ter git
'er aht.'
'You're spoilin' our gime.'
'I don't care; I've got twenty runs--thet's more than you could do.
I'll go aht now of my own accord, so there! Come on, Tom.'
Tom joined her, and as the captain at last resumed his bat and the
game went on, they commenced talking, Liza leaning against the wall of
a house, while Tom stood in front of her, smiling with pleasure.
'Where 'ave you been idin' yerself, Tom? I ain't seen yer for I dunno
'ow long.'
'I've been abaht as usual; an' I've seen you when you didn't see me.'
'Well, yer might 'ave come up and said good mornin' when you see me.'
'I didn't want ter force myself on, yer, Liza.'
'Garn! You are a bloomin' cuckoo. I'm blowed!'
'I thought yer didn't like me 'angin' round yer; so I kep' awy.'
'Why, yer talks as if I didn't like yer. Yer don't think I'd 'ave come
aht beanfeastin' with yer if I 'adn't liked yer?'
Liza was really very dishonest, but she felt so happy this morning
that she loved the whole world, and of course Tom came in with the
others. She looked very kindly at him, and he was so affected that a
great lump came in his throat and he could not speak.
Liza's eyes turned to Jim's house, and she saw coming out of the door
a girl of about her own age; she fancied she saw in her some likeness
to Jim.
'Say, Tom,' she asked, 'thet ain't Blakeston's daughter, is it?'
'Yus thet's it.'
'I'll go an' speak to 'er,' said Liza, leaving Tom and going over the
road.
'You're Polly Blakeston, ain't yer?' she said.
'Thet's me!' said the girl.
'I thought you was. Your dad, 'e says ter me, "You dunno my daughter,
Polly, do yer?" says 'e. "Na," says I, "I don't." "Well," says 'e,
"You can't miss 'er when you see 'er." An' right enough I didn't.'
'Mother says I'm all father, an' there ain't nothin' of 'er in me. Dad
says it's lucky it ain't the other wy abaht, or e'd 'ave got a
divorce.'
They both laughed.
'Where are you goin' now?' asked Liza, looking at the slop-basin she
was carrying.
'I was just goin' dahn into the road ter get some ice-cream for
dinner. Father 'ad a bit of luck last night, 'e says, and 'e'd stand
the lot of us ice-cream for dinner ter-day.'
'I'll come with yer if yer like.'
'Come on!' And, already friends, they walked arm-in-arm to the
Westminster Bridge Road. Then they went along till they came to a
stall where an Italian was selling the required commodity, and having
had a taste apiece to see if they liked it, Polly planked down
sixpence and had her basin filled with a poisonous-looking mixture of
red and white ice-cream.
On the way back, looking up the street, Polly cried:
'There's father!'
Liza's heart beat rapidly and she turned red; but suddenly a sense of
shame came over her, and casting down her head so that she might not
see him, she said:
'I think I'll be off 'ome an' see 'ow mother's gettin' on.' And before
Polly could say anything she had slipped away and entered her own
house.
Mother was not getting on at all well.
'You've come in at last, you ----, you!' snarled Mrs. Kemp, as Liza
entered the room.
'Wot's the matter, mother?'
'Matter! I like thet--matter indeed! Go an' matter yerself an' be
mattered! Nice way ter treat an old woman like me--an' yer own mother,
too!'
'Wot's up now?'
'Don't talk ter me; I don't want ter listen ter you. Leavin' me all
alone, me with my rheumatics, an' the neuralgy! I've 'ad the neuralgy
all the mornin', and my 'ead's been simply splittin', so thet I
thought the bones 'ud come apart and all my brains go streamin' on the
floor. An' when I wake up there's no one ter git my tea for me, an' I
lay there witin' an' witin', an' at last I 'ad ter git up and mike it
myself. And, my 'ead simply cruel! Why, I might 'ave been burnt ter
death with the fire alight an' me asleep.'
'Well, I am sorry, mother; but I went aht just for a bit, an' didn't
think you'd wike. An' besides, the fire wasn't alight.'
'Garn with yer! I didn't treat my mother like thet. Oh, you've been a
bad daughter ter me--an' I 'ad more illness carryin' you than with all
the other children put togither. You was a cross at yer birth, an'
you've been a cross ever since. An' now in my old age, when I've
worked myself ter the bone, yer leaves me to starve and burn to
death.' Here she began to cry, and the rest of her utterances was lost
in sobs.
* * * * *
The dusk had darkened into night, and Mrs. Kemp had retired to rest
with the dicky-birds. Liza was thinking of many things; she wondered
why she had been unwilling to meet Jim in the morning.
'I was a bally fool,' she said to herself.
It really seemed an age since the previous night, and all that had
happened seemed very long ago. She had not spoken to Jim all day, and
she had so much to say to him. Then, wondering whether he was about,
she went to the window and looked out; but there was nobody there. She
closed the window again and sat just beside it; the time went on, and
she wondered whether he would come, asking herself whether he had been
thinking of her as she of him; gradually her thoughts grew vague, and
a kind of mist came over them. She nodded. Suddenly she roused
herself with a start, fancying she had heard something; she listened
again, and in a moment the sound was repeated, three or four gentle
taps on the window. She opened it quickly and whispered:
'Jim.'
'Thet's me,' he answered, 'come aht.'
Closing the window, she went into the passage and opened the street
door; it was hardly unlocked before Jim had pushed his way in; partly
shutting it behind him, he took her in his arms and hugged her to his
breast. She kissed him passionately.
'I thought yer'd come ter-night, Jim; summat in my 'eart told me so.
But you 'ave been long.'
'I wouldn't come before, 'cause I thought there'd be people abaht.
Kiss us!' And again he pressed his lips to hers, and Liza nearly
fainted with the delight of it.
'Let's go for a walk, shall we?' he said.
'Arright!' They were speaking in whispers. 'You go into the road
through the passage, an' I'll go by the street.'
'Yus, thet's right,' and kissing her once more, he slid out, and she
closed the door behind him.
Then going back to get her hat, she came again into the passage,
waiting behind the door till it might be safe for her to venture. She
had not made up her mind to risk it, when she heard a key put in the
lock, and she hardly had time to spring back to prevent herself from
being hit by the opening door. It was a man, one of the upstairs
lodgers.
''Ulloa!' he said, ''oo's there?'
'Mr. 'Odges! Strikes me, you did give me a turn; I was just goin' aht.'
She blushed to her hair, but in the darkness he could see nothing.
'Good night,' she said, and went out.
She walked close along the sides of the houses like a thief, and the
policeman as she passed him turned round and looked at her, wondering
whether she was meditating some illegal deed. She breathed freely on
coming into the open road, and seeing Jim skulking behind a tree, ran
up to him, and in the shadows they kissed again.
9
Thus began a time of love and joy. As soon as her work was over and
she had finished tea, Liza would slip out and at some appointed spot
meet Jim. Usually it would be at the church, where the Westminster
Bridge Road bends down to get to the river, and they would go off,
arm-in-arm, till they came to some place where they could sit down and
rest. Sometimes they would walk along the Albert Embankment to
Battersea Park, and here sit on the benches, watching the children
play. The female cyclist had almost abandoned Battersea for the parks
on the other side of the river, but often enough one went by, and
Liza, with the old-fashioned prejudice of her class, would look after
the rider and make some remark about her, not seldom more forcible
than ladylike. Both Jim and she liked children, and, tiny, ragged
urchins would gather round to have rides on the man's knees or mock
fights with Liza.
They thought themselves far away from anyone in Vere Street, but
twice, as they were walking along, they were met by people they knew.
Once it was two workmen coming home from a job at Vauxhall: Liza did
not see them till they were quite near; she immediately dropped Jim's
arm, and they both cast their eyes to the ground as the men passed,
like ostriches, expecting that if they did not look they would not be
seen.
'D'you see 'em, Jim?' asked Liza, in a whisper, when they had gone by.
'I wonder if they see us.' Almost instinctively she turned round, and
at the same moment one of the men turned too; then there was no doubt
about it.
'Thet did give me a turn,' she said.
'So it did me,' answered Jim; 'I simply went 'ot all over.'
'We was bally fools,' said Liza; 'we oughter 'ave spoken to 'em! D'you
think they'll let aht?'
They heard nothing of it, when Jim afterwards met one of the men in a
public-house he did not mention a meeting, and they thought that
perhaps they had not been recognized. But the second time was worse.
It was on the Albert Embankment again. They were met by a party of
four, all of whom lived in the street. Liza's heart sank within her,
for there was no chance of escape; she thought of turning quickly and
walking in the opposite direction, but there was not time, for the men
had already seen them. She whispered to Jim:
'Back us up,' and as they met she said to one of the men:
''Ulloa there! Where are you off to?'
The men stopped, and one of them asked the question back.
'Where are you off to?'
'Me? Oh, I've just been to the 'orspital. One of the gals at our place
is queer, an' so I says ter myself, "I'll go an' see 'er."' She
faltered a little as she began, but quickly gathered herself together,
lying fluently and without hesitation.
'An' when I come aht,' she went on, ''oo should I see just passin' the
'orspital but this 'ere cove, an' 'e says to me, "Wot cheer," says 'e,
"I'm goin' ter Vaux'all, come an' walk a bit of the wy with us."
"Arright," says I, "I don't mind if I do."'