“Then I thought I would change half a sovereign—that would be smaller
and look less hoardingish—at the station, as I was going into Chepstow
to get some more wool for those socks for Queen Mary. Would you
believe it?—the station-master said—you know his jocular way—‘Why,
Miss Primkins, what bank have you been robbing? I haven’t had my hand
crossed with gold, I don’t know when! I’d like to keep it myself, for
luck, only the Prime Minister would be down on me for hoarding, I
suppose.’
“My knees shook so I could hardly get into the train. I decided I
wouldn’t let anyone see another bit of it; yet actually, when I was in
Mrs. Davis’s shop and getting out the money to pay for the wool, if I
didn’t take out another half-sovereign in mistake for a sixpence!—I
was so unnerved, I suppose—and she said, ‘Just fancy seeing a
half-sovereign again! I thought they were all called in. Wherever did
you light on that, Miss Primkins?’
“Now you can understand I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do with
that money. I can’t spend it without everyone knowing. If I put it in
my savings bank book, and so get it back to the Government that way, I
have to hand it over the counter at the post office. You know so much
about business, can you suggest anything?”
I immediately offered to give the nervous, worried lady Treasury notes
in exchange.
“Oh, but I couldn’t let you incriminate yourself like that,” she
protested, “kind as it is of you. There’s your reputation as well as
mine to be thought of.”
I explained, however, that it was easier to dispose of an accusing
golden sovereign in London without arousing the suspicions of the
populace than it was in the country, and I said I was sure my bank
manager would oblige me by receiving the gold for the good of the
country, knowing me to be an honest and respectable Englishwoman.
“I never thought to be so thankful to see the last of a sovereign,” she
said, as she tucked the paper notes into her handbag. “I’ve scarcely
slept all this week. Why, Germany is the very last thing I would help!”
Mrs. Widow came in at the gate as Miss Primkins went out; and, seeing
the house all turned out of windows, looked her surprise at such
goings on! She carried a frying-pan, a long-handled broom, a double
milk-boiler, an egg-beater, and a lemon-squeezer, and explained that
they had kept beautifully dry in her kitchen, whereas they would have
been ruined if left to get damp in an empty house. Parenthetically, she
hoped I would excuse her having used half a dozen lemons I had left in
the pantry last time; she was afraid they would not keep; also some
sugar in a tin, that she dare say might have melted away—and it seemed
cruel to waste it considering the price of sugar.
Of course I said she was quite welcome.
And, by the way, was I wanting a jar of lemon curd? Her daughter had
made some that was really lovely, and she would not mind obliging me by
selling me a jar.
While she was describing the distinctive merits of the lemon curd, and
relating what the lady of the manor had said in praise of the jar she
had purchased, a man-servant arrived from the Manor House with a note
and a basket, which he handed to me (with a very superior air that gave
me to understand he was not in the habit of carrying baskets, and was
only doing so now as a patriotic act in war time) across the kitchen
table that stood in the path and blocked his further progress. While
I read the note, he fixed his eyes upon his boots, and apparently
looked neither to the right hand nor to the left; yet I know that he
catalogued every item of those wretched domestic oddments that were
decorating the lawn and garden path.
Mrs. Widow, possessed of a natural curiosity that it is hard to
circumvent, was loath to leave without a glimpse of the contents of the
basket. But Virginia got her off by escorting her to the gate, and
telling her that I had not been very well in town.
“Ah! anybody could see that, miss,” said Mrs. Widow feelingly, glancing
in my direction. “Don’t she just look ’aggard!” And then, seeing a look
of surprise on the face of Virginia—who distinctly resented my being
described as haggard—she added hurriedly, “Leastways, I mean ’andsome
’aggard, of course, miss.”
The lady of the manor had written to say that a cold was keeping her
indoors for a day or two; but in the meanwhile, as they were busy
curing bacon at the home farm, she had had them cut just a little piece
of griskin, which she was sure I should like, and was having it sent up
at once, etc.
The superior person left, carrying in one hand an envelope addressed to
his mistress, which contained all the thanks I could muster, and in the
other a note to be left at the village shop, asking Miss Jarvis to send
me up a large block of salt.
* * * * *
“What shall you do with all the pork?” Ursula inquired.
“I haven’t the faintest idea!” I said. “I can’t bestow any of it on the
poor because, no matter which piece I gave away, Mrs. Widow’s married
daughter would be sure it was _her_ gift I had spurned, and would feel
duly slighted.”
Virginia broke in upon us breathlessly, her arms full of pasteboard,
soup tureen, hearthrug, hassock, and fire-irons, which she had hastily
gathered up from the path. “The Rector’s outside in the lane talking to
some children.”
“And has _he_ any basket in his hand?” asked Ursula.
“No, he only appears to be carrying his umbrella.”
“Thank goodness!” said Ursula fervently, as she put the third flank of
griskin in the coldest larder.
By this time the next caller was coming up the path, and though I could
invite him to take a seat in one of the armchairs that were now inside,
anything like order had not yet been evolved from the chaos.
The Rector is loved by rich and poor alike, by reason of his
unselfishness, his absolute sincerity and “other-worldliness.” He is
now well on in years, but neither distance nor weather keeps him from
visiting regularly all in his wide-scattered parish. His calls are
always welcomed, though I admit I should have preferred to see him any
day other than the one in question.
“I have come with a message from my niece,” he began. “She told me
to say that she is sending up a small trifle—a little housewifely
notion of hers—for your kind acceptance. She thought you might find
it add a little variety to the cottage menu. As a matter of fact, the
rectory pig has gone the way of most pigs! And we said, the moment we
heard you had arrived, that we must get you to sample the home-grown
article, so she is sending you up just a little piece of—— Ah, here it
is, I expect”—as the Rector’s handy man came in at the gate, carrying
the inevitable basket; and though the contents were wrapped up in a
spotless white cloth, there was no need for one to be told what he was
bringing.
I tried to be as truly grateful as ever I could; I told myself I must
not think about the gift itself, but must keep my mind focused on the
kind thought that had prompted the gift. Nevertheless, the basket
seemed very heavy as I carried it into the larder, and added one more
joint to the goodly collection already assembled. And as I went back
into the living-room, I heard Virginia warbling outdoors:
“Not more than others I deserve,
But Heaven has given me more.”
There is something singularly exasperating about other people’s
joyousness, when it is purchased at one’s own expense!
* * * * *
We were restoring the last jug to its proper hook on the dresser, when
once more we saw Miss Primkins toiling up the steep garden path.
She really felt terribly ashamed to be intruding on me again; but she
had just read in the paper that the Prime Minister now said everyone
must save, and no one who was a true patriot would spend more than was
absolutely necessary. Now what was the difference between hoarding and
saving? She did so want to do the right thing; it was so little she
could do to help her country. Yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t
make out whether she ought to save that £12 or spend it.
Would I mind explaining it to her? She never could understand anything
Prime Ministers, or people like that, said nowadays; so different from
what it was in her young days. When there was only Lord Salisbury and
Mr. Gladstone everything was so sensible and straightforward. Her
father used to say: “Always believe Lord Salisbury; never believe Mr.
Gladstone”—or else it was the other way round, she wasn’t sure which.
Whereas now, what with radicals, and coalitions, and territorials, and
boards of this, that, and the other, her brain almost gave way trying
to find out who anybody was.
“And when at last I think I’ve got it straightened out, I find there’s
a lot of ‘antis,’ and it’s just the opposite thing they say you ought
or ought not to do; or else you have to begin at the other end and work
backwards. What a lot those Germans have to answer for!”
I offered my own simple political creed for her guidance: “When the
King or Lord Kitchener says anything, then I know it’s all right. When
they hold their tongues, I know it’s equally all right; and the rest I
don’t worry about!”
She said I had expressed her own views entirely, only she never thought
to put it so concisely as that. What a wonderful thing it was to have a
brain like mine that grasped things so clearly! She should just go on
being economical as her mother had always taught her to be, until the
King—or, possibly, Queen Mary—said anything definite on the subject,
then people would know where they were.
“At least, you aren’t the only one bothered about the question of
hoarding,” I said. “I’m also wrestling with the problem. Look here,”
and I led the way to the larder and gave details. “I’ve been wondering
whether, as I relieved you of your hoard, you could assist me out with
mine! Will you accept a piece of griskin, merely to get it off my
premises?”
Miss Primkins was almost tearful in her thanks. “It’s so strange you
should have thought to offer this,” she said in a sort of broken
hesitation, “because I’m going to Cardiff by the first train to-morrow
to see my sisters. I always like to take them a little something, you
understand. They have big families, and business is bad now; and, of
course, coming from the country—— Only eggs are so dear, and fowls such
a price; and just now—well, you know—dividends aren’t coming in as they
did, and I’ve my three houses standing empty, and such a big bill for
repairs, and—— Only, of course,” rallying herself, “I’m heaps better
off than those poor Belgians; but oh, I can’t tell you how grateful I
am to you for your kindness. You see, I was keeping that £12 by me in
case I should be ill—we never know, do we?—or to meet the rent if I
should run short. Please pardon my speaking of these things, only—you
understand,” and the poor lady blushed to think she should have let
herself refer to finances.
Yes, I understood. Rumour had already reached me that Miss Primkins had
only used three hundredweight of coal through the whole of the winter
(of course, in our village everybody knows how much everybody else
buys of everything), and she had been seen out in the woods gathering
sticks. She had cut her milk down to a half-pint a day, and that was
consumed by Rehoboam (the cat). She seldom had any meat, and practised
all sorts of pitiful little economies, living chiefly on the vegetables
she had grown in her garden. But she never let anything interfere with
a coin going into the Sunday offertory, or her knitting for the troops;
and she gave a donation to the Red Cross Fund as gladly as anyone.
It makes one’s heart ache to think how many poor elderly ladies there
are up and down the land, who have lost what at best was but a very
modest meed of comfort, in the present financial upheaval; and these
have additional anxiety in the fact that it would be torture to them
were their poverty paraded before the world. They have not the physical
strength to engage in national work, though their spirits are valiant
enough for any self-sacrifice. So, since it is all they can do for
their country, they shoulder their burdens uncomplainingly, keeping a
frail body alive on sugarless tea and sparsely-buttered bread, while
they knit long, long thoughts into socks and comforters, if by any
means they can raise the money to purchase the wool.
No Fund is large enough to embrace such as these; no charity could ever
meet their case. All the same they are part of the bulwark strength of
England, these dear, faithful women, who in old age and feeble health
hide their own privations beneath a brave exterior, willing to make any
personal sacrifice rather than Might should triumph over Right.
* * * * *
“Miss Primkins!” I exclaimed, when I heard of the Cardiff visit,
“I believe you’re the good fairy who, I used to think, lived at the
entrance to the waterfall cave under the hill; and I’m certain you’ve
been sent up here for the explicit purpose of relieving me of that
meat! If you’re going to Cardiff, it’s your clear duty to take a
griskin to each of your sisters—hearty-eating boys, did you say? Good!
That will rid me of two! Well, you’ll find them at the station in the
morning waiting for the 9 o’clock train—we’ll do them up to look like
hothouse grapes and pineapples.”
Of course she protested, but I remained firm; as I told her, I wasn’t
going to let slip such a heaven-sent opportunity to get those joints
transported for life.
When Virginia and Ursula put them in the railway carriage next morning,
she asked if they would mind, as they passed her house on their way
home, seeing if they could find Rehoboam; he hadn’t come back for his
milk, and she couldn’t wait for him. They would find the door-key under
the fourth flower-pot on the right hand window-sill; and if he was
waiting on the step (his usual custom about half-past nine) would they
be so kind as to give him the milk that was in the larder? Then she
need not worry any more about him.
* * * * *
They found Rehoboam as per schedule, and gave him the milk. They
couldn’t help seeing that there was only a small piece of cold suet
pudding, a little blackberry jam, and one thin slice of bacon in the
larder.
When they got back we set to work on a cooking crusade; and isn’t there
a delightful sense of freedom when you can do what you like in your own
kitchen, with no Abigail oversighting your operations! We cooked some
griskin, and made pastry and cakes, and put some eggs into pickle. (Do
you know these? hard-boiled eggs shelled when cold and put into pickle
vinegar; ready in a couple of days.)
Then when it got to within an hour of train time, the girls went down
and lit Miss Primkins’ fire, taking down a scuttle of coals for the
purpose; her outside coal-cellar being locked fortunately gave us an
excuse for not using up hers. They also took some milk, three of my
finest potatoes, and other things.
By the time the train arrived, and Miss Primkins was on a tired
homeward walk, the kettle was singing on the hob; three floury
potatoes—strained, but keeping hot in the saucepan—stood beside the
kettle; the supper table was laid with cold griskin, a jam tart, and a
small spice cake, while in the larder stood two sausage-rolls, a seed
cake, and a jar containing three eggs in course of pickling.
Of course the girls couldn’t resist ticketing the things “Virginia
made this, so be cautious! (Signed) Ursula,” and similar nonsense,
hoping thereby to divert Miss Primkins from the bald truth, viz., that
we were trying to smuggle something into a bare cupboard!
Then, after rounding up Rehoboam, and placing him on the hearthrug
to give an air of social welcome, they locked the door, putting the
key under the fourth flower-pot, and skipped up the hill again by the
woodland path, as Miss Primkins turned into her little garden gate.