Selected Stories Read online

  At her brief censure the little man made an impatient gesture, and said coaxingly, yet with dangerous coldness:

  “Well, what’s a man to do? It’s no sort of life for a man of my years, to sit at my own hearth like a stranger. And if I’m going to marry again it may as well be soon as late—what does it matter to anybody?”

  The woman did not reply, but turned and went into the house. The man in the engine-cab stood assertive, till she returned with a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter on a plate. She went up the steps and stood near the footplate of the hissing engine.

  “You needn’t ’a brought me bread an’ butter,” said her father. “But a cup of tea”—he sipped appreciatively—“it’s very nice.” He sipped for a moment or two, then: “I hear as Walter’s got another bout on,” he said.

  “When hasn’t he?” said the woman bitterly.

  “I heered tell of him in the ‘Lord Nelson’ braggin’ as he was going to spend that b——afore he went: half a sovereign that was.”

  “When?” asked the woman.

  “A’ Sat’day night—I know that’s true.”

  “Very likely,” she laughed bitterly. “He gives me twenty-three shillings.”

  “Ay, it’s a nice thing, when a man can do nothing with his money but make a beast of himself!” said the grey-whiskered man. The woman turned her head away. Her father swallowed the last of his tea and handed her the cup.

  “Ay,” he sighed, wiping his mouth. “It’s a settler, it is——”

  He put his hand on the lever. The little engine strained and groaned, and the train rumbled towards the crossing. The woman again looked across the metals. Darkness was settling over the spaces of the railway and trucks: the miners, in grey sombre groups, were still passing home. The winding-engine pulsed hurriedly, with brief pauses. Elizabeth Bates looked at the dreary flow of men, then she went indoors. Her husband did not come.

  The kitchen was small and full of firelight; red coals piled glowing up the chimney mouth. All the life of the room seemed in the white warm hearth and the steel fender reflecting the red fire. The cloth was laid for tea; cups glinted in the shadow. At the back, where the lowest stair protruded into the room, the boy sat struggling with a knife and a piece of white wood. He was almost hidden in shadow, only his movement seemed visible. It was half past four. They had but to await the father’s coming to begin tea. As the mother watched her son’s sullen little struggle with the wood, she saw herself in his silence and pertinacity, she saw the father in her child’s indifference to all but himself. She seemed to be occupied by her husband. He had probably gone past his home, slunk past his own door, to drink before he came in, while his dinner spoiled and wasted in waiting. She glanced at the clock, and took the potatoes to strain them in the yard. The garden and the fields beyond the brook were closed in uncertain darkness. When she rose with the saucepan, leaving the drain steaming into the night behind her, she saw the yellow lamps were lit along the highroad that went up the hill away beyond the space of the railway-lines and the field. Then again she watched the men trooping home, fewer now, and fewer.

  Indoors the fire was sinking and the room was dark red. The woman put her saucepan on the hob, and set a batter pudding near the mouth of the oven. Then she stood unmoving. Directly, gratefully, came quick young steps to the door. Someone hung on the latch a moment, then a little girl entered, and began pulling off her outdoor things, dragging a mass of curls just ripening from gold to brown over her eyes with her hat.

  Her mother chid her for coming late from school, and said she would have to keep her at home the dark winter days.

  “Why, mother, it’s hardly a bit dark. The lamp’s not lighted, and my father’s not home yet.”

  “No, he isn’t. But it’s a quarter to five! Did you see anything of him?”

  The child became serious. She looked at her mother with large, wistful blue eyes.

  “No, mother, I’ve never seen him. Why? Has he come up an’ gone past to Old Brinsley? He hasn’t, mother, ’cos I never saw him.”

  “He’d watch that,” said the mother bitterly, “he’d take care as you didn’t see him. But you may depend upon it, he’s seated in the ‘Prince o’ Wales.’ He wouldn’t be this late.”

  The girl looked at her mother piteously.

  “Let’s have our teas, mother, should we?” said she. The mother called John to table.

  She opened the door once more and leaned out to look across the darkness of the lines. All was deserted: she could not hear the winding-engines.

  “Perhaps,” she said to herself, “he’s stopped to get some ripping done.”

  They sat down to tea. John, at the end of the table near the door, was almost lost in the darkness. Their faces were hidden from each other.

  The girl crouched against the fender slowly moving a thick piece of bread before the fire. The lad, his face a dusky mark on the shadow, sat watching her who was transfigured in the hot red glow.

  “I do think it’s beautiful to look in the fire,” said the child.

  “Do you?” said her mother. “Why?”

  “It’s so red, and full of little caves—and it feels so nice, and you can fair smell it.”

  “It’ll want mending directly,” replied her mother. “And then if your father comes he’ll carry on and say there never is a fire when a man comes home sweating from the pit.—A public house is always warm enough.”

  There was silence till the boy said complainingly: “Make haste, our Annie.”

  “Well, I am doing! I can’t make the fire do it no faster, can I?”

  “She keeps waflin it about so’s to make ’er slow,” grumbled the boy.

  “Don’t have such an evil imagination, child,” replied the mother.

  Soon the room was busy in the darkness with the crisp sound of crunching. The mother ate very little. She drank her tea determinedly, and sat thinking. When she rose her anger was evident in the stern unbending of her head. She looked at the pudding in the fender, and broke out:

  “It is a scandalous thing as a man can’t even come in to his dinner. If it’s crozzled up to a cinder I don’t see why I should care. Past his very door he goes to get to a public house, and here I sit with his dinner waiting for him——”

  She went out. As she dropped piece after piece of coal on the red fire, the shadows fell on the walls, till the room was almost in total darkness.

  “I canna see,” grumbled the invisible John. In spite of herself, the mother laughed.

  “You know the way to your mouth,” she said. She set the dustpan outside the door. When she came again like a shadow on the hearth, the lad repeated, complaining sulkily:

  “I canna see.”

  “Good gracious!” cried the mother irritably, “you’re as bad as your father if it’s a bit dusk!”

  Nevertheless she took a paper spill from a sheaf on the mantelpiece and proceeded to light the lamp that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. As she reached up her figure displayed itself just rounding with maternity.

  “Oh mother——!” exclaimed the girl.

  “What?” said the woman, suspended in the act of putting the lamp-glass over the flame. The copper reflector shone handsomely on her, as she stood with uplifted arm, turning her face to her daughter.

  “You’ve got a flower in your apron!” said the child, in a little rapture at this unusual event.

  “Goodness me!” exclaimed the woman, relieved. “One would think the house was afire.” She replaced the glass and waited a moment before turning up the wick. A pale shadow was seen floating weirdly on the floor.

  “Let me smell!” said the child, still rapturously, coming forward and putting her face to her mother’s waist.

  “Go along, silly!” said the mother, turning up the lamp. The light revealed their suspense, so that the woman felt it almost unbearable. Annie was still bending at her waist. Irritably, the mother took the flowers from out of her apron band.

  “Oh mothe
r—don’t take them out!” cried Annie, catching her hand, and trying to replace the sprig.

  “Such nonsense!” said the mother, turning away. The child put the pale chrysanthemums to her lips, murmuring:

  “Don’t they smell beautiful!”

  Her mother gave a short laugh.

  “No,” she said. “Not to me. It was chrysanthemums when I married him, and chrysanthemums when you were born, and the first time they ever brought him home drunk he’d got brown chrysanthemums in his button-hole.”

  She looked at the children. Their eyes and their parted lips were wondering. The mother sat rocking in silence for some time. Then she looked at the clock.

  “Twenty minutes to six!” In a tone of fine bitter carelessness she continued: “Eh, he’ll not come now till they bring him. There he’ll stick! But he needn’t come rolling in here in his pit-dirt, for I won’t wash him. He can lie on the floor——Eh, what a fool I’ve been, what a fool! And this is what I came here for, to this dirty hole, rats and all, for him to slink past his very door. Twice last week—he’s begun now——”

  She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table.

  While, for an hour or more, the children played subduedly, intent, fertile of invention, united in fear of their mother’s wrath and in dread of their father’s homecoming, Mrs Bates sat in her rocking-chair making a ‘singlet’ of thick, cream coloured flannel, which gave a dull wounded sound as she tore off the grey edge. She worked at her sewing with energy, listening to the children, and her anger wearied itself, lay down to rest, opening its eyes from time to time and steadily watching, its ears raised to listen. Sometimes, even her anger quailed and shrank, and the mother suspended her sewing, tracing the footsteps that thudded along the sleepers outside; she would lift her head sharply to bid the children “hush,” but she recovered herself in time, and the footsteps went past the gate, and the children were not flung out of their play-world.

  But at last Annie sighed, and gave in. She glanced at her waggon of slippers, and loathed the game. She turned plaintively to her mother:

  “Mother!—”—but she was inarticulate.

  John crept out like a frog from under the sofa. His mother glanced up.

  “Yes,” she said, “just look at those shirt sleeves.”

  The boy held them out to survey them, saying nothing. Then somebody called in a hoarse voice away down the line, and suspense bristled in the room, till two people had gone by outside, talking.

  “It is time for bed,” said the mother.

  “My father hasn’t come,” wailed Annie plaintively.

  But her mother was primed with courage:

  “Never mind. They’ll bring him when he does come—like a log.” She meant there would be no scene. “And he may sleep on the floor till he wakes himself. I know he’ll not go to work tomorrow after this!”

  The children had their hands and faces wiped with the flannel. They were very quiet. When they had put on their nightdresses, they said their prayers, the boy mumbling. The mother looked down at them, at the brown silken bush of intertwining curls in the nape of the girl’s neck, at the little black head of the lad, and her heart burst with anger at their father, who caused all three such distress. The children hid their faces in her skirts, for comfort.

  When Mrs Bates came down, the room was strangely empty, with a tension of expectancy. She took up her sewing and stitched for some time without raising her head. Meantime her anger was tinged with fear.

  II

  The clock struck eight and she rose suddenly, dropping her sewing on her chair. She went to the stairfoot door, opened it, listening. The children were evidently asleep. She went out, locking the door behind her.

  Something scuffled down the yard, and she started, though she knew it was only the rats, with which the place was overrun. The night was very dark. In the great bay of railway-lines bulked with trucks there was no trace of light, only away back she could see a few yellow lamps at the pit-top, and the red smear of the burning pit-bank on the night. She hurried along the edge of the track, then, crossing the converging lines, came to the stile by the white gates, whence she emerged on the road. Then the fear which had led her shrank. People were walking up to New Brinsley; she saw the lights in the houses; twenty yards further on were the broad windows of the “Prince of Wales,” very warm and bright, and the loud voices of men could be heard distinctly. What a fool she had been to imagine that anything had happened to him! He was merely drinking over there at the “Prince of Wales.” She faltered. She had never yet been to fetch him, and she never would go. Yet, while she was out, she must get some satisfaction. So she continued her walk towards the long straggling line of houses standing blank on the highway. She entered a passage between the dwellings.

  “Mr Rigley?—Yes! Did you want him? No, he’s not in at this minute.”

  The raw-boned woman leaned forward from her dark scullery and peered at the other, upon whom fell a dim light through the blind of the kitchen window.

  “Is it Mrs Bates?” she asked in a tone tinged with respect.

  “Yes. I wondered if your Master was at home. Mine hasn’t come yet.”

  “ ’Asn’t ’e! Oh, Jack’s been ’ome an ’ad ’is dinner an’ gone out. E’s just gone for ’alf an ’our afore bed-time. Did you call at th’ ‘Prince of Wales’?”

  “No——”

  “No, you didn’t like——! It’s not very nice.” The other woman was indulgent. There was an awkward pause. “Jack never said nothink about—about your Mester,” she added.

  “No!—I expect he’s stuck in there!”

  Elizabeth Bates said this bitterly, and with recklessness. She knew that the woman across the yard was standing at her door listening, but she did not care. As she turned away,

  “Stop a minute! I’ll just go an’ ask Jack if’e knows anythink,” said Mrs Rigley.

  “Oh, no—I wouldn’t like to put——!”

  “Yes, I will, if you’ll just step inside an’ see as th’ childer doesn’t come downstairs and set theirselves afire.”

  Elizabeth Bates, murmuring a remonstrance, stepped inside. The other woman apologised for the state of the room.

  The kitchen needed apology. There were little frocks and trousers and childish undergarments on the squab and on the floor, and a litter of playthings everywhere. On the black American cloth of the table were pieces of bread and cake, crusts, slops, and a teapot with cold tea.

  “Eh, ours is just as bad,” said Elizabeth Bates. Mrs Rigley put a shawl over her head and hurried out, saying:

  “I shanna be a minute.”

  The other sat noting with faint disapproval the general untidiness of the room. Then she fell to counting the shoes of various sizes scattered over the floor. There were twelve. She sighed and said to herself, “No wonder!”—glancing at the litter. There came the scratching of two pairs of feet across the yard, and the Rigleys entered. Elizabeth Bates rose. Rigley was a big man, with very large bones. His head looked particularly bony. Across his temple was a blue scar, caused by a wound got in the pit, a wound in which the coal-dust remained blue like tattooing.

  “ ’Asna ’e come whoam yit?” asked the man, without any form of greeting, but with deference and sympathy. “I couldna say wheer he is—’e’s non ower theer!”—he jerked his head to signify the “Prince of Wales.”

  “ ’E’s ’appen gone up to th’ ‘Yew,’ ” said Mrs Rigley.

  There was another pause. Rigley had evidently something to get off his mind:

  “Ah left ’im finishin’ a stint,” he began. “Loose-a’ ’ad bin gone about ten minutes when we com’n away, an’ I shouted, ‘Are ter cornin’, Walt?’ an’ ’e said, ‘Go on, Ah shanna be but a’ef a minnit,’ so we com’n ter th’ bottom, me an’ Bower, thinkin’ as ’e wor just behint us. Ah’d a ta’en a hoath as ’e wor just behint—an’ ’ud come up i’ th’ next bande——”

  He stood perplexed, as if answering a charge of desertion of his mate. Eliza
beth Bates, now again certain of disaster, hastened to reassure him:

  “I expect ’e’s gone to th’ ‘Yew Tree,’ as you say. It’s not the first time.—I’ve fretted myself into a fever before now. He’ll come home when they carry him.”

  “Ay, isn’t it a bit too bad!” deplored the other woman.

  “I’ll just step up to Dick’s an’ see if ’e is theer,” offered the man, afraid of appearing alarmed, afraid of taking liberties.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think of bothering you that far,” said Elizabeth Bates, with emphasis. But he knew she was glad of his offer.

  As they stumbled up the entry, Elizabeth Bates heard Rigley’s wife run across the yard and open her neighbour’s door. At this suddenly all the blood in her body seemed to switch away from her heart.

  “Mind!” warned Rigley. “Ah’ve said many a time as Ah’d fill up them ruts in this entry, sumb’dy ’ll be breakin’ their legs yit.”

  She recovered herself and walked quickly along with the miner.

  “I don’t like leaving the children in bed, and nobody in the house,” she said.

  “No, you dunna!” he replied, courteously. They were soon at the gate of the cottage.

  “Well, I shanna be many minnits. Dunna you be frettin’ now, ’e’ll be a’ right,” said the butty.

  “Thank you very much, Mr Rigley,” she replied.

  “You’re welcome!” he stammered, moving away. “I shanna be many minnits.”

  The house was quiet. Elizabeth Bates took off her hat and shawl, and rolled back the rug. She was in a hurry to tidy the house. Somebody would be coming, she knew. When she had finished, she sat down. It was a few minutes past nine. She was startled by the rapid chuff of the winding-engine at the pit, and the sharp whirr of the brakes on the rope as it descended. Again she felt the painful sweep of her blood, and she put her hand to her side, saying aloud, “Good gracious!—it’s only the nine o’clock deputy going down,” rebuking herself.

  She sat still, listening. Half an hour of this, and she was wearied out.

  “What am I working myself up like this for?” she said pitiably to herself, “I s’ll only be doing myself some damage.”