Chapter 16

“I won’t,” she wept, with rage. “You’re not going to bully me and hit me like that on the mouth.”

And she sobbed again. He looked at her in contempt and compassion and in rising anger.

“Where are they?” he said.

“They’re in the little drawer under the looking-glass,” she sobbed.

He went slowly upstairs, struck a match, and found the trinkets. He brought them downstairs in his hand.

“These?” he said, looking at them as they lay in his palm.

She looked at them without answering. She was not interested in them any more.

He looked at the little jewels. They were pretty.

“It’s none of their fault,” he said to himself.

And he searched round slowly, persistently, for a box. He tied the things up and addressed them to Sam Adams. Then he went out in his slippers to post the little package.

When he came back she was still sitting crying.

“You’d better go to bed,” he said.

She paid no attention. He sat by the fire. She still cried.

“I’m sleeping down here,” he said. “Go you to bed.”

In a few moments she lifted her tear-stained, swollen face and looked at him with eyes all forlorn and pathetic. A great flash of anguish went over his body. He went over, slowly, and very gently took her in his hands. She let herself be taken. Then as she lay against his shoulder, she sobbed aloud:

“I never meant——”

“My love—my little love——” he cried, in anguish of spirit, holding her in his arms.

A Sick Collier

She was too good for him, everybody said. Yet still she did not regret marrying him. He had come courting her when he was only nineteen, and she twenty. He was in build what they call a tight little fellow; short, dark, with a warm colour, and that upright set of the head and chest, that flaunting way in movement recalling a mating bird, which denotes a body taut and compact with life. Being a good worker he had earned decent money in the mine, and having a good home had saved a little.

She was a cook at “Uplands”, a tall, fair girl, very quiet. Having seen her walk down the street, Horsepool had followed her from a distance. He was taken with her, he did not drink, and he was not lazy. So, although he seemed a bit simple, without much intelligence, but having a sort of physical brightness, she considered, and accepted him.

When they were married they went to live in Scargill Street, in a highly respectable six-roomed house which they had furnished between them. The street was built up the side of a long, steep hill. It was narrow and rather tunnel-like. Nevertheless, the back looked out over the adjoining pasture, across a wide valley of fields and woods, in the bottom of which the mine lay snugly.

He made himself gaffer in his own house. She was unacquainted with a collier’s mode of life. They were married on a Saturday. On the Sunday night he said:

“Set th’ table for my breakfast, an’ put my pit-things afront o’ th’ fire. I s’ll be gettin’ up at ha’ef pas’ five. Tha nedna shift thysen not till when ter likes.”

He showed her how to put a newspaper on the table for a cloth. When she demurred:

“I want none o’ your white cloths i’ th’ mornin’. I like ter be able to slobber if I feel like it,” he said.

He put before the fire his moleskin trousers, a clean singlet, or sleeveless vest of thick flannel, a pair of stockings and his pit boots, arranging them all to be warm and ready for morning.

“Now tha sees. That wants doin’ ivery night.”

Punctually at half past five he left her, without any form of leave-taking, going downstairs in his shirt.

When he arrived home at four o’clock in the afternoon his dinner was ready to be dished up. She was startled when he came in, a short, sturdy figure, with a face indescribably black and streaked. She stood before the fire in her white blouse and white apron, a fair girl, the picture of beautiful cleanliness. He “clommaxed” in, in his heavy boots.

“Well, how ’as ter gone on?” he asked.

“I was ready for you to come home,” she replied tenderly. In his black face the whites of his brown eyes flashed at her.

“An’ I wor ready for comin’,” he said. He planked his tin bottle and snap-bag on the dresser, took off his coat and scarf and waistcoat, dragged his armchair nearer the fire and sat down.

“Let’s ha’e a bit o’ dinner, then—I’m about clammed,” he said.

“Aren’t you goin’ to wash yourself first?”

“What am I to wesh mysen for?”

“Well, you can’t eat your dinner——”

“Oh, strike a daisy, Missis! Dunna I eat my snap i’ th’ pit wi’out weshin’?—forced to.”

She served the dinner and sat opposite him. His small bullet head was quite black, save for the whites of his eyes and his scarlet lips. It gave her a queer sensation to see him open his red mouth and bare his white teeth as he ate. His arms and hands were mottled black; his bare, strong neck got a little fairer as it settled towards his shoulders, reassuring her. There was the faint indescribable odour of the pit in the room, an odour of damp, exhausted air.

“Why is your vest so black on the shoulders?” she asked.

“My singlet? That’s wi’ th’ watter droppin’ on us from th’ roof. This is a dry un as I put on afore I come up. They ha’e gre’t clothes-’osses, an’ as we change us things, we put ’em on theer ter dry.”

When he washed himself, kneeling on the hearth-rug stripped to the waist, she felt afraid of him again. He was so muscular, he seemed so intent on what he was doing, so intensely himself, like a vigorous animal. And as he stood wiping himself, with his naked breast towards her, she felt rather sick, seeing his thick arms bulge their muscles.

They were nevertheless very happy. He was at a great pitch of pride because of her. The men in the pit might chaff him, they might try to entice him away, but nothing could reduce his self-assured pride because of her, nothing could unsettle his almost infantile satisfaction. In the evening he sat in his armchair chattering to her, or listening as she read the newspaper to him. When it was fine, he would go into the street, squat on his heels as colliers do, with his back against the wall of his parlour, and call to the passers-by, in greeting, one after another. If no one were passing, he was content just to squat and smoke, having such a fund of sufficiency and satisfaction in his heart. He was well married.

They had not been wed a year when all Brent and Wellwood’s men came out on strike. Willy was in the Union, so with a pinch they scrambled through. The furniture was not all paid for, and other debts were incurred. She worried and contrived, he left it to her. But he was a good husband; he gave her all he had.

The men were out fifteen weeks. They had been back just over a year when Willy had an accident in the mine, tearing his bladder. At the pit head the doctor talked of the hospital. Losing his head entirely, the young collier raved like a madman, what with pain and fear of hospital.

“Tha s’lt go whoam, Willy, tha s’lt go whoam,” the deputy said.

A lad warned the wife to have the bed ready. Without speaking or hesitating she prepared. But when the ambulance came, and she heard him shout with pain at being moved, she was afraid lest she should sink down. They carried him in.

“Yo’ should ’a’ had a bed i’ th’ parlour, Missis,” said the deputy, “then we shouldna ha’ had to hawkse ’im upstairs, an’ it ’ud ’a’ saved your legs.”

But it was too late now. They got him upstairs.

“They let me lie, Lucy,” he was crying, “they let me lie two mortal hours on th’ sleck afore they took me outer th’ stall. Th’ peen, Lucy, th’ peen; oh, Lucy, th’ peen, th’ peen!”

“I know th’ pain’s bad, Willy, I know. But you must try an’ bear it a bit.”

“Tha munna carry on in that form, lad, thy missis’ll niver be able ter stan’ it,” said the deputy.

“I canna ’elp it, it’s th’ peen, it’s th’ peen,” he cried again. He had never been ill in his life. When he had smashed a finger he could look at the wound. But this pain came from inside, and terrified him. At last he was soothed and exhausted.

It was some time before she could undress him and wash him. He would let no other woman do for him, having that savage modesty usual in such men.

For six weeks he was in bed, suffering much pain. The doctors were not quite sure what was the matter with him, and scarcely knew what to do. He could eat, he did not lose flesh, nor strength, yet the pain continued, and he could hardly walk at all.

In the sixth week the men came out in the national strike. He would get up quite early in the morning and sit by the window. On Wednesday, the second week of the strike, he sat gazing out on the street as usual, a bullet-headed young man, still vigorous-looking, but with a peculiar expression of hunted fear in his face.

“Lucy,” he called, “Lucy!”

She, pale and worn, ran upstairs at his bidding.

“Gi’e me a han’kercher,” he said.

“Why, you’ve got one,” she replied, coming near.

“Tha nedna touch me,” he cried. Feeling his pocket, he produced a white handkerchief.

“I non want a white un, gi’e me a red un,” he said.

“An’ if anybody comes to see you,” she answered, giving him a red handkerchief.

“Besides,” she continued, “you needn’t ha’ brought me upstairs for that.”

“I b’lieve th’ peen’s commin’ on again,” he said, with a little horror in his voice.

“It isn’t, you know, it isn’t,” she replied. “The doctor says you imagine it’s there when it isn’t.”

“Canna I feel what’s inside me?” he shouted.

“There’s a traction-engine coming downhill,” she said. “That’ll scatter them. I’ll just go an’ finish your pudding.”

She left him. The traction-engine went by, shaking the houses. Then the street was quiet, save for the men. A gang of youths from fifteen to twenty-five years old were playing marbles in the middle of the road. Other little groups of men were playing on the pavement. The street was gloomy. Willy could hear the endless calling and shouting of men’s voices.

“Tha’rt skinchin’!”

“I arena!”

“Come ’ere with that blood-alley.”

“Swop us four for’t.”

“Shonna, gie’s hold on’t.”

He wanted to be out, he wanted to be playing marbles. The pain had weakened his mind, so that he hardly knew any self-control.

Presently another gang of men lounged up the street. It was pay morning. The Union was paying the men in the Primitive Chapel. They were returning with their half-sovereigns.

“Sorry!” bawled a voice. “Sorry!”

The word is a form of address, corruption probably of “Sirrah”. Willy started almost out of his chair.

“Sorry!” again bawled a great voice. “Art goin’ wi’ me to see Notts play Villa?”

Many of the marble players started up.

“What time is it? There’s no treens, we s’ll ha’e ter walk.”

The street was alive with men.

“Who’s goin’ ter Nottingham ter see th’ match?” shouted the same big voice. A very large, tipsy man, with his cap over his eyes, was calling.

“Com’ on—aye, com’ on!” came many voices. The street was full of the shouting of men. They split up in excited cliques and groups.

“Play up, Notts!” the big man shouted.

“Plee up, Notts!” shouted the youths and men. They were at kindling pitch. It only needed a shout to rouse them. Of this the careful authorities were aware.

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” shouted the sick man at his window.

Lucy came running upstairs.

“I’m goin’ ter see Notts play Villa on th’ Meadows ground,” he declared.

“You—_you_ can’t go. There are no trains. You can’t walk nine miles.”

“I’m goin’ ter see th’ match,” he declared, rising.

“You know you can’t. Sit down now an’ be quiet.”

She put her hand on him. He shook it off.

“Leave me alone, leave me alone. It’s thee as ma’es th’ peen come, it’s thee. I’m goin’ ter Nottingham to see th’ football match.”

“Sit down—folks’ll hear you, and what will they think?”

“Come off’n me. Com’ off. It’s her, it’s her as does it. Com’ off.”

He seized hold of her. His little head was bristling with madness, and he was strong as a lion.

“Oh, Willy!” she cried.

“It’s ’er, it’s ’er. Kill her!” he shouted, “kill her.”

“Willy, folks’ll hear you.”

“Th’ peen’s commin’ on again, I tell yer. I’ll kill her for it.”

He was completely out of his mind. She struggled with him to prevent his going to the stairs. When she escaped from him, he was shouting and raving, she beckoned to her neighbour, a girl of twenty-four, who was cleaning the window across the road.

Ethel Mellor was the daughter of a well-to-do check-weighman. She ran across in fear to Mrs Horsepool. Hearing the man raving, people were running out in the street and listening. Ethel hurried upstairs. Everything was clean and pretty in the young home.

Willy was staggering round the room, after the slowly retreating Lucy, shouting:

“Kill her! Kill her!”

“Mr Horsepool!” cried Ethel, leaning against the bed, white as the sheets, and trembling. “Whatever are you saying?”

“I tell yer it’s ’er fault as th’ peen comes on—I tell yer it is! Kill ’er—kill ’er!”

“Kill Mrs Horsepool!” cried the trembling girl. “Why, you’re ever so fond of her, you know you are.”

“The peen—I ha’e such a lot o’ peen—I want to kill ’er.”

He was subsiding. When he sat down his wife collapsed in a chair, weeping noiselessly. The tears ran down Ethel’s face. He sat staring out of the window; then the old, hurt look came on his face.

“What ’ave I been sayin’?” he asked, looking piteously at his wife.

“Why!” said Ethel, “you’ve been carrying on something awful, saying, ‘Kill her, kill her!’”

“Have I, Lucy?” he faltered.

“You didn’t know what you was saying,” said his young wife gently but coldly.

His face puckered up. He bit his lip, then broke into tears, sobbing uncontrollably, with his face to the window.

There was no sound in the room but of three people crying bitterly, breath caught in sobs. Suddenly Lucy put away her tears and went over to him.

“You didn’t know what you was sayin’, Willy, I know you didn’t. I knew you didn’t, all the time. It doesn’t matter, Willy. Only don’t do it again.”

In a little while, when they were calmer, she went downstairs with Ethel.

“See if anybody is looking in the street,” she said.

Ethel went into the parlour and peeped through the curtains.

“Aye!” she said. “You may back your life Lena an’ Mrs Severn’ll be out gorping, and that clat-fartin’ Mrs Allsop.”

“Oh, I hope they haven’t heard anything! If it gets about as he’s out of his mind, they’ll stop his compensation, I know they will.”

“They’d never stop his compensation for _that_,” protested Ethel.

“Well, they _have_ been stopping some——”

“It’ll not get about. I s’ll tell nobody.”

“Oh, but if it does, whatever shall we do?...”

The Christening

The mistress of the British School stepped down from her school gate, and instead of turning to the left as usual, she turned to the right. Two women who were hastening home to scramble their husbands’ dinners together—it was five minutes to four—stopped to look at her. They stood gazing after her for a moment; then they glanced at each other with a woman’s little grimace.

To be sure, the retreating figure was ridiculous: small and thin, with a black straw hat, and a rusty cashmere dress hanging full all round the skirt. For so small and frail and rusty a creature to sail with slow, deliberate stride was also absurd. Hilda Rowbotham was less than thirty, so it was not years that set the measure of her pace; she had heart disease. Keeping her face, that was small with sickness, but not uncomely, firmly lifted and fronting ahead, the young woman sailed on past the market-place, like a black swan of mournful, disreputable plumage.

She turned into Berryman’s, the baker’s. The shop displayed bread and cakes, sacks of flour and oatmeal, flitches of bacon, hams, lard and sausages. The combination of scents was not unpleasing. Hilda Rowbotham stood for some minutes nervously tapping and pushing a large knife that lay on the counter, and looking at the tall, glittering brass scales. At last a morose man with sandy whiskers came down the step from the house-place.

“What is it?” he asked, not apologizing for his delay.

“Will you give me six-pennyworth of assorted cakes and pastries—and put in some macaroons, please?” she asked, in remarkably rapid and nervous speech. Her lips fluttered like two leaves in a wind, and her words crowded and rushed like a flock of sheep at a gate.

“We’ve got no macaroons,” said the man churlishly.

He had evidently caught that word. He stood waiting.

“Then I can’t have any, Mr Berryman. Now I do feel disappointed. I like those macaroons, you know, and it’s not often I treat myself. One gets so tired of trying to spoil oneself, don’t you think? It’s less profitable even than trying to spoil somebody else.” She laughed a quick little nervous laugh, putting her hand to her face.

“Then what’ll you have?” asked the man, without the ghost of an answering smile. He evidently had not followed, so he looked more glum than ever.

“Oh, anything you’ve got,” replied the schoolmistress, flushing slightly. The man moved slowly about, dropping the cakes from various dishes one by one into a paper bag.

“How’s that sister o’ yours getting on?” he asked, as if he were talking to the flour scoop.

“Whom do you mean?” snapped the schoolmistress.

“The youngest,” answered the stooping, pale-faced man, with a note of sarcasm.

“Emma! Oh, she’s very well, thank you!” The schoolmistress was very red, but she spoke with sharp, ironical defiance. The man grunted. Then he handed her the bag and watched her out of the shop without bidding her “Good afternoon”.

She had the whole length of the main street to traverse, a half-mile of slow-stepping torture, with shame flushing over her neck. But she carried her white bag with an appearance of steadfast unconcern. When she turned into the field she seemed to droop a little. The wide valley opened out from her, with the far woods withdrawing into twilight, and away in the centre the great pit streaming its white smoke and chuffing as the men were being turned up. A full, rose-coloured moon, like a flamingo flying low under the far, dusky east, drew out of the mist. It was beautiful, and it made her irritable sadness soften, diffuse.

Across the field, and she was at home. It was a new, substantial cottage, built with unstinted hand, such a house as an old miner could build himself out of his savings. In the rather small kitchen a woman of dark, saturnine complexion sat nursing a baby in a long white gown; a young woman of heavy, brutal cast stood at the table, cutting bread and butter. She had a downcast, humble mien that sat unnaturally on her, and was strangely irritating. She did not look round when her sister entered. Hilda put down the bag of cakes and left the room, not having spoken to Emma, nor to the baby, not to Mrs Carlin, who had come in to help for the afternoon.

Almost immediately the father entered from the yard with a dustpan full of coals. He was a large man, but he was going to pieces. As he passed through, he gripped the door with his free hand to steady himself, but turning, he lurched and swayed. He began putting the coals on the fire, piece by piece. One lump fell from his hand and smashed on the white hearth. Emma Rowbotham looked round, and began in a rough, loud voice of anger: “Look at you!” Then she consciously moderated her tones. “I’ll sweep it up in a minute—don’t you bother; you’ll only be going head first into the fire.”

Her father bent down nevertheless to clear up the mess he had made, saying, articulating his words loosely and slavering in his speech:

“The lousy bit of a thing, it slipped between my fingers like a fish.”

As he spoke he went tilting towards the fire. The dark-browed woman cried out: he put his hand on the hot stove to save himself; Emma swung round and dragged him off.

“Didn’t I tell you!” she cried roughly. “Now, have you burnt yourself?”

She held tight hold of the big man, and pushed him into his chair.

“What’s the matter?” cried a sharp voice from the other room. The speaker appeared, a hard well-favoured woman of twenty-eight. “Emma, don’t speak like that to father.” Then, in a tone not so cold, but just as sharp: “Now, father, what have you been doing?”

Emma withdrew to her table sullenly.

“It’s nöwt,” said the old man, vainly protesting. “It’s nöwt at a’. Get on wi’ what you’re doin’.”

“I’m afraid ’e’s burnt ’is ’and,” said the black-browed woman, speaking of him with a kind of hard pity, as if he were a cumbersome child. Bertha took the old man’s hand and looked at it, making a quick tut-tutting noise of impatience.

“Emma, get that zinc ointment—and some white rag,” she commanded sharply. The younger sister put down her loaf with the knife in it, and went. To a sensitive observer, this obedience was more intolerable than the most hateful discord. The dark woman bent over the baby and made silent, gentle movements of motherliness to it. The little one smiled and moved on her lap. It continued to move and twist.

“I believe this child’s hungry,” she said. “How long is it since he had anything?”

“Just afore dinner,” said Emma dully.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bertha. “You needn’t starve the child now you’ve got it. Once every two hours it ought to be fed, as I’ve told you; and now it’s three. Take him, poor little mite—I’ll cut the bread.” She bent and looked at the bonny baby. She could not help herself: she smiled, and pressed its cheek with her finger, and nodded to it, making little noises. Then she turned and took the loaf from her sister. The woman rose and gave the child to its mother. Emma bent over the little sucking mite. She hated it when she looked at it, and saw it as a symbol, but when she felt it, her love was like fire in her blood.

“I should think ’e canna be comin’,” said the father uneasily, looking up at the clock.

“Nonsense, father—the clock’s fast! It’s but half-past four! Don’t fidget!” Bertha continued to cut the bread and butter.

“Open a tin of pears,” she said to the woman, in a much milder tone. Then she went into the next room. As soon as she was gone, the old man said again: “I should ha’e thought he’d ’a’ been ’ere by now, if he means comin’.”

Emma, engrossed, did not answer. The father had ceased to consider her, since she had become humbled.

“’E’ll come—’e’ll come!” assured the stranger.

A few minutes later Bertha hurried into the kitchen, taking off her apron. The dog barked furiously. She opened the door, commanded the dog to silence, and said: “He will be quiet now, Mr Kendal.”

“Thank you,” said a sonorous voice, and there was the sound of a bicycle being propped against a wall. A clergyman entered, a big-boned, thin, ugly man of nervous manner. He went straight to the father.

“Ah—how are you?” he asked musically, peering down on the great frame of the miner, ruined by locomotor ataxy.

His voice was full of gentleness, but he seemed as if he could not see distinctly, could not get things clear.

“Have you hurt your hand?” he said comfortingly, seeing the white rag.

“It wor nöwt but a pestered bit o’ coal as dropped, an’ I put my hand on th’ hub. I thought tha worna commin’.”

The familiar ‘tha’, and the reproach, were unconscious retaliation on the old man’s part. The minister smiled, half wistfully, half indulgently. He was full of vague tenderness. Then he turned to the young mother, who flushed sullenly because her dishonoured breast was uncovered.

“How are _you_?” he asked, very softly and gently, as if she were ill and he were mindful of her.

“I’m all right,” she replied, awkwardly taking his hand without rising, hiding her face and the anger that rose in her.

“Yes—yes”—he peered down at the baby, which sucked with distended mouth upon the firm breast. “Yes, yes.” He seemed lost in a dim musing.

Coming to, he shook hands unseeingly with the woman.

Presently they all went into the next room, the minister hesitating to help his crippled old deacon.

“I can go by myself, thank yer,” testily replied the father.