FullReads

“Lookin’ for yer key, missis? Let me ‘elp yer; two ‘eads is better nor one enny day!”

“Ca’an fin’ it. M’m a bad wom–a bad wom–um,” she says, shaking her head solemnly at him, with heavy lids and distended pupils.

Meanwhile he has searched her pocket and opened the basket–nothing in it except a Family Novelette and a few gooseberries in a paper bag. He shakes his head, saying to himself: “Dropped her marketing. It aint here, missis; sure you took it with ye?”

She nods stupidly and solemnly three times.

“Got the larchkey o’ the fron’ door?” queries the other.

She frowns, tries to pull up her skirt to get at her petticoat pocket, and lurches over.

“Old ‘ard, missis, ‘old ‘ard. Throw them long legs o’ yourn acrost the wall, maite, an’ see if ye carn’t let ‘er in!” says the little man, catching her deftly. The other agrees, and the key grates in the lock inside and he opens the door.

“She took the key an’ lorst it, that’s wot she did. She’s a nice ole cup o’ tea; she’s a ‘ot member for a mile, she iz, an’ no mistaike!” and he takes up his trowel and a brick, singing with a sweet tenor.

The little man helps her into the house through the hall into the parlour. He unties her bonnet-strings, pulls off her jacket, and puts her into an arm-chair.

“Ye jist ‘ave a sleep, an’ ye’ll be all right!”

She clutches at his hand in a foolish sort of way, and her eyes fill with tears.

“‘Ands orf, missis, ‘ands orf, ye list go to sleep!”

He halts in the kitchen and looks about him. It is very well furnished; the table is littered with unwashed breakfast things on trays–handsome china, plate, and table-napkins, all in confusion. He shakes his head, puts some coal in the range, closes the door carefully, and goes back to his work.

“Well, did ye put beauty to bed?” laughs the big man.”I’d rather Jones owned ‘er nor me.’E picked a nice mother fur iz kids, ‘e did! Yes, them three little nippers wot come out a wile ago is iz.”

“‘E must be pretty tidy orf,” says the little man; “it looks very nice in there, an’ seemin’ly the ‘ole ‘ouse is fitted up alike pianner an’ chiffoneers.”

“Oh, Jones is all right.’E’s a cute chap iz Jones.’E’s got a ‘ell of a temper, that’s all.’E’s bin barman at the Buckin’am for close twenty year; makes a book an’ keeps iz eyes peeled. Bless ye, I know Jones since I woz a lad; iz first wife woz a sort o’ cousin o’ my missis–clever woman too.’E took this ‘un ‘cos ‘e thort e’d maike a bit out o’ gentlemen lorgers, she bein’ a prize cook an’ ‘e ‘avin’ the ‘ouse out of a buildin’ society, an’ be a mother to the kids as well. She’ll keep no lorgers she won’t, an’ she’s a fair beauty for the kids. If she woz mine”–tapping a brick–“I’d bash ‘er ‘ed in!”

“Maybe ye wouldn’t!” says the little man; “thet iz if ye understood. Wot if it ain’t ‘er fault?”

“Ain’t ‘er fault! Ooze iz it then?”

“That I ain’t prepared to say, not knowin’ circumstances; but it might be as it runs in ‘er family.”

“Well, I’m blowed, I often ‘eerd” (with a grin, showing all his white teeth) “o’ wooden legs runnin’ that way, but I never ‘eerd tell o’ gin!”

“Ye ain’t a readin’ man, I take it,” says the little man, with a touch of superiority, “I thought that way onst meself. My ole woman drinks.” (He says it as if stating a casual fact that calls for no comment. ) “It woz then I came acrorst a book on ‘ereditty, wot comes down from parents to children, ye know, an’ I set to findin’ all about ‘er family. I took a ‘eap o’ trouble about it, I did, I wanted to do fair by ‘er. An’ then sez I to meself: ‘Sam, she carn’t ‘elp it no more nor the colour of ‘er ‘air, an’ that woz like a pine shavin’ in sunshine.’Er gran’father ‘e drunk ‘isself dead, an’ then iz wife she reared my girl’s mother for service–she woz cook at an ‘otel in Aylesbury. Well, she married the boots; they ‘ad a tidy bit saved, an’ they took a country public with land an’ orchard an’ such like an’ they did well for a long time. Then ‘e took to liquor. I never could find out iz family ‘istory; maybe as ‘ow ‘e couldn’t ‘elp it neither.’E woz a Weller, an’ she jined ‘im arter a bit, which considerin’ ‘er father woz to be expected. My ole woman often told me ‘ow she an’ ‘er brother used to ‘ide out many a night in the orchard. Well they bust up an’ ‘e got notice to quit, an’ wot does ‘e do but goes an’ ‘angs ‘isself to a willer next the well, an’ she goes out to git a pail o’ water an’ finds ‘im. That set ‘er orf wuss nor ever, an’ then she went orf sudden like with a parrylittic stroke. Some laidies took the children an’ put ’em to school.” (He works steadily as he speaks. ) “Well, one bank ‘olliday twenty-eight year come Whitsun’ same date izzackl
y, I went down with a mate o’ mine to an uncle of ‘iz in Aylesbury; ‘e ‘ad a duck farm, an’ I seed ‘er. She woz as pretty as paint, an’ there woz as much difference atween ‘er an’ city girls as new milk an’ chalk an’ water. I woz doin’ well, times woz better; I ‘ave three trades, when one iz slack I works at another. I got work down there an’ we kep’ company, an’ got our ‘ome together, an’ woz married, an’ woz az ‘appy az might be for six year. Then our eldest little lad ‘e set ‘isself afire one day she woz out, an’ they took ‘im to the infirmary, but ‘e died in a ‘our, a’ wen we went to fetch ‘im ‘ome ‘e woz rolled in wite bandages most like one o’ them mummies in the British Museum. It went to my girl’s ‘eart like, for she couldn’t seem to recognise ‘im nohow. An’ ‘twoz arter that I begin to notice she took a drop. At fust I woz real mad, I gave ‘er a black eye onst; but then I came acrorst that book–I woz allus a man for readin’–an’ I found out about ‘er folk, an’ I see az ‘ow she couldn’t ‘elp it. It got worser an’ worser an’ arter two years we come up to town; I couldn’t stand the shame of it. Then I went down to my ole mother; she woz livin’ with a widowed sister in Kent, an’ I up an’ told ‘er: I sez, ‘Mother, ye got to take the kids. I ain’t goin’ to ‘ave no more with the curse on ’em, an I ain’t goin’ to ‘ave ’em spoiled,’ an’ I took ’em down an’ sent ‘er money regular, bad times same az good. She went on dreadful at first; I gave ‘er a fair chance, I took ‘er down to see ’em, and sez I: ‘Knock off the drink, ole girl, an’ ye ‘az ’em back!’ She tried it; I really believe she did, but bless ye she couldn’t, it woz in ‘er blood same az the colourin’ of ‘er skin. I gave up ‘ome then, wen she gets right mad she’d pawn everything in the show; I allus put my own things in a Monday morning an’ takes ’em out a Saturday night, it keeps ’em safe. The landlady looks arter ‘er own, an’ so she ain’t got much to dispose on. I carn’t abide liquor meself, though I don’t ‘old with preachin’ about it; an’ that’s wy they call me Seltzer Sam, and wy I gets my dinner in a cookshop.”