Back Aa

Mrs. Bindle

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>MRS. BINDLE TAKES A CHILL</h3> I <blockquote> "Your dinner's in the large black saucepan and the potatoes in the blue one. Empty the stewed steak into the yellow pie-dish and the potatoes into the blue vegetable dish and pour water into the saucepans afterwards I've gone to bed—I am feeling ill. "E. B. "Don't forget to put water into the empty saucepans or they will burn." </blockquote> <hr style="width: 15%;" /> Bindle glanced across at the stove as if to verify Mrs. Bindle's statement, then, with lined forehead, stood gazing at the table, neatly laid for one. "I never known Lizzie give in before," he muttered, and he walked over to the sink and proceeded to have his evening "rinse," an affair involving a considerable expenditure of soap and much blowing and splashing. Having wiped his face and hands upon the roller-towel, he walked softly across the kitchen, opened the[Pg 238] door, listened, stepped out into the passage and, finally, proceeded to tiptoe upstairs. Outside the bedroom door he paused and listened again, his ear pressed against the panel. There was no sound. With the stealth of a burglar he turned the handle, pushed open the door some eighteen inches and put his head round the corner. Mrs. Bindle was lying in bed on her back, her face void of all expression, whilst with each indrawn breath there was a hard, metallic sound. Bindle wriggled the rest of his body round the door-post, closing the door behind him. With ostentatious care, still tiptoeing, he crossed the room and stood by the bedside. "Ain't you feelin' well, Lizzie?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, sufficient in itself to remind an invalid of death. "Did you put water in the saucepans?" She asked the question without turning her head, and with the air of one who has something on her mind. The harsh rasp of her voice alarmed Bindle. "I ain't 'ad supper yet," he said. "Is there anythink you'd like?" he enquired solicitously, still in the same depressing whisper. "No; just leave me alone," she murmured. "Don't forget the water in the saucepans," she added a moment later. For some seconds Bindle stood irresolute. He was convinced that something ought to be done; but just what he did not know.[Pg 239] "Wouldn't you like a bit o' fried fish, or—or a pork chop?" he named at a venture two of his favourite supper dishes. The fish he could buy ready fried, the chop he felt equal to cooking himself. "Leave me alone." She turned her head aside with a feeble shudder. "Where are you ill, Lizzie?" he enquired at length. "Go away," she moaned, and Bindle turned, tip-toed across to the door and passed out of the room. He was conscious that the situation was beyond him. That evening he ate his food without relish. His mind was occupied with the invalid upstairs and the problem of what he should do. He was unaccustomed to illness, either in himself or in others. His instinct was to fetch a doctor; but would she like it? It was always a little difficult to anticipate Mrs. Bindle's view of any particular action, no matter how well-intentioned. At the conclusion of the meal, he drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to smoke with a view to inspiration. Suddenly he was roused by a loud pounding overhead. "'Oly ointment, she's fallen out!" he muttered, as he made for the door and dashed up the stairs two at a time. As he opened the door, he found Mrs. Bindle sitting up in bed, a red flannel petticoat round her shoulders, sniffing the air like a hungry hound. "You're burning my best saucepan," she croaked.[Pg 240] "I ain't, Lizzie, reelly I ain't——" Then memory came to him. He had forgotten to put water in either of the saucepans. "I can smell burning," she persisted, "you——" "I spilt some stoo on the stove," he lied, feeling secure in the knowledge that she could not disprove the statement. With a groan she sank back on to her pillow. "The place is like a pigsty. I know it," she moaned with tragic conviction. "No, it ain't, Lizzie. I'm jest goin' to 'ave a clean-up. Wouldn't you like somethink to eat?" he enquired again, then with inspiration added, "Wot about a tin o' salmon, it'll do your breath good. I'll nip round and get one in two ticks." But Mrs. Bindle shook her head. For nearly a minute there was silence, during which Bindle gazed down at her helplessly. "I'm a-goin' to fetch a doctor," he announced at length. "Don't you dare to fetch a doctor to me." "But if you ain't well——" he began. "I tell you I won't have a doctor. Look——" She was interrupted by a fit of coughing which seemed almost to suffocate her. "Look at the state of the bedroom," she gasped at length. "But wot's goin' to 'appen?" asked Bindle. "You can't——" "It won't matter," she moaned. "If I die you'll be glad," she added, as if to leave no doubt in Bindle's mind as to her own opinion on the matter.[Pg 241] "No, I shouldn't. 'Ow could I get on without you?" "Thinking of yourself as usual," was the retort. Then, suddenly, she half-lifted herself in bed and, once more raising her head, sniffed the air suspiciously. "I know that saucepan's burning," she said with conviction; but she sank back again, panting. The burning of a saucepan seemed a thing of ever-lessening importance. "No, it ain't, Lizzie, reelly it ain't. I filled it right up to the brim. It's that bit o' stoo I spilt on the stove. Stinks like billy-o, don't it?" His sense of guilt made him garrulous. "I'll go an' scrape it orf," he added, and with that he was gone. "Oh, my Gawd!" he muttered as he opened the kitchen door, and was greeted by a volume of bluish smoke that seemed to catch at his throat. He made a wild dash for the stove, seized the saucepan and, taking it over to the sink, turned on the tap. A moment later he dropped the saucepan into the sink and started back, blinded by a volume of steam that issued from its interior. Swiftly and quietly he opened the window and the outer door. "You ain't no cook, J.B.," he muttered, as he unhitched the roller-towel and proceeded to use it as a fan, with the object of driving the smell out of the window and scullery-door. When the air was clearer, he returned to the sink and,[Pg 242] this time, filled both the saucepans with water and replaced them on the stove. "I wonder wot I better do," he muttered, and he looked about him helplessly. Then, with sudden inspiration, he remembered Mrs. Hearty. Creeping softly upstairs, he put his head round the bedroom door and announced that he was going out to buy a paper. Without waiting for either criticism or comment, he quickly closed the door again. Ten minutes later, he was opening the glass-panelled door, with the white curtains and blue tie-ups, that led from Mr. Hearty's Fulham shop to the parlour behind. Mrs. Hearty was sitting at the table, a glass half-full of Guinness' stout before her. At the sight of Bindle, she began to laugh, and laughter always reduced her to a state that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy. "Oh, Joe!" she wheezed, and then began to heave and undulate with mirth. At the sight of the anxious look on his face she stopped suddenly, and with her clenched fist began to pound her chest. "It's my breath, Joe," she wheezed. "It don't seem to get no better. 'Ave a drop," she gasped, pointing to the Guinness bottle on the table. "There's a glass on the dresser," she added; but Bindle shook an anxious head. "It's Lizzie," he said.[Pg 243] "Lizzie!" wheezed Mrs. Hearty. "What she been doin' now?" Mrs. Hearty possessed no illusions about her sister's capacity to contrive any man's domestic happiness. Her own philosophy was, "If things must happen, let 'em," whereas she was well aware that Mrs. Bindle strove to control the wheels of destiny. "When you're my size," she would say, "you won't want to worry about anything; it's the lean 'uns as grizzles." "She's ill in bed," he explained, "an' I don't know wot to do. Says she won't see a doctor, an' she's sort o' fidgetty because she thinks I'm burnin' the bloomin' saucepans—an' I 'ave burned 'em, Martha," he added confidentially. "Such a stink." Whereat Mrs. Hearty began to heave, and strange movements rippled down her manifold chins. She was laughing. There was, however, no corresponding light of humour in Bindle's eyes, and she quickly recovered herself. "What's the matter with 'er, Joe?" she gasped. "She won't say where it is," he replied. "I think it's 'er chest." "All right, I'll come round," and she proceeded to make a series of strange heaving movements until, eventually, she acquired sufficient bounce to bring her to her feet. "You go back, Joe," she added. "Righto, Martha! You always was a sport," and Bindle walked towards the door. As he opened it[Pg 244] he turned. "You won't say anythink about them saucepans," he said anxiously. "Oh! go hon, do," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, beginning to undulate once more. With her brother-in-law, Mrs. Hearty was never able to distinguish between the sacred and the profane. Half an hour later, Mrs. Hearty and Bindle were standing one on either side of Mrs. Bindle's bed. Mrs. Hearty was wearing a much-worn silk plush cape and an old, pale-blue tam-o-shanter, originally belonging to her daughter, which gave her a rakish appearance. "What's the matter, Lizzie?" she asked, puffing like a collie in the Dog Days. "I'm ill. Leave me alone!" moaned Mrs. Bindle in a husky voice. Bindle looked across at Mrs. Hearty, in a way that seemed to say, "I told you she was bad." "Don't be a fool, Lizzie," was her sister's uncompromising comment. "You go for a doctor, Joe." "I won't have——" began Mrs. Bindle, then she stopped suddenly, a harsh, bronchial cough cutting off the rest of her sentence. "You've got bronchitis," said Mrs. Hearty with conviction. "Put the kettle on before you go out, Joe." "Leave me alone," moaned Mrs. Bindle. "Oh! I don't want to die, I don't want to die." "You ain't goin' to die, Lizzie," said Bindle, bending over her, anxiety in his face. "You're goin' to live to be a 'undred." "You go an' fetch a doctor, Joe. I'll see to 'er,"[Pg 245] and Mrs. Hearty proceeded to remove her elaborate black plush cape. "I don't want a doctor," moaned Mrs. Bindle. In her heart was a great fear lest he should confirm her own fears that death was at hand; but Bindle had disappeared on his errand of mercy, and Mrs. Hearty was wheezing and groaning as, with arms above her head, she strove to discover the single hat-pin with which she had fixed the tam-o-shanter to her scanty hair. "There's two rashers of bacon and an egg on the top shelf of the larder for Joe's breakfast," murmured Mrs. Bindle hoarsely. Mrs. Hearty nodded as she passed out of the door. In spite of her weight and the shortness of her breath, she descended to the kitchen. When Bindle returned, he found the bedroom reeking with the smell of vinegar. Mrs. Bindle was sitting up in bed, a towel enveloping her head, so that the fumes of the boiling vinegar should escape from the basin only by way of her bronchial tubes. "'Ow is she?" he asked anxiously. "She's all right," gasped Mrs. Hearty. "Is 'e coming?" "Be 'ere in two ticks," was the response. "Two of 'em was out, this was the third." He stood regarding with an air of relief the strange outline of Mrs. Bindle's head enveloped in the towel. Someone had at last done something. "She ain't a-goin' to die, Martha, is she?" he enquired of Mrs. Hearty, his brow lined with anxiety.[Pg 246] "Not 'er," breathed Mrs. Hearty reassuringly. "It's bronchitis. You just light a fire, Joe." Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Bindle had tip-toed to the door and was taking the stairs three at a time. Action was the one thing he desired. He determined that, the fire once laid, he would set to work to clean out the saucepan he had burned. Somehow that saucepan seemed to bite deep into his conscience. The doctor came, saw, and confirmed Mrs. Hearty's diagnosis. Having prescribed a steam-kettle, inhalations of eucalyptus, slop food, warmth and air, he left, promising to look in again on the morrow. At the bottom of the stairs, he was waylaid by Bindle. "It ain't——" he began eagerly, then paused. The doctor, a young, fair man, looked down from his six feet one, at Bindle's anxious enquiring face. "Nothing to be alarmed about," he said cheerfully. "I'll run in again to-morrow, and we'll soon have her about again." "Thank you, sir," said Bindle, drawing a sigh of obvious relief. "Funny thing," he muttered as he closed the door on the doctor, "that you never seems to think o' dyin' till somebody gets ill. I'm glad 'e's a big 'un," he added inconsequently. "Mrs. B. likes 'em big," and he returned to the kitchen, where he proceeded to scrape the stove and scour the saucepan, whilst Mrs. Hearty continued to minister to her afflicted sister. Mrs. Bindle's thoughts seemed to be preoccupied[Pg 247] with her domestic responsibilities. From time to time she issued her instructions. "Make Joe up a bed on the couch in the parlour," she murmured hoarsely. "I'd keep him awake if he slept here." "Try an' get Mrs. Coppen to come in to get Joe's dinner," she said, a few minutes later. And yet again she requested her sister to watch the bread-pan to see that the supply was kept up. "Joe eats a lot of bread," she added. To all these remarks, Mrs. Hearty returned the same reply. "Don't you worry, Lizzie. You just get to sleep." That night Bindle worked long and earnestly that things might be as Mrs. Bindle had left them; but fate was against him. Nothing he was able to do could remove from the inside of the saucepan the damning evidences of his guilt. The stove, however, was an easier matter; but even that presented difficulties; for, as soon as he applied the moist blacklead, it dried with a hiss and the polishing brush, with the semi-circle of bristles at the end that reminded him of "'Earty's whiskers," instead of producing a polish, merely succeeded in getting burned. Furthermore, he had the misfortune to break a plate and a pie-dish. At the second smash, there was a tapping from the room above, and, on going to the door, he heard Mrs. Hearty wheezing an enquiry as to what it was that was broken. "Only an old galley-pot, Martha," he lied, and returned to gather up the pieces. These he wrapped in[Pg 248] a newspaper and placed in the dresser-drawer, determined to carry them off next day. He was convinced that if Mrs. Bindle were about again before the merciful arrival of the dustman, she would inevitably subject the dust-bin to a rigorous examination. At ten o'clock, Mrs. Hearty heavily descended the stairs and, as well as her breath would permit, she instructed him what to do during the watches of the night. Bindle listened earnestly. Never in his life had he made a linseed poultice, and the management of a steam-kettle was to him a new activity. When he heard about the bed on the couch, he looked the surprise he felt. Mrs. Bindle never allowed him even to sit on it. He resolutely vetoed the bed, however. He was going to sit up and "try an' bring 'er round," as he expressed it. "Is she goin' to die, Martha?" he interrogated anxiously. That question seemed to obsess his thoughts. Mrs. Hearty shook her head and beat her breast. She lacked the necessary oxygen to reply more explicitly. Having conducted Mrs. Hearty to the garden gate, he returned, closed and bolted the door, and proceeded upstairs. As he entered the bedroom, he was greeted by a harsh, bronchial cough that terrified him. "Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired, with all the forced optimism of a man obviously anxious. Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, looked at him for a moment, then, closing them again, shook her head. "'As 'e sent you any physic?" he enquired.[Pg 249] Again Mrs. Bindle shook her head, this time without opening her eyes. Bindle's heart sank. If the doctor didn't see the necessity for medicine, the case must indeed be desperate. "What did he say, Joe?" she enquired in a hoarse voice. In spite of himself Bindle started slightly at the name. He had not heard it for many years. "'E said you're a-gettin' on fine," he lied. "Am I very ill? Is it——" "You ain't got nothink much the matter with you, Lizzie," he replied lightly, in his anxiety to comfort, conveying the impression that she was in extreme danger. "Jest a bit of a chill." "Am I dying, Joe?" In spite of its repetition, the name still seemed unfamiliar to him. "I shall be dead-meat long before you, Lizzie," he said, and his failure to answer her question directly, confirmed Mrs. Bindle in her view that the end was very near. "I'm goin' to make you some arrowroot, now," he said, with an assurance in his voice that he was far from feeling. Ever since Mrs. Hearty had explained to him the mysteries of arrowroot-making, he had felt how absolutely unequal he was to the task. Through Mrs. Bindle's mind flashed a vision of milk allowed to boil over; but she felt herself too near the End to put her thoughts into words.[Pg 250] With uncertainty in his heart and anxiety in his eyes, Bindle descended to the kitchen. Selecting a small saucepan, which Mrs. Bindle kept for onions, he poured into it, as instructed by Mrs. Hearty, a breakfast-cupful of milk. This he placed upon the stove, which in one spot was manifesting a dull red tint. Bindle was thorough in all things, especially in the matter of stoking. He then opened the packet of arrowroot and poured it into a white pudding-basin. At the point where Mrs. Hearty was to have indicated the quantity of arrowroot to be used, she had been more than usually short of breath, with the result that Bindle did not catch the "two-tablespoonfuls" she had mentioned. He then turned to the stove to watch the milk, forgetting that Mrs. Hearty had warned him to mix the arrowroot into a thin paste with cold milk before pouring on to it the hot. As the milk manifested no particular excitement, Bindle drew from his pocket the evening paper which, up to now, he had forgotten. He promptly became absorbed in a story of the finding at Enfield of a girl's body bearing evidences of foul play. He was roused from his absorption by a violent hiss from the stove and, a moment later, he was holding aloft the saucepan, from which a Niagara of white foam streamed over the sides on to the angry stove beneath. "Wot a stink," he muttered, as he stepped back and turned towards the kitchen table. "Only jest in time, though," he added as, with spoon in one hand,[Pg 251] he proceeded to pour the boiling milk on to the arrowroot, assiduously stirring the while. "Well, I'm blowed," he muttered as, at the end of some five minutes, he stood regarding a peculiarly stodgy mass composed of a glutinous substance in which were white bubbles containing a fine powder. For several minutes he stood regarding it doubtfully, and then, with the air of a man who desires to make assurance doubly sure, he spooned the mass out on to a plate and once more stood regarding it. "Looks as if it wants a few currants," he murmured dubiously, as he lifted the plate from the table, preparatory to taking it up to Mrs. Bindle. "I brought you somethink to eat, Lizzie," he announced, as he closed the door behind him. Mrs. Bindle shook her head, then opening her eyes, fixed them upon the strange viscid mass that Bindle extended to her. "What is that smell?" she murmured wearily. "Smell," said Bindle, sniffing the air like a cat when fish is boiling. "I don't smell nothink, Lizzie." "You've burned something," she moaned feebly. "'Ere, eat this," he said with forced cheerfulness, "then you'll feel better." Once more Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, gazed at the mass, then shaking her head, turned her face to the wall. For five minutes, Bindle strove to persuade her. Finally, recognising defeat, he placed the plate on a chair by the bedside and, seating himself on a little green-painted box, worn at the edges so that the[Pg 252] original white wood showed through, he proceeded to look the helplessness he felt. "Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired at length, holding his breath eagerly as he waited for the reply. Mrs. Bindle shook her head drearily, and his heart sank. Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Hearty's earnest exhortation to keep the steam-kettle in operation. Once more he descended to the kitchen and, whilst the kettle was boiling, he occupied himself with scraping the heat-flaked milk from the top of the stove. Throughout that night he laboured at the steam-kettle, or sat gazing helplessly at Mrs. Bindle, despair clutching at his heart, impotence dogging his footsteps. From time to time he would offer her the now cold slab of arrowroot, or else enquire if she were feeling better; but Mrs. Bindle refused the one and denied the other. With the dawn came inspiration. "Would you like a kipper for breakfast, Lizzie?" he enquired, hope shining in his eyes. This time Mrs. Bindle not only shook her head, but manifested by her expression such a repugnance that he felt repulsed. The very thought of kippers made his own mouth water and, recalling that Mrs. Bindle was particularly partial to them, he realised that her condition must be extremely grave. Soon after nine, Mrs. Hearty arrived and insisted on preparing breakfast for Bindle. Having despatched him to his work she proceeded to tidy-up. After the doctor had called, Mrs. Bindle once more[Pg 253] sought news as to her condition. This time Mrs. Hearty, obviously keen on reassuring the invalid, succeeded also in confirming her morbid convictions. At the sight of the plate containing Bindle's conception of arrowroot for an invalid, Mrs. Hearty had at first manifested curiosity, then, on discovering the constituent parts of the unsavoury-looking mess, she had collapsed upon the green-painted box, wheezing and heaving until her gasps for breath caused Mrs. Bindle to open her eyes. For nearly a week, Bindle and Mrs. Hearty devoted themselves to the sick woman. Every morning Bindle was late for work, and when he could get home he spent more than half of his dinner-hour by Mrs. Bindle's bedside, asking the inevitable question as to whether she were feeling better. In the evening, he got home as fast as bus, train or tram could take him, and not once did he go to bed. During the whole period, Mrs. Bindle was as docile and amenable to reason as a poor relation. Never had she been so subdued. From Mrs. Hearty she took the food that was prepared for her, and acquiesced in the remedies administered. Amidst a perfect tornado of wheezes and gaspings, Mrs. Hearty had confided to Bindle that he had better refrain from invalid cookery. Nothing that either the doctor or Mrs. Hearty could say would convince Mrs. Bindle that she was long for this world. The very cheerfulness of those around her seemed proof positive that they were striving to inspire her with a hope they were far from feeling.[Pg 254] In her contemplation of Eternity, Mrs. Bindle forgot her kitchen, and the probable desolation Bindle was wreaking. Smells of burning, no matter how pungent, left her unmoved, and Bindle, finding that for the first time in his life immunity surrounded him, proceeded from one gastronomic triumph to another. He burned sausages in the frying-pan, boiled dried haddock in a porcelain-lined milk-saucepan and, not daring to confuse the flavour of sausages and fish, had hit upon the novel plan of cooking a brace of bloaters upon the top of the stove itself. Culinary enthusiasm seized him, and he invented several little dishes of his own. Some were undoubted successes, notably one made up of tomatoes, fried onions and little strips of bacon; but he met his Waterloo in a dish composed of fried onions and eggs. The eggs were much quicker off the mark than the onions, and won in a canter. He quickly realised that swift decision was essential. It was a case either of raw onions and cooked eggs, or cooked onions and cindered eggs. Never had such scents risen from Mrs. Bindle's stove to the receptive nostrils of the gods; yet through it all Mrs. Bindle made neither protest nor enquiry. Even Mrs. Hearty was appalled by the state in which she found the kitchen each morning. "My word, Joe!" she would wheeze. "You don't 'alf make a mess," and she would gaze from the stove to the table, and from the table to the sink, all of which bore manifest evidence of Bindle's culinary activities.[Pg 255] Mrs. Bindle, however, seemed oblivious of the cares of this world in her anxiety not to make the journey to the next. As her breath became more constricted, so her alarm increased. In her eyes there was a mute appeal that Bindle, for one, found it impossible to ignore. Instinctively he sensed what was troubling her, and he lost no opportunity of striving to reassure her by saying that she would be out and about again before she could say "Jack Robinson." Still there lurked in her eyes a Great Fear. She had never before had bronchitis, and the difficulty she experienced in breathing seemed to her morbidly suggestive of approaching death. Although she had never seen anyone die, she had in her own mind associated death with a terrible struggle for breath. Once when Bindle suggested that she might like to see Mr. MacFie, the minister of the Alton Road Chapel, Mrs. Bindle turned upon him such an agonised look that he instinctively shrank back. "Might-a-been Ole Nick 'isself," he later confided to Mrs. Hearty, "and me a-thinkin' to please 'er." "She's afraid o' dying, Joe," wheezed Mrs. Hearty "Alf was just the same when 'e 'ad the flu." Bindle spent money with the recklessness of a desperate man. He bought strange and inappropriate foods in the hope that they would tempt Mrs. Bindle's appetite. No matter where his work led him, he was always on the look out for some dainty, which he would purchase and carry home in triumph to Mrs. Hearty.[Pg 256] "You ain't 'alf a joke, Joe," she wheezed one evening, sinking down upon a chair and proceeding to heave and billow with suppressed laughter. Bindle looked lugubriously at the yellow pie-dish into which he had just emptied about a quart of whelks, purchased in the Mile End Road. "Ain't they good for bronchitis?" he enquired with a crestfallen look. "Last night it was pig's feet," gasped Mrs. Hearty, "and the night before saveloys," and she proceeded to beat her chest with a grubby fist. After that, Bindle had fallen back upon less debatable things. He had purchased illustrated papers, flowers, a quarter of a pound of chocolate creams, which had become a little wilted, owing to the crowded state of the tramcar in which he had returned home that night. During those anxious days, he collected a strange assortment of articles, perishable and otherwise. The thing he could not do was to go home without some token of his solicitude. One evening he acquired a vividly coloured oleograph in a gilt frame, which depicted a yawning grave, whilst in the distance an angel was to be seen carrying a very material-looking spirit to heaven. Mrs. Bindle's reception of the gift was a wild look of terror, followed by a fit of coughing that frightened Bindle almost as much as it did her. "Funny," he remarked later as he carried the picture out of the room. "I thought she'd 'ave liked an angel." It was Bindle who eventually solved the problem of[Pg 257] how to convey comfort to Mrs. Bindle's distraught spirit. One evening he accompanied the doctor to her room. After the customary questions and answers between doctor and patient, Bindle suddenly burst out. "I got a bet on with the doctor, Lizzie." From an anxious contemplation of the doctor's face, where she had been striving to read the worst, Mrs. Bindle turned her eyes to Bindle's cheery countenance. "'E's bet me a quid you'll be cookin' my dinner this day week," he announced. The effect of the announcement on Mrs. Bindle was startling. A new light sprang into her eyes, her cheeks became faintly pink as she turned to the doctor a look of interrogation. "It's true, Mrs. Bindle, and your husband's going to lose, that is if you're careful and don't take a chill." Within ten minutes Mrs. Bindle had fallen into a deep sleep, having first ordered Bindle to put another blanket on the bed—she was going to take no risks. "The first time I ever knowed Mrs. B. 'ear me talk about bettin' without callin' me a 'eathen," remarked Bindle, as he saw the doctor out. "Wonders'll never cease," he murmured, as he returned to the kitchen. "One o' these days she'll be askin' me to put a shillin' on both ways. Funny things, women!"[Pg 258] II Bindle's plot with the doctor did more to expedite Mrs. Bindle's recovery than all the care that had been lavished upon her. From the hour she awakened from a long and refreshing sleep, she began to manifest interest in her surroundings. Her appetite improved and her sense of smell became more acute, so that Bindle had to select for his dishes materials giving out a less pungent odour. He took the additional precaution of doing his cooking with the window and scullery-door open to their fullest extent. Mrs. Bindle, on her part, took pleasure in planning the meals she imagined Mrs. Coppen was cooking. She had not been told that the charwoman was in prison for assaulting a policeman with a gin bottle. "You'll 'ave to look out now, Joe," admonished Mrs. Hearty on one occasion as she entered the kitchen and gazed down at the table upon which Bindle was gathering together materials for what he described as a "top 'ole stoo." "If Lizzie was to catch you making all this mess she——" Mrs. Hearty finished in a series of wheezes. One evening, when Bindle's menu consisted of corned-beef, piccalilli and beer, to be followed by pancakes of his own making, the blow fell. The corned beef, piccalilli and beer were excellent and he had enjoyed them; but the pancakes were to[Pg 259] be his chef d'[oe]uvre. His main object in selecting pancakes was, as he explained to Mrs. Hearty, "that they don't stink while cookin'." From his sister-in-law he had obtained a general idea of how to proceed. She had even gone so far as to assist in mixing the batter. The fat was bubbling merrily in the frying-pan as he poured in sufficient liquid for at least three pancakes. "You ain't got much to learn about cookin', old cock," he muttered, as he watched the fat bubble darkly round the cream-coloured batter. After a lapse of some five minutes he decided that the underside was sufficiently done. Then came the problem of how to turn the pancake. He had heard that expert cooks could toss them in such a way that they fell into the pan again on the reverse side; but he was too wise to take such a risk, particularly as the upper portion of the pancake was still in a liquid state. He determined upon more cautious means of achieving his object. With the aid of a tablespoon and a fish-slice, he managed to get the pancake reversed. It is true that it had a crumpled appearance, and a considerable portion of the loose batter had fallen on to the stove; still he regarded it as an achievement. Just as he was contemplating the turning of the pancake on to a plate, a knock came at the front-door. On answering it, Bindle found a butcher's boy, who insisted that earlier in the day he had left a pound of beef-steak at No. 7, instead of at No. 17. The lad[Pg 260] was confident, and refused to accept Bindle's assurance that he had neither seen nor heard of the missing meat. The argument waxed fierce and eventually developed into personalities, mainly from the butcher-boy. Suddenly Bindle remembered his pancake. Banging the door in the lad's face, he dashed along the passage and opened the kitchen door. For a second he stood appalled, the pancake seemed to have eaten up every scrap of oxygen the room contained, and in its place had sent forth a suffocating smell of burning. Realising that in swift action alone lay his salvation, Bindle dashed across the room, opened the door leading to the scullery and then the scullery door itself. He threw up the window and, with water streaming from his eyes, approached the stove. A blackened ruin was all that remained of his pancake. Picking up the frying-pan he carried it over to the sink, where he stood regarding the charred mass. Suddenly he recollected that he had left open the kitchen-door leading into the passage. Dropping the frying-pan, he made a dash to close it; but he was too late. There, with her shoulders encased in a red flannel petticoat, stood Mrs. Bindle. "My Gawd!" he muttered tragically. For nearly a minute she stood as if turned to stone. Then without a word she closed the door behind her, walked to the centre of the room, and stood absorbing the scene of ruin and desolation about her, Bindle backing into the furthest corner. She regarded the stove, generously flaked with the[Pg 261] overflow of Bindle's culinary enthusiasm, glanced up at the discoloured dish-covers over the mantelpiece, the brightness of which had always been her special pride. On to the dresser her eye wandered, and was met by a riot of dirty dishes and plates, salmon tins, empty beer bottles, crusts of bread, reinforced by an old boot. The kitchen-table held her attention for fully half a minute. The torn newspaper covering it was stained to every shade of black and brown and grey, the whole being composed by a large yellow splotch, where a cup of very liquid mustard had come to grief. Upon this informal tablecloth was strewn a medley of unwashed plates, knives and forks, bread-crumbs, potato-peelings and fish-bones. Having gazed her fill, and still ominously silent, she proceeded to make a thorough tour of inspection, Bindle watching her with distended eyes, fear clutching at his heart. At the sink she stood for some seconds steadfastly regarding Bindle's pancake. Her lips had now entirely disappeared. The crisis came when she opened the dresser drawer and found the pie-dish and plate he had broken, but had forgotten to take away. Screwing up the packet again, she turned swiftly and hurled it at him with all her strength. Wholly unprepared, Bindle made a vain effort to dodge; but the package got him on the side of the head, and a red line above his ear showed that Mrs. Bindle had drawn first blood.[Pg 262] "You fiend!" she cried. "Oh, you——!" and dropping into the chair by the table she collapsed. Soon the kitchen was ringing with the sounds of her hysterical laughter. Bindle watched her like one hypnotised. As if to save his reason, a knock came at the outer door. He side-stepped swiftly and made a dash for the door giving access to the hall. A moment later he was gazing with relief at Mrs. Hearty's pale blue tam o' shanter. "'Ow is she, Joe?" she wheezed. Then as he stepped aside to allow Mrs. Hearty to precede him into the kitchen, Bindle found voice. "I think she's better," he mumbled.[Pg 263] <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.