Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles by Jenkins (romance novel chinese novels .TXT) 📕

bell-tents and the conviction that Daisy in all[Pg 235] probability would explode before dinner-time. What cared they? A few hours hence they would be once more in their known and understood Fulham.

As they reached the station they saw two men struggling with a grey mass that looked like a deflated balloon.

The men hailed the party and appealed for help.

"It's the ruddy marquee," cried a voice.

"The blinkin' tent," cried another, not to be outdone in speculative intelligence.

"You can take it back with you," cried one of the men from the truck.

"We're demobbed, ole son," said Bindle cheerily. "We've struck."

"No more blinkin' camps for me," said the man with the stubbly chin.

"'Ear, 'ear," came from a number of voices.

"Are we down-hearted?" enquired a voice.

"Nooooooooo!"

And the voices of women and children were heard in the response.

Some half an hour later, as the train steamed out of the station, Bindle called out to the porters:

"Tell the bishop not to forget to milk Daisy."

"Well, Mrs. B.," said Bindle that evening as he lighted his pipe after an excellent supper of sausages, fried onions, and mashed potatoes, "you 'ad yer 'oliday."

"I believe you was at the bottom of those tents coming down, Bindle," she cried with conviction.[Pg 236]

"Well, you was underneath, wasn't you?" was the response, and Bindle winked knowingly at the white jug with the pink butterfly on the spout.[Pg 237]

CHAPTER XI MRS. BINDLE TAKES A CHILL

I

"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."

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