Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
IN THE KITCHEN ONCE MORE
The summer was over and had been, as Noah Binns prophesied, a hot one. Now the ground was dry and the grass harsh for lack of moisture. The pasture was so poor that cattle must be given a deal of extra feed to supplement it. The kernels of the grain were small, the apples were smaller than usual, but, on the whole, crops were good and because of the warmth and sunshine the young creatures of the farm flourished. Wright, having tea in the kitchen with the Wragges, was well pleased by the growth of the foals which had been produced that year.
“I’ve never seen a likelier bunch than the four of them,” he said. “It’ll be a surprise to me if the boss don’t get the highest prices for them.”
“They sure look promising,” said Mrs. Wragge.
His cup half-way to his mouth, he stared at her in surprise.
“You been over to see them?” he asked.
“why not? I can walk, can’t I?”
“Well, you don’t often leave the house.”
“Miss Adeline dragged her over,” put in Wragge, “or she’d never ’ave went.”
“I wish I’d been there,” said Wright. “I’d like to have shown you about. Did you see our lovely two-year-old?”
“Sure.”
“She’s to be trained for the King’s Plate.”
“That’s the way the money goes.”
“Nothing venture — nothing win.”
Mrs. Wragge looked skeptical. “If the boss wants to breed show horses, let him,” she said. “If he wants to breed high jumpers, it’s O.K. by me. But — racehorses — never! That’s for men of means.”
“D’you mean to say,” demanded Wright, “that you wouldn’t call him a man of means?”
“Not the way money’s counted nowadays.”
“Look at the hired help he keeps!”
“Yes. Look at us. That’s what I say to my husband. We could get higher wages elsewhere. So could you.”
“I’m satisfied,” said Wright staunchly.
Wragge spoke, as from a high intellectual level. “We are creatures of ’abit,” he declared. “My wife wouldn’t know what to do with herself in a modern kitchen. Could I get along without the inconveniences I’m used to? No. ’Abit is everything.” He winked at Wright. “Wot should I do if I found myself in possession of a slim wife? Nothing. I’d be dumbfounded.”
The cook laughed across her double chin. “And serve you right,” she said.
A knock came on the outer door. At the same moment it opened and the gargoyle head of Noah Binns appeared. Hospitable Mrs. Wragge called out to him to enter, which he did, clumping down the steps with ostentatious effort.
“Stairs — stairs — everywhere,” he grumbled. “They say there’s golden stairs leadin’ up to Heaven. Why don’t they have an escalator that’d take a feller up without no trouble?” He dropped creaking into the nearest chair.
“That’s the way they go to the other place,” said Rags. “Smooth and slippery. You just sit down on the seat of your pants and you’re there.”
“That’s supposed to be wit,” Mrs. Wragge remarked to Wright. She poured a cup of tea for Noah. “This is the first time I’ve saw you since the funeral,” she said.
Reaching for a slice of thick bread and butter he answered, — “I ain’t the man I was. Forty-nine times I tugged on that rope and every time the bell acted contrary, like it had spite in it.”
“For goodness’ sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Wragge.
“I was just gettin’ the best of it when Colonel Whiteoak ordered me to quit. My, what an unchristian look that man can give!”
“I don’t want to hear anything against him,” put in Wright.
Ignoring the interruption, Noah went on, — “So I quit, though I had it in me to toll the full number of his years.”
“It’d probably ’ve killed you,” said the cook. “Have some more tea.”
He pushed his cup across the table to her and cast a lustful eye on her rich curves.
“Not me,” he said, reaching for cake. “I get terrible tired but I eat wheat germ and raw carrot and I’m ready fer the next funeral.”
“Raw carrot, with one tooth!” exclaimed Rags.
“I thought you’d retired,” said Wright.
“I have — except for folk over ninety.”
Mrs. Wragge patted her hair and swept some crumbs off the table with the flat of her hand. “I’ve asked Mr. Raikes to drop in,” she said.
Her husband frowned. “I’d like to know why you asked him.”
Looking boldly back, she said — “Ah, wouldn’t you!”
“I doubt if he’ll come,” said Wright. “He’s getting above himself, that guy.”
“For the love of Pete!” she exclaimed. “why on earth?”
“Well, from what I hear, he spends most of his time in the bungalow with Mrs. Clapperton.”
“Now, look here,” she said, in defence, “don’t be mean. He’s working for her to clear away the rubble.”
“
Him
working! Ha, ha ha!”
“The trouble with you men is you’re all jealous of his looks,” she jeered.
“I may not be handsome,” said Wright, “but I wouldn’t change faces with that fellow.”
“Womenfolk are all for looks,” Rags said, and added jauntily, — “The missus married me fer mine.”
“He proposed to me in the dark,” she threw back.
Noah had been scraping the jam-pot. Now he said, — “I’ve got along without looks. Never had no use fer them. Except in females.”
“They say,” said Wright, “that Tom Raikes plans to step into Mr. Clapperton’s shoes.”
“I like his cheek,” said Rags enviously.
“Then there’ll be a mess of bungalows,” declared Noah. “Bungalows — blight — and bugs. D’you know how many birch trees died from blight this year? Twenty thousand. Twenty thousand bungalows was built and twenty thousand tater bugs is attackin’ the taters. Blight, bungalows and bugs. What’s the cure?” He attacked a piece of fruitcake while he waited for the answer.
“what?” demanded Wright.
“The atom bomb. That’s the cure. And I hope I’ll be here to see.”
“Cheerful, ain’t you?” said Rags.
His mouth full, Noah managed to articulate, — “The world’s agettin’ ready fer doom. Capitalism brung this state on. Communism’ll bust it up.”
“He knows all the answers,” Mrs. Wragge said admiringly.
A shadow fell across the window and the company looked up to see Raikes’ legs. His gentle knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” sang out the cook and again patted her hair.
He said a pleasant good day and seated himself at the table. Mrs. Wragge dropped an extra lump of sugar into his cup, not unnoticed by Noah who at once stretched out a gnarled hand and helped himself to another.
“And how is the old gentleman?” asked Raikes of Mrs. Wragge.
“He’s gettin’ on fine,” she answered. “I thought the shock would’ve killed him but he takes his food and he sleeps and makes his little joke, almost as good as ever.”
“Just the same,” added Rags, “he misses Mr. Ernest. We all do. I never ’ad an impatient word from ’im.”
“Clapperton and him are both gone,” said Wright, “and if I don’t miss my guess, Mr. Ernest went up and Clapperton below.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t say that,” objected Raikes.
“Wouldn’t say Clapperton went below?”
“No. We all have our faults.”
Wright gave the table a thump. “That man,” he said, “did more to upset the neighbourhood than anyone has ever done.”
“Upset this house, you mean,” said Raikes. “Nobody minded about those few bungalows but the people here. And I’ve a bit of news for you. Mrs. Clapperton has sold the Black farm — that wee farm, y’know — and the man who’s bought it plans to build sixty little houses on it. All like as peas.”
“The bloody scoundrel!” Wright set his jaw hard, then said, — “Pardon my language, Mrs. Wragge.”
“That’s nothing to what I hear,” she smiled.
“Well, I like that,” declared Rags.
“I use only one curse-word,” said Noah. “It’s served me fer nigh on eighty years.”
“Sakes alive,” screamed the cook. “You must’ve begun usin’ it in the cradle.”
“That I did. It was the first word I spoke and I guess it’ll be my last.
Dang
.”
Wright was brooding on building possibilities. He asked of Raikes, — “what’s to become of Vaughanlands?”
“Mrs. Clapperton hasn’t decided. She’s had several offers.”
“Another outcrop of bungalows, I’ll bet.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“It’ll ruin this property,” said Wright, with a black frown.
Raikes thoughtfully stirred his tea. “I doubt if Mrs. Clapperton will want to build a big house on the property,” he said, “though there’s a lot of good material can be salvaged.”
Mrs. Wragge asked, — “How does she like livin’ in that little bungalow alongside the Barkers?”
“Ah, she likes it fine.”
“And her sister?”
“I’m not so sure about her. She’s a quare girl.” An enigmatic smile played about his lips.
Dennis came slowly down the stairs that descended from the hall.
“Well, my man,” the cook asked, “and what do you want?”
“Something to eat,” he answered, in his clear voice.
“You’ll be eating at the proper time.” There was no encouragement in her tone.
“I’m hungry now.”
“I’m too busy. Run along.”
He sat down on a step.
Mrs. Wragge said, in an undertone, — “He’s an awful one to hang about and listen. I can’t seem to make him out.”
Rags brought a plate of cake to the little boy. “’Ere, take a piece and be off,” he said.
Dennis looked the cake over. “I don’t like that sort.”
“You just say that to give trouble.”
“No. Honestly. I like chocolate cake.”
Cook said loudly, — “There ain’t none. So you go up and shut the door at the top.”
“I wasn’t listening.”
“Ho — ho.” She turned in her chair to look at him. “Now listen. You tell me one thing we said and I’ll find a piece of chocolate cake for you.”
He tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Then you’d say I was a liar, wouldn’t you?”
A chuckle ran round the table. Wright said, — “You’re not going to fall into any trap, are you, Dennis?”
Dennis went up the stairs on hands and feet and, at the top, slammed the door behind him.
“’E’s got a sly way with ’im,” observed Rags.
“I never did like children,” said Noah, smacking his lips, then wiping them on his sleeve. “They’ve got to be. We can’t stop it. But keep them out o’ the way, I sez.”
Raikes smiled gently. “I always like young things,” he said.
After a little he rose, thanked Mrs. Wragge for his tea, and departed. He went straight to the bungalow where the two sisters lived. He could see Gem’s face at the window. His own face lighted. He raised his hand in salute. She beckoned and opened the door to him.
“Althea’s out for the next hour,” Gem whispered against his cheek. Nevertheless he locked the door.
“what’s that for?” she demanded, as though angry.
“I don’t like her walking in on us.”
“We won’t be doing anything that matters. What will she think if she finds the door locked?”
“I don’t care a damn what she thinks.”
“
I
have to live with her!”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll unlock the door.” This he did, then came and sat down.
“You usen’t to sit down while a lady was standing.”
He gave her a look that tingled through all her nerves.
“You’re not a lady now,” he said.
“what am I then?”
“The woman I love best in all the world.”
She came and stood close to him, languishing against him. He wrapped his arm about her and raised his eyes, as in worship, to her face.
“I do love this little room,” she exclaimed. “Oh, you’ve no idea, Tom, what it is to me to feel free. Although this is such a tiny place I can breathe in it. I was suffocated in that big house. I’m glad it is burned.” She left him and walked up and down the room filled with cumbersome furniture from the big house. The face of Eugene had come between them, and, for a moment, pity shook her. “Don’t think I’m not sorry for him,” she added hoarsely.
“Of course you are,” he said, in a comforting voice, “and so am I. Indeed he was a fine man.”
“And I’m grateful, too.”
“Of course. And so am I. Ah, he had a kind way with him.”
“He used to call me ‘girlie.’”
“Did he now?”
“And I called him — no, I can’t say it.”
“Go on, tell me.”
“No,” she answered sharply.
A mischievous smile lighted his dark face. “I’ll bet I know.”
“You’d never guess if you guessed all night. No. That name is buried with him.”
“Poor man, he had his troubles.”
“Well, I guess he’s better dead. I couldn’t have gone on living with him.”
“He was an old stick,” Raikes added composedly.
She gave a wild laugh, throwing off her sadness of the moment.
“what’s funny in that?” he demanded.
“The way you put things … You’re irresistible.”
He took out a full package of cigarettes, extracted one, lighted it and laid the burnt match carefully on a convenient ashtray.
The feeble electric bell tinkled in the kitchen. Startled they stared at the outer door. Raikes rose to his feet and looked questioningly toward the kitchen.
“No.” She framed the word with her lips.
Raikes dropped his cigarette and put his foot on it. He kicked it under a couch. He picked up his hat. Another ring sounded. Gem went to the door.
Finch Whiteoak stood there, bareheaded, tall against the little front yard with its pink petunias. It was not the first time they had met since Eugene Clapperton’s death. Before this, they had encountered each other by the ruins of the house. He had briefly sympathized with her, and escaped, too conscious of the gossip about her. Now he entered with an air of purpose. Raikes deferentially waited for dismissal, hat in hand.
“I suppose you have met Tom,” said Gem, after she had exchanged greetings with Finch. “He looks after the place for me.”
“Yes. I know. It must be a job to get things in order.”
“Ah, it’s not so bad,” said Raikes. “We have the land let to a very good farmer. The thing is to get the place tidied up.” He spoke with gravity.
“Sit down, won’t you?” Gem said to Finch. It was exciting to have a visitor in this tiny house. “I feel like a cottage woman,” she laughed. “I ought to be dusting the seat of your chair with my apron.”