The Two Mrs. Abbotts (9 page)

“Soon,” said Jerry. “In a day or two—she said she would send me a wire.”

“I think you should try to keep it cleaner,” said Jerry, trying hard to make the words sound like a friendly suggestion.

“Keep it cleaner!”

“Yes, there's a sort of smell in the house, Mrs. Boles. It can't be good for you—or the children.”

“It's them smelly lamps, that's wot,” declared Mrs. Boles in truculent tones. “I'm just about fed up with this plice. You can't go outside the door without gettin' yer feet allover mud. I never go out 'ere.”

“You ought to go out.”

“Wot for? I ain't got no frens an' there ain't no shops nor no pictures.”

“And there are no bombs,” Jerry reminded her.

“There 'asn't bin no bombs in Stepney for munce. The luffwater's finished, Mr. Boles ses.”

“I don't think he's right,” said Jerry mildly.

“'E knows better than you,” declared his wife. “'E's workin' in an aircraff factory, Mr. Boles is…any 'ow I'm packin' up an' leavin' 'ere before I gets moldy allover.”

Jerry hesitated. She was ashamed of the pleasure and relief that surged over her at this unexpected news. She said gently, “I'm sorry, Mrs. Boles. I'm afraid it must have been rather dull for you here.”

“Dull!” echoed Mrs. Boles. “Dull ain't the word. It's like bein' buried alive.”

“But you have the children.”

“They ain't no company.”

Jerry sighed. She said, “You don't really mean you're going back to London, do you?”

“I'm fed up with this plice.”

“But what about the children?”

“They'll 'ave to taike their chance. That's one of the reasons I'm goin'—it's bad for the children bein' 'ere.”

“Bad for them!”

“They're bein' spoilt,” declared Mrs. Boles. “They're bein' took away from me. It's 'igh time we wos 'ome in our own plice.”

“Who's taking them away from you?” asked Jerry in surprise.

“I dunno,” she replied vaguely. “I can't expline. They're bein' taught different. Wot's goin' to come of it—that's wot I want to know.”

“I don't understand,” said Jerry doubtfully. “You're all living here together.”

“It's the other kids,” explained Mrs. Boles. “It's them country brats. Arrol comes 'ome from school an' ses the other kids 'ave soup for their dinners an' why can't we? 'E ses they 'ave stew with carrots an' turnips an' wot not. Then Elmie chips in an' ses, ‘Why can't we 'ave puddin' sometimes?'”

“Well, why can't they?” asked Jerry.

“They never wanted it before.”

“It's easier to give them bread and jam or fish and chips but it isn't so good for them, you know.”

Mrs. Boles sniffed. She said, “I'd loike to see Bert's faice if I started givin' 'im fancy cookin'—an' wot's good enough for Bert is good enough for them.”

“Food isn't everything,” said Jerry.

“It's a lot,” replied the woman. “And it ain't only food, neither. It's clothes, too. ‘I want thick shoes,' Elmie ses. ‘I want a skirt an' a jersey loike wot the other girls 'as. I want a nightdress'…it's
I
want
all the toime. She's gettin' too big for 'er boots, that's wot.”

Jerry felt inclined to smile, but only for a moment. She realized that this was no smiling matter to Mrs. Boles. Indeed it was a vital problem and one that was being encountered all over the country…and she could find no answer to it. She had never liked Mrs. Boles but at this moment she
almost
liked her, for she understood, as she had never understood before, what Mrs. Boles was suffering.

Mrs. Boles was waiting for an answer, or at least some sort of reaction to her complaints, and Jerry was forced to speak. She said without much conviction, “Why not try to give them what they want?”

“Because they didn't ought to want it,” replied Mrs. Boles.

“I wonder,” said Jerry thoughtfully. “I think you should be pleased if Elmie wants to be like the other children.”

“Ho, do you!” cried Mrs. Boles. “You think I ought to be pleased that my own kid looks down on me! I'll teach 'er to look down on me. We're goin' back 'ome. She'll soon ferget 'er fancy ideers when we gets 'ome to Stepney.”

The exodus of the Boles family took place two days later. Jerry had said good-bye to them in the morning, had reminded Mrs. Boles that a small van was coming for them at two o'clock to take them and their luggage to the station, and had given them a little present to pay their fares and other expenses of the journey. It was not necessary to give them anything, of course, for she had given them more than enough already—one way and another—but she gave it to them, hoping that it would salve her conscience, which was behaving in a most extraordinary way. Her conscience said, “You shouldn't let them go home. There may be a raid on Stepney. They may be killed and it will be all your fault,” and her conscience continued to say these uncomfortable things although it must have known perfectly well that Jerry had done all she could to make Mrs. Boles stay: had talked until she was tired and bribed her with offers of more coal and free milk and vegetables from the garden. In fact Jerry had done everything to make Mrs. Boles stay at Ganthorne Cottage, everything short of binding the woman hand and foot and locking her in the toolshed, so it really was extremely odd that her conscience should keep on bothering her like this. I suppose it's because I'm glad they're going, thought Jerry. I
am
glad, of course, but I can't
help
being glad…

Markie had not said good-bye to the Boles family in the morning, for she intended to be on the spot when they left. Markie had no illusions about Mrs. Boles, partly because Markie was naturally a good judge of human nature and partly because Mrs. Boles had a curiously shaped head. Markie was very much interested in Mrs. Boles's head—she would have liked to measure it.

It was just after two when Markie arrived at the cottage; the van was already there, and, as Markie approached, she saw a large roll of dark red material being carried down the steps.

“Those are Mrs. Abbott's curtains,” said Markie in her mildest voice.

The vanman, who was carrying the bundle, hesitated—and at that moment Mrs. Boles appeared in the doorway and demanded what was up.

Markie could not reply immediately. She was struck dumb by the magnificence of Mrs. Boles. She had seen the woman slopping about in torn and dirty garments with her hair in curlers and her face smeared with soot, but today, for the first time, she beheld Mrs. Boles in war paint. Mrs. Boles was wearing a black satin coat and a hat with a red feather in it, and high-heeled patent leather shoes with steel buckles on them. Her hair was frizzed to the limit (and no wonder after nearly two years confinement in steel curlers); her face was thickly powdered; her hands were encased in gray kid gloves.

“The lady ses these belongs to Mrs. Abbott,” said the vanman. “Are they to go in the van or not?”

“You put them in the van,” said Mrs. Boles firmly. “Mrs. Abbott sed we could 'ave them.”

“I think not,” said Markie, finding her voice. “I am afraid you must have been mistaken. We require the curtains for the blackout, you see…and that kettle belongs to Mrs. Abbott, too,
and
the large saucepan.”

“I never thort she'd grudge us a kettle!” exclaimed Mrs. Boles, more in sorrow than anger.

Markie took no notice. She was aware that if Jerry had been present the things would have been given to Mrs. Boles without a murmur, but Jerry was not present and it was Markie's duty to look after her interests—besides it was quite impossible to replace the things. Money wouldn't buy blackout curtains or saucepans; kettles were as rare and difficult to obtain as rocs' eggs.

“And that is Mrs. Abbott's rug,” continued Markie, still in her gentlest voice. “It's the hearth rug from the kitchen, isn't it, Mrs. Boles? You may take those pillows if you like—they won't be any use to anybody—but the door mat must be put back…and the coal hammer, of course.”

“Nosey!” cried Mrs. Boles. “Nosey Parker—wot's it got to do with you! Mrs. Abbott wouldn't mind me taikin' one or two little things. Mrs. Abbott's a real lidy—and that's more than you are!”

Markie was too busy to listen to these insults. She had opened an untidy bulging sack and was sorting out its contents. Mrs. Boles had intended to take all the cutlery back to Stepney with her…

“They're only Woolworths',” declared Mrs. Boles in disgust.

“But they are not yours.”

“I wouldn't be seen dead with them. You can 'ave them an' welcome.”

Markie sighed. It was a most unpleasant job but if everything were removed from the cottage it would be impossible for anyone to live there—at any rate until the war was over and the things could be replaced.

“You'd better hurry or we'll lose the train,” said the vanman, looking at his watch. “The train won't wait for you—nor anyone. Is this all that's to go?”

Mrs. Boles lifted her voice and screamed for her children, and after a moment's delay they came running out of the cottage. Elmie looked much as usual except that her hair, which was usually straight and lanky, had been tortured into a frizz, but Arrol presented a very odd appearance, for his best clothes—which he had not worn for some months—were now so much too small for him that he could scarcely move.

“Wot's that you've got 'old of, Arrol?” inquired Mrs. Boles.

Arrol displayed a glass jam jar full of tadpoles. “I'm takin' them 'ome with me,” he said.

“No, you don't!” cried his mother. “We don't want no country trash.”

“My tadpoles!” yelled Arrol, dodging behind the van and clasping the jar firmly against his chest.

Mrs. Boles pursued, and, after a short tussle during which Arrol received a box on the ears, she managed to get hold of the jar and empty it onto the path.

“My tadpoles!” screamed Arrol. “My tadpoles!”

“Shut up, do,” said Mrs. Boles, not unkindly. “You won't
want
no tadpoles at Stepney. You'll be goin' to the pictures and playin' with the other kids. Don't raw like that, Arrol. Jus' think wot a noice toime you're goin' to 'ave!”

But Arrol continued to roar. He was still roaring when he was dragged into the van and the door was shut. He was still roaring when the van lurched away down the drive.

Markie watched until the van was out of sight and then she shook her head and sighed. “Most unfortunate!” she said.

The cleansing of the cottage reminded Markie of the fifth task of Hercules, so she decided; but the Augean Stables had been tenanted by animals that, compared with Mrs. Boles, were clean…“All the same it has got to be done,” said Markie firmly as she tied on her apron and got to work.

It was fully a week before the cottage was cleaned to Markie's satisfaction. She did a little each day, washing the curtains and carpets as she went along—indeed she washed everything in the place and Fraser came in and gave her a hand whenever he could manage it.

“I wish you would leave it to me, Fraser,” declared Markie when she saw him on his knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. “You have your own work and your leisure should be spent in recreation.”

“Hoots,” replied Fraser. “This puts me in mind of home. You'd not grudge me a wee bit of pleasure.”

“It cannot be a pleasure to scrub a floor!”

“It is. I like fine to see the place looking clean and to think I've had a hand in it. I was vexed when I saw the way yon woman misused the wee house—fushionless slawpie that she was.”

“She was, indeed,” agreed Markie, who had not heard these terms for nearly thirty years. “She was indeed.”

“And the bairns,” continued Fraser. “I was vexed for the bairns. What's to become of them!”

Markie did not know.

“Something should be done,” continued Fraser, as he scrubbed industriously. “Folks like that are not fit to be trusted with bairns.”

“What could be done?” asked Markie. “The children are her own. You would not take them away from her.”

“I ken fine what I'd do if I had my way,” he replied. “I'd put her in the duck pond and keep her there. Maybe she'd be cleaner when she came out of it.”

“She could hardly be dirtier,” agreed Miss Marks with a sigh.

They worked in silence for a little. Markie polishing the window and Fraser scrubbing the floor…and presently as Markie stooped to pick up her shammy she perceived a packet of Jackal cigarettes lying at her feet.

“Oh!” exclaimed Markie, looking at them.

“You've not had your fags lately,” said Fraser.

It was rather a curious way of making a presentation, but it was Fraser's way. Miss Marks had been given cigarettes before by her fellow countrymen and they had always been conveyed to her obliquely. Sometimes she discovered them in the pocket of her overall (which usually hung behind the kitchen door); sometimes she found them in the coal scuttle. There was never any doubt as to the donor, of course, for Miss Marks and Fraser understood each other.

“Oh, Fraser!” exclaimed Miss Marks, looking at the packet of cigarettes in dismay, “Oh, Fraser, how very, very good of you—but really.”

“D'you like them?” asked Fraser.

“Well, Fraser,” said Markie. “To tell you the truth I always smoke one particular brand of cigarette—when I can obtain it, of course.”

“These are not much use to you, then?”

“If you want to give me something that I should value very highly, give me matches,” said Markie.

“They're not easy to come by.”

“I know,” agreed Markie. “I know that well. Matches seem to have vanished from the face of the earth, and, as we have no electricity in the house, I am often at my wits' end for a means of lighting the fire.”

“Have you not a lighter?”

“No, I am sorry to say neither Mrs. Abbott nor I possess a cigarette lighter, and they are not to be bought. We have tried all over Wandlebury and Gostown. It really is a problem. Once the fire is lighted we can manage with tapers, of course. It is the fire that is the trouble. You know, Fraser, it is a very curious thing that we have become so dependent upon the match.”

“That's so,” agreed Fraser, kneeling back and looking up at her. “We didn't think much of them when we had them. What did folk do before they were invented?”

“They used flint and steel. As a matter of fact I have been experimenting with flint and steel myself.”

“Did you get a spark?” inquired Fraser.

“Not a satisfactory one,” she told him. “My experiments have been unsuccessful, but I shall go on trying.”

“You'll need a special kind of contraption,” said Fraser thoughtfully. “Maybe I could make one for you—I'll have a go at it.”

Markie expressed her gratitude. She was delighted to see that the packet of cigarettes had been returned to Fraser's pocket, and even more delighted to think that these tokens of his esteem would not embarrass her again. If Fraser could manufacture some sort of “contraption” that would serve to light her fire Markie would be his debtor for life—she had not exaggerated the gravity of her matchless condition. It was all the more strange (thought Markie as she polished the cottage windows) because Ganthorne had been built in a matchless age. Our forefathers had never depended upon matches. Markie had done her best with flint and steel and she had tried other methods as well. She was widely read and was aware that savages obtained fire by rubbing two sticks together—Markie had rubbed two sticks together until her hands were full of splinters, but no fire had resulted.

The problem was acute and exceedingly inconvenient but it provided Markie with food for thought—and very interesting food. She realized, for the first time, how very important fire was. We lost sight of the meaning of fire when it was easy to produce. Fire was one of Heaven's best gifts to man. Fire was life. Markie began to realize the meaning of the Vestal Virgins who tended the sacred fire night and day and never allowed it to die.

These philosophical reflections were worthwhile in themselves, but they bore practical fruit, and the next time Markie went to Wandlebury, she bought a box of nightlights that relieved the situation a good deal. Ganthorne was now a place of sacred fire and this sacred fire would not be extinguished until Fraser evolved his contraption of flint and steel. A classical education was not altogether useless, as some people were apt to imagine.

The day came when the Augean Labor was completed. The cottage was once more spick and span—fresh and clean as soap and water could make it—and every trace of that queer sickly smell had vanished in the breeze that blew in through the widely open windows and set the curtains jangling on their rings. Markie stood on the doorstep and looked at the sky. The light was fading. A purple cloud hung above the stable roofs and, behind the cloud, the sky was pure saffron. It was very peaceful and very beautiful. Markie was tired and a pain that had begun to bother her a little was nagging in her side, but in spite of this she felt happy. The thought that she had banished a plague spot from her beloved Ganthorne gave her intense satisfaction.

She was about to shut the door and go home when she saw somebody cross the path in front of her and disappear in the direction of the stables. The light was too dim to see who it was, but she was certain it was not Jerry—it was too small and somehow a trifle furtive. Jerry walked boldly; she did not slink like that. After a moment's hesitation Markie followed and she arrived in the stable yard just in time to see the mysterious figure disappear into Dapple's loose box. She pushed open the door and peered about in the gloom. “Who is there?” she said.

“It's only me,” said a small voice, and Elmie Boles emerged from behind the pony's back.

“Elmie!” exclaimed Markie in dismay.

Elmie began to sob. She did not cry like an ordinary child, but with deep half-strangled sobs that seemed to shake her small ill-nourished body with the violence of earthquakes.

“Don't cry like that!” exclaimed Markie in alarm.

“I can't—'elp—it,” gasped Elmie.

“What has happened? Why have you come back?”

There was no reply.

“Come out and let me see you,” said Markie firmly. “There now. That's better. What's the matter, Elmie?”

“I couldn't—bear it—that's wot,” declared Elmie between her gasps.

“What couldn't you bear?”

“'ome,” said Elmie.

“Goodness me!” exclaimed Markie, and her heart sank into her boots.

“It was 'orrible,” declared Elmie with a gulp.

“I thought you were quite pleased to go back to Stepney. Your mother was pleased.”

“Not me. I might of thort I would be, but I wasn't. I couldn't bear it another minute—so I come back 'ere.”

“But why?” asked Markie in exasperation. “Why did you come back
here?
”

“'Cos I 'adn't got nowhere else to go.”

“But, Elmie—”

“An' you did my finger for me,” added Elmie, looking at her finger, which, though perfectly healed, still bore the scar of her wound.

Markie was too kindhearted to wish that she had not cured Elmie's wound, but she
almost
wished it. She reflected that things worked in an odd way in this odd world. It was because she had taken a good deal of trouble over Elmie's finger that Elmie had returned to cause more trouble at Ganthorne Lodge. “How did you come?” asked Markie with a sigh. “Who brought you?”

“Nobody brought me. I stood in the road an' pointed.”

“Did your parents know you were coming?”

Elmie shook her head. “We 'ad a row,” she said. “Gor' it was a row, too! We wos all shoutin' fit ter rise the roof…then Dad ses, ‘Orl roight,' 'e ses, ‘if my 'ouse ain't good enough you can get out an' stye out.' So I ses, ‘Okay,' an' I walks out.”

“Goodness!” said Markie in dismay.

“I won't go back, neither,” said Elmie.

“I'm afraid you'll have to go back.”

Elmie began to sob again. “Nobody wants me,” she wailed. “Nobody wants me an' I don't want nobody—I'd be better dead.”

“Blow your nose, Elmie,” said Miss Marks, handing over her own large clean pocket handkerchief. “Wipe your eyes and don't talk nonsense. We must think what is to be done.”

“I'll do anything if you let me stye,” declared Elmie, coming closer and laying a thin grimy hand on Markie's arm. “I will reelly. I can sleep in the stible with Dapple so I won't be no trouble…an' I don't need much food, just a few scraps that you can spare…I'll work, too. I will, reelly, if you'll jus' let me stye…”

The hoarse eager voice went on, making all the promises its owner could think of, making the most extravagant promises of hard work and good behavior…so much so that Markie's heart was touched and she began to wonder whether it could possibly be arranged. The parents would have to be informed and their consent obtained, of course…

“Well, anyway, we cannot do anything tonight,” said Markie at last. “You had better come up to the house and have something to eat.”

“Just a crust,” said Elmie. “That's all I want—an' I can 'ave it 'ere—an' I can sleep 'ere with Dapple. I won't be no bother to nobody.”

“You will do as you are told,” said Markie firmly.

***

Jerry had been spending the evening at the Archway House. It was late when she got home and she expected Markie to be in bed, but she found Markie sitting by the fire, smoking like a chimney and reading the morning paper.

“I had no time to read it before,” said Markie, laying it down. “Not that it matters because there is very little news. Everything seems to have reached a sort of deadlock…and the government is being urged to start a second front.”

“It would be a seventh front,” replied Jerry. “At least that's what Uncle Arthur says. He says it's wrong and silly and dangerous for people to go on screaming for another front.”

“Mr. Abbott's views are always extremely sound,” declared Markie. Jerry nodded. She said, “But what on earth have you been doing with yourself if you haven't had time to read the paper. I suppose you've been working at the cottage, cleaning up the Boles's mess—I wish you wouldn't, Markie. Isn't there anybody you could get to help you?”

“Fraser helped me,” replied Markie. She sighed and added, “I have done a good deal of cleaning today, one way and another.”

“Thank goodness we're rid of
famille
Boles!”

“But we are not. Wilhelmina has returned.”

“What! Elmie!”

“I think we should call her Wilhelmina.”

“Call her what you like—why on earth has she come back?”

“She did not like Stepney.”

“Markie, don't be so mysterious!” cried Jerry. “You sit there like a heathen idol, smoking and smiling to yourself. Tell me what's happened. Where
is
the child?”

“In bed,” said Markie, smiling more broadly than before.

“Not in
this
house, I hope!”

“She's perfectly clean, dear. I washed her thoroughly with carbolic soap and cut her hair. Really she is quite a nice-looking child. You wouldn't know her.”

“I certainly wouldn't,” agreed Jerry. “Not if she's clean.”

“The point is,” continued Markie, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply. “The point is what are we to do with Wilhelmina.”

“Send her back to her parents, of course.”

“Yes, dear. That does seem the solution at first sight, but I do not think she will go. I tried to reason with her, of course, but she seems adamant. She threatens to throw herself into the river if we turn her away—and I really believe she might carry out the threat.”

“But Markie—”

“There is much to be thought of,” continued Markie, who had given the matter a good deal of attention. “It is not such a simple problem as it appears. The child has run away from home, but her home is not what it should be. She has run away from her parents, but her parents have done little for her except to give her birth.”

“Markie, listen,” began Jerry, trying to interrupt this flow of reasoned judgment.

“No, dear,” said Markie. “I have thought it out and I want to give you my views. After I have finished I shall be delighted to listen to you. Wilhelmina has been brought up in squalor but now she realizes there is a better way of living; she has come back and is clinging to Ganthorne as a drowning man clings to a raft. Are we justified in pushing her back into the sea and allowing her to drown?”