Barrie, J M - Echoes Of The War Page 3

  'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.' Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as this. 'I promise. Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy swine." I've kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the right to say that.'

  He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes him.

  'What is it, Kenneth?'

  'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.'

  Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast.

  'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me on the jumps.'

  He turns her round.

  'No, It couldn't be done.'

  'Was it me you were thinking of?'

  'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.'

  She catches hold of him by the sleeve.

  'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! It's laced up the back in the very latest.'

  'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.'

  It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically.

  'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It's not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it's chiffon.'

  'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.'

  'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your face less of a homely look?'

  'I'm sure I could.'

  'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will depend on the effect.'

  He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling.

  * * * * *

  One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham are in Mrs. Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been discussing the war, for the first words we catch are:

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to junkerdom.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one to another, what do you think will happen after the war? Are we to go back to being as we were?'

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war has wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance that is really astonishing.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the like of you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible departments of a great and haughty empire.'

  They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at home.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine again.'

  The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement.

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?'

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.'

  The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, she is in her best.

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?'

  Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half hour. They are at the theatre again.'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.'

  They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the secret leaps fr om them.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.'

  Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.'

  The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake.

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.'

  No wonder they titter.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your name), but the word is Exquiseetos.'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps).

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.'

  They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten.

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?'

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus sleeves.'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?'

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!'

  Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it.

  Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do that.

  MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have visitors!'

  DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.'

  He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner.

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to stay.'

  MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'--the ostentation of this!--'till I get out of my astrakhan--and my muff--and my gloves--and' (it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.'

  At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.'

  DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.'

  MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,' waggling her fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!' Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we had champagny wine.' There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts my word--here's th
e cork.'

  She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against my Alfred.'

  MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!'

  DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so hard for women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss the lot of you.'

  There is a moment of pleased confusion.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!'

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.'

  DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old lady; 'I must be off in ten minutes.'

  The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be having some last words to say to her.'

  DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say them in.'

  He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house.

  MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. 'Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.'

  All three present him with the cigarettes.

  MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.'

  THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm though it may not be gold-tipped.'

  DOWEY. 'You bricks!'

  THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.'

  DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, but--but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.'

  It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says 'Hell!' to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls.

  'Old lady.'

  She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow.

  'Is it time?'

  An encouraging voice answers her.

  'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.'

  'All is ended.'

  'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.'

  'Yes, Kenneth.'

  'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.'

  'The men have medals to win, you see.'

  'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to order her about, so he tries it again.

  'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know what he would like to say. 'God!'

  'What is it, Kenneth?'

  'You're a woman.'

  'I had near forgot it.'

  He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in the meantime--there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course--or mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her.

  'Have you noticed you have never called me son?'

  'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.'

  'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs uncomfortably. 'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.'

  'Kenneth, will I do?'

  'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.'

  'Propose for a mother?'

  'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?'

  She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with him.

  'None of your sauce, Kenneth.'

  'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish feelings for you.'

  'Wait till I get my mop to you!'

  'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll never ask another.'

  The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair.

  'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?'

  'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.'

  'Was I slow in learning to walk?'

  'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was that the whistle?'

  'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, joined the Black Watch.'

  'I like to think that, Kenneth.'

  'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you. 'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the style. Now listen, I've sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.'

  'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?'

  'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap--'

  'Kenneth!'

  ''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.

  'Hey! hey! hey! hey!'

  'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!'

  'Yes.'

  'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I've gone.'

  'I will.'

  'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.'

  'You may be sure.'

  He ties his scarf round her neck.

  'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.'

  'Away with you!'

  'That scarf sets you fine.'

  'Blue was always my colour.'

  The whistle sounds.

  'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.'

  She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she does something that makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely with Dixon.

  We have one last glimpse of the old lady--a month or two after Kenneth's death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Savings Certificates, Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day's toil.

  THE NEW WORD

  Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any son are the _dramatis personae_. We could pick them up in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in grocers' back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from, but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all go away but two.

  The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them. Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him, and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your reasons for wanting to be let off. It plea
ses our humour to tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off.

  He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing touch rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers, those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in the public thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has doubtless led many an onlooker to crime.

  Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair, only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawing-room, so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they make are dimples.

  Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is listening to Roger's step overhead. You, know what a delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number two in the house.

  Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two ladies as they gaze upward. 'I think--didn't I, Emma?' is the mother's contribution, while it is Emma who replies in a whisper, 'No, not yet!'