Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

by Herbert George Jenkins

  CHAPTER VII

  MRS. BINDLE DEMANDS A HOLIDAY

  I

  "I see they're starting summer-camps." Mrs. Bindle looked up fromreading the previous evening's paper. She was invariably twelve hourslate with the world's news.

  Bindle continued his breakfast. He was too absorbed in Mrs. Bindle'smethod of serving dried haddock with bubble-and-squeak to evince muchinterest in alien things.

  "That's right," she continued after a pause, "don't you answer. Yourears are in your stomach. Pleasant companion you are. I might as well beon a desert island for all the company you are."

  "If you wasn't such a damn good cook, Mrs. B., I might find time to saypretty things to you." It was only in relation to her own cooking thatBindle's conversational lapses passed without rebuke.

  "There are to be camps for men, camps for women, and family camps,"continued Mrs. Bindle without raising her eyes from the paper beforeher.

  "Personally myself I says put me among the gals." The remark reachedMrs. Bindle through a mouthful of haddock and bubble-and-squeak, plus afish-bone.

  "You don't deserve to have a decent home, the way you talk."

  There were times when no answer, however gentle, was capable of turningaside Mrs. Bindle's wrath. On Sunday mornings in particular she foundthe burden of Bindle's transgressions weigh heavily upon her.

  Bindle sucked contentedly at a hollow tooth. He was feeling generouslyinclined towards all humanity. Haddock, bubble-and-squeak, and his ownphilosophy enabled him to withstand the impact of Mrs. Bindle's mostvigorous offensive.

  "It's years since I had a holiday," she continued complainingly.

  "It is, Mrs. B.," agreed Bindle, drawing his pipe from his coat pocketand proceeding to charge it from a small oblong tin box. "We ain'texactly wot you'd call an 'oneymoon couple, you an' me."

  "The war's over."

  "It is," he agreed.

  "Then why can't we have a holiday?" she demanded, looking upaggressively from her paper.

  "Now I asks you, Mrs. B.," he said, as he returned the tin box to hispocket, "can you see you an' me in a bell-tent, or paddlin', or playin'ring-a-ring-a-roses?" and he proceeded to light his pipe with theblissful air of a man who knows that it is Sunday, and that The YellowOstrich will open its hospitable doors a few hours hence.

  "It says they're very comfortable," Mrs. Bindle continued, her eyesstill glued to the paper.

  "Wot is?"

  "The tents."

  "You ought to ask Ging wot a bell-tent's like, 'e'd sort o' surpriseyou. It's worse'n a wife, 'otter than religion, colder than ablue-ribboner. When it's 'ot it bakes you, when it's cold it lets youfreeze, and when it's blowin' 'ell an' tinkers, it 'oofs it, an' leavesyou with nothink on, a-blushin' like a curate 'avin' 'is first dip withthe young women in the choir. That's wot a bell-tent is, Mrs. B. In thearmy they calls 'em 'ell-tents."

  "Oh! don't talk to me," she snapped as she rose and proceeded to clearaway the breakfast-things, during which she expressed the state of herfeelings by the vigour with which she banged every utensil she handled.As she did so Bindle proceeded to explain and expound the salientcharacteristics of the army bell-tent.

  "When you wants it to stand up," he continued, "it comes down, you bein'underneath. When you wants it to come down, nothing on earth'll move it,till you goes inside to 'ave a look round an' see wot's the trouble,then down it comes on top o' you. It's a game, that's wot it is," headded with conviction, "a game wot nobody ain't goin' to win but thetent."

  "Go on talking, you're not hurting me," said Mrs. Bindle, with indrawnlower lip, as she brought down the teapot upon the dresser with a superbang.

  "I've 'eard Ging talk o' twins, war, women, an' the beer-shortage; butto 'ear 'im at 'is best, you got to get 'im to talk about bell-tents."

  "Everybody else has a holiday except me." Mrs. Bindle was not to bediverted from her subject. "Here am I, slavin' my fingers to the bone,inchin' and pinchin' to keep you in comfort, an' I can't 'ave a holiday.It's a shame, that's what it is, and it's all your fault." She paused inthe act of wiping out the inside of the frying-pan, and stood beforeBindle like an accusing fury. Anger always sullied the purity of herdiction.

  "Well, why don't you 'ave an 'oliday if you set yer 'eart on it? I ain'tgot nothink to say agin it." He continued to puff contentedly at hispipe, wondering what had become of the paper-boy. Bindle had become tooinured to the lurid qualities of domesticity to allow them to perturbhim.

  "'Ow can I go alone?"

  "You'd be safe enough."

  "You beast!" Bindle was startled by the vindictiveness with which thewords were uttered.

  For a few minutes there was silence, punctuated by Mrs. Bindle'svigorous clearing away. Presently she passed over to the sink and turnedon the tap.

  "Nice thing for a married woman to go away alone," she hurled at Bindleover her shoulder, amidst the rushing of water.

  "Well, take 'Earty," he suggested, with the air of a man anxious to finda way out of a difficulty.

  "You're a dirty-minded beast," was the retort.

  "An' this Sunday, too. Oh, naughty!"

  "You never take me anywhere." Mrs. Bindle was not to be denied.

  "I took you to church once," he said reminiscently.

  "Why don't you take me out now?" she demanded, ignoring his remark.

  "Well," he remarked, as he dug into the bowl of his pipe with amatch-stick, "when you caught a bus, you don't go on a-runnin' after it,do you?"

  "Why don't you get a week off and take me away?"

  "Well, I'll think about it." Bindle rose and, picking up his hat, leftthe room, with the object of seeking the missing paper-boy.

  The loneliness of her life was one of Mrs. Bindle's stock grievances. Ifshe had been reminded of the Chinese proverb that to have friends youmust deserve friends, she would have waxed scornful. Friends, she seemedto think, were a matter of luck, like a goose in a raffle, or a richuncle.

  "It's little enough pleasure I get," she would cry, in moments ofpassionate protest.

  To this, Bindle would sometimes reply that "it's wantin' a thing wotmakes you get it." Sometimes he would go on to elaborate the theory intothe impossibility of "'avin' a thing for supper an' savin' it forbreakfast."

  By this, he meant to convey to Mrs. Bindle that she was too set onpost-mortem joys to get the full flavour of those of this world.

  Mrs. Bindle possessed the soul of a potential martyr. If she found shewere enjoying herself, she would become convinced that, somewhereassociated with it, must be Sin with a capital "S", unless of course theenjoyment were directly connected with the chapel.

  She was fully convinced that it was wrong to be happy. Laughter inspiredher with distrust, as laughter rose from carnal thoughts carnallyexpressed. She fought with a relentless courage the old Adam withinherself, inspired always by the thought that her reward would come inanother and a better world.

  Her theology was that you must give up in this world all that your"carnal nature" cries out for, and your reward in the next world will bea sort of perpetual jamboree, where you will see the damned being boiledin oil, or nipped with red-hot pincers by little devils with curlytails. In this she had little to learn either from a Dante, or theSpanish Inquisition.

  The Biblical descriptions of heaven she accepted in all theirliteralness. She expected golden streets and jewelled gates, wings ofineffable whiteness and harps of an inspired sweetness, the wholecomposed by an orchestra capable of playing without break or interval.

  She insisted that the world was wicked, just as she insisted that it wasmiserable. She struggled hard to bring the light of salvation to Bindle,and she groaned in spirit at his obvious happiness, knowing that to behappy was to be damned.

  To her, a soul was what a scalp is to the American Indian. She stroveto collect them, knowing that the believer who went to salvation withthe greatest number of saved souls dangling at her girdle, would bethrice welcome, and thrice blessed.

  In Bindle's case, however, she
had to fall back upon the wheat that fellupon stony ground. With a cheerfulness that he made no effort todisguise, Bindle declined to be saved.

  "Look 'ere, Lizzie," he would say cheerily. "Two 'arps is quite enoughfor one family and, as you and 'Earty are sure of 'em, you leave mealone."

  One of Mrs. Bindle's principal complaints against Bindle was that henever took her out.

  "You could take me out fast enough once," she would complain.

  "But where'm I to take you?" cried Bindle. "You don't like the pictures,you won't go to the 'alls, and I can't stand that smelly little chapelof yours, listenin' to a cove wot tells you 'ow uncomfortable you'regoin' to be when you're cold meat."

  "You could take me for a walk, couldn't you?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

  "When I takes you round the 'ouses, you bully-rags me because Icheer-o's my pals, and if we passes a pub you makes pleasant littleremarks about gin-palaces. Tell you wot it is, Mrs. B.," he remarked onone occasion, "you ain't good company, at least not in this world," headded.

  "That's right, go on," Mrs. Bindle would conclude. "Why did you marryme?"

  "There, Mrs. B.," he would reply, "you 'ave me beaten."

  From the moment that Mrs. Bindle read of the Bishop of Fulham'sSummer-Camps for Tired Workers, she became obsessed by the idea of aholiday in a summer-camp. She was one of the first to apply for theliterature that was advertised as distributed free.

  The evening-paper that Bindle brought home possessed a new interest forher.

  "Anything about the summer-camps?" she would ask, interrupting Bindle inhis study of the cricket and racing news, until at last he came to hatethe very name of summer-camps and all they implied.

  "That's the worst o' religion," he grumbled one night at The YellowOstrich; "it comes a-buttin' into your 'ome life, an' then there ain'tno peace."

  "I don't 'old wiv religion," growled Ginger.

  "I ain't got nothink to say against religion _as_ religion," Bindle hadremarked; "but I bars summer-camps."

  Mrs. Bindle, however, was packing. With all the care of a practisedhousewife, she first devoted herself to the necessary cooking-utensils.She packed and unpacked half-a-dozen times a day, always stowing awaysome article that, a few minutes later, she found she required.

  Her conversation at meal-times was devoted exclusively to what theyshould take with them. She asked innumerable questions, none of whichBindle was able satisfactorily to answer. To him the bucolic life was aclosed book; but he soon realised that a holiday at the SurreySummer-Camp was inevitable.

  "Wot am I to do in a summer-camp?" he mumbled, one evening after supper."I can drive an 'orse, if some one's leadin' it, an' I knows it's an 'enwot lays the eggs an' the cock wot makes an 'ell of a row in themornin', same as them ole 'orrors we used to 'ave; but barrin' that, I'mdone."

  "That's right," broke in Mrs. Bindle, "try and spoil my pleasure, it'slittle enough I get."

  "But wot are we goin' to do in the country?" persisted Bindle withwrinkled forehead. "I don't like gardenin', an'----"

  "Pity you don't," she snapped.

  "Yes, it's a pity," he agreed; "still, it's saved me an 'ell of a lot o'back-aches. But wot are we goin' to do in a summer-camp, that's wot Iwant to know."

  "You'll be getting fresh air and--and you can watch the sunsets."

  "But the sun ain't goin' to set all day," he persisted. "Besides, I cansee the sunset from Putney Bridge, an' damn good sunsets too, for themas likes 'em. There ain't no need to go to a summer-camp to see asunset."

  "You can go on, you're not hurting me." Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips andsat looking straight in front of her, a grim figure of Christianpatience.

  "I can't milk a cow," Bindle continued disconsolately, reviewing hislimitations. "I can't catch chickens, me with various veins in my legs,I 'ates the smell o' pigs, an' I ain't good at weedin' gardens. Now Iasks you, Mrs. B., wot use am I at a summer-camp? I'll only be a sort o'fly in the drippin'."

  "You can enjoy yourself, I suppose, can't you?" she snapped.

  "But 'ow?"

  "Oh! don't talk to me. I'm sick and tired of your grumbling, with yourdon't like this, an' your don't like that. Pity you haven't something togrumble about."

  "But I ain't----"

  "There's many men would be glad to have a home like yours, an' chanceit."

  "Naughty!" cried Bindle, wagging an admonitory finger at her. "If I----"

  "Stop it!" she cried, jumping up, and making a dash for the fire, whichshe proceeded to poke into extinction.

  Meanwhile, Bindle had stopped it, seizing the opportunity whilst Mrs.Bindle was engaged with the fire, to slip out to The Yellow Ostrich.

  II

  "Looks a bit lonely, don't it?" Bindle gazed about him doubtfully.

  "What did you expect in the country?" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

  "Well, a tram or a bus would make it look more 'ome-like."

  The Bindles were standing on the down platform of Boxton Stationsurrounded by their luggage. There was a Japanese basket bursting toreveal its contents, a large cardboard hat-box, a small leather bagwithout a handle and tied round the middle with string to reinforce adubious fastening. There was a string-bag blatantly confessing to itsheterogeneous contents, and a roll of blankets, through the centre ofwhich poked Mrs. Bindle's second-best umbrella, with a travesty of aparrot's head for a handle.

  There was a small deal box without a lid and marked "Tate's Sugar," anda frying-pan done up in newspaper, but still obviously a frying-pan.Finally there was a small tin-bath, full to overflowing, and covered bya faded maroon-coloured table-cover that had seen better days.

  Bindle looked down ruefully at the litter of possessions that formed anoasis on a desert of platform.

  "They ain't afraid of anythink 'appening 'ere," he remarked, as helooked about him. "Funny little 'ole, I calls it."

  Mrs. Bindle was obviously troubled. She had been clearly told at thetemporary offices of the Committee of the Summer-Camps for TiredWorkers, that a cart met the train by which she and Bindle hadtravelled; yet nowhere was there a sign of life. Vainly in her own mindshe strove to associate Bindle with the cause of their standing alone ona country railway-platform, surrounded by so uninviting a collection ofluggage.

  Presently an old man was observed leaving the distant signal-box andhobbling slowly towards them. When within a few yards of the Bindles, hehalted and gazed doubtfully, first at them, then at the pile of theirpossessions. Finally he removed his cap of office as railway porter, andscratched his head dubiously.

  "I missed un that time," he said at length, as he replaced his cap.

  "Missed who?" enquired Bindle.

  "The four-forty," replied the old man, stepping aside to get a betterview of the luggage. "Got a-talkin' to Young Tom an' clean forgot un."It was clear that he regarded the episode in the light of a good joke."Yours?" he queried a moment later, indicating with a jerk of his headthe litter on the platform.

  "Got it first time, grandpa," said Bindle cheerfully. "We come to starta pawnshop in these parts," he added.

  The porter looked at Bindle with a puzzled expression, then his gazewandered back to the luggage and finally on to Mrs. Bindle.

  "We've come to join the Summer-Camp," she explained.

  "The Summer-Camp!" repeated the man, "the Summer-Camp!" Then he suddenlybroke into a breeze of chuckles. He looked from Mrs. Bindle to theluggage and from the luggage to Bindle, little gusts of throaty croakseddying and flowing. Finally with a resounding smack he brought his handdown upon his fustian thigh.

  "Well, I'm danged," he chuckled, "if that ain't a good un. I maun go an'tell Young Tom," and he turned preparatory to making off for thesignal-box.

  Bindle, however, by a swift movement barred his way.

  "If it's as funny as all that, ole sport, wot's the matter with tellin'us all about it?"

  Once more the old man stuttered off into a fugue of chuckles.

  "Young Tom'll laugh over this, 'e will," he gasped; "'e'll split'isself."
<
br />   "I suppose they don't 'ave much to amuse 'em," said Bindle patiently."Now then, wot's it all about?" he demanded.

  "Wrong station," spluttered the ancient. Then a moment later he added,"You be wantin' West Boxton. Camp's there. Three mile away. There ain'tanother train stoppin' here to-night," he added.

  Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle. Her lips had disappeared; but she saidnothing. The arrangements had been entirely in her hands, and it was shewho had purchased the tickets.

  "How far did you say it was?" she demanded of the porter in a tone thatseemed, as if by magic, to dry up the fountain of his mirth.

  "Three mile, mum," he replied, making a shuffling movement in thedirection of where Young Tom stood beside his levers, all unconscious ofthe splendid joke that had come to cheer his solitude. Mrs. Bindle,however, placed herself directly in his path, grim and determined. Theman fell back a pace, casting an appealing look at Bindle.

  "Where can we get a cart?" she demanded with the air of one who hastaken an important decision.

  The porter scratched his head through his cap and considered deeply,then with a sudden flank movement and a muttered, "I'll ask Young Tom,"he shuffled off in the direction of the signal-box.

  Bindle gazed dubiously at the pile of their possessions, and then atMrs. Bindle.

  "Three miles," he muttered. "You didn't ought to be trusted out with ayoung chap like me, Mrs. B.," he said reproachfully.

  "That's enough, Bindle."

  Without another word she stalked resolutely along the platform in thedirection of the signal-box. The old porter happening to glance over hisshoulder saw her coming, and broke into a shambling trot, determined toobtain the moral support of Young Tom before another encounter.

  Drawing his pipe from his pocket, Bindle sank down upon the tin-bath,jumping up instantly, conscious that something had given way beneath himwith a crack suggestive of broken crockery. Reseating himself upon thebundle of blankets, he proceeded to smoke contentedly. After all,something would happen, something always did.

  Twenty minutes elapsed before Mrs. Bindle returned with the announcementthat the signalman had telegraphed to West Boxton for a cart.

  "Well, well," said Bindle philosophically, "it's turnin' out an 'appyday; but I could do with a drink."

  An hour later a cart rumbled its noisy way up to the station, outsidewhich stood the Bindles and their luggage. A business-like little boyscout slid off the tail.

  "You want to go to the Camp?" he asked briskly.

  "Well," began Bindle, "I can't say that I----"

  "Yes," interrupted Mrs. Bindle, seeing in the boy scout her St. George;"we got out at the wrong station." She looked across at Bindle as shespoke, as if to indicate where lay the responsibility for the mistake.

  "All right!" said the friend of all the world. "We'll soon get youthere."

  "An' who might you be, young-fellow-my-lad?" enquired Bindle.

  "I'm Patrol-leader Smithers of the Bear Patrol," was the response.

  "You don't say so," said Bindle. "Well, well, it's live an' learn, ain'tit?"

  "Now we'll get the luggage up," said Patrol-leader Smithers.

  "'Ow 'Aig an' Foch must miss you," remarked Bindle as between them theyhoisted up the tin-bath; but the lad was too intent upon the work onhand for persiflage.

  A difficulty presented itself in how Mrs. Bindle was to get into thecart. Her intense sensitiveness, coupled with the knowledge that therewould be four strange pairs of male eyes watching her, constituted aserious obstacle. Young Tom, in whom was nothing of the spirit of JackCornwell, and his friend the old porter made no effort to disguise thefact that they were determined to see the drama through to the lastfade-out.

  Bindle's suggestion that he should "'oist" her up, Mrs. Bindle hadignored, and she flatly refused to climb the spokes of the wheel. Thestep in front was nearly a yard from the ground, and Mrs. Bindleresented Young Tom's sandy leer.

  It was Patrol-leader Smithers who eventually solved the problem bysuggesting a dandy-chair, to which Mrs. Bindle reluctantly agreed.Accordingly Bindle and the porter crossed arms and clasped one another'swrists.

  Mrs. Bindle took up a position with her back to the tail of the cart,and the two Sir Walters bent down, whilst Patrol-leader Smithers turnedhis back and, with great delicacy, strove to engage the fixed eye ofYoung Tom; but without success.

  "Now when I says 'eave--'eave," Bindle admonished the porter.

  Gingerly Mrs. Bindle sat down upon their crossed hands.

  "One, two, three--'eave!" cried Bindle, and they heaved.

  There was a loud guffaw from Young Tom, a stifled scream, and Mrs.Bindle was safely in the cart; but on her back, with the soles of herelastic-sided boots pointing to heaven. Bindle had under-estimated thethews of the porter.

  "Right away!" cried Patrol-leader Smithers, feeling that prompt actionalone could terminate so regrettable an incident, and he and Bindleclambered up into the cart, where Mrs. Bindle, having regained controlof her movements, was angrily tucking her skirts about her.

  The cart jerked forward, and Young Tom and his colleague grinned theirvaledictions, in their hearts the knowledge that they had just lived acrowded hour of glorious life.

  The cart jolted its uneasy way along the dusty high-road, with Bindlebeside the driver, Mrs. Bindle sitting on the blankets as grim asDestiny itself, engaged in working up a case against Bindle, and the boyscout watchful and silent, as behoves the leader of an enterprise.

  Bindle soon discovered that conversationally the carter was limited tothe "Aye" of agreement, varied in moments of unwonted enthusiasm with an"Oh, aye!"

  At the end of half an hour's jolt, squeak, and crunch, the cart turnedinto a lane overhung by giant elms, where the sun-dried ruts were likeminiature trenches.

  "Better hold on," counselled the lad, as he made a clutch at theJapanese basket, which was in danger of going overboard. "It's a bitbumpy here."

  "Fancy place in wet weather," murmured Bindle, as he held on with bothhands. "So this is the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers," and hegazed about him curiously.