‘Why, what’s amiss with the girl?’ asked Fanny sharply. ‘She was all right when I knew her.’
‘Ay — she’s all right. But she’s always in an’ out o’ th’ pubs, wi’ th’ fellows,’ said Harry.
‘A nice thing!’ said Fanny.
Harry glanced towards the door. He wanted to get out.
‘Most distressing, indeed!’ The minister slowly shook his head.
‘What about tonight, Mr. Enderby?’ asked Harry, in rather a small voice. ‘Shall you want me?’
Mr. Enderby looked up painedly, and put his hand to his brow. He studied Harry for some time, vacantly. There was the faintest sort of a resemblance between the two men.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think. I think we must take no notice, and cause as little remark as possible.’
Fanny hesitated. Then she said to Harry.
‘But will you come?’
He looked at her.
‘Ay, I s’ll come,’ he said.
Then he turned to Mr. Enderby.
‘Well, good-afternoon, Mr. Enderby,’ he said.
‘Good-afternoon, Harry, good-afternoon,’ replied the mournful minister. Fanny followed Harry to the door, and for some time they walked in silence through the late afternoon.
‘And it’s yours as much as anybody else’s?’ she said.
‘Ay,’ he answered shortly.
And they went without another word, for the long mile or so, till they came to the corner of the street where Harry lived. Fanny hesitated. Should she go on to her aunt’s? Should she? It would mean leaving all this, for ever. Harry stood silent.
Some obstinacy made her turn with him along the road to his own home. When they entered the house-place, the whole family was there, mother and father and Jinny, with Jinny’s husband and children and Harry’s two brothers.
‘You’ve been having yours ears warmed, they tell me,’ said Mrs. Goodall grimly.
‘Who telled thee?’ asked Harry shortly.
‘Maggie and Luke’s both been in.’
‘You look well, don’t you!’ said interfering Jinny.
Harry went and hung his hat up, without replying.
‘Come upstairs and take your hat off,’ said Mrs. Goodall to Fanny, almost kindly. It would have annoyed her very much if Fanny had dropped her son at this moment.
‘What’s ‘er say, then?’ asked the father secretly of Harry, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs whence Fanny had disappeared.
‘Nowt yet,’ said Harry.
‘Serve you right if she chucks you now,’ said Jinny. ‘I’ll bet it’s right about Annie Nixon an’ you.’
‘Tha bets so much,’ said Harry.
‘Yi — but you can’t deny it,’ said Jinny.
‘I can if I’ve a mind.’
His father looked at him inquiringly.
‘It’s no more mine than it is Bill Bower’s, or Ted Slaney’s, or six or seven on ‘em,’ said Harry to his father.
And the father nodded silently.
‘That’ll not get you out of it, in court,’ said Jinny.
Upstairs Fanny evaded all the thrusts made by his mother, and did not declare her hand. She tidied her hair, washed her hands, and put the tiniest bit of powder on her face, for coolness, there in front of Mrs. Goodall’s indignant gaze. It was like a declaration of independence. But the old woman said nothing.
They came down to Sunday tea, with sardines and tinned salmon and tinned peaches, besides tarts and cakes. The chatter was general. It concerned the Nixon family and the scandal.
‘Oh, she’s a foul-mouthed woman,’ said Jinny of Mrs. Nixon. ‘She may well talk about God’s holy house, she had. It’s first time she’s set foot in it, ever since she dropped off from being converted. She’s a devil and she always was one. Can’t you remember how she treated Bob’s children, mother, when we lived down in the Buildings? I can remember when I was a little girl she used to bathe them in the yard, in the cold, so that they shouldn’t splash the house. She’d half kill them if they made a mark on the floor, and the language she’d use! And one Saturday I can remember Garry, that was Bob’s own girl, she ran off when her stepmother was going to bathe her — ran off without a rag of clothes on — can you remember, mother? And she hid in Smedley’s closes — it was the time of mowing-grass — and nobody could find her. She hid out there all night, didn’t she, mother? Nobody could find her. My word, there was a talk. They found her on Sunday morning — ’
‘Fred Coutts threatened to break every bone in the woman’s body, if she touched the children again,’ put in the father.
‘Anyhow, they frightened her,’ said Jinny. ‘But she was nearly as bad with her own two. And anybody can see that she’s driven old Bob till he’s gone soft.’
‘Ah, soft as mush,’ said Jack Goodall. ‘‘E’d never addle a week’s wage, nor yet a day’s if th’ chaps didn’t make it up to him.’
‘My word, if he didn’t bring her a week’s wage, she’d pull his head off,’ said Jinny.
‘But a clean woman, and respectable, except for her foul mouth,’ said Mrs. Goodall. ‘Keeps to herself like a bull-dog. Never lets anybody come near the house, and neighbours with nobody.’
‘Wanted it thrashed out of her,’ said Mr. Goodall, a silent, evasive sort of man.
‘Where Bob gets the money for his drink from is a mystery,’ said Jinny.
‘Chaps treats him,’ said Harry.
‘Well, he’s got the pair of frightenedest rabbit-eyes you’d wish to see,’ said Jinny.
‘Ay, with a drunken man’s murder in them, I think,’ said Mrs. Goodall.
So the talk went on after tea, till it was practically time to start off to chapel again.
‘You’ll have to be getting ready, Fanny,’ said Mrs. Goodall.
‘I’m not going tonight,’ said Fanny abruptly. And there was a sudden halt in the family. ‘I’ll stop with you tonight, Mother,’ she added.
‘Best you had, my gel,’ said Mrs. Goodall, flattered and assured.
MONKEY NUTS
At first Joe thought the job O.K. He was loading hay on the trucks, along with Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted in a cottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for Joe never thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the tiny village station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On one side, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among flowering apple trees. The weather being sunny, work being easy, Albert, a real good pal, what life could be better! After Flanders, it was heaven itself.
Albert, the corporal, was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking fellow of about forty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of fun and nonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He was a very good pal to Joe, steady, decent and grave under all his ‘mischief’; for his mischief was only his laborious way of skirting his own ennui.
Joe was much younger than Albert — only twenty-three. He was a tallish, quiet youth, pleasant looking. He was of a slightly better class than his corporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved every day. ‘I haven’t got much of a face,’ said Albert. ‘If I was to shave every day like you, Joe, I should have none.’
There was plenty of life in the little goods-yard: three porter youths, a continual come and go of farm wagons bringing hay, wagons with timber from the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemed to make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate the station-master’s children played and his white chickens walked, whilst the stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wife to peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow.
The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. At first the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girls appeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the head of her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young,
in linen overalls and gaiters. Her face was ruddy, she had large blue eyes.
‘Now that’s the waggoner for us, boys,’ said the corporal loudly.
‘Whoa!’ she said to her horses; and then to the corporal: ‘Which boys do you mean?’
‘We are the pick of the bunch. That’s Joe, my pal. Don’t you let on that my name’s Albert,’ said the corporal to his private. ‘I’m the corporal.’
‘And I’m Miss Stokes,’ said the land-girl coolly, ‘if that’s all the boys you are.’
‘You know you couldn’t want more, Miss Stokes,’ said Albert politely. Joe, who was bare-headed, whose grey flannel sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly aside as if he had no part in the affair.
‘Are you on this job regular, then?’ said the corporal to Miss Stokes.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said, pushing a piece of hair under her hat, and attending to her splendid horses.
‘Oh, make it a certainty,’ said Albert.
She did not reply. She turned and looked over the two men coolly. She was pretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large blue eyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and easily.
‘Now!’ said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, ‘pleasant company makes work a pleasure — don’t hurry it, boys.’ He stood on the truck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbing occupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, also standing on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen. But he could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could.
Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She had seen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes, absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good many Joes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces. But there was something in the turn of Joe’s head, and something in his quiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh — which attracted her eye. As she watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and his dark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and turned aside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the truck. A slight flush mounted under the girl’s full, ruddy face. She liked him.
Always, after this, when she came into the sidings with her team, it was Joe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet on him. But Albert did all the talking. He was so full of fun and nonsense. Joe was a very shy bird, very brief and remote in his answers. Miss Stokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but she fixed her magnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk with Albert, and laugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little out of him. She had to depend on her silent forces. They were more effective than might be imagined.
Suddenly, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o’clock, Joe received a bolt from the blue — a telegram: ‘Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S.’ He knew at once who M.S. was. His heart melted, he felt weak as if he had had a blow.
‘What’s the trouble, boy?’ asked Albert anxiously.
‘No — no trouble — it’s to meet somebody.’ Joe lifted his dark-blue eyes in confusion towards his corporal.
‘Meet somebody!’ repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with keen blue eyes. ‘It’s all right, then; nothing wrong?’
‘No — nothing wrong. I’m not going,’ said Joe.
Albert was old and shrewd enough to see that nothing more should be said before the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take him into confidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued.
The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fair number of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in the market-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching the Saturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular evening, with which Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury Station, and of M.S. waiting there. He had not the faintest intention of meeting her. And he had not the faintest intention of telling Albert.
And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: ‘What d’you think of that?’
Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram form, and turned towards the candle to read it.
‘Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S.,’ he read, sotto voce. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look.
‘Who’s M.S.?’ he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe.
‘You know as well as I do,’ said Joe, non-committal.
‘M.S.,’ repeated Albert. ‘Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?’
The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing the householders.
‘I don’t know,’ said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two men looked straight into each other’s eyes. There was a lurking grin in each of them.
‘Well, I’m — blamed!’ said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down emphatically on the bed.
‘Wha-at?’ said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none the less.
Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head with mock gravity all the while. Joe watched him foolishly.
‘What?’ he repeated faintly.
Albert looked up at him with a knowing look.
‘If that isn’t coming it quick, boy!’ he said. ‘What the blazes! What ha’ you bin doing?’
‘Nothing!’ said Joe.
Albert slowly shook his head as he sat on the side of the bed.
‘Don’t happen to me when I’ve bin doin’ nothing,’ he said. And he proceeded to pull off his stockings.
Joe turned away, looking at himself in the mirror as he unbuttoned his tunic.
‘You didn’t want to keep the appointment?’ Albert asked, in a changed voice, from the bedside.
Joe did not answer for a moment. Then he said:
‘I made no appointment.’
‘I’m not saying you did, boy. Don’t be nasty about it. I mean you didn’t want to answer the — unknown person’s summons — shall I put it that way?’
‘No,’ said Joe.
‘What was the deterring motive?’ asked Albert, who was now lying on his back in bed.
‘Oh,’ said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. ‘I didn’t want to.’ He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant bearing.
‘Didn’t want to — didn’t cotton on, like. Well — they be artful, the women — ’ he mimicked his landlord. ‘Come on into bed, boy. Don’t loiter about as if you’d lost something.’
Albert turned over, to sleep.
On Monday Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her ‘whoa!’ was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face averted from her. She glanced him over — save for his slender succulent tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her.
‘Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.’
‘Very!’ she replied.
‘Handsome is as handsome looks,’ said Albert.
Which produced no response.
‘Now, Joe, come on here,’ said the corporal. ‘Don’t keep the ladies waiting — it’s the sign of a weak heart.’
Joe turned, and the work began. Nothing more was said for the time being. As the week went on all parties became more comfortable. Joe remained silent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes was off-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief.
The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on the following Saturday.
‘You’ll go to the circus, Miss Stokes?’ sa
id Albert.
‘I may go. Are you going?’
‘Certainly. Give us the pleasure of escorting you.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘That’s what I call a flat refusal — what, Joe? You don’t mean that you have no liking for our company, Miss Stokes?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Miss Stokes. ‘How many are there of you?’
‘Only me and Joe.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ she said, satirically.
Albert was a little nonplussed.
‘Isn’t that enough for you?’ he asked.
‘Too many by half,’ blurted out Joe, jeeringly, in a sudden fit of uncouth rudeness that made both the others stare.
‘Oh, I’ll stand out of the way, boy, if that’s it,’ said Albert to Joe. Then he turned mischievously to Miss Stokes. ‘He wants to know what M. stands for,’ he said, confidentially.
‘Monkeys,’ she replied, turning to her horses.
‘What’s M.S.?’ said Albert.
‘Monkey nuts,’ she retorted, leading off her team.
Albert looked after her a little discomfited. Joe had flushed dark, and cursed Albert in his heart.
On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town. They would have to walk home. They had tea at six o’clock, and lounged about till half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river — a great red-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great crowd of people was gathered round the ticket-caravan.
Inside the tent the lamps were lighted, shining on a ring of faces, a great circular bank of faces round the green grassy centre. Along with some comrades, the two soldiers packed themselves on a thin plank seat, rather high. They were delighted with the flaring lights, the wild effect. But the circus performance did not affect them deeply. They admired the lady in black velvet with rose-purple legs who leapt so neatly on to the galloping horse; they watched the feats of strength and laughed at the clown. But they felt a little patronizing, they missed the sensational drama of the cinema.
Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face of Miss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and her felt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at the clown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and it made him angry. He would not even mention it to Albert. Least said, soonest mended. He liked to believe she had not seen him. But he knew, fatally, that she had.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 638
