‘I didn’t know as ‘ow yer wanted me, mother,’ answered Liza.
‘Well, yer might ‘ave come ter see! I might ‘ave been dead, for all you knew.’
Liza said nothing.
‘My rheumatics was thet bad to-dy, thet I didn’t know wot ter do with myself. The doctor said I was to be rubbed with that stuff ‘e give me, but yer won’t never do nothin’ for me.’
‘Well, mother,’ said Liza, ‘your rheumatics was all right yesterday.’
‘I know wot you was doin’; you was showin’ off thet new dress of yours. Pretty waste of money thet is, instead of givin’ it me ter sive up. An’ for the matter of thet, I wanted a new dress far worse than you did. But, of course, I don’t matter.’
Liza did not answer, and Mrs. Kemp, having nothing more to say, continued her supper in silence.
It was Liza who spoke next.
‘There’s some new people moved in the street. ‘Ave you seen ‘em?’ she asked.
‘No, wot are they?’
‘I dunno; I’ve seen a chap, a big chap with a beard. I think ‘e lives up at the other end.’
She felt herself blushing a little.
‘No one any good you be sure,’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘I can’t swaller these new people as are comin’ in; the street ain’t wot it was when I fust come.’
When they had done, Mrs. Kemp got up, and having finished her half-pint of beer, said to her daughter:
‘Put the things awy, Liza. I’m just goin’ round to see Mrs. Clayton; she’s just ‘ad twins, and she ‘ad nine before these come. It’s a pity the Lord don’t see fit ter tike some on ‘em—thet’s wot I say.’
After which pious remark Mrs. Kemp went out of the house and turned into another a few doors up.
Liza did not clear the supper things away as she was told, but opened the window and drew her chair to it. She leant on the sill, looking out into the street. The sun had set, and it was twilight, the sky was growing dark, bringing to view the twinkling stars; there was no breeze, but it was pleasantly and restfully cool. The good folk still sat at their doorsteps, talking as before on the same inexhaustible subjects, but a little subdued with the approach of night. The boys were still playing cricket, but they were mostly at the other end of the street, and their shouts were muffled before they reached Liza’s ears.
She sat, leaning her head on her hands, breathing in the fresh air and feeling a certain exquisite sense of peacefulness which she was not used to. It was Saturday evening, and she thankfully remembered that there would be no factory on the morrow; she was glad to rest. Somehow she felt a little tired, perhaps it was through the excitement of the afternoon, and she enjoyed the quietness of the evening. It seemed so tranquil and still; the silence filled her with a strange delight, she felt as if she could sit there all through the night looking out into the cool, dark street, and up heavenwards at the stars. She was very happy, but yet at the same time experienced a strange new sensation of melancholy, and she almost wished to cry.
Suddenly a dark form stepped in front of the open window. She gave a little shriek.
‘’Oo’s thet?’ she asked, for it was quite dark, and she did not recognize the man standing in front of her.
‘Me, Liza,’ was the answer.
‘Tom?’
‘Yus!’
It was a young man with light yellow hair and a little fair moustache, which made him appear almost boyish; he was light-complexioned and blue-eyed, and had a frank and pleasant look mingled with a curious bashfulness that made him blush when people spoke to him.
‘Wot’s up?’ asked Liza.
‘Come aht for a walk, Liza, will yer?’
‘No!’ she answered decisively.
‘You promised ter yesterday, Liza.’
‘Yesterday an’ ter-day’s two different things,’ was her wise reply.
‘Yus, come on, Liza.’
‘Na, I tell yer, I won’t.’
‘I want ter talk ter yer, Liza.’ Her hand was resting on the window-sill, and he put his upon it. She quickly drew it back.
‘Well, I don’t want yer ter talk ter me.’
But she did, for it was she who broke the silence.
‘Say, Tom, ‘oo are them new folk as ‘as come into the street? It’s a big chap with a brown beard.’
‘D’you mean the bloke as kissed yer this afternoon?’
Liza blushed again.
‘Well, why shouldn’t ‘e kiss me?’ she said, with some inconsequence.
‘I never said as ‘ow ‘e shouldn’t; I only arst yer if it was the sime.’
‘Yea, thet’s ‘oo I mean.’
‘’Is nime is Blakeston—Jim Blakeston. I’ve only spoke to ‘im once; he’s took the two top rooms at No. 19 ‘ouse.’
‘Wot’s ‘e want two top rooms for?’
‘’Im? Oh, ‘e’s got a big family—five kids. Ain’t yer seen ‘is wife abaht the street? She’s a big, fat woman, as does ‘er ‘air funny.’
‘I didn’t know ‘e ‘ad a wife.’
There was another silence; Liza sat thinking, and Tom stood at the window, looking at her.
‘Won’t yer come aht with me, Liza?’ he asked, at last.
‘Na, Tom,’ she said, a little more gently, ‘it’s too lite.’
‘Liza,’ he said, blushing to the roots of his hair.
‘Well?’
‘Liza’—he couldn’t go on, and stuttered in his shyness—’Liza, I—I—I loves yer, Liza.’
‘Garn awy!’
He was quite brave now, and took hold of her hand.
‘Yer know, Liza, I’m earnin’ twenty-three shillin’s at the works now, an’ I’ve got some furniture as mother left me when she was took.’
The girl said nothing.
‘Liza, will you ‘ave me? I’ll make yer a good ‘usband, Liza, swop me bob, I will; an’ yer know I’m not a drinkin’ sort. Liza, will yer marry me?’
‘Na, Tom,’ she answered quietly.
‘Oh, Liza, won’t you ‘ave me?’
‘Na, Tom, I can’t.’
‘Why not? You’ve come aht walkin’ with me ever since Whitsun.’
‘Ah, things is different now.’
‘You’re not walkin’ aht with anybody else, are you, Liza?’ he asked quickly.
‘Na, not that.’
‘Well, why won’t yer, Liza? Oh Liza, I do love yer, I’ve never loved anybody as I love you!’
‘Oh, I can’t, Tom!’
‘There ain’t no one else?’
‘Na.’
‘Then why not?’
‘I’m very sorry, Tom, but I don’t love yer so as ter marry yer.’
‘Oh, Liza!’
She could not see the look upon his face, but she heard the agony in his voice; and, moved with sudden pity, she bent out, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘Never mind old chap!’ she said. ‘I’m not worth troublin’ abaht.’
And quickly drawing back, she slammed the window to, and moved into the further part of the room.
III
THE FOLLOWING DAY was Sunday. Liza when she was dressing herself in the morning, felt the hardness of fate in the impossibility of eating one’s cake and having it; she wished she had reserved her new dress, and had still before her the sensation of a first appearance in it. With a sigh she put on her ordinary everyday working dress, and proceeded to get the breakfast ready, for her mother had been out late the previous night, celebrating the new arrivals in the street, and had the ‘rheumatics’ this morning.
‘Oo, my ‘ead!’ she was saying, as she pressed her hands on each side of her forehead. ‘I’ve got the neuralgy again, wot shall I do? I dunno ‘ow it is, but it always comes on Sunday mornings. Oo, an’ my rheumatics, they give me sich a doin’ in the night!’
‘You’d better go to the ‘orspital mother.’
‘Not I!’ answered the worthy lady, with great decision. ‘You ‘as a dozen young chaps messin’ you abaht, and lookin’ at
yer, and then they tells yer ter leave off beer and spirrits. Well, wot I says, I says I can’t do withaht my glass of beer.’ She thumped her pillow to emphasize the statement.
‘Wot with the work I ‘ave ter do, lookin’ after you and the cookin’ and gettin’ everythin’ ready and doin’ all the ‘ouse-work, and goin’ aht charring besides—well, I says, if I don’t ‘ave a drop of beer, I says, ter pull me together, I should be under the turf in no time.’
She munched her bread-and-butter and drank her tea.
‘When you’ve done breakfast, Liza,’ she said, ‘you can give the grate a cleanin’, an’ my boots’d do with a bit of polishin’. Mrs. Tike, in the next ‘ouse, ‘ll give yer some blackin’.’
She remained silent for a bit, then said:
‘I don’t think I shall get up ter-day. Liza. My rheumatics is bad. You can put the room straight and cook the dinner.’
‘Arright, mother, you stay where you are, an’ I’ll do everythin’ for yer.’
‘Well, it’s only wot yer ought to do, considerin’ all the trouble you’ve been ter me when you was young, and considerin’ thet when you was born the doctor thought I never should get through it. Wot ‘ave you done with your week’s money, Liza?’
‘Oh, I’ve put it awy,’ answered Liza quietly.
‘Where?’ asked her mother.
‘Where it’ll be safe.’
‘Where’s that?’
Liza was driven into a corner.
‘Why d’you want ter know?’ she asked.
‘Why shouldn’t I know; d’you think I want ter steal it from yer?’
‘Na, not thet.’
‘Well, why won’t you tell me?’
‘Oh, a thing’s sifer when only one person knows where it is.’
This was a very discreet remark, but it set Mrs. Kemp in a whirlwind of passion. She raised herself and sat up in the bed, flourishing her clenched fist at her daughter.
‘I know wot yer mean, you —— you!’ Her language was emphatic, her epithets picturesque, but too forcible for reproduction. ‘You think I’d steal it,’ she went on. ‘I know yer! D’yer think I’d go an’ tike yer dirty money?’
‘Well, mother,’ said Liza, ‘when I’ve told yer before, the money’s perspired like.’
‘Wot d’yer mean?’
‘It got less.’
‘Well, I can’t ‘elp thet, can I? Anyone can come in ‘ere and tike the money.’
‘If it’s ‘idden awy, they can’t, can they, mother?’ said Liza.
Mrs. Kemp shook her fist.
‘You dirty slut, you,’ she said, ‘yer think I tike yer money! Why, you ought ter give it me every week instead of savin’ it up and spendin’ it on all sorts of muck, while I ‘ave ter grind my very bones down to keep yer.’
‘Yer know, mother, if I didn’t ‘ave a little bit saved up, we should be rather short when you’re dahn in yer luck.’
Mrs. Kemp’s money always ran out on Tuesday, and Liza had to keep things going till the following Saturday.
‘Oh, don’t talk ter me!’ proceeded Mrs. Kemp. ‘When I was a girl I give all my money ter my mother. She never ‘ad ter ask me for nothin’. On Saturday when I come ‘ome with my wiges, I give it ‘er every farthin’. That’s wot a daughter ought ter do. I can say this for myself, I be’aved by my mother like a gal should. None of your prodigal sons for me! She didn’t ‘ave ter ask me for three ‘apence ter get a drop of beer.’
Liza was wise in her generation; she held her tongue, and put on her hat.
‘Now, you’re goin’ aht, and leavin’ me; I dunno wot you get up to in the street with all those men. No good, I’ll be bound. An’ ‘ere am I left alone, an’ I might die for all you care.’
In her sorrow at herself the old lady began to cry, and Liza slipped out of the room and into the street.
Leaning against the wall of the opposite house was Tom; he came towards her.
‘’Ulloa!’ she said, as she saw him. ‘Wot are you doin’ ‘ere?’
‘I was waitin’ for you ter come aht, Liza,’ he answered.
She looked at him quickly.
‘I ain’t comin’ aht with yer ter-day, if thet’s wot yer mean,’ she said.
‘I never thought of arskin’ yer, Liza—after wot you said ter me last night.’
His voice was a little sad, and she felt so sorry for him.
‘But yer did want ter speak ter me, didn’t yer, Tom?’ she said, more gently.
‘You’ve got a day off ter-morrow, ain’t yer?’
‘Bank ‘Oliday. Yus! Why?’
‘Why, ‘cause they’ve got a drag startin’ from the “Red Lion” that’s goin’ down ter Chingford for the day—an’ I’m goin’.’
‘Yus!’ she said.
He looked at her doubtfully.
‘Will yer come too, Liza? It’ll be a regular beeno; there’s only goin’ ter be people in the street. Eh, Liza?’
‘Na, I can’t’
‘Why not?’
‘I ain’t got—I ain’t got the ooftish.’
‘I mean, won’t yer come with me?’
‘Na, Tom, thank yer; I can’t do thet neither.’
‘Yer might as well, Liza; it wouldn’t ‘urt yer.’
‘Na, it wouldn’t be right like; I can’t come aht with yer, and then mean nothin’! It would be doin’ yer aht of an outing.’
‘I don’t see why,’ he said, very crestfallen.
‘I can’t go on keepin’ company with you—after what I said last night.’
‘I shan’t enjoy it a bit without you, Liza.’
‘You git somebody else, Tom. You’ll do withaht me all right.’
She nodded to him, and walked up the street to the house of her friend Sally. Having arrived in front of it, she put her hands to her mouth in trumpet form, and shouted:
‘’I! ‘I! ‘I! Sally!’
A couple of fellows standing by copied her.
‘’I! ‘I! ‘I! Sally!’
‘Garn!’ said Liza, looking round at them.
Sally did not appear and she repeated her call. The men imitated her, and half a dozen took it up, so that there was enough noise to wake the seven sleepers.
‘’I! ‘I! ‘I! Sally!’
A head was put out of a top window, and Liza, taking off her hat, waved it, crying:
‘Come on dahn, Sally!’
‘Arright, old gal!’ shouted the other. ‘I’m comin’!’
‘So’s Christmas!’ was Liza’s repartee.
There was a clatter down the stairs, and Sally, rushing through the passage, threw herself on to her friend. They began fooling, in reminiscence of a melodrama they had lately seen together.
‘Oh, my darlin’ duck!’ said Liza, kissing her and pressing her, with affected rapture, to her bosom.
‘My sweetest sweet!’ replied Sally, copying her.
‘An’ ‘ow does your lidyship ter-day?’
‘Oh!’—with immense languor—’fust class; and is your royal ‘ighness quite well?’
‘I deeply regret,’ answered Liza, ‘but my royal ‘ighness ‘as got the collywobbles.’
Sally was a small, thin girl, with sandy hair and blue eyes, and a very freckled complexion. She had an enormous mouth, with terrible, square teeth set wide apart, which looked as if they could masticate an iron bar. She was dressed like Liza, in a shortish black skirt and an old-fashioned bodice, green and grey and yellow with age; her sleeves were tucked up to the elbow, and she wore a singularly dirty apron, that had once been white.
‘Wot ‘ave you got yer ‘air in them things for?’ asked Liza, pointing to the curl-papers. ‘Goin’ aht with yer young man ter-day?’
‘No, I’m going ter stay ‘ere all day.’
‘Wot for, then?’
‘Why, ‘Arry’s going ter tike me ter Chingford ter-morrer.’
‘Oh? In the “Red Lion” brake?’
‘Yus. Are you goin’?’
‘Na!’
‘Not! Well, why don
’t you get round Tom? ‘E’ll tike yer, and jolly glad ‘e’ll be, too.’
‘’E arst me ter go with ‘im, but I wouldn’t.’
‘Swop me bob—why not?’
‘I ain’t keeping company with ‘im.’
‘Yer might ‘ave gone with ‘im all the sime.’
‘Na. You’re goin’ with ‘Arry, ain’t yer?’
‘Yus!’
‘An’ you’re goin’ to ‘ave ‘im?’
‘Right again!’
‘Well, I couldn’t go with Tom, and then throw him over.’
‘Well, you are a mug!’
The two girls had strolled down towards the Westminster Bridge Road, and Sally, meeting her young man, had gone to him. Liza walked back, wishing to get home in time to cook the dinner. But she went slowly, for she knew every dweller in the street, and as she passed the groups sitting at their doors, as on the previous evening, but this time mostly engaged in peeling potatoes or shelling peas, she stopped and had a little chat. Everyone liked her, and was glad to have her company. ‘Good old Liza,’ they would say, as she left them, ‘she’s a rare good sort, ain’t she?’
She asked after the aches and pains of all the old people, and delicately inquired after the babies, past and future; the children hung on to her skirts and asked her to play with them, and she would hold one end of the rope while tiny little ragged girls skipped, invariably entangling themselves after two jumps.
She had nearly reached home, when she heard a voice cry:
‘Mornin’!’
She looked round and recognized the man whom Tom had told her was called Jim Blakeston. He was sitting on a stool at the door of one of the houses, playing with two young children, to whom he was giving rides on his knee. She remembered his heavy brown beard from the day before, and she had also an impression of great size; she noticed this morning that he was, in fact, a big man, tall and broad, and she saw besides that he had large, masculine features and pleasant brown eyes. She supposed him to be about forty.
‘Mornin’!’ he said again, as she stopped and looked at him.
‘Well, yer needn’t look as if I was goin’ ter eat yer up, ‘cause I ain’t,’ he said.
‘’Oo are you? I’m not afeard of yer.’
‘Wot are yer so bloomin’ red abaht?’ he asked pointedly.
‘Well, I’m ‘ot.’
‘You ain’t shirty ‘cause I kissed yer last night?’
The Great Novels and Short Stories of Somerset Maugham Page 65
