by Unknown
In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter too briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, is to say to her that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is in her best form she will chuckle, and agree that the want of a bed tries her sore; she will keep you on the hooks, so to speak, as long as she can; and then, with that mouse-like movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the wall; and lo, a bed. There is nothing else in her abode (which we now see to contain four rooms — kitchen, pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely a surprise; but it is full of ‘bits,’ every one of which has been paid ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has become part of its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might call them, though there is probably nothing in the place except the bed that would fetch half-a-crown.
Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted to the lower half of persons passing overhead beyond the area stairs. Here at the window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a summer evening gazing, not sentimentally at a flower-pot which contains one poor bulb, nor yearningly at some tiny speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in stockings, and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that your finery awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and does) that your soles are in need of neat repair.
Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those whose view is thus limited, she could swear to scores of the passers-by in a court of law.
These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the teatable, and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their everyday garments, and by their pails and mops (which are having a little tea-party by themselves in the corner), it is not a gathering by invitations stretching away into yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much more attractive, don’t you think? than banquets elaborately prearranged. You know how they come about, especially in wartime. Very likely Mrs. Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham quite casually in the street, and meant to do no more than the time of day; then, naturally enough, the word camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but in the end Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which one thing leads to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs. Dowey remembered that she had that pot of jam and that Mrs. Mickleham had stood treat last time; and soon they were all three descending the area stairs, followed cringingly by the Haggerty Woman.
They have been extremely merry, and never were four hardworked old ladies who deserved it better. All a woman can do in wartime they do daily and cheerfully. Just as their menfolk are doing it at the Front; and now, with the mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at ease. There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms until a decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah Ann Dowey), until the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma Mickleham), and singing very small (Amelia Twymley).
At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs. Dowey is sure to want to suggest that our heroine has a secret sorrow, namely, the crime; but you should see us knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs. Dowey knows she is a criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not know that she is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She presses more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from them in the pretty manner of ladies who know that they have already had more than enough.
MRS. DOWEY. ‘Just one more winkle, Mrs. Mickleham?’ Indeed there is only one more.
But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this one it would have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes it long afterwards when she thinks, erroneously, that no one is looking.)
Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted her. Probably the Haggerty Woman.
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘I say it is so.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘I say it may be so.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a prisoner in Germany.’ She has so obviously scored that all good feeling seems to call upon her to end here. But she continues rather shabbily, ‘Being the only lady present that has that proud misfortune.’ The others are stung.
MRS. DOWEY. ‘My son is fighting in France.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Mine is wounded in two places.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Mine is at Salonaiky.’
The absurd pronunciation of this uneducated person moves the others to mirth.
MRS. DOWEY. ‘You’ll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct pronunciation is Salonikky.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, to cover her confusion. ‘I don’t think.’ She feels that even this does not prove her case. ‘And I speak as one that has War Savings Certificates.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘We all have them.’
The Haggerty Woman whimpers, and the other guests regard her with unfeeling disdain.
MRS. DOWEY, to restore cheerfulness, ‘Oh, it’s a terrible war.’
ALL, brightening, ‘It is. You may say so.’
MRS. DOWEY, encouraged, ‘What I say is, the men is splendid, but I’m none so easy about the staff. That’s your weak point, Mrs. Mickleham.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM, on the defence, but determined to reveal nothing that might be of use to the enemy, ‘You may take it from me, the staff’s all right.’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘And very relieved I am to hear you say it.’
It is here that the Haggerty Woman has the remaining winkle.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘You don’t understand properly about trench warfare. If I had a map — —’
MRS. DOWEY, wetting her finger to draw lines on the table. ‘That’s the river Sommy. Now, if we had barrages here — —’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Very soon you would be enfilided. Where’s your supports, my lady?’ Mrs. Dowey is damped.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘What none of you grasps is that this is a artillery war — —’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, strengthened by the winkle, ‘I say that the word is Salonaiky.’
The others purse their lips.
MRS. TWYMLEY, with terrible meaning, ‘We’ll change the subject. Have you seen this week’s Fashion Chat?’ She has evidently seen and devoured it herself, and even licked up the crumbs. ‘The gabardine with accordion pleats has quite gone out.’
MRS. DOWEY, her old face sparkling. ‘My sakes! You tell me?’
MRS. TWYMLEY, with the touch of haughtiness that comes of great topics, ‘The plain smock has come in again, with silk lacing, giving that charming chic effect.’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘Oho!’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I must say I was always partial to the straight line’ — thoughtfully regarding the want of line in Mrs. Twymley’s person—’though trying to them as is of too friendly a figure.’
It is here that the Haggerty Woman’s fingers close unostentatiously upon a piece of sugar.
MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, ‘Lady Dolly Kanister was seen conversing across the railings in a dainty de jou.’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘Fine would I have liked to see her.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘She is equally popular as maid, wife, and munitionworker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops Babington was married in a tight tulle.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘What was her going-away dress?’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. She’s married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford—”Snubs,” they called him at Eton.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, ‘Very likely he’ll be sent to Salonaiky.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Wherever he is sent, she’ll have the same tremors as the rest of us. She’ll be as keen to get the letters wrote with pencils as you or me.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Them pencil letters!’
MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she may be going too far, ‘And women in enemy lands gets those pencil letters and then stop getting them, the same as ourselves. Let’s occasionally think of that.’
She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘I ask you!’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘That’s hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.’
MRS. DOWEY, scared, ‘Kindly excuse. I swear to death I’m none of your pacifists.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Freely granted.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘I’ve heard of females that have no male relations, and so they have no man-party at the wars. I’ve heard of them, but I don’t mix with them.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘What can the likes of us have to say to them? It’s not their war.’
MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, ‘They are to be pitied.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is within doors with the blinds down.’
MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, ‘That’s the place for them.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I thought it was very impudent of her.’
MRS. DOWEY, meekly, ‘So it was.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent success, ‘I had a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Alfred sent me his photo.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Letters from Salonaiky is less common.’
Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey’s. Nevertheless she doggedly knits her lips.
MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, ‘Kenneth writes to me every week.’ There are exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a packet of letters. ‘Look at this. All his.’
The Haggerty Woman whimpers.
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Alfred has little time for writing, being a bombardier.’
MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, ‘Do your letters begin “Dear mother”?’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘Generally.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Invariable.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘Every time.’
MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, ‘Kenneth’s begin “Dearest mother.’”
No one can think of the right reply.
MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, ‘A short man, I should say, judging by yourself.’
She ought to have left it alone.
MRS. DOWEY. ‘Six feet two-and a half.’
The gloom deepens.
MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, ‘A kilty, did you tell me?’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘Most certainly. He’s in the famous Black Watch.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, ‘The Surrey Rifles is the famousest.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. Haggerty. His choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy’s.’
MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, ‘Give me the R.H.A. and you can keep all the rest.’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘I’m sure I have nothing to say against the Surreys and the R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just breeches regiments, I understand.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘We can’t all be kilties.’
MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, ‘That’s very true.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can’t help saying it. ‘Has your Kenneth great hairy legs?’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘Tremendous.’
The wicked woman: but let us also say ‘Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.’ For at this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less important part of a clergyman appears upon the stair.
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘It’s the reverent gent!’
MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, ‘I see he has had his boots heeled.’
It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always walks in front of him. This smile makes music of his life, it means that once again he has been chosen, in his opinion, as the central figure in romance. No one can well have led a more drab existence, but he will never know it; he will always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, as the chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally written that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets them at every street corner. For instance, he assists an old lady off a bus, and asks her if he can be of any further help. She tells him that she wants to know the way to Maddox the butcher’s. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it always comes first, followed by its explanation, ‘I was there yesterday!’ This is the merest sample of the adventures that keep Mr. Willings up to the mark.
Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost terrible. He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero without remembering that he knows some one of the name. The Soldiers’ Rest he is connected with was once a china emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought his tea service at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it. Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama. In the course of his extraordinary comings and goings he meets with Great Personages, of course, and is the confidential recipient of secret news. Before imparting the news he does not, as you might expect, first smile expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an awful solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When divulging the names of the personages, he first looks around to make sure that no suspicious character is about, and then, lowering his voice, tells you, ‘I had that from Mr. Farthing himself — he is the secretary of the Bethnal Green Branch, — h’sh!’
There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the reverent, and there is also some furtive pulling down of sleeves, but he stands surveying the ladies through his triumphant smile. This amazing man knows that he is about to score again.
MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, ‘I thank you. But not at all. Friends, I have news.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘News?’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘From the Front?’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘My Alfred, sir?’
They are all grown suddenly anxious — all except the hostess, who knows that there can never be any news from the Front for her.
MR. WILLINGS. ‘I tell you at once that all is well. The news is for Mrs. Dowey.’
She stares.
MRS. DOWEY. ‘News for me?’
MR. WILLINGS. ‘Your son, Mrs. Dowey — he has got five days’ leave.’ She shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it only trembles a little on its stem. ‘Now, now, good news doesn’t kill.’
MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘We’re glad, Mrs. Dowey.’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘You’re sure?’
MR. WILLINGS. ‘Quite sure. He has arrived.’
MRS. DOWEY. ‘He is in London?’
MR. WILLINGS. ‘He is. I have spoken to him.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘You lucky woman.’
They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience has told them how differently these things take people.
MR. WILLINGS, marvelling more and more as he unfolds his tale, ‘Ladies, it is quite a romance, I was in the — —’ he looks around cautiously, but he knows that they are all to be trusted—’in the Church Army quarters in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one or two of our missing men. Suddenly my eyes — I can’t account for it — but suddenly my eyes alighted on a Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with his kit at his feet.’
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘A big man?’
MR. WILLINGS. ‘A great brawny fellow.’ The Haggerty Woman groans. ‘“My friend,” I said at once, “welcome back to Blighty.” I make a point of calling it Blighty. “I wonder,” I said, “if there is anything I can do for you?” He shook his head. “What regiment?” I asked.’ Here Mr. Willings very properly lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘“Black Watch, 5th Battalion,” he said. “Name?” I asked. “Dowey,” he said.’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I declare. I do declare.’
MR. WILLINGS, showing how the thing was done, with the help of a chair, ‘I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be thus. “Kenneth Dowey,” I said, “I know your mother.”’
MRS. DOWEY, wetting her lips, ‘What did he say to that?’
MR. WILLINGS. ‘He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think I was balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I told him how much you had talked to me about him.’
MRS. DOWEY. �
�Bring him here!’
MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I wonder he needed to be brought.’
MR. WILLINGS. ‘He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the great city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and then he gave a curious laugh.’
