Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles, Jenkins [popular romance novels TXT] 📗

head enveloped in the towel. Someone had at last done something.

"She ain't a-goin' to die, Martha, is she?" he enquired of Mrs. Hearty, his brow lined with anxiety.[Pg 246]

"Not 'er," breathed Mrs. Hearty reassuringly. "It's bronchitis. You just light a fire, Joe."

Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Bindle had tip-toed to the door and was taking the stairs three at a time. Action was the one thing he desired. He determined that, the fire once laid, he would set to work to clean out the saucepan he had burned. Somehow that saucepan seemed to bite deep into his conscience.

The doctor came, saw, and confirmed Mrs. Hearty's diagnosis. Having prescribed a steam-kettle, inhalations of eucalyptus, slop food, warmth and air, he left, promising to look in again on the morrow.

At the bottom of the stairs, he was waylaid by Bindle.

"It ain't——" he began eagerly, then paused.

The doctor, a young, fair man, looked down from his six feet one, at Bindle's anxious enquiring face.

"Nothing to be alarmed about," he said cheerfully. "I'll run in again to-morrow, and we'll soon have her about again."

"Thank you, sir," said Bindle, drawing a sigh of obvious relief. "Funny thing," he muttered as he closed the door on the doctor, "that you never seems to think o' dyin' till somebody gets ill. I'm glad 'e's a big 'un," he added inconsequently. "Mrs. B. likes 'em big," and he returned to the kitchen, where he proceeded to scrape the stove and scour the saucepan, whilst Mrs. Hearty continued to minister to her afflicted sister.

Mrs. Bindle's thoughts seemed to be preoccupied[Pg 247] with her domestic responsibilities. From time to time she issued her instructions.

"Make Joe up a bed on the couch in the parlour," she murmured hoarsely. "I'd keep him awake if he slept here."

"Try an' get Mrs. Coppen to come in to get Joe's dinner," she said, a few minutes later.

And yet again she requested her sister to watch the bread-pan to see that the supply was kept up. "Joe eats a lot of bread," she added.

To all these remarks, Mrs. Hearty returned the same reply. "Don't you worry, Lizzie. You just get to sleep."

That night Bindle worked long and earnestly that things might be as Mrs. Bindle had left them; but fate was against him. Nothing he was able to do could remove from the inside of the saucepan the damning evidences of his guilt. The stove, however, was an easier matter; but even that presented difficulties; for, as soon as he applied the moist blacklead, it dried with a hiss and the polishing brush, with the semi-circle of bristles at the end that reminded him of "'Earty's whiskers," instead of producing a polish, merely succeeded in getting burned. Furthermore, he had the misfortune to break a plate and a pie-dish.

At the second smash, there was a tapping from the room above, and, on going to the door, he heard Mrs. Hearty wheezing an enquiry as to what it was that was broken.

"Only an old galley-pot, Martha," he lied, and returned to gather up the pieces. These he wrapped in[Pg 248] a newspaper and placed in the dresser-drawer, determined to carry them off next day. He was convinced that if Mrs. Bindle were about again before the merciful arrival of the dustman, she would inevitably subject the dust-bin to a rigorous examination.

At ten o'clock, Mrs. Hearty heavily descended the stairs and, as well as her breath would permit, she instructed him what to do during the watches of the night. Bindle listened earnestly. Never in his life had he made a linseed poultice, and the management of a steam-kettle was to him a new activity.

When he heard about the bed on the couch, he looked the surprise he felt. Mrs. Bindle never allowed him even to sit on it. He resolutely vetoed the bed, however. He was going to sit up and "try an' bring 'er round," as he expressed it.

"Is she goin' to die, Martha?" he interrogated anxiously. That question seemed to obsess his thoughts.

Mrs. Hearty shook her head and beat her breast. She lacked the necessary oxygen to reply more explicitly.

Having conducted Mrs. Hearty to the garden gate, he returned, closed and bolted the door, and proceeded upstairs. As he entered the bedroom, he was greeted by a harsh, bronchial cough that terrified him.

"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired, with all the forced optimism of a man obviously anxious.

Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, looked at him for a moment, then, closing them again, shook her head.

"'As 'e sent you any physic?" he enquired.[Pg 249]

Again Mrs. Bindle shook her head, this time without opening her eyes.

Bindle's heart sank. If the doctor didn't see the necessity for medicine, the case must indeed be desperate.

"What did he say, Joe?" she enquired in a hoarse voice.

In spite of himself Bindle started slightly at the name. He had not heard it for many years.

"'E said you're a-gettin' on fine," he lied.

"Am I very ill? Is it——"

"You ain't got nothink much the matter with you, Lizzie," he replied lightly, in his anxiety to comfort, conveying the impression that she was in extreme danger. "Jest a bit of a chill."

"Am I dying, Joe?"

In spite of its repetition, the name still seemed unfamiliar to him.

"I shall be dead-meat long before you, Lizzie," he said, and his failure to answer her question directly, confirmed Mrs. Bindle in her view that the end was very near.

"I'm goin' to make you some arrowroot, now," he said, with an assurance in his voice that he was far from feeling. Ever since Mrs. Hearty had explained to him the mysteries of arrowroot-making, he had felt how absolutely unequal he was to the task.

Through Mrs. Bindle's mind flashed a vision of milk allowed to boil over; but she felt herself too near the End to put her thoughts into words.[Pg 250]

With uncertainty in his heart and anxiety in his eyes, Bindle descended to the kitchen. Selecting a small saucepan, which Mrs. Bindle kept for onions, he poured into it, as instructed by Mrs. Hearty, a breakfast-cupful of milk. This he placed upon the stove, which in one spot was manifesting a dull red tint. Bindle was thorough in all things, especially in the matter of stoking.

He then opened the packet of arrowroot and poured it into a white pudding-basin. At the point where Mrs. Hearty was to have indicated the quantity of arrowroot to be used, she had been more than usually short of breath, with the result that Bindle did not catch the "two-tablespoonfuls" she had mentioned.

He then turned to the stove to watch the milk, forgetting that Mrs. Hearty had warned him to mix the arrowroot into a thin paste with cold milk before pouring on to it the hot.

As the milk manifested no particular excitement, Bindle drew from his pocket the evening paper which, up to now, he had forgotten. He promptly became absorbed in a story of the finding at Enfield of a girl's body bearing evidences of foul play.

He was roused from his absorption by a violent hiss from the stove and, a moment later, he was holding aloft the saucepan, from which a Niagara of white foam streamed over the sides on to the angry stove beneath.

"Wot a stink," he muttered, as he stepped back and turned towards the kitchen table. "Only jest in time, though," he added as, with spoon in one hand,[Pg 251] he proceeded to pour the boiling milk on to the arrowroot, assiduously stirring the while.

"Well, I'm blowed," he muttered as, at the end of some five minutes, he stood regarding a peculiarly stodgy mass composed of a glutinous substance in which were white bubbles containing a fine powder.

For several minutes he stood regarding it doubtfully, and then, with the air of a man who desires to make assurance doubly sure, he spooned the mass out on to a plate and once more stood regarding it.

"Looks as if it wants a few currants," he murmured dubiously, as he lifted the plate from the table, preparatory to taking it up to Mrs. Bindle.

"I brought you somethink to eat, Lizzie," he announced, as he closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Bindle shook her head, then opening her eyes, fixed them upon the strange viscid mass that Bindle extended to her.

"What is that smell?" she murmured wearily.

"Smell," said Bindle, sniffing the air like a cat when fish is boiling. "I don't smell nothink, Lizzie."

"You've burned something," she moaned feebly.

"'Ere, eat this," he said with forced cheerfulness, "then you'll feel better."

Once more Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, gazed at the mass, then shaking her head, turned her face to the wall.

For five minutes, Bindle strove to persuade her. Finally, recognising defeat, he placed the plate on a chair by the bedside and, seating himself on a little green-painted box, worn at the edges so that the[Pg 252] original white wood showed through, he proceeded to look the helplessness he felt.

"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired at length, holding his breath eagerly as he waited for the reply.

Mrs. Bindle shook her head drearily, and his heart sank.

Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Hearty's earnest exhortation to keep the steam-kettle in operation. Once more he descended to the kitchen and, whilst the kettle was boiling, he occupied himself with scraping the heat-flaked milk from the top of the stove.

Throughout that night he laboured at the steam-kettle, or sat gazing helplessly at Mrs. Bindle, despair clutching at his heart, impotence dogging his footsteps. From time to time he would offer her the now cold slab of arrowroot, or else enquire if she were feeling better; but Mrs. Bindle refused the one and denied the other.

With the dawn came inspiration.

"Would you like a kipper for breakfast, Lizzie?" he enquired, hope shining in his eyes.

This time Mrs. Bindle not only shook her head, but manifested by her expression such a repugnance that he felt repulsed. The very thought of kippers made his own mouth water and, recalling that Mrs. Bindle was particularly partial to them, he realised that her condition must be extremely grave.

Soon after nine, Mrs. Hearty arrived and insisted on preparing breakfast for Bindle. Having despatched him to his work she proceeded to tidy-up.

After the doctor had called, Mrs. Bindle once more[Pg 253] sought news as to her condition. This time Mrs. Hearty, obviously keen on reassuring the invalid, succeeded also in confirming her morbid convictions.

At the sight of the plate containing Bindle's conception of arrowroot for an invalid, Mrs. Hearty had at first manifested curiosity, then, on discovering the constituent parts of the unsavoury-looking mess, she had collapsed upon the green-painted box, wheezing and heaving until her gasps for breath caused Mrs. Bindle to open her eyes.

For nearly a week, Bindle and Mrs. Hearty devoted themselves to the sick woman. Every morning Bindle was late for work, and when he could get home he spent more than half of his dinner-hour by Mrs. Bindle's bedside, asking the inevitable question as to whether she were feeling better.

In the evening, he got home as fast as bus, train or tram could take him, and not once did he go to bed.

During the whole period, Mrs. Bindle was as docile and amenable to reason as a poor relation. Never had she been so subdued. From Mrs. Hearty she took the food that was prepared for her, and acquiesced in the remedies administered. Amidst a perfect tornado of wheezes and gaspings, Mrs. Hearty had confided to Bindle that he had better refrain from invalid cookery.

Nothing that either the doctor or Mrs. Hearty could say would convince Mrs. Bindle that she was long for this world. The very cheerfulness of those around her seemed proof positive that they were striving to inspire her with a hope they were far from feeling.[Pg 254]

In her contemplation of Eternity, Mrs. Bindle forgot her kitchen, and the probable desolation Bindle was wreaking. Smells of burning, no matter how pungent, left her unmoved, and Bindle, finding that for the first time in his life immunity surrounded him, proceeded from one gastronomic triumph to another. He burned sausages in the frying-pan, boiled dried haddock in a porcelain-lined milk-saucepan and, not daring to confuse the flavour of sausages and fish, had hit upon the novel plan of cooking a brace of bloaters upon the top of the stove itself.

Culinary enthusiasm seized him, and he invented several little dishes of his own. Some were undoubted successes, notably one made up of tomatoes, fried onions and little strips of bacon; but he met his Waterloo in a dish composed of fried onions and eggs. The eggs were much quicker off the mark than the onions, and won in a canter. He quickly realised that swift decision was essential. It was a case either of raw onions and cooked eggs, or cooked onions and cindered eggs.

Never had such scents risen from Mrs. Bindle's stove to the receptive nostrils of the gods; yet through it all Mrs. Bindle made neither protest nor enquiry.

Even Mrs. Hearty was appalled by the state in which she found the kitchen each morning.

"My word, Joe!" she