Sons and Lovers, D. H. Lawrence [best fiction books to read TXT] 📗

to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill, and because it occurred to him.

“I’ve brought thee a cup o’ tea, lass,” he said.

“Well, you needn’t, for you know I don’t like it,” she replied.

“Drink it up; it’ll pop thee off to sleep again.”

She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.

“I’ll back my life there’s no sugar in,” she said.

“Yi⁠—there’s one big ’un,” he replied, injured.

“It’s a wonder,” she said, sipping again.

She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into the fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He loved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when he was in the field.

Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very self-righteous, he went upstairs.

“Now I’m cleaned up for thee: tha’s no ’casions ter stir a peg all day, but sit and read thy books.”

Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.

“And the dinner cooks itself?” she answered.

“Eh, I know nowt about th’ dinner.”

“You’d know if there weren’t any.”

“Ay, ’appen so,” he answered, departing.

When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call:

“So you keep wagging on, then?”

“Ay,” answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. “There’s nothing else for it.”

“Have you seen Hose?” called a very small woman from across the road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting.

“I haven’t,” said Mrs. Morel.

“Eh, I wish he’d come. I’ve got a copperful of clothes, an’ I’m sure I heered his bell.”

“Hark! He’s at the end.”

The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm.

“I’ve done ten dozen this week,” she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.

“T-t-t!” went the other. “I don’t know how you can find time.”

“Eh!” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can find time if you make time.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” said Mrs. Morel. “And how much shall you get for those many?”

“Tuppence-ha’penny a dozen,” replied the other.

“Well,” said Mrs. Morel. “I’d starve before I’d sit down and seam twenty-four stockings for twopence ha’penny.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can rip along with ’em.”

Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, and bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully.

It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, she should put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in the adjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started out of her skin as she heard the thud, thud, in her grate. With her hands all floury, she rushed to the fence.

“Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Kirk.”

Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs. Morel’s copper, and ran in to her neighbour.

“Eh, dear, how are you feeling?” she cried in concern.

“You might fetch Mrs. Bower,” said Mrs. Morel.

Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, and called:

“Ag-gie⁠—Ag-gie!”

The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, whilst Mrs. Kirk left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour.

Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house.

“Hash some cold meat up for the master’s dinner, and make him an apple-charlotte pudding,” said Mrs. Morel.

“He may go without pudding this day,” said Mrs. Bower.

Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o’clock, when the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at this time about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually till the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the miner was sick of the work. At two o’clock he looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle⁠—he was in a safe working⁠—and again at half-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for the next day’s work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard blows with his pick, “Uszza⁠—uszza!” he went.

“Shall ter finish, Sorry?”1 cried Barker, his fellow butty.

“Finish? Niver while the world stands!” growled Morel.

And he went on striking. He was tired.

“It’s a heartbreaking job,” said Barker.

But Morel was too exasperated, at the end