CHAPTER XI
MRS. BINDLE TAKES A CHILL
I
"Your dinner's in the large black saucepan and the potatoes in the blue one. Empty the stewed steak into the yellow pie-dish and the potatoes into the blue vegetable dish and pour water into the saucepans afterwards I've gone to bed--I am feeling ill.
"E. B.
"Don't forget to put water into the empty saucepans or they will burn."
Bindle glanced across at the stove as if to verify Mrs. Bindle'sstatement, then, with lined forehead, stood gazing at the table, neatlylaid for one.
"I never known Lizzie give in before," he muttered, and he walked overto the sink and proceeded to have his evening "rinse," an affairinvolving a considerable expenditure of soap and much blowing andsplashing.
Having wiped his face and hands upon the roller-towel, he walked softlyacross the kitchen, opened the door, listened, stepped out into thepassage and, finally, proceeded to tiptoe upstairs.
Outside the bedroom door he paused and listened again, his ear pressedagainst the panel. There was no sound.
With the stealth of a burglar he turned the handle, pushed open the doorsome eighteen inches and put his head round the corner.
Mrs. Bindle was lying in bed on her back, her face void of allexpression, whilst with each indrawn breath there was a hard, metallicsound.
Bindle wriggled the rest of his body round the door-post, closing thedoor behind him. With ostentatious care, still tiptoeing, he crossed theroom and stood by the bedside.
"Ain't you feelin' well, Lizzie?" he asked in a hoarse whisper,sufficient in itself to remind an invalid of death.
"Did you put water in the saucepans?" She asked the question withoutturning her head, and with the air of one who has something on her mind.The harsh rasp of her voice alarmed Bindle.
"I ain't 'ad supper yet," he said. "Is there anythink you'd like?" heenquired solicitously, still in the same depressing whisper.
"No; just leave me alone," she murmured. "Don't forget the water in thesaucepans," she added a moment later.
For some seconds Bindle stood irresolute. He was convinced thatsomething ought to be done; but just what he did not know.
"Wouldn't you like a bit o' fried fish, or--or a pork chop?" he named ata venture two of his favourite supper dishes. The fish he could buyready fried, the chop he felt equal to cooking himself.
"Leave me alone." She turned her head aside with a feeble shudder.
"Where are you ill, Lizzie?" he enquired at length.
"Go away," she moaned, and Bindle turned, tip-toed across to the doorand passed out of the room. He was conscious that the situation wasbeyond him.
That evening he ate his food without relish. His mind was occupied withthe invalid upstairs and the problem of what he should do. He wasunaccustomed to illness, either in himself or in others. His instinctwas to fetch a doctor; but would she like it? It was always a littledifficult to anticipate Mrs. Bindle's view of any particular action, nomatter how well-intentioned.
At the conclusion of the meal, he drew his pipe from his pocket andproceeded to smoke with a view to inspiration.
Suddenly he was roused by a loud pounding overhead.
"'Oly ointment, she's fallen out!" he muttered, as he made for the doorand dashed up the stairs two at a time.
As he opened the door, he found Mrs. Bindle sitting up in bed, a redflannel petticoat round her shoulders, sniffing the air like a hungryhound.
"You're burning my best saucepan," she croaked.
"I ain't, Lizzie, reelly I ain't----" Then memory came to him. He hadforgotten to put water in either of the saucepans.
"I can smell burning," she persisted, "you----"
"I spilt some stoo on the stove," he lied, feeling secure in theknowledge that she could not disprove the statement.
With a groan she sank back on to her pillow.
"The place is like a pigsty. I know it," she moaned with tragicconviction.
"No, it ain't, Lizzie. I'm jest goin' to 'ave a clean-up. Wouldn't youlike somethink to eat?" he enquired again, then with inspiration added,"Wot about a tin o' salmon, it'll do your breath good. I'll nip roundand get one in two ticks."
But Mrs. Bindle shook her head.
For nearly a minute there was silence, during which Bindle gazed down ather helplessly.
"I'm a-goin' to fetch a doctor," he announced at length.
"Don't you dare to fetch a doctor to me."
"But if you ain't well----" he began.
"I tell you I won't have a doctor. Look----" She was interrupted by afit of coughing which seemed almost to suffocate her. "Look at the stateof the bedroom," she gasped at length.
"But wot's goin' to 'appen?" asked Bindle. "You can't----"
"It won't matter," she moaned. "If I die you'll be glad," she added, asif to leave no doubt in Bindle's mind as to her own opinion on thematter.
"No, I shouldn't. 'Ow could I get on without you?"
"Thinking of yourself as usual," was the retort.
Then, suddenly, she half-lifted herself in bed and, once more raisingher head, sniffed the air suspiciously.
"I know that saucepan's burning," she said with conviction; but she sankback again, panting. The burning of a saucepan seemed a thing ofever-lessening importance.
"No, it ain't, Lizzie, reelly it ain't. I filled it right up to thebrim. It's that bit o' stoo I spilt on the stove. Stinks like billy-o,don't it?" His sense of guilt made him garrulous. "I'll go an' scrape itorf," he added, and with that he was gone.
"Oh, my Gawd!" he muttered as he opened the kitchen door, and wasgreeted by a volume of bluish smoke that seemed to catch at his throat.
He made a wild dash for the stove, seized the saucepan and, taking itover to the sink, turned on the tap.
A moment later he dropped the saucepan into the sink and started back,blinded by a volume of steam that issued from its interior.
Swiftly and quietly he opened the window and the outer door.
"You ain't no cook, J.B.," he muttered, as he unhitched the roller-toweland proceeded to use it as a fan, with the object of driving the smellout of the window and scullery-door.
When the air was clearer, he returned to the sink and, this time,filled both the saucepans with water and replaced them on the stove.
"I wonder wot I better do," he muttered, and he looked about himhelplessly.
Then, with sudden inspiration, he remembered Mrs. Hearty.
Creeping softly upstairs, he put his head round the bedroom door andannounced that he was going out to buy a paper. Without waiting foreither criticism or comment, he quickly closed the door again.
Ten minutes later, he was opening the glass-panelled door, with thewhite curtains and blue tie-ups, that led from Mr. Hearty's Fulham shopto the parlour behind.
Mrs. Hearty was sitting at the table, a glass half-full of Guinness'stout before her.
At the sight of Bindle, she began to laugh, and laughter always reducedher to a state that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy.
"Oh, Joe!" she wheezed, and then began to heave and undulate with mirth.
At the sight of the anxious look on his face she stopped suddenly, andwith her clenched fist began to pound her chest.
"It's my breath, Joe," she wheezed. "It don't seem to get no better.'Ave a drop," she gasped, pointing to the Guinness bottle on the table."There's a glass on the dresser," she added; but Bindle shook an anxioushead.
"It's Lizzie," he said.
"Lizzie!" wheezed Mrs. Hearty. "What she been doin' now?"
Mrs. Hearty possessed no illusions about her sister's capacity tocontrive any man's domestic happiness. Her own philosophy was, "Ifthings must happen, let 'em," whereas she was well aware that Mrs.Bindle strove to control the wheels of destiny.
"When you're my size," she would say, "you won't want to worry aboutanything; it's the lean 'uns as grizzles."
"She's ill in bed," he explained, "an' I don't know wot to do. Says
shewon't see a doctor, an' she's sort o' fidgetty because she thinks I'mburnin' the bloomin' saucepans--an' I 'ave burned 'em, Martha," he addedconfidentially. "Such a stink."
Whereat Mrs. Hearty began to heave, and strange movements rippled downher manifold chins. She was laughing.
There was, however, no corresponding light of humour in Bindle's eyes,and she quickly recovered herself. "What's the matter with 'er, Joe?"she gasped.
"She won't say where it is," he replied. "I think it's 'er chest."
"All right, I'll come round," and she proceeded to make a series ofstrange heaving movements until, eventually, she acquired sufficientbounce to bring her to her feet. "You go back, Joe," she added.
"Righto, Martha! You always was a sport," and Bindle walked towards thedoor. As he opened it he turned. "You won't say anythink about themsaucepans," he said anxiously.
"Oh! go hon, do," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, beginning to undulate once more.
With her brother-in-law, Mrs. Hearty was never able to distinguishbetween the sacred and the profane.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Hearty and Bindle were standing one on eitherside of Mrs. Bindle's bed. Mrs. Hearty was wearing a much-worn silkplush cape and an old, pale-blue tam-o-shanter, originally belonging toher daughter, which gave her a rakish appearance.
"What's the matter, Lizzie?" she asked, puffing like a collie in the DogDays.
"I'm ill. Leave me alone!" moaned Mrs. Bindle in a husky voice.
Bindle looked across at Mrs. Hearty, in a way that seemed to say, "Itold you she was bad."
"Don't be a fool, Lizzie," was her sister's uncompromising comment. "Yougo for a doctor, Joe."
"I won't have----" began Mrs. Bindle, then she stopped suddenly, aharsh, bronchial cough cutting off the rest of her sentence.
"You've got bronchitis," said Mrs. Hearty with conviction. "Put thekettle on before you go out, Joe."
"Leave me alone," moaned Mrs. Bindle. "Oh! I don't want to die, I don'twant to die."
"You ain't goin' to die, Lizzie," said Bindle, bending over her, anxietyin his face. "You're goin' to live to be a 'undred."
"You go an' fetch a doctor, Joe. I'll see to 'er," and Mrs. Heartyproceeded to remove her elaborate black plush cape.
"I don't want a doctor," moaned Mrs. Bindle. In her heart was a greatfear lest he should confirm her own fears that death was at hand; butBindle had disappeared on his errand of mercy, and Mrs. Hearty waswheezing and groaning as, with arms above her head, she strove todiscover the single hat-pin with which she had fixed the tam-o-shanterto her scanty hair.
"There's two rashers of bacon and an egg on the top shelf of the larderfor Joe's breakfast," murmured Mrs. Bindle hoarsely.
Mrs. Hearty nodded as she passed out of the door.
In spite of her weight and the shortness of her breath, she descended tothe kitchen. When Bindle returned, he found the bedroom reeking with thesmell of vinegar. Mrs. Bindle was sitting up in bed, a towel envelopingher head, so that the fumes of the boiling vinegar should escape fromthe basin only by way of her bronchial tubes.
"'Ow is she?" he asked anxiously.
"She's all right," gasped Mrs. Hearty. "Is 'e coming?"
"Be 'ere in two ticks," was the response. "Two of 'em was out, this wasthe third."
He stood regarding with an air of relief the strange outline of Mrs.Bindle's head enveloped in the towel. Someone had at last donesomething.
"She ain't a-goin' to die, Martha, is she?" he enquired of Mrs. Hearty,his brow lined with anxiety.
"Not 'er," breathed Mrs. Hearty reassuringly. "It's bronchitis. You justlight a fire, Joe."
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Bindle had tip-toed tothe door and was taking the stairs three at a time. Action was the onething he desired. He determined that, the fire once laid, he would setto work to clean out the saucepan he had burned. Somehow that saucepanseemed to bite deep into his conscience.
The doctor came, saw, and confirmed Mrs. Hearty's diagnosis. Havingprescribed a steam-kettle, inhalations of eucalyptus, slop food, warmthand 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, atBindle's anxious enquiring face.
"Nothing to be alarmed about," he said cheerfully. "I'll run in againto-morrow, and we'll soon have her about again."
"Thank you, sir," said Bindle, drawing a sigh of obvious relief. "Funnything," he muttered as he closed the door on the doctor, "that you neverseems 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 returnedto the kitchen, where he proceeded to scrape the stove and scour thesaucepan, whilst Mrs. Hearty continued to minister to her afflictedsister.
Mrs. Bindle's thoughts seemed to be preoccupied with her domesticresponsibilities. 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, afew minutes later.
And yet again she requested her sister to watch the bread-pan to seethat 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 youworry, 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 todo could remove from the inside of the saucepan the damning evidences ofhis guilt. The stove, however, was an easier matter; but even thatpresented difficulties; for, as soon as he applied the moist blacklead,it dried with a hiss and the polishing brush, with the semi-circle ofbristles at the end that reminded him of "'Earty's whiskers," instead ofproducing a polish, merely succeeded in getting burned. Furthermore, hehad the misfortune to break a plate and a pie-dish.
At the second smash, there was a tapping from the room above, and, ongoing to the door, he heard Mrs. Hearty wheezing an enquiry as to whatit was that was broken.
"Only an old galley-pot, Martha," he lied, and returned to gather up thepieces. These he wrapped in a newspaper and placed in thedresser-drawer, determined to carry them off next day. He was convincedthat if Mrs. Bindle were about again before the merciful arrival of thedustman, she would inevitably subject the dust-bin to a rigorousexamination.
At ten o'clock, Mrs. Hearty heavily descended the stairs and, as well asher breath would permit, she instructed him what to do during thewatches of the night. Bindle listened earnestly. Never in his life hadhe made a linseed poultice, and the management of a steam-kettle was tohim a new activity.
When he heard about the bed on the couch, he looked the surprise hefelt. Mrs. Bindle never allowed him even to sit on it. He resolutelyvetoed the bed, however. He was going to sit up and "try an' bring 'erround," as he expressed it.
"Is she goin' to die, Martha?" he interrogated anxiously. That questionseemed to obsess his thoughts.
Mrs. Hearty shook her head and beat her breast. She lacked the necessaryoxygen to reply more explicitly.
Having conducted Mrs. Hearty to the garden gate, he returned, closed andbolted the door, and proceeded upstairs. As he entered the bedroom, hewas greeted by a harsh, bronchial cough that terrified him.
"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired, with all the forced optimism of aman obviously anxious.
Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, looked at him for a moment, then, closingthem again, shook her head.
"'As 'e sent you any physic?" he enquired.
Again Mrs. Bindle shook her head, this time without opening her eyes.
Bindle's heart sank. If the doctor didn't see the necessity formedicine, 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 notheard 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 repliedlightly, in his anxiety to comfort, conveying the impression that shewas 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 failureto answer her question directly, confirmed Mrs. Bindle in her view thatthe end was very near.
"I'm goin' to make you some arrowroot, now," he said, with an assurancein his voice that he was far from feeling. Ever since Mrs. Hearty hadexplained to him the mysteries of arrowroot-making, he had felt howabsolutely unequal he was to the task.
Through Mrs. Bindle's mind flashed a vision of milk allowed to boilover; but she felt herself too near the End to put her thoughts intowords.
With uncertainty in his heart and anxiety in his eyes, Bindle descendedto the kitchen. Selecting a small saucepan, which Mrs. Bindle kept foronions, he poured into it, as instructed by Mrs. Hearty, abreakfast-cupful of milk. This he placed upon the stove, which in onespot 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 whitepudding-basin. At the point where Mrs. Hearty was to have indicated thequantity of arrowroot to be used, she had been more than usually shortof 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 coldmilk before pouring on to it the hot.
As the milk manifested no particular excitement, Bindle drew from hispocket the evening paper which, up to now, he had forgotten. He promptlybecame absorbed in a story of the finding at Enfield of a girl's bodybearing 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 Niagaraof white foam streamed over the sides on to the angry stove beneath.
"Wot a stink," he muttered, as he stepped back and turned towards thekitchen table. "Only jest in time, though," he added as, with spoon inone hand, 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, hestood regarding a peculiarly stodgy mass composed of a glutinoussubstance in which were white bubbles containing a fine powder.
For several minutes he stood regarding it doubtfully, and then, with theair of a man who desires to make assurance doubly sure, he spooned themass out on to a plate and once more stood regarding it.
"Looks as if it wants a few currants," he murmured dubiously, as helifted 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 thedoor behind him.
Mrs. Bindle shook her head, then opening her eyes, fixed them upon thestrange 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 feelbetter."
Once more Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, gazed at the mass, then shakingher head, turned her face to the wall.
For five minutes, Bindle strove to persuade her. Finally, recognisingdefeat, he placed the plate on a chair by the bedside and, seatinghimself on a little green-painted box, worn at the edges so that theoriginal white wood showed through, he proceeded to look thehelplessness he felt.
"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired at length, holding his breatheagerly 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 thesteam-kettle in operation. Once more he descended to the kitchen and,whilst the kettle was boiling, he occupied himself with scraping theheat-flaked milk from the top of the stove.
Throughout that night he laboured at the steam-kettle, or sat gazinghelplessly at Mrs. Bindle, despair clutching at his heart, impotencedogging his footsteps. From time to time he would offer her the now coldslab 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, hopeshining in his eyes.
This time Mrs. Bindle not only shook her head, but manifested by herexpression such a repugnance that he felt repulsed. The very thought ofkippers made his own mouth water and, recalling that Mrs. Bindle wasparticularly partial to them, he realised that her condition must beextremely grave.
Soon after nine, Mrs. Hearty arrived and insisted on preparing breakfastfor Bindle. Having despatched him to his work she proceeded to tidy-up.
After the doctor had called, Mrs. Bindle once more sought news as toher condition. This time Mrs. Hearty, obviously keen on reassuring theinvalid, succeeded also in confirming her morbid convictions.
At the sight of the plate containing Bindle's conception of arrowrootfor an invalid, Mrs. Hearty had at first manifested curiosity, then, ondiscovering the constituent parts of the unsavoury-looking mess, she hadcollapsed upon the green-painted box, wheezing and heaving until hergasps for breath caused Mrs. Bindle to open her eyes.
For nearly a week, Bindle and Mrs. Hearty devoted themselves to the sickwoman. Every morning Bindle was late for work, and when he could gethome he spent more than half of his dinner-hour by Mrs. Bindle'sbedside, asking the inevitable question as to whether she were feelingbetter.
In the evening, he got home as fast as bus, train or tram could takehim, and not once did he go to bed.
During the whole period, Mrs. Bindle was as docile and amenable toreason as a poor relation. Never had she been so subdued. From Mrs.Hearty she took the food that was prepared for her, and acquiesced inthe remedies administered. Amidst a perfect tornado of wheezes andgaspings, Mrs. Hearty had confided to Bindle that he had better refrainfrom invalid cookery.
Nothing that either the doctor or Mrs. Hearty could say would convinceMrs. Bindle that she was long for this world. The very cheerfulness ofthose around her seemed proof positive that they were striving toinspire her with a hope they were far from feeling.
In her contemplation of Eternity, Mrs. Bindle forgot her kitchen, andthe probable desolation Bindle was wreaking. Smells of burning, nomatter how pungent, left her unmoved, and Bindle, finding that for thefirst time in his life immunity surrounded him, proceeded from onegastronomic triumph to another. He burned sausages in the frying-pan,boiled dried haddock in a porcelain-lined milk-saucepan and, not daringto confuse the flavour of sausages and fish, had hit upon the novel planof cooking a brace of bloaters upon the top of the stove itself.
Culinary enthusiasm seized him, and he invented several little dishes ofhis own. Some were undoubted successes, notably one made up of tomatoes,fried onions and little strips of bacon; but he met his Waterloo in adish composed of fried onions and eggs. The eggs were much quicker offthe mark than the onions, and won in a canter. He quickly realised thatswift decision was essential. It was a case either of raw onions andcooked eggs, or cooked onions and cindered eggs.
Never had such scents risen from Mrs. Bindle's stove to the receptivenostrils of the gods; yet through it all Mrs. Bindle made neitherprotest nor enquiry.
Even Mrs. Hearty was appalled by the state in which she found thekitchen each morning.
"My word, Joe!" she would wheeze. "You don't 'alf make a mess," and shewould gaze from the stove to the table, and from the table to the sink,all of which bore manifest evide
nce of Bindle's culinary activities.
Mrs. Bindle, however, seemed oblivious of the cares of this world in heranxiety not to make the journey to the next. As her breath became moreconstricted, so her alarm increased.
In her eyes there was a mute appeal that Bindle, for one, found itimpossible to ignore. Instinctively he sensed what was troubling her,and he lost no opportunity of striving to reassure her by saying thatshe would be out and about again before she could say "Jack Robinson."
Still there lurked in her eyes a Great Fear. She had never before hadbronchitis, and the difficulty she experienced in breathing seemed toher morbidly suggestive of approaching death. Although she had neverseen anyone die, she had in her own mind associated death with aterrible struggle for breath.
Once when Bindle suggested that she might like to see Mr. MacFie, theminister of the Alton Road Chapel, Mrs. Bindle turned upon him such anagonised look that he instinctively shrank back.
"Might-a-been Ole Nick 'isself," he later confided to Mrs. Hearty, "andme a-thinkin' to please 'er."
"She's afraid o' dying, Joe," wheezed Mrs. Hearty "Alf was just the samewhen 'e 'ad the flu."
Bindle spent money with the recklessness of a desperate man. He boughtstrange and inappropriate foods in the hope that they would tempt Mrs.Bindle's appetite. No matter where his work led him, he was always onthe look out for some dainty, which he would purchase and carry home intriumph to Mrs. Hearty.
"You ain't 'alf a joke, Joe," she wheezed one evening, sinking down upona chair and proceeding to heave and billow with suppressed laughter.
Bindle looked lugubriously at the yellow pie-dish into which he had justemptied about a quart of whelks, purchased in the Mile End Road.
"Ain't they good for bronchitis?" he enquired with a crestfallen look.
"Last night it was pig's feet," gasped Mrs. Hearty, "and the nightbefore saveloys," and she proceeded to beat her chest with a grubbyfist.
After that, Bindle had fallen back upon less debatable things. He hadpurchased illustrated papers, flowers, a quarter of a pound of chocolatecreams, which had become a little wilted, owing to the crowded state ofthe tramcar in which he had returned home that night.
During those anxious days, he collected a strange assortment ofarticles, perishable and otherwise. The thing he could not do was to gohome without some token of his solicitude.
One evening he acquired a vividly coloured oleograph in a gilt frame,which depicted a yawning grave, whilst in the distance an angel was tobe seen carrying a very material-looking spirit to heaven.
Mrs. Bindle's reception of the gift was a wild look of terror, followedby a fit of coughing that frightened Bindle almost as much as it didher.
"Funny," he remarked later as he carried the picture out of the room. "Ithought she'd 'ave liked an angel."
It was Bindle who eventually solved the problem of how to conveycomfort to Mrs. Bindle's distraught spirit.
One evening he accompanied the doctor to her room. After the customaryquestions and answers between doctor and patient, Bindle suddenly burstout.
"I got a bet on with the doctor, Lizzie."
From an anxious contemplation of the doctor's face, where she had beenstriving to read the worst, Mrs. Bindle turned her eyes to Bindle'scheery countenance.
"'E's bet me a quid you'll be cookin' my dinner this day week," heannounced.
The effect of the announcement on Mrs. Bindle was startling. A new lightsprang into her eyes, her cheeks became faintly pink as she turned tothe doctor a look of interrogation.
"It's true, Mrs. Bindle, and your husband's going to lose, that is ifyou're careful and don't take a chill."
Within ten minutes Mrs. Bindle had fallen into a deep sleep, havingfirst ordered Bindle to put another blanket on the bed--she was going totake no risks.
"The first time I ever knowed Mrs. B. 'ear me talk about bettin' withoutcallin' me a 'eathen," remarked Bindle, as he saw the doctor out."Wonders'll never cease," he murmured, as he returned to the kitchen."One o' these days she'll be askin' me to put a shillin' on both ways.Funny things, women!"
II
Bindle's plot with the doctor did more to expedite Mrs. Bindle'srecovery than all the care that had been lavished upon her. From thehour she awakened from a long and refreshing sleep, she began tomanifest interest in her surroundings. Her appetite improved and hersense of smell became more acute, so that Bindle had to select for hisdishes materials giving out a less pungent odour.
He took the additional precaution of doing his cooking with the windowand scullery-door open to their fullest extent.
Mrs. Bindle, on her part, took pleasure in planning the meals sheimagined Mrs. Coppen was cooking. She had not been told that thecharwoman was in prison for assaulting a policeman with a gin bottle.
"You'll 'ave to look out now, Joe," admonished Mrs. Hearty on oneoccasion as she entered the kitchen and gazed down at the table uponwhich Bindle was gathering together materials for what he described as a"top 'ole stoo." "If Lizzie was to catch you making all this messshe----" Mrs. Hearty finished in a series of wheezes.
One evening, when Bindle's menu consisted of corned-beef, piccalilli andbeer, to be followed by pancakes of his own making, the blow fell.
The corned beef, piccalilli and beer were excellent and he had enjoyedthem; but the pancakes were to be his chef d'oeuvre. His main object inselecting pancakes was, as he explained to Mrs. Hearty, "that they don'tstink while cookin'."
From his sister-in-law he had obtained a general idea of how to proceed.She had even gone so far as to assist in mixing the batter.
The fat was bubbling merrily in the frying-pan as he poured insufficient liquid for at least three pancakes.
"You ain't got much to learn about cookin', old cock," he muttered, ashe watched the fat bubble darkly round the cream-coloured batter.
After a lapse of some five minutes he decided that the underside wassufficiently done. Then came the problem of how to turn the pancake. Hehad heard that expert cooks could toss them in such a way that they fellinto the pan again on the reverse side; but he was too wise to take sucha risk, particularly as the upper portion of the pancake was still in aliquid state.
He determined upon more cautious means of achieving his object. With theaid of a tablespoon and a fish-slice, he managed to get the pancakereversed. It is true that it had a crumpled appearance, and aconsiderable portion of the loose batter had fallen on to the stove;still he regarded it as an achievement.
Just as he was contemplating the turning of the pancake on to a plate, aknock came at the front-door. On answering it, Bindle found a butcher'sboy, who insisted that earlier in the day he had left a pound ofbeef-steak at No. 7, instead of at No. 17. The lad was confident, andrefused to accept Bindle's assurance that he had neither seen nor heardof the missing meat.
The argument waxed fierce and eventually developed into personalities,mainly from the butcher-boy.
Suddenly Bindle remembered his pancake. Banging the door in the lad'sface, he dashed along the passage and opened the kitchen door. For asecond he stood appalled, the pancake seemed to have eaten up everyscrap of oxygen the room contained, and in its place had sent forth asuffocating smell of burning.
Realising that in swift action alone lay his salvation, Bindle dashedacross the room, opened the door leading to the scullery and then thescullery door itself. He threw up the window and, with water streamingfrom his eyes, approached the stove. A blackened ruin was all thatremained of his pancake.
Picking up the frying-pan he carried it over to the sink, where he stoodregarding the charred mass. Suddenly he recollected that he had leftopen the kitchen-door leading into the passage. Dropping the frying-pan,he made a dash to close it; but he was too late. There, with hershoulders encased in a red flannel petticoat, stood Mrs. Bindle.
"My Gawd!" he muttered tragically.
For nearly a minute she stood as if turned to stone. Then without a wordshe closed the door behind her, walked to the centre of the room,
andstood absorbing the scene of ruin and desolation about her, Bindlebacking into the furthest corner.
She regarded the stove, generously flaked with the overflow of Bindle'sculinary enthusiasm, glanced up at the discoloured dish-covers over themantelpiece, the brightness of which had always been her special pride.
On to the dresser her eye wandered, and was met by a riot of dirtydishes and plates, salmon tins, empty beer bottles, crusts of bread,reinforced by an old boot.
The kitchen-table held her attention for fully half a minute. The tornnewspaper covering it was stained to every shade of black and brown andgrey, the whole being composed by a large yellow splotch, where a cup ofvery liquid mustard had come to grief.
Upon this informal tablecloth was strewn a medley of unwashed plates,knives and forks, bread-crumbs, potato-peelings and fish-bones.
Having gazed her fill, and still ominously silent, she proceeded to makea thorough tour of inspection, Bindle watching her with distended eyes,fear clutching at his heart.
At the sink she stood for some seconds steadfastly regarding Bindle'spancake. Her lips had now entirely disappeared.
The crisis came when she opened the dresser drawer and found thepie-dish and plate he had broken, but had forgotten to take away.Screwing up the packet again, she turned swiftly and hurled it at himwith all her strength.
Wholly unprepared, Bindle made a vain effort to dodge; but the packagegot him on the side of the head, and a red line above his ear showedthat Mrs. Bindle had drawn first blood.
"You fiend!" she cried. "Oh, you----!" and dropping into the chair bythe table she collapsed.
Soon the kitchen was ringing with the sounds of her hysterical laughter.Bindle watched her like one hypnotised.
As if to save his reason, a knock came at the outer door. Heside-stepped swiftly and made a dash for the door giving access to thehall. A moment later he was gazing with relief at Mrs. Hearty's paleblue tam o' shanter.
"'Ow is she, Joe?" she wheezed.
Then as he stepped aside to allow Mrs. Hearty to precede him into thekitchen, Bindle found voice. "I think she's better," he mumbled.