Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE SUMMER CAMP FOR TIRED WORKERS

  The Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers had been planned by the Bishopof Fulham out of the largeness of his heart and the plenitude of hisinexperience in such undertakings. He had borrowed a meadow, acquired acow, hired a marquee, and wangled fifty army bell-tents and afield-kitchen, about which in all probability questions would be askedin the House. Finally as the result of a brain-wave he had requisitionedthe local boy scouts. Later there would be the devil to pay with theleaders of the Boys' Brigade; but the bishop abounded in tact.

  When the time came, the meadow was there, the bell-tents, the cow, andthe boy scouts duly arrived; but of the marquee nothing had been seen orheard, and as for the field-kitchen, the War Office could say littlebeyond the fact that it had left Aldershot.

  For days the bishop worked indefatigably with telephone and telegraph,endeavouring to trace the errant field-kitchen and the missing marquee;but so much of his time had been occupied in obtaining the necessaryassistance to ensure that the cow was properly and punctually milked,that other things, being farther away, had seemed less insistent.

  In those days the bishop had much to worry him; but his real cross wasDaisy, the cow. Everything else was of minor importance compared withthis bovine responsibility. Vaguely he had felt that if you had a cowyou had milk; but he was to discover that on occasion a cow could be asunproductive of milk as a sea-serpent.

  None of the campers had ever approached a cow in her professionalcapacity. Night and morning she had to be relieved of a twelve hours'accumulation of milk, all knew that; but how? That was a question whichhad perturbed bishop and campers alike; for the whole camp shared theecclesiastical anxiety about Daisy. Somewhere at the back of the cockneymind was the suspicion, amounting almost to a certainty, that, unlessregularly milked, cows exploded, like overcharged water-mains.

  Daisy soon developed into something more than a cow. When otheroccupations failed (amusements there were none), the campers wouldcollect round Daisy, examining her from every angle. She was a mystery,just as a juggler or the three-card trick were mysteries, and as suchshe commanded respect.

  Each night and morning the bishop had to produce from somewhere a personcapable of ministering to the requirements of Daisy, and everyone in theneighbourhood was extremely busy. Apart from this, West Boxton was ahot-bed of Nonconformity, and some of the inhabitants were muchexercised in their minds as to the spiritual effect upon a Dissenter ofmilking a church cow.

  There were times when the bishop felt like a conjurer, billed to producea guinea-pig from a top-hat, who had left the guinea-pig at home.

  Daisy was not without her uses, quite apart from those for which she hadbeen provided by Providence and the bishop. "Come an' 'ave a look atDaisy," had become the conversational forlorn hope of the campers whenutterly bankrupt of all other interests. She was their shield againstboredom and the spear with which to slay the dragon of apathy.

  "No beer, no pictures, only a ruddy cow," a cynic had remarked insumming up the amusements provided by the Surrey Summer-Camp for TiredWorkers. "Enough to give a giddy flea the blinkin' 'ump," he hadconcluded; but his was only an isolated view. For the most part theseshipwrecked cockneys were grateful to Daisy, and they never tired ofwatching the milk spurt musically into the bright pail beneath her.

  The bishop was well-meaning, but forgetful. In planning his camp he hadentirely overlooked the difficulty of food and water supplies. The onewas a mile distant and could not be brought nearer; the other had beenovercome by laying a pipe, at considerable expense.

  In the natural order of disaster the campers had arrived, and in a veryfew hours became tinctured with the heresy of anti-clericalism. Husbandsquarrelled with wives as to who should bear the responsibility for theadventure to which they found themselves committed. One and allquestioned the right of a bishop to precipitate himself into thedomestic circle as a bearer of discord and summer-camps.

  At the time of the arrival of the Bindles, everything seemed chaos.There was a spatter of bell-tents on the face of the meadow, piles ofpersonal possessions at the entrance of the tents, whilst the "tiredworkers" loitered about in their shirt sleeves, or strove to preparemeals in spite of the handicaps with which they were surrounded. Thechildren stood about wide-eyed and grave, as if unable to play theirurban games in a bucolic setting.

  When, under the able command of Patrol-leader Smithers, the Bindles'belongings had been piled up just inside the meadow and Mrs. Bindlehelped down, sore in body and disturbed in temper, the indefatigable boyscout led the way towards a tent. He carried the Japanese basket in onehand, and the handleless bag under the other arm, whilst Bindle followedwith the tin-bath, and Mrs. Bindle made herself responsible for thebundle of blankets, through the centre of which the parrot-headedumbrella peeped out coyly.

  Their guide paused at the entrance of a bell-tent, and deposited theJapanese basket on the ground.

  "This is your tent," he announced, "I'll send one of the patrol to helpyou," and, with the air of one upon whose shoulders rests the destinyof planets, he departed.

  Bindle and Mrs. Bindle gazed after him, then at each other, finally atthe tent. Bindle stepped across and put his head inside; but quicklywithdrew it.

  "Smells like a bus on a wet day," he muttered.

  With an air of decision Mrs. Bindle entered the tent. As she did soBindle winked gravely at a little boy who had wandered up, and now stoodawaiting events with blue-eyed gravity. At Bindle's wink he turned andtrotted off to a neighbouring tent, from the shelter of which hecontinued to watch the domestic tragedy of the new arrivals.

  "There are no bedsteads." Mrs. Bindle's voice came from within the tentin tones of muffled tragedy.

  "You don't say so," said Bindle abstractedly, his attention concentratedupon a diminutive knight of the pole, who was approaching their tent.

  "Where's the feather beds, 'Orace?" he demanded when the lad was withinear-shot.

  "There's a waterproof ground-sheet and we supply mattresses of loosestraw," he announced as he halted sharply within two paces of whereBindle stood.

  "Oh! you do, do you?" said Bindle, "an' who 'appens to supply the brassdouble-bedstead wot me and Mrs. B. is used to sleep on. P'raps you cantell me that, young shaver?"

  Before the lad had time to reply, Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entranceof the tent, grimmer and more uncompromising than ever. For a moment sheeyed the lad severely.

  "Where am I to sleep?" she demanded.

  "Are you with this gentleman?" enquired the boy scout.

  "She is, sonny," said Bindle, "been with me for twenty years now. Can'tlose 'er no'ow."

  "Bindle, behave yourself!" Mrs. Bindle's jaws closed with a snap.

  "We're going to 'ave some sacks of straw in place of that missionary'sbed you an' me sleeps on in Fulham," explained Bindle; but Mrs. Bindlehad disappeared once more into the tent.

  For the next hour the Bindles and their assistant scout were engaged ingetting the bell-tent into habitable condition. During the process thescout explained that the marquee was to have been used for the communalmeals, which the field-kitchen was to supply; but both had failed toarrive, and the bishop had himself gone up to London to make enquiries.

  "An' wot's goin' to 'appen to us till 'e runs acrost 'em?" enquiredBindle. "I'm feelin' a bit peckish myself now--wot I'll be like in ahour's time I don't know."

  "I'll show you how to build a scout-fire," volunteered the lad.

  "But I ain't a fire-eater," objected Bindle. "I want a bit o' steak, ora rasher an' an egg."

  "What's the use of a scout-fire to me with kippers to cook?" demandedMrs. Bindle, appearing once more at the entrance of the tent.

  At that moment another "tired worker" drifted across to the Bindles'tent. He was a long, lean man with a straggling moustache and threedays' growth of beard. He was in his shirt sleeves, collarless, withunbuttoned waistcoat, and he wore a general air of despondency andgloom.

  "'Ow goes
it, mate?" he enquired.

  Bindle straightened himself from inspecting the interior of the tin-bathwhich he was unpacking.

  "Oh! mid; but I've known wot it is to be 'appier," said Bindle, with agrin.

  "Same 'ere," was the gloomy response.

  "Things sort o' seem to 'ave gone wrong," suggested Bindleconversationally.

  "That's right," said the man, rubbing the bristles of his chin with ameditative thumb.

  "'Ow you gettin' on for grub?" asked Bindle.

  The man shook his head lugubriously.

  "What about a pub?"

  "Mile away," gloomed the man.

  "Gawd Almighty!" Bindle's exclamation was not concerned with the man'sremark, but with something he extracted from the bath. "Well, I'mblowed," he muttered.

  "'Ere, Lizzie," he called out.

  Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent. Bindle held up anelastic-sided boot from which marmalade fell solemnly and reluctantly.

  Then the flood-gates of Mrs. Bindle's wrath burst apart, and she poureddown upon Bindle's head a deluge of reproach. He and he alone wasresponsible for all the disasters that had befallen them. He had done iton purpose because she wanted a holiday. He wasn't a husband, he was ablasphemer, an atheist, a cumberer of the earth, and all that was evil.

  She was interrupted in her tirade by the approach of a little man with around, bald, shiny head and a worried expression of countenance.

  "D'yer know 'ow to milk a cow, mate?" he enquired of Bindle, apparentlyquite unconscious that he had precipitated himself into the midst of adomestic scene.

  "Do I know 'ow to wot?" demanded Bindle, eyeing the man as if he hadasked a most unusual question.

  "There's a bloomin' cow over there and nobody can't milk 'er, an' thebishop's gone, and we wants our tea."

  Bindle scratched his head through his cap, then, turning towards thetent into which Mrs. Bindle had once more disappeared, he called out:

  "Hi, Lizzie, jer know 'ow to milk a cow?"

  "Don't be beastly," came the reply from the tent.

  "It ain't one of them cows," he called back, "it's a milk cow, an''ere's a cove wot wants 'is tea."

  Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent, and surveyed the groupof three men.

  "How did you manage yesterday?" she demanded practically.

  "A girl come over from the farm, missis," said the little man, "and shedidn't 'arf make it milk."

  "Hold your tongue," snapped Mrs. Bindle.

  The man gazed at her in surprise.

  "Why don't you get the same girl?" asked Mrs. Bindle.

  "She says she's too busy. I 'ad a try myself," said the man, "only itwas a washout."

  "I'll 'ave a look at 'er," Bindle announced, and the three men moved offacross the meadow, picking their way among the tents with their piles ofbedding, blankets, and other impedimenta outside. All were getting readyfor the night.

  When Bindle reached Daisy, he found the problem had been solved by oneof Mr. Timkins' farm-hands, who was busily at work, watched by aninterested group of campers.

  During the next half-hour, Bindle strolled about among the tentslearning many things, foremost among which was that "the whole ruddycamp was a washout." The commissariat had failed badly, and the nearestdrink was a mile away at The Trowel and Turtle. A great many things weresaid about the bishop and the organisers of the camp.

  When he returned to the tent, he found Mrs. Bindle engaged in boilingwater in a petrol-tin over a scout-fire. With the providence of a goodhousewife she had brought with her emergency supplies, and Bindle wassoon enjoying a meal comprised of kipper, tea and bread and margarine.When he had finished, he announced himself ready to face the terrors ofthe night.

  "I can't say as I likes it," he remarked, as he stood at the entrance tothe tent, struggling to undo his collar. "Seems to me sort o' draughty."

  "That's right, go on," cried Mrs. Bindle, as she pushed past him. "Whatdid you expect?"

  "Well, since you asks me, I'm like those coves in religion wot expectsnothink; but gets an 'ell of a lot."

  "Don't blaspheme. It's Sunday to-morrow," was the rejoinder; but Bindlehad strolled away to commune with the man with a stubbly chin andpessimistic soul.

  "Do yer sleep well, mate?" he enquired, conversationally.

  "Crikey! sleep is it? There ain't no blinkin' sleep in this 'ere ruddycamp."

  "Wot's up?" enquired Bindle.

  "Up!" was the lugubrious response. "Awake all last night, I was."

  "Wot was you doin'?" queried Bindle with interest.

  "Scratchin'!" was the savage retort.

  "Scratchin'! Who was you scratchin'?"

  "Who was I scratchin'? Who the 'ell should I be scratchin' but myself?"he demanded, his apathy momentarily falling from him. "I'd like to knowwhere they got that blinkin' straw from wot they give us to lie on. Idone a bit o' scratchin' in the trenches; but last night I 'adn't enoughfingers, damn 'em."

  Bindle whistled.

  "Then," continued the man with gloomy gusto, "there's them ruddychickens in the mornin', a-crowin' their guts out. Not a wink o' sleepafter three for anybody," he added, with all the hatred of the cockneyfor farmyard sounds. "Oh! it's an 'oliday, all right," he added withscathing sarcasm, "only it ain't ours."

  "Seems like it," said Bindle drily, as he turned on his heel and madefor his own tent.

  That night, he realised to the full the iniquities of the man who hadsupplied the straw for the mattresses. By the sounds that came from theother side of the tent-pole, he gathered that Mrs. Bindle was similarlytroubled.

  Towards dawn, Bindle began to doze, just as the cocks were announcingthe coming of the sun. If the man with the stubbly chin were right inhis diagnosis, the birds, like Prometheus, had, during the night,renewed their missing organisms.

  "Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle. "Ole six-foot-o'-melancholy wasn'tswinging the lead neither. 'Oly ointment! I never 'eard such a row inall my puff. There ain't no doubt but wot Mrs. Bindle's gettin' acountry 'oliday," and with that he rose and proceeded to draw on histrousers, deciding that it was folly to attempt further to seek sleep.

  Outside the tent, he came across Patrol-leader Smithers.

  "Mornin' Foch," said Bindle.

  "Smithers," said the lad. "Patrol-leader Smithers of the Bear Patrol."

  "My mistake," said Bindle; "but you an' Foch is jest as like as twopeas. You don't 'appen to 'ave seen a stray cock about, do you?"

  "A cock," repeated the boy.

  "Yes!" said Bindle, tilting his head on one side with the air of onelistening intently, whilst from all sides came the brazen blare ofecstatic chanticleers. "I thought I 'eard one just now."

  "They're Farmer Timkins' fowls," said Patrol-leader Smithers gravely.

  "You don't say so," said Bindle. "Seem to be in good song this mornin'.Reg'lar bunch o' canaries."

  To this flippancy, Patrol-leader Smithers made no response.

  "Does there 'appen to be any place where I can get a rinse, 'Indenberg?"he enquired.

  "There's a tap over there for men," said Patrol-leader Smithers,pointing to the extreme right of the field, "and for ladies over there,"he pointed in the opposite direction.

  "No mixed bathin', I see," murmured Bindle. "Now, as man to man,Ludendorff, which would you advise?"

  The lad looked at him with grave eyes. "The men's tap is over there,"and again he pointed.

  "Well, well," said Bindle, "p'raps you're right; but I ain't fond o'takin' a bath in the middle of a field," he muttered.

  "The taps are screened off."

  "Well, well, live an' learn," muttered Bindle, as he made for the men'stap.

  When Bindle returned to the tent, he found Patrol-leader Smithersinstructing Mrs. Bindle in how to coax a scout-fire into activity.

  "You mustn't poke it, mum," said the lad. "It goes out if you do."

  Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips, and folded the brown mackintosh she waswearing more closely about her. She was not accustomed to cri
ticism,particularly in domestic matters, and her instinct was to disregard it;but the boy's earnestness seemed to discourage retort, and she hadalready seen the evil effect of attacking a scout-fire with a poker.

  Suddenly her eye fell upon Bindle, standing in shirt and trousers, fromthe back of which his braces dangled despondently.

  "Why don't you go in and dress?" she demanded. "Walking about in thatstate!"

  "I been to get a rinse," he explained, as he walked across to the tentand disappeared through the aperture.

  Mrs. Bindle snorted angrily. She had experienced a bad night, added towhich the fire had resented her onslaught by incontinently going out,necessitating an appeal to a mere child.

  Having assumed a collar, a coat and waistcoat, Bindle strolled roundthe camp exchanging a word here and a word there with his fellowcampers, who, in an atmosphere of intense profanity, were engaged ingetting breakfast.

  "Never 'eard such language," muttered Bindle with a grin. "This 'erelittle camp'll send a rare lot o' people to a place where they won'tmeet the bishop."

  At the end of half-an-hour he returned and found tea, eggs and bacon,and Mrs. Bindle waiting for him.

  "So you've come at last," she snapped, as he seated himself on a woodenbox.

  "Got it this time," he replied genially, sniffing the airappreciatively. "'Ope you got somethink nice for yer little love-bird."

  "Don't you love-bird me," cried Mrs. Bindle, who had been looking forsome one on whom to vent her displeasure. "I suppose you're going toleave me to do all the work while you go gallivanting about playing thegentleman."

  "I don't needs to play it, Mrs. B., I'm IT. Vere de Vere with blood asblue as 'Earty's stories."

  "If you think I'm going to moil and toil and cook for you down here as Ido at home, you're mistaken. I came for a rest. I've hardly had a winkof sleep all night," she sniffed ominously.

  "I thought I 'eard you on the 'unt," said Bindle sympathetically.

  "Bindle!" There was warning in her tone.

  "But wasn't you?" He looked across at her in surprise, his mouth full ofeggs and bacon.

  "I--I had a disturbed night," she drew in her lips primly.

  "So did I," said Bindle gloomily. "I'd 'ave disturbed 'em if I could'ave caught 'em. My God! There must 'ave been millions of 'em," he addedreminiscently.

  "If you're going to talk like that, I shall go away," she announced.

  "I'd like to meet the cove wot filled them mattresses," was Bindle'ssinister comment.

  "It--it wasn't that," said Mrs. Bindle. "It was the----" She paused fora moment.

  "Them cocks," he suggested.

  "Don't be disgusting, Bindle."

  "Disgusting? I never see such a chap as me for bein' lood an' disgustin'an' blasphemious. Wot jer call 'em if they ain't cocks?"

  "They're roosters--the male birds."

  "But they wasn't roostin', blow 'em. They was crowin', like giddy-o."

  Mrs. Bindle made no comment; but continued to eat her breakfast.

  "Personally, myself, I'm goin' to 'ave a little word with the bishopabout that little game I 'ad with wot 'appened before wot you call themmale birds started givin' tongue." He paused to take breath. "I don'tlike to mention wot it was; but I shall itch for a month. 'Ullo Weary!"he called out to the long man with the stubbly chin.

  The man approached. He was wearing the same lugubrious look and the samewaistcoat, unbuttoned in just the same manner that it had beenunbuttoned the day before.

  "You was right about them mattresses and the male birds," said Bindle,with a glance at Mrs. Bindle.

  "The wot?" demanded the man, gazing vacantly at Bindle.

  "The male birds."

  "'Oo the 'ell--sorry, mum," to Mrs. Bindle. Then turning once more toBindle he added, "Them cocks, you mean?"

  "'Ush!" said Bindle. "They ain't cocks 'ere, they're male birds, an'roosters on Sunday. You see, my missis----" but Mrs. Bindle had risenand, with angry eyes, had disappeared into the tent.

  "Got one of 'em?" queried Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction ofthe aperture of the tent.

  The man with the stubbly chin nodded dolefully.

  "Thought so," said Bindle. "You looks it."

  Whilst Bindle was strolling round the camp with the man with the stubblychin, Mrs. Bindle was becoming better acquainted with the peculiartemperament of a bell-tent. She had already realised its disadvantagesas a dressing-room. It was dark, it was small, it was stuffy. The twomattresses occupied practically the whole floor-space and there wasnowhere to sit. It was impossible to move about freely, owing to therestrictions of space in the upper area.

  Having washed the breakfast-things, peeled the potatoes, supplied by Mr.Timkins through Patrol-leader Smithers, and prepared for the oven asmall joint of beef she had brought with her, Mrs. Bindle once morewithdrew into the tent.

  When she eventually re-appeared in brown alpaca with a bonnet to match,upon which rested two purple pansies, Bindle had just returned from whathe called "a nose round," during which he had made friends with most ofthe campers, men, women and children, who were not already his friends.

  At the sight of Mrs. Bindle he whistled softly.

  "You can show me where the bakers is," she said icily, as she proceededto draw on a pair of brown kid gloves. The inconveniences arising fromdressing in a bell-tent had sorely ruffled her temper.

  "The bakers!" he repeated stupidly.

  "Yes, the bakers," she repeated. "I suppose you don't want to eat yourdinner raw."

  Then Bindle strove to explain the composite tragedy of the missingfield-kitchen and marquee, to say nothing of the bishop.

  In small communities news travels quickly, and the Bindles soon foundthemselves the centre of a group of men and women (with children holdinga watching brief), all anxious to volunteer information, mainly on thesubject of misguided bishops who got unsuspecting townsmen into thecountry under false pretences.

  Mrs. Bindle was a good housewife, and she had come prepared with rationssufficient for the first two days. She had, however, depended upon thestatements contained in the prospectus of the S.C.T.W., that cookingfacilities would be provided by the committee.

  She strove to control the anger that was rising within her. It was theSabbath, and she was among strangers.

  Although ready and willing to volunteer information, the other camperssaw no reason to restrain their surprise and disapproval of Mrs.Bindle's toilette. The other women were in their work-a-day attire, asbefitted housewives who had dinners to cook under severe handicaps, andthey resented what they regarded as a newcomer's "swank."

  That first day of the holiday, for which she had fought with such grimdetermination, lived long in Mrs. Bindle's memory. Dinner she contrivedwith the aid of the frying-pan and the saucepan she had brought withher. It would have taken something more than the absence of afield-kitchen to prevent Mrs. Bindle from doing what she regarded as herdomestic duty.

  The full sense of her tragedy, however, manifested itself when, dinnerover, she had washed-up.

  There was nothing to do until tea-time. Bindle had disappeared with theman with the stubbly chin and two others in search of the nearestpublic-house, a mile away. Patrol-leader Smithers was at Sunday-school,whilst her fellow-campers showed no inclination to make advances.

  She walked for a little among the other tents; but her general demeanourwas not conducive to hasty friendships. She therefore returned to thetent and wrote to Mr. Hearty, telling him, on the authority ofPatrol-leader Smithers, that Mr. Timkins had a large quantity ofexcellent strawberries for sale.

  Mr. Hearty was a greengrocer who had one eye on business and the othereye on God, in case of accidents. On hearing that the Bindles were goinginto the country, his mind had instinctively flown to fruit andvegetables. He had asked Mrs. Bindle to "drop him a postcard" (Mr.Hearty was always economical in the matter of postages, even otherpeople's postages) if she heard of anything that she thought mightinterest him.

  Mrs. Bindle told in glowing
terms the story of Farmer Timkins' hoards ofstrawberries, giving the impression that he was at a loss what to dowith them.

  Three o'clock brought the bishop and a short open-air service, which wasattended by the entire band of campers, with the exception of Bindle andhis companions.

  The bishop was full of apologies for the past and hope for the future.In place of a sermon he gave an almost jovial address; but there were noanswering smiles. Everyone was wondering what they could do until it wastime for bed, the more imaginative going still further and speculatingwhat they were to do when they got there.

  "My friends," the bishop concluded, "we must not allow trifling mishapsto discourage us. We are here to enjoy ourselves."

  And the campers returned to their tents as Achilles had done a fewthousand years before, dark of brow and gloomy of heart.