‘You ain’t shirty ‘cause I kissed yer last night?’
‘I’m not shirty; but it was pretty cool, considerin’ like as I didn’t know yer.’
‘Well, you run into my arms.’
‘Thet I didn’t; you run aht and caught me.’
‘An’ kissed yer before you could say “Jack Robinson”.’ He laughed at the thought. ‘Well, Liza,’ he went on, ‘seein’ as ‘ow I kissed yer against yer will, the best thing you can do ter make it up is to kiss me not against yer will.’
‘Me?’ said Liza, looking at him, open-mouthed. ‘Well you are a pill!’
The children began to clamour for the riding, which had been discontinued on Liza’s approach.
‘Are them your kids?’ she asked.
‘Yus; them’s two on ‘em.’
‘’Ow many ‘ave yer got?’
‘Five; the eldest gal’s fifteen, and the next one ‘oo’s a boy’s twelve, and then there are these two and baby.’
‘Well, you’ve got enough for your money.’
‘Too many for me—and more comin’.’
‘Ah well,’ said Liza, laughing, ‘thet’s your fault, ain’t it?’
Then she bade him good morning, and strolled off.
He watched her as she went, and saw half a dozen little boys surround her and beg her to join them in their game of cricket. They caught hold of her arms and skirts, and pulled her to their pitch.
‘No, I can’t,’ she said trying to disengage herself. ‘I’ve got the dinner ter cook.’
‘Dinner ter cook?’ shouted one small boy. ‘Why, they always cooks the cats’ meat at the shop.’
‘You little so-and-so!’ said Liza, somewhat inelegantly, making a dash at him.
He dodged her and gave a whoop; then turning he caught her round the legs, and another boy catching hold of her round the neck they dragged her down, and all three struggled on the ground, rolling over and over; the other boys threw themselves on the top, so that there was a great heap of legs and arms and heads waving and bobbing up and down.
Liza extricated herself with some difficulty, and taking off her hat she began cuffing the boys with it, using all the time the most lively expressions. Then, having cleared the field, she retired victorious into her own house and began cooking the dinner.
IV
BANK HOLIDAY WAS a beautiful day: the cloudless sky threatened a stifling heat for noontide, but early in the morning, when Liza got out of bed and threw open the window, it was fresh and cool. She dressed herself, wondering how she should spend her day; she thought of Sally going off to Chingford with her lover, and of herself remaining alone in the dull street with half the people away. She almost wished it were an ordinary work-day, and that there were no such things as bank holidays. And it seemed to be a little like two Sundays running, but with the second rather worse than the first. Her mother was still sleeping, and she was in no great hurry about getting the breakfast, but stood quietly looking out of the window at the house opposite.
In a little while she saw Sally coming along. She was arrayed in purple and fine linen—a very smart red dress, trimmed with velveteen, and a tremendous hat covered with feathers. She had reaped the benefit of keeping her hair in curl-papers since Saturday, and her sandy fringe stretched from ear to ear. She was in enormous spirits.
‘’Ulloa, Liza!’ she called as soon as she saw her at the window.
Liza looked at her a little enviously.
‘’Ulloa!’ she answered quietly.
‘I’m just goin’ to the “Red Lion” to meet ‘Arry.’
‘At what time d’yer start?’
‘The brake leaves at ‘alf-past eight sharp.’
‘Why, it’s only eight; it’s only just struck at the church. ‘Arry won’t be there yet, will he?’
‘Oh, ‘e’s sure ter be early. I couldn’t wite. I’ve been witin’ abaht since ‘alf-past six. I’ve been up since five this morning.’
‘Since five! What ‘ave you been doin’?’
‘Dressin’ myself and doin’ my ‘air. I woke up so early. I’ve been dreamin’ all the night abaht it. I simply couldn’t sleep.’
‘Well, you are a caution!’ said Liza.
‘Bust it, I don’t go on the spree every day! Oh, I do ‘ope I shall enjoy myself.’
‘Why, you simply dunno where you are!’ said Liza, a little crossly.
‘Don’t you wish you was comin’, Liza?’ asked Sally.
‘Na! I could if I liked, but I don’t want ter.’
‘You are a coughdrop—thet’s all I can say. Ketch me refusin’ when I ‘ave the chanst.’
‘Well, it’s done now. I ain’t got the chanst any more.’ Liza said this with just a little regret in her voice.
‘Come on dahn to the “Red Lion”, Liza, and see us off,’ said Sally.
‘No, I’m damned if I do!’ answered Liza, with some warmth.
‘You might as well. P’raps ‘Arry won’t be there, an’ you can keep me company till ‘e comes. An’ you can see the ‘orses.’
Liza was really very anxious to see the brake and the horses and the people going; but she hesitated a little longer. Sally asked her once again. Then she said:
‘Arright; I’ll come with yer, and wite till the bloomin’ old thing starts.’
She did not trouble to put on a hat, but just walked out as she was, and accompanied Sally to the public-house which was getting up the expedition.
Although there was still nearly half an hour to wait, the brake was drawn up before the main entrance; it was large and long, with seats arranged crosswise, so that four people could sit on each; and it was drawn by two powerful horses, whose harness the coachman was now examining. Sally was not the first on the scene, for already half a dozen people had taken their places, but Harry had not yet arrived. The two girls stood by the public-door, looking at the preparations. Huge baskets full of food were brought out and stowed away; cases of beer were hoisted up and put in every possible place—under the seats, under the driver’s legs, and even beneath the brake. As more people came up, Sally began to get excited about Harry’s non-appearance.
‘I say, I wish ‘e’d come!’ she said. ‘’E is lite.’
Then she looked up and down the Westminster Bridge Road to see if he was in view.
‘Suppose ‘e don’t turn up! I will give it ‘im when ‘e comes for keepin’ me witin’ like this.’
‘Why, there’s a quarter of an hour yet,’ said Liza, who saw nothing at all to get excited about.
At last Sally saw her lover, and rushed off to meet him. Liza was left alone, rather disconsolate at all this bustle and preparation. She was not sorry that she had refused Tom’s invitation, but she did wish that she had conscientiously been able to accept it. Sally and her friend came up; attired in his Sunday best, he was a fit match for his lady-love—he wore a shirt and collar, unusual luxuries—and be carried under his arm a concertina to make things merry on the way.
‘Ain’t you goin’, Liza?’ he asked in surprise at seeing her without a hat and with her apron on.
‘Na,’ said Sally, ‘ain’t she a soft? Tom said ‘e’d tike ‘er, an’ she wouldn’t.’
‘Well, I’m dashed!’
Then they climbed the ladder and took their seats, so that Liza was left alone again. More people had come along, and the brake was nearly full. Liza knew them all, but they were too busy taking their places to talk to her. At last Tom came. He saw her standing there and went up to her.
‘Won’t yer change yer mind, Liza, an’ come along with us?’
‘Na, Tom, I told yer I wouldn’t—it’s not right like.’ She felt she must repeat that to herself often.
‘I shan’t enjoy it a bit without you,’ he said.
‘Well, I can’t ‘elp it!’ she answered, somewhat sullenly.
At that moment a man came out of the public-house with a horn in his hand; her heart gave a great jump, for if there was anything she adored it was to drive along to the tootling of a horn. Sh
e really felt it was very hard lines that she must stay at home when all these people were going to have such a fine time; and they were all so merry, and she could picture to herself so well the delights of the drive and the picnic. She felt very much inclined to cry. But she mustn’t go, and she wouldn’t go: she repeated that to herself twice as the trumpeter gave a preliminary tootle.
Two more people hurried along, and when they came near Liza saw that they were Jim Blakeston and a woman whom she supposed to be his wife.
‘Are you comin’, Liza?’ Jim said to her.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t know you was goin’.’
‘I wish you was comin’,’ he replied, ‘we shall ‘ave a game.’
She could only just keep back the sobs; she so wished she were going. It did seem hard that she must remain behind; and all because she wasn’t going to marry Tom. After all, she didn’t see why that should prevent her; there really was no need to refuse for that. She began to think she had acted foolishly: it didn’t do anyone any good that she refused to go out with Tom, and no one thought it anything specially fine that she should renounce her pleasure. Sally merely thought her a fool.
Tom was standing by her side, silent, and looking disappointed and rather unhappy. Jim said to her, in a low voice:
‘I am sorry you’re not comin’!’
It was too much. She did want to go so badly, and she really couldn’t resist any longer. If Tom would only ask her once more, and if she could only change her mind reasonably and decently, she would accept; but he stood silent, and she had to speak herself. It was very undignified.
‘Yer know, Tom.’ she said, ‘I don’t want ter spoil your day.’
‘Well, I don’t think I shall go alone; it ‘ud be so precious slow.’
Supposing he didn’t ask her again! What should she do? She looked up at the clock on the front of the pub, and noticed that it only wanted five minutes to the half-hour. How terrible it would be if the brake started and he didn’t ask her! Her heart beat violently against her chest, and in her agitation she fumbled with the corner of her apron.
‘Well, what can I do, Tom dear?’
‘Why, come with me, of course. Oh. Liza, do say yes.’
She had got the offer again, and it only wanted a little seemly hesitation, and the thing was done.
‘I should like ter, Tom,’ she said. ‘But d’you think it ‘ud be arright?’
‘Yus, of course it would. Come on, Liza!’ In his eagerness he clasped her hand.
‘Well,’ she remarked, looking down, ‘if it’d spoil your ‘oliday—.’
‘I won’t go if you don’t—swop me bob, I won’t!’ he answered.
‘Well, if I come, it won’t mean that I’m keepin’ company with you.’
‘Na, it won’t mean anythin’ you don’t like.’
‘Arright!’ she said.
‘You’ll come?’ he could hardly believe her.
‘Yus!’ she answered, smiling all over her face.
‘You’re a good sort, Liza! I say, ‘Arry, Liza’s comin’!’ he shouted.
‘Liza? ‘Oorray!’ shouted Harry.
‘’S’at right, Liza?’ called Sally.
And Liza feeling quite joyful and light of heart called back:
‘Yus!’
‘’Oorray!’ shouted Sally in answer.
‘Thet’s right, Liza,’ called Jim; and he smiled pleasantly as she looked at him.
‘There’s just room for you two ‘ere,’ said Harry, pointing to the vacant places by his side.
‘Arright!’ said Tom.
‘I must jest go an’ get a ‘at an’ tell mother,’ said Liza.
‘There’s just three minutes. Be quick!’ answered Tom, and as she scampered off as hard as she could go, he shouted to the coachman: ‘’Old ‘ard; there’ another passenger comin’ in a minute.’
‘Arright, old cock,’ answered the coachman: ‘no ‘urry!’
Liza rushed into the room, and called to her mother, who was still asleep:
‘Mother! mother! I’m going to Chingford!’
Then tearing off her old dress she slipped into her gorgeous violet one; she kicked off her old ragged shoes and put on her new boots. She brushed her hair down and rapidly gave her fringe a twirl and a twist—it was luckily still moderately in curl from the previous Saturday—and putting on her black hat with all the feathers, she rushed along the street, and scrambling up the brake steps fell panting on Tom’s lap.
The coachman cracked his whip, the trumpeter tootled his horn, and with a cry and a cheer from the occupants, the brake clattered down the road.
V
AS SOON AS Liza had recovered herself she started examining the people on the brake; and first of all she took stock of the woman whom Jim Blakeston had with him.
‘This is my missus!’ said Jim, pointing to her with his thumb.
‘You ain’t been dahn in the street much, ‘ave yer?’ said Liza, by way of making the acquaintance.
‘Na,’ answered Mrs. Blakeston, ‘my youngster’s been dahn with the measles, an’ I’ve ‘ad my work cut out lookin’ after ‘im.’
‘Oh, an’ is ‘e all right now?’
‘Yus, ‘e’s gettin’ on fine, an’ Jim wanted ter go ter Chingford ter-day, an’ ‘e says ter me, well, ‘e says, “You come along ter Chingford, too; it’ll do you good.” An’ ‘e says, “You can leave Polly”—she’s my eldest, yer know— “you can leave Polly,” says ‘e, “ter look after the kids.” So I says, “Well, I don’t mind if I do,” says I.’
Meanwhile Liza was looking at her. First she noticed her dress: she wore a black cloak and a funny, old-fashioned black bonnet; then examining the woman herself, she saw a middle-sized, stout person anywhere between thirty and forty years old. She had a large, fat face with a big mouth, and her hair was curiously done, parted in the middle and plastered down on each side of the head in little plaits. One could see that she was a woman of great strength, notwithstanding evident traces of hard work and much child-bearing.
Liza knew all the other passengers, and now that everyone was settled down and had got over the excitement of departure, they had time to greet one another. They were delighted to have Liza among them, for where she was there was no dullness. Her attention was first of all taken up by a young coster who had arrayed himself in the traditional costume—grey suit, tight trousers, and shiny buttons in profusion.
‘Wot cheer, Bill!’ she cried to him.
‘Wot cheer, Liza!’ he answered.
‘You are got up dossy, you’ll knock ‘em.’
‘Na then, Liza Kemp,’ said his companion, turning round with mock indignation, ‘you let my Johnny alone. If you come gettin’ round ‘im I’ll give you wot for.’
‘Arright, Clary Sharp, I don’t want ‘im,’ answered Liza. ‘I’ve got one of my own, an’ thet’s a good ‘andful—ain’t it, Tom?’
Tom was delighted, and, unable to find a repartee, in his pleasure gave Liza a great nudge with his elbow.
‘’Oo, I say,’ said Liza, putting her hand to her side. ‘Tike care of my ribs; you’ll brike ‘em.’
‘Them’s not yer ribs,’ shouted a candid friend—’them’s yer whale-bones yer afraid of breakin’.’
‘Garn!’
‘’Ave yer got whale-bones?’ said Tom, with affected simplicity, putting his arm round her waist to feel.
‘Na, then,’ she said, ‘keep off the grass!’
‘Well, I only wanted ter know if you’d got any.’
‘Garn; yer don’t git round me like thet.’
He still kept as he was.
‘Na then,’ she repeated, ‘tike yer ‘and away. If yer touch me there you’ll ‘ave ter marry me.’
‘Thet’s just wot I wants ter do, Liza!’
‘Shut it!’ she answered cruelly, and drew his arm away from her waist.
The horses scampered on, and the man behind blew his horn with vigour.
‘Don’t bust yerself, guv’nor!’ sa
id one of the passengers to him when he made a particularly discordant sound. They drove along eastwards, and as the hour grew later the streets became more filled and the traffic greater. At last they got on the road to Chingford, and caught up numbers of other vehicles going in the same direction—donkey-shays, pony-carts, tradesmen’s carts, dog-carts, drags, brakes, every conceivable kind of wheel thing, all filled with people, the wretched donkey dragging along four solid rate-payers to the pair of stout horses easily managing a couple of score. They exchanged cheers and greetings as they passed, the ‘Red Lion’ brake being noticeable above all for its uproariousness. As the day wore on the sun became hotter, and the road seemed more dusty and threw up a greater heat.
‘I am getting ‘ot!’ was the common cry, and everyone began to puff and sweat.
The ladies removed their cloaks and capes, and the men, following their example, took off their coats and sat in their shirt-sleeves. Whereupon ensued much banter of a not particularly edifying kind respecting the garments which each person would like to remove—which showed that the innuendo of French farce is not so unknown to the upright, honest Englishman as might be supposed.
At last came in sight the half-way house, where the horses were to have a rest and a sponge down. They had been talking of it for the last quarter of a mile, and when at length it was observed on the top of a hill a cheer broke out, and some thirsty wag began to sing ‘Rule Britannia’, whilst others burst forth with a different national ditty, ‘Beer, Glorious Beer!’ They drew up before the pub entrance, and all climbed down as quickly as they could. The bar was besieged, and potmen and barmaids were quickly busy drawing beer and handing it over to the eager folk outside.
the idyll of corydon and phyllis.
Gallantry ordered that the faithful swain and the amorous shepherdess should drink out of one and the same pot.
‘’Urry up an’ ‘ave your whack,’ said Corydon, politely handing the foaming bowl for his fair one to drink from.
Phyllis, without replying, raised it to her lips and drank deep. The swain watched anxiously.
‘’Ere, give us a chanst!’ he said, as the pot was raised higher and higher and its contents appeared to be getting less and less.
At this the amorous shepherdess stopped and handed the pot to her lover.