Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle

  CHAPTER VII

  BINDLE COMMITS AN INDISCRETION

  "Anyone would think you was goin' to a weddin'." Mrs. Bindle eyedBindle aggressively.

  "Not again; I got one little canary bird; two might make me un'appy."

  Bindle had remembered his promise to his niece, Millie, in everyparticular, and had added as his own contribution a twopenny cigarresplendent in a particularly wide red-and-gold band, which he had beencareful not to remove.

  "Anythink might 'appen to me in this get-up," he remarked pleasantly,"so don't expect me till I'm 'ome----"

  "You never take me out," broke in Mrs. Bindle stormily, "but you cantake that chit of a girl out first time she asks."

  "You don't like the pictures, Mrs. B., they ain't 'oly enough, an' someof the young women in 'em are a bit generous like with showin' theirankles--but there, there!"

  "You used to take me out before we was married," replied Mrs. Bindle,ignoring Bindle's remark.

  Bindle looked at her curiously.

  "Them was the days when yer wasn't above goin' to a music-'all. Thereain't nowhere to take yer 'cept the chapel, an' I don't enjoy it as youan' 'Earty do."

  "Where do you expect to go to?" demanded Mrs. Bindle angrily. Shealways became angry when mention was made of the pleasures she onceenjoyed. "Where do you expect to go to?"

  "Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "accordin' to you an' 'Earty it's aplace where yer don't 'ave to pay no water rates."

  Mrs. Bindle sniffed derisively.

  "Look 'ere, my one an' only," continued Bindle, "I got to 'ave a prettybad time in the next world, accordin' to wot you an' 'Earty believes,so I'm goin' to the pictures an' I'll 'ave a drink or two in this. IfI was as sure of 'eaven as you an' 'Earty is, maybe I'd be morecareful."

  Mrs. Bindle banged the iron she was using down upon the rest, but madeno comment.

  "Well, see you later, if I'm lucky," said Bindle, and he was gone.

  He found Millie in a fever of expectation. She opened the door to himherself, looking very pretty and smart in her Sunday hat.

  "I was so afraid you'd forget, uncle," she whispered, snuggling againsthim as they walked along. "You look so nice," she added.

  Bindle looked down at himself and grinned.

  "I pays for dressin'," he observed. "The cigar was me own idea. Itgives a sort o' finish, eh, Millikins?"

  They walked past the Fulham Grand Theatre, and at the Cinema Palace onthe Fulham side of the bridge Bindle paused.

  "Not this one, the one over the bridge," Millie cried anxiously.

  "Further to walk for yer ole uncle."

  "But--but--" faltered Millie, "Charlie Chaplin's at the other and I doso want to see him."

  "Charlie Chaplin's 'ere too, Millikins. Look, it says so."

  "Oh, uncle, please, _please_, the other one." There were tears inMillie's eyes and her voice shook.

  Bindle was puzzled, but to please her he would have walked over manybridges.

  "Uncle, you _are_ good," was all she said as she smiled at him happily.

  They passed over the bridge in silence, watching the stream of trams,buses, and people. When with Millie, Bindle never ventured upon thoselittle personalities in which he indulged when alone.

  "Do yer like chapel, Millikins?" Bindle enquired suddenly.

  "I hate it, Uncle Joe!" There was such feeling and decision inMillie's voice that Bindle turned and regarded her curiously.

  "Why?"

  "I want to be happy, oh! I do so want to be happy, Uncle Joe." Therewas almost a sob in Millie's voice and her eyes were moist with unshedtears.

  Bindle said nothing, but he pondered deeply as they walked slowlyalong. When they saw the brilliant lights of the Putney PavilionMillie visibly brightened.

  As they entered Millie looked eagerly round, and a sigh of contentmentescaped her as her eyes rested on a tall, pale-faced youth who stoodsmoking a cigarette. He raised his hat about an inch from his head,squaring his elbow in the process as if saluting. The action wasawkward and sheepish.

  Bindle looked from the young man to Millie, then remembering Millie'sdistress at his suggestion of going to the other cinema, light dawnedupon him. With elaborate courtesy, and to the youth's obviousastonishment, he returned the salute, then walking across seized hishand and shook it effusively.

  "Millikins, this is a young man I used to know, but 'ave forgotten. 'Eremembers me, 'owever, and that's all that matters. This is me nieceMillie," he added to the youth who, staring in utter bewilderment fromBindle to Millie, stood with downcast head.

  "Goin' in to see the pictures?" Bindle enquired casually.

  "Er--no--er--yes, of course," stuttered the youth.

  "Nice evenin' for pictures," continued Bindle, thoroughly enjoying thesituation. "Don't yer think so?" he added, as the youth did not reply.

  "Yes, very."

  "Now you an' me's ole pals, but I've quite forgot yer name. Is it'Orace?"

  "Dixon, Charlie Dixon." A faint smile flickered across the young man'sface as he caught Millie's eye. He was beginning to realise thatsomewhere in this astonishing adventure there was fun, and that Bindlehad been first to see it.

  For some seconds Bindle, who was a shrewd judge of character, regardedthe young man. He was obviously nervous, but his grey eyes looked outhonestly from a rather pleasant face into those of Bindle.

  Suddenly he laughed. Millie looked from one to the other, her prettybrows puckered. The situation was obviously beyond her.

  "Uncle, I want to speak to you, _please_." Millie's voice was scarcelyaudible.

  "All right, my dear, we'll go and buy the tickets. You wait here,young feller," he added. "We'll be back in two ticks."

  When out of earshot Millie whispered shyly, "That's Charlie Dixon, andwe--we like each other, and I'm--I'm a wicked girl, Uncle Joe. I toldhim to be here and----"

  "That's all right, Millikins, don't you worry."

  Millie gave his arm an ecstatic squeeze as he left her to purchase thetickets.

  When Bindle and his niece rejoined Charlie Dixon Bindle's mind was madeup. He liked the look of the young man. He also remembered his ownyouth, and a glance at the happy face of his niece decided him upon hiscourse of action.

  "'Ow long 'ave yer known each other?" he enquired.

  "More than six months," replied Charlie Dixon.

  "Seems a lifetime, eh?" he grinned.

  "I knew you'd understand, dear Uncle Joe," whispered the now radiantMillie.

  "Look 'ere," said Bindle to Charlie Dixon, "I jest remembered I got tosee a mate round the corner. You two go in wi' these tickets and I'llfollow in ten minutes. If I misses yer, be 'ere in this 'all at tensharp. See?"

  They both saw, and exchanged rapturous glances.

  "Mind, ten sharp, or I'll get the sack."

  "Thank you, Mr. Bindle," said Charlie Dixon, raising his hat, to whichBindle responded with an elaborate sweep that brought a smile to theface of the attendant.

  Just before turning into Putney High Street Bindle looked round to seeMillie and Charlie Dixon in earnest converse, walking slowly towardsthe door leading in to the pictures--and bliss.

  Bindle sighed involuntarily. "I wonder if I done right. Funny thingme playin' Coopid. Wonder wot Mrs. B. and 'Earty 'ud say. There'sgoin' to be trouble, J. B., and you're a-goin' to get yerself in an'oly sort o' mess. If it 'adn't been for petticoats yer might a' beenMayor of Fulham or Charlie Chaplin."

  At a quarter to ten Bindle left a merry group of intimates at theScarlet Horse, and a few minutes later was waiting in the vestibule ofthe Pavilion, where he was joined by the lovers.

  "I never knew Millikins was such a pretty gal," muttered Bindle, asthey approached. Then aloud, "Where'd you two got to? I beensearchin' everywhere."

  With a wealth of detail they explained exactly where they had beensitting.

  "Funny I didn't see yer," remarked Bindle. "Now you two must saygood-night; and," turning to the youth, "if yer'll fol
low across thebridge slowly, maybe I'll see yer outside the Grand Theatre after I'vetaken this young woman 'ome."

  Millie was strangely silent as the three crossed Putney Bridge. Shewas thinking deeply of her new-found happiness and, as she grippedBindle's arm with both hands, she felt that he represented her specialProvidence. She could tell him anything, for he understood. She wouldalways tell Uncle Joe everything.

  Outside Fulham Theatre she said good-night to Charlie Dixon.

  "You ain't said a word since I met you, Millikins. Wot's up?" enquiredBindle, puzzled at Millie's silence.

  "I've been wondering, Uncle Joe," replied the girl in a subdued voice.

  "Wot about? Tell yer ole uncle."

  "I've been wondering why you are so good to me, and why you don't thinkme a wicked girl." Then, turning to him anxiously, "You don't, UncleJoe, do you?"

  "Well, Millikins, there ain't any think very wicked, so far as I cansee, in wantin' to be 'appy in the way you do. 'Is nibs looks a niceyoung chap, an' if 'e ain't 'e'll wish 'e'd never seen your ole uncle."There was a grim note in Bindle's voice that surprised his niece.

  "You don't think God minds us being happy that--that way, do you, UncleJoe?" questioned Millie earnestly.

  "I'm sure 'E don't, Millikins. 'E's all for the 'appiness wot don't donobody any 'arm. That parson chap told me, an' 'e was a dean orsomethink, an' 'e ought to know."

  Millie drew a sigh of relief. Then her mood suddenly changed.

  "Uncle, let's run," she cried; and without waiting for the protest thatwas forming itself on Bindle's lips, she caught him by the hand anddashed off. After a moment's hesitation Bindle entered into her moodand the pair tore up Fulham High Street, Millie running obliquely infront, striving to urge Bindle to a greater pace.

  Just as they reached the Heartys' private door, Mr. Hearty himselfemerged on his way to post a letter. Millie running sideways did notsee him. Bindle was unable to avoid the inevitable collision, andMillie's elbow took her father dead in the centre of his waistcoat anddrove the breath out of his body.

  "Oh, father!" cried his horrified daughter.

  "Millie!" gasped Mr. Hearty when he had regained sufficient breath forspeech.

  "My fault, 'Earty. I likes a run now and again; we was 'avin' a bit ofa race. Millikins beats me in the matter o' legs."

  To Mr. Hearty women had limbs, not legs, and he disliked intenselyBindle's reference to those of his daughter.

  "I hope this will not occur again," he said severely. "I shall have tostop these--these----" Unable to find the word, Mr. Hearty passed onto the pillar-box.

  Millie stood watching him, horror in her eyes.

  "Oh, Uncle Joe, am I a very bad girl? Father always makes me feel sowicked."

  "'E'd make an 'oly saint feel a bit of a rip. You're just about as badas a first-class angel; but p'raps it 'ud be better not to 'old sportsoutside the shop. Might get me a bad name. Now in yer go, young 'un,an' we'll 'ave another bust next Friday, eh? I'll be seein' 'is nibson me way 'ome."

  "Good-night, dear Uncle Joe. I'm glad you're my uncle." She put herarms round his neck and kissed him, and Bindle experienced a curioussensation in his throat.

  "Gawd bless yer, Millikins," Bindle mumbled in an unsteady voice, asshe tripped along the passage.

  "Fancy me sayin' that!" he muttered, as he closed the door. "It kindo' slipped out."

  A few yards down the High Street Bindle met his brother-in-lawreturning from the post.

  "I'm sorry, 'Earty, about that collision. It was all my fault. I likeplayin' wi' kids." There was an unaccustomed humility in Bindle'svoice, assumed for the purpose of making things easier for Millie, thatpleased Mr. Hearty.

  "Millie is no longer a child, Joseph," he remarked, "but we'll say nomore about it. I'm not hurt. Good-night." He bared his yellow teethin token of forgiveness.

  As he passed on, Bindle gazed up at the skies meditatively. "I wonderif Gawd really likes that sort?" he murmured with a seriousness thatwas unusual to him.

  Outside the theatre he found waiting for him Charlie Dixon, who greetedhim with:

  "Will you bring her again, Mr. Bindle?"

  "'Ere, I ain't a nurse, young feller. Nice mess you got me in. It'sall through you that Millikins nearly killed 'er father. Ran cleaninto 'im and sort o' knocked the wind out of 'is bellows." Bindle toldthe story of the collision with great gusto.

  "Now," he continued, "you and me's got to 'ave a talk, an' we'll 'ave aglass of beer at the same time."

  Bindle learned the story of Millie's romance. It appeared that she andCharlie Dixon, who was in a shipping-office, went to the city by thesame train every morning, Millie being a typist at a wholesaledraper's. Young Dixon had watched her week after week, and heeventually became acquainted owing to a breakdown on the line, whichresulted in a corresponding breakdown of the passengers' usual reserve.After that they went up regularly together, met at lunch, afterbusiness hours and on every occasion that Millie could possibly manageit. Once they had each obtained a half-holiday, which they had spentat the Zoo.

  Charlie Dixon's frankness and obvious devotion to Millie Heartyentirely won Bindle's heart.

  "You will help us, Mr. Bindle, won't you?" he pleaded.

  "Look 'ere, young feller," said Bindle, with an unusual note ofseriousness in his voice, "I don't know nothink about yer, an' before I'elps I got to be sure wot I thinks yer are. Now you jest get me aletter or two from them as knows wot sort of a villain yer are, an'then p'r'aps I'll be the same sort of ole fool I been to-night. See?"

  They parted with mutual regard and promises to meet again next Friday,when Charlie Dixon was to bring such documents as would vouch for hisrespectability.

  "Yes; I been an ole fool," muttered Bindle, as he walked home. "This'ere business is goin' to lead to trouble between me an' 'Earty. Whata pity people gets it as bad as 'Earty. No man didn't ought to bereligious all the week. It ain't natural."

  That night Bindle entered his house whistling "Gospel Bells" withunaccustomed abandon.

  "Been enjoyin' yerself, leavin' me at 'ome to slave and get yer mealsready," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "One o' these days you'll come 'ome andfind me gone."

  "'Oo's the man?" interrogated Bindle with a temerity that surprisedhimself.

  That night Bindle lay awake for some time thinking over life in generaland the events of the evening in particular. He never could quiteunderstand why he had been precipitated into an atmosphere so foreignto his nature as that surrounding Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty. He hadstriven very hard to stem the tide of religious gloom as it spreaditself over Mrs. Bindle. Unaware of the cause, he not unnaturallyselected the wrong methods, which were those of endeavouring to makeher "cheer up."

  "The idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make her low-spirited," wasBindle's view.

  Even Mrs. Bindle was not entirely proof against his sallies, and therewere times when a reluctant smile would momentarily relieve the grimseverity of her features. There were occasions even when they chattedquite amiably, until the recollection of Mr. Hearty, and the mentalcomparison of his success with Bindle's failure, threw her back intothe slough from which she had temporarily been rescued.

  "There must be somethink funny about me," Bindle had once confided toMrs. Hearty. "My father was as religious as a woman wi' one leg, thenI gets Lizzie an' she turns away from me an' 'Mammon'--I don't rightlyknow 'oo 'e is, but she's always talkin' about 'im--then you goes backon me an' gives me a sort of brother-in-law 'oo's as 'oly as ointment.You ain't been a real pal, Martha, really you ain't."

  If called upon to expound his philosophy of life Bindle would havefound himself in difficulties. He was a man whose sympathies werequickly aroused, and it never troubled him whether the object of hischarity were a heathen, a Christian, or a Mormon. On one occasion whena girl had been turned out of doors at night by an outraged father whohad discovered his daughter's frailty, it was Bindle who found herweeping convulsively near Putney Pier. It was he wh
o secured her anight's lodging, and stood her friend throughout the troubled weeksthat followed, although it meant neither beer nor tobacco for somemonths.

  On another occasion a mate had been ill, and it was Bindle who eachweek collected what pence he could from his fellow-workmen and made upfrom his own pocket the amount necessary to keep the man, his wife, andchild. To do this he had done work as a whitewasher and labourer,never working less than one whole night a week in addition to hisregular occupation, until his mate was well again.

  No one knew of these little acts, which Bindle kept profound secrets.He would have felt ashamed had they become known, more particularly hadMrs. Bindle or Mr. Hearty heard of them.

  Once he had remarked, apropos some remark of Mr. Hearty's regardingwhat in his opinion would be Heaven's attitude towards some unfortunatewretch who had stolen food for his wife, "I shouldn't like to 'ave aGawd I'd sometimes 'ave to feel ashamed of," whereat Mr. Hearty hadbecome very red and embarrassed.