Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles by Jenkins (best books to read in your 20s .txt) 📖

you come round. You have a very good high soprano."

A quiver passed through Mrs. Bindle. She drew herself up, and her lips seemed to take on a softer line.

"I'm sure it's very good of you to say so," she responded gratefully.

"I shall still sing in the choir," said Mr. Hearty; "but——"

A heavy pounding overhead caused him to start violently. It was Mrs. Hearty's curfew.

Mrs. Bindle rose and Mr. Hearty accompanied her to the street-door. Alice was in the passage, apparently on her way to bed.

"Good night, Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle.

"Good night, Elizabeth," and Mr. Hearty closed the door behind her.

She paused to open her umbrella, it was spotting[Pg 124] with rain and Mrs. Bindle was careful of her clothes.

Suddenly through the open transom she heard a surprised scream and the sound of scuffling.

"You beast," cried a feminine voice. "I'll tell missis, that I will."

And Mrs. Bindle turned and ran full-tilt into a policeman.[Pg 125]

CHAPTER VI MRS. BINDLE DEFENDS HER HOME

I

"Gospel bells, gospel bells, hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm."

Mrs. Bindle accompanied her favourite hymn with bangs from the flat-iron as she strove to coax one of Bindle's shirts to smoothness.

She invariably worked to the tune of "Gospel Bells." Of the hymn itself she possessed two words, "gospel" and "bells"; but the tune was hers to the most insignificant semi-quaver, and an unlimited supply of "hms" did the rest.

Turning the shirt at the word "gospel," she brought the iron down full in the middle of what, judging from the power she put into the stroke, might have been Bindle's back.

"Bells," she sang with emphasis, and proceeded to trail off into the "hms."

With Mrs. Bindle, singing reflected her mood. When indignation or anger gripped her soul, "Gospel Bells" was rendered with a vigour that penetrated to Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney.

Then, as her mood mellowed, so would the tune[Pg 126] soften, almost dying away until, possibly, a stray thought of Bindle brought about a crescendo passage, capable of being developed into full forte, brass-wind and tympani.

After one of these full-throated passages, the thought of her brother-in-law, Mr. Hearty, mellowed the stream of melody passing through her thin, slightly parted lips.

It had reached an almost caressing softness, when a knock at the door caused her to stop suddenly. A moment later, the iron was banged upon the rest, and she glanced down at her apron. To use her own phrase, she was the "pink of neatness."

Walking across the kitchen and along the short passage, she threw open the door with the air of one who was prepared to defend the sacred domestic hearth against all comers.

"I've come about the 'ouse, mum." A mild-looking little man with a dirty collar and a deprecating manner stood before her, sucking nervously at a hollow tooth, the squeak of which his friends had learned to live down.

"The house!" repeated Mrs. Bindle aggressively. "What house?"

"This 'ouse wot's to let, mum." The little man struggled to extract a newspaper from his pocket. "I'd like to take it," he added.

"Oh! you would, would you?" Mrs. Bindle eyed him with disfavour. "Well, it's not to let," and with that she banged the door in the little man's face,[Pg 127] just as his pocket gave up the struggle and released a soiled copy of The Fulham Signal.

He started back, the paper falling upon the tiled-path that led from the gate to the front-door.

For nearly a minute he stood staring at the door, as if not quite realising what had happened. Then, picking up the paper, he gazed at it with a puzzled expression, turned to a marked passage under the heading "Houses to Let," and read:

HOUSE TO LET.—Four-roomed house to let in Fulham. Easy access to bus, tram and train. Rent 15/6 a week. Immediate possession. Apply to occupier, 7 Fenton Street, Fulham, S.W.

He looked at the number on the door, back again at the paper, then once more at the number. Apparently satisfied that there was no mistake, he knocked again, a feeble, half-hearted knock that testified to the tremors within him.

He had been graded C3; but he possessed a wife who was, physically, A1. It was the knowledge that she would demand an explanation if he failed to secure the house, after which she had sent him hot-foot, that inspired him with sufficient courage to make a second attempt to interview Mrs. Bindle.

With inward tremblings, he waited for the door to open again. As he stood, hoping against hope in his coward heart that the summons had not been heard, a big, heavily-hipped woman, in a dirty black-and-white foulard blouse, a draggled green skirt, and shapeless stays, slid through the gate and waddled up the path.[Pg 128]

"So you got 'ere fust," she gasped, her flushed face showing that she had been hurrying. "Well, well, it can't be 'elped, I suppose, fust come fust served. I always says it and always shall."

The little man had swung round, and now stood blinking up at the new arrival, who entirely blocked his line of retreat.

"Knocked, 'ave you?" she enquired, fanning her flushed face with a folded newspaper.

He nodded; but his gaze was directed over her heaving shoulder at a man and woman, with a little girl between them, approaching from the opposite side of the way.

As the new arrivals entered the garden, the stout woman explained that "this gentleman" had already knocked.

"P'raps they ain't up yet," suggested the man with the little girl.

"Well, they ought to be," said the stout woman with conviction.

Another woman now joined the throng, her turned-up sleeves and the man's tweed cap on her head, kept in place by a long, amber-headed hat-pin, testifying to the limited time she had bestowed upon her toilette.

"Is it took?" she demanded of the woman with the little girl.

"Dunno!" was the reply. "She ain't opened the door yet."

"She opened it once," said the little man.

"Wot she say?"[Pg 129]

"Said it wasn't to let, then banged it to in my face," was the injured response.

"'Ere, let me 'ave a try," cried the woman in the foulard blouse, as she grasped the knocker and proceeded to awaken the echoes of Fenton Street. Corple Street at one end and Bransdon Road at the other, were included in the sound-waves that emanated from the Bindles' knocker.

Several neighbours, including Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney, came to their doors and gazed at the collection of people that now entirely blocked the pathway of No. 7. Three other women had joined the throng, together with a rag-and-bone man in dilapidated clothing, accompanied by a donkey and cart.

"A shame I calls it, a-keepin' folks 'angin' about like this," said one of the new arrivals.

"P'raps it's let," said the rag-and-bone man.

"Well, why don't they say so?" snapped she with the tweed cap and hat-pin.

"'Ave another go, missis," suggested the man with the little girl. "I'm losin' 'alf a day over this."

Inspired by this advice, the big woman reached forward to seize the knocker. At that moment the door was wrenched open, and Mrs. Bindle appeared. She had removed her apron and brushed her thin, sandy hair, which was drawn back from her sharp, hatchet-like face so that not a hair wantoned from the restraining influence of the knot behind.

Grim, with indrawn lips and the light of battle in her eyes she glared, first at the little man with whom[Pg 130] she had already held parley, then at the woman in the foulard blouse.

At chapel, there was no more meek and docile "Daughter of the Lord" than Mrs. Bindle. To her, religion was an ever-ready help and sustenance; but there was something in her life that bulked even larger than her Faith, although she would have been the first to deny it. That thing was her Home.

In keeping the domestic temple of her hearth as she conceived it should be kept, Mrs. Bindle toiled ceaselessly. It was her fetish. She worshipped at chapel as a stepping-stone to post-mortem glory; but her home was the real altar at which she sacrificed.

As she gazed at the "rabble," as she mentally characterised it, littering the tiled-path of the front garden, which only that morning she had cleaned, the rage of David entered her heart; but she was a God-fearing woman who disliked violence—until it was absolutely necessary.

"Was it you knocking?" she demanded of the big woman in the foulard blouse. Her voice was sharp as the edge of a razor; but restrained.

"That's right, my dear," replied the woman comfortably, "I come about the 'ouse."

"Oh! you have, have you?" cried Mrs. Bindle. "And are these your friends?" Her eyes for a moment left those of her antagonist and took in the queue which, by now, overflowed the path into the roadway.

"Look 'ere, I'll give you sixteen bob a week," broke[Pg 131] in the woman with the tweed cap and the hat-pin, instantly rendering herself an Ishmael.

"'Ere, none o' that!" cried an angry female voice. "Fair do's."

There was a murmur of approval from the others, which was interrupted by Mrs. Bindle's clear-cut, incisive voice.

"Get out of my garden, and be off, the lot of you," she cried, taking a half-step in the direction of the big woman, to whom she addressed herself.

"Is it let?" enquired the rag-and-bone man from the rear.

"Is what let?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"The 'ouse, mum," said the rag-and-bone man, whose profession demanded tact and politeness.

"This house is not to let," was the angry retort, "never was to let, and never will be to let till I'm gone. Now you just be off with you, or——" she paused.

"Or wot?" demanded she of the tweed cap and hat-pin, desirous of rehabilitating herself with the others.

"I'll send for a policeman," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder. She still restrained her natural instincts in a vice-like self-control. Her hands shook slightly; but not with fear. It was the trembling of the tigress preparing to spring.

"Then wot about this advert?" cried the man with the little girl, extending the newspaper towards her.

"Yes, wot about it?" demanded the woman in the foulard blouse, extending her paper in turn.[Pg 132]

"There's no advertisement about this house," said Mrs. Bindle, ignoring the papers, "and you'd better go away. Pity you haven't got something better to do than to come disturbin' me in the midst of my ironin'," and with that she banged the door and disappeared.

A murmur of anger passed along the queue, anger which portended trouble.

"Nice way to treat people," said a little woman with a dirty face, a dingy black bonnet and a velvet dolman, to which portions of the original jet-trimming still despairingly adhered. "Some folks don't seem to know 'ow to be'ave."

There was another murmur of agreement.

"Kick the blinkin' door in," suggested a pacifist.

"I'd like to get at 'er with my nails," said a sharp-faced woman with a baby in her arms. "I know 'er sort."

"Deserves to 'ave 'er stutterin' windows smashed, the stuck-up baggage!" cried another.

"'Ullo, look at all them people."

A big, puffy man with a person that rendered his boots invisible, guided the hand-cart he was pushing into the kerb in front of No. 7 Fenton Street. A pale, dispirited lad was harnessed to the vehicle by a dilapidated piece of much-knotted rope strung across his narrow chest. As the barrow came to a standstill, he allowed the rope to drop to the ground and, stepping out of the harness, he turned an apathetic and unspeculative eye towards the crowd.

The big man, whose clothing consisted of a shirt, a[Pg 133] pair of trousers and some braces, stood looking at the applicants for the altar of Mrs. Bindle's life. The crowd returned the stare with interest. The furniture piled upon the barrow caused them some anxiety. Was that the explanation of the unfriendly reception accorded them?

"Now then, Charley, when you've done a-drinkin' in this bloomin' beauty-show, you can give me a 'and."

"'Oo are you calling a beauty-show?" demanded the woman in the dolman. "You ain't got much to talk about, with a stummick like yours."

"My mistake, missis," said the big man imperturbably. "Sorry I made you cry." Then, turning to Charley, he added: "If you 'adn't such a thick 'ead, Charley, you'd know it was a sugar queue. They're wearin' too much for a beauty-show. Now, then, over the top, my lad." He indicated the railings with a nod, the gateway was blocked.

With the leisurely movements of a fatalist, Charley moved his inconspicuous person towards the railings of No. 7, while the big man proceeded to untie the rope that bound a miscellaneous collection of household goods to the hand-cart, an operation which entirely absorbed the attention of the queue.

"You took it?" interrogated the rag-and-bone man.

"Don't you worry, cocky," said the big man as he lifted from the barrow a cane-bottomed chair, through which somebody had evidently sat, and placed it on the pavement. "Once inside the garding and the[Pg 134] 'ouse is mine. 'Ere, get on wiv it, Charley," he admonished the lad, who was standing by the kerb as if reluctant to trespass.

With unexpressive face, the boy turned and climbed the railings.

"Catch 'old," cried the man, thrusting into Charley's unwilling hands a dilapidated