Sons and Lovers D. H. Lawrence (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) đ
- Author: D. H. Lawrence
Book online «Sons and Lovers D. H. Lawrence (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) đ». Author D. H. Lawrence
Then from inside came the cry âSpinney Parkâ âSpinney Park.â All the folk for Spinney Park trooped inside. When it was time for Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A counter went across, dividing it into half. Behind the counter stood two menâ âMr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite was large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having a rather thin white beard. He was usually muffled in an enormous silk neckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the open grate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the throats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom was rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks that were not witty, whilst his chief launched forth patriarchal admonitions against the colliers.
The room was crowded with miners in their pit-dirt, men who had been home and changed, and women, and one or two children, and usually a dog. Paul was quite small, so it was often his fate to be jammed behind the legs of the men, near the fire which scorched him. He knew the order of the namesâ âthey went according to stall number.
âHolliday,â came the ringing voice of Mr. Braithwaite. Then Mrs. Holliday stepped silently forward, was paid, drew aside.
âBowerâ âJohn Bower.â
A boy stepped to the counter. Mr. Braithwaite, large and irascible, glowered at him over his spectacles.
âJohn Bower!â he repeated.
âItâs me,â said the boy.
âWhy, you used to âave a different nose than that,â said glossy Mr. Winterbottom, peering over the counter. The people tittered, thinking of John Bower Senior.
âHow is it your fatherâs not come!â said Mr. Braithwaite, in a large and magisterial voice.
âHeâs badly,â piped the boy.
âYou should tell him to keep off the drink,â pronounced the great cashier.
âAnâ niver mind if he puts his foot through yer,â said a mocking voice from behind.
All the men laughed. The large and important cashier looked down at his next sheet.
âFred Pilkington!â he called, quite indifferent.
Mr. Braithwaite was an important shareholder in the firm.
Paul knew his turn was next but one, and his heart began to beat. He was pushed against the chimneypiece. His calves were burning. But he did not hope to get through the wall of men.
âWalter Morel!â came the ringing voice.
âHere!â piped Paul, small and inadequate.
âMorelâ âWalter Morel!â the cashier repeated, his finger and thumb on the invoice, ready to pass on.
Paul was suffering convulsions of self-consciousness, and could not or would not shout. The backs of the men obliterated him. Then Mr. Winterbottom came to the rescue.
âHeâs here. Where is he? Morelâs lad?â
The fat, red, bald little man peered round with keen eyes. He pointed at the fireplace. The colliers looked round, moved aside, and disclosed the boy.
âHere he is!â said Mr. Winterbottom.
Paul went to the counter.
âSeventeen pounds eleven and fivepence. Why donât you shout up when youâre called?â said Mr. Braithwaite. He banged on to the invoice a five-pound bag of silver, then in a delicate and pretty movement, picked up a little ten-pound column of gold, and plumped it beside the silver. The gold slid in a bright stream over the paper. The cashier finished counting off the money; the boy dragged the whole down the counter to Mr. Winterbottom, to whom the stoppages for rent and tools must be paid. Here he suffered again.
âSixteen anâ six,â said Mr. Winterbottom.
The lad was too much upset to count. He pushed forward some loose silver and half a sovereign.
âHow much do you think youâve given me?â asked Mr. Winterbottom.
The boy looked at him, but said nothing. He had not the faintest notion.
âHavenât you got a tongue in your head?â
Paul bit his lip, and pushed forward some more silver.
âDonât they teach you to count at the Board-school?â he asked.
âNowt but algibbra anâ French,â said a collier.
âAnâ cheek anâ impidence,â said another.
Paul was keeping someone waiting. With trembling fingers he got his money into the bag and slid out. He suffered the tortures of the damned on these occasions.
His relief, when he got outside, and was walking along the Mansfield Road, was infinite. On the park wall the mosses were green. There were some gold and some white fowls pecking under the apple trees of an orchard. The colliers were walking home in a stream. The boy went near the wall, self-consciously. He knew many of the men, but could not recognise them in their dirt. And this was a new torture to him.
When he got down to the New Inn, at Bretty, his father was not yet come. Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morelâs mother, had been Mrs. Wharmbyâs friend.
âYour fatherâs not come yet,â said the landlady, in the peculiar half-scornful, half-patronising voice of a woman who talks chiefly to grown men. âSit you down.â
Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were âreckoningââ âsharing out their moneyâ âin a corner; others came in. They all glanced at the boy without speaking. At last Morel came; brisk, and with something of an air, even in his blackness.
âHello!â he said rather tenderly to his son. âHave you bested me? Shall you have a drink of something?â
Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists, and he would have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all the men than in having a tooth drawn.
The landlady looked at him de haut en bas, rather pitying, and at the same time, resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul went home, glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking day, and there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him.
Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing:
âIâm not going to the office any more,â he said.
âWhy, whatâs the matter?â his mother asked in surprise. His sudden rages rather amused her.
âIâm not going any more,â he declared.
âOh, very well, tell your father so.â
He chewed his bun as if he hated it.
âIâm notâ âIâm not going to fetch the money.â
âThen one of Carlinâs children can go;
Comments (0)