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

Then the flood-gates of Mrs. Bindle's wrath burst apart, and she poured down upon Bindle's head a deluge of reproach. He and he alone was responsible for all the disasters that had befallen them. He had done it on purpose because she wanted a holiday. He wasn't a husband, he was a blasphemer, 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 a round, bald, shiny head and a worried expression of countenance.

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

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

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

Bindle scratched his head through his cap, then, turning towards the tent 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 group of three men.

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

"A girl come over from the farm, missis," said the little man, "and she didn'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 it was a washout."

"I'll 'ave a look at 'er," Bindle announced, and the three men moved off across the meadow, picking their way among the tents with their piles of bedding, blankets, and other impedimenta outside. All were getting ready for the night.

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

During the next half-hour, Bindle strolled about among the tents learning many things, foremost among which was that "the whole ruddy camp was a washout." The commissariat had failed badly, and the nearest drink was a mile away at The Trowel and Turtle. A great many things were said about the bishop and the organisers of the camp.

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

"I can't say as I likes it," he remarked, as he stood at the entrance to the 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. "What did you expect?"

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

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

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

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

"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 know where they got that blinkin' straw from wot they give us to lie on. I done a bit o' scratchin' in the trenches; but last night I 'adn't enough fingers, damn 'em."

Bindle whistled.

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

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

That night, he realised to the full the iniquities of the man who had supplied the straw for the mattresses. By the sounds that came from the other side of the tent-pole, he gathered that Mrs. Bindle was similarly troubled.

Towards dawn, Bindle began to doze, just as the cocks were announcing the coming of the sun. If the man with the stubbly chin were right in his 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't swinging the lead neither. 'Oly ointment! I never 'eard such a row in all my puff. There ain't no doubt but wot Mrs. Bindle's gettin' a country 'oliday," and with that he rose and proceeded to draw on his trousers, 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 two peas. 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 one listening intently, whilst from all sides came the brazen blare of ecstatic 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's tap.

When Bindle returned to the tent, he found Patrol-leader Smithers instructing 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 was wearing more closely about her. She was not accustomed to criticism, particularly in domestic matters, and her instinct was to disregard it; but the boy's earnestness seemed to discourage retort, and she had already seen the evil effect of attacking a scout-fire with a poker.

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

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

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

Mrs. Bindle snorted angrily. She had experienced a bad night, added to which 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 round the camp exchanging a word here and a word there with his fellow campers, who, in an atmosphere of intense profanity, were engaged in getting breakfast.

"Never 'eard such language," muttered Bindle with a grin. "This 'ere little camp'll send a rare lot o' people to a place where they won't meet 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 wooden box.

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

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

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

"If you think I'm going to moil and toil and cook for you down here as I do at home, you're mistaken. I came for a rest. I've hardly had a wink of 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 of eggs 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 added reminiscently.

"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's sinister comment.

"It – it wasn't that," said Mrs. Bindle. "It was the – " She paused for a 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 bishop about that little game I 'ad with wot 'appened before wot you call them male birds started givin' tongue." He paused to take breath. "I don't like 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 same waistcoat, unbuttoned in just the same manner that it had been unbuttoned 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 to Bindle 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 risen and, with angry eyes, had disappeared into the tent.

"Got one of 'em?" queried Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction of the 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 stubbly chin, Mrs. Bindle was becoming better acquainted with the peculiar temperament of a bell-tent. She had already realised its disadvantages as a dressing-room. It was dark, it was small, it was stuffy. The two mattresses occupied practically the whole floor-space and there was nowhere to sit. It was impossible to move about freely, owing to the restrictions 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 a small joint of beef she had brought with her, Mrs. Bindle once more withdrew 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 what he called "a nose round," during which he had made friends with most of the 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 proceeded to draw on a pair of brown kid gloves. The inconveniences arising from dressing 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 your dinner raw."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was nothing to do until tea-time. Bindle had disappeared with the man with the stubbly chin and two others in search of the nearest public-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 demeanour was not conducive to hasty friendships. She therefore returned to the tent and wrote to Mr. Hearty, telling him, on the authority of Patrol-leader Smithers, that Mr. Timkins had a large quantity of excellent strawberries for sale.

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

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

Three o'clock brought the bishop and a short open-air service, which was attended by the entire band of campers, with the exception of Bindle and his 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 no answering smiles. Everyone was wondering what they could do until it was time for bed, the more imaginative going still further and speculating what they were to do when they got there.

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

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

CHAPTER IX

MR. HEARTY ENCOUNTERS A BULL

I

"He's sure to lose his way across the fields," cried Mrs. Bindle angrily.

"'Earty's too careful to lose anythink," said Bindle, as, from a small tin box, he crammed tobacco into his pipe. "'E's used to the narrow way 'e is," he added.

"You ought to have gone to meet him."

"My legs is feelin' a bit tired – " began Bindle, who enjoyed his brother-in-law's society only when there were others to enjoy it with him.

"Bother your legs," she snapped.

"Supposin' you 'ad various veins in your legs."

"Don't be nasty."

"Well, wot jer want to talk about my legs for, if I mustn't talk about yours," he grumbled.

"You've got a lewd mind, Bindle," she retorted, "and you know it."

"Well, any'ow, I ain't got lood legs."

She drew in her lips; but said nothing.

"I don't know wot 'Earty wants to come down to a funny little 'ole like this for," grumbled Bindle, as they walked across the meadow adjoining the camping-ground, making for a spot that would give them a view of the field-path leading to the station.

"It's because he wants to buy some fruit."

"I thought there was somethink at the back of the old bird's mind," he remarked. "'Earty ain't one to spend railway fares jest for the love o' seein' you an' me, Mrs. B. It's apples 'es after – reg'lar old Adam 'e is. You only got to watch 'im with them gals in the choir."

"If you talk like that I shall leave you," she cried angrily; "and it's strawberries, apples aren't in yet," she added, as if that were a circumstance in Mr. Hearty's favour.

Mr. Hearty had proved himself to be a man of action. Mrs. Bindle's glowing account of vast stores of strawberries, to be had almost for the asking, had torn from him a telegram announcing that he would be at the Summer-Camp for Tired Workers soon after two o'clock that, Monday, afternoon.

Mrs. Bindle was almost genial at the prospect of seeing her brother-in-law, and earning his thanks for assistance rendered. Conditions at the camp remained unchanged. After the service on the previous day, the bishop had once more disappeared, ostensibly in pursuit of the errant field-kitchen and marquee, promising to return early the following afternoon.

Arrived at the gate on the further side of the field, Bindle paused. Then, as Mrs. Bindle refused his suggestion that he should "'oist" her up, he himself climbed on to the top-rail and sat contentedly smoking.

"I don't seem to see 'Earty a-walkin' across a field," he remarked meditatively. "It don't seem natural."

"You can't see anything but what's in your own wicked mind," she retorted acidly.

"Well, well!" he said philosophically. "P'raps you're right. I suppose we shall see them merry whiskers of 'is a-comin' round the corner, 'im a-leadin' a lamb with a pink ribbon. I can see 'Earty with a little lamb, an' a sprig o' mint for the sauce."

For nearly a quarter of an hour Bindle smoked in silence, whilst Mrs. Bindle stood with eyes fixed upon a stile on the opposite side of the field, over which Mr. Hearty was due to come.

"What was that?"

Involuntarily she clutched Bindle's knee, as a tremendous roar broke the stillness of the summer afternoon.

"That's ole Farmer Timkins' bull," explained Bindle. "Rare ole sport, 'e is. Tossed a cove last week, an' made a rare mess of 'im."

"It oughtn't to be allowed."

"Wot?"

"Dangerous animals like that," was the retort.

"Well, personally myself, I likes a cut o' veal," Bindle remarked, watching Mrs. Bindle covertly; but her thoughts were intent on Mr. Hearty, and the allusion passed unnoticed.

"It 'ud be a bad thing for ole 'Earty, if that bull was to get 'im by the back o' the trousers," mused Bindle. "'Ullo, there 'e is." He indicated with the stem of his pipe a point in the hedge on the right of the field, over which was thrust a great dun-coloured head.

Again the terrifying roar split the air. Instinctively Mrs. Bindle recoiled, and gripped the parrot-headed umbrella she was carrying.

"It's trying to get through. I'm not going to wait here," she announced with decision. "It may – "

"Don't you worry, Mrs. B.," he reassured her. "'E ain't one o' the jumpin' sort. Besides, there's an 'edge between 'im an' us, not to speak o' this 'ere gate."

Mrs. Bindle retired a yard or two, her eyes still on the dun-coloured head.

So absorbed were she and Bindle in watching the bull, that neither of them saw Mr. Hearty climbing the opposite stile.

As he stood on the topmost step, silhouetted against the blue sky, the tails of his frock-coat flapping, Bindle caught sight of him.

"'Ullo, 'ere's old 'Earty!" he cried, waving his hand.

Mr. Hearty descended gingerly to terra firma, then, seeing Mrs. Bindle, he raised his semi-clerical felt hat. In such matters, Mr. Hearty was extremely punctilious.

At that moment the bull appeared to catch sight of the figure with the flapping coat-tails.

It made a tremendous onslaught upon the hedge, and there was a sound of crackling branches; but the hedge held.

"Call out to him, Bindle. Shout! Warn him! Do you hear?" cried Mrs. Bindle excitedly.

"'E's all right," said Bindle complacently. "That there bull ain't a-goin' to get through an 'edge like that."

"Mr. Hearty, there's a bull! Run!"

Mrs. Bindle's thin voice entirely failed to carry to where Mr. Hearty was walking with dignity and unconcern, regardless of the danger which Mrs. Bindle foresaw threatened him.

The bull made another attack upon the hedge. Mr. Hearty's flapping coat-tails seemed to goad it to madness. There was a further crackling and the massive shoulders of the animal now became visible; but still it was unable to break through.

"Call out to him, Bindle. He'll be killed, and it'll be your fault," she cried hysterically, pale and trembling with anxiety.

"Look out, 'Earty!" yelled Bindle. "There's a bloomin' bull," and he pointed in the direction of the hedge; but the bull had disappeared.

Mr. Hearty looked towards the point indicated; but, seeing nothing, continued his dignified way, convinced that Bindle was once more indulging in what Mr. Hearty had been known to describe as "his untimely jests."

He was within some fifty yards of the gate where the Bindles awaited him, when there was a terrific crash followed by a mighty roar – the bull was through. It had retreated apparently in order to charge the hedge and break through by virtue of its mighty bulk.

Bindle yelled, Mrs. Bindle screamed, and Mr. Hearty gave one wild look over his shoulder and, with terror in his eyes and his semi-clerical hat streaming behind, attached only by a hat-guard, he ran as he had never run before.

Bindle clambered down from the gate so as to leave the way clear, and Mrs. Bindle thrust her umbrella into Bindle's hands. She had always been told that no bull would charge an open umbrella.

"Come on, 'Earty!" yelled Bindle. "Run like 'ell!" In his excitement he squatted down on his haunches, for all the world like a man encouraging a whippet.

Mr. Hearty ran, and the bull, head down and with a snorting noise that struck terror to the heart of the fugitive, ran also.

"Run, Mr. Hearty, run!" screamed Mrs. Bindle again.

The bull was running diagonally in the direction of Mr. Hearty's fleeing figure. In this it was at a disadvantage.

"Get ready to help him over," cried Mrs. Bindle, terror clutching at her heart.

"Looks to me as if 'Earty and the bull and the whole bloomin' caboodle'll come over together," muttered Bindle.

"Oooooh!"

A new possibility seemed to strike Mrs. Bindle and, with a terrified look at the approaching bull, which at that moment gave utterance to a super-roar, she turned and fled for the gate on the opposite side of the field.

For a second Bindle tore his gaze from the drama before him. He caught sight of several inches of white leg above a pair of elastic-sided boots, out of which dangled black and orange tabs.

"Help, Joseph, help!" Mr. Hearty screamed in his terror and, a second later, he crashed against the gate on which Bindle had climbed ready to haul him over.

Seizing his brother-in-law by the collar and a mercifully slack pair of trousers, he gave him a mighty heave. A moment later, the two fell to the ground; but on the right side of the gate. As they did so, the bull crashed his head against it.