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

The whole structure shivered. For a moment Bindle gave himself up for lost; but, fortunately, the posts held. The enraged animal could do nothing more than thrust its muzzle between the bars of the gate and snort its fury.

The foaming mouth and evil-looking blood-shot eyes caused Bindle to scramble hastily to his feet.

"Oh God! I am a miserable sinner," wailed Mr. Hearty; "but spare me that I may repent." Then he fell to moaning, whilst Bindle caught a vision of Mrs. Bindle disappearing over the further gate with a startling exposure of white stocking.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "Ain't it funny 'ow religion gets into the legs when there's a bull about? Bit of a slump in 'arps, if you was to ask me!"

For some seconds he stood gazing down on the grovelling form of Mr. Hearty, an anxious eye on the bull which, with angry snorts, was battering the gate in a manner that caused him some concern.

"Look 'ere, 'Earty, you'd better nip orf," he said at length, bringing his boot gently into contact with a prominent portion of the greengrocer's prostrate form. Mr. Hearty merely groaned and muttered appeals to the Almighty to save him.

"It ain't no use a-kickin' up all that row," Bindle continued. "This 'ere bit o' beef seems to 'ave taken a fancy to you, 'Earty, an' that there gate ain't none too strong, neither. 'Ere, steady Kayser," he admonished, as the bull made a vicious dash with its head against the gate.

Mr. Hearty sat up and gave a wild look about him. At the sight of the blood-shot eyes of the enraged animal he scrambled to his feet.

"Now you make a bolt for that there stile," said Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction where Mrs. Bindle had just disappeared, "and you'll find Mrs. B. somewhere on the other side."

With another apprehensive glance at the bull, Mr. Hearty turned and made towards the stile. His pace was strangely suggestive of a man cheating in a walking-race.

The sight of his quarry escaping seemed still further to enrage the bull. With a terrifying roar it dashed furiously at the gate.

The sound of the roar lent wings to the feet of the flying Mr. Hearty. Throwing aside all pretence, he made precipitately towards the stile, beyond which lay safety. For a few seconds, Bindle stood watching the flying figure of his brother-in-law. Then he turned off to the right, along the hedge dividing the meadow from the field occupied by the bull.

"Well, 'ere's victory or Westminster Abbey," he muttered as he crept through a hole in the hawthorn, hoping that the bull would not observe him. His object was to warn the farmer of the animal's escape.

Half an hour later, he climbed the stile over which Mrs. Bindle had disappeared; but there was no sign either of her or of Mr. Hearty.

It was not until he reached the Summer-Camp that he found them seated outside the Bindles' tent. Mr. Hearty, looking pasty of feature, was endeavouring to convey to his blanched lips a cup of tea that Mrs. Bindle had just handed to him; but the trembling of his hand caused it to slop over the side of the cup on to his trousers.

"'Ullo, 'ere we are again," cried Bindle cheerily.

"I wonder you aren't ashamed of yourself," cried Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle stared at her with a puzzled expression. He looked at Mr. Hearty, then back again at Mrs. Bindle.

"Leaving Mr. Hearty and me like that. We might have been killed." Her voice shook.

"That would 'ave been a short cut to 'arps an' wings."

"I'm ashamed of you, that I am," she continued, while Mr. Hearty turned upon his brother-in-law a pair of mildly reproachful eyes.

"Well, I'm blowed," muttered Bindle as he walked away. "If them two ain't IT. Me a-leavin' them. If that ain't a juicy bit."

Mr. Hearty was only half-way through his second cup of tea when the Bishop of Fulham, followed by several of the summer-campers, appeared and walked briskly towards them.

"Where's that husband of yours, Mrs. Bindle?" he enquired, as if he suspected Bindle of hiding from him.

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," she cried, rising, whilst Mr. Hearty, in following suit, stepped upon the tails of his coat and slopped the rest of the tea over his trousers.

"Ah," said the bishop. "I must find him. He's a fine fellow, crossing the field behind that bull to warn Mr. Timkins. If the beast had happened to get into the camp, it would have been the very – very disastrous," he corrected himself, and with a nod he passed on followed by the other campers.

"That's just like Bindle," she complained, "not saying a word, and making me ridiculous before the bishop. He's always treating me like that," and there was a whimper in her voice.

"It's – it's very unfortunate," said Mr. Hearty nervously.

"Thank you, Mr. Hearty," she said. "It's little enough sympathy I get."

II

It was not until nearly four o'clock that Bindle re-appeared with the intimation that he was ready to conduct Mr. Hearty to call upon Farmer Timkins with regard to the strawberries, the purchase of which had been the object of Mr. Hearty's visit.

"Won't you come, too, Elizabeth?" enquired Mr. Hearty, turning to Mrs. Bindle.

"Thank you, Mr. Hearty, I should like to," she replied, tightening her bonnet strings as if in anticipation of further violent movement.

Mr. Hearty gave the invitation more as a precaution against Bindle's high-spirits, than from a desire for his sister-in-law's company.

"'Ere, not that way," cried Bindle, as they were making for the gate leading to the road.

Mr. Hearty looked hesitatingly at Mrs. Bindle, who, however, settled the question by marching resolutely towards the gate.

"But it'll take a quarter of an hour that way," Bindle protested.

"If you think I'm going across any more fields with wild bulls, Bindle, you're mistaken," she announced with decision. "You've nearly killed Mr. Hearty once to-day. Let that be enough."

With a feeling of thankfulness Mr. Hearty followed.

"But that little bit o' beef is tied up with a ring through 'is bloomin' nose. I been an' 'ad a look at 'im."

"Ring or no ring," she snapped, "I'll have you know that I'm not going across any more fields. It's a mercy we're either of us alive."

Bindle knew that he was not the other one referred to, and he reluctantly followed, grumbling about long distances and various veins.

Although upon the high-road, both Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty were what Bindle regarded as "a bit jumpy."

From time to time they looked about them with obvious apprehension, as if anticipating that from every point of the compass a bull was preparing to charge down upon them.

They paused at the main-entrance to the farm, allowing Bindle to lead the way.

Half-way towards the house, their nostrils were assailed by a devastating smell; Mr. Hearty held his breath, whilst Mrs. Bindle produced a handkerchief, wiped her lips and then held it to her nose. She had always been given to understand that the only antidote for a bad smell was to spit; but she was too refined to act up to the dictum without the aid of her handkerchief.

"Pigs!" remarked Bindle, raising his head and sniffing with the air of a connoisseur.

"Extremely insanitary," murmured Mr. Hearty. "You did say the – er bull was tied up, Joseph?" he enquired.

"Well, 'e was when I see 'im," said Bindle, "but of course it wouldn't take long for 'im to undo 'imself."

Mr. Hearty glanced about him anxiously.

In front of the house the party paused. Nowhere was anyone to be seen. An old cart with its shafts pointing heavenward stood on the borders of a duck pond, green with slime.

The place was muddy and unclean, and Mrs. Bindle, with a look of disgust, drew up her skirts almost to the tops of her elastic-sided boots.

Bindle looked about him with interest. A hen appeared round the corner of the house, gazed at the newcomers for a few seconds, her head on one side, then disappeared from whence she had come.

Ducks stood on their heads in the water, or quacked comfortably as they swam about, apparently either oblivious or indifferent to the fact that there were callers.

From somewhere in the distance could be heard the sound of a horse stamping in its stall.

At the end of five minutes an old man appeared carrying a pail. At the sight of strangers, he stopped dead, his slobbering lips gaping in surprise.

"Can I see Mr. Timkins?" enquired Mr. Hearty, in refined but woolly tones.

"Farmer be over there wi' Bessie. I tell un she'll foal' fore night; but 'e will 'ave it she won't. 'E'll see. 'e will," he added with the air of a fatalist.

Mr. Hearty turned aside and became interested in the ducks, whilst Mrs. Bindle flushed a deep vermilion. Bindle said nothing; but watched with enjoyment the confusion of the others.

The man stared at them, puzzled to account for their conduct.

"Where did you say Mr. Timkins was to be found?" enquired Mr. Hearty.

"I just tell ee, in the stable wi' Bessie. 'E says she won't foal; but I know she will. Why she – "

Mr. Hearty did not wait for further information; but turned and made for what, from the motion of the man's head, he took to be the stable.

The others followed.

"No, not there," yelled the man, as if he were addressing someone in the next field. "Turn round to left o' that there muck 'eap."

A convulsive shudder passed over Mr. Hearty's frame. He was appalled at the coarseness engendered by an agricultural existence. He hurried on so that he should not have to meet Mrs. Bindle's eye.

At that moment Farmer Timkins was seen approaching. He was a short, red-faced man in a bob-tailed coat with large flapped-pockets, riding-breeches and gaiters. In his hand he carried a crop which, at the sight of Mrs. Bindle, he raised to his hat in salutation.

"Mornin'."

"Good afternoon," said Mr. Hearty genteelly.

The farmer fixed his eyes upon Mr. Hearty's emaciated sallowness, with all the superiority of one who knows that he is a fine figure of a man.

"It was you that upset Oscar, wasn't it?" There was more accusation than welcome in his tone.

"Upset Oscar?" enquired Mr. Hearty, nervously looking from the farmer to Mrs. Bindle, then back again to the farmer.

"Yes, my bull," explained Mr. Timkins.

"It was Oscar wot nearly upset pore old 'Earty," grinned Bindle.

"A savage beast like that ought to be shot," cried Mrs. Bindle, gazing squarely at the farmer. "It nearly killed – "

"Ought to be shot!" repeated the farmer, a dull flush rising to his face. "Shoot Oscar! Are you mad, ma'am?" he demanded, making an obvious effort to restrain his anger.

"Don't you dare to insult me," she cried. "You set that savage brute on to Mr. Hearty and it nearly killed him. I shall report you to the bishop – and – and – to the police," she added as an after-thought. "You ought to be prosecuted."

Mrs. Bindle's lips had disappeared into a grey line, her face was very white, particularly at the corners of the mouth. For nearly two hours she had restrained herself. Now that she was face to face with the owner of the bull that had nearly plunged her into mourning, her anger burst forth.

The farmer looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

"Report me to the police," he repeated dully. "What – "

"Yes, and I will too," cried Mrs. Bindle, interpreting the farmer's strangeness of manner as indicative of fear. "Mad bulls are always shot."

The farmer focussed his gaze upon Mrs. Bindle, as if she belonged to a new species. His anger had vanished. He was overcome by surprise that anyone should be so ignorant of bulls and their ways as to believe Oscar mad.

"Why, ma'am, Oscar's no more mad than you or me. He's just a bit fresh. Most times he's as gentle as a lamb."

"Don't talk to me about lambs," cried Mrs. Bindle, now thoroughly roused. "With my own eyes I saw it chasing Mr. Hearty across the field. It's a wonder he wasn't killed. I shall insist upon the animal being destroyed."

The farmer turned to Bindle, as if for an explanation of such strange views upon bulls in general and Oscar in particular.

"Oscar's all right, Lizzie," said Bindle pacifically. "'E only wanted to play tag with 'Earty."

"You be quiet!" cried Mrs. Bindle. She felt that she already had the enemy well beaten and in terror of prosecution.

"I suppose," she continued, turning once more to Mr. Timkins, "you want to hide the fact that you're keeping a mad bull until you can turn it into beef and send it to market; but – "

"Turn Oscar into beef!" roared the farmer. "Why, God dang my boots, ma'am, you're crazy! I wouldn't sell Oscar for a thousand pounds."

"I thought so," said Mrs. Bindle, looking across at Mr. Hearty, who was feeling intensely uncomfortable, "and people are to be chased about the country and murdered just because you won't – "

"But dang it, ma'am! there isn't a bull like Oscar for twenty miles round. Last year I had – let me see, how many calves – "

"Don't be disgusting," she cried, whilst Mr. Hearty turned his head aside, and coughed modestly into his right hand.

Mr. Timkins gazed from one to the other in sheer amazement, whilst Bindle, who had so man[oe]uvred as to place himself behind Mrs. Bindle, caught the farmer's eye and tapped his forehead significantly.

The simple action seemed to have a magical effect upon Mr. Timkins. His anger disappeared and his customary bluff geniality returned.

He acknowledged Bindle's signal with a wink, then he turned to Mrs. Bindle.

"You see, ma'am, this is all my land, and I let the bishop have his camp – "

"That doesn't excuse you for keeping a mad bull," was the uncompromising retort. The life of her hero had been endangered, and Mrs. Bindle was not to be placated by words.

"But Oscar ain't mad," protested the farmer, taking off his hat and mopping his forehead with a large coloured-handkerchief he had drawn from his tail-pocket. "I tell you he's no more mad than what I am."

"And I tell you he is," she retorted, with all the assurance of one thoroughly versed in the ways of bulls.

"You see, it's like this here, mum," he said soothingly, intent upon placating one who was not "quite all there," as he would have expressed it. "It's all through the wind gettin' round to the sou'west. If it hadn't been for that – "

"Don't talk to me about such rubbish," she interrupted scornfully. "I wonder you don't say it's because there's a new moon. I'm not a fool, although I haven't lived all my life on a farm."

The farmer looked about him helplessly. Then he made another effort.

"You see, ma'am, when the wind's in the sou'west, Oscar gets a whiff o' them cows in the home – "

"How dare you!" The colour of Mrs. Bindle's cheeks transcended anything that Bindle had ever seen. "How dare you speak to me! How – you coarse – you – you disgusting beast!"

At the sight of Mrs. Bindle's blazing eyes and heaving chest, the farmer involuntarily retreated a step.

Several times he blinked his eyes in rapid succession.

Mr. Hearty turned and concentrated his gaze upon what the old man had described as "that there muck 'eap."

"Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle. "Will you stand by and let that man insult me? He's a coarse, low – " Her voice shook with suppressed passion. Mr. Hearty drew out his handkerchief and coughed into it.

For several seconds Mrs. Bindle stood glaring at the farmer, then, with a sudden movement, she turned and walked away with short, jerky steps of indignation.

Mr. Hearty continued to gaze at the muck heap, whilst the farmer watched the retreating form of Mrs. Bindle, as if she had been a double-headed calf, or a three-legged duck.

When she had disappeared from sight round the corner of the house, he once more mopped his forehead with the coloured-handkerchief, then, thrusting it into his pocket, he resumed his hat with the air of a man who has escaped from some deadly peril.

"It's all that there Jim," he muttered. "I told him to look out for the wind and move them cows; but will he? Not if he knows it, dang him."

"Don't you take it to 'eart," said Bindle cheerily. "It ain't no good to start back-chat with my missis."

"But she said Oscar ought to be shot," grumbled the farmer. "Shoot Oscar!" he muttered to himself.

"You see, it's like this 'ere, religion's a funny thing. When it gets 'old of you, it either makes you mild, like 'Earty 'ere, or it makes you as 'ot as onions, like my missis. She don't mean no 'arm; but when you gone 'ead first over a stile, an' your sort o' shy about yer legs, it don't make you feel you wants to give yer sugar ticket to the bull wot did it."

"The – the strawberries, Joseph," Mr. Hearty broke in upon the conversation, addressing Bindle rather than the farmer, of whom he stood in some awe.

"Ah! dang it, o' course, them strawberries," cried the farmer, who had been advised by Patrol-leader Smithers that a potential customer would call. "Come along this way," and he led the way to a large barn, still mumbling under his breath.

"This way," he cried again, as he entered and pointed to where stood row upon row of baskets full of strawberries, heavily scenting the air. Hearty walked across the barn, picked up a specimen of the fruit and bit it.

"What price are you asking for them?" he enquired.

"Fourpence," was the retort.

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Hearty with all the instincts of the chafferer, "that I could not pay more than – "

"Then go to hell!" roared the farmer. "You get off my farm or – or I'll let Oscar loose," he added with inspiration.

For the last quarter of an hour he had restrained himself with difficulty; but Mr. Hearty's bargaining instinct had been the spark that had ignited the volcano of his wrath.

Mr. Hearty started back violently; stumbled against a large stone and sat down with a suddenness that caused his teeth to rattle.

"Off you go!" yelled the farmer, purple with rage. "Here Jim," he shouted; but Mr. Hearty waited for nothing more. Picking himself up, he fled blindly, he knew not whither. It sufficed him that it should be away from that muscular arm which was gripping a formidable-looking crop.

Bindle turned to follow, feeling that his own popularity had been submerged in the negative qualities of his wife and brother-in-law; but the farmer put out a restraining hand.

"Not you," he said, "you come up to the house. I can give you a mug of ale the like of which you haven't tasted for years. I'm all upset, I am," he added, as if to excuse his outburst. "I'm not forgettin' that it was you that came an' told me about Oscar. He might a-done a middlin' bit o' damage." Then, suddenly recollecting the cause of all the trouble, he added, "Dang that old Jim! It was them cows what did it. Shoot Oscar!"

CHAPTER X

THE COMING OF THE WHIRLWIND

I

"It's come, mate."

"Go away, we're not up yet," cried the voice of Mrs. Bindle from inside the tent.

"It's come, mate," repeated a lugubrious voice, which Bindle recognised as that of the tall, despondent man with the stubbly chin.

"Who's come?" demanded Bindle, sitting up and throwing the bedclothes from his chest, revealing a washed-out pink flannel night-shirt.

"The blinkin' field-kitchen," came the voice from without. "Comin' to 'ave a look at it?"

"Righto, ole sport. I'll be out in two ticks."

"I won't have that man coming up to the tent when – when we're not up," said Mrs. Bindle angrily.

"It's all right, Lizzie," reassured Bindle, "'e can't see through – an' 'e ain't that sort o' cove neither," he added.

Mrs. Bindle murmured an angry retort.

Five minutes later Bindle, with trailing braces, left the tent and joined the group of men and children gazing at a battered object that was strangely reminiscent of Stevenson's first steam-engine.

"That's it," said the man with the stubbly chin, whose name was Barnes, known to his intimates as "'Arry," turning to greet Bindle and jerking a dirt-grimed thumb in the direction of the travelling field-kitchen.

Dubious heads were shaken. Many of the men had already had practical experience of the temperament possessed by an army field-kitchen.

"At Givenchy I see one of 'em cut in 'alf by a 'Crump,'" muttered a little dark-haired man, with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to blink automatically. "It wasn't 'alf a sight, neither," he added.

"Who's goin' to stoke?" demanded Barnes, rubbing his chin affectionately with the pad of his right thumb.

"'Im wot's been the wickedest," suggested Bindle.

They were in no mood for lightness, however. None had yet breakfasted, and all had suffered the acute inconvenience of camping under the supreme direction of a benign but misguided cleric.

"Wot the 'ell I come 'ere for, I don't know," said a man with a moist, dirty face. "Might a gone to Southend with my brother-in-law, I might," he added reminiscently.

"You wasn't 'alf a mug, was you?" remarked a wiry little man in a singlet and khaki trousers.

"You're right there, mate," was the response. "Blinkin' barmy I must a' been."

"I was goin' to Yarmouth," confided a third, "only my missis got this ruddy camp on the streamin' brain. Jawed about it till I was sick and give in for peace an' quietness. Now, look at me."

"It's all the ruddy Government, a-startin' these 'ere stutterin' camps," complained a red-headed man with the face of a Bolshevist.

"They 'as races at Yarmouth, too," grumbled the previous speaker.

"Not till September," put in another.

"August," said the first speaker aggressively, and the two proceeded fiercely to discuss the date of the Yarmouth Races.

When the argument had gone as far as it could without blows, and had quieted all other conversation, Bindle slipped away from the group and returned to the tent to find Mrs. Bindle busy preparing breakfast.

He smacked his lips with the consciousness that of all the campers he was the best fed.

"Gettin' a move on," he cried cheerily, and once more he smacked his lips.

"Pity you can't do something to help," she retorted, "instead of loafing about with that pack of lazy scamps."

Bindle retired to the interior of the tent and proceeded with his toilet.

"That's right, take no notice when I speak to you," she snapped.

"Oh, my Gawd!" he groaned. "It's scratch all night an' scrap all day. It's an 'oliday all right."

He strove to think of something tactful to say; but at the moment nothing seemed to suggest itself, and Mrs. Bindle viciously broke three eggs into the frying-pan in which bacon was already sizzling, like an energetic wireless-plant.

The savoury smell of the frying eggs and bacon reached Bindle inside the tent, inspiring him with feelings of benevolence and good-will.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," he said contritely, "but I didn't 'ear you."

"You heard well enough what I said," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder, as she broke a fourth egg into the pan.

"The kitchen's come," he said pleasantly.

"Oh, has it?" Mrs. Bindle did not raise her eyes from the frying-pan she was holding over the scout-fire.

For a minute or two Bindle preserved silence, wondering what topic he possessed that would soothe her obvious irritation.

"They say the big tent's down at the station," he remarked, repeating a rumour he had heard when engaged in examining the field-kitchen.

Mrs. Bindle vouchsafed no reply.

"Did you sleep well, Lizzie?" he enquired.

"Sleep!" she repeated scornfully. "How was I to sleep on rough straw like that. I ache all over."

He saw that he had made a false move in introducing the subject of sleep.

"The milk hasn't come," she announced presently with the air of one making a statement she knew would be unpopular. Bindle hated tea without milk.

"You don't say so," he remarked. "I must 'ave a word with Daisy. She didn't oughter be puttin' on 'er bloomin' frills."

"The paraffin's got into the sugar," was the next bombshell.

"Well, well," said Bindle. "I suppose you can't 'ave everythink as you would like it."

"Another time, perhaps you'll get up yourself and help with the meals."

"I ain't much at them sort o' things," he replied, conscious that Mrs. Bindle's anger was rising.

"You leave me to do everything, as if I was your slave instead of your wife."

Bindle remained silent. He realized that there were times when it was better to bow to the storm.

"Ain't it done yet?" he enquired, looking anxiously at the frying-pan.