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

"You see, Aunt Lizzie, he knows so many people, and they all like him and – "

"Only common people, like chauffeurs and workmen," was the retort. "When I'm out with him I sometimes want to sink through the ground with shame. He lets them call him 'Joe,' and of course they don't respect me." Again she sniffed ominously.

"I'll speak to him," said Millie with a wise little air that she had assumed since her marriage.

"Speak to him!" cried Mrs. Bindle scornfully. "Might as well speak to a brick wall. I've spoken to him until I'm tired, and what does he do? Laughs at me and says I'm as – " she paused, as if finding difficulty in bringing herself to give Bindle's actual expression – "says I'm as holy as ointment, if you know what that means."

"But he doesn't mean to be unkind, Aunt Lizzie, I'm sure he doesn't," protested Millie loyally. "He calls Boy – I mean Charley," she corrected herself with a little blush, "all sorts of names," and she laughed at some recollection of her own. "Don't you think, Aunt Lizzie – " she paused, conscious that she was approaching delicate ground. "Don't you think that if you and Uncle Joe were both to try and – and – " she stopped, looking across at her aunt anxiously, her lower lip indrawn and her eyes gravely wide.

"Try and what?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, a hardness creeping into her voice at the thought that anyone could see any mitigating circumstance in Bindle's treatment of her.

"I thought that if perhaps – I mean," hesitated Millie, "that if you both tried very hard to – to, not to hurt each other – " again she stopped.

"I'm sure I've never said anything to him that all the world might not hear," retorted Mrs. Bindle, with the unction of the righteous, "although he's always saying things to me that make me hot with shame, married woman though I am."

"But, Aunt Lizzie," persisted Millie, clasping Mrs. Bindle's arm with both hands, and looking appealingly up into her face, "won't you try, just for my sake, pleeeeeease," she coaxed.

"I've tried until I'm tired of trying," was the ungracious retort. "I moil and toil, inch and pinch, work day and night to mend his clothes and get his food ready, and this is what I get for it. He makes me a laughing-stock, talks about me behind my back. Oh, I know!" she added hastily, as Millie made a sign of dissent. "He can't deceive me. He wants to bring me down to his own level of wickedness, then he'll be happy; but he shan't," she cried, the Daughter of the Lord manifesting herself. "I'll kill myself first. He shall never have that pleasure, no one shall ever be able to say that I let him drag me down.

"I've always done my duty by him," she continued, returning to the threadbare phrase that was ever present in her mind. "I've worked morning, noon and night to try and keep him respectable, and see how he treats me. I'm worse off than a servant, I tell him so and what does he do?" she demanded. "Laughs at me," she cried shrilly, answering her own question, "and humiliates me before the neighbours. Gets the children to call after me, makes – "

"Oh, Aunt Lizzie! You mustn't say that," cried Millie in distress. "I'm sure Uncle Joe would never do such a thing. He couldn't," she added with conviction.

"Well, they do it," retorted Mrs. Bindle, conscious of a feeling that possibly she had gone too far; "only yesterday they did it."

"What did they say?" enquired Millie curiously.

"They said," she paused as if hesitating to repeat what the youth of Fenton Street had called after her. Then, as if determined to convict Bindle of all the sins possible, she continued, "They called after me all the way up Fenton Street – " again she paused.

"Yes, Aunt Lizzie."

"They called 'Mrs. Bindle turns a spindle.'"

Millie bent quickly forward that her involuntary smile might not be detected.

"They never call out after him," Mrs. Bindle added, as if that in itself were conclusive proof of Bindle's guilt. "And now I must be going, Millie," and she rose and once more bent down to gaze where Joseph the Second slept the sleep of an easy conscience and a good digestion.

"Bless his little heart," she murmured, for the moment forgetting her own troubles in the contemplation of the sleeping babe. "I hope he doesn't grow up like his uncle," she added, her thoughts rushing back precipitately to their customary channel.

"I'm going to have a talk with Uncle Joe," said Millie, as she followed her aunt along the passage, "and then – " she paused.

"You'd talk the hind leg off a donkey before you'd make any impression on him," was the ungracious retort. "Good night, Millie, I'm glad you're getting on with your cooking," and Mrs. Bindle passed out into the night to the solitude of her own thoughts, populated exclusively by Bindle and his shortcomings.

II

"I haven't told Charley, Uncle Joe, so be careful," whispered Millie, as Bindle hung up his hat in the hall.

"'Aven't told 'im wot, Millie?"

"That – that – " she hesitated.

"I get you Steve," he cried, with a knowing wink, "you ain't told 'im 'ow you're goin' to make yer Aunt Lizzie the silent wife of Fulham."

"Now, Uncle Joe," she admonished with pouting lips, "you promised. You will be careful, won't you?" She had spent two hours the previous night coaching Bindle in the part he was to play.

"Reg'lar dove I am to-night," he said cheerily. "I could lay an egg, only I don't know wot colour it ought to be."

Millie gazed at him for a few seconds in quizzical doubt, then, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, and a pout that was very popular with Charley, she turned and led the way into the drawing-room.

Charley Dixon was doing his best to make conversation with his aunt-in-law; but Mrs. Bindle's monosyllabic methods proved a serious obstacle.

"Now we'll have supper," cried Millie, after Bindle had greeted Charley and gazed a little doubtfully at Mrs. Bindle. He seemed on the point of making some remark; but apparently thought better of it, instead he turned to admire an ornament on the mantelpiece. He had remembered just in time.

Millie had spread herself upon the supper. There was a small cold chicken that seemed desirous of shrinking within itself; a salad in a glass bowl, with a nickel-silver fork and spoon adorned with blue china handles; a plate of ham well garnished with parsley; a beef-steak and kidney pie, cold, also garnished with parsley; some pressed beef and tongue, of a thinness that advertised the professional hand which had cut it.

On the sideboard was an infinity of tarts, blanc-mange, stewed fruit and custard. With all the recklessness of a young housewife, Millie had prepared for four what would have been ample for fourteen.

It was this fact that first attracted Mrs. Bindle's attention. Her keen eyes missed nothing. She examined the knives and spoons, identifying them as wedding presents. She lifted the silver pepper-castor, a trifle, light as air, examined the texture of the tablecloth and felt the napkins with an appraising thumb and forefinger, and mentally deprecated the lighting of the two pink candles, in silver candlesticks with yellow shades, in the centre of the table.

Millie fluttered about, acutely conscious of her responsibilities and flushed with anxiety.

"I hope – I hope," she began, addressing her aunt. "I – I hope you will like it."

"You must have worked very hard, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, an unusual gentleness in her voice, whereat Millie flushed.

Bindle and Charley were soon at work upon the beef-steak and kidney pie, hot potatoes and beans. Bindle had nearly fallen at the first hurdle. In the heat of an argument with Charley as to what was the matter with the Chelsea football team, he had indiscreetly put a large piece of potato into his mouth without realising its temperature. A look of agony overspread his features. He was just in the act of making a preliminary forward motion to return the potato from whence it came, when Charley, with a presence of mind that would have brought tears to Bindle's eyes, had they not already been there, indicated the glass of beer in front of him.

With a swoop Bindle seized it, raised it to his lips, and cooled the heated tuber. Pulling his red silk handkerchief from his breast-pocket, he mopped up the tears just as Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon him.

"Don't make me laugh, Charley," he cried with inspiration, "or I'll choke," at which Charley laughed in a way that proved him entirely devoid of histrionic talent.

"I'll do as much for you one o' these days, Charley," Bindle whispered, looking reproachfully at the remains of the potato that had betrayed him. "My Gawd! It was 'ot," he muttered under his breath. "Look out for yourself an' 'ave beer 'andy."

He turned suddenly to Mrs. Bindle. In his heart there was an uncharitable hope that she too might be caught in the toils from which he had just escaped; but Mrs. Bindle ate like a book on etiquette. She held her knife and fork at the extreme end of the handles, her elbows pressed well into her sides, and literally toyed with her food.

After each mouthful, she raised her napkin to her lips, giving the impression that it was in constant movement, either to or from her lips.

She took no table risks. She saw to it that every piece of food was carefully attached to the fork before she raised it from the plate, and never did fork carry a lighter load than hers. After each journey, both knife and fork were laid on her plate, the napkin – Mrs. Bindle referred to it as a serviette – raised to her unsoiled lips, and she touched neither knife nor fork again until her jaws had entirely ceased working.

Between her visits to the kitchen, Millie laboured desperately to inveigle her aunt into conversation; but although Mrs. Bindle possessed much religious and domestic currency, she had no verbal small change.

During the afternoon, Millie had exhausted domesticity and herself alike – and there had been Joseph the Second. Mrs. Bindle did not read, they had no common friends, she avoided the pictures, and what she did see in the newspapers she so disapproved of as to close that as a possible channel of conversation.

"Aunt Lizzie," cried Millie in desperation for something to say, "you aren't making a good supper."

"I'm doing very nicely, thank you, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, who in a quarter of an hour had managed to envelop about two square inches of ham and three shreds of lettuce.

"You don't like the ham, Aunt Lizzie," protested the hospitable Millie; "have some pie."

"It's very nice, thank you, Millie," was the prim reply. "I'm enjoying it," and she proceeded to dissect a piece of lettuce to a size that even a "prunes and prisms" mouth might have taken without inconvenience.

"Charley," cried Millie presently. "I won't have you talking football with Uncle Joe. Talk to Aunt Lizzie."

A moment later she realized her mistake. Bindle returned to his plate, Charley looked at his aunt doubtfully, and conversation lay slain.

"Listen," cried Millie who, at the end of five minutes, thought she must either say something, or scream. "That's Joey, run up and see, Charley, there's a dear" – she knew it was not Joey.

Charley rose dutifully, and once more silence descended upon the table.

"Aunt Lizzie, you are making a poor meal," cried Millie, genuinely distressed, as Mrs. Bindle placed her knife and fork at the "all clear" angle, although she had eaten less than half what her plate contained.

"I've done very nicely, thank you, Millie, and I've enjoyed it."

Millie sighed. Her eyes wandered from the heavily-laden table to the sideboard, and she groaned in spirit. In spite of what Bindle and Charley had done, and were doing, there seemed such a lot that required to be eaten, and she wondered whether Charley would very much mind having cold meat, blanc-mange and jam tarts for the rest of the week.

"It wasn't him, Millie," said Charley, re-entering the room, and returning to his plate with the air of one determined to make up for the time he had lost in parental solicitude, whilst Bindle pushed his own plate from him as a sign that, so far as the first round was concerned, he had nothing more to say.

"You're very quiet to-night, Uncle Joe," said Millie, the soul of hospitality within her already weeping bitter tears.

"Me?" cried Bindle, starting and looking about him. "I ain't quiet, Millie," and then he relapsed once more into silence.

Charley did not seem to notice anything unusual. In his gentle, good-natured way he hoped that Millie would not again ask him to talk to Aunt Lizzie.

Mrs. Bindle partook, no other word adequately describes the action, of an open jam tart with the aid of a spoon and fork, from time to time sipping daintily from her glass of lemonade; but she refused all else. She had made an excellent meal, she repeatedly assured Millie, and had enjoyed it.

Millie found comfort in plying Bindle with dainties. He had received no orders to curtail his appetite, so he had decided in his own idiom to "let 'em all come" – and they came, tarts and turnovers, fruit-salad and blanc-mange, custard and jelly. By the time the cheese and biscuits had arrived, he was forced to lean back in his chair and confess himself vanquished.

"Not if you was to pay me," he said, as he shook a regretful head.

After the meal, they returned to the drawing-room. Millie showed Mrs. Bindle an album of coloured postcards they had collected during their honeymoon, whilst Charley wandered about like a restless spirit, missing his after-dinner pipe.

"Ain't we goin' to smoke?" Bindle had whispered hoarsely, as they entered the drawing-room; but Charley shook a sad and resigned head.

"She mightn't like it," he whispered back, so Bindle seated himself in the corner of a plush couch, and wondered how long it would be before Mrs. Bindle made a move to go home.

Millie was trying her utmost to make the postcards last as long as possible. Charley had paused beside her in his restless strolling about the room, and proceeded to recall unimportant happenings at the places pictured.

At length the photographs were exhausted, and both Millie and Charley began to wonder what was to take their place, when Mrs. Bindle rose, announcing that she must be going. Millie pressed her to stay, and strove to stifle the thanksgiving in her heart, whilst Charley began to count the minutes before he would be able to "light up."

The business of parting, however, occupied time, and it was fully twenty minutes later that Bindle and Mrs. Bindle, accompanied by Charley and Millie, passed down the narrow little passage towards the hall door.

Another five minutes were occupied in remarks upon the garden and how they had enjoyed themselves – and then the final goodnights were uttered.

As his niece kissed him, Bindle muttered, "I been all right, ain't I, Millikins?" and she squeezed his arm reassuringly, at which he sighed his relief. The tortures he had suffered that evening were as nothing, provided Millie were happy.

As the hall door closed, Charley struck a match and lighted his pipe. Returning to the drawing-room, he dropped into the easiest of the uneasy chairs.

"What's the matter with Uncle Joe to-night, Millie?" he enquired, and for answer Millie threw herself upon him, wound her arms round his neck and sobbed.

"Been a pleasant evenin', Lizzie," said Bindle conversationally, as they walked towards the nearest tram-stop.

Mrs. Bindle sniffed.

"Nice young chap, Charley," he remarked a moment later. He was determined to redeem his promise to Millie.

"What was the matter with you to-night?" she demanded aggressively.

"Matter with me?" he enquired in surprise. "There ain't nothink the matter with me, Lizzie, I enjoyed myself fine."

"Yes, sitting all the evening as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."

"But – " began Bindle.

"Oh, I know you," she interrupted. "You wanted Millie and Charley to think it's all my fault and that you're a saint. They should see you in your own home," she added.

"But I ain't said nothink," he protested.

"You aren't like that at home," she continued. "There you do nothing but blaspheme and talk lewd talk and sneer at Mr. Hearty. Oh! I can see through you," she added, "and you needn't think you deceived Millie, or Charley. They're not the fools you think them."

Bindle groaned in spirit. He had suffered acutely that evening, mentally having had to censor every sentence before uttering it.

"Then look at the way you behaved. Eating like a gormand. You made me thoroughly ashamed of you. I could see Millie watching – "

"But she was watchin' to see I 'ad enough to eat," he protested.

"Don't tell me. Any decently refined girl would be disgusted at the way you behave. Eating jam tarts with your fingers."

"But wot should I eat 'em with?"

Before she had time to reply, the tram drew up and, following her usual custom, Mrs. Bindle made a dart for it, elbowing people right and left. She could always be trusted to make sufficient enemies in entering a vehicle to last most people for a lifetime.

"But wot should I eat 'em with?" enquired Bindle again when they were seated.

"Sssh!" she hissed, conscious that a number of people were looking at her, including several who had made acquaintance with the sharpness of her elbows.

"But if you ain't to eat jam tarts with yer fingers, 'ow are you goin' to get 'em into yer mouth?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper, which was easily heard by the greater part of the occupants of the tram. "They don't jump," he added.

A ripple of smiles broke out on the faces of most of their fellow-passengers.

"Will you be quiet?" hissed Mrs. Bindle.

"Mind you don't grow up like that, kid," whispered an amorous youth to a full-busted young woman, whose hand he was grasping with interlaced fingers.

Mrs. Bindle heard the remark and drew in her lips still further.

"Been gettin' yer face sticky, mate?" enquired a little man sitting next to Bindle, in a voice of sympathy.

Bindle turned and gave him a wink.

No sooner had they alighted from the tram at The King's Head, than Mrs. Bindle's restraint vanished. All the way to Fenton Street she reviled Bindle for humiliating her before other people. She gave full rein to the anger that had been simmering within her all the evening. Millie should be told of his conduct. Charley should learn to hate him, and Little Joey to execrate the very mention of his name.

"But you shouldn't go a-jabbin' yer elbows in people's – " Bindle paused for a word sufficiently delicate for Mrs. Bindle's ears and which, at the same time, would leave no doubt as to the actual portion of the anatomy to which he referred.

"I'll jab my elbows into you, if you're not careful," was the uncompromising response. "I'm referring to the tarts."

And Bindle made a bolt for it.

"Now this all comes through tryin' to sit on a safety-valve," he muttered. "Mrs. B. 'as got to blow-orf some'ow, or she'd bust."

CHAPTER XIII

MRS. BINDLE'S DISCOVERY

I

On Wednesday evenings, Mrs. Bindle went to chapel to engage in the weekly temperance service. As temperance meetings always engendered in Mrs. Bindle the missionary spirit, Bindle selected Wednesday for what he called his "night out."

If he got home early, it was to encounter Mrs. Bindle's prophetic views as to the hereafter of those who spent their leisure in gin-palaces.

At first Mrs. Bindle had shown her resentment by waiting up until Bindle returned; but as he made that return later each Wednesday, she had at last capitulated, and it became no longer necessary for him to walk the streets until two o'clock in the morning, in order to slip upstairs unchallenged as to where he expected to go when he died.

One Wednesday night, as he was on his way home, whistling "Bubbles" at the stretch of his powers, he observed the figure of a girl standing under a lamp-post, her head bent, her shoulders moving convulsively.

"'Ullo – 'ullo!" he cried. "Wot's the matter now?"

At Bindle's words she gave him a fleeting glance, then, turning once more to the business on hand, sobbed the louder.

"Wot's wrong, my dear?" Bindle enquired, regarding her with a puzzled expression. "Oo's been 'urting you?"

"I'm – I'm afraid," she sobbed.

"Afraid! There ain't nothink to be afraid of when Joe Bindle's about. Wot you afraid of?"

"I'm – I'm afraid to go home," sobbed the girl.

"Afraid to go 'ome," repeated Bindle. "Why?"

"M-m-m-m-mother."

"Wot's up with 'er? She ill?"

"She – she'll kill me."

"Ferocious ole bird," he muttered. Then to the girl, "'Ere, you didn't ought to be out at this time o' night, a young gal like you. Why, it's gettin' on for twelve. Wot's wrong with Ma?"

"She'll kill me. I darsen't go home." She looked up at Bindle, a pathetic figure, with twitching mouth and frightened eyes. Then, controlling her sobs, she told her story.

She had been to Richmond with a girl friend, and some boys had taken them for a run on their motorcycles. One of the cycles had developed engine-trouble and, instead of being home by ten, it was half-past eleven before she got to Putney Bridge Station.

"I darsen't go home," she wailed, as she finished her story. "Mother'll kill me. She said she would last time. I know she will," and again she began to cry, this time without any effort to shield her tear-stained face. Fear had rendered her regardless of appearances.

"'Ere, I'll take you 'ome," cried Bindle, with the air of a man who has arrived at a mighty decision. "If Mrs. B. gets to 'ear of it, there'll be an 'ell of a row though," he muttered.

The girl appeared undecided.

"You won't let her hurt me?" she asked, with the appealing look of a frightened child.

"Well, I can't start scrappin' with your ma, my dear," he said uncertainly; "but I'll do my best. My missis is a bit of a scrapper, you see, an' I've learned 'ow to 'andle 'em. Of course, if she liked 'ymns an' salmon, it'd be sort of easier," he mused, "not that there's much chance of gettin' a tin' o' salmon at this time o' night."

The girl, unaware of his habit of trading on Mrs. Bindle's fondness for tinned salmon and hymn tunes, looked at him with widened eyes.

"No," he continued, "it's got to be tack this time. 'Ere, come along, young un, we can't stay 'ere all night. Where jer live?"

She indicated with a nod the end of the street in which they stood.

"Well, 'ere goes," he cried, starting off, the girl following. As they proceeded, her steps became more and more reluctant, until at last she stopped dead.

"'Wot's up now?" he enquired, looking over his shoulder.

"I darsen't go in," she said tremulously. "I d-d-darsen't."

"'Ere, come along," cried Bindle persuasively. "Your ma can't eat you. Which 'ouse is it?"

"That one." She nodded in the direction of a gate opposite a lamp-post, fear and misery in her eyes.

"Come along, my dear. I won't let 'er 'urt you," and, taking her gently by the arm, he led her towards the gate. Here, however, the girl stopped once more and clung convulsively to the railings, half-dead with fright.

Opening the gate, Bindle walked up the short tiled path and, reaching up, grasped the knocker. As he did so, the door opened with such suddenness that he lurched forward, almost into the arms of a stout woman with a fiery face and angry eyes.

From Bindle her gaze travelled to the shrinking figure clinging to the railings.

"You old villain!" she cried, in a voice hoarse with passion, making a dive at Bindle, who, dodging nimbly, took cover behind a moth-eaten evergreen in the centre of the diminutive front garden.

"You just let me catch you, keeping my gal out like this, and you old enough to be her father, too. As for you, my lady, you just wait till I get you indoors. I'll show you, coming home at this time o' night."

She made another dive at Bindle; but her bulk was against her, and he found no difficulty in evading the attack.

"What d'you mean by it?" she demanded, as she glared at him across the top of the evergreen, "and 'er not seventeen yet. For two pins I'd have you taken up."

"'Ere, old 'ard, missis," cried Bindle, keeping a wary eye upon his antagonist. "I ain't wot you think. I'm a dove, that's wot I am, an' 'ere are you a-playin' chase-me-Charlie round this 'ere – "

"Wait till I get you," she shouted, drowning Bindle's protest. "I'll give you dove, keeping my gal out all hours. You just wait. I'll show you, or my name ain't Annie Brunger."