The Wish House and Other Stories (58 page)

‘Nothin’ was
said
to ye?’ Mrs Fettley demanded.

‘Na’un. She just breathed out – a sort of
A-ah
, like. Then the steps went back an’ downstairs to the kitchen – all draggy – an’ I heard the cheer drawed up again.’

‘An’ you abode on de doorstep, throughout all, Gra’?’

Mrs Ashcroft nodded.

‘Then I went away, an’ a man passin’ says to me: “Didn’t you know that house was empty?” “No,” I says. “I must ha’ been give the wrong number.” an’ I went back to our ‘ouse an’ I went to bed; for I was fair flogged out. ’twas too ’ot to sleep more’n snatches, so I walked me about, lyin’ down betweens, till crack o’ dawn. Then I went to the kitchen to make me a cup o’ tea, an’ I hitted meself just above the ankle on an old roastin’-jack o’ mine that Mrs Ellis had moved out from the corner, her last cleanin’. A’ so – nex’ after that – I waited till the Marshalls come back o’ their holiday.’

‘Alone there? I’d ha’ thought you’d ‘ad enough of empty houses,’ said Mrs Fettley, horrified.

‘Oh, Mrs Ellis an’ Sophy was runnin’ in an’ out soon’s I was back, an’ ‘twixt us we cleaned de house again top-to-bottom. There’s allus a hand’s turn more to do in every house. an’ that’s ‘ow ’twas with me that autumn an’ winter, in Lunnon.’

‘Then na’un hap – overtook ye for your doin’s?’

Mrs Ashcroft smiled. ‘No. Not then. ‘Long in November I sent Bessie ten shillin’s.’

‘You was allus free-’anded,’ Mrs Fettley interrupted.

‘An’ I got what I paid for, with the rest o’ the news. She said the hoppin’ ‘ad set ’im up wonderful. ‘E’d ‘ad six weeks of it, and now ’e was back again carterin’ at Smalldene. No odds to me
Ow
it ‘ad ‘appened – ‘slong’s it
‘ad.
But I dunno as my ten shillin’s eased me much. ‘Any bein’
dead
, like, ‘e’d ha’ been mine, till Judgment. ‘Any bein’ alive, ‘e’d like as not pick up with some woman middlin’ quick. I raged over that. Come spring, I ‘ad something else to rage for. I’d growed a nasty little weepin’ boil, like, on me shin, just above the boot-top, that wouldn’t heal no shape. It made me sick to look at it, for I’m clean-fleshed by nature. Chop me all over with a spade, an’ I’d heal like turf. Then Mrs Marshall she set ’erown doctor at me. ’E said I ought to ha’ come to him at first go-off, ‘stead o’ drawin’ all manner o’ dyed stockin’s over it for months. ’E said I’d stood up too much to me work, for it was settin’ very close atop of a big swelled vein, like, behither the small o’ me ankle. “Slow come, slow go,” ’e says, “Lay your leg up on high an’ rest it,” he says, “an’ ‘twill ease off. Don’t let it close up too soon. You’ve got a very fine leg, Mrs Ashcroft,” ’e says. A’ he put wet dressin’s on it.’

“E done right.’ Mrs Fettley spoke firmly. ‘Wet dressin’s to wet wounds. They draw de humours, same’s a lamp-wick draws de oil.’

‘That’s true. an’ Mrs Marshall was allus at me to make me set down more, an’ dat nigh healed it up. an’ then after a while they packed me off down to Bessie’s to finish the cure; for I ain’t the sort to sit down when I ought to stand up. You was back in the village then, Liz.’

‘I was. I was, but – never did I guess!’

‘I didn’t desire ye to.’ Mrs Ashcroft smiled. ‘I saw ‘Any once or twice in de street, wonnerful fleshed up an’ restored back. Then, one day I didn’t see ‘im, an’ ‘is mother told me one of ‘is ‘orses ‘ad lashed out an’ caught ’im on the ‘ip. So ’e was abed an’ middlin’ painful. an’ Bessie, she says to his mother, ’twas a pity ‘Any ’adn’t a woman of ‘is own to take the nursin’ off ‘er. And the old lady
was
mad! She told us that ‘Any ‘ad never looked after any woman in ‘is born days, an’ as long as she was atop the mowlds, she’d contrive for ’im till ’ertwo ‘ands dropped off. So I knowed she’d do watch-dog for me, ‘thout askin’ for bones.’

Mrs Fettley rocked with small laughter.

‘That day,’ Mrs Ashcroft went on, ‘I’d stood on me feet nigh all the time, watchin’ the doctor go in an’ out; for they thought it might be ‘is ribs, too. That made my boil break again, issuin’ an’ weepin’. But it turned out ‘twadn’t ribs at all, an’ ‘Any ‘ad a good night. When I
heard that, nex’ mornin’, I says to meself, “I won’t lay two an’ two together
yit.
I’ll keep me leg down a week, an’ see what comes of it.” It didn’t hurt me that day, to speak of – seemed more to draw the strength out o’ me like – an’ ‘ Arry ‘ad another good night. That made me persevere; but I didn’t dare lay two an’ two together till the weekend, an’ then, ‘Arry come forth e’en a’most ‘imself again – na’un hurt outside ner in of him. I nigh fell on me knees in de wash-house when Bessie was up-street. “I’ve got ye now, my man,” I says. “You’ll take your good from me ‘thout knowin’ it till my life’s end. O God, send me long to live for ‘Arry’s sake!” I says. A’ I dunno that didn’t still me ragin’s.’

‘For good?’ Mrs Fettley asked.

‘They come back, plenty times, but, let be how ‘twould, I knowed I was doin’ for ‘im. I
knowed
it. I took an’ worked me pains on an’ off, like regulatin’ my own range, till I learned to ‘ave ’em at my commandments. an’ that was funny, too. There was times, Liz, when my trouble ’ud all s’rink an’ dry up, like. First, I used to try an’ fetch it on again; bein’ fearful to leave ‘Arry alone too long for anythin’ to lay ‘old of. Prasin’ly I come to see that was a sign he’d do all right awhile, an’ so I saved myself.’

“ow long for?’ Mrs Fettley asked, with deepest interest.

‘I’ve gone de better part of a year onct or twice with na’un more to show than the liddle weepin’ core of it, like.
All
s’rinked up an’ dried off. Then he’d inflame up – for a warnin’ – an’ I’d suffer it. When I couldn’t no more – an’ I
‘ad
to keep on goin’ with my Lunnon work – I’d lay me leg high on a cheer till it eased. Not too quick. I knowed by the feel of it, those times, dat ‘Arry was in need. Then I’d send another five shillin’s to Bess, or somethin’ for the chillern, to find out if, mebbe, ‘e’d took any hurt through my neglects. ’twas so! Year in, year out, I worked it dat way, Liz, an’ ’e got ‘is good from me ‘thout knowin’ – for years and years.’

‘But what did
you
get out of it, Gra’?’ Mrs Fettley almost wailed. ‘Did ye see ’im reg’lar?’

‘Times – when I was ‘ere on me ‘ol’days. an’ more, now that I’m ‘ere for good. But ‘e’s never looked at me, ner any other woman ’cept ‘is mother. ‘Ow I used to watch an’ listen! So did she.’

‘Years an’ years!’ Mrs Fettley repeated. ‘An’ where’s ’e workin’ at now?’

‘Oh, ‘e’s give up carterin’ quite a while. He’s workin’ for one o’ them big tractorizin’ firms – plowin’ sometimes, an’ sometimes off with lorries – fur as Wales, I’ve ’eard. He comes ‘ome to ‘is mother ‘tween whiles; but I don’t set eyes on him now, fer weeks on end. No
odds! ‘Is job keeps ’im from continuin’ in one stay anywheres.’

‘But – just for de sake o’ sayin’ somethin’ – s’pose ‘Arry
did
get married?’ said Mrs Fettley.

Mrs Ashcroft drew her breath sharply between her still even and natural teeth.
‘Dat
ain’t been required of me,’ she answered. ‘I reckon my pains ‘ull be counted agin that. Don’t
you
, Liz?’

‘It ought to be, dearie. It ought to be.’

‘It
do
‘urt sometimes. You shall see it when nurse comes. She thinks I don’t know it’s turned.’

Mrs Fettley understood. Human nature seldom walks up to the word ‘cancer’.

‘Be ye certain sure, Gra’?’ she asked.

‘I was sure of it when old Mr Marshall ‘ad me up to ‘is study an’ spoke a long piece about my faithful service. I’ve obliged ’em on an’ off for a goodish time, but not enough for a pension. But they give me a weekly ‘lowance for life. I knew what
that
sinnified – as long as three years ago.’

‘Dat don’t
prove
it, Gra’.’

‘To give fifteen bob a week to a woman ‘oo’d live twenty year in the course o’ nature? It
do
!

‘You’re mistook! You’re mistook!’ Mrs Fettley insisted.

‘Liz, there’s
no
mistakin’ when the edges are all heaped up, like – same as a collar. You’ll see it. an’ I laid out Dora Wickwood, too.
She
‘ad it under the armpit, like.’

Mrs Fettley considered awhile, and bowed her head in finality.

“ow long d’you reckon ‘twill allow ye, countin’ from now, dearie?’

‘Slow come, slow go. But if I don’t set eyes on ye ‘fore next hoppin’, this’ll be goodbye, Liz.’

‘Dunno as I’ll be able to manage by then – not ‘thout I have a liddle dog to lead me. For de chillern, dey won’t be troubled, an’ – O Gra’!–I’m blindin’ up – I’m blindin’ up!’

‘Oh,
dat
was why you didn’t more’n finger with your quilt-patches all this while! I was wonderin’…But the pain
do
count, don’t ye think, Liz? The pain
do
count to keep ‘Arry – where I want ‘im. Say it can’t be wasted, like.’

‘I’m sure of it – sure of it, dearie. You’ll ‘ave your reward.’

‘I don’t want no more’n this – if de pain is taken into de reckonin’.’

“Twill be – ‘twill be, Gra’.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘That’s nurse. She’s before ’ertime,’ said Mrs Ashcroft. ‘Open to ‘er.’

The young lady entered briskly, all the bottles in her bag clicking. ‘Evening Mrs Ashcroft,’ she began. ‘I’ve come raound a little earlier than usual because of the Institute dance to-na-ite. You won’t ma-ind, will you?’

‘Oh, no. Me dancin’ days are over.’ Mrs Ashcroft was the self-contained domestic at once. ‘My old friend, Mrs Fettley ‘ere, has been settin’ talkin’ with me a while.’

‘I hope she ‘asn’t been fatiguing you?’ said the nurse a little frostily.

‘Quite the contrary. It ‘as been a pleasure. Only – only – just at the end I felt a bit – a bit flogged out like.’

‘Yes, yes.’ The nurse was on her knees already, with the washes to hand. ‘When old ladies get together they talk a deal too much, I’ve noticed.’

‘Mebbe we do,’ said Mrs Fettley, rising. ‘So now I’ll make myself scarce.’

‘Look at it first, though,’ said Mrs Ashcroft feebly. ‘I’d like ye to look at it.’

Mrs Fettley looked, and shivered. Then she leaned over, and kissed Mrs Ashcroft once on the waxy yellow forehead, and again on the faded grey eyes.

‘It
do
count, don’t it – de pain?’ The lips that still kept trace of their original moulding hardly more than breathed the words.

Mrs Fettley kissed them and moved towards the door.

Rahere, King Henry’s Jester, feared by all the Norman Lords

For his eye that pierced their bosoms, for his tongue that shamed their swords;

Feed and flattered by the Churchmen – well they knew how deep he stood

In dark Henry’s crooked counsels – fell upon an evil mood.

Suddenly, his days before him and behind him seemed to stand

Stripped and barren, fixed and fruitless, as those leagues of naked sand

When St Michael’s ebb slinks outward to the bleak horizon-bound

And the trampling wide-mouthed waters are withdrawn from sight and sound.

Then a Horror of Great Darkness sunk his spirit and, anon,

(Who had seen him wince and whiten as he turned to walk alone)

Followed Gilbert the Physican, and muttered in his ear,

‘Thou hast it, O my brother?’ ‘Yea, I have it,’ said Rahere.

‘So it comes,’ said Gilbert smoothly, ‘man’s most immanent distress.

’Tis a humour of the Spirit which abhorreth all excess;

And, whatever breed the surfeit – Wealth, or Wit, or Power, or Fame –

(And thou hast each) the Spirit laboureth to expel the same.

‘Hence the dulled eye’s deep self-loathing – hence the loaded leaden brow;

Hence the burden of Wanhope that aches thy soul and body now.

Ay, the merriest fool must face it, and the wisest Doctor learn;

For it comes – it comes,’ said Gilbert, ‘as it passes – to return.’

But Rahere was in his torment, and he wandered, dumb and far,

Till he came to reeking Smithfield where the crowded gallows are,

(Followed Gilbert the Physician) and beneath the wry-necked dead,

Sat a leper and his woman, very merry, breaking bread.

He was cloaked from chin to ankle – faceless, fingerless, obscene –

Mere corruption swaddled man-wise, but the woman whole and clean;

And she waited on him crooning, and Rahere beheld the twain,

Each delighting in the other, and he checked and groaned again.

‘So it comes – it comes,’ said Gilbert, ‘as it came when Life began.

Tis a motion of the Spirit that revealeth God to man

In the shape of Love exceeding, which regards not taint or fall,

Since in perfect Love, saith Scripture, can be no excess at all.

‘Hence the eye that sees no blemish – hence the hour that holds no shame.

Hence the Soul assured the Essence and the Substance are the same.

Nay, the meanest need not miss it, though the mightier pass it by;

For it comes – it comes,’ said Gilbert, ‘and, thou seest, it does not die!’

H
ORACE
, Ode 22, Bk. V