Mrs. Bindle Part 45

"It's true, Mrs. Bindle, and your husband's going to lose, that is if you're careful and don't take a chill."

Within ten minutes Mrs. Bindle had fallen into a deep sleep, having first ordered Bindle to put another blanket on the bed--she was going to take no risks.

"The first time I ever knowed Mrs. B. 'ear me talk about bettin' without callin' me a 'eathen," remarked Bindle, as he saw the doctor out.

"Wonders'll never cease," he murmured, as he returned to the kitchen.

"One o' these days she'll be askin' me to put a s.h.i.+llin' on both ways.

Funny things, women!"

II

Bindle's plot with the doctor did more to expedite Mrs. Bindle's recovery than all the care that had been lavished upon her. From the hour she awakened from a long and refres.h.i.+ng sleep, she began to manifest interest in her surroundings. Her appet.i.te improved and her sense of smell became more acute, so that Bindle had to select for his dishes materials giving out a less pungent odour.

He took the additional precaution of doing his cooking with the window and scullery-door open to their fullest extent.

Mrs. Bindle, on her part, took pleasure in planning the meals she imagined Mrs. Coppen was cooking. She had not been told that the charwoman was in prison for a.s.saulting a policeman with a gin bottle.

"You'll 'ave to look out now, Joe," admonished Mrs. Hearty on one occasion as she entered the kitchen and gazed down at the table upon which Bindle was gathering together materials for what he described as a "top 'ole stoo." "If Lizzie was to catch you making all this mess she----" Mrs. Hearty finished in a series of wheezes.

One evening, when Bindle's menu consisted of corned-beef, piccalilli and beer, to be followed by pancakes of his own making, the blow fell.

The corned beef, piccalilli and beer were excellent and he had enjoyed them; but the pancakes were to be his chef d'oeuvre. His main object in selecting pancakes was, as he explained to Mrs. Hearty, "that they don't stink while cookin'."

From his sister-in-law he had obtained a general idea of how to proceed.

She had even gone so far as to a.s.sist in mixing the batter.

The fat was bubbling merrily in the frying-pan as he poured in sufficient liquid for at least three pancakes.

"You ain't got much to learn about cookin', old c.o.c.k," he muttered, as he watched the fat bubble darkly round the cream-coloured batter.

After a lapse of some five minutes he decided that the underside was sufficiently done. Then came the problem of how to turn the pancake. He had heard that expert cooks could toss them in such a way that they fell into the pan again on the reverse side; but he was too wise to take such a risk, particularly as the upper portion of the pancake was still in a liquid state.

He determined upon more cautious means of achieving his object. With the aid of a tablespoon and a fish-slice, he managed to get the pancake reversed. It is true that it had a crumpled appearance, and a considerable portion of the loose batter had fallen on to the stove; still he regarded it as an achievement.

Just as he was contemplating the turning of the pancake on to a plate, a knock came at the front-door. On answering it, Bindle found a butcher's boy, who insisted that earlier in the day he had left a pound of beef-steak at No. 7, instead of at No. 17. The lad was confident, and refused to accept Bindle's a.s.surance that he had neither seen nor heard of the missing meat.

The argument waxed fierce and eventually developed into personalities, mainly from the butcher-boy.

Suddenly Bindle remembered his pancake. Banging the door in the lad's face, he dashed along the pa.s.sage and opened the kitchen door. For a second he stood appalled, the pancake seemed to have eaten up every sc.r.a.p of oxygen the room contained, and in its place had sent forth a suffocating smell of burning.

Realising that in swift action alone lay his salvation, Bindle dashed across the room, opened the door leading to the scullery and then the scullery door itself. He threw up the window and, with water streaming from his eyes, approached the stove. A blackened ruin was all that remained of his pancake.

Picking up the frying-pan he carried it over to the sink, where he stood regarding the charred ma.s.s. Suddenly he recollected that he had left open the kitchen-door leading into the pa.s.sage. Dropping the frying-pan, he made a dash to close it; but he was too late. There, with her shoulders encased in a red flannel petticoat, stood Mrs. Bindle.

"My Gawd!" he muttered tragically.

For nearly a minute she stood as if turned to stone. Then without a word she closed the door behind her, walked to the centre of the room, and stood absorbing the scene of ruin and desolation about her, Bindle backing into the furthest corner.

She regarded the stove, generously flaked with the overflow of Bindle's culinary enthusiasm, glanced up at the discoloured dish-covers over the mantelpiece, the brightness of which had always been her special pride.

On to the dresser her eye wandered, and was met by a riot of dirty dishes and plates, salmon tins, empty beer bottles, crusts of bread, reinforced by an old boot.

The kitchen-table held her attention for fully half a minute. The torn newspaper covering it was stained to every shade of black and brown and grey, the whole being composed by a large yellow splotch, where a cup of very liquid mustard had come to grief.

Upon this informal tablecloth was strewn a medley of unwashed plates, knives and forks, bread-crumbs, potato-peelings and fish-bones.

Having gazed her fill, and still ominously silent, she proceeded to make a thorough tour of inspection, Bindle watching her with distended eyes, fear clutching at his heart.

At the sink she stood for some seconds steadfastly regarding Bindle's pancake. Her lips had now entirely disappeared.

The crisis came when she opened the dresser drawer and found the pie-dish and plate he had broken, but had forgotten to take away.

s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the packet again, she turned swiftly and hurled it at him with all her strength.

Wholly unprepared, Bindle made a vain effort to dodge; but the package got him on the side of the head, and a red line above his ear showed that Mrs. Bindle had drawn first blood.

"You fiend!" she cried. "Oh, you----!" and dropping into the chair by the table she collapsed.

Soon the kitchen was ringing with the sounds of her hysterical laughter.

Bindle watched her like one hypnotised.

As if to save his reason, a knock came at the outer door. He side-stepped swiftly and made a dash for the door giving access to the hall. A moment later he was gazing with relief at Mrs. Hearty's pale blue tam o' shanter.

"'Ow is she, Joe?" she wheezed.

Then as he stepped aside to allow Mrs. Hearty to precede him into the kitchen, Bindle found voice. "I think she's better," he mumbled.

CHAPTER XII

MRS. BINDLE BREAKS AN ARMISTICE

I

"Pleasant company, you are," snapped Mrs. Bindle, as she made an onslaught upon the kitchen fire, jabbing it viciously with a short steel poker.

Bindle looked up from the newspaper he was reading. It was the third attack upon the kitchen fire within the s.p.a.ce of five minutes, and he recognised the portents--a storm was brewing.

"I might as well be on a desert island for all the company you are," she continued. "Here am I alone all day long with no one to speak to, and when you come home you just sit reading the horse-racing news in the paper."

"Wot jer like to talk about?" he enquired, allowing the paper to drop to the floor opposite him.

She sniffed angrily and threw the poker into the ash-pan.

"I wasn't readin' about racin'," he continued pacifically. "I was jest readin' about a cove wot went orf with another cove's missis, 'is best overcoat and two chickens."