Mrs. Bindle Part 41

"Well, Mrs. B.," said Bindle that evening as he lighted his pipe after an excellent supper of sausages, fried onions, and mashed potatoes, "you 'ad yer 'oliday."

"I believe you was at the bottom of those tents coming down, Bindle,"

she cried with conviction.

"Well, you was underneath, wasn't you?" was the response, and Bindle winked knowingly at the white jug with the pink b.u.t.terfly on the spout.

CHAPTER XI

MRS. BINDLE TAKES A CHILL

I

"Your dinner's in the large black saucepan and the potatoes in the blue one. Empty the stewed steak into the yellow pie-dish and the potatoes into the blue vegetable dish and pour water into the saucepans afterwards I've gone to bed--I am feeling ill.

"E. B.

"Don't forget to put water into the empty saucepans or they will burn."

Bindle glanced across at the stove as if to verify Mrs. Bindle's statement, then, with lined forehead, stood gazing at the table, neatly laid for one.

"I never known Lizzie give in before," he muttered, and he walked over to the sink and proceeded to have his evening "rinse," an affair involving a considerable expenditure of soap and much blowing and splashing.

Having wiped his face and hands upon the roller-towel, he walked softly across the kitchen, opened the door, listened, stepped out into the pa.s.sage and, finally, proceeded to tiptoe upstairs.

Outside the bedroom door he paused and listened again, his ear pressed against the panel. There was no sound.

With the stealth of a burglar he turned the handle, pushed open the door some eighteen inches and put his head round the corner.

Mrs. Bindle was lying in bed on her back, her face void of all expression, whilst with each indrawn breath there was a hard, metallic sound.

Bindle wriggled the rest of his body round the door-post, closing the door behind him. With ostentatious care, still tiptoeing, he crossed the room and stood by the bedside.

"Ain't you feelin' well, Lizzie?" he asked in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, sufficient in itself to remind an invalid of death.

"Did you put water in the saucepans?" She asked the question without turning her head, and with the air of one who has something on her mind.

The harsh rasp of her voice alarmed Bindle.

"I ain't 'ad supper yet," he said. "Is there anythink you'd like?" he enquired solicitously, still in the same depressing whisper.

"No; just leave me alone," she murmured. "Don't forget the water in the saucepans," she added a moment later.

For some seconds Bindle stood irresolute. He was convinced that something ought to be done; but just what he did not know.

"Wouldn't you like a bit o' fried fish, or--or a pork chop?" he named at a venture two of his favourite supper dishes. The fish he could buy ready fried, the chop he felt equal to cooking himself.

"Leave me alone." She turned her head aside with a feeble shudder.

"Where are you ill, Lizzie?" he enquired at length.

"Go away," she moaned, and Bindle turned, tip-toed across to the door and pa.s.sed out of the room. He was conscious that the situation was beyond him.

That evening he ate his food without relish. His mind was occupied with the invalid upstairs and the problem of what he should do. He was unaccustomed to illness, either in himself or in others. His instinct was to fetch a doctor; but would she like it? It was always a little difficult to antic.i.p.ate Mrs. Bindle's view of any particular action, no matter how well-intentioned.

At the conclusion of the meal, he drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to smoke with a view to inspiration.

Suddenly he was roused by a loud pounding overhead.

"'Oly ointment, she's fallen out!" he muttered, as he made for the door and dashed up the stairs two at a time.

As he opened the door, he found Mrs. Bindle sitting up in bed, a red flannel petticoat round her shoulders, sniffing the air like a hungry hound.

"You're burning my best saucepan," she croaked.

"I ain't, Lizzie, reelly I ain't----" Then memory came to him. He had forgotten to put water in either of the saucepans.

"I can smell burning," she persisted, "you----"

"I spilt some stoo on the stove," he lied, feeling secure in the knowledge that she could not disprove the statement.

With a groan she sank back on to her pillow.

"The place is like a pigsty. I know it," she moaned with tragic conviction.

"No, it ain't, Lizzie. I'm jest goin' to 'ave a clean-up. Wouldn't you like somethink to eat?" he enquired again, then with inspiration added, "Wot about a tin o' salmon, it'll do your breath good. I'll nip round and get one in two ticks."

But Mrs. Bindle shook her head.

For nearly a minute there was silence, during which Bindle gazed down at her helplessly.

"I'm a-goin' to fetch a doctor," he announced at length.

"Don't you dare to fetch a doctor to me."

"But if you ain't well----" he began.

"I tell you I won't have a doctor. Look----" She was interrupted by a fit of coughing which seemed almost to suffocate her. "Look at the state of the bedroom," she gasped at length.

"But wot's goin' to 'appen?" asked Bindle. "You can't----"

"It won't matter," she moaned. "If I die you'll be glad," she added, as if to leave no doubt in Bindle's mind as to her own opinion on the matter.

"No, I shouldn't. 'Ow could I get on without you?"

"Thinking of yourself as usual," was the retort.