The Widow in the Bye Street Part 8

Thither Jim turned. 'And now I'll drink,' he said.

'I'll drink and drink--I never did before-- I'll drink and drink until I'm mad or dead, For that's what comes of meddling with a wh.o.r.e.'

He called for liquor at 'The Bull and Boar'; Moody he drank; the woman asked him why: 'Have you had trouble?' 'No,' he said, 'I'm dry.

Dry and burnt up, so give's another drink; That's better, that's much better, that's the sort.'

And then he sang, so that he should not think, His Binger-Bopper song, but cut it short.

His wits were working like a brewer's wort Until among them came the vision gleaming Of Ern with b.l.o.o.d.y nose and Anna screaming.

'That's what I'll do,' he muttered; 'knock him out, And kick his face in with a running jump.

I'll not have dazzled eyes this second bout, And she can wash the fragments under pump.'

It was his ace; but Death had played a trump.

Death the blind beggar chuckled, nodding dumb, 'My game; the shroud is ready, Jimmy--come.'

Meanwhile, the mother, waiting for her child, Had tottered out a dozen times to search.

'Jimmy,' she said, 'you'll drive your mother wild; Your father's name's too good a name to smirch, Come home, my dear, she'll leave you in the lurch; He was so good, my little Jim, so clever; He never stop a night away, not ever.

He never slept a night away till now, Never, not once, in all the time he's been.

It's the Lord's will, they say, and we must bow, But O it's like a knife, it cuts so keen!

He'll work in's Sunday clothes, it'll be seen, And then they'll laugh, and say "It isn't strange; He slept with her, and so he couldn't change."

Perhaps,' she thought, 'I'm wrong; perhaps he's dead; Killed himself like; folk do in love, they say.

He never tells what pa.s.ses in his head, And he's been looking late so old and grey.

A railway train has cut his head away, Like the poor hare we found at Maylow's shack.

O G.o.d have pity, bring my darling back!'

All the high stars went sweeping through the sky, The sun made all the orient clean, clear gold, 'O blessed G.o.d,' she prayed, 'do let me die, Or bring my wand'ring lamb back into fold.

The whistle's gone, and all the bacon's cold; I must know somehow if he's on the line, He could have bacon sandwich when he dine.'

She cut the bread, and started, short of breath, Up the ca.n.a.l now draining for the rail; A poor old woman pitted against death, Bringing her pennyworth of love for bail.

Wisdom, beauty, and love may not avail.

She was too late. 'Yes, he was here; oh, yes.

He chucked his job and went.' 'Where?' 'Home, I guess.'

'Home, but he hasn't been home.' 'Well, he went.

Perhaps you missed him, mother.' 'Or perhaps He took the field path yonder through the bent.

He very likely done that, don't he, chaps?'

The speaker tested both his trouser straps And took his pick. 'He's in the town,' he said.

'He'll be all right, after a bit in bed.'

She trembled down the high embankment's ridge Glad, though too late; not yet too late, indeed.

For forty yards away, beyond the bridge, Jimmy still drank, the devil still sowed seed.

'A bit in bed,' she thought, 'is what I need.

I'll go to "Bull and Boar" and rest a bit, They've got a bench outside they'd let me sit.'

Even as two soldiers on a fortress wall See the bright fire streak of a coming sh.e.l.l.

Catch breath, and wonder 'Which way will it fall?

To you? to me? or will it all be well?'

Ev'n so stood life and death, and could not tell Whether she'd go to th'inn and find her son, Or take the field and let the doom be done.

'No, not the inn,' she thought. 'People would talk.

I couldn't in the open daytime; no.

I'll just sit here upon the timber balk, I'll rest for just a minute and then go.'

Resting, her old tired heart began to glow, Glowed and gave thanks, and thought itself in clover, 'He's lost his job, so now she'll throw him over.'

Sitting, she saw the rustling thistle-kex, The picks flash bright above, the trollies tip.

The bridge-stone shining, full of silver specks, And three swift children running down the dip.

A Stoke Saint Michael carter cracked his whip, The water in the runway made its din.

She half heard singing coming from the inn.

She turned, and left the inn, and took the path And 'Brother Life, you lose,' said Brother Death, 'Even as the Lord of all appointed hath In this great miracle of blood and breath.'

He doeth all things well as the book saith, He bids the changing stars fulfil their turn, His hand is on us when we least discern.

Slowly she tottered, stopping with the st.i.tch, Catching her breath, 'O lawks, a dear, a dear.

How the poor tubings in my heart do twitch, It hurts like the rheumatics very near.'

And every painful footstep drew her clear From that young life she bore with so much pain.

She never had him to herself again.

Out of the inn came Jimmy, red with drink, Crying: 'I'll show her. Wait a bit. I'll show her.

You wait a bit. I'm not the kid you think.

I'm Jimmy Gurney, champion tupper-thrower, When I get done with her you'll never know her, Nor him you won't. Out of my way, you fowls, Or else I'll rip the red things off your jowls.'

He went across the fields to Plaister's End.

There was a lot of water in the brook, Sun and white cloud and weather on the mend For any man with any eyes to look.

He found old Callow's plough-bat, which he took, 'My innings now, my pretty dear,' said he.

'You wait a bit. I'll show you. Now you'll see.'

Her chimney smoke was blowing blue and faint, The wise duck shook a tail across the pool, The blacksmith's shanty smelt of burning paint, Four newly-tired cartwheels hung to cool.

He had loved the place when under Anna's rule.

Now he clenched teeth and flung aside the gate, There at the door they stood. He grinned. 'Now wait.'

Ern had just brought her in a wired hare, She stood beside him stroking down the fur.

'Oh, Ern, poor thing, look how its eyes do stare,'

'It isn't it,' he answered. 'It's a her.'

She stroked the breast and plucked away a bur, She kissed the pads, and leapt back with a shout, 'My G.o.d, he's got the spudder. Ern. Look out.'

Ern clenched his fists. Too late. He felt no pain, Only incredible haste in something swift, A shock that made the sky black on his brain, Then stillness, while a little cloud went drift.

The weight upon his thigh bones wouldn't lift; Then poultry in a long procession came, Grey-legged, doing the goose-step, eyes like flame.

Grey-legged old c.o.c.ks and hens sedate in age, Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs, With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage, And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings, Then an array of horns and stupid things: Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner.

'Hare.' A slow darkness covered up the sinner.

'But little time is right hand fain of blow.'

Only a second changes life to death; Hate ends before the pulses cease to go, There is great power in the stop of breath.

There's too great truth in what the dumb thing saith, Hate never goes so far as that, nor can.

'I am what life becomes. D'you hate me, man?'

Hate with his babbling instant, red and d.a.m.ning, Pa.s.sed with his instant, having drunken red.

'You've killed him.'

'No, I've not, he's only shamming.