Sons and Lovers
CHAPTER II
THE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE
After such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed
and ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet
there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance.
Physically even, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never
grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive
bearing, his physique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral
strength.
But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her
work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with
his help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening
till Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back
again by ten o’clock, almost quite sober.
He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had
plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed
at six o’clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out
of bed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay
waiting for this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest
seemed to be when he was out of the house.
He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his
pit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There
was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in the
house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel
smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled
and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he
wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a
newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom
of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and
sat down to an hour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught
the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick
slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea
into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never
so pleasant. He loathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has
still scarcely reached common people. What Morel preferred was a
clasp-knife. Then, in solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in
cold weather, on a little stool with his back to the warm
chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then
he read the last night’s newspaper—what of it he could—spelling it over
laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit
even when it was daylight; it was the habit of the mine.
At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter,
and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle
with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for
the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a
vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves
like a chemise.
Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was
ill, and because it occurred to him.
“I’ve brought thee a cup o’ tea, lass,” he said.
“Well, you needn’t, for you know I don’t like it,” she replied.
“Drink it up; it’ll pop thee off to sleep again.”
She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.
“I’ll back my life there’s no sugar in,” she said.
“Yi—there’s one big un,” he replied, injured.
“It’s a wonder,” she said, sipping again.
She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble
at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any
sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and
butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him.
He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round
his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket,
that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into
the fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him.
He loved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he
appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his
teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine,
feeling quite as happy as when he was in the field.
Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round in
his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace,
sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very
self-righteous, he went upstairs.
“Now I’m cleaned up for thee: tha’s no ’casions ter stir a peg all day,
but sit and read thy books.”
Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.
“And the dinner cooks itself?” she answered.
“Eh, I know nowt about th’ dinner.”
“You’d know if there weren’t any.”
“Ay, ’appen so,” he answered, departing.
When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She
could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to
the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to
have to go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the
wooden fence, she would call:
“So you keep wagging on, then?”
“Ay,” answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. “There’s nothing else for it.”
“Have you seen Hose?” called a very small woman from across the road.
It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always
wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting.
“I haven’t,” said Mrs. Morel.
“Eh, I wish he’d come. I’ve got a copperful of clothes, an’ I’m sure I
heered his bell.”
“Hark! He’s at the end.”
The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a man
stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of
cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to
him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy,
undyed stockings hanging over her arm.
“I’ve done ten dozen this week,” she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.
“T-t-t!” went the other. “I don’t know how you can find time.”
“Eh!” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can find time if you make time.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” said Mrs. Morel. “And how much shall you
get for those many?”
“Tuppence-ha’penny a dozen,” replied the other.
“Well,” said Mrs. Morel. “I’d starve before I’d sit down and seam
twenty-four stockings for twopence ha’penny.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can rip along with ’em.”
Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the
yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The man,
a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them, and
bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully.
It was an understood thing that if one woman wanted her neighbour, she
should put the poker in the fire and bang at the back of the fireplace,
which, as the fires were back to back, would make a great noise in the
adjoining house. One morning Mrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly
started out of her skin as she heard the thud, thud, in her grate. With
her hands all floury, she rushed to the fence.
“Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Kirk.”
Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wall on to Mrs.
Morel’s copper, and ran in to her neighbour.
“Eh, dear, how are you feeling?” she cried in concern.
“You might fetch Mrs. Bower,” said Mrs. Morel.
Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice, and
called:
“Ag-gie—Ag-gie!”
The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last
Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower, whilst Mrs. Kirk
left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour.
Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and William for dinner.
Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house.
“Hash some cold meat up for the master’s dinner, and make him an
apple-charlotte pudding,” said Mrs. Morel.
“He may go without pudding _this_ day,” said Mrs. Bower.
Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the
pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o’clock, when
the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at
this time about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually
till the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however,
the miner was sick of the work. At two o’clock he looked at his watch,
by the light of the green candle—he was in a safe working—and again at
half-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for
the next day’s work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard
blows with his pick, “Uszza—uszza!” he went.
“Shall ter finish, Sorry?” cried Barker, his fellow butty.
“Finish? Niver while the world stands!” growled Morel.
And he went on striking. He was tired.
“It’s a heart-breaking job,” said Barker.
But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer.
Still he struck and hacked with all his might.
“Tha might as well leave it, Walter,” said Barker. “It’ll do to-morrow,
without thee hackin’ thy guts out.”
“I’ll lay no b—— finger on this to-morrow, Isr’el!” cried Morel.
“Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else’ll ha’e to,” said Israel.
Then Morel continued to strike.
“Hey-up there—_loose-a’!_” cried the men, leaving the next stall.
Morel continued to strike.
“Tha’ll happen catch me up,” said Barker, departing.
When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished
his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with
sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle,
took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men
went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long,
heavy tramp underground.
He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell
plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking
noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable.
“It’s rainin’, Sorry,” said old Giles, who had had the news from the
top.
Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in
the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the
top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which
he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of
the pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain was
falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the
sides of the waggons, over the white “C.W. and Co.” Colliers, walking
indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field,
a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from
the peppering of the drops thereon.
All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and
dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked
with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many
men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen’s. Morel, feeling
sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under the
dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of
Greenhill Lane.
Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the
colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as
they went through the stile up the field.
“There’s some herb beer behind the pantry door,” she said. “Th’
master’ll want a drink, if he doesn’t stop.”
But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it
was raining. What did he care about the child or her?
She was very ill when her children were born.
“What is it?” she asked, feeling sick to death.
“A boy.”
And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of