Chapter 5

The last evening came, and Tom’s good-byes.

“Reckon it’s always ‘good-bye’ now,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Good-bye to Ivy, good-bye to Nell, good-bye to Tom—sims as if, as if that ward ud git lik my oald broom, wore out from overuse.”

“Thur’d be no good-byes if thur hadn’t bin howdy-dos fust. So cheer up, mother, and we’ll be saying howdy-do agaun before Michaelmas.”

“And then good-bye. Oh, Tom, when ull this tedious war have done?”

“When it’s finished. Doan’t you fret over that, mother—reckon that aun’t your job.”

“I wish it ud have done, though, before our hearts are broke.”

Nell was expected home that evening, and Mrs. Beatup persuaded Tom to wait for her. He spent the interval going over the farm with Harry, and giving last advice, [255] though it was astonishing how firm on his legs his brother now stood. He also took his chance of a straight talk with Zacky.

“Reckon you’re growing up lik a young colt, and you’ll have to taake your turn now—step into Harry’s plaace saum as he stepped into mine.”

Zacky’s besetting sin was not a lust for adventure in woods and distant fields; he moved in a more humdrum circle of dereliction—marbles and conkers and worms and string. However, Tom discovered that he had a passion for “taking things to pieces” and hoped to inspire him to zeal over the new mechanical reaper which was that year to be the wonder of Worge’s harvest.

To everyone’s disappointment, Nell did not arrive in a cab. She came on foot from Senlac station, leaving her box to follow by the carrier. Mrs. Beatup felt that Tom had been cheated, on his last day at home, of a fine spectacular entertainment, and was inclined to be peevish with Nell on his account.

“Reckon it wurn’t your husband who told you to walk six mile in the dust.”

“No—but it’s such a beautiful evening, and I felt I wanted the fresh air after London.”

She looked worn and fagged, as she sat down by the fire, spreading out her pale hands to the flames to warm.

Mrs. Beatup sniffed.

“Reckon thur’s more air-raids than air in London,” said Tom—“Ha! ha!” and they all laughed at the joke.

“But they dudn’t have naun while Nell was there,” said Mrs. Beatup, continuing her grumble. “Nell, how dud you lik the Strand Paliss Hotel?”

“Oh, pretty fair—it was very grand, but a great big barrack like that makes my head turn round.”

“How big was it?” asked Zacky. “As big as [256] church?”

“Bigger a dunnamany times,” said Mrs. Beatup. “I’ve seen the Hotel Metropoil in Brighton, and reckon you cud git the whole street into it.”

“Did you have a fire in your bedroom?”

“No—there were hot pipes.”

“Hot pipes! How queer!—I shud feel as if I wur in a boiler.”

“And there was hot and cold water laid on.”

“Reckon you washed.”

“I had a bath.”

“In your room?”

“No—in a bathroom.”

“A real white bath in a bathroom!...” Mrs. Beatup was regaining confidence in her daughter. “You’ll be gitting too grand fur us here. They say as once you start taaking baths it’s like taaking drams, and you can’t git shut of it. I’ll have to see if I can’t fix fur you to have the wash-tub now and agaun.... Oh, you’ll find us plain folks here.”

Nell did not speak; she was stooping over the fire and her spread hands shook a little.

“Reckon she’s low,” said Mrs. Beatup in a hoarse whisper to Tom; “she’s said good-bye to her man, and she’s vrothering lest he never comes back. It’s always ’good-bye’ fur her lik fur the rest of us.”

“It’ll have to be ‘good-bye’ fur me now, mother. I must be gitting hoame.”

Mrs. Beatup stood up sorrowfully—

“Oh, Tom, I’ve a feeling as you’ll never come back.”

“You’ve always had that feeling, mother—and I’ve always come back, surelye.”

“But maybe I’m right this time. They say as the Germans ull maake a gurt push this Spring, and I reckon they’re sure to kill you if they can.”

[257]

“Reckon they’ll have a try—and if my number’s up I mun go, and if it aun’t, I mun stay. So thur’s no sense in vrothering.”

“You spik very differunt, Tom, from when you wur a lad.”

“I feel different, you can bet.”

“And yit it’s scarce two year agone since you wur naun but a boy, and now you’re naun of a boy that I can see—you’re a married man and the father of a child.”

“And whur’s the harm of it?—you needn’t look so glum.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he kissed his father—

“Good-bye, dad—you’ll be climbing fences afore I’m back, and—” in a friendly whisper, “you kip away from that old Volunteer. See wot gitting shut of the drink has maade you—you’re twice the man, fur all your leg. You kip on wud it, faather. You’ve got a start like—it ought to be easy now.”

“Kip on wud wot, my lad?—wud my leg, or the drink, or doing wudout the drink? You doan’t spik clear and expressly—reckon you’re gitting just a brutal soldier.”

“Maybe I am, Faather.”

“And you’ll never come raound me to kip teetotal when I think of them Russians—all got shut of drink the fust month of the war, and then went and bust up and ruined us. It’s bin proved as the war ull go on a dunnamany years on account of them valiant teetotallers. If we British all turn teetotal too, reckon as the war ull last fur ever.”

“Reckon you’ve got the brains!” said Tom, but not in quite the same tone as he used to say it.

He said good-bye to Harry and Zacky, and to Nell—with a pat on her shoulder and a “Doan’t you fret, my [258] dear—he’ll come back.”

Mrs. Beatup went down with him to the end of the drive. She looked on this as her privilege, and also had some hazy idea about giving him good advice. All she could think of on the present occasion was to “Kip sober and finish the war.”

“Wish that being my faather’s son maade it as easy to do one as it does to do t’other. Now doan’t you start crying, fur I tell you I’ll be back before you scarce know I’m a-gone.”

“It’s queer, Tom ... now, thur’s summat I want to know. Tell me—is a wife better than a mother?”

“Better—but different. Doan’t you fear, mother. I’ll always want you. Maybe I went and disremembered you and faather a bit after I wur married, but now I’ve a youngster of my own it just shows me a liddle bit of wot you feel ... and I’m sorry.”

He suddenly kissed her work-soiled, roughened hand, with its broken nails and thick dull wedding-ring sunk into the gnarled finger.

“That’s wot they do to ladies in France.”