Lady Chatterley's Lover & Sons and Lovers. D. H. Lawrence
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manners nor wit—and his cunning he was born with.”
So, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hypersensitiveness made her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her, made her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised.
“What was the cheque?” she asked.
“Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and six stoppages,” replied the boy. “It's a good week; and only five shillings stoppages for my father.”
So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, and could call him to account if he gave her short money. Morel always kept to himself the secret of the week's amount.
Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule that Paul should stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and draw or read; he was very fond of drawing. Annie always “gallivanted” on Friday nights; Arthur was enjoying himself as usual. So the boy remained alone.
Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on the top of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby, Ilkeston and Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran in from surrounding villages. The market-place was full of women, the streets packed with men. It was amazing to see so many men everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with her lace woman, sympathised with her fruit man—who was a gabey, but his wife was a bad 'un—laughed with the fish man—who was a scamp but so droll—put the linoleum man in his place, was cold with the odd-wares man, and only went to the crockery man when she was driven—or drawn by the cornflowers on a little dish; then she was coldly polite.
“I wondered how much that little dish was,” she said.
“Sevenpence to you.”
“Thank you.”
She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave the market-place without it. Again she went by where the pots lay coldly on the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretending not to.
She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her bonnet was in its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie.
“Mother!” the girl implored, “don't wear that nubbly little bonnet.”
“Then what else shall I wear,” replied the mother tartly. “And I'm sure it's right enough.”
It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was reduced to black lace and a bit of jet.
“It looks rather come down,” said Paul. “Couldn't you give it a pick-me-up?”
“I'll jowl your head for impudence,” said Mrs. Morel, and she tied the strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin.
She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, the pot man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something between them. Suddenly he shouted:
“Do you want it for fivepence?”
She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took up her dish.
“I'll have it,” she said.
“Yer'll do me the favour, like?” he said. “Yer'd better spit in it, like yer do when y'ave something give yer.”
Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner.
“I don't see you give it me,” she said. “You wouldn't let me have it for fivepence if you didn't want to.”
“In this flamin', scrattlin' place you may count yerself lucky if you can give your things away,” he growled.
“Yes; there are bad times, and good,” said Mrs. Morel.
But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare now finger his pots. So she was happy.
Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She was always her best so—triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick, light step in the entry and looked up from his drawing.
“Oh!” she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway.
“My word, you ARE loaded!” he exclaimed, putting down his brush.
“I am!” she gasped. “That brazen Annie said she'd meet me. SUCH a weight!”
She dropped her string bag and her packages on the table.
“Is the bread done?” she asked, going to the oven.
“The last one is soaking,” he replied. “You needn't look, I've not forgotten it.”
“Oh, that pot man!” she said, closing the oven door. “You know what a wretch I've said he was? Well, I don't think he's quite so bad.”
“Don't you?”
The boy was attentive to her. She took off her little black bonnet.
“No. I think he can't make any money—well, it's everybody's cry alike nowadays—and it makes him disagreeable.”
“It would ME,” said Paul.
“Well, one can't wonder at it. And he let me have—how much do you think he let me have THIS for?”
She took the dish out of its rag of newspaper, and stood looking on it with joy.
“Show me!” said Paul.
The two stood together gloating over the dish.
“I LOVE cornflowers on things,” said Paul.
“Yes, and I thought of the teapot you bought me—”
“One and three,” said Paul.
“Fivepence!”
“It's not enough, mother.”
“No. Do you know, I fairly sneaked off with it. But I'd been extravagant, I couldn't afford any more. And he needn't have let me have it if he hadn't wanted to.”
“No, he needn't, need he,” said Paul, and the two comforted each other from the fear of having robbed the pot man.
“We c'n have stewed fruit in it,” said Paul.
“Or custard, or a jelly,” said his mother.
“Or radishes and lettuce,” said he.
“Don't forget that bread,” she said, her voice bright with glee.
Paul looked in the oven; tapped the loaf on the base.
“It's done,” he said, giving it to her.
She tapped it also.
“Yes,” she replied, going to unpack her bag. “Oh, and I'm a wicked, extravagant woman. I know I s'll come to want.”
He hopped to her side eagerly, to see her latest extravagance. She unfolded another lump of newspaper and disclosed some roots of pansies and of crimson daisies.
“Four penn'orth!” she moaned.
“How CHEAP!” he cried.
“Yes, but I couldn't afford it THIS week of all weeks.”
“But lovely!” he cried.
“Aren't they!” she exclaimed, giving way to pure joy. “Paul, look at this yellow one, isn't it—and a face just like an old man!”
“Just!” cried Paul, stooping to sniff. “And smells that nice! But he's a bit splashed.”
He ran in the scullery, came back with the flannel, and carefully washed the pansy.
“NOW look at him now he's wet!” he said.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, brimful of satisfaction.
The children of Scargill Street felt quite select. At the end where the Morels lived there were not many young things. So the few were more united. Boys and girls