Читать книгу The Watersplash - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 12

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It was seven o’clock next morning when Jimmy Heard ran up to the front door of the Vicarage and beat upon it with all his might. He was twelve years old and a widow’s son, so he helped by doing a paper round, and that meant bicycling into Embank for the papers which came in on the seven-twenty. His father had been cow-man on one of Lord Burlingham’s farms, and the family had been allowed to stay on in a rather tumbledown cottage up the track on the far side of the stream. He beat on the Vicarage door, and when Mrs. Ball opened it in a dressing-gown he was choking and sobbing.

“Oh, Mrs. Ball, ma’am, he’s dead! He’s drownded! He’s there in the water, and I can’t move him! Oh, ma’am!”

She put a kind arm about the shaking shoulders. He was too thin—of course growing boys—there was somebody drowned. She said quickly,

“Who is it?”

He was shaking all over.

“It’s—William Jackson! Oh, ma’am, he’s drownded—down there in the splash! Oh, ma’am!”

Mrs. Ball called the Vicar, and the Vicar called the sexton. They went down to the splash together, and found William Jackson lying face downwards in no more than a couple of feet of water. It was plain enough what had happened. The big flat stepping-stone in the middle was practically awash after the heavy rain of Thursday night, and as the sexton put it bluntly, “If William was coming home sober it would be a bit of a wonder. Slipped on that there stone, he did, and come down, and too fuddled to get up again, though you would ha’ thought the cold water would ha’ brought him round. Must ha’ been pretty far gone to drown in that there little pool. Well, I reckon you’d better ring up the police, sir, and I’ll see no one comes along and meddles with him.”

Jimmy was late for his papers. Mrs. Ball gave him hot cocoa and a couple of left-over scones, after which he was sufficiently fortified to go off on his bicycle, stopping to tell everyone he met that he had just found William Jackson drowned in the splash. If there had been more people abroad, he would have been later. But he told Mrs. Alexander who was watching for him out of her window to ask him to leave a message with her sister-in-law who lived next door to his paper shop, and Mrs. Deacon who was cleaning her front-door step, and Joe Caddie going off to his job on Mr. Pomfret’s farm.

Mrs. Deacon and Mrs. Alexander wanted to know a lot more than he could tell them, but Joe, whose temper was bad in the mornings, only grunted and said some people had all the luck. Mrs. Deacon hurried up and got to the Miss Blakes’ a good quarter of an hour before her time, which was eight o’clock. Rare put about, Miss Ora would be to think how she was in her back bedroom and out of the way of seeing Jimmy herself. She wouldn’t lose a minute once she was told the news—trust Miss Ora for that. Not that there would be anything to see when she got to her sofa in the front room—Vicarage gate, and the church beyond, and the road going down to the splash. But you couldn’t see the water, not if it was ever so. She almost ran down the village street and up into Miss Ora’s bedroom with her news.

“Oh, miss—that there William Jackson—the one that married Annie Parker, pore thing!”

Miss Ora sat up straight in her bed, her hair in curling-pins and a shawl about her shoulders.

“I always said he was a bad lot. What has he done?”

“Oh, miss, he’s drowned!”

“What!”

“Jimmy Heard found him and came over so funny he don’t know how he got up to the Vicarage! And Vicar calls Mr. Williams, and they goes down and finds him just like Jimmy says, and Vicar comes back and rings up the police!”

Miss Ora was taking the pins out of her hair.

“Then they will be sending out the ambulance from Embank. I must get up at once! My comb and handglass, Mrs. Deacon! I don’t see how anyone could drown in the splash. Unless he was drunk, which I suppose he was.”

“Pore Annie!” said Mrs. Deacon.

Miss Mildred Blake said, “Nonsense!”

They had neither of them noticed the opening of the door. It startled them now to see her standing there, very grim and sallow in the old black coat which she wore in place of a dressing-gown. She went on harshly,

“There’s no poor Annie about it, Mrs. Deacon. He’s been a bad husband, and it was a bad day for her when she married him.”

It was the general verdict.

Miss Ora got to her sofa in time to see the ambulance go by and presently come back again. She pulled a second shawl about her and had all the windows in the bay set wide so that she might miss nothing that was said by the passers by. She sent Clarice Dean on three separate errands to Mrs. Alexander’s shop in order that she might be kept abreast of local opinion. The women at least would be in and out with their tongues going like so many mill-clappers, but it irked her to the very marrow of her bones that there was no one she could send into the Lamb when the men began to assemble there. They would be careful of course, because of the landlord. It was against the law to let a man get drunk on your premises, and drunk William Jackson must have been, or he wouldn’t have drowned himself in that little bit of water. Of course Mr. Parsons would swear William had had no more than a couple of pints, and there wasn’t a man who wouldn’t back him up. There was talk of the licence not being renewed as it was, and they wouldn’t want to go to Embank for their beer. She said all this as many times as it came up in her mind—to Mrs. Deacon, to Clarice, to Mildred. None of them had much to say in return.

Mildred sat down to her writing-table and went through the housekeeping books. Terribly particular she was about them. And presently she had out her Post Office Savings book and went through that, and her bank book. Though Miss Ora was the elder, she had nothing to do with the accounts. Mildred was always saying how little they had to live on, and how terribly careful they must be. She certainly never spent anything on herself. Why, that old coat she wore instead of a dressing-gown had been got more than thirty years ago as mourning for poor Papa. And, look at her now, in a darned flannel blouse and the dreadful coat and skirt which had come to them with their old cousin Lettice Halliday’s things. She had wanted to send it to a jumble sale, but Mildred had worn it ever since.

Miss Ora looked complacently from her sister’s dingy grey to her own pretty blue shawl. Figures made her head ache, and she was more than willing to leave the accounts to Mildred provided she could have her scented soap, her bath salts, her blue ribbons, her pretty shawls, and her library subscription. She read one sentimental novel after another with the pleasure which comes from a comfortable familiarity. She liked to know exactly what was going to happen. There must be no unpleasant surprises, no unforeseen developments. The lovely ward must marry her disagreeable guardian who is not really disagreeable at all but merely hiding a romantic passion under the cloak of austerity. The unjustly accused hero must be vindicated. Cinderella must have her Prince, and wedding bells must ring with a deafening persistence. In fact,

Jack shall have Jill,

Nought shall go ill,

The man shall have his mare again,

And all shall go well.

The ambulance came, and went. Knots of people gathered in the street to watch it go. William Jackson had had a glass too much and fallen into the stream and been drowned. The ambulance had taken him away, and Mrs. Ball had gone to tell his wife. There would have to be an inquest.

The morning passed.