Читать книгу Weeding the Flower-Patch - Flora Klickmann - Страница 4

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“What amazes me,” said Miss Bachelor, in the clear incisive tones of one who knows everything and never makes a mistake—“Yes, what positively amazes me, is why you ever let it get into this state!”

Miss Bachelor is lecturer on Literature at a Woman’s College in a crowded town in the Midlands. She occasionally remembers my existence, and with the deepest affection, when she decides on an inexpensive holiday—though she draws a good salary. Indeed so much does she love me and long to see me at such times, that she refuses to take No for an answer. Merely arrives! convinced that the honour she confers by arriving ensures a warm welcome.

Having settled herself in, she regards the place as she would any boarding-house. I disappear from the centre of the picture.

We were surveying the luxuriantly healthy crop of weeds which were romping all over the flower beds and paths, trying to swamp the herb garden and climb the bean poles. I tried to explain, apologetically, that by the time the only man left me had seen to the enlarged area given over to food crops; attended to the cattle; got in the hay; cut down timber for fuel; kept the water-courses clear; trimmed over-reaching hedges according to law; and in addition performed such light domestic chores as retrieving a blown-away chimney-pot, disposing of the kittens——

She interrupted me: “Now I’ll tell you exactly what you should do.” (Miss Bachelor can always tell others what they should do) “First of all, you should——”

“No, don’t tell me! Just do it!... Do what? Why, anything! I don’t mind what. Only lend a hand. It would be a boon to me if you would!”

She looked surprised, being accustomed to attentive silence when she voices words of wisdom; but said: “Oh, very well, I’ll start at once, and soon make a clearance.”

Before we had got out the tools, however, it began to rain. This gave her an afternoon’s leisure to point out to me the weak spots—large splashes, in fact—in my household arrangements.

Pictures, it appeared, were entirely wrong. No one had them on their walls nowadays.

Window curtains were quite out-of-date. No one had used any, much less white sprigged muslin, for years.

The ancient Welsh dresser in the living-room was just another dust-trap, it seemed. No one displayed china in the open, now.

I did defend myself here, remarking that I knew several women who only wished the enemy had left them any china to display. And I felt inclined to ask: who was No one?

But why waste breath!

Miss Bachelor did approve of one item, the big easy chair. There was only one in the room, the others having been taken upstairs to the bedrooms of the two invalid evacuees still with me, London friends who had lost their homes in the raids.

Settled in it comfortably, Miss Bachelor expatiated on the virtues of the chair—as though I didn’t know them already! The curve in the high back exactly fitted one’s vertebræ; the seat was precisely the desirable height, putting no strain on the leg-muscles; the slight slope backwards in the seat gave just the feeling of reclination that one’s spine needed.

I sat and drank in the information gratefully, not to say enviously; for I was perched on one of the severely upright dining-room chairs, quite suitable for meals, when one has the table for balance, but not calculated to provide that feeling of reclination of which my spine is perennially in need.

Those upright chairs also came in for some condemnation. No one, it transpired, could use chairs of that design with an all-over dinner cloth, as I did. Since I couldn’t see why not, I said so; and asked if we were supposed to stand on our toes for our meals? I added that the chairs were by a famous maker.

What had that to do with it? she asked. Why did I cling to the Victorian habit of ticketing everything with a label? Did Shakespeare bother about the date or maker of his furniture?

Realizing that she had now got well into her stride on the lecture-platform, I merely queried, “Who was the famous writer who mentioned his second-best bedstead in his will?”—and sought refuge in the kitchen.

Next day she set out airily to tackle the weeds. I would have asked the gardener to put her in the way of things; but he was out, scouring the hillside for a missing calf—a giddy little heifer who had been bawling at the top of her voice, “O, who will o’er the downs so free” the greater part of the previous day, to the indignation of well-conducted matrons in the adjoining field, who shook their horns disgustedly, and couldn’t think what girls were coming to these days.

As no one apparently had offered to “o’er the downs” with her, she had jumped the wall, gone off on her own at daybreak, and gate-crashed into a dairy farm.

Thus Miss Bachelor was left to wrestle alone with an expanse of weeds that would have daunted a less valiant heart. I had enough to attend to indoors.

She turned up for the mid-day meal, somewhat the worse for wear, but proud of her achievements.

“I’ve cleared several yards of that long bed; you can see it from the window.”

I glanced out, as gratitude demanded, at the plot indicated, thanking her with emphasis—and took the shepherd’s pie out of the oven.

I was desperately tired, having been up part of the night with Miss Smith, one of my invalid evacuees. I had no help in the house, having lost an excellent daily woman. She, being over sixty, and now eligible with her husband for the Old Age Pension, could only get it if she retired, or was engaged in her household duties; unless her job was only occasional. This was the law as stated on the paper she brought to show me.

Since then, my hands had been more than full, which was one reason why I had not desired Miss Bachelor’s proposed visit.

Though not best pleased to see her when she arrived, I did wonder, hopefully, whether she might prove to be the Heaven-sent helper for whom I had been longing.

While she was discoursing on her infallible methods for keeping a garden free from weeds, an idea came to me.

“You won’t mind washing-up after dinner, will you? I’m expecting the doctor to see Miss Smith at half-past two. And I also want him to look at Mrs. Brown’s knee. It seems to me to be something more than rheumatism.”

Miss Bachelor showed no interest in Miss Smith or Mrs. Brown; nor indeed in the washing-up! But any visitor who arrives after being told there is sickness in the house, and who presents nothing more than a scrap of butter (well flattened on the journey) and a screw of tea, having forgotten her sugar and ration-book, is surely entitled to do something to ease the domestic tension.

I didn’t wait for her to agree to my suggestion, but hurried on with details of the necessary aids, and the whereabouts of a clean overall; then went upstairs to get my patients ready for medical inspection.

The doctor diagnosed Miss Smith’s trouble as colonic disturbance, and assured her that he saw no sign of cancer, which she had suspected, and he approved the simple old-world remedy, beloved of our great-grandmothers, to which I had resorted when rendering First Aid.

He did not mention diet. What doctor ever does in these distressful days? He knows only too well what the patient can’t get to eat, since he himself is equally rationed. But I made a mental note to omit pears from her bill of fare in future.

It was a gladsome sight, when I returned to the kitchen, to see washed-up crockery being stacked on the kitchen table, though I own Miss Bachelor exhibited no housewifely enthusiasm; on the contrary, gloom seemed to envelop her.

“I don’t think much of your tea-towels,” was her answer to the shower of blessings I was pouring upon her; “they’re dropping to bits.”

“Yes, I’m afraid they are. My late helper said to me: ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, ma’am, your tea-towels are rather ripe.’ ”

But Miss Bachelor was not in a conversational mood—for once too worn out to speak.

Pressing her to take a complete rest in the easy chair, I added all the appreciative remarks I could think up, and doubtless should have remembered still more, had not the gardener appeared at the door. He didn’t seem more cheerful than Miss Bachelor; but of late he had worn the bereaved look of a man who heartily disapproves of P.A.Y.E., and the dimensions of his meat ration.

“Can I speak to you a moment, please, ma’am?” This formula, spoken in subdued tones, invariably portends some catastrophe which must be broken to me cautiously.

I sensed the worst, realizing that he must have found the heifer with three legs broken, and had been obliged to end her sufferings. But when I joined him out of doors, to hear details of the tragedy, I saw the hussy sitting in the home paddock with two wide-eyed young innocents, who were probably listening to her glowing description of the gay company and the luscious feed she had found on another farm—so different from ours! She probably did not mention that she was forcibly ejected at milking-time by an unsympathetic cow-man; and after kicking up her heels on highway and by-way, was finally chivvied home in disgrace by her lawful guardian.

Having commiserated with the man on the dance she had led him, I was asked if I would kindly look at the bonfire heap, and say if it was as I wished. Judging by his martyr-like tones, I was quite sure it wasn’t! But I was a trifle mystified.

Going with him to the secluded corner where the rubbish is dumped, to my surprise I saw a piled-up assortment of garden plants, roots and all—forget-me-nots, aubrietia, white violets, foxgloves, sweet williams and similar items. But what pained me more than all was a scattering of muddy-looking onions—my cherished hyacinth bulbs!

“The lady said she meant to clear all the weeds from the bed,” said the gardener, fishing out my best scatters from among the clumps. “But so far’s I can see, she’s only chucking away the flower roots. Have you seen the plot she’s done?”

Wearily, I went to inspect. Sure enough she had left the roots of all the tough old veterans like docks, evening primrose, self-sown plums, brambles and hemp agrimony, cutting them off at ground level. But shallow-rooted plants, if they had no bloom on them to distinguish them from unwanted weeds, she had hawked up with right good will, and churned up the soil for anything else moveable—like the bulbs.

It was my own fault. I should have remembered that her own garden—about the size of a bolster-case—could not have taught her much about growing things, unless actually in flower.

We spent a little time, considering how best to check further deprivations.

“I’ll work with her,” I said, “if I can manage it.”

I saw he didn’t hope much from that!

“How would it be if the lady helped me gather the fruit? It’s two people’s work if we are to save much.”

“That’s an excellent thought. I’ll suggest it to her.”

After we had discussed the pros and cons of storage I went back and entered by the scullery door, noting thankfully that the saucepans were in an orderly row on their shelf. At least I was relieved of that task. It was not till later that I found they were unwashed! While looking in the larder for anything possible for supper, I heard sounds in the kitchen, like the spluttering of a boiling kettle. I went in to take it off the fire, surprised to find Miss Bachelor’s eyes and nose submerged in a handkerchief, from which proceeded sniffs and sobs. She tried to control herself, when she saw me.

Naturally, I was very concerned, and hoped nothing was seriously the matter?

In disjointed sentences, punctuated with gulps and sniffs, she told me that the post-office had just phoned through a telegram for her.

(Then it’s her mother, I thought. She’ll have to go back at once to see to the funeral.)

It turned out to be an aunt, however; one who had always been a second mother to her. Lying at death’s door—no one to do a thing—over ninety—great sufferer—Westmorland; well, really Cumberland, she believed—on the borders—no, not likely I had ever passed the house—very remote, off main road—longing to see her—hardly able to speak—doctor—at most forty-eight hours—first train in the morning—very wealthy—magnificent place—alone—only relative—rolling in money—titled grandfather—always devoted to her.

After more sobbing on this theme, I offered to ring up the station master and find out about trains. But she had already done so, while I was in the garden. He was most obliging, and had looked up the connections for her. Now she would go and pack—unless she could do anything for me? It was so unfortunate, just when she was hoping to be some little help to me—her sole reason for coming (how I had misjudged her!) And now—to leave me in the lurch like this: but, she couldn’t refuse to go to her aunt, could she?

We were up betimes next morning. I felt remarkably light-hearted, but suppressed it of course, in view of our not knowing—as she said—whether she would find the old lady alive when she got there.

I begged her to let me know how she found her aunt. She said she would, and there was no need for her to take the remains of her two ounces of tea with her; the butter would do for her sandwiches.

She had quite recovered her customary self-assurance—and I besought her most cordially to return and finish out her visit to me, if circumstances allowed.

It is painful to reflect on the warm invitation to “come again soon”, that one sometimes extends to parting guests in sheer thankfulness for their going!