LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER 5 Paul Launches into Life

      Morel was rather a heedless man, careless of danger. So he had endless accidents. Now, when Mrs. Morel heard the rattle of an empty coal-cart cease at her entry-end, she ran into the parlour to look, expecting almost to see her husband seated in the waggon, his face grey under his dirt, his body limp and sick with some hurt or other. If it were he, she would run out to help.

      About a year after William went to London, and just after Paul had left school, before he got work, Mrs. Morel was upstairs and her son was painting in the kitchen—he was very clever with his brush—when there came a knock at the door. Crossly he put down his brush to go. At the same moment his mother opened a window upstairs and looked down.

      A pit-lad in his dirt stood on the threshold.

      “Is this Walter Morel’s?” he asked.

      “Yes,” said Mrs. Morel. “What is it?”

      But she had guessed already.

      “Your mester’s got hurt,” he said.

      “Eh, dear me!” she exclaimed. “It’s a wonder if he hadn’t, lad. And what’s he done this time?”

      “I don’t know for sure, but it’s ‘is leg somewhere. They ta’ein’ ‘im ter th’ ‘ospital.”

      “Good gracious me!” she exclaimed. “Eh, dear, what a one he is! There’s not five minutes of peace, I’ll be hanged if there is! His thumb’s nearly better, and now—Did you see him?”

      “I seed him at th’ bottom. An’ I seed ‘em bring ‘im up in a tub, an’ ‘e wor in a dead faint. But he shouted like anythink when Doctor Fraser examined him i’ th’ lamp cabin—an’ cossed an’ swore, an’ said as ‘e wor goin’ to be ta’en whoam—’e worn’t goin’ ter th’ ‘ospital.”

      The boy faltered to an end.

      “He would want to come home, so that I can have all the bother. Thank you, my lad. Eh, dear, if I’m not sick—sick and surfeited, I am!”

      She came downstairs. Paul had mechanically resumed his painting.

      “And it must be pretty bad if they’ve taken him to the hospital,” she went on. “But what a careless creature he is! Other men don’t have all these accidents. Yes, he would want to put all the burden on me. Eh, dear, just as we were getting easy a bit at last. Put those things away, there’s no time to be painting now. What time is there a train? I know I s’ll have to go trailing to Keston. I s’ll have to leave that bedroom.”

      “I can finish it,” said Paul.

      “You needn’t. I shall catch the seven o’clock back, I should think. Oh, my blessed heart, the fuss and commotion he’ll make! And those granite setts at Tinder Hill—he might well call them kidney pebbles—they’ll jolt him almost to bits. I wonder why they can’t mend them, the state they’re in, an’ all the men as go across in that ambulance. You’d think they’d have a hospital here. The men bought the ground, and, my sirs, there’d be accidents enough to keep it going. But no, they must trail them ten miles in a slow ambulance to Nottingham. It’s a crying shame! Oh, and the fuss he’ll make! I know he will! I wonder who’s with him. Barker, I s’d think. Poor beggar, he’ll wish himself anywhere rather. But he’ll look after him, I know. Now there’s no telling how long he’ll be stuck in that hospital—and won’t he hate it! But if it’s only his leg it’s not so bad.”

      All the time she was getting ready. Hurriedly taking off her bodice, she crouched at the boiler while the water ran slowly into her lading-can.

      “I wish this boiler was at the bottom of the sea!” she exclaimed, wriggling the handle impatiently. She had very handsome, strong arms, rather surprising on a smallish woman.

      Paul cleared away, put on the kettle, and set the table.

      “There isn’t a train till four-twenty,” he said. “You’ve time enough.”

      “Oh no I haven’t!” she cried, blinking at him over the towel as she wiped her face.

      “Yes you have. You must drink a cup of tea at any rate. Should I come with you to Keston?”

      “Come with me? What for, I should like to know? Now, what have I to take him? Eh, dear! His clean shirt—and it’s a blessing it is clean. But it had better be aired. And stockings—he won’t want them—and a towel, I suppose; and handkerchiefs. Now what else?”

      “A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,” said Paul. His father had been in hospital before.

      “Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,” continued Mrs. Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, and was touched now with grey. “He’s very particular to wash himself to the waist, but below he thinks doesn’t matter. But there, I suppose they see plenty like it.”

      Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very thin bread and butter.

      “Here you are,” he said, putting her cup of tea in her place.

      “I can’t be bothered!” she exclaimed crossly.

      “Well, you’ve got to, so there, now it’s put out ready,” he insisted.

      So she sat down and sipped her tea, and ate a little, in silence. She was thinking.

      In a few minutes she was gone, to walk the two and a half miles to Keston Station. All the things she was taking him she had in her bulging string bag. Paul watched her go up the road between the hedges—a little, quick-stepping figure, and his heart ached for her, that she was thrust forward again into pain and trouble. And she, tripping so quickly in her anxiety, felt at the back of her, her son’s heart waiting on her, felt him bearing what part of the burden he could, even supporting her. And when she was at the hospital, she thought: “It will upset that lad when I tell him how bad it is. I’d better be careful.” And when she was trudging home again, she felt he

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