LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter II

       The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle

       Table of Contents

      After such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed and ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically even, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive bearing, his physique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral strength.

      But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with his help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back again by ten o'clock, almost quite sober.

      He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed at six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out of bed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay waiting for this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest seemed to be when he was out of the house.

      He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his pit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely reached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper—what of it he could—spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the habit of the mine.

      At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like a chemise.

      Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill, and because it occurred to him.

      “I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass,” he said.

      “Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it,” she replied.

      “Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again.”

      She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.

      “I'll back my life there's no sugar in,” she said.

      “Yi—there's one big 'un,” he replied, injured.

      “It's a wonder,” she said, sipping again.

      She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into the fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He loved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when he was in the field.

      Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very self-righteous, he went upstairs.

      “Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stir a peg all day, but sit and read thy books.”

      Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.

      “And the dinner cooks itself?” she answered.

      “Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner.”

      “You'd know if there weren't any.”

      “Ay, 'appen so,” he answered, departing.

      When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call:

      “So you keep wagging on, then?”

      “Ay,” answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. “There's nothing else for it.”

      “Have you seen Hose?” called a very small woman from across the road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting.

      “I haven't,” said Mrs. Morel.

      “Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm sure I heered his bell.”

      “Hark! He's at the end.”

      The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm.

      “I've done ten dozen this week,” she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.

      “T-t-t!” went the other. “I don't know how you can find time.”

      “Eh!” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can find time if you make time.”

      “I don't know how you do it,” said Mrs. Morel. “And how much shall you get for those many?”

      “Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen,” replied the other.

      “Well,” said Mrs. Morel. “I'd starve before I'd sit down and

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