Mrs. Buckle

I

CHARLES liked Mrs. Buckle from the very first moment that he saw her. It happened that we needed somebody temporarily in the house while our regular prop and mainstay went home to help her mother during a period of domestic embarrassment. I was away when Mrs. Buckle came, in answer to our advertisement, and Charles found her so attractive that he quite forgot to ask for references. The only doubtful point seemed to be her age, but she anxiously assured him that though she was ‘coming’ fifty-seven she did n’t feel a day over forty.

‘And it’s all in what you feel, sir, ain’t it? My old Dad always used ter s’y so, and now there’s that there forring gentleman, Mr. Coo-ee — ‘e comes along and says the sime. It’s all in what you feel, that’s what it is!’

And so I returned to find Mrs. Buckle engaged. Thereafter she came at eight and went at five, and if she had her drawbacks she had her virtues as well.

For one thing, there was no false pride about Mrs. Buckle.

‘None of yer lidy-’elps for me,’ she declared, when Charles was politely engaging her, ‘I ‘m a char, I am. I ‘ve seen some of them reel lidy-’elps in me time — ‘elp-compangions they calls theirselves—the ones what sings duhets with the curate and messes about with fancywork in the droring-room. All I’ve got ter s’y is, Gawd ‘elp the ‘ouse they hunters!’ She drew a finger pityingly across her nose. ‘Not but what you don’t feel sorry for ‘em, some’ow. Always the same brokendown, skinny old maids. Not ‘ardly what you’d call sextual, if you know what I mean, sir.’

Charles tactfully admitted he quite understood Mrs. Buckle’s meaning.

It will easily be seen that Mrs. Buckle was not born on this side of the Atlantic. London was the city of her birth. She came, to be exact, from the Walworth Road, S. E.

The name seemed vaguely familiar to Aunt Emily. I once overheard her asking Mrs. Buckle if that was n’t where Wat Tyler lived.

‘Don’t know about Wat,’ said Mrs. Buckle, ‘but there was George Tyler, the chimbley-sweep, ‘oo lived at an ‘undred and seventy-seven. A nice, sorft-spoken man ‘e was too, ‘cept p’raps of a Saturd’y night when ‘e’d come ‘ome from the Marquis of Granby with a drop too much and set about ‘is old mother somethink chronic. P’raps ‘e was the party?’

Aunt Emily explained that he was not. Her Mr. Tyler lived long before Mrs. Buckle’s time.

‘Ah, then it must ‘ave bin ‘is Grandad,’ declared Mrs. Buckle, not to be balked. Now she come to think of it, ‘e was a ‘W.’ She remembered seeing it in the cemet’ry the time they all went on young Georgie’s birthd’y for a bit of a spree.

In appearance Mrs. Buckle is small and wiry. She has beady black eyes, a long, inquisitive nose, and a thick raven-hued fringe. Seen from behind, her hair appears scanty and gray, but the fringe, doubtless purchased many years ago in the Walworth Road, heroically defies the passage of time and refuses to keep in step with the rest of Mrs. Buckle.

She is an enormous eater, with a passion for pickles. On one fatal occasion I unfortunately left a large new bottle of Aunt Emily’s special gherkins open on the kitchen dresser. At three o’clock I observed, with a start, that the bottle was half empty, but refrained from moving it for fear of hurting Mrs. Buckle’s feelings. At six-thirty, I regret to say, the bottle was found — high and dry. Vinegar and all had disappeared! Temptation had proved too strong and Mrs. Buckle had fallen. After that we were careful to provide a supply of the delicacy ‘ in bulk ‘ for her own particular consumption.

‘I don’t mind a pickle or so, once in a while,’ she remarked the first time that I produced her cardboard boxful, ‘but too many of ‘em ain’t good for you; gives yer what the doctors call larfing gastritis — that’s wind on the stummick. And it ain’t no larfing matter, neither. Buckle used ter suffer from it somethink crook ‘E was a marster to ‘is digestion, Buckle was, but ‘e would n’t never give in to it. “I ‘as to eat, Mother,” ‘e used ter s’y to me, “or else I car n’t ‘eave me bricks. And then w’ere should we be?”

I can see ‘im now, setting over a rare old blow-out of sausages and mashed, with a panful of fried onions to bring out the flavor, like. ‘E would n’t never give in ter nothink, Buckle would n’t. To ‘is dying day ‘e could eat ‘is three pounds of beefsteak with anybody! ‘

‘Marvelous!’ I exclaimed in amazement. A quaint martyrdom indeed!

In dress Mrs. Buckle rises superior to fashion. Her bonnet proved a continual source of wonder to Charles. It was small and black — or blackish — with a crown like a giantess’s thimble, and with a little piece bitten out at the back to allow for the display of Mrs. Buckle’s ‘bun.’ (A courtesy title, this!)

It was rich in trimmings — an assortment of beads, some loops of ribbon, and a minute, forlorn-looking bit of ostrich feather. But the piece de résistance, the crowning glory of the whole, consisted of a pair of quivering wires, each supporting a large knob of jet. These antennæ, once on the head of Mrs. Buckle, were never for a moment still. They seemed to transform her into some sort of grotesque, rusty, energetic, but entirely respectable, insect.

At first Charles used to worry as to where Mrs. Buckle would purchase the successor when the present bonnet wore out. Fashion, he said, did not appear to smile on that type of headgear nowadays. I explained to him that the dodge was worked by means of a ‘shape’ — a white skeleton of a bonnet — decorated in the privacy of the home. But I assured him that he need have no fears. Mrs. Buckle’s bonnet might be retrimmed; the ribbon loops, for instance, might be superannuated; the ostrich ‘tip,’ in time, might pass away; antennæ might come and antennæ go; but the shape would survive forever.

An admirable arrangement, thought Charles.

II

Conversation was as the breath of life to Mrs. Buckle. Well, hardly conversation, perhaps. A listener was all that she desired. It happened that I was rather busy during the time of her occupation and I was anxious to work in the library absolutely free from interruption. I had not, however, the heart to say so. Every morning the door would open and Mrs. Buckle, armed with dusters and mops, would enter beaming, and moistening her lips with her tongue by way of dreadful preparation.

‘I ‘opes I’m not distuning you, m’m? ‘

This was invariably the overture, so to speak. Had I put my foot down the very first day all might have been well, but unluckily I failed to do so. There was Mrs. Buckle, her beady eyes gleaming with friendliness, her tongue loosened for chatter, and her poor nobbly hands grasping her mops.

I caught her eye.

‘Not at all, Mrs. Buckle. Come in!’

That settled it. How easily bad habits are formed!

It was during this time that the hot weather set in. On the fiercest morning there came the usual rap at the door.

‘Come in!’ I called wearily.

The door was pushed open.

‘I ‘opes I’m not disturving you, m’m?’

She advanced, damp but smiling. Considering the weather and considering the work, I thought that verging on the heroic. Though all I had to do was to sit quietly at a table I felt distinctly bad-tempered.

'’T ain’t arf warm!’ remarked Mrs. Buckle briskly. ‘I’m all of a sweat, I am, and no error! You jest ought to feel me! I’m ever so!’

She had drawn close to the electric fan on the writing-table and, stooping, received ecstatically the full benefit of the breeze. Immediately the fan proceeded to flirt with the ‘front.’ Mrs. Buckle did not seem to mind, but I was hypnotized with horror. Every moment the fringe appeared about to break loose from its moorings and be whirled aloft, leaving a strange, transfigured Mrs. Buckle beside me.

At last, however, my suspense was at an end. Mrs. Buckle suddenly straightened herself.

‘Well, mustn’t stand ‘ere all day. Got work ter do, I ‘ave.’

She began operations with the carpet-sweeper. I rested my head on my hand and wondered if another aspirin would do any good.

Mrs. Buckle observed me.

‘Got an ‘eadache, ‘ave you, m’m?’ she asked sympathetically. ‘It’s this ‘ere sweeper, p’raps. I’ll stop it.’

‘It’s this confounded weather,’ said Charles, who had come in for a paperknife. ‘That fan makes the devil of a noise, too.’

Mrs. Buckle beamed.

'’Ow I do like to ‘ear ‘im say that, m’m! Sounds like a man about the place! I miss it, living alone as I do. Never ‘ave got used to being single, as you might say, in spite of all these years. I told you about Buckle, m’m, did n’t I ?’

‘Did you?’ I said rashly, occupied in wiping my leaking pen on a piece of blotting paper.

I had made a slip and was lost. Mrs. Buckle seized her opportunity.

‘Buckle and me crorsed the ocean twenty-one years ago come September.'

I was in for it — there was no escape. But after all, work was almost impossible.

Mrs. Buckle cleared her throat for prolonged action and I put down the pen.

'’E was a fine, well-set-up man, Buckle was. Stood five-foot eleven in ‘is socks, and was that broad, you would n’t ‘ardly believe!’

‘He must have been a splendid man,’ I said.

Her eyes gleamed with delight. I could not disappoint her. After all, it was a very cheap way of giving pleasure. I settled down to it.

‘Why did you leave England?’ I asked.

She drew in a breath. ‘It was like this ‘ere,’ she said. ‘Buckle ‘e ‘ad a roving dispersition. ‘E was always hitching to be orf somewhere. Even as a nipper ‘e found ‘is way to Gravesend once, and ‘ad ‘is Gran’ma in fits. ‘E did n’t arf catch it when a copper brought ‘im ‘ome!’

‘I suppose he did n’t,’ I said. There was something wrong about this, but it was far too hot to try again.

Mrs. Buckle continued. ‘So when Buckle’s Uncle ‘Erbert left ‘im twentyfive quid ‘e says ter me, “Come along, Mother,” ‘e says, “let’s skip over to America!” “Go hon!” I says, “don’t you talk so silly! You don’t catch me going on no water!” But the very next day ‘e went and paid for the passages, and as we could n’t waste the money we ‘ad to go. ‘E was a dashing man, Buckle was!’

She gave a rapid whisk under a bookcase with a mop, just to show that the work was going forward.

‘And to see ‘im on theship! ‘Ewas n’t arf a comic, Buckle was n’t. ‘E ‘ad the wimmin larfing fit ter split the ‘ole way over. Well, when we got acrorst we thought we’d better stay a bit in Noo York and save up till we could pay our way out to California, where Buckle was mad ter go. So ‘e got a good job as bricklayer’s laborer until ‘e went and fell orf of a scaffolding two weeks after we landed.’

I expressed my sympathy.

She swelled with pride. ‘It was the biggest drop, so ‘is mates told me, as they ever seed. ‘E come down wallop and lay on the pavement. The police ‘ad a job moving the crowd on!’

Mrs. Buckle breathed heavily. It is n’t everyone who can boast of such a happening in the family.

‘ ‘E did n’t arf make a beautiful corp’. I wish you could ‘ave seen ‘im, m’m. I buried ‘im quiet ‘cos I did n’t ‘ave much cash. As it was, I ‘ad ter borrer from some of ‘is friends — they was very good ter me, them chaps was — but it took me two years to pay it orf even then.’

Poor little Mrs. Buckle!

‘After the accident I went to work to save up money to go ome on, ‘cos my girl Mabel was in London along of ‘er ‘usband and the kid.’

I asked her how it was that she was still here.

‘ Well, you see, m’m, it was like this,’ she explained. ‘I was saving slow-like, and getting on nice, when Mabel wrote to s’y as ‘er ‘usband — Tissick, ‘is nime was — ‘ad gorn — ‘opped it with another woman!’

‘Abominable man!’ I said.

‘Not arf ‘e wasn’t!’ agreed Mrs. Buckle, her eyes snapping with delight. ‘I never did take to that Tissick. Could n’t think what Mabel ever seed in ‘im meself. ‘E looked at yer that crors-eyes it fair give yer the creeps!’

‘But why couldn’t you have gone home then?’ I asked.

‘It was like this ‘ere, m’m. I ‘ad n’t quite enough at the time, and I thought I could ‘elp better be sending somethink back at once. So I did. And then I kep’ it up. It seemed the best way.’

‘I expect it was,’ I admitted, ‘but you must have been very lonely here all by yourself.’

‘Not arf I was n’t! I fair et me ‘eart out at first. But you get used to every - think in time. Mabel would n’t come out ‘cos she would ‘ave it that Tissick might go back to ‘er some day. But I prayed to Gawd ‘e would n’t — prayed that she ‘d seen the larst of ‘is ugly mug! ‘

She gave another twirl to the mop.

‘Abominable man!’ I said again. ‘She seems to have been well rid of him.’

‘You ‘re right, m’m,’ said Mrs. Buckle. ‘Well, sending money ‘ome reg’lar left me little to save on, after I’d paid me board and lodging, and the years flew by somethink chronic!’

III

She blew upward to cool herself and the fringe jumped responsively. Then, for a brief interval, she returned to the mopping. I snatched a hasty glance at the newspaper and managed to read half-a-dozen lines before we picked Mabel up again.

‘As I was going to tell you, m’m — when Mabel’s boy began to earn a bit on ‘is own I did n’t ‘ave ter send so much, so I saved a bit quicker. Then the war come and ‘e lorst a leg, pore lad. ‘Owever, ‘e got a good persition as ‘allporter at a club, through one of ‘is ossifers, and ‘e ‘as ‘is pension, so Mabel was n’t ser badly orf. That give me a chancet to get a’ead.’

‘You waited very patiently,’ I remarked.

‘Oh well,’she said cheerfully, ‘it ain’t no use kicking against the pickles, as I ‘eard one of them Romeopathic clergymen say once. It did me a world of good, ‘earing that. “That’s the ticket, Eliza Kate Buckle,” I says to meself, “you tike what’s put before yer and be thankful!” I made up me mind that ‘aving waited so long as I’d done I ‘d save till I ‘ad not on’y me passage money, but a bit over, so as not to be a burden to anybody.’

‘Your daughter would be glad to see you,’ I said confidently, ‘money or no money. I’m sure of that.’

‘I reckon she would,’ agreed Mrs. Buckle, wiping her face with the duster, ‘but I’m doing it for me own satisfaction, see? The money ‘ll larst a goodish while. I’m just on sixty-five and I don’t count to ‘ang on much over eighty. I can always do a bit of charring to ‘elp things out, too.’

‘Sixty-five?’ I exclaimed in utter astonishment. ‘ I never would have believed it! ‘

Had there not been something about ‘coming fifty-seven’ and a certain foreign gentleman of the name of Mr. Coo-ee? Mrs. Buckle, however, appeared to have forgotten. Or, if not, she ignored it most magnificently. At any rate I need feel no embarrassment.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve put by a fairish bit be now, so I’m thinking of going ‘ome this year. In October I believe I ‘ll go — and walk slap in on Mabel! You see, she don’t expect I ‘ll ever come after all this time. I ain’t said nothink about it for years. Fancy seeing London Bridge again! And the “Ephelant”! And a muffin-man! What-o! And I ain’t going steerage this time, neither. I’ve bin thinkin’ it over and I ‘m going to blow meself on one of them one-clarss boats sailing from Montreal or Quebec. Gawd, if on’y Buckle could see me!’

She gave a screech of delight. I tried hard to imagine Mrs. Buckle reclining in a deck chair, or dining in state at the chief engineer’s table, and failed utterly. Do what I would I could never see her entering the dining-room or gracing the deck unless accompanied by mops and brooms, and wiping her shining face with a very dusty duster.

She turned to the mantelpiece and I took up the paper again. I was still reading the front page when heavy breathing informed me that Mrs. Buckle was in the rear. The dusting had stopped.

’Puh!'

I knew, though I could not see, that the fringe had jumped again.

‘Take things quietly to-day, Mrs. Buckle,’ I said. ‘Don’t try to do too much.’

‘You ‘re right, m’m.’

I continued my perusal of the paper. Two whole columns were devoted to the sufferings of the children in the poorer districts during the great heat. The Fresh Air people were appealing for funds to enable more of the little ones to be sent to the country. There were several photographs of little thin babies at the top of the page.

At this moment I was aware of a hand on the back of my chair. Mrs. Buckle, still breathing heavily, was looking over my shoulder.

‘Pore little kids!’ she said. ‘Ain’t it a shime? Tchk, tchk, tchk!’

To my relief she turned to her work again, tchking frequently. But she was curiously silent. Only now and again she would shake her head and say, ‘I carn’t ‘elp thinkin’ of them pore little kids. It ‘s bad enough w’ere I live.’

On the last day she came to say goodbye, tying her wisps of bonnet-strings carefully.

‘Have you decided on a boat yet?’ I asked her.

Immediately an odd little look of defiance came into her eyes.

‘Well, m’m, to tell you the truth, I ain’t ser set on them one-clarss boats no more. I was thinkin’ of it over, and I should n’t ‘ardly feel at ‘ome, as you might s’y. ‘T is n’t as if Buckle would be along with me, to ‘elp me keep me lip up. Why, there might be lidies on board ‘oo went orf into V-necks and elbow sleeves in the hevenings, and I should n’t arf look a fish out of the frying-pan! I ain’t one ter go in for a lot of dressing up—never ‘ave bin. So I’m going back steerage after all. I ‘ll be more in me emelent there. One-clarss boats ain’t in my line, and that’s flat!’

Her eyes, as she spoke, were brighter than ever. The antennæ indicated considerable emotion.

‘We shall miss you very much, Mrs. Buckle,’ I said, as I shook her nobbly, grimy hand. ‘Good luck to you, and a happy journey!’

‘The sime to you, m’m, I’m sure,’ she said, ‘and many of them.’

She walked to the door.

‘’T ain’t arf warm to-night,’ she remarked briskly. ‘I ‘m all of a sweat,

I am, and no error. You ‘d ‘ardly believe!’

The door closed behind her. Gallant Mrs. Buckle! I hoped fervently that the ‘Ephelant’ would be looking its very best and that a muffin-man, tray on head and bell in hand, might still be found to ring his cheering way along the Walworth Road.