Sons and Lovers. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

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      At nine o’clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were sitting playing on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he came in from his carpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat hanging open. He was still a good-looking man, with black, wavy hair, and a large black moustache. His face was perhaps too much inflamed, and there was about him a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straight to the sink where his wife was washing up.

      “What, are thee there!” he said boisterously. “Sluther off an’ let me wesh mysen.”

      “You may wait till I’ve finished,” said his wife.

      “Oh, mun I? An’ what if I shonna?”

      This good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel.

      “Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub.”

      “Ha! I can an’ a’, tha mucky little ’ussy.”

      With which he stood watching her a moment, then went away to wait for her.

      When he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. Usually he preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, however, he made a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the way he puffed and swilled as he washed himself, so much ​alacrity with which he hurried to the mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He put on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat. As such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his instinct for making the most of his good looks would.

      At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was Morel’s bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack eyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were on a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where he intended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or less to take charge of him.

      Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had died of consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislike of her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her hæmorrhage. None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now his eldest daughter, a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the two younger children.

      “A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!” Mrs. Morel said of him.

      “I’ve never known Jerry mean in my life,” protested Morel.

      “A opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn’t find anywhere, accordin’ to my knowledge.”

      “Open-handed to you,” retorted Mrs. Morel. “But his fist is shut tight enough to his children, poor things.”

      “Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know.”

      But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry’s score.

      The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over the scullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel’s eye.

      “Mornin’, missis! Mester in?”

      “Yes—he is.”

      Jerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was not invited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of men and husbands.

      “A nice day,” he said to Mrs. Morel.

      “Yes.”

      “Grand out this moming—grand for a walk.”

      “Do you mean you’re going for a walk?” she asked.

      “Yes. We mean walkin’ to Nottingham,” he replied.

      “H’m!”

      The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, ​full of assurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in presence of his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. They were going for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham. Climbing the hillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the morning. At the Moon and Stars they had their first drink, then on to the Old Spot. Then a long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter. But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whose gallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city, Morel was sleepy. The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spires and factory bulks and chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under an oak-tree and slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go forward he felt queer.

      The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry’s sister, then repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some occult, malevolent power—“the devil’s pictures,” he called them! But he was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge from a Newark man, on skittles. All the men in the old, long bar took sides, betting either one way or the other. Morel took off this coat. Jerry held the hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Some stood with their mugs in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball carefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and won half-a-crown, which restored him to solvency.

      By seven o’clock the two were in good condition. They caught the 7.30 train home.

      In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant remaining was out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in white aprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a rest between drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale; the slate roofs glistered in the arid heat.

      Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, which were not more than two hundred yards away. The water ran quickly over stones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned on the rail of the old sheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of the meadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round the deep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over the blackish stagnant meadow. She knew William was ​at the dipping-hole, and it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie played under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called currants. The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing.

      The children were put to bed at seven o’clock. Then she worked awhile.

      When Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load off their minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put the finishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with the satisfaction of returned travellers.

      The next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on the men’s spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were already rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow. Mrs. Morel, listening to their moumful singing, went indoors. Nine o’clock passed, and ten, and still “the pair” had not returned. On a doorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl, “Lead, kindly Light.” Mrs. Morel was always indignant with the drunken men that they must sing that hymn when they got maudlin.

      “As if ‘Genevieve’ weren’t good enough,” she said.

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