“I think you should try to keep it cleaner,” said Jerry, trying hard to make the words sound like a friendly suggestion.
“Keep it cleaner!”
“Yes, there’s a sort of smell in the house, Mrs. Boles. It can’t be good for you—or the children.”
“It’s them smelly lamps, that’s wot,” declared Mrs. Boles in truculent tones. “I’m just about fed up with this plice. You can’t go outside the door without gettin’ yer feet allover mud. I never go out ’ere.”
“You ought to go out.”
“Wot for? I ain’t got no frens an’ there ain’t no shops nor no pictures.”
“And there are no bombs,” Jerry reminded her.
“There ’asn’t bin no bombs in Stepney for munce. The luffwater’s finished, Mr. Boles ses.”
“I don’t think he’s right,” said Jerry mildly.
“’E knows better than you,” declared his wife. “’E’s workin’ in an aircraff factory, Mr. Boles is…any ’ow I’m packin’ up an’ leavin’ ’ere before I gets moldy allover.”
Jerry hesitated. She was ashamed of the pleasure and relief that surged over her at this unexpected news. She said gently, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Boles. I’m afraid it must have been rather dull for you here.”
“Dull!” echoed Mrs. Boles. “Dull ain’t the word. It’s like bein’ buried alive.”
“But you have the children.”
“They ain’t no company.”
Jerry sighed. She said, “You don’t really mean you’re going back to London, do you?”
“I’m fed up with this plice.”
“But what about the children?”
“They’ll ’ave to taike their chance. That’s one of the reasons I’m goin’—it’s bad for the children bein’ ’ere.”
“Bad for them!”
“They’re bein’ spoilt,” declared Mrs. Boles. “They’re bein’ took away from me. It’s ’igh time we wos ’ome in our own plice.”
“Who’s taking them away from you?” asked Jerry in surprise.
“I dunno,” she replied vaguely. “I can’t expline. They’re bein’ taught different. Wot’s goin’ to come of it—that’s wot I want to know.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jerry doubtfully. “You’re all living here together.”
“It’s the other kids,” explained Mrs. Boles. “It’s them country brats. Arrol comes ’ome from school an’ ses the other kids ’ave soup for their dinners an’ why can’t we? ’E ses they ’ave stew with carrots an’ turnips an’ wot not. Then Elmie chips in an’ ses, ‘Why can’t we ’ave puddin’ sometimes?’”
“Well, why can’t they?” asked Jerry.
“They never wanted it before.”
“It’s easier to give them bread and jam or fish and chips but it isn’t so good for them, you know.”
Mrs. Boles sniffed. She said, “I’d loike to see Bert’s faice if I started givin’ ’im fancy cookin’—an’ wot’s good enough for Bert is good enough for them.”
“Food isn’t everything,” said Jerry.
“It’s a lot,” replied the woman. “And it ain’t only food, neither. It’s clothes, too. ‘I want thick shoes,’ Elmie ses. ‘I want a skirt an’ a jersey loike wot the other girls ’as. I want a nightdress’…it’s I want all the toime. She’s gettin’ too big for ’er boots, that’s wot.”
Jerry felt inclined to smile, but only for a moment. She realized that this was no smiling matter to Mrs. Boles. Indeed it was a vital problem and one that was being encountered all over the country…and she could find no answer to it. She had never liked Mrs. Boles but at this moment she almost liked her, for she understood, as she had never understood before, what Mrs. Boles was suffering.
Mrs. Boles was waiting for an answer, or at least some sort of reaction to her complaints, and Jerry was forced to speak. She said without much conviction, “Why not try to give them what they want?”
“Because they didn’t ought to want it,” replied Mrs. Boles.
“I wonder,” said Jerry thoughtfully. “I think you should be pleased if Elmie wants to be like the other children.”
“Ho, do you!” cried Mrs. Boles. “You think I ought to be pleased that my own kid looks down on me! I’ll teach ’er to look down on me. We’re goin’ back ’ome. She’ll soon ferget ’er fancy ideers when we gets ’ome to Stepney.”
The exodus of the Boles family took place two days later. Jerry had said good-bye to them in the morning, had reminded Mrs. Boles that a small van was coming for them at two o’clock to take them and their luggage to the station, and had given them a little present to pay their fares and other expenses of the journey. It was not necessary to give them anything, of course, for she had given them more than enough already—one way and another—but she gave it to them, hoping that it would salve her conscience, which was behaving in a most extraordinary way. Her conscience said, “You shouldn’t let them go home. There may be a raid on Stepney. They may be killed and it will be all your fault,” and her conscience continued to say these uncomfortable things although it must have known perfectly well that Jerry had done all she could to make Mrs. Boles stay: had talked until she was tired and bribed her with offers of more coal and free milk and vegetables from the garden. In fact Jerry had done everything to make Mrs. Boles stay at Ganthorne Cottage, everything short of binding the woman hand and foot and locking her in the toolshed, so it really was extremely odd that her conscience should keep on bothering her like this. I suppose it’s because I’m glad they’re going, thought Jerry. I am glad, of course, but I can’t help being glad…
Markie had not said good-bye to the Boles family in the morning, for she intended to be on the spot when they left. Markie had no illusions about Mrs. Boles, partly because Markie was naturally a good judge of human nature and partly because Mrs. Boles had a curiously shaped head. Markie was very much interested in Mrs. Boles’s head—she would have liked to measure it.
It was just after two when Markie arrived at the cottage; the van was already there, and, as Markie approached, she saw a large roll of dark red material being carried down the steps.
“Those are Mrs. Abbott’s curtains,” said Markie in her mildest voice.
The vanman, who was carrying the bundle, hesitated—and at that moment Mrs. Boles appeared in the doorway and demanded what was up.
Markie could not reply immediately. She was struck dumb by the magnificence of Mrs. Boles. She had seen the woman slopping about in torn and dirty garments with her hair in curlers and her face smeared with soot, but today, for the first time, she beheld Mrs. Boles in war paint. Mrs. Boles was wearing a black satin coat and a hat with a red feather in it, and high-heeled patent leather shoes with steel buckles on them. Her hair was frizzed to the limit (and no wonder after nearly two years confinement in steel curlers); her face was thickly powdered; her hands were encased in gray kid gloves.
“The lady ses these belongs to Mrs. Abbott,” said the vanman. “Are they to go in the van or not?”
“You put them in the van,” said Mrs. Boles firmly. “Mrs. Abbott sed we could ’ave them.”
“I think not,” said Markie, finding her voice. “I am afraid you must have been mistaken. We require the curtains for the blackout, you see…and that kettle belongs to Mrs. Abbott, too, and the large saucepan.”
“I never thort she’d grudge us a kettle!” exclaimed Mrs. Boles, more in sorrow than anger.
Markie took no notice. She was aware that if Jerry had been present the things would have been given to Mrs. Boles without a murmur, but Jerry was not present and it was Markie’s duty to look after her interests—besides it was quite impossible to replace the things. Money wouldn’t buy blackout curtains or saucepans; kettles were as rare and difficult to obtain as rocs’ eggs.
“And that is Mrs. Abbott’s rug,” continued Markie, still in her gentlest voice. “It’s the hearth rug from the kitchen, isn’t it, Mrs. Boles? You may take those pillows if you like—they won’t be any use to anybody—but the door mat must be put back…and the coal hammer, of course.”
“Nosey!” cried Mrs. Boles. “Nosey Parker—wot’s it got to do with you! Mrs. Abbott wouldn’t mind me taikin’ one or two little things. Mrs. Abbott’s a real lidy—and that’s more than you are!”
Markie was too busy to listen to these insults. She had opened an untidy bulging sack and was sorting out its contents. Mrs. Boles had intended to take all the cutlery back to Stepney with her…
“They’re only Woolworths’,” declared Mrs. Boles in disgust.
“But they are not yours.”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead with them. You can ’ave them an’ welcome.”
Markie sighed. It was a most unpleasant job but if everything were removed from the cottage it would be impossible for anyone to live there—at any rate until the war was over and the things could be replaced.
“You’d better hurry or we’ll lose the train,” said the vanman, looking at his watch. “The train won’t wait for you—nor anyone. Is this all that’s to go?”
Mrs. Boles lifted her voice and screamed for her children, and after a moment’s delay they came running out of the cottage. Elmie looked much as usual except that her hair, which was usually straight and lanky, had been tortured into a frizz, but Arrol presented a very odd appearance, for his best clothes—which he had not worn for some months—were now so much too small for him that he could scarcely move.
“Wot’s that you’ve got ’old of, Arrol?” inquired Mrs. Boles.
Arrol displayed a glass jam jar full of tadpoles. “I’m takin’ them ’ome with me,” he said.
“No, you don’t!” cried his mother. “We don’t want no country trash.”
“My tadpoles!” yelled Arrol, dodging behind the van and clasping the jar firmly against his chest.
Mrs. Boles pursued, and, after a short tussle during which Arrol received a box on the ears, she managed to get hold of the jar and empty it onto the path.
“My tadpoles!” screamed Arrol. “My tadpoles!”
“Shut up, do,” said Mrs. Boles, not unkindly. “You won’t want no tadpoles at Stepney. You’ll be goin’ to the pictures and playin’ with the other kids. Don’t raw like that, Arrol. Jus’ think wot a noice toime you’re goin’ to ’ave!”
But Arrol continued to roar. He was still roaring when he was dragged into the van and the door was shut. He was still roaring when the van lurched away down the drive.
Markie watched until the van was out of sight and then she shook her head and sighed. “Most unfortunate!” she said.
The cleansing of the cottage reminded Markie of the fifth task of Hercules, so she decided; but the Augean Stables had been tenanted by animals that, compared with Mrs. Boles, were clean…“All the same it has got to be done,” said Markie firmly as she tied on her apron and got to work.