The trumpet in the dust

by Constance Holme

Yes, she was undoubtedly a success, as was evidenced by the fact that she was allowed to “side,” too, washing and wiping pots and learning their places with the intimacy of a bosom friend. It was true that, as the effect of the epic gradually wore off, each of the older tenants tried to re-assert her personal value, subtly insinuating to the new arrival that, in spite of her excellent testimonials, she was, after all, only “new.” Mrs. Clapham listened to reiterated instructions concerning wash-houses, etc., with maintained interest and respect, and had sufficiently found her footing by now to refrain from smiling at the mention of followers. With her knowledge of human nature, she was aware that they were only keeping their end up, as you might say, and she did not resent it. She was new—there was no doubt about that; but she would not be new long. There were ropes to learn, wherever you went, and she was willing to learn them. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Martha Jane being shown the ropes by this prim pair—Martha Jane, whose only use for ropes hitherto had been to kick her heels over them on every occasion!

Pots being sided, she was taken for a swift peep into Mrs. Cann’s; only the veriest peep, however, because time was getting on, as even Mrs. Clapham, as time-lost as any creature bewitched by the fairies, realised in flashes. But she was aware that the event would not be properly rounded off without that peep, just as it demanded a visit to old Mrs. Bendrigg. So in spite of her aching back and her stiff legs, she went cheerfully from point to point, expressing an admiration sufficiently tempered with judgment not to give the effect of fulsome praise, and climbed her last flight of stairs—unwillingly and with difficulty—to face the final ordeal of introduction. Mrs. Bendrigg, half sitting up in bed, night-capped, jacketed, wrinkled and very old, looked up at the fine figure almost swamping the little bedroom with still-keen eyes full of satisfaction. She had never been able to get as much work as she wanted out of her other neighbours—“a poor, shiftless lot!”—but there looked a lot of excellent, skilled work to be got out of Mrs. Clapham!

The latter returned the gaze of this last of her new acquaintances with a feeling that was half pity and half repulsion. She was fond of old people, as a rule, and was always ready to do them service; but in old Mrs. Bendrigg she now realised that she saw the typical almshouse figure. The others, together with herself, were sufficiently young and able-bodied to find some interest in life, sufficient work to keep up their self-respect, sufficient movement to keep them from mouldering. But she now saw that it was for such as old Mrs. Bendrigg that almshouses were really built, broken old folk on the verge of passing away. The vision that had come to her on the day she had lost heart returned to her now with such force that she nearly broke down again. Such as old Mrs. Bendrigg she, too, would eventually become, dependent on half-willing neighbours who were neither kith nor kin. That was what almshouses really meant, when you thought it out; that was the real meaning of the House of Dreams. She stood at the end of the bed, looking down at the night-capped figure with a thoughtful eye, and for the time being felt the gift of old Mr. T. close in upon her with prison-walls.

She contrived to smile, however, as she inquired politely after the ancient’s health, and listened politely to a long account of her special disease, veiled complaints about her neighbours, and a fresh list of the same instructions. “We’ve always thought a deal of ourselves up here,” Mrs. Bendrigg finished, stiffening her old figure a moment in order to make an impression. “’Tisn’t as if we was ordinary almshouse folk; we’re a deal better than most. Houses is better than most, too, though I could have built ’em better myself. Ay, I’ve heard tell of you often, and I mind seeing you at old Mr. T.’s. You come of a good stock, and you’ve been decent-lived, so I’m not saying but what you’ll do. Anyway, you’ll keep your house like enough as houses ought to be kept—not that it’ll ever be same as mine when I was able to stir. I was always that proud of my house—ay, and wi’ reason an’ all!—but I’ve no call to be proud now. I never thought as I’d come to it, but I’ve learned to put up wi’ a deal o’ dirt. Folks as has to rely on their neighbours can’t have everything just so. All the same, it fair breaks my heart to see the place just slaped over same as it were a Witham slum!”

“You’ll have to let me lend you a hand when I get fixed!” Mrs. Clapham laughed, trying not to notice the tossed heads and shrugged shoulders of her annoyed hosts. “It’s my job, you know,” she went on, as the old woman nodded and smiled. “I could clean a house o’ this size with nobbut the one hand!” Old Mrs. Bendrigg nodded again and chuckled and said “Thank ye kindly!” and “Ye can’t come too soon for me!” and they went away, leaving her thoroughly pleased in her thrifty, grasping old soul. The hurt couple burst into loud explosion as soon as they got outside, but gradually became soothed by the cheering prospect of less to do. They were consoled, too, by the fact that the new-comer did not seem at all set up (“not to be wondered at, neither, when you thought how she’d let herself in!”). But it was not the fear of extra work that was subduing Mrs. Clapham as they made a hasty tour of the little gardens. She was quite prepared to be partially put upon, and she did not mind. It was all part of the way of the world, like the prim self-importance and the rules. What was taking her by the throat was the picture of old Mrs. Bendrigg helpless in bed, the typical almshouse figure, marring the fine grace of her House of Dreams....

But she had quite recovered by the time they had finished their hasty round, and arrived, finally and fittingly, as it were, for a last pause at her own door. She ran her eye over the building in a passion of possessive pride, forgetting that only a moment ago it had seemed a possible prison. The thrill came back to her in full as she looked at the door to which she alone had the key, feeling again the glamour of one to whom the birthday of her life had come. As she stared at the house, however, she felt sorry that she had drawn the kitchen blind. She had done it half mechanically, half as a memorial to the man who was gone, and even now she was glad that the women could not see within. She did not want them prying and peeping until the glamour had worn off. Nevertheless, remembering the last occasion upon which it had been done, she could not help wishing that she had not drawn the blind....

All up the hillside at their feet the September mist was rising and spreading, weaving its growing mesh all silent and soft as if it were the actual product of some fairy wheel. It had wound itself in great swathes around the trees in the orchard below, so that the trunks of the trees seemed to be standing on nothing at all. The slender, twisted stems, crowned with their heavy fruit, seemed to be kept in position by the mere pressure of the gentle air. All the edges of the village roofs had gone soft in the smudging light, and even the slates looked little heavier than the loose wisps of floating mist. The soft smoke, rising from the stacks, looked as if it, too, was simply the mist which was forcing a way through. Across the village there were big hollows and basins of mist up and down the park, and here and there great standard trees poised themselves also on the drifting swathes. The sun, from its low angle, still sent shafts of light into orchard and village, showing the ripe fruit to be russet and gold. Only above the sun and the sea the sky kept itself still and pure, guarding that space of opal and blue where would arise the evening star.

This, and many an evening like it, and others, different yet all lovely, were Mrs. Clapham’s heritage for the future. Even storm-nights would be wonderful, too, seen from the close haven of the House of Dreams. Somewhere, mellow, far-off voices were busy calling the cattle home, and children’s voices struck up clear as the blackbird’s whistle from their playground on the road. There is always healing in beauty, even though sometimes it wounds first, and the tired charwoman reached towards it with longing, still marvelling that the peace of the temple should be really hers.

But presently she shivered, and, turning away, announced firmly that it was time to be going. It had come to her suddenly that her beautiful day was nearly over, that it had slipped by, as beautiful days have a knack of doing, almost without her notice. It was no use lingering here until she had exhausted it to the dregs, and in any case she couldn’t afford it. With her tired body, and weary, if happy, spirit, she would need all the strength she possessed to carry her safely home.

The women went with her to the gate, and once again they stood laughing and chatting, and further cementing the new acquaintance. Towards the last—“You’ll have t’ key, likely?” Mrs. Bell inquired jealously, assuming once more the air of Watch-Dog in Chief.