Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

by Herbert George Jenkins

In those days the bishop had much to worry him; but his real cross was Daisy, the cow. Everything else was of minor importance compared with this bovine responsibility. Vaguely he had felt that if you had a cow you had milk; but he was to discover that on occasion a cow could be as unproductive of milk as a sea-serpent.

None of the campers had ever approached a cow in her professional capacity. Night and morning she had to be relieved of a twelve hours' accumulation of milk, all knew that; but how? That was a question which had perturbed bishop and campers alike; for the whole camp shared the ecclesiastical anxiety about Daisy. Somewhere at the back of the cockney mind was the suspicion, amounting almost to a certainty, that, unless regularly milked, cows exploded, like overcharged water-mains.

Daisy soon developed into something more than a cow. When other occupations failed (amusements there were none), the campers would collect round Daisy, examining her from every angle. She was a mystery, just as a juggler or the three-card trick were mysteries, and as such she commanded respect.

Each night and morning the bishop had to produce from somewhere a person capable of ministering to the requirements of Daisy, and everyone in the neighbourhood was extremely busy. Apart from this, West Boxton was a hot-bed of Nonconformity, and some of the inhabitants were much exercised in their minds as to the spiritual effect upon a Dissenter of milking a church cow.

There were times when the bishop felt like a conjurer, billed to produce a guinea-pig from a top-hat, who had left the guinea-pig at home.

Daisy was not without her uses, quite apart from those for which she had been provided by Providence and the bishop. "Come an' 'ave a look at Daisy," had become the conversational forlorn hope of the campers when utterly bankrupt of all other interests. She was their shield against boredom and the spear with which to slay the dragon of apathy.

"No beer, no pictures, only a ruddy cow," a cynic had remarked in summing up the amusements provided by the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers. "Enough to give a giddy flea the blinkin' 'ump," he had concluded; but his was only an isolated view. For the most part these shipwrecked cockneys were grateful to Daisy, and they never tired of watching the milk spurt musically into the bright pail beneath her.

The bishop was well-meaning, but forgetful. In planning his camp he had entirely overlooked the difficulty of food and water supplies. The one was a mile distant and could not be brought nearer; the other had been overcome by laying a pipe, at considerable expense.

In the natural order of disaster the campers had arrived, and in a very few hours became tinctured with the heresy of anti-clericalism. Husbands quarrelled with wives as to who should bear the responsibility for the adventure to which they found themselves committed. One and all questioned the right of a bishop to precipitate himself into the domestic circle as a bearer of discord and summer-camps.

At the time of the arrival of the Bindles, everything seemed chaos. There was a spatter of bell-tents on the face of the meadow, piles of personal possessions at the entrance of the tents, whilst the "tired workers" loitered about in their shirt sleeves, or strove to prepare meals in spite of the handicaps with which they were surrounded. The children stood about wide-eyed and grave, as if unable to play their urban games in a bucolic setting.