“Wot are you going to do?” demanded her husband, following her.
“Going to see Aunt Jane and ’ave a bit o’ dinner with her,” was the reply. “And after that I think I shall go to the ‘pictures.’ If you ’ave bloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the bones.”
“I forbid you to leave this ’ouse!” said Mr. Porter, in a thrilling voice. “If you do you won’t find nothing done when you come home, and all the kids dirty and starving.”
“Cheerio!” said Mrs. Porter.
Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. A glance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair in the dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate.
He made a hearty breakfast at a neighbouring coffee-shop, and, returning home, lit the fire and sat before it, smoking. The return of the four children from school, soon after midday, found him still wrestling with the difficulties of the situation. His announcement that their mother was out and that there would be no dinner was received at first in stupefied silence. Then Jemmy, opening his mouth to its widest extent, acted as conductor to an all-too-willing chorus.
The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with the tribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferating orders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife had taken of his affection for his children. He took some money from his pocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with the assistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up the breakfast things and placed one of them in the dustbin.
The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, and watched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausage which had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh of relief heralded its return to the pan.
“Mother always—” began the eldest boy.
Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smacked the critic’s head.