Rudyard Kipling's Tales of Horror and Fantasy (83 page)

‘An’’ow often did ye look for ’en to come back?’ Mrs Fettley demanded mercilessly.

‘More’n once – more’n once! Goin’ over the streets we’d used, I thought de very pave-stones ’ud shruck out under me feet.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fettley. ‘I dunno but dat don’t ’urt as much as aught else. An’ dat was all yet got?’

‘No. ’Twadn’t. That’s the curious part, if you’ll believe it, Liz.’

‘I do. I lay you’re further off lyin’ now than in all your life, Gra’.’

‘I am … An’ I suffered, like I’d not wish my most arrantest enemies to. God’s Own Name! I went through the hoop that spring! One part of it was headaches which I’d never know all me days before. Think o’
me
with an ’eddick! But I come to be grateful for ’em. They kep’ me from thinkin’ …’

‘’Tis like a tooth,’ Mrs Fettley commented. ‘It must rage an’rugg till it tortures itself quiet on ye; an’ then – then there’s na’unleft.’

‘I
got enough lef to last me all
my
days on earth. It comeabout through our charwoman’s liddle girl – Sophy Ellis was’er name – all eyes an’ elbers an’ hunger. I used to give ’ervittles. Otherwhiles, I took no special notice of ’er, an’ a sightless, o’ course, when me trouble about ’Arry was on me. But – you know how liddle maids first feel it sometimes – she cometo be crazy-fond o’ me, pawin’ an’ cuddlin’ all whiles; an’ I’adn’t the ’eart to beat ’er off… One afternoon, early inspring ’twas, ’er mother ’ad sent ’er round to scutchel up whatvittles she could off of us. I was settin’ by the fire, me apernover me head, half-mad with the ’eddick, when she slips in. Ireckon I was middlin’ short with ’er. “Lor’!” she says. “Is
that
all? I’ll take it off you in two-twos!” I told her not to lay afinger on me, for I thought she’d want to stroke my forehead;an’– I ain’t that make. “
I
won’t tech ye,” she says, an’ slips outagain. She ’adn’t been gone ten minutes ’fore me old ’eddicktook off quick as bein’ kicked. So I went about my work.Prasin’ly, Sophy comes back, an’ creeps into my chair quiet asa mouse. ’Er eyes was deep in ’er ’ead an’’er face all drawed. Iasked ’er what ’ad ’appened. “Nothin’,” she says. “On’y I’vegot it now.”“Got what?” I says. “Your ’eddick,” she says, allhoarse an’ sticky-lipped. “I’ve took it on me.”“Nonsense,” Isays, “it went of itself when you was ouf. Lay still an’ I’ll makeye a cup o’ tea.”“’Twon’t do no good,” she says, “till yourtime’s up. ’Ow long do
your
’eddicks last?”“Don’t talk silly,” Isays, “or I’ll send for the Doctor.” It looked to me like shemight be hatchin’ de measles. “Oh, Mrs Ashcroft,” she saysstretchin’ out ’er liddle thin arms. “I
do
love ye.” There wasn’tany holdin’ agin that. I took ’er into me lap an’ made much of’er. “Is it truly gone?” she says. “Yes,” I says, “an’ if ’twas youtook it away, I’m truly grateful.”“
’Twas
me,” she says, layin’’er cheek to mine. “No one but me knows how.” An’ then she said she’d changed me ’eddick for me at a Wish ’Ouse.’

‘Whatt?’Mrs Fettley spoke sharply.

‘A Wish House. No!
I
’adn’t ’eard o’ such things, either. I couldn’t get it straight at first, but, puttin’ all together, I made out that a Wish ’Ouse ’ad to be a house which ’ad stood unlet an’ empty long enough for Some One, like, to come an in’abit there; She said, a liddle girl that she’d played with in the livery-stables where ’Arry worked ’ad told ’er so. She said the girl ’ad belonged in a caravan that laid up, o’ winters, in Lunnon. Gipsy, I judge.’

‘Ooh! There’s no sayin’ what Gippos know, but
I’ve
never ’eard of a Wish ’Ouse, an’ I know – some things,’ said Mrs Fettley.

‘Sophy said there was a Wish ’Ouse in Wadloes Road – just a few streets off, on the way to our green-grocer’s. All you ’ad to do, she said, was to ring the bell an’ wish your wish through the slit o’ the letter-box. I asked ’er if the fairies give it ’er? “Don’t ye know,” she says, “there’s no fairies in a Wish ’Ouse? There’s on’y a Token.”

‘Goo’ Lord A’mighty! Where did she come by
that
word?’cried Mrs Fettley; for a Token is a wraith of the dead or, worse still, of the living.

‘The caravan-girl ’ad told ’er, she said. Well, Liz, it troubled me to ’ear ’er, an’ lyin’ in me arms she must ha’ felt it. “That’s very kind o’ you,” I says, holdin’’er tight, “to wish me ’eddick away. But why didn’t ye ask somethin’ nice for yourself?”“You can’t do that,” she says. “All you’ll get at a Wish ’Ouse is leave to take some one else’s trouble. I’ve took Ma’s ’eadaches, when she’s been kind to me; but this is the first time I’ve been able to do aught for you. Oh, Mrs Ashcroft, I
do
just-about love you.”An’ she goes on all like that. Liz, I tell you my ’air e’en a’most stood on end to ’ear ’er. I asked ’er what like a Token was. “I dunno,” she says, “but after you’ve ringed the bell, you’ll ’ear it run up from the basement, to the front door. Then say your wish,” she says, “an’ go away.”

‘“The Token don’t open de door to ye, then?” I says. “Ohno,” she says. “You on’y ’ear gigglin’, like, be’ind the front door. Then you say you’ll take the trouble off of ’oo ever ’tis you’ve chose for your love; an’ ye’ll get it,” she says. I didn’t ask no more – she was too ’ot an’ fevered. I made much of ’er till it come time to light de gas, an’ a riddle after that, ’er ’eddick – mine, I suppose – took off, an’ she got down an’ played with the cat.’

‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs Fettley. ‘Did – did ye foller it up, anyways?’

‘She askt me to, but I wouldn’t ’ave no such dealin’s with a child.’

‘What
did
ye do, then?’

‘Sat in me own room ’stid o’ the kitchen when me ’eddicks come on. But it lay at de back o’ me mind.’

‘’Twould. Did she tell ye more, ever?’

‘No. Besides what the Gippo girl ’ad told ’er, she knew naught, ’cept that the charm worked. An’, next after that – in May ’twas – I suffered the summer out in Lunnon. ’Twas hot an’ windy for weeks, an’ the streets stinkin’ o’ dried ’orse-dung blowin’ from side to side an’ lyin’ level with the kerb. We don’t get that nowadays. I ’ad my ’ol’day just before hoppin’,
²
an’ come down ’ere to stay with Bessie again. She noticed I’d lost flesh, an’ was all poochy under the eyes.’

‘Did ye see ’Arry?’

Mrs Ashcroft nodded. ‘The fourth – no, the fifth day. Wednesday ’twas. I knowed ’e was workin’ at Smalldene again. I asked ’is mother in the street, bold as brass. She ’adn’t room to say much, for Bessie – you know ’er tongue – was talkin’ full-clack. But that Wednesday, I was walkin’ with one o’ Bessie’s chillern hangin’ on me skirts, at de back o’Chanter’s Tot. Prasin’ly, I felt ’e was be’ind me on the footpath, an’ I knowed by ’is tread ’e’d changed ’is nature. I slowed, an’ I heard ’im slow. Then I fussed a piece with the child, to force him past me, like. So ’e
’ad
to come past. ’E just says, “Good-evenin’,” and goes on, tryin’ to pull ’isself together.’

‘Drunk, was he?’ Mrs Fettley asked.

‘Never! S’runk an’ wizen; ’is clothes ’angin’ on ’im like bags, an’ the back of ’is neck whiter’n chalk. ’Twas all I could do not to oppen my arms an’ cry after him. But I swallered me spittle till I was back ’ome again an’ the chillern a bed. Then I says to Bessie, after supper, “What in de world’s come to ’Arry Mockler?” Bessie told me ’e’d been a-Hdspital for two months, ’long o’ cuttin’’is foot wid a spade, muckin’ out the old pond at Smalldene. There was poison in de dirt, an’ it rooshed up ’is leg, like, an’ come out all over him. ’E ’adn’t been back to ’is job – carterin’ at Smalldene – more’n a fortnight. She told me the Doctor said he’d go off, likely, with the November frostes; an’’is mother ’ad told ’er that ’e didn’t rightly eat nor sleep, an’ sweated ’imself into pools, no odds ’ow chill ’e lay. An’ spit terrible o’ mornin’s. “Dearie me,” I says. “But, mebbe, hoppin’’ll set ’im right again,” an’ I licked me thread-point an’ I fetched me needle’s eye up to it an’ I threads me needle under de lamp, steady as rocks. An’ dat night (me bed was in de wash-house) I cried an’ I cried. An’
you
know, Liz – for you’ve been with me in my throes – it takes summat to make me cry.’

‘Yes; but chile-bearin’ is on’y just pain,’ said Mrs Fettley.

‘I come round by cock-crow, an’ dabbed cold tea on me eyes to take away the signs. Long towards nex’ evenin’ – I was settin’ out to lay some flowers on me ’usband’s grave, for the look o’ the thing – I met’’Arry over against where the War Memorial is now. ’E was comin’ back from ’is ’orses, so ’e couldn’t
not
see me. I looked ’im all over, an’“ ’Arry,” I says twix’ me teeth, “come back an’ rest-up in Lunnon.”“I won’t take it,” he says, “for I can give ye naught.”“I don’t ask it,” I says. “By God’s Own Name, I don’t ask na’un! On’y come up an’ see a Lunnon doctor.”’E lifts ’is two ’eavy eyes at me: “ ’Tis past that, Gra’,”’e says. “I’ve but a few months left.”“’Arry!” I says. “
My
man!” I says. I couldn’t say no more. ’Twas all up in me throat. “Thank ye kindly, Gra’,”’e says (but ’e never says “my woman”), an’’e went on up-street an’’is mother – Oh, damn ’er! – she was watchin’ for ’im, an’ she shut de door be’ind ’im.’

Mrs Fettley stretched an arm across the table, and made tofinger Mrs Ashcroft’s sleeve at the wrist, but the other moved it out of reach.

‘So I went on to the churchyard with my flowers, an’ I remembered my ’usband’s warnin’ that night he spoke. ’E
was
death-wise, an’ it ’
ad
’appened as ’e said. But as I was settin’down de jam-pot on the grave-mound, it come over me there was one thing I
could
do for ’Arry. Doctor or no Doctor, I thought I’d make a trial of it. So I did. Nex’ mornin’, a bill came down from our Lunnon green-grocer. Mrs Marshall, she’d lef me petty cash for suchlike – o’ course – but I tole Bess ’twas for me to come an’ open the ’ouse. So I went up, afternoon train.’

‘An’ – but I know you ’adn’t – ’adn’t you no fear?’

‘What for? There was nothin’ front o’ me but my own shame an’ God’s croolty. I couldn’t ever get ’Arry – ’ow
could
I? I knowed it must go on burnin’ till it burned me out.’

‘Aie!’ said Mrs Fettley, reaching for the wrist again, and this time Mrs Ashcroft permitted it.

‘Yit ’twas a comfort to know I could try
this
for ’im. So I went an’ I paid the green-grocer’s bill, an’ put ’is receipt in me hand-bag, an’ then I stepped round to Mrs Ellis – our char – an’ got the ’ouse-keys an’ opened the ’ouse. First, I made me bed to come back to (God’s Own Name! Me bed to lie upon!). Nex’ I made me a cup o’ tea an’ sat down in the kitchen thinkin’, till ’long towards dusk. Terrible close, ’twas. Then I dressed me an’ went out with the receipt in me ’and-bag, feignin’ to study it for an address, like. Fourteen, Wadloes Road, was the place – a liddle basement-kitchen ’ouse, in a row of twenty-thirty such, an’ tiddy strips o’ walled garden in front – the paint off the front doors, an’ na’un done to na’un since ever so long. There wasn’t ’ardly no one in the streets ’cept the cats.
’Twas
’ot, too! I turned into the gate bold as brass; up de steps I went an’ I ringed the front-door bell. She pealed loud, like it do in an empty house. When she’d all ceased, I ’eard a cheer, like, pushed back on de floor o’ the kitchen. Then I ’eard feet on de kitchen-stairs, like it might ha’ been a heavy woman in slippers. They come up to de stairhead, acrost the hall – I’eard the bare boards creak under ’em – an’ at de frontdoor dey stopped. I stooped me to the letter-box slit, an’ I says: “Let me take everythin’ bad that’s in store for my man, ’Arry Mockler, for love’s sake.” Then, whatever it was ’tother side de door let its breath out, like, as if it ’ad been holdin’ it for to ’ear better.’

‘Nothin’ was
said
to ye?’ Mrs Fettley demanded.

‘Na’un. She just breathed out – a sort of
A-ah
,like. Then the steps went back an’ downstairs to the kitchen – all draggy – an’ I heard the cheer drawed up again.’

‘An’ you abode on de doorstep, throughout all, Gra’?’

Mrs Ashcroft nodded.

‘Then I went away, an’ a man passin’ says to me: “Didn’t you know that house was empty?”“No,” I says. “I must ha’ been give the wrong number.” An’ I went back to our ’ouse, an’ I went to bed; for I was fair flogged out. ’Twas too ’ot to sleep more’n snatches, so I walked me about, lyin’ down betweens, till crack o’ dawn. Then I went to the kitchen to make me a cup o’ tea, an’ I hitted meself just above the ankle on an old roastin’-jack o’ mine that Mrs Ellis had moved out from the corner, her last cleanin’. An’ so – nex’ after that – I waited till the Marshalls come back o’ their holiday.’

‘Alone there? I’d ha’ thought you’d ’ad enough of empty houses,’ said Mrs Fettley, horrified.

‘Oh, Mrs Ellis an’ Sophy was runnin’ in an’ out soon’s I was back, an’’twixt us we cleaned de house again top-to-bottom. There’s allus a hand’s turn more to do in every house. An’ that’s ’ow ’twas with me that autumn an’ winter, in Lunnon.’

‘Then na’un hap – overtook ye for your doin’s?’

Mrs Ashcroft smiled. ‘No. Not then. ’Long in November I sent Bessie ten shillin’s.’

‘You was allus free-’anded,’ Mrs Fettley interrupted.

‘An’ I got what I paid for, with the rest o’ the news. She said the hoppin’’ad set ’im up wonderful. ’E’d ’ad six weeks of it, and now ’e was back again carterin’ at Smalldene. No odds to me
’ow
it ’ad ’appened – ’slong’s it
’ad.
But I dunno as my ten shillin’s eased me much. ’Arry bein’
dead,
like, ’e’d ha’ been mine, till Judgment ’Arry bein’ alive, ’e’d like as not pick up with some woman middlin’ quick. I raged over that. Comespring, I ’ad somethin’ else to rage for. I’d growed a nasty little weepin’ boil, like, on me shin, just above the boot-top, that wouldn’t heal no shape. It made me sick to look at it, for I’m clean-fleshed by nature. Chop me all over with a spade, an’ I’d heal like turf. Then Mrs Marshall she set ’er own doctor at me. ’E said I ought to ha’ come to him at first go-off, ’stead o’ drawin’ all manner o’ dyed stockin’s over it for months. ’E said I’d stood up too much to me work, for it was settin’ very close atop of a big swelled vein, like behither the small o’ me ankle. “Slow come, slow go,”’e says. “Lay your leg up on high an’ rest it,” he says, “an’’twill ease off. Don’t let it close up too soon. You’ve got a very fine leg, Mrs Ashcroft,”’e says. An’ he put wet dressin’s on it.’