Sons and Lovers. Дэвид Герберт Лоуренс

Mrs. Wharmby, the landlady, knew him. His grandmother, Morel’s mother, had been Mrs. Wharmby’s friend.

      “Your father’s not come yet,” said the landlady, in the peculiar half-scornful, half-patronizing voice of a woman who talks chiefly to grown men. “Sit you down.”

      Paul sat down on the edge of the bench in the bar. Some colliers were “reckoning”—sharing out their money—in a corner; others came in. They all glanced at the boy without speaking. At last Morel came; brisk, and with something of an air, even in his blackness.

      “Hello!” he said rather tenderly to his son. “Have you bested me? Shall you have a drink of something?”

      Paul and all the children were bred up fierce anti-alcoholists; and he would have suffered more in drinking a lemonade before all the men than in having a tooth drawn.

      ​“The landlady looked at him de haut en bas, rather pitying, and at the same time resenting his clear, fierce morality. Paul went home, glowering. He entered the house silently. Friday was baking day, and there was usually a hot bun. His mother put it before him.

      Suddenly he turned on her in a fury, his eyes flashing:

      “I’m not going to the office any more,” he said.

      “Why, what’s the matter?” his mother asked in surprise. His sudden rages rather amused her.

      “I’m not going any more,” he declared.

      “Oh, very well, tell your father so.”

      He chewed his bun as if he hated it.

      “I’m not—I’m not going to fetch the money.”

      “Then one of Carlin’s children can go; they’d be glad enough of the sixpence,” said Mrs. Morel.

      This sixpence was Paul’s only income. It mostly went in buying birthday presents; but it was an income, and he treasured it. But—

      “They can have it, then!” he said. “I don’t want it.”

      “Oh, very well,” said his mother. “But you needn’t bully me about it.”

      “They’re hateful, and common, and hateful, they are, and I’m not going any more. Mr. Braithwaite drops his ‘h’s,’ an’ Mr. Winterbottom says ‘You was.’ ”

      “And is that why you won’t go any more?” smiled Mrs. Morel.

      The boy was silent for some time. His face was pale, his eyes dark and furious. His mother moved about at her work, taking no notice of him.

      “They always stan’ in front of me, so’s I can’t get out,” he said.

      “Well, my lad, you’ve only to ask them,” she replied.

      “An’ then Alfred Winterbottom says, ‘What do they teach you at the Board-school?’ ”

      “They never taught him much,” said Mrs. Morel, “that is a fact—neither manners nor wit—and his cunning he was born with.”

      So, in her own way, she soothed him. His ridiculous hyper-sensitiveness made her heart ache. And sometimes the fury in his eyes roused her, made her sleeping soul lift up its head a moment, surprised.

      “What was the cheque?” she asked.

      “Seventeen pounds eleven and fivepence, and sixteen and ​six stoppages,” replied the boy. “It’s a good week; and only five shillings stoppages for my father.”

      So she was able to calculate how much her husband had earned, and could call him to account if he gave her short money. Morel always kept to himself the secret of the week’s amount.

      Friday was the baking night and market night. It was the rule that Paul should stay at home and bake. He loved to stop in and draw or read; he was very fond of drawing, Annie always “gallivanted” on Friday nights; Arthur was enjoying himself as usual. So the boy remained alone.

      Mrs. Morel loved her marketing. In the tiny market-place on the top of the hill, where four roads, from Nottingham and Derby. Ilkeston and Mansfield, meet, many stalls were erected. Brakes ran in from surrounding villages. The market-place was full of women, the streets packed with men. It was amazing to see so many men everywhere in the streets. Mrs. Morel usually quarrelled with her lace woman, sympathized with her fruit man—who was a gabey, but his wife was a bad un—laughed with the fish man—who was a scamp but so droll—put the linoleum man in his place, was cold with the odd-wares man, and only went to the crockery man when she was driven—or drawn by the cornflowers on a little dish; then she was coldly polite.

      “I wondered how much that little dish was,” she said.

      “Sevenpence to you.”

      “Thank you.”

      She put the dish down and walked away; but she could not leave the market-place without it. Again she went by where the pots lay coldly on the floor, and she glanced at the dish furtively, pretending not to.

      She was a little woman, in a bonnet and a black costume. Her bonnet was in its third year; it was a great grievance to Annie.

      “Mother!” the girl implored, “don’t wear that nubbly little bonnet.”

      “Then what else shall I wear,” replied the mother tartly. “And I’m sure it’s right enough.”

      It had started with a tip; then had had flowers; now was reduced to black lace and a bit of jet.

      “It looks rather come down,” said Paul. “Couldn’t you give it a pick-me-up?”

      “I’ll jowl your head for impudence,” said Mrs. Morel, and she tied the strings of the black bonnet valiantly under her chin.

      ​She glanced at the dish again. Both she and her enemy, the pot man, had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there were something between them. Suddenly he shouted:

      “Do you want it for fivepence?”

      She started. Her heart hardened; but then she stooped and took up her dish.

      “I’ll have it,” she said.

      “Yer’ll do me the favour, like?” he said. “Yer’d better spit in it, like yer do when y’ave something give yer.”

      Mrs. Morel paid him the fivepence in a cold manner.

      “I don’t see you give it me,” she said. “You wou1dn’t let me have it for fivepence if you didn’t want to.”

      “In this flamin’, scrattlin’ place you may count yerself lucky if you can give your things away,” he growled.

      “Yes; there are bad times, and good,” said Mrs. Morel.

      But she had forgiven the pot man. They were friends. She dare now finger his pots. So she was happy.

      Paul was waiting for her. He loved her home-coming. She was always her best so—triumphant, tired, laden with parcels, feeling rich in spirit. He heard her quick, light step in the entry and looked up from his drawing.

      “Oh!” she sighed, smiling at him from the doorway.

      “My word, you are loaded!” he exclaimed, putting down his brush.

      “I am!” she gasped. “That brazen Annie said she’d meet me. Such a weight!”

      She dropped her string bag and her packages on the table.

      “Is the bread done?” she asked, going to the oven.

      “The last one is soaking,” he replied. “You needn’t look, I’ve not forgotten it.”

      “Oh, that pot man!” she said, closing the oven door. “You know what a wretch I’ve said he was? Well, I don’t