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

CHAPTER VIII
THE SUMMER CAMP FOR TIRED WORKERS

The Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers had been planned by the Bishop of Fulham out of the largeness of his heart and the plenitude of his inexperience in such undertakings. He had borrowed a meadow, acquired a cow, hired a marquee, and wangled fifty army bell-tents and a field-kitchen, about which in all probability questions would be asked in the House. Finally as the result of a brain-wave he had requisitioned the local boy scouts. Later there would be the devil to pay with the leaders of the Boys' Brigade; but the bishop abounded in tact.

When the time came, the meadow was there, the bell-tents, the cow, and the boy scouts duly arrived; but of the marquee nothing had been seen or heard, and as for the field-kitchen, the War Office could say little beyond the fact that it had left Aldershot.

For days the bishop worked indefatigably with telephone and telegraph, endeavouring to trace the errant field-kitchen and the missing marquee; but so much of his time had been occupied in obtaining the necessary assistance to ensure that the cow was properly and punctually milked, that other things, being farther away, had seemed less insistent.

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.

When, under the able command of Patrol-leader Smithers, the Bindles' belongings had been piled up just inside the meadow and Mrs. Bindle helped down, sore in body and disturbed in temper, the indefatigable boy scout led the way towards a tent. He carried the Japanese basket in one hand, and the handleless bag under the other arm, whilst Bindle followed with the tin-bath, and Mrs. Bindle made herself responsible for the bundle of blankets, through the centre of which the parrot-headed umbrella peeped out coyly.

Their guide paused at the entrance of a bell-tent, and deposited the Japanese basket on the ground.

"This is your tent," he announced, "I'll send one of the patrol to help you," and, with the air of one upon whose shoulders rests the destiny of planets, he departed.

Bindle and Mrs. Bindle gazed after him, then at each other, finally at the tent. Bindle stepped across and put his head inside; but quickly withdrew it.

"Smells like a bus on a wet day," he muttered.

With an air of decision Mrs. Bindle entered the tent. As she did so Bindle winked gravely at a little boy who had wandered up, and now stood awaiting events with blue-eyed gravity. At Bindle's wink he turned and trotted off to a neighbouring tent, from the shelter of which he continued to watch the domestic tragedy of the new arrivals.

"There are no bedsteads." Mrs. Bindle's voice came from within the tent in tones of muffled tragedy.

"You don't say so," said Bindle abstractedly, his attention concentrated upon a diminutive knight of the pole, who was approaching their tent.

"Where's the feather beds, 'Orace?" he demanded when the lad was within ear-shot.

"There's a waterproof ground-sheet and we supply mattresses of loose straw," he announced as he halted sharply within two paces of where Bindle stood.

"Oh! you do, do you?" said Bindle, "an' who 'appens to supply the brass double-bedstead wot me and Mrs. B. is used to sleep on. P'raps you can tell me that, young shaver?"

Before the lad had time to reply, Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent, grimmer and more uncompromising than ever. For a moment she eyed the lad severely.

"Where am I to sleep?" she demanded.

"Are you with this gentleman?" enquired the boy scout.

"She is, sonny," said Bindle, "been with me for twenty years now. Can't lose 'er no'ow."

"Bindle, behave yourself!" Mrs. Bindle's jaws closed with a snap.

"We're going to 'ave some sacks of straw in place of that missionary's bed you an' me sleeps on in Fulham," explained Bindle; but Mrs. Bindle had disappeared once more into the tent.

For the next hour the Bindles and their assistant scout were engaged in getting the bell-tent into habitable condition. During the process the scout explained that the marquee was to have been used for the communal meals, which the field-kitchen was to supply; but both had failed to arrive, and the bishop had himself gone up to London to make enquiries.

"An' wot's goin' to 'appen to us till 'e runs acrost 'em?" enquired Bindle. "I'm feelin' a bit peckish myself now – wot I'll be like in a hour's time I don't know."

"I'll show you how to build a scout-fire," volunteered the lad.

"But I ain't a fire-eater," objected Bindle. "I want a bit o' steak, or a rasher an' an egg."

"What's the use of a scout-fire to me with kippers to cook?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, appearing once more at the entrance of the tent.

At that moment another "tired worker" drifted across to the Bindles' tent. He was a long, lean man with a straggling moustache and three days' growth of beard. He was in his shirt sleeves, collarless, with unbuttoned waistcoat, and he wore a general air of despondency and gloom.

"'Ow goes it, mate?" he enquired.

Bindle straightened himself from inspecting the interior of the tin-bath which he was unpacking.

"Oh! mid; but I've known wot it is to be 'appier," said Bindle, with a grin.

"Same 'ere," was the gloomy response.

"Things sort o' seem to 'ave gone wrong," suggested Bindle conversationally.

"That's right," said the man, rubbing the bristles of his chin with a meditative thumb.

"'Ow you gettin' on for grub?" asked Bindle.

The man shook his head lugubriously.

"What about a pub?"

"Mile away," gloomed the man.

"Gawd Almighty!" Bindle's exclamation was not concerned with the man's remark, but with something he extracted from the bath. "Well, I'm blowed," he muttered.

"'Ere, Lizzie," he called out.

Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent. Bindle held up an elastic-sided boot from which marmalade fell solemnly and reluctantly.

Then the flood-gates of Mrs. Bindle's wrath burst apart, and she poured down upon Bindle's head a deluge of reproach. He and he alone was responsible for all the disasters that had befallen them. He had done it on purpose because she wanted a holiday. He wasn't a husband, he was a blasphemer, an atheist, a cumberer of the earth, and all that was evil.

She was interrupted in her tirade by the approach of a little man with a round, bald, shiny head and a worried expression of countenance.

"D'yer know 'ow to milk a cow, mate?" he enquired of Bindle, apparently quite unconscious that he had precipitated himself into the midst of a domestic scene.

"Do I know 'ow to wot?" demanded Bindle, eyeing the man as if he had asked a most unusual question.

"There's a bloomin' cow over there and nobody can't milk 'er, an' the bishop's gone, and we wants our tea."

Bindle scratched his head through his cap, then, turning towards the tent into which Mrs. Bindle had once more disappeared, he called out:

"Hi, Lizzie, jer know 'ow to milk a cow?"

"Don't be beastly," came the reply from the tent.

"It ain't one of them cows," he called back, "it's a milk cow, an' 'ere's a cove wot wants 'is tea."

Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent, and surveyed the group of three men.

"How did you manage yesterday?" she demanded practically.

"A girl come over from the farm, missis," said the little man, "and she didn't 'arf make it milk."

"Hold your tongue," snapped Mrs. Bindle.

The man gazed at her in surprise.

"Why don't you get the same girl?" asked Mrs. Bindle.

"She says she's too busy. I 'ad a try myself," said the man, "only it was a washout."

"I'll 'ave a look at 'er," Bindle announced, and the three men moved off across the meadow, picking their way among the tents with their piles of bedding, blankets, and other impedimenta outside. All were getting ready for the night.

When Bindle reached Daisy, he found the problem had been solved by one of Mr. Timkins' farm-hands, who was busily at work, watched by an interested group of campers.

During the next half-hour, Bindle strolled about among the tents learning many things, foremost among which was that "the whole ruddy camp was a washout." The commissariat had failed badly, and the nearest drink was a mile away at The Trowel and Turtle. A great many things were said about the bishop and the organisers of the camp.

When he returned to the tent, he found Mrs. Bindle engaged in boiling water in a petrol-tin over a scout-fire. With the providence of a good housewife she had brought with her emergency supplies, and Bindle was soon enjoying a meal comprised of kipper, tea and bread and margarine. When he had finished, he announced himself ready to face the terrors of the night.

"I can't say as I likes it," he remarked, as he stood at the entrance to the tent, struggling to undo his collar. "Seems to me sort o' draughty."

"That's right, go on," cried Mrs. Bindle, as she pushed past him. "What did you expect?"

"Well, since you asks me, I'm like those coves in religion wot expects nothink; but gets an 'ell of a lot."

"Don't blaspheme. It's Sunday to-morrow," was the rejoinder; but Bindle had strolled away to commune with the man with a stubbly chin and pessimistic soul.

"Do yer sleep well, mate?" he enquired, conversationally.

"Crikey! sleep is it? There ain't no blinkin' sleep in this 'ere ruddy camp."

"Wot's up?" enquired Bindle.

"Up!" was the lugubrious response. "Awake all last night, I was."

"Wot was you doin'?" queried Bindle with interest.

"Scratchin'!" was the savage retort.

"Scratchin'! Who was you scratchin'?"

"Who was I scratchin'? Who the 'ell should I be scratchin' but myself?" he demanded, his apathy momentarily falling from him. "I'd like to know where they got that blinkin' straw from wot they give us to lie on. I done a bit o' scratchin' in the trenches; but last night I 'adn't enough fingers, damn 'em."

Bindle whistled.

"Then," continued the man with gloomy gusto, "there's them ruddy chickens in the mornin', a-crowin' their guts out. Not a wink o' sleep after three for anybody," he added, with all the hatred of the cockney for farmyard sounds. "Oh! it's an 'oliday, all right," he added with scathing sarcasm, "only it ain't ours."

"Seems like it," said Bindle drily, as he turned on his heel and made for his own tent.

That night, he realised to the full the iniquities of the man who had supplied the straw for the mattresses. By the sounds that came from the other side of the tent-pole, he gathered that Mrs. Bindle was similarly troubled.

Towards dawn, Bindle began to doze, just as the cocks were announcing the coming of the sun. If the man with the stubbly chin were right in his diagnosis, the birds, like Prometheus, had, during the night, renewed their missing organisms.

"Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle. "Ole six-foot-o'-melancholy wasn't swinging the lead neither. 'Oly ointment! I never 'eard such a row in all my puff. There ain't no doubt but wot Mrs. Bindle's gettin' a country 'oliday," and with that he rose and proceeded to draw on his trousers, deciding that it was folly to attempt further to seek sleep.

Outside the tent, he came across Patrol-leader Smithers.

"Mornin' Foch," said Bindle.

"Smithers," said the lad. "Patrol-leader Smithers of the Bear Patrol."

"My mistake," said Bindle; "but you an' Foch is jest as like as two peas. You don't 'appen to 'ave seen a stray cock about, do you?"

"A cock," repeated the boy.

"Yes!" said Bindle, tilting his head on one side with the air of one listening intently, whilst from all sides came the brazen blare of ecstatic chanticleers. "I thought I 'eard one just now."

"They're Farmer Timkins' fowls," said Patrol-leader Smithers gravely.

"You don't say so," said Bindle. "Seem to be in good song this mornin'. Reg'lar bunch o' canaries."

To this flippancy, Patrol-leader Smithers made no response.

"Does there 'appen to be any place where I can get a rinse, 'Indenberg?" he enquired.

"There's a tap over there for men," said Patrol-leader Smithers, pointing to the extreme right of the field, "and for ladies over there," he pointed in the opposite direction.

"No mixed bathin', I see," murmured Bindle. "Now, as man to man, Ludendorff, which would you advise?"

The lad looked at him with grave eyes. "The men's tap is over there," and again he pointed.

"Well, well," said Bindle, "p'raps you're right; but I ain't fond o' takin' a bath in the middle of a field," he muttered.

"The taps are screened off."

"Well, well, live an' learn," muttered Bindle, as he made for the men's tap.

When Bindle returned to the tent, he found Patrol-leader Smithers instructing Mrs. Bindle in how to coax a scout-fire into activity.

"You mustn't poke it, mum," said the lad. "It goes out if you do."

Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips, and folded the brown mackintosh she was wearing more closely about her. She was not accustomed to criticism, particularly in domestic matters, and her instinct was to disregard it; but the boy's earnestness seemed to discourage retort, and she had already seen the evil effect of attacking a scout-fire with a poker.

Suddenly her eye fell upon Bindle, standing in shirt and trousers, from the back of which his braces dangled despondently.

"Why don't you go in and dress?" she demanded. "Walking about in that state!"

"I been to get a rinse," he explained, as he walked across to the tent and disappeared through the aperture.

Mrs. Bindle snorted angrily. She had experienced a bad night, added to which the fire had resented her onslaught by incontinently going out, necessitating an appeal to a mere child.

Having assumed a collar, a coat and waistcoat, Bindle strolled round the camp exchanging a word here and a word there with his fellow campers, who, in an atmosphere of intense profanity, were engaged in getting breakfast.

"Never 'eard such language," muttered Bindle with a grin. "This 'ere little camp'll send a rare lot o' people to a place where they won't meet the bishop."

At the end of half-an-hour he returned and found tea, eggs and bacon, and Mrs. Bindle waiting for him.

"So you've come at last," she snapped, as he seated himself on a wooden box.

"Got it this time," he replied genially, sniffing the air appreciatively. "'Ope you got somethink nice for yer little love-bird."

"Don't you love-bird me," cried Mrs. Bindle, who had been looking for some one on whom to vent her displeasure. "I suppose you're going to leave me to do all the work while you go gallivanting about playing the gentleman."

"I don't needs to play it, Mrs. B., I'm IT. Vere de Vere with blood as blue as 'Earty's stories."

"If you think I'm going to moil and toil and cook for you down here as I do at home, you're mistaken. I came for a rest. I've hardly had a wink of sleep all night," she sniffed ominously.

"I thought I 'eard you on the 'unt," said Bindle sympathetically.

"Bindle!" There was warning in her tone.

"But wasn't you?" He looked across at her in surprise, his mouth full of eggs and bacon.

"I – I had a disturbed night," she drew in her lips primly.

"So did I," said Bindle gloomily. "I'd 'ave disturbed 'em if I could 'ave caught 'em. My God! There must 'ave been millions of 'em," he added reminiscently.

"If you're going to talk like that, I shall go away," she announced.

"I'd like to meet the cove wot filled them mattresses," was Bindle's sinister comment.

"It – it wasn't that," said Mrs. Bindle. "It was the – " She paused for a moment.

"Them cocks," he suggested.

"Don't be disgusting, Bindle."

"Disgusting? I never see such a chap as me for bein' lood an' disgustin' an' blasphemious. Wot jer call 'em if they ain't cocks?"

"They're roosters – the male birds."

"But they wasn't roostin', blow 'em. They was crowin', like giddy-o."

Mrs. Bindle made no comment; but continued to eat her breakfast.

"Personally, myself, I'm goin' to 'ave a little word with the bishop about that little game I 'ad with wot 'appened before wot you call them male birds started givin' tongue." He paused to take breath. "I don't like to mention wot it was; but I shall itch for a month. 'Ullo Weary!" he called out to the long man with the stubbly chin.

The man approached. He was wearing the same lugubrious look and the same waistcoat, unbuttoned in just the same manner that it had been unbuttoned the day before.

"You was right about them mattresses and the male birds," said Bindle, with a glance at Mrs. Bindle.

"The wot?" demanded the man, gazing vacantly at Bindle.

"The male birds."

"'Oo the 'ell – sorry, mum," to Mrs. Bindle. Then turning once more to Bindle he added, "Them cocks, you mean?"

"'Ush!" said Bindle. "They ain't cocks 'ere, they're male birds, an' roosters on Sunday. You see, my missis – " but Mrs. Bindle had risen and, with angry eyes, had disappeared into the tent.

"Got one of 'em?" queried Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction of the aperture of the tent.

The man with the stubbly chin nodded dolefully.

"Thought so," said Bindle. "You looks it."

Whilst Bindle was strolling round the camp with the man with the stubbly chin, Mrs. Bindle was becoming better acquainted with the peculiar temperament of a bell-tent. She had already realised its disadvantages as a dressing-room. It was dark, it was small, it was stuffy. The two mattresses occupied practically the whole floor-space and there was nowhere to sit. It was impossible to move about freely, owing to the restrictions of space in the upper area.

Having washed the breakfast-things, peeled the potatoes, supplied by Mr. Timkins through Patrol-leader Smithers, and prepared for the oven a small joint of beef she had brought with her, Mrs. Bindle once more withdrew into the tent.

When she eventually re-appeared in brown alpaca with a bonnet to match, upon which rested two purple pansies, Bindle had just returned from what he called "a nose round," during which he had made friends with most of the campers, men, women and children, who were not already his friends.

At the sight of Mrs. Bindle he whistled softly.

"You can show me where the bakers is," she said icily, as she proceeded to draw on a pair of brown kid gloves. The inconveniences arising from dressing in a bell-tent had sorely ruffled her temper.

"The bakers!" he repeated stupidly.

"Yes, the bakers," she repeated. "I suppose you don't want to eat your dinner raw."

Then Bindle strove to explain the composite tragedy of the missing field-kitchen and marquee, to say nothing of the bishop.

In small communities news travels quickly, and the Bindles soon found themselves the centre of a group of men and women (with children holding a watching brief), all anxious to volunteer information, mainly on the subject of misguided bishops who got unsuspecting townsmen into the country under false pretences.

Mrs. Bindle was a good housewife, and she had come prepared with rations sufficient for the first two days. She had, however, depended upon the statements contained in the prospectus of the S.C.T.W., that cooking facilities would be provided by the committee.

She strove to control the anger that was rising within her. It was the Sabbath, and she was among strangers.

Although ready and willing to volunteer information, the other campers saw no reason to restrain their surprise and disapproval of Mrs. Bindle's toilette. The other women were in their work-a-day attire, as befitted housewives who had dinners to cook under severe handicaps, and they resented what they regarded as a newcomer's "swank."

That first day of the holiday, for which she had fought with such grim determination, lived long in Mrs. Bindle's memory. Dinner she contrived with the aid of the frying-pan and the saucepan she had brought with her. It would have taken something more than the absence of a field-kitchen to prevent Mrs. Bindle from doing what she regarded as her domestic duty.

The full sense of her tragedy, however, manifested itself when, dinner over, she had washed-up.

There was nothing to do until tea-time. Bindle had disappeared with the man with the stubbly chin and two others in search of the nearest public-house, a mile away. Patrol-leader Smithers was at Sunday-school, whilst her fellow-campers showed no inclination to make advances.

She walked for a little among the other tents; but her general demeanour was not conducive to hasty friendships. She therefore returned to the tent and wrote to Mr. Hearty, telling him, on the authority of Patrol-leader Smithers, that Mr. Timkins had a large quantity of excellent strawberries for sale.

Mr. Hearty was a greengrocer who had one eye on business and the other eye on God, in case of accidents. On hearing that the Bindles were going into the country, his mind had instinctively flown to fruit and vegetables. He had asked Mrs. Bindle to "drop him a postcard" (Mr. Hearty was always economical in the matter of postages, even other people's postages) if she heard of anything that she thought might interest him.

Mrs. Bindle told in glowing terms the story of Farmer Timkins' hoards of strawberries, giving the impression that he was at a loss what to do with them.

Three o'clock brought the bishop and a short open-air service, which was attended by the entire band of campers, with the exception of Bindle and his companions.

The bishop was full of apologies for the past and hope for the future. In place of a sermon he gave an almost jovial address; but there were no answering smiles. Everyone was wondering what they could do until it was time for bed, the more imaginative going still further and speculating what they were to do when they got there.

"My friends," the bishop concluded, "we must not allow trifling mishaps to discourage us. We are here to enjoy ourselves."

And the campers returned to their tents as Achilles had done a few thousand years before, dark of brow and gloomy of heart.