Joe Wilson and His Mates [40]
pretty often.
She came up several times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand.
She wouldn't sit down and condole with Mary, or waste her time
asking questions, or talking about the time when she was ill herself.
She'd take off her hat -- a shapeless little lump of black straw
she wore for visiting -- give her hair a quick brush back
with the palms of her hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to work
to `tidy up'. She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting out
our children's clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps she used to dress her own
like that in the days when Spicer was a different man from what he was now.
She seemed interested in the fashion-plates of some women's journals we had,
and used to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for she was
not likely to go in for fashion. She never talked of her early girlhood;
but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer
had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr Balanfantie,
from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall's wife, and drove up the creek
to our place on his way back to see how Mary and the baby were getting on.
Mary got out some crockery and some table-napkins that she had packed away
for occasions like this; and she said that the way Mrs Spicer
handled the things, and helped set the table (though she did it
in a mechanical sort of way), convinced her that she had been
used to table-napkins at one time in her life.
Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer
would say suddenly --
`Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'
`Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any notice of me.'
And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children -- and Mary too, sometimes,
as if she mistook her for a child -- and go.
Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.
Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again
next day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said --
`I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson.
The children can do for me.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.'
We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down
on Sunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough
for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children
running to the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming --
`Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.'
And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out the front door,
and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of `broom-stuff'
-- coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges -- with a stick
stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round
in front of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least
one flick of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster
and scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel
round her finger and dig out his ears -- as if she was anxious
to have him hear every word that was going to be said.
No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say,
`I was jist expectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.' And she was original in that, anyway.
She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to spread
on the table when we were there, as a matter of course
(`The others is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'),
but I saw by the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather
a wonderful thing to them. `I must really git some more knives an' forks
next time I'm in Cobborah,' she'd say. `The children break an' lose 'em
till I'm ashamed to ask Christians ter sit down ter the table.'
She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them rather ghastly,
but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about
She came up several times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand.
She wouldn't sit down and condole with Mary, or waste her time
asking questions, or talking about the time when she was ill herself.
She'd take off her hat -- a shapeless little lump of black straw
she wore for visiting -- give her hair a quick brush back
with the palms of her hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to work
to `tidy up'. She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting out
our children's clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps she used to dress her own
like that in the days when Spicer was a different man from what he was now.
She seemed interested in the fashion-plates of some women's journals we had,
and used to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for she was
not likely to go in for fashion. She never talked of her early girlhood;
but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer
had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr Balanfantie,
from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall's wife, and drove up the creek
to our place on his way back to see how Mary and the baby were getting on.
Mary got out some crockery and some table-napkins that she had packed away
for occasions like this; and she said that the way Mrs Spicer
handled the things, and helped set the table (though she did it
in a mechanical sort of way), convinced her that she had been
used to table-napkins at one time in her life.
Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer
would say suddenly --
`Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'
`Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any notice of me.'
And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children -- and Mary too, sometimes,
as if she mistook her for a child -- and go.
Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.
Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again
next day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said --
`I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson.
The children can do for me.'
`Why, Mrs Spicer?'
`Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.'
We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down
on Sunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough
for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children
running to the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming --
`Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.'
And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out the front door,
and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of `broom-stuff'
-- coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges -- with a stick
stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round
in front of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least
one flick of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster
and scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel
round her finger and dig out his ears -- as if she was anxious
to have him hear every word that was going to be said.
No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say,
`I was jist expectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.' And she was original in that, anyway.
She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to spread
on the table when we were there, as a matter of course
(`The others is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'),
but I saw by the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather
a wonderful thing to them. `I must really git some more knives an' forks
next time I'm in Cobborah,' she'd say. `The children break an' lose 'em
till I'm ashamed to ask Christians ter sit down ter the table.'
She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them rather ghastly,
but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about