Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle
Herbert George Jenkins
Produced by Al Haines
BINDLE
SOME CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF JOSEPH BINDLE
BY
HERBERT JENKINS
"Bindle is the greatest Cockney that has come into being through the medium of literature since Dickens wrote Pickwick Papers" MR. T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P.
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
YORK STREET LONDON S.W.1
1916
A HERBERT JENKINS BOOK
_Eighteenth Printing Completing 283,711 copies:_
Printed In Great Britain at the Athenaeum Printing Works, Redhill.
TO MY MOTHER
WHO AS HER SON'S BEST FRIEND IS PROBABLY HIS WORST CRITIC
FOREWORD
Some years ago I wrote an account of one of Bindle's "little jokes," ashe calls them, which appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_. As a resultthe late Mr. William Blackwood on more than one occasion expressed theopinion that a book about Bindle should be written, and suggested thatI offer it to him for publication. Other and weighty mattersintervened, and Bindle passed out of my thoughts.
Last year, however, the same suggestion was made from other quarters,and in one instance was backed up by a material reasoning that I foundirresistible.
A well-known author once assured me that in his opinion the publisherwho wrote books should, like the double-headed ass and five-leggedsheep, be painlessly put to death, preferably by the Society ofAuthors, as a menace to what he called "the legitimate."
Authors have been known to become their own publishers, generally, Ibelieve, to their lasting regret; why, therefore, should not apublisher become his own author? At least he would find somedifficulty in proving to the world that his failure was due tounder-advertising.
H. J.
12, ARUNDEL PLACE, HAYMARKET, LONDON, S.W.
_August_, 1916.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
FOREWORD I. THE BINDLES AT HOME II. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE III. THE HYPNOTIC FIASCO IV. THE HEARTYS AT HOME V. BINDLE TRIES A CHANGE OF WORK VI. THE HOTEL CORRIDOR VII. BINDLE COMMITS AN INDISCRETION VIII. THE GREAT CONSPIRACY IX. THE TEMPERANCE FETE X. MR. HEARTY PRAYS FOR BINDLE XI. MR. HEARTY BECOMES EXTREMELY UNPOPULAR XII. BINDLE AGREES TO BECOME A MILLIONAIRE XIII. OXFORD'S WELCOME TO BINDLE XIV. MR. HEARTY GIVES A PARTY XV. BINDLE AND THE GERMAN MENACE XVI. THE AMATEUR DETECTIVES XVII. BINDLE MAKES A MISTAKE XVIII. BINDLE ASSISTS IN AN ELOPEMENT XIX. THE SCARLET HORSE COTERIE XX. MILLIE LEAVES HOME XXI. CONCLUSION
BINDLE
CHAPTER I
THE BINDLES AT HOME
"Women," remarked Bindle, as he gazed reflectively into the tankard hehad just drained, "women is all right if yer can keep 'em from marryin'yer."
"I don't 'old wiv women," growled Ginger, casting a malevolent glanceat the Blue Boar's only barmaid, as she stood smirking at the other endof the long leaden counter. "Same as before," he added to the barman.
Joseph Bindle heaved a sign of contentment at the success of his ruefulcontemplation of the emptiness of his tankard.
"You're too late, ole sport," he remarked, as he sympatheticallysurveyed the unprepossessing features of his companion, where frecklesrioted with spots in happy abandon. "You're too late, you wi' threebabies 'fore you're twenty-five. Ginger, you're----"
"No, I ain't!" There was a note of savage menace in Ginger's voicethat caused his companion to look at him curiously.
"Ain't wot?" questioned Bindle.
"I ain't wot you was goin' to say I was."
"'Ow jer know wot I was goin' to say?"
"'Cos every stutterin' fool sez it; an' blimey I'm goin' to 'ammer thenext, an' I don't want to 'ammer you, Joe."
Bindle pondered a moment, then a smile irradiated his features,developing into a broad grin.
"You're too touchy, Ginger. I wasn't goin' to say, 'Ginger, you'rebarmy.'" Ginger winced and clenched his fists. "I was goin' to say,'Ginger, you're no good at marriage wi'out tack. If yer 'ad more tackmaybe yer wouldn't 'ave got married."
Ginger spat viciously in the direction of the spittoon, but hisfeelings were too strong for accurate aim.
"The parsons say as marriages is made in 'eaven," growled Ginger. "Whydon't 'eaven feed the kids? That's wot I want to know."
Ginger was notorious among his mates for the gloomy view he took oflife. No one had ever discovered in him enthusiasm for anything. Ifhe went to a football match and the team he favoured were beaten, itwas no more than he expected; if they were victorious his comment wouldbe that they ought to have scored more goals. If the horse he backedwon, he blamed fate because his stake was so small. The more beer heabsorbed the more misanthropic he seemed to become.
"Funny coves, parsons," remarked Bindle conversationally; "not as I'veany think to say agin' religion, providin' it's kep' for Sundays andGood Fridays, an' don't get mixed up wi' the rest of the week."
He paused and lifted the newly-filled tankard to his lips. Presentlyhe continued reminiscently:
"My father 'ad religion, and drunk 'isself to death 'keepin' the chillout.' Accordin' to 'im, if yer wanted to be 'appy in the next worldyer 'ad to be a sort of 'alf fish in this. 'E could tell the tale, 'ecould, and wot's more, 'e used to make us believe 'im." Bindle laughedat the recollection. "Two or three times a week 'e used to go tochapel to 'wash 'is sins away,' winter an' summer. The parson seemedto 'ave to wash the 'ole bloomin' lot of 'em, and my father neverforgot to take somethink on 'is way 'ome to keep the chill out, 'e wasthat careful of 'isself.
"'My life is Gawd's,' 'e used to say, 'an' I must take care of wot isthe Lord's.' There weren't no spots on my father. Why, 'e used to wet'is 'air to prove 'e'd been ''mersed,' as 'e called it. You'd 'aveliked 'im, Ginger; 'e was a gloomy sort of cove, same as you."
Ginger muttered something inarticulate, and buried his freckles andspots in his tankard. Bindle carefully filled his short clay pipe andlit it with a care and precision more appropriate to a cigar.
"No," he continued, "I ain't nothink agin' religion; it's the peoplewot goes in for it as does me. There's my brother-in-law, 'Earty byname, an' my missis--they must make 'eaven tired with their moanin'."
"Wot jer marry 'er for?" grumbled Ginger thickly, not with any show ofinterest, but as if to demonstrate that he was still awake.
"Ginger!" There was reproach in Bindle's voice. "Fancy you arstin' asilly question like that. Don't yer know as _no_ man ever marries anywoman? If 'e's nippy 'e gets orf the 'ook; if 'e ain't 'e's landed.You an' me wasn't nippy enough, ole son, an' 'ere we are."
"There's somethin' in that, mate." There was feeling in Ginger's voiceand a momentary alertness in his eye.
"Well," continued Bindle, "once on the 'ook there's only one thingthat'll save yer--tack."
"Or 'ammerin 'er blue," interpolated Ginger viciously.
"I draws the line there; I don't 'old with 'ammerin' women. Yer can't'ammer somethink wot can't 'ammer back, Ginger; that's for furriners.No, tack's the thing. Now take my missis. If yer back-answers 'erwhen she ain't feelin' chatty, you're as good as done. Wot I does isto keep quiet an' seem sorry, then she dries up. Arter a bit I'llwhistle or 'um 'Gospel Bells' (that's 'er favourite 'ymn, Ginger) as ifto meself. Then out I goes, an' when I gets 'ome to supper I takes ina tin o' salmon, an' it's all over till the next time. Wi' tack,'Gospel Bells,' and a tin o' salmon yer can do a rare lot wi' women,Ginger."
"Wot jer do if yer couldn't whistle or 'um, and if salmon made yer olewoman sick, same as it does mine; wot jer do then?" Ginger thrust hishead forward aggressively.
"I think, Ginger, I'd kill a slop. They always 'angs yer for killin'slops."
There was a momentary silence, as both men drained their pewters, and amoment after they left the Blue Boar. They walked along, each deep inhis own thoughts, in the direction of Hammersmith Church, where theyparted, Bindle to proceed to Fulham and Ginger to Chiswick; each to themate that had been thrust upon him by an undiscriminating fate.
Joseph Bindle was a little man, bald-headed, with a red nose, but hewas possessed of a great heart, which no misfortune ever daunted. Twothings in life he loved above all others, beer and humour (or, as hecalled it, his "little joke"); yet he permitted neither to interferewith the day's work, save under very exceptional circumstances. No onehad ever seen him drunk. He had once explained to a mate who urgedupon him an extra glass, "I don't put more on me back than I can carry,an' I do ditto wi' me stomach."
Bindle was a journeyman furniture-remover by profession, and the lifeof a journeyman furniture-remover is fraught with many vicissitudes andhardships. As one of the profession once phrased it to Bindle, "If itwasn't for them bespattered quarter-days, there might be a livin' init."
People, however, move at set periods, or, as Bindle put it, they "seemsto take root as if they was bloomin' vegetables." The set periods arepractically reduced to three, for few care to face the inconvenience ofa Christmas move.
Once upon a time family removals were leisurely affairs, which thecontractors took care to spread over many days; now, however, moving isa matter of contract, or, as Bindle himself expressed it, "Yer 'as tocarry a bookcase under one arm, a spring-mattress under the other, apianner on yer back, and then they wonders why yer ain't doin'somethink wi' yer teeth."
All these things conspired to make Bindle's living a precarious one.He was not lazy, and sought work assiduously. In his time he hadundertaken many strange jobs, his intelligence and ready wit giving himan advantage over his competitors; but if his wit gained for himemployment, his unconquerable desire to indulge in his "little jokes"almost as frequently lost it for him.
As the jobs became less frequent Mrs. Bindle waxed more eloquent. Toher a man who was not working was "a brute" or a "lazy hound." Shemade no distinction between the willing and the unwilling, and sheheaped the fire of her burning reproaches upon the head of her luckless"man" whenever he was unable to furnish her with a full week'shousekeeping.
Bindle was not lazy enough to be unpopular with his superiors, orsufficiently energetic to merit the contempt of his fellow-workers. Hedid his job in average time, and strove to preserve the middle coursethat should mean employment and pleasant associates.
"Lorst yer job?" was a frequent interrogation on the lips of Mrs.Bindle.
At first Bindle had striven to parry this inevitable question with apleasantry; but he soon discovered that his wife was impervious to hismost brilliant efforts, and he learned in time to shroud hisdegradation in an impenetrable veil of silence.
Only in the hour of prosperity would he preserve his verbalcheerfulness.
"She thinks too much o' soap an' 'er soul to make an 'owlin' success o'marriage," he had once confided to a mate over a pint of beer. "Alittle dirt an' less religion might keep 'er out of 'eaven in the nextworld, but it 'ud keep me out of 'ell in this!"
Mrs. Bindle was obsessed with two ogres: Dirt and the Devil. Hercleanliness was the cleanliness that rendered domestic comfortimpossible, just as her godliness was the godliness of suffering inthis world and glory in the next.
Her faith was the faith of negation. The happiness to be enjoyed inthe next world would be in direct ratio to the sacrifices made in this.Denying herself the things that her "carnal nature" cried out for, shewas filled with an intense resentment that anyone else should continueto live in obvious enjoyment of what she had resolutely put from her.Her only consolation was the triumph she was to enjoy in the nextworld, and she found no little comfort in the story of Dives andLazarus.
The forgiveness of sins was a matter upon which she preserved an openmind. Her faith told her that they should be forgiven; but she feltsomething of the injustice of it all. That the sinner, who at theeleventh hour repenteth, should achieve Paradise in addition to havingdrunk deep of the cup of pleasure in this world, seemed to her unfairto the faithful.
To Mrs. Bindle the world was a miserable place; but, please God! itshould be a clean place, as far as she had the power to make it clean.
When a woman sets out to be a reformer, she invariably begins upon herown men-folk. Mrs. Bindle had striven long and lugubriously to ensureBindle's salvation, and when she had eventually discovered this to beimpossible, she accepted him as her cross.
Whilst struggling for Bindle's salvation, Mrs. Bindle had notoverlooked the more immediate needs of his body. For many weeks oftheir early married life a tin bath of hot water had been placedregularly in the kitchen each Friday night that Bindle might bethorough in his ablutions.
At first Mrs. Bindle had been surprised and gratified at the way inwhich Bindle had acquiesced in this weekly rite, but being shrewd andsomething of a student of character, particularly Bindle's character,her suspicions had been aroused.
One Friday evening she put the kitchen keyhole to an illicit use, anddiscovered Bindle industriously rubbing his hands on his boots, and,with much use of soap, washing them in the bath, after which hesplashed the water about the room, damped the towels, then lit his pipeand proceeded to read the evening paper. That was the end of the bathepisode.
It was not that Bindle objected to washing; as a matter of fact he wasfar more cleanly than most of his class; but to him Mrs. Bindle'smethods savoured too much of coercion.
A great Frenchman has said, "Pour faire quelque chose de grande, ilfaut etre passione." In other words, no wanton sprite of mischief orhumour must be permitted to beckon genius from its predestined path.Although an entire stranger to philosophy, ignorant alike of the wordand its meaning, Mrs. Bindle had arrived at the same conclusion as theFrench savant.
"Why don't you stick at somethin' as if you meant it?" was her way ofphrasing it. "Look at Mr. Hearty. See what he's done!" Without anythought of irreverence, Mrs. Bindle used the names of the Lord and Mr.Hearty as whips of scorpions with which on occasion she mercilesslyscourged her husband.
At the time of Bindle's encounter with his onetime work-mate, Ginger,he had been tramping for hours seeking a job. He had gone even to thelength of answering an advertisement for a waitress, explaining to theirritated advertiser that "wi' women it was the customers as did thewaitin'," and that a man was "more nippy than a gal."
Ginger's hospitality had cheered him, and he began to regard life oncemore with his accustomed optimism. He had been without food all day,and this fact, rather than the continued rebuffs he had suffered,caused him some misgiving as the hour approached for his return to homeand Mrs. Bindle's inevitable question, "Got a job?"
As he passed along the Fulham Palace Road his keen eye searchedeverywhere for interest and amusement. He winked jocosely at thepretty girls, and grinned happily when called a "saucy 'ound." Heexchanged pleasantries with anyone who showed the least inclinationtowards camaraderie, and the dour he silenced with caustic rejoinder.
Bindle's views upon the home life of England were not orthodox.
"I'd like to meet the cove wot first started talkin' about the ''appy'ome life of ole England,'" he murmured under his breath. "I'd like tointroduce 'im to Mrs. B. Might sort o' wake 'im up a bit, an' make 'imwant t' emigrate. I'd like to see 'im gettin' away wi'out a scrap.Rummy thing, 'ome life."
His philosophy was to enjoy what you've got, and not to bother aboutwhat you hope to get. He had once precipitated a domestic storm bysaying to Mrs. Bindle:
"Don't you put all yer money on the next world, in case of accidents.Angels is funny things, and they might sort of take a dislike to yer,and then the fat 'ud be in the fire." Then, critically surveying Mrs.Bi
ndle's manifest leanness, "Not as you an' me together 'ud make muchof a flicker in 'ell."
As he approached Fenton Street, where he lived, his leisurely paceperceptibly slackened. It was true that supper awaited him at the endof his journey--that was with luck; but, luck or no luck, Mrs. Bindlewas inevitable.
"Funny 'ow 'avin' a wife seems to spoil yer appetite," he muttered, ashe scratched his head through the blue-and-white cricket cap heinvariably wore, where the four triangles of alternating white andCambridge blue had lost much of their original delicacy of shade.
"I'm 'ungry, 'ungry as an 'awk," he continued; then after a pause headded, "I wonder whether 'awks marry." The idea seemed to amuse him."Well, well!" he remarked with a sigh, "yer got to face it, Joe," andpulling himself together he mended his pace.
As he had foreseen, Mrs. Bindle was keenly on the alert for the soundof his key in the lock of the outer door of their half-house. He hadscarcely realised that the evening meal was to consist of somethingstewed with his much-loved onions, when Mrs. Bindle's voice was heardfrom the kitchen with the time-worn question:
"Got a job?"
Hunger, and the smell of his favourite vegetable, made him a coward.
"'Ow jer know, Fairy?" he asked with crude facetiousness.
"What is it?" enquired Mrs. Bindle shrewdly as he entered the kitchen.
"Night watchman at a garridge," he lied glibly, and removed his coatpreparatory to what he called a "rinse" at the sink. It always pleasedMrs. Bindle to see Bindle wash; even such a perfunctory effort as a"rinse" was a tribute to her efforts.
"When d'you start?" she asked suspiciously.
How persistent women were! thought Bindle.
"To-night at nine," he replied. Nothing mattered with that savourysmell in his nostrils.
Mrs. Bindle was pacified; but her emotions were confidential affairsbetween herself and "the Lord," and she consequently preserved the sameunrelenting exterior.
"'Bout time, I should think," she snapped ungraciously, and proceededwith her culinary preparations. Mrs. Bindle was an excellent cook."If 'er temper was like 'er cookin'," Bindle had confided to Mrs.Hearty, "life 'ud be a little bit of 'eaven."
Fenton Street, in which the Bindles lived, was an offering to theMoloch of British exclusiveness. The houses consisted of two floors,and each floor had a separate outer door and a narrow passage fromwhich opened off a parlour, a bedroom, and a kitchen. Although eachhousehold was cut off from the sight of its immediate neighbours, therewas not a resident, save those who occupied the end houses, who was notintimately acquainted with the private affairs of at least three of itsneighbours, those above or below, as the case might be, and of thefamily on each side. The walls and floors were so thin that, when theleast emotion set the voices of the occupants vibrating in a louder keythan usual, the neighbours knew of the crisis as soon as theprotagonists themselves, and every aspect of the dispute or discussionwas soon the common property of the whole street.
Fenton Street suited Mrs. Bindle, who was intensely exclusive. Shenever joined the groups of women who stood each morning, and manyafternoons, at their front doors to discuss the thousand and one thingsthat women have to discuss. She occupied herself with her home,hounding from its hiding-place each speck of dust and microbe as if itwere an embodiment of the Devil himself.
She was a woman of narrow outlook and prejudiced views, hating sin froma sense of fear of what it might entail rather than as a result ofinstinctive repulsion; yet she was possessed of many admirablequalities. She worked long and hard in her home, did her duty to herhusband in mending his clothes, preparing his food, and providing himwith what she termed "a comfortable home."
Next to chapel her supreme joy in life was her parlour, a mid-Victorianriot of antimacassars, stools, furniture, photograph-frames, pictures,ornaments, and the musical-box that would not play, but was precious asAunt Anne's legacy. Bindle was wont to say that "when yer goes intoour parlour yer wants a map an' a guide, an' even then yer 'as to callfor 'elp before yer can get out."
Mrs. Bindle had no visitors, and consequently her domestic holy ofholies was never used. She would dust and clean and arrange; arrange,clean, and dust with untiring zeal. The windows, although neveropened, were spotless; for she judged a woman's whole character by theappearance of her windows and curtains. No religieuse ever devotedmore time or thought to a chapel or an altar than Mrs. Bindle to herparlour. She might have reconciled herself to leaving anything else inthe world, but her parlour would have held her a helpless prisoner.
When everything was ready for the meal Mrs. Bindle poured from asaucepan a red-brown liquid with cubes of a darker brown, whichsplashed joyously into the dish. Bindle recognised it as stewed steakand onions, the culinary joy of his heart.
With great appetite he fell to, almost thankful to Providence forsending him so excellent a cook. As he ate he argued that if a man hadan angel for a wife, in all likelihood she would not be able to cook,and perhaps after all he was not so badly off.
"There ain't many as can beat yer at this 'ere game," remarked Bindle,indicating the dish with his fork; and a momentary flicker that mighthave been a smile still-born passed across Mrs. Bindle's face.
As the meal progressed Bindle began to see the folly of his cowardice.He had doomed himself to a night's walking the streets. He cudgelledhis brains how to avoid the consequences of his indiscretion. Helooked covertly at Mrs. Bindle. There was nothing in the sharphatchet-like face, with its sandy hair drawn tightly away from eachside and screwed into a knot behind, that suggested compromise. Norwas there any suggestion of a relenting nature in that hard grey linethat served her as a mouth. No, there was nothing for it but to "carrythe banner," unless he could raise sufficient money to pay for anight's lodging.
"Saw Ginger to-day," he remarked conversationally, as he removed ashred of meat from a back tooth with his fork.
"Don't talk to me of Ginger!" snapped Mrs. Bindle.
Such retorts made conversation difficult.
It was Mrs. Bindle's question as to whether he did not think it abouttime he started that gave Bindle the inspiration he sought. For morethan a week the one clock of the household, a dainty little travellingaffair that he had purchased of a fellow-workman, it having "sort o'got lost" in a move, had stopped and showed itself impervious to allpersuasion Bindle decided to take it, ostensibly to a clock-repairer,but in reality to the pawn-shop, and thus raise the price of a night'slodging. He would trust to luck to supply the funds to retrieve it.
With a word of explanation to Mrs. Bindle, he proceeded to wrap up theclock in a piece of newspaper, and prepared to go out.
To Bindle the moment of departure was always fraught with the greatestdanger. His goings-out became strategical withdrawals, he endeavouringto get off unnoticed, Mrs. Bindle striving to rake him with her verbalartillery as he retreated.
On this particular evening he felt comparatively safe. He was, as faras Mrs. Bindle knew, going to "a job," and, what was more, he wastaking the clock to be repaired. He sidled tactically along the walltowards the door, as if keenly interested in getting his pipe to draw.Mrs. Bindle opened fire.
"How long's your job for?" She turned round in the act of wiping out asaucepan.
"Only to-night," replied Bindle somewhat lamely. He was afraid ofwhere further romancing might lead him.
"Call that a job?" she enquired scornfully. "How long am I to go onkeepin' you in idleness?" Mrs. Bindle cleaned the Alton Road Chapel,where she likewise worshipped, and to this she referred.
"I'll get another job to-morrow; don't be down'earted," Bindle repliedcheerfully.
"Down'earted! Y' ought to be ashamed o' yerself," exploded Mrs.Bindle, as she banged the saucepan upon its shelf and seized a broom.Bindle regarded her with expressionless face. "Y' ought to be ashamedo' yerself, yer great hulkin' brute."
At one time Bindle, who was well below medium height and averageweight, had grinned appreciatively at this description; but it had ali
ttle lost its savour by repetition.
"Call yerself a man!" she continued, her sharp voice rising in volumeand key. "Leavin' me to keep the sticks together--me, a woman too,a-keepin' you in idleness! Why, I'd steal 'fore I'd do that, that Iwould."
She made vigorous use of the broom. Her anger invariably manifesteditself in dust, a momentary forgetfulness of her religious convictions,and a lapse into the Doric. As a rule she was careful and mincing inher speech, but anger opened the flood-gates of her vocabulary, andwords rushed forth bruised and decapitated.
With philosophic self-effacement Bindle covered the few feet betweenhim and the door and vanished. He was a philosopher and, likeSocrates, he bowed to the whirlwind of his wife's wrath. Conscious ofhaving done everything humanly possible to obtain work, he faced theworld with unruffled calm.
Mrs. Bindle's careless words, however, sank deeply into his mind.Steal! Well, he had no very strongly-grounded objection, provided hewere not caught at it. Steal! The word seemed to open up newpossibilities for him. The thing was, how should he begin? He mightseize a leg of mutton from a butcher's shop and run; but then Naturehad not intended him for a runner. He might smash a jeweller's window,pick a pocket, or snatch a handbag; but in all these adventuresfleetness of foot seemed essential.
Crime seemed obviously for the sprinter. To become a burger requiredexperience and tools, and Bindle possessed neither. Besides, burglinginvolved more risks than he cared to take.
Had he paused to think, Bindle would have seen that stealing was crime;but his incurable love of adventure blinded him to all else.
"Funny thing," he mumbled as he walked down Fenton Street. "Funnything, a daughter o' the Lord wantin' me to steal. Wonder wot ole'Earty 'ud say."
