Cotter's England Read Free

as I did meself! And he'll reassure me to this day, 'Don't worry, Missus; I didn't come to do your windows; I just wanted to ask the Mister what he thinks.' And the way he'll listen to him standing and won't sit down; and then quietly go and you can see him mouthing it over to himself on the doorstep—it's pitiful Camilla darling—I may call you Camilla, love?"
    The man dodged into the doorway, brought Mrs. Cook her purse from the piano and pocketed his money with thanks and a strange smile. At the door he turned and with yet another manner, mincing like a Chelsea aesthete, he said he'd be round in three weeks.
    "And how is the Mister? I miss his talks on politics."
    Nellie said heartily, "Do you, pet? Ah, bless you. It does me good to hear it, Walter. The bugger's on the continent yet, Walter, living on the fat of the land, touring the world as a representative of the working class of Great Britain. The call of England Home and Beauty rings feebly in his ear. He'll be back, pet, in a couple of weeks; but I can't tell you when. He wrote he's drunk every day from midday on. That's his world of the future. That's your sex for you, Walter."
    The man gravely nodded and this time glided away without a smile. In a moment they heard the front door close.
    "I wonder if that's worth five shillings or whatever informers get," said Mrs. Yates, looking down at her pattern and picking up a sleeve.
    "He's a pet, poor man," said Nellie.
    "He gives me the creeps; he's not natural. I wouldn't let him in," said the dressmaker, good-naturedly. She was a powerful woman, in her early forties, with a straight broad back, a small classic head on a strong neck, low forehead and short nose in line, dark hair and eyes.
    Nellie impatiently stumped out her cigarette and reached for another.
    "My test of a person is their opinion of George Cook! I stand high there meself. Eh, Walter's no better than the rest. Mrs. McMahon told George that Walter tried to kiss her and wanted to take her to the movies and asked questions about the boss; but what she wouldn't say. Gwen McMahon's a loyal soul. I could do with a cup of tea."
    She drummed on the table with her tobacco-stained long fingers.
    Mrs. Yates remarked in her pleasant voice, "You see? A dick. That was my first impression. He's all patches, a makeshift. I said, Now what act is that? And trying to get intimate with the maid."
    "Ah, no, pet; it's no good, Camilla. No, no, your suspicious mind can't turn me against Walter. We're old friends. And Mrs. McMahon's no maid, pet; she's our friend. She's been with us since before we were married."
    Mrs. Yates held out the dress. Mrs. Cook shed the faded overalls she was wearing and stood in her cotton shirt and long fleecy bloomers, holding out her arms. Mrs. Yates stood back and looked at the hang of the dress.
    Mrs. Cook said absently, "You're nervous, Camilla. You feel hunted. So you think your husband is divorcing you, eh? You must be the headlong sort; you rush into the baited trap."
    "I married for love."
    Nellie now undressed again, was smoking furiously, hanging on to the mantelpiece, waving to the child in the bed. She said rapidly, "It's a grand thing, aye, I don't blame you. Will I do then, pet, in that dress? I won't be an eyesore at the airport when I welcome home my hero? I'll go and make a pot of tea and we'll sit down quietly. You've earned your crust. I'm glad to take it easy on my Saturday off. I'm generally on some off-the-record assignment, or visiting a sick friend, or fixing up the income tax or the mortgage, or running messages for me carefree lad.
    "Eh, Camilla, there's a rooster in the hencoop! I expect they were glad to get him out of the navy. He laid out a plan of action for the admiral, or they feared he'd commandeer one of the lifeboats and sail for Tahiti. There he is making the French dames step to his tune. Eh, what a man, what a man! And do you think, Camilla, I'll do in that dress? For I want it now to go to see me mother in,