Life of Ma Parker
When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday,opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson. Ma Parkerstood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out her handto help her gentleman shut the door before she replied. "We buried 'imyesterday, sir," she said quietly."Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that," said the literary gentleman in a shockedtone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. Hecould hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something -something more. Then because these people set such store by funerals he saidkindly, "I hope the funeral went off all right.""Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily.Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral was a - a - success,"said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head and hobbled off to thekitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things and an apronand a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and wentback to his breakfast."Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade.Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind thedoor. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied herapron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put themon was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was soaccustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up ready for thetwinge before she'd so much as untied the laces. That over, she sat back with asigh and softly rubbed her knees ..."Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He'djust come in from playing in the street."Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into - you wicked boy!"But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers."Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed."Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies.""Yes, you 'ave.""No, I ain't.""Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse."Well, what'll you give your gran?"He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quiveringagainst her cheek. "I ain't got nothing," he murmured ...The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took itover to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle deadened herpain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up bowl.It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During theweek the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he emptied thetea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if heran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise,as he explained to his friends, his "system" was quite simple, and he couldn'tunderstand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping."You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to clean up,and the thing's done."The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered withtoast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no grudge. Shepitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of thesmudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, andwhenever there were clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at theedges, with holes in them, or dark stains like tea.While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes," shethought, as the broom knocked, "what with one thing and another I've had myshare. I've had a hard life."Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her fishbag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over the area railings,say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." And it was sotrue she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as if you were to say shelived in the basement-back at Number 27. A hard life! ...At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid. Yes,she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were alwaysarsking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until she saw it on thetheatres.Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fire-place of aevening you could see the stars through the chimley," and "Mother always 'ad 'erside of bacon, 'anging from the ceiling." And there was something - a bush,there was - at the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the bush was veryvague. She'd only remembered it once or twice in the hospital, when she'd beentaken bad.That was a dreadful place - her first place. She was never allowed out. Shenever went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a faircellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her lettersfrom home before she'd read them, and throw them in the range because they madeher dreamy ... And the beedles! Would you believe it? - until she came toLondon she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always gave a little laugh, asthough - not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to say you'dnever seen your own feet.When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, and aftertwo years there, on the run from morning till night, she married her husband.He was a baker."A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. For occasionally helaid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this product called Life."It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!"Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure."Such a clean trade," said the gentleman.Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced."And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?""Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We hadthirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the 'ospital it wasthe infirmary, you might say!""You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, and taking uphis pen again.Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband was takenill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at thetime ... Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his head, and thedoctor's finger drew a circle on his back."Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker," said the doctor, "you'dfind his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow!" AndMrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or whether she fancied shesaw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor dead husband's lips ...But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and keepherself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were old enoughto go to school her husband's sister came to stop with them to help thingsalong, and she hadn't been there more than two months when she fell down aflight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker had anotherbaby - and such a one for crying! - to look after. Then young Maudie went wrongand took her sister Alice with her; the two boys emigrimated, and young Jim wentto India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothinglittle waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And nowlittle Lennie - my grandson ...The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink-blackknives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece ofcork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardinetails swimming in it ...He'd never been a strong child - never from the first. He'd been one of thosefair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he had, blueeyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. The troubleshe and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things out of the newspapers theytried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel would read aloud while Ma Parker didher washing."Dear Sir, - Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out for dead... After four bottils ... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still putting iton."And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would bewritten, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work next morning. Butit was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking him to thecemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up in the bus neverimproved his appetite.But he was gran's boy from the first ..."Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove andgoing over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so close, it halfstifled her - it seemed to be in her breast under her heart - laughed out, andsaid, "I'm gran's boy!"At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared,dressed for walking."Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out.""Very good, sir.""And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand.""Thank you, sir.""Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you didn'tthrow away any cocoa last time you were here - did you?""No, sir.""Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the tin."He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll always tell me when you throwthings away - won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And he walked off very well pleased withhimself, convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparentcarelessness he was as vigilant as a woman.The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But whenshe began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought of littleLennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's what she couldn'tunderstand. Why should a little angel child have to arsk for his breath andfight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer like that.... From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as though somethingwas boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in his chest that hecouldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang out on his head; his eyesbulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in asaucepan. But what was more awful than all was when he didn't cough he satagainst the pillow and never spoke or answered, or even made as if he heard.Only he looked offended."It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker, pattingback the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head andedged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked - and solemn. He bent hishead and looked at her sideways as though he couldn't have believed it of hisgran.But at the last ... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, shesimply couldn't think about it. It was too much - she'd had too much in herlife to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herself to herself, andnever once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living soul. Not even her ownchildren had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a proud face always. But now!Lennie gone - what had she? She had nothing. He was all she'd got from life,and now he was took too. Why must it all have happened to me? she wondered."What have I done?" said old Ma Parker. "What have I done?"As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found herself inthe kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put on herjacket and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not knowwhat she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror of what hashappened that he walks away - anywhere, as though by walking away he couldescape ...It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went flitting by,very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And nobodyknew - nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at last, after all these years,she were to cry, she'd find herself in the lock-up as like as not.But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in his gran'sarms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to cry. If shecould only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning with herfirst place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor's, and then the sevenlittle ones, death of her husband, the children's leaving her, and all the yearsof misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these thingswould take a long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must doit. She couldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more ... Wherecould she go?"She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her chinbegan to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where?She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of her life.She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come arsking her questions.She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's flat; she had no right to cryin strangers' houses. If she sat on some steps a policeman would speak to her.Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself andstay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her?Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out - at last?Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into aballoon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere.
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