Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter II
Mrs. Josky

Lord Atterton, who had been taking a little walk round the square to soothe his nerves, returned when he thought that Andrew had departed. In fact, he chose an unlucky moment, for just as he opened the front door of West House and stepped across the threshold, he came into violent and personal collision with that young gentleman who was rushing out at a great pace, thinking of something else and not looking where he was going.

«Confound you for an awkward fellow!» exclaimed his Lordship. «You’ve smashed my hat.»

Andrew picked up the article which had served as a buffer between their two colliding bodies and now resembled a half-closed concertina.

«Very sorry,» he said, surveying the topper critically. «It does seem rather the worse, doesn’t it? But cheer up, Uncle, you can afford a new one, which will give employment. The hatting trade is rather depressed just now they tell me in Whitechapel.»

«Cheer up!» gasped Lord Atterton. «I may as well tell you outright, Andrew, that your visits to this house are the last things to cheer me up. First you outrage my feelings and then you crush my hat which was new. Oh! hang it all,» he added, hurling the wreck into the corner of the hall, «the less I see of you in the future the better I shall be pleased, and there you have it straight.»

«I rather think your sentiment is reciprocated,» remarked Andrew in a reflective voice. «Somehow we seem to get on each other’s nerves, don’t we?»

«Yes, nerves and toes,» replied his Uncle wrathfully, lifting the foot upon which Andrew had trodden.

«If you wore a sensible soft hat as I do, instead of a tall one, it wouldn’t have happened, Uncle, but it’s no use crying over squashed chimney-pots, and for the rest, you need not fear that I shall put any strain upon your hospitality. I’m sorry about Algernon, though, as I’m fond of him and should like to see him sometimes. Uncle, I may as well take this opportunity to tell you that whatever your smart Harley Street men may say, you are treating him wrongly.»

«Indeed, and how out of your great experience would you advise that the case should be dealt with, Andrew?» he asked with heavy sarcasm.

«Well, to begin with, Uncle, you should cut off his liquor. He drinks too much, as does everyone in this house except Clara. Then – open-air and perhaps a winter in Switzerland. I’ll ask my man Watson what he thinks about that. Unless you change your methods and can persuade him to change his, it is my duty to say that the results may be very serious indeed.»

«Oh!» ejaculated Lord Atterton, «confound you for a presuming young puppy, and confound Watson, whoever he may be, and confound everything!»

Then, without waiting for any possible answer, he rushed into the nearest room and slammed the door.

Andrew strolled into the street, crossing it to the square railings, lit a third cigarette, and while he did so contemplated the façade of his uncle’s palatial mansion.

Looks like whisky, he mused; metaphorically stinks of whisky and ought to have a gigantic bottle of West’s Best (Lord! Shall I ever live down that name?) with the famous advertisement of red-shirted Canadians refreshing themselves amidst golden sheaves with the same in the intervals of their noble toil, set upon the parapet among the chimney-pots.

In short, look at the whole infernal place, and then think of its presiding genius, my noble and opulent relative who sits within like a great bald-headed spider fat with the blood of a thousand victims, and therefore pre- eminent in the spider world.

He paused and laughed at his own metaphor, for when not depressed Andrew was a merry soul; then, continuing his reflections, he walked towards Oxford Street to take a bus for Whitechapel.

Anyway, I’m not wanted there. The old gentleman told me that pretty straight, as I meant that he should, for I can’t bear the sight of him, purse-proud, vulgar man who calls himself noble. I like Algernon, though, if he is dissipating himself to death with his weak lungs, for he has good instincts, which will never develop in this world, poor old chap. And Clara isn’t at all bad. She thinks herself deep as an ocean, and is as easy to see through as a plate-glass window. Her transparency is quite delightful; one sees her making her hand for every trick, and yet feels quite sure she will win the game, and at any rate she never makes rows; she fights with the rapier, not with the broadsword. Also at bottom she isn’t unkind.

At this point he found a bus, and having clambered on to the top of it, still followed his train of thought.

Let’s look at the other side of the picture. I criticize my uncle and Clara, and they criticize me. They look on me as a spoiled darling, ruined by an adoring mother, now happily departed, and they consider me vain because people think me clever; also opinionated because so far – well, I have done well in my small way. Further, they dislike my views of life and duty, which are opposed to the interests and instincts of their gilded, pinchbeck rank, and do not appreciate the connection with the common medical student who probably will never be heard of in the world. Nor can they understand that such an earth-worm may have ideas of his own and wish to make his private tunnel out of sight of the golden creatures who walk about in Cavendish Square. Well, Andrew, they are quite right as they see things; also, I dare say that you are offensive, though the patients in the hospital don’t think so. And you are quite right as you see the things. So the upshot of it is, that you had better go your own way and leave them to go theirs towards the oblivion which will swallow you all. But all the same, you are sorry for Algernon, the noble inheritor of West’s Whisky.

In due course Andrew reached his rooms in a little street that opened off the Whitechapel Road. It was, and probably still is, a rather squalid-looking street where dwelt small tradesmen, with a proportion of the humbler class of Jews. The houses were of stucco with basements but not tall, and the one in which Andrew lived was inhabited by the widow of a working tailor and her little daughter. Fortunately the tailor had insured his life for £1200 so that his relict was not left penniless, and being an inveterate Londoner, preferred to live on among the people whom she knew.

To occupy herself she had taken to dealing in second-hand clothes and furs in a small way and, more for company than for anything else, she took a lodger in her two upper rooms. Her name was Mrs. Josky, though from what country Josky the departed originally hailed Andrew never discovered. Probably he, or his father, was a Polish Jew. She herself was a plain, good-tempered, bustling and talkative little Cockney, full of a lively sympathy with everybody and everything. Like most of her class she was, however, somewhat superficial, except in one particular, her love for her daughter, a little girl of nine whose big dark eyes, premature development and Eastern style of budding beauty, revealed her Semitic blood. This child Mrs. Josky adored. She was her one passion in life (Josky, apparently, had produced no deep impression upon her during their brief association).

Therefore it came about that she also adored Andrew, for what reason will be seen.

After his mother’s death Andrew gave up the little house in Campden Hill where they had lived so happily, and having stored the best of the furniture together with a few heirlooms, looked for lodgings near the hospital where he was studying, with the double object of being close to his work and of observing the people of the East End.

Casually walking down Justice Street, for so it was oddly called, as he presumed because some forgotten Daniel had once come to judgment there, he reached No. 13, and observed that over the little shop of which the window was filled with old coats and rather moth-eaten fur garments, was exhibited a placard inscribed, «Good rooms to let with meals.» There were very similar placards in many other windows, but the unconventional Andrew was attracted to No. 13 by a desire to defy superstition.

So in due course he became Mrs. Josky’s tenant, and very comfortable she made him from the first. A little later on, however, had he been living in a good house with a devoted mother and a staff of well-trained servants, he could not have been better looked after. It happened thus. Shortly after he took up his abode in Justice Street, the little girl, who was named Lauretta, or Laurie for short, contracted pneumonia very badly indeed. Although he was not yet a qualified practitioner, Andrew diagnosed the disease at once, with the result that implore as he would, Mrs. Josky absolutely refused to call in any doctor, declaring that young Mr. West was cleverer than all of them put together, and that he and no one else should attend Laurie. Nor would she have a nurse, not from motives of economy, but because of a kind of fierce maternal jealousy which prevented her from allowing any other woman to come near her child. The end of it was that Andrew had to double the part of physician and night-nurse, rather an exhausting business for a young man who worked all day, especially as, this being his first case, he was filled with doubts and anxieties.

Well, by good luck or good management, with the accompaniment of the most devoted care, he pulled the child through. When he was able to assure Mrs. Josky that she was quite out of danger, that good woman threw her arms round his neck, kissed him and said that she would die for him if need be, as no doubt she would have been quite willing to do.

After this Andrew was more comfortable than ever in those lodgings and lived like a fighting-cock. In time he slowly awoke to the fact that his bills were singularly small for the amount of food that he consumed, and on investigation, discovered that Mrs. Josky was practically supporting him. Then there was a row, also there were tears and he threatened to go away. He insisted that she should produce books to show the cost of what she bought for him. Mrs. Josky, whose leading characteristic was obstinacy, refused to do anything of the sort and even accused herself of theft in the sense of feeding herself and her child out of his provisions. At last they compromised. He paid more for his board; Mrs. Josky concealed the books and he lived even better than he had done before. Moreover, all his clothes were pressed and mended and, although he knew it not, some of his undergarments, such as shirts, were made for nothing. No wonder he had declared to Clara that £200 a year was wealth to an East End doctor!

Andrew arrived at Justice Street at about half-past four, the time at which he was accustomed to return from the hospital and have tea. The pretty little Laurie, who loved him almost as much as her mother did, was, as usual, looking out for him from the doorstep, and seeing him while yet a long way off, called out to her mother in the back regions, informing her of his advent. Mrs. Josky called back that all was ready, and proceeded to kill the fatted calf by breaking two fresh eggs, which were expensive just then, into the frying-pan. To be accurate, she broke three, for having conceived suspicions of Number Two, she put it aside for her own consumption, rather liking the taste of straw, as she explained to Laurie.

Andrew arrived, kissed Laurie according to the rule, searched for and found in his velveteen coat a little packet of chocolate creams of which she was extremely fond, and went up to his room to tidy himself for, as it happened, he had an engagement that afternoon. When he came into the sitting- room, after washing his hands and brushing his hair, he was met by Mrs. Josky bearing a spotless tray with a real china teapot that she had obtained from some one in temporary difficulties in exchange for a pair of second-hand boots, with a cup and muffin dish full of hot buttered toast to match, and followed by Laurie, who supported in her thin little hands the dish with the fried eggs.

«Good gracious! Mrs. Josky,» he said, «I don’t want all that. Besides, I am going out to tea.»

«Then you should have said so earlier,» she replied with firmness, adding, «not but what I guessed it when I saw that letter in a lady’s writing this morning; also that you had bought a new toothbrush which you didn’t want.»

«Your intuition is wonderful, Mrs. Josky, but please take away those eggs. Laurie can eat them.»

«I should like to see her do it,» replied Mrs. Josky darkly, «teaching the child to steal my lodger’s food, indeed. Look here, Mr. West, either you eat those eggs or they go straight into the dustbin, which you know would be a wicked waste. Come now,» she added in soothing tones as though she were addressing an invalid off his feed, «you know you want them with all your hard work, passing examinations and such, and you, as I believe, still growing.»

«I can’t and I won’t,» said Andrew. «I’ve had a gigantic lunch.»

«You can and you will,» replied Mrs. Josky with decision as she drew a chair to the table.

Then Andrew sat down and ate the eggs under her stern eye, also the buttered toast, for his appetite was excellent, while she poured out the tea which cost more per pound than she would have cared to tell him. No wonder he always declared there was no tea like Mrs. Josky’s.

«Where are you going to your next tea, Mr. West?» she inquired as she gathered up the plates.

«To Doctor Watson’s,» he answered, «whose assistant I shall be if I get through.»

«Oh! to Miss Watson’s, are you. I thought it was her writing on the letter. Well, there’s no denying that she’s a beautiful young woman, for I’ve seen her several times at church and treats and such like, of the sort that young gentlemen like to have tea with, not minding how it’s made, though a bit of a fool I should think, if they do call her the Whitechapel Rose.»

«Great Scot! what a name,» said Andrew, «though as a matter of fact she is named Rose. But why do you say she is a bit of a fool, Mrs. Josky?»

«Just because one woman knows another,» she replied with a mysterious shake of the head. «Also because God Almighty don’t give everything all at once. If a girl is as lovely as all that outside, you mark my words she ain’t got nothing inside. Look at me,» she added, thrusting forward her angular and kindly little face with the brown eyes in which humour twinkled, «I ain’t no beauty, am I? Whatever Josky, being after all a man, could see in me I never could guess – but I’m pretty good at cooking, and not so bad at a deal, either.»

«There’s something in the argument,» reflected Andrew. «I’ve seen it exemplified in very handsome men. But, as regards Miss Watson, I had formed rather a different opinion. Well, well, we shall see.»

«Yes, Mr. West, I dare say you will,» remarked Mrs. Josky with emphasis, and departed carrying the tray.

When she had gone Andrew retired to his bedroom and tidied up again. Looking at his hair he recognized that it was long and regretted that recently he had found no time to have it cut. Now it was too late. Suddenly he remembered an ancient pot of pomade, at least he thought it was pomade, which, amongst other débris removed from his mother’s house, stood in a cupboard in a corner. He found it. Inspection was not very satisfactory and it smelt. After all, was it pomade? At this stage in its career nothing short of analysis could tell. Still, in his anxiety to curb his rebellious locks he risked it, only to discover that it was decayed ointment which as a lad he had used upon his hands after they had been chafed by over-rowing on the Thames. That was when it was already on, and nothing short of prolonged shampooing would have removed it. Next, after reflection, he changed the red tie for a brown one that was somewhat less seedy, slipping over it a beautiful antique gem in an eighteenth-century setting that represented Venus rising from the sea, which had come to him from his father. About the velveteen coat he hesitated, but finally decided to leave it alone because he could not be bothered to hunt for another.

From all of which things it will be gathered that Andrew desired to look his best at the tea-party to which he was going, an impulse that had not overtaken him when departing to lunch with his grand relatives at Cavendish Square. Near the front door he met Mrs. Josky who eyed him with suspicion, remarked that he had on his Sunday tie, and sniffed.

«What’s the matter?» asked Andrew.

«Well, Sir,» she said, «I did think something might have gone wrong with those drains again, there was such a smell down that back yard, and now it seems to have come here too.»

«Oh! I know,» remarked Andrew guiltily. «I found some stuff that had gone bad and threw it away.»

«Indeed, then it’s a pity, Sir, that you threw it on to your hair first.»

After this Andrew fled, leaving Mrs. Josky still sniffing on the door- step.

Holding his hat in his hand, for he knew the cause of Mrs. Josky’s suspicions and wished to air his head, Andrew pursued his way through the devious streets of Whitechapel, till he came to a remote region in the neighbourhood of the river. Here in some bygone generation there had been houses of importance, occupied no doubt by prosperous tradesmen or merchants of the day. One of these, a red brick Georgian mansion of some pretensions, stood among a mass of mean dwellings that, as the value of land increased, had been built on what were once its extensive gardens, whereof nothing remained except a desolate little patch of ground in front of the house, upon which stood the foundation walls of a long-departed greenhouse. This dwelling, which was still known as Red Hall probably from its colour, was now the abode, private and professional, of Dr. Watson, a very eminent man in his way, but one whose career had been injured by his peculiarities and his open, often ill-timed, advocacy of extreme Socialistic views.

Mounting the dirty steps Andrew came to the front door, the massive dignity of which many successive layers of different coloured paints and graining could not conceal. Indeed, a splinter chipped off by the vagrant stone of some mischievous boy, showed that it was made of no humbler wood than old Honduras mahogany, while the tarnished brass knocker of twisted snakes also testified to the former standing of the house within.

As the bell was out of action he applied himself to this knocker for some time without result. At length the door was opened by a dilapidated, snuff- coloured little woman with watery eyes and hair that looked like faded tow, who appeared to be irritated at being summoned from the lower regions.

«Why couldn’t you go round by the surgery, Brother West» (everybody at Red Hall called each other Brother or Sister), she asked in a high and squeaky voice which suggested an effort to smother tears. «Here I am with the tea to get ready, to say nothing of the supper to cook, and the kettle boiling over at this very moment into the gas stove, making enough smell to poison one, and you come hammering, hammering at the front door which Sister Rose is too proud to open, till I don’t know the teapot from the saucers.»

«I’m sorry, Sister Angelica, but I thought the Doctor might be busy in the surgery.»

«Busy! Of course he’s busy. He’s always busy doing work for a pack of ragamuffins who never give him so much as a thank-you. What’s more, he’s got that Harley Street swell, the famous Somerville Black who looks after the Royalties and has three carriages and pairs, in there with him.»

«Somerville Black!» said Andrew with respect. «What’s he doing here? It’s scarcely his beat.»

«Oh! I don’t know. Some case the Doctor’s got hold of which interests him. A girl who’s the daughter of a fish-hawker and thinks that she’s three girls and acts as such.»

«Three girls!»

«Yes, Brother, or rather two girls, one herself and the other a farmer’s daughter, and a dead woman, I think it is Mary Queen of Scots, or Lady Jane Grey, or some one. When she’s herself she talks fish and swears as might be expected with her bringing up. When she’s the farmer’s daughter she talks cows and pigs and lectures on agriculture, although she’s never been out of Whitechapel or seen one of them alive; and when she’s the party that was going to be beheaded she takes on wonderfully, just like Shakespeare, the Doctor says.»

At this moment a dull explosion sounded from below.

«Heavens above! there’s that gas stove blowing up,» exclaimed Sister Angelica, and vanished away like a grey ghost, leaving Andrew to his own devices.