THE RAILWAY CHILDREN
PART 9
Chapter IX. The pride of Perks.
It was
breakfast-time. Mother's face was very bright as she poured the milk and ladled
out the porridge.
“I've sold
another story, Chickies,” she said; “the one about the King of the Mussels, so
there'll be buns for tea. You can go and get them as soon as they're baked.
About eleven, isn't it?”
Peter,
Phyllis, and Bobbie exchanged glances with each other, six glances in all. Then
Bobbie said:—
“Mother,
would you mind if we didn't have the buns for tea to-night, but on the
fifteenth? That's next Thursday.”
“I
don't mind when you have them, dear,” said Mother, “but why?”
“Because
it's Perks's birthday,” said Bobbie; “he's thirty-two, and he says he doesn't
keep his birthday any more, because he's got other things to keep—not rabbits
or secrets—but the kids and the missus.”
“You mean
his wife and children,” said Mother.
“Yes,”
said Phyllis; “it's the same thing, isn't it?”
“And we
thought we'd make a nice birthday for him. He's been so awfully jolly decent to
us, you know, Mother,” said Peter, “and we agreed that next bun-day we'd ask
you if we could.”
“But
suppose there hadn't been a bun-day before the fifteenth?” said Mother.
“Oh, then,
we meant to ask you to let us anti—antipate it, and go without when the bun-day
came.”
“Anticipate,”
said Mother. “I see. Certainly. It would be nice to put his name on the buns
with pink sugar, wouldn't it?”
“Perks,”
said Peter, “it's not a pretty name.”
“His other
name's Albert,” said Phyllis; “I asked him once.”
“We might
put A. P.,” said Mother; “I'll show you how when the day comes.”
This was
all very well as far as it went. But even fourteen halfpenny buns with A. P. on
them in pink sugar do not of themselves make a very grand celebration.
“There are
always flowers, of course,” said Bobbie, later, when a really earnest council
was being held on the subject in the hay-loft where the broken chaff-cutting
machine was, and the row of holes to drop hay through into the hay-racks over
the mangers of the stables below.
“He's got
lots of flowers of his own,” said Peter.
“But it's
always nice to have them given you,” said Bobbie, “however many you've got of
your own. We can use flowers for trimmings to the birthday. But there must be
something to trim besides buns.”
“Let's all
be quiet and think,” said Phyllis; “no one's to speak until it's thought of
something.”
So they
were all quiet and so very still that a brown rat thought that there was no one
in the loft and came out very boldly. When Bobbie sneezed, the rat was quite
shocked and hurried away, for he saw that a hay-loft where such things could
happen was no place for a respectable middle-aged rat that liked a quiet life.
“Hooray!”
cried Peter, suddenly, “I've got it.” He jumped up and kicked at the loose hay.
“What?”
said the others, eagerly.
“Why,
Perks is so nice to everybody. There must be lots of people in the village
who'd like to help to make him a birthday. Let's go round and ask everybody.”
“Mother
said we weren't to ask people for things,” said Bobbie, doubtfully.
“For
ourselves, she meant, silly, not for other people. I'll ask the old gentleman
too. You see if I don't,” said Peter.
“Let's ask
Mother first,” said Bobbie.
“Oh,
what's the use of bothering Mother about every little thing?” said Peter,
“especially when she's busy. Come on. Let's go down to the village now and
begin.”
So they
went. The old lady at the Post-office said she didn't see why Perks should have
a birthday any more than anyone else.
“No,” said
Bobbie, “I should like everyone to have one. Only we know when his is.”
“Mine's
to-morrow,” said the old lady, “and much notice anyone will take of it. Go
along with you.”
So they
went.
And some
people were kind, and some were crusty. And some would give and some would not.
It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for other people, as you
have no doubt found if you have ever tried it.
When the
children got home and counted up what had been given and what had been
promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad. Peter wrote down
the lists of the things in the little pocket-book where he kept the numbers of
his engines. These were the lists:—
GIVEN.
A tobacco pipe from the sweet shop.
Half a pound of tea from the grocer's.
A woollen scarf slightly faded from the draper's, which was the
other side of the grocer's.
A stuffed squirrel from the Doctor.
PROMISED.
A piece of meat from the butcher.
Six fresh eggs from the woman who lived in the old turnpike cottage.
A piece of honeycomb and six bootlaces from the cobbler, and an
iron shovel from the blacksmith's.
Very early
next morning Bobbie got up and woke Phyllis. This had been agreed on between
them. They had not told Peter because they thought he would think it silly. But
they told him afterwards, when it had turned out all right.
They cut a
big bunch of roses, and put it in a basket with the needle-book that Phyllis
had made for Bobbie on her birthday, and a very pretty blue necktie of
Phyllis's. Then they wrote on a paper: 'For Mrs. Ransome, with our best love,
because it is her birthday,' and they put the paper in the basket, and they
took it to the Post-office, and went in and put it on the counter and ran away
before the old woman at the Post-office had time to get into her shop.
When they
got home Peter had grown confidential over helping Mother to get the breakfast
and had told her their plans.
“There's
no harm in it,” said Mother, “but it depends HOW you do it. I only hope he
won't be offended and think it's CHARITY. Poor people are very proud, you
know.”
“It isn't
because he's poor,” said Phyllis; “it's because we're fond of him.”
“I'll find
some things that Phyllis has outgrown,” said Mother, “if you're quite sure you
can give them to him without his being offended. I should like to do some
little thing for him because he's been so kind to you. I can't do much because
we're poor ourselves. What are you writing, Bobbie?”
“Nothing
particular,” said Bobbie, who had suddenly begun to scribble. “I'm sure he'd
like the things, Mother.”
The
morning of the fifteenth was spent very happily in getting the buns and
watching Mother make A. P. on them with pink sugar. You know how it's done, of
course? You beat up whites of eggs and mix powdered sugar with them, and put in
a few drops of cochineal. And then you make a cone of clean, white paper with a
little hole at the pointed end, and put the pink egg-sugar in at the big end.
It runs slowly out at the pointed end, and you write the letters with it just
as though it were a great fat pen full of pink sugar-ink.
The buns
looked beautiful with A. P. on every one, and, when they were put in a cool
oven to set the sugar, the children went up to the village to collect the honey
and the shovel and the other promised things.
The old
lady at the Post-office was standing on her doorstep. The children said “Good
morning,” politely, as they passed.
“Here,
stop a bit,” she said.
So they
stopped.
“Those
roses,” said she.
“Did you
like them?” said Phyllis; “they were as fresh as fresh. I made the
needle-book, but it was Bobbie's present.” She skipped joyously as she spoke.
“Here's
your basket,” said the Post-office woman. She went in and brought out the
basket. It was full of fat, red gooseberries.
“I dare
say Perks's children would like them,” said she.
“You ARE
an old dear,” said Phyllis, throwing her arms around the old lady's fat waist.
“Perks WILL be pleased.”
“He won't
be half so pleased as I was with your needle-book and the tie and the pretty
flowers and all,” said the old lady, patting Phyllis's shoulder. “You're good
little souls, that you are. Look here. I've got a pram round the back in the
wood-lodge. It was got for my Emmie's first, that didn't live but six months,
and she never had but that one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have it. It 'ud be a help
to her with that great boy of hers. Will you take it along?”
“OH!” said
all the children together.
When Mrs.
Ransome had got out the perambulator and taken off the careful papers that
covered it, and dusted it all over, she said:—
“Well,
there it is. I don't know but what I'd have given it to her before if I'd
thought of it. Only I didn't quite know if she'd accept of it from me. You tell
her it was my Emmie's little one's pram—”
“Oh, ISN'T
it nice to think there is going to be a real live baby in it again!”
“Yes,”
said Mrs. Ransome, sighing, and then laughing; “here, I'll give you some
peppermint cushions for the little ones, and then you run along before I give
you the roof off my head and the clothes off my back.”
All the things
that had been collected for Perks were packed into the perambulator, and at
half-past three Peter and Bobbie and Phyllis wheeled it down to the little
yellow house where Perks lived.
The house
was very tidy. On the window ledge was a jug of wild-flowers, big daisies, and
red sorrel, and feathery, flowery grasses.
There was
a sound of splashing from the wash-house, and a partly washed boy put his head
round the door.
“Mother's
a-changing of herself,” he said.
“Down in a
minute,” a voice sounded down the narrow, freshly scrubbed stairs.
The
children waited. Next moment the stairs creaked and Mrs. Perks came down,
buttoning her bodice. Her hair was brushed very smooth and tight, and her face
shone with soap and water.
“I'm a bit
late changing, Miss,” she said to Bobbie, “owing to me having had a extry
clean-up to-day, along o' Perks happening to name its being his birthday. I
don't know what put it into his head to think of such a thing. We keeps the
children's birthdays, of course; but him and me—we're too old for such like, as
a general rule.”
“We knew
it was his birthday,” said Peter, “and we've got some presents for him outside
in the perambulator.”
As the
presents were being unpacked, Mrs. Perks gasped. When they were all unpacked,
she surprised and horrified the children by sitting suddenly down on a wooden
chair and bursting into tears.
“Oh,
don't!” said everybody; “oh, please don't!” And Peter added, perhaps a little
impatiently: “What on earth is the matter? You don't mean to say you don't like
it?”
Mrs. Perks
only sobbed. The Perks children, now as shiny-faced as anyone could wish, stood
at the wash-house door, and scowled at the intruders. There was a silence, an
awkward silence.
“DON'T you
like it?” said Peter, again, while his sisters patted Mrs. Perks on the back.
She
stopped crying as suddenly as she had begun.
“There,
there, don't you mind me. I'M all right!” she said. “Like it? Why, it's a
birthday such as Perks never 'ad, not even when 'e was a boy and stayed with
his uncle, who was a corn chandler in his own account. He failed afterwards.
Like it? Oh—” and then she went on and said all sorts of things that I won't
write down, because I am sure that Peter and Bobbie and Phyllis would not like
me to. Their ears got hotter and hotter, and their faces redder and redder, at
the kind things Mrs. Perks said. They felt they had done nothing to deserve all
this praise.
At last
Peter said: “Look here, we're glad you're pleased. But if you go on saying
things like that, we must go home. And we did want to stay and see if Mr. Perks
is pleased, too. But we can't stand this.”
“I won't
say another single word,” said Mrs. Perks, with a beaming face, “but that
needn't stop me thinking, need it? For if ever—”
“Can we
have a plate for the buns?” Bobbie asked abruptly. And then Mrs. Perks hastily
laid the table for tea, and the buns and the honey and the gooseberries were
displayed on plates, and the roses were put in two glass jam jars, and the
tea-table looked, as Mrs. Perks said, “fit for a Prince.”
“To
think!” she said, “me getting the place tidy early, and the little 'uns getting
the wild-flowers and all—when never did I think there'd be anything more for
him except the ounce of his pet particular that I got o' Saturday and been
saving up for 'im ever since. Bless us! 'e IS early!”
Perks had
indeed unlatched the latch of the little front gate.
“Oh,”
whispered Bobbie, “let's hide in the back kitchen, and YOU tell him about it.
But give him the tobacco first, because you got it for him. And when you've
told him, we'll all come in and shout, 'Many happy returns!'”
It was a
very nice plan, but it did not quite come off. To begin with, there was only
just time for Peter and Bobbie and Phyllis to rush into the wash-house, pushing
the young and open-mouthed Perks children in front of them. There was not time
to shut the door, so that, without at all meaning it, they had to listen to
what went on in the kitchen. The wash-house was a tight fit for the Perks
children and the Three Chimneys children, as well as all the wash-house's
proper furniture, including the mangle and the copper.
“Hullo,
old woman!” they heard Mr. Perks's voice say; “here's a pretty set-out!”
“It's your
birthday tea, Bert,” said Mrs. Perks, “and here's a ounce of your extry
particular. I got it o' Saturday along o' your happening to remember it was
your birthday to-day.”
“Good old
girl!” said Mr. Perks, and there was a sound of a kiss.
“But
what's that pram doing here? And what's all these bundles? And where did you
get the sweetstuff, and—”
The
children did not hear what Mrs. Perks replied, because just then Bobbie gave a
start, put her hand in her pocket, and all her body grew stiff with horror.
“Oh!” she
whispered to the others, “whatever shall we do? I forgot to put the labels on
any of the things! He won't know what's from who. He'll think it's all US, and
that we're trying to be grand or charitable or something horrid.”
“Hush!”
said Peter.
And then
they heard the voice of Mr. Perks, loud and rather angry.
“I don't
care,” he said; “I won't stand it, and so I tell you straight.”
“But,”
said Mrs. Perks, “it's them children you make such a fuss about—the children
from the Three Chimneys.”
“I don't
care,” said Perks, firmly, “not if it was a angel from Heaven. We've got on all
right all these years and no favours asked. I'm not going to begin these sort
of charity goings-on at my time of life, so don't you think it, Nell.”
“Oh,
hush!” said poor Mrs Perks; “Bert, shut your silly tongue, for goodness' sake.
The all three of 'ems in the wash-house a-listening to every word you speaks.”
“Then I'll
give them something to listen to,” said the angry Perks; “I've spoke my mind to
them afore now, and I'll do it again,” he added, and he took two strides to the
wash-house door, and flung it wide open—as wide, that is, as it would go, with
the tightly packed children behind it.
“Come
out,” said Perks, “come out and tell me what you mean by it. 'Ave I ever
complained to you of being short, as you comes this charity lay over me?”
“OH!” said
Phyllis, “I thought you'd be so pleased; I'll never try to be kind to anyone
else as long as I live. No, I won't, not never.”
She burst
into tears.
“We didn't
mean any harm,” said Peter.
“It ain't
what you means so much as what you does,” said Perks.
“Oh,
DON'T!” cried Bobbie, trying hard to be braver than Phyllis, and to find more
words than Peter had done for explaining in. “We thought you'd love it. We
always have things on our birthdays.”
“Oh, yes,”
said Perks, “your own relations; that's different.”
“Oh, no,”
Bobbie answered. “NOT our own relations. All the servants always gave us things
at home, and us to them when it was their birthdays. And when it was mine, and
Mother gave me the brooch like a buttercup, Mrs. Viney gave me two lovely glass
pots, and nobody thought she was coming the charity lay over us.”
“If it had
been glass pots here,” said Perks, “I wouldn't ha' said so much. It's there
being all this heaps and heaps of things I can't stand. No—nor won't, neither.”
“But
they're not all from us—” said Peter, “only we forgot to put the labels on.
They're from all sorts of people in the village.”
“Who put
'em up to it, I'd like to know?” asked Perks.
“Why, we
did,” sniffed Phyllis.
Perks sat
down heavily in the elbow-chair and looked at them with what Bobbie afterwards
described as withering glances of gloomy despair.
“So you've
been round telling the neighbours we can't make both ends meet? Well, now
you've disgraced us as deep as you can in the neighbourhood, you can just take
the whole bag of tricks back w'ere it come from. Very much obliged, I'm sure. I
don't doubt but what you meant it kind, but I'd rather not be acquainted with
you any longer if it's all the same to you.” He deliberately turned the chair
round so that his back was turned to the children. The legs of the chair grated
on the brick floor, and that was the only sound that broke the silence.
Then
suddenly Bobbie spoke.
“Look
here,” she said, “this is most awful.”
“That's
what I says,” said Perks, not turning round.
“Look
here,” said Bobbie, desperately, “we'll go if you like—and you needn't be
friends with us any more if you don't want, but—”
“WE shall
always be friends with YOU, however nasty you are to us,” sniffed Phyllis,
wildly.
“Be
quiet,” said Peter, in a fierce aside.
“But
before we go,” Bobbie went on desperately, “do let us show you the labels we
wrote to put on the things.”
“I don't
want to see no labels,” said Perks, “except proper luggage ones in my own walk
of life. Do you think I've kept respectable and outer debt on what I gets, and
her having to take in washing, to be give away for a laughing-stock to all the
neighbours?”
“Laughing?”
said Peter; “you don't know.”
“You're a
very hasty gentleman,” whined Phyllis; “you know you were wrong once before,
about us not telling you the secret about the Russian. Do let Bobbie tell you
about the labels!”
“Well. Go
ahead!” said Perks, grudgingly.
“Well,
then,” said Bobbie, fumbling miserably, yet not without hope, in her tightly
stuffed pocket, “we wrote down all the things everybody said when they gave us
the things, with the people's names, because Mother said we ought to be careful—because—but
I wrote down what she said—and you'll see.”
But Bobbie
could not read the labels just at once. She had to swallow once or twice before
she could begin.
Mrs. Perks
had been crying steadily ever since her husband had opened the wash-house door.
Now she caught her breath, choked, and said:—
“Don't you
upset yourself, Missy. I know you meant it kind if he doesn't.”
“May I
read the labels?” said Bobbie, crying on to the slips as she tried to sort
them. “Mother's first. It says:—
“'Little
Clothes for Mrs. Perks's children.' Mother said, 'I'll find some of Phyllis's
things that she's grown out of if you're quite sure Mr. Perks wouldn't be
offended and think it's meant for charity. I'd like to do some little thing for
him, because he's so kind to you. I can't do much because we're poor
ourselves.'”
Bobbie
paused.
“That's
all right,” said Perks, “your Ma's a born lady. We'll keep the little frocks,
and what not, Nell.”
“Then
there's the perambulator and the gooseberries, and the sweets,” said Bobbie,
“they're from Mrs. Ransome. She said: 'I dare say Mr. Perks's children would
like the sweets. And the perambulator was got for my Emmie's first—it didn't
live but six months, and she's never had but that one. I'd like Mrs. Perks to have
it. It would be a help with her fine boy. I'd have given it before if I'd been
sure she'd accept of it from me.' She told me to tell you,” Bobbie added, “that
it was her Emmie's little one's pram.”
“I can't
send that pram back, Bert,” said Mrs Perks, firmly, “and I won't. So don't you
ask me—”
“I'm not
a-asking anything,” said Perks, gruffly.
“Then the
shovel,” said Bobbie. “Mr. James made it for you himself. And he said—where is
it? Oh, yes, here! He said, 'You tell Mr. Perks it's a pleasure to make a
little trifle for a man as is so much respected,' and then he said he wished he
could shoe your children and his own children, like they do the horses,
because, well, he knew what shoe leather was.”
“James is
a good enough chap,” said Perks.
“Then the
honey,” said Bobbie, in haste, “and the boot-laces. HE said he respected a man
that paid his way—and the butcher said the same. And the old turnpike woman
said many was the time you'd lent her a hand with her garden when you were a
lad—and things like that came home to roost—I don't know what she meant. And
everybody who gave anything said they liked you, and it was a very good idea of
ours; and nobody said anything about charity or anything horrid like that. And
the old gentleman gave Peter a gold pound for you, and said you were a man who
knew your work. And I thought you'd LOVE to know how fond people are of you,
and I never was so unhappy in my life. Good-bye. I hope you'll forgive us some
day—”
She could
say no more, and she turned to go.
“Stop,”
said Perks, still with his back to them; “I take back every word I've said
contrary to what you'd wish. Nell, set on the kettle.”
“We'll
take the things away if you're unhappy about them,” said Peter; “but I think
everybody'll be most awfully disappointed, as well as us.”
“I'm not
unhappy about them,” said Perks; “I don't know,” he added, suddenly wheeling
the chair round and showing a very odd-looking screwed-up face, “I don't know
as ever I was better pleased. Not so much with the presents—though they're an
A1 collection—but the kind respect of our neighbours. That's worth having, eh,
Nell?”
“I think
it's all worth having,” said Mrs. Perks, “and you've made a most ridiculous
fuss about nothing, Bert, if you ask me.”
“No, I
ain't,” said Perks, firmly; “if a man didn't respect hisself, no one wouldn't
do it for him.”
“But
everyone respects you,” said Bobbie; “they all said so.”
“I knew
you'd like it when you really understood,” said Phyllis, brightly.
“Humph!
You'll stay to tea?” said Mr. Perks.
Later on
Peter proposed Mr. Perks's health. And Mr. Perks proposed a toast, also
honoured in tea, and the toast was, “May the garland of friendship be ever
green,” which was much more poetical than anyone had expected from him.
* * * * * *
“Jolly
good little kids, those,” said Mr. Perks to his wife as they went to bed.
“Oh,
they're all right, bless their hearts,” said his wife; “it's you that's the aggravatingest
old thing that ever was. I was ashamed of you—I tell you—”
“You
didn't need to be, old gal. I climbed down handsome soon as I understood it
wasn't charity. But charity's what I never did abide, and won't neither.”
* * * * * *
All sorts
of people were made happy by that birthday party. Mr. Perks and Mrs. Perks and
the little Perkses by all the nice things and by the kind thoughts of their
neighbours; the Three Chimneys children by the success, undoubted though
unexpectedly delayed, of their plan; and Mrs. Ransome every time she saw the
fat Perks baby in the perambulator. Mrs. Perks made quite a round of visits to
thank people for their kind birthday presents, and after each visit felt that
she had a better friend than she had thought.
“Yes,”
said Perks, reflectively, “it's not so much what you does as what you means;
that's what I say. Now if it had been charity—”
“Oh, drat
charity,” said Mrs. Perks; “nobody won't offer you charity, Bert, however much
you was to want it, I lay. That was just friendliness, that was.”
When the
clergyman called on Mrs. Perks, she told him all about it. “It WAS
friendliness, wasn't it, Sir?” said she.
“I think,”
said the clergyman, “it was what is sometimes called loving-kindness.”
So you see
it was all right in the end. But if one does that sort of thing, one has to be
careful to do it in the right way. For, as Mr. Perks said, when he had time to
think it over, it's not so much what you do, as what you mean.