Dorothy Sayers - Busman’s Honeymoon

During this exchange the customer from London had quietly retired to a window-seat, taking his pint with him. The conversation turned upon football. At length, however, a plump woman (who was, in fact, no other than Mrs Ruddle’s friend, Mrs Hodges) remarked, with that feminine impulsiveness which rushes in where the lords of creation fear to tread: HH

‘You lost a customer, seemin’ly, Mr Gudgeon.’ *Ah!’ said Mr Gudgeon. He darted a looked towards the window-seat, but it encountered only the back of the stranger’s head. ‘Where one goes another comes, Mr Hodges.

‘Tain’t much I’ll be losing on the beer.’

‘You’re right,’ said Mrs Hodges. ‘Nor nobody else, neither. But is it true as ‘e was put away a-purpose?’

‘That’s as may be,’ replied Mr Gudgeon, cautiously. ‘We’ll be hearin’ tomorrow.’

‘And that won’t do no ‘arm to the trade, I reckon,’ observed the one-eyed man.

‘Dunno about that,’ retorted the landlord. ‘We’ll ‘ave to close the ‘ouse till it’s over. Tis only decent. And Mr Kirk’s particular.’

A scrawny woman of uncertain age piped up suddenly:

‘Wot’s ‘e look like, George? Can’t you let us ‘ave a peep at ‘im?’

‘Ark at Katie!’ exclaimed the lugubrious man, as the landlord shook his head. ‘Can’t let a man alone, dead or alive.’

‘Go on, Mr Puddock!’ said Katie; and the bar laughed again. ‘You’re on the jury, ain’t you? You gets a front seat free.’

‘We don’t ‘ave to view the body these days,’ Mr Puddock corrected her. ‘Not without we ask to. ‘Ere’s George Lugg; you better ask ‘im.’

The undertaker came out of the inner room, and all eyes were turned to him.

‘When’s the funeral to be, George?’

‘Friday,’ said Mr Lugg. He ordered a tankard of bitter and added to a young man who now came out, locking the door behind him and handing the key to Mr Gudgeon:

‘You better get started. Harry. I’ll be along in two ticks. We’ll want to close him down after the inquest. He’ll go till then.’

‘Ay’, said Harry.’

‘Tis fine, sharp weather.’ He called for a half-pint, took it down briskly, and went out, saying, ‘See you presently, then. Dad.’

The undertaker became the centre of a small circle, ghoulishly intent upon descriptive detail. Presently the voice of the irrepressible Mrs Hodges was raised:

‘And by what Martha Ruddle says, them as didn’t ‘ave ‘is custom ‘ull lose least by ‘im.’

‘Ah!’ said a small man with a fringe of sandy hair and a shrewd eye. ‘I’ve ‘ad me doubts. Too many irons in that fire, I reckon. Not as I’ve a lot to grumble at. I don’t let no books run beyond the month, and I got me money-allus exceptin’ that there collar of bacon as ‘e made trouble about. But it’s like that there ‘Atry and these other big companies as goes bust-you puts money out o’ one thing into another, till you don’t rightly know wot you’ve got.’

‘That’s right,’ said the one-eyed man. ‘Allus investin’ in things, ‘e wos. Too clever be ‘alf.’

‘And a ‘ard bargain ‘e did drive,’ said Mrs Hodges. ‘Dear, oh, dear! Remember when ‘e lent my poor sister that bit o’ money? Crool, it was, wot she ‘ad to pay. And makin’ ‘er sign away all her furniture.’

‘Well, ‘e never made much on the furniture,’ said the sandy man. ‘A soakin’ wet day that was, w’en they come up for sale. Tom Dudden ‘ad ‘em over at Pagford, and there wasn’t a soul there but the dealers.’

An ancient man with long grey whiskers raised his voice for the first time:

‘Ill-gotten goods never thrive. ’Tis in Scripture. Because he hath oppressed and forsaken the poor, because he hath violently taken away a house which he builded not-ah! and the furniture, too-therefore shall no man look for his goods. In the fulness of his sufficiency shall he be in straits-ain’t that so. Mr Gudgeon?-He shall flee from the iron weapon-ay-but there ain’t no good fleein’ when the ‘and of the Lord is agin the wicked man. There’s a curse upon ‘im, and we ‘ave lived to see it fulfilled. Wasn’t there a gentleman came down from London this morning with a writ agin ‘im? In the same pit that ‘e digged for others is ‘is foot taken. Let the extortioner consume all that he hath-’tis writ so-Ah! let ‘is children be vagabonds and beg their bread-’

‘There, there. Dad!’ said the innkeeper, seeing that the old gentleman was becoming excited. ‘’E ain’t got no children, praise be.’

‘That’s true,’ said the one-eyed man, ‘but ‘e ‘ave got a niece. It’ll be a sad come-down for Aggie Twitterton. Wonderful set up, she allus wos, thinkin’ there was money comin’ to ‘er.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Hodges, ‘them as gives themselves airs above other folks don’t deserve nothin’ but disappointments. ‘Er dad wasn’t only Ted Baker’s cowman when all’s said and done, and a dirty, noisy, foul-mouthed fellow in ‘is drink, wot’s more, as there ain’t no call to be proud on,’

‘That’s right,’ said the old man. ‘A very violent man. Beat ‘is pore wife something crool, ‘e did.’

‘If you treat a man like dirt,’ opined the one-eyed man, ‘’e’ll act dirty. Dick Twitterton was a decent sort enough till ‘e tuk it into ‘is ‘ead to marry the schoolmistress, with ‘er airs and lah-di-dah ways. “Wipe yer boots on the mat,” she says to ‘im, “afore you comes into the parlour.” Wot’s the good of a wife like that to a man w’en ‘e comes in mucky from the beasts an’ wantin’ ‘is supper?’

‘Good-lookin’ feller, too, wasn’t he?’ said Katie.

‘Now, Katie!’ said the lachrymose man, reprovingly. ‘Yes, ‘e wos a well set-up man, wos Dick Twitterton. That’s wot the schoolmistress fell for, you see. You be keerful o’ that soft ‘eart o’ yours, or it’ll get you into trouble.’

More chaff followed upon this. Then the undertaker said:

‘None the more for that, I’m sorry for Aggie Twitterton.’

‘Bah!’ said the lachrymose man. ‘She’s all right. She’ve got ‘er ‘ens an’ the church organ, and she don’t do so bad. Gettin’ a bit long in the tooth now, but a man might go farther and fare wuss.’

‘Well, there, Mr Puddock!’ cried Mrs Hodges. ‘Don’t say as you’re thinkin’ o’ makin’ an offer.’

‘E’s a one to talk, ain’t he?’ said Katie, delighted to get her own back. The old man chimed in solemnly: ‘Now, do ‘ee look where you’re goin’, Ted Puddock. There’s bad blood o’ both sides in Aggie Twitterton. ‘Er mother was Willum Noakes’s sister, don’t ‘ee forgit that; and Dick Twitterton, ‘e was a violent. God-forsaking man, a swearer and a sabbath-breaker-’

The door opened to admit Frank Crutchley. He had a girl with him. Bunter, forgotten in his corner, summed her up as a lively young person, with an up-and-coming eye. The couple appeared to be on affectionate, not to say intimate terms, and Bunter gained the impression that Crutchley was seeking consolation for his losses in the linked arms of Bacchus and Aphrodite. He stood the young lady a large port (Bunter shuddered delicately) and submitted with good humour to a certain amount of chaff when he offered drinks all round.

‘Come into a fortune, ‘ave you, Frank?’

‘Mr Noakes ‘ave left ‘im ‘is share of liabilities, that’s what it is.’

‘Thought you said your speckilations ‘ad gone wrong.’

‘Ah, that’s the way wi’ these ‘ere capitalists. Every time they loses a million they orders a case of champagne.’

‘Ere, Polly, don’t you know better ‘a to go about with a chap wot speckilates?’

‘She thinks she’ll learn ‘im better w’en ‘e’s bringin’ the money ‘ome to ‘er.’