Echoes of the War | Page 2

that is putting the matter too briefly.
The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, is to say to her that it is
a pity she has no bed. If she is in her best form she will chuckle, and
agree that the want of a bed tries her sore; she will keep you on the
hooks, so to speak, as long as she can; and then, with that mouse-like

movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You thought
it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the wall; and lo, a bed.
There is nothing else in her abode (which we now see to contain four
rooms--kitchen, pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely a
surprise; but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid ready
money for, and gloated over and tended until it has become part of its
owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might call them, though there is
probably nothing in the place except the bed that would fetch
half-a-crown.
Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted to the lower
half of persons passing overhead beyond the area stairs. Here at the
window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a summer evening gazing, not
sentimentally at a flower-pot which contains one poor bulb, nor
yearningly at some tiny speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in
stockings, and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of
vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that your finery
awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and does) that your soles are
in need of neat repair.
Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those whose view is
thus limited, she could swear to scores of the passers-by in a court of
law.
These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the tea-table,
and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their everyday garments, and
by their pails and mops (which are having a little tea-party by
themselves in the corner), it is not a gathering by invitations stretching
away into yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much more
attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately prearranged. You
know how they come about, especially in war-time. Very likely Mrs.
Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham quite casually in the
street, and meant to do no more than the time of day; then, naturally
enough, the word camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but
in the end Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which
one thing leads to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs. Dowey
remembered that she had that pot of jam and that Mrs. Mickleham had
stood treat last time; and soon they were all three descending the area
stairs, followed cringingly by the Haggerty Woman.
They have been extremely merry, and never were four hard-worked old

ladies who deserved it better. All a woman can do in war-time they do
daily and cheerfully. Just as their men-folk are doing it at the Front; and
now, with the mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at ease.
There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms until a
decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah Ann Dowey), until
the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma Mickleham), and singing
very small (Amelia Twymley).
At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs. Dowey is sure
to want to suggest that our heroine has a secret sorrow, namely, the
crime; but you should see us knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs.
Dowey knows she is a criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not
know that she is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in
her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She presses
more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from them in the pretty
manner of ladies who know that they have already had more than
enough.
MRS. DOWEY. 'Just one more winkle, Mrs, Mickleham?' Indeed there
is only one more.
But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this one it would
have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes it long afterwards
when she thinks, erroneously, that no one is looking.)
Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted her.
Probably the Haggerty Woman.
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I say it is so.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I say it may be so.'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a
prisoner in Germany.' She has so obviously scored that all good feeling
seems to call upon her to end