Jacobs Room | Page 5

my knife, mother?" said Archer.
Sounding at the same moment as the bell, her son's voice mixed life
and death inextricably, exhilaratingly.
"What a big knife for a small boy!" she said. She took it to please him.
Then the rooster flew out of the hen-house, and, shouting to Archer to
shut the door into the kitchen garden, Mrs. Flanders set her meal down,
clucked for the hens, went bustling about the orchard, and was seen
from over the way by Mrs. Cranch, who, beating her mat against the
wall, held it for a moment suspended while she observed to Mrs. Page

next door that Mrs. Flanders was in the orchard with the chickens.
Mrs. Page, Mrs. Cranch, and Mrs. Garfit could see Mrs. Flanders in the
orchard because the orchard was a piece of Dods Hill enclosed; and
Dods Hill dominated the village. No words can exaggerate the
importance of Dods Hill. It was the earth; the world against the sky; the
horizon of how many glances can best be computed by those who have
lived all their lives in the same village, only leaving it once to fight in
the Crimea, like old George Garfit, leaning over his garden gate
smoking his pipe. The progress of the sun was measured by it; the tint
of the day laid against it to be judged.
"Now she's going up the hill with little John," said Mrs. Cranch to Mrs.
Garfit, shaking her mat for the last time, and bustling indoors. Opening
the orchard gate, Mrs. Flanders walked to the top of Dods Hill, holding
John by the hand. Archer and Jacob ran in front or lagged behind; but
they were in the Roman fortress when she came there, and shouting out
what ships were to be seen in the bay. For there was a magnificent view
--moors behind, sea in front, and the whole of Scarborough from one
end to the other laid out flat like a puzzle. Mrs. Flanders, who was
growing stout, sat down in the fortress and looked about her.
The entire gamut of the view's changes should have been known to her;
its winter aspect, spring, summer and autumn; how storms came up
from the sea; how the moors shuddered and brightened as the clouds
went over; she should have noted the red spot where the villas were
building; and the criss-cross of lines where the allotments were cut; and
the diamond flash of little glass houses in the sun. Or, if details like
these escaped her, she might have let her fancy play upon the gold tint
of the sea at sunset, and thought how it lapped in coins of gold upon the
shingle. Little pleasure boats shoved out into it; the black arm of the
pier hoarded it up. The whole city was pink and gold; domed; mist-
wreathed; resonant; strident. Banjoes strummed; the parade smelt of tar
which stuck to the heels; goats suddenly cantered their carriages
through crowds. It was observed how well the Corporation had laid out
the flower-beds. Sometimes a straw hat was blown away. Tulips burnt
in the sun. Numbers of sponge-bag trousers were stretched in rows.

Purple bonnets fringed soft, pink, querulous faces on pillows in bath
chairs. Triangular hoardings were wheeled along by men in white coats.
Captain George Boase had caught a monster shark. One side of the
triangular hoarding said so in red, blue, and yellow letters; and each
line ended with three differently coloured notes of exclamation.
So that was a reason for going down into the Aquarium, where the
sallow blinds, the stale smell of spirits of salt, the bamboo chairs, the
tables with ash-trays, the revolving fish, the attendant knitting behind
six or seven chocolate boxes (often she was quite alone with the fish for
hours at a time) remained in the mind as part of the monster shark, he
himself being only a flabby yellow receptacle, like an empty Gladstone
bag in a tank. No one had ever been cheered by the Aquarium; but the
faces of those emerging quickly lost their dim, chilled expression when
they perceived that it was only by standing in a queue that one could be
admitted to the pier. Once through the turnstiles, every one walked for
a yard or two very briskly; some flagged at this stall; others at that.
But it was the band that drew them all to it finally; even the fishermen
on the lower pier taking up their pitch within its range.
The band played in the Moorish kiosk. Number nine went up on the
board. It was a waltz tune. The pale girls, the old widow lady, the three
Jews lodging in the same boarding-house, the dandy, the major, the
horse- dealer, and the gentleman of independent means, all wore the