Some Everyday Folk and Dawn | Page 6

pointing to the old man who had
travelled with me on the day of my first visit to the town, and now
supporting an outhouse door-post, while a young man with whom he
talked leant against the tailboard of a cart advertising that he was the
first-class butcher of Kangaroo, and had several other unsurpassable
virtues in the meat trade.
"No, he ain't me grandfather, thank goodness he's only me uncle; that's
plenty for me."
"Aren't you fond of him?"
"I ain't dying of love for him, I promise you. Old Crawler! He reckons
he's the boss, but sometimes I get home on him in a way that a sort of
illustrates to his intelligence that he ain't. Ask Dawn. She's the one'll
give you the straight tip regarding him."
"Where is Dawn?"
"Oh, Dawn's in the kitchen. She an' Carry does the cookin' week about
w'en the house ain't full. Grandma makes 'em do that; it saves rows
about it not bein' fair. You won't ketch sight of Dawn till dinner. She'll
want to get herself up a bit, you bein' new; she always does for a fresh
person, but she soon gets tired of it."
"And you, are you going to get yourself up because I'm new?"
"Not much; boys ain't that way so much as the wimmin," he said, and
the grin we exchanged was the germ of a friendship that ripened as our
acquaintance progressed. I intended to settle down to the enjoyment
afforded by my sense of humour. I had preserved it intact as a private
personal accomplishment. On the stage, having steered clear of comedy
and confined myself to tragedy, it had never been cheapened and made
nauseous by sham and machine representations indigenous to the hated
footlights, and was an untapped preserve to be drawn upon now.
So I was not to see Dawn till the midday dinner; she was to appear last,
like the star at a concert.

A star she verily was when eventually she came before me carrying a
well-baked roast on an old-fashioned dish. Her lovely face was scarlet
from hurry and the fire, her bright hair gleamed in coquettish rolls, and
a loose sleeve displayed a round and dimpled forearm--a fitting
continuance of the taper fingers grasping the chief dish of the
wholesome and liberal menu she had prepared.
Old Uncle Jake took the carver's place, but Grandma Clay sat at his left
elbow and instructed him what to do. He handed the helpings to her,
and she supplemented each with some of all the vegetables, irrespective
of the wishes of the consumers, to whom they were handed in a
business-like method. The puddings were distributed on the same
principle, grandma even putting milk and sugar on the plates as for
children; and further, she talked in a choleric way, as though the
children were in bad grace owing to some misdemeanour, but that was
merely one of her mannerisms, as that of others is to smile and be
sweet while they inwardly fume.
Excepting this, the unimpressive old smudges hung above the mantel,
and probably standing for some family progenitors, gazed out of their
caricatured eyes on an uneventful meal. Conversation was choppy and
of the personal order, not interesting to a stranger to those mentioned. I
made a few duty remarks to Uncle Jake, which he received with
suspicion, so I left him in peace to suck his teeth and look like a sleepy
lizard, while I counted the queer and inartistic old vases crowded in
plumb and corresponding pairs on the shelf over the fireplace.
Miss Flipp, the other boarder, was in every respect a contrast to me,
being small, young, and dressed with elaboration in a flimsy style
which, off the stage, I have always scorned. Her wrists were laden with
bangles, her fingers with rings, and her golden hair piled high in the
most exaggerated of the exaggerated pompadour styles in vogue. Her
appetite was indifferent; the expression of her eyes bespoke either
ill-health or dissipation, and she was very abstracted, or as Mrs Clay
put it--
"She acts like she had somethink on her mind. Maybe she's love-sick
for some one she can't ketch, and she's been sent up here to forget."

This was after Miss Flipp had retreated to her room, and Carry
continued the subject as she cleared the table.
"She says she's an orphan reared by a rich uncle; she's always blowing
about him and how fond he is of her. She's just recovered from an
operation and has come up here to get strong. That's why she does
nothing, so she says, only poke about and read novels and make herself
new hats and blouses; but I think she'd be lazy without any operation.
She'd want another to put some