Sarah McGuffic, Washerwoman

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 10, 11 March 1905, Page 6

Sarah McGuffic, Washerwoman

fl ROMANCE of MIDDLE LIFE

By

J. J. BELL,

Author of “ Wee JVlacgreegor ”

MRS McGUFFIE bent over the big washtub and muttered to herself, as was her habit, while she rubbed at the soapy con-

tents. “H'm! Ay! . . . Here that auld shirt o’ the doctor’s - never mendit yet! It tells its ain tale. . . . H'm! That’s a joke, but ye’ve nae time for jokes, Sarah McGuflie! Gang on wi’ yer wark! . . . Eh, but it s a peety the

puir doctor canna get his claes mendit. That wife o’ his is ower keen on gallivantin' aboot wi’ her high heels an’ her fancy parasole. 'Deed, I wud like tine to gi’e her an efternune at the mangle,

so 1 wud! . . . What’s this noo? Yin o’ Maister Davidson’s hankies. Like hissel'--niair hmoly nor righteous. Ha! ha! Gang on wi’ yer wark, Sarah McGuflie! Keep yer evil thochts toyerself! A’ the same, it’s no’ fair sendin’ a hanky like this yin to the washin'. As shair’s I'm leevin’, Mistress Davison 'll be blamin’ me for the holes. I’ve a rale guid mind to chairge her extra for washin the holes. Tits! I've tore it bigger! . What a heap o' table-naypkins Mistress Nimmo gangs through—an' no' yin o' them hauf dirty. 1 doot she’s a wasterfu’ young wife, but she'll maybe get mair carefu’ as she grows aulder. New mairrit folk ha’e got to learn things, an' the langer they tak' the better for puir folk like rnasel’, so it’s no’ for you to tin’ fau’t, Sarah McGuflie. . . • 1 mind when 1 was new mairrit rnasel' 1 was inclined for to be ower tree wi the siller. Ay! I’ve seen me buyin’ twa alabaster ornaments at a shullin' the piece wi’oot turnin’ a hair. An' they're baith broke lang syne. But they was rale braw ornaments, an' hikit fine'on the mantel-piece wi’ everlastins in them that, was otter Peter dec'll. Weel. weel. times is changed. 1 never thocht then that 1 wud come to be a washer-wife. But 1 micht ha’e come to be waur. I micht ha’e come to be a fish-wife if Providence hadna kep an e e on me. . Sarah McGulHe, gang on wi' yer warkj . • . Here yin o’ puir Miss Dincan’s tablecloths near a'darns. I’m feart she gi’ es oot her washin' jist because she thinks it's mair genteel-like, puir buddy. 1 never yet seen gravy on ony o' her tablecloths —never onythin richer nor pea soup. Sirs, the day! An she was born rich. Whiles I think pride efter a fa' is as sad as pride afore it . . . An' here a shirt o' the meenister’s. 1 ken it frae the nate mendin’ o' the buttonhole o’ the collar, an the ink on the cuff. lin sbair I’ve tellt him a hunner times he snd pit a bit paper roon’ his cuff. An' here ’ At this point in her moralizings Mrs McGuflie’s attention was drawn from her tub and scrubbing-board to a little girl in shabby garments who. having crossed the bleaching green without sound, was now standing in the sunshine against the white wall of the cot tage. “Y’e're there again are yer said Airs McGuflie, not unkindly, yet hardly in a tone of welcome. “Ay,” answered the little girl. She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other staring the while at her soiled pinafore beneath which her hands worked nervously“An’ what micht ye be wantin' the day?’’ “Naethin’.” “Aweel, ye'll get plenty o’ that here.” said the washerwoman with a grim smile. “That’s an awfu’ dirty pinny ye’ve got ton on! Are ye no’ ashamed to lie seen?" “What wry did yer auntie no' gi’e yr a clean yin?’’ “It’s no’ the daj for a (dean yin." “H'm!” muttered Mrs M<Guflir. “yer auntie sud think shame o’ hersel’ lettin’ ye gang ootbye like that. Are ye him “I’m thinkin’ ye’re aye hungry.” “Ay."

Mrs McGuflie dived into the tub and attended to a couple of articles before resuming the conversation. Meanwhile the child, who might have been ten years of age. and whose countenance was thin and plain but healthily sun-browned, continued to sway from one foot to the other, regarding the woman's operation with Interest and perhaps with anxiety. “Dinna waggle aboot like that!’’ exclaimed Mrs McGuflie. looking up. The youngster became motionless instantly. and lowered her eyes. “Wud ye like a piece, lassie?" asked the woman, more gently, when she had laid the articles just finished on a small heap of others in the basket. “Is That a’ ye say?” “If ye please, mistress.”

“That’s richt. Weel. ye'll get a piece as shin as 1 get thur things pit in the b'iler. What did ye say yer name was? It was ower fancy for me to mind.” “Annabella Florence McNaugbt.” “Mercy me! Some folks gi’e their lasses names as if they expec’it them to grow into doochesses. What does yer auntie ca' ve?” “Bella." “That’s no’ sae bad. But 1 think I'll ca' ye Ann. There’s naethin' fancy aboot Ann.” ) “I- 1 wud like ta be ca’ed Flo. if ye please, mistress.” said the child shyly. In her only picture-book, a cheap and gaudy a flair, there was a picture of a little girl of that name who appeared to enjoy innumerable worldly luxuries. “Flo?*’ cried Mrs McGuflie. “Na, na! That's no' the kin' o' name for a lassie like yprsel’. It’s faur ower stylish. Ye’re to be Ann. plain Ann. when ye come here. Wull ye mind that ?’’ “Ay.” disappointedly. “Weel. what’s yer name noo?” “Ann plain Ann.” mournfully. “Na, na! .list Ann. Ann— an’ naethin’ else. Noo. bide whaur ye are an' dinna tich onythin'. an' I’ll bring ye a piece as quick *s I can.” She picked up the wet bundle and carried it indoors. Mrs McGuflie was a widow, not fair, too hard-wrought to have grown fat. and nearer fifty than forty. Twenty years ago she had come to the village of Kin lochan as the bride of an apparently healthy and prosperous tradesmanTwelve months later she was alone and practically penniless, and the local washerwoman and laundress <»f the day a handsome, buxom creature having just captured and m irried a thrifty but weak minded bachelor dient, and having retired from the tub forever, she took over the modest business and settled down sternly to make a living. She had no dose friends among the Kinlochan folk, who, on the other hand, had nothing to say against

her except that her disposition was dour and her temper short. At the same time she exchanged civilities with most of them, and it was common gossip that Bob Robertson, a widower of some years' standing and of considerable worldly possessions, had asked her to marry him on more than one occasion. So far she had refused him, though of late the burden of daily toil and the desire for the little ease and comforts, which seemed as far off as they did twenty years ago, had tempted her to say "Ay” to his question. Iler acquaintance with the child was a new thing. Scarcely a week had elapsed since the latter had first come quietly across the green and taken her stand by the wall of the house, to be presently spied by the washerwoman, and later supplied with a slice of bread and treacle. It was summer-time, and on several sunny afternoons Ann as sh<- must now be called, had reappeared and the former proceedings had been repeated. But it was on the present occasion that the acquaintance of the woman and child may be said to have progressed to any extent. \\ hen Mrs McGuflie came out of doors with the promised piece in one hand and a mug of tea for herself in the other she found Ann standing close to the tub and gazing longingly at the soapy contents. Ann drew back with a guilty look on her face. "Here yer piece.” said Mrs McGuflie. "\\ hat was ye daein' when I was in the hoose ? Eh ?” "Xaethin'." She took the piece, mumbling her thanks. "A e wudna like to be a washerwife, wud ye?” Ann looked confused and remained silent. Mrs McGuflie took several sips of tea. and repeated hex’ question. "I—l wud like to wash ma—ma pinny.” stammered Ann. "Wash yer pinny? D’ye no’ like it bein’ dirty?” ‘A —you dinna like it.” "Weel. weel.” murmured the woman, endeavouring to disguise her gratification. "But are ye no’ ashamed o’ yer dirty pinny yersel’?” "Ay,” replied Ann, but perhaps not altogether honestly, for when one has been in the habit of wearing a soiled pinafore for five days out of the seven

one is apt to become a little hardened. Airs McGuflie took another drink of tea and set down the mug on a convenient window ledge. “Eat yer piece till 1 come back,” she said, and disappeared indoors. A minute later she emerged, carrying a metal basin and a chair lacking a back. She set the chair on the ground, filled the basin from the tub and laid it on the chair. “There ye are,” she said briskly. “Ye can wash yer pinny noo. Come here till I louse the buttons for ye.” In a high state of excitement the child bolted the last of her bread and presented her back to Mrs McGuflie. “Preens!” cried the latter in a tone ot intense disgust. ‘‘Does yer auntie no sew on buttons when ye’re needin' them?” “Whiles,” replied Ann. The other made no further remark just then, but finished her tea while the youngster slipped off the light garment and stood in an attitude of expectation. “Buckle up yer sleeves, Ann.*’ Ann obeyed smartly, disclosing a pair of lean little arms. “Are ye wantin’ anither piece?’’ the woman asked abruptly. Ann shook her head. She was eager to begin washing. “Weel,” said Mrs McGuflie, after a brief period of reflection, during which she looked rather cross, “ye bes,t begin. Jist dae as I dae.” lhey took up their positions facing each other and commenced operations. For several minutes the washerwoman wrought in silence and in haste, as if wishing to make up for lost time. 1 hen she began muttering to herself: “I doot her auntie’s no daein’ her duty by the lassie. She's a lazy, feckless wumman—no’ the kin’ o’ buddy to bring up a wean. There’s naethin’ waur nor an’ auld maid that's aye thinkin’ o' dressin’ hersel’ up to catch a man. Ay! • . . Sarah McGuflie, gang on wi’ yer wark! . . . Here anither o’ Maister Davison’s hankies. Holes again! If his nose was a gimlet he cudna niak’ bigger yins. An’ him fleein’ aboot every day in his motor-caur! It’ll be a fine job if he gets kilt some day wi' naethin' in his pooches but a holey hanky to tell the folk wha he is. Mistress Davison wud be sair affrontit, I’m thinkin . . . . An’ here anither shirt o’ the meenister’s. Wee]. I never! It’s a new yin! He wud get it for the Assembly. 1 suppose. But that front’ll no' last! Chape stuff!” She raised her head to glance at the girl, whose countenance was now aglow with heat and satisfaction. “Hoo are ye gettin’ on. Ann?’’ she said.

“Fine,” panted Ann. “Is’t elean vet?” she asked, holding up the limp pinafore. “No’ near clean. Keep at it, keep at it! Wull yer aunties no’ be expee’in’ ye hame shin ?” “Auntie’s awa’. She gaed awa’ to the toon in the steamboat, an’ she’ll no’ be back till nine.” “An’ when are ye to get yer supper?” “When she comes back.” “Ye’ll be gey hungry afore then.” “Ay,” said Ann, rubbing away diligently. ~ Mrs McGuffie bent over her tub. muttering. “Hoo lang ha’e ye bided wi’ yer auntie in Kinlochan?” she asked suddenly. “Since fayther deed.” Ann had never known her mother. “Ye bided in Glesca afore that?” “Av.” The young voice trembled. “Dae ye like bidin’ in Kinlochan?” pur sued the woman gently. “Whiles.” came the reply with hesita Hon. 1 1 U “As weel as in Glesca?” “Oh, na, na! Oh. na, na!” with sad emphasis. ' 1 i Mrs AlcGuffiie paused before she put the question: “Is yer auntie guid to ve. Ann?” Ann dropped the pinafore into the basin and glanced about her. “Ay—whiles,” she replied in a husky whisper. The washerwoman lifted the minister’s shirt, which she had been wringing between her hands, above iter head and Hung it with so vicious a smack into the basket that Ann fairly jumped. “Dinna be feart, lassie,” said Mrs McGuffie, controlling her passion. “I’m no’ angry at you. Let’s ink at yer pinny noo.” “Is’t clean yet?” "Av. it’s near clean. Bring it here, an’ I’ll gi’e it a bit rub, an’ then I’ll rinse it an’ pit it through the bew water, an’ then I’ll get it dried an ern it nice for ve, an’ ve’ll be hame as shin as yer auntie. Wull that dae. Ann?” “Am I to get bidin’ here till then?” The question was a mingling of hope and anxiety. “Ay, ye’ll jist bide here, Ann. an ye 11 get yer supper frae me the nicht. We’ll ha’e it shin, for I’m thinkin’ ye’re hungry, an’ I’m wearit.” “Oh!” cried Ann with a gasp of rap ture. “An’ I’ll gi’e ye an egg!” “Oh!” cried Ann again. “Ye’ll get plenty eggs frae yer auntie, maybe,” said the washerwoman in a casual tone. I 3 J “Na —I mean, whiles.” Somehow Mrs McGuffie felt pleased as well as angry. “Weel. come awa’ wi me to the washin’-hoose. an’ we’ll see if there’s onythin’ ve can dae to help me. “I wud—l wud like to help ye, mistress,” said Ann very shyly. “An’ so ye wull, ma dear!” returned the woman with a sudden burst of affection. As Anr. followed her indoors she would have skipped for joy had she not still been a little afraid of her new friend. n. It was [ate in September. The summer was always Mrs McGuffie’s busiest season, owing to the influx of visitors to Kinlochan, and the summer just past had exhausted her more than any of its predecessors. “Ye needna cast the blame on the wark, Sarah McGuffie,” she told herself as she bent over the tub. “for it’s jist yersel’ that’s no’ fit for’t. Ye’re no’ auld, but ye’re no’ as young as ye used ' to be, an’ forbye that I doot ye’re gettin’ wake i’ the back. The next time Bob Robison asks ye, I’m think in’ ye best jist tak’ him. He’s no’ a beauty, for his heid’s ower big; an’ I’m feart his tongue’s as lang as his purse, though it’s no’ tied as ticht; an’ I’ve heard tell that he asks a lang, lang blessin’, an’ then quarrels wi his meat; an’ he says tea’s the warst drink a buddy can tak’; an’ a’thegither he’s as faur frae perfec’ as a man can be—an’ that’s sayin’ a guid deal. . . ■ But if ye mairry him ye’ll get yer meat an’ yer sleep wi’oot slavery; an’ a dour man wi’ siller is better nor a sair back wi’ poverty. . . . Gang on wi’ yer

wark, Sarah McGuffie! He’ll maybe no’ ask ye again. . . . Aw, here some o’ Miss Carraway’s falderals. Vera pretty lace, an’ it wud cost a bonny penny, I’m thinkin’. Weel, weel, the plainest o’ weemen ha’e their wee consates. But it’s nae use pittin’ parritch in a gowden

plate fur them as dinna like parriteh. Na! . . . Mercy me! If Mistress bpeueer hasua beeu at the chape sales again! Thou leddy duesua keu when sue s be.n cheatit. She s nae notion o quality. This is its first washin’, an' 1 uoot it 11 be its last, its jist rubbish! Au she’s payin’ twinty-seeveu pound a mouth for her hoose, ail ha eiu diuuer pairlies wi wine—i keu that frae her tablecloths —an’ she wud weer a thiug like this! Deed, its a peetifu ease! Gang oil wi’ yer wark, Sarah McGuffie! it s uaue o’ yer business. . . . Oh, ma back! ... It mauu be a line thing to sit doon at the lireside wi’ yer kuittiu iu yer hauu', an’ a hassock to yer leet, au maybe a peppermint iu yer mooth, au never a tlioctit o washin’ nor mauglin , nor eruiu ! It wud be worth while takin Bob Robison for that alane. It s vera weel to be what they ca independent, but 1 think there's a time comes to every single wumnian when she feels the want o’ a man —1 suppose it’s because she’s ower prood to ask anither wumman to help her —an’ she 11 tak’ ony thin’ iu troosers that asks her. ’Deed, ay! An’ efter a’ it’s often jist a case o gettin’ quit o yin burden an’ takin’ up a heavier yin. But for a’ that I’ll risk it, an' Bob Robison ’ll no' need to ask twice efter this. I’ve made up ma mind, an’ ” The little girl was standing near. "Mercy on us!” cried Airs AlcGullie. "Ye’re jist like a moose, Ann! Ye’re there afore a body kens. But what’s ado, lassie? You’s been greein’!” Ann gave a gulp ami shook her head. "Ha’e ye hurt yersel’?” asked the woman, wiping the suds from her ha mis and arms and leaving the tub. Ann hung her head and her breast heaved. "Was anybody hurtin’ ye? Was onybody vexin’ ye? Eh?" inquired Mrs AlcGuffie, bending down in the endeavour to get a sight of the young face; but the girl Hung her pinafore over her head and began to sob. Airs AlcGuffie dried her hand on her apron and patted Ann’s shoulder. “Was it yer auntie?” she whispered at last. A nod. followed by a burst of sobs, ras the reply. “What was she daein' to ye?” “Naethin’.” “What was she sayin’ to ye?” No answer. Mrs AlcGuffie sighed. “I was feart it wud come to this,” she said to herself. Then aloud: “Is ye auntie vexed at ye for coinin’ here every day?” “Oh, na, na!” “Are ve shair, Ann ?” “Ay.”’ “An’ what’s vexin’ ye?” the woman asked, feeling that the worst had not come to pass, after all. “Did yer auntie never say onythin’ aboot yer cornin’ here ? Eh ?” “Ay—when she’s angry she says —she says ” “What does she say, dearie?” “She says—she says she wishes ye wud keep me a’thegither,” murmured Ann. “Oh. dinna be angry, mistress.” she cried the next instant. “Na. na; I’m no’ angry, dear.” said Airs AlcGuffie when she had got the better of her fierce internal rage against the other woman. “But ye’re auntie wud jist be jokin’,” she continued. “She wudna mean it. So ye needna be vexed aboot that. Ye’ll come an’ see me whenever ye like. Ann.” But Ann would not be comforted. “Is there onythin’ else wrang?” the woman asked in despair. The reply was a stifled wail and a nod of the head. ‘An’ what is ’t?” “Her an’ ine’s gaun awa’ frae Kin lochan an’—an’ never cornin' back again.” mumbled the girl miserably. ‘We’re gaun to the toon.” “Eh?” Mrs AfcGuflie felt half stunned. Ann repeated her answer, adding: “We’re gaun awa' in a fortnicht. an’ never cornin’ back for ever an’ ever.” “Oh. lassie, are ye fellin' the truth?” cried Airs McGuffie. She fell on hei knees and took Ann in her arms. 111. Mrs AlcGuffie sank wearily into the plain wooden armchair by her kitchen fire. Although it was nearly 8 o’clock at night, her day’s work was still unfinished. “I’ll just tak’ five meenits. an’ then I'll be at it again,” she assured herself, yawning and stretching her arms upward and backward till the joints

cracked. Her eyes closed, and she sighed heavily. . . . A knock at the cottage door aroused her, and, rubbing her eyes with her apron, she rose and went to open it. "It’s maybe him," she thought. "Whal'll 1 say to him?” It was the prosperous widower himself; and presently he preceded her into the kitehen on loudly squeaking soles and seated himself in the armchair. He laid his hat on the floor beside him, smoothed his thin hair which appeared to have been treated lately with a wellsoaked brush, breathed hard for a few moments, and mopped his brow with a large flame-coloured handkerchief. “Ye keep a rale braw an' tidy kitchen, Alistress AlcGuffie, he remarked at last, gazing about him with small but approving eyes. The remark was not new to his tongue, but it was no mere piece of flattery. The kitehen was the washerwoman’s pride, and it is highly probable that the sight of it had been the first thing to make Air. Robertson seriously consider the advisability of asking its owner to become his second wife. Air. Robertson was essentially a practical man, and he had had difficulties with his various paid housekeepers. Having begun in such a pleasant fashion, the widower with a satisfied air lay back in his ehair, rubbed his large hands, and gazed steadily at the tire tor fully a minute. At the end of that time, his hostess having kept silence also, he spoke again, without, however, removing his gaze from the fire ”1 preshoom,” he said slowly and ponderously, “ye canna' be wholly eegnorant as to ma reason for veesitin' ye the nicht. Mistress McGullie."

She made no response, and he went on: “Apairt frae no’ bein’ ower weel aft, I can imagine ye whiles feel it kin’ o’ lanesome, an’ feel the want o’ a companion.” He cleared his throat and was about to continue when — “I was thinkin’ o’ gettin’ a companion,” said Mrs. McGuftie quietly. “What’s that?” exclaimed the widower, sitting up smartly and looking at her. “I said I was thinkin' o’ gettin’ a companion. Maister Robison, an’ I'll be glad to ha’e yer advice.” “Pro ceed, if ye please,” he said, partly recovering from his surprise, and endeavouring to look dignified. She moistened her lips. “Ye’ll dootless ha’e heard that Miss McNaught’s leavin’ Kinlochan next week.” “Weel, I was thinkin' o' gettin’ her wee niece to bide wi’ me.” “For hoo lang, micht 1 inquire?” “For jist as lang as she'll bide. . . I was thinkin’ o’ adoptin’ her, ye see.” Mr. Robison gasped. ‘Adoptin’ her! Ye're shairly no’ in earnest! Ye—ye canna afford it. Ye—ye ” Mrs. McGuftie plucked at the apron on her lap. “Dae ye advise me -no’ to tak’ the lassie?” she asked, without looking up. “But but what dae ye want wi' the lassie? She’s ower wee to work for her meat, an' she canna pay her keep. What dae ye want wi’ her. Mistress McGuftie?*’ “Her auntie doesna Ink efter her—she’s no' fit to Ink efter ony wean.” said the woman hotly. “The pair lassie's jist neglec’it.” “But that’s nane o' your business. Folk'll think ye've gaed daft if ye dae this thing. Ye’re ower saft hertit. Mistress McGuflie. Ye sud use yer brains mair.” Here he solemnly wagged his large head, which was more bovine than leonine. There was a silence. The worn in was struggling with her temper. “What dae ye want wi’ the lassie?” he asked, again.

"Oh, mau, man!” she exclaimed, impatiently, "ye wud never umlerstauu! Deeply oil ended, Mr Robertson p'cked up his hat and rose. "Ma understaudm’ is as guid as maist folks,” he retorted. "I’ll bid ye guid nicht, Mistress McGullie, an’ 1 hope ye’ll shin gel quit o’ yer stupit—a micht say insane —notion. I’ll ca’ again at this time this day week,” he added very pointedly, “an’ see?’ He went stamping out from the kitchen and slammed the doors in turn behind him. "Oh, me!” sighed Mrs McGuffie; “oh, me! An’ 1 thocht there was a wee chance that he —that he wud tak’ Anu alang wi’ me. . . What’s to be done uoo ?” At the hour he had appointed the widower knocked at Mrs McGuffie’s door. it was opened cautiously. "Weel?” he said, briefly. Airs AlcGuffie smiled pleasantly. "I’ve jist been pittin’ Ann to bed,” she said, "for she was unco wearit efter her auntie gaed awa’. So ye’ll excuse me no’ askin’ ye in the nicht, Alaister Robi son.” "D’ye mean to tell me ye’ve kep' her?” he almost roared. "Whisht, mau, whisht! Ye’ll wauk en her. Ay, I’ve kep’ her, because, ye see, 1 cudna let her gang. So that’s the end o’ it!” "Ay, that’s the end o’ it!” he growled. "Ye’ve had yer eh’ice, an’ ye’ve ta'en yer eh’ice, Alistress AlcGuffie, an’ ” “Na, na, Maister Robison,” she softly interrupted. “Ye’re wrang there! It was you that had yer eh’ice. Guidnicht to ye.” And she shut the door as cautiously as she had opened it. She returned to the kitihen, and there she drew back slightly the rough curtain she had fixed up chat day to keep the light from the bed. A little head with fair hair in num erous thin, tight pigtails rested co n fortably on a snowy pillow, and the woman, with her heart full, looked long thereon. "Oh, wee Ann!” sighed the woman. “I cudna dae wi’oot ye! . . Ye’re mines noo, an’ I’ll never let ye gang. I’ll manage the siller some way.” She dropped the curtain and went over to the table where a heap of art icies lay ready for ironing. “Gang on wi’ yer wark, Sarah Ale Guflie!” she muttered, smiling.