Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories/Biddy Canavan

HE fact is," said the mistress of the house, "that she can't wash one little bit, and there's no use talking to her."

I was complaining of the condition of a flannel shirt which had returned to me in a curiously greasy state, considerably shrunk, and smelling strongly of soap. I felt bitterly on the subject, because the shirt was a new one and I had hoped the sort of things which no one but a fool does hope about flannel shirts.

"Why don't you dismiss her then and get some one who can wash?"

"She has three small children, and her husband is dead. I really don't know what would happen if she lost her work here."

Biddy Canavan earns one-and-sixpence a week from us for one day's work. She also has a shilling a week as outdoor relief from the Union. That, so far as we can find out, is her whole income, and she lives on it, she and the three small children. I do not know how the thing is done, but plainly it would be much more difficult to do if the one-and-sixpence were taken away from her. I could not press for her dismissal. I smelled the shirt again and felt that some steps must be taken.

"Why not make her go up to the Technical School and learn how to wash?" I said. "Here we are paying enormous sums for the upkeep of the Technical School and we can't get a shirt washed decently."

It appeared that this course had been suggested to Biddy; that she had promised, even pledged herself with oaths, to go to the school and learn the laundress's art. But she had not gone. Week after week the promises had been renewed. Week after week they had been—broken is a wrong word to use. Biddy Canavan does nothing so decisive and definite as to break a promise. Week after week the promises had been neglected. I touched the shirt again and shivered at the disgusting, matted greasiness of it.

"You must put it to her strongly," I said. "Threaten her that you will dismiss her next time you find out that she has not been to the Technical School."

"I wish you'd do it yourself. I really can't do it any more."

"You're afraid of her," I said.

"No, I'm not. If she abused me, or was impudent, or made any sort of excuse I could speak to her, but she simply cowers and looks at me with the eyes of a dog which expects to be beaten. If she speaks at all she says she's very sorry—and I can't, I simply can't, scold her."

"Very well," I said. "I'll speak to her myself to-day. That kind of woman must be shaken up for her own good. What time does she come here?

"About ten o'clock."

"For the future," I said, "she shall come at six. A day's work ought to begin at six."

There was something said about hot water which I did not distinctly catch.

"Or eight," I said, "Eight, or nine at the latest. Certainly before ten. I'll make that clear to her this morning."

I did speak to Biddy Canavan. I spoke as no man ought to speak to a woman, as I never spoke to a woman before and never intend to speak to one again. I wore the flannel shirt in order to keep my temper up to the boiling point. I writhed in it, and I loosed barbed words at Biddy Canavan. She utterly defeated me. Her eyes were of a peculiarly soft brown colour, very like a red setter's eyes, but much larger, moister and more pathetic. Her face expressed a settled, helpless melancholy, and along with that a sort of trustful and affectionate confidence in me. I came to the conclusion that she regarded me as a kind of Providence; that my decisions might seem severe, but would be accepted as just and altogether right without murmuring. She drooped all over. Her head drooped, her arms drooped. Her attitude reminded me of that particularly contemptible kind of tree called a weeping willow. She had no energy or she would have fought; no self-respect, or she would have resented what I said. At the end of five minutes I felt inclined to speak more gently. Then I fled from the kitchen. If I had not fled I should have apologised to Biddy Canavan—apologised abjectly and invited her to come and wash in my house two days every week. I should very likely have offered to buy more flannel shirts if it were a real pleasure to her to spoil them. I should have done all this though the fragrance of the abominable garment I was wearing was in my nostrils.

The next day was my birthday. In our household birthdays are high festivals. We lay gifts on the happy individual's plate at breakfast time and we have a large rich cake for tea. When I came downstairs I found the usual number of brown paper parcels, and one over. I had reckoned on a gift from each member of the family. I was puzzled by the extra parcel, which was larger than any of the others and addressed in a strange handwriting. I left it until the last, for several eager donors were waiting to note my appreciation of their gifts. I could not postpone the pleasure which, I hope, my thanks give. I got through them all in time, and came to the strange parcel. It was untidily papered up. Being circular in shape, it must, I know, have been difficult to paper. I remember once trying to wrap up a football, Association shape, in brown paper, on the eve of another birthday, and I could not make it into a tidy parcel. I took this thing up and poised it in my hand. It was heavy. I opened it slowly, and discovered a cake—a particularly noxious-looking cake. It was the kind of cake which is to be seen displayed in the windows of cheap grocery stores at Christmas time, made, I am told, of margarine and stale eggs—certainly of gritty currants. It had sugar on top, hard, white sugar; and embedded in the sugar was a highly- glazed green holly leaf, made of thin card-board. It must have survived the Christmas trade, lain unnoticed and hidden in some obscure nook, been discovered at a season of spring cleaning or stock-taking. Pinned on to it was a card, a Christmas card, plainly another survival. It bore the inscription:

"For the Master's birthday, from Biddy Canavan, with kind regards."

I was staggered.

"I thought," I said, "that this woman had three starving children. I was certainly told she had."

I received from the whole family an assurance that the children did exist, had been seen in the flesh, had from time to time been given cast-off garments.

"Then what on earth does she mean by buying a cake like this and giving it to me? Why doesn't she keep it and feed her babies on it? Or buy something useful for them with the money she spent on it? It must have cost two shillings. Even at a cheap sale you couldn't get it under one-and-sixpence. Send it back to her at once."

Then I realised that this course at least was impossible. I had been brutal to Biddy Canavan the day before. I would not be brutal to her again. My words, words which I still maintain were those of perfectly righteous wrath, came back to me, rose up and smote me, burnt into my flesh like red-hot skewers. I had spoken thus and thus; and Biddy Canavan had spent half a week's income or thereabouts on buying me a cake.

"What," I asked helplessly, "is to be done with a woman like this? She can't work and won't try to. She's utterly inefficient. She can't be helped or improved in any possible way. She's a burden to society, a menace, an actual menace, to the peace of mind of respectable people who wear flannel shirts, and she possesses in the highest degree the distinctive virtues of Christianity. She alone, of all people I have ever met, turns the other cheek to the smiter and deliberately does good to those who despitefully use her. What am I to do with her and her cake?"

It was suggested that the cake should be kept until the summer holidays. It will not be much staler than it is, and we shall have a schoolboy with us then. Also that I, or some one in my place, should take Biddy Canavan by the hand, lead her up to the portals of the Technical School, push her in and stand beside her, uttering words of encouragement while she learns to wash.