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Somerset Maugham
Liza of Lambeth 12
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XII


About the middle of the night Liza woke; her mouth was hot and dry,
and a sharp, cutting pain passed through her head as she moved. Her
mother had evidently roused herself, for she was lying in bed by her
side, partially undressed, with all the bedclothes rolled round her.
Liza shivered in the cold night, and taking off some of her
things-- her boots, her skirt, and jacket-- got right into bed; she
tried to get some of the blanket from her mother, but as she pulled
Mrs. Kemp gave a growl in her sleep and drew the clothes more tightly
round her. So Liza put over herself her skirt and a shawl, which was
lying over the end of the bed, and tried to go to sleep.

But she could not; her head and hands were broiling hot, and she was
terribly thirsty; when she lifted herself up to get a drink of water
such a pang went through her head that she fell back on the bed
groaning, and lay there with beating heart. And strange pains that she
did not know went through her. Then a cold shiver seemed to rise in
the very marrow of her bones and run down every artery and vein,
freezing the blood; her skin puckered up, and drawing up her legs she
lay huddled together in a heap, the shawl wrapped tightly round her,
and her teeth chattering. Shivering, she whispered:

'Oh, I'm so cold, so cold. Mother, give me some clothes; I shall die
of the cold. Oh, I'm freezing!'

But after awhile the cold seemed to give way, and a sudden heat seized
her, flushing her face, making her break out into perspiration, so
that she threw everything off and loosened the things about her neck.

'Give us a drink,' she said. 'Oh, I'd give anythin' for a little drop
of water!'

There was no one to hear; Mrs. Kemp continued to sleep heavily,
occasionally breaking out into a little snore.

Liza remained there, now shivering with cold, now panting for breath,
listening to the regular, heavy breathing by her side, and in her pain
she sobbed. She pulled at her pillow and said:

'Why can't I go to sleep? Why can't I sleep like 'er?'

And the darkness was awful; it was a heavy, ghastly blackness, that
seemed palpable, so that it frightened her and she looked for relief
at the faint light glimmering through the window from a distant
street-lamp. She thought the night would never end-- the minutes seemed
like hours, and she wondered how she should live through till morning.
And strange pains that she did not know went through her.

Still the night went on, the darkness continued, cold and horrible,
and her mother breathed loudly and steadily by her side.

At last with the morning sleep came; but the sleep was almost worse
than the wakefulness, for it was accompanied by ugly, disturbing
dreams. Liza thought she was going through the fight with her enemy,
and Mrs. Blakeston grew enormous in size, and multiplied, so that every
way she turned the figure confronted her. And she began running away,
and she ran and ran till she found herself reckoning up an account she
had puzzled over in the morning, and she did it backwards and
forwards, upwards and downwards, starting here, starting there, and
the figures got mixed up with other things, and she had to begin over
again, and everything jumbled up, and her head whirled, till finally,
with a start, she woke.

The darkness had given way to a cold, grey dawn, her uncovered legs
were chilled to the bone, and by her side she heard again the regular,
nasal breathing of the drunkard.

For a long while she lay where she was, feeling very sick and ill, but
better than in the night. At last her mother woke.

'Liza!' she called.

'Yus, mother,' she answered feebly.

'Git us a cup of tea, will yer?'

'I can't, mother, I'm ill.'

'Garn!' said Mrs. Kemp, in surprise. Then looking at her: 'Swop me bob,
wot's up with yer? Why, yer cheeks is flushed, an' yer forehead-- it is
'ot! Wot's the matter with yer, gal?'

'I dunno,' said Liza. 'I've been thet bad all night, I thought I was
goin' ter die.'

'I know wot it is,' said Mrs. Kemp, shaking her head; 'the fact is, you
ain't used ter drinkin', an' of course it's upset yer. Now me, why I'm
as fresh as a disy. Tike my word, there ain't no good in teetotalism;
it finds yer aht in the end, an' it's found you aht.'

Mrs. Kemp considered it a judgment of Providence. She got up and mixed
some whisky and water.

''Ere, drink this,' she said. 'When one's 'ad a drop too much at
night, there's nothin' like havin' a drop more in the mornin' ter put
one right. It just acts like magic.'

'Tike it awy,' said Liza, turning from it in disgust; 'the smell of it
gives me the sick. I'll never touch spirits again.'

'Ah, thet's wot we all says sometime in our lives, but we does, an'
wot's more we can't do withaht it. Why, me, the 'ard life I've 'ad--.'
It is unnecessary to repeat Mrs. Kemp's repetitions.

Liza did not get up all day. Tom came to inquire after her, and was
told she was very ill. Liza plaintively asked whether anyone else had
been, and sighed a little when her mother answered no. But she felt
too ill to think much or trouble much about anything. The fever came
again as the day wore on, and the pains in her head grew worse. Her
mother came to bed, and quickly went off to sleep, leaving Liza to
bear her agony alone. She began to have frightful pains all over her,
and she held her breath to prevent herself from crying out and waking
her mother. She clutched the sheets in her agony, and at last, about
six o'clock in the morning, she could bear it no longer, and in the
anguish of labour screamed out, and woke her mother.

Mrs. Kemp was frightened out of her wits. Going upstairs she woke the
woman who lived on the floor above her. Without hesitating, the good
lady put on a skirt and came down.

'She's 'ad a miss,' she said, after looking at Liza. 'Is there anyone
you could send to the 'orspital?'

'Na, I dunno 'oo I could get at this hour?'

'Well, I'll git my old man ter go.'

She called her husband, and sent him off. She was a stout, middle-aged
woman, rough-visaged and strong-armed. Her name was Mrs. Hodges.

'It's lucky you came ter me,' she said, when she had settled down. 'I
go aht nursin', yer know, so I know all abaht it.'

'Well, you surprise me,' said Mrs. Kemp. 'I didn't know as Liza was
thet way. She never told me nothin' abaht it.'

'D'yer know 'oo it is 'as done it?'

'Now you ask me somethin' I don't know,' replied Mrs. Kemp. 'But now I
come ter think of it, it must be thet there Tom. 'E's been keepin'
company with Liza. 'E's a single man, so they'll be able ter get
married-- thet's somethin'.'

'It ain't Tom,' feebly said Liza.

'Not 'im; 'oo is it, then?'

Liza did not answer.

'Eh?' repeated the mother, ''oo is it?'

Liza lay still without speaking.

'Never mind, Mrs. Kemp,' said Mrs. Hodges, 'don't worry 'er now; you'll
be able ter find aht all abaht it when she gits better.'

For a while the two women sat still, waiting the doctor's coming, and
Liza lay gazing vacantly at the wall, panting for breath. Sometimes
Jim crossed her mind, and she opened her mouth to call for him, but in
her despair she restrained herself.

The doctor came.

'D'you think she's bad, doctor?' asked Mrs. Hodges.

'I'm afraid she is rather,' he answered. 'I'll come in again this
evening.'

'Oh, doctor,' said Mrs. Kemp, as he was going, 'could yer give me
somethin' for my rheumatics? I'm a martyr to rheumatism, an' these
cold days I 'ardly knows wot ter do with myself. An', doctor, could
you let me 'ave some beef-tea? My 'usbind's dead, an' of course I
can't do no work with my daughter ill like this, an' we're very
short--.'

The day passed, and in the evening Mrs. Hodges, who had been attending
to her own domestic duties, came downstairs again. Mrs. Kemp was on the
bed sleeping.

'I was just 'avin' a little nap,' she said to Mrs. Hodges, on waking.

''Ow is the girl?' asked that lady.

'Oh,' answered Mrs. Kemp, 'my rheumatics 'as been thet bad I really
'aven't known wot ter do with myself, an' now Liza can't rub me I'm
worse than ever. It is unfortunate thet she should get ill just now
when I want so much attendin' ter myself, but there, it's just my
luck!'

Mrs. Hodges went over and looked at Liza; she was lying just as when
she left in the morning, her cheeks flushed, her mouth open for
breath, and tiny beads of sweat stood on her forehead.

''Ow are yer, ducky?' asked Mrs. Hodges; but Liza did not answer.

'It's my belief she's unconscious,' said Mrs. Kemp. 'I've been askin'
'er 'oo it was as done it, but she don't seem to 'ear wot I say. It's
been a great shock ter me, Mrs. 'Odges.'

'I believe you,' replied that lady, sympathetically.

'Well, when you come in and said wot it was, yer might 'ave knocked
me dahn with a feather. I knew no more than the dead wot 'ad
'appened.'

'I saw at once wot it was,' said Mrs. Hodges, nodding her head.

'Yus, of course, you knew. I expect you've 'ad a great deal of
practice one way an' another.'

'You're right, Mrs. Kemp, you're right. I've been on the job now for
nearly twenty years, an' if I don't know somethin' abaht it I ought.'

'D'yer finds it pays well?'

'Well, Mrs. Kemp, tike it all in all, I ain't got no grounds for
complaint. I'm in the 'abit of askin' five shillings, an' I will say
this, I don't think it's too much for wot I do.'

The news of Liza's illness had quickly spread, and more than once in
the course of the day a neighbour had come to ask after her. There was
a knock at the door now, and Mrs. Hodges opened it. Tom stood on the
threshold asking to come in.

'Yus, you can come,' said Mrs. Kemp.

He advanced on tiptoe, so as to make no noise, and for a while stood
silently looking at Liza. Mrs. Hodges was by his side.

'Can I speak to 'er?' he whispered.

'She can't 'ear you.'

He groaned.

'D'yer think she'll get arright?' he asked.

Mrs. Hodges shrugged her shoulders.

'I shouldn't like ter give an opinion,' she said, cautiously.

Tom bent over Liza, and, blushing, kissed her; then, without speaking
further, went out of the room.

'Thet's the young man as was courtin' 'er,' said Mrs. Kemp, pointing
over her shoulder with her thumb.

Soon after the Doctor came.

'Wot do yer think of 'er, doctor?' said Mrs. Hodges, bustling forwards
authoritatively in her position of midwife and sick-nurse.

'I'm afraid she's very bad.'

'D'yer think she's goin' ter die?' she asked, dropping her voice to a
whisper.

'I'm afraid so!'

As the doctor sat down by Liza's side Mrs. Hodges turned round and
significantly nodded to Mrs. Kemp, who put her handkerchief to her
eyes. Then she went outside to the little group waiting at the door.

'Wot does the doctor sy?' they asked, among them Tom.

''E says just wot I've been sayin' all along; I knew she wouldn't
live.'

And Tom burst out: 'Oh, Liza!'

As she retired a woman remarked:

'Mrs. 'Odges is very clever, I think.'

'Yus,' remarked another, 'she got me through my last confinement
simply wonderful. If it come to choosin' between 'em I'd back Mrs.
'Odges against forty doctors.'

'Ter tell yer the truth, so would I. I've never known 'er wrong yet.'

Mrs. Hodges sat down beside Mrs. Kemp and proceeded to comfort her.

'Why don't yer tike a little drop of brandy ter calm yer nerves, Mrs.
Kemp?' she said, 'you want it.'

'I was just feelin' rather faint, an' I couldn't 'elp thinkin' as 'ow
twopenneth of whisky 'ud do me good.'

'Na, Mrs. Kemp,' said Mrs. Hodges, earnestly, putting her hand on the
other's arm. 'You tike my tip-- when you're queer there's nothin' like
brandy for pullin' yer togither. I don't object to whisky myself, but
as a medicine yer can't beat brandy.'

'Well, I won't set up myself as knowin' better than you Mrs. 'Odges;
I'll do wot you think right.'

Quite accidentally there was some in the room, and Mrs. Kemp poured it
out for herself and her friend.

'I'm not in the 'abit of tikin' anythin' when I'm aht on business,'
she apologized, 'but just ter keep you company I don't mind if I do.'

'Your 'ealth. Mrs. 'Odges.'

'Sime ter you, an' thank yer, Mrs. Kemp.'

Liza lay still, breathing very quietly, her eyes closed. The doctor
kept his fingers on her pulse.

'I've been very unfortunate of lite,' remarked Mrs. Hodges, as she
licked her lips, 'this mikes the second death I've 'ad in the last ten
days-- women, I mean, of course I don't count bibies.'

'Yer don't sy so.'

'Of course the other one-- well, she was only a prostitute, so it
didn't so much matter. It ain't like another woman is it?'

'Na, you're right.'

'Still, one don't like 'em ter die, even if they are thet. One mustn't
be too 'ard on 'em.'

'Strikes me you've got a very kind 'eart, Mrs. 'Odges,' said Mrs. Kemp.

'I 'ave thet; an' I often says it 'ud be better for my peace of mind
an' my business if I 'adn't. I 'ave ter go through a lot, I do; but I
can say this for myself, I always gives satisfaction, an' thet's
somethin' as all lidies in my line can't say.'

They sipped their brandy for a while.

'It's a great trial ter me that this should 'ave 'appened,' said Mrs.
Kemp, coming to the subject that had been disturbing her for some
time. 'Mine's always been a very respectable family, an' such a thing
as this 'as never 'appened before. No, Mrs. 'Odges, I was lawfully
married in church, an' I've got my marriage lines now ter show I was,
an' thet one of my daughters should 'ave gone wrong in this way--
well, I can't understand it. I give 'er a good education, an' she 'ad all
the comforts of a 'ome. She never wanted for nothin'; I worked myself
to the bone ter keep 'er in luxury, an' then thet she should go an'
disgrace me like this!'

'I understand wot yer mean. Mrs. Kemp.'

'I can tell you my family was very respectable; an' my 'usband, 'e
earned twenty-five shillings a week, an' was in the sime plice
seventeen years; an' 'is employers sent a beautiful wreath ter put on
'is coffin; an' they tell me they never 'ad such a good workman an'
sich an 'onest man before. An' me! Well, I can sy this-- I've done my
duty by the girl, an' she's never learnt anythin' but good from me. Of
course I ain't always been in wot yer might call flourishing
circumstances, but I've always set her a good example, as she could
tell yer so 'erself if she wasn't speechless.'

Mrs. Kemp paused for a moment's reflection.

'As they sy in the Bible,' she finished, 'it's enough ter mike one's
grey 'airs go dahn into the ground in sorrer. I can show yer my
marriage certificate. Of course one doesn't like ter say much, because
of course she's very bad; but if she got well I should 'ave given 'er
a talkin' ter.'

There was another knock.

'Do go an' see 'oo thet is; I can't, on account of my rheumatics.'

Mrs. Hodges opened the door. It was Jim.

He was very white, and the blackness of his hair and beard,
contrasting with the deathly pallor of his face, made him look
ghastly. Mrs. Hodges stepped back.

''Oo's 'e?' she said, turning to Mrs. Kemp.

Jim pushed her aside and went up to the bed.

'Doctor, is she very bad?' he asked.

The doctor looked at him questioningly.

Jim whispered: 'It was me as done it. She ain't goin' ter die, is
she?'

The doctor nodded.

'O God! wot shall I do? It was my fault! I wish I was dead!'

Jim took the girl's head in his hands, and the tears burst from his
eyes.

'She ain't dead yet, is she?'

'She's just living,' said the doctor.

Jim bent down.

'Liza, Liza, speak ter me! Liza, say you forgive me! Oh, speak ter
me!'

His voice was full of agony. The doctor spoke.

'She can't hear you.'

'Oh, she must hear me! Liza! Liza!'

He sank on his knees by the bedside.

They all remained silent: Liza lying stiller than ever, her breast
unmoved by the feeble respiration, Jim looking at her very mournfully;
the doctor grave, with his fingers on the pulse. The two women looked
at Jim.

'Fancy it bein' 'im!' said Mrs. Kemp. 'Strike me lucky, ain't 'e a
sight!'

'You 'ave got 'er insured, Mrs. Kemp?' asked the midwife. She could
bear the silence no longer.

'Trust me fur thet!' replied the good lady. 'I've 'ad 'er insured ever
since she was born. Why, only the other dy I was sayin' ter myself
thet all thet money 'ad been wisted, but you see it wasn't; yer never
know yer luck, you see!'

'Quite right, Mrs. Kemp; I'm a rare one for insurin'. It's a great
thing. I've always insured all my children.'

'The way I look on it is this,' said Mrs. Kemp-- 'wotever yer do when
they're alive, an' we all know as children is very tryin' sometimes,
you should give them a good funeral when they dies. Thet's my motto,
an' I've always acted up to it.'

'Do you deal with Mr. Stearman?' asked Mrs. Hodges.

'No, Mrs. 'Odges, for undertikin' give me Mr. Footley every time. In the
black line 'e's fust an' the rest nowhere!'

'Well, thet's very strange now-- thet's just wot I think. Mr. Footley
does 'is work well, an' 'e's very reasonable. I'm a very old customer
of 'is, an' 'e lets me 'ave things as cheap as anybody.'

'Does 'e indeed! Well Mrs. 'Odges if it ain't askin' too much of yer, I
should look upon it as very kind if you'd go an' mike the arrangements
for Liza.'

'Why, certainly, Mrs. Kemp. I'm always willin' ter do a good turn to
anybody, if I can.'

'I want it done very respectable,' said Mrs. Kemp; 'I'm not goin' ter
stint for nothin' for my daughter's funeral. I like plumes, you know,
although they is a bit extra.'

'Never you fear, Mrs. Kemp, it shall be done as well as if it was for
my own 'usbind, an' I can't say more than thet. Mr. Footley thinks a
deal of me, 'e does! Why, only the other dy as I was goin' inter 'is
shop 'e says "Good mornin', Mrs. 'Odges." "Good mornin', Mr. Footley,"
says I. "You've jest come in the nick of time," says 'e. "This
gentleman an' myself," pointin' to another gentleman as was standin'
there, "we was 'avin' a bit of an argument. Now you're a very
intelligent woman, Mrs. 'Odges, and a good customer too." "I can say
thet for myself," say I, "I gives yer all the work I can." "I believe
you," says 'e. "Well," 'e says, "now which do you think? Does hoak
look better than helm, or does helm look better than hoak? Hoak
"versus" helm, thet's the question." "Well, Mr. Footley," says I, "for
my own private opinion, when you've got a nice brass plite in the
middle, an' nice brass 'andles each end, there's nothin' like hoak."
"Quite right," says 'e, "thet's wot I think; for coffins give me hoak
any day, an' I 'ope," says 'e, "when the Lord sees fit ter call me to
'Imself, I shall be put in a hoak coffin myself." "Amen," says I.'

'I like hoak,' said Mrs. Kemp. 'My poor 'usband 'e 'ad a hoak coffin.
We did 'ave a job with 'im, I can tell yer. You know 'e 'ad dropsy,
an' 'e swell up-- oh, 'e did swell; 'is own mother wouldn't 'ave known
'im. Why, 'is leg swell up till it was as big round as 'is body, swop
me bob, it did.'

'Did it indeed!' ejaculated Mrs. Hodges.

'Yus, an' when 'e died they sent the coffin up. I didn't 'ave Mr.
Footley at thet time; we didn't live 'ere then, we lived in Battersea,
an' all our undertikin' was done by Mr. Brownin'; well, 'e sent the
coffin up, an' we got my old man in, but we couldn't get the lid down,
he was so swell up. Well, Mr. Brownin', 'e was a great big man,
thirteen stone if 'e was a ounce. Well, 'e stood on the coffin, an' a
young man 'e 'ad with 'im stood on it too, an' the lid simply wouldn't
go dahn; so Mr. Browning', 'e said, "Jump on, missus," so I was in my
widow's weeds, yer know, but we 'ad ter git it dahn, so I stood on it,
an' we all jumped, an' at last we got it to, an' screwed it; but,
lor', we did 'ave a job; I shall never forget it.'

Then all was silence. And a heaviness seemed to fill the air like a
grey blight, cold and suffocating; and the heaviness was Death. They
felt the presence in the room, and they dared not move, they dared not
draw their breath. The silence was terrifying.

Suddenly a sound was heard-- a loud rattle. It was from the bed and
rang through the room, piercing the stillness.

The doctor opened one of Liza's eyes and touched it, then he laid on
her breast the hand he had been holding, and drew the sheet over her
head.

Jim turned away with a look of intense weariness on his face, and the
two women began weeping silently. The darkness was sinking before the
day, and a dim, grey light came through the window. The lamp
spluttered out.


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