Cotter's England Read Online Free PDF Page A

at the beginning of the century; the trial of a French woman, Madame Steinheil, for poisoning her husband. A French President, Felix Faure, a friend of hers, she said, died of an overdose of aphrodisiac in a brothel. There was also trouble over a diamond necklace she said was given to her by Monsieur Faure. Mrs. Yates glanced through it and put it on the shelf. On the shelf was a book by Frida Strindberg about her life with the dramatist. On the flyleaf was written in Nellie's flowing hand,
    I thank God every day for George, for a man of genius who is human and tender and great. What if I had. found one like this? Read it again and again and bless the fate that traced my lines. I was spared all suffering. From him only goodness.
     
    When there was trouble in the industrial north, Northumberland, Durham, Nellie's newspaper sent her up there. She was able to get a week there now, some of the Tyne shipyards being struck; and after getting news along the River Tyne, she went home to her people, the Cotters, in Bridgehead. She had a cup of tea at the Bridgehead Station refreshment room and made for the hill leading to Hadrian's Grove, a long suburban road above the river, and lined on each side with small brick houses, all alike, with bow windows, picket fences and roomy attics in the sharp tiled roofs. Whistling, striding, her shoulder bag flapping, she passed the church and came to Number 23. In the front yard was a grass patch, a tree; a few springs of parsley grew by the doorstep. The multiple curtains in the bow window were drawn. She tried her latchkey. The door was bolted; she rang. A dog barked and Nellie called, "Eh, Tom! Where's Peggy?" When the door opened, there was a struggle. Nellie edged in with the door against her, while a furious young sheepdog jumped up and down snapping at her gloves and scarf. He got a glove and tore it quickly. Nellie called soothingly, "Eh, there, Tom man, down man, eh, ye dumb dog, how are ye, Peggy darling? Where's Ma? Stop it, Tom then man, sure he knows his old Nellie! Eh, Peggy darling, call him off, pet!"
    Peggy, a short doughy woman with dark eyes and brows in an oval face, and in apron and pink rubber gloves, said she was just doing the silver. "I didn't hurry," she explained, "because I thought it was Pop; and I thought if he can choose his time, I'll take my time."
    "Well, sweetheart," said Nellie cheerily, "so old Pop Cotter's going to come home early? It must be the year of the comet. And where's me old sweetheart, where's Mary Cotter, where's me Ma?" She pushed open the door of the front room, where as well as the piano, the expensive leather suite with sofa and smoking chair, the little tables, the sideboard stacked with bric-a-brac and books, there was a double bed in which lay old Mrs. Cotter.
     
    Simon Pike, a little lean man of just on eighty was bowed over the kitchen fire reading the Daily Mail. The kitchen was a small narrow room with one window looking on a little tree and asphalt patch under a high wall. Opposite the window was a large fireplace with an old stove and boiler in it. There was a gas stove alongside, cupboards and a dresser in the corners, a kitchen table under the window. The hall door and the back door made a through draft. The brass rails and fender, the stoves, table and sink, and all things but the window were very clean. A ceiling clothes rack had been let down nearer the fire and the damp clothes touched Uncle Simon's head. He sat in a straight hard armchair in which he could not fall asleep and which almost filled the space between the fender, the kitchen table and the sink. When anyone used the sink, he was spattered and said sharply, "Don't splash me!" His chair was placed with its back to the back door which led to the pantry, scullery, vegetable racks and the back yard. When this door was opened the cold wind blew on his back and he muttered, "Shut the door!" Next to his seat were the coal scuttles, a pile of wood which he had split, the