Memoirs of a Surrey Labourer: A Record of the Last Years of Frederick Bettesworth — John Shaqi
Memoirs of a Surrey Labourer: A Record of the Last Years of Frederick BettesworthSturt, George
History
Memoirs of a Surrey Labourer: A Record of the Last Years of Frederick Bettesworth
Sturt, George
Surrey (England) -- Fiction; Working class -- Fiction
He had been at the barber's the previous evening, where another man
was discoursing at large about the war. And said Bettesworth:
"I _do_ like to hear anything like that. Or if they'll read a
newspaper. There I could 'bide listenin' all night. And if anybody
else was to open their mouths, I should be like enough to tell 'em to
shut up. Because, if you goes to hear anything, _hear_ it. Same as at
church or chapel or a entertainment: _you_ goes to listen, an' then
p'r'aps four or five behind ye gets to talkin'. I always says, if you
goes anywhere, go and be quiet. You en't obliged to go, but when you
do go, behave yourself."
The talkers, I might have reminded Bettesworth, are not always "behind
ye"; there are those who take front seats who might profit by his
little homily on good manners. But he only meant that the discourtesy
is the more disturbing, because it is the more audible, when it comes
from behind.
He passed easily on to a discussion of the weather, and again his
superlative good sense was to the fore. On Sunday, he said, he had
tried to persuade his neighbours--working-men, like himself, only
younger--to bring their shovels and scatter sand on the path down the
gully, which was coated with ice. Already he had done a longish piece
of it himself, but much remained to do. Several men had "went up
reg'lar busters," and "children and young gals" on their way to church
had fallen down. It would be a public service to besprinkle the path
with sand. So Bettesworth made his suggestion to his neighbours--"four
or five of 'em. They was hangin' about: hadn't got nothin' to do." But
no. They shrugged their shoulders and walked away. It was no business
of theirs. They even laughed at the old man for the trouble he had
already taken, for which no one would pay him. And now, in telling me
about it, it was his neighbours' want of public spirit that annoyed
him. They had not come up to his standard of the behaviour meet for a
labouring man.
Who would have imagined that, while he was telling me this, and for
days previously, he was in a state of severe mental distress,
aggravated by bodily fatigue? I had no suspicion of it, and was
surprised enough when told by a third person. But it was true--too
true. He admitted it readily when I asked him. His wife was ill again,
worse than she had been for three years, since the time when she fell
down in an epileptic fit and broke her wrist. She had had many minor
attacks during the interval, but this was serious now.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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