The Beauty of the Dead and Other Stories

by

H. E. BATES

Foreword by Lesley Pierce

A Note from the Family

The Beauty of the Dead

The Bridge

Fuchsia

The Ferry

The Loved One

Old

The Banjo

A Scandalous Woman

Love is not Love

Quartette

Mr. Penfold

The Goat and the Stars

The Earth

Time to Kill

The Little Jeweller

Bonus Story: Obadiah – A Man Who Met His Match

A Note on the Author

I have always believed that H.E. Bates was the absolute master of short story writing. He managed to create a little world for you to enter into, and that soft focus world would stay with you long after you'd finished the story.

When I first started writing I tried my hand at short stories, assuming quite wrongly it would be easier than attempting a book. Bates was my guiding light; there appeared to be a simplicity about his work that I sought to emulate. I did get a few short stories accepted by magazines, but they could never be in his league. I certainly never created anything as lovely as ‘The Watercress Girl'. Did any writer before or since? I think I found it in a magazine and read it curled up in my aunt's spare room one wet school holiday and then went on to rush to the library to find more of his work.
Fair Stood the Wind for France
was the first book I borrowed and I was totally hooked on his work, but it was always the short stories I really admired the most.

 

Lesley Pearse, 2015

My grandfather, although best known and loved by many readers all over the world for creating the Larkin family in his bestselling novel
The Darling Buds of May
, was also one of the most prolific English short story writers of the twentieth century, often compared to Chekhov. He wrote over 300 short stories and novellas in a career spanning six decades from the 1920s through to the 1970s.

My grandfather's short fiction took many different forms, from descriptive country sketches to longer, sometimes tragic, narrative stories, and I am thrilled that Bloomsbury Reader will be reissuing all of his stories and novellas, making them available to new audiences, and giving them – especially those that have been out of print for many years or only ever published in obscure magazines, newspapers and pamphlets – a new lease of life.

There are hundreds of stories to discover and re-discover, from H. E. Bates's most famous tales featuring Uncle Silas, or the critically acclaimed novellas such as
The Mill
and
Dulcima,
to little, unknown gems such as ‘The Waddler', which has not been reprinted since it first appeared in the
Guardian
in 1926, when my grandfather was just twenty, or ‘Castle in the Air', a wonderful, humorous story that was lost and unknown to our family until 2013.

If you would like to know more about my grandfather's work I encourage you to visit the
H.E. Bates Companion
– a brilliant comprehensive online resource where detailed bibliographic information, as well as articles and reviews, on almost all of H. E. Bates's publications, can be found.

I hope you enjoy reading all these evocative and vivid short stories by H. E. Bates, one of the masters of the art.

 

Tim Bates, 2015

 

We would like to spread our passion for H. E. Bates's short fiction and build a community of readers with whom we can share information on forthcoming publications, exclusive material such as free downloads of rare stories, and opportunities to win memorabilia and other exciting prizes – you can sign up to the H. E. Bates's mailing list
here
. When you sign-up you will immediately receive an exclusive short work by H. E. Bates.

Grimshaw finished stopping up the cracks of the bedroom window with the putty knife and the scraps of dirty rag. Outside it was already snowing, in sharp wind-scurried bursts, with particles of ice that bounced like grains of rice on the black dry pavements. But it seemed warmer in the bedroom now, so Grimshaw thought, the east wind deadened by the rag in the cracks, and at last he turned with satisfaction to look at his wife, who lay dying on the bed.

‘Feel any different?' he said.

‘No. No different.'

‘Warmer now, ain't it?'

‘Yes, bit warmer,' she said.

‘Doctor said I'd gotta git a fire,' Grimshaw said, ‘but you don't want a fire, do you? Have one if you want one,' he added quickly.

‘No. I'm warm enough.'

‘Never had a fire in this room,' Grimshaw said. ‘Don't see why we should start now, do you?'

‘No,' she said.

Grimshaw's wife lay in a large and beautiful mahogany four-poster without hangings, its canopy looming over her like a dark attendant angel with
carved scrolls for hands. As Grimshaw looked at her, a small meek-eyed woman with high blood pressure that showed in the sharp colour of her face and the root-like veins of her hands, his eyes dwelt on the bed too. To Grimshaw's way of thinking the mahogany itself, deep as burgundy, gave out enough fire to keep the room warm. It was a very beautiful piece: one of the finest pieces he had. Yes, it was very beautiful. Over the small figure in the bed was laid a brown horse blanket with a yellow scorch-hole in it, and over that a tasselled white quilt that had been darned along the edges. Lower down the bed Grimshaw had laid an old Inverary cloak, and there was a bucket for slops under the bed.

‘Feel like anythink t'eat?' Grimshaw said. ‘It's goin' uphill for twelve.'

‘I don't fancy much,' she said.

‘I got that cold rice pudden',' Grimshaw said. ‘I could hot that up.'

‘All right. Hot that up for me.'

‘I could go out and git a bit o' pig's fry. On'y it's snowing. I could go out though.'

‘No,' she said, ‘hot me the rice pudden'.'

Scratching his thin grey hair, Grimshaw began to go towards the door, feeling his way between several Hepplewhite chairs and a William and Mary occasional table and a carved commode that were crowded together
between the four-poster and the wall. At the door he stopped and peered back at her over string-tied glasses.

‘How shall I hot it?' he said.

‘Jist stand it over the kettle,' she said. ‘It'll hot itself like that.'

‘Ah. All right,' he said. ‘A bit o' warm pudden'll do you good.'

Grimshaw went out of the bedroom and along the dark landing and downstairs between the rows of pictures and furniture and the many pieces of china suspended by wires from the frieze-rail. He went through the living room, fireless too and crowded like the bedroom and the passages with many pieces of furniture, and so through to the kitchen. The kitchen was dirty, with a day's unwashed crockery in the sink, and in the range a small acrid fire of leather-bits that Grimshaw cadged twice a week from the shoemaker round the corner. In the middle of the floor stood a pembroke table, not a good specimen, that Grimshaw had once got for two shillings and had repaired in the workshop up the yard. On the table were spread sheets of newspaper, for a tablecloth, and on the newspaper stood a dirty cup and plate and a broken egg-shell, the remains of Grimshaw's breakfast. A brown teapot was stewing on the hob, the kettle simmering on the trivet beside it.

Grimshaw cleared the table of the dirty crocks. He put the crocks in the sink and the egg-shell in the fire and then, in the pantry cupboard, found the remains of the rice pudding, a chunk of solid brown-skinned substance in an enamel dish scorched at the rim. He put this on the kettle after taking off the kettle lid, swinging the trivet across the fire.

While waiting for the rice pudding to warm Grimshaw fell into a kind of trance. The door from the kitchen to the living room stood open, and from where he sat Grimshaw could see the little room crowded with furniture. His eyes, greyish-yellow, rheumily protuberant and almost lidless, were the focal point of his scraggy face. He was wearing several dirty waistcoats and now that the weather had turned bitter again he had wrapped a dirty scarf round his chest, tucking the ends into his armpits. In this trance-like attitude, his scarf giving him the appearance of a man who is waiting to go out somewhere, he sat for some time and gazed at the furniture. The tops of the tables, the chair seats, the face of a bureau seemed, like the bed upstairs, to give out an indefinable air of warmth. They seemed very beautiful. The sight of them touched Grimshaw's senses, colouring his acute and jealous sense of possession with a remotely poetic feeling. From his eyes, still protuberant but softer now, it was possible to see that the shape and tone of
antique wood affected him like words or music. He seemed to be listening to its beauty in the semi-dark silence of the house round which the snow was now beating in thicker waves.

After some moments he remembered the rice pudding. He found the enamel dish warm to his touch. He took it off the kettle and poured a little hot water into the pudding, stirring and mashing it up with a spoon. Then he poured water into the teapot, stirring the stale stewed leaves with his finger. Finally he poured out a cup of tea, giving it a look of the milk and a half spoonful of sugar. The cup of tea, with half the pudding on a plate, he took upstairs.

His wife was lying just as he had left her. On this side of the house the snow was beating in thick white flakes at the windows. It was settling untouched on the roofs and the street-trees, and the reflection of it in the mahogany was like a soft solution of silver.

Grimshaw, moving to set the pudding and the tea on a table, a Georgian pedestal, thought better of it, and set it on the floor. His wife began to struggle feebly up in bed, her lips pale and exhausted, and Grimshaw helped her into an upright position, giving her the tea and the pudding a moment later.

‘You manage?' he said.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I can manage. You go down now and have yours afore it gets cold.'

‘Doctor'll be here soon, without the snow holds him up,' Grimshaw said.

He felt his way among the chairs and tables again and went downstairs. In the kitchen he sat and ate his dinner off the newspaper, eating the same as his wife, the now luke-warm pudding mashed with water, swilling it down with the rank stewed tea. What was good enough for her, he thought, was good enough for him. Yes, they shared and shared alike. They always had shared and shared alike. They always would.

He bolted the food quickly, staring outside at the now rapidly falling snow. The food did not mean anything to him. He had forgotten what good food was like. She never had been able to cook and now it didn't matter. You didn't eat so much when you got old anyway, didn't need so much. They had lived in the house now for forty years, after marrying fairly late, and gradually the furniture had accumulated round them like a silent family of children. All their money had gone into it, had been made out of it. At first Grimshaw had been a carpenter, repairing bits of furniture in the evenings for other people. Then gradually the furniture had bitten into him, had got hold of him like drink, until it had become a sort of single-minded passion. Now he went about the house touching the mahogany and walnut and oak and fruit-wood with trembling fingers; he stared at it for long
periods with jealous, protuberant, poetic eyes. He was mad when a piece got chipped or scratched.

The jealousy and madness had got into her too – her upstairs, who was never anything to him but simply Her. She was passionately mad on the china and the glass. In the front room and the hall and in some of the never used bedrooms there were cupboards and cabinets of china to which no one had ever had the key. And now no one would ever have the key, because no one except the doctor came into the house. Grimshaw and Her were alone in the house. They wanted to be alone. They were quite happy like that, all alone, living on bread and tea and rice pudding, with the silent family of furniture about them and the countless pieces of china blooming in the dark and unopened cupboards like rows of everlasting flowers.