Free Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by D. H. Lawrence

cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night’s newspaper—what of it he could—spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the habit of the mine.
    At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter, and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like a chemise.
    Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill, and because it occurred to him.
    “I’ve brought thee a cup o’ tea, lass,” he said.
    “Well, you needn’t, for you know I don’t like it,” she replied.
    “Drink it up; it’ll pop thee off to sleep again.”
    She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.
    “I’ll back my life there’s no sugar in,” she said.
    “Yi—there’s one big’un,” he replied, injured.
    “It’s a wonder,” she said, sipping again.
    She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into the fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He loved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when he was in the field.
    Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very self-righteous, he went upstairs.
    “Now I’m cleaned up for thee: tha’s no ’casions ter stir a peg all day, but sit and read thy books.”
    Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.
    “And the dinner cooks itself?” she answered.
    “Eh, I know nowt about th’ dinner.”
    “You’d know if there weren’t any.”
    “Ay, ’appen so,” he answered, departing.
    When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call:
    “So you keep wagging on, then?”
    “Ay,” answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. “There’s nothing else for it.”
    “Have you seen Hose?” ad called a very small woman from across the road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting.
    “I haven’t,” said Mrs. Morel.
    “Eh, I wish he’d come. I’ve got a copperful ae of clothes, an’ I’m sure I heered his bell.”
    “Hark! He’s at the end.”
    The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, af bending over bundles of cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm.
    “I’ve done ten dozen this week,” she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.
    “T-t-t!” went the other. “I don’t know how you can find time.”
    “Eh!” said Mrs. Anthony. “You can find time if you make time.”
    “I don’t know how you do it,” said Mrs. Morel. “And how much shall you get for those many?”
    “Tuppence-ha’penny a dozen,”