# Just Jemima/Chapter 10

pp. 133–147.

### X
#### A FLORAL TRIBUTE

IT'S a queer thing, but me and Mrs. Parkins has oor best cracks whilst her and me is makin' the beds. Heavin' at mattresses—we turn them daily, mind ye I—and punchin' bolsters in concert wi' masel' seems to bring her off her high horse pro tem. Of course, noo and then, she bids me hold ma tongue, but it's jist like a mither tellin' her bairn to sit still and behave, which nae mither, except she's mad, ever expects her bairn to dae.
"So we're gaun to lose Mrs. Pagan," I remarks, one Saturday mornin', as we was spreadin' lovely fresh sheets for the auld whale to snore on.
"Yes," said Mrs. Parkins, "she is leaving on Monday morning."
"Monday mornin'!" says I.
"Well, what's wrong with Monday morning?" says she.
"It would ha'e been mair Christianlike," I says, "for her to ha'e went yesterday, or waited till next Friday. She must ken by this time that the beds gets clean linen on Saturdays."
"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Parkins. "Such an idea would never strike Mrs. Pagan, or any other guest."
"Weel, I wouldna gi'e ony o' them clean sheets, unless I was sure it was for the week. Ye're ower generous, mem," I says, meanin' it.
"Fiddlesticks!" says she.
"That may be," says I. "But I doubt, mem, ye wasna born under a lucky star."
"Possibly not, Jemima," she says, wi' a sad wee smile.
"Still," says I, no' wantin' to depress her, "we must look on the bright side, and I daresay Mrs. Pagan's room'll be aboot as profitable as her company, for never in a' ma born days ha'e I beheld sich an eater!"
"That will do, Jemima!" she says, jist as I expected she would. So I sang dumb for twa-three minutes, and then I says respectfullike:—
"Nae doubt, mem, we'll be seein' some new guests blaw in afore long, the season noo bein' at its zero!"
"I imagine you mean zenith!" she says. "Yes, we shall have a full house presently. I am expecting a lady and gentleman on Tuesday—a Mr. and Mrs. Pabbity, from London."
"Excuse me," says I, "but what did ye say was the name o' the parties?"
"Pabbity," says she. "An odd name, Jemima, so you had better get used to it."
"If the parties is onything like it, 'Seaview' is in for some fun. They wouldna mention their ages, I suppose, mem?"
"I fancy they are young people—on their honeymoon," she says, wi' a smile.
I was that surprised wi' delight, ye could ha'e knocked me doon wi' a hairpin.
"That'll be a grand shake-up for 'Seaview,'" I says, "and what a splendid example for Miss Tinto and Mr. Shark—Shard, I mean! He hasna been as eager lately as I could wish—been ower took up wi' his wilks, etcetera."
"Jemima," she says, "you must stop coupling the names of my guests. I may tell you that Mr. Shard is writing a book on shell-fish."
"Oh, he's a warrior!" says I. "I suppose he'll be callin' it 'Wonders o' the Deep,' though it's that shallow on this shore ye've got to wade a mile to get your knees wet. D'ye think, mem, he would like to ha'e ma mither's recipe for stewed cockles?"
"I'm afraid it's going to be a purely scientific book," she says.
"Weel, weel," says I, "it's queer what some o' us has got to dae for a livin'. Hooever, it'll be fine to ha'e Mr. and Mrs.—what did ye say the name was, mem? Oh, ay—Pabbity! Sounds like a cahootchy beast that squeaks if ye strike it on the nose."
"I trust you won't do anything of that sort, Jemima," she says. She was in a rare guid humour that mornin'.
"Nae danger o' that, mem," says I. "But what price a nice bunch o' flowers to be presented to the blushin' bride on her arrival at the doorstep?"
I'm sorry to say Mrs. Parkins didna seem to approve o' the notion; she feared it would cause Mrs. Pabbity an embarrassment'
Of course I told Frederick what was comin', but he didna seem greatly interested,
"I'd be gladder to see them," says he, if I kent they had wooden legs. I've got fair fed up wi' cleanin' boots and shoes since your frien' Mr. Shark took to gettin' his feet wet three or four times a day. I had enough wi' the Colonel changin' his boots after every meal to help his digestion. Na, na, Jemima, this is nae job for a man."
I was astonished.
"I never heard ye complain afore," I says. "Are ye no' weel?"
"I'm ower fit!" cries he. "But we'll say nae mair aboot it," he says in a hurry. "I'm vexed I let ma ill-temper get the better o' me, Jemima. And what did ye say was the name o' the happy pair? Rabbits?"
"Ye're no' far off it," says I, and tells him o' ma notion o' the bouquet for the bride.
"Wi' lots o' pepper in it, I suppose!" he says, laughin'.
"Ye're a nasty, mean thing!" I tells him. "Can ye no' think hoo romantic it'll be to ha'e a young couple in the hoose?"
"Wait till ye've gathered up the confetti in their room," he says. "We had a couple here in the spring, and the puir chap's vera shoes was full o' the stuff."
"I'm no' heedin'," says I, "if the floor's an inch thick. I'll be glad to see a face o' ma own age."
"Oh, she'll hardly be as juvenile as a' that," he says. "Still, if ye insist on bein' happy aboot it, I must try to jine ye. But the bouquet would never dae."
"I've had thoughts o' decoratin' their room wi' roses," I says.
Frederick shook his bead.
"Mrs. Parkins wants a' the roses for the table."
"Weel, there's plenty o' Sweet William."
"Supposin' his name was Abraham! Ye could get hundreds o' yellow pansies though."
"Yellow's forsaken. They might mak' her think o' bein' deserted in a strange boardin' hoose, withoot the price o' a stamp to write to her mither, like a young bride I once read aboot."
"And what happened to her?"
"Never you mind! If ye winna help me, I wish ye would clay up."
"Dinna be cross, Jemima," says he. "Get Mrs. Parkins's permission to decorate the room, and I'll get ye a' the flowers ye can stick in it."
"Chaps ye!" says I. "Ye can be rael nice when ye like, Frederick."
"Mak' it 'Alec,'" says he.
"I'll split the difference and ca' ye 'Fralec,'" says I, and gaed back to ma work.
Next mornin' I approached Mrs. Parkins aboot the floral tribute. She said she would ha'e nae objections to a few flowers, but I wasna to mak' a display o' the thing.
"I suppose ye've naething in the way o' cupids, mem," I says. "China or plaster o' paris or alabaster——"
"No nonsense of that sort, Jemima," says she afore I was finished.
"I once had a cupid frae a bridescake, but unfortunately I devoured the head off it," I says. "'Hoo often,' as ma fayther would say, 'dae we wish we had preserved the thing we ha'e destroyed!' Ah, me! I could dae wi' that cupid noo! what fun to ha'e it keekin' ower the mirror, or oot o' the soap dish, to gi'e the bridal pair a welcome surprise!"
"I'm extremely thankful that your cupid is no more," she says, wi' a smile. "Remember, you must never take the slightest liberty with a guest."
"Right oh!" says I, without thinkin', and had to ask her pardon.
The cook was feelin' low that night, in spite o' an extra cup o' cocoa, so I thought to cheer her up wi' the happy news. But, if ye'll believe me, I only done the opposite.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she cries. "What's this ye're tellin' me? And I hoped I would ha'e been safe frae sich a thing in this hoose. I'm sure I've thrown up dozens o' guid places for less."
"I canna see what's upsettin' ye," I says in astonishment. "It's no' as if ye would be comin' in contack wi' them as I will, and a' the extra work it'll mean for you winna be worth speakin' aboot. Ye ken it's me that scrapes the tatties and shills the peas, etcetera."
"It's no' that," says she, groanin' and preparin' for a third cup o' cocoa.
"Weel, what is it?" says I. "Can ye no' rejoice wi' them that does rejoice?"
"No, I canna, never could, and never will!" she says.
"I'm sorry I spoke," says I; "but I really think ye're daft, cooky. What's your objections to ha'ein' a honeymoon pair in the hoose?"
"I canna rest for thinkin' hoo soon their joy'll be changed to grief," she says, helpin' hersel' to enough cocoa for six persons.
"It's you for a pleasant Sunday evenin'!" says I, and left her to droon her sorrows.
When I got to ma room, what think ye I seen lyin' on the bed? The umbrella I had thought never to handle again! There was a note wi' it in queer writin'. This was it:—
       "When you was serving dinner a young man come to the door and asked for you and if you had got your umbrella because he had never heard from you. If you ever speak of this to me as long as I live I will put metal pollish in the soup and kill all the boarders and they will lie at your door.
"Yours affec., "Cook."
At first I laughed, and then I sat doon on ma faithful box and grat.
Next afternoon, bein' free, I gaed doon to the shore, and afore long I cam' on Mr. Shark and Miss Tinto. Gracious Powers I thinks I to masel', if only they would speak to me first, what a chance for a word in season, as ma fayther would call it!
And they did—at least, Mr. Shark waved me ower to see some new patent beast he had discovered.
When he had finished his bit lecture, I thanked him, and then, wi' a meanin' look frae him to her, I remarks:
"Maybe ye'll ha'e heard, mem, sir, that Mrs. Parkins is expectin' a honeymoon pair next week."
"Really!" says she.
"Indeed!" says he.
I gaed awa' wonderin' if it was me that was daft, after a'.
Still, I couldna help gettin' excited as the time cam' near. On the mornin' o' the day, Frederick fetched me a basket o' flowers frae his mither's wee garden, and I put as many as Mrs. Parkins would let me into the green room which was preserved for the happy pair. Mind ye, I took great care wi' the job, and great pride in it forbye. I imagined Mrs. Pabbity comin' in for the first time, and throwin' up her hands, and exclaimin':—
"Heavens! How charming, Geoffrey" (or whatever his front name was) "dear!"
And him replyin':—
"Exquisite, my darling! Somebody has done it specially for us. May heaven reward her!"
Weel, the day arrived at last, and in the afternoon the Westerbay cab dunted up to the door. I heard it wi' beatin' heart frae the landin' upstairs. It was Frederick's job to open the door and carry up the luggage. Mrs. Parkins hersel' brought up the guests, and I was supposed to lead the way to their room.
When I seen what was comin' up the stair then, I could ha'e led the way to the coal cellar.
He was a wee, bowly-legged, button-nosed man, which would never see fifty again, and she was aboot the same age, and as lovely as a fried egg when ye're no' hungry. Afterwards I heard she was his third.
And the first thing the man said when he got inside the room was:—
"Kindly have these flowers removed. Flowers are unhealthy in a sleeping apartment."
If I hadna coonted ten then, I would ha'e gi'ed him a word or twa. But for Mrs. Parkins's sake I done ma various duties withoot a murmur. Then I made a bee-line for ma own room, and ran into Frederick in the passage, and afore I kent where I was, he had kissed me.