miners, he was a great lover of medicines, which, strangely enough, he
would often pay for himself.
"You mun get me a drop o' laxy vitral," he said. "It's a winder as we
canna ha'e a sup i' th' 'ouse."
So Mrs. Morel bought him elixir of vitriol, his favourite first
medicine. And he made himself a jug of wormwood tea. He had hanging in
the attic great bunches of dried herbs: wormwood, rue, horehound, elder
flowers, parsley-purt, marshmallow, hyssop, dandelion, and centaury.
Usually there was a jug of one or other decoction standing on the hob,
from which he drank largely.
"Grand!" he said, smacking his lips after wormwood. "Grand!" And he
exhorted the children to try.
"It's better than any of your tea or your cocoa stews," he vowed. But
they were not to be tempted.
This time, however, neither pills nor vitriol nor all his herbs would
shift the "nasty peens in his head". He was sickening for an attack of
an inflammation of the brain. He had never been well since his sleeping
on the ground when he went with Jerry to Nottingham. Since then he had
drunk and stormed. Now he fell seriously ill, and Mrs. Morel had him
to nurse. He was one of the worst patients imaginable. But, in spite of
all, and putting aside the fact that he was breadwinner, she never
quite wanted him to die. Still there was one part of her wanted him for
herself.
The neighbours were very good to her: occasionally some had the children
in to meals, occasionally some would do the downstairs work for her, one
would mind the baby for a day. But it was a great drag, nevertheless.
It was not every day the neighbours helped. Then she had nursing of baby
and husband, cleaning and cooking, everything to do. She was quite worn
out, but she did what was wanted of her.
And the money was just sufficient. She had seventeen shillings a week
from clubs, and every Friday Barker and the other butty put by a portion
of the stall's profits for Morel's wife. And the neighbours made broths,
and gave eggs, and such invalids' trifles. If they had not helped her so
generously in those times, Mrs. Morel would never have pulled through,
without incurring debts that would have dragged her down.
The weeks passed. Morel, almost against hope, grew better. He had a fine
constitution, so that, once on the mend, he went straight forward to
recovery. Soon he was pottering about downstairs. During his illness his
wife had spoilt him a little. Now he wanted her to continue. He often
put his band to his head, pulled down the comers of his mouth, and
shammed pains he did not feel. But there was no deceiving her. At first
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