But she had been a laundress best part of a
lifetime--before she discovered herself as the mother of a genius--and
it had bit into her bone: she could not get finished, and she could not
leave the work undone.
"Some one's got to earn a living!"--that was what she said, embittered
by fatigue, the sweat pouring down her face, beaten to every
sensibility, apart from her swollen feet, by the time that Jenny called
in for her, soon after six. She had longed to go, had never even
thought of not going; but by now, apart from her physical pain and
weariness, she was alive to but one point, her whole being drawn out to
a sort of cone with an eye at the end of it; and far, far away at the
back of her brain, struggling with impenetrable mists, but one
thought--if she scorched anything, she would have to replace it.
When Jenny found that it was impossible to move her, she made her own
way up to Clapton alone. For Ben had to be at the hall early; there
were certain matters to arrange, and he would try over the piano.
Her efforts with Mrs. Cohen had delayed her; she was driven desperate
by that cruel malice of inanimate things: every 'bus and tram was
against her, whisking out of sight just as she wanted them, or blocked
by slow crawling carts and lorries.
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