Mrs. Bunker’s Chaperon

"Mrs. Bunker’s Chaperon" is a comedic short story by W.W. Jacobs that revolves around the misadventures of Mrs. Bunker, a well-meaning but overly zealous chaperon. Tasked with overseeing the romantic escapades of a young couple, she often finds herself caught in humorous situations that highlight her lack of understanding of youthful romance. The story cleverly combines wit and charm, showcasing Jacobs' knack for character development and social observation while offering a lighthearted exploration of the complications and misunderstandings that arise in matters of the heart.

• Fiction

								
Matilda stood at the open door of a house attached to a wharf situated
in that dreary district which bears the high-sounding name of “St.
Katharine’s.”

Work was over for the day. A couple of unhorsed vans were pushed up the
gangway by the side of the house, and the big gate was closed. The
untidy office which occupied the ground-floor was deserted, except for
a grey-bearded “housemaid” of sixty, who was sweeping it through with a
broom, and indulging in a few sailorly oaths at the choking qualities
of the dust he was raising.

The sound of advancing footsteps stopped at the gate, a small flap-door
let in it flew open, and Matilda Bunker’s open countenance took a
pinkish hue, as a small man in jersey and blue coat, with a hard round
hat exceeding high in the crown, stepped inside.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bunker, ma’am,” said he, coming slowly up to her.

“Good evening, captain,” said the lady, who was Mrs. only by virtue of
her age and presence.

“Fresh breeze,” said the man in the high round hat. “If this lasts
we’ll be in Ipswich in no time.”

Mrs. Bunker assented.

“Beautiful the river is at present,” continued the captain. “Everything
growing splendid.”

“In the river?” asked the mystified Mrs. Bunker.

“On the banks,” said the captain; “the trees, by Sheppey, and all round
there. Now, why don’t you say the word, and come? There’s a cabin like
a new pin ready for you to sit in—for cleanness, I mean—and every
accommodation you could require. Sleep like a humming-top you will, if
you come.”

“Humming-top?” queried Mrs. Bunker archly.

“Any top,” said the captain. “Come, make up your mind. We shan’t sail
afore nine.”

“It don’t look right,” said the lady, who was sorely tempted. “But the
missus says I may go if I like, so I’ll just go and get my box ready.
I’ll be down on the jetty at nine.”

“Ay, ay,” said the skipper, smiling, “me and Bill’ll just have a snooze
till then. So long.”

“So long,” said Matilda.

“So long,” repeated the amorous skipper, and turning round to bestow
another ardent glance upon the fair one at the door, crashed into the
waggon.

The neighbouring clocks were just striking nine in a sort of yelping
chorus to the heavy boom of Big Ben, which came floating down the
river, as Mrs. Bunker and the night watchman, staggering under a load
of luggage, slowly made their way on to the jetty. The barge, for such
was the craft in question, was almost level with the planks, while the
figures of two men darted to and fro in all the bustle of getting under
way.

“Bill,” said the watchman, addressing the mate, “bear a hand with this
box, and be careful, it’s got the wedding clothes inside.”

The watchman was so particularly pleased with this little joke that in
place of giving the box to Bill he put it down and sat on it, shaking
convulsively with his hand over his mouth, while the blushing Matilda
and the discomfited captain strove in vain to appear unconcerned.

The packages were rather a tight squeeze for the cabin, but they
managed to get them in, and the skipper, with a threatening look at his
mate, who was exchanging glances of exquisite humour with the watchman,
gave his hand to Mrs. Bunker and helped her aboard.

“Welcome on the Sir Edmund Lyons, Mrs. Bunker,” said he. “Bill, kick
that dawg back.”

“Stop!” said Mrs. Bunker hastily, “that’s my chapperong.”

“Your what?” said the skipper. “It’s a dawg, Mrs. Bunker, an’ I won’t
have no dawgs aboard my craft.”

“Bill,” said Mrs. Bunker, “fetch my box up again.”

“Leastways,” the captain hastened to add, “unless it’s any friend of
yours, Mrs. Bunker.”

“It’s chaperoning me,” said Matilda; “it wouldn’t be proper for a lady
to go a v’y’ge with two men without somebody to look after her.”

“That’s right, Sam,” said the watchman sententiously. “You ought to
know that at your age.”

“Why, we’re looking after her,” said the simple-minded captain. “Me an’
Bill.”

“Take care Bill don’t cut you out,” said the watchman in a hoarse
whisper, distinctly audible to all. “He’s younger nor what you are,
Sam, an’ the wimmen are just crazy arter young men. ’Sides which, he’s
a finer man altogether. An’ you’ve had one wife a’ready, Sam.”

“Cast off!” said the skipper impatiently. “Cast off! Stand by there,
Bill!”

“Ay, ay!” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and the lines fell into the
water with a splash as the barge was pushed out into the tide.

Mrs. Bunker experienced the usual trouble of landsmen aboard ship, and
felt herself terribly in the way as the skipper divided his attentions
between the tiller and helping Bill with the sail. Meantime the barge
had bothered most of the traffic by laying across the river, and when
the sail was hoisted had got under the lee of a huge warehouse and
scarcely moved.

“We’ll feel the breeze directly,” said Captain Codd. “Then you’ll see
what she can do.”

As he spoke, the barge began to slip through the water as a light
breeze took her huge sail and carried her into the stream, where she
fell into line with other craft who were just making a start.

At a pleasant pace, with wind and tide, the Sir Edmund Lyons
proceeded on its way, her skipper cocking his eye aloft and along her
decks to point out various beauties to his passenger which she might
otherwise have overlooked. A comfortable supper was spread on the deck,
and Mrs. Bunker began to think regretfully of the pleasure she had
missed in taking up barge-sailing so late in life.

Greenwich, with its white-fronted hospital and background of trees, was
passed. The air got sensibly cooler, and to Mrs. Bunker it seemed that
the water was not only getting darker, but also lumpy, and she asked
two or three times whether there was any danger.

The skipper laughed gaily, and diving down into the cabin fetched up a
shawl, which he placed carefully round his fair companion’s shoulders.
His right hand grasped the tiller, his left stole softly and carefully
round her waist.

“How enjoyable!” said Mrs. Bunker, referring to the evening.

“Glad you like it,” said the skipper, who wasn’t. “Oh, how pleasant to
go sailing down the river of life like this, everything quiet and
peaceful, just driftin’”—

“Ahoy!” yelled the mate suddenly from the bows. “Who’s steering?
Starbud your hellum.”

The skipper started guiltily, and put his helm to starboard as another
barge came up suddenly from the opposite direction and almost grazed
them. There were two men on board, and the skipper blushed for their
fluency as reflecting upon the order in general.

It was some little time before they could settle down again after this,
but ultimately they got back in their old position, and the infatuated
Codd was just about to wax sentimental again, when he felt something
behind him. He turned with a start as a portly retriever inserted his
head under his left arm, and slowly but vigorously forced himself
between them; then he sat on his haunches and panted, while the
disconcerted Codd strove to realise the humour of the position.

“I think I shall go to bed now,” said Mrs. Bunker, after the position

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