_Illustrated by H. M. Brock._
Could it, after all, be called unique? Hardly, perhaps, in the strict
sense of the word, since others shared in it. But to us it was, and I
trust ever will be, a unique experience.
We have generally spent our August holiday at the seaside in apartments,
and suffered many things in consequence--an uninterrupted succession of
mixed odours of cooking from early morning till late at night; fleas and
other insect pests, which seemed to thrive mightily on the powders put
down for their extermination; landladies afflicted with spasms and
inordinate thirst, and landladies' cats with unappeasable appetites;
cramped quarters, of course, which did not afflict one on fine days, but
on rainy ones became pandemonium; terrible attempts at amateurish
cooking and service--in which the dining-room's vegetables and tarts got
mixed up with the drawing-room's vegetables and pies--and slatternly
maids of all work, who killed on the spot even one's seaside appetite,
the moment they appeared to set the table.
And so, after mature consideration of ways and means, we decided this
time to attain to the dignity of a small furnished house--or a cottage,
at all events--if by any chance such could be found within the limits of
a moderate purse.
Further consideration fixed on Eastnor as the place where our holiday
was to be spent.
We had, in the course of twelve years' wanderings, tried most of the
South and East Coast watering-places, and found most of them a-wanting.
If the atmosphere was bracing, the beach was shingle. If the beach was
sandy, the atmosphere was enervating.
Somewhere in our family history a strain of Israelitish blood must have
got mixed with all the other strains. It probably dates right away back
to the forty years' wanderers, or even, maybe, as far back as Noah--in
whose family one can conceive, at one period of its history, almost as
strong a craving for sand as had again out-cropped in this present
rising generation of mine.
[Illustration: "'WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, SIR?'"]
The one thing my youngsters insist on is sand--wet sand with pools, for
amateur canal-engineering; dry sand for houses and forts, and Canutish,
wave-repelling castles. Sand, and plenty of it, is their one demand, and
no holiday is complete without it. When they were very young,
Broadstairs was all right for a time, and satisfied their inordinate
cravings; but it became too crowded, and to our family connoisseurs the
quality of the sand has deteriorated somewhat, and has got too much
mixed up with mud and buns and paper bags, and other people's babies,
and so we had to try further afield.
[Illustration: "THE DOOR OPENED, AND A SMALL LAME MAN LOOKED AT ME."]
The Great Sahara would have been just about the very thing for us, but
on inquiry I found the journey to be a long and trying one, and a trifle
beyond our means, and the accommodation for visitors somewhat defective.
Eastnor was named to us; we had never tried Eastnor. Was there
sand?--Yes, any amount. So to Eastnor I journeyed, with a
Saturday-to-Monday ticket and stringent orders from headquarters to
first try the sand--as to quality, quantity, texture, depth and
pools--and if up to standard measurement, I was authorised to pick up a
small house for August on the most reasonable terms obtainable.
The requirements were at least one sitting-room and three bedrooms and a
kitchen--if an extra room or two without extra charge, so much the
better. I was to come back fully informed as to what was left in the
house in the way of furnishings and utensils, and what we would be
expected to take with us.
I found Eastnor all right as regards sand; the very streets were full of
it, and as I stood on the Esplanade at low tide, and leaned up against a
strong south-west breeze, and saw the dry sand sweeping like smoke along
the flats and piling knee-deep to windward of the groins, and got my
mouth and eyes and ears full of it, I decided, from the taste and smell
and feel of it, that--from a sand point of view, at all events--Eastnor
would do.
Now to find a lodgment for the night, and then to prowl round for a
house.
I struck a neat little confectioner's for tea, and, following a plan
which had acted well on previous occasions, asked, as I was paying for
it, if they could accommodate me for the night.
Well, they had rooms, but they were let for the following week--being
regatta week--and, yes, said the stout lady behind the counter, she
thought she had better not take me; but the "Balaclava Inn," next door,
put up beds--I had better try there.
Yes, at the "Balaclava" they put up beds, and they showed me to a room.
"But if I should get a good let to-morrow--lots of folks come down on
Sunday to stop for regatta," said the hostess--"I shall have to turn you
out; but maybe I can find you a bedroom nigh handy."
This just to show the extreme independence of the aborigines.
Then I turned out to find the desirable seaside residence with the
maximum of accommodation and comfort at the minimum of cost.
I rooted round till I struck the chief estate agent--who was also the
chief grocer--of the town.
His shop was full, and trade was evidently booming.
I stood behind a triple row of clamorous lady visitors, who were
ordering everything under the sun in the grocery line, and complaining
vehemently to the badgered shop-men that their last orders had all been
very inadequately fulfilled. I waited patiently till the mob, having
apparently bought up the whole shop, thinned out, and a dapper
London-trained young shopman smoothed down his ruffled front hair and
leaned over the counter and asked, "And what can I do for you, sir?"
"I want a small furnished house," I said, meekly.
"Ah," he said, with a grin, "I'm afraid we are out of them at present;
I'll ask Mr. Wilson."
"Small furnished house for August?" echoed Mr. Wilson, in aggrieved
amazement. "Not such a thing to be had in Eastnor. All let a month ago.
You should come in May or June to get a house for August."
I thanked him, and left depressed. I wandered through the town, and
found myself back on the Esplanade. I walked the whole length of it, and
then along the sea bank into the uninhabited region beyond.
Not quite uninhabited, as it proved, for, about half a mile from the
Esplanade, I came suddenly on a cottage with nothing between it and the
sandy beach but a tiny garden plot, with a bit of grass and some
nasturtiums and pinks mixed up with cabbages and potatoes and a row of
scarlet-runners. It looked very clean and inviting, and I said to
myself, "Now, if only that were to let, it's just exactly what I want."
There could be no harm in asking, so I went up to the door and knocked.
No one came. I knocked again. Still no answer. I waited. It seemed to me
there was some movement in the side room, the sliding window of which
was partly open, but was covered with a white curtain.
I knocked again, and the door opened suddenly, and disclosed the small
brown face of a small lame man, looking up at me with a pair of small
but very sharp brown eyes, with, as I now remember, a slightly startled
look in them, as of one caught in the act.
"Yes?" he said, in a sharp voice.
"Oh, I wanted to ask if this cottage is by any chance to let any time in
August."