1909
“WILYUM!....._Wilyum!_.....WILYUM!”
It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at
the top of his voice--and a big-chested voice it was--the sound leaping
into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then he
turned to me:
“He's somewheres 'round the boat house--you can't miss him--there's too
much of him!”
“Are ye wantin' me, sor?” came another shout as I rounded the squat
building stuffed with boats--literally so--bottom, top, and sides.
“Yes--are you the boatman?”
“I am, sor--and bloody sick of me job. Do ye see that wherry shovin'
off--the one with the lady in a sweater? Yes--that's right--just slipped
under the bridge. Well, sor, what d'ye think the bloke did for me? Look
at it, sor!” (Here he held out his hand, in which lay a half-penny.)
“And me a-washin' out 'is boat, feedin' of 'is dog, and keepin' an eye
on 'is togs and 'is ladies--and then shoves off and 'ands me this--a
'a'penny, sor--_a 'a'penny_--from the likes o' 'im to the likes o' me!
Damn 'im!”--and away went the coin into the river. “You'll excuse me,
sor, but i couldn't choke it down. Is it a punt ye're lookin' for?”
The landlord was right--there was a good deal of him--six feet and an
inch, I should think; straight as an oar, his bared arms swinging free;
waist, thighs, and back tough as a saw-log. To this was added two big
blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face bronzed by the sun, and a double
row of teeth that would have shamed an ear of corn. I caught, too, the
muscles of his chest rounding out his boating shirt, and particularly
the muscles of the neck supporting the round head crowned with closely
cropped hair--evidently a young Englishman of that great middle class
which the nation depends upon in an emergency. My inspection also
settled any question I might have had as to why he was “William,” and
never “Bill,” to those about him.
The one thing lacking in his make-up--and which only came into view when
he turned his head--was the upper part of one ear. This was clipped as
close as a terrier's.
Again he repeated the question--with a deprecatory smile, as if he
already regretted his outburst.
“Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?”
“Yes--and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old
Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening.
Will you have time with your other work?”
“Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't.”
“No,--you can do both,--Norris did. You can pole me out to where I
want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at
night. You weren't here two years ago--were you?”
“No--I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly--” and he
touched his ear. “Been all my life on the river--Maidenhead and Bourne's
End mostly--and so when my time was up I come home and the boss here put
me on.”
“A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't
throw that chap into the river.” I am a crank on the happiness one gets
from the giving of tips--and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of
meanness.
His face straightened.
“Well, we can't do that, sor--we can't never talk back. Got to grin and
bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care for
his money--maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'--as if I
was--Well--let it go! And it's a punt ye want?--Yes, sor--come and pick
it out.”
After that it was plain sailing--or punting. The picture of that London
cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his mind,
had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors
that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the
backwater to the Mill--William stretched beside me while I worked, or
pulling back and forth when a cool bottle--beer, of course--or a kettle
and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.
*****
Many years of tramping and boating up and down the Thames from Reading
to Maidenhead have taught me the ins and outs of the river. I know it
as I do my own pocket (and there is more in that statement than you
think--especially during regatta week).
First comes Sonning with its rose gardens and quaint brick bridge; and
then Marlowe with that long stretch of silver bordered by nodding trees
and dominated by the robber Inn--four shillings and six for a sawdust
sandwich! Then Maidenhead, swarming with boats and city folks after
dark (it is only a step from the landing to any number of curtained
sitting-rooms with shaded candles--and there be gay times at Maidenhead,
let me tell you!). And, between, best of all, lovely Cookham.
Here the river, crazy with delight, seems to lose its head and goes
meandering about, poking its nose up backwaters, creeping across
meadows, flooding limpid shallows, mirroring oaks and willows upside
down, surging up as if to sweep away a velvet-shorn lawn, only to pour
itself--its united self--into an open-mouthed lock, and so on to a saner
life in a level stretch beyond. If you want a map giving these vagaries,
spill a cup of tea and follow its big and little puddles with their
connecting rivulets: ten chances to one it will come out right.
All this William and I took in for three unbroken weeks, my usual
summer allotment on the Thames. Never was there such a breesy, wholesome
companion; stories of his life in the Veldt; of his hospital experience
over that same ear--“The only crack I got, sor, thank God!--except bein'
'alf starved for a week and down two months with the fever--” neither of
which seemed to have caused him a moment's inconvenience; stories of
the people living about him and those who came from London with a “'am
sandwidge in a noospaper, and precious little more,” rolled out of him
by the hour.
And the poise of the man! When he lay stretched out beside me on
the grass while I worked--an old bivouac attitude--he kept still; no
twitching of legs or stretching of arms--lay as a big hound does, whose
blood and breeding necessitate repose.
And we were never separated. First a plunge overboard, and then a pull
back for breakfast, and off again with the luncheon tucked under the
seat--and so on until the sun dropped behind the hills.
The only days on which this routine of work and play had to be changed
were Sundays and holidays. Then my white umbrella would loom up as large
as a circus tent, the usual crowd surging about its doors. As you cannot
see London for the people, so you cannot see the river for boats on
these days--all sorts of boats--wherries, tubs, launches, racing crafts,
shells, punts--everything that can be poled, pulled, or wobbled, and in
each one the invariable combination--a man, a girl, and a dog--a dog, a
girl, and a man. This has been going on for ages, and will to the end of
time.
On these mornings William and I have our bath early--ahead of the crowd
really, who generally arrive two hours after sunrise and keep up the
pace until the last train leaves for Paddington. This bath is at the
end of one of the teacup spillways, and is called the Weir. There is a
plateau, a plunge down some twenty feet into a deep pool, and the usual
surroundings of fresh morning air, gay tree-tops, and the splash of cool
water sparkling in the sunlight.
To-day as my boat grated on the gravel my eyes fell on a young English
lord who was holding the centre of the stage in the sunlight. He was
dressed from head to foot in a skin-tight suit of underwear which had
been cut for him by a Garden-of-Eden tailor. He was just out of the
water--a straight, well-built, ruddy-skinned fellow--every inch a man!
What birth and station had done for him would become apparent when
his valet began to hand him his Bond Street outfit. The next instant
William stood beside him. Then there came a wriggle about the
shoulders, the slip of a buckle, and he was overboard and out again
before my lord had discarded his third towel.