The home-sick palm that was dying on the hotel verandah touched with
a dry finger the coat sleeve of the man next to me. He picked up the
leaf and idly rolled it like a cigarette. “Pleasant here, isn’t it?”
he said. His eyes wandered kindly round the assembly of wicker chairs
in that glasshouse. We were nearest to the door, and could feel what
little air was stirring. A woman remarkable because her lips were a
crimson imposition which did not restore youth to the seamed pallor of
her face, and who wore a necklace of great lumps of amber, was giving
chocolates to a spaniel at the next table.
“Rum little face that dog’s got,” said the man. “Wonder what the next
fad in dogs for ladies will be. That one can hardly breathe, and can’t
walk.”
He was amused, and touched his fair hair very lightly, for it was
as accurately paraded as--I merely guess--his own platoon would be.
His moustache was neat. His chin was in good taste. His eyes went
seaward, where a turquoise space faded into a haze between two vague
headlands, and at once he became alert and sat upright. He lifted his
binoculars and scanned the Channel. “They’re destroyers out there,
aren’t they?” he asked, as interested as though he hoped that truth had
appeared in the offing. He carefully focussed his glasses. “And that’s
a Dreadnought, I’m sure.” Yes, they seemed to be destroyers, and the
other a battle cruiser.
The saturnine yachtsman, the best bridge-player in the hotel, in white
duck trousers and a reefer jacket, whose yacht had not yet arrived,
joined us. He said gravely, as though confirming news that was
important, but till he spoke was improbable, that they were destroyers
and a battle cruiser. They were, he remarked, of the latest type of
destroyer. The French had nothing so good.
The lady with the dark lips left her dog and came to look seaward. “Are
they really warships? How thrilling. What are they doing?”
We did not tell her. We did not know. But that cheerful and
irrepressible fellow, who often intrudes an unfortunate comment which
is always followed by his own laughter, though we never speak to him,
blithely answered the lady. “What are they doing? Wasting taxes,” he
said, and laughed, of course.
The yachtsman, whose ship was late, turned wearily and left us, the
young man with the disciplined hair wound the strap round his glasses
as though he had heard nothing, and the lady went to stop the noise her
dog was making, for the old fellow sitting with his nurse was glaring
malignantly at the spaniel over his shoulder.
“Only thing against this place is, one can’t get any golf,” my young
friend complained, and began to hum a tune that was popular about
the bandstand. He continued to look out to sea; his eyes avoided the
asphalted promenade where the charabancs assembled. The beach was
out of sight, but it must have been crowded, for a multitude of
air-balloons swayed above it. Shrill far-off cries came from there.
“Sounds as if the sea-serpent were among the girls,” said the young
man. “Let’s go and look.”
We strolled over. We leaned on the iron rails of the concrete wall and
looked down on the holiday-makers. The beach was sunk beneath deck
chairs and recumbent forms. The incoming tide was compressing the
multitude against the sea wall, and two more pleasure-seekers could
have found no place down there.
“That nipper--that one in the red varnished breeches--he seems to have
all the sand there is.” My friend pointed to a child with a toy bucket
beneath. “Doesn’t look too golden, does it?”
Our eyes roved. “I say, look at this fellow,” pleaded my companion
and nudged me. A man stood near us leaning on the rail. He was
surveying the people from the cities taking their pleasure. It was a
lumpy figure, in rough clothes, in old velveteen riding breeches, and
leggings that were almost globular. His cap, perched well forward on a
tousled black head, gave him a look of crafty loutishness. His jowl was
purplish and enormous, and that morning’s razor had polished it. The
light actually glinted on the health of that broad mask, which was as
solid and placid as that of an animal.
“Pretty bovine, that fellow. Genuine bit of local clay all right,” my
friend whispered. “Shouldn’t like to upset him, though. Look at his
blessed arms!”
But I had, when they were bare. They are chestnut in colour, and swell
in an extraordinary way when they haul on a seine net or a bogged wagon.
“If I knew how long it would take him to think about it I’d ask him
what he thinks of this crowd. Anyhow, the poor fellow wouldn’t last
five minutes in the place where these people come from.” Some joyous
screams from the water appeared to confirm this. Perhaps the quick wits
of the merry folk below had divined even our thoughts. The bovine face
stared on, its chin projecting a pipe.
“He looks healthy enough,” commented my friend, “but the clay has got
into his system. Do you think he has a rational opinion about anything?
What makes him move about?” At that moment the man slowly raised
his bulk, looked steadily at his pipe for some moments, then peered
seawards, and went away, without a glance at us.
I saw him again some miles from the hotel, where he stood at the end of
a path that led up to his farm, beside a patch of lusty hog-weed which
was as tall as himself. He nodded, and grinned.
“Had enough of that place? I been back some time. Thought the wind was
shifting.” He glanced up at the cirrus with his piggy eyes. “Ought to
be mackerel in the bay this evening. Think I can smell ’em. Water looks
like mackerel.... Are you passing Jimmy Higgs? Tell him to get the
crew. Pretty good catch, unless I’m mistaken, and we’ll be the first
boat.
“I’ll be along by the time you’re ready,” he said, turning away. “Got
the cows to see to now.” He jerked his thumb towards the distant
holiday-makers. “Nothing for them to eat unless we see to it.”