I
For fifteen years Mr. Polly was a respectable shopkeeper in
Fishbourne.
Years they were in which every day was tedious, and when they were
gone it was as if they had gone in a flash. But now Mr. Polly had good
looks no more, he was as I have described him in the beginning of this
story, thirty-seven and fattish in a not very healthy way, dull and
yellowish about the complexion, and with discontented wrinklings round
his eyes. He sat on the stile above Fishbourne and cried to the
Heavens above him: "Oh! Roo-o-o-tten Be-e-astly Silly Hole!" And he
wore a rather shabby black morning coat and vest, and his tie was
richly splendid, being from stock, and his golf cap aslant over one
eye.
Fifteen years ago, and it might have seemed to you that the queer
little flower of Mr. Polly's imagination must be altogether withered
and dead, and with no living seed left in any part of him. But indeed
it still lived as an insatiable hunger for bright and delightful
experiences, for the gracious aspects of things, for beauty. He still
read books when he had a chance, books that told of glorious places
abroad and glorious times, that wrung a rich humour from life and
contained the delight of words freshly and expressively grouped. But
alas! there are not many such books, and for the newspapers and the
cheap fiction that abounded more and more in the world Mr. Polly had
little taste. There was no epithet in them. And there was no one to
talk to, as he loved to talk. And he had to mind his shop.
It was a reluctant little shop from the beginning.
He had taken it to escape the doom of Johnson's choice and because
Fishbourne had a hold upon his imagination. He had disregarded the
ill-built cramped rooms behind it in which he would have to lurk and
live, the relentless limitations of its dimensions, the inconvenience
of an underground kitchen that must necessarily be the living-room in
winter, the narrow yard behind giving upon the yard of the Royal
Fishbourne Hotel, the tiresome sitting and waiting for custom, the
restricted prospects of trade. He had visualised himself and Miriam
first as at breakfast on a clear bright winter morning amidst a
tremendous smell of bacon, and then as having muffins for tea. He had
also thought of sitting on the beach on Sunday afternoons and of going
for a walk in the country behind the town and picking _marguerites_
and poppies. But, in fact, Miriam and he were extremely cross at
breakfast, and it didn't run to muffins at tea. And she didn't think
it looked well, she said, to go trapesing about the country on
Sundays.
It was unfortunate that Miriam never took to the house from the first.
She did not like it when she saw it, and liked it less as she explored
it. "There's too many stairs," she said, "and the coal being indoors
will make a lot of work."
"Didn't think of that," said Mr. Polly, following her round.
"It'll be a hard house to keep clean," said Miriam.
"White paint's all very well in its way," said Miriam, "but it shows
the dirt something fearful. Better '_ave_ '_ad_ it nicely grained."
"There's a kind of place here," said Mr. Polly, "where we might have
some flowers in pots."
"Not me," said Miriam. "I've 'ad trouble enough with Minnie and 'er
musk...."
They stayed for a week in a cheap boarding house before they moved in.
They had bought some furniture in Stamton, mostly second-hand, but
with new cheap cutlery and china and linen, and they had supplemented
this from the Fishbourne shops. Miriam, relieved from the hilarious
associations of home, developed a meagre and serious quality of her
own, and went about with knitted brows pursuing some ideal of "'aving
everything right." Mr. Polly gave himself to the arrangement of the
shop with a certain zest, and whistled a good deal until Miriam
appeared and said that it went through her head. So soon as he had
taken the shop he had filled the window with aggressive posters
announcing in no measured terms that he was going to open, and now he
was getting his stuff put out he was resolved to show Fishbourne what
window dressing could do. He meant to give them boater straws,
imitation Panamas, bathing dresses with novelties in stripes, light
flannel shirts, summer ties, and ready-made flannel trousers for men,
youths and boys. Incidentally he watched the small fishmonger over the
way, and had a glimpse of the china dealer next door, and wondered if
a friendly nod would be out of place. And on the first Sunday in this
new life he and Miriam arrayed themselves with great care, he in his
wedding-funeral hat and coat and she in her going-away dress, and went
processionally to church, a more respectable looking couple you could
hardly imagine, and looked about them.
Things began to settle down next week into their places. A few
customers came, chiefly for bathing suits and hat guards, and on
Saturday night the cheapest straw hats and ties, and Mr. Polly found
himself more and more drawn towards the shop door and the social charm
of the street. He found the china dealer unpacking a crate at the edge
of the pavement, and remarked that it was a fine day. The china dealer
gave a reluctant assent, and plunged into the crate in a manner that
presented no encouragement to a loquacious neighbour.
"Zealacious commerciality," whispered Mr. Polly to that unfriendly
back view....