It was about two o'clock in the afternoon one hot day in high May when
Mr. Polly, unhurrying and serene, came to that broad bend of the river
to which the little lawn and garden of the Potwell Inn run down. He
stopped at the sight of the place with its deep tiled roof, nestling
under big trees--you never get a decently big, decently shaped tree by
the seaside--its sign towards the roadway, its sun-blistered green
bench and tables, its shapely white windows and its row of upshooting
hollyhock plants in the garden. A hedge separated it from a
buttercup-yellow meadow, and beyond stood three poplars in a group
against the sky, three exceptionally tall, graceful and harmonious
poplars. It is hard to say what there was about them that made them so
beautiful to Mr. Polly; but they seemed to him to touch a pleasant
scene to a distinction almost divine. He remained admiring them for a
long time. At last the need for coarser aesthetic satisfactions arose
in him.
"Provinder," he whispered, drawing near to the Inn. "Cold sirloin for
choice. And nut-brown brew and wheaten bread."
The nearer he came to the place the more he liked it. The windows on
the ground floor were long and low, and they had pleasing red blinds.
The green tables outside were agreeably ringed with memories of former
drinks, and an extensive grape vine spread level branches across the
whole front of the place. Against the wall was a broken oar, two
boat-hooks and the stained and faded red cushions of a pleasure boat.
One went up three steps to the glass-panelled door and peeped into a
broad, low room with a bar and beer engine, behind which were many
bright and helpful looking bottles against mirrors, and great and
little pewter measures, and bottles fastened in brass wire upside down
with their corks replaced by taps, and a white china cask labelled
"Shrub," and cigar boxes and boxes of cigarettes, and a couple of Toby
jugs and a beautifully coloured hunting scene framed and glazed,
showing the most elegant and beautiful people taking Piper's Cherry
Brandy, and cards such as the law requires about the dilution of
spirits and the illegality of bringing children into bars, and
satirical verses about swearing and asking for credit, and three very
bright red-cheeked wax apples and a round-shaped clock.
But these were the mere background to the really pleasant thing in the
spectacle, which was quite the plumpest woman Mr. Polly had ever seen,
seated in an armchair in the midst of all these bottles and glasses
and glittering things, peacefully and tranquilly, and without the
slightest loss of dignity, asleep. Many people would have called her
a fat woman, but Mr. Polly's innate sense of epithet told him from the
outset that plump was the word. She had shapely brows and a straight,
well-shaped nose, kind lines and contentment about her mouth, and
beneath it the jolly chins clustered like chubby little cherubim about
the feet of an Assumptioning-Madonna. Her plumpness was firm and pink
and wholesome, and her hands, dimpled at every joint, were clasped in
front of her; she seemed as it were to embrace herself with infinite
confidence and kindliness as one who knew herself good in substance,
good in essence, and would show her gratitude to God by that ready
acceptance of all that he had given her. Her head was a little on one
side, not much, but just enough to speak of trustfulness, and rob her
of the stiff effect of self-reliance. And she slept.
"_My_ sort," said Mr. Polly, and opened the door very softly, divided
between the desire to enter and come nearer and an instinctive
indisposition to break slumbers so manifestly sweet and satisfying.
She awoke with a start, and it amazed Mr. Polly to see swift terror
flash into her eyes. Instantly it had gone again.
"Law!" she said, her face softening with relief, "I thought you were
Jim."
"I'm never Jim," said Mr. Polly.
"You've got his sort of hat."
"Ah!" said Mr. Polly, and leant over the bar.
"It just came into my head you was Jim," said the plump lady,
dismissed the topic and stood up. "I believe I was having forty
winks," she said, "if all the truth was told. What can I do for you?"
"Cold meat?" said Mr. Polly.
"There _is_ cold meat," the plump woman admitted.
"And room for it."
The plump woman came and leant over the bar and regarded him
judicially, but kindly. "There's some cold boiled beef," she said, and
added: "A bit of crisp lettuce?"
"New mustard," said Mr. Polly.
"And a tankard!"
"A tankard."
They understood each other perfectly.
"Looking for work?" asked the plump woman.
"In a way," said Mr. Polly.
They smiled like old friends.
Whatever the truth may be about love, there is certainly such a thing
as friendship at first sight. They liked each other's voices, they
liked each other's way of smiling and speaking.
"It's such beautiful weather this spring," said Mr. Polly, explaining
everything.
"What sort of work do you want?" she asked.
"I've never properly thought that out," said Mr. Polly. "I've been
looking round--for Ideas."
"Will you have your beef in the tap or outside? That's the tap."
Mr. Polly had a glimpse of an oaken settle. "In the tap will be
handier for you," he said.
"Hear that?" said the plump lady.
"Hear what?"
"Listen."
Presently the silence was broken by a distant howl. "Oooooo-_ver_!"
"Eh?" she said.
He nodded.
"That's the ferry. And there isn't a ferryman."
"Could I?"
"Can you punt?"
"Never tried."
"Well--pull the pole out before you reach the end of the punt, that's
all. Try."
Mr. Polly went out again into the sunshine.
At times one can tell so much so briefly. Here are the facts
then--bare. He found a punt and a pole, got across to the steps on the
opposite side, picked up an elderly gentleman in an alpaca jacket and
a pith helmet, cruised with him vaguely for twenty minutes, conveyed
him tortuously into the midst of a thicket of forget-me-not spangled
sedges, splashed some water-weed over him, hit him twice with the punt
pole, and finally landed him, alarmed but abusive, in treacherous soil
at the edge of a hay meadow about forty yards down stream, where he
immediately got into difficulties with a noisy, aggressive little
white dog, which was guardian of a jacket.
Mr. Polly returned in a complicated manner to his moorings.
He found the plump woman rather flushed and tearful, and seated at one
of the green tables outside.
"I been laughing at you," she said.
"What for?" asked Mr. Polly.
"I ain't 'ad such a laugh since Jim come 'ome. When you 'it 'is 'ed,
it 'urt my side."
"It didn't hurt his head--not particularly."