_A POOR MAN'S HOUSE_
I
EGREMONT VILLAS,
SEACOMBE, _April_.
1
The sea is merely grinding against the shingle. The _Moondaisy_ lies
above the sea-wall, in the gutter, with her bottom-boards out and a
puddle of greenish water covering her garboard strake. Her hunchbacked
Little Commodore is dead. The other two of her old crew, George Widger
and Looby Smith are nowhere to be seen: they must be nearly grown up
by now. The fishermen themselves appear less picturesque and salty
than they used to do. It is slack time after a bad herring season.
They are dispirited and lazy, and very likely hungry.
These old lodgings of mine, with their smug curtains, aspidestria
plant, china vases and wobbly tables and chairs....
But I can hear the sea-gulls screaming, even here.
2
[Sidenote: _GEORGE GONE TO SEA_]
Yesterday morning I met young George Widger, now grown very lanky but
still cat-like in his movements. He was parading the town with a couple
of his mates, attired in a creased blue suit with a wonderful yellow
scarf around his neck, instead of the faded guernsey and ragged
sea-soaked trousers in which he used to come to sea. What was up? I
asked his father, and Tony had a long rigmarole to tell me. George had
got a sweetheart. Therefore George had begun to look about him for a
sure livelihood. George was not satisfied with a fisherman's prospects.
"Yu works and drives and slaves, and don't never get no forarder." So
George had gone to the chief officer of coastguards without saying a
word to his father and had been found fit. George had joined the Navy.
He was going off to Plymouth that very day at dinner-time.
It is like a knight of romance being equipped by his lady for the wars.
But what must be the difficulty to a young fisherman of earning his
bread and cheese, when all he can do for his sweetheart is to leave her
forthwith! There's a fine desperation in it.
Tony seemed rather proud. "They 'ouldn't think as I had a son old
enough for the Navy, wude they, sir? I married George's mother, her
that's dead, when I wer hardly olden'n he is. I should ha' joined the
Navy meself if it hadn' been for the rheumatic fever what bent me like.
I am. 'Tis a sure thing, you see--once yu'm in it an' behaves
yourself--wi' a pension at the end o'it. But I'm so strong an'
capable-like for fishing as them that's bolt upright, on'y I 'ouldn't
ha' done for the Navy. Aye! the boy's right. Fishing ain't no job for a
man nowadays; not like what it used to be. They'll make a man of him in
the Navy."
In the evening, after dark, I saw Tony again. He was standing outside a
brilliantly lighted grocer's shop, his cap awry as usual, and a reefer
thrown over his guernsey. Something in the despondency of his attitude
haled me across the road. "Well, Tony? George is there by now?"
"Iss ... I-I-I w-wonder what the boy's thinking o'it now...."
The man was crying his heart out. "I come'd hereto 'cause it don' seem
's if I can stay in house. Went in for some supper a while ago, but I
cuden' eat nort. 'Tisn' 's if he'd ever been away from home before, yu
know."
"Come along down to the Shore Road, Tony."
It seemed wrong, hardly decent, to let his grief spend itself in the
lighted-up street. The Front was deserted and dark, for there was rain
in the wind, and the sound of the surf had a quick savage chop in it.
Away, over the sea, was a great misty blackness.
As we walked up and down, Tony talked between tears and anger--tears
for himself and George, anger at the cussedness of things. He looked
straight before him, to where the row of lamps divided the lesser from
the greater darkness, the town noises from the chafing surf; it is the
only time I have ever seen a fisherman walk along shore without a
constant eye on the sea.
"He's taken and gone away jest as he was beginning to be o' some use
wi' the boats, an' I thought he wer settling down. _I_ didn' know what
wer going on, not till he came an' told me he wer off. But 'tisn'
that, though I bain't so strong as I was to du all the work be meself;
'tis what he's a-thinking now he've a-lef' home an' 'tis tu late to
come back if he wants tu. He's ther, sure 'nuff, an' that's all about
it."
In the presence of grief, we are all thrown back on the fine old
platitudes we affect to despise. "You mustn't get down over it, Tony,"
I said. "That won't make it a bit the better. If he's steady--woman,
wine and the rest--he'll get on right enough. He's got his wits about
him; knows how to sail a boat and splice a rope. That's the sort they
want in the Navy, I suppose. _He_'ll make his way, never fear. Think
how you'll trot him out when he comes home on leave. Why, they say a
Devon man's proper place is the Navy."
"Iss, they du. _I_ should ha' been there meself if it hadn' been for
the rheumatics--jest about coming out on a pension now, or in the
coastguards. I _be_ in the Royal Naval Reserve, but I ain't smart
enough, like, for the Navy. The boy...."
"He's as smart and strong as they make 'em."
"Aye! he's smart, or cude be, but he'll hae to mind what he's a-doin'
there. _They_ won't put up wi' no airs like he've a-give'd me.
Yu've got to du what yu'm told, sharp, an' yu mustn't luke [look] what
yu thinks, let 'lone say it, or else yu'll find yourself in chokey
[cells] 'fore yu knows where yu are. 'Tis like walking on a six-inch
plank, in the Navy, full o' rules an' regylations; an' he won't get fed
like he was at home nuther, when us had it."
[Sidenote: _GROG AS A SLEEPING DRAUGHT_]
"Why don't you go to bed and sleep, Tony?"
"How can I sleep wi' me head full o' what the boy's thinking o'it all!"
More walking and he calmed down a little.
"Come and have some hot grog for a sleeping draught, Tony, and then go
home to bed."
"Had us better tu?"
"Come along, man; then if you go straight to bed you'll sleep."
"I on'y wish I cude. The boy must be turned in by this time. 'Tis like
as if I got a picture of him in my mind, where he is, an' he ain't
happy--_I_ knows."
When Tony went down the narrow roadway, homewards, he had had just the
amount of grog to make him sleep: no more, no less. That father's
grief--the boy gone to sea, the father left stranded ashore--it was bad
to listen to. While going up town, I wondered with how much sorrow the
Navy is recruited. We look on our sailors rather less fondly than on
the expensive pieces of machinery we send them to sea in. I don't think
I shall ever again be able to regard the Navy newspaper-fashion. It
seems as if someone of mine belongs to it....
Lucky George! to be so much missed.
This morning, when I saw Tony on the Front, he was more than a little
awkward; looked shyly at me, from under his peaked cap, as if to read
in my face what I thought of him. He had slept after all, and spoke of
the hot grog as a powerful, strange invention, new to him as a sleeping
draught. When, in talking, I said that I have only a back bedroom and a
fripperied sitting room, and that my old lodgings do not please me as
they used to, he clapped me on the shoulder with a jollity intended, I
think, to put last night out of my mind. "What a pity yu hadn't let we
know yu cuden't find lodgings to your liking. Us got a little room in
house where they sends people sometimes from the Alexandra Hotel when
they'm full up. My missis 'ould du anything to make 'ee comfor'able. Yu
an't never see'd her, have 'ee? Nice little wife, I got. Yu let us know
when yu be coming thees way again; that is, if yu don' mind coming wi'
the likes o' us. We won't disturb 'ee."
[Sidenote: _A NOISY PLACE_]
Good fellow! It was his thanks. However I shall be going home
to-morrow. Tony Widger lives, I believe, somewhere down the Gut, in
Under Town, a place they call the Seacombe slum. You can see a horde of
children pouring in and out of the Gut all day long, and in the evening
the wives stand at the seaward end of it, to gossip and await their
husbands. Noisy place....