LITMIR.BIZ

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Polly had not yet considered this by-product of sorrow. “Haven’t thought of it yet, O’ Man.”

      A disagreeable feeling spread over his body as though he was blackening as he sat. He hated black garments.

      “I suppose I must have mourning,” he said.

      “Well!” said Johnson with a solemn smile.

      “Got to see it through,” said Mr. Polly indistinctly.

      “If I were you,” said Johnson, “I should get ready-made trousers. That’s all you really want. And a black satin tie and a top hat with a deep mourning band. And gloves.”

      “Jet cuff links he ought to have – as chief mourner,” said Mrs. Johnson.

      “Not obligatory,” said Johnson.

      “It shows respect,” said Mrs. Johnson.

      “It shows respect of course,” said Johnson.

      And then Mrs. Johnson went on with the utmost gusto to the details of the “casket,” while Mr. Polly sat more and more deeply and droopingly into the armchair, assenting with a note of protest to all they said. After he had retired for the night he remained for a long time perched on the edge of the sofa which was his bed, staring at the prospect before him. “Chasing the O’ Man about up to the last,” he said.

      He hated the thought and elaboration of death as a healthy animal must hate it. His mind struggled with unwonted social problems.

      “Got to put ’em away somehow, I suppose,” said Mr. Polly.

      “Wish I’d looked him up a bit more while he was alive,” said Mr. Polly.

      II

      Bereavement came to Mr. Polly before the realisation of opulence and its anxieties and responsibilities. That only dawned upon him on the morrow – which chanced to be Sunday – as he walked with Johnson before church time about the tangle of struggling building enterprise that constituted the rising urban district of Easewood. Johnson was off duty that morning, and devoted the time very generously to the admonitory discussion of Mr. Polly’s worldly outlook.

      “Don’t seem to get the hang of the business somehow,” said Mr. Polly. “Too much blooming humbug in it for my way of thinking.”

      “If I were you,” said Mr. Johnson, “I should push for a first-class place in London – take almost nothing and live on my reserves. That’s what I should do.”

      “Come the Heavy,” said Mr. Polly.

      “Get a better class reference.”

      There was a pause. “Think of investing your money?” asked Johnson.

      “Hardly got used to the idea of having it yet, O’ Man.”

      “You’ll have to do something with it. Give you nearly twenty pounds a year if you invest it properly.”

      “Haven’t seen it yet in that light,” said Mr. Polly defensively.

      “There’s no end of things you could put it into.”

      “It’s getting it out again I shouldn’t feel sure of. I’m no sort of Fiancianier. Sooner back horses.”

      “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

      “Not my style, O’ Man.”

      “It’s a nest egg,” said Johnson.

      Mr. Polly made an indeterminate noise.

      “There’s building societies,” Johnson threw out in a speculative tone. Mr. Polly, with detached brevity, admitted there were.

      “You might lend it on mortgage,” said Johnson. “Very safe form of investment.”

      “Shan’t think anything about it – not till the O’ Man’s underground,” said Mr. Polly with an inspiration.

      They turned a corner that led towards the junction.

      “Might do worse,” said Johnson, “than put it into a small shop.”

      At the moment this remark made very little appeal to Mr. Polly. But afterwards it developed. It fell into his mind like some small obscure seed, and germinated.

      “These shops aren’t in a bad position,” said Johnson.

      The row he referred to gaped in the late painful stage in building before the healing touch of the plasterer assuages the roughness of the brickwork. The space for the shop yawned an oblong gap below, framed above by an iron girder; “windows and fittings to suit tenant,” a board at the end of the row promised; and behind was the door space and a glimpse of stairs going up to the living rooms above. “Not a bad position,” said Johnson, and led the way into the establishment. “Room for fixtures there,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. The two men went upstairs to the little sitting-room or best bedroom (it would have to be) above the shop. Then they descended to the kitchen below.

      “Rooms in a new house always look a bit small,” said Johnson.

      They came out of the house again by the prospective back door, and picked their way through builder’s litter across the yard space to the road again. They drew nearer the junction to where a pavement and shops already open and active formed the commercial centre of Easewood. On the opposite side of the way the side door of a flourishing little establishment opened, and a man and his wife and a little boy in a sailor suit came into the street. The wife was a pretty woman in brown with a floriferous straw hat, and the group was altogether very Sundayfied and shiny and spick and span. The shop itself had a large plate-glass window whose contents were now veiled by a buff blind on which was inscribed in scrolly letters: “Rymer, Pork Butcher and Provision Merchant,” and then with voluptuous elaboration: “The World-Famed Easewood Sausage.”

      Greetings were exchanged between Mr. Johnson and this distinguished comestible.

      “Off to church already?” said Johnson.

      “Walking across the fields to Little Dorington,” said Mr. Rymer.

      “Very pleasant walk,” said Johnson.

      “Very,” said Mr. Rymer.

      “Hope you’ll enjoy it,” said Mr. Johnson.

      “That chap’s done well,” said Johnson sotto voce as they went on. “Came here with nothing – practically, four years ago. And as thin as a lath. Look at him now!

      “He’s worked hard of course,” said Johnson, improving the occasion.

      Thought fell between the cousins for a space.

      “Some men can do one thing,” said Johnson, “and some another… For a man who sticks to it there’s a lot to be done in a shop.”

      III

      All the preparations for the funeral ran easily and happily under Mrs. Johnson’s skilful hands. On the eve of the sad event she produced a reserve of black sateen, the kitchen steps and a box of tin-tacks, and decorated the house with festoons and bows of black in the best possible taste. She tied up the knocker with black crape, and put a large bow over the corner of the steel engraving of Garibaldi, and swathed the bust of Mr. Gladstone, that had belonged to the deceased, with inky swathings. She turned the two vases that had views of Tivoli and the Bay of Naples round, so that these rather brilliant landscapes were hidden and only the plain blue enamel showed, and she anticipated the long-contemplated purchase of a tablecloth for the front room, and substituted a violet purple cover for the now very worn and faded raptures and roses in plushette that had hitherto done duty there. Everything that loving consideration could do to impart a dignified solemnity to her little home was done.

      She had released Mr. Polly from the irksome duty of issuing invitations, and as the moments of assembly drew near she sent him and Mr. Johnson out into the narrow long strip of garden at the back of the house, to be free to put a finishing touch or so to her preparations. She sent them out together because she had a queer little persuasion at the back of her mind that Mr. Polly wanted to bolt from his sacred duties,

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