The History of Mr. Polly, H. G. Wells [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

“It’s plated mostly,” said Mr. Polly.

“What do you carry in that little bag thing?” she asked, and then branched off to: “We’re all in a mess today you know. It’s my cleaning up day today. I’m not a bit tidy I know, but I do like to ’ave a go in at things now and then. You got to take us as you find us, Elfrid. Mercy we wasn’t all out.” She paused. She was talking against time. “I am glad to see you again,” she repeated.

“Couldn’t keep away,” said Mr. Polly gallantly. “Had to come over and see my pretty cousins again.”

Miriam did not answer for a moment. She coloured deeply. “You do say things!” she said.

She stared at Mr. Polly, and his unfortunate sense of fitness made him nod his head towards her, regard her firmly with a round brown eye, and add impressively: “I don’t say which of them.”

Her answering expression made him realise for an instant the terrible dangers he trifled with. Avidity flared up in her eyes. Minnie’s voice came happily to dissolve the situation.

“ ’Ello, Elfrid!” she said from the doorstep.

Her hair was just passably tidy, and she was a little effaced by a red blouse, but there was no mistaking the genuine brightness of her welcome.

He was to come in to tea, and Mrs. Larkins, exuberantly genial in a floriferous but dingy flannel dressing gown, appeared to confirm that. He brought in his bicycle and put it in the narrow, empty passage, and everyone crowded into a small untidy kitchen, whose table had been hastily cleared of the debris of the midday repast.

“You must come in ’ere,” said Mrs. Larkins, “for Miriam’s turning out the front room. I never did see such a girl for cleanin’ up. Miriam’s ’oliday’s a scrub. You’ve caught us on the ’op as the sayin’ is, but welcome all the same. Pity Annie’s at work today; she won’t be ’ome till seven.”

Miriam put chairs and attended to the fire, Minnie edged up to Mr. Polly and said: “I am glad to see you again, Elfrid,” with a warm contiguous intimacy that betrayed a broken tooth. Mrs. Larkins got out tea things, and descanted on the noble simplicity of their lives, and how he “mustn’t mind our simple ways.” They enveloped Mr. Polly with a geniality that intoxicated his amiable nature; he insisted upon helping lay the things, and created enormous laughter by pretending not to know where plates and knives and cups ought to go. “Who’m I going to sit next?” he said, and developed voluminous amusement by attempts to arrange the plates so that he could rub elbows with all three. Mrs. Larkins had to sit down in the windsor chair by the grandfather clock (which was dark with dirt and not going) to laugh at her ease at his well-acted perplexity.

They got seated at last, and Mr. Polly struck a vein of humour in telling them how he learnt to ride the bicycle. He found the mere repetition of the word “wabble” sufficient to produce almost inextinguishable mirth.

“No foreseeing little accidentulous misadventures,” he said, “none whatever.”

(Giggle from Minnie.)

“Stout elderly gentleman⁠—shirt sleeves⁠—large straw wastepaper basket sort of hat⁠—starts to cross the road⁠—going to the oil shop⁠—prodic refreshment of oil can⁠—”

“Don’t say you run ’im down,” said Mrs. Larkins, gasping. “Don’t say you run ’im down, Elfrid!”

“Run ’im down! Not me, Madam. I never run anything down. Wabble. Ring the bell. Wabble, wabble⁠—”

(Laughter and tears.)

“No one’s going to run him down. Hears the bell! Wabble. Gust of wind. Off comes the hat smack into the wheel. Wabble. Lord! what’s going to happen? Hat across the road, old gentleman after it, bell, shriek. He ran into me. Didn’t ring his bell, hadn’t got a bell⁠—just ran into me. Over I went clinging to his venerable head. Down he went with me clinging to him. Oil can blump, blump into the road.”

(Interlude while Minnie is attended to for crumb in the windpipe.)

“Well, what happened to the old man with the oil can?” said Mrs. Larkins.

“We sat about among the debreece and had a bit of an argument. I told him he oughtn’t to come out wearing such a dangerous hat⁠—flying at things. Said if he couldn’t control his hat he ought to leave it at home. High old jawbacious argument we had, I tell you. ‘I tell you, sir⁠—’ ‘I tell you, sir.’ Waw-waw-waw. Infuriacious. But that’s the sort of thing that’s constantly happening you know⁠—on a bicycle. People run into you, hens and cats and dogs and things. Everything seems to have its mark on you; everything.”

“You never run into anything.”

“Never. Swelpme,” said Mr. Polly very solemnly.

“Never, ’e say!” squealed Minnie. “Hark at ’im!” and relapsed into a condition that urgently demanded back thumping. “Don’t be so silly,” said Miriam, thumping hard.

Mr. Polly had never been such a social success before. They hung upon his every word⁠—and laughed. What a family they were for laughter! And he loved laughter. The background he apprehended dimly; it was very much the sort of background his life had always had. There was a threadbare tablecloth on the table, and the slop basin and teapot did not go with the cups and saucers, the plates were different again, the knives worn down, the butter lived in a greenish glass dish of its own. Behind was a dresser hung with spare and miscellaneous crockery, with a workbox and an untidy workbasket, there was an ailing musk plant in the window, and the tattered and blotched wallpaper was covered by bright-coloured grocers’ almanacs. Feminine wrappings hung from pegs upon the door, and the floor was covered with a varied collection of fragments of oilcloth. The Windsor chair he sat in was unstable⁠—which presently afforded material for humour. “Steady, old nag,” he said; “whoa, my friskiacious palfry!”

“The things he says! You never know what he won’t say next!”

“You ain’t talkin’ of goin’!” cried Mrs. Larkins.

“Supper at eight.”

“Stay to supper with us, now you ’ave come over,” said Mrs. Larkins, with corroborating cries from Minnie. “ ’Ave a bit of