Bleak Expectations (2 page)

Actually, now I come to think of it, I despised Maggotty.

Fortunately, my mother eventually emerged from her room, and Maggotty was given notice to leave. She took the news as well as would any person taking news incredibly badly, viciously attacking my young self with a meat cleaver. Alas for her vengeance but un-alas for my safety, the repeated massive starchings she had applied to my clothing had left me encased in an impenetrably hard shell and I suffered no injury. Poor Maggotty – hoist by her own starchy petard.

Actually, I don’t mean poor Maggotty, I mean eeurgh horrid Maggotty, good riddance, yuk.

To my delight, after Maggotty left, my mother introduced me to the newest member of the household. It was a sister, and not just any old sister, it was my sister. Her name was Pippa, a name not dissimilar to my own name, which was Pip. In fact, it differed only in as much as it had an extra
p
at the end, as well as an additional
a
and, at the front, a silent and invisible
g
.

There were many things I wanted to know about this new sister of mine. Where had she come from? Was she from Mrs Sellstuff’s village shop, like an apple, a sack of flour or a portable oik-poker? Or had she come from London like a letter, a Cockney or diphtheria? My mother shook her head, no, and told me that Pippa was the product of prayer and stern application by herself and my father. My young head cared not what ‘stern application’ meant, but surely my parents practised it assiduously, for some short time later a second sister joined us.

This sister, too, was mine, and her name was Poppy, again a name not dissimilar to my own, differing only enough that if, at some future point, Poppy was perhaps to be summoned by my mother, I should not make the mistake of thinking she was in fact summoning me, Pip, a mistake which, if made, might result in me inadvertently responding and consequently attending a girlish occasion such as a dress-fitting or embroidery class, despite being a boy and not a girl like Poppy, though with regard to my other sister, Pippa, at certain times when my mother summoned her the wind would blow away the final syllable of her name turning it, in its new, wind-created brevity, into my name Pip, thereby resulting in me attending an event intended for her, namely the aforementioned dress-fitting or embroidery class, thus indicating that my parents had never properly thought through the whole almost homonymous name thing, though, that said, even if the Pip and Pippa confusion did happen occasionally, there never was a Pip and Poppy confusion except once during a thunderstorm.
⁴

With their desired number of children achieved, alongside his foreign businessing my father now took up the twin hobbies of cold showers and botany and my mother took up never touching him that way again. But at least my family was complete: my parents Agnes and Thomas, my sisters Pippa and Poppy, and me, Pip Bin.

¹
Derived from the Olde Englishe ‘wolly’, a fool, twit or sillyton, and ‘cheps’, face, head or, in the north-east, deep-fried potatoes. See Chaucer,
Canterbury Tales
, ‘The Loss Adjuster’s Tale’ ‘. . . he weir an wally-chops of sight, all blethy and tistawint’.

²
Nineteenth-century blood groups were Royal, Aristo, Proper,
Hoi Polloi
, Riff Raff and Eeurgh Negative.

³
Cf
Thackeray’s Wormitty in
Vanity Fair II: Judgment Day
. Maggotty and Wormitty are the Biblical twin exotic dancers who slew the Hashemidiaskanite King Zedelshratt with a pair of trained assassin-chickens. Book of Hens, 3: 4–199999.9.

⁴
See? One of those long paragraphs with silly Victorian syntax I mentioned in the introduction. This was in fact the author’s attempt on the world’s-longest-sentence record, though it falls lamentably short. Even in 1874 the record was well over 20,000 words, held by a sentence in Laurence Sterne’s almost unreadable first novel
Tristram Brandy
, which he later re-worked into the now famous work
Barry Brandy
.

My family may have been complete in as much as I now had as many mothers and fathers and sisters as I was ever to have in the world, but at times it seemed incomplete, due to the absence of my father. For he was a distant man in a very physical sense, his place of business being some four thousand miles away in the recently discovered North Indies, where he was a partner in the famed North India Company, bravely exploiting indigent populations for the greater good of God, King and Country.

I and my sisters missed our father; my mother missed her husband; and as father and husband were one and the same to some or the other, it meant a deal full of wistfulness tinged with saddingtons.

Nevertheless, he regularly sent us parcels of money and rare jewels and, though they were not he, they were a more than adequate substitute, proving that old adage ‘An absent father is easily replaced by lots of money.’
¹

We lived in a large house, Bin Manor, set in several snectares
²
of grounds. The grounds offered plentiful enjoyment for spirited young children, and we were spirited indeed. There were ponds, lakes and tiny oceans, trees and other trees and great manicured lawns on which we played games such as shuffle-hoop, bashy-bat and spong.
³

When the weather was too ill-tempered for outside activities, we retreated inside, where there were great rooms and corridors in which we played other games, such as pointy-throw, clicky-ball and spang.
⁴

Life was splendid. In a time when others less fortunate than ourselves struggled for the most basic amenities, our home brimmed with plenty. Where most folk bathed but once a year, in a festering stream or a puddle, we bathed daily – and not in disease-bearing water, but in healthy, hygienic jam. Oh, the sybaritic delight of wallowing in warm preserves! The soothing feel of the fruity goo sluicing through one’s hair! The jammy delight of my mother letting me lick the bath deliciously clean afterwards!

Then there was the food, all richly rare meats and delicacies. We ate swan, otter, pig, heron, ox and natives from the colonies. For pudding there would be candied fruits, caramelized horse or hen brûlée, often a sparrow trifle or tree cake, sometimes even mouse crumble with chicken custard.

And after these splendid feasts, we would repair to our soft, goose-down beds, beds so luxurious that the goose-down was still attached to the geese. Once, during a particularly fierce winter that bit like an angry, ice-toothed alligator, I accidentally left a window open, and before we could stop it Poppy’s entire mattress migrated south to warmer climes. How we laughed! Until she turned blue with cold, at which point we stopped laughing and started crying. Little did I know then that I had just witnessed a precursor to Poppy’s eventual–– But no, for this is the happy part of my story, and pain and misery must wait until properly invited into the narrative.
⁵

We were frolicsome children, Pippa, Poppy and I, constantly joyous and never sad. And whenever Father returned on one of his visits, his cases chock full of gifts, our joy was unrestrained as we bounced and bollibled
⁶
with happification.

I remember one particular paternal visit well. I had attained what seemed to me the grand old age of twelve years. Pippa was a year younger, which was a relief as a while back she had somehow been older than me for a year or two, and Poppy was a year younger than her, namely ten years old, which was a relief to everyone as she had spent the past few years refusing to grow any older than two and had only recently put on a growth spurt of eight years in four months. It was a bright summer’s day, and I and my sisters were returning from a morning’s hard fun clodding mud at poor folk, when we saw our mother standing outside the house balanced on one leg and waving her arms like a crazed windmill, a pose she adopted whenever she was excited. To make matters more intriguing yet, she was wearing the special hat she donned only on occasions of great import: bright ribbons attached a whole hollowed-out badger to her head.

‘Children! I have news!’ she exclaimed exclamatorily.

‘What news, Mama?’ I asked askatorily.

‘Your father has returned home and awaits you in the drawing room!’

We three siblings looked at each other in delight. Could it be true? We immediately ran to the drawing room that we might better ascertain the veracity of our mother’s statement.

My nostrils were the first to tell me that Mother had not lied as they swiftly detected that distinctive paternal mix of tobacco, colonial sweat and repressed emotion. My eyes provided the next sensory confirmation as I entered the room and beheld . . .

‘Papa!’

He turned towards us and a smile broke over his face, like a happy egg.

‘Children! How good it is to see you! It has been so many years! Ah, Pip . . .’ This he addressed to me.

‘Papa,’ I replied.

‘Pippa . . .’ Papa said to Pippa.

‘Papa!’ Pippa replied.

‘And Poppy . . .’ Papa said to Poppy.

‘Papa!’ Poppy, too, replied.

‘Ah, my Pip and Pippa!’ This from Papa to me, Pip, and Pippa.

‘Papa.’ This from Pippa and me, Pip, to Papa.

‘Poppy and Pippa!’ This also from Papa, but to Poppy and Pippa.

‘Papa!’ This from Poppy and Pippa to Papa.

‘Pip and Poppy!’ This from Papa to me, Pip, and Poppy.

‘Papa!’ This from Pip and Poppy to Papa.

‘My Pip, Pippa and Poppy!’ This from Papa to Pip, Pippa and Poppy.

‘Papa,’ we parroted to Papa, our paternal parent. Were the greetings now finished? They were. But Papa was not.

‘Presents! I bring presents for my Pip, Pippa and Poppy! For Poppy a puppy!’ At which point he presented a puppy to Poppy. ‘For Pip a pipe!’ Presently he produced a pipe for me, Pip. ‘And for Pippa . . .’ here he paused poignantly ‘. . . an anvil.’

The sudden lack of the letter
p
was like a punch in the perineum.

‘Oh,’ was all Pippa could say, as Papa handed her an anvil. Her girlish strength could not bear its weight and she instantly collapsed in a heap on the floor. I would have helped, but was keen to try my new pipe, which I lit immediately. Alas, it was a wooden pipe and burned to cinders within a minute. Meanwhile Poppy’s puppy scampered and frolicked like a young dog, which was what it was.

‘And now you must come and meet my two business partners, also recently returned from the North Indies.’

Father led us to the house’s formal receiving room, the snobatorium, where my still badger-behatted mother was entertaining two gentlemen, and not in a lewd or music-hall-dancery way, but in a proper ladylike manner, which included scones and no touching.

‘Gentlemen . . . may I introduce my progeny? This is Pip, Poppy and . . .’

A tortured metallic scraping sound betrayed Pippa’s late arrival as she dragged her anvil into the room.

‘. . . dear Pippa. Children, this is Mr Skinflint Parsimonious.’

Mr Parsimonious was a man of some height and no little depth and breadth, a man who seemed soft at the edges, like a melting cheese or velvet jigsaw. He wore a brightly striped waistcoat and pantaloons, and sported mutton-chop whiskers with a veal-cutlet moustache.

‘How do you do, sir?’ the three of us chimed together, like a greeting-clock. We followed it with a deep curtsy.
⁷

‘Dear children, how wonderful it is finally to meet you!’ His voice was a deep rumble, as of approaching thunder, but warm, friendly thunder portending only good things. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that your father has already given you gifts,’ he verbally proceeded, ‘yet I insist you have more for being such delightful children.’

So saying, he reached into his pocket and produced from within a handful of treats. ‘See! I have toffees for Pip and Poppy and Pippa! And you must have these gaudy native baubles! And these cushions! And this painting of a lovely sunset!’ He produced all these gifts from a large trunk beside him.

‘Why, thank you, sir . . .’ I began; but he was not yet finished.

‘No! No thanks yet, thank you! For there is more to give! Money! Who wants some money? Have a sixpence, Pip. No, dash it all, have a guinea. Five guineas! And gin! All must have gin!’

He instantly produced a flask of gin and filled several pewter cups. ‘Drink up! Drink up!’

The fiery liquid burned a scorching trail right down to my stomach – and yet simultaneously all was smooth and warm and good. My mind was also suddenly clear – what I believe some people call intelli-gin-ce – as I was struck with a thought that seemed terribly clever to my twelve-year-old self.

‘Mr Parsimonious, I have realized something. Your name is ironic . . . for you being called Skinflint Parsimonious would imply great meanness, and yet you seem to be the most generous of men.’

He looked at me for a few seconds, with eyes like those of an inquisitive owl or curious herring, then suddenly burst into a peal of rumblesome laughings. ‘Why, the boy is quite right! And to think I had never noticed! How clever he is! And as a reward for such cleverness, young Pip, you simply must have this miniature horse!’

A small equine whinny betrayed a horse in the corner, lightly chewing the edge of a long chair.
⁸
It was no more than the height of a small dog or a large cat, but a horse it was, correct in every proportion save its tail, which was the length of a great shire horse’s and therefore flowed out behind it like a hairy stream.
⁹
Poppy’s new puppy immediately ran towards it with a yap of friendship and, sure enough, this small dog was exactly as high as the miniature horse, thereby proving my recent size comparisoning.

‘They are to be friends! As are you and I, young Pip!’ Mr Parsimonious announced. He seemed a splendid fellow or splellow.

My father clapped his hands with delight. ‘Well, now that you two have met and done so handsomely, I shall introduce my other business partner. Children, this is Mr Gently Benevolent.’