Bleak Expectations (28 page)

‘But—’

‘If you wish to talk to Miss Dies-Early you may apply in writing for a tea appointment, as etiquette demands.’ She turned and began to usher her charge from my sight. ‘Good day, sir.’

‘And to you, tall madam.’ I respectfully doffed my hat in her direction, then instantly rushed home and did as she had suggested, using nice notepaper, my best handwriting and a substantial bribe to persuade the postman to deliver my tea-requesting missive as soon as possible. I received a reply by return of post; the appointment was for later that week.

My heart skipped, my liver twirled and my kidneys did a tango: I was going to meet Miss Flora Dies-Early, and our life of love together could begin.

¹
It was a common theory of the time that women were just men who had suffered from weakness of spirit in adolescence.

On the morning of the longed-for tea appointment I received a letter from my dear sister Pippa:

Dearest brother Pip,

We have arrived safely in France and, much to my surprise, it is fantastic or as they say here ‘
fantastique
’. Last night at dinner I discovered a local dish called ‘
cheval
’. Alas, it turns out ‘
cheval
’ means ‘horse’, and you know how I despise cruelty to animals of all sorts, so imagine my dismay when it turns out that horse is delicious. Really, really yummy. I am ashamed to admit that gastronomy won out over ethics and I had two helpings of horse pie and three of sticky pony pudding. I felt so bad! Yet so full. Must dash, as we are shortly to continue our journey.

Your loving sister, Pippa

This was a relief, as I had feared after my accidental mention of France to Mr Benevolent that he might have followed her there. But, as I was about to set off for tea with Flora, the second post brought a more worrying sisterly missive.

Dear Pip,

I am writing again so soon to tell you that we have been forced to stay another night in this hotel as our beloved coach-pulling horse has apparently fallen ill. Still, at least I have another chance to enjoy
cheval
for supper, and I’m sure he’ll be better soon and we shall be on our way.

Lots of love, Pippa

PS Thought I saw Mr Benevolent skulking in some shadows but I’m sure I didn’t really.

This was less of a relief to me, but I sort of didn’t care because I was in love and about to meet the target of that love for the very first time. I arrived precisely at the requested time, and was shown into a room where Miss Hardthrasher awaited me.

‘Mr Bin, you are prompt. That is good. What is that you are carrying?’

‘Flowers. For Flora. For does her name not mean “flowers” in Latin?’

‘Flowers!’ Her voice was a curious mix of shrill and deep. ‘Flowers are the vegetation of that most lustful of creatures, the satyr!’

‘Eh?’

‘They are lusty plants of immorality! With their stalks nestled within unfolding petals! And their nectar! They are wicked, symbolically saucy things, and must be burned lest they taint the moral atmosphere!’

She was panting as she finished this moralizing speech, her stubbly face flushed, and she seized the flowers from my grasp, hurled them into the fireplace, then slumped into an armchair with an audible groan of satisfaction.

‘Might I ask when Flora will be joining us?’

‘She will not.’

‘But I thought we were to have tea together?’

‘And so you shall. But in the same room? No!’ Now the governess raised herself from her chair and towered scarily over me. ‘For she is no slut, strumpet or gaudy Jezebel-like harlot!’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Miss Dies-Early is in another room.’

‘Next door?’ I gestured at the wall and the room beyond.

‘In Scotland. If today goes well and you comport yourself with dignity, grace and not a trace of lust, then you may soon have tea in the same country. If that goes well, then we shall remove the
r
and you shall tea-ize in the same county. Then in the same town and eventually in the same house.’ How exciting this all sounded! I was so close to actually seeing Flora! ‘But not unaccompanied in the same room until you are married, lest bawdiness ensue. After all, she is no panting scullery-maid desperately hoping to catch the young master at his ablutions with all the consequences that might imply.’

‘Heaven forfend such a thought.’

‘Hmm, Heaven. That is a moral word, therefore I deem our tea a success. You may return another time.’

Oh, joy! The path to true love was set out before me like a shining, many-treaded staircase that would take ages to climb – but I had taken the first steps, and I knew nothing now would stop me.

Other matters, however, were not so reassuring, for on my return home I found that the ninth post – there were fifteen daily deliveries back then – had brought another letter from Pippa.

Dear Pip,

All is not well. It turns out that it was Mr Benevolent skulking in the shadows earlier. He has somehow discovered that we are in France and even as I write he is hammering at my very door. Oh, Pip! He is through the door and is advancing across the room towards me almost faster than I can write this! I must stop now and call Mr Parsimonious for help.

Hope you are well,

Love, Pippa

Then the letter continued in a different hand:

Dear Pip,

Just writing to reassure you that I heard Pippa’s cries for help, have entered the room and seen Mr Benevolent advancing on her, and as soon as these brief lines are finished I shall stop him.

All good wishes,

Mr Parsimonious

Though the reassurance that his note provided was short-lived as the letter now continued in a cruel spidery hand:

Dear Pip Bin,

Mr Benevolent here, just letting you know that that old fool has put down the pen so it is mine now, mine! And soon your sister will be too. Ha ha ha!

Ha ha—

Here there was an inky squiggle as if someone had wrenched a pen off someone else, and then the writing changed to the reassuring script of Mr Parsimonious:

Dear Pip,

I’ve got it back! And I—

Again there was a pen-wrenched squiggle and now the cruel, evil writing reappeared, though it lasted only two words:

Mine again.

Before, in a differently coloured ink, my sister’s writing reappeared:

Dear Pip,

I have found a spare pen! Help us, Pip, help us!

Now there came a swift flurry of differently written intercessions, first Benevolent:

Dear Pip Bin,

Just a quick line to let you know that I am about to tell Pippa to put that other pen down or I shall kill Parsimonious.

Yours etc . . .

Then Pippa:

Just to let you know I’m going to do that then.

And, worryingly, the final lines were in a hand all too familiarly nasty again:

She’s done that and I’ve said ‘good’. I have them now and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Yours sincerely,

Gently Benevolent esquire
xxxx
¹

I was concerned by this latest missive, but also in love. And love triumphs concern every time. I decided that they would probably be fine. Or not. Anyway, what could I do about it? Apart from going to help. Which I wasn’t going to do while I was wooing Flora. And at least there was also a cheering postcard from Harry:

Dear Pip Bin,

In the end I did go and join the army. I wish I hadn’t. It is awful. For starters, it turns out I have a terrible fear of the colour red, which is not ideal, what with the uniform, all the blood and the rations being mostly tomato soup. And they made me kill two men. With my bare feet. Which was horrid.

Yours ever,

Harry

PS I did see a funny pigeon though. Hilarious!

At least it seemed as if Harry was having fun, though I admit I may not have read his postcard all that carefully.

Because I was in love.

Did I mention that?

Ah, love!

It filled every fibre of my being and every morsel of my soul. My love for Flora made life so much deeper: colours were brighter, noises were louder, tastes were stronger. I could not sleep, could not eat, could not sit, could not stand, could barely kneel without thoughts of her rushing in and crushing all else, like a massive, lovely mammoth.

And I hadn’t even met her yet.

But I worked assiduously towards that moment, over a series of more and more geographically proximate teas with the forbidding governess Hardthrasher, until at long last it was the day I was due to actually meet the glorious object of my affections. Really, actually, truly, properly meet her for real, like.

¹
It’s all gone a bit epistolary, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if it reminds any English-literature graduate of being forced to read those interminable chunks of dullness
Pamela
or
Clarissa
, or even Richardson’s longest and dullest such novel
Letters to and from my Accountant
.

On that most glorious of days, I entered the woo-atorium
¹
and, directed by Miss Hardthrasher, sat incredibly carefully in the suitor’s seat, a high-backed chair with a threatening spike protruding dangerously between my legs towards my gentleman’s special region.

‘You have prepared as I ordered, Mr Bin?’

‘I have.’

‘You took a cold bath for three days?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are wearing ice-filled underwear?’

‘I am.’ I shivered with discomfort; but if that was the lust-denying price of meeting my beloved, so be it. I would have done anything to meet her properly: chopped off my right hand, eaten my own eyeballs, even sung ‘La Marseillaise’.

Actually, no, not the last.

Or the other two, come to think of it.

But ice-pants and a three-day cold bath, fine.

‘Good. Then I shall make final preparations.’

Now Miss Hardthrasher took a hammer, nails and several planks of wood and rapidly built a fence around my chair. ‘Do not move beyond the fence. For my charge is no naïve debutante stumbling across a sweaty stable-boy stripped to the waist and wondering why she’s suddenly gone all hot downstairs.’

‘I never thought she was.’

‘Very well. I shall fetch Miss Dies-Early.’

As I waited for my beloved’s arrival, I was nervous. Now our meeting was actually real, fears and worries crowded into my mind like dodgy relatives at a family function, unwelcome and frightening.

What if we had nothing to say to each other? True, that is the case in many relationships, but usually becomes so only some time after marriage – with good luck, years afterwards, with bad luck, minutes. Or what if in the weeks since I had last actually seen her she had got moosey and munterish? Maybe grown a spot on her nose, or developed some kind of repellent facial tic, even cut her hair. All these things could destroy our love, even though it was obviously strong, true and not shallow.

I need not have worried.

As she approached the room, I began to feel quite strange.

When the door opened, I swear I could hear my heart beating, like a well-struck drum; and as she stepped into the room, it was as if the air was filled with uplifting choral music.

Then there she was: serene and beautiful.

And with a choir and a drummer behind her.

‘Miss Dies-Early likes music when she enters a room,’ said Miss Hardthrasher.

‘It is the least her beauty deserves,’ I flattered, because, blinking heck, she was a cracker.

She glided across the room like a well-oiled swan, and sat in a chair in the manner I imagine an angel would have sat, though with fewer wings, that is to say none.

Miss Hardthrasher seated herself on a stool between us, less like an angel, more like a navvy in a dress.

‘Now, you may have intercourse.’

Hello!

‘In the traditional, old-fashioned sense of the word.’

Oh. That sort of intercourse.

‘Of course. I thought nothing else,’ I lied. ‘So, are you well today, Flora?’

‘How dare you address her so informally and directly! She is no leather-clad Dutch lady-of-the-night beckoning through the steamed-up window of a house of ill-repute!’ Miss Hardthrasher pulled out an anti-lust pokerizer
²
and prodded me hard in the ribs. ‘All conversation will go through me!’

‘Of course. Forgive me. Would you kindly ask Miss Dies-Early if the day finds her well?’

The governess repeated my question to Flora, who answered with a shy, coquettish giggle that almost made me burst with loveful joy.

‘Miss Dies-Early says . . .’ Now Miss Hardthrasher repeated the giggle.

It really wasn’t the same.

Where Flora’s trilling happiness had filled every part of me with a tingling sensation, her governess’s version left me feeling as though I had been filled with wet suet, then hit with a clay hammer, so lumpen and heavy a version of my love’s laugh it was. Nevertheless, I pressed ahead with my intercoursing.

‘Perhaps you might now pass my compliments on to Miss Dies-Early on her dress.’

‘No! That is enough of your lustful advances for one day. For she is no drunken floozy seeking to earn the money for a holiday by means of paid debauchery. The staff will dismantle your fence and show you out.’

Miss Hardthrasher now led Flora from the room; at the door she stopped and, without using the governessy intermediary, my beloved waved quickly at me and was gone.

Never had I known such intimacy with another human!

Our relationship now proceeded apace, though at all stages obeying the Byzantine romantic rules of the day.
³
At our next meeting I was still behind a fence, but there was a gate in it; at the following meeting the gate was actually opened. Next, I was allowed out through the gate, though Flora was kept safely out of my reach by being hoisted high off the floor in an anti-debauchery harness. Eventually, we were going for walks with each other, though tied to opposite ends of a twelve-foot wooden pole to prevent us getting too close to each other; the pole got shorter with each visit until finally we were walking hand in hand – though, alas, not with each other, I holding Miss Hardthrasher’s right hand, Flora her left.