by T E Kinsey
‘I couldn’t possibly change career now, my lady,’ I said. ‘You’d starve to death. And there’s that whole business with the corsets. No, my place is here with you.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, and we clinked glasses. ‘Nonetheless, I do think you ought to write these stories down at some point. I’m sure people would be keen to read of our adventures.’
‘Perhaps one day, my lady, when I’m old and grey and we’re sitting together in a nursing home somewhere. Perhaps then.’
‘I shall hold you to it,’ she said. ‘But back to the present, I do hope Lofty manages to get over his wrongful accusation. And that Winnie’s father doesn’t take against him. I liked the chap.’
‘I did, too, my lady. Perhaps we would intercede if things don’t go well for them.’
‘We shall, we shall,’ she said. ‘We shall keep a weather eye on romantic developments at the bakery, but in the meantime…’ She laid down another winning hand and consulted the ledger. ‘…I believe you owe me… oh, it’s still three shillings and sixpence. How did that happen?’
‘I’ve no idea my lady,’ I said. ‘More brandy?’
‘Always,’ she said.
FOUR
The Last Tram
The early summer sunshine was warming the garden as we sat on the terrace drinking tea and eating Chelsea buns fresh from the oven. The last of the workmen had left the day before and we were taking our ease in the newfound peace and tranquility of a labourer-free home. We were connected to the telephone network, the Rover was safely garaged and all was right with the world. Unidentifiable (to me, at least) birds were singing in the hedgerows and the apple tree, a squirrel from the nearby woods was sitting on the garden wall, apparently reconnoitring the possibility of a free meal within, flying insects of all descriptions had begun doing whatever it is that insects do.
The morning post had brought an invitation to a reception at Bristol City Council in honour of a visiting trade delegation from the United States, and another letter from our circus-owning friend, George Dawlish. The former had produced indignant bewilderment (“What on earth do they want me there for, Flo? Don’t they think I’ve got better things to do?”) while the latter had prompted a bout of enthusiastic reminiscence.
‘Do you remember that chap in Burma who sold us the boat?’ said Lady Hardcastle with a wistful smile.
‘How could I forget?’ I said. ‘Tiny, toothless chap. So many of the people in my life seem to be sans teeth. Nice boat, though.’
‘A lovely little boat. Saw us safely all the way down the Irrawaddy to Rangoon.’
Many years ago, Lady Hardcastle had tempted me away from my job as a parlour maid in London with the offer of the chance to work as her lady’s maid. A few years later, when I had accompanied her and her husband to China, I had learned that she was employed by Her Britannic Majesty’s Government to use her social position and her husband’s connections (he was quite the rising young star in the Foreign Office) to gather intelligence on our country’s friends and foes. She was a spy. When her husband, Sir Roderick, had been killed by a German assassin, she and I had escaped Shanghai together and had made our way inland, fleeing the Chinese rebels and who knows how many foreign agents, in an attempt to get home the long way round.
After many weeks of travel, dressed in Chinese garb, buying, and sometimes stealing, food along the way, and sleeping in fields, we were somewhere in the north of Hunan Province where we had chanced upon a Shaolin monk. I don’t think it’s a melodramatic exaggeration to say that he saved our lives. We never questioned him closely on the reasons why, but he had been sent out from the monastery into the world and was wandering from village to village, getting work where he could. I like to imagine that in our own, desperate way, we helped to save him, too, by giving him a mission and a purpose. He was surprised to find first that despite our dress we were Westerners, and then even more surprised to discover that we spoke passable Mandarin. He agreed to be our guide and to take us all the way west and into Burma so that eventually we could find a ship to take us to Calcutta and a way of getting home.
Our journey was an eventful one with many adventures along the way which I have once before promised to recount, and I once again promise that one day, I shall. To be truthful, it was the first of the adventures that really changed things for me. We had been travelling steadily westward with our new guide for less than a week and, emboldened by his protective presence, we had begun travelling upon the roads rather than skulking across fields. Shortly after dawn one day, we had breakfasted and broken camp and were just setting off towards the next village which Chen Ping Bo was sure would welcome us, when we were set upon by three bandits. One of them had leapt out at us from behind a tree, brandishing a hefty stick, and when we turned to get away from him, his two comrades emerged from the ditch beside the road, each armed with their own rather nasty-looking sticks and barring our retreat. Chen sighed and put down his pack.
Calmly and politely, he said a few words to the first man in a dialect I did not recognize. The bandits laughed and jeered. Chen said a few more words and got the same reaction. Then in Mandarin, he quietly said, ‘Ladies, would you be so kind as to step to the side of the road.’
We had no better plan, so we did as he asked, keeping all three bandits in sight, but keeping well out of the way. Chen bowed to the first bandit, who laughed again and said a few words in an unmistakably mocking tone. Chen merely stood there, relaxed and smiling. The first bandit advanced on him, leering, and swinging his stick menacingly, but still Chen did not move. The bandit aimed a blow near Chen’s head, and seemed slightly disconcerted when Chen didn’t flinch. Becoming increasingly angry, the bandit swung again, this time clearly intending to make contact, and I feared that our newfound companion would be killed.
The next thing I was properly aware of was the bandit lying on his back on the ground clutching his throat and gasping for breath, and Chen – now armed with the stick – turning to face the other two men. There was a moment’s pause before they dropped their own sticks and fled down the road in the direction we had just come. Chen helped their friend to his feet and bowed to him once more before he, too, fled to join his fellows. Slowly and deliberately, Chen picked up his pack and indicated that we should resume our journey.
‘What did I just see, Chen Ping Bo?’ I asked once we were moving again.
‘What do you think you saw?’ he asked.
‘He made to strike you with his stick, you took a step towards him, there was a flurry of hands, feet and elbows, too fast for me to make out, and then he was lying on the ground, choking.’
‘Then that must have been what happened,’ he said.
In the few days we had known him, we had learned that Chen was the sort of fellow who really rather enjoyed not giving direct answers to direct questions.
‘Is it something I could learn to do?’ I said.
‘You strike me as a very capable young woman,’ he said. ‘I am sure that with a lifetime’s study, prayer and meditation, you could become very skilled. Alas the rules of my order are very strict and women are not permitted.’
‘But could you teach me to defend myself?’ I persisted. ‘These are dangerous times and we shan’t always be able to rely on you for protection.’
He regarded me solemnly for a few moments. ‘It is against all the rules of my order,’ he said, slowly. ‘But you make a good case. I shall teach you. And your mistress, too?’
‘Me?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I say, that would be rather fun, but I fear I’m not cut out for the rough and tumble. And I wouldn’t want to damage my hands.’ She held up her elegant hands. ‘I might never play the piano again.’
I knew for a fact that she was no stranger to rough and tumble, and that she was skilled with a knife and an expert markswoman with pistol and rifle, but I confess I was rather pleased that I should be the only one to learn Chen’s mysterious arts so I said nothing.
And so it was that as the months
passed and our journey took us farther and farther west towards Burma, Chen Ping Bo trained me in the basics of his own particular brand of hand-to-hand combat. As I learned not only the physical skills, but also a little of the philosophy that shaped them, I realized that he had been right: it would take a lifetime of diligent study to master them. Nevertheless, by the time we had slipped across the Burmese border and had eventually arrived at Mandalay, I was deemed more than capable of protecting myself and Lady Hardcastle and Chen even went so far as to suggest that if ever a monastic order were to admit women, I should apply at once to be their first student.
Mandalay was bustling and we wondered for a time about contacting the British authorities, but we still had no idea whom we could trust and deemed it prudent instead to stick to our original plan and head down the Irrawaddy to the coast and from there by ship to Calcutta. Lady Hardcastle had trustworthy contacts in Bengal and we knew that once we were there, we would be safe.
We found a toothless old man down near the docks tending a dilapidated old boat. He spoke neither Mandarin, nor Hindi, nor English, nor German, French, Italian, Spanish or Latin, all of which Lady Hardcastle tried. I even chipped in with a little Welsh, but this was met with the same cheerful incomprehension.
Eventually, using a combination of smiles, gestures and elaborate pantomime, we managed to communicate our desire to purchase his boat. Further non-verbal negotiation followed and we eventually settled on a price of one gold sovereign, one opal ring (a gift from Lady Hardcastle’s aunt which she had never really liked anyway) and a silk blouse that I had bought in a market in Shanghai for next to nothing.
The deal was struck, and although we were left with the feeling that our toothless new friend had definitely got the better end of the bargain, we were not at all dissatisfied with our charming new conveyance.
And so, after one last meal with Chen Ping Bo, we said our goodbyes and set off down the Irrawaddy towards safety.
‘I wonder whatever happened to Chen Ping Bo,’ I said, sipping my tea.
‘He probably wandered off into the interior, righting wrongs and spreading his wonderful brand of calm wisdom,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘I do hope so,’ I said. ‘We never did find out why he left his monastery.’
‘We never did,’ she said. ‘Best not to pry too closely into these things, I find. We were with him for months; if he’d wanted us to know, I’m sure he would have said.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, my lady.’
‘I so often am.’
I frowned.
‘I bally well am,’ she said.
‘Yes, my lady. At least half the time.’
‘At least,’ she said.
‘We’re agreed then. Almost half the time you’re completely wrong.’
‘That sounds fair.’
‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘What are you planning to do with the rest of your day, my lady?’
‘I was rather thinking we could take the Rover into Bristol and do a bit of shopping. I thought we could start in Clifton and then take the tram down to the middle of town.’
‘The tram, my lady?’ I said in some surprise.
‘Just so,’ she said. ‘It’s been in the newspaper so much these days, and it occurred to me that in all the years we've been back in England we’ve never been on an electric tram. I feel like an old fuddy-duddy, cut off from modern life.’
‘An old fuddy-duddy with a motorcar and a telephone.’
‘A motorcar, a telephone and an impertinent maid, yes. But a fuddy-duddy who has never ridden on an electric tram. And today, we shall remedy that.’
‘As you wish, my lady. Who shall drive?’
‘I’ll fight you for it,’ she said, putting up her fists.
‘Me, then.’
‘Actually, it probably would be you, wouldn't it. Unless you fancy a shooting contest? My new Derringer arrived last week, after all. Paper targets in the garden?’
The previous summer, Lady Hardcastle had hit upon the idea of concealing a small pistol in a special compartment in one of the newly fashionable large hats such that she might always be discreetly armed. I believed I had dissuaded her from this frankly dangerous plan, but a few days earlier, a package had arrived from a London gunsmith which contained a brand new Derringer and a box of ammunition. At least there was no sign of the holster-hat.
‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I rather think that it’s your turn anyway. I was just chancing my arm. And I don’t fancy being humiliated in yet another shooting tournament. I really can’t get the hang of that silly little gun.’
‘You’re very kind, pet,’ she said. ‘Come and help me get into my driving togs and we can be in town before lunch.’
Within half an hour, we had set off. As Lady Hardcastle’s driving experience grew so, too, did her confidence and although the little Rover was scarcely capable of dizzying speeds, she was beginning to attempt more adventurous manoeuvres, taking corners at increasingly greater speeds until one sharp turn saw two of the wheels leave the road entirely and I feared we might topple over.
‘I say, my lady, steady on,’ I said once the motorcar had righted itself. ‘You’ll have us in a ditch.’
‘Don’t fret, pet. Live a little,’ she said, turning enthusiastically into the next bend.
‘I would rather live a lot, my lady,’ I said, gripping the dashboard. ‘A lot longer than you seem to have planned for me, certainly.’
She eased off the throttle and we settled into a more sedate, and much safer, pace.
We parked the Rover on Regent Street in Clifton and spent a most pleasing couple of hours perusing the little shops we found. With Lady Hardcastle’s bank balance considerably smaller and with several packages due for delivery at Littleton Cotterell over the next few days, we set off in search of a tram stop.
After twenty minutes’ fruitless meandering, we happened upon a young nursery maid leading or, rather, being led by, her exuberant charges towards the zoological gardens. She seemed amused by the idea of a lady wishing to take the tram, but gave us directions back the way we had come and all the way to Clifton Down railway station on Whiteladies Road where, she assured us, we would be able to catch a tram to the Tramway Centre. We thanked her and set off again.
The tram, when it arrived, was much as I had expected it to be. It was a double-decked railway carriage with a pole sticking out of the top which drew electric current from an overhead wire. The seats were wooden and the fare modest, and although our fellow passengers were cheerfully friendly and politely curious, and although there was a faint sense of wonder at the notion of a vehicle drawing invisible power from a wire, I confess my curiosity to have been entirely satisfied by having seen the vehicle pull up at the stop. I felt no need to board it and ride it, clattering and clanking, all the way to Colston Avenue.
Lady Hardcastle, on the other hand, was enchanted. She asked the conductor all manner of technical questions about the electrical current, the generating station and the power of the motor, none of which the poor chap was able to answer. With an endearing combination of embarrassment and baffled amusement, he suggested she might like to contact Head Office and went off in search of more straightforward conversation.
The day was still sunny and pleasantly warm for the time of year and so we had chosen to ride on the open top deck of the tram. The trees were already in full leaf and the experience was, despite my misgivings, really rather enjoyable. I was beginning to wonder why the other passengers had all chosen to remain below rather than sit upstairs where the view was so enchanting. On the other hand, it was a pleasure to have the entire top deck to ourselves.
As I looked around at the shops and houses, seen afresh from our unfamiliarly lofty vantage point, I noticed a commotion on the pavement ahead. A small knot of onlookers had gathered, pointing upwards, and a young man was running towards the tram waving his arms.
The driver seemed not to notice him – or chose not to – and we carried on. As we drew alongside the
low-roofed building, I was at last able to see what had caused the passers-by to stop passing by and look up. Hanging from one of the ornate posts supporting the wire for the overhead electric cable was a portly, expensively-dressed gentleman. He was struggling to free himself, having become somehow caught on the ornamentation at the top of the post. He had managed to get one foot onto the wire and was attempting to lift himself free, but this caused the crowd to yell warnings that neither I nor he could make out. He passed over our heads and it was as I saw the trolley pole racing towards his feet that I realized what the warnings were about. I grabbed Lady Hardcastle and pulled her to the floor just as there was an almighty bang, a blue flash, and a shower of sparks from the rear of the tram. The whine of the motor stopped immediately and the driver engaged the brakes, bringing the tram to a jolting halt.
I helped Lady Hardcastle up from the floor.
‘Thank you, pet,’ she said. ‘We’d better go and see if we can help that chap.’
‘I doubt there’s much we can do, my lady,’ I said, heading towards the rear of the tram.
We looked down and saw the man’s body on the ground, his shoes still smoking and, to judge from his other injuries, almost certainly dead. The small crowd, previously so animated, was standing in shocked silence. The driver and conductor had rushed to the body, but the conductor had left his colleague to it while he went to the telephone on a nearby tram wire post to call for help.
We made our way hastily down the stairs and out onto the pavement just as a bobby rounded the corner and a shrill-voiced woman urged him to hurry over. He took charge at once and, having examined the body, instructed everyone to remain calm but not to go anywhere; he would need to take witness statements.
A couple of people from around the fringes of the crowd sidled away at this point, obviously keen not to be delayed yet further by the need to tell the authorities exactly the same story as a dozen others. The constable chose not to notice, but after a quick word from the conductor, complete with several unselfconscious glances in our direction, he made sure that Lady Hardcastle and I were aware of the necessity of our remaining where we were.