More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  I objected immediately, and was scarce reassured by the reply.

  “It is for your own safety and benefit, I assure you,” said the doctor, “ it sometimes occurs that patients fall asleep with the heat and the comfort, and it has been known for them to fall off the chair and injure themselves. These safety measures are to prevent such a mishap. Patients have also been known to decide that they do not care to remain for the full session, and to absent themselves before their time is up, thus failing to gain the benefits they should. I need hardly fear for either event with such a discerning gentleman as you, Mr. Bennet, but it is best to be on the safe side. The Hippocratic oath urges us, before anything else, to see that the patient takes no harm.”

  So saying, he signaled to the attendant, who, by some ingenious winch and pulley arrangement, swung me out over the vat and lowered me, none too gently, into the water, quite up to my neck.

  I flinched, involuntarily, expecting to encounter either excessive heat or cold, but, to my surprise, the experience was very pleasant. After being left in peace, with the admonition to “relax and give the waters a chance to heal” and a promise to return in good time, I found myself indeed dropping off to sleep. Partly, of course, it was the sheer boredom of having nothing at all to do. I could not even observe the scenery or the passers-by or even the sky from the one window, which was set behind me and well above my field of vision. The uninterrupted and unvaried view of the wooden staves in front of my face was quite enough to set anyone into a stupor. I should have welcomed a mere splash or a wave as some kind of diversion, but confined as I was, even these simple, infantile amusements were beyond me. The combination of the ennui, the heat, and the steam rising from the surface soon had me nodding, and I bethought me that the doctor’s precautions were perhaps not so far fetched, after all.

  Even so, I was quite prepared to expire from boredom when the door opened and the attendant re-entered.

  “Ah,” I said, with relief, “we are finished are we? Come then, help me out of my boiling pan.”

  “Why, bless you, sir,” he replied, with a most disgusting display of cheerfulness, “you’re barely halfway yet, but I’ve brought you some more hot water in case you was feeling the cold, like.”

  I at once engaged him in conversation, eager for any distraction. He proved nothing loth, once he had emptied his bucket. I gained from this that his name was not Samson, but the equally Biblical Josiah “ but you can call me Jos: everybody does”, that he had worked for “old Doc Martin” for five years, and that he was “always ready to oblige a gentleman who knew how to show his gratitude for any little extras”.

  I immediately enquired whether such little extras might include ‘easement of irons’, for I did not care for the helpless confinement in the chair, whatever might be the reason for it.

  “Well, sir,” was the reply, “it would be more than my job’s worth, so it would, should the Doc catch me at such a thing. Cast out without a character on the spot, that would be me. Nobbut what for a nice, obliging gentleman such as yourself something might be arranged. But I should have to put the bindings back on before the Doc comes back.”

  I hesitated not a moment in giving him all the assurances of future gratitude that the situation required, and was very soon gratified by the release of my fetters.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” enquired my liberator. “Now you can move about a bit if you like. Some gents likes to frolic about in the water, others likes me to fetch them a cup of chocolate, or a newspaper, or suchlike. Anything you want, just give me a shout, but don’t you go drownding yourself or anything like that, mind.”

  Finding myself now free to move, I immediately lost any desire to do so, and settled into a pleasant contemplation of life, the universe and everything until Jos returned to reattach my straps.

  He was followed a few minutes later by the doctor, who ordered the good Jos to raise me partially from the water while he felt my pulse, listened to my chest, peered in my eyes and mouth, and tutted.

  “The treatment seems to be proceeding satisfactorily,” he pronounced, with the true, physician’s hauteur. “We will continue it daily, at the same time, not forgetting to drink our draughts in between. Turner here will assist you from the apparatus, and I shall consult again in due course.

  With not a word more, he was gone, leaving Jos to hoist me out, release me and towel me down. Gazing down at my body I marveled at the wrinkled, puckered state of my skin. I remembered as a child we had a cook who used to produce a pudding she called “boiled baby”, and I imagine I must have looked much like that when newly emerged from my boiling pan.

  “That’s the last you’ll see of him this week, sir,” said Jos, as he helped me into my coat, “so tomorrow we can unbend a bit. Just you let me know what you’d like to help pass the time, and I’ll sort it out for you.”

  I thanked him for his services, and passed my last half-crown to him, asking, at the same time, if he knew where I might cash a banker’s draft.

  “That I do, sir,” he replied, “though there’s not many in my state as would, but I’ve had dealings with them in the past, for a particular reason, and I can tell you, you won’t do better than the Buxton Banking Company. Just go back up to the Crescent, turn left and follow the street, and they’re on your right.”

  “Are they reliable?” I enquired, “Are they sound?”

  “Why, as to that, sir, I don’t know exactly what you mean, but they has a sound reputation hereabouts, and all over the world, for all I know. They have correspondents all over the world, certainly. I’ll tell you what it is, sir, I have a brother, had a little disagreement with the duke’s keepers a few years ago, something about a hare that must have jumped into his satchel when he wasn’t looking and then suffocated. Anyway, he ended up getting a trip to Australia at His Majesty’s expense, if you see what I mean. Tis a hard life out there, and once or twice I’ve sent him some money to help him set himself up, and the Buxton Banking Company have always got it safe to him. Right across the world like that! Why, our Caleb swears by the BBC World Service. Says it’s always good news from them. They’ll see you right, sir.”

  With this encomium ringing in my ears, I lost no time in finding the establishment recommended, where they cashed my draft on the Bank of Meryton without demur.

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Bennet,” said the clerk, when I thanked him, “and for such a distinguished connection of Mr. Darcy I believe we can manage gold if you would prefer it, although we usually honour a draft on another house with banknotes. And I trust your health will soon be restored in our salubrious surroundings, sir.”

  And I had thought that everyone knew everyone else’s business in Meryton!

  Still, it was with the comforting weight and jingle of guineas in my pocket that I returned to our lodgings.

  The following days elapsed more pleasantly than I had anticipated. My hour’s parboiling every morning passed much more quickly with the aid of the newspaper and the cups of coffee provided by the ever compliant Jos, and even the afternoons wandering about with Kitty were satisfactory enough, once I had made it plain that I did not undertake to spend hours standing around in shops while she indulged herself in the agonies of failing to decide between sprigged and figured muslin.

  It would have been heartless, however, to deny her at least one new dress, especially considering that the prices in the North were so reasonable, and I indulgently gave way to her entreaties after only the fourteenth asking, stipulating only that she should be sure not to forget presents for her mother and sisters.

  Thus we luxuriated in all the heady delights of Buxton. We took tea, and listened to a concert in the Rooms, and took tickets for the weekend ball. We paid due attention to the shops. We wandered over the Slopes, and over St Ann's Cliffs, and gazed at the surrounding hills secure in the knowledge that we should not have to climb them.

  On the Thursday, we even allowed ourselves to be tempted by Poole’s Cavern, a place much cried-up by visi
tors to Buxton, a vast, underground cave, or rather system of connecting caves, acclaimed by the connoisseurs as one of the most picturesque sights in England.

  We should, of course, have taken warning from the intensity- no, the savagery – with which our guide fought, quite literally, with his colleagues assembled outside the entrance, for our custom and still more by the low price – a mere tuppence each – he charged and then again by the dismal, low, narrow tunnel through which we had practically to crawl to gain entrance.

  Once inside, however, Kitty, who has taken upon herself the role of family romantic since Lydia departed, very quickly lost herself in raptures at the grandeur, awesomeness, horror etc of the chambers we traversed.

  The dripping stalactites, the strangely-formed rocks, the silent pools did have a certain fascination, but not as much as the incessant, and increasing cold, and the absolute silence, broken only by ourselves. The flickering shadows cast by our guide’s candle took on shapes of their own, at times seeming quite ominous. It was easy to see how our ancestors would have considered such holes the abode of demons.

  All our contemplation came to an end, however, when we were suddenly plunged into darkness.

  The guide, meanwhile, had been occupied in pointing out strangely-shaped rocks, which he called by names such as ‘The Flitch of Bacon’, and ‘Poole’s Chair,’ so that our attention had not been otherwise engaged than on the candle he carried.

  Kitty shrieked and clutched my arm.

  “Do not be alarmed,” I urged her. “It is but a passing draft has blown out the candle. Our guide will soon light it again.”

  “Sorry, sir,” croaked our cicerone. “Can’t oblige, I’m afraid. I stumbled, you see, and dropped the candle. Now I can’t find it.”

  “Well, light another one.”

  “I’m a poor man, sir. I can’t afford more than one candle at a time. What you’ll have to do, sir, miss is just wait quietly here while I find my way back and borrow one from somebody out there. Can’t tell how long it will take me. I may lose my way in the dark, or I might not find anybody willing to part with a glim, without persuasion, like. But you’ll be all right if you just stop here and wait. Lucky it’s not too cold yet, and the flood waters haven’t risen. Don’t you take no notice of all the tales of these caves being full of ghoulies and ghosties and suchlike, just waiting to pounce on the unwary traveller. It’s all nonsense. Nobody never gets lost in here. Well, hardly ever.”

  Kitty began whimpering, and I could feel that she was on the verge of that accustomed resort of her sex, a fit of the vapours.

  “Surely you must have a spare candle, fellow,” I barked. Did I detect just a note of hysteria creeping into my own voice now?

  “I’m a poor man,” replied our tormentor. “I can’t afford candles by the bushel, not like gentlefolk. I do have another candle, like, but it’s a special candle, as I’ve sworn never to part with or to use up.”

  “Then surely you could light that, just to see us out of this miserable hole?”

  “It’s a special candle, like I said. Give to me by the Dook hisself, it were, when I showed him round, a big, quality candle, from his own house. There were only half of it left by the time we finished, but he give it to me, and wrote his name on it, in writing. The he says to me, ‘Arthur, he says, “you keep this, and if ever you’re in real need, bring this to my steward and he’ll see you right.’ So, you see, I dursen’t risk burning it, not now.”

  I did not believe a word of his tale, of course, and, in fact, realized exactly what the villain was about. It would never do to admit it, however, as that would be sure to raise the price.

  “A special candle, indeed,” I said. “I can see how much you must prize it. But surely you could spare just an inch of it, to see us as far as the daylight from the entrance? I should not fail to show my gratitude. I dare say you could use a silver sixpence.”

  All pretence was now dropped.

  “Five shilling,” he replied. “I couldn’t do it for less.”

  “Five shillings! Come, that must be more than you make in a week. I shall give you a shilling.”

  At this point, Kitty enlivened the proceedings with a piercing but incoherent shriek.

  “All right, seeing as the young lady’s taking on so, I’ll take half a crown.”

  “Very well, then, a florin.”

  “In advance.”

  “One shilling now, the second outside.”

  The appropriate silver-tongued, and lubricated pleasantries having been exchanged, he brought out flint and tinder, and proceeded to light a candle which bore a remarkable resemblance to the missing one. I dare say one candle looks much like another, but I was surprised to note that His Grace apparently uses rushlights in his residence, for the smoke and odour given off by this illumination smacked far more of tallow than of beeswax.

  We survived to crawl out into the light of day, however, and vowed never to venture underground again.

  The rest of the day was taken up with soothing female effusions. Deborah was worse than useless, falling into even more female fits at the sight of her mistress. I was constrained to leave them comforting, or rather encouraging one another and retire to my bed.

  Had I known what the morrow was to bring, I should have stayed there.

  Jos was unaccustomedly brisk as he helped me with my garments.

  “Sorry I’ve not got your paper yet, Mr. Bennet. I’ll be back with it soon as I can manage. We’re always busy Saturday mornings; that’s when all the casuals come in to get ready for the weekend. Just you get yourself comfortable and I’ll see you soon.”

  And with that, he swung me out over the water and positively jerked loose the winch lever as he left.

  I plunged into the water forthwith. No gentle lowering this time.

  Had I not been entirely occupied with gasping, spluttering and catching my breath, I dare say my shrieks would have put Kitty’s to shame.

  The water was icy cold!

  I know not how I managed to scramble over the sides of the tub, snatch the towel from its hook and wrap myself in it. In truth, I have no recollection of doing so, for the action was entirely instinctive. It took a while before I was able to muster enough breath between gasps to bellow for Jos.

  “What do you think you are at, you damnable villain?” I roared as he entered. “That water could have come straight from the North Pole.”

  He stared, as if taken aback.

  “Why, it’s Saturday,” he said. “Did Doc Martin not tell you?”

  “I am perfectly aware of what day it is without having to rely upon Mr. Martin for the information,” I replied, the combination of shock and anger rendering me unwontedly eloquent. “What we are discussing is not the calendar, but the temperature of my so-called ‘hot’ bath.”

  “But it’s Saturday, sir. It’s always cold baths on Saturdays, to relieve the enervation of the week’s hot baths, and stimulate the metal bowlism, as the Doc always says. Was you expecting hot water, sir? I should be very sorry to let you down if you was?”

  “I certainly was, but I see that you are not to blame. Very well, help me on with my clothes. I am leaving this minute, and I shall not be coming back. Tell Doctor Martin he may send his bill to Pemberley.”

  It wanted all the combined effects of a brisk walk to the Crescent and overpowering rage to restore my feelings to something approaching normal by the time I got there.

  Kitty was still lingering over breakfast when I entered.

  “You may finish that at your leisure, and then start your packing,” I announced. “We shall be leaving for Pemberley as soon as you are ready.”

  Kitty looked up in wide-eyed alarm.

  “But we can’t,” she said. “We are going to the ball tomorrow. And my new dress will not be ready until later today.”

  “There will be no balls for you, my girl, or not in Buxton at any rate. I am cured, both of my indisposition and of all inclination for spas and their spurious attractions. You must sit
in the ashes in the kitchen at Pemberley like Cinderella, and bemoan your lot.”

  “But my dress!”

  “Send Dorcas to collect it. And while she is out she may engage a chaise to take us forthwith to Pemberley.”

  There were the inevitable female megrims to overcome, Bathsheba being quite as adamant as Kitty about the impossibility of packing up and leaving at a moment’s notice, but I was inexorable, and drove my womenfolk with more severity than a Mussulman.

  So it was that the afternoon saw us ensconced in a hired chaise, with our bags on top and Bathsheba on the trap opposite us, clopping past the Great Stables while a rather vacant-looking postilion bumped up and down on the lead horse, on the way to Pemberley.

  Chapter Eleven : Derbyshire Society

  Our unexpected arrival at Pemberley later in the day was welcomed with less than open arms.

  “I did not look for you so soon,” said Darcy, with a lift of his eyebrows.

  “Nor I,” said Lizzie, with a warm embrace, “but I am glad to see you back, and looking so well.”

  “That is no thanks to your Buxton doctor,” I replied, “ I still marvel that the culmination of his treatment did not kill me. But at least he cured me of all reliance on quackery, and I do feel some benefit from the waters and the hot baths. But tell me, Darcy, those lodgings you took for us? Have you used them yourself?”

  “I have never stayed in Buxton,” he replied. “The native is never familiar with the lodgings in his own home town, having no occasion to use them. I had never set foot inside The Crescent before. The place was recommended to me by one of my estate managers.”

  “Would that be Mr. Barnett, by any chance?” I enquired innocently.

  “Why, yes, it was. Did you perhaps meet him there?”

  “No, but I heard him spoken of as a frequent visitor.”

  “And how did Kitty like her spa visit?” continued Darcy.