by Mark Evans
He laughed cruelly at me, but for the first time it instigated no cowering fear for, as Aunt Lily had said, I was a man now, indeed a rich man who had survived all this evil fellow had thrown at me thus far, and I was certain I could survive anything.
He continued laughing ineffectually for some seconds, then noticed my lack of response and came to a slightly embarrassed halt. ‘The laugh’s not really doing it any more, is it?’
I shook my head at him, I like to think slightly patronizingly.
‘Hmm. I’ll work on a new and improved one. Good day, Pip Bin, whom I hate and will destroy.’
He tipped his hat at me, withdrew his foot from the door and I slammed it in his face, then went to see how my poor, nearly seduced sister fared.
She was sitting on a chair, gazing out of the window, as custom dictates troubled womenfolk should do, and Harry stood in the equivalent male pose, leaning thoughtfully against the mantelpiece with a whisky in his hand.
‘Pippa, are you all right?’ I asked, hastening to her side.
‘Yes, thanks to you, dear brother, and Harry, dear friend.’
‘That must have been a hideous experience.’ I placed a consoling hand upon her shoulder.
‘Oh, yes, it was. Although . . .’ She turned to me, her eyes oddly shining.
‘There can be no although!’
‘Yes, of course, you are right.’ She resumed her fenestral gaze. ‘The idea of being touched by a man makes me shudder. In a sort of ambiguous way . . .’ Now she shuddered ambiguously with excitey-horror.
‘There can be no ambiguity!’
‘Again you are right, dear brother.’ She ceased shuddering and resumed gazing.
‘Mr Benevolent has designs on you, dear sister, and not noble designs such as those for a cathedral or a lovely dress, but vile, lascivious designs that would leave you tainted and soiled.’
‘Ooh, crikey!’
This word sounded entirely too excited for my liking and I responded strongly. ‘No, not crikey! Nor cripes, tish or ooh-la-la. This calls for bah, aaarrggh and “Get your hands off my sister.” You must be protected. But how?’
‘I know, Pip Bin!’
‘Yes, Harry?’
As Harry leaned on the mantelpiece, whisky in hand, he looked so sensible and manly that for a minute I genuinely believed he might have a proper solution.
‘We could build a very big wall around her.’
‘Harry . . .’
‘Or we could make her a dress out of copper and then pass modern electricity through it meaning that anyone who touched her would be electricked to death!’4
‘Harry . . .’
‘Or what about a highly trained guard-swan—’
‘Harry!’ I cut him off with a bolt of verbal violence. Despite his sensible, manly, whisky-wielding demeanour he had once again been an utter twit. ‘I have made a decision. Pippa must go and live abroad for a while; only then will she be far enough away from Mr Benevolent’s clutches.’
Harry nodded in agreement. ‘A fine idea, Pip Bin. Of course, she will need a chaperone. Someone of a noble and faithful temperament, loyal beyond doubt, brave and strong and dedicated to Pippa’s protection.’
‘You are right, Harry. And I know just the person for the job: Mr Parsimonious.’
‘Actually, I was talking about— Oh, never mind.’
For some reason Harry now went to the corner of the room and angrily kicked the skirting board; perhaps he had seen a mouse.
I immediately summoned that loyal friend Mr Parsimonious and, on his arrival, explained the situation to him. He agreed with my proposal, and even had a suggestion as to a safe destination for Pippa protection. ‘We shall head to France,’ Mr Parsimonious said.
At mention of this destination a shudder ran down my spine. ‘Is that wise? Will it not be fearfully unpleasant?’
‘Exactly. No Englishman would willingly choose to go there, so even if he found out where we were, Benevolent would not follow.’
I understood the logic, but liked it not.
‘Besides, I am to protect Pippa’s virtue, am I not?’ Mr Parsimonious continued. ‘And Frenchmen are surely too cowardly to come near any woman. For the same reason we shall head afterwards to Italy.’
Again, I could not fault his logic, but still liked it not. Nevertheless, in fear of Mr Benevolent’s seductive return, plans were set in motion, bags were set in pack, a coach and horses was ordered up, and by teatime Pippa and Mr Parsimonious were ready to leave.
As I stood with Harry on the doorstep, waving them off on their journey, I knew that Pippa’s virtue would now be safe, and I felt a burden of responsibility lift from my shoulders and a heavy package of obligation lift from my head.
‘I shan’t miss her, you know,’ said Harry. ‘I shan’t miss her sweet nature, her angelic presence and her beautiful face.’
This surprised me, as I had always thought Harry was rather fond of Pippa. He quickly surprised me again, as with a thick snuffle he began to cry.
‘Are you all right, Harry?’
‘Yes, fine, all fine, thank you.’
‘Are you crying?’
‘No. Yes. But because I just remembered a sad story I once read. About a poorly child. And a dead dog.’
‘Those are the saddest stories.’ Indeed, to this day the saddest story I know is the tale of Consumptive Colin and his Late Lamented Labrador.5
‘Oh, Pippa!’ Harry now wailed. ‘The dog was called Pippa. I’m crying about the dog in the story, not your sister.’
‘I understand, Harry.’
‘Excuse me. I’m just going out for a walk. Or I might go and join the army. To forget.’
Harry, still crying, left the house, and from outside I heard another great wail of ‘Pippa!’
It really must have been a good story to have affected him so deeply, and I made a mental note to ask him to lend it to me when he returned; but for the moment, I had other things on my mind. For my thoughts had turned seriously to love, and I had decided that I must begin planning my campaign to woo Miss Flora Dies-Early.
1 An ancient Sumerian deity. This is one of only two known references to him in modern literature, the other being in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Ghostbusters, later adapted into the film of very nearly the same name.
2 Until 1854 by law all houses of rich people had to have a room full of dead, stuffed animals, preferably shot or strangled by the owner themselves.
3 From the Latin mustela meaning ‘weasel’; yes, the badger is related to the weasel. As are the otter, the wolverine and the polecat. Biology and evolution are interesting, aren’t they?
4 The sterner Scottish Presbyterians actually utilized such dresses as anti-lust devices. Unfortunately, though protected from men, the wearers were not protected from the rainy Scottish weather, leading to several nasty cases of short-circuiting and electrocution.
5 A book that was finally banned in 1927 after making too many children cry.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD
Woos that girl
Early the next day, I headed to Indigo Park, where I had first seen the gorgeous Flora, for it was the custom of the time for young ladies to gather there of a morning to exchange girlish gossip and tinkling lady laughter.
The weather was glorious: clear blue skies, the gentlest of tickling breezes and the temperature warm but not sweat-inducingly hot – a meteorological ideal to match my perfect love.
On my way, I stopped and bought a bunch of flowers, the first weapon in any wooing war. As I emerged from the florist’s, however, I had an unwelcome meeting.
‘Ah, Pip Bin, off wooing, are we?’ It was Mr Benevolent, as smoothly malicious as ever, like a buttered snake. ‘You won’t get far with those flowers. They are awful. Mine are much better.’ He, too, was bearing a bouquet of floral flattery. ‘These are for your sister. She will yield to me eventually.’
‘Ha!’ I decided a small gloat or klid was in order. ‘You’ll have to find her first. For
I have hidden her far from your reach!’
At this piece of news, Mr Benevolent’s face spasmed with thwartedness, but he quickly recovered his poise. ‘I won’t be needing these flowers for wooing, then, will I?’
‘You will not, sir.’
‘So I may as well put them to a better use. Have at you, sir!’ He suddenly sprang into a sword-fighting pose, raised his bouquet as if it were a sabre, and began slashing at me with it. I had no option but to fight back, parrying his blows with my own flowers, and this floral fencing continued until both bouquets were ruined, beheaded of their pretty blooms and reduced to mere tattered stalks.
‘You won’t be wooing anyone with that, Pip Bin!’ he crowed triumphantly. He was right; he had won a tiny, petty, woo-ruining victory.
‘Yes, but neither will you with yours, Mr Benevolent,’ I retorted somewhat lamely. ‘Besides, you’d have to find Pippa in France to even attempt to woo her.’
With hindsight, letting slip Pippa’s location was a rash thing to have done, as the next chapter will inform you. But at the time I thought nothing of it as Mr Benevolent instantly grinned with evil happiness, then hailed a passing carriage and boarded it, shouting, ‘Coachman, take me to Dover so I may find a ship to France!’ for I was merely glad he was gone and I could continue my quest for love.
I stuffed the broken fragments of flower into one of my Bins – London was now full of them – proceeded to Indigo Park and for the second time I saw Miss Flora Dies-Early. This time I was prepared for the majestic sight of her, and did not collapse in a dribbling heap, though my heart beat faster, my breath breathed shallower and my knees wobbled excitedly. Nearing her glorious radiance, I raised my hat and said my first words to the woman I knew I was destined to love for ever.
‘Excuse my boldness but—’
I got no further before a colossal, black-clad figure tackled me from the side, piling into me and driving me to the ground.
‘How dare you talk to Miss Dies-Early? How dare you even look at her?’
I raised myself painfully from the ground and addressed this huge person. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I merely—’
Again I was interrupted, though this time fortunately with words, not violence. ‘Sir? You call me “sir”? Is it not obvious I am a woman?’
I looked the massive figure up and down. ‘Um, well . . .’ For it was not obvious. True, ‘she’ wore a dress, and had a feminine hairstyle that looked like a hairy loaf of bread stuck to ‘her’ head, but then ‘she’ also appeared to have stubble, and certainly possessed the strength and physique of a man, and not just any old man but a somewhat strapping, beefy one at that. Plus, ‘her’ voice was a little deep for a lady.
‘Because I am a woman! I am Miss Dies-Early’s governess.’
Delicate politeness fought with truth-seeking directness, and the latter won. ‘And you’re sure you’re a woman?’
‘As sure as I am sure that I have a womb, which I do.’
Despite the manly-seeming evidence to the contrary, that statement clinched it: no man could possibly have said such a feminine word as ‘womb’ without either laughing or dying of embarrassment, and I decided to remove the inverted commas from my thoughts on the matter, ‘her’ swiftly becoming her.
‘Then I apologize for my wrong-gendering, Miss . . . ?’
‘Miss Chastity Hardthrasher.’
Ah. That explained the strange familiarity I had sensed in her, as well as the distinctively frightening height, cruel nose and grumpy eyebrows – she was clearly the sister of those monstrous brothers, and would therefore doubtless prove a formidable obstacle to my wooing of Flora. But love drove me on, as if I were an incredibly determined, much-whipped horse.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am—’
‘I know who you are, young man.’ This might not be good for me, if she knew what I had done to her brothers. ‘You are Mr Pip Bin, inventor of the Bin.’
Phew. That was the context she knew me in.
‘And murderer of my brothers.’
Oh. And that one.
‘Luckily for you, I hated them. Oh, we got on fine while children but then as we grew and I became a woman they said I was a weakling and a coward who clearly hadn’t tried hard enough, otherwise I’d have become a man like them.’1
She sniffed a little, and did I see a memory of pain in her eyes? Certainly they glistened with something, possibly tears – or maybe she’d got some make-up stuck in them, as often happens to women. I chose to believe it was a painful memory and that this woman had emotions her brothers lacked; and that therefore if I showed my love was pure and honest and true I might have a chance.
‘Miss Hardthrasher, may I walk and talk with your charge?’
‘No!’ Her voice tolled like feminine thunder. ‘For she is no slattern or morally slack trollop!’
‘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.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH
Of love and letters
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.