Bleak Expectations

by Mark Evans

  The morning of the wedding was the most glorious morning I had ever seen. Even though it was raining. And the pollutive smog of London was sitting thick upon the streets. And all I could hear was the sound of consumptive paupers coughing their last. But to me the rain was the softly falling dew of love, the smog was a shimmering mist of passion and the retching wretches were a heavenly choir singing of my besotted ardour.

  I barely remember anything leading up to the ceremony: all was just a blur of excited anticipation. I do recall the bachelors of London pelting me with horse-dung as Harry and I walked to the church, so envious were they of me marrying Britain’s hottest unmarried hottie, but in my joy their ordure assault seemed only a compliment; and soon I was standing in front of the altar, brushing manure from my coat and watching my beauteous bride come down the aisle towards me.

  Her father had refused to attend the service unless someone ‘made it worth his while’ – such a fine, sensible man of business! – and so Miss Hardthrasher gave Flora away, standing for the last time between us. The vicar commenced his marital work, and soon we were at the crucial moment, my heart fluttering like a happy butterfly.

  ‘Will you, Pip Put-that-in-the Bin, take this woman to be your wife?’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  ‘And will you, Flora Moribund Dies-Early, take this man to be your husband?’

  ‘I will,’ whispered Flora.

  ‘She will,’ echoed her ever-protective governess.

  ‘Then I now declare you’ – here it came – ‘husband’ – getting there, my bit at least was said and done – ‘and’ – the glorious conjunction was now said and done also – ‘wife.’ Yes! I was a married man! Married to an absolute belter! And with that came certain instant benefits. ‘You may kiss the bride.’

  I had been waiting for this moment for so long, and in a pure, honest, true way, and not in a sordid, physical, lustful way at all. I pursed my lips – I had been taking osculation lessons – and moved towards my glorious Flora, closing my eyes and leaning forwards.

  It was a rougher, more stubbly kiss than I had imagined and, on opening my eyes, I saw why.

  ‘All kisses must go via me,’ said Miss Hardthrasher. She smiled at me. I didn’t like it. She turned and went to bestow my kiss on Flora, but I had had enough and seized her by the arm.

  ‘No, Miss Hardthrasher. For though you be her governess, I be her husband. And I will kiss my wife.’

  So I did.

  Was anything ever more soft, sweet and delicious? No. Apart from maybe a really good profiterole. Truly that kiss was a taste of Heaven. When it was finished, I smiled at Flora, and she smiled back, her hand to her chest.

  ‘Oh, I feel quite, quite giddy,’ she said, and collapsed in a wifely heap at my husbandly feet.

  ‘Harrumble for Pip Bin and Flora, who has fainted!’ shouted Harry, and the whole congregation erupted into cheers and applause as I picked up my unconscious bride and carried her down the aisle and out of the church.

  Yet as I prepared to pass through the doors of the church and into glorious married life, I felt a shadow fall over me and, looking upwards to the choir loft and organ attic above, I saw a cloaked figure duck out of sight. The choirmaster or organist, I thought, but then I heard a laugh, echoing sinisterly, a familiar yet, as he had promised, new and improved ‘ha, ha, ha,’ and I knew it was no musical member of the church staff but the worst ex-guardian in the world, Mr Gently Benevolent, and I wondered what evil, happiness-ruining plan he had in store for me now.

  CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH

  Of married life and married . . . ?

  None, it turned out.

  At least at first.

  For our married life was blissful, joyous and super-duper-James-Fenimore-Cooper.1

  Flora and I rewarded Miss Hardthrasher for her support and diligence by sending her on a Church-sponsored tour of the bordellos of Europe where she could give full rein to her vast moral disapproval. I did not envy the bawdy ladies of the continent, but it gave Flora and me time together, time to get to know each other.

  We took long, unaccompanied walks arm in arm and chatted about every subject under the sun, two minds in perfect harmony.

  ‘Ah, what a glorious day,’ I remarked, as we stepped out one morning and, though every day was glorious merely by dint of Flora’s existence in it, this day was particularly so, the skies above us being blue and dotted with idyllically fluffy clouds, the trees around us being particularly lush and leaf-full and the flowers in the meadow we walked through being open and bright and petally.

  ‘Oh, but it is glorious, my dear Pippy.’ Flora had many new nickname variants of my true name; each time she used one my heart soared a little more. ‘Look at the pretty clouds in the sky. I do so like clouds!’

  ‘I too like them, dearest.’ In truth, I had no opinion about clouds, but if my beloved liked them then so did I.

  ‘You like what?’ my perfect Flora asked.

  ‘Clouds.’

  ‘Oh, what a silly thing to say, Pipling. Who could possibly like clouds?’

  ‘But you just said you did.’

  ‘Oh. Did I? I am sure I did not.’ Her brow furrowed in confused thought. ‘Or maybe I did. I do not know. For my brain is occupied with making me pretty, not clever. Oh, I fear I must be very vexing to you, dear Pipply-chops!’

  ‘No, of course not, my love.’ For such a creature could never vex me!

  Now she suddenly changed subjects. ‘I have had an idea! We should get a kitten! Two kittens! No, three. Oh, please say we might, Pipsy-wipsy!’

  ‘An excellent idea, my sweet.’ For any idea so gorgeous a girl had could not fail to be excellent, even if it were an idea such as ‘Let’s cut our legs off’ or ‘Why don’t we make Britain talk French?’ ‘Why, we shall get them this very day!’

  ‘Get what, Pippington-pipple?’ Again her brow furrowed, making a tiny wrinkle so adorable I wanted to fill it with cream, which I would then lick off.

  ‘Get kittens. Like you just suggested.’

  ‘Ooh, no, I cannot stand kittens. Why would I want kittens?’

  ‘Dear Flora—’ I began, but she cut me off.

  ‘Oh, I vex you so! Please, do not be vexed with me, my Pipsa-Poodle-Pansy! For am I not pretty?’

  Though I was loath to admit it, a tiny part of me had found her capricious conversational about-turns a little vexatious, but as she smiled at me and asked me to consider her prettiness such cross thoughts disappeared, like a street urchin threatened with a bath. ‘You are pretty, dearest. So very pretty.’

  ‘Then forgive me and kiss me, Pipsarama Pipply-poo!’

  I did forgive her, and I did kiss her.

  ‘Ooh, giddy again!’

  Then, just as in the church, she slumped unconsciously and adorably to the ground.

  Indeed, over those first weeks of marriage, every single time I kissed her she became giddy and collapsed. Initially I put it down to two things: her joyful girlish excitement at being married to me and my evidently incredible swoon-arousing ability as a kisser.

  Alas, it was neither of those.

  Though I really am an excellent kisser.

  As time passed, her fainty collapses began to be provoked by smaller and smaller incidents, any even mild excitement seeming to cause another turn: the sound of my key in the door as I returned home; the arrival of a meal; catching sight of herself in a mirror; a sudden breeze; the smell of baking bread; even breathing a little too deeply – all caused her to go giddy and collapse in a beautiful heap.

  It was becoming a worry, and after a trip to the British Museum when a tweeting bird startled her and she collapsed, taking the entirety of an incredibly rare and expensive vase collection with her, it was becoming costly. Though she did once faint in a music shop, her fall into a display of xylophones creating musical noises so tuneful that she received a spontaneous round of applause from the other customers.

  But it was not all impromptu xylophone sonatas. Mostly it w
as just collapsing on to the ground, which caused her great bruises and contusions, so I paid for a bed to be wheeled round after her just within fainting range. But, one day not long after, she swooned into the bed and could not get out again as she was so weak; and so she became bedridden.

  ‘Oh, my beloved Pipsington-poodle,’ she whispered weakly to me. ‘I am sorry I am so silly. So weak.’

  ‘You are not silly or weak, my love,’ I assured her, though I feared she was both. ‘We shall make you strong again. For I shall summon the finest doctors in the land!’

  I did exactly that. After long research of asking a couple of people in the street, I discovered that the greatest medical mind in Britain was a Dr Anthony Curesomebychance. Though his reputation preceded him – he sent ahead a summary of all his cases in a large box before he arrived – I insisted on establishing his credentials for myself before I let him near my feeble, extremely attractive wife, so when he arrived I poured him a sherry and asked him several piercing questions.

  ‘Doctor, where did you train?’

  ‘In Edinburgh. Where I learned absolutely everything there is to know of medicine in this day and age.’

  ‘A long process, I imagine.’ I marvelled at anyone being able to have such vast knowledge.

  ‘It’s about a fortnight. The first week is the medical knowledge, and the second is elocution lessons to learn the Edinburgh accent so vital to reassuring patients.’

  He did indeed possess a soft and rolling burr of a Scottish accent, soothing and calm.

  ‘So that is not your original voice?’

  ‘No. My native accent was far more high-pitched, nasal and, in a medical context, unnerving.’

  ‘And are you a good doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Doctor, you have convinced me of your excellence. I only hope you can aid my wife.’

  ‘I must examine her as soon as possible. There is no time to waste in cases such as this!’

  To that end, we quickly finished our sherry and hurried out for a very rapid gentlemen’s dinner lasting only nine courses, before returning home and sharing but a solitary bottle of port. After a brief eight-hour sleep, a visit to his barber and lunch at his club, he was ready to examine Flora.

  While he was in the room with her, I paced up and down outside, the legally required action for a man with a sick wife. I could hear soft murmurs from within, then footsteps coming towards the door and the doctor emerged. I stopped pacing and addressed him.

  ‘Well, Doctor?’

  ‘I have completed my examination and—’ He stopped, then took me by the arm and steered me towards a chair; this was unlikely to be a good sign. ‘Actually, perhaps you should sit down before I tell you.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell me what’s wrong with my wife.’ ‘Only if you sit down.’

  ‘I’ll sit down if you tell me what’s wrong with her.’

  ‘Very well.’ He looked me in the eyes, frowned sympathetically, and with the brogueiest Edinburgh brogue he could summon, he told me, ‘I’m afraid your wife is suffering from a condition called Non-specific Weakness.’

  I had promised the doctor I would sit down if he told me, but I had no choice in the matter as my legs now buckled beneath me with shock.

  Non-specific Weakness!

  It was like a death sentence. For this was a disease that had claimed so many lives over the years, a fearsome medical foe indeed.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Bin, but rest assured, this is a curable condition. Medical science has come on in leaps and bounds in recent years, like a very clever rabbit, and I tell you this . . .’ Here he paused, placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, looked gravely at me and said: ‘I will save your wife.’

  Never had I been so reassured by a combination of eye contact and accent! The doctor now turned away and spoke rapidly under his breath into his hand. ‘Terms and conditions apply, the health of your wife may go down as well as up.’

  ‘What’s that, Doctor?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I shall return tomorrow and the treatment shall begin.’

  And so it did. The doctor came every day for weeks, applying his knowledge, utilizing his skill and striving to defeat the dread disease. News of Flora’s condition quickly spread and soon we were inundated with gifts and cards from well-wishers. Pippa, Aunt Lily and Mr Parsimonious sent a card from the continent:

  Dear Flora Pip’s wife we haven’t yet met,

  Hope you get well soon!

  Lots of love,

  Your new sister-in-law, aunt-in-law and close-friend-of-the-family-in-law

  I showed it to her and it made her so, so happy.

  ‘Oh, how lovely they are to me despite not knowing me! Why it makes me quite faint—’

  Though only for a short while as she almost instantly collapsed again. There were also other, less welcome, cards:

  Dear Flora Pip Bin’s wife,

  Hope you get well never and therefore make him miserable. Ha, ha, ha!

  Yours spitefully,

  Mr Gently Benevolent

  I did not show poor Flora that card. Well, not twice anyway. Not after it upset her so much the first time.

  Miss Hardthrasher found out about her former charge’s plight and cut short her holiday casting aspersions at European harlots, returning to be Flora’s constant helper; and I too had a constant helper, indeed a Harry-shaped helper, for it was Harry. The nervous pacing and deep worrying I did made me too tense and tired to do anything for myself, and during those long, dreadful times, he was a great source of comfort to me, often literally as I would fall asleep mid-pace leaning on his plump frame. He made sure I ate and drank, and even bathed me, stripping me bare, helping me into the water then washing my entire body – and all without once looking me in the eye. Such a true friend!

  Alas, the treatment did not go well.

  In these more advanced medical days of the late nine-teenth century, the doctor could have used ether, opium or cocaine, possibly even a deliciously curative radium sandwich. But back then the palette of treatments was sparser and less refined.

  The doctor tried every weapon in his medical armoury: lotions, potions, tinctures, unguents, emollients, ointments, salves, balms, rubs, liniment, embrocation and creams both medical and dairy.

  None of it worked.

  He tried other methods: opening all the bedroom windows, praying, giving Flora a good shake, crossing his fingers and hoping it all got better, shouting at her to pull herself together, and that wonder-drug of wonder-drugs, beef. He even paid a man to stand next to her bed saying ‘beep’ every now and then.

  None of that worked either.

  Until one terrible night that will remain etched on my heart for ever, he emerged from Flora’s room, downhearted, downcast and un-upbeat. He looked at me with serious eyes and shook his head sadly. ‘Mr Bin, I am afraid that the disease is winning. Your wife is dying.’

  My legs buckled again – they’d done a lot of that in recent weeks – and only Harry quickly dropping on to all fours and turning himself into an impromptu stool prevented me from falling.

  ‘Is there nothing more you can do?’

  Oh, aching, breaking heart, let him say there is something!

  ‘There is only one remaining chance. But a very dangerous one that might kill her.’

  ‘If Flora is dying anyway, how dangerous can it be?’

  ‘True, true.’ He sighed deeply and began to pace up and down. ‘There is a new medicine in development, still only at the experimental stage, but one there are high hopes for. I have certain . . . contacts who might be able to get their hands on a sample.’

  ‘What is it, Doctor?’

  ‘Perhaps you have heard of a medical advance known as the tablet.’

  I had indeed heard of that most modern pharmacological innovation. ‘The new method of medicine delivery? Yes.’ The tiniest drop of hope dripped into my anxious heart. ‘Is that what will save Flora?’

  ‘No.’ The doctor p
ulled the plug from my heart and the hope drained away. ‘But have you heard of a similar invention called . . . the pill?’

  ‘I have,’ I said, for I had. ‘Will that save her?’ The hope tap began to drip again, yet once more the doctor swiftly yanked on the plug-chain.

  ‘No.’

  I quite wanted to hit the doctor at this time for his evasive questiony meanderings, but I did not. Instead, I shouted at him. ‘Just tell me what this miracle cure is!’

  ‘It is a mix of the two, known as pablets.’2 Even in the face of my shouty anger his voice remained medically calm and Scottishly soothing. ‘Very new, very experimental. And very expensive.’

  ‘Expense matters not!’ I would have spent a small fortune to save my Flora; and fortunately, thanks to the Bin, I had a large fortune. ‘Just get the damned thing and cure my very comely wife!’

  ‘I shall see what I can do.’ He gave me a reassuring nod, turned and headed off to track down the potential cure. I composed myself with a few deep breaths and two large brandies, then entered Flora’s room, where she lay guarded by Miss Hardthrasher.

  ‘Please, I wish to be alone with my wife,’ I told the stern, matronly figure.

  ‘Of course. But no hanky-panky!’

  I was in the mood for neither hanky nor panky, let alone both, and was about to snap thusly at her, but as she left, this harshest, most masculine of women placed a concerned hand on my arm and looked me in the eye with a nod of empathetic sympathy, and all malice towards her fled.

  I settled into the armchair next to poor Flora’s bed and took her sleeping hand. She stirred, and I soothed her back to somnolence by stroking her beautiful face. As I did, she sighed, ‘My lovely Pippy-nippy-woo,’ and I felt as if my heart might burst.

  I could not lose her!

  But I was really worried that I might.

  For the next hour I could hear frantic footsteps outside and hushed, urgent conversations, until eventually there came a ring on the downstairs doorbell – the pablets must have arrived. I stood, went to the bedroom window and, pulling the curtain back, looked down to see a figure handing over a parcel to the doctor. It was a cold, wet night and the deliverer had on a hooded cloak against the elements. As they turned to go, they looked up at the window in which I stood, and though I could not see their features properly, I saw the white teeth of a wide smile; whoever that person was, it seemed they wished me well.