A Formby Christmas

8

A Formby Christmas

    That Christmas was to be remembered by the Joe Formby household as the one spent trying to cheer Victoria up. It started, more or less, with Cousin John Formby’s decision not to have Victoria rejoin her immediate family for the festive season. Though, true, she was pretty much in the sulks already after the discovery that she had missed out on meeting the party from the castle on market day and that Cousin Julia had not issued a warm invitation to the young gentlemen to call.

    Lash’s was to be the first attempt to cheer Victoria up.

    “Holly?” echoed Julia in a hollow voice.

    “It is ostensibly the season to be jolly. And since Miss Finch is down with a bad cold and Mr Finch has told the children they may start their holiday, I’ve told Ned we’ll pick it today.”

    Julia cleared her throat. “Which Mr Finch, Lash, dear?”

     “I’m not that silly!” replied Lash with a laugh. “Old Mr Finch. Not the brother!”

    “I have heard him refer to the daf—uh, Miss Finch’s brother as ‘ole Mr Finch’ before this.”

    “Yes, but don’t worry, Julia, I made quite sure it was the father.”

    “That settles that. Now you have only to persuade Victoria that gathering holly is fun.”

    “Mm.”

    Victoria was sitting in the parlour sulking, having opened Pride and Prejudice, found that it said: “Mr Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness—” and closed it again. She looked at Lash listlessly and said: “It does not really appeal, Cousin Lash.”

    Lash was sorry for the girl, but really—! “Victoria, dear, perhaps you don’t realise it, but all this sulking and sitting around is beginning to upset Julia. Now, run and get your bonnet. I have a warm cloak you can wear.”

    Victoria went very red and exited silently to fetch her bonnet.

    Listlessly she let Cousin Lash assist her into an old brown cloak, and mounted into the cart that belonged to the shop behind Old Horse. Perforce into the back, with Ned, Dog Tuesday and a great pile of baskets, since there was only room for one next Cousin Trottie True on the seat, and Cousin Lash was an older woman.

    “Is this right?” she asked dully as the cart drew up.

    “Of course!” beamed Trottie True. “Oh—I see what you mean, my dear. We are combining the holly gathering with some of my usual little visits.”—Victoria’s mouth tightened. So far she had successfully resisted Trottie True’s well-meaning attempts to get her to come on the charitable visits to what the rest of the family referred to as her “odd-bodies”.—“This is Mr and Mrs Pullen’s house. He is a cripple, poor man—”

    Shuddering, Victoria elected to remain in the cart. As Mr and Mrs Pullen had a cat, she was then deputed to look after Dog Tuesday. Dully she grasped his lead.

    The next stop was at Mr and Miss Jepson’s house—brother and sister. Not very elderly, no, but Miss Jepson was blind— Victoria remained in the cart, ignoring Ned’s kind explanation that there was nothing to see, her eyes didn’t look funny.

    Old Mr Vickers and his daughter. They were not indigent, but lonely. Er, she was a little twisted, but— Victoria remained in the cart.

    Old Mr Armour (deaf but sprightly), Mrs Hettie Armour (daughter-in-law, gammy leg), and Miss— “Go in! Give me the lead!” said Victoria impatiently.

    “Victoria, you must be cold,” ventured Lash.

    “Just go in, Cousin,” said Victoria grimly.

    “Miss Armour, she makes gingerbread men,” offered Ned.

    At that moment Miss Armour herself shot out of the cottage, thrilled to see them and to meet Trottie True’s cousin, and would not hear of her staying out in the cart! And of course the little dog must come in! Grimly Victoria descended from the cart and went in. It was true about the gingerbread men. And the cottage was, indeed, very warm.

    “They are not indigent at all!” she said crossly as the cart set off again. “Why are you wasting your time on them, Trottie True?”

    Trottie True’s sweet heart-shaped face was very red. “They are my friends, Victoria.”

    “They’re cottagers!” she snapped.

    “Yes,” said Trottie True tightly.

    “Miss Armour always gives us gingerbread men, at Christmas,” put in Ned uncertainly.

    Victoria said nothing, hunching into her cloak.

    “Well, here we are,” said Lash without hope as the cart drew up before Mrs Bodger’s cottage. Its front garden featured one large holly bush and a quantity of dead grass.

    “Huzza!” cried Ned. “Holly! Come on, Victoria! You gotta like holly!”

    Lash drew a deep breath. “Yes,” she said grimly. “You do gotta like holly, Victoria, and put it like this: if you do not instantly get down and help pick, you may walk home.”

    Victoria’s lower lip wobbled and her face turned very red, but she got down and silently stood by Ned’s elbow as he began enthusiastically to cut large chunks of holly—most of which, as the bush was rather tall and he was rather short, bore no berries.

    “Do not say I was being too hard on her,” Lash ordered her eldest niece grimly.

    “No, actually I was about to congratulate you, Aunty Lash,” admitted Trottie True.

    Lash smiled, and patted her hand. “Mm. Well, come on, I dare say Mrs Bodger—if she remembers what a stick is—may have a stick, or even a broom that will help us haul down the branches which actually have berries on them.”

    And they got down, gathered up the basket of treats for Mrs Bodger, and went up the little path to the door, where the elderly dame was now standing beaming and nodding. She genuinely remembered Trottie True and she pretended to remember Lash, better than Lash had expected. And she did have a broom, so vast amounts of berried holly were cut, and a cup of tea was drunk, everybody ignoring the expression on Victoria’s face as she tasted it. And, after considerable obscure reminiscence from Mrs Bodger, who did not remember yesterday very clearly but had a perfect recollection of the events and personalities of forty years back, they all clambered back onto the cart.

   “Is it Mr Pink next?” asked Ned eagerly.

    It was Mr Pink, and the cart headed back up the hill.

    Ned had best not come in, as Mr Pink had had a bad sore throat the last time Trottie True visited him, and that looked like Dr Kent’s trap, outside the door. Ned wailed in disappointment but was ordered to stay in the cart with Dog Tuesday and Victoria, and Lash and Trottie True went in.

    “Mr Pink, he makes ships in bottles!” revealed Ned aggrievedly.

    “Oh. I dare say you may see him another time.”

    Ned plunged into a description of Mr Pink’s ships in bottles, to which Victoria did not listen, and was still in the midst of it when the door of the little house opened and a burly man came out, removing his hat to reveal thick chestnut curls as he perceived Victoria on the cart.

    “Good afternoon. Miss Victoria Formby, is it? Your cousins said I must introduce myself: Dr Kent, at your service.”

    “Good afternoon, Dr Kent,” replied Victoria in a tiny voice.

    Dr Kent’s eyes twinkled a little but he just said amiably: “Hullo, sonny. You can go in; Mr Pink’s throat is better, I wasn’t calling for that.”

    “Just a minute, Ned,” said Victoria reluctantly as the little boy prepared to scramble down. “May I ask the purpose of your visit, sir?”

    “Nothing medical, Miss Victoria! I’m in search of a ship in a bottle!” he said cheerfully.

    “See?” cried Ned. “Come on, Dog Tuesday!” And they rushed inside.

    “Don’t you wish to see the ships in bottles?” asked the burly doctor mildly.

    “Not particularly, thank you,” replied Victoria tightly.

    “In that case— Oh, there you are,” he said, as a young man emerged from the house carrying a large parcel. “I was about to say that in that case, I’ll just collect up my nephew and go, but perhaps you would care for an introduction, Miss Formby?”

    “I would, Uncle Will!” said the young man, coming up to the cart and smiling eagerly at Victoria.

    “My nephew, Jimmy Rossiter,” said the doctor. “This is Miss Victoria Formby, Jimmy.”

    Mr Jimmy Rossiter was a personable young man, with thick chestnut curls like his uncle’s, and at almost any other time Victoria would have been quite pleased to meet him, though as his uncle was but a small-town doctor, it was unlikely he was a gentleman. But in a cart, and dressed in this appalling old brown thing? “How do you do?” she said faintly.

    “Delighted, Miss Formby!” beamed Mr Rossiter, bowing. “Should you care to go in and see the old man’s ships in bottles? They’re quite intriguing, you know!”

    “Not interested in ships in bottles, Jimmy, old man,” said his uncle, taking his arm. “Come on, I have to get on, got old Mrs Patch and Polly to see yet, y’know.”

    “We’re doing Uncle Will’s rounds, Miss Formby,” explained Mr Rossiter with a pleasant smile. “Quite an edifying experience, take it for all in all.”

    Victoria had no idea what he meant by this last, and suspected, what with the way he was smiling at her and the amused expression on his uncle’s face, that he was mocking her. “Pray do not let me detain you, sirs,” she responded colourlessly.

    Dr Kent nodded, and mounted into his trap without further ado. His nephew bowed and followed him, perforce. As they drove off he waved. Victoria was almost sure this was a mocking gesture, but lifted a hand in stiff response.

    “What have I done?” asked Jimmy Rossiter plaintively as they headed on up the street.

    “My guess would be, laid eyes on Miss Victoria F. in a thing what she was wearing to pick holly,” replied Dr Kent with a grin.

    “Oh! Good grief! Uh—the sister seemed a pleasant young woman,” he offered.

    “Cousin, I think. Well, yes: she is.”

    Mr Rossiter looked sideways at him. “And the aunt is a dashed fine figure of a woman!”

    “You’re as bad as your mother,” replied his uncle heavily.

    At this young Mr Rossiter collapsed in an agonising fit of the sniggers. Though recovering to ask: “Well, who are they?”

    “Joe Formby is our local printer and bookbinder, has a snug little shop just off the High Street. Think Miss Victoria’s the daughter of his rich cousin that’s gone up in the world—owns a biggish property out near Lasset Place.”

    Mr Rossiter whistled. “No wonder she was peeved at being found upon a cart in an old brown thing!”

    “Quite.”

    “Mamma would be very happy to have ’em to dinner, Uncle Will.”

    “Just drop it, Jimmy.”

    “No—seriously!”

    “Eh? Oh. Er—well, if your mother wants to give a dinner party, I dare say I could scrape up a few names.”

    “Good,” said Mr Rossiter happily.

    Dr Kent swallowed a sigh, but did not attempt to talk him out of the idea.

    “Lash,” said Julia with a groan, discovering that Victoria was in bed sulking, “what in God’s name happened this afternoon?”

    Lash shrugged. “Holly. –No, well, Trottie True had her usual rounds to do. I think we got the silly girl inside once. No: twice, she did come into Mrs Bodger’s, to escape the holly.”

    Julia sighed. “I suppose that’s enough to make a fine young lady take to her bed.”

    “Not entirely. The seal was set on the afternoon by meeting Dr Kent’s nephew in glorious person. Well, very good-looking, same thick curls as the uncle’s, big blue eyes, lovely smile, dare say not a day over twenty-three?” Julia was goggling at her. “Julia, wake up! The girl was sitting in the cart, wearing that hideous old brown cloak!”

    Julia gulped. “Oh, help.”

    “I rather think that that was her feeling, too.”

    “Um, is this nephew staying with Dr Kent?”

    “He and his mother are both staying with Dr Kent, the mother is the doctor’s sister, and that’s all I know, except that he didn’t seem interested in Trottie True. Dr Kent wasn’t interested in her, either, but then I think we’d already concluded that?”

    “No!” snapped Trottie True’s mother.

    “Oh,” said Lash, taken aback. “Um, well, I’m sorry, but that was the way it struck me.”

    “Yes,” said Julia with an effort. “Oh, well. Do you want to take Victoria up some supper?”

    “I don’t mind, but are we supposed to be pandering to her sulks, Julia?”

    “The poor girl is very hurt by her family’s refusal to have her come home for Christmas: hasn’t that occurred to anyone?” retorted Julia grimly.

    Lash bit her lip, did not say that she had thought that was Cousin John’s intention, and asked humbly what Julia thought she might do to help mend the situation.

    Julia thought desperately, but could come up with nothing. Without hope she urged her sister-in-law to think. After considerable brow-wrinkling, Lash recalled that Mrs Mountjoy had said something about carollers. Yes, now that Julia mentioned it, she sort of thought it might be at St. Jude’s. Julia sighed, and ordered her to check with Mrs Mountjoy tomorrow, not to encourage Bob Mountjoy if he was there, and not to pop in without her bonnet. Amiably Lash agreed to all of it. Julia swallowed another sigh: she might agree, but would she remember? And went off without hope to the kitchen where, sure enough, the great-aunties and Cookie all burst out with an account of Victoria’s sulks.

    Carols at St. Jude’s appeared to be an acceptably ladylike Christmas thing to attend. At all events Victoria seemed quite keen to go. Lash had not expected there would be any volunteers, in especial as the carollers would be largely cronies of Ma Mountjoy’s and Lady Cox’s, but both Mouse and Captain Cutlass agreed to come with them. Mouse was merely neat and respectable in her best grey outfit, but Captain Cutlass was glorious in borrowed plumage. She was very fed up with Virgil and extremely fed up with the old great-aunties’ insistence on the young gentlemen theme, so she had volunteered to come as a way of getting out of the house, and had let Victoria put her into her own violet pelisse and matching silk hat for the expedition. The effect was quite startling: the pale skin, peachy cheeks and golden curls glowed from under the wide-brimmed hat. Her sister and aunt both tactfully refrained from comment on the huge improvement in their relative’s appearance, and likewise from speculation on the reason for this act of extraordinary generosity on Victoria’s part. Not to mention on the rich-looking brown fur tippet and muff that accompanied Victoria’s own russet, braided outfit.

    St Jude’s was not a large church, and it was fairly full of the more fashionable set of Waddington-on-Sea. The Formby party was duly stunned by being met at the door by a black-clad verger who handed out programmes and murmured a reminder that the performance should not be applauded, within the sacred edifice. They tottered into a pew near the back.

    … “Some of the carols were pretty: the ones where the little choir boys sang by themselves, without all those fashionable hags and their feeble-looking male belongings,” reported Lash.

    Julia had followed her up to her room and was blatantly interrogating her as she put her outer garments away. “Never mind that. Whom did you speak to?”

    Lash sighed. “Anyone who deigned to buttonhole us. Well—Dr Kent and his sister and nephew. The nephew couldn’t take his eyes off Captain Cutlass in borrowed plumage, I’m afraid, and although I wouldn’t say that Victoria wants him for herself, she didn’t like that. The sister seems an entirely ladylike woman, and I have Victoria’s word for it.”

    “I suppose that’s a plus,” she said dully.

    “Mm. She threatened a dinner. No date was set, but it was almost definite.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “These stupid shoes have been pinching me all afternoon.”

    Julia watched listlessly as she removed the shoes. “Did anyone else speak to you?”

    Lash straightened. “Bob Mountjoy, stunned by Captain Cutlass in that violet outfit. Oh, this will amuse you: the innocent fellow suggested that Ma M. could give us a ride home in the carriage!”

    “Don’t even bother to tell me her excuse,” she sighed.

    “I shan’t,” agreed her sister-in-law drily. “And Lady Cox sailed up and congratulated us through the lorgnette on presenting a most creditable appearance.”

    “Not through the lorgnette,” said Julia weakly.

    “It felt like it,” returned Lash with a sigh.

    “Yes. Um, was young Jonathon Cox there?”

    “Mm. But as he unashamedly goggled at Captain Cutlass until his mother dragged him off forcibly, I don’t think he made a very favourable impression on Victoria. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that Ma Cox will never let one of your girls have him.”

    “Nor will I!” she snapped.

    “That’s good: he’s by far too dim for them,” said Lash peaceably. “The frightful Reverend Skellett came and condescended to us, once he’d made sure that that really was the Cox lorgnette speaking to us. Er—Mouse glared horribly at him and Dr Kent spotted her doing it.”

    “Does it matter?” said Julia heavily.

    “Well, not if you don’t mind the story of Skellett’s cozening that fruit-cake of yours out of poor old Miss Watchett being spread all over the town. Dr Kent has a large practice.”

    “You mean Mouse told him the sordid details? Well, good for her!”

    Lash swallowed. “Mm.”

    “What is it?”

    “Um—the girls didn’t notice. And of course he must be twice her age. Um, I thought Dr Kent seemed really struck by Mouse, actually, Julia. But I have to say it, I don’t think she noticed he was alive.”

    “She doesn’t need to notice a widower who is twice her age, Lash!” said Mouse’s mother irritably.

    “He’d be a likelier bet than Lady Stamforth’s dratted brother,” replied Lash glumly.

    “Yes, well, Mr Baldaya has neither called nor sent a note. She will just have to get over it,” said Julia grimly. “That was all, was it?”

    “Yes. Oh, Skellett said something about sung Evensong.”

    “Eh?”

    She shrugged. “I am merely the messenger. Sung Evensong, on Sundays.”

    “It would be. Did he assume you might like to go?”

    “That or he’s after another of your fruit-cakes, Julia,” replied Lash drily.

    Julia snorted richly. “He can whistle for ’em!”

    Little Joe’s was the next attempt—misguided attempt, yes—to cheer Victoria up.

    “Waits?” she said listlessly. “Oh, so they come here?”

    He swallowed. “Uh—no—well, yes, of course! Uh, no, I mean, I am a wait, Victoria.”

    Victoria stared blankly.

    Feebly he urged the jolliness of walking round the town together, everyone well muffled up and in high spirits, singing or playing an instrument with the group, the mince pies, hot chestnuts and warming dri—

    “Standing in the street, Cousin?” she said in tones of unalloyed horror.

    “Yuh— Uh—well, of course! That’s what waits are!”

    “I could not possibly contemplate it,” said Victoria faintly.

    Little Joe retired to mop his brow in the dining-parlour, where Lash was making wreaths and garlands from Ned’s excess holly. “It’s the jolliest group imaginable!” he said, ruffling his thick brown curls.

    “I know. I don’t think she wants to be jolly.”

    “But once she got out into a frosty evening with a glass of Mrs Grimes’s punch inside— Oh, forget it,” he said dully. “I tried.”

    “Yes. Have a wreath of holly for the door of the shop, Little Joe.”

    “Oh—good idea,” he said, brightening. “You’ve got plenty there, what about one for the door of Old Horse’s stable?”

    “Why not? Take your pick.”

    Happily Little Joe selected another wreath.

    Great-Aunty Jicksy was next. Mixing the Christmas mince for the mince pies: her own special receet.

    “Stupid idea in the first place,” she reported sourly to Cookie, Julia, and Bouncer.

    “You said it,” agreed her peer stolidly.

    Even Julia didn’t have the strength to tell Aunty Bouncer that that was a little hard.

    “It’s a very old English custom,” said Mouse without hope. “We always sacrifice just a few oranges at this time of year for pomander ball—”

    No. How absurd. And Victoria did not care for the smell of cloves, they were too strong.

    “Told her that they keep forever, and shoo the mice and moths away, did you?” said Captain Cutlass sardonically to the wan report.

    “No, I didn’t manage to get the words out,” admitted Mouse dully.

    A joint effort on Victoria’s behalf from Niners and Miss Henderson followed, but as anyone but the two ladies who offered it might have expected, the result was fairly disastrous.

    “She went?” croaked Julia on her return from the shops. “Lash, couldn’t you have stopped her? Think of the mood she’ll be in when she gets back!”

    “Um, possibly Miss Aitch will let them nibble as they make them,” said Lash in a very weak voice indeed.

    Julia did not even bother to snort, she just withered her with a look.

    Sure enough, on Niners’s reporting with satisfaction that they had made up five batches of Miss Henderson’s little toffee and nut balls, two dozen to each batch, Victoria shouted: “She wouldn’t even let us TASTE! And I am going to my ROOM!” And rushed out in a storm of tears.

    Mrs Mountjoy was next. Not entirely a charitable effort—no, as the family recognised. Lash was the older lady at home, so the matter was referred to her. She could only agree with Victoria that it did sound unexceptionable, yes. And if she really wished to spend the afternoon with— Very well, then; of course, dear.

    She tottered into the kitchen and croaked: “Cookie, dear, even if the sun be not over the yardarm, could I have a spoonful from the bottle?”

    “Hah, hah,” replied Mrs Dove calmly. “What she want?”

    “Victoria. For Bob, one can only assume.”

    “’Er and ’er Pa’s money,” concluded Cookie with no difficulty whatsoever.

    The treat was a drive out with Mrs Mountjoy to see “poor dear Cousin Woffington.” The Formbys and Cookie were aware that Cousin Woffington was not poor, and was certainly not dear. They waited in gleeful anticipation. Though Aunty Jicksy did point out fairly that if the girl came back a-bawling, Lash would only have herself to blame.

    “Whuh-what’s that?” croaked Lash, dropping her mending, as Victoria staggered into the front parlour with it.

    Victoria smirked. “A little gift from Mr Woffington.”

    “Little! And for whom?”

    Victoria set the box on a small table, panting. “I do so wish you had a footman, dear Cousin Lash, it would be so much more comfortable!”

    “Didn’t Bob M. help you?” replied Lash drily.

    “Of course, as far as the door, but he could not come in, he had to assist his Mamma.”

    “What’s in it? A camel, perchance?” said Lash feebly.

    “Pray do not be absurd. They are just some small gifts for the family.”

    Uh—what lies had Ma Mountjoy been telling the old creature? “Yours or ours, Victoria?”

    “Oh, yours, of course, dear Cousin Lash: Mr Woffington could not but be aware that my family is scarce in need of his thoughtful gifts.”

    For some reason or another Lash had gone very red. “Um—may I look?”

    “Of course.”

    Limply Lash came and peered into the box. Old Mr Woffington had sent a box of dried figs—excellent ones, true, though they already had several boxes in the kitchen; a jar of what was possibly some sort of potted meat and which Lash was in no doubt at all Cookie would consign to the rubbish rather than risk poisoning the family; a lace-edged handkerchief which Victoria explained was for dear Cousin Julia—Lash could only nod dazedly, the lace was probably worth Joe’s income for the quarter; a quizzing-glass which had used to be his own and which Little Joe might eligibly carry when he was in evening dress—Lash was unable to speak; assorted ells of ribbon, all neatly rolled and smelling strongly of camphor, so they must have been his late wife’s or even his late mother’s—for the girls, quite; a similarly scented small grey muff, no prizes for guessing who would claim that, even though she had two muffs with her and who knew how many more at home; a snuff-box, just a plain pewter one, and the snuff to go with it, for Cousin Joe—his sister smiled limply, silently praying he wouldn’t laugh; and a small black figurine in a rubbed red and white silk suit: some sort of black Harlequin? For Ned.

    “That was very kind of him, Victoria, but, um, Ned is past the age of playing with dolls—though we shan’t tell the old gentleman that, of course!”

    “No, no!” she said with a superior laugh. “Watch!” She produced a small key, inserted it and wound it. The figure then jerkily clapped its hands—well, not quite, the hands did not meet. Never mind, Ned would probably be thrilled anyway.

    “They won’t let me go in there, Aunty Julia,” complained Ned as Julia, having cautiously reconnoitred the dining-parlour, tottered down to the kitchen.

    “No. Secrets.”

    “Well, at least she’s ’appy,” said Mrs Dove tolerantly. “Did it work, though?”

    “Manifestly it worked, Cookie!”

    She sniffed slightly. “Not that.”

    “Bob M.,” explained Aunty Bouncer.

    In the relief of finding Victoria actually happy and busy, Julia had overlooked that. “Oh! Oh, well, who cares?” she admitted, laughing.

    After that, for any reasonable person it would have been all plain sailing. But then, the Victoria Formbys of the world were not, as Little Joe pointed out wryly, reasonable.

    “We always take our little boxes round on the twenty-third, Victoria,” repeated Julia without hope.

    Apparently this was beyond the pale, and Boxing Day was—

    “Look,” said Mrs Peters forcefully: “she hated going the rounds with Trottie True and Lash, not to mention the holly, what makes yer imagine she’s a-gonna like taking yer boxes round whatever day it is?”

    “But they aren’t exactly the same people— No, you’re right, Aunty Bouncer,” said Julia with a sigh.

    Lash was sitting at the kitchen table helping to finish off the boxes. “I did tell her we’d have a hire carriage.”

    “Did you, Lash?” said her sister-in-law dully.

    “Yes. But it didn’t make much difference, because I’d made the mistake of trying to explain that even people who live in a simple cottage might like the pleasure of deciding whether to open their presents on Christmas Eve at the stroke of midnight, on Christmas morning itself, or even on Boxing Day.”

    “That woulda done it,” noted Mrs Huggins sourly.

    “Exact.” Lash cleared her throat nervously. “Um, has anybody told Victoria just whom we’re expecting for Christmas dinner?”

    “No,” said Cookie quickly.

    “Are you daft?” inquired Mrs Huggins.

    “There y’are,” agreed Mrs Peters.

    There was a short pause.

    “Trottie True may have,” said Julia very weakly indeed.

    By tacit consent they left it at that.

    The little boxes were ready, the hire carriage was waiting with one, Jem Sprott, on the box, and Julia, Lash, Mouse and Captain Cutlass were just putting on their bonnets when the front door burst open and Joe appeared, grinning. “Where is she?”

    “Who, Joe?” croaked his wife.

    “Little Madam, who else?”

    “In our room. Sulking,” admitted Captain Cutlass.

    Grinning, Joe made for the stairs.

    Miss Victoria was discovered reclining on the big bed with all the quilts over her, eating sweetmeats. She dropped the one that was on the way to her mouth and gaped at her father’s cousin.

    “I won’t ask where those came from,” said Joe Formby cheerfully, “but I will say, you’re not in this house to upset my wife and sister and drive ’em distracted wondering what to do with you. What you are here for is to see how normal folks spend Christmas, so you can pop into your bonnet and cloak, or be put into ’em bodily!”

    “It’s only the twenty-third,” said Victoria very faintly indeed.

    “Right, and we’ve got Christmas Eve to get through yet, not to mention Christmas Day itself, so stir yer stumps!”

    “Yes. Of course, Cousin Joe,” she faltered. “If—if you wish it.”

    “Two minutes,” said Joe jovially, going out.

    Numbly Victoria scrambled into her outer garments.

    It could not have been said that she participated joyfully in the subsequent distribution of little boxes, but she was certainly quite gracious about it, even managing to smile palely when old Mrs Bodger, identifying her unerringly as “Our Minnie’s little Mary” gave her a kiss on the cheek.

    “Why have we stopped here?” she said faintly as the carriage halted at the very end of The Walk.

    “Mr Rattle,” explained Captain Cutlass. “If you want him to accept that rug, Ma, you’d best come and give it him yourself, because I don’t think he’ll accept it from me or Mouse.”

    “Cousin Julia, you cannot possibly walk along the beach!” gasped Victoria.

    “I’ve been walking on this beach all my life, summer and winter,” replied Julia mildly as Captain Cutlass got down with the large, bulky parcel she had been hugging throughout the trip. “Pop out, Mousekin, and then you can help me down.”

    Smiling, Mouse got out and assisted her mother to descend with a little box.

    “May I not come?” asked Lash plaintively.

    “Come, by all means: he thinks you’re a fine figure of a woman,” admitted Captain Cutlass, grinning at her.

    Eagerly Lash got down.

    As Trottie True had not come, being very busy at the shop, and Niners was not due to be let out by Miss Aitch until the morrow, that left Miss Victoria Formby alone in a hire carriage at the end of The Walk on a blowy grey December day.

    After the usual disclaimers, which all present understood were pretty much a form, Mr Rattle unwrapped his rug, declared they shouldn’t of but it was a good warm un, thanked them kindly and then sat down before his brazier and swathed himself in it as an illustration of how good it was. Mouse then gave him his little box, with the smiling advice that he could open it when he liked. Mr Rattle decided he might open it on Christmas Day. At which Captain Cutlass pointed out that its contents were for him and he wasn’t to give anything to the Bodgers.

    “In any case we’ve got a little box for Bob and Mrs Bob and the children,” said Lash gaily.

    “Dessay. Yer know what’ll ’appen, don’t yer? She’ll take it, and then be’ind yer back she’ll tell folks it ain’t good enough.”

    “Whatever it is?” replied Lash, raising her eyebrows at him, but smiling, still.

    “That’s right, aye. Could be a silk purse with a gold guinea in it, she’d say the same thing.”

    Lash laughed.  “Never mind, Mr Rattle, it’s the thought that counts!”

    “Ah,” he agreed, looking her thoughtfully up and down. “Yer not wrong there, Mrs Yates, deary. ’Ow’s that boy of yours?”

    Lash explained that Ned was fine, but had been sent off to Micky Trickett’s house because of his inability to keep his fingers out of other people’s little boxes. This evidently struck a chord with Mr Rattle, for he laughed himself nigh into an apoplexy. Then suddenly producing a pouch of baccy and explaining that Mr Loowis Ainsley had given it him.

    “But you don’t even know him!” cried Captain Cutlass, very flushed.

    “Yer wrong there, Cap’n Cutlass, deary. Come along the beach—when was it?” he asked himself. “A week back? And got talking. So I told ’im, no need to pay them prices they’ll charge yer down the market for a few oysters. And I got ’im a few dozen fat uns.”

    “Oysters?” said Captain Cutlass angrily. “He don’t need you to get him oysters, he is staying at the castle!”

    “Was. Gorn orf to ’is brother’s ’ouse for Christmas. Anyroad, they weren’t for ’im: they were for the sailors on the yacht,” replied Mr Rattle calmly.

    Captain Cutlass was silent, scowling.

    “Ah. So next day, ’e turns up with this baccy pouch, see? As a thank-you,” he said smugly. “–Come round from Cowes, ’e did,” he informed the company. “Not the first time ’e’s sailed in the Channel, mind. Ah, and e’s been orf Cape Finisterre!”

    “Cape Finisterre?” said Mouse kindly, since Captain Cutlass did not speak. “Like the Commander’s yacht, Finisterre?”

    “Aye, that’s it! See, it’s a real place,” said Mr Rattle complacently.

    “Yes, I know,” she agreed, smiling at the old sailor.

    “Crossed the Channel I dunnamany times, and never cast up ’is accounts onct in the ruddy Bay o’ Biscay!” concluded Mr Rattle on a triumphant note.

    “Yes: he commended a frigate, I think,” said Captain Cutlass faintly.

    “Eh? Not the Commander! Mr Ainsley!”

    “Oh.” She took a deep breath. “Having an iron stomach is a mere accident of nature.”

    “Makes you a good sailor, too,” replied the old man pleasedly, grinning a gap-toothed grin as Lash collapsed in giggles, gasping: “He’s got you there, Captain Cutlass!”

    “Ah,” he agreed. “Fine figure of a woman,” he suddenly said.

    “Yes, well,” said Julia somewhat feebly, “I think we had best get on, we still have a pile of boxes to deliver.”

    Captain Cutlass was silent as the carriage went on its way, but her mother, aunt and sister did not remark upon it—and Victoria of course, did not notice.

    “Now,” said Julia, as they neared the High Street at last, “that only leaves Mr Hartshorne and Miss Watchett, so we’d better collect Trottie True.”

    “If she does succeed in forcing another fruit-cake on Miss Watchett, Ma,” warned Mouse, “ten to one she will only give it away to horrid Reverend Skellett again.”

    “What’s Hartshorne done?” asked Captain Cutlass on a sour note.

    “Nothing, silly one,” replied her mother calmly, “but he’ll be disappointed if I don’t bring her.”

    “Added to which she’s afraid that if she don’t, he may refuse to come to Christmas dinner!” said Lash with a smile.

    At the shop little boxes were distributed to the beaming Tom Kettle and Ronny Banks out in the bindery—the former a burly young man with a broad grin on a wide, vacuous face, and the latter a skinny lad with a shock of yellow hair—and a smiling Trottie True mounted into the carriage.

    “Miss Watchett first, I think,” said Julia.

    “Get it over with—yes,” agreed Captain Cutlass sardonically.

    “Miss Witch” would have been a better name for Miss Watchett. She was very bent, with a large hooked nose. She looked Victoria up and down with a sniff and a “Fine as fivepence!” Julia had not risked a fruit-cake this time, but her packet of mince pies was greeted with a grim: “Too fancy for me, and I ’ope yer didn’t waste no brandy on ’em.”

    “And there is a little box of tea, though I am not sure that it will be perfectly to your taste,” said Trottie True nicely.

    “Dessay it won’t, for I weren’t born with no silver spoon in me mouth,” she noted sourly.

    “Nor were we, Miss Watchett, and it’s the same tea as we have at home,” said Julia quickly.

    She sniffed, but allowed: “Well, if you say so, Mrs Julia.”

    “Shall I make a pot for you, so that you may try it?” offered Trottie True eagerly.

    “I’m not ’elpless, gal! Oh, go on then,” she said tiredly.

    The goggling Victoria followed Trottie True through to a small, spotless kitchen. “She is not grateful at all!” she hissed.

    “She does not care to accept charity. Oh, and I am afraid she will force us all to drink a cup.”

    “Afraid? Cousin Julia said it is her usual tea,” she said blankly.

    “Yes, but it is a gift for her, you see. But we cannot refuse, or her feelings would be hurt.”

    So they took tea with Miss Watchett. And, refusing grimly to let Trottie True make her fire up, for she was not helpless, Miss Watchett sent them firmly on their way, with the grudging promise that she would come to Christmas dinner, since it was Mrs Julia as was asking, but she didn’t need nothing fancy.

    “This is it,” said Mouse as the carriage drew up before a funny little house that looked as if it was tucked into a gap accidentally left by the two taller buildings on either side of it.

    “Yes—come on!” said Captain Cutlass on an eager note. “Don’t worry, Victoria,” she said, jumping down: “Mr Hartshorne is not a grumbler like Miss Watchett!”

    Perhaps he was not, but he was certainly lacking an arm! Victoria repressed a gasp. That apart, he was quite a vigorous-looking, burly fellow. He was very pleased to see them, for he had had a letter! This was very exciting, and the company sat down in order for Trottie True to read it to him. Rather naturally Victoria was expecting a half-literate affair from some person of Mr Hartshorne’s own social standing, which was that of, as he readily explained, Coxswain: he had lost the arm at sea—but such was not the case.

    “From my li’l Mr Middy,” he explained to Victoria. “Lieutenant-commander, he be now.”

    “That is the gentleman who was a midshipman when Mr Hartshorne sailed with Lord Nelson himself,” explained Trottie True.

    Mr Hartshorne agreeing and adjuring her to haul away, Trottie True duly read out:

My very dear Hartshorne,

    We are becalmed off S. America, so I take this opportunity to write, tho’ the Lord Himself only knows when this will reach you. Capt. Morrissey is headed for the South Seas by way of the Horn, so you may pray we all make it! The Admiralty have taken some notion into their heads that there must be a faster way to New South Wales than crossing the Indian Ocean, and seem to think that Morrissey be the man to find it, which I take leave to doubt. Fortunately he left the provisioning to me and so we are laden up with lime juice, plus pickled cabbage, like Capt. Cook, and may come off all right and tight, if only the fellows will take them. Coxswain Jakes reported to me only the other day that some of the rascals have developed a new tactic of holding the juice in their mouths for as much as a half-hour before they spit it out! Mad, of course: tasting the stuff that they cannot abide for that long a time before they get rid of it, just to feel they have scored a point over Jakes, myself, and the whole of the Royal Navy? So Jakes has devised a plan in revenge, to wit, striking the fellows a hearty buffet on the back as they take their portion. We have tried the tactic of mixing it with their rum ration but that nigh to resulted in mutiny, as you can imagine!

    Gunner Fairbrother asks to be remembered to you and is sure you will recall him, an I write “Peg Brown.” He is proving most reliable, able to turn his hand to anything. At the moment the hand is merely involved in carving some seashells into the resemblance of a set of sharks’ teeth which he then intends to string on a strip of leather and sell to some unwary flat as a genuine S. Seas cannibal necklace!

    Well, there is not much more to tell, dear fellow: as you know, life at sea is not thrilling in a flat calm! We had the scrambling nets over the side but our latitude is already too far southerly to make swimming a pleasure. We are to make port within the week—provided we get a wind, of course! And I shall take the opportunity to post this, then.

    Take care of yourself, and believe me,

Ever your sincere friend,

Lucas Henderson.

    Mr Hartshorne seemed to appreciate the letter very much, for he nodded his head a lot and chuckled in all the appropriate places. He then demanded to know the date on it, and Trottie True, wincing, revealed that it was over a year old!

    “Aye, aye: dessay there was no ship coming back direct to England that Mr Middy could of got it on, and so, y’see, ’e’ll of left it with our Consul,” said the knowledgeable Mr Hartshorne. “What being a gent, ’e might not of remembered to get it on the first vessel back, neither, not if ’e knowed it was only for me.”

    Captain Cutlass examined the superscription. “It says: ‘Mr G. Hartshorne, Esquire,’ here.”

    Mr Hartshorne went into a terrific sniggering fit, though then noting: “Didn’t work, though, did it? Never mind, it come! Lessee… Well, yes, ’e’ll of got to New South Wales be now, that is, if them South Seas cannibals ain’t ate ’im and Captain Morrissey the both. Might be on ’is way back, with a bit o’ luck.”

    “I should think he must be, Mr Hartshorne,” agreed Trottie True.

    “Six months, it do take, Miss Trottie, and that’s if the wind be favourable.”

    “Yes, but they have had all of that. But mayhap Captain Morrissey will have been given another mission to carry out when they got there?”

    “Could of. Well, the Admiralty be daft, that’s for sure, could of taken anything into their ’eads. Never mind, let’s drink to ’is safe return, eh? I’ll fetch the rum!”

    Victoria looked at her cousins in horror.

    “Don’t panic!” said Lash with a laugh. “Rum ain’t fit for girls!”

    And so, indeed, it proved. Mr Hartshorne had the remains of a jug of porter which he had fetched earlier, so the girls were allowed that, while the old sailor solemnly poured himself, Julia and Lash tots of rum. And they all stood to drink the toast.

    “Commander ’Enderson! Gawd bless ’im and see ’im ’ome safe!”

    “Commander Henderson! God bless him and see him home safe!” they echoed, and sipped.

    “Could drink to the King, I s’pose,” said Mr Hartshorne, looking dubiously at his bottle.—Victoria reddened: it was surely the done thing to toast His Majesty first?—“No, won’t bother,” he decided: “waste of good rum. Let’s toast the Admiral! The Admiral, Gawd bless ’im!”

    Julia gave Victoria a warning look, and raised her glass. “Admiral Nelson, God bless him.” And, dutifully echoing her, they all sipped again.

    Joe collapsed in splutters.

    “The girls only had porter,” said Julia valiantly.

    “Don’t!” he howled, his eyes streaming.

    “Well,” she said when he was over the fit, “it gave Victoria something else to think about beside her imaginary woes. And Mouse seemed brighter, didn’t you think, Lash?”

    Lash hadn’t actually, no. “Well, not positively down in the dumps, no.”

    “We looked in on Polly Patch, of course—the leg is much better—and she said that Dr Kent had been in again,” she reported with great approval.

    “He is a doctor,” replied Joe mildly, not perceiving that his sister was trying to give him a warning look.

    “Joe! He’s paid innumerable visits and not asked Mrs Patch for a penny!”

    “Just as well, as she hasn’t got any. No, well, he’s a good fellow.”

    Julia nodded eagerly. “And not old!”

    Lash swallowed. “I honestly don’t think Mouse was impressed, Julia.”

    “Mouse?” asked Joe feebly.

    “Didn’t Julia say? He was very taken with Mouse when we saw him at that carolling thing, but she didn’t notice him.”

    Joe stared at his wife. “Thought he was twice her age?”

    “Yes,” said Julia heavily. “I suppose he’d really be more suitable for Trottie True.”

    “I get you!” Joe winked at his sister. “He’s a single gent with a decent practice, so he must be in want of a wife!” He broke down in sniggers.

    “Very funny,” said Julia with dignity, though her cheeks were very flushed.

    Lash smiled a little. “Well, you do have a houseful of girls.”

    Joe blew his nose heartily. “I’d have said Mouse already had a Bingley, though. Well, dunno if anyone actually put him off her or if he put himself off, but we haven’t had any calls from young gents in fancy pantaloons that are brothers of viscountesses, have we?”

    Lash looked at Julia’s face. “You’d better drop it, Joe.”

    Swallowing, Joe dropped it.

    Unlike their cousins from Blasted Oak House, the Joe Formbys did not attend church on Christmas Eve. Having had a houseful of children for so many years, they had developed the habit of going to bed at their usual time, and opening the presents on Christmas morning. Which Victoria, even though she enjoyed the excitement of the drive home from the village church after the service to a warm house, a hot drink, and the thrill of opening the presents, had to admit was sensible: little Roger and Joey were always so fractious after such a late night, even though Nurse saw to it that they went to bed immediately after their presents and slept for the rest of the morning.

    As any but Miss Victoria Formby might have guessed, the result of her cousins’ Christmas routine was that an overexcited Ned Yates rushed into their room in the middle of the night, screeching: “Captain Cutlass! Niners! Victoria! Get up, quick, it’s Christmas Day!”

    It was five o’clock on Christmas Day, as the clock in the front parlour revealed to the yawning, blinking family.—All except Great-Nunky Ben, who was capable of sleeping through any amount of screeching.—But Little Joe quickly lit the fire, and his father, though yawning horribly, hurried out to the kitchen to prepare his special Christmas coffee, and they then settled down to the presents. Of which the most exciting were those from Blasted Oak House, though the offerings from old Mr Woffington ran them a close second for some.

    “I think,” said Lash very weakly indeed as she unwrapped a camphorous grey muff, “that this is a mistake: someone has mislabelled this present.”

    “No, no, dearest Cousin Lash!” cried Victoria. “Of course it is for you!”

    Meanwhile, Ned was unwrapping his. “LOOK!” he shouted, winding the key.

    “I knew you’d like it,” said Victoria smugly, as the figure clapped soundlessly.

    “Look at the lace on this!” croaked Julia. “It’s far too good for a handkerchief.”

    “Exactly!” agreed Victoria. “See, you may use it on the bodice of a gown—so!” She laid it on Julia’s bosom. The family had to admit she was right: the lace would be just the thing for the bodice of a gown.

    The goose, with due ceremony, had been placed in the oven, the pudding was simmering, Great-Aunty Jicksy’s mince pies were laid out, Great-Aunty Bouncer’s special chestnut soup was bubbling, Captain Cutlass and Niners were retrieving various odd chairs from the kitchen and the bedrooms and placing them in the dining-room, Lash, Trottie True and Mouse were setting and decorating the table, and there came a thunderous knock at the door.

    “That’ll be the first of the guests,” noted Great-Aunty Jicksy.

    “What?” gasped Victoria. “But I am not even changed! And it is scarce noon: I thought we were not to sit down until two?”

    “They’re late, then,” said the old lady drily. “Go on, you lost the use of yer legs?”

    Limply Victoria tottered up the passage.

    To her relief, it was only the burly, one-armed Mr Hartshorne. “Merry Christmas, Miss Victoria!” he beamed.

    “Merry Christmas, Mr Hartshorne,” replied Victoria politely. “You have come to wish the family the compliments of the season, have you? How thoughtful.”

    “No—well, that as well, Miss. Come to dinner.”

    At this Joe shot out of the front parlour, urging the unfortunate fellow in. And perhaps Victoria could ask Julia for a jug of something warming? He repressed an urge to mop his brow as Victoria, smiling politely and with the phrase “after all, it is Christmas” positively emblazoned on her forehead, retreated to the kitchen.

    It was hard to say, really, he reflected at the end of the day, whether the sturdy Hartshorne had been the worst of it: because there were also Dr Adams, very, very vague but occasionally pulling himself together to the point of putting one right on the true meaning of the mistletoe bough—and fortunate it was that they had not been able to find any this year; Miss Pickles, the little elderly spinster to whom Julia went for drawing lessons, all smiles and endlessly repeated thanks for the delightful meal, having presented the Formby family en masse with a painting in oils of Number 10 New Short Street; the witch-like Miss Watchett, grimly refusing anything that even looked like a choice tidbid as “too good for me, Mrs Julia”; old Mr and Mrs Biddle from the shop, all happy smiles but failing to hide the opinion that Dr Adams was slightly touched; and of course Timothy Trickett and Micky, the latter merely gorging himself at Ned’s side but the former failing to hide his complete admiration for Joe’s sister.

    “It was not a disaster!” said Julia with a laugh as they crawled into bed after the merest sketch of a supper, which most of the family had been unable to touch.

    “Think Victoria thought so, silly little thing,” said Joe with a cracking yawn. “Well, John sent her so’s she could take us as she found us, and by God she’s found us!”

    “Mm. Poor things,” said Julia sleepily.

    “Eh? Who?”

    “Cousins John and Belinda Formby, of course!” she said, snuggling up. “Aren’t you glad we’re us?”

    Smiling, Joe agreed he was very glad they were they, and not his fortunate cousins.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/gentility.html