More Changes For New Short Street

28

More Changes for New Short Street

    “So Mrs Lumley’s room’s took, eh?” said old Mr Biddle kindly to his young employer.

    “What?” replied Little Joe dully. “Oh—yes. Some damned Froggy ruffler pal of our Cousin Johnny’s that’s taken it into his head he’s going to be a working solicitor. I’ll give him six weeks at the outside filing old Crabtree’s everlasting papers for him before he’s out of it like a scalded cat.”

    “Uh-huh.” Mr Biddle scratched his chin slowly. “So, ’nother fancy young gent?”

    “Quite,” he said sourly.

    “Um, not another one of our little Mouse’s fancies, Mother and me was hoping?”

    Little Joe gave a short, sharp, unamused laugh. “Not this time, Mr Biddle, no! The word is he’s been dangling after Miss Benedict, and Lord Stamforth’s told him to show them he can stand on his own two feet and then he might consider letting him offer.”

    “Right. –Struck me as a sensible lass,” he ventured.

    “Miss Benedict? Well, yes, only none of them are that when it comes to fancy young gents. Though it does appear she’s had the sense to tell him she won’t have none of him until he shows her he can earn his living like a man.”

    “That’ll take some gumption,” he acknowledged. “Well, glad it ain’t Mouse as ’e’s a-dangling after.”

    “Yes,” said her brother with a sigh.

    “Um—very down,  me and Mother was noticing,” offered the old man.

    “Since blasted Bobby Cantrell-Sprague dropped her like a hot potato? Aye!”

    The sympathetic Mr Biddle patted him on his muscular shoulder and, noting that it was time for tea, trotted out to the shop to where Mouse was leaning on the counter gazing into space with a frown on her forehead.

    “Time for tea, Mouse, lovey. You want to pop up and give Mother a hand?”

    “It would certainly be preferable to staying here and incurring the notice of the elegant Stottle,” she replied grimly.

    “What?” he croaked. “Look, we told you to call us if them silly fellers started annoying you!”

    “Huh! I assure you, I am made of sterner stuff than Trottie True! I do not need your aid, nor Little Joe’s, nor that of any of the so-called stronger sex, to settle any number of nincompoops of his ilk!” With this she vanished.

    Mr Biddle leaned on the counter. “Ah,” he said slowly to himself. “You be made of sterner stuff than Trottie True, all right, deary, and a pity it is to see a sweet little lass turning ’ard as nails out of sheer disappointment. –And we don’t even got the little donkey no more, neither,” he added sadly, if obscurely.

    Mrs Dove had come to pay a visit of ceremony at Number 3 and was rather surprised to find the new lodger comfortably installed in the kitchen.

    “Don’t mind Mr Dellerplant, Mrs Dove!” her hostess adjured her. “It’s ’is ’alf-day, yer see.”

    “Right; so yer gets an ’alf-day Saturday in the law, as well as yer Sundays orf, do yer, Mr Dellerplant?” enquired Cookie with interest.

    M. de la Plante’s nice brown eyes twinkled, but he agreed very properly: “Yes, that’s correct, Mrs Dove, and we are much envied by those who have to work all day Saturday.”

    “Right. What they don’t ’ave early closing on Monday, at Mr Crabtree’s,” added Mrs Lumley.

    “I get yer. Well, now, dunno as you’ll fancy these, Mrs Lumley, but Mr Poulter brung us over a ’uge great basketful and the family ain’t gonna get through them.”

    “Not them eething pies again, Mrs Dove?”

    “Not this time. A mixture of stuff.” Forthwith she unveiled the contents of her basket. M. de la Plante’s eyes twinkled again, but he offered no comment at the sight of a selection of M. Lavoisier’s savoury tartlets, feather-light macaroons and delicious mazarines along with what the whole of fashionable London would have recognized as the fried Portuguese sweet pastries that the “P.W.” offered at her dinner parties.

    The tea being poured, the company sat down to it, and after the offerings from the castle’s kitchen had been approved Cookie explained: “See, we was glad enough to get ’em, ’cos it meant we didn’t have to bother too much about what to give ’em the day after Mrs Julia’s dinner party, though mind you there was a fair bit left over from that, as well.”

    This of course was Mrs Lumley’s cue to ask how it had gone. Naturally the report on the guests’ appreciation of Cookie’s and Julia’s culinary efforts came first, Mrs Lumley according it its due of appreciative nods and “So I should think!”s and etcetera, but eventually Mrs Dove got down to personalities and admitted: “Mrs Julia was keyed up beforehand, but a real box o’ birds after. And Mrs Lash, she told me as Captain Quarmby-Vine seemed to like Mr Waters very much and they got on like a ’ouse on fire.”

    “That’s good!” beamed Mrs Lumley.

    “Aye. Well, better than being at loggerheads, Mrs Lumley, and after all, the Captain’s used to dealing with men, and if ’e thinks ’e’s a decent sort, we don’t need to worry, do we?” she said heavily.

    Hurriedly they agreed with her. Cookie smiled and sighed and shook her head and said it’d be a huge change for New Short Street, that was for sure, with Mrs Julia gone; only when you came right down to it, the place just weren’t the same without Mr Joe, was it?

    Hurriedly Mrs Lumley refreshed her cup and the resourceful Jean de la Plante, urging a curly sweet pastry on her, distracted her entirely with the information that it was a Portuguese cake, and they fried them up—yes, fried them up!—before dusting them with the sugar.

    “He is a worthless fribble!” said Mouse crossly to her oldest sister. “And Mina is an idiot if she imagines he will stick at the job for more than a month or two! You know as well as I do that Mr Crabtree is a mean, dried-up old stick who thinks that a piece of bread with a scraping of butter is sufficient dinner for that poor boy who works for him, and keeps them all scraping away at their papers and putting them in those silly pigeon-holes from dawn till well past dusk!”

    “Well,” said Trottie True temperately, “that is true of Mr Crabtree as far as it goes, but of course his sister, Miss Crabtree, sees to it that the boy has a good hot helping of stew or a bowl of solid mutton broth to his dinner, with a baked apple in winter, and on cold mornings, a hot baked potato to warm his hands, first thing. And I make no claims for young Mr de la Plante, but I would say that his taking on the position at all indicates that he is more than a worthless fribble, whether or no he sticks at it.”

    Mouse just scowled.

    “Mouse, dearest,” said Trottie True gently, “I do understand that you are not happy, but I don’t think that stewing in the shop all hours is—is a cure.” In earlier times, she knew, Mouse would have made a joke linking the “stewing” with Miss Crabtree’s hot stew, but today she did not react. Swallowing a sigh, Trottie True said: “Would you like to come up to town for a month with us? We shall not be very fashionable, but go to some concerts and plays, and the opera.”

    Mouse eyed her drily. “Ma Cox claims it will be all waltzing balls and elegant suppers and coming home at three in the morning.”

    “Mrs Cox is not very bright, as you well know, and in addition is mad keen for us to launch that silly little Lucinda,” replied Trottie True calmly.

    “Now claim that if I do not accept your kind offer you will be forced to take Lucinda instead.”

    “To the contrary,” said her sister merrily: “if you accept she will claim that Lucinda will be company for you!”

    “They say that misery loves such,” replied Mouse drily.

    Trottie True just looked at her hopefully.

    Mouse swallowed. “Um, well, yes—thank you. It cannot be more boring than here, at all events. –Does he like pictures?” she added.

    “Charles? Yes, indeed, and has promised the Royal Academy!” said Trottie True, smiling very much.

    “Oh—good,” said Mouse feebly. “And—and you are bringing Baby, are you?”

    “Of course! Did I not say, we shall not be very fashionable?” she said with a laugh.

    “Yes. That’s good,” she admitted.

    Julia sighed. “It’s worse then when Dr Adams was alive. We scarcely lay eyes on her.”

     Lash tried not to wince. When she’d mentioned to Captain Cutlass that she must miss seeing Mr Smith she’d bitten her head off. Though whether it would have been better if she’d remembered to call him Sir Harry Ainsley, goodness only knew.

    “She feels she’s doing something useful, Julia. And though physically Mrs Pieper-Fiennes is much better, mentally she is pretty much incapable. Come to the market with me.”

    “Well— But what about your embroidery? That shawl will never be ready by Victoria’s wedding, at this rate.”

    Lash looked at it ruefully. “The wedding isn’t until June, there’s plenty of time. Though I’m certainly not making much progress. But she admired the one I was going to send to Millicent and that you said I had to keep, and the one I gave Mary, and I couldn’t think of anything else to give her. But these lilac shades are so hard to match.”

    That was exactly what she had said—for months on end, be it noted—about the apricot shades she had chosen for the pale green silk shawl that Julia had persuaded her to keep, instead of sending it out to Millicent, who had lengths and lengths of silk showered on her by the besotted Major Miller. Lash had had a letter from them, quite recently. Millicent had written a scant page, largely complaining of the condescension of a Mrs Moore, with barely a passing reference to the arrival of Lash’s first grandchild, and Major Miller had writ three full sides, crossed. Julia sighed.

    “Get Little Joe to sail you over to Brighton, Lash, and take your time looking for silks in the nice shops.”

    Lash smiled a little. “And in the case I am not sure which they may be, drop in on Ma Rossiter to be put right?”

    “Her or Mrs Burns, yes,” replied her sister-in-law, unmoved. “Which reminds me, at our next dinner we must have Captain and Mrs Burns, with John-John and Mary, out of course.”

    “And no doubt Miss Aitch and her nephew as well!” retorted Lash crossly.

    “She would certainly afford Mrs Burns some elegant conversation, but as the poor little lady is terrified of the woman, I shan’t ask her.”

    Lash bit her lip. “Mm, I remarked that at that frightful thing of Belinda’s. Sorry.”

    Julia looked at her sadly. “Lash, I am sure you are mistaken in Commander Henderson. He has always been everything that is polite to me. And very kind to Mary.”

    “Noblesse oblige don’t allow that sort to be otherwise,” replied Lash sourly. “There are few jolly, unaffected men of the type of Charles Q.-V. or your Mr Waters around, Julia.”

    Julia gave a conscious laugh. “Dearest, it’s far too soon to call him ‘my’ Mr Waters!”

    Mm. Something like that. Lash folded her embroidery carefully into the old pillowslip which protected her more precious pieces and slipped the bundle into her work-bag. “I don’t think it’ll be long, though. Don’t worry, Julia, everybody likes him.”

    Julia laughed again and admitted: “That’s good!”

    “There’s a letter for you, Mrs Julia, mum!” gasped Polly Patch, shoving it at her.

    “Man’s hand, is it?” asked Jicksy carelessly. Bouncer gave a smothered snicker.

    “I think so— Thank you, Polly, dear,” said Julia, looking in surprise at the superscription.

    “You may go, Polly,” said Lash, as Julia’s words had no effect.

    Giving the letter a last hungry, sad look, Polly slid out.

    “And SHUT THE DOOR!” shouted Bouncer terribly.

    There came a squeak of: “Sorry, mum!” and the door closed.

    “Getting worse,” noted Bouncer.

    “Got with child, more like; saw ’er casting up ’er accounts again this morning,” riposted Jicksy. “You’d better speak to ’er ma, Julia.”

    “I’ve spoken to her, Aunty,” said Lash, “and it had no effect whatsoever, unless you count a burst of tears and the declaration that she didn’t know what was to become of them all.”

    “In that case one of you’d better speak to Jenks, ’cos if it ain’t his lad’s, I’m a Dutchman!” replied the old lady smartly.

    “I wouldn’t mind speaking to him,” said Bouncer in a reminiscent tone, eyeing Julia and the letter out of the corner of her eye. “I could remind him that I knew his late ma quite well, not to say ’is ruddy pa: that boy’s as like to him as a two peas in a pod, and it ain’t just the looks. –Julia! If you want to read that thing in private, just take it up to yer room!”

    “It’s not from him,” said Julia feebly.

   “’Tis a man’s hand, though, eh?” said Jicksy.

    “From Charles, is it?” said Lash in a bored voice.

    “No,” said Julia feebly.

    They were now all staring at her so she admitted: “It’s a polite note from Colonel Bredon, asking if he may call. At least, I presume it must be he: is his name Philip?”

    Nobody knew but the brilliant Bouncer enquiring whether the thing had come from Little Lasset, Julia answered in the affirmative and the company was enabled to determine that it must be he.

    “Is that all he said?” asked Bouncer feebly after a moment.

    “Read it,” replied Julia, handing it to her.

    The company waited breathlessly while Mrs Peters read through it, but she admitted: “Right. May he call.”

    “Read it out LOUD!” cried Mrs Huggins in exasperation.

    Bouncer allowed her eyebrows to rise slightly but read it aloud. Jicksy was observed to swallow. That was what it said, all right. And would Julia be so kind as to name a day on which she might be home.

    “Not a word about Niners,” said her Great-Aunt Jicksy at last.

    Lash cleared her throat. “We’ve only got Nunky Ben’s word for a large part of that.”

    “But— Drat,” said the little old woman, scowling.

    “But— Um, no,” said Bouncer lamely. “And it has been the best part of two years ’e’s known ’er, come to think of it.”

    “Since that time she and Nunky Ben came across him, yes, but then he went out of the district. I suppose it’s only about a year since he’s had Little Lasset,” said Lash feebly.

    “Right, and in that year, ’as e taken any notice of ’er? No!” said Bouncer angrily.

    “Um, Belinda said something about us all being in mourning,” recalled Jicksy. “Well, weren’t as definite as a feller having to hold orf on that account, were it, Lash?”

    “Something along those lines: the woman is incapable of making a plain statement,” said Lash with a sigh. “Tell Niners to be here when he comes, Julia, it can’t hurt.”

    Julia gave the letter a desperate look. “I can’t even remember what he looks like!”

    “Thin, dark, yellerish,” said Bouncer, giving Jicksy a hard look.

    Mrs Huggins had opened her mouth but now she shut it again. After a moment she offered feebly: “Well, not your type, Julia, dear, and never was.”

    “No,” said Julia, frowning over it. “Wasn’t he rather ladylike?” she groped.

    Jicksy cleared her throat.

    “Not all that, no,” said Bouncer drily. “You’ll see.”

    “Mm.” Julia chewed on her full lower lip. “What if he is living off his aunt?”

    “Then whoever takes him will be obliged to toad-eat the woman for the rest of her natural,” explained Lash.

    “Lash,” warned Bouncer, “that’s enough. Julia, lovey, he can’t imagine none of us has got a fortune, so he must be a honest enough feller. Wait and see, eh?”

    “Yes, Aunty,” agreed Julia gratefully. “Wait and see.”

    “Not ’erself yet,” concluded Bouncer with a grimace when Julia had bustled off to speak to Polly.

    “Not quite, but very nearly,” replied Lash, smiling at her.

    “So there we all were, stuffed into our corsets and dressed up to the nines, sitting in a row in the front parlour like nothing so much as sparrows on a fence! Or possibly, in view of the corsets, pigeons on a ridge-pole,” said Lash with a twinkle to Lady Stamforth.

    Regrettably, that well-known society hostess collapsed in horrible giggles. “Oh! I do know what eet’s like, my dear! Senhora Garvão’s front room to the life!” she gasped

    “Who?” replied Lash, grinning at her.

    Lady Stamforth addressed a short statement to Sita Ayah, who was sitting giggling on the rug at her feet, and the ayah ceased massaging her Ladyship’s ankles, rose, put her hands together in her customary gesture, and bowing repeatedly, retreated from the room.

    “Not a reproof, my dear: she has merely gone to get the tiffin. –Tea—I am so sorry, tea!” she gasped. “Eet’s brought eet all back to me! Senhor Garvão was Papa’s and my John’s business partner een India, and hees wife, the Senhora Garvão, was amongst the stuffiest of the proper matrons een our town! Black bombazine, corsets, tea and gossip!” she gurgled.

    “It was exactly that,” admitted Lash on a rueful note. “Colonel Bredon is so incredibly proper. But at least there’s no doubt that he admires Niners: he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was in a new deep yellow gown; the shade suits her.”

    Nan sighed. “Not yaller all over—no,” she said wistfully. “My dear, I cannot wear yellow at all. Our dear leetle friend Peg Buffitt looked so charmingly een yellow. –Sita Ayah!” she cried as the ayah returned, with another succession of bows, and set a tea-tray on the table. “Do you remember Missy Peg baba een that charming brown silk bonnet weeth the great yellow rose? Was eet not delightful?”

    “Ah! Missy Peg baba goolab bonnet vairy most becoming!”

    “Yes. –Goolab ees rose, Mrs Yates,” explained her Ladyship, “or sometimes rosewater.”

    “Ah! Sita will fetching goolab panee—”

    “No, no! Chai only today, thank you, Sita! I was just telling Mrs Yates that I cannot wear yellow as Missy Peg baba deed.”

    The ayah threw her hands into the air and burst into a torrent of excited speech.

    Her Ladyship, smiling calmly, merely waited until she had run down and then said: “She perfectly agrees weeth me.”

    Alas, Lash collapsed in horrible giggles.

    “This letter is from Charles,” admitted Julia.

    “Open it, then!” ordered Mrs Peters.

    Smiling, Julia opened it. The smile faded.

    “Not the baby?” said Bouncer quickly.

    “No: no-one is ill.”

    “What’s up, then?” asked Jicksy.

    There had been a distinct quaver in the little old cracked voice. “Aunty, dear, don’t be alarmed,” said Julia quickly. “It’s just that Mouse seems to have attracted an eligible suitor.”

    “Already?” croaked Mrs Peters.

    “I suppose they have been in London for a couple of weeks—time flies,” said Lash faintly.

    “Yes: that dinner of Miss Aitch’s with Colonel Bredon coming is the day after tomorrow, if you remember,” said Julia heavily. “Er—Charles doesn’t want to be premature… This is odd: he seems to think we ought to know of the man. Phelps-Patterson.”

    The aunties shrugged.

    “A major. Quite a lot older than Mouse. The Quarmby-Vines know his family.”

    “Oh, good God!” cried Lash. “Not the Dashing Major?”

    “Eh?” said Jicksy.

    “Ooh, help,” said Bouncer. “Yes: that was ’im. –You remember, Jicksy!” she said impatiently. “It was one of the letters from Derbyshire when Mouse was getting over—” She paused. “Danged if I remember which feller it was, now,” she said sheepishly.

    Lash bit her lip. “It was only last summer, Aunty, though I’m sure it sometimes seems like a lifetime ago. Getting over—rather, being given a breathing space away from—Mr Bobby. I think it was Captain Cutlass who wrote disparagingly of the Dashing Major, and I had the impression that it was she whom he admired. Though I have to admit, Julia, he sounded silly enough to admire ’em both simultaneously.”

    Julia frowned. “Viewed through Captain Cutlass’s eyes, was this? I had rather take Charles’s word that he has known the man since his boyhood—the Major’s, not Charles’s, before you start—and that he is entirely worthy and respectable. He was engaged as a young man but the fiancée died; well, that is very sad, and nothing for which he can be blamed. He has a small property in Derbyshire near the Q.-V.s, not very much larger than Charles’s orchards, and he is very much liked!” She glared at them.

    The dratted aunties were looking completely unconcerned, in fact as if they’d never sniggered over the girls’ letters at all! “Julia, I think he’d be twice Mouse’s age,” said Lash.

    “That does not make him ineligible, Lash,” warned Mouse’s mother grimly. “And she has certainly had no luck with young men, has she? Well, I suppose if Trottie True is immured in gentility with Charles, and Niners is to be immured in Colonel Bredon’s silken salons, there is no reason why Mouse should not be taken off to Derbyshire to ditto!”

    There was a short silence.

    “Not if she can like the man sufficiently, no,” said Lash temperately.

    “Right. And ain’t you planning, pardon me for mentioning it, Julia, to immure yerself in Mr Waters’ silky salong?” asked Bouncer on a cross note.

    “Don’t be absurd! He doesn’t sit in that stupid withdrawing-room every day!”

    There was a short silence. No-one admitted that they had been most impressed by Camperdown. Not to say, thrilled at the implications of Mr Waters’s inviting Julia’s relatives to call.

    Finally Jicksy asked on a weak note: “What room does he use, then?”.

    “That pleasant little room that he calls the parlour,” replied Julia on a defiant note. “It’s about the size of this, and I never met a man with fewer pretensions!”

    “No, all right, Waters is a decent feller and we’re glad for you,” said Mrs Peters pacifically. “But lumme, if you don’t want these gents for your girls, what do you want, Julia?”

    “I do!”

    It was pretty clear she didn’t, but everyone held their peace.

    Two days later Lash was discovered laid down upon her bed.

    “I’m not going: I have the headache. Please give my apologies to Miss Aitch, Julia.”

    Julia sighed. It was perfectly plain to her that Lash was determined to avoid Commander Henderson. Though she certainly looked pale and drawn enough to have a frightful headache as well. “All right, Lash,” she said kindly. “Just stay on your bed and rest. Shall I have Cookie bring you up a cup of tea?”

    “No, I’m not thirsty. Thank you,” said Lash in a small voice.

    Julia just nodded kindly and went out, closing the door softly, but in the upstairs passage she pulled an awful face. Lash looked and sounded exactly as she had done when Michael Diver died! Oh, dear. And the silly thing was, she herself was persuaded that the Commander in fact liked Lash and only needed her to encourage him!

    Mrs Dove was on a blameless expedition after some greens. As anticipated, the market, at going on noon, had yielded very little, and she was returning home with nothing but some early turnip tops in her basket, which would have to be stewed in butter and even then half of the family wouldn’t touch ’em, when she was stopped in her progress by a one-armed man and a tall, dark-faced feller.

    “Oh, it’s you, Mr ’Artshorne.”

    “Aye, ’tis that, and a good day to you, Mrs Dove. Think you know Commander Henderson? This ’ere be Mrs Dove, what cooks for the Formbys, Commander, sir.”

    “Oh! Good-day, sir!” she gasped, giving a shaky bob.

    “Good-day, Mrs Dove,” said the Commander, removing his hat and bowing. Cookie gaped at him. “May I ask, how is everyone at Number 10?”

    “Keeping very well, thank you, sir. Mrs Julia, she’s got a beau, now,” she ventured.

    “So we had heard,” he agreed gravely.

    “Aye. Mr Waters. Biggish feller: manly. Right sort of age for ’er, too. Widower. Not from round these parts, though,” said Cookie on a regretful note.

     Mr Hartshorne sniffed slightly. “Lives over to near the castle, sir. Less’n five minutes with a decent deck under yer feet, and I dessay twenty minutes’ march to the ’ouse.”

    “Good, then he won’t be taking her too far from home,” he said kindly to Mrs Dove.

    “Yes, sir. And I dessay yer know as that Colonel Bredon, ’e’s a-courting our Niners?”

    “Yes, indeed: my aunt had him to dinner recently,” he smiled. “We liked him very much.”

    “Aye,” agreed Mr Hartshorne. “Well-liked in the districk, ’e be, if ’e is Lady Lasset’s nevvy. We seen the ’ouse, too. Not that far from us and Mr Formby, is it, sir?”

    “Yes, indeed, Hartshorne; Little Lasset: a delightful house,” said the Commander nicely. “I was glad Miss Calpurnia was able to come to my aunt’s dinner with John and Mary.”

    “Right, sir, and so was ’er ma,” agreed Mrs Dove. “Taken a lot of ’er old books over to High Mallows: still doing her studies. And our Mouse, she’s got a town beau, now!”

    “Right, not another fancy gent from the castle,” growled Mr Hartshorne. “That Rattle, ’e come over to give us a ’and and told us, didn’t ’e, sir? Well, if the Captain likes the feller, dessay ’e might do, only ’e did sound a bit old for li’l Miss Mouse, Mrs Dove.”

    Commander Henderson looked at Mrs Dove’s round, pink face, which had now taken on a distressed look, and said quickly: “I am sure if Captain Quarmby-Vine approves of him he must indeed be very suitable for Miss Marianne. And how is Mrs Yates, Mrs Dove?”

    “Well, missing ’er brother, sir, and no-one wouldn’t claim otherwise. But now that Mrs Julia’s more ’erself again, she’s, well, not to say brighter,” admitted Cookie truthfully. “But got more time to do her lovely embroidery! Making a real pretty shawl for little Miss Victoria, what’s ’er Cousin John’s lass, that’s getting married next summer!” she beamed.

    “Good: I am glad to hear she is keeping busy,” he said, smiling at her.

    “Aye, well, got a granddaughter to make things for, too, now.”

    “Mrs—Mrs Yates?” he said. “A granddaughter?”

    “That’s right, sir. Millicent, ’er daughter’s name is, what married a Major Miller and went orf to India, and at first we all said, ain’t it never gonna ’appen? Only of course the letters do take a time to come all that way—well, dessay you’d know that, sir.”

    “Months,” put in Mr Hartshorne sepulchrally.

    “That’s right, and wasn’t Trottie True pleased as punch every time as one come for yer!” she beamed.

    “But—but Mrs Yates’s grandchild?” prompted the Commander, swallowing.

    “Ah! ’Ad the letter—when were that? Well, couple o’ weeks back, anyroad. Calling ’er Charlotte, after ’is late Ma,” she revealed. “Mrs Julia were real cross and said the least the girl could do was name ’er first daughter after ’er own mother, only Mrs Lash, she just laughed and said she wouldn’t wish Lavinia on no-one! But meself, I think it’s real pretty.”

    “Indeed! Is that is her name? Lavinia! Very pretty. But Charlotte is also a pretty name,” he said kindly. “Now, may we assist you with your burden, Mrs Dove?”

    “Eh? Oh! ’T’ain’t nothing, sir, thanking you all the same, acos it’s too late for the market, really, but there weren’t a thing in the ’ouse. It’s just a few turnip tops, sir.”

    “Well, pray give my compliments to Mrs Formby and Mrs Yates, Mrs Dove.” And bowing again, he resumed his hat and went on his way.

    Mrs Lash’s reception of the report of this exciting encounter being merely a shrug and “Manners,” and Mrs Julia’s reception being merely a tepid: “I’m glad he spoke kindly to you, Cookie,” Mrs Dove fell back on Mrs Peters and Mrs Huggins. Where every syllable she uttered was received with an attention as eager as even she could desire.

    “Ah. Knew as that Polly Patch, she’d be in trouble soon or late, and just you let that be a lesson to yer, Rosie Kettle!” advised Mrs Lumley.

    Glaring, Rosie snapped: “I’m a good girl!” And marched out to the scullery, whence loud crashings and bangings could be heard.

    “Them Patches, they’re all the same, Mr Dellerplant,” said Mrs Lumley to her lodger.

    “Oh, dear,” he said sympathetically. “So what will the poor girl do now, Mrs Lumley?”

    Mrs Lumley eyed him tolerantly. “Mrs Julia and Mrs Lash ain’t ones to desert a poor lass what’s in trouble, never you fear, Mr Dellerplant!”

    Jean had been long enough in New Short Street not to be surprised. He smiled at her and said: “I’m glad to hear it. But can she continue to work with the babe coming?”

    “There’s plenty as does,” said the stout lodging-house keeper on a dry note. “No, well, Mrs Julia and Little Joe, they went down to see Mr Jenks together and the banns is being read next Sunday as ever was. What I dessay as Little Joe did ’ave to grease that Reverend Skellett’s palm, but it’s ’appening.”

    M. de la Plante had not hitherto been aware that this was a custom amongst the practising clergy of the Church of England and he gave her a startled look.

    Mrs Lumley shrugged. “Meself, I’d of chose the Quakers, only Polly’s the sort of dim girl what thinks it’s not a real marriage unless it’s in a proper church with a steeple. They’ll live above the shop, acos Mr Jenks, ’e’s a widower, and I s’pose she can’t burn the griddle cakes worse for ’im than that Gertie Kettle, she’s been a-doing!”

    “Oh: one of—” He raised his eyebrows and nodded in the direction of the scullery.

    “’Nother sister,” said Mrs Lumley with a sniff. “Born bad cooks, what yer can teach all yer likes, Mr Dellerplant, it don’t sink in.—Rosie! You stop that racket!—And Mrs Lash’s a-sewing ’er a dress with ’er own hands!”

    “Er—oh! For the wedding! How very generous of her.”

    “It’ll be something as that Millicent left be’ind, but she’ll alter it so’s it’ll look nice. Well, be too good for ’er, more like. And Niners is making ’er a bran-new bonnet.”

    “Er—Miss Elizabeth, is this?”

    “That’s right.” She looked at her lodger’s face. “She may spend all her days with that Miss Aitch and be on course to catch a colonel, but she ain’t gorn downright niffy-naffy yet!”

    “No!” said Mr de la Plante with a little laugh. “I’m very glad to hear it! So, it all ends happily for Miss Polly, then?”

    “Thanks to the Formbys, yer mean,” said Mrs Lumley on dry note. “Well, yer not wrong. Now, if I pour us a cuppa, shall us get in with the reading? If convenient, sir!” she added quickly.

    “Of course,” said Jean, concealing a smile. He had discovered that Mrs Lumley was partial to a little reading aloud. She had eyed the books he had brought with him wistfully, pointing out they weren’t all full of foreign words, so— He had chosen an old volume of Robinson Crusoe that he had had since his boyhood and by dint of skipping rather a lot and explaining the bits that she obviously didn’t get—the which explanations, he had a sneaking suspicion, she thought were part of the story—they were getting on quite well. She certainly appeared interested in the narrative and—unlike Rosie Kettle—never nodded off as he read.

    “Mind you,” she said, sitting down with sigh, the tea having been set to brew, “it’s big changes for New Short Street.”

    “Well, yes, with Polly going, and Mrs Formby being courted by Mr Waters—”

    “And Niners being courted by ’er Colonel, and now Mouse got a fancy town beau what’s a Major!” she cried.

    “Really?” he said nicely. “Perhaps I know him; do you know his name, Mrs Lumley”

    Mrs Lumley thought it over. “Patterson? Something like that, though I don’t think I got it quite right. The Captain knows ’im, acos ’e comes from those parts!”

    “Derbyshire? Major Pa—” The young man gulped. “Not Major Phelps-Patterson?”

    “Think that was the name, aye. Why, ain’t he a decent feller?”

    “No, he is perfectly decent,” he managed. “A popular man, much liked.”

    “That’s good!” she beamed. “Mrs Dove, she reckons as the Captain likes him!”

    Well, yes, Roddy Phelps-Patterson was a genial, good-natured man, generally liked. But good God! The Dashing Major and that dainty little Mouse Formby, as bright as she was pretty? The man was an amiable idiot!

    “See? Big changes. Dessay it won’t be long afore Little Joe, ’e’s the only Formby left in the street,” said Mrs Lumley with a gusty sigh.

    Hastily Jean urged her to pour the tea and readied the book. “Now, this next bit is about Man Friday!” he warned.

    “Hah! The blackamoor! I seen some o’ those!” Mrs Lumley sat up in great anticipation.

    The banns had not finished being read but as Polly had become, in Cookie’s very words: “uselesser than ever,” she was told she need not come in if her mother could do with her help. As a consequence she was sighted in the butcher’s shop giggling with her affianced, and Mrs Patch, who took in washing, was seen struggling with the accustomed load with only the eight-year-old Suzy’s help, but sleeping dogs were allowed to lie. At least it was better than closing all the dampers on Cookie’s stove, or folding little Joe’s greatcoat tenderly and laying it in his bedroom fireplace—only on the cold ashes, though they had certainly made a mess of it—or making Aunty Bouncer’s bed with Dog Tuesday in it. All of which crimes she had committed, yes.

    The Wednesday after Polly’s departure Captain Cutlass turned up early with Nunky Ben just as Lash was in the process of telling Ned that any attempt to make her believe Cookie ever gave him two sausages as well as eggy bread to his breakfast would be wasted breath—Cookie meanwhile shaking all over her mountainous person—and that there was no woman yet born that would favour Dog Tuesday with a nice rasher of bacon, so ditto for that.

    “Is that someone at the front door at this hour?” said Lash, as a tap was dimly heard amongst Ned’s loud complaints.

    “I didn’t hear nothing,” admitted Cookie.

    “I’ll see!” Captain Cutlass rushed out

    “You won’t believe this, Aunty Lash!” she panted, rushing back.

    “Then you had best not tell me.”

    “She’s carrying a sack,” pointed out Nunky Ben with interest.

    Captain Cutlass cleared her throat. “Quite. Someone left a brace of pigeons on our front—”

    “Don’t dare to start that again!” cried Lash, going alarmingly red.

    “—doorstep. But they did, Aunty Lash!”

    To the horror of the onlookers Lash burst into violent tears and rushed out.

    Nunky Ben recovered himself first. “Nothing to worry about. Just too many changes. Don’t fret, lad: the woman get like that,” he said to the little boy’s frightened face.

    “Well, yes. Ma Mountjoy’s always bawling, isn’t she?” said Captain Cutlass valiantly.

    Ned brightened. “And Gwendolyn!”

    “Yes,” she agreed on a weak note. “Go on, Cookie: two sausages and a piece of eggy bread, was it?”

    “No, one.”

    Nunky Ben sighed. “Go on, woman, just for once! If he can’t get through it I’ll ’ave it. –Only a brace, eh? ’Ang ’em in the larder, deary.”

    Nodding, Captain Cutlass did so.

    “Funny, though,” said Nunky Ben slowly, once Ned, apparently himself again, had been joined by Micky Trickett and the pair of them had gone off to school.

    The aunties, by a merciful dispensation of Providence, not to say of port last night, were not yet down, so Captain Cutlass was able to agree comfortably: “’Tis, mm.”

    “Aye… Rattle?”

    “He doesn’t own a shot-gun, Nunky.”

    “Ri-ight…” He looked at her face. “No idea at all?”

    Captain Cutlass swallowed.  “Um, it may be a coincidence. I thought I caught a glimpse of a great sea-cloak whisking round the corner of the street as I opened the door.”

    “Can’t of been John-John, that’s ’is I been wearing this morning.”

    “Mm. But the thing is, it wasn’t his originally, was it? Because all of his clothes went down with the ship. It was an old one of Commander Henderson’s.”

    “Ah. Makes yer think, eh?” said the old man.

    Captain Cutlass and Cookie exchanged glances, and nodded hard. It did, indeed!

    Julia untied her bonnet strings, humming, and opened the parlour door. She gasped. Colonel Bredon was kissing Niners!

    Niners went very red and attempted to pull out of his grasp but Philip Bredon put his arm firmly round her waist and said to her mother with a smile: “I do apologise, Mrs Formby. Not for the thing itself, but for not seeking your permission to marry Elizabeth before I did it.”

    So much for ladylike and—and—well, whatever else had been said about the man. Not the silken salons—well, them, too, but, um, niffy-naffy, was it? “Yes,” said Julia faintly. “I mean— Are you sure, Niners, dear?”

    Niners was still very red but she smiled and replied: “Very sure, Ma. If we do have your permission?”

     “Of course,” sad Julia feebly. “Well, uh—I think you had best speak to Little Joe, Colonel Bredon, but, well, yes, I’m very pleased. If it’s what you both want.”

    At this the Colonel released Niners, came forward and said gently: “Of course it is what we both want, dear Mrs Formby. Please, allow me to assist you to a chair.”

    “He meant to ask you first, Ma,” said Niners faintly as her mother sat down.

    “Um, yes,” said Julia feebly. “Of course you did, Colonel!”

    “Please, call me Philip,” he said nicely. “May I ring for a cup of tea for you?”

    “Yes—well, no, it’s Tuesday, it’s Cookie’s day off and we’ve lost Polly.”

    “I’ll get it, Ma,” said Niners,

    “I would be glad of a cup—thank you, dear.”

    Nodding, Niners vanished,

    That left Julia alone with Philip Bredon.

    “I do most sincerely apologise for being so precipitate, Mrs Formby.”

    “No, don’t!” said Julia with a sudden laugh. “Oh, dear! Well, that’s all right, then. But I have to say it, we’re not gentlefolk.”

    “I beg to differ. And it’s certainly a matter of indifference to me that Elizabeth’s brother works for his living.”

    “Um, ye-es… You may have got the wrong impression, meeting the family while we were staying with the John Formbys.”

    “Mrs Formby, I shall be honoured and delighted to be a member of your family. I could not wish for a more beautiful, ladylike and intelligent wife than Elizabeth.”

    Julia swallowed. “Um, good. Um, but I have to say, dearly though we love her, she has no sense of humour. Um, you may think that is immaterial, but, um…”

    “I am not a jokester, Mrs Formby, though I confess to having a sense of humour myself. But I have noticed that very often with couples where one spouse is said to lack a sense of humour the situation is that the other is a tease. I do not find joking remarks at another’s expense amusing.”

    “No,” said Julia, sagging. “Of course you don’t. Well, we aren’t exactly teases in our family, either, I’m glad to say, but I know what you mean. In that case, I think you’ll manage not to rub one another up the wrong way.”

    “I assure you that such will be my earnest endeavour,” he said properly.

    Julia eyed him suspiciously

    “That was not a joke,” he said mildly,

    “No. Good. But at least you can see it might have been,” admitted Julia.

    He smiled. “Yes! And if may I say so, although Miss Henderson has been all that is kind to Elizabeth, I feel she may relax and—well, let us say flower,” he said, smiling a little, “when she is no longer under her direct influence.

    “Colonel Bredon,” said Julia frankly, “if you got her to kiss you, I think she’s started flowering already!”

    At this he frankly laughed. “I think so! And please, can it not be Philip?”

    “Philip,” agreed Julia, smiling.

    “Hm,” said Evan Waters, rubbing his chin. “Well, he strikes me as a decent man, my dear.”

    “Oh, good,” said Julia in relief. “He seems to have gone on about settlements to Little Joe, but I don’t think he understood more than one word in ten!”

    “Never mind, it’s the fact he broached the matter that counts,” he said comfortably.

    “Mm. Um, well, he’s given him this huge long document to look at… I suppose he could ask old Crabtree, the local solicitor, to take a look at it, but he’d only produce a lot of jaw-cracking words, worse than the actual document. I know Charles would explain it, but, well, I don’t know that Niners would care for her brother-in-law to know her business. I was wondering if you’d look at it, Evan?”

    He rubbed his chin again. “I’d be happy to, but I’m not even as closely connected as a brother-in-law, Julia.”

    “No. I’m sorry!” gulped Julia, going very red.

    He looked down at her and smiled just a little. “I think in that case we’d best regularise it, hey?”

    “What?” said Julia blankly, still very flushed up.

    As they were sitting comfortably on the sofa in the front parlour he had no difficulty in putting his hand over hers. “Marry me, Julia.”

    The offer was not entirely unexpected but nevertheless Julia found she was very shaken. “I—I’m not in the least like Felicity, Evan,” she warned in a low voice.

    He blinked. “Well, no, but I was lot younger when I married her, y’know. Thought I wanted a fairy-like little thing about as strong as a puff of dandelion fluff. Well, I did want her, not denying it, though once we were wed I found there was scarce two words we could exchange together. Embroidering dainty table linen and ordering me puzzled cook to serve up delicate jellies were her idea of running a man’s house! My ma said I’d run mad! But one’s last love don’t have to be the same as one’s first.”

    “No,” said Julia faintly.

    He put a large hand under her chin. “I do love you, Julia. Will you?”

    “Well—well, yes, then!” said Julia with a mad laugh.

    Forthwith Evan Waters kissed her very thoroughly. It wasn’t the first time he’d done so, by any means, but it was certainly the first time that it had caused Julia to bawl all over his broad chest.

    He didn’t chance his luck by asking what the matter was, he just patted her back gently and once the tears seemed to have dried up a bit, said: “That’s all right, then. Blow your nose and give us another kiss, hey?”

    To which Julia responded by blowing her nose hard, saying with another mad laugh: “What a watering-pot!” and throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him fiercely.

    Mouse returned from London in not a very much better mood than when she had set out for it, alas. Though most of her relatives were relieved to know that apparently she had asked her kind brother-in-law not to invite Major Phelps-Patterson for the summer as he had suggested. Almost at once a contretemps arose over whether the Reverend Mr Skellett should marry Julia and Mr Waters, Mouse’s opinion being a very definite “No!” But Julia only murmured that the alternative was Blasted Oak House and Courtenay, and that the official didn’t really signify, after all, did he? Grimly Mouse retired from those lists, only to tackle her brother on another matter.

    Little Joe scratched his head. “I can do with a hand in the shop, that’s true enough, but I don’t know that Ma’ll be keen on you going on doing that, Mouse. And I’m sure she’s expecting you to live at Camperdown once they’re married.”

    Mouse glared. She had hoped, though not expected, that he’d be on her side in the campaign to go on living in New Short Street and working in the shop. “No, well, of course living with Ma and Mr Waters is not my only alternative. Rather than go to them and be turned into a prim country Miss in order to be married off to some nullity of a second cousin thrice removed of the Rossiters, I could go to Trottie True and Charles, be turned into a simpering Society Miss, and marry some fool like the Dashing Major!”

    Little Joe gave her a hard look. “From all I’ve heard you treated that chap damn’ badly, so I’d drop that topic if I was you, Mouse.”

    “It was him that started flirting, not me!”

    Little Joe just went on giving her a hard look.

    “On the other hand,” said Mouse evilly, “I could accept Lady Stamforth’s kind invitation to go up to the castle, give Jack some paltry coaching in English, geography and history, insensibly be converted into a companion to Rita after Mina marries Mr de la Plante, and be married off to some useless sprig of a toad-eater who hangs on the Stamforths’ sleeves!”

    “Graphic,” he replied sourly. “And that’s at least three hands, by my count. That was the shop bell, so if you’re serious about wanting to keep on working here—” Mouse had gone.

    Little Joe sighed. He had not of course spoken of the lovely Rita Baldaya to his family, and even old Rattle tactfully hadn’t brought the subject up lately. Unfortunately this hadn’t affected his feelings. Glumly he reminded himself it wasn’t fair to jump down Mouse’s throat just because he couldn’t bear to have Rita’s name mentioned.

    Julia went very red when Mouse broached her topic. “Mouse, that’s an absurd idea.”

    “It isn’t! It is my home, Ma! And Little Joe needs help in the shop!”

    “He can take on another boy.”

    Mouse glared. “That would be an unjustifiable expense.”

    “Look, what will people say if you don’t come to live with us?” said Julia heavily.

    Mouse stuck out her chin. “That I don’t care for Mr Waters, but as we all know that I do like him, why should it affect us?”

    Julia swallowed a sigh. Never mind that Evan realised the girl didn’t dislike him, couldn’t she see that his feelings would be hurt by her refusing to live under his roof? “Mousekin, it’d hurt his feelings.”

    Mouse blinked.

    “Yes, men do have feelings, too,” said Julia heavily.

    “I know that!” she snapped.

    “No, I don’t think you do, as yet,” replied her mother steadily. “Reading between the lines of Trottie True’s extremely tactful report, I’d say you treated that Major fellow very unkindly—never mind how silly he may be, Mouse, a man of that age doesn’t pay a girl concentrated attentions without serious intentions. I know you’ve been hurt yourself, but can’t you see you were being very unkind?”

    Mouse burst into tears and rushed out of the room.

    “Good,” concluded Julia on a grim note. “Maybe that’ll bring her to her senses.”

    Julia’s words to her youngest daughter bore fruit. Sticking out her little pointed chin, Mouse said to her eldest sister:  “I—I’ve been thinking about things, Trottie True, so—so I’m determined to be less selfish from now on and—and stop being frivolous, so, um, if you don’t mind, I should like to come with you regularly to visit your odd-bodies. Um, sorry: your needy friends in the town.”

    Trottie True smiled a little. “You may still call them my odd-bodies, in the family, Mousekin! Of course I shall love to have your company.”

    “Good; thank you. And if you might not feel up to it on any day, just send a message to the shop, and I can go by myself with Old Horse!” she said eagerly.

    “Of course,” she murmured. “Er, but since you have mentioned the shop—”

    “It’s all right,” said Mouse, going very red. “You don’t need to be tactful; I’ve been a pig about that, too. Ma’s right: of course everybody will be horrid if I don’t go to live with her and Mr Waters. So I’ve thought of a compromise. Friday to Monday with them, and stay over in New Short Street and help in the shop for the rest of the week; what do you think?”

    Trottie True thought it sounded a little like the thin end of the wedge. And, as usual, Mouse had decided on a course of action and plunged herself into it without reservation. But never mind: it was a lot better than having the whole of Waddington-on-Sea concluding that there was something wrong with Mrs Julia’s new man. So she smiled and approved.

    In the normal course of events proposals mature into marriages, and so it came to pass, that July in Waddington-on-Sea, that Julia Formby took Evan Waters in St Jude’s church, the Reverend Mr Skellett presiding. In strong contrast to the recent celebrations for Victoria and Jimmy Rossiter at Blasted Oak House, over which the less fortunate Formbys of New Short Street had unanimously decided to draw a veil forever and a day, even the great-aunties owning that it had been too blamed much and they never wished to see a dainty tartlet nor glass of fancy fizz again, the invited guests were not very many, as neither Julia nor Evan desired to make a splash. But naturally all their relatives were present, with of course Mrs Dove and several other invited persons, such as the thrilled little drawing mistress, Miss Pickles, Mrs Lumley, Polly Jenks, née Patch, Mr Hartshorne, and old Miss Watchett.

    The congregation, however, was considerably augmented by the uninvited guests. Almost every fisher family had representatives there, with the Bodgers in toto; Mr Pink, who made the ships in bottles; several elderly identities customarily seen assisting Nunky Ben to prop up a public bar in the case it might fall down without their support; Mrs Patch with all of the children still at home; Cookie’s sister-in-law, Mrs Moon; Mrs Ellen Grigson, née Bull, who used to work for the Formbys before Polly, and all the little Grigsons, plus Mrs Bull; and even Mrs Belindy Biggs and her sister-in-law, Mrs Stutt, from the Elephant and Castle. In their best bonnets.

    “And orf they went in a carriage, and that was that, Mr Dellerplant!” concluded Cookie with relish the following day, accepting a second cup of tea from Mrs Lumley.

    Jean had, in fact, observed the newlyweds’ departure for their honeymoon, as the ceremony had taken place on Mr Crabtree’s early closing day, and of course had already had a detailed report of the wedding from Mrs Lumley, but he nodded, smiling kindly, and said that it sounded like a lovely ceremony.

    “It was that! And even Little Joe said to me if she ’ad to replace ’is Pa, Waters weren’t so bad. –Poor lad.”

    The company accorded this sympathetic murmurs.

    Cookie sighed. “Mind you, last week Mouse said ’e was a sour-faced old man, but we all know what’s up with ’er, don’t we?” As they both did, they both nodded kindly and she went on: “Anyroad, couldn’t make out why Mrs Lash seemed a bit down, acos I’ve known ’er all ’er life and she ain’t the jealous sort, so don’t no-one try to make out as that were it! Asides, she’s ’ad two ’erself, useless though old Yates mighta been. No, it come to me later, sudden-like, and I felt that peculiar, I hadda sit down. Acos you may say, she’s keeping ’ouse for her nevvy, but Little Joe’s a fine upstanding feller what’s not gonna stay a bachelor all ’is days: when ’e’s wed, what’s to become of Mrs Lash and little Ned?”

    “Oh, ’elp!” gasped Mrs Lumley, her jaw dropping in consternation.

    Mr de la Plante cleared his throat. “Dear Mrs Dove, I think you are being over-anxious. I would say there is no doubt whatsoever that Mr Waters will offer his wife’s sister and her little boy a home.”

    “Thing is, Mr Dellerplant, that’s just it: she’s not Mrs Julia’s sister, she’s Mr Joe’s.”

    “Right: only a sister-in-law,” agreed Mrs Lumley gloomily.

    “Er—oh. But they are very close, and I cannot see that it will make any difference to a decent fellow!” he said with an encouraging smile.

    “Maybe,” replied Cookie dubiously. “But I’m ruddy sure it will to ’er. Independent-minded, all the Formbys are. See, it’s different when it’s yer own brother.”

    Even though he and both his parents had lived off the charity of their connections for all of his lifetime, Jean de la Plante could see that it might be. He bit his lip and did not know what more to say.

    “There’s the Captain,” offered Mrs Lumley. “As fine a gent as you’d ever care to meet and real thoughtful, what I think of ’im every time I polish me teaspoons, and making Trottie True a fine ’usband!”

    “Mrs Lumley, dear, Trottie True’s not ’er daughter, she’s only ’er niece!”

    Mr de la Plante took a deep breath. “I have known Captain Quarmby-Vine and his reputation for many years, and I can assure you that Mrs Yates and her little boy must be assured of a home as long as he is above ground.”

    “And after it, ’cos Trottie True won’t never see ’er aunty out in the cold!” cried Mrs Lumley, beaming.

    “That ain’t me point!” retorted Cookie crossly. “Will she accept it, is what?”

    “Think she’ll ’ave to, Mrs Dove,” said Mrs Lumley awkwardly. “One or t’other.’

    “Yes,” agreed her new lodger very sympathetically indeed. “I think she must, Mrs Dove.”

    By mid-July New Short Street had more or less settled into its new routine. On the happy couple’s return from their honeymoon Niners and Mouse had removed to Camperdown and Mouse, as planned, spent most of the week at the shop, returning to her stepfather’s house on Friday evenings. Captain Cutlass and Nunky Ben remained with Mr Piper-Fiennes. Her Aunty Lash was now experiencing certain doubts about this, particularly since Miss Aitch had graciously intimated to her very recently that Miss Calpurnia’s action was most praiseworthy indeed, but Julia still seemed sublimely unaware that anyone could think the thing in the least odd. So Lash decided to let sleeping dogs lie: Julia had had more than enough trials and tribulations over the last few years; why disturb her innocent happiness for a mere matter of social forms?

    Mouse was determinedly cheerful, and keeping to her word about accompanying Trottie True on her visits to the odd-bodies. Rita Baldaya went with them regularly, so much so that even old Mrs Bodger sometimes remembered that she was “little Rita” and not “our Sam’s Jenny.” Rita also began to spend time helping Mouse in the shop. If both his Aunt Lash and old Mr Biddle noticed that Little Joe Formby alternated between feverish good humour and dour silence over this period, neither of them remarked upon it. Though Mr Rattle did say one day to Lash out of thin air: “Ah. Riding for a fall.”

    On the whole, though, all parties were disposed of as satisfactorily as one could reasonably expect in a far-from-perfect world, concluded Lash with a sigh, laying down a copy of Candide (full calf) and making a mental vow not to pick the thing up again. She looked glumly at the cloth for a tea-table she was embroidering for Niners. It seemed insufficient; especially as Little Lasset was undoubtedly bursting at the seams with lin—

    Aunty Bouncer came in. “What yer sitting there for? Get on with it, or never mind the wedding ain’t till September, it won’t be finished afore their eldest brat’s turned six year old, at this rate!”

    Obediently Lash picked up the work and got on with it.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/re-enter-bingley.html