New Short Street Without Joe Formby

20

New Short Street Without Joe Formby

    “There’s a cheese on the front step, Mrs Lash, deary,” reported Cookie on a weak note.

    “What?”

    Mrs Dove cleared her throat. “A cheese. Don’t ask me who from. Wrapped up all nice, it’s clean, but, um…” She looked at her helplessly.

    “Well, uh—” Whom did Julia know who might leave a cheese at a time like this? No, well, there were very many who doubtless would if they had the wherewithal, or—or the access, but… “You’re sure it has no note with it, Cookie?”

    “No, nothing.”

    “You’d best bring it in. A cheese cannot come amiss,” said Lash on a firm note.

    Looking vastly relieved, Mrs Dove departed to bring the cheese in.

    “There’s a gent what brung these ’ere flowers, Mrs Lash!”

    Lash was writing notes of thanks to those who had sent wreaths, in the back parlour. She looked up with a start. “Oh—very pretty. How thoughtful.”

    “Only they ain’t a wreath,” reported the red-eyed Polly Patch, sniffling slightly.

    “Uh—no, Polly, dear: the funeral is over, people wouldn’t send wreaths now. Who is he?”

    “Dunno.”

    Lash took a deep breath. “I think you had best ask him to step in, anyway.”

    “But ’e’s gorn, mum.”

    “Uh— Well, give them here.” She looked carefully for a card. There was none. The flowers were really lovely: spring blooms. “Didn’t he say his name?”

    “No, mum. Just said they was for Mrs Formby, wiv ’is sympathy,” she said, sniffling.

    “Yes. Very well, Polly, dear. Don’t cry. Would you like to take them up to her?”

    A big tear slid down Polly’s youthfully rounded cheek. “No, acos it’s awful! She’s just a-laying there!” She burst into sobs and ran from the room.

    Lash made a ferocious face, and went to put the beautiful flowers carefully in water. Though her treacherous brain did form the question, had the gentleman mentioned cheese?

    Julia was again just lying on her bed, fully clad, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling. Lash took a deep breath. “Trottie True’s here, Julia.”

    “With him?” she said in horror.

    “Of course; he is her husband,” replied Lash steadily. “But he won’t come up: he sends his love.” She waited, but Julia didn’t ask if he’d actually said that. “I’ll just tell her to pop up.”

    “No,” she said, frowning. “She’ll expect me to bawl.”

    Lash took a deep breath and went out. Downstairs a red-eyed Trottie True was sitting on the sofa with her husband’s sturdy arm round her. “Go up, dear.”

    “Aunty Lash,” she faltered, “luh-last time shuh-she said—”

    “Never mind that. Go up. And cry all you like, she’s barely shed a tear since the funeral and it’s starting to really scare us.”

    Nodding, Trottie True vanished.

    “Said she was a watering-pot,” said Captain Quarmby-Vine.

    “I know,” she said heavily, sitting down. “Julia isn’t herself. If Trottie True can get her to cry it’ll be a good thing.”

    “Of course. If I ring will that Polly of yours come? Or even if I shout?” he added wryly.

    “No. Last time I looked she was bawling into the oven—Cookie told her to clean it as a measure of desperation.”

    He got up. “Then I’ll fetch you a cup of tea. Fancy a drop of rum in it?”

    Lash blinked. “Wuh-well, yes! Thank you, Charles.”

    Nodding, the Captain went out.

    Lash sank back into her seat, conscious of a strong wish that he could be here all the time. But unfortunately Julia seemed to have taken against him.

    She sat up with a gasp. “What—”

    “Sorry, lovey,” said Aunty Bouncer. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

    Lash looked about her in astonishment. “Did I drop off? Where are they?”

    The old lady sat down with a sigh and removed her best black bonnet. “Trottie True and Charles?”

    “Yes. I made her go up to Julia, thought she might manage to get her to cry.”

    “She done that, all right. Floods, thank the Lord! Charles has druv over to collect Ned from school—just in case.”

    Lash sagged. “Thank Heavens! Though God knows Gwendolyn Mountjoy asks for it, but he’s getting too old to hit girls.”

    “Right. Added to which Ma Mountjoy might stop offering me and Jicksy nice rides in ’er carriage,” she noted drily.

    “Oh, of course,” she realised, more or less waking up properly. “Where did she take you?”

    “Old Woffington’s. ’Is tea tastes like soap. But ’e sent a real nice message to Julia.”

    “Mm. Well, if Trottie True’s managed to make her bawl at last she may—I don’t say appreciate it. Be prepared to listen to it,” said Lash with a wan smile.

    Aunty Bouncer patted her hand. “Mm. Fancy a cup of tea with a drop in it?”

    “Uh—didn’t I just have— Well, why not?” conceded Lash.

    Ordering her to sit where she was, Aunty Bouncer trotted out.

    Lash sagged in her seat. She’d been terribly worried about the old aunties but, though of course shocked and upset, they seemed to be taking Joe’s death in their stride! While she herself felt completely drained.

    “Mr Waters,” she reported. “Just to leave cards and express his sympathy.”

    “Who?” replied Julia dully.

    Lash bit her lip. “Mrs Rossiter’s connection. The man whom we met at her dinner party, Julia. Um, retired merchant, settled in a big house over near the Castle?”

    “Oh—the dark man for whom you couldn’t care. Very thoughtful,” said Julia dully.

    “Mm. He spoke very kindly.” She inspected Julia’s teacup. “I’ll make you a fresh cup.”

    “Didn’t I just have a cup?” she said in a vague voice.

    “No, you forgot to drink it,” said Lash, going out quickly with the cup.

    Aunty Bouncer came into the front parlour looking cautious. “Know who might’ve left two brace o’ fat pigeons on the front step?”

    Lash dropped her work in dismay. “Not Ned?”

    “Can’t of, Captain Cutlass and Mr Smith saw ’im to school this morning.”

    She sagged. “Oh, yes! Well, um, not off-hand, no. Mr Trickett?”

    Mrs Peters sniffed slightly. “Depends if they’re paid-for ones. Dunno as I’d put much past that Smith. Or Captain Cutlass, in a mood. Well, they’re safely in the kitchen. And don’t worry, they’re not white pouters,” she said on an airy note, going out.

    Lash just sagged where she sat, unable to raise a smile. Mr Abercrombie raised white pouter pigeons. And he had sent such a beautiful wreath: it would have been too dreadful if—

    Julia roused on the big bed, blinking. “Oh—it’s you.”

    “Sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb you,” said Lash. “Um, well, since you’re awake— Miss Henderson’s called again.”

    “Is she here now?” said Julia in frank horror, shrinking back against her pillows.

    “Well, yes. She’s been very kind, Julia, I could hardly send her packing.”

    A tear trickled down Julia’s cheek.

    “It’s all right, you don’t have to see her,” said Lash, going out quickly.

    Mr Rattle touched his forelock. “’Morning, Mrs Yates. Just a couple of bunnies. Thought you could be doin’ with them.”

    Lash eyed the sack cautiously. At least it wasn’t moving, so they probably weren’t out of someone’s back yard. “That’s very kind, Mr Rattle. Er, where did you get them?”

    Mr Rattle looked virtuous. “See, I was pulling me lobster pots, only I didn’t get only one. So I stopped orf for a few oysters. And I bumped into a feller what ’ad just shot these bunnies, and ’e said as it were a fair swap, two bunnies for a lobster, so I told ’im to get orf and ’e better watch ’is step or Lord Stamforth’d ’ave ’im up before the magistrate! So the cheeky feller ups and says, ’ang on ’alf a mo’, ’e’ll nip over to the woods and shoot a pheasant!”

    Lash looked in horror at the sack.

    “No, it were a joke, Mrs Yates, yer can’t get up to the woods from the rocks!” the old sailor reminded her quickly.

    “Oh, no.”

    “So I swapped ’im the oysters for the bunnies and sold the lobster to Ma Cox’s cook for a really good price! What yer could of ’ad it, only one lobster don’t go far.”

    “No; but Cookie will be able to make a delicious rabbit stew of these: thank you so much for thinking of us, Mr Rattle!”

    “Ah. ’T’ain’t nothing, Mrs Yates, deary.” Handing her the sack, Mr Rattle touched his forelock again and prepared to depart.

    “Wait,” said Lash, swallowing. “Do you—um, do you know anything about some pigeons that were left here a couple of days back?”

    “Not me, Mrs Yates. Were a clutch o’ pigeon-fanciers down the market, last Fridee, mind. Well, could of been almost anyone. Very popular in the town, Mr Formby were, and everyone loves Mrs Formby.” And with that he was off.

    Lash thought she caught a murmur of “Fine figger of a woman,” as he headed for the corner of Old Short Street. She closed the door, smiling mistily.

    “Bunnies from Mr Rattle,” she said to Cookie in the kitchen.

    Cookie looked in the sack and gave a gasp of pure horror.

    “Don’t tell me he let that man give him a pheasant after all—”

    “No! ’Ares!” she wailed, tipping them onto the kitchen table.

    Lash gulped. Mr Rattle’s “bunnies” were two fine hares.

    “Transportation,” croaked Nunky Ben.

    Well, quite! Once for each corpse, quite probably!

    “’Ares did oughta be ’ung,” croaked Cookie.

    “In our kitchen? Are you mad? Shove them in a pot with a bottle of that wine Cousin John brought!” replied Lash with feeling.

    “Well, um, like Mary an’ Ada them overnight?”

    “They’d be very much safer in our stomachs overnight, but I suppose so. And let’s do it now, shall we?”

    Cookie needed no further prompting: she was already getting the skinning knife out. “They did oughta cook up good with that red wine of Mr John’s,” she admitted.

    Their eyes met. “Yes!” agreed Lash with a guilty laugh.

    “Julia, dear, it’s Miss Pickles: it’s the second time she’s call—”

    Julia sat up hurriedly. “Why didn’t you say? I’ll come down!”

    Numbly Lash followed in her wake as she hurried downstairs to the little dried-up spinster drawing teacher. If only she’d known that Miss Pickles would be the miracle that would get Julia downstairs at last, she’d have fetched her herself, days since! In a golden chariot.

    “I’m just going to see Mrs Lumley,” said Captain Cutlass in an airy voice, sliding towards the door.

    Lash bounced up. “No, you don’t! Sit right back down here!”

    Looking wary, Captain Cutlass sat down at the kitchen table.

    “What do you know about those pigeons that appeared on our front doorstep some days back?”

    “They tasted good.”

    Nunky Ben sniggered.

    “Give me a straight answer, Captain Cutlass!” snapped Lash.

    “It wasn’t me. Or Mr Smith. Or Mr Rattle. I honestly don't know, Aunty Lash.”

    “Get out,” said Lash with a sigh.

    “Um, I’ll stay if you need me, of course.”

    “Not unless you can cope with Ma Mountjoy or Lady Cox sitting in our front parlour being gracious,” she sighed. She took a look at the girl’s face. “No, it’s all right, dear, you go.”

    Gratefully Captain Cutlass vanished.

    “See?” said Nunky Ben.

    “Mm. Smith could have done it behind her back, mind you.”

    “Or Rattle,” he said fairly.

    ”Mm.”

    “Or that Poulter,” said the old man slowly.

    They looked at each other.

    “That is a thought,” admitted Lash.

    “Aye…”

    Victoria sat down wanly at the kitchen table. “Dearest Cousin Julia has gone upstairs to take a little rest. She is not herself at all,” she said in a tiny voice.

    Recognising this sentiment as well meant and the voice as entirely genuine, Great-Aunty Bouncer replied kindly: “It’s not to be expected yet, deary.”

    She nodded hard, sniffing, and produced a damp handkerchief.

    “Julia was bad that Christmas we lost little Jimmy, too,” noted Great-Nunky Ben.

    “Will you for Pete’s sake shut yer great mouth!” snapped Great-Aunty Bouncer, as Victoria looked at him in surprise.

    “The babe that come between Niners and Captain Cutlass, Victoria, dear,” explained Great-Aunty Jicksy with a sigh. “Sickly, he was, poor mite, and died afore he was one year old.”

    Victoria blew her nose hard. “It’s all so sad. How I wish there was something I could do!”

    The company looked at her gratefully but could not immediately think of anything little Miss Victoria could do to ease things for the family at Number 10 New Short Street.

    After a while Cookie, having freshened everyone’s teacups, sat down at the table next Victoria with a heavy sigh and offered: “Ned’s been misbe’aving.”

    Victoria bit her lip. “I think that is understandable, Mrs Dove.”

    “Yes, well, at first he was real quiet and good—shocked out of ’is seven wits, poor little lad. Only, well, Mrs Lash ain’t by no means over it—no reason she should be, ’er and Mr Joe was always close—and it’s a bit much for ’im.”

    “Should I suggest that we have him at home?” she said eagerly. “He would have Roger and Joey for company!”

    Mrs Dove looked uneasily at the kitchen clock but it assured her the boys were not yet due back from school. “Could make it worse—might feel we didn’t want ’im.”

    The company sighed and agreed.

    “Oh, dear,” murmured Victoria. “Mayhap he—he just needs some attention?”

    “’E got that all right from my right ’and,” admitted Mr Huggins on a sour note. “Playing up. Let that dawg get on ’is aunty’s dining table, if yer please!”

    “Right. And stole some jam out of my pantry and swore blind it were Micky Trickett! It weren’t: it was all over ’is shirt-cuff, the little devil,” added Cookie grimly.

    “Mrs Dove, that’s shocking! Stealing is bad enough, but lying and accusing his little friend?”

    “What we thought. Got Little Joe to belt ’im for that lot,” she noted with grim satisfaction.

    “Of course it was deserved, but is corporal punishment the answer?” ventured Victoria.

    “Made us feel better,” noted Great-Aunty Bouncer drily.

    “Poor boy: it sounds as if he has been very naughty,” concluded Victoria thoughtfully, “but shall we try what some attention will do? There must be something he would like to do. Great-Nunky Ben, you were a lad once, what do you think might appeal?”

    Mr Huggins gaped at her, his mind forming the words: “Get into mischief.”

    “If he were a girl, I’d take him shopping,” offered Victoria.

    The company gulped. Then Mrs Huggins admitted: “Maybe he wouldn’t say no if you were to take him to Mrs Glory’s, Victoria. Mind you, he won’t want to be washed and brushed within an inch of his life for it.”

    “Oh, pooh! What do rumpled clothes and untidy hair signify at a time like this?” cried Victoria strongly. “I shall do it! –And I think,” she added to herself, “that I had best explain privily to Roger and Joey why I am doing it.”

    Oddly, this remark reduced Bouncer to silence but Jicksy nodded her little becapped head and said brightly: “Right! Good idea!”

    When Ned and his little cousins got home—minus Micky Trickett, Ned was in bad odour with him since the episode of the jam lie—Victoria allowed them suitable refreshment and then, having inspected the hands, led them into the front parlour for the reading with the stern remark: “Ned must choose the story. Do not argue, please, Roger. In the first place, it is Ned’s house, and in the second place, it is because I say so.”

    As the kitchen door closed behind them there was complete silence.

    Eventually Victoria’s Great-Aunty Jicksy offered: “’Tis funny what a crisis in the family‘ll do, aye.”

    “I wouldn’t have recognised her,” admitted her Great-Aunty Bouncer.

    “No. Still wearing a fancy ’at, though,” noted her Great-Nunky Ben.

    “Fancy ’at! The girl’s been in black since the day it ’appened, and you shut yer mouth, Ben ’Uggins!” cried Cookie loudly.

    It was fancy, if black, but Mr Huggins perceived there were tears in Mrs Dove’s eyes, and shut his mouth.

    Cookie sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes but managed a glare. “She’s come on amazing, and don’t nobody dare to argify the point!”

    Nobody had been going to, really, but certainly none of them would have dared. And in fact they all agreed meekly that Victoria had.

    Lady Stamforth sat in the front parlour in a wonderful outfit of palest grey, which none of the Formbys had the mental energy to catalogue as a piece of supreme tact, and sipped tea in silence. Finally Julia made some desperate remark and her Ladyship replied calmly: “Dearest Mrs Formby, there ees no need for polite conversation. I have lost two husbands and I know what eet’s like.”

    “Thank you,” said Julia limply.

    “I found eet helped during the day to keep busy, but other than that—” She shrugged.

    “I am trying to keep busy,” said Julia limply, “but people keep doing things for me…”

    “They mean to be kind, but they keep inviting her out, too. Just for drives and so forth, but it doesn’t help,” said Lash grimly. “One has to make conversation as they do it, you see.”

    “Even Lady Cox came, and was so kind…” said Julia dully.

    “But of course!” cried Nan warmly.

    “And Ma Mountjoy… Oh, well,” said Julia tiredly.

    “Yes. The visit to Miss Watchett was all right, though, I thought,” admitted Lash.

    Julia smiled faintly. “Mm. Trottie True reported that she was upset that she couldn’t call, as she’s laid up with a bad foot, so we went to her.”

    “Yes,” agreed Lash. “She made us sit down by the fire, and allowed me to make a pot of tea, and then did not say a single word while we drank it. Then she said there was nothing she could say or do that would help but she was mentioning us in her prayers, and that there was mercy even for the ungodly. And that we didn’t have to stay but if we liked we could sit a bit. So we did sit a bit, and she nodded off, and we just crept away.”

    “She is very religious, Lady Stamforth,” murmured Mouse.

    “Yes. That sounds vairy soothing.” She got up. “Come along, girls.”

    “It wasn’t a hint,” said Julia lamely.

    “No, but one does not need visitors at a time like this. We are not vairy religious, but we are thinking of you and your family, dear Mrs Formby.”

    “Every day,” put in Rita hoarsely, her big black eyes full of tears.

    Mina took her hand and squeezed it hard. “Yes. And—well, I think it will not hurt to tell you this, Mrs Formby: Poulter brought Jack over to the market last week, and she insisted on going down to see the lifeboat, and when they got there, threw a stone at it.”

    Julia smiled shakily. “Dear little girl.” She blew her nose hard. “I feel like throwing a stone myself!” she added fiercely.

    “Vairy natural. Come along!” said Lady Stamforth briskly, shepherding the girls out.

    Lash watched anxiously as Julia collapsed into her seat and blew her nose again.

    “I’m all right,” she said, sniffing.

    Lash nodded grimly, and did not speak for fear she would burst out bawling and set Julia off. But later she found herself wondering if perhaps the stone-throwing remark was a good sign, for of course as well as the grief, Julia must be feeling a lot of bottled-up anger, and at least she had expressed a little of it at last.

    “Just a moment Mouse,” she said as Mouse was about to slide out the front door. “Come into the front parlour.”

    Looking wary, Mouse followed her aunt into the parlour.

    “When did you last see Mr Poulter?”

    “Um, if it’s about the pigeons, Aunty Lash— Um, when Lady Stamforth called: he was up behind. He—he just sat in the kitchen with Cookie, I think. I didn’t talk to him,” she said in a small voice. “I—I don’t know any more than Captain Cutlass does. And—and truly, is it worth worrying over? It must have been someone who—who remembers Pa fondly,” she said, her lips trembling.

    “All right, dear,” said Lash with a sigh. “But you might just mention to assorted Poulters and Rattles that unattributed livestock appearing on our front doorstep, though the spirit of the thing is appreciated, is more a worry than a blessing.”

    “Mm,” agreed Mouse. “May I go?”

    “Well, yes. I may not handle unexpected cheeses or pigeons too well, to say nothing of bunnies that turn out to be poached game, but I can cope with the Ma Mountjoys and Lady Coxes better than you girls can.”

    “Mm. We do appreciate it, Aunty Lash,” said Mouse in a tiny, tiny voice.

    Lash swallowed a sigh. “Yes. Run along, dear.”

    Lash opened the front door and recoiled at the sight of a horridly familiar, pallid, purse-lipped, plump, self-satisfied face. It opened what Nunky Ben, all too appositely, referred to it as its cake-hole, but she pre-empted whatever oily remark it had been about to produce.

    “Mr Skellett, please go away. My sister-in-law does not require your hypocritical words of comfort, nor your heavy hints about her fruit-cakes. In fact your last visit, if you have forgotten it, reduced her to tears!”

    “My dear Mrs Yates, I assure you that any poor words of comfort I may have attempted to speak to dear Mrs Formby were offered with the utmost sincer—”

    “Balderdash!” cried Lash angrily. “Go away!”

    “Pray let me assure you, dear Mrs—”

    “Go AWAY!” shouted Lash, angry tears springing to her eyes.

    “Yes: go away, sir; unless you’d like me to darken your daylights for you?” added a quiet, deep voice.

    Lash turned with a gasp. “Where did you spring from?”

    “Old Short Street,” replied Commander Henderson literally, lowering his burden to the ground. “Shall I punch him for you, ma’am?”

    “Nuh—uh— He’s a vicar!” gulped Lash. “You wouldn’t hit a vicar, would you?”

    “With the greatest pleasure in the world,” replied the Commander coolly, making a fist and looking thoughtfully at the Reverend Mr Skellett.

    “Sir! Have you no respect for the cloth?” he cried, turning puce.

    “Not much for the office, no, and none at all for the man. Go away, sir! I think Mrs Yates has made it clear that Mrs Formby does not require your ministry or your ministrations?”

    “You are insulting, sir! I am here about the arrangements for the headstone!” he cried.

    “Oh, glory!” gulped Lash.

    “Shall I not hit him, then?” asked the Commander sadly.

    “N— Well, I should not object, but he has a legitimate— But you cannot possibly bother my sister-in-law about the arrangements, Mr Skellett! And it’s no use talking to me, I was married in your horrid church, but it was a nice old vicar back then—both times, come to think of it—but I cannot fix up the arrangements, whatever they might be! And if it’s just about the money,” said Lash, suddenly turning very red, “I certainly haven’t got any; in fact I couldn’t even give my son a penny for a bun! You will have to speak to my nephew.”

    “But Mrs Y—”

    “Go!” snapped Commander Henderson.

    Mr Skellett gave a sketchy bow, uttered: “I assure you, you misjudge me, Mrs Yates! But much—nay, everything—must be forgiven the bereaved at a time like this! Good-day!” And took himself off as fast as his skinny legs would take him.

    “I generally accompany my aunt to church—not to do so would hurt her feelings,” said Commander Henderson calmly, “and the fellow’s sermons are the most self-serving pieces of sanctimonious hypocrisy it has ever been my privilege to sit through!”

    “Yes, he’s like that,” said Lash limply.

    “Please,” he said, bowing and holding out his hand.

    Lash looked at him numbly. In the hand lay a penny.

    “For a bun for your little boy,” he said.

    “Oh!” cried Lash loudly, bursting into snorting sobs.

    Commander Henderson did not recoil or retreat: he simply picked up his bundle and propelled her sobbing form inside, where he forced her gently onto the sofa.

    Lash sobbed for some time. “Sorry!” she gasped at last.

    The Commander had pulled up a chair near the sofa. “Don’t apologise. It’s all come down on you, has it?”

    “I suppose so. It’s natural enough, no-one wants to bother Julia. And the girls are—are very shocked and—and too young.”

    “Mm.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t cry. Are you in want?”

    “What?” said Lash dazedly, rubbing her cheeks with the back of her hand.

    “Take mine,” he said, handing her a flag-like handkerchief. “You said you had no money. Are you in want?”

    “Um—oh! I only meant me,” said Lash blowing, her nose hard. “It’s very kind of you to ask—and not to do it with any circumlocutions, either,” she said, staring at him.

    “That’s better!” he said encouragingly. “Now you sound more like yourself!”

    “Do I? said Lash feebly. “Um, well, of course the family is not in want, sir. The business has always done very well.”

    “I’m glad to hear it. And yourself?”

    “You do not let go once you have hold of a thing, do you?” she realised numbly.

    “I am not in the habit of it, no, ma’am,” said the Commander sedately.

    She swallowed. “No. Um, it’s just that I’m not very good with money and Ned’s grown right out of the breeches he had for John-John’s wedding, so I bought some fabric. But I didn’t realise until too late that that was the last of my allowance.”

    There was a little pause.

    “From your brother?” said Commander Henderson quietly.

    “Mm.”

    Commander Henderson passed a hand over his thick, still very black hair. “And your nephew is not continuing it?”

    “I don’t think he realises,” said Lash in a tiny voice. “Of—of course I shall ask him, but it—it does not seem quite the time.”

    He got up. “I’ll speak to your nephew.”

    Lash went very red. “No! He’s got enough on his plate, and it’s nothing—”

    “Mrs Yates, your not being able to buy your little boy a bun is not nothing. You must not fall into the habit of putting yourself last.“

    “I duh-don’t!” she stuttered.

    “I think perhaps you do. Er— It’s not quite the moment, but this is for you,” he said, indicating his bundle.

    Lash blew her nose. “What on earth is it?”

    “A pair of lobsters. I’ve been out with old Rattle. Though don’t let it get back to Hartshorne: the poor chap will suffer agonies of jealousy!” he said with a sudden laugh.

    “Yuh— Um, no. You went out lifting lobster pots with Mr Rattle?” she croaked.

    “Yes; it was great fun. Rattle proposed getting a few good uns, we set the pots t’other day, and this morning we went out and got ’em!” he said, grinning that very masculine grin.

    Lash blinked, turned red, and looked away. “Um—yes!” she said disjointedly. “Um—we are all very fond of lobster. So that’s why you’re here?”

    “Yes, largely. And I thought you might care for news from Wardle Heights farmhouse.”

    “Are John-John and Mary both all right?” she said sharply.

    “Yes: very well, extremely happy, and looking forward tremendously to the baby!” he said with a smile. “And Mary has learnt to make an apple pie which he swears is as good as your Cookie’s!”

    “Er—yes,” said Lash feebly, with a hunted look at the door. “Well that’s a lie, nothing could be, but I’m glad to hear it. Thank you for the lobsters and—and everything.”

    “Not at all. I’ll bid you good-day, then, Mrs Yates,” he said, bowing. He was out of the room before Lash could even reply.

    Some fifteen minutes later, when Mrs Dove came to report the tea was brewed, if she fancied it, Lash was face-down on the sofa sobbing into Julia’s best cushions.

    “Oh, Lordy!” Cookie sat down beside her, and patted her back. “That’s right, lovey, you ’ave yer cry out!”

    Lash gasped out something incoherent about it being just stupid, and to ignore her, but Cookie just sat there patting her back and making soothing noises. Though rather surprised to notice there was a sack on Mrs Julia’s rug what was moving.

     “Seeing as how,” said Little Joe that evening with a silly look on his face, “I’ve just had a right Royal Naval strip torn off me by Commander Henderson in person, you’d better take this right now.”

    “Oh, my God!” gasped Lash. “I thought I told him not to!”

    “It’d take a Nelson to tell him not to!” he said with feeling. “Come on, Aunty Lash. With my sincere apologies. And never be so silly as to let it happen again!” he added rather loudly.

    “Thank you,” said Lash feebly. “I didn’t want to bother you. And, um well, Joe was my brother. And you are feeding and housing us.”

    “Yes, well, I’m your nephew,” he said mildly. “Come on, give us a hug.”

    They had a hug, both managing not to bawl, though it was close-run thing.

    “I didn’t mean to tell him,” admitted Lash.

    “You don’t need to explain. Dare say an oyster’d open up if he so much as looked at it.”

    “Or shrink away in fright— Little Joe!” she gasped. “You should have been here! It was wonderful! He settled Skellett’s hash!” Forthwith she poured it all out, and Little Joe collapsed in helpless splutters.

    After which they both felt so much better that the Reverend Skellett’s call in New Short Street might have been said to have done some good, after all.

    “I just popped een to say goodbye,” said Lady Stamforth, “as Lewis and I are off to London tomorrow.”

    “That is very kind,” replied Julia feebly, wondering limply why her Ladyship had apparently thought fit to bring with her today not the two young ladies but a small, bent, dark and frankly ugly figure, in amazing gauze draperies under what appeared to be a heavy blanket—for it was scarcely a shawl, and not a cape, either. Only Captain Cutlass was keeping her company in the parlour today, so she was about to say that Lash and the other girls would be so sorry to have missed her Ladyship, but Lady Stamforth rushed on:

    “But I just thought that as the heathen pies went down so vairy well, I would bring some more, and our dear Rani Ayah, who made them!”

    Julia looked dazedly at the dark little figure, who giggled and pulled a piece of her gauzy, um, head-dress? veil? over her face. “How do you do, Runnyire?” she said carefully.

    “Eet ees two words: Rani Ayah,” said Lady Stamforth.

    “Of course: she is Rita’s ayah!” realised Captain Cutlass. “Hullo, Rani Ayah! It’s so nice to meet you!”

    This elicited more giggles and a curious praying gesture of the hands from the ayah, and from her Ladyship: “The rhythms of the Indian languages are so foreign to English ears that we have never met anyone here who could pronounce her name, have we, Rani Ayah?”

    Giggling, the woman produced: “Urqhart Begum, Nanni Memsahib.”

    “Of course Urqhart Begum, she was India memsahib, we do not count that, where ees your weets, woman?” she cried loudly. Giggling, the servant drew the gauze further over her face. “I’m so sorry: was that Greek?” added her Ladyship, looking at Julia’s expression.

    “Indian, at all events,” said Captain Cutlass drily.

    “My dear, there are hundreds of Indian languages. Eet was Hindoostanee, eef anything. A begum ees a well-born lady, often used of a widow—eet’s also used as a term of address, you see—and a memsahib ees an English lady.”

    “So what are you?” replied Captain Cutlass drily.

    “Captain Cutlass!” gasped her mother, turning puce.

    “No, no, dear Mrs Formby!” said her Ladyship with a laugh. “Well, I am a courtesy memsahib, being half-English only, you see, and when she says Nanni, she means me.”

    “Nunny,” said Captain Cutlass dubiously. “Oh, I see! That’s her version of Nan?”

    Her Ladyship nodded happily, what time Julia croaked: “It is certainly an odd language. Millicent’s Major Miller told us some words, too, but I don’t know that I can remember them… Oh, yes! Chai, chai means tea, please!” she remembered.

    To her horror the old serving-woman got up and, bowing low and again making her praying gesture, agreed: “Chai, Formby Begum! Rani will getting nice cup of chai for memsahibs in moorghee-khana.” But Lady Stamforth addressed a pithy remark to her and she subsided: not back onto her chair, but onto the rug at her Ladyship’s feet.

    “That does not eendicate submission: eet ees natural to her to sit like that,” said her Ladyship calmly. “And I have told her not to call your front parlour a moorghee-khana! She was weeth dear John, my first husband, too long!”

    “You have to tell us, now,” said Captain Cutlass, grinning,

    “Moorghee-khana is a vairy popular expression een British India for a sitting-room used by ladies.” Her Ladyship’s dark eyes twinkled. “Khana ees one of the words for room, and moorghee means hen!”

    Julia and Captain Cutlass both collapsed in splutters.

    Lash and the aunties returned from a shopping expedition in time for the tea and to catch the end of it. “What on earth did she come for?” wondered Lash after her Ladyship’s carriage had clattered away. “Merely to say goodbye, when she’ll be back in a few weeks?”

    “I thought…” Julia broke off, and they all looked at her enquiringly. “Well, one intention was to cheer us up, I think,” she admitted. “The funny old servant had us in stitches—and if someone does not tell me very soon what an ayah is, I shall probably throw a conniption!”

    “Sorry, Ma, I thought you knew,” said Captain Cutlass with a sheepish grin. “It’s an Indian nurse. Children born in India have an ayah as their personal nursemaid and in the case of the girls they often stay with them and become their maids. Rita’s had Rani all her life.”

    “Finally! Thank you! Well, that brings me to what I was going to say. It struck me that she came to tell us that the girls would not be going up to town for the Season this year, after all,” said Julia slowly.

    “I expect she wanted to make sure they have some company and are not stuck up at the castle with Miss Gump day in, day out,” said Captain Cutlass comfortably.

    “I was sure that she’d decided that even though they dislike London the girls should have their chance to be exposed to all its Pinks. Oh, well, I dare say they’ve talked her round.”

    “You could be right, Julia. Either that or her crafty Ladyship’s decided to give ’em the time to find out how real boring it is stuck down here while your step-ma or sister’s up in town going to parties,” noted Aunty Bouncer at her driest.

    “That’ll be it!” squeaked Aunty Jicksy ecstatically. “Cunning as a waggonload of monkeys, that one! ’Ere, did yer notice them furs? Sables, or I’m a Dutchman!”

    Smiling, the company agreed that Great-Aunty Jicksy was definitely not a Dutchman. And no-one remarked that Great-Nunky Ben had come as far as the doorway, listened to the discussion and gone away with a very dry expression on his wrinkled old face.

    Since he had had the intelligence in the first place from Mr Rattle, it was to that worthy that he imparted his ruminations. And also to Mr Smith, since he happened to be there at the time.

    “Ah,” said Mr Rattle thoughtfully.

    “You’re assuming,” noted Sir Harry, “that her Ladyship knows that Little Joe and Miss Rita are keen on each other.”

    Mr Rattle scratched his chin. “That’s right, Ben, you are.”

    “She’s been in place of the girl’s ma for years, don’t tell me she ain’t realised!” replied the old man strongly.

    “In that case,” said Sir Harry slowly, “the woman either came down to apprise Mrs Formby that the girls would be around the place this spring because she wishes to further the thing, or she’s playing some damned deep game of her own.”

    They thought it over.

    “Wants Miss Rita to see that us plain folks don’t live no fancy life like what they do up to the castle,” concluded Mr Huggins sourly. “And that Little Joe’s a working man what spends ’is waking hours in a leather apron covered in ink.”

    Mr Rattle spat. “Ah. I’d say yer not wrong.”

    They looked at Mr Smith but he just shrugged and agreed: “Aye.”

    “I—I thought,” said Mouse in a very small voice, as her mother burst into sobs and had to be taken upstairs on the presentation by the well-meaning Mr Rattle of a large eel that might do for her foreign fish soup, “that she was beginning to get over it.”

    “Yes: she was laughing her head off when Lady Stamforth brought their Rani Ayah to visit,” agreed Captain Cutlass lamely.

    “It don’t work like that,” said Great-Aunty Bouncer grimly. “Yer don’t never get over something like that.”

    Great-Aunty Jicksy looked at the girls’ faces. “Thing is, after a while it don’t ’urt so bad for so long at a time, but it takes time. She’ll have ups and downs for a good while, yet. And—well, you’re too young to understand, dearies. Anything might set ’er orf. Even at our age, still comes back to yer at odd times what you’ve lost, don’t it, Bouncer?”

    Mrs Peters sighed. “Aye. Well, that’s life, I s’pose.”

    Mouse was nearly in tears, and poor Mr Rattle, to say truth, did not look much better. Captain Cutlass put an arm round her sister and said: “It’s all right, Mr Rattle. It was a kind thought, but—but Pa was very fond of that soup… In any case, it’s not your fault.”

    “Did I oughta take it back?” he croaked.

    “Aye: get the blamed thing out o’ the house,” ordered Mrs Peters grimly.

    Looking very crestfallen, Mr Rattle gathered up his eel and departed with it.

    Two hours later Micky Trickett, ostensibly home with a cold, knocked thunderously on the door of Number 10 New Short Street, screaming: “Come quick! Mrs Lumley’s ’ouse is on fire!”

    Forthwith the household rushed outside—with the exception of Julia, who was still laid down on her bed—and down to Number 3. Sure enough, smoke was pouring forth from the open doors and windows.

    “Fetch the fire brigade!” screamed Master Trickett, jumping.

    “Buckets!” shouted Nunky Ben, more practically.

    He and Captain Cutlass were about to dash off in search of buckets when a coughing Mrs Lumley and a coughing Mr Smith staggered out of the front door.

    “Not—on fire!” gasped Mrs Lumley.

    “Mrs Lumley, are you all right?” cried Mouse.

    “Yes!” she gasped, coughing. “Smoking!”

    Self-evidently, it was smoking, but the valiant Mrs Peters asked: “Is the chimney blocked?”

    “No!” she gasped.

    “Then where the blazes is all that smoke coming from?” snapped Mr Huggins.

    “Eel,” said Sir Harry weakly. He broke down in another coughing fit.

    “Thought ’e could—smoke it!” gasped Mrs Lumley. “Ruinated—me oven!”

    “Open the dampers, woman!” snapped Mrs Peters.

    “Done that!” she gasped.

    –It was fast becoming apparent that some of the audience were vastly disappointed that Mrs Lumley’s house was not on fire, and in fact Master Trickett at this point cried shrilly: “Yer mean there ain’t no fire?” Captain Cutlass sniggered and put her hand over her mouth.

    “No,” said Sir Harry weakly, coughing. “My fault. Thought I could smoke an eel.”

    “What eel?” asked Captain Cutlass in a very weak voice.

    “Rattle gave it us.”

    Captain Cutlass gave a screech and collapsed in spluttering hysterics.

    “Had delicious smoked eel in Holland—” began Sir Harry.

    “Don’t!” she gasped.

    Forthwith Mouse also broke down in hysterical laughter.

    “Aye,” concluded Mrs Peters, grinning in spite of herself. “Well, if yer sure it’s only smoke, you better come back with us and we’ll have a pot o’ tea—acos that house ain’t going to be habitable for some time,” she noted drily. “And ’ere, I tell you what,” she said as the company, shamefacedly in the case of those from Number 3, began to make its way to the Formbys’: “Next time that that Rattle offers you an eel, make sure yer looks it in the mouth!”

    Forthwith she, Jicksy and Ben all joined Captain Cutlass and Mouse in their paroxysms.

    “Gift-horse,” said Sir Harry glumly to his landlady.

    “Got that,” agreed Mrs Lumley. “Oh, well: good to see they can laugh again, hey?”

    It certainly was—in especial, in his opinion, in the case of Captain Cutlass, who had been looking very white and strained; and Sir Harry offered his arm in the most courtly manner imaginable to escort his landlady into Number 10.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/mouse-and-literary-gentleman.html