Re-Enter Bingley

29

Re-Enter Bingley

    It was a stifling September day: more than a week had already gone by since Niners’s wedding but the season was not nearly yet one of mists and mellow fruitfulness, in fact the phrase “Indian Summer” was being bandied about and the old aunties had actually consented to get out of stuffy New Short Street and stay with Julia and Evan Waters for a while.

    Mouse leaned heavily on her counter, reflecting that virtue must certainly be its own reward, for working hard in the shop, visiting the odd-bodies conscientiously with Trottie True and Rita, letting Rita help her in the shop and biting her tongue not to tell her it was no use fixing her hopes on Little Joe, for the gap between Formby & Son, Jobbing Printers, and Stamforth Castle was too wide, and contrariwise, not to tell Little Joe it might be best if they simply asked the girl not to visit, for nothing could come of it, had most certainly had no other reward. Unless you counted the baskets of strange viands with which Rani Ayah was favouring the Formby household and the printers. The sujee cakes were acknowledged to be nice enough, and the heathen pies had pretty generally been accepted as food, though not by the elderly Biddles, but some of the other things—! Little Joe had scorched his mouth and gullet on what appeared to be an innocuous mutton stew, Aunty Bouncer, admittedly in a bad mood that day, had unwisely insisted on trying what looked like an innocent mess of greens and ended up with a stomach ache, recourse to the peppermint mixture and a much worse mood—small wonder she had been happy to go off to Camperdown—and poor little Ned had been caught out by the bright yellow cauliflower pickle. And, as Cookie had remarked crossly, there was no second guessing ’em, for that was a brown one and a green one and a yellow one what was all ’ot as ’Ell!

    Today had, admittedly, been one of the worst so far. Abercrombie and Piper-Fiennes both? It lacked but Stottle! They had not transferred their affections from Trottie True to herself, but that did not mean, alas, they were any easier to bear. Mr Abercrombie had become very lugubrious. It was hard to know what to say to an elderly gentleman who removes his hat, leans on your counter, sighs, and remarks lugubriously: “Good morning, Miss Marianne, my dear. Though as for good—stifling, hey? Indian summer, what? Mrs Quarmby-Vine well? –Aye, aye.”—Another sigh.—“Glad to hear it.”

    Piper-Fiennes, apparently well over the shock of his mother’s sad condition, was horribly affable. And appeared to think himself almost in loco parentis to the younger Formby girls! He came in a little after noon, bowed and removed the hat, slapped the crop against the leg and remarked: “Lookin’ well, Miss Marianne! You h’ought to get over to us, me dear! Miss Calpurnia would love to ’ave you, and m’mother would be pleased, and it might not be h’impossible to find a nice young fellow or two for a little dinner party, neither!”

    The printers were very busy, so this afternoon Mouse hadn’t gone with Trottie True and Rita. They were not due back yet but she looked up hopefully as the shop bell tinkled.

    Oh, no! Stottle in person! The plump little man had gradually started coming back once his routing by a sturdy naval gentleman had worn off and it had dawned that with Trottie True having been removed permanently from the shop by the said naval gentleman there was little danger of the episode’s being repeated.

    “Good afternoon, my dear Miss Marianne! In as good health as you are looks, I trust?”

    Mouse produced a weak: “Good afternoon. I am very well, thank you, sir,” wondering if she would be reduced either to being very rude or to calling to Mr Biddle or Little Joe.

    “And may I venture to enquire after your dear mamma and sisters?”

    “They are very well, thank you, sir,” replied Mouse on a grim note.

    “Splendid! Now, I wonder if my cards be ready? But of course there is not the least hurry in the world!”

    They were, thank goodness. She plonked the parcel down in front of him and waited for the inevitable. Sure enough, there came the coy leer and the money was held up temptingly—

    “OY!” said a very angry male voice. “Haven’t you learned sense yet? Take the cards, leave the money and get out, and take your damned custom with you!”

    Very red, Mr Stottle placed the money on the counter, grabbed his cards and vanished.

    “Wasn’t that a bit rough on the pathetic creature?” said Mouse limply to her brother.

    “Rough? If he shows his nose in here again you’ll see what rough is! And why didn’t you call us?” replied Little Joe angrily.

    “Because he’s pathetic,” said Mouse limply.

    “Huh!” He turned to go, but thought better of it. “Let me see who else has been in today.” He consulted the books. “All right, Mouse, you’d better tell me exactly what Piper-Fiennes said and did.”

    “Nothing. He was entirely feeble—fatherly, if anything—and said his mother would be pleased if I called, if you must know.”

    Her brother was observed to gulp. “Doubt if she’d recognise you, Mouse.”

    “Exactly. Feeble. And so is Stottle. And, um, I really do think you might think twice before alienating the customers, Little Joe. Stottle is not without influence in the town.”

    “I don’t care if—” Little Joe took a deep breath. “He can say what he likes, anybody with daughters in their family knows what he is: he won’t be believed.”

    “No, well, that’s probably true,” said Mouse, looking at him sympathetically.

    Frowning, Little Joe strode out.

    “Oh, dear,” said Mouse under her breath. She resumed leaning on her counter, having looked wistfully at the shop’s clock and ascertained that it was rather too early for Trottie True to drop Rita off or for Mr Poulter and Rani Ayah to turn up to collect her. Unless the clock was slow; it wouldn’t be the first time Little Joe had forgotten to wind and check it.

    Twenty minutes or so passed uneventfully and then Mr Biddle appeared with a pile of gluing for her. “Thank goodness!” said Mouse with feeling. “I cannot support doing nothing!”

    “No,” agreed the old man. “Me and Mother’s the same. But catch that daft Tom Kettle or young Ronny Banks looking for work! Now, do it nice and neat, me dear, don’t try to rush it: gluing don’t like rushing.”

    “No, I know,” she replied, seizing the brush eagerly.

    Mr Biddle watched for a few moments to see she was doing it correctly, nodded, and vanished again.

    Spine gluing, of the sort that Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague had been made to do, was a tedious and fiddly task, not to say one which tended to cover one in glue, but this was lining-paper gluing. Front lining-papers, what was more! Positively the accolade, to be trusted with front lining-papers by Mr Biddle! Perching on her high stool, Mouse bent to the task, the tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth.

    When the shop bell tinkled she looked up with a start.

    The door was held open and with a muffled giggle Rani Ayah appeared, holding what Mouse now knew was a piece of her saree, not a veil, half over her face as usual.

    “Good gracious, Rani Ayah!” she cried, beaming at the elderly figure. “How smart you look today! Is that a new saree? It’s lovely!”

    More giggles, the saree was allowed to reveal the face, and the ayah, holding her hands in her customary prayer-like gesture and bowing, returned happily: “Most lovely new saree, is being too goods for Rani Ayah!”

    “Of course it is not, and I am sure Mr Poulter would agree with me!” said Mouse kindly. “Come in, Mr Poulter!” she called loudly.

    “Not Poulter today, Missy Mouse baba, is Mr Dicky baba!” replied the ayah proudly.

    At this a tall figure that was most certainly not Mr Poulter’s appeared in the doorway, removed its hat, bowed and agreed: “Yes, Dicky baba is Poulter’s poor deputy today, Miss Marianne. May I come in?”

    Mouse had turned bright red. “Yuh-yes, of course, Mr Baldaya!” she gasped. What on earth was he doing here? And letting the old servant call him “Dicky baba?” Hadn’t that been expressly forbidden? She was sure it had: both Poulter and Mr Bobby had mentioned it to her.

    “Mr Dicky baba is giving Rani and Sita most beautiful sarees,” explained Rani.

    “What? Yes, it’s lovely, Rani,” said Mouse distractedly. It was a heavy  silk with a gold-embroidered edging: far finer quality than anything she had seen either of the ayahs wearing before. “So—so Sita has one, too? That was very kind of you, sir.”

    Richard Baldaya made a wry face. “Well, no; it cost me nothing, Miss Marianne. I don’t know if you know that I’ve been living in my sister Daphne’s late mother-in-law’s house? She lived in India for many years and the house is still bursting with her silks, many of which are shades which Daphne doesn’t care for, or Nan either. So I thought of the ayahs and Daphne begged me to take the lot. No merit accrues to me, you see.”

    “I think a little must, sir,” said Mouse shakily, “if it was you that thought of them.”

    “Aye,” said Richard ruefully: “I missed them. Not as grown up as I imagined I was, y’see.”

    At this Rani burst into speech.

    “Yes,” said Richard when she’d run down. “Bus, Rani! –The gist of that, Miss Marianne, was that, apart from my English school—you might have noticed the syllables ‘billayatee’, that is ‘English’—”

    “I thought it was something to drink,” replied Mouse dazedly.

    “Er—oh!” he said with a weak laugh. “No! ‘Billayatee panee’ is used for soda water: English water, you see! Though literally ‘billayatee’ means ‘of the kingdom.’ –I’m sorry, maundering on! Rani was pointing out that apart from my English school I had never lived away from home and the family before.”

    “I see. She does understand quite a lot of English. Very good English, Rani Ayah!” said Mouse encouragingly. Though scarce knowing what she was saying: it was such a tremendous shock to see him again and to find him so—so affable! Even more so than he had been that first time they met, outside the curiosity shop. Whereas the second time, at the market, he’d been so cold and unapproachable!

    Giggling, Rani bowed again and pulled the saree over her face a little, uttering something which did seem to contain the syllables “billayatee”, yes.

    “She quite agrees,” said Richard in a prim voice.

    Mouse smiled weakly.

    “May I see what you are working on?” he asked politely.

    “What? Oh! Yes, of course— Oh, help, I’ve left one half-finished!” she gasped.

    Richard watched with a smile in his eyes as the little square hands carefully applied glue and pressed the paper down on the cover. “I see: gluing in the lining papers.”

    “Yes, the front ones. It’s a slow process: one has to leave the books open to dry, you see, and then do the back covers. Um, I’m afraid the glue is rather smelly,” said Mouse, going red.

    “Miss Marianne, to two old India hands such as Rani and I,” said Richard with a laugh, “that is not a smell!” He spoke to Rani in her own language and the ayah threw up her hands and made a tremendous speech in reply.

    Richard looked prim. “She quite agr—”

    “Don’t,” said Mouse weakly.

    “No, but she does! And we both perceive that there is very much more to making a book than we had hitherto supposed.”

    “Um, yes. Um, you can really speak her language,” she said feebly.

    “Say, rather, I can limp along in one of the three Indian languages which Rani speaks well. That’s something else I missed,” he said, with another rueful face.

    “I see. Um, but didn’t your sister’s mother-in-law have Indian servants?”

    “Mm, but there was only the gardener and his family left, and they don’t speak that language. The elderly butler and the older footmen were pensioned off, and Daphne and Tim took over the younger footmen and the very old ayah—not intending to make the dear old creature work, but merely to ensure she was well looked after, the consequence of this well-meaning gesture being mayhem in the nursery, as I think you may imagine! Two of the footmen now live hereabouts, in fact.”

    “Yes, of course. I know them: Mr Murty and Mr Veekay,” replied Mouse innocently. “They’ve got Mr Hartshorne’s house. It’s a little hard to ensure they eat well, because of course they are vegetarians and will not touch our food, not even a cake.”

    “It would be impure to them, but they would appreciate the offer,” said Richard kindly. “Er—Murty and Veekay, did you say?”

    “Yes: the former is almost like an Irish name, is it not?”

    “Yes,” he agreed in a strangled voice.

    “Go on, laugh; I suppose we have it wrong,” said Mouse resignedly. “Rita calls them something else, but I thought that was just because she can speak their language.”

    “Er—well, no, she can’t, much: they come from a different part of India entirely; it is a very large country. Rani speaks it a little, however. She worked in that area before— Um, I mean,” said Richard on a lame note, “before she came to us. But Amrita only knows a few phrases.”

    “I see.” Mouse looked at him doubtfully. “So the family still calls her Ummry-tar?”

    His eyes twinkled. “Amrita—yes. I know it’s impossible for feringhee tongues!”

    Rani burst into speech again.

    “Yes, indeed, Rani,” he agreed solemnly. “We country-born, y’see, Miss Marianne, grew up with the Indian languages. It is the rhythms of English which are foreign to us.”

    “Pooh!” retorted Mouse forcefully. “Your English is better than mine!”

    Richard looked wry. “Winchester. They were ready to beat it into me, I admit, but I was such a horrid little snob that they didn’t have to. No, well, looking back, it was not entirely snobbery, I suppose,” he said with a tiny sigh. “It was Mina’s late papa who sent me there: it was his old school. He was a very decent fellow; one might say, your typical country squire type, but in the case you are imagining a sort of Squire Weston,”—Mouse blinked as it dawned that Rita’s brother was not wholly unlettered—“he was no such thing. He enjoyed country pursuits—in fact he died in a hunting accident—but he was an intelligent fellow, quite widely read, with an interest in art and music. I greatly admired him—I was about thirteen, and I suppose at an impressionable age, but there was nothing not to admire about dear Hugo—and so determined to model myself on him. I think his death reinforced the decision,” he said with a grimace. “Certainly at that stage there was no other older male in my life on whom I could model myself, except for my brother Dom. He is a year younger than Nan, and a much gentler, less hearty personality than Hugo. In fact I once overheard Hugo saying he had the earmarks of having been brought up by a houseful of women and he intended to take him about with him and see he got plenty of hunting and shooting! I loved him, but I was too young to appreciate his good qualities or to wish to emulate him.” He scratched his long jaw, looking rueful. “By the time Nan married Lewis I was already set to become the complete English country bore. Or boor, if you like,” he said with a little shrug. “And Winchester certainly did its best to reinforce that in me.”

    “I see,” said Mouse faintly. “So—so you were born in India, then, Mr Baldaya? I assumed that you were born in England.”

    “No, no: none of us was born in England, Miss Marianne! Nan and Dom were born in Portugal, and then our parents went out to India.”

    “Yes, Dicky baba is being country-born,” agreed Rani happily. “Also Daphne baba.”

    Mouse nodded. “Yes, I see, Rani. And of course Ummry-tar baba as well.”

    “Yes,” said Richard hastily as the ayah opened her mouth. “Of course Amrita baba is country-born, Rani.”

    Mouse watched doubtfully as the ayah brought her hands together, bowed very low half a dozen times, sank to her knees and patted Mr Baldaya’s feet. “What was it?” she ventured.

    “Bus, Rani!” he said loudly. “Get up, don’t be silly!” He added something in the ayah’s language, possibly repeating his remark. “Er—nothing, Miss Marianne,” he said, passing his hand over his face. “Ignore her. We all do!” he added with a forced laugh.

    Mouse looked dubiously at Rani. She’d bowed again and pulled the saree right over her face but at least she wasn’t kneeling any more. “Um, yes. Um, sometimes Rita shouts at her.”

    “Of course! One learns to do so from one’s earliest childhood!” he said gaily.

    “Yes, that’s what she said,” admitted Mouse on a weak note.

    Then silence fell.

    Richard cleared his throat. “If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother in the middle of his working day, I wonder if I might speak to your brother?”

    Oh, help: had he come to—to warn Little Joe off Rita, or some such? Mouse looked up at him in dismay.

    “Um, not if he’s too busy,” said Richard lamely.

    “There is a big job on,” she said in a trembling voice. “But if—if it is about Rita, I can assure you that Lady Stamforth has given her permission for her to come here but—but that Little Joe would never presume on the—on the strength of that.” She swallowed.

    Richard’s handsome jaw had sagged. “I— No,” he said feebly. “By God, the old creature was right after all! And damned Nan— She swore it was no such thing!”

    “Will—will she be cross?” faltered Mouse.

    He looked down at the sweet little heart-shaped face and said quickly: “No, of course she won’t be cross; I didn’t mean to imply that at all! I am not here about that, but I think we had best get it straight between us, mm? Rani told me that your brother very much admires Amrita and that she reciprocates, which is why she does not wish to encourage your cousin Johnny Formby. Nan, on the other hand, informed me that it was all in Rani’s imagination, the which I now perceive was a deliberate lie.”

    Mouse gulped. “Captain Cutlass duh-did once say that she was a devious puh-person who would say anything to achieve her ends and had no real grasp of the word ‘truth’; and Aunty Bouncer agreed with her. I—I’m sorry if that seems rude,” she ended lamely.

    Richard Baldaya snorted—sounding, to her confusion, very like Aunty Bouncer herself! “It ain’t rude, Miss Marianne, it’s entirely accurate! They’ll be the shrewd ones of the family, hey?”

    “Um, yes. Aunty Bouncer is, certainly.”

    “Aye. Well, Nan is as cunning as a waggonload of monkeys, and I must admit I’ve wondered for years how Lewis puts up with her. There’s no doubt she’s encouraged Amrita’s visits because she wants to foster the thing.”

    “Yes,” said Mouse in a tiny voice, tears starting to her eyes. “I see. Then of course you—you must warn Lord Stamforth without delay.”

    “It’s useless,” he said wryly.  “He knows what she is. In fact he knew it when he married her.”

    “No, I meant about Rita,” she faltered.

    “Oh! I beg your pardon. I shall speak to Lewis: he does have a right to know, as he is her guardian. But I do not think he will be as opposed to the idea as you seem to assume.”

    Mouse had gone very red again but she looked him firmly in the eye and said: “It’s kind of you to say so, but pray do not pretend that the gap between our family and yours is anything but an unbridgeable one.”

    Richard was now also rather flushed. “Is that how you feel?”

    “Yes, of course,” she said stiffly.

    He looked down at the determined expression on that sweet little heart-shaped face and smiled just a little. “I see. Perhaps Mina and Amrita haven’t told you much about our family background, Miss Marianne, if you didn’t realise that none of us was born in England. It’s a long story and not a creditable one. Our mother was from a family of respectable English gentlefolk, and ruined herself, and incidentally her sisters’ and cousins’ chances of achieving respectable matches, by eloping with our Portuguese father at a time when he was married to a Portuguese lady.”—That delightful little pointed jaw, he noted with some satisfaction, had now sagged.—“Mm,” he said drily. “The unfortunate Portuguese lady then died, of a broken heart, it was claimed by all who knew them, thus enabling Papa to marry Mamma about a month before Nan was born. Very naturally this did not go far towards sweetening the pill for the respectable Portuguese minor gentry amongst whom he was used to move, and he resigned his small country property to a cousin and moved the family lock, stock and barrel to India when Dom was a baby. There he was very lucky to meet a Senhor Garvão and a Mr Edwards who needed another business partner, and find his niche in trade. Unfortunately our mother didn’t settle so well. –True, the life of a Portuguese merchant’s wife is not an exciting one,” he said drily. “And perhaps the excitement of the first elopement had given her a taste for it—who knows? At all events she ran off a second time. This time going even further beyond the pale: the lover was not even a yaller Portugee, but an Indian princeling—very minor: a prince over there is about as common as a baron is here,” he added quickly. “Poor Papa chased after her but was never seen or heard of again. As you can imagine, the Portuguese bourgeoisie amongst whom we were living were ready to shun us all, but Mr Edwards and Senhor Garvão—and, indeed Senhora Garvão, to give her her due—came to our rescue, and we ended up living with Mr Edwards, whom we called Uncle John. And whom Nan eventually married, as by the time she was sixteen the Portuguese cats had begun to say it was not fitting she was living under his bachelor roof and she was going to turn out just like her mother, and Senhora Garvão was getting ready to counter that by shipping her off to Macao to marry a half-Chinese cousin.”

    He watched with a certain satisfaction as Miss Marianne gulped. “You see? The disgraced half-English offspring of a runaway marriage were not desirable matches for the sons and daughters of the good merchants of Portuguese India. And that’s the Baldayas for you.”

    After some time Mouse managed: “One should not visit the sins of the parents upon the children, sir.”

    “No, but everyone does. Even Hugo— Well, he never referred to the matter, or made us feel it. But I have to admit that his marriage to Nan was his second, and he already had an heir, who had ensured the succession by producing a male grandchild for him,” he added very drily indeed. “And as you know, Nan is very, very pretty.”

    Mouse swallowed.

    “Lewis is different, but then, he is an unique man,” said Viscount Stamforth’s brother-in-law firmly.

    “Yes, um, her Ladyship told Aunty Lash a story about how he killed a wicked young prince in a duel in the Peninsula,” she croaked.

    “Over a serving wench’s honour: exactly.”

    “Mm. But I don’t think that that, um, closes the gap between New Short Street and Stamforth Castle.”

    “No, in fact it puts the boot on the other foot entirely! The Baldayas are not Vanes, and if Nan weren’t married to Lewis I doubt there’s a family in England that’d let us set foot over their threshold, whatever their walk of life! Don’t tell me your relatives would find the child of a Portuguese seducer and a light woman who ran off with two different men an acceptable match!” cried Richard loudly.

    “No, they damn’ well wouldn’t, sir,” said a grim voice from the bindery doorway. Little Joe came up to his sister’s side, scowling. “And just who did you have in mind for the rôle? Yourself, perchance?”

    “Don’t be silly!” cried Mouse, very flushed. “We were taking about Rita!”

    “Then don’t,” he said shortly.

    “No, I shan’t, I assure you,” said Richard quickly. “I am not here on her account at all. I collect you are Mr Formby?”

    “Um, yes, sir,” said Mouse in a small voice. “This is Mr Baldaya, Little Joe.”

    Little Joe glared at him. “I guessed that. Though ain’t there two?”

    “Yes. I am Richard Baldaya, the younger of Lady Stamforth’s brothers, Mr Formby,” said Richard politely.

    “The one what went off to be a country gent in Wiltshire, then.”

    “Yes. And has since learnt his lesson,” said Richard lightly.

    “Meaning what?” replied Mouse’s brother suspiciously.

    “Largely, that the life of country gent is a damned boring and useless one and that the genteel life immured in one’s library or wandering over one’s preserves with a shot-gun don’t have all that much appeal when you’ve grown up in a harum-scarum household filled with family and servants, not to say brats, babies and nurses and just hangers-on!”

    Little Joe’s mouth twitched reluctantly. “And pug-dogs, presumably.”

    “No, well, I didn’t miss them! But I missed the old ayahs—yes, you, Rani Ayah,” he said as the motionless heap under the saree twitched slightly—“and the opportunity, believe me or believe me not, to jabber a language other than English. If I cried ‘Bhai!’ and clapped my hands or ordered a chota peg with billayatee panee there was no hope of anyone’s understanding me save the little old Indian gardener, and even with him I could exchange only half a dozen words. –He comes from the east and I grew up on the western coast.” He shrugged. “Think of trying to speak English to an Icelander and you’d more or less have the idea. The two languages might have had something in common a thousand years back. And I thought I would not miss speaking Portuguese at all, until I found myself stranded in the wilds of the English countryside!”

    “I see. You missed your family,” said Little Joe slowly.

    “Very much, yes,” replied Richard steadily. “But it was much more than that. I—er—had time to revise my foolish ideas considerably. And not only about wishing to be a country gent.”

    “Uh-huh. But is there much else open to a viscount’s brother-in-law?” asked the sturdy printer on a dry note.

    “In this case, I’m very glad to say, yes. There is a property not all that far from the castle—I don’t know if you know that area at all: it is the next one north from Home Farm—where the farmer wishes to take his retirement, and as he has no sons who would like to take over from him, the place is available. It is mainly arable farming: cereals.”

    “That’s a working farm,” said Little Joe numbly, looking at the visitor’s expensive greatcoat with its several capes and his glossy, nay Creation, boots.

    “Exactly. At The Towers I had only a couple of house cows, a few pigs and a flourishing poultry yard, but I found I was spending more and more time pestering the local farmers for their tips: raising animals don’t appeal so much, but I developed a great interest in arable farming and feel a lot could be done to improve both the methods and the crops.”

    “I see. Wasn’t faute de mieux, was it?” replied the jobbing printer shrewdly.

    Richard Baldaya had, truth to tell, taken the burly young man in his shirt sleeves for little more than a handsome clodhopper. Now he blinked, as it hit home that Miss Marianne was not the only one with brains and an education in the Formby family. “My brother-in-law said that, too: Lewis is a very shrewd fellow! But I honestly don’t think so. I look back upon that affected young gent who looked down his nose at pleasant Luís Ainsley’s simple enjoyment of your local market that day we met you with your mother, Miss Marianne, and ask myself how it could possibly have been me,” he said, grimacing. “Though I’m not denying it was. I don’t know if you know that Nan was very much opposed to my going off to live at The Towers but Lewis supported me? I have come to the conclusion that he’d decided to give me time to grow up. I hope I have done so, a little.”

    “Aye, well, time will tell,” conceded Little Joe. “Takes some fellows years to find out what they really want, I’m not denying it. So what is your business today, Mr Baldaya?”

    “Oh, Lor’: maundering on again: I’m so sorry! A family trait, alas: Nan and Dom are both unstoppable! I’m here about Nan’s India memoirs. I know that some work was done on them a while back and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were to admit you thought you’d never see the suggested commission, but in fact when I was at The Towers I became so desperate for something to do in the evenings that I started to jot down my own, very childish impressions of India: under such headings as ‘Monkeys’ and ‘Festivals’, y’know!” he said with his easy laugh. “And in short, we have decided to combine forces and finish the volume. I do have the first four chapters here, if you would like to see them. –Rani Ayah!” he said loudly. “Give Mr Formby sahib the bookee chitty! –Manuscript, to you,” he added courteously to the Formbys.

    Bowing deeply and avoiding eye contact with all concerned, Rani produced a bundle of manuscript from within the recesses of her draperies and handed it to Mr Formby.

    “I see: Our India Days, By a Brother & Sister of Portuguese India,” he said feebly.

    “Aye: we thought the more exotic touch might sell a few extra copies! But in any case Nan insists on defraying all the costs: we are not asking you to publish it for us, Mr Formby. She is also very keen to include some illustrations: our father was quite a fine artist, and we wondered if you can recommend an engraver?”

    “Aye, I can, a very good man, but that will bump the costs up considerably, Mr Baldaya.”

    Richard just nodded.

    “Well, so long as you realise it won’t be cheap. Um, haven’t brought us a sample of the pictures, have you?”

    “Just a very small one,” said Richard with a smile, feeling in the pocket of his greatcoat. “They are about our only souvenir of our Papa, so we are very careful with them. This is a little sketch that we have had framed.” He held it out, smiling a little.

    “Oh!” cried Mouse. “It’s an elephant!”

    “Indeed. The picture commemorates a day of great excitement,” said Richard solemnly, “upon which one of the firm’s wealthy Indian contacts came to call at the house with an huge train of bearers and his private elephant. If you look closely you will see four small faces peering out from within the howdah on its back: that’s Nan, Dom, Daphne and me! One of the greatest treats of my young life!”

    “Howdah; so that’s what it’s called,” said Little Joe with interest.

    “Er—yes; I m sorry, I don’t know another word for it!” realised Richard.

    “Palanquin, perhaps?” he suggested.

    “It was certainly grand enough to fit the word! The sketches are mostly of this type: ink or pencil with watercolours. Would they be reproducible as engravings?”

    “Of course!” said Little Joe on an eager note. “Your father was a fine draughtsman, sir!”

    “Yes, we think so. To our great regret it skipped our generation, but Nan’s little Peterkin loves drawing already!”

    “Yes, Rita was telling me. But I thought you had your own elephants, Mr Baldaya?” said Mouse.

    “Yes, but— Chup, Rani! Bus!” he said as the ayah burst into agitated speech. Or it seemed agitated: Mouse looked at her dubiously. Last time she’d got this excited she’d merely been trying to give Rita the details of a receet for Cookie. “That was much later, when Amrita was about four or five, and we were living with Uncle John. She was devoted to the creatures, and in fact has already suggested that this picture should form the frontispiece to the book!”

    “I’d choose it, too!” Mouse agreed.

    Richard smiled at her. “I wouldn’t mind, but Nan prefers a horridly sentimental little study of four deliciously pretty, dark-eyed children sitting with their Indian nurse and their pet monkey in a great hammock. All curls, frills, muslins, ribands and scattered flowers. –As I was a damn’ plain brat, one can only presume it was artistic licence. Or paternal partiality, mayhap! I must have been two, I think: I don’t remember the portrait’s being taken at all, but Nan swears she does, and of course Sita Ayah recalls the occasion in every detail!”

    “I wouldn’t have it if it leaves Rita out,” said Mouse doubtfully.

    “Er—no. Well, we don’t have many of her. –Yes, Rani, that’s enough! Bus!”

    Rani subsided within her draperies, muttering.

    Little Joe was glancing through the manuscript. “‘At Home with Ayah, Or, Rotees for Chota Huzzree’: I’d put the portrait in this chapter, I think, and use the elephant as the frontispiece.”

    “Well, yes, but then you will see that the third chapter is called ‘The Virtues of a Private Elephant!’” said Richard with a chuckle.

    “Ooh!” said Mouse, peering over her brother’s shoulder. “Turn over, Little Joe!”

    “No, hang on, I’m reading this… ‘As children, though we did not consciously differentiate between the Indian religions, or even wonder that different people had different religions, we nonetheless recognised that mali would not eat with us and ayah when we took chota huzzree in the cool of the morning on the verandah because his beliefs did not permit him to, and that when naughty little Dicky touched his bowl the poor man had to break it, because it had become impure. Ayah, however, being of quite a different religion, would happily break a rotee with us and sop up curds and curried egg, a favourite breakfast with the baba-log, from the joint bowl—only not if Mamma should happen by, of course! But food apart, mali was our devoted slave, picking the choicest blooms if Daphne baba or the chota senhores should loftily demand them, though he must have known that aiding us to despoil the garden would incur Mamma’s wrath. Similarly big Dev, our Uncle John’s major-domo or khitmagar, and a real power in the house, would happily carry a spoilt little Dicky or Amrita baba on his broad shoulders for hours, pretending to be a horse, a camel or an elephant as the games required…’ I say, it sounds if you weren’t half indulged!”

    “Mm. All the servants spoilt us disgracefully. The perils of an Indian childhood,” said Richard wryly.

    “He speaks as the boy who was always given the spoon to lick when Cookie made a cake,’ noted Mouse, eying her brother drily.

    “Aye, well, rewards of being the oldest son!” said Little Joe with a laugh. “Now, let’s see about these elephants!”

    Richard watched with a rather twisted smile as the Formby brother and sister looked eagerly through the chapter that he and Nan, after extensive revision of the formal style preferred by Mr Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, had called “The Virtues of a Private Elephant”. Although there was quite a lot more about their childish amusements in it, most of it in fact was about the flourishing business affairs of Mr Edwards, Senhor Garvão and Senhor Baldaya, all of whom by the time the younger Baldaya children came along could well have afforded a couple of private elephants. He was not entirely surprised when young Mr Formby concluded: “Very interesting. You maintain your style well, sir, combining the viewpoint of the merchant’s children with a more adult realisation of the realities of the life. I think it should sell rather well.”

    “Yes, indeed!” cried Mouse, her eyes shining. “It’s so much better than that volume of reminiscences that Pa bound: do you recall it, Little Joe? By a lady who went out to India by way of Egypt. Full of potentates.”

    “Oh, aye: the one where you could scarce tell where she was, except if she might have bothered to mention the potentate’s name, and even then it was often a guess! Well, four chapters is a good start, Mr Baldaya. But I have to say it, that don’t make a book. What are you planning for the succeeding chapters?”

    “There will be one about the bazaar and the life of the people, and one—we think next to it, for contrast—about the Portuguese ladies at home; and as we went up to Bombay and spent a little time there before catching the boat to England, Nan thought perhaps a chapter on that. But as her experiences there were so like those of her adult years with the good Portuguese ladies, we were not sure that it would make an entire chapter. And Daphne, Amrita and I were relegated, alas, to the nursery—Daphne most insulted, for she was sixteen by then—where, never mind the strict instructions from the kind English memsahib who was our hostess, we discovered the ayah to be just as horridly over-indulgent as our own!”

    “I think English people would like to hear about it,” decided Mouse.

    “Well, yes, that was Nan’s feeling, so I said she could write it, as if it were left to me I might be rather rude! But before we get that far—the narrative is designed to be roughly chronological, in order to give the book a structure—we shall definitely have a chapter on holy days—er, festivals, we’ve already had an argument over which expression to use!—and another on holidays. The English from Delhi and Calcutta of course go up to the foothills of the Himalayas in the very hot weather, and although our geographical situation was different, a relatively short journey—a few days by elephant—did take us to much higher ground where the weather was cooler. The mountains are called the Western Ghats,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “though I think there are not many people in England who would recognise the name. It is extraordinary country and Papa made some fine sketches of it. We visited many temples and palaces, too, so I think that chapter should have enough in it to be of interest.”

    “Sounds good,” said Little Joe, nodding. “That’s five more, by my count. Um, what about your schooling? Or was it just a governess at home?”

    “Uh—no. We were not sure it would be of sufficient interest. We attended the local schools run by the Portuguese for their children, and as Portugal is a Catholic country, they were run by nuns, for the little ones and the girls, and by monks for the older boys. –São João das Lampas School,” he said with a tiny sigh. “The poor brothers thought they were so strict; they had not a notion of half the mischief we got up to!”

    The Formbys were goggling at him. After a moment Little Joe croaked: “I don’t know why you thought it wouldn’t be of sufficient interest, Mr Baldaya!”

    “No, indeed: to us it seems so exotic!” agreed Mouse.

    “Oh,” said Richard, blinking a little. “Well, in that case we shall include it. Though if the, er, the trimmings, so to speak, were exotic, I don’t think our experiences were fundamentally different from any English schoolchild’s.”

    “It’s the trimmings that’ll sell the book, sir,” said Little Joe firmly. “Any more like that? What about religion?”

    “Er—well, it was rather a sore point in our parents’ home, at least to hear Nan tell it. Papa had been brought up as a Roman Catholic but Mamma, though one could not say she was a religious woman, of course was a Protestant, and did not particularly wish us to attend the Catholic church or schools. Then, later, with Uncle John, he was next thing to an atheist, though lacking the formal education to back it up, but nevertheless had no objection to our attending school with all the other children, or the Catholic church—Daphne in particular went through an extremely pious stage. But I don’t know that I’d say Roman Catholicism was the chief religious influence in our lives, though it was the chief formal one. For one thing, Prema, Uncle John’s housekeeper, who oversaw us all for nearly ten years, was a Buddhist, who eventually went home to her village to become a Buddhist nun. Whereas Rani Ayah is a Hindoo: admittedly not a strict one, but any meat dish with which she may have favoured your family will not have been prepared by her, but by Sita Ayah. She was Nan’s own ayah and has been with us for all of my lifetime: she is a Parsee. It was originally a Persian religion but there is quite a community of them living in or near Bombay. Prema and the ayahs took us quite regularly to their temples when we were little, and told us the stories associated with their beliefs. Those are the main religions of the area in which we grew up, but several of our menservants had been with Uncle John in the northern regions: they were Sikhs or Muslims, different religions again!”

    “Glory,” said Little Joe numbly. “It sounds as if you could write a treatise on comparative religion!”

    “No: had that beat out of me at Winchester,” said Richard Baldaya lightly. “But we can include a chapter describing the various religious practices we experienced, if you think it would sit well in the book. It’s true that religion is so much a part of life out there that it would be hard to avoid it,” he added thoughtfully. “The festivals are all religious days. Though possibly the European eye would not discern anything particularly devout about holee, which is the day where everyone hurls coloured dyes at one another, and greatly anticipated by all the children!” The Formbys were looking very puzzled; he said: “No, truly, holee is one of the great Hindoo holy days.”

    “Holee or holy, Dicky baba!” said a soprano voice from the door with a laugh in it, and they all looked round with a start.

    “Help, did I fall into that trap?” said Richard ruefully as his little sister closed the door and its bell tinkled. “Well, it seems we are both lapsing, because that was creeping up on people if ever I failed to hear it!”

    “Vairy funny,” replied Rita, trying not to laugh. “Merely, I deed not shove the door.”

    “The thing is,” began Richard, “poor Uncle John was merely helping himself to a quiet chota peg when—”

    “Chup! Bus!” said Rita with a giggle. “No creeping was eenvolved!”

    “The result was, whisky and sofa all down the front,” said Richard solemnly to the Formbys. “Uncle John was the most even-tempered fellow in the world, but even he was reduced to shouting about creeping up on—”

    “We get it!” said Mouse with a laugh. “So, you are not perfect after all, Rita!”

    “No, I am a tairrible creeper, and also much given to hiding weeth the elephants when eet’s time for lessons!” she smiled. “So, shall you print the book for us, Mr Formby?”

    Little Joe was now rather flushed. “Well, delighted to, Miss Baldaya, if so be as your brother finishes it.”

    “I am sure he weell, for he and Nan have both become vairy keen: letters are passing between the castle and Dom, and the castle and Daphne, and contrariwise between Dom and Daphne, too, at a tremendous rate!”

    Rani Ayah possibly felt that this statement needed ratifying: at any rate she burst into a speech in which both Formbys thought they discerned the word “chitty” that Mr Baldaya had used earlier.

    “Exactly, Rani,” agreed Richard. “Nanni memsahib had it all wrong, and it was the donkey-cart which belonged to Senhor Fereira, not the tikka-gharree at all, that was involved in the accident with the camel-cart.”

    The Formbys might have been observed to gulp. “I—I thought camels were very tall?” croaked Mouse.

    “Yes. A camel-cart generally has long shafts, but nonetheless travels at quite an angle,” replied Richard, looking prim.

    Alas, at this informative statement, Miss Baldaya collapsed in giggles.

    “It’s perfectly true,” said Richard with a grin.

    “Yes! Their faces!” she gasped.

    “Aye,” replied Little Joe, smiling sheepishly. “I’m sure. Well, it’s all very exotic, ain’t it, Mouse, and I’m sure the book will be a success. Um, don’t want your names on it, I collect?”

    “Well, no,” said Richard, making a face. “Nan thought that people would say it weren’t the done thing if she attached her name to it, and she don’t want ’em to say that Lewis married beneath him—though they do in any case. Let’s say she don’t want ’em to say it more. Of course, everybody who knows us will guess, but that ain’t the same.”

    “That’s very silly,” said Mouse, very flushed. “I mean, not your sister’s scruples, of course, Mr Baldaya!” she added quickly. “Only that people would look down their noses at her for writing a fascinating book!”

    “Way of the world, Miss Marianne,” he said wryly. “Now, we mustn’t take up any more of your time, Mr Formby. I can leave the bookee chitty with you, if you like: it’s a copy, Miss Gump has throw herself into the project and is copying every word we write, sometimes faster than we can write ’em! Though as she’s an old India hand, too, her aid is much appreciated, especially when in my childish ignorance I fail to realise that a word I’ve used all my life is something I picked up from Uncle John and thus not any Indian language at all, but something the English tongues tortured out of an Indian expression!”

    “He thought that ‘bobajee’ was an Indian word for ‘cook’, because Uncle John always used eet,” explained Rita, “but Miss Gump said eet was only used by the English. Nan thought she was wrong, so she wrote to Dom, but he said Miss Gump was right, and that eet’s from the word ‘biwarchee’. Then Nan became vairy cross, because she has used ‘bobabjee-khana’ for ‘cookhouse’ all her life—”

    “Maundering on, Miss Baldaya,” interrupted her brother drily.

    Rita clapped her hand to her mouth. “Help!” she said with a smothered giggle. “How dreadful! I thought eet had skipped me entirely!”

    “According to Uncle John Papa was just as bad, at least in Portuguese,” said Richard wryly, seizing her elbow. “Come along, we mustn’t interrupt their work any further. Delighted to meet you, Mr Formby. Good day, Miss Marianne; I hope we shall meet again very soon. –Come along, Rani Ayah, that’s right.” And, with a certain amount of bowing from the ayah, he managed them out of the shop.

    The two Formbys looked limply at each other.

    After quite some time Little Joe managed to say: “Well, that was informative.”

    Mouse swallowed. “Mm.”

    “Um—best get on with that gluing,” he said on a weak note.

    “Oh, heavens! Yes.” Mouse perched on her stool.

    “If that glue gets too thick it’ll need warming up and thinning,” he warned, disappearing.

    Mouse glued conscientiously, trying to concentrate entirely on the task in hand and not let her brain reflect on anything at all. Not even elephants and holy days and camel-carts.

    Mr Waters rubbed his chin. “Aye, well, I bearded Lord Stamforth is his study. Wouldn’t have done it for no-one but Julia, mind!” he informed the sisters-in-law and the aunties.

    “Rubbish,” said Julia calmly, passing fruit-cake. “There’s nuts in this, Aunty Jicksy,” she warned.

    “Have the sponge instead,” said Mr Waters kindly, passing that plate. “He struck me as a very decent man.”

    “I knew you’d think so,” said Lash in relief.

    “Aye,” he agreed with a smile. “Said that Richard Baldaya was always a sturdy, sensible little lad, with his head screwed on right, and it was only the influence of the snobs at his damned school that had made him think he was better than he was. Got toad-eaten when his big sister became a viscountess, y’see. After having to fight ’em off for calling him a dago, on account of the Portuguese surname, I gathered.”

    “Oh, Heavens, yes: the poor little boy!” cried Julia. “One sees it all!”

    With great difficulty her spouse refrained from winking at her relatives. “Thought you might, mm. Well, at any rate, thinking he was a gent what fancied a life of idleness was only a passing stage, y’see, and his Lordship’s sure he’s grown out of it. Likewise trying to make the old servants that’ve called him ‘Dicky baba’ all his life call him ‘Mr Richard’!” he added with a smothered laugh.

    “I can just see it!” said Julia. “Just like that dreadful time after Niners started with Miss Henderson! She refused to answer unless we called her ‘Elizabeth’ and tried to make poor Cookie and Ellen use ‘Miss Elizabeth’!”

    “Right: Joe had to put his foot down. she made Ellen bawl. Mind you, the girl always was a hen,” noted Bouncer. “A blind man could’ve seen what type that Bert Grigson was.”

    “Ellen worked for us before Polly. Went the same way,” said Jicksy briefly to Mr Waters.

    “Thank you, Aunty!” he replied with a laugh. “Well, what do you think? Let him court our little Mouse?”

    For some strange reason the females of his new family were now all smiling at him.

    “Why not?” said Julia in relief. “If you think he sounds all right, Evan. But it is not to be a hurried thing like Niners’s, mind.”

    Bouncer opened her mouth in astonishment. The man had met the girl two blamed years before he popped the qu— She encountered Lash’s and Jicksy’s glares just in time. “No, right,” she agreed feebly. “I’ll ’ave a bit of that sponge, too, if yer don’t mind, Evan.”

    Twinkling, Mr Waters passed Aunty Bouncer the cake.

Next chapter:

https://thefortunateformbys.blogspot.com/2023/10/further-suits.html