Bleak Expectations (26 page)

‘But why does he persist in persecuting our family?’

‘I do not know. I heard that a friend of Benevolent’s did a similar thing to a woman named Havisham and it drove her insane. Perhaps my refusal to collapse similarly made him angry. Or maybe he needed a family to hate and randomly picked ours from the telegram directory.
⁴
Whatever the reason, it has been a long and complex act of sustained malice.’ She stopped and pointed forwards. ‘Aha! We are nearing the shore!’

Indeed we were: looming ahead of us I could see the great cliffs of Dover, which were much more patriotic back then, being not just white but red and blue as well. Soon Aunt Lily pulled the tuna alongside the dock in the small Kentlesex port of Narrowsteps and I stepped off on to good old English soil once more.

‘I am afraid, dear Pip, that I cannot come with you to thwart Benevolent.’

‘Why not?’ I feared that, without her aid, defeating my evil ex-guardian would be beyond my callow self.

‘I am required on a mission by the Crown.’

‘What mission?’

‘I’m not really meant to say but . . .’ She pulled me close and whispered, ‘We’re going to go and steal a Channel Island and bring it closer to Britain. Such larks, eh, Pip?’

‘And jolly moorhens too, I should imagine, Aunt Lily.’

‘I will return as soon as I can to help you.’ She looked me in the eye and smiled. ‘But I think that now you are a grown man you will not need such help.’

At her words my self-doubt melted away and I felt my chest swell with pride, which ripped my shirt and popped a button off my waistcoat. The button pinged into the dock, striking the tuna on its dorsal fin. It reared up with a startled sea-whinny, then raced off, Aunt Lily barely managing to cling on.

‘Good luck!’ she yelled.

‘And to you!’ I yelled back, and she was gone.

As it turned out, my luck to her helped, for she was a successful part of that great, sneaky British accomplishment the theft of Jernseyark, the largest remaining French Channel Island that was towed across to England and renamed the Isle of Wight.
⁵

And her luck to me helped also, for on my return to London I had the good fortune to— But, no, that is for another chapter, which is coming up . . .

¹
Wilkie Swim (1807–78) spent years perfecting Wilkie-ism or, as we know it, swimming, after witnessing an accident at a party where two men fell into a giant punch-bowl and drowned.

²
Charon was the ferryman who took souls to Hades across the river Styx in Greek mythology. Since the demise of ancient Greek belief systems, he is believed to have worked offering underworld booze-cruises.

³
Probably the now extinct dinghy tuna.

⁴
Forerunner to the telephone directory.

⁵
This is officially the greatest practical joke in history, a gigantic operation involving seven thousand ships, thirty-eight miles of rope and an absolutely enormous spade. It was overseen by legendary secretary of state for pranks and pranking Sir Jeremy de Beadle.

. . . now.

I immediately hired a coach and four to take me to London, though two of the horses had a limp and one of the wheels was square so it was a brutally uncomfortable trip. To make matters worse, halfway there one of the non-limping horses broke free of its harness, thereby making us a coach and three and, directionally imbalanced, we went round and round in a wide, bumpy circle until, mercifully, the driver managed to shoot another of the naughty equines and we could continue in a more direct direction.

On entering London’s hectic streets we came to a halt, along with what seemed to be every other vehicle in the capital. There was a street-sweepers’ strike in progress and consequently the roads were piled high with impassable piles of unswept horse ordure: movement was being prevented by movements, motion by motions. The whole city was one gigantic traffic chutney.
¹

Realizing that walking would be quicker, I paid off the driver, dismounted the carriage and remounted Shanks’s pony, that is to say my feet; and to make the journey home both faster and less blocked by equine faeces, I decided to cut through Indigo Park, part of the newly constructed ring of so-called spectrum parks around inner London.
²

I was barely seven or so steps into the park when it happened.

For there, crossing a path ahead of me, gaily twirling a parasol and giggling lightly, was the most beautiful creature I had ever set eyes on; and when I say creature I do not mean a squirrel, pigeon or other such parkland beast, I mean a woman.

And oh! Such a woman I had never seen!

I instantly fell in love with her perfect mix of beauty, radiance, prettiness, gorgeous-osity, loveliness, allure, tiny kissable nose-iness, elegance, charm and pure good looks.

In the vernacular of the day, she was hot; in Latin she was
puella phwoarissima
; and in comparison with characters from ancient polytheistic societies, she made Aphrodite look a bit of an old munter.

She was a stunner – quite literally, for one perfect glimpse of her and my entire body stopped working and I collapsed on the ground in a smiling, dribbling heap of lovestruckness.

As I lay there, I noticed a gentleman nearby crouched behind some bushes, and as soon as the power of speech returned to me I asked if he knew who this goddess was.

‘Why, sir, the whole of London knows who she is! For she is noted beauty Miss Flora Dies-Early. And I am definitely not hiding behind these bushes to spy on her.’ I had thought no such thing, but as he continued, his voice a rising crescendo of defensiveness, I began to think exactly such a thing. ‘Nor am I using these binoculars to look more closely at her. And this notebook I am carrying is certainly not full of obsessively logged details of her every waking moment together with various lewd yet imaginative drawings. How dare you accuse me of such behaviour, sir?’

With that, he stalked haughtily off. And I suspect my use of the word ‘stalked’ is more than apposite. But at least I now had the name that was to live in my heart, and, as I lay in my lovestruck state, I whispered it to myself over and over.

‘Flora Dies-Early . . . Flora Dies-Early . . . Flora Dies— Ow!’ This last syllable emerged as a large man tripped clumsily over my still prone body.

‘Sorry, old chap, didn’t see you down there.’

I was about to get incredibly cross with the galumphing oaf, but suddenly realized I had recognized his voice. ‘Harry? Harry Biscuit, is that you?’ I asked, for the careless heffalump was indeed my best friend.

‘Pip Bin! What a joy!’ he exclaimed in reply.

‘Dear Harry, how glad I am to see you, old chum!’

‘Not as glad as I am to see you, I wager.’

‘Well, I am very glad to see you, Harry.’

‘Then I am . . . a lot very glad to see you much.’

Now that the amount of gladness all round had been established, I offered him my hand and he helped me to my still love-wobbly feet.

‘So, how are you, Pip Bin?’

‘Tremendously well, thank you, Harry. For I am in love!’ As I said the words my heart skipped giddily and stars of joy swam before my eyes.
³
‘Have you ever been in love, Harry?’

‘No, Pip Bin, I have not. Though I have been in Hove. Is that similar?’

‘Possibly,’ I replied. ‘But love has no pier and fewer old people.’

‘Well, it sounds great, as long as it still has the ice creams and funny seagulls.’
⁴

‘What are you doing in the park, Harry?’

‘Oh, I am taking a walk. Because Mr Benevolent popped round to see Pippa and I thought I should give them a bit of time together.’

‘Harry, no! Have you not learned how evil Mr Benevolent is? He has pledged to seduce her – we must save her!’

‘Oh, ruddy cripes,’ said Harry, his face reddening. ‘What have I done? Pippa!’ he cried, and set off running across the park.

‘Wrong way!’ I yelled after him, starting to run myself, but in the correct direction, namely towards my house, with only one thing on my mind: saving Pippa from Mr Benevolent’s potentially lewd clutches.

¹
The phrase ‘traffic jam’ did not enter common parlance until the twentieth century. Until then people used the phrases ‘traffic chutney’, ‘traffic ketchup’ and ‘traffic-shire sauce’.

²
Most have been built over since the nineteenth century, the only ones left to us being Green Park and the invisible Ultraviolet Park.

³
It seems as if he may have been suffering from a love-related heart condition known as
ding-dongycardia
.

⁴
Seagulls are never funny. They are all terrifying. This is not just personal prejudice because a seagull once attacked me in Aberystwyth when I was younger, it is a true fact of science. Ask Richard Dawkins. About the science. He wasn’t there when I was attacked.

Actually, there were two things on my mind, for I could not forget Miss Flora Dies-Early, and the combination of the two simultaneous mind-thoughts made my face alternate between a soppy look of wistful adoration and one of sister-saving determination as I ran.

But as I approached the large West End townhouse I shared with Pippa and Harry, thoughts of Flora fled and my priority became sister protection as from inside I heard the silken, malevolent tones of my evil ex-guardian.

‘So, Pippa Bin, your brother is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he has abandoned you, maybe even been lost at sea, cast into the oceans by an evil admiral from a ship called HMS
Grrr
. That’s just a for-instance. A guess. You can’t tie me to it.’

Now I had reached the front door – but it was locked. I frantically patted my pockets for my keys as his sinuous tones continued within.

‘No young woman should be left alone, lest saucy and fiendish things happen to her.’

‘But I am protected by true virtue, Mr Benevolent,’ replied my steadfast sister.

He snorted in response. ‘True virtue? Pah! You’d be better off with a pair of lockable metal pants.’

My keys, where were my keys? I could not find them in my pockets and feared they had been lost on my recent adventures. I turned to see Harry approaching, still some distance off, and prayed to Heaven that he had his keys on him.

‘Now, let me woo you.’ Mr Benevolent cleared his throat and began. ‘First of all I have brought you some flowers. I have also written you a letter, which you may find pleasant. And now, look, I am respectfully yet suggestively tipping my hat in your direction.’

With horror, I realized he was using the seductive tricks Aunt Lily had said he had used on her all those years ago. How could my poor, innocent sister resist them?

‘Tell me, Pippa-poo, what do you think of the Corn Laws?’

Now he had combined two more of the tricks, giving her a nickname, though an uninventive slightly scatological one, and asking her womanly opinion; and as Pippa began to answer I could hear him saying, ‘Uh-huh,’ as if he was listening to her and actually caring what she thought. My blood ran cold: all he had to do was be nice to her and surely his seduction would succeed!

Now Harry had arrived and – thank Clortho the keymaster –
¹
he had his keys in his hand. I seized them from him and started to work on the lock, as Mr Benevolent moved to the final stage of his wooing.

‘A valid opinion, well expressed.’

‘Oh, why, thank you . . .’ Pippa giggled. She giggled! At this most evil of men!

This was not good.

‘And may I say what a lovely dress you’re wearing.’

He was being nice to her! The end was nigh. And the lock was proving fiddly. I removed the key and tried again.

‘Now, I have wooed you with sweet words and blandishments so I think I deserve a kiss.’ Through the window I could see him lunge at Pippa with lips pursed; fortunately she stepped out of the way and he ended up kissing the mantelpiece, which blushed.

‘Mr Benevolent! That is no way for a gentleman to behave!’

Bless my morally strong sister, resistant to the wooing that would have seen so many women already kissed, if not fully naked.

‘Oh, come on, just one kiss. Or maybe a touch.’ I could see him advancing on her as the lock finally turned. ‘Let me touch your foot. Or ankle. Or your calf.’

Now a small, frightened moo came from the house.

‘You leave that calf alone!’

Pippa moved protectively to the young orphaned cow she had taken in as part of her charity work for animals, and I at last opened the door and rushed inside.

Pausing for only a minute or so to check the post on the table in the hallway – I had been away a while and you have to keep on top of these things – I at last made it into the drawing room to hear: ‘One day, Pippa Bin, I shall marry you, take your family name and money, then divest you of your virtue and discard you like a bad book or a used hen.’

Until this point, my blood had been running cold; now it inverted its temperature and ran piping hot, like grumpy soup.

‘No! Enough of your malicious and seductive verbiage, Mr Benevolent!’

I quickly interposed myself between my ex-guardian and my sister, who clasped me in sororal relief.

‘Oh, look, it’s Pip Bin. The richest young man in Britain, hurrah for him. Not.’ Mr Benevolent stared at me with his glinting obsidian eyes. ‘And still alive. Which is surprising. And inconvenient.’

‘Get out of my house, Mr Benevolent.’

‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘Still no.’

‘Damn! Then we have a stalemate.’

And as we stood there, eyeing each other beadily, like jealous crows, it seemed as if we did indeed have such a situation. But I had reckoned without Harry, who burst into the room, his face purple with rage, like an angry grape.

‘Get away from Pippa, you fiend! Or I shall attack you both violently and with violence!’