The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (12 page)

And to make matters worse, wasn’t Symington a notorious homosexual? Hadn’t he been associated with the Brockington Club and the Boothington Boys, and everyone about town knew where all that horrid debacle had ended up; not only in the law courts but finally out on Dumpington Heath in the morning mists when young Worsley’s father shot dead both Brockington and Boothington, one after the other, in a duel at dawn.

Rupert Robertson was day-dreaming of Captain Worsley sending a shot through the temple of Simon Symington when he arrived at the premises of Achington, Takington and Backscratch, where he had an appointment with the clerk, Mr Stitch.

So it was, with a heart wounded with betrayal and a head buzzing with ludicrous dreams of vengeance, that he entered the accountants and was drawn back to reality by the tinkling of the tedious little bell, that seemed to sound so long, and so loud, that it had been deliberately calculated to irritate. The place smelt, as it usually did, of musty ledgers, ink and boredom. Ducking into the main office, and keeping his head beneath the low beams that had often caught him, Mr Robertson began to feel the weight of his other worry—money.

Mr Stitch was in his usual position, one that he had occupied since the Fall, at a low desk near the fire. He was always an eager and over-welcoming sort and today was no different.

“Why, Mr Robertson,
sir
, how wonderful to see you on this
fine
morning,” Mr Stitch said, hurrying to shake his hand and take his hat and coat.

Rupert Robertson failed to see what was so fine about the morning. He thought it rather looked like rain. But then for Rupert Robertson even the clearest of days was almost guaranteed to become gloomier.

Fawning over him quite unnecessarily, and alter proffering a tall stool opposite the desk, Mr Stitch pulled out a sheaf of papers.

On taking his seat poor Rupert managed to smack his head on one of the beams, dislodging a cloud of dust that scattered across the desk.

“Oops, mind yourself there, sir,” Mr Stitch offered, cheerily.

“So, how are things looking for me?” Rupert asked, knowing Mr Stitch to be one notorious for circuitous discussions prior to addressing the business at hand, and a fellow in need of fairly firm prompting unless their meeting were to be unduly lengthy.

But today was different.

“Well, I can’t say that it looks as bright in here as it does out there, and that’s for certain, sir,” Mr Stitch said, shaking his head and running his fingers down columns of figures that looked heavy in entries on the right hand side of the page and rather light on those on the left. “Without you finding something in the region of five hundred pounds by the end of the month I’m afraid to say the cause is lost.”

He had never heard Mr Stitch be so blunt. Certainly he’d been in financial difficulties before, but never to this degree.

“And what of the sale of Mrs Robertson’s land in Bullingham?” Rupert enquired.

“Well, sir. There we have encountered further difficulties,” Mr Stitch said, again shaking his head forlornly. “On the very morning of the arrival of the signed contract they had another messenger come in minutes later withdrawing it, before anyone had chance to complete it. It seems Mr Gruff is dissatisfied with the potential flooding risks and has put in another offer.”

“Well, how much is he offering now, may I ask?” Rupert said, abruptly.

“Sadly, he can only see to paying two hundred pounds for it,” Mr Stitch replied.

“Two hundred pounds!” Rupert screeched, jumping up and banging his head again. “But that land is worth ten times that amount, the scoundrel.”

Thus it went on, for an hour or so, as Mr Stitch elaborated the complexities, and ramifications of Rupert Robertson’s financial mire.

On shutting the door the rain began to fall, to the muffled sounds of the jubilant bell behind him. The intensity of the downpour was such that great streams were running from the brim of his hat and splashing into his face as he headed home. He could already feel his undergarments were soaked. Ordinarily he would have hailed a cab, but given his predicament some frugality was required.

Besides, with any luck, the deluge would soon overwhelm the river and the whole town would be drowned in the flood. He would have thereby saved himself a few pence, hopefully mitigating any impact his prior wastefulness might have upon the record of his immortal soul.

So, desperate, angry, bewildered, and achingly alone he hoped desperately for another Flood, or at least the first trumpet of the apocalypse, to save him the bother of addressing his multiplying worries—his wife was embroiled with the town’s most notorious sexual deviant and he would soon find himself in debtor’s prison.

Rupert had to say that he did not think the day was fine at all, quite contrary to Mr Stitch’s assertion. But, realising it would be rather unfair to subject the entire world to annihilation due to his misfortunes, he wondered if he might perform some slight upon Captain Worsley’s honour and thus unburden himself of otherwise having to devise the means by which to do away with himself.

He made to cross the street at this point and finished his
fine
morning by stepping, ankle deep, into a pile of fresh horse manure.

The evening had been tortuous, with the maid-of-all-work, Alice, barely able to stifle her giggles. Little did Alice know that should he be unable to muster some support from somewhere she would be on the streets within a month. He certainly hadn’t employed her for her skills at keeping the home, and it had been the topic of constant arguments with his wife. Alice was tolerated in his household solely because she hadn’t the wits to negotiate a higher wage. He thought it unlikely she would find other work, at least not in a respectable household, should such a situation befall them both.

The night brought only further horrendous rain, drumming against the windows of the master bedroom with the urgency of insistent creditors. Roseanna had not returned home and no word had been sent of her whereabouts. No doubt she would be in some wretched garret, reading Symington’s own poetry back to him, before fornicating on a sweaty, lice-infested mattress. Let her have her little dalliance, he thought. She would soon learn what it is to be the fleeting passion of a poet. If she was not cast aside within a week, she would soon be acquainted with the horrors of poverty. Let consumption take them both!

By morning Rupert had, despite his lack of sleep, resolved to make a further appeal to his uncle, Reginald, to help him. It was unlikely to be successful, as their last meeting had ended disagreeably, the result of a bond that Rupert had ‘forgotten’ to honour, causing substantial losses for his uncle on a shipment of sugar. Still, there were few other avenues available to him and so he took his cane, and most importantly, a sturdy umbrella, and made ready to brave the day.

An hour or so later found him at his uncle’s sumptuous home, amongst the other fine residences of Cummerbund Square.

A few minutes after admittance he was assisted in his departure by the butler.

Now, to accompany the relentless rain there were
angry
growls of thunder and frequent flashes of lightning—still, at least these brightened the sky that seemed as dark as the inside of his hat, which lay in a puddle at his feet, having been delivered to him by the swiftest of methods by the butler, along with a parting gesture—one best left to the imagination and of a character that Rupert thought beneath one in his uncle’s employ.

He began to make his way home, hoping that a bolt from the heavens might put him from his misery.

Then, as suddenly as such a strike would have been, the clouds parted, the rain stopped, and a burst of sunshine was cast upon the wet street, which shone like polished jet. And to add to the beauty of the moment a vision of wonder appeared.

Stepping into the street from the pharmacy opposite him was a woman, the like of which he had never seen. She was wearing a simple blue dress, with embroidered ruff cuffs and topped with a beautiful pink bonnet. Her eyelashes curled up like feathered fans from her great blue eyes, which caught the sun and reflected it on into the depths of Rupert Robertson’s heart. She laughed too, to see the bright day that had been revealed. It was a great rolling song of joy and delight. Its melody followed the light of her eyes into him to begin its echo and start his yearning.

“
What a beauty! What a pretty creature!
” Rupert thought, his mind fashioning the words into an odd, sing-song rhyme.

Teetering behind her as she made her merry way along the street was her maid, who carried two great wicker baskets and two umbrellas under each arm. But Rupert’s eyes followed only the woman in the blue dress, and his ears heard only that rapturous laughter.

He had wits enough about him to stop a passing gentleman and enquire as to the identity of this angel.

“Why, sir, that is none other than Miss Pollyanna Pickering,” the gentleman said. “She is the darling child of Colonel Pickering. Have you not heard of the Pickerings, sir? They are the wealthiest family in the county.”

Rupert Robertson had returned to his reverie though and did not even hear the man depart with an offended “Good-day!”

Rupert stood there muttering under his breath, as a light drizzle resumed, “Miss Pollyanna Pickering, darling child of Colonel Pickering.
Miss
Pollyanna Pickering, indeed!
What a beauty! What a pretty creature?
”

From that day on, for two weeks, not a day passed without him catching sight of Miss Pickering; in the park, taking coffee with friends, alighting from cabs, or hailing them. But then, not a day passed when Rupert Robertson did not wander aimlessly about the town in the hope of catching sight of her, so the coincidence is hardly remarkable.

At each of these ‘chance’ encounters he only glimpsed her from afar, and heard once more her wondrous laugh, which set his spirit soaring. He forgot his debts. He forgot his wife and her ugly affair. He could think only of Miss Pollyanna Pickering, and soon he was so consumed by her that he knew he must effect some means by which to be introduced.

Lieutenant Simeon Smythe was a man who knew about women. He had been a dashing young cavalryman in the 16
^th
Lancers, and had seen action in many battles, eventually sustaining a wound to his leg on the first charge Kitchener made at Paardeberg. But a slight limp, a military background, and a fine family upon which one can draw a steady income, are a boon to any young man aspiring to play the town’s eligible young ladies. In company with fellow soldiers, and with Robertson himself, the limp was inconspicuous. However, around any attractive young girl, and even her mother, the leg seemed to seize enabling the deployment of the story of the wound to great effect, and much sympathy.

What Rupert Robertson needed, he resolved, was some heroic deed to bolster his agonisingly dull history.

Smythe lodged with a Mrs Keepum, whose third husband had recently passed on—as a result of her fish soup, Smythe had quipped, saying that you had to add a little arsenic to make it taste of something. Although, joking aside, there
was
an air of the sinister about Mrs Keepum and Rupert preferred not to dine there, or even take drinks with Smythe unless it was in a nearby tavern.

It was a late November evening when finally he could meet with Smythe, and only on the promise of a hearty supper at ‘The Toby Jug’. So there they were, quaffing their ales and picking over a chicken and a hock of ham. Rupert Robertson dominated the conversation, with brief talk of Roseanna, and his financial predicament, but mostly with lengthy description of his sightings of Pollyanna Pickering, her attire on each occasion and the enchanting nature of her laugh. Finally losing his steam, and sliding back into his ridiculous fantasies, he became despondent.

“Oh, there’s none like Pollyanna Pickering,” he said, wistfully. And then, humming an old melody that he could neither recall the name of, or its original words, he began to softly sing. “
Of all the girls that are so smart, there’s none like Pretty Polly. She is the darling of my heart. She is so gay and jolly.
”

“Good Lord, Robertson,” Lieutenant Smythe gasped. “What a strange little song. You really have got it bad haven’t you, my poor fellow.”

“Oh, goodness,” Rupert blushed. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Well, it must be said, it is
true
! I have fallen for her with all of my heart. I adore her. What more can I say? It will have to be a love that remains forever hidden unless I can find some means of gaining an introduction. If all else fails I shall worship her from afar and be content merely to glimpse her angelic form around the town, as God wills it, occasionally having chance to be near enough to her perfection to catch faint echoes of her melodic laughter.” Lieutenant Smythe raised an eyebrow at the gushing speech but sympathised, having been besotted for many years with a young milk maid from his uncle’s farm. Although the infatuation had not lasted long after he had finally enjoyed her one stormy August afternoon in a convenient haystack. So, already sensing that it might be a mistake, but compelled by sympathy for his poor, wretched friend, Smythe offered to help.

“What say I arrange for you to go along to Colonel Pickering’s ball this Christmas?” he said, taking Robertson squarely by the shoulders and looking intently at him. “But you must promise me you will, between now and then, put your mind to all efforts at resolving your financial dilemmas, and putting Roseanna as far from your mind as possible.”

“Oh, would you, Smythe—
could you!
” Rupert squealed like a schoolboy with a penny liquorice. “I shall make preparations for a fine costume with which to impress her.”

“Did you hear what I said, Robertson?” Lieutenant Smythe sighed.

“Yes, yes, you will get me an invitation to the ball,” Rupert jabbered. “And I shall have my chance to speak to Pollyanna, to tell her my hopes and my dreams.”

“Yes. But did you, by any small chance, hear the second part of what I said?” he asked, watching the face of Rupert Robertson light with the fever of his imagination.