Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me if that unexpected excursion has left me a trifle derangee. Please try to understand that when you’re used to – what, eighteen years of workhouse? I don’t even know how old I am, after all – anyway, if someone takes you out of that sort of purgatory, treats you how you imagine a princess would be treated, and one day you suddenly get kicked into one pit of depression after another, and that same man grabs you by the hand and sets you on a pedestal, it’s going to be just a little bit distracting, isn’t it?
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Now, this, I really had not expected!
There seemed to be a strange intermezzo between my last memory of the Sumie bringing me home, and the sudden hardness I found under my head. An ethereal, intangible carnival of images of the preceding day and evening, processing through my mind flowing merrily one into the other, none lingering long enough for me to focus on it. Most of them, my subconscious happily accepted as real, and I even believed I was there going through it all all over again.
But no, I wasn’t. There was that hardness under my head. Not painful, and only uncomfortable because my neck was in an awkward position. I became aware of the gently hovering tang of cigars and old leather – those of you who’ve been to one of those gentlemen’s clubs, where they fine you for talking, will know what I mean.
Tentatively, I opened my eyes. I was on a big leather sofa with a blanket over me. The room I was in was warm and cheery; I was bathed in the golden glow from the embers of a once blazing fire, and a couple of lamps. It resembled a smaller, comfier version of the shop.
“You’re in my house,” came Mr Whybrow’s voice from over my feet; he must have been waiting for me to stir. I shuffled up on my elbows, to find him slouched in a chair. He explained, “You fell asleep on the Sumie, and I couldn’t really search you for your house key, so I brought you home. You’ve been asleep the whole time.”
I noticed that my shoes had gone – no, there they were on the floor beside me, but the rest of my clothing was perfectly intact. He’d taken no unfair advantage of me, even when he could have done so – and I’m not sure I’d have complained had he done so. But he had not, and I’d not expect him to do otherwise.
Shuffling himself a little more upright, Mr Whybrow told me, “I’m afraid you didn’t make it as far as the coffee and liqueurs, but I’ll be delighted to rectify that at your earliest convenience. If you so wish, of course.”
Oooh! Did he really expect me to say, “Forget it, Mister?” Still semi-conscious, and feeling a little awkward at my unusual situation, I summoned up the confidence to tell him that I’d be delighted, of course. “But how did I get here?” I had to know. “The last thing I remember was the airship.” Which wasn’t strictly true. There was another, definitely surreal remembrance, but that had to have been a dream.
Mr Whybrow merely chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You don’t weigh much at all, even with the contents of a Paris restaurant inside you.”
Then it was no dream. He really had carried me through SouthEnd, singing that waltz we had danced to, but with words I could not understand. “Poussez, poussez, escarpolette, poussez pour mieux me balancer……”
“You carried me all the way here?”
“I couldn’t do much else! You’d left your house locked, and like I said, the key must have been on your person.”
The most terrible picture formed in my mind. I hardly dared share it with Mr Whybrow, but my mouth wasn’t dry and I didn’t have a headache, so it felt safe to ask, indirectly, “I wasn’t – taken ill was I, sir?”
To my relief, he laughed. “Good Lord, no. We hadn’t got onto the strong stuff, remember? You were just spent. Emotionally, physically, mentally – it was my fault, I suppose; I should have allowed for you having had a particularly trying day.”
Phew!
To spare us both further embarrassment, I said, “I don’t know how to thank you, sir. I’m glad that at least I didn’t take your bed.”
Mr Whybrow smirked. “Actually, you did, but I shouldn’t worry about it.”
I looked around what turned out to be a single chamber, resembling an antiquarian’s parlour. All that really stood out was some of his paintings on the walls, a huge harmonium at one end – well, did I expect anything else? There was a peculiar sort of glass-fronted box on a side table, and a group photograph that intrigued me, but certainly no sign of a bed.
“Where did you sleep, then?” I demanded, horrified at the truth I knew I was about to hear.
“Right here. Don’t worry, I know some folk would frown at us sharing a room, but that’s none of their business and if you can’t trust me by now, then you never will.”
“It’s not that!” I expostulated. “You always sleep on a sofa, and you even gave that up to sleep in – in – a chair?”
Mr Whybrow shrugged. “What’s the problem with that? I’m used to it; sometimes I fall asleep in it if I’ve been sitting up reading.”
My unpleasant suspicion sank one rung lower. “Then – is this your whole house? All of it?”
Tiring of an argument he sensed he’d only lose, he braced his hands on the chair arms and forced himself up. “All of it. It’s served me well for a very long time. And I don’t expect either of us to think straight without coffee.”
“Well, at least let me build up the fire, sir.” Suddenly, I was afraid of appearing ungrateful after the magical day he’d just given me.
But he had already disarmed me, by marching over to the harmonium of all things. “No need, I’ve had this on a low tickover for half an hour now.”
I scrunched up to a sitting position as I watched him twiddle a valve and the harmonium, which I then realised had been hissing gently in the background, spouted boiling water into a samovar.
He gave the samovar a gentle kick as though to dislodge a minor blockage, and tapped off two steaming mugs of coffee. It was strong enough to strangle, but one day in Paris had been enough to spoil my palate. Otherwise, I was used to his coffee by now. As I sipped, smiling appreciatively, I tried to think of the right words to thank him for the previous day, but nothing seemed really adequate. All the time, I had that nagging voice at the back of my mind, asking what he hoped to gain from it all, and each time, it was answered by Uncle Arthur’s advice, as true as ever. This time he seemed to be taking on the voice of Sherlock Holmes. I play the game for its own sake, Watson.. That still left me feeling awkward; it would have been easier to understand if Mr Whybrow had at least betrayed some romantic interest.
Inevitably, the time came for me to leave. My final thanks for his hospitality was somewhat more formal than I’d have preferred, but the depth of my gratitude must have shone from my face brightly enough even for him not to miss. I’d started to head for the door when he called me back – a little sharply, I thought.
“Not that way, Miss!”
“It’s quicker this way,” he told me with a smile, as he led me to a small back door which I’d missed.
I followed him back to the shop and as we parted in the street, he cut me a bow – I got the feeling that he was hoping the neighbours were watching.
“Thank you for being a superlative companion, Miss Bluebird.”
I returned the courtesy and beamed back. “I do hope we can manage the liqueurs with our coffee next time, sir.” It occurred me to slip a peck to his cheek, but I forebore. That would have changed the course of things entirely and I couldn’t be sure that it would be for the better. But he could not have missed the glow in my eyes as I departed for home.
When I exited to the street, the sun was peering curiously over the horizon at the slightly crazy shopgirl. I’m sure I must have been walking in an untidy wavy line as the images of the previous night sailed through my head, accompanied by that floating little waltz. “Poussez, poussez, escarpolette………”
I was still not entirely convinced that it had not been a dream, although the taste of the Chateaubriand rose above Mr Whybrow’s coffee, in my mind if not in my mouth, and my ankles were slightly stiff in a new and curiously exciting way, as a reminder of the dancing.
I never failed to be astonished at how highly he thought of me – not with romance and flowers, but in other ways, more original and profoundly personal. Despite all I’d learned, I still thought of myself as the workhouse unknown who’d been fortunate enough to land a position most would regard as menial. But Mr Whybrow saw only my mind, and what he could do for it.
While I changed into something better suited to the shop floor, I looked forward to taking every opportunity to insinuate to the customers that I’d been to Paris! It had been the most romantic day imagineable, yet without a hint of actual romance. That was the one missing element, and I was not going to upset the equilibrium by chasing after something I could well live without anyway. Well, if it should rear its ugly head, there was only one I’d consider – but I was not going to complain about its absence. Will that explanation suffice for now?
I remembered that that unexpected outing had scuppered my plans to collect my airship silk, but it was only put off for one night. I knew that its ‘owner’ had regular supplies coming in, which he sold on to the Bond Street couturiers, so I’d be very unlucky not to find enough for my purposes secreted away where he’d hoped nobody would find it. Right now it was more important to me that although I’d long felt like the face of Mr W’s establishment, this was the first time I felt like I merited that. He’d entertained and danced with me, like a lady. I was fit to look anyone in the eye.
I vowed to be careful to preserve my usual manner in dealing with customers, but I now had an unshakeable confidence behind me. And I did not have long to wait. Halloween was looming up, and Caledonians take that festival very seriously. Naturally, Mr Whybrow
Yes, I’d definitely acquired a more polished finesse as I showed the lady
“Do be careful to keep your hair away from them,” I advised as I led the way to the cash register. “Even those tiny lamps can get very hot.”
“Oh, certainly,” giggled the lady. “And at least the gentlemen will be able to find this dance partner in the dark!”
I treated her to a peal of laughter which, for once, I did not have to affect. For the first time, I could hear someone talk about dance partners without that visceral wrench of jealousy. I’d only had the one dance partner, but it had been the right one. “That’ll be a hundred, Miss. Do you have an account with us?”
“No, I’m new to the area. Will cash be all right?”
“Cash will be just fine, Miss.”
I rang up a hundred on the cash register, picked up the lady’s proferred banknote, and the drawer sprang open. And a familiar figure leered out at me from its partitions.
HARRY!
I don’t know which of us screamed louder. All my ladylike poise vanished like a celluloid moth in a furnace, but before I could utter a single expletive, the shop door banged loudly and where the customer had been, was a big empty Nothing.
Mr Whybrow emerged from the back office. “What on earth was that all about?”
“Harry, sir,” I explained, trying to jump up and down on my heartbeat to restore it to something more human.
“Where?”
I looked back to the till drawer. “He’s – oh. He’s gone now. But we both saw him.”
Mr Whybrow cast an amused eye about the now-empty shop, having understood instantly what had happened. “’We,’ Miss Bluebird?”
“Well, she was here – “ I realised that he was teasing me. And we both knew that Harry, having done his duty in upsetting the harmony of the shop, had vanished to laugh it off in private. “She left this banknote, sir, in payment for her pumpkin ear pendants.”
Mr Whybrow frowned. “She left her ear pendants behind as well,” he observed. “Who was she, do you know?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. She said she’s new to the area. Oh, one moment!” It came back to me. “She did say she’d moved to Caledon on Sea.”
Mr Whybrow nodded. “There’s only one place she can be living. Only one new resident’s moved into On Sea in months. If she doesn’t come back, you’ll have to deliver them when it gets quieter. You can use the Dreadnought, I’ll give you directions later.”
“Very good, sir.”
I sent a wistful smile after him as he retreated into his office and out to the yard. I was still very much His Shopgirl, but there was an unmistakeable softer, friendlier timbre to his voice when he spoke. I doubted he had any private intentions towards me, and from what he’d told me about his past, I’d have understood if he’d sooner lie in front of a train than take on another woman. It was enough that we had shared what we had. He’d even cast away his most closely-guarded privacy in my hour of need, and let me spend the night in his house. That alone had wrought a special sort of bond between us.
I took up the ring guage that I’d used to such effect the previous day, and searched around the counter area for Harry, with a view to discouraging his return. But I believe my prediction had been all too accurate. He’d scarpered, to savour my fright and plan the next visitation.
Or perhaps he’d been scared off by the curious hammering which had just started up in the yard. Sharp clinks of iron on masonry. I tried to sneak a peep, but Mr Whybrow had hung his coat on the other side of the doorknob.
Bother!
Thwarted, I returned to the counter to mull over another mystery. The outing had ended with a final surprise which I had not expected; I had seen Mr Whybrow’s house. On reflection, I had found it much as I should have expected; that is to say, calculated to soothe his senses yet without an ounce of domestic practicality. But he had been just a little too quick to divert me to the right door. Had he something to hide up there?
A familiar figure strode past the window, making his usual rounds. I entertained a minute hope that he’d use the letterbox, but that hope was very short-lived as Jasper marched in, his countenance stern and officious as he smacked the post onto the countertop.
“I looked in larst night, but the place was empty.”
I matched his frostiness with my own. “You were told not to come in again. And since you’re so observant, Mr Whybrow took me out. To Paris,” I haughtily added.
Jasper’s face melted into – well, it reminded me of a failed throw of clay on a potter’s wheel. “Oh, gay Paree, was it? Sarfend too small for you now?”
Primly, I told him, “In matters of business, we have interests throughout the civilised world.”
“Business!” Jasper snorted. “I knows wot your business is! You and ‘im ‘avin it orf in Gay Paree.”
Outrage flared within me. “It wasn’t like that! Not that it’s any of your business.” I transfixed him with eyes of ice, too angry even to think of a jab to the throat. “I told you yesterday; we have a letterbox outside. Kindly use it. The master is fussy about whom he allows in. And he does know all about you.”
His piggy little eyes narrowed in menace. “So someone’s bin tellin’ tales aht o’ school, ‘ave they?”
My immediate thought was that he must have been referring to that famous metaphorical School of Hard Knocks, but that unfortunate wording, associated as it was with what I’d seen, made me want to cringe. “He’s perfectly entitled to know what goes on around his own chapel.”
“Don’t come the innocent wiv me, Missy! I know yore game. I’m not good enough for the ‘igh and mighty shopgirl wot’s knockin’ orf ‘er master! Well let me tell you sumfink, Missy! I got an hofficial position ‘ere as a personage of himportance, not like you wot’s just someone’s personal sweeper-up. So I’s gonna be comin’ and goin’ according to ‘ow I pleases. And you ain’t gonna be doing nuffink abaht that. And don’t you be finkin’ of tellin’ the Postmistress abaht anyfink you saw behind the chapel, right? That’s private business.”
I was sure his allegation was made purely to try to shock me. It failed. I glared at him thinly. “You’re very protective towards your own privacy for someone who cares so little about mine. I think you’d better go. Right now.”
I reached under the counter for the cattleprod, which I knew to be there, but Jasper grabbed my wrist in a grimy grip of steel. A Hadean fug of beer and bad tobacco washed over me as he dropped his voice to a whispering rasp. “I don’t fink you quite understands my meanin’, Miss. I means to ‘ave wot I’s set my eyes on, and until that moment, I’s gonna be a-watchin’ you.”
I seethed with frustration at being unable to fetch him another kick, if only to organise a little distance from his breath. I now knew what those knew-fangled crematoria smelt like when they were in full flourish. But Jasper’s attention, focussed on me, had cost him dearly. Suddenly his grip vanished and I flew backwards. Jasper was no longer looking quite so confident.
Mr Whybrow was standing in the doorway. I did not know how much he had overheard, but he had clearly taken in the whole situation. He was not a man given to losing his temper; he believed that “cold” worked better than “hot.” I’d seen him cold and dispassionate, I’d seen him cold and condemning, and I’d seen him cold and unforgiving, but I’d never before seen the dreadful mask he wore as he strode out, his eyes locked onto Jasper’s as he swung the little counter door open. He was an executioner come for his victim, and this time it was personal.
Jasper, realising that he’d probably need both hands, released me. “Now, don’t you be a-takin’ any ideas into yore ‘ead, sir.”
He bunched his fists, but Mr Whybrow was faster. He moved too quickly for me to follow, I saw only his arm as a flashing blur connecting his shoulder to Jasper’s throat before Jasper doubled up with a ghastly gurgling noise.
Before Jasper could recover, Mr Whybrow reached behind his collar and gave a curious little twist. I could only gaze on in astonishment as he lifted the postman off the ground like a human gibbet, and marched evenly and unhurriedly towards the door, with Jasper roaring in agony. Or doing his best to; it sounded like a lion choking on custard.
Mr Whybrow paused only to ensure Jasper’s cooperation by slamming his face into the doorpost, before kicking the door open and with a final flick of his arm, sending Jasper sprawling into the gutter.
Jasper spat out some gravel, which may have had some teeth mixed in, and croaked, “You ain’t ‘eard the larst o’ me, Missy! I’s a gonna ruin you! I’s a gonna ruin you bofe!”
Mr Whybrow’s drawl reminded me of an army officer dissatisfied with a barrack room on Monday morning parade as he told Jasper, deliberately loudly for me to overhear, “My assistant instructed you to use the letterbox. She has a revolver, and if you step over the threshold again, she will presume personal attack and empty it into you. In the meantime, I think a letter to the Postmaster-general is in order. Now kindly **** off. You’re making the street look untidy.”
He knit his mouth to a tight slit as he marched back to me, straightening a collar that was already perfectly straight. I followed him with that same paralysed gape as I tried to absorb what had happened so suddenly – not least at the unaccustomed expletive, although I suppose Mr Whybrow’s own “’umble horigins” were never too far below the surface.
Although I knew that none of his fury was directed at me, I took a pace backwards as Mr Whybrow returned behind the counter and looked grimly at me. “It’s all right, Miss Bluebird. I heard the lot – the idiot didn’t even have the sense to keep his voice down. You handled it well, under the circumstances. I’m proud of you.”
With the immediate danger past, all that remained was an aftershock that fought to release itself in tremors throughout my body. Why on earth couldn’t he at least give me a hug? I managed a shaky whisper. “Thank you, sir.”
“And I meant what I said about the revolver. He’s a nasty piece of work, Miss Bluebird. Keep an eye out.”
I flicked my eyes from Mr Whybrow to the heap on the pavement which was stirring itself; I could almost hear his joints creak. “But how did you – “
“Remove him?” Mr Whybrow gave a snort which might, under other circumstances, have been humourous. “Never tangle with a portrait painter or a pianist, Miss Bluebird. We know the human nervous system as well as any doctor, in particular which ones are close to the surface. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with the Postmistress about our future delivery arrangements. That oaf’s position is hanging by a thread. And he’ll be hanging by his neck if I catch him in here again,” he added in a terse matter as he marched out to the post office.
I knew that Mr Whybrow was right. Jasper had not finished yet. If anything, his unceremonious expulsion would have made things worse. I was expecting trouble from that pirate-maid-woman, too. Her type always had to have the last word, and as she’d already been thwarted in securing Mr Whybrow’s affections, she had a double motive for revenge. It was only then that I realised I didn’t even know her name. Mr Whybrow had never volunteered it, and I’d always found other ways to refer to her. All right, I’d established that she was not exactly a pillar of the community, and was a scheming poser with some acting ability and no manners. But who exactly was she?
Jasper did not return that morning. Well, there was a late morning delivery, but he wisely slipped it into the letterbox and continued on his way.
I waited until about two o’clock before concluding that the pumpkin ear pendant customer would not be coming back in any short order. At that time, the world would have returned to its after-lunch routine and I thought I could afford to leave the shop untended.
Putting the ear pendants in the Dreadnought’s sidecar, safely tucked under my skirts, I wheeled it out, set all the levers, and heaved it to bump-start it. The motor gave a disgusting coughing fit before catching, and I leapt into the saddle.
I braced myself for the bump over the railway lines, and absorbed the slight jarring with ankles and calves, as I was used to doing. What I did not expect was the front wheel to come clean off and dig the forks into the railway ballast, almost catapulting me over the handlebars. Luckily, I was always careful not to spin the throttle until clear of the railway, so I wasn’t going fast enough to follow the wheel and fly out of the saddle. I held on tightly as as the bike slewed round and sat there, patiently ticking over as though waiting for me to explain what the hell I was doing. The front wheel, on the other hand, bumped merrily along the street to be arrested by a hedge.
There was no way I could move the bike myself. Retrieving the front wheel, I took it into the shop and called through the door to Mr Whybrow, hoping I could make myself heard above the hammering.
“Mr Whybrow, sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a problem with the bike.”
To my relief, the hammering stopped immediately. “Have you flooded it again?”
“No, sir. Uh – a bit fell off. I think you’d better come and see for yourself.”
The door flew open, but the glare of exasperation vanished from his sweaty face at first sight of my holding the front wheel out like a protective talisman.
“How the bloody hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hadn’t done anything to it, and it behaved perfectly the last time I used it.”
I think he believed me. “Are you all right?”
I managed a wobbly smile. “Just a little shaken, sir.”
“As one would expect you to be. But you’re otherwise uninjured, which is what matters. I presume the Dreadnought didn’t get away so lightly?”
“The forks aren’t bent, if that’s what you mean, sir. I wasn’t going fast at the time.”
“No, of course not. Let me see that a minute.” I had to step out of the way as he slipped through the door, locked it behind him (Dammit!) and grabbed the wheel from me, holding it to the light.
“Amateurish,” he pronounced. “Very amateurish. Look at the nuts – see those edges?”
I squinted. Yes, the sharp edges had been wrenched slightly round, and very recently. The metal was still shiny where it had been torn.
Mr Whybrow assumed that I’d found what I was supposed to be looking for. “The silly bugger’s used an adjustable spanner and didn’t keep it tight,” he explained. “It’s wrenched at the corners. And see the oil in the threads? He used that to try and loosen it up when it wouldn’t turn as easily as he’d hoped.”
“’He,’ sir?”
He returned my innocently questioning look with one of thin patience. “This didn’t happen by itself. I think we both know who’s responsible.”
I suppose I’d known it; I’d just wanted to hear it confirmed from an independent mouth. Dumbly, I twiddled the nut on its threads; it slid easily. Far too easily, thanks to the oil. “So he meant what he said,” I murmured.
“Aye. I’d been hoping he was all mouth, but it looks like our postie is serious.”
“So what are we going to do, sir?”
“Be patient,” came the grim reply. “Don’t mention this to anybody. We can’t prove he did this, and any court in the land would accept his inevitable plea of shoddy maintenance on our part.”
“But we know – “
“Quite, me dear. But you know how the law operates. We need proof. Give me a hand to get that thing back into the stable; I’ll give it a new nut and you can take it out later if Miss Ear Pendant doesn’t come back before then. In the meantime, be very careful.”
He held the bike up to let me jam the wheel back into its forks, and together we pushed it back to the stable, where I donned my skirts. It didn’t bother me that Mr Whybrow was in the room while I did so, he’d already seen me wearing less, and it was not the time for excess modesty. Besides, he was preoccupied cluttering about for a spare nut, so I doubt if he’d have cared had I stripped to a state of nature.
I was, as I’d explained, more shaken than anything else. But I did need to give some thought to the future – I suspected that Mr Whybrow was already doing that himself while putting the Dreadnought back together. I thought I’d find the chapel more amenable. Those two ragamuffins might have left a stain on the atmosphere, but it was still a place of meditation, especially with Uncle Arthur’s presence watching over it.
When I walked in through the door, my eyes naturally turned towards Uncle Arthur’s tomb. They just had time to pick out another shape in the corner, which did not belong there, when a vast meaty hand clamped over my mouth and I found myself smothered in that unique mixture of gorilla armpits and “incinerated sacks” breath which I recognised instantly.
A growl, menacingly soft, tickled my ear, making me squirm, but I was held fast. “Yer master ain’t ‘ere now, Missy!”
As he spoke, his paramour stepped out of the shadows, gloating at my helplessness. Jasper’s hand prevented me crying out – or singing, come to that. I tried a backward heel kick, which had served me well in the workhouse, but Jasper must have spent some time in the same workhouse, for he was wise to the move, and stood with his legs apart and firmly planted.
The erstwhile pirate lady, now a maid, stretched her smile a little wider and tweaked my cheek. “So I’m not good enough for your high and mighty master, while his shopgirl is.” She spat my title out like poison. “And you humiliated me.”
Jasper’s murmur made me shiver more than that woman ever could. But I wouldn’t expect him to be speaking normally, after what Mr Whybrow had done. “You yoomiliated bofe of us, Missy. And it ain’t nice to disturb a gennelman at work.”
I began to wonder what they had in mind for me. Only a few ideas came to mind, and none of them were good. I tried to bite Jasper’s fingers, but he’d spread his hand too widely.
“So you would, would you, vixen?”
I felt him tense to do something that would no doubt be very painful. But that was as far as he got. There came a dull metallic bonggggg! and his grip relaxed. I almost fell on top of him while the woman stepped back, aghast.
Framed in the doorway stood eighteen stone of bottled fury that could have silenced a Seven Dials brawl. Mrs Boltclyster, our Postmistress, clutching a frying pan as one would a tennis racket, and as terrible as an archangel who’d been dragged out of bed at three in the morning to deal with a minor nuisance. I remarked that her frying pan would need some attention from the blacksmith before she could use it again.
“Your services are no longer required as of now,” she growled to Jasper, with a dreadful simple finality. “And as for you, Miss - I can see that you’re no Easterman maid, and you can be sure I’ll be watching for you. I miss nothing from the post office. Show up here again, and I’ll have you picked up as a vagrant. Come with me, Miss Bluebird; let’s get you back to the shop. Those two won’t be bothering you again.”
Numb from shock, I barely registered the kindly tweak to her face as she shepherded me out of the chapel, with only a residual memory of Jasper sitting up, cross-eyed from the clout he’d received, while his companion stood mortified at having been caught out again. But I could feel the evil of her glare lancing through my back as I was led across the street. I felt that the Postmistress was underestimating those two.
Mrs Boltclyster could see that I was in no state to do anything but gape. She let out a bellow which normally would have paralysed me at such close quarters.
“Mis-ter WHY-brow!”
He must have recognised her voice and surmised that there had been further developments, for he appeared in the office door like a jack-in-the-box. He looked first to me, then to my saviour, and then back to me again. “Miss Bluebird? Whatever’s happened? Are you all right?”
Several possible explanations tried to surface, but my overloaded nerves jumbled them all up and all he got from me was a sheepish slanted rictus. The Postmistress had to speak for me.
“It were that Jasper again, sir,” explained Mrs Boltclyster. “Him and his ladyfriend – although ‘lady’ is a bit generous for the likes of ‘er. They attacked Miss Bluebird in the chapel. Don’t worry, they didn’t get very far. I thought he’d been gone a bit long for a simple call of nature like he said he was going for, so I went looking for him. And in the light of what you’d told me, I went prepared.” She flashed her frying pan by way of explanation.
Mr Whybrow took two steps towards me and hesitated, not sure how to approach me. In the end he let his horror speak for him. “Good – God – Al-Mighty!”
“I can only say ‘ow sorry I am, Mister Whybrow,” continued our Postmistress. “We’ve had a cosy relationship for years, you an’ I, and I won’t let it suffer. He was already on a final warning; I told ‘im that if he came in here or otherwise went near you for any reason, he’d’ve been for the chop.” She gave my arm a squeeze for reassurance. “Well, now he’s cooked his goose well and truly, and you make no mistake about that.”
Mr Whybrow could only nod. He looked to be torn between utter disbelief, and an urge to hunt down Jasper with a sabre. Finally, he found his senses. “Thank you, Madam. I’m greatly in your debt at having stepped in like this. I’ll see to her now.”
Mrs Boltclyster gave me a wink. “You look after ‘er, sir. She’s a good girl, she is.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. Come on, Miss Bluebird.”
I let him lead me by the arm into his back office where he sat me in his chair and poured an inch of something dark brown into a glass. I took a swallow without thinking, and almost choked.
“Steady now, that’s best smuggled brandy at ten bob a bottle,” he grinned. “I gather our Postmistress turned up before things had got too out of hand?”
“They were out of hand enough already, thank you, sir,” I mumbled. He’d left the office door slightly ajar, but I only saw rubble lying about.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around to be of any use, myself,” he said, with a helpless wave of his hand.
“It’s all right, sir. I couldn’t expect you to be.”
“Well, it looks like we’ve underestimated those two. What I’d like to do is go after him and put a bullet in him, but they’ll have gone to earth by now. We won’t see either of them until they’re ready to do something unpleasant.” Then his expression lightened to one of hopefulness. “Might I suggest a change of air?”
I looked back, silently asking what he had in mind.
“Those pumpkins need delivering. The Dreadnought’s all right now, so why don’t we go and do that? Together? There’ll be no rush back, I’m sure things here can take care of themselves.”
He was right. A change of air would be the best medicine. In fact, a change of skin, or near to it. I projected a hopeful look at Mr Whybrow. “How long were you thinking of staying out, sir?”
“As long as we both feel like,” came the answer, easily. “Did you want to bring your swimming things?”
I brightened instantly. I’d swear he could read my mind. “I’d love to, sir!”
“Good,” he declared. “I was of the same mind. I’m knackered!”
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