A loyal lie

 Jane Traies has kindly given us permission to use an extract from her forthcoming novel. Set in the late nineteenth century, it centres on the lead mining communities of Shropshire, England, where Jane herself lived for many years. Here we meet Edie, missing school to bring lunch to her father.

There was a perfectly good road leading out of the Dingle all the way to the mine, but Edie preferred to go over the hill. She liked the effort of the climb through the moving shadows of the wood, and the sudden brightness as she came out onto the top of the ridge. Her path (hers, because she knew no-one else who used it) started just behind the cottage and climbed steeply between the trees. No wider in places than a sheep track and slippery with rotten leaves, it was familiar as the path to her own door, or the road she walked to school. The ground between the trees was mined with holes and burrows, but she rarely saw anything move, however quietly she tried to walk. The birds gave her away, so that anything that lived in the wood had hidden itself before she came in sight. Once, a pine marten had poked up its head at the mouth of its tunnel and looked straight at her, bright eyes in a black mask; and sometimes in a mild winter she had seen a day-time badger, too hungry to stay asleep. Today it was quiet.  She stopped to catch her breath and to hoist Father’s dinner onto her other shoulder. Looking back, she could no longer see Wren’s Nest. A stranger passing by would not know it was there, or that anyone at all lived at the bottom of that dark wooded cleft. Which must, of course, be how the cottage had got its name.

She turned her face uphill again and walked on. The brambles along the edge of the path had only a few shrunken berries left now, unwholesome for people but useful for the birds and wood mice. She started to look in earnest for fungus; the weather was just right. Soon she found a clump of yellow and white toadstools; then a sprinkling of tiny brown ones just off the path; pretty, but not special. Further on she spotted a strange bright yellow fungus between the toes of an oak: it was crumpled into a wriggly pattern, like one of the pictures of south sea corals in the Children’s Encyclopaedia. Edie stood still and looked at it, storing its colour and shape in her head, and then walked on. 

However many times she came this way, she always had the same little rush of joy as she came out of the trees into the huge sky. After the enclosed space of the wood, the world was suddenly endless and the air always moving, even on the calmest day. She stood in the October sun breathing hard. Below her the Dingle was a dark crack furred with trees. Ahead, autumn bracken gilded the rocks at the valley’s mouth, where the land fell away in a patchwork of greens. Straight ahead, the clump of trees on Bromlow Callow stood out in silhouette against the sky. The mist and fog that had hung over the Dingle that morning had gone, and a brisk south-easterly was blowing the sky blue. Edie set off at a trot along the path above the valley.

The land still rose gently as she crossed the grassy hilltop, bitten close as a lawn by wandering sheep; and then she was on the windy crest of the ridge, and queen of the whole world. The wide expanse of green and blue and purple was patched here and there with whitey-brown ploughed fields, netted with hedgerows and sprinkled with farms. The tall chimney at the mine, standing up like a warning finger, was way below her, dwarfed in the great sweep of the view. Whenever Miss Deakin read them the Bible story about the Devil taking Jesus up into a high mountain and showing Him all the countries of the world, this was the picture that came into Edie’s head. Slowly, she turned in a circle, naming the familiar shapes: the bump of Earl’s Hill, the long slope of the Mynd, the ridge of Corndon; and, as she came full circle, a view which stretched beyond the Callow far into Wales. Right on the horizon she could just see Cadaer Idris. The air was so clear today, the colours so beautiful, it made her almost want to cry.

As she ran down the last field towards the stile, the dark chimney grew taller and taller, its red brick sides towering over the trees, until she could smell the soot that sifted down day and night from its mouth. The stile was the door to another wood, but this one was different. Beyond the fringe of crisp brown bracken, the trees were ghostly grey, their leaves sparse and coated with ash. Further down the hill, nearer to the chimney, the trees were quite dead, bare as winter all year through. Nothing twittered or rustled here. Edie hurried through the birdless silence towards the thump and wheeze of the engine house. Trapped behind stone walls two feet thick, the great beam engine groaned like a monster in chains, pumping water from the deep shafts so that men could work in the dark, hacking out the lead ore. Her father had been one of them, long ago. The rock fall that had crushed his leg had happened when Edie was a baby – all her memory of him was as she knew him now, a man with a crutch and an uncertain temper.

Just above the engine house the railway cut across her path. She stopped and listened for the rattle and chug that meant a coal wagon climbing up from Minsterley. When she was sure none was coming, she stepped carefully over the shiny rails and the sharp grey chippings between them. There had been no railway when the Cornish Giant was set up here – Edie’s grandfather had seen the great stone blocks for the engine-house pulled uphill from the road, each wagon-load drawn by ten horses. Edie let her eye travel up the smooth grey wall, as high as three cottages, and heard her name called in greeting. It was Arthur Jones, Tom’s father, whose job it was to feed and watch the engine. She waved back, though she could not hear what he said above the noise.

Shifting the satchel to her other shoulder, she followed the stony path down towards the road. The noise of the engine house was replaced by the clang of hammer on anvil from the smithy, the shouts of men and the creak of the winding gear bringing the ore from under ground. The smell of soot gave way to the wood-smoke of cottage chimneys and the warm smell of horse dung. No one was waiting at the head of the shaft, for it was two hours yet to the next shift. The wheels atop the great black head-frame revolved slowly against the bright blue sky, winding up the cage with its baskets of ore. A steady whine came from the smithy, where men took their drills to be sharpened before each shift. Across the road from the shaft-head, a trio of men were smoking and rolling dice outside the barracks where some of them lived in the week. It was a long hard walk to the mines from Priest Weston or White Grit, especially in winter, and many of the single men preferred the companionship of a shared billet, however lacking in home comforts.

They worked eight-hour shifts in the pit, and John Dorricott must be there at the candle-house before each cage-load of men went down, to provide them with fresh supplies. He worked from five in the morning until ten at night, winter and summer. If Mother was well, she would get up and make his dinner before dawn, and he would take it with him and be gone before Edie woke in time to walk to school. But on the days when Jane Dorricott lay staring at the wall and did not speak, there would be no school. Instead, Edie must light the fire and sweep the house, make her father’s dinner and take it to him prompt at noon. School for Edie was a special place, orderly and satisfying. The other children, especially the boys, grumbled about going to school as much as their parents cursed about having to send them when they would be more use on the farm or in the shop, but Edie loved it. At school she was praised for doing things well, as she never was at home. She was in the highest standard now; her father wanted her to leave next summer, but she could not bear to think about that. Since Mother had been poorly more often, Edie had tried her hardest to wake at four o’clock, to see her father off in the cart with everything he needed for the day, so she would be free to go to school after. But it was tiring work, running a home. There were more and more days when she slept too long, or forgot to light the copper or to set the bread to rise, and she had missed school far more often.

She tried not to think about that now. The candle-house lay across the road, a little beyond the mine buildings and the handful of cottages that made up the settlement. As Edie arrived outside the squat stone building, a short man in the moleskin working trousers of a miner swung up the path towards her, stowing a fistful of candles in his jacket pocket. 

He saw her and smiled. ‘All right, our Edie?’ He nodded at the satchel. ‘That’s a good girl. No school today?’

It was Uncle Andrew. He must be on the two o’clock shift. 

Edie looked at the ground. ‘I don’t mind about school. I’d rather see to Father.’ 

He patted her arm, knowing it for the loyal lie it was, and knowing that his brother did not tolerate what he saw as a meddling curiosity in his family’s affairs.

‘Well, it’s good luck for me, meeting you,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘A man that has neither wife nor sweetheart does well to meet a pretty maid in the path, that will put a light in his darkness.’

She smiled, grateful to him for changing the subject, and put out her hand for the candle.

Uncle Andrew took off his hat. It was a bowler such as all the men wore in the pit, rubbed with resin to stiffen it and with a lump of clay stuck to the brim in front. The clay had hardened round the first candle that had been pushed into it, forming a socket for the one she fixed there now. 

She kissed his cheek. ‘Good luck and God bless, Uncle.’

‘And so He will, my dear, thanks to you.’ His hand was warm on her shoulder. ‘Now in to your father with his bait.’   

She listened to him whistling up the path, and turned towards the door.

'Condoms!' blurted Bridie. 'I'll not have that word in this house,' Mr Sullivan said sternly.

CONDOMONIUM 1970 

A short story by Maggie Redding

The hand of the clock jerked towards twenty-one minutes past five.  Theresa glanced over her shoulder into the dispensary.  Mr Patel, sparkling white coat and jet black hair, was absorbed.  If anyone came into the shop, she would have to deal with them.

     ‘Theresa,’ Mr Patel had said only yesterday evening, ‘I think you must overcome your unwillingness to deal with this section of the counter.’ Now there was a figure hovering in the doorway of the shop. Theresa held her breath. The figure moved away. She breathed again.

     She turned to rearrange the display of scented soaps once more, taking yet another glance at the clock. Seven minutes to closing time. No one would come in now.

     The door bell rang aggressively as the door was flung open. A man strode in, straight towards the section of the counter that Theresa had been avoiding.  He felt in his coat pocket for money, his gaze fixed on those horrible little packets on the counter, not seeing Theresa, her youth or her reluctance.  He grabbed a handful of the packets.  She held out a small bag for him to slip them into, avoiding touching them.  He shoved a selection of coins into her empty palm.  She checked the amount, put it in the till.  A receipt extruded itself rudely. She handed it to him blindly.  The man mumbled his thanks and turned, head lowered, and left the shop.  Theresa looked at his retreating figure, her top lip lifted in faint disgust.

     The clock said five twenty-nine.  She moved from behind the counter to the door.  Tears welled in her eyes.   She shoved the bolts into place and turned the key.  She felt angry.  There was a lump in her throat.  Collecting her coat, she said ‘Goodnight,’ to Mr Patel.

     ‘Goodnight, Theresa,’ he said.   ‘Have a nice weekend.  See you Monday.’

     Theresa did not reply.  She was not so sure.

     Mrs Sullivan soon sensed that something was wrong with her daughter that evening.  Theresa left her chips, refused a second cup of tea and did not even mention Mr Patel.  Usually she chatted about him to such an extent the Mrs Sullivan feared her eldest baby daughter was about to fall in love with him and he not even a Christian and she having known him only a week.

     ‘So, how was Mr Patel today?’ she asked Theresa at last.

     Theresa burst into tears. Mr Sullivan lowered his evening paper and Bridie, at fourteen, the next eldest baby daughter, drew her attention from the television.  Wiping her eyes, Theresa told the whole story.

     ‘Not them.....?’ Mrs Sullivan began.

     ‘Condoms!’ blurted Bridie.

     ‘I’ll not have that word in this house,’ Mr Sullivan said sternly.

     ‘It’s my conscience, Mum,’ Theresa explained.

     ‘Oh, love, what are you going to do?’ wailed Mrs Sullivan.

     ‘It’s all right, Mum.  I’ve made up my mind.  I’ll speak to Father Sherrington tomorrow.  After Mass.’

     ‘Oh, yes. Of course. Be guided by him. He’s a good man. And a gentleman.’

     Father Sherrington of Our Lady’s parish was, a well-spoken, well-educated English gentleman of aesthetic leanings and unworldly aims.  He had the tight lips and taught cheeks of one who saw redemption through self-denial.

     ‘There is no question, Theresa,’ he explained.  ‘You have a delicate and finely tuned conscience.  You will know what to do.’

     Theresa had to concentrate on what he said, fascinated by his plummy voice and overstretched vowels.  ‘You mean---leave?’

     He refrained from nodding.  ‘Is that what your conscience tells you to do?’

     Her face crumpled.  ‘Yes, Father.’

     ‘Have you discussed this with Mr Patel?’

     ‘Yes, Father.  Several times.  He says I must sell them.’

     Father Sherrington shrugged. ‘You must pray about it. The decision is yours.’

     ‘Oh, I have. Yes.  I know. But, Father, the money was so good.’

     He shrugged again.

     Theresa tried once more, hoping there might be a gap in her conscience’s reasoning.  ‘But what about the covenant form I just signed?  What about all the tax relief going to the parish?’

     ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, child.  I doubt if it amounted to more than a couple of pounds a year.’

     Theresa gave in her notice to Mr Patel.  He was very sorry and even more mystified.  Father Sherrington did his best to make it easy for Theresa.  He contacted a friend of his who worked for a Catholic paper. A reporter and a photographer came to take photographs and ask questions.  Theresa’s happy, smiling face appeared on the front page of the paper with her story.  Father Sherrington gave a powerful sermon on sacrifice and told the story.  Most of the congregation knew by now who this saint-in-the-making was.  After Mass, people spoke to her and shook her by the hand and congratulated her.  Mrs Sullivan was so proud of her.

     The last to speak to her that morning were Mr and Mrs Phillips who were waiting modestly on the pavement outside, with their five daughters.  They were a short, plump, happily-blooming family, always calm, always smiling; and were the sort of people Theresa admired.       

‘I do admire what you have done,’ Mr Phillips said, smiling and shaking her by the hand.  ‘It’s a real example to us all. I am in a quandary myself.  I work for a drug company.  A great company, makes all sorts of marvellous drugs that cure dreadful diseases. Unfortunately, one of our products is the contraceptive pill.’ Theresa blushed because he said ‘contraceptive’ as easily as he said ‘marvellous’. ‘I am having a struggle with my conscience.’

     This news, that a good Catholic like Mr Phillips, with five children and a pregnant wife, who had been given blessings like a house with clematis round the front door and a gleaming car, should be breaking God’s laws in such a blatant way, shocked Theresa.  She confided her disgust to Bridie on the way home.  Bridie was shocked, too.

     ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll give up my job on Saturdays.  I can’t be working in a newsagents with all those dirty books on the top shelf.  It’s not right.’

     Bridie was as good as her word.  Mrs Sullivan, though proud of her daughters, was irritated because neither girl had any money and spent their days slouching around the house.

     Then came another shock.  Theresa received a letter from the Benefits Office to say that because she had given up her job with no a good reason, she would not be entitled to any benefit.

     ‘I’ve got no money!’ she wailed.

     ‘Neither have I,’ said Mrs Sullivan.  ‘Come on, get your coat on.  I know where we’ll get help.  I can’t afford to keep you.  Father Sherrington.  Come on.’

     Father Sherrington’s aesthetic lip curled a bit at the inability of the lower classes to organise their financial affairs.  He offered to do two things.  The first was to accompany Theresa to an appeal to the Benefits Office, and the second was a promise to subsidise Theresa to the amount of her lost benefit each week and to make an appeal from the pulpit for an increase in contributions to the weekly collection.

     Events followed rapidly.  Theresa lost her appeal, even with Father Sherrington’s support.  One evening, Mr Phillips appeared on the doorstep.  He had lost his shiny, smooth, well-dressed appearance and was unkempt and casual.  He was still smiling, however.  Mrs Sullivan said to ask him in.  She smoothed covers, plumped up cushions and straightened rugs, impressed that such a person as Mr Phillips should visit her council house.  She made him welcome and a pot of tea.

     Mr Phillips smiled more     ‘I have formed an organisation,’ he announced.  ‘It’s called  ‘Catholics for Conscience in Work’.  I have several members already, including a teacher who refuses to teach about sex.  Then there’s a man from up north somewhere who gave in his notice after realising he was working for a company printing gay magazines.  And lots of doctors and nurses whose consciences have been awakened by your brave stand, Theresa.’      

‘Did you have trouble with the Benefits Office, Mr Phillips?’ asked Bridie.

     ‘Oh, yes, indeed.  Father Sherrington is setting up a fund for people like us.  He is the chaplain for Catholics for Conscience in Work.  Unfortunately, we are a little short of funds.  But Father Sherrington will help.  He’s keeping us.  I don’t know what my wife and children would have done without Father Sherrington to sustain us.’  He frowned. ‘A pity, this is all causing some dissent in the parish.  Not a lot, but people are lapsing.  I saw the Murphy family last week.  They haven’t been to Mass for some time.  They were on a demonstration—a group called Catholics against Poverty.  Such a shame to bring politics into religion.’

     Theresa became a mascot for Catholics for Conscience in Work.  She travelled around the country giving talks. She appeared on television and in the newspapers.  Her name became almost a household name, to good Catholics at least.  Money rolled into Father Sherrington’s fund.  It also rolled out again as more and more people made claims on it.  Mrs Phillips had another baby a girl, again, whom she called Theresa, as a mark of admiration.  And Theresa’s self-confidence grew.  She had a pleasant singing voice and Mr Phillips was a passable songwriter and wrote songs about consciences which Theresa sang to the accompaniment of a guitar played by a young man, Joe, who had been sacked from a chemist shop for refusing to hand over some prescribed contraceptive pills to a young woman who was not married.  The movement grew and grew and Father Sherrington allowed his aesthetic lips to curl into a warm smile on occasions, so justified in life did he feel.

     The beginning of the end came one night during a rather windy spell, not a storm, just a strong wind.  All the leaves were stripped from the trees and the guttering was stripped from the west roof of Our Lady’s church and the presbytery.  Rainwater poured through the windows, plaster began to peel, wood began to rot and black mould began to spread faster than Catholics for Conscience in Work.  Amateur attempts to right these matters resulted in damage to the central heating in the presbytery.  Father Sherrington fought the bitter cold of winter with bottled gas fires.  One evening, after an extra whiskey to keep out the extra cold, he forgot to turn out the gas fire before changing the bottled gas cylinder.  There was an almighty explosion which, mercifully, blew Father Sherrington through the window and into the churchyard.  The fire that followed destroyed both presbytery and church.  There were those who muttered darkly about debts and insurance but they were the ones who had not seen poor Father Sherrington in hospital.  The money stopped coming in—and going out.  Catholics for Conscience in Work collapsed.  The bishop, when Father Sherrington eventually recovered, arranged for him to be parish priest serving the employees of a nuclear power station and waste reprocessing centre.  Here the parishioners were well educated, affluent and had no consciences.  The returns from the tax covenants were fantastic.

     Bridie, destitute, joined the hippies at Stonehenge one midsummer and has never looked back.   She washes her hair rarely but otherwise is very clean.  She cohabits with an ex-nuclear physicist called Fred by whom she has two beautiful free children.

     The Phillips family sold their house—the car had belonged to the drug company—and fled to the Welsh hills, the land of Mr Phillips’ fathers.  There they live with an earth closet, organically grown vegetables, chickens, ducks, geese, goats and a wood burning stove.  Mr Phillips is totally unrecognisable and Mrs Phillips has been sterilised.  The Phillips children are very happy except for the earth closet.

     As for Theresa, well, she had a brief affair with her guitarist, Joe, then studied to be a sex therapist and is now running a successful clinic and has ceased to be amazed that nearly all her clients seem to have been Catholics.

'Cousins in Hertfordshire, Mr Collins? What relatives are these, pray?'

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy is a marvellous glimpse into the shadows of 'Pride and Prejudice'. Anne de Bourgh's life with her impossible mother, Colonel Fitzwilliam's unexpected secret, Elizabeth Bennet's behaviour - not to mention Mr Darcy's - are all portrayed from surprising angles in this convincing Austen pastiche.

Whilst fretting and fuming over the Darcy family’s behaviour, Mama gave vent to her dissatisfaction by interfering further in Mr Collins’ affairs. The Parsonage, she declared, was in need of a great many improvements, which only a feminine hand could properly attend to; the kitchen garden was shamefully neglected. Mr Collins was a diligent shepherd to his flock, but his domestic life was in a sorry state; indeed how could it be otherwise, since he lacked a wife? And how was he ever to secure one, since he did nothing to recommend himself to any of the ladies to whom he had been introduced since his arrival at Hunsford? (I can vouch for the truth of this: Mama had invited several respectable spinsters of the parish to take tea with us when Mr Collins was present, and without exception they were appalled at the company they had to endure, and could not escape the experience quickly enough!)

“He does nothing to help himself by conversing with such tortuous pomposity,” was Mama’s despairing comment. “I am quite at a loss, Anne. Where shall we find a wife for Mr Collins?”

“Could we not just leave him to find his own wife?” I suggested; but she threw up her hands in horror.

“Good heavens, child, that will never do! Goodness knows what kind of a person he is likely to attract if left to his own devices! For he must have a gentlewoman, you know – I could never countenance anyone other than a gentlewoman at the Parsonage – but she must also be an active, useful sort of person, able to live happily on Mr Collins’ income. I have told him all this often enough! But he will never manage it for himself.”

Mr Collins, however, was to surprise us all, for he did manage it for himself, and in the following manner.

“I wonder, your Ladyship – I have been intending to ask – might I have leave to visit my cousins in Hertfordshire next month? Of course I would not wish to put your Ladyship to the slightest inconvenience, but I feel -”

“Cousins in Hertfordshire, Mr Collins? What relatives are these, pray?”

“A cousin of my late father, Lady Catherine – a Mr Bennet. A very respectable gentleman by all accounts, though an unfortunate disagreement between him and my father has prevented our becoming acquainted. I am persuaded, however, that enough time has now elapsed for me to offer the olive branch with equanimity; indeed, as a clergyman, I feel honour bound to do so. Mr Bennet has five unmarried daughters, and -”

“Five!” (I silently echoed my mother’s exclamation, and sat forward in my chair. This could be interesting.)

“Five daughters! What was the man thinking of? And all unmarried, you say – pray, what are their ages? And what is Mr Bennet’s estate?”

“He is the principal resident of Longbourn, Lady Catherine, a village near the town of Meryton in Hertfordshire. He keeps a very respectable house, I am assured. The youngest Miss Bennet is fifteen, I believe, and the eldest – I am not sure – no older than three and twenty. The estate of Longbourn is – entailed upon myself, in default of any male heir.”

Mama was rendered speechless for a moment, and I could not suppress a smile. There was more to our Mr Collins, it seemed, than either of us had supposed.

“Entailed! Upon you! You have never told me, Mr Collins, that you are to inherit an estate! Why, pray, have you never spoken of it before?”

“Well, I – your Ladyship -” stuttered the unfortunate man, “I did not feel it my place – until, that is, I have made my peace with Mr Bennet – I thought it unseemly to presume -”

“Oh, I understand, I understand. No use putting all your eggs in one basket. But this is news indeed! Longbourn, you say, in Hertfordshire; and five daughters of marriageable age! Well, depend upon it, one of them will easily be prevailed upon to accept you, especially as you are to inherit their father’s estate. Indeed, they can hardly do otherwise! A very pretty scheme, upon my word! You shall certainly have leave to go, Mr Collins, and I go so far as to charge you expressly not to return until you are an engaged man!”

“You may depend upon it, Anne,” reflected Mama when the grateful suppliant had been dismissed and we were able to discuss his prospects in private, “If the Bennet daughters do not have the good sense themselves to look favourably upon Mr Collins, their mother will see to it; she will be a very short-sighted woman if she does not! She has her husband’s estate to think of, and her comfort in old age, as well as the possibility that one of so many daughters may end an old maid, and dependent. She will persuade one or other of them to have him, mark my words!”

But when Mr Collins, who always did what Mama required of him, returned from Hertfordshire an engaged man, it was not one of the Miss Bennets who was the chosen partner of his felicity. We were surprised to learn that he had instead secured the eldest daughter of one Sir William Lucas, a neighbour and friend of the Bennet family. This gentleman, though formerly in trade, had been distinguished during his mayoralty of the town of Meryton by a knighthood; and his daughter Charlotte was declared by her enraptured lover to be the most amiable, most accomplished and most virtuous young woman of the neighbourhood. Whether she could possibly be of sound mind was a matter of speculation between myself and Mrs Jenkinson; but this was exactly the kind of wife Mama would have chosen for Mr Collins herself, and once she had got over her astonishment at his not having got one of his cousins, she was all affability and approval, and declared that the wedding must take place as soon as possible.

“Miss Lucas is the eldest daughter of her family, you say? Pray what is her age, Mr Collins?”

“She is seven and twenty, your Ladyship.”

“Well! She will not be wanting a long engagement, at seven and twenty! Pray return to Hertfordshire as soon as you like, and arrange the date! And her father is Sir William Lucas, is he? Well, you may tell him from me that he will be most welcome to visit his married daughter whenever he likes, and I will receive him here at Rosings!”

Mr Collins saw nothing untoward in my mother’s giving Sir William Lucas permission to visit his own daughter; he was all effusive gratitude, as usual. I was not paying attention to all that he said, for I was wondering whether all five Miss Bennets had refused him in turn, or whether he had become disheartened after one or two rebuttals and decided to look elsewhere. His description of his cousins was uncharacteristically reticent – ‘they were most pleasant girls; the eldest was likely to be married quite soon; their father and mother had been most hospitable.’ It was not like our Mr Collins to be so economical with words. Something, I suspected, had gone awry in that quarter.

I was aroused from my reverie by the exclamation: “Oh! My dear Lady Catherine, I have omitted to mention a most particular circumstance. Whilst in Hertfordshire I had the pleasure of meeting your nephew – Mr Darcy, of Pemberley!”

I bent my head to avoid the significant glance cast in my direction, while Mama inquired somewhat suspiciously into the circumstances of this meeting.

It transpired that a ball had been given by Mr Bingley at his Hertfordshire residence, to which the Bennets and their guest had been invited. It was there that Mr Collins had encountered William, and taken the liberty of introducing himself – ‘taking advantage’, as he put it, ‘of that privilege which we members of the clergy may claim, in being permitted to lay aside the established forms of ceremony’ – and of assuring him that his esteemed aunt and amiable cousin were both in good health. I was mortified, imagining William’s haughty surprise at being thus approached, and was relieved to hear that Mr Collins believed himself to have been received with ‘most affable condescension.’

Whilst Mama, her displeasure towards the Darcys temporarily suspended, waxed eloquent upon the impeccable manners of her nephew, I experienced an unpleasant succession of emotions as I pictured a flurry of Miss Bennets, Miss Lucases and other importunate female residents of Meryton all vying for William’s attention. The man who had once claimed to find balls so tedious had obviously not been averse to attending this one! And supposing he had already formed an attachment? Mr Bingley’s unmarried sister, for instance – how could I have overlooked that possibility? How long would it take Mama to get around to it? I stole an anxious glance in her direction, and was grateful to see that Mr Collins had the whole of her attention, and that my burning cheeks were safe from scrutiny. I surreptitiously placed a hand upon my heart, in a vain attempt to still its unruly clamour. Accept it, Anne, I told myself; accept the inevitable. Miss Bingley, or someone similar, will soon be mistress of Pemberley.

Mr Collins was married in Hertfordshire early in the New Year, and returned with his bride very promptly to Hunsford to be visited by a great many people, all curious to see how the new Mrs Collins conducted herself. Mama and I were of course among the first to pay our respects, and I was on the whole very favourably impressed. Mrs Collins was plain, neat, and well mannered. She smiled a little too readily, but this could of course be due to nervousness. Her conversation, when her husband’s verbosity allowed her to speak, was sensible, desirous to please but not disposed to flatter. Mama seemed likewise well satisfied with her, and invited the happy couple to dine with us the next day.

The Collinses soon became fairly regular guests at our dinner table, being much more welcome as a couple than Mr Collins had been in the single state. Although they were neither lively nor witty company, the husband was often unintentionally amusing and the wife always pleasant and friendly. I began to admire Mrs Collins for the diplomatic way in which she handled her husband, and for the equanimity with which she bore my mother’s interference into every aspect of her domestic affairs. Her age and situation, I decided, were sufficient explanation for her having accepted Mr Collins’ proposal; and if she did not show much obvious affection for him, neither did she betray any repugnance or regret. She seemed cheerfully determined to make the best of her situation, and I could only wish her well.

A small, fat dog and a number of cherries

A Case of Domestic Pilfering by Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven is a lighthearted tale of two friends who find themselves caught up in an adventure involving blackmail, theft, mistaken identity and 'the love that dare not speak its name' - an adventure in which, for once, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson find themselves repeatedly and hilariously wrong-footed.

It's the summer of 1890 and Max, a passionate reader of detective stories, is staying in London with his spoilt but charming friend, Guy. They've recently made the acquaintance of a certain Dr Watson - and glimpsed the legendary Sherlock Holmes. In this extract, we find them dutifully taking tea with Guy's mother - and Guy, as ever, has no concept of discretion.

Lady Esher absently poured tea for her guests. A shaft of morning sunlight caught her hand,

modelled its plains and dimples and came to rest flatly on the white cloth. The fine china rang as she handed a cup to Max with a smile. So typical of Guy, she thought, to turn up on her morning ‘At Home’ instead of the Tuesday hour she reserved for him; but at least it varied the company.

Lady Lillingford and her daughter Alicia were quite animated for once. The conversation had

achieved new heights. Alicia had twice opened her mouth to speak, and on the second occasion some actual words had been emitted. What the import of these might have been, had not her mother at that moment fired a descriptive broadside of Mrs Carnforth’s weekend party, Lady Esher pondered with mild interest.

Max, the dear boy, was being attentive; he was charming Lady Lillingford simply by watching her face with his deep brown eyes as she spoke. Whatever one said, if Max listened, one felt that he was giving it a flattering degree of attention.

Guy, on the other hand, was picking cherries out of the madeira cake and feeding them to Candace, her pug. Candace would shortly be sick, probably in the hall by the hat stand. Really, that boy was impossible…

Lady Esher smiled dutifully at Guy, at Candace, at the teapot and then at Max and Lady Lillingford. Alicia, she decided, needed an extra squeeze of a smile, for she looked equally fascinated and dismayed by the presence of so many young men – her eyes signified that they might number several hundred in their mild grey alarm.

‘Come over here, my dear,’ she said kindly. Max looked up surprised, but immediately perceived his mistake and returned his gaze to Lady Lillingford’s doughy face with a hint of resignation. Alicia rose, dropped her parasol, blushed scarlet, and dutifully navigated her way around the tea table to sit beside her hostess.

‘Now tell me,’ Max heard Lady Esher say with an air of delicious confidentiality, ‘Tell me about all your conquests at the party!’ Alicia’s response was inaudible. Max felt very sorry for her.

‘And then, my dear, who do you think was announced?’ breathed Lady Lillingford, and he patiently returned to his contemplations. Composed and serious as his face was, his mind was quite elsewhere; not one word of her long account had registered in his understanding. As he watched the loose, pale lips forming and ejecting their words, his mind moved in realms of gold and pearl, reviewing and re-inspecting the austere, possessed figure emerging from the dim hallway of 221B Baker Street. In his heart was ineffable bliss, exquisite pain. He sighed unconsciously as Lady Lillingford concluded her description of the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball gown.

This young man has taste, she noted with approval; taste, good manners, and obvious breeding. But does he have prospects? If so, Alicia could do worse … she changed the subject abruptly, barely pausing for breath as she set about the task of exploring Max’s background with the all subtlety of an Amazonian explorer wielding a machete.

Guy had discovered that there was a limit to the number of cherries a small, fat dog could consume. This limit had just been reached, and Candace did the decent thing and exited the room. Guy watched her go. What should he do next? His eye lighted upon Max, bravely holding his station whilst buffeted by the sou’wester of la Lillingford’s interrogation. I shall rescue him, thought Guy lovingly.

‘Oh, Mother!’ he cried, suddenly and loudly, causing all heads to turn towards him – not because more than one person in the room was under the impression that she was his mother, but because he had hitherto spoken only four words: ‘Hello,’ ‘Charmed,’ and ‘How tedious‘.

Guy simpered, pleased with himself. ‘We met the most fascinating gentleman yesterday. Actually we met two fascinating gentlemen. The first one – he is so sweet – I’d already made his acquaintance at the races over champagne, and we were sitting yesterday in the bar at -‘

‘Guy, dear, please pick up that cherry before you grind it beneath your boot heel!’

Lady Esher’s voice carried a warning note. Alicia’s eyes had become very round; mention of ‘champagne’ and ‘races’ had quickened her breath. Lady Esher was all too aware that her son’s friends – always excepting Max – were inclined to be somewhat disreputable.

‘… smoking and chatting,’ continued Guy, tossing the cherry onto the table, ‘When there he was. And do you know what? He turned out to be a close friend – indeed, the close and intimate friend, of -‘

‘I do hope, Guy, that you have not issued these gentlemen with one of your invitations to dine here,’ interrupted Lady Esher again, hoping to stave off the name of the intimate friend. Could it be that Beardy, or Beardsley, or whatever he called himself? Surely not that awful Wilde man …

Lady Lillingford, on the other hand, was listening attentively. Beardies and Wildies were

beyond her ken; a more illustrious Beard was in her mind, a Beard definitely associated with horseflesh and champagne …

‘Of course not, mother! He never dines out, you know. He is so fascinating! So different. And we had tea in his rooms afterwards, but he couldn’t join us himself as he’d just been summoned to Scotland Yard.’

There was a small flurry as Lady Esher pressed several different kind of cake upon Alicia.

‘Scotland Yard?’ repeated Lady Lillingford, with a dawning realisation that the P. of W. was not, after all, the protagonist of this adventure.

‘Yes, Lady Lillingford!’ emphasised Guy gaily, aware that he was making an impression. ‘He is

professionally associated with Scotland Yard – you must know that.’

‘Who is, dear?’ Lady Esher felt she could begin to relax. Sir Edward Carson, could it be?

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course! I told you!’

‘No dear, you never mentioned the name.’

‘Only because you kept interrupting me, going on about cherries and dinners and suchlike.’

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ repeated Lady Lillingford slowly; ‘Ah, yes! My dear, it’s that wonderful detective man – you know, he cleared up the matter of Lord St Simon’s little problem so discreetly. You remember, dear! Mrs Tattershall told us about it a while ago. Shocking business.’

Lady Esher metaphorically unstopped Alicia’s ears by withdrawing the tray of cakes, and seemed remarkably to have unstopped her mouth in the process.

‘But I have read all about him, Mr Clements! He is remarkable, as you say. It must have been wonderful to meet him in the flesh.’

Her small, clear voice turned all heads in her direction, and Max nodded vigorously, his heart swelling with affection for Alicia. Guy had more than appropriated his hero in the last few minutes, and he was determined to retrieve the honour.

‘We didn’t really have time to introduce ourselves, Miss Lillingford; he passed us on the doorstep.’ Max blushed deeply. ‘But we had tea with Dr Watson in his rooms.’

‘And what rooms!’ crowed Guy; ‘Utterly Bohemian, Miss Lillingford! So thrillingly unconventional!’

‘Bohemian?’ Alicia leaned forward, fascinated; Lady Esher thought she detected an

unhealthy gleam in her eye.

‘Yes, yes! Oh, how can one describe them? Filled with chaos, but such artistic chaos! Chemistry, tobacco, Persian slippers. Revolver practice. You see, he eschews all the petty concerns of daily life and lives in splendid isolation, either driven by the white heat of his genius, or – or -‘

Max chose not to leap into the breach and save his friend; really, this was too much. Guy

knew nothing whatsoever about Mr Holmes.

‘Well, well,’ said Lady Esher mildly into the the pause that followed, ‘Obviously a remarkable man. Perhaps we could invite him to dine one evening – with Mr Percy, Sir Edward’s solicitor, and other people of that sort.’ She smiled wearily at Lady Lillingford. ‘One does well to entertain one’s professional men from time to time, don’t you find? They do give of their best when favoured with good wine and conversation.’

Lady Lillingford nodded. ‘Oh, quite – Sir Charles’ physician is a charming man, quite convivial company in the right circumstances.’

Max could not bear it. ‘He would not come, Lady Esher, I think,’ he said in stilted tones,

straining the boundaries of politeness. ‘As Guy has already mentioned, he does not dine in company.’

Both ladies looked taken aback, and his hostess raised a well-bred eyebrow. There was an

awkward hiatus before the conversation picked up harmlessly again, and Guy sulkily began to pick walnuts out of the walnut cake. A shaft of sunlight pressed itself into the nap of the carpet, and slept at its twisted roots.

The breakfast table at 221B Baker Street was also bathed in warm yellow. The blind was up, the windows were open and the noise of mid-morning traffic chattered behind the ticking of

a clock and the occasional crackle as Sherlock Holmes turned the pages of his newspaper. Dr Watson was relaxing in the warm sun, smoke curling from his cigarette.

‘Watson.’

‘H’mmm?’

‘Who were those two young men you entertained for tea in my rooms yesterday?’ Holmes spoke from behind his newspaper.

‘Oh – just an acquaintance, and the friend of an acquaintance. I met them when I went out

for a walk.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Admirers of yours, as it happens.’ Watson pushed a crust of toast around his plate and smiled at the shimmer of sun on the silver coffee pot.

‘I would have thought admirers of yours would be a more apt description. Your little

stories are gaining you a reputation you know, however inaccurate they may be, and however inappropriate a form in which to embody my professional achievements.’

‘You never read them, Holmes, so I don’t see how you can judge.’ Watson smiled again, and

poured the remains of the coffee into his friend’s cup.

‘I’ve glanced at one or two,’ sighed Holmes, laying aside the paper and taking up his pipe. ‘It seems to me that you take some quite unjustifiable liberties, not only with the material but also with my character.’

‘So you keep saying, my dear. You haven’t finished your coffee.’

Holmes picked up the cup absently, and sipped.

‘You look better today,’ ventured his friend; ‘Might I enquire about the investigation on which you’re currently engaged?’

‘You might, my dear fellow, but I’m not yet able to give you much information. It’s a

Government matter.’ Holmes passed a thin hand over his hair. ‘Brother Mycroft is responsible for involving me. Some War Offices documents have gone missing; of no great moment in themselves I understand, but related to the nation’s security nonetheless.’

‘You were away all night?’ asked Watson carefully.

‘Indeed. But so far I have little to go on. Perhaps you’d care to join me today in a number of enquiries I’m planning? That is, if you’ve nothing planned yourself – meeting your young drinking companions again, for instance?’

Watson ignored the sarcasm and met the grey eyes innocently. He was delighted to see a

return there of the usual sparkle.

‘I was not planning anything of the kind today; I may stroll over tomorrow and return their call,’ he said lightly.

Holmes rose from the table and wandered towards the mantelpiece. The cord of his silk dressing gown was knotted carelessly at the waist, but his appearance was otherwise as fastidious as ever. Watson marvelled anew that one so untidy, indeed so wilfully destructive, in his personal habits should be so neat, so correct in his dress.

‘You’re invited too, by the way,’ he added.

‘Oh?’ Holmes was inspecting his violin, plucking gently at the strings and listening minutely to their resonance. After a moment, he murmured, ‘I never call on anyone. You know that, Watson.’

‘Only if it’s after midnight,’ said Watson sotto voce. ‘You should, you know,’ he added in a louder voice. ‘It would do you good.’

‘If I call on you after midnight, Watson, it is because I am in need of your help. And I do not require good to be done to me. Thank you.’

He drew the bow across the instrument, paused to make an adjustment, and began to play; an eerie, wandering improvisation, ill-adapted to the sunny day outside.

EXTRAORDINARY QUEER

Sylvia Daly has kindly given us permission to share this poem. You know how coming out is often a challenge, always a relief? It's all the more so in later life.

No Ordinary People

I tried for many years to fit the

mould,

in dress and thought, in action to

conform.

Coerced my mind to

function, not

be bold,

be good, obey, blend in, not cause a

storm.

The effort was consuming, sapped

my will,

to squash emotions roaring

through my heart.

But thankfully I failed to make the

kill,

I took the chance to make another

start,

from soulless clone

to

technicoloured star.

The energy, zest for life was heady,

my soul felt it was rescued from

afar

to face the world, live life, I was

ready.

Don’t settle for grey lives you

live in fear.

Break out, and be

extraordinary queer.

Sylvia Daly