The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
Solomon. “But his report will raise a storm, that’s certain. I’ve seen some of it.”
“Ye’ve seen it?” cries Morrison. “But it’s no’ oot till the New Year!” He glowered a moment. “Ye’re gey far ben,b sir.” He took an anxious gulp of port. “Does it – was there … that is, did ye chance tae see any mention o’ Paisley, maybe?”
Solomon couldn’t be certain, but said there was some shocking stuff in the report – infants tied up and lashed unmercifully by overseers, flogged naked through the streets when they were late; in one factory they’d even had their ears nailed down for bad work.
“It’s a lie!” bawls Morrison, knocking over his glass. “A d----d lie! Never a bairn in oor shop had hand laid on it! Ma Goad – prayers at seeven, an’ a cup o’ milk an’ a piece tae their dinner – oot o’ ma ain pocket! Even a yard o’ yarn, whiles, as a gift, an’ me near demented wi’ pilferin’—”
Solomon soothed him by saying he was sure Morrison’s factories were paradise on earth, but added gravely that between the Horne report7 and slack trade generally, he couldn’t see many good pickings for manufacturers for some years to come. Overseas investment, that was the thing; why, there were millions a year to be made out of the Orient, by men who knew their business (as he did), and while Morrison sniffed a bit, and called it prospectus talk, you could see he was interested despite himself. He began to ask questions, and argue, and Solomon had every answer pat; I found it a dead bore, and left them prosing away, with my guv’nor snoring and belching at the table head – the most sensible noises I’d heard all night. But later, old Morrison was heard to remark that yon young Solomon had a heid on his shoothers, richt enough, a kenspeckle lad – no’ like some that sauntered and drank awa’ their time, an’ sponged off their betters, etc.
One result of all this was that Don Solomon Haslam was a more frequent visitor than ever, dividing his time between Elspeth and her sire, which was perverse variety, if you like. He was forever talking Far East trade with Morrison, urging him to get into it – he even suggested that the old b-----d should take a trip to see for himself, which I’d have seconded, nem. con. I wondered if perhaps Solomon was some swell magsman trying to diddle the old rascal of a few thou.; some hopes, if he was. Anyway, they got along like a matched pair, and since Morrison was at this time expanding his enterprises, and Haslam was well-connected in the City, I dare say my dear relative found the acquaintance useful.
So winter and spring went by, and then in June I had two letters. One was from my Uncle Bindley at the Horse Guards, to say that negotiations were under way to procure me a lieutenancy in the Household Cavalry; this great honour, he was careful to point out, was due to my Afghan heroics, not to my social desirability, which in his opinion was negligible – he was from the Paget side of our family, you see, and affected to despise us common Flashmans, which showed he had more sense than manners. I was quite flown by this news, and almost equally elated by the other letter, which was from Alfred Mynn, reminding me of his invitation to play in his casual side at Canterbury. I’d been having a few games for the Montpeliers at the old Beehive field, and was in form, so I accepted straight off. It wasn’t just for the cricket, though: I had three good reasons for wanting to be out of Town just then. First, I had just encompassed Lola Montez’s ruin on the London stage,8 and had reason to believe that the mad b---h was looking for me with a pistol – she was game for anything, you know, including murder; secondly, a female acrobat whom I’d been tupping was pretending that she was in foal, and demanding compensation with tears and menaces; and thirdly, I recalled that Mrs Lade, the Duke’s little piece, was to be in Canterbury for the Cricket Week.
So you can see a change of scene was just what old Flashy needed; if I’d known the change I was going to get I’d have paid off the acrobat, let Mrs Lade go hang, and allowed Montez one clear shot at me running – and thought myself lucky. But we can’t see into the future, thank God.
I’d intended to go down to Canterbury on my own, but a week or so beforehand I happened to mention my visit to Haslam, in Elspeth’s presence, and right away he said famous, just the thing; he was keen as mustard on cricket himself, and he’d take a house there for the week: we must be his guests, he would get together a party, and we’d make a capital holiday of it. He was like that, expense was no object with him, and in a moment he had Elspeth clapping her hands with promises of picnic and dances and all sorts of junketings.
“Oh, Don, how delightful!” cries she. “Why, it will be the jolliest thing, and Canterbury is the most select place, I believe – yes, there is a regiment there – but, oh, what shall I have to wear? One needs a very different style out of London, you see, especially if many of our lunches are to be al fresco, and some of the evening parties are sure to be out of doors – oh, but what about poor, dear Papa?”
I should have added that another reason for my leaving London was to get away from old Morrison, who was still infesting our premises. In fact, he’d been taken ill in May – not fatally, unfortunately. He claimed it was overwork, but I knew it was the report of the child employment commission which, as Don Solomon had predicted, had caused a shocking uproar when it came out, for it proved that our factories were rather worse than the Siberian salt mines. Names hadn’t been named, but questions were being asked in the Commons, and Morrison was terrified that at any moment he’d be exposed for the slave-driving swine he was. So the little villain had taken to his bed, more or less, with an attack of the nervous guilts, and spent his time d---ing the commissioners, snarling at the servants, and snuffing candles to save money.
Of course Haslam said he must come with us; the change of air would do him good; myself, I thought a change from air was what the old pest required, but there was nothing I could do about it, and since my first game for Mynn’s crew was on a Monday afternoon, it was arranged that the party should travel down the day before. I managed to steer clear of that ordeal, pleading business – in fact, young Conyngham had bespoken a room at the Magpie for a hanging on the Monday morning, but I didn’t let on to Elspeth about that. Don Solomon convoyed the party to the station for the special he’d engaged, Elspeth with enough trunks and bandboxes to start a new colony, old Morrison wrapped in rugs and bleating about the iniquity of travelling by railroad on the sabbath, and Judy, my father’s bit, watching the performance with her crooked little smile.
She and I never exchanged a word, nowadays. I’d rattled her (once) in the old days, when the guv’nor’s back was turned, but then she’d called a halt, and we’d had a fine, shouting turn-up in which I’d blacked her eye. Since then we’d been on civil-sneer terms, for the guv’nor’s sake, but since he’d recently been carted away again to the blue-devil factory to have the booze bogies chased out of his brain, Judy was devoting her time to being Elspeth’s companion – oh, we were a conventional little menage, sure enough. She was a handsome, knowing piece, and I squeezed her thigh for spite as I handed her into the carriage, got a blood-freezing glare for my pains, and waved them farewell, promising to meet them in Canterbury by noon next day.
I forget who they hung on the Monday, and it don’t matter anyway, but it was the only Newgate scragging I ever saw, and I had an encounter afterwards which is part of my tale. When I got to the Magpie on Sunday evening, Conyngham and his pals weren’t there, having gone across to the prison chapel to see the condemned man attend his last service; I didn’t miss a great deal apparently, for when they came back they were crying that it had been a dead bore – just the chaplain droning away and praying, and the murderer sitting in the black pen talking to the turnkey.
“They didn’t even have him sitting on his coffin,” cries Conyngham. “I thought they always had his coffin in the pew with him – d--n you, Beresford, you told me they did!”
“Still, t’aint every day you see a chap attend his own burial service,” says another. “Don’t you just wish you may look as lively at your own, Conners?”
After that they all settled down to cards and boozing, with a buffet supper that went on all evening, and of course the girls were brought in – Snow Hill sluts that I wouldn’t have touched