The Transfiguration of Mister Punch by Mark Beech, Charles Schneider, D P Watt, Cate Gardner
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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
“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
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