The Transfiguration of Mister Punch by Mark Beech, Charles Schneider, D P Watt, Cate Gardner Page A
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growls of thunder and frequent flashes of lightning—still, at least these brightened the sky that seemed as dark as the inside of his hat, which lay in a puddle at his feet, having been delivered to him by the swiftest of methods by the butler, along with a parting gesture—one best left to the imagination and of a character that Rupert thought beneath one in his uncle’s employ.
He began to make his way home, hoping that a bolt from the heavens might put him from his misery.
Then, as suddenly as such a strike would have been, the clouds parted, the rain stopped, and a burst of sunshine was cast upon the wet street, which shone like polished jet. And to add to the beauty of the moment a vision of wonder appeared.
Stepping into the street from the pharmacy opposite him was a woman, the like of which he had never seen. She was wearing a simple blue dress, with embroidered ruff cuffs and topped with a beautiful pink bonnet. Her eyelashes curled up like feathered fans from her great blue eyes, which caught the sun and reflected it on into the depths of Rupert Robertson’s heart. She laughed too, to see the bright day that had been revealed. It was a great rolling song of joy and delight. Its melody followed the light of her eyes into him to begin its echo and start his yearning.
“ What a beauty! What a pretty creature! ” Rupert thought, his mind fashioning the words into an odd, sing-song rhyme.
Teetering behind her as she made her merry way along the street was her maid, who carried two great wicker baskets and two umbrellas under each arm. But Rupert’s eyes followed only the woman in the blue dress, and his ears heard only that rapturous laughter.
He had wits enough about him to stop a passing gentleman and enquire as to the identity of this angel.
“Why, sir, that is none other than Miss Pollyanna Pickering,” the gentleman said. “She is the darling child of Colonel Pickering. Have you not heard of the Pickerings, sir? They are the wealthiest family in the county.”
Rupert Robertson had returned to his reverie though and did not even hear the man depart with an offended “Good-day!”
Rupert stood there muttering under his breath, as a light drizzle resumed, “Miss Pollyanna Pickering, darling child of Colonel Pickering. Miss Pollyanna Pickering, indeed! What a beauty! What a pretty creature? ”
From that day on, for two weeks, not a day passed without him catching sight of Miss Pickering; in the park, taking coffee with friends, alighting from cabs, or hailing them. But then, not a day passed when Rupert Robertson did not wander aimlessly about the town in the hope of catching sight of her, so the coincidence is hardly remarkable.
At each of these ‘chance’ encounters he only glimpsed her from afar, and heard once more her wondrous laugh, which set his spirit soaring. He forgot his debts. He forgot his wife and her ugly affair. He could think only of Miss Pollyanna Pickering, and soon he was so consumed by her that he knew he must effect some means by which to be introduced.
Lieutenant Simeon Smythe was a man who knew about women. He had been a dashing young cavalryman in the 16 th Lancers, and had seen action in many battles, eventually sustaining a wound to his leg on the first charge Kitchener made at Paardeberg. But a slight limp, a military background, and a fine family upon which one can draw a steady income, are a boon to any young man aspiring to play the town’s eligible young ladies. In company with fellow soldiers, and with Robertson himself, the limp was inconspicuous. However, around any attractive young girl, and even her mother, the leg seemed to seize enabling the deployment of the story of the wound to great effect, and much sympathy.
What Rupert Robertson needed, he resolved, was some heroic deed to bolster his agonisingly dull history.
Smythe lodged with a Mrs Keepum, whose third husband had recently passed on—as a result of her fish soup, Smythe had quipped, saying
He began to make his way home, hoping that a bolt from the heavens might put him from his misery.
Then, as suddenly as such a strike would have been, the clouds parted, the rain stopped, and a burst of sunshine was cast upon the wet street, which shone like polished jet. And to add to the beauty of the moment a vision of wonder appeared.
Stepping into the street from the pharmacy opposite him was a woman, the like of which he had never seen. She was wearing a simple blue dress, with embroidered ruff cuffs and topped with a beautiful pink bonnet. Her eyelashes curled up like feathered fans from her great blue eyes, which caught the sun and reflected it on into the depths of Rupert Robertson’s heart. She laughed too, to see the bright day that had been revealed. It was a great rolling song of joy and delight. Its melody followed the light of her eyes into him to begin its echo and start his yearning.
“ What a beauty! What a pretty creature! ” Rupert thought, his mind fashioning the words into an odd, sing-song rhyme.
Teetering behind her as she made her merry way along the street was her maid, who carried two great wicker baskets and two umbrellas under each arm. But Rupert’s eyes followed only the woman in the blue dress, and his ears heard only that rapturous laughter.
He had wits enough about him to stop a passing gentleman and enquire as to the identity of this angel.
“Why, sir, that is none other than Miss Pollyanna Pickering,” the gentleman said. “She is the darling child of Colonel Pickering. Have you not heard of the Pickerings, sir? They are the wealthiest family in the county.”
Rupert Robertson had returned to his reverie though and did not even hear the man depart with an offended “Good-day!”
Rupert stood there muttering under his breath, as a light drizzle resumed, “Miss Pollyanna Pickering, darling child of Colonel Pickering. Miss Pollyanna Pickering, indeed! What a beauty! What a pretty creature? ”
From that day on, for two weeks, not a day passed without him catching sight of Miss Pickering; in the park, taking coffee with friends, alighting from cabs, or hailing them. But then, not a day passed when Rupert Robertson did not wander aimlessly about the town in the hope of catching sight of her, so the coincidence is hardly remarkable.
At each of these ‘chance’ encounters he only glimpsed her from afar, and heard once more her wondrous laugh, which set his spirit soaring. He forgot his debts. He forgot his wife and her ugly affair. He could think only of Miss Pollyanna Pickering, and soon he was so consumed by her that he knew he must effect some means by which to be introduced.
Lieutenant Simeon Smythe was a man who knew about women. He had been a dashing young cavalryman in the 16 th Lancers, and had seen action in many battles, eventually sustaining a wound to his leg on the first charge Kitchener made at Paardeberg. But a slight limp, a military background, and a fine family upon which one can draw a steady income, are a boon to any young man aspiring to play the town’s eligible young ladies. In company with fellow soldiers, and with Robertson himself, the limp was inconspicuous. However, around any attractive young girl, and even her mother, the leg seemed to seize enabling the deployment of the story of the wound to great effect, and much sympathy.
What Rupert Robertson needed, he resolved, was some heroic deed to bolster his agonisingly dull history.
Smythe lodged with a Mrs Keepum, whose third husband had recently passed on—as a result of her fish soup, Smythe had quipped, saying
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