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The months, like Napoleon’s troops fleeing Russia, marched on with a cost. The performance of surgical procedures was reduced generally to two or three times a week. The apparent nocturnal popularity of the team that was Mrs. Fox and Dr. Mortstan found us, bag in hand, committing anywhere up to ten hours every night to the unfortunates of Whitechapel. The only saving grace had been the mild summer we were moving within.
May and June came and went. I found I had lost two stone, and that I was developing a hair trigger temper. Rarely was I in my lodgings long enough to attain any more than five hours sleep; this also became the only time and place I would eat. Thank goodness for Mrs. Fox’s care packages she left me upon my writing desk. She was good enough to keep a brass hip bath filled, near the permanently lit fire within my room, beneath an open window. Warm water regardless of the hour of my return.
July saw my health fail, and upon noticing the same, Mrs. Fox stole me from my routine for three days under the guise that she required my aid in ministering to an ill relative. I knew full well that I was in no way needed to aid in the healing of her illusive relative. Rather that her concern and pity, whilst never outward, was thanks enough for me, so I tarried along, all the while doing little more than guarding the sumptuous rooms she secured for we both in Plymouth. As such, I did a magnificent job of maintaining the defence of our rooms by sleeping 18 solid hours immediately upon our arrival; via room service, I ate in three days an amount of food I doubt I had consumed in the four months prior; drank some very good red wine; updated my diaries; read every newspaper I was able to lay my hands on; and lastly, soaked in the huge claw footed bath for an hour of every day we were there. Brandy and a good cigar may have been involved also.
As an added bonus, I relaxed a further three days longer than was the original plan. Apparently the yet to be seen relative still required my attentions. Something I inwardly questioned with a smile, as by then I was suitably rested, fed, and contented. How Mrs. Fox had come to afford such luxury, I can do no more than ponder; I believe to question would have lead to great offense.
My return journey was not without incident however. Again I was to find myself immensely enjoying my own company as the marvellous Mrs. Fox had left on an earlier train.
It is here that the oddity truly became apparent.
♠
Whilst comfortably seated within my compartment, I was to unexpectedly spy my blonde friend once more in the compartment adjoining my own. My initial thought was that it was my that had caught my eye. Yet, as my reflection appeared to fade, I could see him all the clearer through the glass filled sliding door from where I sat. Initially it was no more than a sly glance on my part, but as the trip back to London continued, I was to become bolder in my examinations of him. Minutes prior to reaching Kings Cross Station, my courage screwed into an untidy, gut filling ball. I looked him directly in the eye and mouthed the word “hello”.
To my utter amazement, he too, upon sensing our imminent arrival, mouthed “hello” almost in unison with myself. Completely aghast, I returned my gaze back to his eye once more, all the while the prickling of the hairs upon my nape of neck intensified enormously.
“How do sir?” mouthed I.
“How do sir?” mouthed he.
“Splendid sir.” mouthed I.
“Splendid sir.” said he.
A rush of steam and whistle; screech of wheel on track; the shouting of porters, stewards, and rail guards diverted my attentions from him. When I returned my attentions to him, my compartment door was in the process of being opened by a conductor, and my blonde friend, much to my chagrin, had sadly gone.
From within the confines of the Hansom Cab I had taken for my return to my Baker St. rooms, I made up my mind to let the gender deception I now upheld without conscious thought, slip ever so slightly. A great many male poets, thespians, and artists found solace in the arms of those like gendered. The fairer of the sexes has never appealed to me, and it is with men where my heart is wholly given to lay. That said though, what was one to do should the blonde chap whom had my eye and interest not find the female form to be his preference? This conundrum hounded me constantly.
Some days later, with the aid of a straight razor, I removed my pathetic little moustache; deciding also to divert the hairstyle I maintained in the fashion of the day, to one of an elderly scholar, or similar to that of an early Victorian sea Captain within Her Majesty’s Service. Very few decent women have a short cut hair. Mrs. Fox found this change to my appearance quite ‘dashing’
July abated, taking with it the few stone I had gained whilst relaxing in Plymouth. My surgical requirements remained unchanged from the months prior, and my temper was rearing a side of myself that was becoming increasingly more difficult to rein in. At one point at about that time I had flown into such a rage, that I beat a man to the ground senseless with my stick. This was purely as a result of the assailed attempting to pick the watch from my fob pocket. A reprimand yes, but brutally issued unconsciousness was not justified in my book.
Click the picture, I’m in the mood for a little Gershwin. See what you think?
SN xxx
'Sardine Noir' & The World Turned Upside Down 