Hairy London Read Free Page A

answers. I believe I may go there at once.”
    “But how, sir?”
    “Aboard an Archimedean floater, if I can locate one.”
    With that Sheremy jumped down the steps and entered the hairy thoroughfare, heading south for Fleet Street, but before he reached it he heard a scream and saw a white parasolette waving above Chancery Lane’s brunette locks. At once he forced his way across the street, to grab the parasolette and pull it free. Nothing. What on Earth was going on? But then he heard a muffled cry, and without thought for his own safety he reached down, to encounter a hand. The hand grasped his. He pulled until the rest of the person appeared.
    It was a lady. Or at least, a woman. She appeared to be wearing trousers.
    ~
    Velvene Orchardtide departed Bedwards House and hurried to the nearest empty Handsome Cab. Climbing aboard he said, “To Ebury Mews Belgravia as quick as you can. And don’t spare the whip.”
    “Very good, sir,” said the cabbie.
    Velvene sat back. He had taken something of a risk accepting Pantomile’s ludicrous wager, but, with nothing better to do, and little by way of funds...
    “Hurry up, man!” he called out.
    “A lot of traffic tonight, sir,” the cabbie replied. “The Strand is packed with horseless carriages doing the Chinatown To Whitechapel Race. I think they should ban it, sir.”
    “Well, just go as fast as you can, eh?”
    “Or, they could hold it on a Sunday when everybody’s at church.”
    Velvene chuckled. “Good idea! You a religious man, are you?”
    “No, sir. I like what that Mr Marx has to say. Religion–”
    “Well that’s quite enough of that. Shut up and drive on, eh?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Before disembarking, Velvene checked his appearance in the glass window before him: of middle age, thinning hair, clean shaven, with watery blue eyes and a hook nose. Black jackette and pantaloons. He glanced down to see shiny black shoes and white socks.
    Out on the street he glanced up at his parents’ apartment, which sprawled over a number of floors and house-numbers. Luckily for him the Orchardtide family were exceedingly wealthy.
    “Funds, Velvene,” he muttered to himself. “It is all about funds.”
    He unlocked the front door and entered, but at once sensed an atmosphere in the house. Normally there would be a rivulet of chatter falling down the stairs, the sound of music from a string orchestra, or perhaps the latest 78 record playing on the monogram. But tonight, nothing.
    He decided to creep up to his own rooms, which lay at the top of the building, below the flat roof. But he did not get so far.
    “Velvene!”
    That was his mother, the dragon. “Yes?” he replied.
    “Come to the evening parlour at once. ”
    Velvene swore under his breath. Surely they had not discovered his rearrangement of the Lyon candlesticks?
    His mother awaited him, standing by the fireplace, tapping her fingers against the mantelpiece; his father sitting in a bath chair, a tartan rug over his legs, half asleep in the glow of the coal.
    “Have you moved my candlesticks?” she asked.
    “No, mother.”
    “You know how valuable they are. Two are missing. Have you sold them?”
    “Sold them?” Velvene said. She had discovered his rearrangement.
    “Yes, sold them Velvene, something you’ve done before. But you know how precious those candlesticks are to me.”
    “Well, I did not touch–”
    “You did! And, God help me, I have proof.” From the mantelpiece she took a twist of paper, which she opened to reveal a small amount of cigarist ash. And he had been smoking when he rearranged the candlesticks...
    “Mother,” he said, wondering how to explain the indefensible.
    She raised her right hand, her face white with fury, lips compressed, eyes narrowed. “Velvene Orchardtide, you are banished from this family! From this very house. You are banished from Orchardtide Manor also. You are banished from Orchardtide Fairings, from the Church and from the entire Scottish estate. You