Considerable Advantage

Preface

Many people are blessed, yet many know it not, that they are born into close-knit families with grandparents still living, great aunts and uncles still spry and sprightly, and names in the family bible dating back so far the ink has long since faded green. In such a familial embrace, tracing one's roots is usually a simple matter of asking Mum, what did grand-dad do in the war? and receiving the reply Go and ask him, he'll tell you all about it.

I, like many others, am not so blessed, and like the many who share this in common with me also, it wasn't until I was staring forty in the face like a bank-clerk staring at a shotgun over the counter that I realised I knew little of my own personal upbringing and the characters whose genes have shaped not only my outward appearance, but doubtless my personality too.

Why is it I never asked, when those who could answer were still living? A lament heard often, and always too late. Snippets of conversation are recalled, fractured memories of family reunions, the odd glimpse of revelation (…of course, old George was never the same after that business with the Spitfire…) before being packed off to bed while the adults continued their gossip. It never amounts to much, and certainly never enough, and memory is a terribly fallible thing as the years tick by…

So, no longer being able to retrieve the information from the horses' mouths, the poor old steeds long since dust, many's the inquisitive mind that balks at the sheer volume of research needed to trace the 'family tree', and forebears vanish forever like morning mist, leaving nought but a ripple in the gene-pool to mark their passing.

I, though, labouring under a delusion, which I perpetuate to this day, that I am a writer, and thus need not spend nine hours a day in drudgery for my daily loaf, and having a little money from my past life's drudgery put by, decided I would not refuse the fences that lay between myself and my quest for ancestral traces. I would, I determined, suffer the ennui and dig up the dirt, and be satisfied with whatever third- or fourth-hand gossip that might come my way which would shed a light, however dim, upon my own raison d'être, and what accidents prevailed to ensure my conception so long ago.

I was not expecting to discover as much as I did. I had no illusions that I might one day discover I was distantly related to England's monarchs, like so many Americans, nor do I count Pharaohs or Irish Kings among my forebears. For this I am glad. I had thought I might turn up a faded photograph or two which might explain my male pattern baldness and my preponderance towards dreamy languor. I did not expect to discover the cause of my own imminent death, which even now I await with that same phlegmatism that has marked my singularly obscure existence and thus separated me from the madding crowd of enthusiastic and successful people everywhere.

What I did discover, and it is by this discovery I know I must shortly expire, was a large, leather-bound tome gathering dust and mildew at the bottom of an ancient tea-chest housed in a shed in the cluttered yard of a rag-and-bone man whose unattractive premises are still to be found in a charming town called Sandwich, in the county of Kent, England.

I shall not bore you with the meandering and thoroughly tedious tale of the adventures which led to this tome's discovery, nor trouble you with a tiresome genealogy or describe my antecedents. Suffice to say that my grandmother lived in the small and picturesque Kentish village of Eastry, some small distance from Sandwich, and no other significance attaches to the location in which I made my discovery. That all my surviving family enjoy the same obscurity as I is self-evident, and thus may be dismissed. There is nothing, I daresay, that could possibly interest a reader other than a family member regarding their lives or mine.

What is of interest, at least to me, and which may be of interest to others who might one day find themselves approaching middle age and wondering about their forebears, is contained in the following.

The leather-bound tome? It was a diary, of sorts, a sort of Book of Remembrance. It contained entries made by my great-grandfather (on my father's side, and I offer this for the sake of my progenitors and to forestall gossip by my surviving kin), together with letters, newspaper clippings, pieces of old fabric, a pressed flower, and a tiny silver tooth-pick, which I have found to be still fully functional after all these years.

Rather than attempt to describe the whole of my discovery and 'translate' the contents of the ancient journal into today's lamentable and fast-decaying English, I have decided instead to allow my great-grandfather to speak for himself with his own writings, which I must say are remarkably coherent and sanguine given the subjects on which he wrote. Yes, he too was a writer, though I'm bound to say he was somewhat more successful than I, for he at least has left the legacy ofthis great volume, which sits close to hand as I write, while I have left nothing more than a few slim volumes in the Legal Deposit vaults of Britain's Copyright Libraries. Certainly nothing of any literary merit, as my bank manager knows only too well.

Like myself, my great-grandfather found himself with time on his hands and a little put by, but unlike myself he knew whence he came and devoted his energies wholly to the subject on which he wrote. It is my fond hope, should I live to complete this record, that somewhere in future history, a descendant of my brother (for I have no children myself) might one day discover this book, and wonder as I did. The original that my illustrious (in my eyes at least) great-grandfather penned is in a sorry state after all these years, and I very much doubt it will survive another interment in a damp and musty tea-chest.

So then, I shall let my discovery speak for itself, and through my own humble pen bring forth the words of one long-dead, who lived in gentler times than our own.

GJ Kelly

March, 2000

-June 7th, 1862-

Dear Diary,

I must assert from the outset that although I have much experience in chronicling the lives of fictitious characters, I have had none in chronicling my own. It surprises me, I confess, that, given the enormous gusto with which Society, in this most modern age, has singularly and heartily embraced The Diary, I have not until this very day 'kept' one myself. It surprises me all the more since, thanks to Society's recently-acquired passion for such journals, I have had to ensure that my fictional character Bertie Bullfrog keeps one of his own in which he faithfully records the daily activities of himself and all the other creatures that visit The Big Brown Pond.

I should not protest too much, methinks, since the series of five children's tales I have produced under that title has flourished, and I have recently discovered to my overwhelming joy that I no longer have to supplement my meagre income as a clerk at the Atkins Foundry. Whoever said Where there's muck, there's brass, clearly never had to work with the stuff, let alone in its immediate vicinity.

But I digress, and I imagine it will be some time before I can resist the temptation to illustrate these pages with impossibly large water lilies, and field mice and Bullfrogs wearing short breeches, waistcoats, and well-brushed top-hats. I suspect, and here again I rely entirely onSociety's strictly upheld tenet that a fellow's diary is never to be read by anyone but himself, that the only reason The Big Brown Pond has seen such success is that an acquaintance of mine, who is extremely comfortable and owns a Foundry, thinks my characters resembled certain well-known politicians of his own social circle which also happens to include the owner of a small publishing enterprise…They thus believe my harmless and thoroughly mediocre works to be nothing short of splendidly incisive and shrewd political satires.

Happy was I, therefore, to find myself with sufficient wherewithal to make good my escape from the brass works, and happy am I to pen this from the rooms I have taken here in the heart of Canterbury. I have a commission in my writing-desk to supply three more works in the Big Brown Pond series, which I had already completed weeks ago but which I yet retain secretly so as not to convey a sense of desperation to my publisher, and a good deal of time on my hands.

It was thus with a light heart, and for the first time a heavy purse, that I set about exploring my surroundings, in particular the Cathedral. I had it in mind to view the tomb of the Black Prince, and see for myself the very spot where Thomas a-Becket was so foully slain, but I was waylaid by my landlady at the very threshold of my rooms.

Mr Kelly, Esquire. She announced, her arms folded across her great bosom and an excited gleam in her eyes.

Yes, Mrs Hickton? was the incisive and devastating reply that burst unhesitatingly from my lips.

You've a letter, Mr Kelly, from a Gentleman. Such was, verbatim on my honour, her equally devastating reply, implying as it did that I myself was not worthy of such a title.

She nodded at my discomfort and the confusion in my own aspect, and without further word handed me the envelope in question. I of course thanked her profusely, and promptly shut the door in her face. At a shilling a week, I felt that the price of my humble rooms did not include allowing the proprietor of the establishment to read my personal correspondence over my shoulder in my door-jamb.

My confusion on receiving the letter was that I had received a letter at all. Of course, I had informed my acquaintance at the Foundry of my intention to depart his employment, as I'd done on many previous occasions. He is kind, is Sir Peter, and humours my attempts at self-sufficiency, yet is always willing to find me a position in the clerk's offices when my attempts inevitably fail. Perhaps he still feels indebted to me for the small service I rendered while we were up at University together, but for my part I believe he has repaid me many times over and the matter should have been consigned as unmentionable years ago.

However, he looks upon me with a kindly eye full of gratitude, and though of course his position would never permit him (or myself, for that matter) to use the word 'friendship' when speaking of me, he clings so fastidiously to his outdated notions of noblesse oblige that I am obliged to accept any beneficence he may offer, for fear of offending him and thus prompting his immediate suicide.

The letter was indeed from him, and was an introduction to a friend of his, one Sir Edward Carston, who had taken a house by the coast near the cinque port of Deal. Sir Edward would be deeply obliged, the letter informed me, were I to call upon him at my convenience, a meeting which would, I was assured, be to my considerable advantage and his.

That was yesterday morning. Intrigued by the letter and fascinated by the words considerable advantage, I promptly gave up all notions of visiting the last resting-place of saints and princes, and went instead to send a telegram to Sir Edward in order to arrange the requested meeting at his house in Deal, which is to take place on the morrow. It was in the post office that I espied this mighty diary, with its fashionable intaglio leather binding and, in my opinion, thoroughly superfluous lock, [the lock is now missing and there are signs that the strap was cut with a knife…GJK] and I decided on a whim to lighten my purse by the sum of eight pence three-farthings to purchase it.

I had it in mind to use it as both ledger and record of my literary submissions now that I am indeed an Author, but the letter and its unexpected invitation prompted me, from some fanciful if not sinister presentiment, to record instead this unusual turn of events.

And there you have it. The rest of the day I spent strolling about the city, enjoying my unexpected liberty and the freedom that a few pounds secure in one's bank account can provide in this most modern age. The great cathedral bells have tolled, all about the house are settling for the night, and so am I.

PS. A final thought occurred as I turned down the wicks. I wonder if Sir Edward Carston is the same chap at University whose father was the unfortunate fellow who died raving on the steps of The House of Commons? I sincerely hope not.

[End of Journal Entry for June 7th, 1862]

[The letter referred to in this entry is, sadly, not among the sundry papers discovered within the diary and the contents of the tea-chest…GJK]

-June 9th 1862-

I find that writing 'Dear Diary' on an otherwise blank page is, if not puerile, certainly jejune and a waste of ink.

I made no entry yesterday, since I was of course up at dawn for my journey to Deal and the imposing house of Sir Edward Carston. To my abject horror and considerable discomfort, he is indeed the son and heir of the late Lord Carston, whose remarkable death in singular circumstances upon the steps of the Commons twelve years ago caused such a stir throughout the nation as a whole and the University in particular. You may recall that dreadful event, and the subsequent scandal in the newspapers at the time?

[Research reveals that Lord Carston was carrying documents to the offices of the Speaker of The House when, upon the steps leading to the very portals of the Mother of Democracy, he was seen to stagger, clutching at his sides, and begin foaming at the mouth. He died in such obvious agony, a process which The London Times assured its readers took a full fifteen minutes, and screaming the words Rid me! over and over again, that many witnesses, including several honourable Members of the House and a great many ladies of the general public, fainted dead away, and his death-agonies were heard in the Chamber itself during a speech made by the Foreign Secretary, the great Lord Palmerston (of gunboat diplomacy fame). Hansard, in reporting the speech, which concerned events in Greece and Palmerston's latest naval deployment, merely notes in parenthesis pause, a disturbance without. It must be remembered that medical science in general and forensic science in particular was not well advanced, and the cause of Lord Carston's death was officially cited as an inflammation and fever of the brain. The scandal that followed is referred to in subsequent journal entries and newspaper clippings found in the diary, and will be related by my great-grandfather in due course…GJK]

It is still fresh in the memory of the University, no doubt due to the late Lord Carston's regular and considerable contributions to that high seat of academia, which alas died with him.

As you can imagine, this knowledge, coming as it did from the driver of the hansom in which I drove from Deal's railway station to Sir Edward's house, cast a certain pall over my previous excitement at impending considerable advantage. Indeed, I was beginning to regret having made the journey at all, and were it not for my writer's imagination and thirst for experience, I might well have turned back there and then.

But Deal has a splendid 16th century castle which stands resplendent overlooking the coast, and though the principal business of the town is fishing, it has a comely and welcoming aspect on a fine June morning. But I could not avoid glancing out over the sea towards the Goodwin Sands, visible not a great distance from the golden pebble beach, and the skeletons of dead ships that lay upon them. Those wrecks, and the apparent surprise and volubility of my cab-driver, added a sinister edge to my presentiments of the 7th inst., and left me in sombre mood.

The reason for the delay in entering the following details is that Sir Edward insisted upon offering me his hospitality, and good manners if not good sense dictated that I spend the night under his roof.

I have said that Sir Edward's house is imposing, and indeed it is. It is tall, yet curiously narrow, and its grounds are protected by a high iron railing complete with gated stone portals. The railings themselves, while alleged to be decorously topped with fleur-de-lis, were sharp and gave the impression of being far from mere decoration, but a veritable palisade of fully-functional spears taken from the distant castle armoury and propped in readiness for some fresh Norman assault.

As my hansom clattered through the wide open gates, I couldn't help but wonder whether these stern surroundings had in fact once served as King Harold's bivouac while he still had two eyes in his head, and that when he'd advanced to Hastings some poltroon of a quartermaster had left these weapons here by mistake thus sealing his subsequent fate.

I paid my four pence fare and was standing outside the house gazing up at its four storeys when, before I'd realised it, the hansom had already clattered onto the cobblestone road beyond the massive gates too far to recall. I had forgotten to make arrangements for its return, and the house was so far removed from the town, standing as it did atop Mill Hill, it would be a long walk for me back to the station.

I was interrupted in my self-criticism though by a frightened-looking young housemaid who, while I watched the retreating silhouette of the hansom disappear out of sight, had opened the door and was waiting for me to announce myself.

Oh, I remarked, or made some other idiotic noise as one does when one is taken so completely by surprise. I'm…

Mr Kelly, sir, yes sir, Sir Edward's expecting you sir.

With that, the poor nervous creature curtsied and stepped aside. Cringed, rather, I'd say, as I entered the dark interior of the house. No sooner had I stepped across the threshold than the door was firmly closed, and the maid slid along the wall like a shadow mumbling that Sir Edward was 'in the library sir, this way sir, if you don't mind sir.'

To be perfectly candid, I didn't know if I minded or not. I certainly didn't have a chance to express an opinion on the matter, for while my eyes were still frantically adjusting from the brilliant sunshine outside to the murky gloom of the interior, the maid, who really did resemble my character Miss Periwinkle, the nervous little field mouse, flung open a door to my left and announced my name.

I stepped forward, hat in hand, and found my poor eyes labouring once more. The 'library', as Sir Edward is apparently wont to call it, is a reception-room whose three bookcases seem to him to justify the designation. Sunshine was streaming in from the great bay window outside of which I'd so recently been standing, gawking slack-jawed at the high roof, and since Carston is a pipe-smoker I could see nothing but a tall silhouette shrouded in an impenetrable screen of blue mist.

He strode forward, grasped my hand, pumped it up and down with great vigour whilst enthusing My dear chap, good of you to come, what? Will you take tea?

I mumbled something appropriate and when my eyes adjusted once more I recognised the fellow who'd been a year senior to myself and Sir Peter when we were Up. To the best of my recollection, I'd never spoken to Sir Edward before, which of course isn't unusual when a chap's a year junior and considerably further down the social scale.

He led me to a comfortable armchair, bade me sit, and while he engaged in some trifling social intercourse which covered weather, travelling, University, and our mutual 'friend' Sir Peter, I studied the fellow, bemused.

That he is