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In a Steamer Chair And Other Stories by Robert Barr

R >> Robert Barr >> In a Steamer Chair And Other Stories




We all looked at Mr. Blair, who gazed with imperturbability at Waters.

"If you had all crossed with Waters as often as I have you would know
that he is subject to attacks like that. He means well, but occasionally
he gives way in the deplorable manner you have just witnessed. Now all
there is of it consists in this--a basket of flowers has been sent (no
doubt by mistake) to our state-room. There is nothing but a card on it
which says 'Room 27.' Steward," he cried, "would you go to room 27,
bring that basket of flowers, and set it on this table. We may as well
all have the benefit of them."

The steward soon returned with a large and lovely basket of flowers,
which he set on the table, shoving the caster and other things aside to
make room for it.

We all admired it very much, and the handsome young lady on my left
asked Mr. Blair's permission to take one of the roses for her own. "Now,
mind you," said Blair, "I cannot grant a flower from the basket, for you
see it is as much the property of Waters as of myself, for all of his
virtuous indignation. It was sent to the room, and he is one of the
occupants. The flowers have evidently been misdirected."

The lady referred to took it upon herself to purloin the flower she
wanted. As she did so a card came in view with the words written in a
masculine hand--

To
Miss McMillan,
With the loving regards of
Edwin J----

"Miss McMillan!" cried the lady; "I wonder if she is on board? I'd give
anything to know."

"We'll have a glance at the passenger list," said Waters.

Down among the M's on the long list of cabin passengers appeared the
name "Miss McMillan."

"Now," said I, "it seems to me that the duty devolves on both Blair and
Waters to spare no pains in delicately returning those flowers to their
proper owner. _I_ think that both have been very remiss in not doing so
long ago. They should apologise publicly to the young lady for having
deprived her of the offering for a day and a half, and then I think they
owe an apology to this table for the mere pretence that any sane
person in New York or elsewhere would go to the trouble of sending
either of them a single flower."

"There will be no apology from me," said Waters. "If I do not receive
the thanks of Miss McMillan, it will be because good deeds are rarely
recognised in this world. I think it must be evident, even to the
limited intelligence of my journalistic friend across the table, that
Mr. Blair intended to keep those flowers in his state-room, and--of
course I make no direct charges--the concealment of that card certainly
looks bad. It may have been concealed by the sender of the flowers, but
to me it looks bad."

"Of course," said Blair dryly, "to you it looks bad. To the pure, etc."

"Now," said the sentimental lady on my left, "while you gentlemen are
wasting the time in useless talk the lady is without her roses. There
is one thing that you all seem to miss. It is not the mere value of the
bouquet. There is a subtle perfume about an offering like this more
delicate than that which Nature gave the flowers--"

"Hear, hear," broke in Waters.

"I told you," said Blair aside, "the kind of fellow Waters is. He thinks
nothing of interrupting a lady."

"Order, both of you!" I cried, rapping on the table; "the lady from
England has the floor."

"What I was going to say--"

"When Waters interrupted you."

"When Mr. Waters interrupted me I was going to say that there seems to
me a romantic tinge to this incident that you old married men cannot be
expected to appreciate."

I looked with surprise at Waters, while he sank back in his seat with
the resigned air of a man in the hands of his enemies. We had both been
carefully concealing the fact that we were married men, and the blunt
announcement of the lady was a painful shock. Waters gave a side nod at
Blair, as much as to say, "He's given it away." I looked reproachfully
at my old friend at the head of the table, but he seemed to be absorbed
in what our sentimental lady was saying.

"It is this," she continued. "Here is a young lady. Her lover sends
her a basket. There may be some hidden meaning that she alone will
understand in the very flowers chosen, or in the arrangement of them.
The flowers, let us suppose, never reach their destination. The message
is unspoken, or, rather, spoken, but unheard. The young lady grieves at
the apparent neglect, and then, in her pride, resents it. She does not
write, and he knows not why. The mistake may be discovered too late, and
all because a basket of flowers has been missent."

"Now, Blair," said Waters, "if anything can make you do the square thing
surely that appeal will."

"I shall not so far forget what is due to myself and to the dignity of
this table as to reply to our erratic friend. Here is what I propose to
do--first catch our hare. Steward, can you find out for me at what table
and at what seat Miss McMillan is?"

While the steward was gone on his errand Mr. Blair proceeded.

"I will become acquainted with her. McMillan is a good Scotch name and
Blair is another. On that as a basis I think we can speedily form an
acquaintance. I shall then in a casual manner ask her if she knows a
young man by the name of Edwin J., and I shall tell you what effect the
mention of the name has on her."

"Now, as part owner in the flowers up to date, I protest against that. I
insist that Miss McMillan be brought to this table, and that we all hear
exactly what is said to her," put in Mr. Waters.

Nevertheless we agreed that Mr. Blair's proposal was a good one and the
majority sanctioned it.

Meanwhile our sentimental lady had been looking among the crowd for the
unconscious Miss McMillan.

"I think I have found her," she whispered to me. "Do you see that
handsome girl at the captain's table. Really the handsomest girl on
board."

"I thought that distinction rested with our own table."

"Now, please pay attention. Do you see how pensive she is, with her
cheek resting on her hand? I am sure she is thinking of Edwin."

"I wouldn't bet on that," I replied. "There is considerable motion just
now, and indications of a storm. The pensiveness may have other causes."

Here the steward returned and reported that Miss McMillan had not
yet appeared at table, but had her meals taken to her room by the
stewardess.

Blair called to the good-natured, portly stewardess of the _Climatus_,
who at that moment was passing through the saloon.

"Is Miss McMillan ill?" he asked.

"No, not ill," replied Mrs. Kay; "but she seems very much depressed at
leaving home, and she has not left her room since we started."

"There!" said our sentimental lady, triumphantly.

"I would like very much to see her," said Mr. Blair; "I have some good
news for her."

"I will ask her to come out. It will do her good," said the stewardess,
as she went away.

In a few moments she appeared, and, following her, came an old woman,
with white hair, and her eyes concealed by a pair of spectacles.

"Miss McMillan," said the stewardess, "this is Mr. Blair, who wanted to
speak to you."

Although Mr. Blair was, as we all were, astonished to see our mythical
young lady changed into a real old woman, he did not lose his
equanimity, nor did his kindly face show any surprise, but he evidently
forgot the part he had intended to play.

"You will pardon me for troubling you, Miss McMillan," he said, "but
this basket of flowers was evidently intended for you, and was sent to
my room by mistake."

Miss McMillan did not look at the flowers, but gazed long at the card
with the writing on it, and as she did so one tear and then another
stole down the wrinkled face from behind the glasses.

"There is no mistake, is there?" asked Mr. Blair. "You know the writer."

"There is no mistake--no mistake," replied Miss McMillan in a low voice,
"he is a very dear and kind friend." Then, as if unable to trust herself
further, she took the flowers and hurriedly said, "Thank you," and left
us.

"There," I said to the lady on my left, "your romance turns out to be
nothing after all."

"No, sir," she cried with emphasis; "the romance is there, and very much
more of a romance than if Miss McMillan was a young and silly girl of
twenty."

Perhaps she was right.

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial, but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors, it should never be swept under the carpet."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

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Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

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