Miss Louisa Hawkins had not realized that courtship – if this was what it was – could be so strenuous, or so resemble tourism. Next they turned their eyes southward, to the Isle of Wight. From the Esplanade, Arthur pointed to what he termed the azure hills of the Vectian Isle, a turn of phrase which struck her as most poetic. They had a distant glimpse of Osborne House, and he explained how an increase in water traffic told when the Queen was in residence. Then they took a steamer across the Solent and round the island; her eye was directed to the Needles, Alum Bay, Carisbrooke Castle, the Landslip, the Undercliff – until she was obliged to call for a deckchair and a rug.
One evening, as they gazed out to sea from the South Parade Pier, he described his exploits in Africa and the Arctic; yet the way tears came into her eyes when he mentioned their purpose on the ice field made him refrain from bragging about his game-bag. She had, he discovered, an innate gentleness which he took to be characteristic of all women, once you got to know them. She was always ready to smile; but could not bear any humour which verged on cruelty, or implied the superiority of the humorist. She had an open, generous nature, a lovely head of curls, and a small income of her own.
In his previous dealings with women, Arthur had played the honourable flirt. Now, as they strolled this concentric resort, as she learned to take his arm, as her name changed in his mouth from Louisa to Touie, as he surreptitiously looked at her hips when she turned away, he knew he wanted more than flirtation. He also thought she would improve him as a man; which was, after all, one of the principles of marriage.
First, however, the young prospect had to be approved by the Mam, who travelled to Hampshire for the inspection. She found Louisa timid, tractable and of decent if not distinguished family. There was no vulgarity or obvious moral weakness likely to embarrass her beloved boy. Nor did there seem any lurking vanity which might at some future time make the girl bridle at Arthur's authority. The mother, Mrs Hawkins, seemed both pleasant and respectful. In giving her approval, the Mam even allowed herself to muse that there might perhaps be something about Louisa – just there, when she held herself in the light like that – which was reminiscent of her own younger self. And what more could a mother want than that, after all?
George
Since starting at Mason College, George has developed the habit of walking the lanes most evenings after his return from Birmingham. This is not for exercise – he had a lifetime of that at Rugeley – but to clear his head before settling down to his books again. As often as not, this fails to work, and he finds himself back in the minutiae of contract law. On this cold January evening, with a half-moon in the sky and the verges still shiny from last night's frost, George is muttering his way through his argument for tomorrow's moot debate – the case is about contaminated flour in a granary – when a figure jumps out at him from behind a tree.
'On your way to Walsall, eh?'
It is Sergeant Upton, red-faced and puffing.
'I beg your pardon?'
'You heard what I said.' Upton is standing close to him, staring in a way George finds alarming. He wonders if the Sergeant is a little loony; in which case, best to humour him.
'You asked if I was on my way to Walsall.'
'So you do have a bloody pair of ears after all.' He is wheezing like – like a horse, or a pig or something.
'I only wondered why you asked, because this is not the way to Walsall. As we both know.'
'As we both know. As we both know.' Upton takes a pace forwards and seizes George by the shoulder. 'What we both know, what we both know, is that you know the way to Walsall, and I know the way to Walsall, and you've been up to your little tricks in Walsall, haven't you?'
The Sergeant is definitely loony now; also hurting him. Is there any advantage in pointing out that he hasn't been to Walsall since this time two years ago, when he was buying Christmas presents for Horace and Maud?
'You been into Walsall, you've took the key to the school, you've brought it home and you've put it on your own front step, didn't you?'
'You're hurting me,' says George.
'Oh no I'm not. I'm not hurting you. This isn't hurting you. You want Sergeant Upton to hurt you, all you have to do is ask.'
George now feels as he did when he used to stare at the distant blackboard with no idea what the correct answer was. He feels as he did when he was about to soil himself. Without knowing quite why, he says, 'I'm going to be a solicitor.'
The Sergeant releases his grip, steps back, and laughs in George's face. Then he spits down towards George's boot.
'Is that what you think? A so-li-ci-tor? What a big word for a little mongrel like you. You think you'll become a so-li-ci-tor if Sergeant Upton says you won't?'
George stops himself saying that it is up to Mason College and the examiners and the Incorporated Law Society to decide whether or not he is to be a solicitor. He thinks he must get home as quickly as possible and tell Father.
'Let me ask you a question.' Upton 's tone seems to have softened, so George decides to humour him a moment longer. 'What are those things on your hands?'
George lifts his forearms, spreads his fingers automatically in his gloves. 'These?' he asks. The man must be mentally deficient.
'Yes.'
'Gloves.'
'Well then, being a clever young monkey and intending to be a so-li-ci-tor, you will know that a pair of gloves is known as Going Equipped, won't you?'
Then he spits again and stamps off down the lane. George bursts into tears.
He is ashamed of himself by the time he gets home. He is sixteen, he is not allowed to cry. Horace has not cried since he was eight. Maud cries a lot, but then she is an invalid as well as a girl.
George's father listens to his story and announces that he will write to the Chief Constable of Staffordshire. It is disgraceful that a common policeman should manhandle his son on a public highway and accuse him of theft. The officer should be dismissed from the force.
'I think he is rather loony, Father. He spat at me twice.'
'He spat at you?'
George thinks again. He is still frightened, but knows this is no reason to tell less than the truth.
'I cannot be certain of that, Father. He was about a yard away, and he spat twice very close to my foot. It's possible he was spitting just like rough people do. But when he did it he seemed to be cross with me.'
'Do you think that is sufficient proof of intention?' George likes this. He is being treated as a future solicitor. 'Perhaps not, Father.'
'I agree with you. Good. I shall not mention the spitting.' Three days later the Reverend Shapurji Edalji receives a reply from Captain the Honourable George A. Anson, Chief Constable of Staffordshire. It is dated January 23rd 1893, and does not contain the expected apology and promise of action. Instead, Anson writes:
Will you please ask your son George from whom the key was obtained which was laid on your doorstep on Dec. 12? The key was stolen, but if it can be shown that the whole thing was due to some idle freak or practical joke, I should not be inclined to allow any police proceedings to be taken in regard to it. If, however, the persons concerned in the removal of the key refuse to make any explanation of the subject, I must necessarily treat the matter in all seriousness as a theft. I may say at once that I shall not pretend to believe any protestations of ignorance which your son may make about this key. My information on the subject does not come from the police.