{"id":6088,"date":"2020-10-19T00:10:05","date_gmt":"2020-10-18T13:10:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/?p=6088"},"modified":"2021-07-31T17:39:07","modified_gmt":"2021-07-31T07:39:07","slug":"the-mystery-of-the-dashing-widower-a-fitzosbornes-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/2020\/10\/the-mystery-of-the-dashing-widower-a-fitzosbornes-story\/","title":{"rendered":"The Mystery of the Dashing Widower: A FitzOsbornes Story"},"content":{"rendered":"

I’d planned to publish this for Love Your Bookshop Day<\/a>, to say thank you to all the Australian booksellers who have worked so hard to keep us supplied with books during the pandemic. Unfortunately, Love Your Bookshop Day was two weeks ago. I would have known the correct date if I was still on Twitter. But not being on Twitter meant I had lots more spare time to write this. Swings and roundabouts. So, here, belatedly, for booksellers and book readers, is a fluffy FitzOsbornes short story. I’m afraid it won’t make a lot of sense unless you’ve read The FitzOsbornes at War<\/em><\/a>.<\/p>\n

The Mystery of the Dashing Widower<\/strong><\/p>\n

One of the most enjoyable aspects of Miss Lancaster\u2019s job at the bookshop \u2014 apart from the unlimited access to books, of course \u2014 was contemplating the hidden lives of the customers. Such mysteries! There was The Major, a gruff elderly gentleman who always had a Mills and Boon romance concealed in the stack of military history books he brought up to the counter each month. (\u201cFor the wife,\u201d he\u2019d muttered, when he saw Miss Lancaster\u2019s glance snag upon Desire is Blind<\/em>. She wasn\u2019t sure if it would be more endearing if this turned out to be the truth or a lie.) There was the tall, thin lady who was slowly making her way through a badly-foxed copy of The Interpretation of Dreams<\/em> in the dimmest corner of the shop, marking her place each week with a red cotton thread. There was The Brunette in Blue, who always contrived to be in the shop at the exact same time as The Shy Accountant, although Miss Lancaster had never managed to catch them exchanging a single word, let alone touching.<\/p>\n

However, her favourite mystery by far was the Dashing Widower, whom she\u2019d first encountered two years ago when he\u2019d rushed in and begged for book recommendations.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s for my sister,\u201d he\u2019d said. \u201cShe\u2019s very clever and has read absolutely everything but we must keep her in bed, doctor\u2019s advice, you see, first baby and all, and magazines and newspapers simply aren\u2019t working anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh,\u201d said Miss Lancaster, brightening. It had been a very dull afternoon and the young gentleman had blond curls and sparkling blue eyes and a charming smile. \u201cWell, what interests her?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe human condition,\u201d he said solemnly, then laughed. \u201cLet\u2019s see. She likes Austen and Trollope and the Bront\u00ebs and there\u2019s a novel she\u2019s just finished, I wrote down its author \u2014 Davey, I have to put you down for a moment while I find that note.\u201d He\u2019d been carrying a dark-haired child, perhaps two years old, who grumbled quietly as he was lowered to the floor. \u201cLook, old chap, a book about yachts, you\u2019ll adore that. Here we are \u2014 Rumer Godden. Can that be right? Is that really someone\u2019s name?\u201d<\/p>\n

Up close, the gentleman was older than she\u2019d first thought, with scarred flesh running down the side of his face and neck. He limped, and later she realised he had a wooden leg. The war, she supposed. What a tragedy, and then to have lost his wife, too \u2014 because surely he was a widower. Why else would a man spend so much time looking after his small children? Because soon after that, he began to visit the shop every couple of weeks or so, sometimes with a baby in a fancy silver perambulator, more often with his son on their way back from sailing toy boats in Hyde Park. He mostly bought books for the children, Ladybirds and Dr Seuss and a beautiful leather-bound collection of fairy tales. Sometimes he accepted further recommendations for his sister (\u201cThe Grand Sophy<\/em>! Oh, yes, that\u2019s perfect.\u201d), but he always claimed he didn\u2019t read himself.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do, Daddy,\u201d corrected Davey. \u201cYou read about aeroplanes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, maintenance manuals,\u201d said his father, and Miss Lancaster filed that away. Ex-RAF? Former fighter pilot? Current<\/em> pilot? Except he didn\u2019t ever seem to go to work.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe had a box of Biggles come in this morning,\u201d she offered. \u201cExcellent condition.\u201d She picked up Biggles Sees It Through <\/em>and handed it over. A curious expression came over his face and he went very still. <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d said Davey, peering closer.<\/p>\n

His father shook his head and smiled down at the boy. <\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, lost in thought. Your aunt loved these books. Oh, look, Davey, The Adventures of Wonk: Going To Sea<\/em>! Shall we get that one?\u201d<\/p>\n

Miss Lancaster stayed well away from aeroplanes \u2014 indeed, anything military \u2014 after that. Her standard recommendation for men who claimed not to read was a collection of humorous short stories, but she didn\u2019t dare suggest P. G. Wodehouse, not after all the fuss about his broadcasts during the war. Nazi propaganda, they\u2019d called it. Sometimes it felt as though the war would never be over\u2026<\/p>\n

Months later, Miss Lancaster spied the Dashing Widower by The Serpentine with a pretty blonde who looked so much like him that she could only have been his sister. Davey was hurling bread at the ducks, his sister had by then grown big enough to stand on her own legs and the lady was fussing over a smaller baby in the now-familiar perambulator. Her baby? Presumably. She did not, Miss Lancaster had to admit, look like a Biggles fan, but appearances could be deceiving.<\/p>\n

However interesting this sighting was, it was nothing compared to the momentous afternoon the following year. Miss Lancaster had been walking through Belgravia. This was not, strictly speaking, on her way home, but sometimes she couldn\u2019t resist the lure of those grand old mansions, so imposing, so intriguing<\/em>. Since the war, some of them had been turned into embassies \u2014 mostly for tiny countries no one had ever heard of, but still, imagine all the fascinating people inside, the diplomats and press officers and spies\u2026 She turned a corner and there, across the road, was the Dashing Widower with little Davey, talking to one of the most beautiful women Miss Lancaster had ever seen in real life. She looked like a film star, except she was dressed in a sensible navy trouser suit and her only makeup was a slash of scarlet lipstick. The three of them were standing on the steps of the grandest house on the street and the resemblance between Davey and the woman was striking.<\/p>\n

Miss Lancaster did some hasty editing of her mental file. Not<\/em> a widower, then? Perhaps his beautiful wife was one of those modern career women and he\u2019d agreed to take care of the children? Because his injuries were so serious that he knew he could never work again? Although she suspected that no one who lived in a house like that would ever need to worry about working at any sort of ordinary job. Old money<\/em>, as her boss had said that morning when he\u2019d returned from that deceased-estate auction in the country. Miss Lancaster sidled rapidly across the road to the neighbouring house and arranged herself behind a marble pillar, where she spent some time with her head bent over her handbag, carefully adjusting and re-adjusting the leather strap.<\/p>\n

\u201cI must go,\u201d said the lady. \u201cMeeting Daniel for tea at Westminster.\u201d<\/p>\n

Could she be a lady MP? <\/p>\n

The woman climbed into a rather battered-looking motor car and Davey waved vigorously as she drove off. <\/p>\n

\u201cBye, Aunt Veronica!\u201d he cried.<\/p>\n

Ah. Not his mother, then. An aunt, and this one looked even less like a Biggles reader. Miss Lancaster was just wondering whether she could stroll ahead now, perhaps nod hello and get a glimpse of their foyer as they opened their front door, when a far more impressive motor car pulled up and Cary Grant stepped out.<\/p>\n

Well, not Cary Grant, because he was in Hollywood, but close enough, double-breasted pin-striped Savile Row suit and all. Davey ran down the stairs and threw himself at the man.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, you just missed Veronica,\u201d said the Dashing Widower.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood,\u201d said Not Cary Grant, hoisting up Davey. \u201cHow\u2019s my boy?\u201d he asked with obvious affection, and now Miss Lancaster could see the family resemblance between those<\/em> two as well. \u201cIs Julia back yet?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d said the Dashing Widower. \u201cAnd the meeting went exactly as you predicted. But never fear, she\u2019s plotting her next move.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were away for two days,\u201d said Davey accusingly, holding up two fingers.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, and I missed you,\u201d said Not Cary Grant.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you miss Mummy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d He put the child down so that he could pull his suitcase out of the car.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you miss Daddy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you miss Mr Simpkins?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s Mr Simpkins?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe cat with three legs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe one that chewed up my favourite silk tie? No, I did not miss him. And I wish your uncle would stop foisting all these defective animals on us\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

The three of them disappeared through the glossy red front door, which shut firmly behind them before Miss Lancaster could catch a glimpse of the interior. <\/p>\n

Miss Lancaster pursed her lips. This was getting very confusing.<\/p>\n

She had progressed no further with solving the mystery of the Devoted Father, as she\u2019d re-named him, on an icy winter\u2019s afternoon a few months later. Anyone who had any choice in the matter would have been tucked up by the fire at home with tea and crumpets. Davey, however, had birthday money to spend and was taking this book-buying expedition very seriously. <\/p>\n

\u201cI could get this<\/em> one about sailing ships and<\/em> this quite small book about a fireman or<\/em> I could get this very, very good book about how to defend a castle from invaders\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\"'GirlMeanwhile, his little sister was sitting on the rug in the children\u2019s section, her stout legs stretched out in front of her. She was the most angelic-looking child, all golden curls and enormous blue-green eyes, but her rosebud frock had mud smeared down the front. (\u201cToni fell in a puddle,\u201d Davey had said disapprovingly. \u201cOn purpose. And she just laughed<\/em>.\u201d) Her father was holding up a book for her approval.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want bunny,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe say please<\/em> when we want something. And we do not need any more bunny books,\u201d said her father. \u201cNow, who\u2019s this? Look, he\u2019s grey and has floppy ears!\u201d He handed her The Story of Babar<\/em>, which she examined dubiously. \u201cYou sit here quietly and look at this for a moment. Davey! Have you decided yet?\u201d<\/p>\n

The little boy was frowning at two books. \u201cI decided, but I don\u2019t have enough money. This one costs two shillings and two pence and this very, very good one is three shillings and nine pence.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo how much are they, when you add them up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFive shillings and eleven pence. But I only have five shillings and eight pence.\u201d He held out a palmful of coins. <\/p>\n

\u201cSo how much more money do you need?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m only four, Daddy,\u201d said Davey. \u201cI can do adding up, but I can\u2019t do adding down.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s called subtracting and yes, you can. You were doing it this morning. Here, I\u2019m going to lend you thruppence and you can pay me back from your jam jar when we get home. How much do you have now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFive shillings and eleven pence!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo if you subtract three pence from five shillings and eleven pence, you get\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDaddy, Toni is climbing the wall.\u201d<\/p>\n

Miss Lancaster, distracted by the arithmetic lesson, had also failed to notice the little girl, who had tucked her dress into her bloomers and scaled the bookshelf in the Natural History section as far up as Alpine Flora and Fauna<\/em>. <\/p>\n

\u201cGood Lord, I leave you alone for thirty seconds!\u201d said her father, who\u2019d dashed over to rescue her. \u201cNo climbing, Toni! That\u2019s very naughty. You could hurt yourself. And look, now you\u2019ve torn your new dress\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me, I would like to pay for these books, please,\u201d said a firm voice somewhere below the counter.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d said Miss Lancaster, leaning over to take the books and handful of coins from Davey. \u201cThank you, that\u2019s the exact amount. Shall I wrap them for you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, thank you. I will put them in my bag.\u201d Davey was carefully stowing them away in his satchel when his father came up, carrying the little girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cGive the book to the lady, please,\u201d said the Devoted Father, rather wearily.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d Toni clutched the book and shook her head. Then she suddenly changed her mind and thrust The Bunney-Fluffs\u2019 Moving Day<\/em> at Miss Lancaster, with a dazzling smile that showed off two new pearly teeth.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, a bunny book. How nice,\u201d said Miss Lancaster blandly. \u201cThat will be 2\/6, please. Shall I wrap it for you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPut this in your bag, please, Davey,\u201d said the Devoted Father. \u201cRight! Have we got everything? Toni, where are your mittens? Let\u2019s go or we\u2019ll be late for tea. Remember, we\u2019re going to see Elizabeth this afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPrincess Elizabeth?\u201d said Davey, and Miss Lancaster\u2019s eyes widened.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo we\u2019ll be on our best behaviour, won\u2019t we, Toni?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBunny book,\u201d said Toni.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you can share your bunny book with her. I\u2019m sure she\u2019ll love that. Good afternoon,\u201d he said, nodding to Miss Lancaster. \u201cTerribly sorry about the mountaineering. Won\u2019t happen again.\u201d He herded the children out and the bell clanged behind them.<\/p>\n

Miss Lancaster propped her elbow on the counter and her chin on her hand. She was considering getting some cushions for the children\u2019s section and perhaps a Winnie-the-Pooh to sit on the windowsill. Her boss said she should not encourage children in the shop because they were noisy and smelly and had sticky fingers, but Miss Lancaster had pointed out that this also applied to a significant number of their grown-up customers. She very much enjoyed observing the various children who visited the bookshop and remained hopeful that one day, little Davey would let slip enough information to enable her to solve the mystery of the Devoted Father. In the meantime, she was going to put the kettle on. She was planning to have a nice cup of tea and an arrowroot biscuit. And then she had a box of Margery Allingham detective stories to sort through. Miss Lancaster really did adore<\/em> her job.<\/p>\n

© Michelle Cooper 2020<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I’d planned to publish this for Love Your Bookshop Day, to say thank you to all the Australian booksellers who have worked so hard to keep us supplied with books during the pandemic. Unfortunately, Love Your Bookshop Day was two weeks ago. I would have known the correct date if I was still on Twitter. … Continue reading The Mystery of the Dashing Widower: A FitzOsbornes Story<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[22,15],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6088","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-1950s-and-1960s","category-the-montmaray-journals"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6088","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6088"}],"version-history":[{"count":23,"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6088\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6264,"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6088\/revisions\/6264"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6088"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6088"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/michellecooper-writer.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6088"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}