Prince of Wales. He had his eye on
his future. Old Victoria couldn’t last for ever. And moreover they were to cook from Mr Soyer’s recipes so at least the Prince
would get some decent food. Didier wasn’t bad, but he had his blind spots and the Maître Soyer was one of them.
Sid had very uncomplicated thoughts. Sid was simply looking forward to the whelk and jellied-eel stalls, the ice-cream vendors
and donkey rides that his day trips to Southend had convinced him adorned every seaside pier. Not to mention some nice penny-in-the-slot
machines. ‘What the Butler Saw’, for instance.
The landaus turned off the High Street, having passed close by the grand entrance of the Albion Hotel. At the Victoria Parade
on the seafront, there was a gasp as the full glory of Broadstairs was revealed. The smell of the ocean (rather sweeter than
had been usual in former years owing to the provision of new outflows further from the Thanet towns) and the noise struck
them simultaneously. Sudden awareness came upon them of the dull nature of their own attire, faced with the spectacle of ladies
in light foulards carrying gaily coloured parasols and gentlemen in debonair blazers and audaciously white flannels promenading
on the cliffside, swinging smart new canes or sticks that sported the latest fashionable knobs. The older generation chose
Victoria’s portrait to adorn their knobs, the younger Ranjitsinhji. Balloons, toy windmills, buckets and spades, donkeys,
beach entertainers, a line of bathing machines (no tents for stately Broadstairs) and sandcastles filled the glazed eyes of
the new arrivals with impressions as vivid and gay as Mr Frith’s famous portrayal of Ramsgate.
So this was Mr Dickens’s Watering Place. This was the English Seaside. No wonder, thought Auguste dazedly, assisting Alice
down from the landau, that Dickens had declared the place too noisy and left. And if this were Broadstairs, what would Ramsgate
be like? Poor, poor Egbert.
In London, with only seven days before the Week of the Lion commenced, the committee of the Literary Lionisers were now looking
forward to their ‘holiday’ with mixedfeelings. After the unfortunate scenes at the committee meeting, not only those overheard by Auguste but several private ones
that had taken place after the committee meeting had broken up in complete disarray, this was by no means the pleasurable
experience it had hitherto seemed.
Samuel Pipkin was, strangely, the calmest. His plans were already laid. Thomas Throgmorton had gone too far. He would suffer
for riding roughshod over Samuel Pipkin Esquire. His mind was made up. It was the mind of a John Jasper.
Angelina Langham also had plans, but they were less inflexible. She had a notion that Sir Thomas would propose to her while
they were away. Where better than under the heady influence of the seaside air? And, ah, then what pleasure it would give
her to decline his proposal, and even more to tell him why. What would happen then she had not yet decided, but the thought
of revenge could sometimes be very sweet.
Oliver Michaels had noticed the apparently growing intimacy between Angelina and Sir Thomas with some bewilderment. Surely
Angelina could not seriously be encouraging Sir Thomas? Yet it looked as if she were, in which case she was not the person
he thought her. True, her last husband was much older than she was. With sudden resolution, however, he knew that whatever
the reason, Sir Thomas could not be allowed to marry Angelina. He was surprised to find quite how strongly he felt about the
matter.
Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett couldn’t wait to get to Broadstairs. There, she was sure, she would know once and for all whether
or not Sir Thomas had really meant those cruel words he had spoken to her, or whether it was merely overwork on his part combined
with the unfortunate effect of the high temperature at the time. Surely no one could have meant them seriously,
his future. Old Victoria couldn’t last for ever. And moreover they were to cook from Mr Soyer’s recipes so at least the Prince
would get some decent food. Didier wasn’t bad, but he had his blind spots and the Maître Soyer was one of them.
Sid had very uncomplicated thoughts. Sid was simply looking forward to the whelk and jellied-eel stalls, the ice-cream vendors
and donkey rides that his day trips to Southend had convinced him adorned every seaside pier. Not to mention some nice penny-in-the-slot
machines. ‘What the Butler Saw’, for instance.
The landaus turned off the High Street, having passed close by the grand entrance of the Albion Hotel. At the Victoria Parade
on the seafront, there was a gasp as the full glory of Broadstairs was revealed. The smell of the ocean (rather sweeter than
had been usual in former years owing to the provision of new outflows further from the Thanet towns) and the noise struck
them simultaneously. Sudden awareness came upon them of the dull nature of their own attire, faced with the spectacle of ladies
in light foulards carrying gaily coloured parasols and gentlemen in debonair blazers and audaciously white flannels promenading
on the cliffside, swinging smart new canes or sticks that sported the latest fashionable knobs. The older generation chose
Victoria’s portrait to adorn their knobs, the younger Ranjitsinhji. Balloons, toy windmills, buckets and spades, donkeys,
beach entertainers, a line of bathing machines (no tents for stately Broadstairs) and sandcastles filled the glazed eyes of
the new arrivals with impressions as vivid and gay as Mr Frith’s famous portrayal of Ramsgate.
So this was Mr Dickens’s Watering Place. This was the English Seaside. No wonder, thought Auguste dazedly, assisting Alice
down from the landau, that Dickens had declared the place too noisy and left. And if this were Broadstairs, what would Ramsgate
be like? Poor, poor Egbert.
In London, with only seven days before the Week of the Lion commenced, the committee of the Literary Lionisers were now looking
forward to their ‘holiday’ with mixedfeelings. After the unfortunate scenes at the committee meeting, not only those overheard by Auguste but several private ones
that had taken place after the committee meeting had broken up in complete disarray, this was by no means the pleasurable
experience it had hitherto seemed.
Samuel Pipkin was, strangely, the calmest. His plans were already laid. Thomas Throgmorton had gone too far. He would suffer
for riding roughshod over Samuel Pipkin Esquire. His mind was made up. It was the mind of a John Jasper.
Angelina Langham also had plans, but they were less inflexible. She had a notion that Sir Thomas would propose to her while
they were away. Where better than under the heady influence of the seaside air? And, ah, then what pleasure it would give
her to decline his proposal, and even more to tell him why. What would happen then she had not yet decided, but the thought
of revenge could sometimes be very sweet.
Oliver Michaels had noticed the apparently growing intimacy between Angelina and Sir Thomas with some bewilderment. Surely
Angelina could not seriously be encouraging Sir Thomas? Yet it looked as if she were, in which case she was not the person
he thought her. True, her last husband was much older than she was. With sudden resolution, however, he knew that whatever
the reason, Sir Thomas could not be allowed to marry Angelina. He was surprised to find quite how strongly he felt about the
matter.
Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett couldn’t wait to get to Broadstairs. There, she was sure, she would know once and for all whether
or not Sir Thomas had really meant those cruel words he had spoken to her, or whether it was merely overwork on his part combined
with the unfortunate effect of the high temperature at the time. Surely no one could have meant them seriously,
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