Grift and Griftability Chapter 4
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a grifter denied the continued opportunity to make a good living for very little work in one place, will swiftly relocate to another, and so it was that good Mrs Bennet of Longbourne House, near Meryton in Hertford-shire, announced with great excitement to her husband and their four daughters that they were to have a new neighbour.
‘If you mean Mr Bingley, dear, I am sure we have heard quite enough of him over the past se’ennight. Indeed, I feel I have heard his name more often than my own.’
‘No, Mr Bennet, not that gentleman at all,’ declared his wife with the pride that would become a running theme in this tale, were it only to continue beyond the length of a single chapter.
‘Well, Netherfield Park has been taken by Bingley, so how in the heavens can anyone else have recently moved to the area?’
‘Not Netherfield Park, sir, but Sloppington House. And it has been taken by a fine young man of uncertain age – at least, I think it is a man.’
‘A curious personage! Uncertain age and also uncertain Sex!’ mused Mr Bennet, using the word in the manner of his time to mean ‘gender’.
‘Weeelll…that is to say, Mrs Long swears that she saw a handsome gentleman, wearing trousers, a coat and cravat, and yet-’
‘And yet Charlotte Lucas assured me she saw a lady in the most striking scarlet dress,’ smiled Elizabeth.
‘Might one solve this mystery by supposing that the new inhabitant is a lady who occasionally wears trousers?’ Mr Bennet ventured.
‘Oh, sir!’ cried his wife. ‘A lady in trousers? Really, must you fill the girls’ heads with such stuff and nonsense?’
‘I fear their heads are already quite full with such stuff,’ observed Mr Bennet, rising wearily, ‘except for my dear Lizzy, who is comparatively bright for a female, though that is saying no more than that a dog is relatively alert for its species. Now, who would be knocking at the door and disturbing a man’s peace at this time of the evening?’
‘Ahoy!’ came a bold cry from the front step, and without warning, a stranger stepped into the cosy living-room, bringing a blast of frost and a flurry of snow, and carrying a large sheet of paper that flapped like a sail in full winds.
‘My dear Sir-‘ Mrs Bennet began, and then quickly corrected herself as the newcomer removed a heavy coat, and a womanly figure, quite as fulsome in its contours as the figurehead on a clipper ship, was clearly revealed. ‘I mean to say – forgive me – Madam!’
‘I get that a lot,’ replied the stranger with an alluring smile. ‘Let’s just say that my unique style of fashion plays with people’s heads!’ And she broke into a thin shanty: ‘Where’er I be and where’er I’ll go… I’ll tell ye my name is Mx Jack Monroe.’ This last was punctuated with a hearty stamp to the floor like a Pantomime Boy, which rattled the vases Mrs Bennet’s mantlepiece and the glasses in her cabinets.
‘Ahoy, it’s me… Jack Monroe, Fire-lighter, Fire-fighter, the Nation’s Schoolmarm, Warrior, Enemy of the State, Former Slave and Secret Lover of Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, may she rest in peace. I’m most peculiar shy, and trying to do things that make me brave, so I’m glad none of you have been cruel about me little song.’
Lydia was driven to giggles at the bold declaration, which set Kitty to laughter that in turn became a paroxysm of coughing.
‘Kitty, you will drive me to distraction,’ complained her father.
‘It is the snow,’ protested poor Kitty, for indeed, Miss Monroe seemed to carry with her a blizzard. Mrs Bennett hastily brushed the visitor down, wiping crystals and flakes from her shoulders and hair.
‘You have some on your face, dear,’ she said kindly. ‘There, under your nose.’
‘Oh, that’s not snow,’ remarked Miss Monroe. ‘Salt, spices and sugar, I’ll warrant. For I’m a famous Cook, too.’
Kitty caught Lydia’s eye and again fell into a spasm of coughing.
‘Coughs?’ Miss Monroe cocked her head contemptuously. ‘Oh, I’ve had ‘em. I’ve had coughs that rocked the foundations, rattled the walls and brought a dozen of my finest Geologist friends to my house, fearing an Earthquake.’
‘Have you tried- ’ Mrs Bennet timidly began.
‘Tried it, done it, used it. I’ve had thirteen of the best Doctors in England write me up as a medical curiosity, for I’m immune to all cures.’
‘Mr Jones,’ Elizabeth interrupted in a low voice, naming the local doctor, ‘Has warned that my sister Kitty’s illness may threaten her very life.’
‘Been there, shipmate,’ retorted the visitor. ‘Been there, died, come back. I’ve had coughs compared to which that’s a mere trifle. Talkin of which…’ She produced, like a conjuror, an object that looked for all the world like a rusted Bird-Bath, laden with layers of grit and snow, with a topping of grey ash. ‘My old father’s recipe for Christmas-Trifle. Happy to share it with ye, and it comes with a promise of full stomachs and warm hearts.’
‘I think our hearts are warm enough,’ Mr Bennet said politely.
‘No? Then I’ll donate it to the needy, sir. Ten pounds from you will see this reaching a poor soul who needs it.’
Mr Bennet was by this time so keen to see the stranger depart that he reached into his pocket, but Elizabeth stayed him.
‘Miss?...Monroe,’ she began. ‘Pray, tell us what is that intriguing sheet of paper you bear?’ For Elizabeth’s quick wits had detected that she could distract Miss Monroe by bringing her attention to any new topic, as long as it concerned Miss Monroe herself.
‘Aye, you noticed me modest little announcement?’ The visitor unfurled it, and read it aloud like a Circus barker. ‘Yard Sale! This Saturday at Sloppington House. I am Selling Everything From My Home! Twenty-Four Years Worth of Vintage Treasures Dating Back to the Days of Good Queen Anne. Plates from the Royal Household. Maps of Undiscovered Isles. Crumpled Bus Tickets and Children with Rickets. Ladies’ Gentlemen’s, Children and Baby Garments – all pre-worn by myself. Books, books, books…’
‘Books?’ Mary’s eyes lit up behind her spectacles. ‘Oh, I should love a library of my own. Father, may I?’
