Champagne Charlie and the Amazing Gladys

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

An evening walk – lost in the fog – a strange dark Hansom – caloric – homeward bound

The moon and stars danced above the upturned face of the Honourable Edward Decharles as he gazed up at them from halfway up a lamp post. A rising fog had made the sky difficult to see, so he had shinned up the cold cast iron for a better view.

There was something very comforting about looking at the night sky while drunk. Sober, the stars seemed cold and alien. With a few glasses of champagne under your belt, they seemed almost like old friends. Decharles felt an impossible urge to shake the Man in the Moon by the hand and congratulate him on a job well done. He longed to dance a waltz with Venus, to arm-wrestle with Mars, and to challenge Mercury in a foot race.

He dropped back to the cobbled street and staggered on through the foggy London night. His head was cold—probably the result of having lost his top hat. Nevertheless he was happy and he bestowed warm, benevolent smiles upon the few passers-by.

Decharles—Charlie, to his friends—was a tall, brown-haired young man in his early twenties. He wore long side whiskers, which he thought were quite dashing, no matter what everybody else said. He wore formal evening dress, though he’d no idea what had become of his hat and cane.

That evening, he had dined at the Aeronauts’ Club with his old school friend Roldo Landry, who did something in the Air Ministry. Something damn tiresome, whatever it was. He had run on so about the patent turbines or the refuelling stations in Ireland.

“You must let me find you something in the Ministry, Charlie,” Roldo had said. “Something in the Air Passenger Department, I should think. Ought to be getting busy. There will soon be a regular ‘plane service between Dover and Calais. Five passengers at a time! Five! And of course, that’s just the beginning. We could be running aerial lines as far as Suez by 1870.”

Charlie had changed the subject, just as he always did when the subject was work. Work changed people. Roldo had once been the sort of fellow to stay up until three, playing cards or arguing about the finer points of cricket. Now here he was, terribly earnest about a glorified taxi service. Work changes a man, and never for the better.

Roldo had scurried home to bed soon after dinner. Work does that to a man, too. Charlie enjoyed a bottle or two of champagne in the club’s bar with a navigator from the Royal Flying Corps. The fellow talked nonstop, freeing Charlie to do the drinking. The Aeronauts Club remained open until late, but it had to close eventually, leaving Charlie wandering the streets as the fog set in.

After many minutes of walking, Charlie gradually realised that he was lost. Leaning against a shopfront to consider his situation, his hand almost froze against cold iron shutters. Where on earth had his glove gone? Oh yes, he had run into a chimney sweep, just as drunk as he. He had shaken the man by the hand, then discarded his soot-stained kid glove.

Perhaps, Charlie thought, he might simply keep walking and see what happened. That seemed convenient. But even though his mind was floating in a sea of Möet, it remained loosely anchored to common sense. He rejected the idea as impractical.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw salvation in the form of a patent cab. It was a sort of half-carriage on two drive wheels, with a front wheel for steering. Perched on top was a driver, heavily muffled in a coat and bowler hat. Behind him was a small boiler, crowned with a steam whistle on a crooked pipe. More to the point, it was parked not twelve yards away. Grinning at his luck, Charlie shambled over.

The cabman dozed slightly, leaning against his boiler. Some cabman’s sixth sense caused him to snap awake at Charlie’s approach. He touched the brim of his hat, but regarded Charlie with suspicion

“Cayatak,” Charlie said. “Ahem. That is, can you pim me to takeliko? Take me to Pimlico?”

The suspicious look of the cabman evaporated. “‘Course, sir, ‘op in,” he replied with a sly smile.

Clearly, the fellow saw some advantage in carrying an extremely drunk passenger. Charlie decided to say something clever to prove his sobriety.

“899,” he said, reading the number from the cab licence pinned to the cabman’s heavy coat. “Dreadful year. Death of Alfred the Great, you know.”

The cabman’s smile widened, revealing a missing tooth. Sighing, Charlie rattled off his address, clambered into the passenger’s seat, and closed the apron. The cabman released the brake and turned up the steam. A brief clash of gears followed, and the engine hissed.

“Blast it, I’ve only gone and let the pressure drop!”

“Oh, will it take a long time to fix?” Charlie said, hopping out again.

“No, sir, not at all. I’ve a Wilkinson and Sombey engine, which is good, but a Grimsdale and Co. caloric fluid container, which is better.”

“How very fortunate!” Charlie said, hoping that the conversation would end there.

But the cabman was not to be cheated of his explanation. “I just turns this handle here, and there we go! A drop of the old caloric straight into the boiler, and we’ll be up to pressure before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“Oh, first rate. Isn’t it wonderful what they can do these days?” Charlie patted the chassis of the cab as if it were the flank of a horse. “You’ll get me home safe, won’t you my dear? I say, does she have a name?”

“‘Rattling Sue’,” the cabman replied. “After me girl—well, the Sue part, at least. Me girl don’t rattle, ha ha.”

Charlie laughed and hopped back in. The cab lurched off, puffing over the cobblestones. In spite of the roughness of the ride, he soon slept like a baby.