You only need a little bit of Gentlemen’s Spice for a rise…

“Get your lips tighter around it, you’re dribbling.”

This was the third time in the space of ten minutes I had to draw attention to Miss Rotterlicks’ technique. She looked up to me with those bugged eyes of hers, blessed with all the grace of a grasshopper. As she always did in these scenarios, she began to go faster.

I slammed my baton down on the pedestal. Christ! I curse the day I ever began teaching music at the Rotherham Girls’ Finishing School. For the last two years, I had taught at a private girls’ school in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, surrounded by beauty as we bathed in the delights of Chopin. But, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding. You must see, I was only massaging the young girl’s bare thigh to help her accommodate the cello better. Since then, this was the only school that would take me on.

Where once I had been surrounded by the delicate creatures of Europe’s aristocratic elite, I now found myself amidst the far-from-darling offspring of the city of Sheffield’s steel elite – all three of them. There was a fourth, but she was removed by her father after he misheard me talking about wanting to get my legato.

It was Saturday, the worst day in my now miserable existence, because I had the angels of death for a full four hours. They arrive at 10am, dropped off by their fathers, who constantly try and give me the horn – do they not know there is more to music than the brass band?

The girls below me stared as I got my baton up. Miss Rotterlicks sits in the middle with her clarinet – how she has turned playing this fine instrument into a sideshow at the Moulin Rouge, I do not know. To her right is the large round Miss Lumpington and her double bass – sometimes I have to do a double-take to remind myself which one is made of wood. Finally, on the left, is Miss Teakles, who handles the violin with the grace of a miner attacking the strongest material known to man.

They all constantly fight to be on top, but usually Miss Lumpington’s heavy plucking wins out. I did once volunteer to spend some extra time with her, to lighten her fingering. But this was met with a black eye from her father, when I explained I wanted to work on his daughter’s crotchet.

Sigh… I brought my baton halfway down and gave it a flick, and Miss Rotterlicks resumed her practice of pleasuring the British Navy. With my left hand, I waved in Miss Teakles who fiddled up, then down, then up, down, up, down, and – surprise!  Teakles’ all over the place. Which is the cue for Miss Lumpington to come in with her coma-inducing plucking.

Slurp, clump, clump plunk, slurp, clump, plunk…

“Girls, Triad! You’ve got to be together on this.“

“We’re trying as hard as we can, sir.”

Do you see? Do you see what I have to put up with?

“Softer, girls, this is Scheidt.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair, sir.“

Is it any wonder I spend my day constantly pissed?

Ah, my good man! Is the guest room ready for my chum Hans’ arrival tomorrow?

Oh superb! Knowing Hans I’ll bet he’ll be wanting to have a good old wrestle when he arrives. Might be an idea to make some space in here.

Nightcap? What an excellent idea. What’s that rather dusty bottle at the back? Well I’ll be, a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey. That must be, what, nearly thirteen years old. You know, I got it during that year I spent traveling around the Northern Americas shortly after finishing reading Latin at Oxford. In fact, I can be more precise than that. It was in March 1888. Have I ever told you about the most blasted blizzard?

I insist. Sit down, my good man, blacking the fireplaces can wait.

It had been my father’s idea for me to spend a year in the northern colonies, on one of the rare occasions I met him. Originally he tried to obtain me passage to the Far East, but by luck one of his company boats was heading out that very afternoon, and he pulled every string to make sure I got on it. I didn’t even have time to pack.

I was two months into my trip, and had so far spent my time exploring the eastern seaboard. I was traveling on the midnight train from Boston to New York to enjoy some society, before heading out to the “Wild West”. I was traveling with Teddy Vanderbilt (a most entrepreneurial fellow) who, last I heard, was investing in companies that make spats. Not as safe as my Zeppelin investments, I fear.

We had been awoken at about seven am with a shunt as the train came to an abrupt halt. I had looked out the carriage window, and lo and behold there was snow right up to the window. I awoke Teddy, who reminded me that we were due at Miss Helen Astor’s for cocktail elevenses that very morning. I asked the guard of our location and he informed us we were in Harlem, near 127th Street. According to Teddy, it was only about an hour-and-a-half walk up to Fifth Avenue. We could have breakfast at the Grand Central Hotel and arrive in perfect time. This plan took little thought. To rid us of the burden of our luggage, and so we would arrive in the correct attire, we got dressed in our top hats and tails and set forth.

Sadly, it took a whole hour just to reach 125th. The snow drifts were as large as elephants and the wind was particularly vicious. Everything had come to a complete halt in the snow, but not us! We marched onwards, and in another hour we had made it to 122nd. I feared Teddy was beginning to tire somewhat, and the visbility had become so bad I could no longer see past my nose. But I detest being late. I pushed on and forwards, but as I reached 121st and looked back, Teddy was nowhere to be seen.

“Teddy’s blown off!” I cried

Thankfully my cry was answered by a New York constable , who helped me find Teddy – who, as it turned out, had fallen upside down into a small drift some eight feet away. The constable said we were mad to be out in this weather and we should get off the streets as soon as possible. I asked whether he would be able to get a message to Miss Astor that we would be running late, but he seemed most perplexed – I don’t think he knew who Miss Astor was. He did, however, point us in the direction of a small general store up ahead, which myself and Teddy dragged ourselves to.

Inside was an old-fashioned base burner – much-welcome heat! I called to the old Chinese women behind the counter.

“I can assure you, madam, we are gentlemen, so be not offended as we remove our clothes and dry by your fire.”

She was a real angel and even brought us over some old potato sacks to wear. Teddy passed around his flask of brandy and we sat there for three hours. As I sipped from the silver flask, I was hit by a flash of genius. By Jove! Everything we needed was here in this general store.

“Fear not, Teddy, for we may miss elevenses, but we can still make it to Miss Astor’s!”

Tedy said, “We tried… but it’s just too blasted out there.”

I stood up and put one foot on a nearby crate, before remembering I only had a sack covering my gentlemen’s whistle and there was a lady in the room. Mea culpa!

I continued. “This head may be Irish but my lips are stiff, upper and English! Something you colonists will never know, for it’s a product of draughty stately homes, rugby in all weathers, and knowing how to make tea. To work!”

With that, I took a cast iron off the shelf (one dollar fifteen) and got the old lady to put our tops and tails in order (she charged two dollars). Teddy made himself useful by getting our shoes spit and shined (Tana Dubbin ten cents, brushes twenty cents), and buying two bottles of Overholt rye whiskey for the trip (two dollars). I negotiated a dollar a piece for the eight dogs in the kitchen. I had been quite handy in woodwork at school and was easily able to phantom a sledge from some abandoned wooden crates (two dollars for tools and nails).

We tied our silk handkerchiefs around our faces, and secured our hats with twine (five cents).

“Hike!” I shouted, and the dogs sprang to life. In no time at all we were on 110th, then dashing across Central Park.

We may have missed elevenses, but were bang on time for Martini oneses, and gosh! it was a dry one.