Arthur & George

of this boy called Speck?’
    ‘Speck? No.’ George shakes his head.
    ‘And I am also encouraged in one respect by the persecution of the Brookes family. This proves it is not merely race prejudice.’
    ‘Is that a good thing, Father? To be hated for more than one reason?’
    Shapurji smiles to himself. These flashes of intelligence, coming from a docile boy who is often too much turned in on himself, always delight him.
    ‘I will say it again, you will make a fine solicitor, George.’ But even as he pronounces the words, he is reminded of a line from one of the letters he has not shown his son. ‘Before the end of the year your kid will be either in the graveyard or disgraced for life.’
    ‘George,’ he says. ‘There is a date I wish you to remember. The 6th of July 1892. Just two years ago. On that day Mr Dadabhoy Naoroji was elected to Parliament for the Finsbury Central district of London.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘Mr Naoroji was for many years Professor of Gujerati at University College London. I was briefly in correspondence with him, and am proud to say that he had words of praise for my
Grammar of the Gujerati Language
.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’ George has seen the Professor’s letter brought out on more than one occasion.
    ‘His election was an honourable conclusion to a most dishonourable time. The Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, said that black men should not and would not be elected to Parliament. He was rebuked for it by the Queen herself. And then the voters of Finsbury Central, only four years later, decided that they agreed with Queen Victoria and not with Lord Salisbury.’
    ‘But I am not a Parsee, Father.’ In George’s head the words come back: the centre of England, the beating heart of the British Empire, the flowing bloodline that is the Church of England. He is English, he is a student of the laws of England, and one day, God willing, he will marry according to the rites and ceremonies of the Church of England. This is what his parents have taught him from the beginning.
    ‘George, this is true enough. You are an Englishman. But others may not always entirely agree. And where we are living –’
    ‘The centre of England,’ George responds, as if in bedroom catechism.
    ‘The centre of England, yes, where we find ourselves, and where I have ministered for nearly twenty years, the centre of England – despite all God’s creatures being equally blessed – is still a little primitive, George. And you will furthermore find primitive people where you least expect them. They exist in ranks of society where better might be anticipated. But if Mr Naoroji can become a university professor and a Member of Parliament, then you, George, can and will become a solicitor and a respected member of society. And if unfair things happen, if even wicked things happen, then you should remember the date of the 6th of July 1892.’
    George thinks about this for a while, and then repeats, quietly yet firmly, ‘But I am not a Parsee, Father. That is what you and Mother have taught me.’
    ‘Remember the date, George, remember the date.’

Arthur
    Arthur began to write more professionally. As he put on literary muscle, his stories grew into novels, the best of them naturally being set in the heroic fourteenth century. Each page of work would be read aloud to Touie after supper, and the completed text sent to the Mam for editorial comment. Arthur also took on a secretary and amanuensis: Alfred Wood, a master from Portsmouth School, a discreet efficient fellow with the honest look of a pharmacist; an all-round sportsman too, with a very decent cricket arm on him.
    But medicine remained Arthur’s current livelihood. And if he was to advance in his profession, he knew it had become time to specialize. He had always prided himself, through every aspect of his life, in looking carefully; so it did not require a spirit voice, or a table leaping into the air, to spell out his chosen calling – ophthalmologist. He was not a man to prevaricate or palter, and knew at once where best it was to train.
    ‘Vienna?’ repeated Touie wonderingly, for she had never left England. It was now November; winter was coming on; little Mary was beginning to walk, as long as you held her sash. ‘When do we leave?’
    ‘Immediately,’ replied Arthur.
    And Touie – bless her – merely rose from her needlework and murmured, ‘Then I must be quick.’
    They sold up, left Mary with Mrs Hawkins, and took off to Vienna