Flighty Phyllis (1928) by R. Austin Freeman

Taking the male gaze out for a walk

Readers unfamiliar with Flighty Phyllis may wish read my note only after reading the collection.

Phyllis Dudley, young and single and with the Slade behind her, takes over her cousin Charles Sidley's London lease when he goes into hiding from a Jewish moneylender.

(If you are squeamish about age-old Jew-hating stereotypes, this may not be the novel for you.)

Invited to a fancy-dress party, Phyllis dresses up as cousin Charlie, using his abandoned wardrobe. It's a night of mistaken identities and narrow escapes from debt collectors. And Phyllis finds she loves it.

She has visiting cards made out for herself in the name of Philip Rowden, and takes the male gaze out for a walk.

[....] having carefully parted and brushed my closely-cropped hair, [I] began to change into one of Charlie’s smart lounge suits. By half-past six the metamorphosis was complete, and, taking the precaution to put both latch-keys and a sufficiency of change in my pockets, I took Mr Shylock’s umbrella from the corner, let myself out quietly, ran down the stairs and slipped unobtrusively out into Fetter Lane.

I don’t mind admitting that I found something very exhilarating in walking through the streets in my borrowed plumage. It seemed to me that not only was I presenting a different exterior to the world, but that the world also presented a different exterior to me. Especially interested was I to observe with what singular unconcern the men whom I encountered passed me by, and by what strange coincidence I seemed to catch the eye of every woman. Then it was a new and quaint experience to be bawled at and addressed with strange epithets by a cabman as I crossed the road, or to be beckoned into a secluded corner by a seedy stranger and offered a pawn ticket at a knock-down price. I surmised dimly that I should probably pay for the entertainment before the evening was out, but meanwhile I found the experience quite amusing, even when I collided with a butcher who happened to be looking in the opposite direction, and who informed me with a wealth of allegory that I was “a fat-headed dude,” and that I ought not to go abroad without a tin-pot and a dog.

With such pleasing adventures was the journey beguiled between Fetter Lane and the neighbourhood of Regent’s Park, in which locality, at eight o’clock precisely, I mounted the doorstep of Mr Moses McDougal and rang the bell.

After some trifling delay the door was opened by a buxom and decidedly handsome housemaid who seemed to be of a cheerful and amiable temperament, for she saluted me, with a smile which struck me as exceeding the necessities of her office.

“My name,” said I, “is Sidley—”

“Get along” said she; “you don’t say so.” I stared at her in consternation, on which she smiled more broadly than ever, and finally shattered my self-possession into impalpable fragments by finishing up with an undeniable wink.

“You needn’t stand on the doorstep,” said she. “Mo’s having his dinner, but he won’t be long. Come in and sit down in the drawing-room.”

I stepped falteringly into the hall and was about to explain my business, when the housemaid, having softly shut the door, reduced me to utter stupefaction by creeping close up to me and saying in a wheedling tone:

“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?”

* * *

How queer, as they used to say.

R. Austin Freeman is all-round a refreshingly droll author. This goes both for Thorndyke tales and Flighty Phyllis.

A real tonic.

Jay

16 December 2024