tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23904025586652147742023-07-18T01:09:31.568-04:00The Micawber ChroniclesThe Diary and Adventures of a Gentleman in Exotic Circumstances.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-89216992191198241212013-08-10T22:33:00.000-04:002013-08-10T22:33:09.713-04:00<br />
<b>MOMENTS OF PARENTHESIS FROM THE AMBLEWICK FIRESIDE</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Having recovered somewhat from the excesses of the Jubilee Thrash, and in particular from Cousin Marguerite’s extraordinary return from Hell to the ranks of the blessed, the time has come to address the </i></b><b><i>latter and various other pertinent matters with regard to Amblewick and its affairs.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Marguerite’s re-conversion – or shall we say reversion – to our kind of sanity may or may not be a permanent affair, of course. Parsons is very much of the opinion that it is.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Mrs Huntington-Smythe is a woman of considerable determination, Milord, and it is my understanding that such a change of attitude is the culmination of months of communion with herself. I think that Your Lordship will agree with me that she is not one to ask for advice or to listen to the arguments of other people. She trusts herself and herself alone. I believe we can therefore reasonably deduce that her recent change of heart may well be long-lasting. After all, Milord, for her to admit to herself that her outburst on the Terrace was mere sentimentality occasioned by temporary intoxication would be, in my view, entirely out of character and destructive to her opinion of herself – an unthinkable state of affairs. People who are always right, find it impossible, Milord, to submit to outside pressure or persuasion. Their decisions have to be their own – that is the law. For these reasons, I believe we can assume that the change of direction will be reasonably long-term.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Come to think of it, old thing, if that’s the case, the old girl could be quite a useful ally in the future – if we find ourselves in need of one….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Milord, a most valuable secret weapon – if used with discretion, and infrequently. Such fire-power must never be overemployed. The fear factor must never be permitted to fade.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“One other thing’s been puzzling me, Parsons, old scout. Why did you insist upon ‘Micawber’ as title for the Amblewick publicity outlet? Micawber? Why Micawber? ”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“During my somewhat extensive career, Milord, I have long-since come to the conclusion that honesty is invariably the best policy.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>With which mysterious reply he flits from the presence, so to speak.To my surprise his answer would re-occur to me throughout the day. Eventually it would give rise to extended reverie. The dogs and I have been warming our paws – to mingle the species a dash – before the library fire at Amblewick. Can’t answer for the canines, but I’ve been musing a trifle on the why’s and wherefore’s of ‘Micawber’ as a ‘nom de whatever-it-is’ – rather than, say, ‘Lancelot’ or ‘Quixote’, or some other worthy, or perhaps indeed unworthy.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>One shares nothing at all with Sir Lancelot du Lac. Apart from anything else, he was a knight in shining armour which we most definitely are not. There’s also that slightly squalid and rather modernistic affair he undertook with his employer’s wife - for which reason his relevance to ‘Happy Isle’ affairs has been excised by Charles Peyneer from his ‘The Hysterical History of England’. We are both agreed that delivery of such a judgement would render it in extremely poor taste to take in vain his name to furnish the title of a mere ‘blog’ (dreadful word).</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As for the estimable Don Quixote, the problem lies far more with Sancho Panza than with the Don himself. We would have been obliged to create an entirely different Sancho Panza in order to render the Don a suitable candidate for ‘blogmeistership’ in our cause. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Our Sancho would have to have been far more in the likeness of an amiable bank manager of the old school – such as the modest but heroic Mr Peak of Amblewick Saga fame. The worthy Mr Peak works in a most principled manner always to ensure that ‘problems are soluble immediately – impossibilities taking a little longer’. He is also famous in the Castle annals for the following perceptive remark.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> ‘The bank has the most frightful lot of money, and I can see no reason why you, Lord Amblewick, should not have access to some of it.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Mr Peak’s somewhat cavalier attitude with regard to fiscal liquidity has enabled us to manage our affairs a great deal more effectively than would otherwise have been possible in these days of post-Bolshevik taxation and egalitarianism wherein the bank manager, as a friend and counselor, no longer exists - having been replaced by a myriad of characterless ‘experts” and ‘specialists’ who take one glance at one’s so-called ‘credit-rating’ and proceed to abuse and inconvenience one before dismissing one in favour of someone further down in the queue whose ‘track-record’ seems more worthy of their valuable time. One’s brief interview with such people is invariably interrupted several times by private and extensive calls, on their ‘mobiles’ - to their friends and relations – as well as to more ‘valued’ customers. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>No, the classical Sancho Panza would have been lost in his attempts to find solution to problems so foreign to his nature and awareness as ours. The trains of thought to which he would have been exposed at Amblewick would have been the harbingers of extreme mental and emotional distress in an individual of such modest aspiration and experience - whole thing a non-starter for a mere ‘Esquire’ - and mortal. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>While we have been perusing the higher philosophical realms, Amblewick affairs have been proceeding more or less in their normal humdrum and rather predictable manner.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian appears to be glued, as has become his habit since our evening readings tooled-off, to “The Mouse and the Gang Saga”. He‘s sprawled on the floor a dash across the room - near the gilded pineapple (or was it a pomegranate), which as yet he has not “sussed”, as far as we can ascertain. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Tessa “The Nose” keeps him company – paw on knee, tongue in ear, as it were. We have previously introduced a few of you to “Tessa” in the first volume of the “Amblewick Saga”. She is, however, blissfully </i></b><b><i>unaware of the existence of such a document. Her primary concerns have always been ‘Bendicks Bittermints’, tea at four-thirty – with milk and two lumps of sugar - and considerably more comfort than is </i></b><b><i>vouchsafed to us, her devoted friends and servitors.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons (I gather from Julian - a mine of insider information) is in his pantry sampling a modest and well-deserved beak-full of ‘the Talisker’ and checking the field for the Ascot meeting. Jolly good show, what? One has to keep abreast of cultural essentials, don’t you know?. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>But where were we?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Ah yes – Micawber. Pretty sympathetic character, Mr M - staring ruin in the face and yet still quite certain that ‘something will turn up!’ Apart from being one of Mr Dickens’ most well-drawn characters – he is familiar to all of us in ‘real’ life. We have all met him as he totters across our mental screens in his various disguises. Many of us have also experienced ‘close-shaves’ such as his on various recurrent occasions……..</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And that, me dears, is the whole nub (knub?) of the matter. Fully aware that we at Amblewick are all a dash different in our priorities, backgrounds and expectations – but every darned one of us insists on ‘survival come what blasted well may!’ </i></b><br />
<br />
Where there is hope there is possibility. When hope has fled – well – that’s the end of the conversation, really, isn’t it? – bugger that for a game of soldiers!<br />
<br />
<b><i>Never, never, never give up!” (Winston Spencer Churchill) - bless his stubborn great heart!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>While we’re at it, bugger the balls-up the world’s various politicians are making on our behalves – and at our expense……. I mean to say, just look at the Middle-East! Look, indeed, at the entire World….. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Bugger also – to coin a phrase employed by His Late Majesty, King George V with reference to the Bishop (the precise Bishopric eludes one for the moment) – but yes, bugger….. What on Earth were we going to bugger next?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Ah, yes indeed, the tides of memory surge back. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Bugger any footling conviction that we cannot change the way things are.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The only fate there is, is the one we had foisted on us when we were very young by people who had probably had the same demoralizing rubbish foisted on them!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Or were they not so foisted, but part of a distinct and privileged super-group charged – like poor dear Marguerite - with the censuring of those less perfect than themselves? </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>“The Nose”, I believe, is nodding – but then she would, wouldn’t she – knowing what all great hounds know of the human race and negative re-enforcement? Try the noble Gelert for size!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>At which point in my cogitation Julian’s voice - that of a cheerful juvenile chainsaw – intrudes, chirpily enough one has to admit, upon one’s philosophical peregrination.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Eh? Guv?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, old thing…..?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I reckon I’ve found ‘me’ in the ‘Saga’.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good for you, old chap – and who might ‘me’ be?” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cor! That’d be telling, now wouldn’t it?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“It would, indeed, old sport…….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And now, I confess to it, I believe I am asleep……..</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Zzzzzzzz…. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Yes, that seems to be the way it is.……..</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I say, have any of you guys ever taken off when you’re asleep – and then accelerated like a rocket?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Coo-er! Cor! Try it sometime – it’s wicked………! </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Zzzzzzzzz……..</i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-36855953731647320442013-07-28T22:05:00.000-04:002013-07-28T22:08:00.649-04:00THE THRASH<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 32</b></div>
<br />
<b><i>Corrie and I aren’t at all sure what sort of crowd will turn up for this evening’s high-jinks. Mention it to Parsons – after all one has to have some idea of numbers, I suppose – catering and so on…..</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Milord, I have consulted your guest list with regard to the issuance of invitations…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Guest list – what guest list, old thing – didn’t know we had one….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“It occurred to me, Milord, that such might well be the case - and so, in order to save you any discomfiture in that regard, I have taken the liberty of compiling one.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What, like the accounts, you mean - sort of fait-accompli, kind of thing?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Precisely, Milord…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“How on earth did you work it all out, Parsons, dear?” Corrie enquires – fascinated as always by Parsons and his systems.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Unlike many households today, Lady Constance, Amblewick has Visitors’ Books going back well into the middle of the nineteenth century. These contain comments by individual guests with regard to their stay at the Castle. A brief analysis of such comment - and my own memories of the same, of course, rendered it possible to assemble a suitable guest list for the Jubilee evening.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Must be a good number of folk from before your time, old thing, mustn’t there?””</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons offers one of those infinitely patient and long-suffering pauses before proceeding with his discourse.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Clearly, Milord, individuals who visited the house before my employment herein could be dismissed from any list with reasonable confidence due to their advanced age – as could those once known to me and currently deceased.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“How on Earth have you worked out who’s alive and who‘s sort of cashed in his chips, so to speak?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Again that pause.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Your Lordship will be aware that there are numerous volumes of Debrett, Burke and the Almanac de Gotha both in the Library and in my Pantry below-stairs. Relevant births, deaths and marriages can readily be located within their pages. Although, Milord – Lady Constance – my personal recall of such people and events renders such research for the most part mere luxury….”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>He inserts a paw into his breast-pocket and extracts several pages of immaculate typescript.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Your guest list for this evening, Milord – Lady Constance….”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“With regard to the practical arrangements for the evening in terms of refreshments, menus, and so forth, these are well in-hand – as is the training of volunteer helpers, footmen, attendants and so on. Masters Julian and Anthony, Milord, are now well-trained for the service of refreshments to those of your personal guests who will attend the initial reception in the Long Gallery – their Highland Dress and effective management of beverage trays will be seen to be impressive on the one hand, and exemplary on the other.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A small matter is puzzling me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What I can’t quite ınderstand, Parsons, old dear, is how on earth Mrs Huntington-Smythe got onto the Jubilee Guest List – bearing in mind the rigid sort of criteria you must have employed, if you get my drift?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“There are bound to be exceptions to every rule, Milord. The Lady in question – whilst on the surface somewhat questionable - comes into a small group of such exceptions – in this case, political necessity, Milord. To excise the Lady from the guest list would have caused the raising of many eyebrows, Milord – including those of Your Lordship’s formidable trustees. I considered the risk too great, Milord, bearing in mind the influence which those individuals can exercise over our affairs at Amblewick.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>A moment’s consideration and I realize that the old blighter is right – as always.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Point taken, old thing. Jolly good show, what?” </b> <br />
<br />
<b>“And now, Milord – Lady Constance – with your permission I will retire to establish the precise timing of the various events with Mrs Fenner and the Staff”.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie and I retire to the Library for a tooth-full!</i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"> ***</span><br />
<br />
<b><i>The rest of the afternoon passes like lightning and the evening is upon us before we’ve even blinked. I am fully aware of events – but somehow floating about above it all – grinning inanely, no doubt.I do note that one of Mrs Fenner’s offerings at dinner is her famous “Rook Pie” – and that Cousin Marguerite pounces upon it with all her hideous Pterodactyl voracity. No sign of the Booth’s bottle just now - knocking back the old fruit cup fairly heftily - and apparently with no deleterious effect. Unusual that…. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Old Charles Peyneer has arrived in his double-decker bus – Freda Prizners in tow, and his five hounds. My old sparring-partner Valint Balassa – in full heroic dress - blows in from Hungary bearing copies of his “Wild Cats of Piran” and various ‘prezzies’ for us all - only managed a couple of words with him, so far – heck of a crush.I think one of the reasons I feel so disoriented is that everyone has arrived in ‘Costume for the Ball’, and whilst, like most people today, they want to be recognized - unlike the Masked Balls of yesteryear the effort to do so is handicapped by the kaleidoscopic jumble of colours, periods and metaphor – quite surreal. Equally bizarre is the actuality of the people inside the disguises and their various slots in the jigsaw scheme of ‘real life’. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Old Blarney Grail dressed as the Lincolnshire Poacher clashing with Major Sheer-Trash, as the Maharajah of Cooch-Behar, and being ignored by Marguerite dressed as the Tzarina Elizabeth and looking like Cruella De Ville – Ronnie Hyde in Hunting Pink - Berk, the lawyer trustee, as Scrooge – rather appropriately – so many different moods and periods. Old Charles materialises rather endearingly as Mr Micawber – plus surely irrelevant hounds to heel. Freda excels as Titania in yards and yards of Mary Talbot hand-printed chiffons. For our own part, Corrie and I have plumped for Nancy and Fagin – she found the old red dress that Augustus immortalised in “The Cellist” while she was firkling about in the attics with the boys. I wear my somewhat dog-chewed old dressing gown The two lads seem to be everywhere at once, kilts flickering and silver trays held high. The only person who remains lighthouse-like and a beacon of sanity – immaculate and his normal impassive self - is Parsons – thank God. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The entire evening is passing in the pleasant haze one sometimes experiences in “cheese-inspired“ dreams – the sort from which one hopes never to be awoken and which can never quite be re-captured, for all their delicious clarity. At one point Corrie and I escape to the Minstrel’s Gallery above the ballroom – to thank the Jazz band for its intoxicating racket. Imagine my delight – they turn out to be my favourite “Harry Walton and his Dixieland Jazzmen” from my miss-spent youth at the Gore Hotel in Kensington. Harry, well into his nineties, is still bashing out the boogie like nobody’s business. Nods at me happily and shouts, </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Built, we were in the old days, Biffers – not just thrown together!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>What joy!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>There is much more to come. Beneath us in the ballroom, a seething mass of jitterbugging couples – hysterical – but somehow harmonious – at one with the thumping beat and no longer aware of anything but the serious business of having fun.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And yet more….</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>From behind me, Harry yells with a whoop, “Hey! Dig this, Biffers!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The band swoops into an intoxicating heel-flicking Charleston.Suddenly the dance-floor clears and Marguerite clatters centre-stage from her place preening her plumage behind a pillar. Revelation! The </i></b><b><i>old buzzard is transformed – my God how she swings – terrific and, well, bloody brilliant, she is – electrifying and yet strangely majestic – stunning and magnetic. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Old Ronnie Hyde slicks back his moustaches and joins her – shouting “Tally-Ho!, old girl, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It is a curiously moving experience - bearing past less heart-warming experiences in mind.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“No idea the old girl had it in her, Corrie - I say! Cor! What?”</b> <br />
<br />
<b>“Yes, Cor!” agrees Corrie, nearly falling over the gallery-rail in her excitement.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>As the performance hurtles to a close there is a standing ovation and the old girl shrieks, “Whacko! My God, I need a dash of freshers - haven’t danced like that in years!”. Gathering her Tzarist skirts about her she sweeps out through the terrace windows to grab that gasp of air.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Don’t really know what to do, but reckon I should join the old thing outside - in case she throws a fatal wobbly after all that unaccustomed exercise – common courtesy, sort of thing.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Locate the old girl perched upon the terrace wall – sobbing into her handkerchief.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Everything all right, me dear?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I really don’t know where to put myself…...Finally she shakes her head and gazes up towards the moon - which is at its fullest-full. Silhouetted in the silvery moonbeams, her profile shows me, at last, the beautiful woman she has been….</i></b> <br />
<br />
<b>“I’ve been a total bitch, Biffo…” she says quietly.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Used to pull my hair a bit, in the nursery, old thing – but not to worry, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Come on, old chap, I’ve been the most frightful bully ever since. I think I was jealous of you right from the moment you were born – being the heir – and I was just your second cousin – nobody at all, really. Trouble is, the older one gets the bitchier one can become – and the more gin one needs to fuel the bitching………”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Know the feeling, old girl, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I extend the hand….</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Never mind – new start, eh? Just water under the draw-bridge, don’t you know?”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>This time she really smiles.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes please, you old devil, yes please……..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I give her a quick peck on the cheek – to my surprise it’s soft and cool – no reptile there at all….</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“What the hell was in that so-called ‘fruit cup’ – haven’t been so tight in years – or so daft.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I also wonder.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Fairly well-oiled meself – release from tension, I daresay.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>As to the rest of the night – very little – vague memory of PC Southgate and a colleague escorting the revelers – somewhat hyperlubricated – back to their various domiciles with blue lights flashing jauntily – and of Parsons and the boys assisting Marguerite and the trustees to their roosts upstairs.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Left right, left right – right wheel – by the left - quick march. What a spiffing hoot, eh?” is old Ronnie’s contribution to the exercise – and a great relief to me. </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The Berk is tagging on behind, smiling glassily, but happily enough for one so inured to misery and seriousness.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Last I see of Marguerite, she’s leaning on Tone’s young shoulder and crooning that favourite old song – </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yams and clams and human hands and vintage coconut wine – the taste of which was filthy, the after-effects divine…..” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> ***</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The morning after.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It’s only this morning - once the guests have taken off in their various conveyances – still slightly tight and giggly is my impression – that we will learn the secret of the evening’s hilarity and mirth.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The two boys are still cock-a-hoop after last night’s monumental thrash.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Cripes, Guv,’ yer should’ve seen that Mrs Wotzernaim!”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Oh, but indeed I did, Tone – magnificent performance, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yea, and all them costumes – and everyone tiddly and gigglin’ – an’ the flippin crowds – like a ‘Totty’ match….” Jules is over the moon. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Coo-er”, he adds.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Thought the booze was goin’ ter run out, we did - and that was after abaht ten minutes!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“It was the Guvnor’s old mate what saved the day – geezer from – where’d he say he come from, Tone?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“’Ungry, I fink – wherever that may be when it’s at’ome…..” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“’Hungary’, might be the word you’re looking for, Tone?” I prompt. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Rather a beautiful Eastern European country, so they say….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea, well it were ‘im what sorted out the drinks problem – brought five bottles of what ‘e called ‘pop’, as a present for you and Corrie, Guv’.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Did he indeed? ‘Pop’, you say?” I begin to feel a dash pensive.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea, well, anyway when the booze bowls was gettin’ empty we tossed them bottles into the mix – five bottles, wannit, Jules?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Fink so - could’ve been six, innit?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yea, an’ then we tossed in a squirt of that soda water stuff and a slug or two of Brandy – just to make it taste, like – looked a bit watery, it did, with just ‘pop’.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“You didn’t taste it then?” I wonder nervously.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Nah. Don’t drink, me an’ Tone – stash of coke under the table, innit?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Thank God for small mercies…” I whisper to meself.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Did the trick, though, dinnit – our ‘fruit cup’? Cripes, it got’em goin’!” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea,” added Jules, “and Mrs Wotzernaim was still swingin’ this mornin, innit? What she say when she got into the Land Rover, Tone?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“She said, ‘you two young buggers deserve a serious kick up the arse – but what a smashing knees-up, eh?…’ Says what she thinks that one, innit?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“My cousin is renowned for her frankness, Tone.” I smile rather weakly.</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>At this point Parsons joins the discourse.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Now that all potential accident has become the stuff of History, Milord, I sense that you would like to know precisely why the cocktail created by our ‘ghillies’ was such a notable success…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Actually, I’m gasping to know.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons is unusually blunt.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The ‘pop’ donated to Your Lordship by Mr Valint was, in fact, a blend of Russian pure white spirit, Milord – 100% proof, Milord – and renowned for its purity - and ‘kick’, I believe is the word.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>He returns to his organization of the chaos on my desk.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I gaze at the ‘ghillies’ thoughtfully.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Are you sure you didn’t know what the ‘pop’ really was, you two?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Nah, course not, Guv’ – can’t read Russky, can we, eh?”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons lays my nightmarish imagination mercifully to rest.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, whilst the beverage would be highly toxic if imbibed in large volume by a single individual – I feel sure that, shared as it was by a multitude of experienced consumers, the danger was non-existent – merely somewhat stimulating, as confirmed so happily by the nearmiraculous experience of Mrs Huntington-Smythe, Milord……” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“May well have saved our bacon here at Amblewick, as well.” I add. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Do you think we might just slip the chaps a ‘fiver’, Parsons, old renderer of harmony from chaos?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Your accounts permit, Milord, and Inflation perhaps demands, that we slip them each a ‘tenner’.</b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-8559459886404242162013-07-22T01:23:00.001-04:002013-07-22T01:23:59.799-04:00THE INVASION FORCE ARRIVES<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 31</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>The last week has been a fair old nightmare – getting things </i></b><b><i>ship-shape before the Jubilee Thrash and the dreaded arrival of </i></b><b><i>Marguerite and the Trustees.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We’ve decided to stage the festivities in the house itself, rather than </i></b><b><i>going to the expense of all those Marquees – apart from anything </i></b><b><i>else we feel that Her Majesty’s Jubilee demands rather more than </i></b><b><i>does a ‘Stately’ car-boot sale – sort of been there, done that, if you </i></b><b><i>know what one means.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The last time the whole house was opened up for action was for the Queen’s Coronation on June 2nd 1953 when I was twelve and Corrie a feisty ten - first time we’d ever seen a ‘Telly’. The Pater hired a set – black and white, of course, so that we kids could watch him and the Mater in the Abbey - feel a real part of things. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Anyway, back to the practicalities. Parsons has insisted that we </i></b><b><i>provide lavatory (“toylot”) facilities in the stable yard as he has no </i></b><b><i>desire to find himself knee-deep in questionable detritus come the </i></b><b><i>morning after.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“’Sharing’, Milord, is an admirable concept – but there have to be </b><b>limits……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It’s been rather exciting for Corrie and me as the dust-covers come </i></b><b><i>off all over the house and the old place shakes itself and expands </i></b><b><i>into fairyland history and childhood memory. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>It’s wonderful to see Parsons in his element again - the whole house </i></b><b><i>at his beck and call – amazing how the village has rallied round </i></b><b><i>for the occasion and supplied staff for him to train and bring up to </i></b><b><i>scratch.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Corrie and the boys crashed around in the attics all day yesterday and found a goodly selection of the old staff uniforms we both remember so vividly – as well as a couple of my old kilts and highland gear from the summer hols on the Caithness estate. These last proved a hit with the lads, who have determined to wear them for the Jubilee evening festivities.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Cor! Classy, them kilts…” Julian gurgles enthusiastically.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yea, and not sissy either – what with them daggers, innit?” Tone agrees, fingering the blades with a dreamy look in his eye.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Not sissy at all, old chap,” I assure him. “By the way, the big one’s called a ‘dirk’, and the little one you wear in your stocking is called a ‘Scian dhu’.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cool, Guv’, what are we supposed to do wiv ‘em? Murder Mrs Thingummy-Wotzernaim?“ Jules is looking hopeful.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“No, old chap,” I hasten to explain, “they’re for ceremonial use only, these days – sort of show that you’re someone who’s, well, someone, if you know what I mean?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What, a toff – like you, Guv’?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Why is it,” I muse to meself, “that I find this kind of conversation so unsettling?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Aloud, I say, “To show that you’re someone who belongs at Amblewick, which both of you most definitely do – and apart from anything else you need something smart to wear this evening – everyone will be tarted up to the nines and we can’t have you two feeling out of place, now can we?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Richardson’s been down to the station to gather up the invading forces, and with a shudder I hear the clatter of the Land Rover as it grinds its way under the Gatehouse arch and lumbers into the Courtyard.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I panic a dash.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Now look you chaps – just bugger off upstairs, will you – sort of get changed, and then join Parsons and Mrs F - make yourselves useful. This is all rather tiresome and I need to gather myself together, so to speak.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Off they potter chirping happily enough, taking the main staircase five at a time amidst shrieks of mirth. I steady myself for the coming assault on my sanity. I glance longingly at the ‘drinkies’ table as I enter the library, but realise immediately that such is hardly the way to prepare for what threatens to be an ugly twelve hours or so. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I hear a trundling on the stairs as the guests head for their rooms to “freshen-up” after the journey, as the Americans put it. I gaze about me looking for ‘trip-wires’, so to speak – but Parsons has removed all signs of serious dissipation – even my copy of the “Pink’un” and the betting slips. I grin to myself. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“No worries with old Parsons on the case, what?” I murmur. “Just got to try and be civil – and welcoming. Now pull yourself together, Biffo – this too shall pass, what?” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ballz to the lot of ’em!” I add rebelliously, and feel a whole lot better </b><br />
<b>– more master of my ship, don’t you know?</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The main landing doors whisper open and the enemy is within.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Brigadier Hyde, Mr Berk, and Mrs Huntington-Smythe, Milord. With your Lordship’s permission, tea will be served in the conservatory in a few minutes. Lady Constance has asked me to say that she is busy with the flowers in the Banqueting Hall, Milord, and may be a little late in greeting her guests - for which she apologises.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“All a bit frantic what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Milord, but I trust, also under control……</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He inclines the old head and departs.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Well, well, well – welcome to Amblewick, what?” I say expansively, and for lack of anything more profound with which to kick orf.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Shall we?” I indicate the doors into the conservatory.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Amidst a few monosyllabic and ill-at-ease affirmative grunts we head in the direction of ‘tea</i></b>’.<br />
<br />
<b><i>As we settle into the odd deck chair, Marguerite mans the samovar, and I am free to study the newcomers at my leisure. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen the two Trustees close-up and on my own turf. Old Ronnie Hyde - a sort of first-cousin-once-removed Trustee seems to have weathered pretty well for an old’un – still ramrodstraight and looking reasonably benign from what I can see through his moustaches – still pretty stiff, though. Berk, the lawyer of the party, looks as lawyers always do out of the office – out-of-place but omni-present in the hope of pickings – a sudden death, perhaps. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As for Marguerite – no change – looking particularly vicious and disapproving and disguising it with a hideous fixed smile – tea-pot held high, and so on. Something tells me that she’s slightly tight. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I wonder how she’s managed that in the company of the Trustees - some kind of intravenous drip, perhaps - certainly no sign of the Booth’s bottle for the nonce.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Everyone’s pretty subdued. The English, when face to face with people of whom they disapprove, simply aren’t into small talk about ‘the weather’ or the state of the wheat – seem to be waiting frostily for someone else to put their foot in it and give direction to a re-union with people for whom they don’t much care……</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“So, what’s the order of play for the evening, so to speak?” Ronnie takes the bull between his teeth.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Basically, reception for guests, tenants and staff in the Long Gallery - Fruit cup, and so on – dinner in the Banqueting Hall followed by a Fancy-dress Ball in the Ballroom, and finally, a grand fire-work display over the lake – viewed from the Georgian Terrace. All got your geography of the old place sorted, have you?” I wonder.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Years since I was here,” Ronnie remarks honestly enough – “but I daresay it’ll all come back. Forgotten how huge the place was, rather.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons shimmers in.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I raise the old eyebrows interrogatively.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, it occurs to me that Messrs Julian and Anthony might begin their service this evening by giving our guests a tour of the evening’s various venues – to refresh both their own minds and those of your good-selves, Lady and Gentlemen – as to the various directions. They have worked extremely hard to acquaint themselves with our way of doing things here at the Castle and it occurs to me that such a tour would be a good opportunity for them to put these skills into practice.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Jolly good show, what?” I am a dash concerned – doesn’t sound quite our young hellions’ forté, really – but Parsons usually knows best. </b> <br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Enter the duo - resplendent in the old tartan, bristling with armament and grinning rather goofily.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The trustees get the message and stand up willingly enough.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b>I don’t think we’ve been introduced, have we?” says old Ronnie. </b><br />
<br />
<b>“Jolly smart you both look, I must say….” He advances on the duo, hand outstretched. “Hyde’s the name, by the way.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Paws are shaken and names exchanged – ice seems to be breaking fairly painlessly – Berk follows suit, and a murmur of small-talk ensues – all pretty satisfactory.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>There is a savage hiss from amongst the tea things behind me. Ah yes, of course, I have forgotten Marguerite – I brace for the storm.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What are you doing with that native boy in the house? My God! The London guttersnipe was disgrace enough – and now what have you done? Disgraceful!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>‘Paleface squaw speaks with poisoned tongue.’ I muse.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It’s just as well she’s hissing rather than squawking. There seems to </i></b><b><i>be no change in the chit-chat at the other end of the room, so I’m in </i></b><b><i>hopes that her objection has gone un-noted by the others.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I therefore hiss in reply.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What on Earth are you talking about, old girl – the ‘native’, as you refer to him, is Anthony – chum of old Jules – down from town for a few days, what?”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>She grinds the teeth and resumes the viperous onslaught.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“That wretched boy is black – black!” the spittle sizzles into my lughole from behind the samovar. </b><b>Suddenly the Devil calls as, very occasionally, he does.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>In turn, I hiss.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“And you, you venomous old reptile, are an unpleasant shade of </b><b>grey – but I don’t harp on about it……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Th</i></b><i style="font-weight: bold;">e silence is thunderous – clearly this evening will not pass entirely </i><b><i>without event………</i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-44245835656208057472013-07-14T23:11:00.001-04:002013-07-14T23:13:09.221-04:00PANIC BEFORE THE 'GREAT DAY'<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 30</b></div>
</div>
<br />
<b><i>The household should be congregating in the conservatory at any </i></b><b><i>moment. I’ve decided that a pre-invasion meeting this morning is </i></b><b><i>essential, bearing in mind that no one apart from Corrie and I have </i></b><b><i>ever met the Amblewick Trustees before. Our Tone hasn’t even met </i></b><b><i>Cousin Marguerite and might find that experience a dash too much </i></b><b><i>without a briefing as to her various and exasperating proclivities. </i></b><b><i>I am in high hopes that Jules will fill him in on the old bat’s more </i></b><b><i>outrageous moments once we have set the scene. The trustees </i></b><b><i>actually “in res” at Amblewick threatens to be a new and disquieting </i></b><b><i>experience for us all. But, as Corrie said, yesterday, ‘We shall see </i></b><b><i>what we shall see.’ I’m a bit concerned about old Parsons, though – </i></b><b><i>been a little too distant and vague since the telegram arrived – can </i></b><b><i>only hope he comes up with a “clever plan” in the end – we need </i></b><b><i>one…….</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Ah! Just think about the Oracle and he materialises! </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What ho! Parsons, old dear, ready for the fray, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“I was unaware, Milord, of any imminent fracas – merely of the arrival </b><b>of unfamiliar and apparently uninvited guests under the aegis of Mrs </b><b>Huntington-Smythe – a disturbing combination, Milord, and one by </b><b>which I have been finding myself unusually overwhelmed. However, </b><b>the young people, Mrs Fenner, and the other members of staff will be </b><b>with us shortly…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He occupies himself somewhat distantly in the destruction of an invasive wasp.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>‘The Nose’ shassies in and parks next to Corrie - harbinger of the </i></b><b><i>rest of the staff and the juvenile duo.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>There is a subdued and bleakly expectant atmosphere. For the first </i></b><b><i>time in my life I find myself alone, and in charge – terrifying!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Mercifully, Corrie starts the ball rolling.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Look, old friends, we’re expecting some visitors – rather difficult </b><b>visitors, I’m afraid – and we all need to know a bit about them so that </b><b>we don’t get our knickers in a twist. The first area of concern is Mrs </b><b>Huntington-Smythe with whom some of you are already familiar.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Oh, Gawd – not her again! She’s a right old pest, Tone, Cor! - pain in </b><b>the arse!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>That is our Jules, of course, who has as we all know been on the </i></b><b><i>cutting edge of Marguerite’s tongue on two previous occasions.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yes, dear,” Corrie agrees, “but the other two guests are a bit more </b><b>of an unknown quantity as far as you all are concerned. His Lordship </b><b>and I find ourselves similarly in the dark, never having encountered </b><b>these people socially since we were all in our prams.– these days </b><b>they seem to regard us as little more than a balance sheet at their </b><b>offices in London – and with that they are all too familiar.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Everyone’s looking a bit lost, so I blunder in to clarify.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Larger estates such as ours often have Trustees to make sure the </b><b>money and movables don’t get lost or squandered. Family members </b><b>usually, and chosen for their steadiness and good judgement in </b><b>financial matters. My trustees are people of the highest moral fibre </b><b>– so high, in fact that I feel about twelve when they heave over the </b><b>horizon……”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“What, yer mean they can order you about, Guv’ – sorta like </b><b>teachers?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“’Fraid so, Tone – and send you to bed with no jam for tea if you </b><b>don’t do as you’re told – permanently if they feel like it……” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ain’t nothin’ yer can do, then? </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Not a lot, really – except keep them happy, somehow.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie is looking thoughtful.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What’s the state of the jubilee account, Biffers?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Same as it was when Marguerite buggered off after her infamous </b><b>meeting – haven’t dared winkle a bean of it. Going to have to, </b><b>though, what with “The Thrash” expenses and so on.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Do we have any household accounts, old chap?”</b><br />
<br />
<i><b>At this point Parsons butts in.</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>“I have long been aware, Lady Constance, that whilst his Lordship </b><b>has many gallant and admirable qualities, columns of figures and </b><b>account-keeping are not among them. I have, therefore, made it </b><b>my business to keep my own record of all financial transactions </b><b>pertaining to household and estate expenditure – having feared that </b><b>otherwise we might find ourselves in an embarrassing situation </b><b>should Your Lordship’s trustees demand a detailed accounting of </b><b>the same…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I am appalled.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“My God, Parsons, old thing – that means we’re in deep shit, for </b><b>Heaven’s sake – all our little trips to Fortnum’s and so on – not </b><b>exactly Tesco’s fish fingers, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“No, indeed, Milord. It is because of just such anomalies that I have </b><b>seen fit to develop my own code for the household records. I will not </b><b>trouble your Lordship with the details but, for example, ‘diesel fuel’ </b><b>and ‘liquid paraffin’ (for cleaning purposes) can readily be stretched </b><b>to indicate various forms of more palatable beverage, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Screwing the books, what?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I find myself grinning like a Cheshire. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“By no means, Milord – everything will be found to be in perfect </b><b>order under the most microscopic examination….”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“But receipts, and so on – have to have receipts, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Everything in order, Milord, and prepared under the careful scrutiny </b><b>of Mr Pritchard of Pritchard, Pritchard and Pritchard, Your Lordship’s </b><b>personal accountants in Babingworth. His fees are covered by his </b><b>inclusion as a guest shot for the coming pheasant season, Milord </b><b>- Amblewick has a great number of assets the profits from which </b><b>need only minimally to appear in the public arena – being cash </b><b>transactions, Milord, and received ‘no questions asked’ from Your </b><b>Lordship’s and Lady Constance’s personal friends and selected </b><b>acquaintances.” </b><br />
<br />
<b>“Have I really got accountants, old thing? Well I’m damned! No idea </b><b>things were so complicated, what? – ah well, such it all is, I suppose. </b><b>But what are we going to do about the Jubilee account? Can’t afford </b><b>to louse up your system at the last minute, now can we?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Permit me to put Your Lordship’s mind at rest on that score, Milord. </b><b>Mr Peak at the bank is giving the matter his careful consideration </b><b>on an entirely voluntary basis. Careful manipulation of the account </b><b>has already resulted in a rewarding increase to the original £30,000 </b><b>deposit. This, and the profits from Your Lordship’s Asparagus – </b><b>purchased as “sundry casual produce” by my friend Mr Henderson </b><b>at Messrs Fortnum and Mason - will enable us to facilitate what </b><b>Your Lordship always refers to as “winkle-room” for the immediate </b><b>future. Mr Peak is a great admirer of Your Lordship and has gone to </b><b>considerable pains to improve our future outlook.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Jolly good show, what? We should do something for him, shouldn’t </b><b>we? I like old Peak – capital chap.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“He, also, will be shooting with us next season, Milord – and </b><b>riding to hounds, should he manage successfully to conclude </b><b>an understanding with Mr Kidd, of our Romany community, with </b><b>regard to a hunter mare the latter has in his possession – a matter of </b><b>stabling and pasture, I understand……”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Easily settled then - offer him one of our loose-boxes and the ten </b><b>acre meadow behind the carpentry shops to the North of the house, </b><b>what? On a sort of grace and favour basis, don’t you know?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Thank you, Milord, I was sure that you would see things as I have </b><b>been privileged to see them. And now, if Your Lordship will permit </b><b>me, I shall retire to my pantry to retrieve certified copies of your </b><b>accounts so that you and Lady Constance can be fore-armed in the </b><b>face of any amateur assault from your trustees, Milord…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He shimmers - more or less as of yore – and we all stare at each </i></b><b><i>other, ‘gob-smacked’, as Julian will describe it later.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Streuth!” That’s Master Tone….</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Coo-er!” That’s Jules </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie joins in. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Makes accountancy sound rather fun, doesn’t he – good old </b><b>Parsons!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Wonder what he’s got sorted for the invasion menus?” I muse </b><b>aloud.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Within moments, and with the Parsonian glide, our Tower of Strength </i></b><b><i>returns bearing a large envelope, a tray of chilled glasses and a </i></b><b><i>Magnum of Lanson.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“The accounts, Milord - Lady Constance – and Mrs Fenner has asked </b><b>me to assure Your Lordship that the menus during the visitation </b><b>will include no processed foods, and that her recipe for fish-cakes </b><b>will pleasure you as much as do her devilled kidneys and her </b><b>kedgeree….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Thank God for Mrs F….” breathes Corrie. “What brings on the </b><b>bubbly, though, Parsons, old dear?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“It occurred to me, Lady Constance, that a small preliminary </b><b>celebration might be in order – and that His Lordship might like to </b><b>sample a glass or two of “Anti-freeze” - </b><b>under </b><b>which soubriquet </b><b>his </b><b>Lanson is logged in the certified accounts……..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-55406709387959028222013-07-08T00:26:00.000-04:002013-07-08T00:29:10.248-04:00"THE THRASH" and Trouble Loom<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> Chapter 29</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>Well, young Anthony, or ‘Tone’ as he calls himself, has been </i></b><b><i>delivered – seems a jolly soul and likely to brighten things up at </i></b><b><i>Amblewick. Parsons was dead right about the shared ‘turn of phrase’ </i></b><b><i>department; first thing the young blighter said when he jumped out </i></b><b><i>of the Land Rover and looked around him was, “Good ‘ere, innit!” </i></b><b><i>Anyway, the two of them are messing about on the moat at the </i></b><b><i>moment, so peace prevails. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie’s popped over from Pangleton, and we’re planning the </i></b><b><i>dreaded Jubilee Thrash – rather hoped it would just go away once </i></b><b><i>we’d got rid of the Cousin Marguerite plague, but no peace for the </i></b><b><i>wicked and we’re up to our ears in plans for the ‘great day’, and with </i></b><b><i>all sorts of people who have to be involved – blast them!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>"What are we going to do about Margot de Barry and the Netherwick </b><b>connection, Biffers? We’ve got to involve them somehow.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie sounds as reluctant as I am to address this threat. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Well, I’m going to do as little as possible about her – short of being </b><b>downright rude – pesky old trout – never stops talking, does she?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“All the bable of a brook and little of the charm – only advantage </b><b>is that one doesn’t have to say anything much oneself, except the </b><b>occasional ‘Really?’ and ‘Good Heavens!’”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Humph!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I’m not reassured at all and even less so when Parsons glides in and </i></b><b><i>drops the old bombshell.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Milord, a telegram has been delivered.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He slides the small buff envelope from salver to the table beside me </i></b><b><i>– unopened. My heart sinks. Hate telegrams – invariably rotten news. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Can’t you read it, Parsons, old dear?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Had the missive been addressed to me, Milord, I would already </b><b>have done so – however, it is addressed to Your Lordship, and my </b><b>professıonal code forbids me from opening it. The protection of </b><b>one’s employer’s privacy must always be his servant’s first concern, </b><b>Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>With which unequivocal confession of faith, and a brief inclination of </i></b><b><i>the bonce, the old sod retires.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I have a nasty feeling about this telegram – seems to be sneering </i></b><b><i>at me from its place to my left. I am about to curse when Corrie </i></b><b><i>sensibly intervenes…..</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Snoot-full, old chap?"</b><br />
<br />
<b>“An extremely large Gin might save the day.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“In a glass, or à la Marguerite?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I cringe at mention of the name. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Glass” I croak.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>We slurp peaceably and some of the darkness begins to brighten. </i></b><b><i>Corrie removes the weight from my spirit.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Come on, old chap – let me open the damned thing.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I toss the missive over to her with a shudder. She opens same </i></b><b><i>and peruses. I can hardly bear the tension as she lingers over its </i></b><b><i>contents. Finally, she seems to have absorbed the contents, and </i></b><br />
<b><i>replaces the message in its envelope and briskly and rather finally </i></b><b><i>tosses the two of them into the fireplace.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Not the sort of communication which inspires one with any </b><b>confidence for the immediate future…..” she says, coolly reinserting </b><b>her beak into the juniper.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>By this time my nerves are in shreds – wringing of the hands, so to </i></b><b><i>speak. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Come on, old girl- put me out of the wretched agony, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“I think we’re going to need another tooth-full old chap – the news, I </b><b>fear, is dire indeed.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>She totters over to the drinks’ table and begins feverishly to pour. I </i></b><b><i>note that she is gripping the Stately Car Boot amber cig holder vice-like between her teeth.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Now Corrie is not the feverish type and neither does she totter. She </i></b><b><i>returns with the drinkies and I stare at her speechless – à la goldfish </i></b><b><i>a-goggle and mouth devoid of words – few weedy bubbles I blow…..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Take a severe glug, old boy, and brace for the worst….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I do as I am told.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Ready?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I nod somewhat jerkily.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The trustees are going to attend the Amblewick Jubilee Festivities – </b><b>in the company of Cousin Marguerite Huntington-Smythe…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Her voice trails away and she subsides onto the sofa with a tragic </i></b><b><i>sigh.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Now I think we should all be very clear about one’s attitude towards </i></b><b><i>the Amblewick trustees. One’s antipathy is not personal – merely </i></b><b><i>that they feel bound, in the name of ‘duty, to interfere at a financial </i></b><b><i>level with one’s affairs at Amblewick. Letters and various secondhand communications </i></b><b><i>from them and their minions are received with a degree of dread and with a suppressed fury reserved only for them. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Normally when confronted by infuriating documents threatening </i></b><b><i>one’s appetite and peace of mind, one can depend upon old Parsons </i></b><b><i>to restore one’s spirits with one of his brilliant prescriptions. When </i></b><b><i>it comes to the trustees he is at grave disadvantage, not having met </i></b><b><i>either of them, nor having observed them as guests at the Castle. He </i></b><b><i>is also disadvantaged by the fact that they invariably punch low in </i></b><b><i>the housekeeping stakes, thus striking firmly at his Achilles heel. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>‘You must spend less on food’, is one of their weapons of choice.’</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>‘Cut down on staff.’ Is another favourite…..</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Now bearing in mind that Parsons and Mrs Fenner already do the </i></b><b><i>work of what used to be a veritable army, and that the Castle menus </i></b><b><i>are his and Mrs F’s pride – dare I say ‘raison d’être’, not to put too </i></b><b><i>fine a point on it all? It will be seen that he is much handicapped </i></b><b><i>when dealing with such an adversary – damn it all, the old boy’s in </i></b><b><i>his nineties, for heaven’s sake! </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>However, he is our only hope, and raising the eyebrows at Corrie, I </i></b><b><i>yank the old service bell and retire into my beverage, broodily. </i></b><b><i>Moments, and the merest whisper of well-oiled locks later, the </i></b><br />
<b><i>Amblewick Oracle is at my side.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“You rang, Milord?” </b><br />
<br />
<b>“I did, indeed, old thing – Crisis looms…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I indicate the fireplace. Parsons, never obtuse, espies the telegram </i></b><b><i>and retrieves it. Clearly, its opened condition absolves him from his </i></b><b><i>ethical concerns. He peruses the missive briefly.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“It would appear, Milord, that we will have to open three further </b><b>bed-chambers. I have taken the liberty of accommodating Young </b><b>Julian and his friend in the Red Chamber and feel that it would be </b><br />
<b>unreasonable to alter that arrangement in order to satisfy the needs </b><b>of casual, and to my knowledge, uninvited guests, Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>His face is more po-faced than ever I have seen it before. No sign of </i></b><b><i>comfort emanating therefrom. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Absolutely, old thing – my sentiments entirely. Damned bad form </b><b>inflicting themselves without notice, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“If Your Lordship and Lady Constance have no further immediate </b><b>need of my services I shall now retire to confer with Mrs Fenner. </b><b>I fear that certain adjustments will have to be made to the menus </b><br />
<b>over the Jubilee period in order to ensure that Amblewick does not </b><b>exceed the bounds of trustee-orial frugality. I fear that Mrs Fenner </b><b>will be keenly disappointed by this turn of events, Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>With which almost censorious statement, and an abrupt nod of the </i></b><b><i>head, he retires.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie and I are left gawping at each other.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Corrie is the first to speak.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“As seems always to be the case when Marguerite is involved in </b><b>our affairs disharmony prevails – and I care not for the look of dear </b><b>Parsons – difficult to read, but I get the impression that he has been </b><b>caught off-guard by this invasion.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Once again,” I observe, “Birnham Wood can be descried leeching </b><b>its way over our peaceful horizon – blast it!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, and Parsons seems bereft of ideas, this time……. We shall </b><b>have to wait, as you so often say, and see what we shall see…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And hope that during the course of that vision, Parsons will find an </b><b>answer - don’t fancy ‘fish fingers’ as an extended diet, do you?”</b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-86988201431457301852013-07-01T01:00:00.000-04:002013-07-01T01:04:17.588-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 28</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE GATHERING OF CLANS</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>Amblewick is notorious for its cool with regard to all sorts of stuff </i></b><b><i>that is, apparently, all the rage beyond the borders of the estate. </i></b><b><i>Must seem a bit of a time capsule to those who’ve never experienced </i></b><b><i>its subtle workings </i></b><br />
<b><i><br />
I mention this because Parsons has just popped in with a somewhat </i></b><b><i>unusual request…..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, we may have an unfamiliar situation on our hands…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I raise the eyebrows encouragingly.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“In a few words, Milord, young Julian has a school friend in London </b><b>and he would very much like to invite him to Amblewick for a day or </b><b>two. I understand that the young man has never been to the country </b><b>before – his family being resident abroad, Milord, and living as he </b><b>does with an elderly aunt and uncle who are not wealthy…….”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Foreign Office types, the parents, what? Should be all right for </b><b>folding, shouldn’t they? But anyway, invite away, Can’t see the </b><b>problem. Much more fun for our Jules to have someone from his own </b><b>neck of the woods about the place - must get fed up surrounded by </b><b>us old frights for company…….” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I tamp down the Meerschaum with a teaspoon, and re-ignite……..</i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsons, for his part, is looking a dash pensive – clearly something </i></b><b><i>bleeping on his scanner.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, I fear that perhaps I have failed to make matters altogether </b><b>clear. The young man’s parents are not, as you have so reasonably </b><b>assumed, in the Diplomatic Service. Somewhat of a far cry, I fear. He </b><b>has, however, resided in London since he was very young. He hails, </b><b>Milord, from a somewhat unsettled part of the world and his parents </b><b>have entrusted him to the care of their relations here for his own </b><b>safety and to ensure that he receives an education…….”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Sort of refugee, what? Do with a bit of support, I dare say. Where’s </b><b>he from then?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“He hails, Milord, from Somalia……”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Umh, had quite a few British Somaliland stamps when I was a </b><b>young chap. Remember my stamp collection, do you, old thing?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons has that special non-committal look about him – the one he </i></b><b><i>always adopts when I’m being particularly dense. He answers me </i></b><b><i>patiently.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“How could I fail to remember Your Lordship’s dalliance with </b><b>philately, Milord? My most vivid memory from that period is the </b><b>plethora of discarded stamp hinges which appeared to </b><b>infest the </b><b>entire house. However, Milord, if I might return us to the topic of this </b><b>morning’s conversation – I have spoken briefly with the young man, </b><b>whose name is Anthony. I’m sure your Lordship will be relieved to </b><b>hear that he shares the same somewhat picturesque turn of phrase </b><b>as does young Julian, Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Sort of, down-to-earth, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Indeed, Milord….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons still has that long-suffering look. As far as I can see </i></b><b><i>everything’s perfectly normal – course the young chap will have the </i></b><b><i>same sort of turn of phrase – school chums always do, don’t they? </i></b><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><i>We always did. Some words were ‘in’, and some were stale news and </i></b><b><i>were ‘out’, so to speak. Seems to me it’s Parsons who’s being a bit </i></b><b><i>dense. However, to avoid any further misunderstandings, I follow </i></b><b><i>through with the practicalities. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“So, old man, when’s this literary acrobat destined to join us here at </b><b>Amblewick?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Seems a sensible approach, and Parsons comes down to earth </i></b><b><i>immediately – as he always does when he realises that one’s foot is </i></b><b><i>firmly down, as it were…….</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“With your permission, Milord, he could arrive as early as tomorrow </b><b>evening. There are trains from Liverpool Street, stopping at </b><b>Babingworth, at regular intervals every day. I can arrange for Mr </b><b>Richardson and Julian to meet him at the station in the Land Rover, </b><b>Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“All sounds fairly tickety-boo, then, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Milord….” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons begins to take his leave, but pauses at the door.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, I do hope that we have fully understood each other in this </b><b>matter. I would hate there to be any misunderstanding which might, </b><b>shall we say, cause initial friction or awkwardness.……” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Whole thing seems perfectly clear to me, can’t imagine what’s got </i></b><b><i>into Parsons – unusually stumped for words……</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“As I believe we have already established, Milord, the United </b><b>Kingdom is now a multi-cultural society and its citizens are </b><b>representative of all parts of the Empire and beyond. </b><b>Would it be </b><b>too intrusive of me to enquire if your Lordship has ever met any </b><b>Somalian citizens?"</b><br />
<br />
<b>"Can’t say I have, old thing, but I had a school chum from Nigeria – </b><b>same form at prep school – black as the ace of spades – brilliant </b><b>all-round sportsman – capital chap – used to call him ‘Canno’ – he </b><b>called me ‘Honk’ – lot of laughs we had over the years. I wonder what </b><b>happened to him…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>My mind is off with the birds – funny how memories suddenly flood </i></b><b><i>back, isn’t it? But I’m jolted back to the present by a discreet clearing </i></b><b><i>of the Parsonian throat. The old chap is looking pretty chuffed for </i></b><b><i>someone so inscrutable……</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I feel I should admit that I have, on this occasion, considerably </b><b>underestimated Your Lordship’s educational and worldly experience. </b><b>Please accept my sincere apologies, Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>There is a slight but unmistakable catch in the old boy’s voice as he </i></b><b><i>hands me this handsome accolade. Brushes away a tear, if I’m not </i></b><b><i>mistaken…. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Most touched, old thing – not another word, what? Can’t wait </b><b>to make the young chap’s acquaintance – important ‘first’ for </b><b>Amblewick – not before time, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“True, Milord – most refreshing, and as you say, timely.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons looks almost jaunty as he swipes his napkin at a dash of </i></b><b><i>pipe-ash on my lapel.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“And now, Milord, with your permission, I will retire to set matters in </b><b>train with regard to tomorrow’s visitor.”</b><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><i>He shimmers from the room and I am left with my thoughts and to </i></b><b><i>my own devices. The latter guide my steps towards the drinks table </i></b><b><i>– and a gentle snort. Largish gin, couple of chunks of ice and the </i></b><b><i>merest threat of tonic seems best to fit the bill. I muse to meself as I </i></b><b><i>prepare the prescription.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“World’s changed a lot really, hasn’t it. Twenty years and a whole </b><b>world between us, Parsons and I. When I first went to school in ’48, </b><b>the Empire was winding down – more hope than glory, don’t you </b><b>know? Mind you, most of the world was still red on the atlases - but </b><b>India had gone. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>S’pose I’m really a sort of post-empire war-baby, and Parsons </b><b>stems from the thing itself – pre-war so to speak, and built to last. </b><b>I think a lot of our attitudes and way of seeing things were </b><b>born </b><b>because of how things were when we were young and subject to </b><b>all-knowing grown-ups whose opinions we regarded as superior to </b><b>the Oracle of Delphi because they were English and therefore right </b><b>about everything. The values for which they stood were instilled and </b><b>indeed beaten into us so effectively that they have stuck like superglue.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>I tinkle the chunks and take a modest and exploratory drizzle of the </i></b><i><b>tincture. As the restorative winkles its way through the tubes, I am </b></i><i><b>reminded once more of old “Canno” at school, and of one of our </b></i><i><b>favourite ditties – something along these lines if my memory serves </b></i><i><b>– Noël at his playful best.</b></i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>‘Yams and clams and human hands and vintage coconut wine – the </b><b>taste of which was filthy, the after-effects divine…..’</b><br />
<b><br />
“Hmm….. Pure Empire, and laughing at itself – missionaries and so on. Have to trill it to Parsons - when the time seems right, of course…..”</b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-45530510954717379132013-06-24T14:06:00.002-04:002013-06-24T14:08:54.575-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 27</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PARSONS TO THE RESCUE AGAIN</b></div>
<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> When Biffo and Julian enter the pantry Parsons is busy </i></b><b><i>buffing up a Cellini flagon - leather positively flickering along – </i></b><b><i>and simultaneously perusing a column of numbers in what Biffo </i></b><b><i>assumes is the financial publication to which Julian has alluded. </i></b><b><i>Parsons appears able to do two things at once - a capability foreign </i></b><b><i>to his employer who always finds it taxing to complete even a single </i></b><b><i>task with any degree of competence.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Jolly good show, Parsons, old thing.” Biffo enthuses. </b><b>“Richardson </b><b>said you wanted to see me.... Something about the </b><b>asparagus, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Discreet cough.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, yes indeed, though far be it from me to summon Your </b><b>Lordship.”</b><br />
<br />
<b> “Come, come, never mind the protocol, Parsons, old darling. </b><b>Richardson tells me you may have a remedy for the garden prawn </b><b>catastrophe – </b><b>asparagus genocide, and so on.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The butler cringes at his employer’s familiar style, but </i></b><b><i>appreciates that strain is taking its toll and, as always, makes </i></b><b><i>allowances.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Milord, I understand that we are at risk of losing the </b><b>asparagus crop this season.” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Yes, that’s about the size of it. Damned garden prawns on the </b><b>rampage.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “I confess to having been unfamiliar with the invertebrates in </b><b>question, Milord, but was persuaded to engage myself fully in their </b><b>affairs as soon as I was made aware that our asparagus was under </b><b>threat from their presence in the gardens.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Good show, Parsons. Jolly good show.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo awaits his butler’s findings eagerly. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Milord, three evenings ago I encountered a young man in the </b><b>village who exhibited a certain keenness to dispose of some several </b><b>gross of jam jars manufactured for Messrs Wilkin and Sons Ltd - the </b><b>firm which prepares ‘Tiptree’ jams and preserves.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “I say, Parsons, old man! What the devil have jam jars - </b><b>albeit ‘Tiptree’ jam jars - got to do with my asparagus? Damn it all, </b><b>make our own jams, don’t we?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b> “Milord, we appear to be faced with a critical situation with </b><b>regard to this year’s crop. It struck me, Milord, that we have little time </b><b>to spare and must move with despatch if we are to wrest virtue from </b><b>necessity, and thereby turn misfortune into profit - as Mr Dickens, I </b><b>imagine, might well have phrased it.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Maybe a bit dense, but can’t quite catch your drift, old man.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Forgive me, Milord, I appear to have approached the subject </b><b>from an inappropriate angle. Permit me to re-phrase. It occurred to </b><b>me as I observed the imperilled asparagus shoots during a brief </b><b>free moment during the breakfast washing-up period on Wednesday </b><b>morning, that, quite feasibly, Your Lordship could convert adversity </b><b>into pecuniary advantage.”</b><br />
<br />
<b> “Parsons, old man, never at me best this time of the morning, </b><b>you’ve lost me altogether.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, whilst I was replenishing our larders at Messrs </b><b>Fortnum’s on the Monday afternoon of last week, I observed that </b><b>there appears to be a ‘fashion’, shall we say, for diminutive, even </b><b>stunted specimens, of various vegetables of the more exotic </b><b>varieties. Such of these ‘légumes’ as I observed in the Food Hall, </b><b>Milord, had clearly been preserved by some means and stored in </b><b>what appeared to be standard jam jars decorated with an attractive </b><b>label indicating their provenance.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “What have diminutive vegetable varieties to do with my </b><b>asparagus, may I venture to ask?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo is completely at sea and beginning to glow about the </i></b><b><i>forehead - as is his wont in times of stress.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Milord, if you will grant me the benefit of your attention </b><b>for just one further minute, I believe your Lordship may see the </b><b>connection between the jars and your asparagus. I observed that the </b><b>bottled vegetables were being ‘snapped up’, I believe is the </b><b>expression, by members of the public dressed in new, but </b><b>distressed, overalls, dark glasses, Barbour jackets, and green </b><b>Wellington boots. I enquired of the chief buyer, my friend Mr </b><b>Henderson, as to the identity of these people. He assured me that </b><b>they are the ‘upwardly mobile’ of our time – often referred to </b><b>as ‘Sloane Rangers’. Mr Henderson further assured me, Milord, that </b><b>such people stand possessed of extensive funds not necessarily </b><b>accompanied by any noteworthy degree of discrimination. Such </b><b>individuals purchase and consume anything new, or peculiar, which </b><b>comes onto the market. I understood from Mr Henderson that dwarf </b><b>varieties of vegetable are much in demand, as are certain salad </b><b>substitutes - in particular, various relatives of the dandelion family. It </b><b>occurred to me that your Lordship might be able to turn a handsome </b><b>profit if we supplied Messrs Fortnum with asparagus - dwarf </b><b>asparagus spears in jars with an impressive label. Mr Henderson </b><b>undertakes, he has assured me on the telephone, to purchase all we </b><b>can supply.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Parsons awaits his employer’s reaction with quiet satisfaction </i></b><b><i>– as his toothbrush probes a cupid’s ear.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “I say, old man, but that would be trade, wouldn’t it? Can’t </b><b>have that, can we - muddy the waters, what? Anyway, what about </b><b>me? I want to eat my asparagus myself!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, I was not suggesting that your Lordship should </b><b>personally preserve the spears, or insert them into the jars - merely </b><b>that you should extend your blessing to a project which Mrs Fenner </b><b>has agreed to supervise. Your Lordship’s name would be mentioned </b><b>only as the proprietor of the gardens from which the asparagus </b><b>dwarves originate. A species of ‘by Appointment’ sign, as it were.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Sorry old boy, doesn’t answer the question of me wanting to </b><b>eat my own asparagus! Sorry about that, but, well, there it is, don’t </b><b>you know?”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Parsons is unfazed.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, I have taken the liberty of communicating in that </b><b>regard with Mr Frimley, Lady De Barry’s butler at Netherwick Hall. </b><b>Your Lordship will doubtless remember how well her Ladyship </b><b>enjoyed our asparagus last April when she dined at Amblewick on </b><b>the occasion of Your Lordship’s 72nd birthday.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Damned old trout! Never stops talking, can’t get a word </b><b>in edgeways while she’s surging around the place. Female </b><b>Stürmbanführer, </b><b>what?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Pictures of a uniformed McCormack-Judd flicker across His </i></b><b><i>Lordship’s mental screen.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Her Ladyship certainly has her ways, Milord, but I must bow </b><b>to your Lordship’s intimate knowledge of her political peccadillos, </b><b>if indeed she has any. However, with reference to my conversation </b><b>with the esteemed Mr Frimley, I was able to remind him, “en passant” </b><b>I believe might be the expression, Milord, that your Lordship had </b><b>gifted a generous consignment of quorms from your asparagus beds </b><b>to Lady De Barry.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Had to get rid of the old bat, somehow!” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Parsons refuses to be thrown off course and continues. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “It would appear, Milord, that Her Ladyship’s beds have </b><b>produced what I understand is referred to as a ‘bumper crop’ this </b><b>season.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Don’t rub salt into the gaping, Parsons old man, dash it!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “During the course of my conversation with Mr Frimley, </b><b>Milord, I </b><b>was given to understand that her Ladyship has been </b><b>staying in Monte-Carlo </b><b>this spring in the company of her Ladyship’s </b><b>sister-inlaw, the Dowager </b><b>Duchess of Weedon - and is proposing to </b><b>spend the remainder of the </b><b>summer in Rome, at her customary hotel near </b><b>the Corso. She left Monaco </b><b>for Italy yesterday morning according to </b><b>Mr Frimley’s latest information.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “How the devil do these women do it?” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo is genuinely, if somewhat irrelevantly disturbed.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Damned Weedon woman snapped up “Pooky” ffoulkes as </b><b>soon as our backs were turned, don’t you know!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Parsons pauses momentarily in deference to his master’s </i></b><b><i>voice.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Indeed, Milord? Your Lordship’s knowledge of such matters </b><b>far exceeds my own. However, if I may venture to return to the </b><b>matter in hand - the asparagus dilemma.......” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> He clears his throat deferentially and continues. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “I am sure your Lordship will be aware that by the time her </b><b>Ladyship returns from foreign parts, in September, Milord, the </b><b>asparagus season will be over and the crop will have gone to seed.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “But Parsons, that’s intolerable! Perish the thought, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Precisely, my Lord. However, Mr Frimley assures me that </b><b>should agents of ours chance to pass by Netherwick during the </b><b>season he will be delighted to instruct the head Gardener, Mr </b><b>Smithers, to supply all Your Lordship's needs in the matter of </b><b>asparagus."</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo thinks he can discern a slight shimmering of gold at the </i></b><b><i>end of his tunnel.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Well, there does indeed seem to be a faint ray on the horizon </b><b>- but wouldn’t it be a bit dubious - raping the old bird's asparagus </b><b>beds when she's not in res?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “The ethics of the matter, Milord, are in your Lordship’s </b><b>demesne and not for me to assess. However, if I might venture to set </b><b>your Lordship’s mind at rest.....”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The pause is trifling. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “The tips in Her Ladyship's beds are, after all, grist of your </b><b>mill, fruit of your own quorms - originating as they did as a gift from </b><b>your Lordship’s estates to that of Netherwick. For your Lordship </b><b>to find himself obliged passively to witness this excellent produce </b><b>going to waste through sheer negligence would seem to be nothing </b><b>short of profligate. Furthermore, for your Lordship to be deprived of </b><b>his greatest joy merely on account of a trivial pestilential assault - </b><b>the pain of which might so easily have been assuaged - would be no </b><b>less than criminal.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> There is a momentary pause as Parsons probes a further </i></b><b><i>Cellini ‘putto’ with his leather. Biffo, in turn, gazes upon a bleak </i></b><b><i>landscape where gone-to-seed asparagus teeters Heavenwards - </i></b><b><i>roasted by the summer sun. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “After careful deliberation, Milord, I have come to the </b><b>conclusion that my little stratagem will nip your problem ‘in the bud’, </b><b>as it were.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> The good butler further applies himself to the Cellini patina.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo focusses a little nervously on the possibility of salvation.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Sorely tempted, have to admit. So, how would it all go, </b><b>what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, Mr Richardson and Mr Judd.......”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “McCormack-Judd,” corrects Biffo with an uneasy glance over </b><b>his shoulder.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Yes, Milord, permit me to re-shape that last essay. The garden </b><b>staff, Milord, will neatly cull all the dwarf spears in your beds. They </b><b>will be delivered in baskets to our kitchens here at the Castle, where </b><b>Mrs Fenner has undertaken to prepare them for bottling. There will, </b><b>of course, be plenty for your Lordship’s immediate needs.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Visions of baby asparagus shoots on the Crown Derby – </i></b><b><i>swimming in Jersey butter shimmer before him - but give him his </i></b><b><i>due Biffo’s concern is for the future. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “What about the quorms?” he quavers.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Richardson has assured me, Milord, that all healthy stock </b><b>will be looked after in the appropriate manner to ensure that this </b><b>season’s disaster will remain as a mere ‘blip’ on the screen of your </b><b>Lordship’s gardening memory.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Jolly good show. We appear to have considered all the </b><b>relevant angles, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “We have endeavoured so to do, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo is nearly, but not yet entirely, convinced. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “But you said something about bottles? Suppose you’ll have </b><b>to get them in from your chap in the village; and then there are the </b><b>labels to organise - lot of work, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “I had anticipated your Lordship’s affirmative decision in the </b><b>matter and have already purchased the jars at a much reduced figure </b><b>- bearing in mind that the young man in whose possession they </b><b>were until yesterday was recently apprehended whilst poaching out </b><b>of season pheasant in the park. Promise of a word on his behalf to </b><b>Constable Southgate and the jars were immediately delivered to the </b><b>stables - where they await your Lordship’s inspection.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “And the labels?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, I further took the liberty of having them designed and </b><b>set. The proofs arrived by courier this morning. They await your </b><b>Lordship’s approval in a large buff envelope on the library desk. And </b><b>now, Milord, if you will excuse me, I must re-visit the gardens to set </b><b>matters in train.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Parsons backs smoothly from the presence and Biffo mops </i></b><b><i>his brow.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “No doubt about it, man’s a gem. What on earth would I do </b><b>without him?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> It is with a distinct lightness of step that he and Tessa head for </i></b><b><i>the stables to reverse his father’s stately 1938 Wolseley 25/30 into </i></b><b><i>the stable-yard.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Pangleton and smoked salmon canapés here we come!” Biffo </b><b>twinkles to himself, “Damned stiff gin and tonic or three as well, </b><b>thank Heavens.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The old car positively purrs along. Biffo fumbles in the glove </i></b><b><i>compartment for a Bendicks Bittermint – Tessa’s favourite treat. The </i></b><b><i>voles are in the hedgerows, the lark is in the sky, so to speak. God is </i></b><b><i>in His heaven, and everything is absolutely spiffing in His Lordship’s </i></b><b><i>world.</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-34776777464350362352013-06-16T23:40:00.000-04:002013-06-16T23:40:14.273-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 26</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>HIS LORDSHIP'S ASPARAGUS UNDER THREAT</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>Recent brief mention of Biffo’s favourite vegetable renders failure to recount the story of ‘Parsons and His Lordship’s Asparagus’ unthinkable. For us at Amblewick it is a tale as fresh today as it was when first we became aware of it. It is perhaps the sturdiest record of how the formidable relationship of a gent with his </i></b><b><i>man has blossomed so luxuriantly during the course of more than sixty years.</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> It is also interesting because it recalls the very first time that Biffo and Julian interact – rather than having a vague awareness of each other’s presence – as in two pieces of Estate Furniture. We give it to you as it came to us……</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<i> ***</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> <i> Biffo rises from a leisurely breakfast in the Morning Room, lights his pipe and dawdles contentedly out of the French windows and into the rose garden. The day is unfolding as days should and the prospect of lunch with Corrie at Pangleton lies tantalisingly ahead. </i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> He and Tessa ‘The Nose’ potter towards the main gardens beyond the lake. He loves that first view of the smooth green Long Avenue sweeping upwards two hundred yards to the maze. In high summer, on either side of the avenue, banks of stately Dahlias, Delphiniums and Red-hot Poker soar; backed by Lilac and Magnolia and softened by Love-in-the-Mist and spreading carpets of Aubretia – hither and thither, butterfies, wild Forget-me-not and Pheasant’s eye - on this spring day, a mass of daffodil, crocus, tulip, narcissus, and lush new green. For her part, Tessa, untroubled by seasons, pays surgical attention to the silvery sorrel; nibbling at the freshest shoots amongst the flowers. This kaleidoscope of ever-changing colour never fails to magic Biffo – sheer Amblewick Heaven. Moments later his greatest joy - baby asparagus spears peeping cheakily from long, raised beds concealed behind the flowers. He gazes at them fondly, and shortly is relieved to be joined by Harry Richardson, his head gardener - rather than by the dreaded </i></b><b><i>McCormack-Judd - new to the job and chock-full of scientific theories of modern gardening which leave his employer cold. Biffo is all respect for the man’s talent with asparagus and other vegetable varieties - it is the fellow’s attitude which rankles. </i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> Biffo loves asparagus. Even after his liberal breakfast the image of those neat green spears nestling in melted, salt, farm butter affect him to the depths of his being. He’s been away in town for a week, so their progress has been considerable.</i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “Beautiful, aren’t they, Harry? Not long, now, eh?” </b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> But Harry seems preoccupied, not quite his normal gardencentred self - champing at the bit, somehow – wanting to be off. Biffo takes the hint and with a last fond gaze at the luscious shoots he accompanies his loyal retainer across the avenue, past the wishing-well and into the potting sheds where the men gather daily </i></b><b><i>for ‘elevenses’. The atmosphere is fraught – heavy somehow – none of the usual banter and good cheer. </i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> McCormack-Judd has his nose in a selective weed-killer catalogue; his lank blond hair plastered in its customary slick across the forehead. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “An Aryan,” reflects his employer, “dodgy little squirt when you observe him in repose. But, there again,” Biffo is an even-handed man, “the asparagus really does do him credit.”</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> Harry hands his employer a chipped breakfast cup and saucer brimming with that strong, milky, over-sweetened tea without which gardens the world over would run to seed. Biffo accepts the </i></b><b><i>beverage, and places it on an upturned Spalding seed-box next to the half beer-barrel upon which he normally parks on these occasions. He notes contentedly that the scentless potted purplevariegated carnation - a variety he deplores - is still within easy pouring distance. </i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> This daily garden-gathering is a rite which has its origin in his father’s time. When the old chap turned his toes up Biffo continuedit because, well, because it was one of those landmarks in the day which punctuated life - indicated order – an attribute with which hehad been only meanly gifted when talents and virtues were being handed out! </i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> Harry is the first to speak - hesitantly.</i></b> </div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Your Lordship, since you was away all last week we weren’t able to speak to you about this ‘ere before.” He pauses, and Biffo senses distress. “Them garden prawns, Your Lordship, is getting </b><b>to be a proper blight. Every forkful of loam you turns over, up the blighters comes.” </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> His Lordship observes his head gardener mildly over his reading glasses - perched forgotten on the end of his nose. He is relieved. </i></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Thank God that’s all it is” he thinks - but knows he has to be seen to have his wits about him when it comes to pests. “Jolly poor show, what?” he ejaculates with what he hopes will pass for intelligent concern.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Just so, Milord,” Harry is now confident of his employer’s attention. “McCormack-Judd has a plan to use a new genetic pest formula what he do have found!” </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Do he indeed?” Biffo’s command of grammar is fragile and easily disturbed.</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> The said McCormack-Judd is apparently still absorbed in his catalogue - but a faint pinking round the ears indicates his awareness of the direction in which matters are proceeding. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “Jolly good show.” </b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> Biffo does his best to sound positive; but nuzzles Tessa’s black velvet ears to mask his failure. </i></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Better toddle on with the old pest-control, what?” he supposes. </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Only one problem, Milord…..” </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> Harry is looking a bit weedy notes his employer - and weediness is foreign to Harry’s nature. He is one of those 40-year-old brown and sinewy men with the constitution of a Clydesdale in its prime.</i></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Problems normally overcome immediately, what?” Biffo is confident.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Milord, McCormack-Judd tells me that the problem stems from one particular bit of the garden and that if we don’t fork it over pretty smartish, and treat it, the whole darned place will be infested.”</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Jolly good show, fork away then!” </b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> Biffo is drifting off into a Pangleton world of smoked salmon canapés, ice cubes and tinkling glasses. He imagines that his visit to the gardens can now be terminated. Feinting in the direction of the </i></b><b><i>greenhouse doors to his left he empties his tea cup deftly into the variegated carnation on his right.</i></b> </div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Very good then chaps, carry on, what?” he announces, rising to his feet.</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> McCormack-Judd has removed his nose from the catalogue and is clearing his throat in a predatory </i></b><b><i>manner. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “I think your Lordship should be aware that the problem outlined by Mr Richardson concerns Your Lordship, personally.” </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> He speaks in that cold and soulless tone employed by tax officials and the frostier kind of Anglican clergyman Biffo notes with a slight but pertinent shudder.</i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “Yes, Milord,” Harry is wringing his hands. “The beds involved are very close to your Lordship’s heart.” </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Not the Dahlias?” Biffo blenches.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “No, Milord, not the Dahlias. ....”</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Well, then, I’m sure you’ll have the matter under control in no time, what?”</b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> McCormack-Judd permits the wisp of a sickly smile to creep from the corners of his thin lips - and die.</i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “The asparagus beds, Milord,” he leers. There is an unpleasant glint in his pale grey eyes. </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Eyes with no linings……” </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> Biffo shivers involuntarily. He then registers the full import of the under-gardener’s words with horror.</i></b> </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “I say, not the asparagus! That’s not on at all!” He is visibly shaken. “I mean, I say, we can’t mess about with the asparagus, now can we? Jolly perky they looked to me just now and, well, given a week or so we’ll have them on the table, what?” </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Leave those prawns for one more week, Milord, and they’ll be all over the place - chrysalis, adult Maybugs, new lot hatching out, and then you’ve got real problems. Unfortunately, Your Lordship, the </b><b>asparagus will have to go.”</b> </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> McCormack-Judd blows his sharp little nose on a surprisingly crisp-looking handkerchief which he folds meticulously into the resultant mucous. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “If we do not take immediate action,” he adds darkly, “the entire garden will be at risk - including the green-houses.” Judd’s eyes glow with relish at the effect these words are having upon his employer. </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “A genius with the plants and greenery this young man may be,” Biffo broods sourly, “but doubtless he is also a devotee of a brand of socialism the principle feature of which is unvarnished envy. The blighter is,” the peer observes shrewdly, “savouring my discomforture.” </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> Biffo has indeed been moved to near-terminal distress. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “I say, Harry, can nothing be done? I mean to say, the asparagus, what? If we lose those beds it’ll be at least three years before any more will come!” </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> He subsides onto his half-barrel as if slow-punctured.</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> Richardson canters to the rescue, offering a little strand of hope. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “I took the liberty, Milord, of mentioning the matter to Mr Parsons when I took the nectarines to the kitchens a few mornings ago. He gave me to understand there just might be a solution to the problem, Milord.”</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i> Biffo pounces upon the proffered straw. </i></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> “Good old Parsons! What was the plan of campaign, then?”</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b> “Mr Parsons did not divulge, Milord - said he’d have to think it over - but he did say he was what he called, ‘confident of a favourable outcome in the matter.”</b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i> A faint glimmer of light becomes discernable to Biffo’s watery eyes. With Parsons in the lists the auguries might well be changing for the better. </i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b> “Well, well, I suppose I should toddle off and consult the oracle, Harry, don’t you know?” </b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i> He almost beams.</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b> “I reckon that might be the best thing, Milord.” </b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i> Harry, in turn, is looking more his old self - less weedy - more brown and sinewy. </i></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> “Yes, well, jolly good show. I’ll potter along then. No other business, was there?”</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> “No Milord, I think that just about sorts everything, for today at least.” </b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i> He doffs his cap, giving a quick scratch to the widow’s peak which once defined his hairline.</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i> Biffo and Tessa navigate towards the castle, the green baize door, and the butler’s pantry. Over the years the good Parsons has grown to be his foremost strategist and councellor. The man has a </i></b><b><i>natural flair for the sorting out of things – for benign order - and he shares Biffo’s distaste for the Trustees. He doesn’t care for it at all when the Castle commissariat is threatened. When funds are on the </i></b><b><i>short side the admirable Parsons is inconvenienced. He does not care for His Lordship’s Trustees, no, not at all – and this shared dislike has forged an even greater bond of trust between them!</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b> “Capital chap, Parsons.” his Lordship muses. </b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><i> He very nearly trips over Mrs Fenner’s nephew, Julian – up from London for a working summer holiday - and who is playing marbles on the top step of the staff staircase.</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b> “Sorry, Guv,” the boy blurts, “thought you was Mr P.”</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> “Never mind, dear boy, but can you locate the estimable Parsons for me?”</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> “I reckon he’ll be in his pantry - leastways, that’s where he parks most mornings. Likes to read the Financial Times after we’ve cleared the morning room. Can’t think what he sees in it - all lists of figures and stuff seems to me.”</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> “Absolutely, old chap, splendid assessment, but be so kind as to escort me to the wizard, immediately, there’s a good chap.”</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> ”An eager child, if somewhat pert........” </b></div>
<div>
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div>
<b><i> Biffo ponders vaguely as they descend into the unfamiliar subterranean service regions of his house.</i></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-747755109958403272013-06-10T00:43:00.000-04:002013-06-12T23:39:27.061-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 25</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>GAME, SET, AND MATCH</b></div>
<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The appalling meeting lurches on.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> The honourable representative of the National Society for the Protection of </i></b><br />
<b><i>Public Morals (NSPPM) is next on the agenda, and takes the conch to harangue </i></b><br />
<b><i>the assembled multitude in a socialist, somewhat hectoring manner on the </i></b><br />
<b><i>subject of family and other abuses in their various forms - with which she </i></b><br />
<b><i>appears to be fairly well-acquainted. Had Biffo’s routine not been being buggered </i></b><br />
<b><i>about he might well have cocked an ear in the hope of improving his grasp of </i></b><br />
<b><i>the unspeakable world beyond his demesne. As it is, however, his juices </i></b><br />
<b><i>are starting to react negatively to the enforced captivity of his carcass in this </i></b><br />
<b><i>incredibly dreary room. He glances at the ancient Rolex and sees that the period </i></b><br />
<b><i>in Purgatory estimated by Parsons has nigh-on passed. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “The time has come, the Walrus said…..,” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo warbles softly into his butler’s shell-like - which, we can reasonably </i></b><br />
<b><i>assume, is already quivering in anticipation of his words.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “With respect, Milord, it might be wise to permit this person to conclude </b><br />
<b>her peroration, in order to avoid bad feeling. I will thereafter be in a reasonable </b><br />
<b>position to express Julian to the kitchens, thereby alerting the staff who will </b><br />
<b>commence the festivities. The young man has been well-briefed, and the merest </b><br />
<b>twitch of my left eyebrow will send him on his way.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Good show, what? How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, I am not intimately conversant, even in theory, with any of the </b><br />
<b>peculiarities the young woman is enumerating. However, I think we may safely </b><br />
<b>assume that she is running out of possibilities. Might I hazard a guess at, shall we</b><br />
<b>say, three minutes.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Longest three minutes a man will ever have to endure, I daresay.” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo heaves on his Cohiba and is rewarded by one of those scented highs </i></b><br />
<b><i>that can only come through the good offices of a seriously expensive cigar. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “For God’s sake don’t give that louse from the planning department a </b><br />
<b>chance to get on his feet; he’ll have me over a barrel about the new greenhouse </b><br />
<b>at the Lodge!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “You are quite correct, Milord. It was always your late lamented father’s </b><br />
<b>view, that people with a mission should be disabled with good fare before they </b><br />
<b>began to air their views - on the principle that, thereafter, they would not be in any </b><br />
<b>mood to expound their more tiresome messages with any serious conviction.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Good old Pater, not as daft as he was cabbage-looking, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Precisely, Milord. And now, if your Lordship will excuse me, I must </b><br />
<b>position myself where the good Julian will be able to observe my left eyebrow.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> It is at this most propitious moment that Biffo’s sister, Corrie, blows in with </i></b><br />
<b><i>a brace of champion wolfhounds lunging at their leashes. Biffo’s spirits soar. If </i></b><br />
<b><i>a man can have spirits in the plural, he is that man. Taking a leaf from Parsons’ </i></b><br />
<b><i>book, so to speak, he greets Corrie’s ranging gaze with the raising of both his </i></b><br />
<b><i>eyebrows in welcome.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Thank God you could make it, old girl!” He enthuses. “We’re having a </b><br />
<b>perfectly preposterous bloody time here. Old prune’s going to town on every </b><br />
<b>possible front. Just look at that perch-full of ravening vultures, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Does seem a bit excessive, I must admit. Can’t stand that NSPPM woman, </b><br />
<b>what’s she talking about? Sex?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “It would seem so, but I have been fully occupied in negotiating a few light </b><br />
<b>refreshments with the good Parsons, who mercifully appears to have forestalled </b><br />
<b>me, as usual.” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo sneezes comfortably on his cigar. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Corrie brushes back her rebellious hair.</i></b><br />
<b><br />
“Splendid – and essential under the circumstances. It really is a bit ‘de </b><br />
<b>trop’, all this bureaucratic twaddle. What does Marguerite think she’s doing?”</b><br />
<b><br />
“Endeavouring to control the staff by a process of humiliation and </b><br />
<b>excessive official blandishment,” Biffo is genuinely distressed. “Insufferable </b><br />
<b>behaviour! I’m in high hopes that the staff will make their feelings known when </b><br />
<b>the refreshments materialize - and that, if I am not mistaken, is the starting pistol </b><br />
<b>in the person of young Julian heading for the commissariat.” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> Cousin Marguerite introduces the Chairman of the Joint Planning </i></b><br />
<b><i>Committee, a certain Major Reerash, a gentleman of Asian origin and the Indian </i></b><br />
<b><i>Army, known affectionately at Amblewick, as “Major Sheer-Trash”. This epithet </i></b><br />
<b><i>has been coined, not on account of his origins, but to express good-natured </i></b><br />
<b><i>disapproval of his use of the lowest field rank in private life. Before that worthy </i></b><br />
<b><i>can gain the rostrum a gong sounds hollowly in the kitchen doorway. An </i></b><br />
<b><i>impressive parade of retainers, the majority of whom have not been on Mrs </i></b><br />
<b><i>Huntington-Smythe’s list of ‘relevant’ members of staff, emerges from every </i></b><br />
<b><i>secret orifice in the Estate Office. That building has many orifices; from the </i></b><br />
<b><i>kitchens, cubby-holes, vesting-rooms, through lavatory (toylot) areas, to the large </i></b><br />
<b><i>double barn-doors behind Biffo and Corrie (ınstalled in the mid-seventeenth </i></b><br />
<b><i>century to provide stabling for Royalist cavalry). Through each and every one of </i></b><br />
<b><i>these orifices the retainers pour as though marching to a hidden drum. Barrels </i></b><br />
<b><i>are carried to avoid disturbing the beer. They are tabled and tapped, as helpers </i></b><br />
<b><i>shift the school-room desks and replace them with trestles. These are covered in </i></b><br />
<b><i>a trice with crisp white tablecloths. Trays of tankards and glasses are laid upon </i></b><br />
<b><i>them. Plates and eating-irons; chargers laden with joints and hams, and plate </i></b><br />
<b><i>after plate of cakes and pastries follow with all the splendour of a Royal Opera </i></b><br />
<b><i>House Final Act triumphal banquet.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Marguerite has sprung lithely to her feet at the striking of the gong, plainly </i></b><br />
<b><i>to call the company to order. Her beady eyes blaze and her entire being quivers </i></b><br />
<b><i>with rage and fury. The interesting thing is that no one notices except Biffo, who </i></b><br />
<b><i>relishes from afar. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Bloody old fool,” he muses, “Talk about teaching your grandmother </b><br />
<b>to suck eggs? To think she really thought we’d lost the knack of entertaining </b><br />
<b>people. Two-Luv, I think,” he murmurs to Corrie by his side.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Yes, well,” said Corrie, “let’s hope she gets the message. The only </b><br />
<b>problem is that that type very rarely does.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Parsons emerges from nowhere and re-focuses the situation.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, Lady Constance, ladies and gentlemen, His Lordship has asked </b><br />
<b>me to thank you all for your constancy, your generosity, your loyalty to our Estate </b><br />
<b>and, above all, for your personal kindness at all times both to himself and his </b><br />
<b>family. He has asked me to assure you of his loyalty and friendship towards each </b><br />
<b>and every one of you - and to say that, in a moment or two, as we come together</b><br />
<b>amongst the refreshments, we will all mingle and chat as Amblewick folk have </b><br />
<b>always done. He has asked me to tell you that no stranger will ever come between </b><br />
<b>himself, as the custodian of all we hold special, and your much-loved selves who </b><br />
<b>are the heart of Amblewick Castle and co-owners of its Marquessate.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> There is total calm. Parsons continues. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “And now let us join together, as so often before - as friends rejoicing.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “My God,” whispers Biffo to Corrie, “Bloody old liar, can’t let him off the </b><br />
<b>leash for a second - didn’t say a word of it.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> He gives Corrie a nudge.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “But, by golly, I wish I had!” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Corrie smiles an ancient smile and whispers back…. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Maybe you didn’t say it, but, you meant every word of it - and that’s why </b><br />
<b>he said it for you.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Marguerite stalks towards them from her place near the blackboard. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “You’re a bastard, Horace, from your boots up! Tell that incestuous </b><br />
<b>brat, Julian, to bring my bike and my bags to the Estate office, immediately. I </b><br />
<b>shall relieve you of my company, forthwith. Peak will deal with the formalities </b><br />
<b>regarding the account. I wash my hands of the Amblewick Jubilee.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> She ferrets in her bag and produces the bottle of Booth’s from which she </i></b><br />
<b><i>takes a dignified slug. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “You are proving a more determined adversary than I had anticipated - and </b><br />
<b>that I admire, God damn your rotten socks. I depart to lick my wounds, as they </b><br />
<b>say, but rest assured you have not heard the last of me. That is no threat. It is a </b><br />
<b>promise<i>!” </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> She blows a rank blast of Capstan smoke in Biffo’s face and turns upon </i></b><br />
<b><i>that famous heel. She roosts, fuming, on a beech log near the Estate Yard </i></b><br />
<b><i>entrance.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Parsons has heard the essentials of this tirade and despatches Julian to do as he has been instructed during the course of it. One happy ‘brat’ is Jules. Not many guys his age get to ride a 1938 Ariel “Square-Four” MotorCycle Combination. But then, one person’s discomfiture is sometimes another chap’s fun-time. The story of Julian’s adventure will have to be a tale for another day; maybe a short story in some motoring magazine. For the purposes of our history all we need to know is that he arrives, flushed, and in one piece – and that according to reports from Owen at the “Neptune”, and various informants, Mrs Wotzernaim and her Ariel “Square-Four” Combination will last be seen travelling at speed, and in a cloud of dragon-smoke, to somewhere in the direction of, well, </i></b><b><i>Market Harborough? </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Corrie’s only comment, when the last reports come in, is succinct and prophetic.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“God help Market Harborough - and God help us all when she gathers herself together!”</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo is rather flattered. He’s never been called ‘a bastard’ before. That accolade was normally bestowed on the sharper, more dynamic boys, at school!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> </i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-21943994582363302532013-06-03T13:58:00.001-04:002013-06-09T16:18:24.442-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chaper 24</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A LITTLE LATER IN THE ESTATE OFFICE</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>The scene which meets His Lordship as he enters the Estate Office </i></b><b><i>meeting-room </i></b><br />
<b><i>appeals him. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Bloody Victorian Charity Schoolroom!” he snorts.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The staff is assembled in rows behind wooden tables and sitting on forms. </i></b><br />
<b><i>All headgear has been removed and the owner’s cap sits before him on his table. </i></b><br />
<b><i>Each staff member has a piece of paper and a pencil in front of him. They are </i></b><br />
<b><i>facing a rostrum dominated by a tall lecture desk - behind, and slightly to the left </i></b><br />
<b><i>of which stands a tatty old blackboard on its easel - a piece of equipment which </i></b><br />
<b><i>Biffo recognises with a shiver as having been imported from the old schoolroom </i></b><br />
<b><i>at the castle. That room holds bleak memories of summer days wasted on holiday </i></b><br />
<b><i>tutorials inflicted on him in an attempt by his parents to improve his performance </i></b><br />
<b><i>in Mathematics. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Marguerite is not, as yet, in evidence. The meeting-room is heavy with </i></b><br />
<b><i>a brooding silence. Harry Richardson, the Head gardener, is looking weedy - </i></b><br />
<b><i>Judd, his slightly sinister assistant, seems divorced from the proceedings and </i></b><br />
<b><i>immersed in darkling thought; Mrs Fenner is playing with her wedding-ring in </i></b><br />
<b><i>a manner which bodes ill for her husband Joe, the Estate Bailiff, who sits next </i></b><br />
<b><i>to her with a rebellious look in his eye. Julian, as the youngest and least invited </i></b><br />
<b><i>guest, if indeed invited at all, is the only person in the room who seems involved </i></b><br />
<b><i>in the proceedings. Maybe his interest is engaged because he’s never before </i></b><br />
<b><i>been part of such an assemblage (novelty is stimulating to the young). He also </i></b><br />
<b><i>looks anticipatory - a veritable greyhound in the slips. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> However, Biffo is in no mood to concern himself with whether the boy is in </i></b><br />
<b><i>gaze-hound mode, or not. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “My God, got to sort this out. Have a ruddy mutiny on me hands, what?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> With great relief he sees Parsons sitting, expressionless, in the back row. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Good old Parsons, splendid man; not about to let the old viper abuse the </b><br />
<b>men without sharing their humiliation. Come to think of it, think I’ll join him. Blast </b><br />
<b>the bitch! That should sort her out.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Suiting action to the words, he ambles down the narrow central aisle </i></b><br />
<b><i>between the rows of desks and parks himself on a form next to his butler. Not a </i></b><br />
<b><i>word is spoken, but a tangible relief spreads throughout the room. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> As Biffo remembered it later. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Fingers were run through hair, and fidgets were felt: the odd coughs, farts </b><br />
<b>and belches, don’t you know? Sort of cosy, shared anticipation. Richardson put </b><br />
<b>on his cap, without which he’s lost. McCormack Judd began to peruse his seed </b><br />
<b>catalogue. People returned to normality, as it were.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> His face would light up at the memory. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Furthermore, he fully intends to do as he vowed he would at breakfasttime. </i></b><br />
<b><i>Beware </i></b><b><i>of him who has nothing to lose! Reaching into the depths of his old </i></b><br />
<b><i>corduroy jacket he </i></b><b><i>produces a leather case from which he extracts the large Cohiba </i></b><br />
<b><i>cigar he has determined to </i></b><b><i>ignite after luncheon. He removes the cigar band and </i></b><br />
<b><i>presents the bare tube to Parsons who, </i></b><b><i>professional to the last, produces his </i></b><br />
<b><i>trimmer - apparently from nowhere - and having deftly </i></b><b><i>cut the business end, returns</i></b><br />
<b><i>the cigar to its owner. A lighted match of singular length is presented </i></b><b><i>to his Lordship </i></b><br />
<b><i>who, in his father’s manner, holds the cigar in his left hand, palm uppermost, </i></b><b><i>and </i></b><br />
<b><i>gently massages its tıp from beneath, with the flame of the match in his right. He turns </i></b><br />
<b><i>the </i></b><b><i>Cohiba gently above the flame until the cigar is evenly lit in its own sweet time. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> His insertion of the aromatic wonder into his mouth is the signal for a barrage </i></b><br />
<b><i>of </i></b><b><i>crinkly-crankly tin and packet-opening, puffing, scratching, pipeknocking sounds </i></b><br />
<b><i>from the </i></b><b><i>assembled company. Within seconds the entire building is swathed in clouds </i></b><br />
<b><i>of scented </i></b><b><i>weed-smoke. His Lordship leans a little closer to his butler’s shell-like ear </i></b><br />
<b><i>and murmurs, </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Is there anything to drink in this god-forsaken hole?” </b> <br />
<br />
<b><i> Parsons stares straight ahead, and from the corner of his motionless mouth, </i></b><br />
<b><i>replies </i></b><b><i>more or </i></b><b><i>less as follows…. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “I had anticipated Your Lordship’s requirements in that regard, and took the </b><br />
<b>liberty, last </b><b>evening, of loading three firkins of Mr Owen’s Worthington, a variety of </b><br />
<b>sherries, some gin, some </b><b>tonic, a cool box for the ice cubes - and the customary </b><br />
<b>‘Babychams’ - for the ladies - into the </b><b>Estate van. I have observed that </b><br />
<b>Mr Richardson </b><b>is present in the front row and therefore have every </b><b>reason to </b><br />
<b>believe that Your Lordship’s requirements now repose in the kitchens of this </b><br />
<b>building, </b><b>awaiting your attention. Oh, and </b><b>Milord, one other thing, the ladies will be </b><br />
<b>serving cold </b><b>joints of lamb </b><b>and beef, and a </b><b>splendid Suffolk ham which has been </b><br />
<b>donated by the WI. </b><b>All the salads and cakes </b><b>have </b><b>been prepared, baked, and </b><br />
<b>contributed by the staff and </b><b>tenants themselves. There was a </b><b>general feeling that </b><br />
<b>the Jubilee effort should be </b><b>suitably inaugurated.”</b><br />
<br />
<b> “Damned good show, spiffing prog, what? When do we get to sample the </b><br />
<b>fruits, </b><b>as </b><b>they say, </b><b>of all your labours’?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “It has occurred to me, Milord, that there will be a ‘coffee’ break at </b><br />
<b>approximately </b><b>11.30. </b><b>With your permission, I will instruct those responsible for food </b><br />
<b>and beverages to </b><b>make our reserves </b><b>available at that time.” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Glasses, and all that?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> Parsons adopts his most superior demeanour as he replies. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Your Lordship can rest assured that all such matters have been attended to.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Then, carry on, Parsons, what? Bring on the motley, as they say.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> It is at this point that ‘She, Who must be obeyed’ makes her entrance. </i></b><b><i>Biffo registers that she has been very busy indeed - rallying the support, or </i></b><b><i>as </i></b><b><i>Biffo prefers to think of it, the interference, of just about every busybody in the </i></b><b><i>neighbourhood </i></b><b><i>and beyond. She is escorted by cohorts of official-looking coves </i></b><b><i>from areas </i></b><b><i>such as the Ministry </i></b><b><i>of Health, the Police Force, the County Planning </i></b><b><i>Office, the </i></b><b><i>National Society for the Protection of </i></b><b><i>Public Morals - NSPPM - a</i></b><b><i>nd </i></b><b><i>needless to say, </i></b><b><i>Mr Peak from the Bank. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> The last mentioned - the local representative of Hoare’s – is branch manager </i></b><br />
<b><i>also </i></b><b><i>of the </i></b><b><i>Tellingham Barclay’s (Gurney’s and Their Hundred Grey Attorneys) </i></b><br />
<b><i>Bank to </i></b><b><i>which the Amblewick </i></b><b><i>account is thus, by proxy entrusted.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> The poor man </i></b><b><i>looks fairly </i></b><b><i>well-to-heel and somewhat distraught. </i></b><b><i>Biffo feels his </i></b><b><i>heart leap in </i></b><b><i>sympathy for him. </i></b><b><i>He is, after all, a decent little chap who has </i></b><b><i>much </i></b><b><i>endeared </i></b><b><i>himself to the Castle and its </i></b><b><i>account by his policy of being forthcoming with the </i></b><b><i>folding </i></b><b><i>when there appears little </i></b><b><i>immediate chance of its repayment.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> ‘The Bank has an awful lot of money, and I really don’t see why you </i></b><br />
<b><i>shouldn’t </i></b><b><i>have </i></b><b><i>the use of some of it,’ was one of Mr Peak’s more memorable </i></b><br />
<b><i>comments. </i></b><b><i>Yes, Biffo </i></b><b><i>approves of Mr Peak.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Marguerite is looking particularly sour, he observes. She is clutching her </i></b><br />
<b><i>Capstan </i></b><b><i>in a manic grasp. </i></b><b><i>Her feral nose is twitching with disapproval at the cloud </i></b><br />
<b><i>of other </i></b><b><i>people’s smoke and the general </i></b><b><i>joie-de-vivre which has greeted herself and </i></b><br />
<b><i>her entourage. </i></b><b><i>She aims a disapproving glare at Biffo </i></b><b><i>and Parsons in the back row, </i></b><br />
<b><i>and storks to the </i></b><b><i>rostrum. Her protocol people scatter to various </i></b><b><i>hard-arse chairs </i></b><br />
<b><i>arranged in a semi-circle </i></b><b><i>behind the lectern and on either side of the blackboard. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “I have summoned you all here today, for two reasons. The first is to make </b><br />
<b>efficient plans </b><b>for the celebration of Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee at Amblewick. </b><br />
<b>The second, to remind you </b><b>that you are the inheritors of a proud line of faithful </b><br />
<b>retainers whose traditional loyalty, respect, </b><b>and hard work will be essential at this </b><br />
<b>time, if the Amblewick Estate is to be worthy of survival for </b><b>future generations.“</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> At this juncture, she sniffs the air like a pointing pterodactyl and brushes </i></b><br />
<b><i>away </i></b><b><i>the encroaching </i></b><b><i>weed-smoke with a dismissive gesture of her claw.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo feels </i></b><b><i>decidedly </i></b><b><i>sick</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b> “Let me remind you that, as of now, you are all under notice that slacking </b><br />
<b>and </b><b>sloppiness will </b><b>not be tolerated. You owe your existence to this estate, and you </b><br />
<b>will cease </b><b>to exist if my experts </b><b>see any signs of backtracking or Bolshevism. </b><br />
<b>I trust that my words </b><b>will be marked, learned, and </b><b>inwardly digested by all of you </b><br />
<b>and your dependants.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> She takes a rasping drag at her gasper and continues. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “We will begin our meeting with a statement from the Bank Manager, </b><br />
<b>Mr Peak. </b><b>We believe </b><b>in total transparency in our dealings, and expect nothing short </b><br />
<b>of total </b><b>dedication </b><b>from your </b><b>good-selves in return.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Mr Peak arrives on the rostrum in the manner of a schoolboy late for school </i></b><b><i>and </i></b><b><i>unwilling </i></b><b><i>to be there </i></b><b><i>in the first place. He shoots a pleading look in Biffo’s direction </i></b><b><i>and opens a </i></b><b><i>slim folder with a nervous revulsion which suggests that none of this </i></b><b><i>is any </i></b><b><i>of his doing. </i></b><b><i>Biffo notes this with compassion. </i></b><b><i>Peak is, after all, only a very </i></b><b><i>vulnerable </i></b><b><i>branch </i></b><b><i>manager.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Good morning, My Lord, Ladies and Gentlemen.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He clears his throat, looking limp as a wet lettuce. Biffo’s heart bleeds for him. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Hrem! My – er - function is to inform you of the current state of the </b><br />
<b>Amblewick </b><b>Jubilee Account which was opened early this morning. The account, </b><br />
<b>a </b><b>deposit account, </b><b>was opened with an amount in the sum of Thirty Thousand </b><br />
<b>Pounds. </b><b>These funds had, </b><b>initially, been deposited by the trustees of the </b><br />
<b>Amblewick Estate, </b><b>to Lord Amblewick’s </b><b>current account, for the purpose of </b><b>funding </b><br />
<b>the Amblewick </b><b>celebration of Her Majesty’s </b><b>Jubilee. They have, today, </b><b>been </b><br />
<b>transferred, by Lord </b><b>Amblewick’s instruction, to a new </b><b>deposit account, </b><b>where they </b><br />
<b>will accrue interest </b><b>at the current rate pending their dispersal </b><b>in </b><b>due course as </b><br />
<b>preparations for the Jubilee </b><b>are set in train. Lord Amblewick has </b><b>requested me.....” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i> The poor chap is looking seriously deranged by this time and Biffo </i></b><br />
<b><i>wonders if he will survive to see the interval. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Lord Amblewick has requested me to place this sum under the sole </b><br />
<b>signature </b><b>of </b><b>Mrs </b><b>Huntington-Smythe, to whom he has given power of attorney to </b><br />
<b>manage the </b><b>Jubilee </b><b>account.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> He indicates the Lady in question with a sickly grimace, and a decidedly </i></b><br />
<b><i>limp </i></b><b><i>wrist. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Well, er, that - hrem - concludes my duties at your meeting, I am happy </b><br />
<b>to say </b><b>(a risky comment with the old albatross so close). Thank you for your </b><br />
<b>attention……..” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> He staggers backwards over the stage and returns to his hard-arse, where </i></b><br />
<b><i>he slumps - head in hands.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The Witch of Endor’s Mum is clearly much gratified by the way things are </i></b><br />
<b><i>proceeding. </i></b><b><i>She stubs out the remains of her cigarette on the sole of her liberal </i></b><br />
<b><i>left sandal - </i></b><b><i>in a </i></b><b><i>manner that suggests disapproval at the lack of proper facilities </i></b><b><i>- </i></b><br />
<b><i>and stares around her </i></b><b><i>in a manner reminiscent of Hannibal having crossed </i></b><b><i>the Alps. </i></b><br />
<b><i>Her plans appear to be </i></b><b><i>coming to fruition and that absurd Horace is </i></b><b><i>behaving with </i></b><br />
<b><i>all the sluggish weakness </i></b><b><i>she has anticipated. With a bit of luck </i></b><b><i>she will shake the </i></b><br />
<b><i>Estate into some semblance of </i></b><b><i>order in the course of her brief </i></b><b><i>sojourn - a sojourn </i></b><br />
<b><i>which she intends should pave the way </i></b><b><i>for change; change </i></b><b><i>which will further her </i></b><br />
<b><i>aims to inject a clear and effective heir into the </i></b><b><i>scheme of </i></b><b><i>things. She is aware that </i></b><br />
<b><i>her plans depend entirely on the imminent demise of </i></b><b><i>the </i></b><b><i>current incumbent; but </i></b><br />
<b><i>regards that as a fairly short-term delay as the imbecile </i></b><b><i>is well </i></b><b><i>on the road to perdition </i></b><br />
<b><i>without any pressure from herself. Yes, things are </i></b><b><i>looking most promising.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo’s views are rather different. He isn’t remotely concerned with any </i></b><br />
<b><i>schemes </i></b><b><i>the old reptile may harbour. A peaceful soul, on the whole, he takes no </i></b><br />
<b><i>pleasure from </i></b><b><i>power or influence; merely requires his meals and beverages on </i></b><b><i>time </i></b><br />
<b><i>and in sufficient </i></b><b><i>quantity and quality. Family politics concern him not. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Bugger politics! And bugger the old scorpion!” he essays to himself. </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> His is a simple routine harming no third party - but this morning his </i></b><br />
<b><i>modest </i></b><b><i>routine has been scuttled by this woman’s posturings - and up with that he </i></b><br />
<b><i>simply will </i></b><b><i>not put…..</i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-31901381229884648762013-05-27T00:24:00.000-04:002013-05-28T10:23:02.065-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 23</b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PARSONS TO THE RESCUE</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i> The following morning dawns fine and not dissimilar to the first paragraph </i></b><br />
<b><i>of the story - ducks, kingfisher, etc. The only blot on the landscape is the brooding </i></b><br />
<b><i>presence of the blighted Marguerite, to Biffo’s left at the breakfast table.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> She has not, she informs him acidly, ‘had a wink of sleep’. The reason for this </i></b><br />
<b><i>has been the brooding silence of the countryside, broken by the fabled Amblewick </i></b><br />
<b><i>screech owls. These avians have chosen, maybe with foresight, to nest in the </i></b><br />
<b><i>chimney of the Red Chamber where their human counterpart has, fortuitously, been </i></b><br />
<b><i>roosting. The resultant, and inevitable, abusive monologue is somewhat ameliorated </i></b><br />
<b><i>by the comforting presence of Parsons, once more shimmering about in his </i></b><br />
<b><i>customary collected manner. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> He returned on the milk train - arriving in Ipswich at an early hour with a rich </i></b><br />
<b><i>cargo of stores from Fortnum’s. By prior arrangement he was met at the station </i></b><br />
<b><i>by Harry Richardson in the estate van. His presence at the breakfast table gives </i></b><br />
<b><i>considerable comfort to Biffo who has been finding the Huntington-Smythe invasion </i></b><br />
<b><i>rather too much to handle on his own.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo is saddened, but, he has to admit to himself, rather relieved, that his </i></b><br />
<b><i>customary “Pick-Me-Up”, and its attendant Lanson, are absent from the table this </i></b><br />
<b><i>morning.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “At least I don’t have to run that gauntlet at such an uncivilised hour” he </b><br />
<b>breathes to himself, “Praise the Lord for Parsons!” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo raises his eyes to the ceiling, not with any expectation of divine </i></b><br />
<b><i>intervention - rather more in line with the view that the Heavens are ‘up’ rather </i></b><br />
<b><i>than ‘down’. It is as he settles himself into his place, and is lifting the lid of his </i></b><br />
<b><i>chafing dish to inspect its contents, that he observes from the corner of his eye that </i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsons is making a smooth exit through the double doors into the Hall. Biffo is not </i></b><br />
<b><i>normally an observant man but, on this particular morning, he needs to keep his </i></b><br />
<b><i>essential factotum well within his sights. No sooner has Parsons shimmered from </i></b><br />
<b><i>view, and as Biffo is ladling his Kedgeree from chafing dish to Meissen, than Cousin </i></b><br />
<b><i>Marguerite rivets him with her glittering, gimlet eye, and snaps. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Not only do I have a sleepless night behind me, but also the prospect of your </b><br />
<b>bloated company for the best part of the day. You look like the Wrath of God. I trust </b><br />
<b>you will pull yourself together and endeavour to apply yourself to essential matters </b><br />
<b>pertaining to Her Majesty’s Jubilee.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> She is pecking viciously at a meanly-buttered piece of toast.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “We shall meet in the Estate Office at ten precisely. I have instructed the </b><br />
<b>agent, </b><b>Anderson, and all relevant staff to attend. Do I have a clear undertaking that </b><br />
<b>you </b><b>will </b><b>be present, in good order - although, I have good reason for skepticism in </b><br />
<b>that </b><b>regard </b><b>- and on time?” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Her voice, when raised, and raised it now is, has, Biffo concludes, something </i></b><br />
<b><i>of the timbre of a slate blackboard in contact with a ripped sticking-plaster tin.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> He shrinks under the barrage. The kedgeree turns to ashes before him. He </i></b><br />
<b><i>glances hopefully in the direction of the Hall, but manages to croak the required </i></b><br />
<b><i>undertaking. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Absolutely, old thing, everything tickety-boo, what? Ten, on the dot.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “I’ve instructed that little runt at the bank - what’s his name? – also to be </b><br />
<b>present. Got to make sure they know where they stand, these usurer Johnnies - as </b><br />
<b>well as just who’s in charge. I trust that the money has been placed on deposit prior </b><br />
<b>to expenditure?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo, who has a very clear understanding of exactly who is in charge, is also </i></b><br />
<b><i>aware that the Jubilee funds are still in his current account. He therefore replies </i></b><br />
<b><i>with a non-committal, “Hrumph”, which deteriorates halfway through into a wheezy </i></b><br />
<b><i>cough.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Listen to you, you buffoon. Health down the drain. Damned stinking cigars. </b><br />
<b>Beginning to wonder if you’ll even live to see the Jubilee.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> She reaches for a Capstan and ignites it with the by now familiar belch of </i></b><br />
<b><i>flame. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Blithering idiot!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo, who has resisted the cigar for some years, makes a mental note to light </i></b><br />
<b><i>up a Cohiba upon the completion of luncheon - and sneezes into his silk hanky to </i></b><br />
<b><i>gain time. It is at this low point in the proceedings that Parsons floats back in his </i></b><br />
<b><i>Guardian Angel role and stage-whispers into his employer’s ear. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Lady Constance is on the telephone, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Gosh! I say. Problem, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Her Ladyship did not elaborate, Milord, but I was able to ascertain during </b><br />
<b>the </b><b>course of our brief altercation, that the matter was of some immediacy.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Lead on, Parsons!”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo grinds back the Chippendale and scrambles to his feet. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Be back in a trice, my dear,” he tosses in Marguerite’s direction. “Duty calls, </b><br />
<b>if you know what one means, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> He leaves that lady in the grip of her next spiteful regurgitation, and exits </i></b><br />
<b><i>smartly into the Hall, followed by the good Parsons who closes the doors with the </i></b><br />
<b><i>discreet, but familiar, Rolls-Royce click.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> The old woman’s nostrils are assailed by the scent of mildly-curried Haddock </i></b><br />
<b><i>emanating from Biffo’s plate. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Damned, colonial pap!” she squawks.</b><br />
<br />
<b> ***</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Once in the Hall, His Lordship whispers feverishly to his retainer. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “I say, Parsons, damned poor show, what? Old buzzard jumped the gun, don’t </b><br />
<b>you know? Sitting on the South lawn having a ‘zizzz’, and there she was, surging in </b><br />
<b>fangs to the fore; all guns blazing. Damned old trout!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Milord, I was made aware of Mrs Huntington-Smythe’s advent into our </b><br />
<b>midst by the good offices of Mr Owen at the Neptune Hotel, who observed, by mere </b><br />
<b>chance, the somewhat violent passage of a 1938 Ariel “Square-Four” motor-bicycle </b><br />
<b>combination piloted by the said lady and heading in the direction of the Castle </b><br />
<b>grounds. Mr Owen has always been a man of singular integrity in matters which </b><br />
<b>concern us all at the Castle. He has my London number, and telephoned my sister, </b><br />
<b>who referred him to Fortnum’s where I was in conference regarding your Lordship’s </b><br />
<b>asparagus and certain other pertinent matters, with my friend Mr Henderson, in his </b><br />
<b>private office adjacent to the Food Hall.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Jolly good show, what?” </b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo’s brain is firing on even fewer cylinders than usual. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “But how did Owen know it was our old bat on that motorcycle thingy?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Some years ago, Milord, when the esteemed Mrs Huntington-Smythe was </b><br />
<b>at the peak of her fitness, Mr Owen was the recipient of a black-eye from that lady. </b><br />
<b>This was the result of his determined, possibly vociferous, youthful defence of </b><br />
<b>Worthington “E” from the Wood: a defence which he admits had been much to the </b><br />
<b>detriment of a certain northern brew, the name of which Mr Owen withheld, but </b><br />
<b>which </b><b>he assures me was the preferred beverage of Mrs Huntington-Smythe.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “And?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Mr Owen assured me that receipt of a ‘shiner’ from any individual, let alone </b><br />
<b>a female of the species, ensures accurate mental recall of the face whose fists </b><br />
<b>administered it. He also assured me that the reason for his call to me at Messrs </b><br />
<b>Fortnums, was a deep regard for your Lordship’s family and a fear that harm might </b><br />
<b>come, either to yourself, or other family members, if he did not transmit knowledge </b><br />
<b>of the Lady’s transit towards the Castle to a responsible resident.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Good for Owen, what?” Biffo is always glad of allies in times of stress. </b><br />
<b>“Allies </b><b>few and far between these days, eh, Parsons?” </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Precisely, Milord”. Parsons is impassive.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Biffo drags his mind back to Corrie and her call. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Good Heavens – completely forgot about her! Corrie on the telephone, </b><br />
<b>you </b><b>said?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Her Ladyship has not, in fact, telephoned this morning, Milord. I felt obliged </b><br />
<b>to resort to a certain persiflage, if not indeed subterfuge,” his face is </b><br />
<b>expressionless, </b><b>“in order to facilitate your Lordship’s, dare we say, escape, from </b><br />
<b>the </b><b>dining-room, </b><b>so </b><b>that matters might be restored, in so far as that was possible </b><br />
<b>under </b><b>the </b><b>prevailing </b><b>circumstances, to their normal elegant sufficiency. I have </b><br />
<b>taken the </b><b>liberty </b><b>of </b><b>providing your Lordship’s customary breakfast refreshment </b><br />
<b>here, in the </b><b>Hall, rather </b><b>than under the gaze of a person who might read into it </b><br />
<b>other </b><b>than its true </b><b>function.”</b><br />
<br />
<b> “What the Devil are you talking about Parsons, old thing? Bit obtuse these </b><br />
<b>days, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Your morning’s prescription will be found on the telephone table, Milord. </b><br />
<b> And now, if your Lordship will excuse me, I have to discuss the luncheon and </b><br />
<b>dinner menus with Mrs Fenner a little early this morning, in order punctually to be </b><br />
<b>attendant at Mrs Huntington-Smythe’s Jubilee Meeting in the Estate Office - at </b><br />
<b>ten o’clock </b><b>precisely.”<i> </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Biffo may well be ‘seeing things’, but he has the distinct impression of a smile </i></b><br />
<b><i>curling, momentarily, about his butler’s normally inscrutable lips as he flits towards </i></b><br />
<b><i>the green baize door and disappears from view. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “But not from mind,” he muses thankfully. </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The ancient patrician eye espies a silver salver on the indicated table - a salver </i></b><br />
<b><i>bearing a ‘Perkins Pick-Me-Up’ and his accustomed half bottle of Lanson. A little </i></b><br />
<b><i>chafing dish beside the beverages reveals two glistening devilled kidneys on toast, </i></b><br />
<b><i>and a tiny silver knife and fork with which to administer them. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Good old Parsons. Capital chap, what?” his Lordship ruminates.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i> Things are sometimes so much better than they seem. He subsides onto the </i></b><br />
<b><i>strategically placed carver next the table and proceeds to right the morning’s wrongs </i></b><br />
<b><i>with a slurp and an accompanying deep sigh of appreciation. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Subtly restored, Biffo positively sails back into the dining-room, ready to face </i></b><br />
<b><i>any reptilian broadside which may be spewed in his direction. </i></b><br />
<br />
<b> “Any further instructions, old girl? Got to potter up to the gardens before </b><br />
<b>McCormack Judd roots the whole place up.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “You sound, and look, as though you’ve just come home from a four-ale bar.” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> The dart is shrewd, but the Lanson holds up well. </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Feeling pretty active this morning on the whole. Nothing else of import, was </b><br />
<b>there? I’ll tootle off, then. Should be asparagus for dinner this evening. Amazing </b><br />
<b>what can happen if you keep your pecker up, don’t you know, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<i><b> Marguerite regards him sourly. </b></i><br />
<br />
<b> “Just be on time at the office, you miserable discredit to the Arbuthnot name.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> “Absolutely, old girl. ‘À bientôt’, as they say in foreign parts. Fret thou not, the </b><br />
<b>meeting shall proceed as thou hast planned,” Biffo blows her a sprightly kiss, “till </b><br />
<b>then, au-revoir!” </b><br />
<br />
<b><i> He is out the windows, across the moat and up the steps to the gardens before </i></b><br />
<b><i>she can dredge up something pithy with which to deflate him.</i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-61624141073541031782013-05-19T22:40:00.000-04:002013-05-21T00:38:59.373-04:00<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chapter 22</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THAT FIRST RICE PUDDING</span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Fortunately, Mrs Fenner has anticipated everything and has prepared a fine </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">selection of sandwiches, and so on. She has left them ready in the fridge. All that </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">remains is to brew the tea. Julian looks longingly at the packet of Tetley Tea Bags, </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but, obedient young chap as he is - on the whole - avoids temptation and heads </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">for the still-room to gather up the upstairs tea things. He selects the Derby service </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">because he likes the “flahz” - and the embossed George IV silver – his favourite. He </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">likes it because it is, well, “a bit of all right.” </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> There is a row of red and green tea caddies in the glass-fronted cupboard </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">opposite the ‘Aga’ cooking range. He studies the labels carefully, and selects two; </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">one containing ‘Ceylon’, the other, ‘Darjeeling’. It is only a matter of minutes before </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the kettle boils and he can brew the tea. He can hear Auntie Fenner’s voice. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> ‘First, warm the pot, then one caddy-spoon per person and one for the pot.’</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> This presents a bit of a problem as His Lordship and that Mrs</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>‘ThingummyWotzernaim’ </i></b><b><i>are two - he makes three - but perhaps he doesn’t count. </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>In the end he </i></b><b><i>decides to </i></b><b><i>brew </i></b><b><i>for five, to be on the safe side. He loads the tea things </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>onto a trolley </i></b><b><i>and wheels</i></b><b><i>it round </i></b><b><i>the flag-stoned terrace to the South front. </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>The conservatory is </i></b><b><i>an extensive </i></b><b><i>regency </i></b><b><i>adjunct to the main house, and glitters in </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>the late afternoon </i></b><b><i>sun. It faces the </i></b><b><i>lake, </i></b><b><i>the </i></b><b><i>great Blue Cedar, and the now lonely</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>deck chair where we </i></b><b><i>have recently </i></b><b><i>been </i></b><b><i>observing </i></b><b><i>a distraught Biffo and the perilous </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>Mrs “ThingummyWotzernaim” </i></b><b><i>in conference.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> All thoughts of re-adjusting the accounts fled His Lordship’s mind, or what </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">was left of it, with the advent of the blighted Cousin. Her cavalier disposal of his </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Craigallen into the cedar needles boded ill for the post tea-time, pre prandial. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> “Old buzzard’s got a serious bat in her belfry this time alright. Need to take </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">evasive action” he muses, as he follows said buzzard into the conservatory. “Iron </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">rations a priority, what? Probably get away with one tooth-full before dinner - need a</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">plan to enable ‘top-ups’. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> Biffo is feeling rather depressed - slitting of wrists, hemlock and what-not.</i> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Damn it all, own bloody house, what? Ruddy one-sided Temperance </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Society take-over! Presumably she’ll have to go upstairs at some point to powder </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">that proboscis of a nose and slip into something loose. That should give me time </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to secrete a few snorts around the place; behind curtains; in bureau drawers; </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">flowerpots, etc. All matched glasses - discreet meander round the room when glass </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">is empty, and hopefully Bob’ll be my Uncle.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> He begins to see glimmers of hope on his horizon.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “What are you plotting now, you old fool?” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> The woman’s eyes are bright with suspicion.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Not a lot, old girl, I mean Cousin Marguerite, not a lot. Just reflecting on the </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">old Jubilee, don’t you know? Lot to organise, what? Invitations - security staff - nosh </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and so on. Music, maybe? Like a lot of noise these days, the ‘óı πoλλoı’.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “I have made plans to ensure that the Jubilee celebrations pass off without </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">outrage. Economy is essential, so we shall not provide the common people with </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">crab, for example; merely mashed crabsticks - an admirable substitute readily </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">available in bulk at the ’Cash and Carry’ - a practical little subterfuge and one of </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">which the lower orders will, of course, be unaware.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> Biffo doubts this, as at least five of the local ‘common’ families are fisher-folk </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">who have been purveying crabs to the gourmet world for at least four generations - </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and reserving the finest for themselves and their nearest and dearest! He keeps his </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">own counsel, however.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <b>“How much money did you wheedle out of the Trustees for this occasion?” </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She regards him with mistrust. ”I require the truth!”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> Biffo hesitates, but knows that prevarication is useless. The old harridan will </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">prowl the accounts like a rattlesnake on heat, and then submit a blow by blow report </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">on expenditure to his trustee overseers. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Thirty thousand,” he admits, hands in pockets - essaying truculence.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “I shall expect to be given access to the Jubilee Account at the bank, and to </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">be authorised as sole signatory for cheques and all expenditure. We may then have </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">some hope that our ancestors’ money will not be squandered.” </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> It is probably just as well that, at this moment, Julian bumps open the garden </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">doors and wheels in his trolley.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “At last! Thought you’d been growing the tea leaves. What have you been </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">doing, boy?” </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Just makin’ the tea, Mum.”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i> Julian wheels the trolley towards Biffo, who indicates that its proper </i></b><b><i>destination </i></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>is </i></b></span><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mrs ‘Wotzernaim’.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “I am not your ‘Mum’. You will address me as Madam, and refer to me, </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>in your </b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">private moments, if you are fortunate enough to have any, which you certainly </b><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">don’t </b><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">deserve, as Mrs Huntington-Smythe.”</b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Yes, Mum.”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> The fact that Julian’s trolley encounters an obstacle, in the form of a dried </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">dog ‘do’ of unrecorded provenance, as he negotiates the gap between His Lordship </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and his guest - and thereby nearly comes to grief - may well account for the fact that </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mrs ‘Wotzernaim’ refrains, at this time, from further comment. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<b> “Do you require tea, Horace, or are your pickled innards not up to it?” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<b><i> She rivets him with her basilisk stare.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <b>“Yes, yes, I could manage a cup.” Biffo is away with the birds.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> She hoists the George IV teapot high and aims for a cup.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Milk first, please.” </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Am I hearing you correctly, Horace?” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> She is, for this once in her life, genuinely shocked.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> One of those wild moments of devil-may-care has taken hold of Biffo – a sort </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">of near-hysterical, ‘What the Hell!’ </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “You heard me quite correctly, Cousin Marguerite. I require the milk to be </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">inserted into the cup before the tea.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Clearly standards have not merely dropped, but have totally disintegrated </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in this house. Since when has an Arbuthnot taken ‘milk first’ in his tea? Gutter </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">behaviour!”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> Biffo actually does like to drink his tea, in so far as he can abide the beverage, </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">with its milk in first. It reminds him of his father’s tales of the Raj; and of ‘Tchay’ </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">served creamy and super-sweet in the hills of ‘Poonah’. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Blast the woman! Who the devil does she think she is?” he opines </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>to himself, </b></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but adds quietly, “Sorry, just the way it is, what? Milk in first.” </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> This last is enunciated with such smiling finality that it simply cannot be </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">gainsaid. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> It is with an unsteady hand that Mrs Wotzernaim pours; first milk, and then </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ceylon-Darjeeling, into his cup.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> “<b>And five lumps of sugar, if you would be so kind, old girl, don’t you know, </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">what?” </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> Biffo smiles his most seraphic smile. </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “One-Luv” he whispers contentedly into the ear of Tessa “The Nose”.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Having heard the chink of tea-cups, she has shassied in from the library for </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">her daily saucer of ‘Tchay’.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> The tea episode appears to have scarred the old bird somewhat, and having </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">instructed the hapless Julian to cart her bags upstairs, she retires to her bedroom in </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">poor order, with what she describes as a “raging, bloody skull-ache!” To Biffo’s relief </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">she also announces that she will not be down for dinner and requires nothing taken </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">up to her.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Game and set!” He breathes </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i style="font-weight: bold;">His Lordship is thus fancy-free as to how to spend his evening. He kicks off </i></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">his old brogues, pours a generous slug of the old Craigallen, commands the ‘Telly’ to </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">give him the Newmarket racing report and settles comfortably into his favourite wing </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">chair - feet up on the obliging Tessa. Racing news over, he moves to ‘Eastenders’ </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and finally switches to his fail-safe “nothing else to watch” programme - a toothsome </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Italian channel by the name of ‘Alice’ (Aleechey), which shows an endless parade of </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">all his favourite comfort foods - and the wines to best accompany them. The result is </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">fairly predictable. He begins to feel unbearably peckish. It is the work of seconds to </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">potter over to the bell-pull beside the fireplace and summon someone. The inevitable </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">result of the summons is the gallant Julian. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The young chap presents himself fairly promptly for one as yet untrained in </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the ways of Amblewick. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Yes, Guv?” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Feeling a bit peckish, young man. Anything in the larder, what?”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Few bits and bobs for sarnies, Auntie Fenner said, what wiv no one ‘ere to </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">cook tonight.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Sounds acceptable enough. Totter off and rustle up a tray, if you’d be so kind. </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And, oh Julian,” he calls after the departing boy, “better ferret out </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">a dash of wine, </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">don’t you think? Should be a decanter of that claret we had at dinner </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">last night; on </span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the sideboard in the dining-room if my memory serves me correctly.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> Parsons’ trainee evaporates with a nod - and Biffo re-charges his beaker with a </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">further, substantial tooth-full of the Craigallen. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> In remarkably short order Julian reappears with a burgeoning trolley-load of </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">comestibles. He has discovered a broad selection of Biffo’s favourite nibbles in the </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">fridge. There is a chilled Vichyssoise to start with, and loads of little tins of this and </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">that, including one of ‘foie-gras’, which Julian pronounces, ‘Fowey-Grass’.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Got something tucked away for yourself downstairs, have you, me boy?”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Don’t know really, ‘spect so - brought everything upstairs here, mostly.” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Can’t have you starving yourself to death, can we? Bring up a chair, </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>old chap, </b></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and let’s get stuck in.”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> Julian doesn’t bat an eyelid at the invitation. It is the most natural suggestion </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">he has so far encountered at Amblewick. He parks himself smartly on the other side </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">of the laden trolley, opposite the ‘Guvnor’. The two of them spend a happy hour </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sampling everything; slapping their favourite items between slabs of richly buttered, </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">fresh, wholemeal bread, or ‘Bath Oliver’ biscuits. Biffo hasn’t enjoyed himself so </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">much in moons - the years peel away like onion-skin – shades of midnight feasts in </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">days of yore……. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b><b><i> Julian’s ‘pièce de résistance’ is on the lower shelf of the trolley. It is one of Mrs </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">F’s golden rice puddings in a large oval oven dish. </span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “I say, old chap, you really have excelled yourself this time. Hot or cold is it?”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Cold - cold as a witch’s tit.”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Good-oh! Got to be cold, rice puddings. Well, come on then, dig in, what?”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> There aren’t any plates, so they polish it off out of the dish with a couple of </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">spoons - and wipe up the last with their fingers. Biffo lies back replete. Julian stacks </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">up the detritus prior to beating a retreat to the Butler’s Pantry - to catch the ‘Totty </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">match’.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “I say, jolly well done indeed, my boy.” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> But Biffo is feeling a dash apprehensive. </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “I say, old thing, probably better not to inform the noble Parsons </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>of our picnic, </b></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">what? Might not approve, don’t you know?”</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b><b> “Approve? ‘Streuth! He’d have my guts for garters!”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Jolly good show! Mum’s the word, what?”</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “That’s about the size of it, Guv’nor - Mum’s the bleedin’ word.” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> With which the trolley and its wheeler disappear from view. The only remaining </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sign of their presence is a piece of discarded chewing gum stuck to the arm of the </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">chair Julian has so recently vacated.</span></i></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b> “Cheeky little sod!” </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b><i> Biffo chortles happily into his post-prandial 1876 brandy. Life is definitely </i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">worth the living – sanity has been restored……</span></i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-18618904820733672432013-05-12T22:19:00.001-04:002013-05-12T22:19:36.399-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 21</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE DIAMOND JUBILEE VISITATION</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>Difficult act to follow, Cousin Marguerite Huntington-Smythe – in fact so difficult is</i></b><br />
<b><i>she, and is her act, that one feels the reader needs opportunity further to study her</i></b><br />
<b><i>form. I am inclined to believe that such further study will establish the fact that this</i></b><br />
<b><i>woman is, indeed, no act – but a rare and infuriating fact of life.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We alluded, in one of our recent chapters – those leading up to the ‘Stately Car-boot</i></b><br />
<b><i>Sale’ – to the previous occasion when that lady had visited Amblewick, to poisonous</i></b><br />
<b><i>effect, some weeks previous to Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee. It was a never-to be-</i></b><br />
<b><i>forgotten event, and one which may not go unrecorded in the Annals of Amblewick</i></b><br />
<b><i>if the determined lavatory reader is to form a comprehensive picture of our reality</i></b><br />
<b><i>at the Castle, and of the sort of insufferable nonsense up with which we sometimes</i></b><br />
<b><i>have to put in our pursuit of sanity and contented peace of mind.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>***</i></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>Amblewick on a summer afternoon is lazy heaven - cotton clouds, bees a-bumbling,</i></b><br />
<b><i>butterflies a-flitting and the distant low-key burble of ducks a-quacking on the moat</i></b><br />
<b><i>- fragrant with mint and mild decay. Roach and pike are basking lazily, and will</i></b><br />
<b><i>forever snoozle in the shallows and doze in the deep. And as they do - sporadic blue</i></b><br />
<b><i>and scarlet lightning-flicker - the kingfisher dives with his tiniest of tiny plops. The</i></b><br />
<b><i>evening mist alone will change this timeless fantasy to velvet night, and bats, and</i></b><br />
<b><i>moths - strident, tragic owls. For the moment time stands still, the world is English</i></b><br />
<b><i>Glory - Amblewick.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As far as Biffo is aware - on just such a silly, summer afternoon - neither church nor</i></b><br />
<b><i>stable clocks stand fossilised at ten to Mr Brooke’s eternal hour in Granchester. His</i></b><br />
<b><i>Lordship is peacefully reclining on his deck chair under the great blue Cedar on the</i></b><br />
<b><i>South Lawn, a-mumbling a stem of grass. An ancient panama hat shades his face</i></b><br />
<b><i>from sun and humming midges misting from the moat-bound waterweed to gorge</i></b><br />
<b><i>themselves on any piece of him which shows. A folding table stands beside him,</i></b><br />
<b><i>and on it lies a silver salver with – predictably perhaps - a soda water syphon next a</i></b><br />
<b><i>crystal whisky tumbler covered with a lacey mat. His and Corrie’s childhood rug lies</i></b><br />
<b><i>cedar-needle-jumbled at his feet.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It is towards the crystal that Biffo’s left hand extends in a smooth and</i></b><br />
<b><i>economical embrace. A brief up-tilting of the Panama; a minor forward inclination</i></b><br />
<b><i>of the head; and with a gentle slurp and deep ensuing sigh of happiness, Lord</i></b><br />
<b><i>Amblewick takes wine - Scottish wine.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The casual passer-by might well imagine that the old boy is simply dozing the</i></b><br />
<b><i>hours away - which at his age would seem a pleasant thing to do. Not so indeed!</i></b><br />
<b><i>He is musing fruitfully on ways to re-distribute, to his own advantage, at least a few</i></b><br />
<b><i>of the thirty thousand crispies he has so deftly winkled from his astringent family</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Trustees at a recent meeting in Babingford – the County Town of Partridgeshire.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo is not a mendacious man, but holds a firm belief that money winkled</i></b><br />
<b><i>for the benefit of his estates should also yield a little ‘tea and cakes’ for him – a</i></b><br />
<b><i>modest dividend. Parsons will no doubt fill in details of the Castle’s current needs</i></b><br />
<b><i>upon his return from Messrs Fortnum – meantime, no harm in focussing the mind on</i></b><br />
<b><i>pleasures still a morsel undefined.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Biffo’s second-cousin Marguerite – a primordial and virulent disease – is</i></b><br />
<b><i>slated to descend like the Plague at any moment to supervise expenditure for the</i></b><br />
<b><i>forthcoming Amblewick Jubilee thrash. He knows full-well that once she is in res,</i></b><br />
<b><i>her scrutiny of accounts and bank statements will be too thorough to permit the</i></b><br />
<b><i>liberation of funds for any other purpose than that for which they have, in truth, been</i></b><br />
<b><i>winkled. There is some urgency involved, therefore.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>But there is no mouth like the horse’s own from which to hear the tale and</i></b><br />
<b><i>truly sense that urgency.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cover is the order of the day, got to find cover. God, feel like a bloody cock</b><br />
<b>pheasant at the end of the close season!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He pauses in his soliloquy to re-embrace his tumbler and effect an agitated</i></b><br />
<b><i>slug. He knows he cannot escape the visitation – is well and truly trapped.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The blighted female relative is definitely no pushover, no indeed!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A shudder passes through his ample frame and he wonders for a moment if</i></b><br />
<b><i>the weather is on the turn. He cocks a jaundiced eye towards the weather-vane on</i></b><br />
<b><i>the Stables roof. All is still, but the shudder returns to haunt him.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Never at me best with domineering women. Don’t seem able to quell them as</b><br />
<b>they should be quelled - seem to lose that natural, manly firmness. All of a quiver</b><br />
<b>when they heave over the horizon, so to speak. Shocking business, really, but they</b><br />
<b>get me shuffling my feet like a schoolboy in front of the School Matron.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo realizes he is talking to himself, and knows that will not answer. He</i></b><br />
<b><i>fumbles in his trousers pocket and retrieves the stub of a pencil he keeps for writing</i></b><br />
<b><i>reminder-post-its to himself. He rips off a strip of paper from the “Pink’un”, licks his</i></b><br />
<b><i>pencil and tries extremely hard to concentrate.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He notes that his personal wardrobe could be incremented under cover</i></b><br />
<b><i>of ‘Staff Uniforms’; the Castle ‘booze’ reserves under ‘Sundry Staff Beverages’;</i></b><br />
<b><i>Corries’s LKA expenses could be diverted from the ‘Amblewick Pooch Show ‘Doggie</i></b><br />
<b><i>Titbits’ Allowance’. Maybe, also, although he is less than sanguine on this score,</i></b><br />
<b><i>a modest mooch round Europe might just be firkled from ‘Essential Travel</i></b><br />
<b><i>Expenses’........</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As he ponders, a dreadful vision blights the corner of his eye. Striding across</i></b><br />
<b><i>the lawn under full sail, one hand savagely clawing at a large straw hat, the other</i></b><br />
<b><i>clutching a voluminous handbag, is Marguerite Huntington-Smythe, the Wrath of God</i></b><br />
<b><i>in person, the Witch of Endor’s mum, no less! Burnham Wood has come, indeed, to</i></b><br />
<b><i>Dunsinane!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What ho! Horace!” the apparition shrieks.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What ho!</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>The noble Lord replies in what he hopes will be a fulsome tone, but which</i></b><br />
<b><i>sticks in his throat like a gob-stopper and permits but a strangled squeal. The</i></b><br />
<b><i>shudder is with him again and he feels his whole self shrink to prep school size.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Now what the Devil am I going to do?” He pleads to an indifferent, and clearly</b><br />
<b>absent, guardian angel.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“My God, Horace, you’ve got disgustingly fat since last I saw you. When was</b><br />
<b>it? Not more than six months, I shouldn’t think. Pongo’s funeral, probably. What the</b><br />
<b>devil have you been doing to yourself?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Nothing much, old girl. Just Anno Domini, I suppose, don’t you know, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Anno my arse! Alcoholic abuse more like. I see that I shall have to take you in</b><br />
<b>hand, and pretty quick sharp, too. Now get off your fat backside and let me sit down</b><br />
<b>before I pass out in this heat.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo staggers to his feet and stands shuffling his feet as he predicted that</i></b><br />
<b><i>he would. The ancient but, he observes with regret, still agile crone, subsides into</i></b><br />
<b><i>his deckchair like a cuckoo onto a thrush’s nest and proceeds to extract a near full</i></b><br />
<b><i>bottle of Booth’s Gin from her voluminous handbag.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Might as well start as we intend to continue…...” she snarls.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Emptying Biffo’s glass of Craigallen onto the cedar needles she rinses the</i></b><br />
<b><i>empty beaker with a deft, and economically calculated, splash of Booth’s, and refills</i></b><br />
<b><i>the receptacle with a substantial dose of gin.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Right then, that’s that dealt with!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>She extracts a Capstan Full Strength from its packet, licks it briefly, and lights</i></b><br />
<b><i>it with a lethal-looking pocket flame-thrower. She inhales, coughs, exhales, and then</i></b><br />
<b><i>vacuums a swift but sturdy slug of the yellowish tincture between her thin lips, and</i></b><br />
<b><i>draws it over her nıcotine-encrusted fangs before dumping it down her scrawny</i></b><br />
<b><i>throat. She speaks again.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Now then, where’s that man of yours? Whatsizname?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Parsons is in Town for the day, visiting the sister, don’t you know?” Biffo</b><br />
<b>knows that any mention of Messrs Fortnum will be suicide.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“No, I don’t know. Don’t seem to have any control over your people at all, do</b><br />
<b>you? Stop shuffling your feet! Sit down, for Pete’s sake! There!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Her skeletal claw indicates the old rug lying on the cedar needles. Obediently,</i></b><br />
<b><i>but with difficulty, he manages to lower himself to the deck, and finds himself gazing</i></b><br />
<b><i>up into the feral features of this appalling old predator, whom only a sadistic fate</i></b><br />
<b><i>could have appointed as his cousin.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“That’s better, now I can see you.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo anticipates a further broadside about his corpulence and prepares to</i></b><br />
<b><i>duck, mentally, as he always had physically when dodging wooden blackboard</i></b><br />
<b><i>dusters hurled by maniacal pedagogues at school.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The slug of Booth’s appears to have veered her somewhat from her course -</i></b><br />
<b><i>she speaks of other things.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Came on my bike - the old ’38 Ariel ‘Square Four’ Combo. Not a bad old ride</b><br />
<b>on the whole - if you ignore the girder suspension. Damned fool of a policeman</b><br />
<b>stopped me in Peterborough - said I was exceeding some bloody speed limit. Told</b><br />
<b>him to bugger off - seemed to get the message.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Dreadful dump, Peterborough.” Biffo’s response is heartfelt.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Stop agreeing with everything I say. No one’s got any guts these days. What’s</b><br />
<b>the time?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo glances helplessly at his loyal old Rolex – bought moons before, for five</i></b><br />
<b><i>bob, out of a bucket at Tessiers by his formidable Great-Aunt Kike.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Half four-ish, I think.” he mutters</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What do you mean, you think? It’s either half-past-four, or it isn’t. If it is,</b><br />
<b>then it’s time for tea. Where do we take it? Do they bring it, or what? Conservatory?</b><br />
<b>Where’s that damned butler, for Heaven’s sake?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Look, old girl, tried to explain, Parsons is absent, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Got a wife, hasn’t he?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo has no energy for the defining of Mrs Fenner’s precise relationship to</i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsons.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Day off, don’t you know? Even old Parsons has to have a bit of time to</b><br />
<b>himself. Not expecting you quite so promptly, if you know what one means, old</b><br />
<b>thing?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“In your father’s day there would have been tea at four-thirty sharp, come</b><br />
<b>what might. Every damned thing’s gone to the dogs, if you ask me. What happens</b><br />
<b>these days? Get it yourself, I suppose. And don’t address me as ‘old thing’ - Cousin</b><br />
<b>Marguerite, to you!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“You really have caught us a bit on the proverbial hop, as they say, but Julian</b><br />
<b>is doing the honours for today, I believe.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Who the devil’s Julian, for the love of all that’s sacred?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Apprentice page-boy, sort of thing - from the East End. Nephew of Mrs</b><br />
<b>Fenner’s – down from Town for the hols – bit of a working holiday. Parsons is</b><br />
<b>teaching him the ropes of the house – might take him on in a couple of years when</b><br />
<b>he leaves school.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Sounds pretty unsuitable to me, but we shall see what we shall see. Where is</b><br />
<b>this juvenile refugee?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Might be wise to ferret him out of the kitchens. Bit addicted to the television -</b><br />
<b>might need a bit of a nudge. Parsons has high hopes but needs time to bring him up</b><br />
<b>to speed, so to speak.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“It all sounds thoroughly disreputable, to me. However, as we have no choice</b><br />
<b>you might as well lead on.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>With which, she erupts horizontally from the deck chair, thrusts her Gin bottle</i></b><br />
<b><i>into the gaping handbag, zips it, and turns smartly on her heel in the direction of the</i></b><br />
<b><i>house.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Meddlesome old wıtch - vinegar on the edge of a knife!” Biffo murmurs, but</b><br />
<b>follows like an old hound weary of the hunt.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>As the hurricane approaches, our Julian is ensconced in Mr Parsons’s chair in</i></b><br />
<b><i>the Butler’s Pantry - feet on the sacred bureau and flipping through a back number of</i></b><br />
<b><i>“The Beano”.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What are you doing, boy?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The ancient baritone incises his liver and various other departments of which,</i></b><br />
<b><i>heretofore, he has been only marginally aware.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Nothin’, Miss, just chillin’ aht.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The gimlet eyes bore into him and their owner observes drily,</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“His Lordship requires tea. I’m given to understand that you have been</b><br />
<b>delegated to serve it to him?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yeah, well, Miss, that’s abaht the size of it.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Then, get off your backside and produce it, this instant! We shall be in the</b><br />
<b>conservatory.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Having delivered this broadside, Mrs Huntington-Smythe exits the pantry with</i></b><br />
<b><i>a snort.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>"</i>Fuckin' ol' cow!" Julian observes with some pith ~ his mastery of 'species </b><br />
<b>identification' </b><b>is clearly a little sketchy........</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></b>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-72391646703861993612013-05-05T22:36:00.001-04:002013-05-05T22:36:17.917-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 20</b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE CAR BOOT SALE</b></div>
<br />
<b><i>As I struggle into a tweed suit in preparation for “Sale-day” in the Park –</i></b><br />
<b><i>and the playing of my allotted role thereat – I indulge in a rare moment of</i></b><br />
<b><i>introspection. It is a brief detour, and a dangerous one. It takes the form of a</i></b><br />
<b><i>modest Q & A soliloquy conducted as I double-knot the old brogues.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Q: “When did you last clean a pair of shoes, eh, Biffo?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>A: “When I was thirteen, at Eton, sixty years ago…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b>Q: “And why the devil should you of all people be permitted to live the life of</b><br />
<b>Riley while the world implodes around you?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>A: “Humph……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Mercifully Corrie breezes in from the bathroom and the question is shelved -</i></b><br />
<b><i>but I really do need some sort of answer to it.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me: “Why us, Corrie?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>Corrie: “Why us what, old boy?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me: “Well, why should we have all this – and most of the world has damn all?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The old girl ponders for a moment or two before replying - thus……</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Corrie: “Are you happy, Biffers?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me: “Blissfully.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Corrie: “Me, too…. Parsons? Richardson? Mrs Fenner? Our Jules?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me: “Same, I think. Amblewick’s a magical place – you just have to be happy</b><br />
<b>here.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Corrie: “I wonder how that can be…….?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me: “Not the faintest idea….. Sort of how it is, I suppose……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Corrie: “Do you think it would all be just as happy if the government owned</b><br />
<b>Amblewick, or some corporation, or a Russian oligarch?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me: “Well, I wouldn’t, that’s for sure….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Corrie: “Nor me, nor Parsons , nor any of us – the heart would have gone out</b><br />
<b>of the place – and ours with it. Stretch your old brain just a little further and I</b><br />
<b>think you’ll find you have the answer to your question.</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>I am slowly emerging from my ‘mea culpa’ mini-spasm.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Do I have to wear this bloody suit, today?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Wear what you jolly well please – wear what makes you happy and</b><br />
<b>comfortable. If you’ve got the grumps, how can the rest of us be happy?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I think, perhaps, that ‘happiness’ is the answer – I’m going to wear me old</b><br />
<b>cords – be meself, and bugger it!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good-oh! If you get a move on we can snatch a G&T before the off.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>***</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>By the time Parsons sails into the conservatory to get us on parade I am in</i></b><br />
<b><i>ebullient mood – positively Queen Elizabeth at Tilbury. Corrie’s right – the</i></b><br />
<b><i>secret to life is happiness and contentment, and they come - like rain - from</i></b><br />
<b><i>above - and land where they will….</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>***</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The Park is aflame with colour and awash with good cheer – the cars and vans</i></b><br />
<b><i>and trailers are myriad.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I approach the mighty throng of revelers and dickie-dealers with joy in my</i></b><br />
<b><i>heart. Here I can mingle with the world without being mingled – just another</i></b><br />
<b><i>old bloke in a sea of other people like himself.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons has been absolutely brilliant – everything laid on. The Neptune has</i></b><br />
<b><i>taken on the catering – their beer tent overflows with cheerful folk. Mrs Fenner</i></b><br />
<b><i>is rushed off her feet and radiant – her pies and sandwiches a hit. I run our</i></b><br />
<b><i>Jules to earth, haggling over the price of bric-a-brac with a dodgy dealer from</i></b><br />
<b><i>Tellingham – chap makes a bomb selling rubbish to the trendy middle classes.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I catch a dash of Jules’s ‘spiel’, en passant, so to speak – note that old Blarney</i></b><br />
<b><i>Grail is snoozling contentedly behind him – to my intense relief!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Tell yer what, mate, I’ll take a Pony – last word, take it or leave it. Worth a ton</b><br />
<b>of anybody’s money.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The items in question are a collection of rusty shop and advertising signs.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The dealer parries deftly.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Tell you what - sling you an Ayrton for the lot – chance bein’ robbed.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Sorry chap, can’t do it – tell yer what I’ll do - if they ain’t sold by the end of the</b><br />
<b>day I’ll knock’em out to you for fifteen – can’t be fairer than that, now can I?</b><br />
<b>Don’t reckon they’ll be here, mind you – lot of interest…….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The dealer clearly reckons the same</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“OK, you win - a score in your hand – not another word, orlright?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cor, you drives an ‘ard bargain, mate…” scratching of the head. “Go on then,</b><br />
<b>twist me arm. You takin’ ‘em, or want us to deliver? Delivery’s next week, and a</b><br />
<b>taxi on top.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The dealer hands over the ‘sausage and mash’ without a murmur - the full</i></b><br />
<b><i>twenty-five of it. As his victim wanders off into the crowd smiling the smile of</i></b><br />
<b><i>the satisfied Jules offers me a triumphant ‘thumbs-up’ and a huge grin</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“Happy ‘Stately car-boot’, Guv!” he yells…….</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I wander off towards the beer tent in a cloud of peace and warm content. I</i></b><br />
<b><i>observe the car boots as I meander along – some less ‘stately’ than others…</i></b><br />
<b><i>Pick up a jolly nice amber cigarette holder for a fiver. Don’t use the gaspers</i></b><br />
<b><i>meself, but Corrie does – nice little prezzie for her, I muse.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Most of the people are total strangers to me. I am anonymous - free to wander</i></b><br />
<b><i>and browse as though I too am just a visitor. When I do bump into any of our</i></b><br />
<b><i>folk, we smile and gesture and pass on – each of us off-duty and at ease.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Once happily propped against the bar in the tent, I see Corrie chatting to old</i></b><br />
<b><i>Charles Peyneer and his dogs. I teeter over in their direction.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What ho, Biffo!” the old boy bellows, “jolly good thrash you’ve laid on,</b><br />
<b>what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Greetings, Charles – all down to Parsons, don’t you know? Ruddy miracle,</b><br />
<b>that man.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ah, yes, our greatest loss – young footman he was when he was with us at</b><br />
<b>Llantony. Shame, all that, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I feel begative nostalgia creeping up on us and rapidly change gear.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What brings you here from the dreaded Milton Keynes, old thing?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Bug-hutch days are over, me dear - Pervis be praised – closed the door on</b><br />
<b>that hell-hole – putting up with the old cousin in Cadogan Gardens for a spell -</b><br />
<b>pending the trickling of ‘royalties’, don’t you know? Snoot-full?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Why not indeed? Any news of Freeda?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cheers!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Cheers, old chap!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Freeda’s taken up with old Anne Thrax, recently - sounds pretty dodgy to me.</b><br />
<b>Know the Thraxes, do you?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I extract the beak and nod.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Uumh, used to bump into them now and again – place in Hove, wasn’t it?</b><br />
<b>Dodgy’s the word - very.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie emerges from a heaving pile of dogs.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Witch in every generation, the Thraxes. They say Anne’s the one in hers - give</b><br />
<b>you a boil on your bum as soon as look at you – Cheers!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I observe the County Planning Officer from the corner of my eye and beat a</i></b><br />
<b><i>hasty retreat – don’t even hesitate. The man’s a plague - never off-duty and</i></b><br />
<b><i>shockingly keen. Head back to Jules’s ‘Tranny’ and its awning. Mercifully</i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsons is ‘in situ’ checking a list of figures with Peak, from the bank.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Sheer-Trash loping about, Parsons, old dear, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Sheer-Trash, Milord?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Planning pest, you know – what’s he want?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ah yes, Major Reerash – the gentleman of sub-continental background,</b><br />
<b>Milord. He appears to be taking notes……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“You bet he is, old thing – plotting outrage in the planning permission</b><br />
<b>department, no doubt….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Conceivably, Milord. He has a reputation for great thoroughness in the</b><br />
<b>exercise of his duties…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons seems totally unmoved by the threat - changes the subject, in fact.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The auguries are very favourable for us today, Milord. At close of play we</b><br />
<b>should show a healthy balance after all expenses have been disbursed.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Haven’t seen much sign of it – apart from Julian’s sharp little move in the rusty</i></b><br />
<b><i>signs department. I must be looking a dash doubtful. Parsons clears the haze</i></b><br />
<b><i>for me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Julian has ‘cleaned up’, as he puts it, very nicely, Milord. Receipts from his</b><br />
<b>stall should exceed fifteen hundred ‘smackers’ on the day - a figure which will</b><br />
<b>cover erection of our refreshment marquee, the six portable lavatories, Milord,</b><br />
<b>and advertising. Most satisfying, if I may say so.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Doesn’t seem much of a ‘clean-up’ to me, dash it. What’s the use of covering</i></b><br />
<b><i>expenses when we’ve got huge bills pending for the flood-damage repairs?</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Not quite with you, old thing – need a damn site more than that, don’t we?</b><br />
<b>What about the repairs, for Heaven’s sake?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Matters, Milord, are so very rarely as they seem, are they? I was sorting</b><br />
<b>through the items remaining on Julian’s stall, and generally observing his</b><br />
<b>progress, just at the moment when he was negotiating the sale of a plate,</b><br />
<b>Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“A plate?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Milord, a plate. I was able to rescue that plate before it could</b><br />
<b>be ‘knocked out for a fiver."</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Completely lost and can’t understand where the old chap’s coming from, at all.</i></b><br />
<b><i>Goggle at him a bit – after all every ‘fiver’ helps, so to speak…….</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons gets my drift, and clarifies.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The plate in question, Milord, is a decorated plate – easily mistaken, because</b><br />
<b>of its rarity, for a 1930’s transfer item – worth, at best, a ‘fiver’.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And so……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“In the event, Milord, a little bird, as they say, twittered urgently in my ear – as</b><br />
<b>occasionally she does with racehorses…….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>What the Devil is the old boy talking about?</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The ears prick, Milord, when they hear that twittering. It is invariably a</b><br />
<b>harbinger of ‘Lady Luck.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons appears to me to be losing it, but I hold myself firmly in check.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“All beyond me, old thing – don’t see what Lady Luck has to do with a</b><br />
<b>wretched plate, what?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“The painting on the plate is where the luck becomes manifest, Milord – far</b><br />
<b>from being, as we originally supposed, a transfer souvenir piece, it is the</b><br />
<b>original work of a certain George Stubbs. He was, Milord, quite the foremost</b><br />
<b>English sporting painter of the mid-to-late 18th Century.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>On occasion Parsons has been known to teach his grandmother to suck eggs</i></b><br />
<b><i>– but I let it pass….</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Worth a bob or two, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Rather more than a mere crust, Milord. Amongst what Julian refers to as ‘the</b><br />
<b>punters’, I was fortunate enough to recognize a certain Mr Bumleigh, Milord.</b><br />
<b>The gentleman is a representative of Messrs Sotheby’s – the larger auction</b><br />
<b>houses make a habit of despatching ‘scouts’ to assess the merchandise at</b><br />
<b>country sales, Milord – especially when such sales are located at places such</b><br />
<b>as Amblewick, where there is possibility of pecuniary profit from ‘leakage’ of</b><br />
<b>valuables from the main house…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Nicked stuff, Guv’.” Julian translates smoothly.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Whatever his motives and instructions, Milord, on this occasion Mr Bumleigh</b><br />
<b>has proven himself to be the answer to our ‘maiden’s prayer’, if you will. One</b><br />
<b>glance at our plate, Milord, and he positively paled. He was honest enough</b><br />
<b>immediately to make the Stubbs attribution, and to submit a cash offer of three</b><br />
<b>thousand pounds, on his own account, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>”You accepted, of course, old thing?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Dead right he did, Guv’- bit ‘is flippin ‘and orf, didn’t yer, Mr P?” Jules is</b><br />
<b>clearly much impressed.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I took the liberty of so doing, on your behalf, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>And that’s not the end of it, the old devil has been busy as a bee.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Along the rear wall of the main coach-house, Milord, I had observed that there</b><br />
<b>were a number of unframed oil-canvases. Clearly these were in no state to be</b><br />
<b>sold without preparation, and in any event required expert opinion to ascertain</b><br />
<b>their provenance.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Little bird again?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I am hopeful. Unlike me, Parsons is extremely cautious - but very decisive</i></b><br />
<b><i>when once he becomes convinced that serious opportunity is knocking.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I took advantage of Mr Bumleigh’s presence, Milord, to slicit his opinion with</b><br />
<b>regard to those canvases – most enlightening, Milord.”</b><br />
<br />
I<b><i> am goggling again – but Parsons cruises on.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“There are various copies of well-known works, Milord, but also a few notable</b><br />
<b>originals. Amongst them, two Reinagle dog portraits, a Munnings Newmarket</b><br />
<b>scene and a substantial Landseer of greyhounds coursing in the Highlands.</b><br />
<b>Mr Bumleigh expects them to fetch in the region of twenty thousand pounds</b><br />
<b>when they come under the hammer at Sotheby’s next month.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Coo-er!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I am agape – lost for other words.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What? Flogged them, have you?” I gasp.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“No, Milord, I have instructed Mr Bumleigh to arrange for their entry into the</b><br />
<b>sale to which I alluded a moment ago. Their ownership will be ‘anonymous’ in</b><br />
<b>the catalogue – thereby avoiding any interference either from Your Lordship’s</b><br />
<b>trustees – or from the eagle-eye of the perilous Mrs Huntington-Smythe.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Should cover the repairs, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>”Amply, Milord, and with a healthy balance sufficient for the re-establishment</b><br />
<b>of our reputation at Messrs Fortnum – as you are aware, my most pressing</b><br />
<b>concern, Milord. Young George has given me a most favourable quotation</b><br />
<b>for the restoration work and insists that the Transit van is at Your Lordship’s</b><br />
<b>disposal – with his compliments – whenever it may be needed. All-in-all,</b><br />
<b>Milord, it has been a most salutary afternoon.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A shadow still looms on my horizon, however.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What about the blighted Sheer-Trash, Parsons, old solver of the insoluble?</b><br />
<b>Could be an almighty fuss about the planning, what? Humungous fine on the</b><br />
<b>cards, don’t you think?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I believe not, Milord. I have already spoken with the gentleman and conveyed</b><br />
<b>to him Your Lordship’s deep regret for the failure of the Post Office to deliver</b><br />
<b>your planning application in time for it to be processed before the event -</b><br />
<b>citing last Monday’s Bank Holiday for the regrettable delay.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Swallowed it, did he? No fool, old Sheer-Trash, you know?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Took to it like a lamb to the teat, Milord – especially when I presented him</b><br />
<b>with a small token of Your Lordship’s good faith and of the high esteem in</b><br />
<b>which we, at Amblewick, hold the sterling work his department undertakes on</b><br />
<b>our behalf.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Bribed the bugger, did you?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Certainly not, Milord. Amongst the various pictures in the coach-house,</b><br />
<b>I chanced upon a lithograph, of no great pecuniary value, which I took the</b><br />
<b>liberty of presenting to the Planning Office on Your Lordship’s behalf – by way</b><br />
<b>of apology for our inadvertent delay and as a gesture of appreciation for their</b><br />
<b>departmental patience and understanding.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What was the picture, old thing?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“The lithograph was a somewhat lurid depiction of a Bengal tiger savaging</b><br />
<b>a group of peasants, Miiord. I am given to understand that Major Reerash</b><br />
<b>originates from Bengal and is a great admirer of that rare and magnificent</b><br />
<b>creature and its life-style.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Footnote: As Corrie and I headed back to the house on that memorable</i></b><br />
<b><i>evening, I was as happy as I have ever been – as happy as is Everyman when</i></b><br />
<b><i>he has a bob or two extra in his pocket. I even whistled as we went – ‘Teddy</i></b><br />
<b><i>Bears’ Picnic’ – if my memory serves me correctly.……. Oh yes, and I gather</i></b><br />
<b><i>Blarney Grail has promised the ‘galloping Major’ a brace of my pheasant when</i></b><br />
<b><i>once the closed season is over. Anyway, such it all is…….. Ancient snoozling</i></b><br />
<b><i>hounds, and poachers, are not necessarily asleep!</i></b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-80736101328868905072013-04-28T23:01:00.000-04:002013-04-28T23:01:01.718-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 19</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>NEGOTIATIONS ARE MOST REWARDINGLY CONCLUDED</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>By the time Archie and I have primed ourselves fairly generously and</i></b><br />
<b><i>graduated to the dining-room for the terrine and sundry delicacies sent up</i></b><br />
<b><i>by Mrs Fenner, via Julian, we are in convivial mood. A bottle of ‘Montrachet’</i></b><br />
<b><i>further oils the wheels. We reach a point of such delirious self-confidence that</i></b><br />
<b><i>the presence of Cousin Marguerite glowering at us through clouds of rancid</i></b><br />
<b><i>smoke from the window seat and projecting all her legendary malevolence all</i></b><br />
<b><i>but ceases to dampen our enthusiasm.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We are, as it were, at play.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I trust, Archibald, that you will not have forgotten your offer to drive me home</b><br />
<b>when once you have exhausted your capacity for juvenile alcoholic binge-</b><br />
<b>drinking in the company of this congenital idiot?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“No, indeed, me dear – just oiling the old cogs a dash – old car runs so much</b><br />
<b>more smoothly if well-lubricated, eh, Biffers, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cheers, Arch, absolutely, what”</b><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><b>I readily concur, removing the beak from its crystal and coming up for air.</b></i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“More paté, old chap?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>An irritated gurgle from the Booth’s bottle fails to impress. At this juncture,</i></b><br />
<b><i>Julian enters bearing some sort of pudding confection. With considerable</i></b><br />
<b><i>courage, he proffers the dish to the hell-cat in the window.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Nectrinz, Mum?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“How many times do I have to tell you that I am not your ‘mum’ - and to insist</b><br />
<b>that you address me as Mrs Huntington-Smythe, you bloody and impertinent</b><br />
<b>little boy?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea, right Mum. Good nosh them Necs, though – fresh from the green’ouses."</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It becomes clear to the blighted Cousin that the ‘bloody and impertinent little</i></b><br />
<b><i>boy’ is incapable of following any behavioural instruction. She backs off in</i></b><br />
<b><i>that direction and aims a shrewd broadside at Archie and me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“You seem incapable of following any instruction I give you, boy. However, I</b><br />
<b>imagine you may be capable of following a simple order. Remove the glasses</b><br />
<b>from the dining-room table – luncheon is now terminated.</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>Jules doesn’t even hesitate.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Can’t do that, Miss – not when the gents is still boozin’ – get me arse kicked, I</b><br />
<b>would. Streuth! Mr P’d do his nut, an’all!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good, clear thinking, Jules.” I agree. “Can you toss over that decanter of</b><br />
<b>Madeira on the sideboard, old thing?” I add - as a constructive afterthought.</b><br />
<b>“Oh yes, and do you think Mrs Fenner could rustle up some coffee – for later,</b><br />
<b>in the drawing-room?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea, orlright, Guv’ – I fink she’s planned some of that Viennese fig stuff you</b><br />
<b>and Corrie drinks at Readin’s. D’yer need brandy glasses? Fink there’s still a</b><br />
<b>couple in the sideboard.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Fine, old chap, but can you pop them on the coffee tray in the other room?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I know that the instructions will, faithfully, be followed.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>There is a vicious hiss from the window seat.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Disgraceful! God give me strength!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I note that the Booth’s bottle is notably depleted in its liquid volume.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Funny thing, that. When Archie and I have a bevy or two, the light shines about</i></b><br />
<b><i>us and harmony prevails. The effect on the witch is entirely different. – she</i></b><br />
<b><i>becomes more and more unpleasant and focusedly malicious – slashes about</i></b><br />
<b><i>with her broom-stick, don’t you know?”</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>It is perhaps just as well that Parsons swans in before we can clamp our teeth</i></b><br />
<b><i>onto the Armagnac cork.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, I believe Mrs Huntington-Smythe is planning to relieve us of some of</b><br />
<b>the items which have been stored in the Coach-house for such an extended</b><br />
<b>period of time.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He turns courteously towards the seething crone…</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“İs it your pleasure, Madam, that once you have selected the pieces you</b><br />
<b>prefer, they should be loaded onto your” – careful pause here – “conveyance,</b><br />
<b>Madam?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I would have expected that to be the case – in a normal household, at any</b><br />
<b>rate.</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>She observes Parsons with one of her basilisk stares - you know, the sort that</i></b><br />
<b><i>cuts through barbed-wire like buttered crumpets</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“Where the Devil have you been, anyway? Supposed to be the butler, I</b><br />
<b>thought. Instead of which we are waited upon by that little guttersnipe – needs</b><br />
<b>a damned good thrashing, by the way. Whole thing totally out of control. Just</b><br />
<b>look at those two fools – off their heads. Quite preposterous!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Madam?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons’ manners are beyond praise and it takes a great deal of pressure</i></b><br />
<b><i>before he reacts to provocation.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>However, abuse of ‘his people’ is unwise. More than aware of all our faults</i></b><br />
<b><i>and failings, is Parsons - but for all that we are, I am proud to testify, ‘his life’.</i></b><br />
<b><i>When that ‘life’ is in any way menaced or called into question the old chap</i></b><br />
<b><i>deals surgically with the threat.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I am employed in this house, Madam, not as a Nanny or a Preparatory</b><br />
<b>school headmaster. My brief is to ensure the comfort and convenience of</b><br />
<b>His Lordship and his preferred guests to the best of my ability. I am happy</b><br />
<b>to inform you that for the last sixty years I have done my best to fulfill that</b><br />
<b>brief. I am proud to be His Lordship’s man, Madam – and any criticism of my</b><br />
<b>fulfillment of his trust should be addressed to His Lordship, who will, no doubt</b><br />
<b>- and if he should see fit - acquaint me with it in private, entirely at his own</b><br />
<b>discretion and at a time of his choosing</b>.<br />
<br />
<b>And now, Madam, if you have finished with that bottle of gin I will despatch it</b><br />
<b>to the waste-paper basket and we can repair to the coach-houses to upload</b><br />
<b>such items as you may select, to your transport.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Riot quelled.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The old pterodactyl takes a heave on the Capstan, coughs and mutters darkly</i></b><br />
<b><i>to itself…..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What are we supposed to do with my drunken husband – can’t possibly drive</b><br />
<b>me in that state…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>From someone who’s just polished off a bottle of Booth’s, that’s a dash pot</i></b><br />
<b><i>calling kettle, etc, I muse. However, Parsons is still very much on course….</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Unfortunately, Madam, the Red Chamber, and many other rooms are</b><br />
<b>currently still damp from the recent floodwaters, and so, most regrettably, our</b><br />
<b>customary hospitality is, perforce, somewhat circumscribed. However, should</b><br />
<b>Mr Archibald feel the need to remain at Amblewick for the night we shall, as</b><br />
<b>always, do our best to accommodate him as comfortably as possible under the</b><br />
<b>circumstances.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Kaaark-Hssssss-humph!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Reading the runes, I observe that the dragon appears to have been vanquished</i></b><br />
<b><i>- temporarily at least…...</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Don’t worry about me, Parsons, old friend – I shall be more than happy in</b><br />
<b>a sleeping bag on the Billiards table – given the odd night-cap, don’t you</b><br />
<b>know?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Archie strikes absolutely the correct note with Parsons whose ears twitch with</i></b><br />
<b><i>pleasure.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Pshaw!”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Extraordinarily, the old girl stalks across the dining room in a perfectly straight</i></b><br />
<b><i>line. Parsons glides to the doors and opens them in time for her to exit with a</i></b><br />
<b><i>flourish, and a final shot.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“You have not heard the end of this matter, Archibald. We shall speak when</b><br />
<b>you return to Market Harborough – I trust by train or bus - and not by Daimler</b><br />
<b>Hire!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons escorts her towards the staff exit in the West Wing – I note this with</i></b><br />
<b><i>surprise and a hint of pleasure.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Archie joined our ‘Readings’ that evening - after a jolly toothsome, Mrs Fenner</i></b><br />
<b><i>Steak and kidney pie and some of our nectarines bathed in Jersey cream.</i></b><br />
<b><i>Played a pretty creditable Colonel Gotha-Killit to Julian’s spirited ‘Bal’, he did.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons filled me in, later, as to the Coach-house proceedings and the exit</i></b><br />
<b><i>of the Huntington-Smythe plague towards its storage laboratory in Market</i></b><br />
<b><i>Harborough.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The brief conversation I overheard in the drawing room upon the lady’s</b><br />
<b>arrival at Amblewick, Milord, informed me that without prompt action, our</b><br />
<b>efforts of yesterday would have been in vain. I took immediate steps, Milord.</b><br />
<b>With the assistance of Mr Richardson and two of the under-gardeners we were</b><br />
<b>able to remove our ‘readily saleable’ items to safety in the game-larder, Milord</b><br />
<b>- where they await our attention when the Transit van arrives from the Neptune</b><br />
<b>this Friday evening.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Jolly good show, what? Everything went according to plan, then?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes indeed, Milord. It might be of interest to Your Lordship to know that Mrs</b><br />
<b>Huntington-Smythe selected the ‘Maples 1920’ chest, before all else. Assured</b><br />
<b>me that lt was undoubtedly a Sheraton piece, Milord. She seemed keen to have</b><br />
<b>it loaded onto her hearse post-haste - no doubt before we became aware of our</b><br />
<b>foolishness……..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Bet Jules laughed. Take anything else of interest, did she?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b>“Not consciously, Milord, no – a roulette wheel, some fencing swords and</b><br />
<b>various relevant accessories come to mind – oh yes, and a chest of nineteenth</b><br />
<b>century dental instruments, a riding crop, and an electro-plated tea service, I</b><br />
<b>believe.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Got her on her way without too much protest, then, did you?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, Milord. To my surprise the engine of her 1935 Austin ‘Big 6’ ran very</b><br />
<b>sweetly and did not smoke or back-fire in the manner of the Indian motor-cycle</b><br />
<b>combination she employed during her last visit to the Castle - at Jubilee time,</b><br />
<b>Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“’All’s well that ends well’ sort of finale, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“On the surface, yes, Milord….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What do you mean by that, Parsons, old thing?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, Mrs Smythe insisted that we not inspect the contents of the drawers</b><br />
<b>and other items of her choice – wanted to ‘explore’ them in the privacy of</b><br />
<b>her ‘home’, she said.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Did we miss anything, do you think?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I believe we may well have done, Milord….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Nothing crucial, I hope?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I saw nothing myself, Milord, but young Julian was better informed.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>‘I hope Mrs Thingummy-Wotzername likes animals, Mr P.’ he said, with a</b><br />
<b>slightly dreamy look in his eyes, as the hearse disappeared from sight.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Huh?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I also enquired as to what he meant, Milord. His reply intrigued me greatly…”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Go on, old chap, put me out of my agony….” I pleaded,, dragging frantically</b><br />
<b>on the pipe.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“The substance of his communication, Milord, was as follows…….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>‘Yer know them ‘Sheraton’ drawers, Mr P?’</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I nodded encouragement, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>‘Well, there’s a colony of mice in the bottom one – an’ a whole bunch</b><br />
<b>o’cockroaches, an ‘all!’</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I was overcome with a strange elation and tapped out the Meerchaum on a</i></b><br />
<b><i>nearby Dresden Shepherd.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I suppose, there is some truth in the assertion,” I said with a convulsive</b><br />
<b>snort, “that ‘all’s fair in love and war’, don’t you know?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Milord – most apt.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons was doing the Talisker honours for Archie and me when Jules</i></b><br />
<b><i>accelerated in.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Good ‘ere, innit, Guv’?” he positively crowed.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Better than that, Jules – it’s bloody triumphant – be a good chap and get Mr</b><br />
<b>Parsons a snoot-full, will you?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>No protest from the magnificent Parsons. He raised his glass to all of us with</i></b><br />
<b><i>studied courtesy and poise.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“To Your very good healths, Milord – Mr Archibald – and on this very special</b><br />
<b>occasion, to yours also, Master Julian.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He spoke quietly but with a subtle twitching of both ears.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Farouche and masterful to the last, our Jules….” I murmured, smiling into my</b><br />
<b>beaker. “Such subtle menace……”</b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-41352617470990632472013-04-21T18:49:00.002-04:002013-04-21T18:49:44.451-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 18</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>AMBLEWICK CHURCH ~ THE WITCH OF ENDOR AND HER MATE</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Amblewick Church - the Witch of Endor and her mate</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Before we can get down to serious planning of the ‘Car-Boot Sale’, Sunday</i></b><br />
<b><i>intervenes – and Sunday involves ‘Church’. Tradition demands that we at the</i></b><br />
<b><i>Castle attend, and are seen to be present in the ‘Family Pew’. Parsons parks a</i></b><br />
<b><i>little behind us, and has despatched Julian to join the other boys in the choir</i></b><br />
<b><i>- which could be interesting bearing in mind the apparently somewhat secular</i></b><br />
<b><i>nature of the young man’s outlook.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I believe it will be wise, Milord, to avoid any obvious connection being</b><br />
<b>observed between Julian and ourselves prior to the successful conclusion of</b><br />
<b>our first car-boot sale – local politics, Milord…</b>..”<br />
<br />
<b><i>Corrie’s got similar duties over at Pangleton, so I’m alone in the Arbuthnot</i></b><br />
<b><i>pew.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to</b><br />
<b>acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness……”</b> <b><i>and so on,</i></b><br />
<b><i>and on……..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Such is my blend of conditioned belief and good-natured and slightly</i></b><br />
<b><i>irreverent unbelief that, rather predictably, I yawn at this point, and reach</i></b><br />
<b><i>instinctively for the pipe.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I am reminded of my childhood understanding of this rubric. Amazing how my</i></b><br />
<b><i>rather sketchy command of vocabulary had so mightily relieved the crashing</i></b><br />
<b><i>boredom of the Church of England’s ponderous treatment of the ‘Office of</i></b><br />
<b><i>Mattyns’. The brief mention of ‘manifold’ was for me, invariably, a milestone in</i></b><br />
<b><i>the interminable service.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Manifolds! Now to those I could relate. They meant ‘cars’ – as in Bentley and</i></b><br />
<b><i>the old ’37 Frazer-Nash Beemer! With this one word the service came alive</i></b><br />
<b><i>for me – all that was missing was the throaty roar of the actual car snarling</i></b><br />
<b><i>up the drive with me at its wheel – under the somewhat bibulous supervision</i></b><br />
<b><i>of a certain Uncle Algie from my mother’s side of the family (described by</i></b><br />
<b><i>my proudly puritanical Great-Aunt Kike, as ‘a rotter’ – an appellation which I</i></b><br />
<b><i>construed as a major positive).</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Why is it that children are so readily attracted to the dissolute? Where there</i></b><br />
<b><i>is adult disapproval of another adult there is a sort of anarchistic fascination,</i></b><br />
<b><i>I suppose. One longs to be present when the ‘Wicked Uncle’ defies things</i></b><br />
<b><i>like ‘manners’, which Nanny so consistently insists upon in the nursery.</i></b><br />
<b><i>When’s he going to belch, or fart, in front of the entire family and stick his</i></b><br />
<b><i>tongue out when they tell him off? The naughty grown-up is a perfect template</i></b><br />
<b><i>for how we think we want to be – bomb-proof.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>In my day we were kept fairly well-to-heel. School was the vehicle for this –</i></b><br />
<b><i>one could say the driving and ever-present force. Contravention of the social</i></b><br />
<b><i>niceties was very quickly rendered temporary by a threat to ‘write to your</i></b><br />
<b><i>Headmaster.’ This was no idle threat either. When such letters were written,</i></b><br />
<b><i>swift and painful retribution was guaranteed within minutes of returning to that</i></b><br />
<b><i>august emporium!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Today, I find myself smiling a seraphic smile as the Rector winds up his</i></b><br />
<b><i>marathon performance.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>‘May the Love of God and the meditations of all our hearts, etc….’</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>There is lightness in my step as I totter to my feet and head for the church</i></b><br />
<b><i>doors to greet the Rector and enter into brief and painless chit-chat with him</i></b><br />
<b><i>and such tenants and neighbours as have successfully withstood the Matinée</i></b><br />
<b><i>performance alongside me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Jolly good show, Rector – splendid sermon. When are we going to see you up</b><br />
<b>at the house for a tincture or two?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>My reference to ‘the sermon’ is, of course, merely a common courtesy – one’s</i></b><br />
<b><i>mind had been coasting about in Frazers-Nash as that homily was being</i></b><br />
<b><i>delivered. But a dash of civility ‘never hurt anyone’ – as Nanny had always</i></b><br />
<b><i>insisted. My reference to ‘a tincture’ is a tactful reference to the Rector’s gentle</i></b><br />
<b><i>and civilised affection for Gin and – not Dubonnet like Her Majesty – but ‘Vino</i></b><br />
<b><i>Sacro’, which, smilingly, he refers to as ‘Gin and Altar’. His visits to the Castle</i></b><br />
<b><i>are infrequent, but always much looked forward to by all of us – Parsons</i></b><br />
<b><i>included…… Some of his clerical anecdotes are memorable</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><i>One of my favourites is the tale of the funeral of a fellow parson conducted by</i></b><br />
<b><i>an overly Anglo-Catholic colleague. During the course of the obsequies round</i></b><br />
<b><i>the grave, and in an attempt to toss a little earth onto the coffin, a seriously</i></b><br />
<b><i>aged and infirm fellow cleric slipped and fell into the grave, as well. Removing</i></b><br />
<b><i>his biretta, and lifting his eyes heavenwards, the officiant stage-whispered</i></b><br />
<b><i>to our Rector,</i></b> <b>“Hardly seems worthwhile pulling the old boy out, does it,</b><br />
<b>Father?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>To be fair to him the Rector has never once told the same story twice – even</i></b><br />
<b><i>after two, or even three, ‘Gins and Altar’.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>But I digress – now where were we? Ah yes, we’ve survived the rubric and</i></b><br />
<b><i>are heading back to the house. Julian’s escaped the vestry and ‘wheelied’ on</i></b><br />
<b><i>ahead.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Birds a-twitter in the hedgerows – Celandine a-bloom, and so on. Lovely</i></b><br />
<b><i>Amblewick early afternoon - one’s heart is light indeed. Something strangely</i></b><br />
<b><i>calming about the ‘after-church’ moment – almost transcendental, really.</i></b><br />
<b><i>Something to do with the wonderful familiarity of the ‘Book of Common</i></b><br />
<b><i>Prayer’ – so much more comforting than the horrendous travesty of ‘modern’</i></b><br />
<b><i>English employed by so many churches today in an attempt to establish</i></b><br />
<b><i>their ‘relevance’ to the contemporary world, don’t you know?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>It’s as I emerge from the tunnel leading from the drive into the gardens that</i></b><br />
<b><i>Julian hurtles back on stage.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“’Ere, Guv!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He bears tidings – but not by any standards, ‘tidings of great joy’.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“That Mrs Thingummy-Wotzername’s turned up!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The old heart sinks – the Celandine wilts and the birds go silent. This woman</i></b><br />
<b><i>is Hell on steroids – vinegar on the edge of a knife - all things distasteful</i></b><br />
<b><i>and sour – absolutely not the visitation I require to sustain my post-ecclesial</i></b><br />
<b><i>moment of great joy. The World has turned to ashes.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“And she’s got her ol’ man wiv ‘er, an’ all!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A small, but merciful relief, The presence of old Archie should at least be the</i></b><br />
<b><i>ghost of a shield against the old bat’s venom – if a very small ‘ghost’…..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What’s the old girl up to, Jules?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Orderin’ Mr P about and swigging from that bottle in her scrag-bag…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Is it my imagination, or has the sun gone in?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>I almost whisper, as though we’re already overheard.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Any idea what she wants, Jules?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Gassin’ on about furnytcher – didn’t ‘ang abaht to listen, Guv’. She’s come in</b><br />
<b>a bleedin’ ‘erse this time, an’all.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“An ‘erse? What’s an ‘erse, old thing?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“You know, Guv’ – a bone wagon - fewnral car – bloody great thing, black as</b><br />
<b>yer ‘at.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ah, I see, a hearse. Hope we’re not on her pick-up list, old chap, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I endeavour to make light of the invasion, but the mind is churning fretfully. An</i></b><br />
<b><i>invasion by Cousin Marguerite Huntington-Smythe is never a mere social call</i></b><br />
<b><i>– the old reptile’s after something, and this time it’s not control of the Diamond</i></b><br />
<b><i>Jubilee bank account. Vanquished her last time, thanks to Parsons largely, but</i></b><br />
<b><i>who knows what sort of revenge she’s planned for the return match.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We are met at the North Courtyard entrance by an impassive, but slightly</i></b><br />
<b><i>twitchy, Parsons.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Mrs Huntington-Smythe is in the drawing-room with her husband, Mr</b><br />
<b>Archibald, Milord. At present she appears to be in quiescent mode, but the</b><br />
<b>direction of her conversation renders it essential that I take certain steps to</b><br />
<b>protect our immediate interests. With your permission, Milord, I will hasten to</b><br />
<b>the gardens and confer with Mr Richardson……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Before I can enquire further as to the toxicity of the conversation in the</i></b><br />
<b><i>drawing-room, Parsons has evaporated.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian also decamps – urgent appointment with the ‘telly’…..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I am left alone to beard the virus on its petri dish. Stuffing the old pipe in me</i></b><br />
<b><i>pocket to avoid immediate censure, I take the bull between my teeth, as it</i></b><br />
<b><i>were, and teeter, I trust purposefully, in the drawing-room direction.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As I open the doors I am met by a rank blast of stale Virginian tobacco smoke</i></b><br />
<b><i>and hear Archie’s rather plaintive voice.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I entreat you, my dear, do try to be tactful with Biffo….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>And the reply…</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Don’t lecture me, you old fool – more than capable of managing my cousin.</b><br />
<b>Horace will do as he is told….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Forewarned is forearmed</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I take a deep breath and surge into the snake-pit.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Archie, old chap, lovely to see you – snifter, what? Could do with an after-</b><br />
<b>church tooth-full meself – Scotch and water isn’t it? Good Heavens! – Cousin</b><br />
<b>Marguerite! What a surprise! Snootful? Ah no, I see you come self-empowered</b><br />
<b>by the estimable Mr Booth…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The old pestilence sloshes a hefty slug of the yellow beverage into a tumbler</i></b><br />
<b><i>and lights a further Capstan Full Strength with a blast from her famous flame-</i></b><br />
<b><i>thrower.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Disgustingly fat, as usual, I see, Horace – further debauchery no doubt.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>She snarls through dragon smoke.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“As for you, Archibald, don’t let this imbecile lead you astray – you will be</b><br />
<b>driving me upon our return to Market Harborough, when once we have loaded</b><br />
<b>up the furniture and any smaller items I may choose from storage in the coach-</b><br />
<b>houses."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>I become all too vividly aware of the way the cookie is going to crumble.</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>“Furniture, my dear?”</b> <b>I splutter into my Gordon’s.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Your Father, my Great-Uncle Perceval, assured me before he died that I might</b><br />
<b>take my pick of the furniture and other items in the coach-house. Pointed out</b><br />
<b>that they were all surplus to his requirements but wanted them in the right</b><br />
<b>hands – for old time’s sake…. I have his letter with me – so I trust there will be</b><br />
<b>no dithering from you in that direction?”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The question mark lingers menacingly in the air in front of me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“None whatsoever, me dear – if that’s what the Pater wanted, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>But my guts are curdling. How the heck am I going to stall the old reptile? She</i></b><br />
<b><i>clearly reckons she’s got me by the ‘Hockey pucks’, so to speak – and will</i></b><br />
<b><i>brook no shilly-shallying. Time - we need time – Parsons needs time. ‘Should</i></b><br />
<b><i>be able to gain us an hour at least - with a dash of careful management’ - I</i></b><br />
<b><i>ruminate querulously.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Can’t do anything till I’ve had a spot of luncheon – you must both be starved</b><br />
<b>as well, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“We have no need of any luncheon. Archibald eats too much - getting almost</b><br />
<b>as fat as you are - and I don’t eat it – ever…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>We’re on familiar territory here. The old vulture is in bulldozer mode. I head for</i></b><br />
<b><i>the drinks table with my own and Archie’s hastily emptied glasses.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Don’t mind if I do, old chap - hot day, what?” says Archie.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He appears ready to brave the witch’s curse for the chance of a further tooth-</i></b><br />
<b><i>full and a crack at the terrine.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Tch!”</b> <b>and the gurgle of her bottle, from Marguerite.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I know from my experiences during her last visit - from which, thanks to</i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsons, I had emerged victorious despite the odds – that one has to be rock-</i></b><br />
<b><i>solid firm with this abrasive and tiresome woman.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Cheers, Arch, old sport – Bungers, what?"</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Toodle-ooh, old boy.” Archie vacuums up a healthy slug.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I follow suit. Begin to feel a lot stronger as the G&T’s take hold. I come to a</i></b><br />
<b><i>critical decision. If she wants to rifle my coach-house, she’ll do so when I’m</i></b><br />
<b><i>good and ready. Archie and I have lots to catch up on – and several further</i></b><br />
<b><i>glugs to take on board. The two of us, fuelled with the old ‘turps’ and standing</i></b><br />
<b><i>loyally together, should be a whole lot more daunting than just one of us</i></b><br />
<b><i>impaled like a prawn on the business end of her hat-pin. Blast the old harridan</i></b><br />
<b><i>– she’ll simply have to wait!</i></b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-61543211289003767062013-04-14T21:04:00.000-04:002013-04-14T21:04:31.147-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 17.</b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PARSONS AND JULIAN GLIDE AND ACCELERATE TO THE RESCUE</b></div>
<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Having parked on the sofa in answer to Parsons’ summons, JuIian stuffed the</i></b><br />
<b><i>remains of his ‘sarnie’ into his face and enquired – with his mouth full and</i></b><br />
<b><i>ejecting the odd crumb……..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Mornin’ Guv’nor. What’s the prob, Mr P? – by the way, ‘Arthur’s Sword’</b><br />
<b>romped home at 66-1 in the Amblewick Stakes – cleaned up, ‘ave yer?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Julian, I did not request your presence here, in the library, to discuss the</b><br />
<b>Fakenham race card – welcome though your news may or may not have</b><br />
<b>been….. We have important matters about which to confer, and your input</b><br />
<b>may, I believe, prove helpful.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He flicked some crumbs from the arm of the sofa, deftly absorbing them into</i></b><br />
<b><i>his napkin</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“I recall a conversation we had the other evening, Julian – with reference to</b><br />
<b>the raising of what I believe you referred to as ‘the readies’.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Thought yer said it was a non-starter, didn’t yer, Mr P?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Opinions change as they mature, Julian. Now refresh my memory - what was</b><br />
<b>it you had in mind?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Well yer see, Guv, there’s a mountain o’crap in all the barns and coach-</b><br />
<b>houses, innit? Where there’s crap there’s cash….. All yer need’s a car-boot</b><br />
<b>sale – make a right killin’, yer would…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“But….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I was about to protest, but Parsons was in there like a ferret.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, a weekly car-boot sale open to all the tenants and those further afield</b><br />
<b>might well be the answer to ‘a maiden’s prayer! – if that maiden, in this case</b><br />
<b>Amblewick, happened to be a little short of ‘cash-in-hand’, at the time.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Not the heirlooms and things, surely? Never hear the end of it – Trustees,</b><br />
<b>Cousin Marguerite, and so on - out of the question, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“No, Milord, the stored objects - furniture and so on - are not of such</b><br />
<b>distinction. They are items purchased by Your Lordship’s esteemed father</b><br />
<b>during an extended passion he entertained for patronising the local sale-</b><br />
<b>yards during the period after the war when so many estates were torn apart</b><br />
<b>by taxation and socialist zeal. He was gracious enough, Milord, to clarify his</b><br />
<b>motive in the acquisition of the numerous auction ‘lots’…</b>..<br />
<br />
<b>‘I like to believe, Parsons, that by rescuing a few items from the Bolshevik</b><br />
<b>Hurricane I am keeping them in the right hands – at least for a little while.’</b><br />
<br />
<b>The result, today, Milord, is a surplus of by no-means worthless, but –</b><br />
<b>according to your Lordship’s very discriminating Grandmother, the then</b><br />
<b>Dowager Marchioness – ‘unnecessary junk’. However, the years between</b><br />
<b>then, and now, have permitted inestimable increase in the value of that ‘junk’,</b><br />
<b>Milord….”</b><br />
<br />
<b>‘I say, buried treasure, what? But how could we convert it all into serious</b><br />
<b>folding, though?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Julian was in his element.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Piece o’cake, Guv’. Stuff a little ad in the local rag – something along these</b><br />
<b>lines……“</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He produced a rather grubby scrap of paper from his jeans pocket and handed</i></b><br />
<b><i>it to me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I construed, with some difficulty.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Come ‘n Get It!</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Weakly Car-boot Sayl</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ambelwig Park Evry
Saterday 10 am – 4pm</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bier Tent - Layhgt
Rifrashmints, Free Parkin, ECT</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bring ‘n Bay</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mayk Yerself a</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bob or Too</span></b></div>
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>I re-kindled the old Meerschaum and passed on the ‘doc’ to Parsons.</i></b><br />
<br />
“<b>Do you think it might really answer, Parsons, old dear? Sounds a bit – well,</b><br />
<b>bizarre, don’t you think?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons briefly re-perused the proposal.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Under certain circumstances, Milord, ‘needs must when the Devil drives’,</b><br />
<b>perhaps - and might I add, Milord, that ‘bizarre’ does not necessarily</b><br />
<b>mean ‘ridiculous’. Furthermore, Milord, fanciful spelling has little to do with</b><br />
<b>foolishness and often a great deal to do with Dyslexia……..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Lost as usual - but when Parsons backs a cause it’s only a blithering idiot who</i></b><br />
<b><i>says him nay</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“Point taken, old thing – so how should we proceed?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Rather more a question of from ‘whence’ we should proceed, Milord. The</b><br />
<b>various estate barns and buildings simply bulge with possibilities.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Why don’t we ‘ave a crack at the Coach Houses, first orf? Loads o’stuff in</b><br />
<b>there - an’ it’s just across the way…..”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Jules clearly had a particular, pre-investigated haul in mind – and I assessed</i></b><br />
<b><i>that it might be a fruitful one. The young chap’s stable, ‘up the smoke’, might</i></b><br />
<b><i>well have endowed him with an ‘eye’ for opportunity and profit.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Milord, there are clean boiler-suits in the utilities room – I feel we should</b><br />
<b>avail ourselves of them - the dust will be extensive after so many years. There</b><br />
<b>will also be advantage in the anonymity such garb will afford us during the</b><br />
<b>preliminary investigative stages of our project.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I confess to it – the idea of ‘disguise’ appealed to me no end – the old brat</i></b><br />
<b><i>inside was much energised.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>So that is what we did.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Fascinating it was. I’d had no idea of the stuff there was - just dumped under</i></b><br />
<b><i>our noses when I was a small boy more than seventy years before. I suppose</i></b><br />
<b><i>that when you live surrounded by beautiful things, there’s no great urge to</i></b><br />
<b><i>wonder if there might be more.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Our current lack of funds added mercenary zeal to my unashamed juvenile</i></b><br />
<b><i>excitement. We worked as one, the three of us – terriers at a fox-earth……</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Good heavens!” I ejaculated at one point. “Bless my soul – those drawers are</b><br />
<b>Sheraton, aren’t they?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Nah, bollicks! – Maples 1920 – look at the linings – brasses ain’t orjinal,</b><br />
<b>neither!”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian’s dismissal of my Sheraton diagnosis inspired me with even greater</i></b><br />
<b><i>hope. We were in good hands. The boy’s education, whilst somewhat eclectic,</i></b><br />
<b><i>indicated a broader experience than mere BMX’s ‘fallin’ orf the backs of</i></b><br />
<b><i>lorries’ – yes, indeed!”</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons made lists and gave instructions as to how we should separate</i></b><br />
<b><i>the ‘readily saleable’ from the ‘frivolous</i></b>’.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“We have to make sure that the items we select, Milord, are readily available to</b><br />
<b>us on the evening before the sale.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“You said, ‘car-boot sale’, Jules – What do we do – load stuff onto the</b><br />
<b>Wolseley?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Most unsuitable, Milord. It must never be thought that Your Lordship is in the</b><br />
<b>process of launching himself into ‘trade’. Paternal affability as you observe the</b><br />
<b>antics of the populace should be your contribution to the business in hand. I</b><br />
<b>will give the matter further thought….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What yer need’s a ‘Tranny’, Guv’!”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Once again, I indicated puzzlement.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I believe that the vehicle Julian recommends is more properly defined as</b><br />
<b>a ‘Ford Transit van’ – often the vehicle of choice for the aspiring young</b><br />
<b>tradesman – and even for somewhat less reputable persons, as in ‘general</b><br />
<b>dealers’ and ‘petty crooks’, Milord. The ‘Transit’ formula combines</b><br />
<b>considerable carrying capacity with a degree of speed and comfort.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea, for snoggin’ and stuff.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A mine of useful information, our Jules.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Thank you, Julian, that will do, I think. However, Milord, I believe that such a</b><br />
<b>vehicle would indeed be ideal for our purposes ……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Where are we goin’ ter get one, that’s the big’un, innit?” Julian wondered.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“As it happens, Milord, ‘Young George’ at the Neptune has just such a vehicle</b><br />
<b>which he uses exclusively for his restoration business.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons’ slightly prim stress of the ‘exclusive’ use for which the ‘Tranny’ was</i></b><br />
<b><i>employed was pointedly directed at our Julian, I suspected</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“Hire it, could we?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“I will investigate, Milord, when I go for my weekly pint of Worthington “E” at</b><br />
<b>his hostelry – after ‘Readings’ on Friday evenings.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good egg! Sounds hopeful then, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“With your permission, Milord, I will draft a notice for the press – endeavouring</b><br />
<b>to stress the altruistic nature of your offer to open the Park for such an</b><br />
<b>occasion – community cohesion, inter-communal out-reach, and so on…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>At this point, I interrupted……</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Fine, old thing, but don’t overplay the ‘philanthropics’ too much – after all</b><br />
<b>we’re really only pulling this jape to rustle up a few quid on our own account,</b><br />
<b>what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Milord, the very fact that you have opened your Park to the world and</b><br />
<b>his wife, and propose doing so for the foreseeable future will be proof</b><br />
<b>positive that your motives are as pure as driven snow. Your own interest</b><br />
<b>in that opening will be dismissed as negligible once the ‘people’ observe</b><br />
<b>your benign and smiling presence in their midst – quietly circulating and</b><br />
<b>expressing ‘welcome’ in your Your Lordship’s inimitable and heartwarming</b><br />
<b>fashion.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Fulsome praise, indeed - caught meself grinning like a Cheshire.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“But who’s going to do the selling of our stuff if I’m wandering about being</b><br />
<b>amiable?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“It was never my intention for Your Lordship to become involved in the</b><br />
<b>commercial side of this operation. I also shall distance myself from the fray</b><br />
<b>– observing from afar and controlling matters on Your Lordship’s behalf. I</b><br />
<b>believe we can leave the selling in the capable hands of Master Julian here. He</b><br />
<b>speaks a similar language to those to whom he will be ‘floggin’ stuff’, and has</b><br />
<b>a natural instinct for the ‘moods’ of people and for the depth of an individual</b><br />
<b>pocket…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yea, dead right – know a con when I see one, an’all.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“As an additional safeguard, Milord, I will instruct Blarney Grail to be in</b><br />
<b>attendance as back-up in the young man’s camp – resourcefui and loyal, our</b><br />
<b>Blarney…”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And the most notorious poacher on the estate, old thing – I like old Grail, but</b><br />
<b>he’s a crook.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Precisely, Milord, but one who has managed to retain a grand reputation</b><br />
<b>in our community as a result of his ability to supply game to the general</b><br />
<b>populace at ‘knock-down’ prices – at Your Lordship’s expense, no doubt - but</b><br />
<b>never forgetting also to keep us sweet, at the Castle, by his unwavering supply</b><br />
<b>to our game larder of the very best of his ill-gotten gains - a complex and</b><br />
<b>unorthodox character, our Blarney, but with a heart of pure gold, Milord. His</b><br />
<b>introduction into our game-plan will enable us to employ the ancient wisdom</b><br />
<b>of ‘setting a thief to catch a thief’. I will also enlist the support of Police</b><br />
<b>Constable Southgate with whom I have a congenial relationship – one shared</b><br />
<b>also, perhaps surprisingly, Milord, with Grail.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I have learned to be guided by Parsons in matters strategic. To be quite</i></b><br />
<b><i>honest, I had no great desire to be seen to be active in matters commercial.</i></b><br />
<b><i>Things seemed well in-hand, so I gave the old ‘green-light’ to the Juliano/</i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsonian plan.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good-oh!” I said happily enough. “Who’s going to supervise the folding</b><br />
<b>though?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I will request the attendance of Mr Peak from the bank, Milord. I feel sure that</b><br />
<b>he will be happy to take responsibility for the cash - and any card or cheque</b><br />
<b>transactions, as they emerge.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Damned nuisance, banks, but Peak is the exception which proves whatever it</i></b><br />
<b><i>is that exceptions are renowned for proving. Never forget the time when things</i></b><br />
<b><i>were hyper-stretched at Amblewick and he saved the day. ‘The bank has a</i></b><br />
<b><i>great deal of money, Lord Amblewick, and I see no reason why you should not</i></b><br />
<b><i>have access to some of it…..”</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“May I suggest the weekend after this as a provisional date for the first ‘sale-</b><br />
<b>day’, Milord?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Talley-ho, what? Let hounds move orf, so to speak?</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Little did I anticipate the nightmare which was going to transpire before that</i></b><br />
<b><i>date was upon us……..</i></b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-44864891542107638862013-04-07T22:49:00.000-04:002013-04-07T22:49:36.273-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 16</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>MAMMON INTRUDES</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>I surfaced as Mrs Fenner arrived with the tea and began sloshing about</i></b><br />
<b><i>with the bath-water and sundry bath salts. The dogs continued to snoozle</i></b><br />
<b><i>peacefully on various parts of the bed, ‘Mrs Cass’ in her favourite place, under</i></b><br />
<b><i>it.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>This was going to be an extremely tiresome morning. Perhaps I am a bit of</i></b><br />
<b><i>an old fool, but the intrusion of officialdom in any capacity into the calm of</i></b><br />
<b><i>Amblewick irritates me beyond measure – brings out the worst, as it were.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>In the event, the insurance blighter was a dash more poisonous than I had</i></b><br />
<b><i>anticipated – not so much in his person, as in his verdict in the flood damage</i></b><br />
<b><i>regard.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>He donned a boiler-suit and injected himself into the offending attic with</i></b><br />
<b><i>an agility suggesting years of practice – and, no doubt, an unwavering</i></b><br />
<b><i>determination to find good reason for denying the validity of any claim we</i></b><br />
<b><i>might be planning to make</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><i>As things turned out we were not to be blessed even with a token opportunity</i></b><br />
<b><i>to make such a claim.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The inspector, blast him, emerged from his quest in the attics with a sheaf of</i></b><br />
<b><i>notes and a patronizing and rather oily smile on his snakelike countenance.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>He was one of those individuals who never quite looks one in the eye, but</i></b><br />
<b><i>addresses thin air just behind one’s left shoulder. So keen was his focus on</i></b><br />
<b><i>that area that one readily believed there was someone there.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I regret to have to inform you, Lord Amblewick, that no claim you might have</b><br />
<b>intended to make will be considered in this instance. The extensive damage to</b><br />
<b>the various rooms was caused entirely as a result of normal wear and tear –</b><br />
<b>and negligence in the matter of routine maintenance to the plumbing system.</b><br />
<b>In this instance my company will accept no liability for the damage incurred.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons endeavoured to clarify the situation.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“His Lordship has invested many thousands of pounds with the Partridgeshire</b><br />
<b>Premium Heritage Assurance Association over the years…..</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>He cast a withering glance over the inspector’s person – withering but in no</i></b><br />
<b><i>way invasive – merely deductive.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The Amblewick Estate has been, ‘covered’, I believe is the word, by your</b><br />
<b>company since…..”</b><br />
<br />
<i><b>Again that comprehensive scanning of the inspector’s person – but more</b></i><br />
<i><b>cursory.</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>“…..since well before you were born, Mr....?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Wellbeloved.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ah! Yes, indeed - Wellbeloved.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I wondered, ‘by whom?’ – but said nothing – re-lit the pipe, and so on.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Under such circumstances, Mr Wellbeloved,’ Parsons continued, “it would</b><br />
<b>seem reasonable to assume that your company would honour its policy in</b><br />
<b>this instance – perhaps with small adjustments to the terms of the policy,</b><br />
<b>thereafter, so that we at Amblewick are made aware of such revised terms and</b><br />
<b>can take steps to comply with them in future…….?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The unlikely-to-be-loved-by-anyone streak of viper shit ignored the worthy</i></b><br />
<b><i>Parsons and addressed his comments to me – well, to that space just behind</i></b><br />
<b><i>my left lughole</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“I must reiterate, sir, that no claim against my company can be entertained for</b><br />
<b>any damage caused by negligence on the part of the householder…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I cleared the throat and looked down at my shoes in a vain attempt to appear</i></b><br />
<b><i>casual – hands in pockets and so on. Vain indeed - I had a nasty feeling that, in</i></b><br />
<b><i>my haste punctually to attend this blighted meeting, I had probably neglected</i></b><br />
<b><i>to do up my fly buttons. The viper’s cold-fish eyes glimmered for a moment</i></b><br />
<b><i>with – I can only imagine - sadistic glee. Again he struck…..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Furthermore, I put you on notice that my report to Head Office will include</b><br />
<b>a strong recommendation that the policy on this house should not be further</b><br />
<b>renewed when the current contract comes to an end on the last day of this</b><br />
<b>month. The age and currently dilapidated condition of the entire property</b><br />
<b>renders it far too great an insurance risk.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Well, the mind boggled and the eyes goggled like a tench. I was speechless</i></b><br />
<b><i>with rage and fury - and silent as a mouse, of course….</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons dealt frigidly with the morbid remains of the interview.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I believe I can speak for His Lordship and the entire Amblewick Estate, Mr</b><br />
<b>Wellbeloved. There will not be any need for the services of your company as of</b><br />
<b>this moment….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Policy cancelled forthwith!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I followed through shrewdly - feeling a lot better for it.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“And now, sir, if you have no further need to intrude upon His Lordship’s</b><br />
<b>valuable time, I will show you out.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons was livid, but retained his icy calm.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>In turn, I summoned all the acidity I could muster.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>"Good day to you, Mr Ill-beloved…...”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I smiled ashenly through my pipe-smoke, and added with some satisfaction…</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Oh yes, and as a general principle - any time you’re passing, please pass……</b><br />
<b>Should its subtlety render my message unclear to you, then perhaps ‘Bog off!’</b><br />
<b>would better express my sentiments.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Honour had to some extent been satisfied.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>By the time Parsons had seen the blighter ‘off the prems’ some of my</i></b><br />
<b><i>satisfaction had evaporated, as is all too often the case.. We were totally</i></b><br />
<b><i>uninsured – open, as it were, to the elements and without protection in the</i></b><br />
<b><i>event of accident or disaster.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons was, as ever, a tower of strength in times of travail.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“It is now abundantly clear to me, Milord, that for these many years we have</b><br />
<b>been bamboozled by the word ‘Heritage”, have we not? However, I believe that</b><br />
<b>this apparent set-back may be turned very much to our future security, and</b><br />
<b>even, conceivably, our pecuniary advantage.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Confess to having been a dash mystified by Parsons’ drift at that point -</i></b><br />
<b><i>tossed out a quizzical expression and waited for enlightenment.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yes indeed, Milord - if I may elucidate?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Elucidate away, old thing, by all means….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I have a second cousin, Milord, who is Assistant Registrar at the College</b><br />
<b>of Arms. With Your Lordship’s permission, I intend to communicate with</b><br />
<b>that individual and elicit the names of reputable companies accustomed</b><br />
<b>to providing insurance cover to the Royal Palaces and other houses</b><br />
<b>of distinction – companies, Milord, accustomed to dealing with such</b><br />
<b>establishments and which regard antiquity as an assurance of the likelihood of</b><br />
<b>survival rather than as a risk factor. We have, for far too long, Milord, permitted</b><br />
<b>ourselves to be victims of what I think of as the ‘tinder-box’ mentality – a</b><br />
<b>mentality where feelings of inferiority fester and become enflamed, resulting in</b><br />
<b>a total inability to cope when in the presence of its betters.……”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Hmmh……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I felt bound to acquiesce. The initial, ‘College of Arms’, suggestion seemed to</i></b><br />
<b><i>offer a sound solution to our long-term insurance problem – as to the rest of it,</i></b><br />
<b><i>I hardly felt qualified to comment. Had I been a more socially aware individual,</i></b><br />
<b><i>I might well have agreed with that as well. However, my first concern was of</i></b><br />
<b><i>a financial nature. Folding was, as always, in short supply and an increase in</i></b><br />
<b><i>the annual premium might well have proven terminal – and an extremely dodgy</i></b><br />
<b><i>area to raise with the Trustees, to boot!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Cost, old thing?” I queried uneasily.</b><br />
<br />
<b>“In that regard, Milord, I am unable to speculate with any certainty – but my</b><br />
<b>feeling is that a company accustomed to dealing with Grade 1 Listed houses</b><br />
<b>- such as Amblewick - will have an awareness of the fiscal constrictions upon</b><br />
<b>the owners of such properties in this age of the mundane and the second-rate,</b><br />
<b>and will have learned how to spread their liability to a degree where premiums</b><br />
<b>will be affordable to their customers – as is clearly not the case with provincial</b><br />
<b>firms…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good-oh! Bash on, then old thing, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>But something far more immediate was bothering me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“How the Devil are we going to pay for the immediate damage, though? No</b><br />
<b>cover, and could cost thousands, couldn’t it?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“We should request an estimate from ‘Young George’ at the Neptune Hotel,</b><br />
<b>Milord. He is always most reasonable - if you recall the restoration work he did</b><br />
<b>on the East Wing recently? Furthermore he is a skilled craftsman who knows</b><br />
<b>the house well, and loves it. Thereafter, we shall know the worst and will be</b><br />
<b>able to address the immediate financial liability with more certainty…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“But we haven’t got a bean in the kitty, just now – can’t ask the trustees – all</b><br />
<b>too tiresome…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons headed for the blower on my desk.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Julian, would you be so kind as to grace us with your presence, here in the</b><br />
<b>library?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>Pause, and some twittering.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yes, young man, immediately – before, not after, the third race at</b><br />
<b>Fakenham…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He returned in my direction.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I believe, Milord, that Master Julian may well have a suggestion to make in the</b><br />
<b>ready-cash department which might meet with Your Lordship’s approval. He</b><br />
<b>mentioned it a little while ago – at first I dismissed it out of hand. Having given</b><br />
<b>the matter further consideration, however – and in the light of our current</b><br />
<b>dearth of funds – I can now descry certain advantages to his scheme…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Before we could further discuss the matter, the young chap coasted in – ham</i></b><br />
<b><i>sandwich in paw and mouth – throttled back, and parked on the sofa……….</i></b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-74571154482695983892013-03-28T14:00:00.001-04:002013-03-28T14:00:22.107-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 15</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A TIMELY CHANGE OF DIET</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>When Corrie and I toddle in from the lawn, no one seems to be about – one of</i></b><br />
<b><i>those ‘no one there’ silences. Mind you, that sort of silence at Amblewick does</i></b><br />
<b><i>not necessarily mean there’s a total absence of people – they’re just not in that</i></b><br />
<b><i>part of the house – not quite your average bungalow, Amblewick, what?.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Telephone shrills on my desk in the library and Corrie services it.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Gather it’s Parsons on the blower via the house intercom line. Unusual. The</i></b><br />
<b><i>old chap doesn’t normally use that facility on principle - ‘Should I feel a need</i></b><br />
<b><i>to communicate with your Lordship then courtesy demands that I do so in</i></b><br />
<b><i>person’, is his way of going on. Clearly something untoward is ‘afoot’, as they</i></b><br />
<b><i>say……..</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yes, Parsons, dear – we quite understand. We’ll be in the library when</b><br />
<b>you’ve finished your reconnaissance….. Good Heavens! Of course we</b><br />
<b>understand……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>She tosses the old blower back on its nest and joins me – perching on the arm</i></b><br />
<b><i>of my wing chair near the fireplace.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Seems to be a hell of a mess, old thing…”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I stuff the old specs a dash higher on the nose so I can focus on her properly.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Where’s the flood then – kitchens, and so on?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I fear it’s somewhat more widespread than that, old chap. Top of the house</b><br />
<b>and all the way through to the basement in the West Wing, and spreading</b><br />
<b>beyond. Parsons seems concerned”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Well at least the library still seems watertight. Thank God for small</b><br />
<b>mercies.…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons cruises in from the first landing.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, we appear to have a considerable flooding problem in the West Wing.</b><br />
<b>I assumed that the inconvenience stemmed from the reservoir in the roof.</b><br />
<b>Inspection was essential, and as I can no longer access those constricted</b><br />
<b>areas myself, Milord, I was compelled to enlist the assistance of young Julian</b><br />
<b>in that regard.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Jolly good show, and what did he discover ‘up in the gods’, so to speak?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“There appears to have been a blockage in the main West Wing water tank,</b><br />
<b>Milord – rather as I had feared. The tank has overflowed and water has now</b><br />
<b>been flowing for some time. The nature of the different levels of the house has</b><br />
<b>meant that flooding has occurred through the ceilings of many rooms – and is</b><br />
<b>now heading in the direction also of the library….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I say, can’t have that, can we, dash it? Can’t we unblock it – turn it off in some</b><br />
<b>way – I mean to say…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>My voice drifts away in a depressed sniff.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>At this point Julian throttles in.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Corked it, Mr P!” he pants. “’Eck of a mess, though…. Even that bedroom Mrs</b><br />
<b>Thingummy-Wotzername used is ankle deep – and the pitcher gallery - then</b><br />
<b>right down into our rooms below stairs.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons takes over.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I have taken the liberty, Milord, of informing the insurance company of</b><br />
<b>the current situation. In the meantime, Julian has managed to close the</b><br />
<b>stop cock in the attic area and no further water should now overflow. As</b><br />
<b>we speak, Richardson, his garden staff, and various other estate workers</b><br />
<b>are endeavouring to mop up the mess. Their efforts are at this point</b><br />
<b>somewhat ‘bucket and chuck it’ - to employ a colloquial metaphor. However,</b><br />
<b>I have requested Gillingwater to bring up the mobile motor-pump from the</b><br />
<b>Estate Office. Thereafter, I am in hopes that we will be able to redirect the</b><br />
<b>floodwaters into the moat, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Pictures in the gallery?” Corrie enquires</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Once we have removed the water from the Red Chamber,</b><br />
<b>beneath the offending reservoir, I have directed that all efforts be made to</b><br />
<b>pump out the Portrait Gallery – all windows will remain open to avoid damp</b><br />
<b>settling into the paintings, Lady Constance.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And your rooms, Parsons – can’t have you washed away, can we, old thing?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I enquire – to my shame - somewhat as an afterthought.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Everything appears to be under control, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Not too upset, Mrs Fenner, is she? I’ll pop down and see her when we’re</b><br />
<b>through here.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>That, of course, is Corrie.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Mrs Fenner was on duty at our Eaton Square, London residence, Lady</b><br />
<b>Constance, on the evening it was bombed - during the last war. She is</b><br />
<b>happiest when challenged. Something of the wartime spirit appears to have</b><br />
<b>lingered in her soul. I, too, had been concerned that the immersion of her</b><br />
<b>kitchens in floodwaters might well have perturbed her.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Not affected too badly, then?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Not in the least, Milord. Her first words to me when I went to commiserate</b><br />
<b>with her were to the effect that the prevailing climate would be ideal for</b><br />
<b>ducks………</b><br />
<br />
<b>There is, however, a small hiccup in the matter of dinner this evening, Milord.</b><br />
<b>All water has been cut, and in the wake of inundation the Aga has been</b><br />
<b>rendered inactive. Catering, if you will, is at a temporary standstill. I am in</b><br />
<b>hopes that all will be restored to comparative normality by the time Your</b><br />
<b>Lordship takes breakfast in the morning.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Jolly good show….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>There is a giggle from the direction of Corrie and Jules who appear to have</i></b><br />
<b><i>been in quiet conference while we’ve been discussing the practicalities of life</i></b><br />
<b><i>after the flood.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian coughs up their conclusions</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Fish ‘n Chips, Guv’! Why don’t we send aht for Fish ‘n Chips?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>We all look at each other as though gifted with divine revelation.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Why not, indeed - haven’t had them for years. All right with you Parsons, eh?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>An uneven battle between propriety and taste juices quickly ends in victory for</i></b><br />
<b><i>the latter.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Perfectly in order, Milord. If you will all submit your orders, I will despatch</b><br />
<b>the estate van to collect them. Frying stops at half-past-ten, I believe.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I glance at the old Rolex.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Plenty of time then, what?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>But I am struggling with myself here.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Tell you what, though - absolutely starving – stomach thinks its throat’s been</b><br />
<b>cut. Come on, let’s have’em right away!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cor! High Tea! Wicked!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A jubilant, and clearly astonished, Julian.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons winces at the concept, but inks his way most efficiently through our</i></b><br />
<b><i>differing orders.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I’m a Cod man, meself – Rock and double chips with a banger for Julian</i></b><br />
<b><i>– Plaice and the old Tartare for Corrie. I join Jules in the ‘extra banger’</i></b><br />
<b><i>department.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What’s your poison, Mr P?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I confess to a mild preference for the Skate, Master Julian. Despite its</b><br />
<b>somewhat uninspiring name, the biological structure of the fish permits</b><br />
<b>comparison with the noble Turbot – albeit a fleeting comparison. And now</b><br />
<b>with your permission, Milord – Lady Constance - I shall retire and ascertain the</b><br />
<b>below-stairs orders.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>He shimmers from the presence.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Our ‘High Tea’ is the greatest possible success and Parsons enters very</i></b><br />
<b><i>much into the spirit of the occasion. He makes no protest when we all decide</i></b><br />
<b><i>to consume our ‘Chish and Fips’ sitting on the terrace wall outside the</i></b><br />
<b><i>Conservatory - and directly from the newspapers they are wrapped in.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I am aware, Milord, that the method you employ for consumption of the dish</b><br />
<b>is, indeed, the traditional one.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>No sooner have we bolted our ‘nosh’ - and wiped the grease onto our trousers,</i></b><br />
<b><i>jeans, and in Corrie’s case, dungarees – than Parsons produces a serious</i></b><br />
<b><i>rabbit from the hat.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>A huge, golden, freezing-cold, rice pudding!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian and I are thrilled to bits – even more so when we are permitted to scoff it</i></b><br />
<b><i>out of the bowl with ‘Langues de Chats’ - the last scraps with our fingers.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Needless to say, there will be be a price to pay for all this license.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As we all scrumple up the newspapers and lick our lips, Parsons comes out</i></b><br />
<b><i>with it.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, the inspector will arrive at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Inspector? What inspector? Blighted taxman again?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“The assurance company inspector, Milord - sometimes </b><b>euphemistically </b><br />
<b>referred to as “the assessor”.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Presumably to assess how little, if anything, his company is at risk of having</b><br />
<b>to unbelt…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>My tone is sub-acid to say the least, and would have done credit to ‘the aged</i></b><br />
<b><i>Duchess of Athlone’……...</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“It is true, Milord, that appointees to this position are selected more for their</b><br />
<b>conservatism in matters fiscal than for their philanthropy. Mrs Fenner will</b><br />
<b>bring early morning tea to Your Lordship’s rooms an hour earlier than usual</b><br />
<b>tomorrow morning – at eight o’clock precisely."</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Humff!”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Very well, Milord, Julian and I will return to the library in time for the</b><br />
<b>“Readings”, a little later.</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>With the ghost of a smile, and a wink from Jules, they are gone.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Corrie and I take refuge in a brace of stiff Gins.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Bung ho, Biffo, dear…” says Corrie.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Scots wa’hey wi’Wallace bled” I offer, a little sourly.</b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-74309867874686382322013-03-24T20:46:00.001-04:002013-03-25T15:04:09.001-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 14</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>MUSINGS ON THE SOUTH LAWN</b></div>
<br />
<b>“Well, Biffers, I think we’ve learned something from our little trip into the</b><br />
<b>bowels, anyway……..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>It’s a pleasant ‘after-luncheon’ moment on the day following the tunnels</i></b><br />
<b><i>adventure. One muses as is one’s wont. Corrie and I are sitting under the great</i></b><br />
<b><i>Cedar on the South lawn at Amblewick – on deck chairs rather than our pine-</i></b><br />
<b><i>needley childhood rug. That loyal item is still in evidence, though – acting</i></b><br />
<b><i>as a carpet under foot and chair, and getting all the more pine-needley as a</i></b><br />
<b><i>result. At least it’s still with us and we’re rather grateful to it for the memories</i></b><br />
<b><i>it stores for us……. Terribly important to talk to your ‘things’ – let them know</i></b><br />
<b><i>they’re appreciated – last for ever, if you do – well, for a good long time,</i></b><br />
<b><i>anyway. Always say ‘goodnight’ and ‘thank you’ to my shoes and socks and</i></b><br />
<b><i>shirts and things before they slip onto the floor. Last pair of shoes Parsons</i></b><br />
<b><i>bought for me at the Harrods sale are still going strong – one just has to be</i></b><br />
<b><i>grateful to them – no limit to the miles they’ll walk.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>We’re funny, I suppose, we Amblewick folk – a little out of sympathy with the</i></b><br />
<b><i>world beyond the borders of the estate Too much waste, too little quality,</i></b><br />
<b><i>these days. Purchase something today and within a week it’s out-of-date.</i></b><br />
<b><i>Good Heavens! When we were sprogs things were built to last - what counted</i></b><br />
<b><i>was craftsmanship and the ‘feel’ of things</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Cars are a case in point. In our day they could be expected to last for fifty</i></b><br />
<b><i>years or more. You knew which car was which and who was who, from a mile</i></b><br />
<b><i>away. Today they’re all the bloody same – and plastic – no chassis and last</i></b><br />
<b><i>five minutes. Guess that’s why I still drive the Pater’s ’38 Wolseley 25/30 –</i></b><br />
<b><i>plenty of room for the dogs, and something between you and the lunatics who</i></b><br />
<b><i>monopolize the highway these days– still do a cool 85-90 mph, too. She’s a</i></b><br />
<b><i>bit waspy with the old fossil-juice, mind you, but that’s a small price to pay for</i></b><br />
<b><i>comfort and a sense of character and, well, ‘presence’.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>People seem to have forgotten how to walk. At Amblewick we walk the estate –</i></b><br />
<b><i>and when motorized, it’s often on the old Fordson and trailer filled with fencing</i></b><br />
<b><i>gear, or whatever Gillingwater needs for the pheasants. Just the right sort</i></b><br />
<b><i>of ‘togetherness’ on that trailer - chance to hear the estate news and keep in</i></b><br />
<b><i>touch with the real world – all our bones shaking in unison, don’t you know?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Never could understand the De Barry woman at Netherwick – fine enough</i></b><br />
<b><i>house and a good 10,000 acres to play in – and the silly old coot decamps to</i></b><br />
<b><i>foreign parts for most of the year – no connection with history at all. I suppose</i></b><br />
<b><i>it takes some time before you appreciate what you have, and she’s only been</i></b><br />
<b><i>in situ for about five minutes!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Corrie butts into the old reverie</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Are you listening to me, old chap?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“All ears old thing…. just off on a bit of a daydream, don’t you know?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I was saying that we’ve learned something from our little adventure in the</b><br />
<b>entrails, brother-mine.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And what might that be, old dear?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“If you remember, we always used to be a bit afraid, as kids, when we explored</b><br />
<b>the house and its secret places – footsteps just behind us in the darkness –</b><br />
<b>slamming doors, creaking floor-boards, and so on……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“True, oh Queen of childhood memory - and so?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Well, we thought we were alone in the house, didn’t we – felt sort of</b><br />
<b>vulnerable?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, I suppose we did, in retrospect…. Big old joint the Castle when you’re</b><br />
<b>knee-high to a toadstool and just getting to know it all, what?” I re-ignite</b><br />
<b>the Dunhill. “So what fresh insight did we gain when you and ‘Our Jules’</b><br />
<b>disappeared into the guts of the place?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b>“Well, at the time I was petrified, I have to admit. All the same old nightmare</b><br />
<b>sounds and atmosphere – pretty unsettling – even Jules was subdued by the</b><br />
<b>end of it.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And that has to have been revelation, indeed….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Just when we were about to panic – there was Parsons enquiring about the</b><br />
<b>dinner menu.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Sounds pretty standard Parsons’ predictability, really.</b>”<br />
<br />
<b>“I think it told me something, though…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I take a swipe at a midge perched on my specs and try to look intelligent.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I’m sure, now, that we’ve never been alone at Amblewick – just allowed to</b><br />
<b>pretend we were – to play in peace. In reality Parsons has always been there,</b><br />
<b>in the background, to make sure we’re safe.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I’ll buy that, old dear, Parsons is always with us one way or the other – even</b><br />
<b>when he’s up at Fortnums - and I mean always. Faithful old chap and utterly</b><br />
<b>dependable……”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>There is a subtle clink of ice on glass from a little way behind us.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“If I’m not mistaken, he’s approaching at this moment - bearing sustenance.</b><br />
<b>Bless his thoughtful heart…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Indeed he is. A glowing salver, and nestling upon it my post-prandial glass of</i></b><br />
<b><i>Talisker and Corrie’s Turkish coffee and a snort of Green Châtreuse - ‘to lend</i></b><br />
<b><i>substance to the beverage, Lady Constance…’</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I take a modest snoot-full and enquire, rather more for something to say than</i></b><br />
<b><i>anything else…..</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Julian recovered from his expedition, has he, Parsons, old thing?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, Milord - and currently he is profitably employed cleaning the silver –</b><br />
<b>particularly attached he is to the George IV service.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Seems rather a wet-weather operation for such a lovely day, Parsons, dear…,</b><br />
<b>Wouldn’t he be happier getting some fresh air into his lungs?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed not, Milady. Just at this moment, extracting him from the teapot would</b><br />
<b>only spell resentment. As I said a little earlier, he is profitably employed.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Quite remarkable, Parsons, old wheedler of the best in people. What’s the</b><br />
<b>secret?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>I confess to feeling pleasantly surprised and rather comforted.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The secret, Milord, lies in the word ‘profit’. When first I mooted the possibility</b><br />
<b>of his lending me support in the silver department, I admit there was a certain</b><br />
<b>degree of resistance – nothing seriously mutinous, Milord, but an unspoken</b><br />
<b>reluctance was discernable.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And now you say he’s unwinkle-able from the pantry, what? There has to be a</b><br />
<b>secret weapon in play here, does there not?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes indeed, Miiord. I discovered it at the heart of a little phrase the young</b><br />
<b>man employed – almost as an after-thought…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Huh?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“’Slip us a fiver, Mr P?’ he speculated when all else had failed to persuade him</b><br />
<b>wholeheartedly to embrace my request for active support. It was a moment of</b><br />
<b>enlightenment, Milord.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And did you ‘slip’ him one?” Corrie was entranced.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“No, Milady, I ‘slipped him a tenner’ - on the principle that investment should</b><br />
<b>always be made with an eye to the future.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Before we could fully digest this Parsonian pearl of wisdom there was an</i></b><br />
<b><i>unscheduled interruption from the garden doors of the conservatory – a</i></b><br />
<b><i>supremely vulgar wolf-whistle.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“’Ere, Mr P! There’s water pissin’ through the ceiling!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Julian appeared to be highly exercised by this development and high-tailed it</i></b><br />
<b><i>back into the house like a jack rabbit.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Ir would appear, Milord – Lady Constance – that my presence is required</b><br />
<b>elsewhere. I shall retire to discover the source of this inconvenience, and to</b><br />
<b>ascertain the extent of any damage which may have resulted from it. I fear we</b><br />
<b>shall be further obliged to inconvenience the insurance company, Milord – and</b><br />
<b>I am uneasy as to that corporation’s reaction to such additional resort to its</b><br />
<b>resources!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>With a measured inclination of the head in our direction, old Parsons takes his</i></b><br />
<b><i>leave.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Have you noticed, Biffers,” Corrie remarked intelligently, “that these</b><br />
<b>insurance companies – banks are the same – keep on pushing new ‘products’.</b><br />
<b>All too often when one has purchased the ‘product’ one discovers that the</b><br />
<b>whole thing was just hot air – no substance at all except recurring charges…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Damned impertinence, really – should be a law against producing nothing</b><br />
<b>and getting paid for it ‘ad eternum’. Con-artists, the lot of ‘em!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths – until you’ve signed along the</b><br />
<b>dotted. That’s when the small print kicks in…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Ah well, such it all is, me dear. S’pose we should drift inside and cast ‘a</b><br />
<b>dyspeptic’ over the damage. Quite sure Parsons will soon have everything</b><br />
<b>under control, but duty calls a dash, don’t you think?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“And hopefully always will……..” said Corrie with a little smile……..</b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-90617500372861884802013-03-17T13:36:00.000-04:002013-03-17T13:36:47.746-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 13</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE SECRET PASSAGES RE-VISITED</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b><i>Parsons shimmered off to deliver his sandwich request to Mrs Fenner. It would</i></b><br />
<b><i>transpire that the small change of plan came as somewhat of a relief to her.</i></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<b>“Very good, Mr Parsons, that will be quite a mercy. The brisket isn’t as well-</b><br />
<b>hung as our usual cuts. It’ll need a long slow roast low in the oven if it’s to be</b><br />
<b>tender. Truth to tell, I had been wondering whether it might be possible for us</b><br />
<b>to serve the beef this evening and have a light sandwich luncheon for</b><br />
<b>everyone, this afternoon? I know it’s a change of plan, Mr Parsons……..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I’m sure that will be quite in order, Mrs Fenner…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“And his Lordship? Will he be happy with sandwiches, do you think, Mr</b><br />
<b>Parsons – he does get awfully disappointed when he’s been looking forward to</b><br />
<b>one thing and something else lands up on his plate?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Well, there’s no need to worry on that score today, Mrs Fenner. His Lordship</b><br />
<b>is not expecting the beef for today’s luncheon. There are times when I do not</b><br />
<b>see fit to discuss the menus with the main house, preferring to suit the repast</b><br />
<b>to the general mood of his Lordship’s moment."</b><br />
<br />
<b>“If you say so, Mr Parsons…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“With regard to today’s luncheon, Mrs Fenner, some of your smoked salmon</b><br />
<b>sandwiches will fit the bill perfectly, I’m sure. I shall now retire to place the</b><br />
<b>champagne on ice in order to guarantee His Lordship’s satisfaction with our</b><br />
<b>choice on his behalf.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>He glided in the direction of the the wine cellar stairs.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Oh, Mr Parsons…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, Mrs Fenner?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Interrogative tilting of the left eyebrow.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Will Lady Constance be dining with us this evening?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I would imagine so, Mrs Fenner. Her trip with young Julian into the tunnels is</b><br />
<b>sure to generate both an appetite, and the need to discuss their findings with</b><br />
<b>his Lordship.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Mrs F had no idea what Mr P was talking about, and such is the extreme</i></b><br />
<b><i>discretion of the Amblewick below-stairs tradition that it didn’t even occur to</i></b><br />
<b><i>her to ask for enlightenment.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<br />
<b>"Very good, Mr. Parsons. Would you be kind enough to ask her Ladyship if she</b><br />
<b>would prefer Yorkshire Pudding, or my Suet Crust, to accompany the brisket?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Of course, Mrs Fenner – and now, if you will excuse me……”</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>He resumed his glide.</i></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<b><i>When Parsons returned to the library Julian and I were ready for the off – raring</i></b><br />
<b><i>to go, in fact. We’d armed ourselves with a couple of torches which we knew</i></b><br />
<b><i>we’d need, and hadn’t thought far beyond that.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons supplied each of us with a Balaclava, me with the sandwiches, and</i></b><br />
<b><i>Jules with a ball of string.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“The dust can be a problem, Milady, if my memory serves me correctly - and</b><br />
<b>one never knows when a ball of string may come in handy.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Now don’t get lost, Corrie dear – been ages since anyone’s been in there….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Biffo wasn’t particularly worried about any real danger to us, I didn’t think –</i></b><br />
<b><i>probably more for Parson’s benefit, and to retain the ‘Wisdom of Solomon</i></b><br />
<b><i>before Asmodeus’ accolade!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Come on, Corrie, let’s get on with it, then” Julian could brook no further delay.</b><br />
<br />
<i><b>With a quick wave to those remaining behind we ducked into the darkness.</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>“’Jacta alia est’ – that’s what Mouse always says when the gang’s goin’ into</b><br />
<b>action, innit, Corrie?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Clever of you to remember the Latin, Jules - always beyond me, foreign</b><br />
<b>languages.” I said vaguely as I struggled up the passage to our right.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What’s Latin? Thought them words was just a sort of Gang code.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Our torches were a real mercy - and the Balaclavas too. I’d forgotten about the</i></b><br />
<b><i>bats and the cobwebs!</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Cor, stinks in ‘ere!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, that’s the bats, Jules, I think. A bit careless where they pee - bats.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What, yer mean they just piss down the walls? Yuk!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Well, it’s dark in here – and they probably have a different idea of what’s</b><br />
<b>disgusting than we do.…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I decided to change the subject before we got too deeply involved in bat</i></b><br />
<b><i>lavatory etiquette.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Tell you what. Let’s try this passage on the left. Haven’t been down there</b><br />
<b>before……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What about getting’ lost and that – know the way, do yer?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“We’ve got the string, haven’t we? Look, there’s a metal ring on the wall. Let’s</b><br />
<b>tie the end of the string to that – then we can unravel the string as we go, and</b><br />
<b>not get lost.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What’s this ring doin’ in a secret passage?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Probably for chaining peasants to the wall, in the old days….” I hazarded</b><br />
<b>before I’d thought it through.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Cor! Die in ‘ere, did they?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b>“Before my time, I’m afraid…. But I imagine some of them may have done – the</b><br />
<b>world was a very different place three or four hundred years ago – human</b><br />
<b>rights hadn’t been invented, then, I’m afraid……”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I was beginning to slide a bit too deeply into the atmosphere of this unholy</i></b><br />
<b><i>labyrinth – at risk of frightenIng myself. Jules was just getting into the mood,</i></b><br />
<b><i>though.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“D’yer think we’ll find a skellington, Corrie? Cor! That’d be a laugh - never seen</b><br />
<b>a real one.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>This was getting a little ‘de trop’ - but Jules was in full flood.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“And the ghosts – what about the ghosts - pretty spooky in ‘ere, innit?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I’m a fairly common-sensical person for the most part, but this conversation</i></b><br />
<b><i>was getting a bit disturbing. I found myself glancing behind me and my eyes</i></b><br />
<b><i>seeing odd shadows looming in the rather unsteady torch-light. There were</i></b><br />
<b><i>stories - and those stories came to taunt me as we groped our way along this</i></b><br />
<b><i>dank and unfamiliar tunnel.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“The Guv’nor said there were stories about ghosts at Amblewwick, Corrie.</b><br />
<b>D’you think they could be true?”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian’s voice was bright enough, but I picked up just a tiny quaver lingering</i></b><br />
<b><i>behind the cheeriness. At that moment I was very sure the stories could be</i></b><br />
<b><i>true and had to summon all my natural practicality and grown-up cynicism to</i></b><br />
<b><i>answer him.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Stuff and nonsense, dear! Utter Ballz! Biffo’s an ass – filling you up with silly</b><br />
<b>fairy tales – ‘course they’re not true….."</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>But my childhood memories of these passages told me otherwise – footsteps</i></b><br />
<b><i>just behind us when the house had been empty except for Biffo and me………</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>The passage was getting narrower and darker and damper – the air foetid and</i></b><br />
<b><i>stale. We were approaching a narrow archway and what I imagined might be a</i></b><br />
<b><i>slight softening of the thick darkness – perhaps a wider space?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Jules was sticking very close to me – and no longer chirruping. A hand</i></b><br />
<b><i>clutched at the strap of my dungarees</i></b>.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Don’t like this place, Corrie – it’s weird,” he whispered hoarsely.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Me neither, Jules, but we’ve got to find our way out – got hold of the string OK</b><br />
<b>have you?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Oh, Cripes! I must have dropped it back there – can’t see it anywhere….”</b>.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Now what the hell were we going to do?</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>There was a distant, graunching, sliding sound in the deep shadow ahead –</i></b><br />
<b><i>and a blast of warm air rushed past us. We were at the archway by then,</i></b><br />
<b><i>straining our eyes into the gloom. This new space was like a tall haii-way</i></b><br />
<b><i>stretching metres in front of us. At its far end, another dark archway and a dim</i></b><br />
<b><i>light – a slowly swinging light – behind it, a dark figure approached us slowly,</i></b><br />
<b><i>but relentlessly………</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Shit!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Jules grasped my hand – and I was happy for it. We were in this mess very</i></b><br />
<b><i>much together – no hiding place!</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>As the figure came closer we froze like pillars of salt. I was about to scream</i></b><br />
<b><i>with horror, and Jules was paralyzed beside me.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>A moment later, the lamp came to a halt about five yards in front of us – and</i></b><br />
<b><i>the shadowy figure spoke.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Forgive my intrusion into your expedition, Lady Constance. Regrettably, I</b><br />
<b>neglected to deliver a crucial message before you departed hence from the</b><br />
<b>library - an enquiry from Mrs Fenner about this evening’s dinner menu.”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Julian and I were speechless with shock.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>The noble Parsons cruised on.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milady, Mrs Fenner wished me to ascertain whether you would prefer</b><br />
<b>Yorkshire Pudding, or her personal Suet Crust, to accompany the roast brisket</b><br />
<b>of beef she has planned for dinner this evening?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Suet Crust, please, Parsons….”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I whimpered breathlessly - and Julian got the giggles.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>As we followed Parsons from the ghastly scene, I found my voice at last.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What interests me most, Parsons, old dear, is how on earth you tracked us</b><br />
<b>down in this maze of tunnels?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“When you have looked after a family and its young for as long as I have been</b><br />
<b>privileged to serve at Amblewick, Lady Constance, one makes it one’s</b><br />
<b>business to acquaint oneself comprehensively with all aspects of that family</b><br />
<b>and its environment. I have made the secret passages at the Castle a</b><br />
<b>particularly detailed study – as has been, Milady, my unofficial, but bounden,</b><br />
<b>duty.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“But how did you know where we were – could have been anywhere – pretty</b><br />
<b>tangled old nightmare these tunnels.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Indeed, Milady – but having followed you into the tunnels from the library, it</b><br />
<b>was but moments before I observed the string attached to a metal loop in the</b><br />
<b>main passage, and the direction it indicated that you had taken. I was aware</b><br />
<b>that the passage you had chosen connected to a passage leading from the</b><br />
<b>wine cellars. I decided to meet you from that direction to avoid any danger of</b><br />
<b>giving you a start by approaching from behind you in the darkness. As Mr</b><br />
<b>Holmes was wont to say, Lady Constance - ‘Elementary, my dear Watson…..’”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Never a dull moment wiv Mr P abaht, eh, Corrie? Flippin’ ‘eck!” piped Juies,</b><br />
<b>and surrendered once more to helpless giggles.</b><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-59787771390410046492013-03-10T23:14:00.000-04:002013-03-11T21:05:37.512-04:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 12</b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE PINEAPPLE</b></div>
<br />
<i><b>So far, the “Saga” readings have passed off fairly successfully – no terminal</b></i><br />
<i><b>blips, as yet. Julian appears well-addicted to the tale, which is encouraging.</b></i><br />
<i><b>Seems to be a chap of his word – applies his ‘wiv comics’ system to the reading</b></i><br />
<i><b>of the book, as well. He read the last chapter of the third volume by himself even</b></i><br />
<i><b>before Parsons had kicked off with the introductory blurb, and so on. I’m fairly</b></i><br />
<i><b>chuffed about that as the final chapter will have told him absolutely damn-all</b></i><br />
<i><b>about the rest of it. Bit of a ‘sucks ya-boo’ situation, really. The downside could</b></i><br />
<i><b>have been that he rejected the whole thing for lack of battle, murder and sudden</b></i><br />
<i><b>death at the end. My fears were unfounded, and he’s been working his way</b></i><br />
<i><b>backwards ever since – and solo.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>Pottered through to the conservatory this morning to cull a few bunches of</b></i><br />
<i><b>grapes and dead-head the odd rose. Was in ‘mid-snip’ with the old secateurs</b></i><br />
<i><b>when there was a tap on the window behind me. Managed not to fall off the</b></i><br />
<i><b>steps, for a change.</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>“’Ere, Guv’!” drilled the chain-saw through the glass. “Got a minute, ‘ave yer?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Can’t be sure of anything these days – but at the moment, yes.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I clambered down the steps and tottered over to the rose garden door – I find</i></b><br />
<b><i>that change of altitude has a greater effect on the old equilibrium than it used to</i></b><br />
<b><i>a few years ago.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Well, don’t stand there like a prune, old chap, better come in and help with the</b><br />
<b>grape harvest, what? Corrie’s popping over for elevenses – and that should</b><br />
<b>indicate the odd biscuit, don’t you know? Hoping for chocolate digestives,</b><br />
<b>meself – you?</b>”<br />
<br />
<b><i>I was burbling on a dash – largely I think to restore something of the comfortable</i></b><br />
<b><i>predictability of Amblewick life – a luxury much less in evidence since the advent</i></b><br />
<b><i>of the turbulence of youth into our staid old world.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I observed that there was a questing look about the boy – something of the</i></b><br />
<b><i>Labrador when tracking a covey of partridge clattering towards the guns</i></b><br />
<b><i>- anticipation – urgency and determination. I should have recognized the</i></b><br />
<b><i>symptoms and steadied my nerves against a further dose of the un-expected and</i></b><br />
<b><i>its inevitable negative results for me.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>In the event, Julian’s ‘got a minute, Guv’?” preamble was not pre-cursor to</i></b><br />
<b><i>anything particularly world-shattering - direct result of our ‘horse-pistol’ second</i></b><br />
<b><i>meeting in the library, in fact.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Just found the bit in the “Saga” when Mouse and Murat abi explore the Secret</b><br />
<b>passage at North Withering…..”</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>At least I now knew what was coming.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yee-s.” I said in my most encouraging tone.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good bit that, Cor!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>And then the true purpose of this invasion was clarified.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“When are yer goin’ to show me the secret passages at Amblewick, Guv’? Yer</b><br />
<b>promised…..”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“I did no such thing, old sport.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Sure of me ground here.</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“What I suggested was that you should discover them for yourself – sort of</b><br />
<b>Sherlock Holmes undercover operation, what?</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Yea, right. Trouble is they wouldn’t be very secret if I could find them, now</b><br />
<b>would they?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Couldn’t really argue with that sort of logic, now could I? Fair’s fair, and the time</i></b><br />
<b><i>had come for the granting of a clue or two. There’s a part of me which reverts</i></b><br />
<b><i>to the nursery as soon as youthful memories take hold - when the Vicar farts in</i></b><br />
<b><i>church, as well……...</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Tell you what, old son, I’ve already told you there’s a passage from the library….”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Julian butted in.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Ruddy great room, that – where am I s’posed to start lookin’? Go on, Guv’, give</b><br />
<b>us a proper clue….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Fruit,” I said laconically. “but not good to eat like these chaps here.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I tossed him a cluster of grapes.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Cheers, Guv’.” he said.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>But I could see, with some satisfaction, that his mind was elsewhere – the bait</i></b><br />
<b><i>had been taken, and with a bit off luck Corrie and I would be left in peace with the</i></b><br />
<b><i>biscuits – all of them….</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Trundle off, old chap - keep us posted as to progress and what-not, eh?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>‘Our Jules’ trundled off, and Corrie trundled in from the rose garden. Parsons,</i></b><br />
<b><i>bearing coffee and ‘bikkies’, emerged from the dining-room – everything as</i></b><br />
<b><i>though in cool and precisely-syncopated sequence.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Ahem’”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Usual prelude to a Parsonian rocket.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Good morning, Lady Constance. Black, Milady - or is this a ‘café latte’</b><br />
<b>morning?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Inclusive half-smile of welcome and approval – I was studiously ignored.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“What ho, Parsons dear!” Corrie beams. “Black will be fine – what a lovely day!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Most clement, Milady – the roses are at their best, this week, I see.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes indeed, be nice to bring a few blooms in while they’re so good, don’t you</b><br />
<b>think?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, Milady. I have had my eye on two heads of “Peace” – for the Ccllini flagon</b><br />
<b>in the hall, I wondered?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Oh splendid, Parsons – stunning but discreet. A hint of glories yet to come,</b><br />
<b>don’t you think?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Precisely, Lady Constance, Amblewick has always been renowned for its</b><br />
<b>discretion and charming English understatement.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Meanwhile, I sweated like a guilty schoolboy at the Headmaster’s study door!</i></b><br />
<b><i>Eventually, I could stand the tension no longer and butted into this stream of</i></b><br />
<b><i>pleasantries - first with a watch-makers probe – and then, perhaps unwisely, with</i></b><br />
<b><i>a jack-hammer.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“We also serve, old thing, who only stand and wait, don’t you know? Nose a dash out of</b><br />
<b>joint, this morning, is it, Parsons, eh?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Imprudent, I fear – a fleeting aberration – and a dash below the belt – ‘not on’, in</i></b><br />
<b><i>fact.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons’ right eyebrow rose, as it has always been inclined to rise when I have</i></b><br />
<b><i>gone a dash too far. It was enough.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>I reverted immediately to mere putty in the glazier’s hand – never was much of a</i></b><br />
<b><i>gladiator – no guts or moral fibre, so the blighted Cousin Marguerite maintains.</i></b><br />
<b><i>She has a point, I suppose.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Sorry, Parsons, out of order, what? Silly old tongue ran away with me – I stand</b><br />
<b>corrected.</b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Parsons is nothing if not charitable and infinitely forgiving.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Milord, I am lost in admiration for your open-heartedness, and for the generosity of</b><br />
<b>the manner in which you have welcomed young Julian to Amblewick. My concern is</b><br />
<b>for the artifacts and treasures with which you and Lady Constance have entrusted me the</b><br />
<b>custody and safe-keeping. As I intimated on a previous occasion, to permit the young man</b><br />
<b>unfettered access to every nook and cranny in the Castle would seem to me reminiscent</b><br />
<b>of the story of the fox in the chicken run – or at best - the fox and the grapes.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Pineapple, actually” I prompted.</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Once again, before the brain had been properly engaged. However, I was saved</i></b><br />
<b><i>from risk of further castigation by a strident screech of triumph from the library</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<b>“It’s the bleedin’ pineapple on the chimley, innit, Guv?”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Parsons, whose knowledge of the Castle secrets is unsurpassed, knew the</i></b><br />
<b><i>pineapple in question all too well. The merest suggestion of the famous</i></b><br />
<b><i>elusive smile perched for a brief moment at the corner of his mouth and then</i></b><br />
<b><i>evaporated.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I must entreat Your Lordship to make sure that any exploration is supervised.</b><br />
<b>There are, if you remember, Milord, an intricate number of side-passages leading from the</b><br />
<b>Library tunnel – a veritable maze. It would be unfortunate if the fox became a cat, and Julian</b><br />
<b>a pigeon.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Involuntary twitching of ears proclaimed that imminent danger to meself had</i></b><br />
<b><i>passed.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Parsons is right, though, Biffers – pretty dodgy some of those tunnels - could</b><br />
<b>get well and truly lost on his own, couldn’t he? We always went together for</b><br />
<b>safety’s sake when we were children, didn’t we?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“True, old girl. Trouble is me knees won’t take all those stairs, any more.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>Game as hell, our Corrie.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I’m still fairly intact, old man, thanks to the ‘Wufflums’– I’ll go with him – and</b><br />
<b>bollocks to the Watts woman!”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>From darkness into light, and from travail into ease.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“I will instruct Mrs Fenner to prepare some sandwiches, Lady Constance – my</b><br />
<b>memories of the labyrinth inform me that your expedition may well extend some</b><br />
<b>way beyond the luncheon gong.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Good egg!” I enthuse. “I think we should now beard the London Tiger in his den</b><br />
<b>before he plunges headlong into the entrails of the house unsupervised.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I winked a little saucily at Parsons.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><i>An answering, and rewarding, twitching of the ears.</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>“Thank you, Milord – the wisdom you exhibit, if I may make so bold, is that of</b><br />
<b>King Solomon himself - before he became compromised by association with</b><br />
<b>Asmodeus, of course.”</b><br />
<br />
<b><i>I beamed…….</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>No idea what old Parsons was rabbiting on about, but I beamed like Billy-ho!</i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-20164013152168104782013-03-03T21:25:00.001-05:002013-03-03T21:25:47.265-05:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 11</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>“A HORSE, A HORSE, ETC……”</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>I’m supping the last of the post prandial ‘1876’ in the library as I </b></i><i><b>await the </b></i><i><b>gathering of the congregation on the second evening of </b></i><i><b>our ‘Saga’ readings </b></i><i><b>programme – logs a-flicker in the fireplace, </b></i><i><b>lamps aglow, and so on.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>Parsons is shimmering about, dusting and generally putting </b></i><i><b>things in order - </b></i><br />
<i><b>as is his conscientious wont.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>I gather Corrie’s still ‘en route’ to our literary tryst; having been </b></i><i><b>delayed at </b></i><i><b>Pangleton - so Parsons informs me - by a wearisome </b></i><i><b>telephone call from that </b></i><i><b>bubonic pestilence, Sharon Watts, </b></i><i><b>of ‘Cuddlesome Corgis’ fame.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<br />
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<b>Julian is delving somewhere amongst the library clutter and, </b><b>uncharacteristically, </b><b>is not immediately ‘in evidence’, as they say. </b><b>Could well be scouting out the elusive </b><b>pomegranate – or was it a </b><b>pineapple?</b></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<b>In short, all seems peaceful on the domestic front.</b></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<b>There is a tinkle from the blower on my desk and Parsons does </b><b>the honours.</b></div>
<div style="font-style: italic;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<b>“Good evening, Sir Charles. Yes indeed, sir - I think I can say </b><b>with some confidence </b><b>that all is well with the household here at </b><b>Amblewick. Thank you, sir. I believe that his </b><b>Lordship is in the </b><b>Library. If you will bear with me for one moment, sir, I will inform </b><b>him that you are on the telephone……”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<i><b>Discreet pause - to permit transit from the nether regions, no </b><b>doubt – and Parsons, who </b><b>is already within spitting distance, </b><b>tactfully covers the receiver and transmits his message.</b></i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Sir Charles Peyneer is on the telephone, Milord. Do you wish me </b><b>to connect you?*</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Charles? Good Heavens! Of course, connect away, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<i><b>Parsons, for all his sometime antediluvian attitudes, is a great </b></i><i><b>believer in modern </b></i><i><b>technology when he feels that its employment </b></i><i><b>is life-enhancing in the affairs of </b></i><i><b>Amblewick. He flicks a switch, </b></i><i><b>and Charles and I are connected at full blast – no need </b></i><i><b>for </b></i><b><i>scrabbling about with the handset, and so on</i>.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>“I’m putting you through to the library, Sir Charles. Good night, </b><b>sir…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>The old baronet’s stentorian ramps its way round the library for </b><b>all to hear.</b></i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Biffo, you old fool, where have you been all my life?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Bit of an ‘exadgers’, old prune, what? We met at that Diamond </b><b>Jubilee thrash a couple </b><b>of weeks ago – if you can cast the mind </b><b>back…….?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<i><b>Charles isn’t exactly senile – but a dash selective in his recall. </b></i><i><b>Remembers what directly </b></i><i><b>concerns him - his appetite for good </b></i><i><b>fare, and his dogs – little else.</b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<br />
<b>“Did we, indeed – well if you say so – had a bit of a gut-full that </b><b>evening, I daresay….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>“I imagine that may well have been the case, old thing. But was </b><b>there something special </b><b>you wanted to natter about, or is this a </b><b>one-orf social-outreach situaggers?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>Unlikely – both Charles and I eschew the social niceties </b></i><i><b>whenever we can get away </b></i><i><b>with it……</b></i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Yes, there was something – slipped my mind for a moment – ah, </b><b>yes, “The Definitive </b><b>History of England” – do you remember that </b><b>little volume I scribbled when we were up </b><b>at Eton?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Indeed, I remember – how could I ever forget – damned nearly </b><b>got us both sacked, if you remember. ‘Gross lack of good-</b><b>manners, damned impertinence, and abuse of the nation’s </b><b>heritage’ - or some-such outrage, so the Headman said….. Entire </b><b>interview engrained </b><b>forever on one’s arse, if you remember?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>“Well, be all that as it may have been. Anyway, I was snatching </b><b>a bite of luncheon at the </b><b>Savoy Grill the other day and bumped </b><b>into our old chum Freeda – you know, Freeda Prizners used to </b><b>bunk off to London with us from Bedales – glamorous little puss- </b><b>cat in those days </b><b>– still pretty saucy today, I can tell you…..”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Quite sure she is, old thing, but how does she fit into </b><b>the ‘History’ narrative?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>“Don’t interrupt, old chap – puts me off my stroke. Now where </b><b>was I? Ah! Savoy Grill. </b><b>Yes, well anyway, she – Freeda that is - </b><b>joined me for luncheon – usual dose of the old rib </b><b>and a bottle of </b><b>house plonk. Just cantering our way through the pudding – ‘Poire </b><b>Belle Hélène’, </b><b>as it happens - when she popped a question – </b><b>unusual question, rather. Turns out she’s </b><b>morphed into some </b><b>kind of literary agent – you know, sort of hobby thing to mask her </b><b>real job, </b><b>as a spy, and so on. Rather dashing, being a spy, don’t </b><b>you think, eh, Biffers? </b><b>Remember Morton – boy with the Mk V11 </b><b>Jag? Well he………..</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>I always reserve Charles’s little detours and footnotes in mental </b></i><i><b>parenthesis as I await </b></i><i><b>resumption of the subject in hand. </b></i><i><b>Sometimes a nudge can help.</b></i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Freeda, Charles – you were talking about Freeda.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Was I? – ah, yes, Freeda. Why was I talking about Freeda, old </b><b>boy?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Literary agency, perhaps?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>Yes, of course I was – stop putting words into my mouth. Well </b><b>anyway, Freeda pushes books </b><b>and stuff that appeal to her, if </b><b>you get my drift. She remembered the fracas about the </b><b>‘Def Hist’ </b><b>and asked me for the manuscript. Well, to prune the proverbial </b><b>shaggy a dash - </b><b>she’s re-launched it!”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I say old boy, that’s a whiff of good news, isn’t it? Never </b><b>understood why it went out of print </b><b>in the first place….”</b><br />
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<b>“Got squashed, didn’t it? Fifties, you know - lot of bigots in the </b><b>fifties.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“How’s the re-launch going, though?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Freeda seems happy - says she’s getting positive feedback for </b><b>the most part - should help </b><b>with the old crispy crunch before long, </b><b>she hopes.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Folding still on the short side, eh? Same story this end - Parsons </b><b>not at all happy with the Fortnum’s situation – resents having </b><b>the wings clipped in that department. Your news sounds pretty </b><b>heartening, though – not before time, eh?”</b><br />
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<b>“No, indeed – but ‘many a slip’, as they say. Bit of a problem </b><b>rearing its ugly – that’s what I telephoned you about…….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Huh?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Blasted critics lousing up the soufflé again – same stuffy old </b><b>crap from the so-called ‘literary élite’. One of them described my </b><b>logical addition to Shakespeare’s version of King Richard III’s </b><b>last words at Bosworth Field as, ‘ignorant, valueless - puerile </b><b>disrespect and self-advertisement’.”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“I say, that’s a bit rich – always enjoyed the DHOE, for all the furore </b><b>about it – </b><b>spiffing good </b><b>read – refreshing, really….”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>I’m floundering in the details a bit at this point I have to admit…..</i></b><br />
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<b>“Nudge my memory, old thing, what was your minor addition to </b><b>Mr Shakespeare’s text?”</b><br />
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<b>“I merely stressed the urgency of the situation at the Battle </b><b>of Bosworth – and the long-maligned monarch’s desperate </b><b>situation - by the addition of ‘fucking’, to mere ‘horse’. Hang it all, </b><b>at moments of extreme stress, we do not say just ‘horse’, now </b><b>do we? Not if we want to make </b><b>matters clear, anyway. We’re </b><b>not detailing a family picnic here, for Heaven’s sake. We’re </b><b>reliving an event of world-shattering consequence not only for </b><b>the benighted Dickon III, but for the Empire – triumph of the </b><b>taxman, suburban attitudes, the counter-jumper and so on. </b><b>Critical moment in ‘Happy Isle’ history, what?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>It isn’t everyday that I find myself totally in sympathy with my </b></i><i><b>old sparring partner and sharer </b></i><i><b>of the Juniper, but this is one of </b></i><i><b>them.</b></i><br />
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<b>“With you entirely, old thing – had I been faced with King </b><b>Richard’s fate – to be maligned and dishonoured by a parvenu </b><b>and his cohorts and hangers-on for so many centuries – I also </b><b>would have insisted upon your rendering of the urgency. Quite </b><b>sure I would have reacted as did you. </b><b>‘A horse, a horse, my </b><b>kingdom for a fucking horse’, would have been the only possible </b><b>way to express my desolation.”</b><br />
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<b>A faint wheeze of approval from my old friend.</b></div>
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<b>There is also a determined rustle from amongst the library </b><b>clutter. My involvement in my old friend’s affairs has rendered me </b><b>temporarily forgetful of the fact that this conversation has been </b><b>somewhat in the public domain<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span></b><br />
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<b>A familiar and determined chain-saw yelp cuts keenly through the </b><b>library shadows.</b></div>
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<b>“Dead right, Guv! I vote for yer old mucker, an’all – ‘You ’ave to </b><b>call a spade, a fuckin’ </b><b>spade’ - that’s what my lot say, innit…..?”</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>“Out,” I muse almost joyfully, “of the mouths of babes and </b><b>sucklings……..”</b><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>No reprimand from Parsons, either – a hint of resignation on </b></i><i><b>his ‘non-committal’ tells me that, for once, he could not, for </b></i><i><b>all his brilliance, have expressed the matter more succinctly </b></i><i><b>himself………</b></i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-78906154695699633242013-02-25T13:49:00.001-05:002013-02-27T15:46:18.687-05:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>Chapter 10</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>'FAROUCHE'</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Once Corrie has inveigled the noble Parsons into kicking off the “Saga” </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">readings, that should have been that, n’est-ce pas?</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Not so, indeed….. There remains the tricky business of getting that worthy </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">to park himself in Biffo’s wing-chair when he joins the party. This will be </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">achieved, for the most part, by Biffo’s employment of his fail-safe weapon of </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">last resort - ’tact’.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>We have a moment or two to gather our thoughts before Mr P returns from </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">his inspection of tomorrow’s breakfast table. The noble lord fills in the time </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">speaking mostly to himself - as one does when soggy with nostalgia - and only </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">incidentally to Corrie and ‘our Jules’.</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“I remember when we had readings on Sunday evenings at me prep</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">school. Used to litter ourselves all over the floor of the headmaster’s </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">study – eyes glued on the ‘Old Man’ as he read to us through clouds of </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">cigarette smoke from the chair in front of his desk. ‘Wuthering Heights’</span><span style="line-height: 18px;">was my favourite. Gosh, brings back memories, does that…..“</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>Rather to Biffo’s surprise, Julian is right on cue.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Cor! Sounds cool, Guv’. Why don’t we do it like that, ‘ere?”</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Suiting action to words he slides off the sofa and drapes himself across Ch.</i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">Connal of Fitztearlach – a ferocious-looking wolfhound – who doesn’t so much </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">as twitch a velvet lug-hole.</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“I say, why ever not?”</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Biffo readily agrees, and with rather less ‘svelt’, manages to manoeuvre </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">himself down onto the Bukhari rug in front of the fire-place - right next </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">to ‘Tessa the Nose’ who gives him a tender slurp and sighs contentedly, </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">stretching her paws.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>They are all facing the empty wing-chair expectantly as Parsons shimmers in </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">from the Morning Room. Pausing on the threshold he registers at a glance </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">that he has been ‘outflanked’, so to speak.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Where would Your Lordship prefer me to sit for the duration of this </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">evening’s reading, Milord?”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Fire-side chair, what? Perfect for us – all facing in the right direction – </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">bit like Dickens and so on – gosh memories flood…..”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Milord, I really will not feel comfortable sitting on Your Lordship’s chair. </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">Most ill-befitting…..”</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>He heads for the pouf.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>Over to Corrie.</b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Parsons, dear, we want to be read to like when we were children. We </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">can focus on that chair. The pouf’s hopeless – no atmosphere at all - </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">come on, be an angel.”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Please, Mr P – it’s only a game, innit? When the game’s over - we’ll all </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">be back to normal - well, sort of…...”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Julian’s right Parsons, old thing. It’s just to please the children, don’t </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">you know? And don’t forget, old thing, we are the children for this </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">evening, are we not? We can only go aboard the “Saga”’ if we’re </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">properly in the mood, as, I believe, you will remember....”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Biffo’s last essay seems to have hit the mark with the worthy Parsons and </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">he’s looking thoughtful - when Parsons is in pensive mood unexpected </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">developments must always be expected</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“I have no desire to appear ‘farouche’, Milord, and I have to confess </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">that the book into which we are about to delve is more suited perhaps </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">to the formula you have preferred, than to my preconceived idea of </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">the decorous. You, Milord, and Lady Constance, have clearly been far </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">more able to ingest the mood of the volume than have I, until now…..</span><span style="line-height: 18px;">I shall endeavour to remedy my dearth of nuance and literary tone </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">forthwith…….”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>With which mysterious pronouncement the old devil hitches up his trousers </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">and sits on the Bukhari with his back to the wing-chair. A mini-swivel from </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">Biffo and Julian and the scene is set - a little semi-circle – well, a curving </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">threesome facing Corrie on the sofa. Everyone can see everyone else, which </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">they couldn’t before, and Mr P is still the focal point. Honour has been </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">satisfied in all directions.</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>Biffo is entranced – he feels about twelve.</b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“I say, Parsons, coo-er! Just like the White Castle set-up, ‘cept the </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">others aren’t here….. yet”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Julian can’t quite put his finger on it, but something is definitely up! But, not </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">yet being privy to the Saga mysteries, he has no idea what that something </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">might be. There is one little detail that has been niggling at him, though.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“What’s ‘farouche’, Uncle Parsons?” he asks, wondering how ‘Uncle’</span><span style="line-height: 18px;">has popped out.</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>Involuntary twitching of the Parsonian shells-like.</b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“It means – in the sense in which I employed the word, Master Julian -</span><span style="line-height: 18px;">‘shy’ – and sometimes, ‘sullen’, even ‘sulky’, in the company of people. </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">It can also mean ‘wild’ or ‘savage’ – ‘menacing’, perhaps.”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“Right, got it, Mr Murgatroyd!” Julian turns to Biffo. “What ‘appens next, </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">Guv’?”</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>Not a moment’s hesitation from Biffo.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“What we need is Cola – yes, Cola - and then we can be off.”</b></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Julian glances across at Corrie who is smoking a very classy pipe – </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">carved like a pirate’s head.</span></span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Flippin’ ‘eck! What’s goin’ on?”</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>No answer comes and there is no time to ask again. There is a throaty roar </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">and the double library doors crash open to admit a motor-cycle courier </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">aboard a Vincent ‘Black Shadow’, no less, and a pall of delicious high octane </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">smoke. He brings a tray of silver beakers brimming with fizzling Cola.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>The incongruity of the Guv’nor drinking Cola as a beverage of choice does not </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">escape Julian, but the entire evening looks set to be fairly whacko, so - rather </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">unusually - he keeps his ‘trap’ shut.</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“The trick,” says Biffo gravely, “is not to drink this devil’s brew, but to pour </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">ourselves right into it…..”</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>From the moment they all gaze into the crimson, with the Guv’nor’s voice </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">murmuring of whirlpools, oceans, tunnels and shining lights, the rest of the </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">evening isn’t exactly a blurr for ‘Master Julian’ – but it’s certainly far, far, out!</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>The Guv’nor is suddenly the same age as him – all straggle-toothed and </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">cheeky.</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Call me ‘Shrimp’”, he says with a grin.</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Aunt Emmie stays the same – same as who? – and where the hell did ‘Emmie’</i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">come from?</i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Uncle Parsons is another Uncle – the same, but different – ‘Murgatroyd’ – </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">Uncle Murg, that’s it……..</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>What the bleedin’‘eck is goin’ on?</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>In the end Julian’s brain begins to hurt and rather sensibly he gives up and lets </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">the Secret unfold by itself…..</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>‘Dreamworld’……</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Doesn’t feel like a dream, so p’raps it ain’t? What did his Dad use to say?</i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">‘Dreams is bubbles of hopes and prayers – and sometimes when you’ve </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">nearly given up – one of them gets through…..’</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>‘Daft, my Dad, but we had some laughs…’</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>Looks like this is one of them lucky bubbles – the colours are bright enough……</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>He and ‘the others’ - Mouse, Beetle, Murat abi, and some he can’t pronounce </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">just yet - are all sitting together with Uncle Murg, in a semi-circle on the </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">Persian carpet facing Aunt Emmie on the sofa - with her pipe, and the dogs, </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">and a Persian cat all fluffy and yellow-eyed. A new world has happened – </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">‘Plop!’ - just like that! It’s a wild kaleidoscope of images and understandings </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">he thought he had forgotten long ago – but they all seem natural and very </i></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>real – so real ‘you ’ave to pinch yerself’. It’s, well, it’s mega-wicked, innit? </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">How long’s it goin’ to last? Does this world have time like ours? Who knows? </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">Who cares?</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>He’s dead sure of one thing, though. When Uncle Murg - no, it’s Uncle </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">Parsons - well, Mr P – gently wakes him up, he’s bursting for a leak!</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Cor, Shrimp, I need a slash – can I use your lav?”</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><b>The Guv’nor swims sharply into focus and Julian addresses the old reality.</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">“I was dying for a pee at the Castle’, Guv’ – but I went all ’farouche’ </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">with all them new people about and, well, I just couldn’t ask, could I?”</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Privately Biffo rejoices – the boy has brains - a keen, retentive and exploratory </i></span><i style="line-height: 18px;">mind. High hope for the future is born. But for now he deals with the </i><i style="line-height: 18px;">emergency at hand……</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Off you buzz, old scout,” he says comfortably, “and make sure</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">you lift the bloody seat, or Parsons’ next ‘farouchery’ will definitely </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">mean ‘menace’….…..!”</span></span></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2390402558665214774.post-40258196488868032662013-02-17T22:03:00.000-05:002013-02-22T20:16:17.428-05:00<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Chapter 9</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>CORRIE AND THE LIBRARY READINGS GAME-PLAN</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<i>Biffo is parked on his favourite wing-chair within reach of the fire irons. Corrie and Julian are</i><br />
<i>on the sofa opposite him, and Parsons is hovering a little uncomfortably behind the ‘poııf –</i><br />
<i>aimost centre stage between them.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Biffo ruminates.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“When these reading sessions were first mooted I wasn’t at all sure they wouldn’t</i><br />
<i>end in disaster. Still not quite sure how it’ll all pan out, mind you. No doubt about it,</i><br />
<i>we’re a fairly motley little crew, aren’t we?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As for me own part in the proceedings? Sort of whipper-in–cum-kennel-huntsman,</i><br />
<i>I suppose - in a politically low-key, drag-hunt kind of way. ‘Tact’ rather than ‘Talley-</i><br />
<i>ho!’ would seem to be the order of the day. And tact is a skill one learned at an early</i><br />
<i>age from delicate negotiation with schoolmasters, trustees, bankers, lawyers, Cousin</i><br />
<i>Marguerite and other low life – avoidance of thrashings, winkling of funds, Fortnum’s</i><br />
<i>budget, and so on….</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Truth be told, Parsons is really by far the best-qualified to take the lead in this project</i><br />
<i>– as in just about everything. Predictably, he’s refused – on the principle that ‘such</i><br />
<i>protocol infringement is unconscionable, Milord’. And that seems to be that!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Corrie’s turned up, as I knew she would – champion wolfhounds in train. Just been</i><br />
<i>the usual riot with the dogs all greeting each other - caperings, leapings, boundings,</i><br />
<i>sniffings, the odd smashed glass and general mayhem……..</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Needless to say, this all goes down a treat with our Julian.</i><br />
<br />
“Cor, Miss, where d’yer get them monsters? Flippin’ ‘eck!”<br />
<br />
<i>Predictably, Parsons endeavours to inject ‘propriety’ into the proceedings.</i><br />
<br />
“Julian, please. We address Lady Constance, as ‘Lady Constance’. ‘Miss’ is a term<br />
used for unmarried women of, conceivably, more marginal consequence.”<br />
<br />
<i>Corrie squashes that one as only she knows how.</i><br />
<br />
“I think we should all relax and stop being so stuffy, don’t you, Parsons, dear?<br />
Everyone calls me Corrie, and I really much prefer it.”<br />
<br />
<i>She smiles seraphically and draws Julian neatly into the mix.</i><br />
<br />
Is that OK with you, Julian? I know it must be tricky for you with all of us old fogies<br />
breathing down your neck – but I’d like it very much if you’d call me Corrie, too.”<br />
<br />
“Yea, alright Corrie - OK by me – always called me Mum ‘Tricksie’, an’all.<br />
<br />
<i>He glances uneasily at Parsons, whose disapproval is palpable – eyes aloft and</i><br />
<i>duster flickering spasmodically.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Corrie disarms the impending rocket with consummate ease</i>.<br />
<br />
“Every time I pop over to Amblewick, Parsons, dear, I’m lost in admiration at the way<br />
you keep the old place so spick and span – and single handedly…. The Cellini flagon<br />
looks finer than ever – quite beautiful – and how very wise of you to display it in the<br />
Hall – quite lost in all the Drawing-room clutter, wasn’t it?”<br />
<br />
<i>Parsons is gratified – and stumped.</i><br />
<br />
“We endeavour, Lady Constance, at all times to maintain those standards to which<br />
we have long been accustomed at Amblewick. Thank you, Milady.”<br />
<br />
<i>No doubt about it, if he was your average sort of bloke Parsons would be blushing.</i><br />
<i>In any event, the fight seems to have gone out of him and ‘forms of address’ are</i><br />
<i>parked, temporarily at least, on the back-burner.</i><br />
<br />
“So, Biffo,” Corrie surges on cheerily. “bumbling our way forwards to second<br />
childhood, are we? Good-oh! Merciful relief after all those bitchy, doggie women<br />
in London, I can tell you. That dreadful Sharon Watts woman was perfectly odious<br />
about the ‘Wufflums’, on the benches at the LKA. Can you believe the gall of it? ‘Bit<br />
of a handful for you, these days, aren’t they, Corrie?’ she said, in that simpering<br />
voice she puts on for the judges. Silly old cow!”<br />
<br />
<i>I note that Julian is already feeling a lot more at home – grinning like a ‘Cheshire’, in</i><br />
<i>fact.</i><br />
<br />
“Cor!” he announces happily and helps himself to one of the paté sandwiches<br />
Parsons has laid on for the occasion.<br />
<br />
”Back to the “Saga”, is it, Biffers?” Corrie enthuses. “Loved that book in the old<br />
days.”<br />
<br />
<i>She gathers up the tome from the side table and flips through its pages - almost</i><br />
<i>hungrily, I note.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Soft, indrawn hiss of disapproval from Parsons.</i><br />
<br />
“Lady Constance, the pages are very fragile – oxidization, I fear…..<br />
<br />
“Dear, oh dear, Parsons, I wonder what can have caused that?”<br />
<br />
Julian and I titter – a dash nervously, it has to be admitted.<br />
<br />
<i>Parsons wisely keeps his own counsel – his charges are clearly ‘out to lunch’ and education</i><br />
<i>must wait until another day.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Only guessing of course, but I’ll wager that the stratagems of ‘the estimable Pyrrhus’,</i><br />
<i>and possibly ‘the French’, will be featuring fairly prominently in his private self-</i><br />
<i>justification for his temporary withdrawal from the lists……..</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The biding of time is one of Parsons’ strongest suits.</i><br />
<br />
“Well,” says Corrie, “and how are we going to read the book? We need to know what<br />
we’re doing before we start, don’t we?”<br />
<br />
“I always starts at the end – wiv comics,“ Julian essays. “If the end’s all right, then<br />
p’raps it’s worth ‘avin’ a butcher’s at the rest of it…..”<br />
<br />
“I’m with you there, Jules,” Corrie intervenes, “so many books put one off before the<br />
story even starts, don’t they – all that damned waffle?”<br />
<br />
<i>Julian looks ‘well-chuffed’, so Corrie blasts on.</i><br />
<br />
“What I suggest with the “Saga” is that we old blokes do the reading of the first part<br />
- like getting you into the story, Julian. That way, you can zizz-off if it all gets too<br />
boring. Then, when we get to the real adventures you can join in. How does that<br />
sound?”<br />
<br />
“Coo! Sounds great – never ‘ad a bedtime story a’fore…. You goin’ to read an’all,<br />
Guv’nor?”<br />
<br />
<i>He addresses me a little doubtfully.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Before I can answer, Corrie’s straight back in.</i><br />
<br />
“You bet he is, Julian – the Guv’nor’s brilliant at reading aloud – always used to read<br />
to me in the nursery.”<br />
<br />
<i>Corrie’s a serious genius – picking up on, ‘the Guv’nor’, like that is a master stroke!</i><br />
<br />
“Cor, brill!” votes Julian.<br />
<br />
<i>For all his doubts about ‘forms of address’ Parsons is clearly impressed by Corrie’s</i><br />
<i>deft handling of the game-plan.</i><br />
<br />
“May I congratulate you, Lady Constance.” he says, “Rarely have I had the honour<br />
of hearing such a sagacious solution to what might well have been a difficult trail to<br />
navigate, if your Ladyship will pardon the safari reference?”<br />
<br />
“Pardon just about anything,” I think to myself, “just to get this first hole tee’d orf.”<br />
<br />
“What would be even more delightful, Parsons, dear,” Corrie cruises on, “would be if<br />
you were to kick off the reading - as the father-figure, so to speak. Hmmh?”<br />
<br />
<i>As we said earlier, old Parsons simply doesn’t blush – but his ears are twitching, as</i><br />
<i>they always have when he’s seriously tickled…….</i><br />
<br />
‘Check’, I observe to meself - and ‘Mate’, if I’m not too far off-beam.”Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13460061510601788384noreply@blogger.com0