Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (5 page)

“Mother, please. Clean the wax from yours ears. I said ‘viscount.’”

*   *   *

Sneaking a minute to read the morning paper, Mr. Brace is enticed by an advert:

CRIPPLES WANTED!

Do you pull your leg around like Quasimodo after a long night out with the boys? When you walk downstairs, does it sound like you are dragging a dead body? Are you attempting to work as a valet at a massive estate, but continually bothered by the snickering of contemptible co-workers from behind, as one sort of girly fellow angling for your position seems determined to get your sorry rump sacked?

Something in the posting rings true for Brace—though he is not sure exactly what. At his earliest convenience, he makes an appointment in the village to see the advert’s author, Dr. Mark Quidusade.

In the waiting room, Brace peruses the current issue of
Mallet & Saddle
to see how his fantasy fox hunting team is faring this week. Last place, as usual. Glad he couldn’t afford season tickets.
Oh, well,
he thinks—
wait ’til next year
.

“Mr. Brace? The doctor will see you now,” the receptionist calls out.

An hour later, Brace has filled out the necessary forms and—barely—lugs himself into Quidusade’s office.

Once there he sees, on the wall, a huge metal device featuring sawteeth, barbs, sharp edges, clasps, and traps.

“Ironic and postmodern,” Brace observes, as the doctor takes the contraption off of its hook. “How ingenious—a guillotine! A medieval torture device no doubt in view to settle the nerves of your patients, who would never have to endure such—pardon me, why are you putting that thing on my leg?”

“Mr. Brace. First off, one could hardly call this mangled flesh at the end of your torso a ‘leg,’” Dr. Quidusade says. “I must urge you to allow me to do my work. It’s very simple. I’ll give you a shot of Scotch, then spend the next seven hours screwing this doohickey into whatever shred of bone you have left. Then all you have to do is get yourself accustomed to hauling around an extra four stones on the lower half of one side of your body.”

“You’re pulling my leg?”

Quidusade nods his head. “Indeed—pulling it, stretching it, manhandling and further misshaping it as well—”

“I meant, ‘Are you jesting?’”

“I’m afraid not, old bean.”

“Hmm…” Brace conjects. “I suppose it all sounds reasonable enough. One prays the Scotch is quite good.”

Across town, another medical procedure is called for.

Isabich pays a visit to the Scalp Ward of Merciless Hospital, where she meets a young father suffering from chronic eczema, seborrhea, and—most poignantly—the heartbreak of psoriasis.

“Have you changed shampoos?” she asks the man, who is well beyond frustrated from the effects of constant itching.

“How can a fellow with such little hair suffer such hideous dandruff?” asks a voice from behind Isabich. It is Vile, as usual unable to keep her noble nose out of anyone else’s affairs. The dowager countess questions Isabich’s actions.

“The good news, sweetheart, is that I’ll be home sooner than I thought.”

“My dear Mrs. Crawfish. You cannot possibly hope to heal the world of its scalp problems. Seriously, how could one?”

“Balls,” Isabich replies.

“Well, it certainly appears that you have no shortage of those.”

“I mean
charity
balls, you senile witch. That’s my plan to raise money and awareness of maladies of the pate. Additionally, it’s not impossible—as Atchew is to inherit Downtrodden Abbey—that I would convert the entire structure into a clinic for the follically challenged. Offering not just scalp treatments, but possibly hair weaves, and waxing … perhaps a combination of hospital and high-end salon.”

“Over my dead body!” Vile exclaims.

“That certainly sounds like a viable option. And if that’s what it takes, I’ll put a dagger into that crusty heel of bread you call your heart. Sorry. That came out a little harsher than I meant.”

Vile shakes it off. “In any event, are there not more pressing problems in the world than dryness and flaking on the head? Smallpox, perhaps? Bubonic plague? The black death?”

Little does Vile know Isabich’s secret—that her late husband’s cause of death was severe, accelerated male pattern baldness. It has softened her, and afforded her a much greater sense of empathy and tenderness.

“Mind your own business, you old bat,” Isabich snarls tenderly.

*   *   *

Snooping in the closet of a housemaid, Wren, a wrapped package intrigues Tyresom. Finally, he can stand it no longer, and he confronts her.

“It is a book,” Wren confides. “On … how to write screenplays.”

She explains that it is her fervent desire to create scenarios for motion pictures.

“That Chaplin gentleman who stayed here last summer encouraged me greatly. He claimed I had a natural ear for dialogue, and that he thoroughly enjoyed my story presentations. He firmly believed they were interesting enough for him to perform in someday. He also promised to introduce me to the head of a studio.”

“Is there anything you are leaving out?” Tyresom asks.

“Oh, yes. Then he screwed me and told me he was in love with me. Though he left without saying goodbye or leaving a tip.”

Tyresom has heard tales of the picture industry, and wonders if his young colleague knows what she is getting herself into.

“It all sounds well and good now, Wren. But from what I understand, the picture business is one in which canines eat canines. What happens when your agent fails to answer your letters?”

“All I know is, screenwriters must receive better treatment than maids … don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Tyresom confides in Wren that back in the day he plied the screenplay trade himself, despite (a) that motion pictures had not yet been invented, and (b) his parents’ protestations that he take up any other line of work before writing, including selling himself down by the docks.

When the time came for him to file his application for the butler position at Downtrodden Abbey, Tyresom knew that he must keep his sordid past a secret.

Still, he does have a couple of projects he is developing, if one is ever interested in sitting down and hearing them.

RULES OF APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOUR IN THE EDWARDIAN AGE

At the Table

Mustachioed gentlemen should avoid the consumption of soup, as the likelihood of one doing so in an effective manner that does not nauseate his fellow diners is quite slim. Mustachioed women are requested not to order soup either, or to appear in public in the first place. Mustachioed children should be brought to a physician.

Months after the meal in question, it was commonplace for gentlemen to find remnants in their beards.

Eating quickly is encouraged, as there are seven meals served each day. Slurping and chomping are the simplest ways to force food down the gullet.

Sliced bread should be no thicker than the guests at the table.

Women’s Rights (and Wrongs)

A good hostess shakes hands with her guests, unless said guests do not have hands, in which case an alarmed stare is considered acceptable.

The hemline of a woman’s dress should be high enough for a medium-sized mouse to walk under, but low enough to deter an adult possum from the same pursuit.

Women with mice and possum problems should not be concerned with the length of their hemlines, and instead be taking measures to rectify their pest issues.

Mice and possum wearing dresses should only be found in Beatrix Potter books. Women finding rodents in human clothing should not encourage this practice.

The wearing of rodent costumes by women should be limited to school holiday pageants.

Couture

When choosing to wear ostrich feathers in the hair, women should make certain that the ostrich in question is not still attached.

Men wearing ostrich feathers may experience public humiliation. Ostrich feathers should be secreted inside the trousers, which will produce a pleasant, and quite possibly arousing, sensation.

Gentlemen

Cheating at gin rummy is considered grounds for caning, whilst cheating in one’s marriage, if done surreptitiously, is perfectly allowable. Go figure.

Singing and whistling on city streets is a punishable offense. Excessive whining is considered a misdemeanour. Shrill catcalls are allowed at cockfights, but—interestingly—not at cat shows. Passing gas in church is thought to be rude and frowned upon, whilst passing the hat is always permissible.

Parlourmaids often shirked their duties by throttling one another in the halls.

Walking with the hands in the pockets is considered to be in poor taste, especially if the pockets in question do not belong to the owner of the hands.

Servants

Parlourmaids and manservants should never be thanked or complimented, as such comments invariably encourage complacency. The following terms should be used when turning a critical eye:
boob, stooge, idiot, cretin, sapsucker, moron, clown, worm, weasel, dummy,
and
arse-hole.

III

An Unfortunate Leak

Hunting squirrels is considerably more challenging than fox hunting or shooting at pheasants and grouses. It is widely held that anyone can bag a deer or a duck—but only a true man can nail a cute rodent with a bushy tail.

A proper squirrel hunt has been organised on the grounds of Downtrodden Abbey, with a guest list that includes Estelle—yes, it is a man’s name, believe it or not—Napster, who has brought along a dear friend.

He is a dashing Arab named Camel (clearly his parents had a wicked sense of humour). Tomaine is assigned to be his footmasseur—a task he is only too pleased to undertake after getting a gander at the handsome Middle Easterner. In this rare instance, however, Tomaine does his job a bit
too
well, incurring the wrath of Camel, who becomes spitting mad.

Just before breakfast, Tomaine confides to O’Grotten the details of his failed tryst with Camel—unfiltered, as usual. O’Grotten’s beady eyes nearly jump out of her sweat-soaked head.

“So let me get this straight,” she says. “You attempted to hump Camel?”

“Exactly,” Tomaine admits. “And within seconds, Camel was smoking. But it looks as though I am the one who got burned.”

The plethora of camel-related wordplay exhausts O’Grotten, who needs to go and supervise the serving of breakfast.

The morning meal at Downtrodden Abbey is indeed a glorious affair. At seven o’clock sharp pots of India tea are served, along with a choice of pheasant, grouse, partridge, or ptarmigan. Anyone who can tell the difference between these inedible fowl is given an extra cup of tea. This is followed by biscuits and tea, tea and biscuits, and then another round of tea. The meal is capped off with tea all around, as well as biscuits.

Marry sits between Camel and Atchew, who is again flummoxed by the array of silverware before him. But tonight it is the handsome Arab who has her full attention.

“How do you like your sausage?” she asks him, perhaps a bit too loudly.