GUSTAVE (Part 3 of 4)
By Richard Banks
Ethel, otherwise known as
Mrs Skinner, regarded me with a befuddled expression that suggested she had
been imbibing too freely from a near empty bottle in her grasp.
“Don’t you know us Dickie, it’s Dot and Ethel from the Empire, you
know, the one in Hackney. Blimey, fancy meeting you again and in a stately home
too. Got left some money did you? More than we have, but who’s complaining,
this is the life, ten times better than that poxy ale house you and Gusie use
to take us to after the show, you know the one, the Dog and something, with the
upstairs room you could hire by the hour. What a lark it all was. So, what you
up to now Dickie? You look quite the part in that suit, got it from a broker
did you?”
Dot took breath and awaited my reply;
her hand dipping below the table top and settling on my knee. In an ideal,
blameless world I would have said, ‘I am Mr Richard Thomas, Assistant Manager
of the Holborn Branch of Bryson’s Bank, I have a respectable position in
society, I am a member of the Herne Hill Rotary Club, my wife is the daughter
of an Archdeacon, of course I don’t know you’, but even after twenty years I
knew them only too well. Deciding that an indignant denial would likely bring
forth a further raft of recollections I restricted my reply to saying how nice
it was to see them again though regrettably in such sad circumstances.
Dot, who was looking remarkably
cheerful said she had been at livelier wakes but nevertheless there was plenty
of booze and once everyone had warmed-up a bit she felt sure they would all
give Gusie a send-off to remember.
“No doubt he is looking down on us as
we speak,” I said, glancing benignly at the ceiling.
Dot hastened to set me right.
“Not much chance of that, Dickie, he
only came out of the ice house this morning. Right now he’s thawing out in the
greenhouse.
“In the greenhouse?” I repeated.
“Yeah, with the tomatoes and cucumbers.
They had to do something to keep him from going off, well, he’s been dead over
two weeks.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, suddenly
feeling the need for a steadying glass of wine.
“Oh yes, dear. Had a front row seat.
That’s why we’re here. You see Gusie had got the notion in his head that some
German fellas were planning to kidnap him and put it about that he had died,
when the stiff in the coffin was only someone who looked like him. How anyone
was going to get away with that I’ll
never know, but nonetheless that’s what the silly sod thought, so our job was
to make sure it was him by searching his body for the marks on his body that
most people don’t get round to seeing. Mind you, after all these years how was to be sure, never mind Ethel who can’t remember what happened the day before
yesterday. Anyway, there was no turning down the fifty quid on offer, so up we
came on the train and the two of us did the necessary after breakfast today,
the easiest money we’ll ever earn.”
“And it was definitely him?”
“More than likely, dear. I certainly
hope so, wouldn’t want to meet anyone else with a face like his. It wasn’t much
to write home about twenty years ago, and dying ain’t improved it.”
“Poor Gustave,” I said searching desperately
for something to say in favour of his face. “He was not the happiest of men.”
“You can say that again, face as long
as a kite, even when he was plastered. Only time I saw him smile was when you
and Ethel slipped over in the mud and nearly got run over by that tram. Do you
remember that Ethel? You and Dickie arse over head in the Shoreditch Road. What did you say?
Nothing. You just want to go to sleep. But they’re serving dinner soon. You
don’t want to be missing that, there might be some more of that nice pheasant
pie you liked. Wake her up, Dickie, before she slides down under the table.
Quick now! Oh dear; never mind, all the more for us. So, what brings you here,
Dickie, inherit the estate did you?”
I replied that unfortunately that had
gone to a family member living in Prague. I was here in the capacity of Night Sitter
and would be watching over the deceased from eleven o’clock that evening until
nine in the morning.
“Blimey, how much are they paying you
for that? Hope it was more than what we got for the searching, that only took
half an hour.” Dot peered short sightedly at the long case that was
striking the hour. “Let’s hope they
serve up the nosh soon or you won’t have time to eat it all. Be a pity to miss
out, it’s a long time ’til breakfast.”
The clock chimed for the ninth and last
time, and as it fell silent the double doors of the dining room parted and two
liveried servants entered pushing trolleys on which twelve lamb cutlets had
been set out on what looked like the third best china. Having placed the
cutlets in front of the diners and dishes of vegetable down the middle of the
table, the servants departed with a rapidity that suggested they were not keen
on remaining. The silence that greeted
their entrance was now, on their departure, replaced by a loud and disorderly
competition as to who could fill their plates with the most vegetables, those
attempting to do so with spoons being less successful than those using one or
more hands.
A sharp tug on my trouser leg signalled
that Ethel, sensing the arrival of food, was attempting to raise herself to the
table by climbing up me in the manner of a mountaineer ascending a lofty peak.
Feeling a vice like grip on my free knee and fearing where next Ethel might lay
a hand I reached down and, grasping her beneath both arms, pulled her up onto
her feet and from there back onto her chair where, wonderfully revived, she
joined in the contest for the vegetables. Meanwhile Dot, successful in the
overfilling of her plate, was now attempting to devour it all while disputing
with her neighbour over the ownership of a potato that had rolled from her
plate. The dispute settled in Dot’s favour her attention shifted to me and my
plate containing only the lamb cutlet.
“What’s wrong Dickie, ain’t you hungry?
Come on now, dig in, it’s all free you know.”
Salvaging a potato and several sprigs
of cauliflower from the spillage of an overturned dish I did as I was bid while
observing with horror the antics of my fellow diners. The main course finished
the same two man servants re-entered with three large trifles and a pile of
dishes which they abandoned mid table and fled. I did too, finding refuge in
the smoking room where a housemaid discovered me, and at my request furnished
me with both a coffee and a cigar.
“Is Mr Brownlow about,” I asked. At
nearly ten o’clock I was anxious to receive the final instructions I had been
promised before taking up my station in the greenhouse or wherever Gustave had
now been put. “Will you tell him please that I’m here and ready for our
meeting, if it’s not too soon.”
The maid departed and within minutes a
polite knock on the open door heralded his entrance. On enquiring whether I had
enjoyed dinner, and receiving the reply that I had eaten lightly but well, he
handed me a schedule listing the actions I was to take and the exact time of
their undertaking. Tweezers, he said, had been provided for the opening of his
eyes but if I preferred to do so with my fingers I could do so safe in the
knowledge that his face and other parts had been thoroughly cleansed with Port
Sunlight soap. The operation of the stethoscope he assumed I was familiar with and must only be
applied to his chest, while any sign of life was to be immediately signalled by
the ringing of the servants’ bell. Otherwise I was expected to stay awake at
all times and to protect the corpse from the molestations of the several rats
known to frequent the basement room where the deceased now lay.
The room, Brownlow continued, had once
been one of the dudgeon cells and the rats were direct descendants of the ones
that many centuries before had nibbled the extremities of noble prisoners, such
as the black earl of Longwithy and Robert the Brusque. They were, therefore,
distinguished rats to which no hurt should be inflicted beyond the occasional
chastisement of a poorly aimed shoe. Instructions at an end we wiled away the
time in the company of a good malt until at ten minutes to eleven we set-off
by lantern light on the downward journey trod by so many, never to return.
Thinking my misfortune was little compared to theirs I took up my position at
the foot of the open coffin on a low backed chair of the hardest, roughest oak
I never wish to sit on again. Brownlow lit the lantern in the room and after
bidding me a cheery goodnight made his departure, closing the door behind him
with a disheartening clang.
(To be Continued)
Copyright
Richard Banks
