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