GUSTAVE (Part 4 of 5)
By Richard Banks
There is
little that can be said in favour of night sitting a corpse in a cold dungeon
with rats, even less when you are also in the presence of ghosts. There were
several, and although they were only visible through flickering shadows on the
walls and ceilings they were most loud in their lamentations. They evidently
had much to complain about but apart from the occasional uttering of words such
as ‘death’ and ‘oh no’ their ability to communicate their displeasure was
limited to their vociferous wailing and sharp blasts of icy air. Reasoning that
neither noise nor air was going to do me any actual harm I resolutely persisted
with my night sitting duties while singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ in the
hope that this would be agreeable to those who had once been fighting men.
Whether it was the song or my rendition of it that displeased them only they
will know but on my beginning the second verse the ear splitting shrieking of
several voices caused such a commotion in the air that my hair stood up on end
and could not be made to come down again for several weeks. Even so I persisted
in my duties reciting the Lord’s Prayer under my breath in case that also met
with their disapproval. Could I have continued so until sunrise and beyond?
Spunk was needed and spunk I had, but nothing was going to fortify me against
the shock of Gustave’s voice.
“Richard, Richard why did you forsake
me, I who was your friend, your ever faithful friend?” Did I see his lips move
in the flickering light? I did. At least
I think I did, and in reaching out in terror for the bell rope and bringing it
silently to the ground I also fell, losing all consciousness.
I awoke to find myself lying on a
couch, Brownlow looking down at me with grim expression. He had, he said,
decided to look in on me at 3am and on finding me insensible but still
breathing had me brought up into the house where, by pouring whisky down my
throat through a funnel, he had managed to restore me to something resembling
my usual self. On my standing, and finding my legs barely able to support me,
Brownlow insisted I take another whisky which he assured me was the best
treatment for shock outside
It was I admit an error of judgement to
accept and then drink the sherry offered me but the sight of everyone else with
glass in hand persuaded me that the example of so many eminent persons was not
to be ignored. Having done my duty by
Gustave as far as rats and ghosts had allowed I now steeled myself to be the
good ambassador of the bank by making the acquaintance of the Countess Sophy,
heiress to Gustave’s fortune.
It was a situation requiring the utmost
tact and diplomacy. While conducting business at a funeral was a social faux
pas unlikely to be forgiven, my mission was to convey the impression of a
capable and trustworthy representative of Brysons whose mission it was to
communicate their genuine and heartfelt condolences. If during our conversation
I was to say that the Bank was ready to offer every help in her ‘hour of need’
this was as far as I could go. Clearly there was much to be gained or lost. But
who among those present was the Countess Sophy? This I needed to know, and
soon, before the number of people wishing to speak to her became too many.
Fortunately Brownlow was back at my side solicitously enquiring after my
health.
“Fine,” I said, unconvincingly.
“Fine?” he said, the look on his face
suggesting that from where he was standing I was anything but ‘fine’. “I think
you need a little pick me up, dear boy. Here take one of these. Slip it into
your glass, let it dissolve and when you are feeling a little better I’ll
introduce you to her ladyship. Having emptied my glass with a single,
determined gulp I was not long in feeling its benefits. While my ability to
walk and stand seemed much as before I was filled with a sensation of untroubled
euphoria that seemed anything but appropriate to the solemn events going on
around me. Nevertheless at Brownlow’s prompting I joined the throng of persons
gathered about the Countess and on her becoming free Brownlow stepped in and
almost pushed me towards her.
I had long considered what I was to
say, rehearsing every line and the correct cadence for the most important
words. First, there must be my commiserations to her ladyship on the sad loss
of such a valued family member followed by my sanguine, but solemn,
recollections of Gustave’s many admiral qualities, after that a polite enquiry
as to whether her ladyship would be remaining in the country and ending with
mention of the bank. All this to be articulated in a well scripted cameo of a
few minutes. What actually happened I am less than sure.
Never get off to a bad start if you can
help it, and help it I could not. There are many words to express grief but the
only one I could bring to mind was ‘sorry’. I was sorry, the bank was sorry,
Helen was sorry, indeed everyone I knew was sorry, even Mr Gladstone in
How I thought I would be allowed into
the church soaked to the skin and covered in pond life I can only attribute to
the fact that I was still not looking at the world through the prism of sound
reason. Nevertheless I was not beaten yet and finding a clear glass window near
the front of the nave I peered in, following the service as best I could,
lustily singing the hymns and ready to cheer the corpse as it was carried out
of the church. Unfortunately, or so it seemed at the time, I was interrupted by
the same two men as before, who this time locked me in a shed. The shed had a
window through which I watched the coffin taken away in a four horse hearse and
the guests return to the ballroom for lunch. Mid afternoon a long line of carriages
arrived for their well heeled owners and, once they were safely out of sight, a
charabang trundled up and after disappearing around the back of the house
returned a few minutes later with my fellow diners on board, including Dot and
Ethel.
It seemed I had been forgotten until,
with the sun low in the sky, the door jolted open and I was reunited with my
belongings by a liveried servant who told me his instructions were to escort me
to the main gate and set me on the road to Penrith. It was a long walk, a very
long walk, and on missing the last train I slept on the platform until catching
the 5.20 back to
(to be continued)
Copyright
Richard Banks
How Unfortunate...
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