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

Riddles 28

 Riddles 28

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What Type of fruit is hidden in the sentence below?

A parent had to type a charming letter to the school requesting more fruit in the lunch menu.

 

No 2. Which vowel appears only once in the spelling of all the months of the year?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 The Optimist

By Sis Unsworth

Summer has now ended, and autumns come too soon,

they’re just a distant memory, the golden days of June.

Evenings are getting darker; the moons eclipse was seen,

It’s just one month to go now, before its Halloween.

Around that time remember, that’s when the clocks go back,

the weather will be changing, we’ll need our boots and Mac.

Guy Fawkes Night will light the sky; the next day will be bleak,

We need some inspiration, that’s what we really seek.

I had to smile just last week, at what someone said:

”One hundred days to Christmas, there are long dark nights ahead.”

But we must be optimistic, that really is the thing,

100 days to Christmas means, “just 200 days till Spring!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Meanings of the flag

 Meanings of the flag

 

By Barbara Thomas 

 

It could mean to flag a person down or to wave your flag in an act of patriotism.

 

Unfortunately through the centuries the flag has also been used to terrify and control people.  A good example was the Nazis Swastika flag.

 

Just lately, the domestic view has been to fly the flag to show others this is our country and we want to claim our borders back.

 

Flags are flown down Pall Mall to celebrate, for instance:

The coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.

To celebrate the end of WWII.

And, to welcome foreign dignitaries when they visit our shores.

Politicians stand in front of the Union flag, cementing the fact that they are talking to the British people. 

Lately, according to the Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer, any person(s) who rally to the English, Welsh, Scottish, or N Ireland Flag are Right wing. He was referring to ordinary citizens, of multicultural differences, when their families congregate in public places to let the Government know we are proud of our country and do not agree with his policies regarding illegal immigrants. 

The flag would be used in a battle to rally the troops. 

In some countries if the flag is defaced in anyway it could mean prison or death for the perpetrator. 

In Britain, a very diverse country, we should all rally round our Flag and once again cement the meaning of unity.

 

Barbara Thomas

The Room (Flash fiction)

 The Room 

By Len Morgan

It was a sparse room.  Only a worn rug adorned the floor, a desk, a chair, a journal, and an assortment of writing implements sat on the desk. By the door, a dog's basket… 

The wall above it held seven pictures of children displaying a familial similarity, except for their ages.  They were each hugging a small dog; the same dog. The pictures were arranged in chronological order, the first child was aged one, then two, three, four, five, six, and seven. The dog aged in each successive picture. Then came three pictures of the dog alone, followed by two blank frames.

I wonder if he had survived the knife attack, would our marriage have survived?  The final straw was when Milo passed… 

The killer got six years, due to his mental state, but as a model prisoner only served three years.  Today, he is to be released to murder again…

I checked my service revolver, loaded it with three bullets, and left my house for the final time!

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

GUSTAVE (Part 2 of 4)

  GUSTAVE  (Part 2 of 4) 

 by Richard Banks

The journey from Euston although long was not unpleasant and on arriving at Penrith I was duly met by Brownlow, Gustave’s man of business, and conveyed to Whinfell Castle in a carriage that would not have been out of place in the royal mews. Learning that I had not seen or spoken to his master in many years Brownlow proceeded to tell me all that was necessary for the role I was to undertake, beginning with the turn of fortune that had begun his fortune.

         On the election of Wilhelm I as German Emperor his niece, who was also Gustave’s cousin, petitioned her uncle for the restoration of her family’s estates in Saxony. The request granted, Gustave, the senior male member of the Von Wern family, returned to the land of his birth only to find that it was not the idyllic place of his childhood memories. The populace was unwelcoming and when riots occurred, threatening to erupt into revolution, he made over his feudal dues to a Dresden banking house in exchange for a large sum of money which, after his return to England he tripled or possibly quadrupled by judicious investments in the Manchester cotton mills.

         “Oh, what a shame,” I said, referring to his unhappy return to Saxony. “He always spoke so warmly of his native land. That must have been a sad disappointment.”

         Mr Brownlow nodded his head in agreement, but made no comment except to say that his unruly subjects were once again subject to Prussian rule.

         “Well, serves them right,” I replied in spirited defence of ‘my friend’, whilst thinking that Gustave’s morose disposition would not have made him the most popular of rulers. Perhaps Mr Brownlow felt the same way for he quickly moved on to my duties as night sitter. These had been devised by Gustave himself, and his instructions would be given to me on arrival at the castle, along with the implements needed to carry-out the checks he considered necessary.

         “Implements?” I said, fearing what might next be said.

         “Oh, nothing worth the mentioning: a mirror to catch his breath, if any, various needles for the drawing of blood, a stethoscope, a feather to tickle his feet and a magnifying glass for peering into his eyes. Nothing to worry about, all perfectly straightforward.”

         I murmured my agreement, the remuneration for these tasks now seeming less than generous. The thought that he had died of a contagious disease and that his final act would be to reunite us forever in the afterlife produced in me an involuntary groan that had Brownlow enquiring if I was “alright”. Ignoring his question, I responded with one of my own. “And what did he die of?” If I was blunt and a touch indelicate Mr Brownlow’s reply was equally blunt and to the point.

         “He fell from his horse, Mr Thomas, a tragic accident. We managed to get him back to the castle but he died of his injuries a week later.”

         “How awful,” I said, my relief at his reply giving way to genuine remorse. “I hope he didn’t suffer?”

         “His doctors saw to it that he was largely free of pain but there was nothing they could do to save him. Told that he had only a short time to live he put his affairs in order, gave directions for his funeral and in the presence of myself and his doctors, passed away quietly in his sleep.”

         Mr Brownlow fell silent and when he spoke again it was to point out the distant hill on which stood the grey stone walls of Gustave’s castle, slowly becoming larger but less clear in the fading light. We arrived after sunset to a reception party consisting of Chambers, Gustave’s butler, and two man servants, one of whom was holding a lantern.

         The house was mostly in darkness, only the entrance hall and several rooms leading off it being lit, while anyone needing to go further afield had to light the way with a paraffin lamp. On being ‘told’ by Chambers that I no doubt wished to go to my room before dinner I was also informed that it would be served at nine o’clock in the Prince of Wales Room.

         Taking his leave of me with a stiff, dutiful nod of his head he abandoned me into the care of the man servants who without speaking began mounting the stairs, one carrying my portmanteau and the other lighting the way with a lantern. Having shown me to my room on the third floor landing and, at my insistence, leaving me the lantern they disappeared into an impenetrable darkness, clinging grimly to the bannister.

         The room although less welcoming than the Margate boarding house I had recently stayed in at least had the modern conveniences of a wash basin and running water. I therefore lost no time in unpacking and, after washing and shaving for the second time that day, I changed into my dinner suit and, with lantern before me, carefully descended the stairs to the entrance hall. Relieved of the lantern I was ushered towards the dining room where a half dozen persons were soon joined by another five. They were an odd bunch to be sure, few if any of then appearing to be persons of quality. Indeed most of them would not have been allowed beyond the threshold of a City bank. Disconcertingly several of them were beginning to look vaguely familiar.

         Our placements at table were indicated by paper name cards. Mine was between a Mrs Green and a Mrs Skinner who had already taken their seats. On joining them the former greeted my arrival with a squeal of surprise followed by the exclamation, “luv a duck, Ethel, look who’s here, its young Dickie.”

(To be Continued) 

Copyright Richard Banks

 GUSTAVE (Part 1 of 4) 

by Richard Banks

When I received the letter about Gustave’s death my first reaction was of puzzlement. Why tell me, who had not clapped eyes on him for nearly twenty years? Even then we were no great friends, fellow clerks scribbling away at our high desks in the office of Shadwell & Potter, suppliers of black mourning cloth to a Queen who wanted no other colour. Discouraged from talking to each other on any subject unconnected to the business of the company we nonetheless discovered a mutual interest in the frowned on pleasures of the music hall.

         Well, why not, we were young men who after a long week of suffocating tedium deserved our Saturday night fun. But fun in Gustave’s company was not easily had and usually only got to after three pints of stout and a whisky chaser. So, why Gustave? he of the brooding disposition whose small talk consisted almost entirely of bitter sweet memories of Lower Saxony. But who else could there be when my days were taken up by work and my evenings shut away studying for the commercial diploma I hoped would change my life.

         At least Gustave had the distinction of being the first born son of a Saxon baron with extensive lands and a favoured position at court. But all had been swept away by the Prussian invasion of ’66 and he and the rest of his family were now penniless refugees, forced to scrape a living in the countries to which they had fled. He had travelled to London in hope of finding favour with the Prince of Wales to whom he was related through the Prince Consort, but his letter of introduction although delivered by himself to the Palace had not even been acknowledged. Fate had not been kind to Gustav and those who listened were, more often than not, ‘treated’ to a long litany of his misfortunes.

         Our association ended when on the passing of my exams I was successful in applying for a junior position at a City bank where I am now Assistant Manager of its Holborn Branch. It was shortly after my promotion to that position that I received the letter about poor Gustave, who was so faded in my memory that it took me several minutes to recollect who he was. He, however, had not forgotten me. There was to be a reading of his Will to which I was invited. The reason for my invitation was not stated only that my attendance was necessary under the terms of his will to be read at a Westminster hotel at 2pm, the following Tuesday.

         Had Gustave regained his family’s lands I wondered, and, if so, was I to receive some part of his fortune? The only way of finding out was to attend the reading, but as that was to take place on a day during the working week I had first to seek the permission of old Jessop, the Branch Manager, offering to make-up the lost time later that day or in the days that followed. He was, I could tell, less than keen on giving me permission, insisting I submit a written request to head office. This I did and, to Jessop’s obvious disapproval, they replied that I was to take off whatever time was necessary and that as a senior member of the Branch I would not be expected to make good the lost time.

         The fact that this message was conveyed to me in person by the Secretary to the Board was as much a surprise to me as it was to Jessop who could hardly conceal his annoyance. The Secretary sensing there were ruffled feathers to be smoothed volunteered the information that the testator, Mr Gustave Von Wern, had been a valued customer of their Penrith Branch and that I would, therefore, not only be attending in a personal capacity but as a representative of the Bank which, not unnaturally, was desirous of retaining the business of the Von Wern family. Indeed, anything I did to ensure this happening would be duly noted on my staff record.

         An opportunity had opened that seemed likely to be to my financial benefit as well as furthering my career with the bank. My reply to the letter was, therefore effusive of the usual pleasantries as I attempted to endear myself to the legal representatives of my ‘dear and esteemed friend and former colleague.’ The next opportunity to shine was at the reading itself which I attended in full mourning dress hired at considerable expense from a Piccadilly clothier. Arriving early I wasted no time in finding out who everyone was and handing out my card to those likely to be more important than myself, but of Jardine, the person who had written to me, there was no trace until, on the stroke of 2pm he entered, placing himself at the centre of a table facing a seated audience of some fifty persons. What followed was a long recital of Gustave’s bequests beginning with his lands and properties both in this country and abroad, and continuing on to lesser bequests of money and possessions. By the time Mr Jardine was down to individual items such as Gustave’s hall clock and an oil painting of his favourite racehorse my hopes of financial advancement were all but extinguished. Indeed, extinction occurred when on the bestowal of a silver plated spoon to a housemaid Mr Jardine announced that the reading of bequests was at an end.

         He was, however, not yet finished. There were things that Gustave wanted doing and payments to be made to those agreeing to do them. Having escaped responsibility for looking after an elderly relative, and offering up prayers each day for the salvation of his soul, I found myself charged with the office of ‘Night Sitter’ for which I was to receive the sum of one hundred pounds. My pleasure in receiving this useful addition to my worldly wealth was tempered by apprehension as to what was expected of me. Sitting I could certainly do but why did this have to be done at night, and for what purpose? Clearly, I needed to understand the nature of my office before accepting the money.

         Mr Jardine was evidently of a similar mind and, on asking me to identify myself, requested my presence in the room from which he had emerged.  After briefly expressing his sympathy to me at the loss of such an esteemed and much missed friend, Mr Jardine began to enlighten me of certain details about his client that any good friend would know but that he would tell me none the less. Gustave, a man of business and noble birth, valuing life as a God given opportunity to make ever increasing amounts of money was haunted by the knowledge that his father had been interred in the family vault while still alive, a circumstance discovered when his coffin was found the day after the funeral shaken from its plinth by the frenzied efforts of the occupant to free himself. Not unnaturally, Gustave was anxious, not to say terrified, that the same thing might happen to him. My commission therefore was to sit with my friend in the hours before his funeral to make sure that he was truly dead. Indeed if I should discover that he was still alive his payment to me would be raised to £500. In the meantime Mr Jardine’s instructions were to give me a cheque for £100 in exchange for my written agreement to comply with the testator’s request.

         While the duty of Night Sitter did not seem the most agreeable of tasks my refusal to do it was not only going to deprive me of the signed cheque presently residing on Mr Jardine’s side of the table but the goodwill of the bank who employed me and had power of preferment. It was, however, with a faltering hand that I signed the legal document thrust at me and, on receiving the cheque, was also given a rail ticket to Penrith Station with instructions to be there the day after next at three in the afternoon from whence I would be conveyed by carriage to Whinfell, Gustave’s castle home.

         The Bank’s willingness to see me undertake the duty assigned me was not reciprocated by Helen, my wife who thought I might fall foul of whatever disease or ailment Gustave had died off. My reply that he may have died of nothing more catching than old age - when he was only in his forty-third year - did little to ease her fears, or indeed mine. So, what had he died of? Whatever the cause it was too late to back out now, so equipped with two bottles of Dr Surebright’s tonic and an aromatic spray for my handkerchiefs, I took my leave of her with the gravity of a soldier going to war.

        

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks