Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (7 page)

“You know something? You’re kind of dreamy, and your vast knowledge of condiment usage doesn’t hurt one bit,” Mrs. Used whispers. It occurs to Tyresome that she may be a bit soused. “How would you like to play out my little butler-housekeeper fantasy?”

Tyresome is taken aback. He can only imagine what this might be, and inquires as to the details.

“First, we sweep the entire house. Then we scrub the baseboards. We divide the bathrooms, and then reunite to take down the drapes and beat them out back. If there is any time left, we dust the bookcases, then each retreat to our quarters, to sleep with the memories of a scintillating and most memorable evening.”

“Mrs. Used, I am reasonably certain that you did not filch the bottle of vinegar,” says Tyresome. “But it’s quite evident that you are working way too hard. I mean, I’ve read that even Abraham Lincoln took time out from his presidential duties to pursue a hobby—hunting vampyres.”

Across the hall, Nana lies in bed, fighting a miserable headcold. It is unlikely that she will be able to attend the faire. She is visited by Mr. Brace, who is thoughtful enough to bring her a tray.

“This would be even more delightful were it filled,” Nana says. “Like, with some tea, or scones, or porridge … hint-hint.…”

Mr. Brace cannot bear to tell Nana the truth—that he does not have the strength to carry anything heavier than an empty tray.

“Look, you wanted a tray. You failed to mention that there had to be anything on it.”

“But what would I do with an empty tray?” Nana asks, genuinely perplexed.

“It’s always something with you,” says Mr. Brace.

“Mister Brace,” Nana purrs. “We’re quarrelling like an old married couple. It’s actually quite dear.”

“We are not a couple, Nana. I am a troubled, middle-aged cripple with erratic mood swings and a dark, unresolved past. You are a naïve, sexy young housemaid who happens to take an emotionally dangerous interest in troubled, middle-aged cripples with erratic mood swings and dark, unresolved pasts. I simply do not see how this could ever work.”

Nana does a quick calculation. “Well, would you by any chance have an emotionally dangerous interest in naïve, sexy young housemaids?”

Show me a man who does not,
thinks Mr. Brace.
Show me a man who does not.

V

Where Has All the Flour Gone?

British tradition dictates that the village flour show follows the faire. For the flour show, bakers from all over England are invited to bring their sacks of processed wheat: bread flour, buckwheat flour, cake flour, gluten flour, pastry flour, rice flour, semolina flour. It is all on display in the bakers’ efforts to win meaningless prizes.

At Downtrodden Abbey, Atchew visits Lord Crawfish in an effort to get some clarity.

“First of all, is your surname ‘Grandsun’ or ‘Crawfish’?” asks the none-too-bright solicitor.

“I am Lord Roderick Crawfish, the Earl of Grandsun,” replies Lord Crawfish.

“And would that make your middle name ‘of,’ then?”

Lord Crawfish sighs. “Surely you have not come all this way to clarify such minutiae. Please state your business.”

“Actually,” says Atchew, “You were the one who called this meeting.”

Point taken, Lord Crawfish acknowledges. He tells Atchew that he is curious as to whether the entail to Downtrodden is in fact unbreakable. The irony is not lost on them that (a) the best available consultant is a lawyer who may have designs on his daughter and actually inherit the estate, and (b) that lawyer is not terribly bright.

“Atchew—”

“Gesundheit!” says his visitor.

“I wasn’t finished. And that cannot be the first time you’ve used that one.”

“Touché, old man,” Atchew says. “Anyway—get on with it already.”

“Marry’s quite concerned about this business with the silverware. She can hardly be expected to spend the rest of her days with a man who employs a fish fork to eat his pudding. It was humiliating enough when she dated that fellow who thought ‘Winston Churchill’ was a cigarette brand, and that the capital of England was ‘E.’”

In the drawing room, Lady Marry frets to the countess Flora, who has just found out that the visiting Arab wet her daughter’s bed.

“We will never recover from this if word spreads,” says Lady Flora. “I cannot think of a more dire situation. The only recourse may be for you to marry that dunderhead, Atchew.”

“But he smells like onions, Mother. And his face is pastier than the underbelly of a mole rat. Though I grant he has a good head of hair, Atchew’s ambition is also questionable. I fear that if we wed, he will simply want to spend his nights lounging around at the village pub, watching cricket games on which he has wagered far too much money, and drinking ale.”

Getting a woman drunk and fighting over her has always been a popular male activity.

“Unfortunately, you were born into an era of entitled, lazy men who take advantage of gender privilege and dominate ladies in ways that border on abuse. They earn twice as much money as women for doing less work, their thirst for alcohol is boundless, and their prehistoric sexual proclivities do not seem to evolve from where they were at puberty.

“Of one thing I am certain, however. This will all eventually change, although perhaps not until season four.”

Mr. Brace limps into the pantry to locate a dessert wine for Lord Crawfish, and is surprised to see Tomaine, who quickly hides something behind his back.

“What are
you
doing in here?” asks Brace.

“Well, I can tell you what I am
not
doing,” Tomaine says, sweating visibly. “I am
not
filching another bottle of vinegar.”

“Another bottle? Interesting that you would phrase it that way—”

“Look, Gimpy,” Tomaine shrieks. “I could buy and sell you at auction. I don’t need you watching my every move and accusing me of stealing condiments. I’ve got plenty in my quarters—salt, pepper, even some catsup. So if I were you, I’d watch my step.”

He looks at Brace’s flaccid leg. “But, then again, you have to watch your step anyway, don’t you? Heh-heh.”

“You know,” says Brace. “You might consider dealing with some of your sexual identity issues in a less aggressive manner.”

“‘Sexual identity issues’?” Tomaine lisps. “Honestly, what is about everyone at this place? Just because I like to get a little crazy in the parlour on Saturday nights, I scream when I hear what people are wearing to the Tony Awards, I read Oscar Wilde voraciously, I am vain about my hairline, and I have a set of Hummel figurines of Greek wrestlers in my boudoir, there is this positively outlandish assumption that I am not ‘all man.’ Must I take you from behind to prove otherwise?”

“Did you just say what I thought you did?” asks Brace.

“What? Um—no,” says Tomaine as he backpedals out of the pantry.

Later, O’Grotten sneaks into Tomaine’s bedroom.

“Look,” she says. “I know you nicked the vinegar. I smelled it on your chips the other day. I can help you, mate.”

Tomaine looks both guilty and slightly nauseated. “Please don’t tell me I will have to bed you down in exchange for your favors.”

“No, no,” O’Grotten assures him. “Trust me, this is a victory-victory all the way. I want to finger Mr. Brace.”

“That sounds repulsive. Have you considered talking therapy?”

How do you separate the men from the boys in Greece? With a crowbar.

“Not literally, you Nancy boy. If we can arrange for Brace to be blamed for the missing condiment, perhaps the scandal will run him out of Downtrodden Abbey. Again, not literally. As we know, ‘running’ isn’t exactly his forte.”

Tomaine’s eyebrows arch (and he realizes, in the mirror, that they need plucking).

“And if Brace is gone, who better to serve as Lord Crawfish’s lover—uh, butler—I mean,
valet—
than I?”

“Kind of where I was going with this whole thing,” winks O’Grotten.

VI

When Chickens Fly

How best to describe Lady Supple Crawfish? One would have markedly better luck describing the sun, the moon, and the stars.

She is eighteen years old in 1913. Though stunning beyond belief (she has more than once been mistaken for Edwardian fashion model Kate Moth), she finds the aspirations of her contemporaries—procuring an engagement to a wealthy or titled landowner and supervising a waitstaff—inutterably shallow.

What position, you may ask, is her favourite? Well, in the perfect world Lady Supple—despite the fact that she is far too attractive—covets the position of Prime Minister of England.

Her fervent, “bleeding heart” political beliefs have made her a favourite amongst the staff at Downtrodden Abbey. She has taken a particular fancy to Handsom, the chauffeur, a similarly minded chap whose motorcar features bumper stickers reading,
THE ARISTOCRACY SUCKS THE BIG ONE
,
DESTITUTE CHAUFFEURS MAKE MORE SUITABLE PARTNERS FOR INTERCOURSE
, and
WEALTHY BLOKES CAN
,
QUITE HONESTLY
,
EAT MY KNICKERS
.

Handsom has supplied Lady Supple with multiple feminist pamphlets on the subject of women’s rights, which have further opened her beautiful, ice-blue eyes to the fact that even a curvaceous, smoking-hot piece of Edwardian buttocks with soft, ruby lips like hers should not ever be viewed as an object of sexual desire.

After winning the right to walk outdoors, women had the nerve to ask if they could vote.

Some of these pamphlets include “You Are No One’s Crumpet, Dear Woman!” “Girdles are Hurdles,” “Make Your Own Damned Scones, Buster,” and “The Ladies’ Guide to Politely but Firmly Advising Gentlemen to Go Piss Off.”

Once Lady Supple has committed the contents of these readings to memory, Handsom makes her an enticing offer.

“Accompany me to the town square on Saturday,” he pleads. “A corset-burning has been scheduled for midnight.”

*   *   *

O’Grotten has made calculations that have led her to one conclusion—Lady Marry is younger, prettier, and wealthier than she is, and thus must be taken down a peg. And O’Grotten believes she knows how to accomplish this.

“Tomaine,” she asks, as the two indulge in a cigarette break out behind the Abbey, “Have you noticed that there’s something about Marry’s boudoir? An inutterably foul smell?”

“Well, the wallpaper is rather heinous,” Tomaine smirks. “I mean,
please
—lilac and chartreuse? Seriously? It’s
so
1897—”

“I am speaking literally, Tomaine,” says O’Grotten. “There is a pungent aroma in Marry’s bedroom, and it has been there ever since that Camel fellow visited.”

O’Grotten stamps out her cigarette, making sure to step on Tomaine’s foot as she does.

Rumours begin to circulate in London about Lady Marry, who has a nightmare in which she is featured daily in tabloid headlines:

The Guardian
—“Marry Crawfish Reported to Be of Ill Repute”

The London Tymes
—“Sources Claim Lady Marry Not at All Virtuous”

The Sun
—“Marry Crawfish? What a Slut!”

Flora decides that if Marry is taking a pass on Atchew—and “I wouldn’t marry that guy if he were the last man on Earth” certainly does seem like an indication of disinterest—she will find another suitor for her eldest daughter.