Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (11 page)

*   *   *

Handsom is turned down for military service due to overly audible snoring.

Meanwhile, Enid flirts incessantly with the incoming visitors to the hair treatment center, washing, deep-conditioning, and rinsing, and experiencing the satisfaction of being of service. Vile returns from a visit with Slovenia in London as the Crawfish family is dining.

“Are you sitting down?” she asks.

“Of course,” says Lord Crawfish. “What does it look like?”

“It’s an expression. I have a juicy piece of gossip. It seems that Atchew’s fiancée, Slovenia, is a spy. She stole documents from her uncle’s cousin’s friend’s brother’s sister-in-law, which were then given to Dick Calamine … who she is sleeping with, by the way.”

Lady Marry is devastated. She is torn between a philistine who cannot differentiate his eating utensils and a lecherous toilet tissue magnate. As it happens, they are each carrying on with another woman, who happens to also be the same woman. Her mind thoroughly boggled, Marry takes to bed for several days, with a stack of magazines and a frozen cheesecake she finds in the icebox, made in town by a certain Miss Tess Coe.

Laizy expresses concern that when Fodder returns from the front lines, he will not only continue to pursue her, but ask her complicated math problems, one of his many irritating habits. Mrs. Patmimore assures Laizy that Fodder is a buffoon who will accept love from just about anything. She suggests that Laizy try to encourage a romance between Fodder and a Persian rug in the library.

General Smutt, a decorated officer, visits Downtrodden Abbey for dinner. Tomaine proceeds to
re
decorate him. While a brilliant military strategist, Smutt is known to possess a filthy mind, with no filter between his prurient thoughts and his tongue.

“A mighty tasty piece of meat,” Smutt says as he chews Mrs. Patmimore’s leathery prime rib while eyeing Lady Supple. “In fact, I could see sharing the rest of my life with it and making it do all sorts of nasty things to me in the bedroom.”

“Happy to see that our cook hasn’t lost her touch,” says Lord Crawfish, never one to comprehend double entendre.

“General, why don’t you keep
your
meat in your trousers?” Supple suggests.

“I would be happy to tenderize the general’s meat,” offers Enid.

“Keep your day job, Tootsie,” General Smutt says. “Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a face for radio?”

“Why is everyone so consumed with this blasted ‘radio’ gizmo?” asks Vile, shaking her jowls huffily.

In the pantry, Nana finds a note written by Handsom, saying that by the time she reads this, he will be getting carted off to jail for pulling the general’s chair out from under him when he moves into the drawing room after dinner.

At the last minute, however, as he approaches the chair in question, Handsom is wrestled to the ground by staff members, as is the chair. Handsom tells Supple that he was only planning to embarrass the general, and he had a rubber chicken and a whoopee cushion at the ready if the chair stunt had failed. As amusing as those pranks may have been, he awaits rather serious consequences for his actions.

Fodder proposes to Laizy. Rather than hurt his feelings she decides to accept, and spend the rest of her life in the company of the dim-witted social outcast.

As for Clang, Lord Crawfish must take him aside and deliver some harsh news.

“Clang, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Go where?”

Lord Crawfish sighs. He knew this was going to be difficult.

“Your services are no longer required at Downtrodden Abbey.”

Clang beams. “Oh, that’s smashing—you mean I can just live here now and have everyone else do the labourious bits?”

Much as the sounds of dishes smashing, windows breaking, and the disappointment over his inferior domestic skills will be missed, Lord Crawfish walks Clang to the front door, hands him a five pound note, and kicks him down the steps.

MEALTIMES FOR THE STAFF

Breakfast, dinner, and supper constitute the basic servant meals, as opposed to the seven meals partaken by the family.

Beer is the only staple in the servants’ diet. A beer allowance is provided for those who do not wish to drink beer at mealtime. There has never been one beer redeemed for cash in the history of Downtrodden Abbey.

Early corkscrew, c. 1908.

Servants serving servants can be a challenging business. Seating is based on the hierarchy of the staff. The head butler sits at the head of the table. The lowliest, most junior maid will sit
under
the table. Male servants sit on one side, and females along the other. Games of “footsie” are strictly forbidden, but this activity is difficult to police and goes on nonetheless.

At dinner the butler carves the meat, then has his work inspected by the footmasseur, who writes a detailed report and hands it to the valet. If the valet’s approval is met, the platter is given to the housekeeper, who serves the vegetables and arranges the garnish. Once the scullery maid approves the arrangement of the vegetables and garnish on the plate, the plates are distributed for consumption. By this this time, however, often the allotted time for the servants to eat has expired.

Pretty depressing, huh?

X

Sunday Roast

Enid has one of her brilliant ideas—to stage a roast in order to lift the spirits of the soldiers who have not quite yet figured out what to do with their hair.

The much-anticipated event is reviewed by the
London Tymes,
in a snippy tone that makes many suspect that the writer is none other than Tomaine:

Downtrodden Abbey served up a Sunday roast last night, but it was hardly a nourishing one.

Roastmaster General for the evening was Lord Roderick Crawfish, the Earl of Grandsun—hardly an inspired choice for a comedy show, if you have ever met the bloke—who welcomed the assembled in the estate’s Great Hall.

“It’s splendid to have everyone here at Downtrodden Abbey,” Lord Crawfish began. “You know, this place is so vast that Countess Flora and I each sleep in separate counties.”

The roast’s attendees, particularly the servants, were hardly amused by this alleged jest, which only pointed out the financial inequity and the class warfare many have predicted will eventually destroy England. Noses were thumbed en masse by the embittered Downtrodden staff, whom the earl nonetheless targeted for his next sorry attempt at wit.

“Seriously, though, I’m so glad the servants have elected to attend tonight,” Lord Crawfish continued, as he perspired and tugged at his bowtie nervously. “Now, I don’t want to say most of you are quite poor, but I don’t think the lot of you could even afford to pay
attention
.”

“Why should we? You stink!” one of the maids shouted from the back, as an overripe tomato whizzed by Lord Crawfish’s head.

“You’re fired!” said Crawfish, earning his first (and last) laugh of the evening.

“Our first speaker is Lady Enid,” Crawfish introduced his unattractive middle daughter. “I am not saying that Enid is homely, but when she was born, the countess said to me, ‘What a treasure!’ and I replied, ‘You’re absolutely right! Let’s bury it!’”

Lady Enid, heiress to her father’s lack of timing and clearly unaware of what constitutes a roast—or entertainment, for that matter—followed with an impassioned but dreadfully boring description of the Abbey’s transformation into what she believes is “a destination for soldiers with challenging coiffure issues. A haven for fallen warriors with rising hairlines, one might say.” A derby was passed, and donations accepted.

Next up was Isabich Crawfish, who trotted out her semi-popular “You’re so old” jokes with the guest of honour, as usual, serving as her foil. Isabich (no spring chicken herself) managed to land a few zingers at the ancient dowager countess’s expense.

Finally, it was time for Vile to take the stage. She opened by thanking her son for hosting.

“This is the most strenuous activity Roderick has engaged in for quite some time,” said Vile. “I mean, seriously—this guy is so lazy, he sticks his nose out the window so that the wind can blow it for him!”

The crowd—particularly the servants, in this instance—roared.

“Raising Roderick taught me something very important. Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will still merely sit on his useless rump all day and have others prepare the fish for him.”

All in all, it was a night to remember—remember
not
to attend next year, that is.

*   *   *

Flora reaches the end of her rope regarding the use of Downtrodden Abbey as a hair care centre, and confronts Isabich.

“This is absurd,” Lady Crawfish snaps. “I’m sick and tired of walking the halls and smelling mousse, pomade, shampoo, and hair spray. “And has there been any improvement? These men aren’t looking any better. I see parts on the wrong side. I see uneven sideburns, and ill-advised mustaches. Face it, Isabich—this was a lousy idea. I mean, why not open a big and tall men’s shop in Tokyo while you’re at it?”
Damn,
she thinks.
That line would have killed at the roast.

“I have had quite enough of your incessant criticism, Flora,” counters Isabich. “I am seriously considering moving to France, the true home of the pompadour and coiffure—where hair styling is honoured and revered.”

In the parlour, Vile has tea with Marry, with the express purpose of querying her about Supple’s taste in men.

“There is something seriously wrong with your sister,” says Vile. “I’ve never known her to take a special interest in gardening, yet she will talk for hours on end with a lowly groundskeeper. Her fascination with mechanics has also been a well-kept secret—how else could one explain the endless conversations she conducts in the garage with that driver—?”

“Handsom?”

“He’s all right, I suppose. I tend to go for the swarthy, ruggedly intelligent countenances of Louis Pasteur or Alfred Nobel—”

“That’s his
name,
is what I meant,” says Marry. “The chauffeur. Handsom.”

“And would you surmise that Supple has designs to permanently join souls with this lowly, destitute, poor-as-a-churchmouse, bread-sandwich-eating motorcar jockey? I mean no judgement, of course—I am merely curious.”

Meanwhile, Lord Crawfish receives a letter from Calamine:

My Dear Lord Crawfish:

It has come to my attention that asking for your daughter Marry’s hand in marriage without first speaking to you was a frightful breach of etiquette. I implore you to understand that this lack of judgement is in no way indicative of my character. It was not my intent to insult someone as insecure, sensitive, intolerant, and egocentric as you. Please accept my apologies, although I fear you may not, because my experience of you is that you tend to be pigheaded and rigid.

Under separate cover, I am sending a fruit basket, in hopes that the sweet flavour of produce will diminish the sour taste in your mouth from this unfortunate event. I would continue to apply euphemism and evocative metaphor to this situation, but I have used up my quota on an earlier letter in the service of battling a violation for urinating in public.

Respectfully,

Dick Calamine

At the turn of the century, writer’s block was a typical cause of death.

In his foxhole, Atchew receives a letter as well—from Lady Marry, at the suggestion of her father. Fodder, now working as his letter reader, reads it to him.

Dear Atchew:

So, how’s it going? Is your foxhole comfortable? Have you been shot? That would be horrible. I mean, if anything were to happen to you, I would just be devastated. Really. You must believe me. Just thinking about it upsets me to no end. It would be difficult for me to go on. I’m quite literally shaking as I write this.