Not QUITE the Classics

by Colin Mochrie

  Lord Gatsby joined Manly, who was saying goodbye to his friends. Tex actually looked as though he might cry. “Manly! Nice to catch up, short as it was.” He turned to Lord Gatsby. “Don’t know what we’ll do without this fella!”

  “Tex, there’re two barrels of whiskey left in the hold,” Manly said, clasping Tex’s arm.

  “Well, we appreciate your contribution to the war effort, old sport!”

  The Americans boarded their vessel. With a mighty roar, the engines ignited and the airship rose, flying off into the sky, disappearing from view an hour and forty-five minutes later.

  Everyone went inside, leaving Jane, Lord Gatsby, Rockefeller Manly, and Eckersley on the lawn.

  Jane was the first to speak. “I suppose we should get you set up in one of the guest bedrooms.”

  Manly looked first at her, then at her father. Lord Gatsby nodded.

  “Jane, my love, I hope to be here forever. I’ve been talking with your father about a truly wonderful modern idea I have. It could be just the ticket to a new fortune!” They headed into the house, arms linked.

  “Do you know of this grand idea, sir?”

  “I do, Eckersley. My late wife would have been fully behind it. My father too, come to think of it. Well, what does it matter? As they say, necessity is the parent of having to do what must be…done…in order to have that which… I’m going to lie down for a while.”

  Lord Gatsby left Eckersley alone on the lawn and walked slowly towards the great spires of Beckingham Abbey.

  Three months later, on a bright sunny day in August, Lord Gatsby glanced at his checklist. “Eckersley, do we have enough shoehorns for this afternoon’s festivities? The Ladies’ Auxiliary is scheduled to arrive momentarily.”

  “I assure you, sir, all is in readiness. Each lady will have a freshly polished shoehorn. The preparations have gone swimmingly.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps Father was on to something after all. A shoehorn certainly has become a necessity around here.” Lord Gatsby looked around at the once glorious ballroom of Beckingham. It still took him by surprise that this enormous room had been converted into a nadir of American athleticism. But in truth, it had not taken much to transform one to the other: the parquet floors glowed with polish, and at the end of the hall, Lord Gatsby had added a trophy case with his cricket ribbons, his daughter’s various tennis and elocution awards, and his wife’s dance trophy. “Do you still find all of these changes difficult to get used to, Eckersley? Or am I the only one in the household whose feet are stubbornly rooted in the soil of the past?”

  “I apologize for mixing metaphors, sir, but it seems that since the war started, we are all adrift in the wake of change.”

  “Nicely said, Eckersley.”

  “Thank you, sir. Some may see these events as progress, but I must confess, sir, I long for the old days when Beckingham was your home and sanctuary and not a place of frivolous entertainment.” Eckersley arched a disapproving eyebrow and glanced with undisguised distaste at the whirring cotton candy machine.

  “Well, to be fair, Eckersley, Mr. Manly kindly and quite generously invested in this new chapter of Beckingham Abbey. Without his assistance, our family’s legacy would be lost.” He gestured widely. “This was the only way to keep both in the family.” He paused. “Antoinette would have loved the idea. But, of course, she loved everything to do with the States. Will Mrs. Maxwell ever forgive her for that roller skate debacle in the Great Hall? I think not. But skid marks aside, I think that even you must admit that our first few months have been very successful. And there has been talk of expanding the franchise to London and other cities. I do believe that all will turn out well.” Lord Gatsby clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the ten regulation lanes that stretched the length of the room beneath an enormous crystal chandelier.

  “Yes, milord, I suppose that soon all of Europe will be talking of Beckingham Alleys. Now, will Lady Jane be joining the rest of the ladies in the festivities?”

  Lord Gatsby smiled at the name of his daughter. “I certainly hope so. Her new husband will be quite put out if she doesn’t.”

  At the end of each of the ten lanes that made up Beckingham Alleys, members of the earl’s staff worked feverishly. Some were not enamored of their latest duties. Jack, the junior groundsman, was especially peeved. Polishing what seemed like his millionth bowling pin, he complained to all who would listen, while a cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m a groundsman, bigod! Bloody ’ell! I’m tired of making these pins shine, I’m tired of polishing the balls of every Tom, Dick, and Harry that walks through the bloody door!”

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever complained about that, I’m sure,” said Patsy. “But I dare say you could learn a thing or two about making pins shine.” She raised her skirts to reveal an ankle swathed in thick flesh-colored stockings. “Fancy my ‘ladies’ apparel?’” She snorted with laughter.

  “You might want to be careful how you talk, Patsy. Right now, I’m a lowly groundsman, forced to do menial chores. But one day…you just watch out.”

  Patsy smiled. “I am watching out, Jack. You’ve gone from groundsman to balls polisher. And, my oh my, it only took you two years. Who knows, in another year or so, you could work your way up to downstairs pantryman.” She chuckled to herself. “Look, no one’s happy about this arrangement, Jack. Why can’t you just make the best of it? The bowling alley has brought more than a nice little penny to the coffers of Beckingham, which can only benefit all of us. I notice you weren’t complaining when the men’s Olympic swim team dropped by for a quick dip and a bowl. No, you were more than a little giddy that day.”

  Jack reddened to the color of an overripe tomato. “I want to be a doctor’s assistant! That’s why I study men’s anatomy!”

  “Of course. You and Mrs. Topworthy!”

  “Keep it down over there!” intoned Mrs. Maxwell. The housekeeper was making the rounds, keeping check on her charges. “This is neither the time nor the place for rowdiness. We might be toiling in a bowling alley but that doesn’t mean we forget ourselves or our positions in this noble household. We are the backbone of the finest home in England. Do you not agree, Mr. Carlyle, Miss Fenster?”

  Patsy and Jack mumbled as one. “Yes, Mrs. Maxwell.”

  “Let us concentrate on the job at hand, shall we? The Ladies’ Auxiliary will soon be here. Now, where’s Dottie?”

  Patsy pointed to the concessions stand. “She’s helping Mrs. Claymore with refreshments. They were having some trouble with the poached salmon and mousseline sauce. But it looks like Dottie has slapped the mousse in line.”

  Jack groaned.

  Mrs. Maxwell scowled. “Patsy, you know his lordship’s views on puns! You know better.”

  Patsy lowered her eyes. “Yes, mum.” It took all her strength not to say something about a fair pun-ishment.

  The Ladies’ Auxiliary arrived promptly at two. The auxiliary consisted of twenty women ranging in age from twenty to seventy, some married, some unattached, some more than pretty, some less than attractive. The only thing they had in common was their considered opposition to progress of any kind. Any new idea expressed through books, music, art, fashion, philosophy, or philanthropy was staunchly belittled, besmeared, and besmirched. The auxiliary’s success rate for stanching the flow of progress was poor at best, but it didn’t dampen their spirits. Lord Gatsby expected that quite a number of the ladies visiting today would be sure to give voice to their disapproval of the renovations to the ballroom. That is, until he heard bursts of giggles and titters of anticipation at the bowling lanes.

  Eckersley and two other servants handed out shoes at a fevered pace. The ladies bustled about, hiking up their stockings, squeezing into the shoes, and dividing themselves up into teams. To Lord Gatsby’s surprise and delight, their excitement was positively cacophonous. Their enthusiasm certainly made up for any deficiencies in their talent. From th
e two-handed-toss-between-the-legs to the one-handed-throw-to-the-gutter, the event was a cornucopia of styles, grace, and talent.

  Everyone was having a jolly time, not counting the staff, who whilst resetting the pins, dodged wayward bowling balls dispatched by the more vigorous ladies of the auxiliary.

  “Bloody ’ell!” cursed Jack. “Why are they taking their turns before we’ve set the pins? Sodding clueless upper crust cows.” A ball thudded into his ankle, and he swore viciously.

  “Sorry!” trilled the pasty-faced matron who had launched the missile, a big smile on her face.

  “You should get your picture taken when you’re sorry,” Jack muttered.

  “Keep your voice down!” Patsy hissed. “Do you want to lose your job?”

  “Yes! Yes, I want to lose this job! I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I miss cleaning up after the dogs in the gardens. I tell you, Patsy, if there was anything out there that was even close to being better than this job, I’d be out of here before you could say Jack Sprat.”

  “And I keep telling you, Jack, if you opened your eyes and saw how good you have it at Beckingham, you’d be a better person for it. And less miserable, too, I wager. Or perhaps you’d rather be on the battlegrounds of France with bullets flying about that lump of pudding you call a head.”

  Jack was about to retort when a bowling ball bounced off the lane and hit him square in an area that didn’t take kindly to being hit square in.

  “Aaaaiaaie!”

  “Sorry! My fault again. So sorry,” came the high-pitched apology.

  Jack glared at the Ladies’ Auxiliary with undisguised hate. One day, he thought, one day I will be above you all.

  Lord Gatsby grudgingly admitted to himself that he enjoyed the sights and sounds of this frivolity. Too often of late, gloom and doom had cast the country in a pall. The fickle fortunes of the world war had brought everyone in England down. It pleased him to feel that he was doing something for his country’s morale. A small thing, this bowling alley, but it brought happiness, which was vital. And now that the fortunes at Gatsby had turned around with the marriage of Jane and Rockefeller, there was joy in his household again.

  Lord Gatsby’s reveries were interrupted by a familiar voice.

  “I have recently acquired membership in the Ladies’ Auxiliary, Richard. I find that they are against a great many things that I too am leery of. Did you know there are a number of parliamentarians who don’t wear sock garters? With society falling about our ears, keeping your socks up is a step in the right direction.” Mrs. Topworthy glanced around with undisguised disapproval. “I did not think my first outing with these esteemed ladies would take place here at Beckingham. Trust the Americans to take a lovely little outdoor pastime and cram it indoors. And why must everything be so grotesquely large?” She squinted down the lanes at the pins erected at the end.

  “Mrs. Topworthy, wait!” Lord Gatsby handed her a pair of shoes and lowered his voice. “You cannot step onto the playing area in your street shoes. Wear these.”

  “I have never worn street shoes in my entire life, Richard,” she trilled. Nonetheless, she reluctantly took the shoes he proffered, examining them with pronounced distaste.

  Lord Gatsby slapped his forehead at his oversight, grabbed the shoe spray off the counter and gave the inside of each shoe a generous coating. “There,” he said, relieved, “all disinfected and ready to go.”

  “I do hope it is the shoes to which you refer, Richard.” The dowager nanny raised her dainty chin and made her way over to her new friends.

  Eckersley appeared at Lord Gatsby’s elbow. “Sir, ’tis a lovely sight, indeed, to see friends and family enjoying themselves so much.”

  “It would be hard to disagree with you, Eckersley. It was most fortunate that we made a reconnection with our friend. Funny when you think of it. Rockefeller, Jane’s first love, traveled the world, exposed himself to new adventures and cultures, and had the opportunity to make his life anywhere. Yet he came back here to help us and claim Jane for his wife. He brings a game from the United States—my wife’s one obsession. It’s as though she’s still here with me. I suppose no matter how progress…how far we progress…that we…there will…that is… Oh, for God’s sake! Help me out, Eckersley!”

  Eckersley raised an amused eyebrow. “Perhaps this is what you are trying to say, sir. No matter how strange our present and future might appear, we are rooted in what has come before. So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

  Re: Becker

  INSPIRED BY DAPHNE DU MAURIER’S

  REBECCA

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley—again. That’s six days in a row with the same dream. It’s bloody frustrating and bloody boring, I don’t mind telling you. Maybe it will all sort itself out when I actually meet Manderley this afternoon. I made the mistake of mentioning the dream at work. Walters in New Foods says that it’s a premonition. I said it can’t be a premonition, since the dream isn’t forewarning anything, except for a meeting that I had already scheduled. Then it’s a déjà vu, said Matthews in Baby Food. Déjà vu is the illusion of having previously experienced something actually being encountered for the first time, I said. I haven’t met Manderley for the first time, so how can I have a déjà vu? Walters retorted: Well, maybe it’s a premonition of a déjà vu. Don’t be so bloody literal. Blimey! Don’t you have an imagination?

  I wonder if every workplace is as barmy as the All Foods Test Laboratory. Or could it be we’re all daft from allergic reactions to the foods we sample? Matthews and Walters (two wankers of epic proportion) got one thing right: I have no imagination. But that’s probably for the best since my job is to taste and to test dog food. I don’t want to imagine what such employment has done to my palate, and frankly, having an imagination wouldn’t serve me well. My work deals with science and facts. I devise mathematical and chemical formulas to determine moisture, salt content, solubility, and sediment in dog food. My highly trained taste buds can tell the difference between Mr. Mutts Chicken Tasties for Senior Dogs and K-9’s Poultry and Sweet Potato Hash for Adult Dogs. Facts and science have been very good to me, so what do I need with an imagination?

  Anyway, it’s off to Manderley, Austen, and Fishwick, Barristers-at-Law, to conclude a last piece of business for my dearly departed chum Ian.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

  Although it has been a month since Ian passed, there have been times I’ve forgotten and picked up the phone to call him. I suppose it was the suddenness of it all that has made his death so hard to fathom. Well, sudden for us who knew Ian, not so much for Ian himself. He knew he was dying but chose not to share it with anyone. That one so connected to his chums could carry such a burden alone fills me with complete and utter sadness.

  The meeting with Manderley was unusual, to say the least. I drove to his office building, a modern concrete mid-rise in a nondescript office park. His secretary, a pleasant brown-haired woman with round cheeks, welcomed me at the door and offered tea. I refused. I can’t drink liquids when I meet someone for the first time: I become hyperaware of the sound of my own swallowing. Manderley’s secretary seemed a bit put out. I did accept a biscuit, which seemed to placate her.

  Manderley, who was seated behind his desk when I entered, stood up to shake my hand. “Mr. Morley, so nice to meet you. I wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”

  I looked out the window. “Quite a lovely day for September, though.”

  Confusion flitted across Manderley’s face. “I meant Mr. Becker’s passing.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He beckoned me to sit down. I folded my hands in my lap.

  “I take it you found the office with no trouble,” Manderley said by way of small talk.

  “Yes.” (Small talk has never been one of my strengths.)

  “Well,” Manderley said, obviously flustered
, “let’s get down to it, shall we? Mr. Becker was fairly well off. His comic books—”

  “Ian preferred the term ‘graphic novels,’” I interrupted.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “About five pounds an issue, I should think.”

  “Well, no matter the terminology, they sold quite successfully. Throw in the movie adaptations, the merchandising, and such, and Mr. Becker made a nice living.” Manderley looked at me, expectantly.

  I smiled blankly, waiting for him to finish.

  “He wasn’t married and he had no heirs. No family at all, as I am sure you know. He had many friends, but it seems you were the one dearest to his heart.” Manderley paused dramatically. “He has left his entire fortune to you, Mr. Morley. A nice tidy sum totaling sixty-five million pounds. In addition, he has left you Becker House, his primary residence in Warwickshire, and his summer residence in the Cotswolds.” He eyed me meaningfully over his spectacles.

  “Very generous of him. Thank you for letting me know.” I got up and made to leave. But Manderley stopped me.

  “Sixty-five million pounds, man. That’s a lot of money.” His eyes widened, and he seemed to be waiting for something.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. It is a lot of money.”

  “Actually, there’s more. Though you have the money, free and clear, he did make a final request.”

  “Well then, of course, I will do it for him.”

  “You may change your mind once you have heard it. It is”—Manderley cleared his throat—“highly unorthodox.”

  “Unorthodox or not, I’ll do it. I’ll grant his final request. It would seem rather churlish if I didn’t.”

  Manderley didn’t respond. He gestured to a wooden box sitting on a table next to a large window overlooking the car park. It was roughly the size of a large jewelery box. It looked quite solid, mahogany, I think, judging by the color. Each side was covered in a carving of one of Ian’s characters: Busy Beaver, the Warlington Strangler, Larry the Literal Man, and Ben-Bop Tweedleham. “Inside that box are Mr. Becker’s ashes.”