The man himself was in residence, and his daughter, but other flesh-and-blood beings were few. Gertrude Plimsby’s welcome was almost warm enough to flash-freeze Moggy where he stood; the liquid N would have been a sauna by comparison.
I confess that, as the preliminaries got under way, the role of one R. Wilmott was to loiter off to a side with an ingratiating smile. Brassworth did the talking.
And was he smooth? I should say! Purest refined oil and honey! He opened with the stuff about having technically been gifted and therefore no longer Plimsby property.
“One might therefore extrapolate that this would render me something of a free agent. An autonomous automaton, if you will.”
To which the old man blustered something about costs of materials and manufacturing, losses to be recouped, being sued by the domestic services unions for a threat to their livelihood, scandalous public doo-dah about human rights, and so on. The company was, he maintained, in more than enough trouble without having ‘free agent’ automatons on the loose.
Brassworth countered with a suggestion that made Plimsby’s ears prick up, or would have if he’d possessed the kind of ears that could prick up. His were, as it happened, the ears typical of an elder party of his sort, complete with tufts of the grey and bristly. But I believe they would have pricked if they could.
It was the habits-and-preferences questionnaire that Brassworth mentioned, the one I recalled filling out with a punch card and stylus. Moggy had, with a big show of pomp and circumstance, fed it into the device with flashing bulbs and chattering ticker-tapes, which had ultimately spat out the specifs they’d used to calibrate Brassworth to my individual settings.
“It seems to me, Mr. Plimsby, sir,” said Brassworth, “that such a technology would have valuable uses and applications in today’s world. The domestic service agencies, for instance, would benefit greatly from the ability to match prospective employers and employees based on skills and needs. The same could be said for many businesses and industries.”
Plimsby’s jaw worked, but not much in the way of words came out. Moggy and I no doubt looked similar. Gertrude, meanwhile, had a gleam in her eyes like her clockey-jockey horse was three lengths ahead and gaining.
“Imagine the commercial uses,” Brassworth said. “Advertisements, perhaps, tailored to the tastes of a particular market. One might even consider the social prospects of such a system. Being able to seek out new acquaintances based on established factors of personality and compatibility would reduce or even eliminate the difficulties inherent in forming relationships.”
He continued, still smooth as oil and honey, by saying that he would be quite willing to assist with setting it all up, by way of renumerance for the aforementioned costs of his materials and manufacturing, in exchange for his emancipation.
“Mr. Moglington advised that I bring the matter directly to you, sir,” he finished.
Gertrude Plimsby gazed at Moggy with the love-stars rekindling, or something along those lines. “Oh Cyril! Was this your idea?” she cried.
“I … ah …” Moggy managed an uncertain grin, and that was the last I saw of him for a while as the girl flung herself into his arms.
With this, it was fait accompli but for the nuts and bolts of it all. I soon found myself face to face with Brassworth.
“I jolly well knew you were hatching a scheme!” I said. “But, what happens now? You sign back up with old Plimsby?”
“Perhaps not, sir. I am only obliged to assist with seeing the new program become operational. I am otherwise on my own recognizance, as it were.”
“Indeed,” I said, trying not to let on I hadn’t the foggiest what he meant.
“For independent hire or employ,” Brassworth added. “Should anyone be so inclined as to make the offer.”
The penny finally dropped and I caught on.
Must admit, I did feel a touch foolish, asking such a question. Not like a Wilmott to be in the supplicant’s role, don’t you know. To anyone, let alone a valet, let alone a mechanical valet. But, blast it all, there it was.
“So … Brassworth, ahem … don’t, ah, suppose,” I said, rubbing at the back of my neck, “you’d consider staying on? For a bit? On a trial basis? Probationary and all, right-oh?”
Brassworth’s face, as I’ve mentioned, did not lend itself to much in the way of movement or expression. But, I swear, something in the tilt of his head almost seemed to suggest a smile.
“I would find it most amicable, sir.”
I nearly could have whooped. Forget shaking his hand; I wanted to embrace him like a brother. I did neither, of course; certain proprieties must be maintained in these matters.
“Bra-vo!” I settled for clapping him on the shoulder, hard enough to sting my palm. “It’s a deal!”
And that, as they say, was that.
The Lesser Men Have No Language
- Deborah Walker -
Visitors to Bristol’s green shaded streets may well be astonished at the city’s multitude of lesser men. Is it only ten years since their discovery? Now thousands of lesser men toil industriously as household servants and as servants to progress in the Mendip mines, the North Somerset coalfields, the copper and brass industries or in one of the many factories of the Avon valley producing cigarettes, glass, soap, sugar, paper or chemicals.
But where else should the lesser men have found their first home? Only Bristol has Blenchnum Progidicus, the unique specimen affectionately known to Bristolians as Queenie Green. Queenie Green (first discovered on Hy-Brasil in 1875 by Sir Alex Croft) is the mother plant and from her fertile fronds come all the lesser men.
Sir Alex, on the occasion of his daughter’s engagement, has returned to Bristol from his Hy-Brasil estate and announced, exclusively to this publication, that the lesser men will soon become a familiar site throughout the Empire. After the successful implementation of our green cousins into Bristol’s life, The Lesser Man Corporation is proud to announce plans to offer these creatures for sale outside the confines of Bristol. Price on application to the Lesser Man Corporation.
Substantial discounts provided on purchase of multiple lesser men.
The Bristol Mercury and Daily Post. May 28th 1885
I’d sailed my old dirigible, The Secret Sally, across the slate-blue waters of the Atlantic and the green patch land of Ireland to arrive in Bristol for an uneasy homecoming. I’d lived overseas for too long; I was a stranger in my home city. Each time I returned, Bristol was a little greener; each tree seemed to bear a clinging epiphytic fern. Soon Bristol would look like the green gullies surrounding my Hy-Brasil estate.
For most of the last decade I’d confined myself to Hy-Brasil. Modern communications meant I was able to enjoy efficient contact with my managers at The Lesser Man Corporation. I liked the solitude of Hy-Brasil. Any company I wanted, I could find amongst the small community of artists, writers and botanists who’d made Hy-Brasil their home.
The discovery of Hy-Brasil and Queenie Green had bought me enough wealth to enjoy a certain laxity in my social obligations. But with Ruth’s engagement, I’d returned to Bristol, summoned by my wife to attend a series of tedious society engagements. And I’d come with the intention of reacquainting myself with my daughter before she was lost to the demands of marriage and family.
This visit was not going well. I hardly recognised my own daughter; Ruth sat so quietly at the dinners given in her honour. Even in the presence of her fiancé, a decent enough chap, she barely spoke. She seemed unhappy, yet she stubbornly resisted my gentle inquiries into the source of her distress.
I decided that a visit to the botanical gardens and the fernery would lift Ruth’s spirits. It would also give me some private time with my daughter. Unfortunately, for some reason, my wife insisted upon inviting a friend of Ruth’s to accompany us.
“Is that necessary, Martha?”
“It is.”
“As you wish. And Martha,” I said. “I think you should know that I will be giving Ruth a les
ser man as an engagement present.”
Martha frowned. “I don’t want Ruth to have one of those things.”
“Martha, I’ve indulged you for too long. The lesser men are about to be sold across the Empire. Your prejudice is irrational and detrimental to the business. I’m going to have to insist that my daughter owns a lesser man.”
“Very well,” said Martha stiffly.
That went better than expected. “I’ll think I’ll drive the new steam car to the gardens,” I said.
“I’ll have to insist that Jenkins drive the car,” said Martha.
“But he’s only been driving the car for a week. I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Ruth’s safety is paramount.”
I nodded. I’d given Martha so very little in our marriage that I liked to acquiesce to her demands whenever possible. And it would give me more time to talk to Ruth.
Yesterday evening saw the inaugural meeting of the Bristol Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Lesser Men. Miss Abigail Winters remarked that she was pleased with the attendance which illustrated the depth of concern in Bristol for the plight of the lesser men.
The evening ended on an unfortunate note when several working men entered the hall during Miss Winters’ summarising remarks. A small altercation took place, overturning the table devoted to informative information and the tea urn. A heated debate between the committee and the men then ensued, with the working men arguing forcibly that: “The lesser men should be sent back to Hy-Brasil” — a sentiment that can often be heard in the city’s public houses.
Miss Abigail Winters said that she would not allow the incident to mar the otherwise successful meeting. She was fully confident that the working men had been persuaded by the committee’s argument, and that she anticipated no further disruptions to upcoming meetings or to the scheduled Fundraising Tea Dance, details of which will be provided upon application to the BSPCLM secretary Mrs. Otty Wine c/o this periodical.
Bristol Magpie. 30th May 1885
We drove though Clifton with Ruth’s friend, the newly married Mrs. Belle Pendleton, providing most of the conversation.
“Percy says that he thinks I might have an inclination towards hysteria. Can you believe that! Me? Hysterical? Goodness no.” She smiled. “It will certainly take some time to get adjusted to marriage.”
In truth, Belle seemed very self-satisfied with her marital status.
“I never realised how much there was to do running a household. I’m expected to make decisions about every meal and a host of other matters concerning the very minutiae of the household.”
“Do you not have a good housekeeper?” I asked.
“Oh, indeed, a Mrs. Carlyle. I’d dismiss her if I could, but she’s been with Percy’s family forever. She spoils him.”
“Perhaps he should have married her,” said Ruth.
“Perhaps he should,” said Belle with a delighted laugh at the absurdity.
On University Road a gaggle of grammar school boys weaved in and out of a line of lesser men. The lesser men walked slowly, guided by a young boy acting as their herder. The school boys ran off. I gave my attention to the lesser men, green facsimiles of men walking silently. Men spun from a different yarn from the cloth of humanity. They had dignity. Something in their silence gave them that. A cloud of brain-hair grew from their heads, tangling and interconnecting as it was wont to do when the lesser men spent any time in close proximity. Their faces were expressionless, vegetable, impenetrable. They were mindless tools to be directed by the hand of man.
A group of youths emerged from an alley behind the Royal Fort House. These were the children of the feckless poor, impoverished and filthy, wielding in their hands weapons plucked from the streets: bricks, bottles, stones. When the first stone clattered on the pavement, the lesser men stopped and stood quite still. The herding boy found a haven behind the wall of their green flesh.
A stone found its target, hitting a lesser man, leaving a savage dent in its flesh.
I hesitated for a moment, considering the presence of the young ladies, but I was not about to let such injustice go unchallenged. Why, the lesser men were innocent creatures. Why should they be assaulted in such a fashion? “Stop if you will,” I said, tapping Jenkins on the shoulder.
Jenkins pulled the steam car to a wheezing halt.
“You there! Stop that.” I climbed out of the car to chase the youths away. “I’ll have you sent to Horfield.”
“Send them to Horfield,” shouted one of the boys. “Or better still send them back to Hy-Brasil.”
I took a step towards them, very conscious of the fact that they numbered half a dozen and that I was not as young as I used to be. Fortunately, Jenkins stood up and climbed out of the car. “Need a hand, sir?” he asked.
The boys, seeing two men, ran off in a volley of curses.
“Thank you, Jenkins.” I walked over to the injured lesser man. I examined its wound which was partially obscured by the thin filaments of vegetative brain hair. “Are you in pain?” I asked.
With no apparent comprehension, the lesser man looked straight ahead and walked on.
“They don’t speak sir,” said the herder boy, amazed at my ignorance.
“Even the sheep in the field can suffer. It’s your job to protect these creatures.”
“Right you are, sir,” said the boy.
“You take better care of your charges,” I said.
The boy shrugged. “Can’t help that, sir. Lot of people are angry because they ain’t got no job because the lesser men takes them all.”
Unwilling to take the matter any further, I contented himself with a brief and unenforceable threat, “I shall be keeping my eye on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
I got back into the car. Jenkins restarted the engine, and in a puff of steam we continued.
“I do apologise for that unpleasantness, ladies,” I said.
“It’s all right, Father,” said my daughter quietly. She was such a meek mouse of a young woman. Whatever happened to the vibrant girl I remembered? She’d changed so much in a year. Except, suddenly, I remembered that it had been three years since I’d visited Bristol. Three years is a long time in a young woman’s life. I felt the pang of regret at the swift-moving lost years.
“I think it’s awful that they’re so cruel,” said Belle. “I’m a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Lesser Men.”
“I hope you weren’t involved in the unpleasantness last night.”
“Goodness no,” said Belle with a small laugh. “Percy doesn’t like me attending the evening events, and I’m sure he’s quite correct.”
I was learning considerably more than I wished to know about Belle and her rather protective new husband, and less than I wanted to know about my own daughter. “Are you a member of the society, Ruth?”
“No, Father.”
Park Street Music Hall
Nightly at 7 o’clock. Matinees at 3 o’clock
Is proud to announce the long anticipated return to the Bristol stage of
Veronica ‘Bird Legs’ Biggins
and her comedy company
in the
musical Sensation
I Lost my Heart to a Green Eyed God
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fresh from her sensational foreign tour
First Class Orchestra and Splendid Concert party
2 ½ hours of Sheer delight
We made our way up Tyndell Avenue to the fernery of the botanical gardens. I remembered when it had been just waste land. The new University College had awarded their botanical lecturer, Professor Zebulon Franks, a grant of fifteen pounds for the purpose of constructing a garden of educational and recreational benefit. Fifteen pounds wasn’t nearly enough, but Zeb was up to the challenge of soliciting more funds.
I’d been just plain Alex Croft in those days. I’d attended one of Zeb’s fundraising lectures, and had been persuaded to donate two pounds to the cause.
“There’s no guarantee that I’ll find the place.” I was about to undertake a voyage to search for the phantom island of Hy-Brasil, said to be located west of Ireland. I’d been planning this voyage for many years. This was my grand adventure. My fertilizer company was running smoothly. And I needed, oh how I needed, to get out of Bristol. The constraints of married life were smothering me. It was a shame to leave little Ruth, but it was only for a few months. Sometimes a man must answer the call of adventure within.
Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion Page 6
