Quoits and Quotability

by William Stafford

  Quentin cut a new nib on a quill feather and dipped it in the inkwell. He would compose the letters in order of age. The eldest was first, Reginald, whose battalion was stationed somewhere unspeakable in the North Country.

  “My dear Brother,” Quentin began to write. It was as far as he got; the window was open and the sound of horses’ hooves was audible, approaching along the drive. Or rather, a single horse. Quentin bounded from his chair and knelt on the desk in order to look out.

  Yes!

  It was Doctor Goodhead coming to the house. Quentin gasped in delight. He jumped down from the desk and tore from the room, pausing only to check his appearance in the hallway mirror, before hurling himself pell-mell down the stairs and out of the house.

  The doctor was dismounting his chestnut steed when Quentin emerged, and was handing the reins to the stable boy.

  “Good morning, Francis,” Doctor Goodhead smiled at the lad; Quentin was incensed. He stomped down the broad steps to join them.

  “Good morning to you, Doctor,” he said in a bid to draw the visitor’s attention from the hired help. Doctor Goodhead unhitched his black bag from the saddle.

  “Good morning, Quen - ah, forgive me: Kon-tan.”

  The stable boy stifled a snigger. Quentin shot him a look that could have fried an egg in an instant.

  “How is he?” the doctor nodded at the house.

  “Downright impertinent and reeks of ordure,” snapped Quentin.

  The doctor frowned. “I mean your father, the patient.”

  “Confined to his bed,” Quentin blushed. “Aunt Fanny’s orders.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” the doctor hurried up the steps. “He needs to keep moving; that were best.”

  Quentin followed. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder in order to poke his tongue out at the stable boy but Francis was already leading the animal away; all Quentin saw was the horse’s derriere. He scurried to catch up with the doctor.

  “You have at least applied the lineament I provided, I trust.”

  “Er - I’m sure Birkworth...”

  “Really, Kon-tan, there are some things one ought not to leave to the servants.”

  “But you said-” Quentin’s face coloured again so he kept it averted. He followed the doctor up the stairs and across the landing. Doctor Goodhead, a frequent visitor since Quentin’s childhood (for Quentin had been a sickly child) knew the lay of the house as if it were his own.

  Ah, Quentin mused, fancy that! Doctor Goodhead as the Squire. With me at his elbow, of course, in order to advise him.

  The doctor arrived at the door he sought, rapped sharply on it with his knuckles and pushed it open. “You needn’t come in if you’re squeamish about seeing your father’s bare torso.”

  He winked at the boy and closed the door behind him, leaving Quentin, flummoxed and blushing, on the landing.

  Quentin sat on a chair but proved too agitated to remain still for half a minute. He paced outside the room while Doctor Goodhead conducted his examination of the Squire’s bad back. O! Some people have all the luck! Perhaps if I toss myself downstairs and end up bedridden he will come pay attention to me!

  Ten minutes later, he heard the doctor bidding his farewells. There was just enough time to strike a nonchalant attitude, admiring a vase of flowers, before Doctor Goodhead came out.

  “Still here? Well, all shall be well. A liberal application of the lineament and some light exercise - say, a walk in the garden - will soon see him straight.”

  “Yes... Aren’t they just lovely?” Quentin inhaled deeply of the flowers’ scent. “Frangipane so brightens up the house, don’t you find?”

  The doctor was puzzled. “What are you talking about? It is not time for elevenses.”

  Quentin gaped. He was sure he was now completely red from crown to toe. The doctor shook his head and set off down the stairs. “You will see to the poultice yourself,” he continued to speak, sensing the boy would follow. “First thing in the morning and last thing at night? Tell me you understand these instructions for you are a giddy thing and not to be trusted.”

  “I hear you,” said Quentin, his face a hot coal of embarrassment. “Morning and night.”

  The doctor was already nearing the exit. Quentin supposed he could still stumble on the last couple of steps and turn his ankle - anything to delay the doctor’s departure.

  “Wait!” he cried.

  Doctor Goodhead turned at the door. He waited patiently while a baffling range of expressions played across the young man’s features. “Yes?”

  “It’s - it’s just that - Well, may I speak frankly with you, Doctor?”

  “Certainly. I am your family physician and have been so since you were in diapers.”

  Quentin’s blushes surged anew at this.

  “Are you suffering, my boy? Are you in some anguish? Have you a rash somewhere about your person?”

  “Yes - I mean, no! Nothing of the sort. I just need some advice; that is all. I find myself in something of a quandary. You see, my Aunt Fanny has given me the task of writing to my brothers. She seems to think Father is on his last legs and-”

  Doctor Goodhead silenced him with a raised hand which he then placed on the boy’s shoulder. “I do not think there is any need for concern. Your father is in no danger; he is merely temporarily inconvenienced. Let me reassure you about that. But it might do well to write to your brothers all the same. It is good for family members, however scattered, to remain in touch.”

  He smiled and left. Quentin stood staring at the door long after it had closed.

  Very well. He would write to his brothers. If Doctor Goodhead believed it to be the right thing to do.

  But Quentin’s blushes were not yet finished with him as he recalled in mortification the visit from start to finish. O, why did I mention the frangipane? He must now think me a fool.

  No - a ‘giddy thing’ he called me. Well, we shall see about that!

  He strode back to his room, resolved to be the direct antithesis of a ‘giddy thing’.

  Whatever that may be.

  ***

  The letter-writing did not come any easier. For one thing, Quentin’s mind was still mortified and dispirited by his encounter with Doctor Goodhead. For another, he had no clue to what to write. He began with general enquiries about his brother’s health, before being struck by the stark realisation that he could not recall the name of his eldest brother’s wife. “And how is Mrs Quigley?” seemed altogether too formal but it would be most inappropriate to neglect to mention the dear lady at all.

  Aha! “I trust your dear lady wife is in good health.” There! I am a born writer after all!

  He went on to state that he himself was well and all the household too. Of the Squire’s bad back, he made light, bolstered by the doctor’s words, but the letter took on a darker tone when he mentioned that dreaded gorgon, their Aunt Fanny, had come to stay for an indefinite period.

  And the thing was done!

  He made two identical copies for his other brothers, whose wives he would not be able to name at gunpoint. There was a Joanna among them, he was almost sure of that, but to which of the three she be might be espoused, he could not say.

  He folded the letters and applied dollops of red sealing wax before addressing them to his brothers, Reginald, Frederic, and Roderick, in care of the post offices nearest to where they were thought to be residing. It was peculiar to think of his brothers having separate lives elsewhere but Quentin supposed they must. They had not ceased to exist once they left the boundaries of the estate. They had gone to other places, they were abroad in the world and doing all manner of things Quentin could barely imagine. Reginald was in the army - that much Quentin knew. Frederic was a teacher of music - or was it French? - or was it French music? - in London or thereabouts, an
d as for Roderick, well - Quentin had not the slightest clue, having been quite young at the time of his departure. There was a something of a black cloud over Roderick that made him the most intriguing of the three. Come to think of it, he was uncertain whether his third brother was married at all. I hope not, he thought; it will take the pressure off me. Quentin felt remiss in not knowing more and for not keeping in touch but, he reminded himself, letter-writing was a two-way process. None of his brothers had bothered to write to him either.

  He dressed for riding; there was time enough to catch the afternoon post, provided Satan was ready.

  Which, of course, he was. Francis was waiting to hand over the reins. Quentin nodded curtly and left without saying a word. He was certain he could feel the stable boy’s eyes boring into his back - disquieting youth! But when he risked a glance over his shoulder, Francis was nowhere to be seen.

  Quentin was just in time. The postmaster, a short, squat fellow by the name of Scroggins, was in the act of handing over the mail sack to the coach driver. Quentin entrusted the three letters to the driver’s care and, as he trotted away, heard the postmaster call out that he would send the bill up to the ‘big house’ in due course. Quentin raised a gloved hand to acknowledge the words but did not look back.

  “Jumped-up little prince,” the postmaster may have muttered; Quentin could not be certain.

  He returned Satan to the stable but was too preoccupied with his thoughts to return Francis’s gaze. He had hoped to catch sight of Doctor Goodhead - a chance encounter on the cobblestones - but of the medical man there had been no sign. He was probably abroad in the county, visiting patients in their homes. The notion enraged him. O! To engage Doctor Goodhead as one’s private physician! To have the man at one’s beck and call!

  He went up to his room to change. He determined that before dinner he would visit his father and perform that office the doctor prescribed, and spent the remainder of the afternoon wondering what would be the best outfit for such an occasion.

  Queasy

  It was with no small amount of trepidation that Quentin approached the door to his father’s bedchamber. He hesitated before knocking. His raised fist almost struck the butler in the chest, for Birkworth emerged from the room at that moment. The retainer cast a swift glance up and down the young master’s attire but his opinion remained unknown behind the mask of his blank expression.

  Quentin stepped into the room to find his father propped up by pillows, the curtains of his four-poster bed thrown wide open. The window too was open, airing the chamber but not quite ridding it of a certain noisome odour.

  “What the deuce are you wearing?” the Squire’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t you like it?” Quentin rotated on the spot, showing off his black silk suit to which he had added the prophylactic measures of a thick pair of gloves borrowed from the gardener, thigh-high wading boots and a beekeeper’s helmet.

  “French, I suppose,” scowled the Squire.

  Quentin closed the door and approached the bed. “I am here under doctor’s orders,” he announced. “You must roll over so that I may apply the lineament.”

  “I’ll be damned before I do!” said the Squire. “What do you think I keep servants for? Did you not see Birkworth take his leave just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you may stand down. And remove that ridiculous garment, I beg you. You look like the man in the moon.”

  Quentin was momentarily puzzled. To which garment was his father referring? He lifted off the beekeeper’s helmet and removed the gardening gloves for good measure.

  “That’s better. Now, pull up a chair; I have something to tell you.”

  Quentin did as he was bid, despite feeling more than a little disgruntled - he had so wanted to do as the doctor had told him. More than that: to tell the doctor he had done what he had been told. How Doctor Goodhead would have smiled!

  “You are my youngest son,” the Squire began. “I know not when I might see the other three again.”

  “Well, actually-”

  “Pray, do not interrupt me, boy. Ill manners may be all the rage in Paris but I shall not abide them in my own house. Now, where was I?”

  Quentin did not answer.

  “I’m asking!” barked the Squire. “Were you not listening? Ah, yes: my sons. In their absence, the duty falls to you.”

  The mere mention of the ‘d’ word was enough to send a frisson of fear along Quentin’s spine.

  “The family honour is at stake. We - and by ‘we’ I mean myself and all my forefathers before me - are dependent on you to uphold tradition and bring glory to the family name.”

  So far, so vague. Quentin itched to demand his father get to the point, for a duty unnamed and unspecified is surely the most onerous of all.

  The Squire struggled to reach something from his bedside cabinet. Quentin jumped to his feet to assist but his father, grunting with effort, waved him away. At last, the thing was retrieved from a drawer and the Squire sat back. On his lap was a wooden box, inlaid with gold leaf, the sort of receptacle in which one might house valuable trinkets or store important documents. Quentin’s interest was piqued. Perhaps he was about to learn something of his brother Roderick’s hasty departure.

  Squire Quigley petted and stroked the box fondly, as one might a favoured animal. His eyes were wet as he handed the box over to his son. “Here, my boy. Use them well and you shall not shame us.”

  Puzzled, Quentin moved to undo the clasp. His father’s gnarled hand stayed him. “These things are more precious to me than anything else in my possession - save for my sons, of course. I would surrender house, grounds and my entire fortune to safeguard this box. It is a great honour I bestow on you.”

  One I sought not, Quentin thought to himself. He opened the lid and peered inside.

  Nestling in green velvet recesses were five rings, carved from pale wood. The Squire watched the boy’s face, eager to see his reaction.

  “I don’t understand...”

  “They are quoits, my boy!” the Squire clapped his hands.

  “Yes, I see that they are quoits but what am I to do with them?”

  “Why, why, the tournament, of course! Next week it shall be upon us. A Quigley has been champion tosser every year for generations and I, being indisposed may not participate - you may thank your precious doctor for that!”

  Quentin blushed to hear the doctor referred to but his father did not notice.

  “Take one out and hold it. Observe the workmanship. It takes skill to fashion such a bevelled edge. Each ring is finely balanced and just the right weight for optimum accuracy.”

  Quentin saw the fire of enthusiasm in his father’s eyes and was mortified. “You want me to take part in a game of quoits?”

  “Not just a game! The County Championship!”

  Quentin slammed the lid down and dropped the box on the bedspread. “I won’t do it!” He got to his feet.

  “Pardon me, I am your father and you shall do what I say.” The Squire shifted in his bed as though preparing to lash out. “You will take up the box, sirrah, and you shall practice all the livelong day until the competition next week. And you shall triumph or so help me...”

  Or else what? Quentin was alarmed to see his father so agitated - perhaps the doctor should be summoned?

  “Or else I shall disown you, disinherit and disenfranchise you. There shall be no more fancy French fashions for you.”

  He snatched up the gloves and the beekeeper’s helmet and hurled them at the boy one by one. Quentin flinched as each garment struck. “Miserable, ungrateful cur!” the Squire looked for something else to throw.

  “Father! Father! Calm yourself, please!” Quentin dared to pick up the box. He backed away. “I shall do as you ask and gladly. Rest assured, the family honour is safe with me.”

>   Although far from convinced of this himself, the words seemed to appease the old man, who sat back and smiled. His colour returned to normal. “Hadn’t you better get practising? One week is not forever.”

  “Yes. Quite. Or even ‘quoit’.” Quentin raised the box a little as a salute and headed for the door.

  “I knew I could depend on you,” the Squire yelled after him. “It’s in your blood. You come from a long line of tossers.”

  Quentin scurried back to his room and flung himself on the bed, feeling altogether mortified and far too queasy to join Aunt Fanny for dinner.

  Quenelles

  After a watchful night of turning and tossing (but most definitely not wooden rings), Quentin dressed and descended for breakfast only to be informed by Birkworth that Aunt Fanny had ordered everything to be packed away early, but if the young master wished it, a cold platter could be brought to him.

  “No, the young master does not wish it,” Quentin stamped his foot. “But how fares the weather today, Birkworth? Shall it be dry?”

  “As a bone,” uttered the butler. “If there is nothing else, I am to inform the young master that his aunt wishes to interview him in the den.”

  Quentin’s spirits sank. What could the old bird want this time?

  He spruced himself up in the mirror, pinching his cheeks to restore the colour that mere mention of Fanny had drained from them, and knocked sharply on the door.

  “Come!” cried Aunt Fanny from within, sounding for all the world like a frog in need of a lozenge.

  “You wish to interview me, Aunt?”

  Her full-bodied eyebrows dipped. “Why on Earth should I wish to do that? I summoned you here to inform you that this morning at eleven we shall be visited by Lady Garden and her eligible daughter whose Christian name eludes me.”

  A feeling of dread gripped Quentin’s stomach like an icy fist. “That is quite impossible, Aunt,” he squeaked, “For I have things to do.”

  Aunt Fanny stared at him in amazement. “And what things could you possibly have to do, you idle young flibbertigibbet?”