by Frank Almond
“How the hell is it my fault?”
“It’s always your fault.”
“Not this time, mate—you got yourself into this one—don’t go blaming me.”
“Who brought us here then? Who drugged me and stole three weeks of my life?”
“I never told you to insult a bloody French aristocrat, did I?”
“Who invited him here?”
“He invited himself! I told you—he needs my help.”
“He must be desperate if he needs your help! What are you up to this time—treason?”
Suddenly there was a rap on the door.
We both stopped arguing and looked at the door and then back at each other. There was another sharp knock. I nodded towards the door and the Duck marched across to answer it.
It was De Quipp’s second, a fat French army lower rank, sporting a huge walrus moustache, who had mysteriously appeared at Duckworth Hall that very afternoon, in full Napoleonic uniform, completely out of the blue. He reminded me of someone, but I could not for the life of me think who it was.
I heard the gruff-voiced Frenchman whispering and then the Duck whispering something back. And then the Duck exclaimed:
“Vous plaisantez! You have got to be kidding! Il est un aristocrate!”
More urgent whispers ensued and then their business seemed to be concluded with a curt bow apiece. The French soldier shot me a cursory glance, clicked his heels, and disappeared. The Duck slammed the door.
“Bloody cheek!”
“What?” I said.
“He was only going to call it off!”
“Was?” I said. “You mean you called it on again?”
“What choice did I have?”
“You re-challenged me?”
“I had to! Do you know why he wanted to call it off?”
“Never mind that. Let me get this straight. This guy was going to blow my brains out and then he changed his mind, and then you changed it back again? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“You don’t understand—”
“I don’t understand? Pretty soon I won’t be able to breathe, walk, talk, pump blood around my body, or change my socks. What did I miss?”
“Listen. He said De Quipp said he couldn’t take to the field of honour with you, because after talking to Emma he realized you were not his social equal.”
“Yeah. So?”
“That’s an insult. He’s thinks you’re not good enough to shoot.”
“Yeah. So?”
“He’s calling you his social inferior.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
“No you’re not. You’re my son.”
“Don’t remind me. Look. I don’t mind being called his social inferior—I like being his social inferior! Now, go and call Captain Walrus back and tell him I accept De Quipp’s withdrawal.”
“That will not be necessary,” blinked the Duck.
I could see he was about to make some startling new revelation. He tugged the lapels of his frock coat straight.
“Oh, I see,” I said. “You’ve volunteered to fight him.”
The Duck closed his eyes and shook his head, patiently.
“Just tell me what you’ve done,” I said.
“You, my son, are his social superior,” he announced.
“I work in advertising. I make up jingles for breakfast cereals and haiku about cars. I was brought up in a semi in suburbia. How am I superior to a senior officer in Napoleon’s Imperial Army?”
“Because I bought you a baronetcy for your eighteenth birthday—that’s how! You even outrank me, mate!”
I was dumbfounded. Now, I would be lying if I said a certain warm wave of good old-fashioned snobbery didn’t wash over me in that first instant of my investiture. I believe my spine actually straightened a few notches.
“I’m a baron?” I said.
“Net,” corrected my father. “A baronet: lower than a baron, higher than a knight.”
“You bought me a title? But—why?”
“Is that all you’ve got to say, Sir? And that’s sir with a capital ‘S,’ by the way,” blinked the Duck, with what I thought I detected as a hint of deference.
My hands automatically clasped together, in a rather Prince Charlesesque manner, as I struggled to find the appropriate words and tried to look humble. “Well, of course, one is always terribly, terribly humbled on these occasions. One doesn’t know what to say. One means, one is overwhelmed by one’s generosity—but it’s not going to do one much good if one is six feet under by tomorrow morning, is it!”
The Duck spread his hands out like a film director, interpreting a scene for his cameraman. “Imagine the gravestone: ‘Sir Stephen Gilmour Sloane of Duckworth, Bart.’”
“It might as well say ‘fart’—I’ll be dead, you moron!”
“You are not going to lose this duel. Trust me.”
“Me—trust you?” I laughed. “Satan will be doing the school run in a troika first.”
“Listen to me. No way would I let that Parisian peacock take you down.”
“Yeah, right. Anyway, I thought I was supposed to be immortal,” I said.
“Only if you don’t die,” said the Duck.
“Duh.”
“No, what I mean is: you’re not Superman—the bullets won’t bounce off your chest—but the gene string I implanted in your foetus will prevent you from ageing beyond normal adulthood. You’ll be ever young. Just like me.”
“A beautiful corpse, you mean.” I gripped my father’s arm, suddenly seized by mortal fear. “Don’t let me die, Dad.”
“You’re not going to die. I’ll sort it.”
“Oh God, I just had a premonition of the cold earth closing over me.” I shivered. “The darkness…oh, the darkness…the never-ending nothingness—I can’t face it—I’m not ready. I’ve got a kid on the way I’ll never even see. I can’t go through with this! Everything’s black, black, black—”
The Duck prised my fingers off his arm. “You’re sounding like a Morrissey lyric! Snap out of it. Let’s roll one and chill.”
“Don’t say that word!”
“What—Morrissey?”
“No—chill.” I grabbed his arm again. “I just felt Death’s icy hand feeling my collar!”
He shrugged me off. “Get off! It was just a draught from the door.”
“What was that?”
“What?”
“Every noise appals me. I thought I heard something.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Up there.”
“It’s just the wind in the chimney.”
“It came from… the attic.”
“Er, there’s nothing up there, mate.”
“How do you know? Something could be lurking in the shadows, something evil…”
“Because I turned it into a bowling alley. Now, pull yourself together.”
“A bowling alley?”
“Yeah, it’s all sound-proofed. I’ve got the lot up there—jukebox, beer cooler, automatic set-up and return—”
“You built a bowling alley in your attic?”
“Fancy a couple of Buds and a few strikes?”
“You expect me to go bowling, when all I can think about is death?”
“Have a little faith,” sighed the Duck. “De Quipp has agreed to use my boxed set of genuine Robert Wogdon duelling pistols—Robbo let me have ’em cheap—they’re a really lovely brace, muzzle-loaders, walnut grips, brown octagonal barrelling—”
“I do not want to hear this!”
“Listen, I’m going to nobble his gun, so it blows up in his face.”
“Okay. Let’s go bowling,” I said.
“Hey?”
“Bowling, a few beers, you said.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Don’t get the guns mixed up,” I said.
“Don’t you even want to know how I’m going to do it?”
“No. Less I know, the bett
er. Then I can act surprised. Come on, let’s go.”
“You’ve perked up.”
“I prefer bowling to death.”
“Oh, um, I forgot the pin set-up gear’s playing up. Gotta get it fixed. I use a blacksmith in the village—he thinks it’s a top secret cannonball loading machine I invented.”
“So, we can’t go bowling? You promised me bowling. Have a little faith, you said. How can I trust you to fix De Quipp’s gun, if you’re the kind of father who promises his son bowling and then reneges?”
“Look, I’ll get it fixed. I’m still staunch, mate. We can go bowling another time.”
“That’s what all fathers say,” I said. “Don’t promise your kid things you can’t deliver.”
“Yeah, all right. Point taken,” said the Duck. “We could do something else.”
“Like what?”
“Um, shooting—er, no, not that. Um. Happy Families? No, maybe not. I know, let’s do some drawing—”
Suddenly, there was another knock at the door.
My skin goosebumped. The Duck and I looked at each other and both shrugged. There was another knock. Only this time, it was louder.
“Are you expecting anyone?” whispered the Duck.
“Yeah, a hooded guy in a long black cloak, carrying a scythe,” I said. “Tell him I already gave.”
I scrambled under my bed, while the Duck went to answer the door. I held my breath. I think I actually managed to stop my heart from beating. And then I thought I might give myself brain damage, so I allowed myself a few shallow breaths. I heard Emma’s voice and then the Duck’s inviting her in. I squeezed myself right under the bed, meaning to come out the other side and pretend I was tying up my shoelace or something. But I got stuck midway.
“Steve? Steve?” I heard Emma calling, close by.
I craned my neck round and saw the bottom of her pretty blue and white floral print dress, and the Duck’s yellow-stockinged legs and black patent leather house shoes.
“He’s not here,” said Emma.
“Well, he was,” said the Duck. “Stephen? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
I knew the Duck knew where I was, and that he knew I knew he knew. But there was nothing I could do.
“Where is he?” said Emma.
“He’s a bit spooked,” said the Duck.
I could have throttled him. I saw her dress sweep away.
“Steve? Steve? Where are you?”
I felt hands grip my ankles and yank me free. The Duck hauled me out and gave me a hand up.
“Duckworths do not hide under beds,” he said.
“Why did you have to tell her I was spooked?” I said.
“Steve—there you are!” cried Emma, turning round to see me holding hands with the Duck. “My, you two really are close. Where were you hiding?”
I snatched my hands away from the Duck’s. “Hiding? I wasn’t hiding—I thought I heard something under the bed.”
“Was it a bogeyman?” smirked the Duck.
“No, I think it was a Death Watch Beetle.”
“He’ll be watching your death if you don’t grow a spine,” said the Duck, from the corner of his mouth.
“Oh,” said Emma, and looked down at her hands.
“Er, would you mind leaving us, Duck,” I said.
The Duck remained, grinning at Emma.
“I’d like a word with Emma, Father—alone,” I said, giving him a kick in the ankle.
He kicked me back.
“Will you get lost!” I hissed, in his ear.
“You want me to leave you alone with her?” he whispered. “She might be armed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—get out!”
“It’s rude to whisper, gentlemen,” said Emma.
“Yeah, I know, sorry, Em—my father was just leaving.” I gave the Duck a shove towards the door.
At last he took the hint, but as he left us he couldn’t resist a parting shot at Emma.
“I hope you have not come to mock my son, Miss Gummer,” he said.
“Of course not!” exclaimed Emma. “You know I haven’t!”
“What is your problem?” I said.
“Or question his honour—a Duckworth never backs down,” he added. “We Duckworths never waver from the path of honour—our ancestors had more garters than Cheltenham Ladies’ College—and they hung onto ’em, too, which is more than can be said for some of those so-called ladies at Cheltenham Ladies’—”
“—Just go,” I said. “I’m really sorry about this, Em.”
“I’ll call back before I turn in, Stephen,” said the Duck. “To make sure you’re settled.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I mean, don’t trouble yourself, Father.”
The door closed behind him.
“Is that kid really your father?” said Emma.
The door opened and the Duck’s head popped back in, before I could answer.
“It’s no bother, Son,” he said. “I’ll just drop by and tuck you in.”
“Don’t be so bloody stu-pendously considerate, Father,” I smiled.
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble, Son.”
“Oh, but it will be, Father. Believe me, it’s going to be a lot of trouble to you.”
“Very well, dear.” The door closed once more, with the Duck on the other side.
“It must be very strange, having a teenager for a father,” said Emma.
“It’s a nightmare,” I said. “I keep hoping I’m going to wake up and find I imagined him, but every time I do, he’s always there.” I touched her hair. “You’re real though, aren’t you, Em?”
“I’m afraid so…” she smiled.
“Don’t apologize, Em,” I moved my hand round to brush her cheek. “I’m glad you’re here…”
“Stephen, I—”
The door opened and the Duck interrupted:
“I’ll bring you some extra candles—I know how scared you are of the dark,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
I could have murdered him.
“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I know just where you can stick them.”
“Don’t mention it, Stephen—it’s my pleasure.”
“Yes, I can see it is,” I said.
“See you later, Daddy’s little soldier.” He closed the door.
“He’s just trying to wind me up,” I said.
“Why does he do it? It’s so childish.”
“Exactly. He has to have his little joke,” I said.
“Doesn’t he realize how nervous you must be feeling about tomorrow?”
I was glad she’d brought that little matter up. I was up for a bit of self-dramatization and false modesty.
“Oh that,” I said. “Drink?”
I sauntered over to the writing bureau where I had seen the Duck take out the decanter of fine Madeira and the two glasses. My back was to her, but I could feel her sorrowful eyes following me.
“No thanks. You don’t sound too concerned, Steve. This is serious.”
I lifted the lid of the bureau. “I know it’s serious, Em, but what can I do? I just have to accept my fate.” I opened the little letter drawer and slid my hand inside.
“You could apologize to Monsieur De Quipp—I’m sure he would accept your apology,” said Emma.
I felt for the hidden catch, to open the secret compartment. “I hope you haven’t been pleading for my life, Em,” I smiled.
“Travis doesn’t want to fight you,” she said.
“Doesn’t want to kill me, you mean,” I laughed. I was still fumbling for the release mechanism.
“Don’t say that.”
I caught my finger on something sharp and spun away in pain.
“Shit!” I sucked my bleeding nail.
“What have you done?” she cried.
“It’s nothing,” I held up my hand. “Just ripped the nail off my trigger finger, that’s all.”
“Let me see.” She came and took my hand and inspected it. “That looks nasty.”
I pulled my hand away and let it fall to my side. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Wouldn’t have made any difference anyway—I can’t shoot a gun, Em. I don’t know one end of a gun from the other. They say De Quipp’s a crack shot. I don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance.”
“You can’t fight with a broken nail,” she said. “Call it off, Steve. Please call it off.”
My gaze fell upon her beautiful sea green eyes—those selfsame eyes I had fallen in love with—and I was overwhelmed with emotions. I didn’t know whether to kiss her, scream at her, push her away, or plead with her. I smiled and reached up to stroke her cheek.
“Em, that’s not the way these things work,” I said. “Some things cannot be undone. And we must bear the consequences of things we did in haste. Like when David Beckham got sent off in that Argentinian game. I’m going to miss football.”
“This is all my fault!” she cried, biting her lip.
I grabbed her hard by the shoulders and winced as the pain shot through my nail. “No it’s not! Don’t ever say that! This is all my own fault. I asked for this.”
“No, Steve. If I hadn’t—”
I quickly put my finger to her lips. Emma kissed it. “This isn’t about you, Em. I don’t own you. I had no right to treat you like a possession. You chose De Quipp. And I should have accepted your decision gracefully.”
“Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry,” she sighed.
I thought about kissing her, but turned away instead and held my forehead. “My only defence is—but it’s too late for all that now. I won’t burden you with my—with my—feelings.”
Her arms threaded around my waist and I felt her cheek rest softly between my shoulder blades. “Tell me, Steve. You can tell me now,” she breathed.
Her warmth against my back felt like love returning. I folded my arms and smoothed her hands with mine. “Em, although I know I have no right to ask, will you promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“Will you tell my child about me?”
I felt her gasp.
“Em? Will you tell our child—I’m sorry his father couldn’t be around for her, or him? I’ve always wanted a baby. I wonder what it’ll be. Don’t suppose I’ll ever know now.”
She suddenly wrenched her arms away. “Stop it! Stop it!” she cried, and threw herself face down on my bed, her whole body shuddering with sobs.
“I’ve upset you,” I said, coming to kneel down by the bed to stroke her hair.
