Belchester Box Set

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘But I don’t want trews,’ Hugo wailed in disappointment.

  ‘Do you know what’s actually worn under a kilt, Hugo? Nothing: absolutely nothing. You’ll freeze your wrinkly bits beyond recovery. Do you really want to do that?’

  ‘Not really? Is it so very cold there?’

  ‘Hugo, it’s January. It’s in the north of Scotland. There’ll probably be feet of snow, and the only heating in that humongous stone castle is from log fires, which may look huge, but, if I remember correctly, the heat never reaches further than two feet away from the seat of the fire, and the rest of the space might as well be outside, as far as temperature goes.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Hugo took a moment lost in thought. ‘I think trews might be a better idea. I don’t suppose I can wear a sporran with them.’

  ‘Absolutely not! That would look, to my mind, rather obscene, as if you were … hm-hm,’ she cleared her throat self-consciously, ‘flying without a licence.’ This description gave Lady A a flush of embarrassment, and she hurried on with, ‘I’d suggest you pack lots of warm jumpers and your winter underwear, and we’ll discuss it further when Enid arrives.’

  Enid joined them about half an hour later, and Beauchamp immediately went off to mix some cocktails of sufficient strength to persuade their poor guest that she really wanted to stay in a draughty old Scottish pile, not as an invited guest, but as a lady’s maid.

  Enid was all of a flutter, wondering why she had been summoned at such short notice, delaying the explanation even further by divesting herself of several layers of clothing before settling on a sofa, eager to hear what was afoot.

  Before any explanation could be made, Beauchamp returned bearing a tray with four double tulip glasses on it, handed it round with his usual air of formality, then announced, ‘I made Frozen Melon Balls, which seemed rather appropriate, but I used the larger glasses, as the usual size seemed a little – shall we say, unpersuasive.’

  ‘Quite right, too, Beauchamp, and it’ll give Hugo pause for thought on the subject of kilts,’ Lady A intoned, puzzling the two who had not been party to the conversation about the merits of trews over kilts, then she came over all embarrassed again, as did Hugo himself, at the name of the cocktail, and the thought that they might begin to discuss his private parts as if they were an everyday subject of conversation.

  Enid broke the impasse by raising her glass and twittering, ‘Chin-chin, everybody, now what am I here for?’

  ‘Chin-chin,’ they all repeated automatically, and Lady A, recovering her aplomb, speared her with a steely gaze, smiled a wolfish smile, then asked her how she would like to celebrates Burns’ Night in a castle in Scotland where they had their own piper.

  Cunning old vixen, her words had Enid hooked immediately, and imagining all sorts of romantic images of what it would be like. ‘Oh, I’d love to, Amanda.’ For she had been invited to drop the ‘Lady’ when addressing someone who was now more of a friend than an employer, but that was not to last for long.

  ‘Excellent, but you’ll have to start referring to me as Lady Amanda again, and after we’ve had this drink, I must get you measured for some lady’s maid’s outfits, if they’re to be here before we leave. I’ll measure you later, Hugo, so we can get the trews exactly right.’

  She had successfully changed the subject, as Hugo declared that he knew his own measurements, and would verify them himself, in private. This was getting a bit near the knuckle again, and he willed Enid to butt in and ask some questions.

  She obliged exactly on cue, having sat with a bewildered expression on her face, as Hugo protested about letting Lady Amanda at him with a tape-measure. ‘What exactly are you trying to inveigle me into, now? I don’t think I like the sound of lady’s maid’s uniforms. What’s going on? What are you planning?’

  ‘I’ve been invited – it’s all right, Hugo, it does say ‘and guest’ – for Burns’ Night, to Castle Rumdrummond. You know, the McKinley-Mackintoshes’ pile in the north of Scotland? That invitation I’ve been turning down every year since Mama and Papa died.

  ‘Well, Hugo really wants to go, as he’s never been in Scotland for Burns’ Night before. I usually just refuse out of hand, but I’ve capitulated this year because of Hugo’s heart-rending plea. However, the invitation insists that I bring my own butler/valet and lady’s maid. And I thought it would give you a nice little holiday, and a change of scenery.’

  ‘Waiting on you hand, foot, and finger. Yes, that really would make a lovely change for me. Just what I’ve always wanted, to be a skivvy in a cold and draughty building in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the north of Scotland,’ Enid replied, a positive sting in her voice.

  ‘It won’t be anything like that, I promise you. You’re only going as a maid to help me out, not to actually carry out the duties of a maid,’ Lady A told her in her most persuasive voice, before turning to Beauchamp and asking him to refresh the cocktails. He rose, with a knowing wink, collected the glasses, and disappeared into the interstices of Belchester Towers to make fresh drinks.

  Unlike Castle Rumdrummond, Belchester Towers was not a magnificent ancient pile, but had been built by one of Lady Amanda Golightly’s forebears, early in the nineteenth century, to incorporate every luxury of the day, being updated, as new-fangled domestic fashions became popular, including a rope-pulled lift, when Queen Victoria had such a thing installed in her newly built Isle of Wight home.

  This fad of modernisation continued, so that, when Lady Amanda was born, the imposing building boasted electric lighting, central heating and the luxury of several bathrooms, each with its own hot water supply. The fabric of the building had not been neglected either, and it had been kept in good order, unlike Castle Rumdrummond, which had spent a century or more crumbling around its owners’ ears, they being landed gentry, and unlike the Golightly family, merely nouveau riche, and therefore more financially stable.

  Belchester Towers was of red-brick construction, with a tower at each corner, and had three floors and extensive cellarage. The original folly of a real moat with drawbridge had been done away with long since, and it now boasted a rather more conventional means of entry.

  Its current owner was a short, portly woman past retirement age, with startlingly bright green eyes, suicide blonde hair, and a positive mania for good manners, except when it applied to her. She spoke as she found, always telling the truth and shaming the devil.

  She had found her friend Hugo mouldering in a local nursing home the previous year. A man whose family friendship dated back to her childhood, Lady Amanda immediately rescued him from his depressing and utterly boring existence, and installed him in Belchester Towers as a permanent resident.

  She then set about solving the mobility problems which had been the cause of his original incarceration in such a demotivating dump, arranging appointments with an orthopaedic surgeon, to set in place a plan to replace both his hips and his knees, and relieving him of the financial burden of living alone.

  After some initial difficulties, they had settled well together, and Hugo, after the first two operations of the planned surgery, had progressed from a walking frame to a pair of walking sticks, and was much livelier than he had been when she had first come across him again. Their shared younger years rejuvenated both of them, and they were better for each other than any therapy or medicine that could be offered to them.

  Enid Tweedie, at one time an occasional cleaner at the Towers, had become more of a friend, and her life had become spiced with excitement in the process. Prior to this change in status, she had been a frequent visitor to the local hospital, always having some procedure or another done. Now she had little time to consider her health, she was much the better for it. She had, as the modern saying goes, ‘got a life’.

  Beauchamp, whom Lady Amanda insisted on calling ‘Bo-sham’, declared, equally strongly, that the name in England was pronounced ‘Beecham’, and this was a constant running battle between them, and had been for decades, for Beauchamp had spent his entir
e working life at the Towers, employed first by her parents, and now, by her.

  During the last, eventful year, a few family skeletons had been evicted from the closet, revealing that Lady Edith, Lady A’s mother, had not died in a car crash some twenty years before, but had, in fact, faked her own death and spent the intervening two decades on the Riviera, then finally, in Monte Carlo, where she had died at New Year.

  Lady Edith’s final revelation had been to reveal that Beauchamp was Lady Amanda’s half-brother, courtesy of her late father, and that had really thrown the cat among the pigeons. But they were working it out, slowly adjusting a now very ambiguous relationship, with regards to status, but it would be some time before life returned to anything that resembled the norm and, when it did, it would be a completely different norm from before these unsettling facts had emerged.

  Lady Amanda had considered this when Hugo had made his heartfelt plea to be taken to Scotland. Maybe a break in a really dysfunctional household would do them the world of good. Only the truly grotesque could make the merely ugly look beautiful.

  The next morning, about ten-thirty, Lady A telephoned Enid’s measurements to Harrods, the exact model having been chosen the evening before on the Internet site, with a request for express delivery.

  Another phone call connected her to the little shop that provided anything in tartan, right down to tea cosies and tea towels. She gave the measurements for herself and Hugo, with those needed for Beauchamp to have a matching waistcoat, all of the garments to be in the Rumdrummond tartan – dress of course, not hunting. These items would be sent, from stock, by courier, the same day as ordered.

  Within forty-eight hours, they were all in these strange garments, admiring themselves and each other, ready to set off for what were, to them, foreign climes. ‘Well, I don’t think we look too shabby,’ exclaimed Lady A, looking round at her little clan. ‘What does everyone else think?’

  ‘I still think I should have had a kilt,’ sulked Hugo, returning to his previous theme. ‘I mean, they do wear such long, thick socks, I don’t see how I would have been too cold.’

  ‘You would, if you’d ever felt the draught in their dining hall. It just whistles along at floor level, and blows up whatever you happen to be wearing,’ Lady A told him.

  ‘And these trews cut a bit underneath, if you know what I mean,’ Hugo continued.

  ‘Take off your jacket and come here,’ Lady A ordered him. ‘It’s only your braces. I don’t know, Hugo; why do you find it necessary to haul your trousers up to your armpits, when they’re supposed to sit at waist level. I realise how difficult it must be to determine exactly where your waist used to be …’

  ‘I say. Manda! That was a bit below the belt, wasn’t it?’

  ‘In your case, that’s almost just under your ears,’ she informed him, not in the least repentant about her remark, working, the while, on setting his braces at a sensible length, so that his suffering was eased, and he looked a little less like a tartan clown.

  ‘I feel like a cross between a refugee from Upstairs Downstairs and a loose woman who does ‘thing’ for money,’ commented Enid, rather grumpily, joining in the round of general ingratitude.

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it. You need to be more open to change,’ her friend advised her.

  All eyes turned to Beauchamp, in his bright waistcoat. Eventually he pronounced on his new image. ‘I feel like a right tit,’ he pronounced. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that I’ll fit in just fine,’ he said, turning to his half-sister.

  ‘I think you look darkly romantic,’ offered Enid boldly, with an attractive flush to her cheeks, at this unusually forward remark.

  ‘He does, indeed,’ agreed her friend, and smirked at her butler, soon to be Hugo’s valet.

  ‘How are we going to get there? What are the travel arrangements?’ Beauchamp asked, a mistrusting expression on his face.

  Lady Amanda took a deep breath and said, ‘Hugo and I will fly up on Friday, while you two take the Rolls for us. I’m sure we’ll be well looked after while we wait for you, and I can’t presume to be lent transport when we get there. Expecting to be provided with a car would be too much of a liberty.’

  ‘And sending us up by car isn’t?’ Beauchamp’s worst fears had been fulfilled.

  ‘It’ll be an adventure, and think of all that beautiful countryside you’ll pass through.’

  ‘You’ve only arranged this so that Enid and I can take the huge amount of luggage you want to take.’

  ‘That’s simply not true,’ his half-sister argued, noticing how much more like siblings they were becoming.

  ‘Liar!’

  That confirmed it, but she managed to rake up sufficient grace to ask him, ‘You don’t really mind, do you? You do love driving so, and you can stop off overnight where ever you choose. I can’t go up without a change of clothes twice a day, and I don’t want to wear anything twice, or they’ll think I’m too old to care.’

  ‘What do you say, Enid?’ Beauchamp asked his proposed travel companion.

  ‘Oh, I don’t like flying, but a long journey by car will be a treat for me,’ she replied, smiling shyly.

  ‘Well, that’s all settled then, isn’t it? I suggest you go and mix us four Highlanders, and we can all toast our proposed little holiday,’ trumpeted Lady Amanda, a smile of triumph splitting her face in two.

  Chapter Two

  Lady Amanda and Hugo’s flight was as uneventful as any other plane journey that doesn’t include the unexpected excitement of a crash landing, or a collision with mountains or sea.

  The food provided en route was more easily identified by colour, than by taste, and when their bland meal was offered, Lady A ignored what the flight attendant had told her about the two choices on offer, and turned to Hugo, who had insisted on a window seat, and asked him, ‘Do you want brown lumps or white lumps?’ They’d both taste of nothing, so it was probably best to choose by eye.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ queried Hugo, not used to flying, and in a very excitable mood.

  With a sigh, she replied, ‘It is alleged that the choice is between chicken supreme and beef stew, but they’ll both taste of nothing, so it’s just as easy to choose by colour. What may be pleasing on the eye will certainly not be pleasing to the taste buds.’

  ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ he decided distractedly, looking out of the window again, through a break in the clouds.

  She had already had to dissuade her travelling companion from having a practice run with his life-jacket, and had rescued him from the lavatory, where he was unable to work out which way the door opened, and had cried plaintively for help, like one of the three old ladies in the ‘Oh dear, what can the matter be?’ children’s song, so she was just pleased that he had found something on the ground to hold his attention.

  The brown lumps also distracted him for a while, but she was mightily relieved when the plane landed, feeling great sympathy for mothers who had to travel with small children.

  They were met at the airport by an ancient Bentley and an even older chauffeur, a bent old man whose face was as creased as that of a monkey, his head proving to be covered with only tiny wisps of white hair, when he doffed his cap. He introduced himself as Angus Hamilton, tottered around in a haphazard manner while Hugo loaded the bags into the boot, then fussed around them with fluffy blankets, when they were finally settled in the rear of the car.

  ‘How long is the drive?’ asked Lady A through the ancient speaking tube, raising her voice sufficiently for it to carry without the tube’s aid, as their chauffeur had not proved to have the acutest hearing during their short acquaintance.

  After three repetitions of her question, Hamilton considered for a moment or two, then said, ‘It should take about an hour and a half, but with the snow, it’ll take a wee bitty longer, ye ken.’

  There was quite a bit of snow lying around, and although this proved a very pretty prospect through the windows, it was obvious how detrimental to
driving it was, as the car slipped and slid in an alarming manner, while Hamilton fought to control the wheel, sitting so low, that he could barely see over the steering wheel.

  ‘The gritters couldnae get oot the mornin’, because their diesel was frozen solid,’ he informed them in a cheerful voice.

  It was a tense drive, Lady A resorting to silent prayers, while Hugo cowered under his blanket like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, and took, not an hour and a half, but nearer four hours. The heater in the car worked in only a half-hearted way, and they were frozen stiff by the time the vehicle crawled up the long drive to Castle Rumdrummond, which had, fortunately, been gritted by the estate workers.

  Hamilton seemed not a jot affected by the bitter temperatures, both inside and outside the car, and ,dismissing them as poncy Sassenachs, wheezed his way up to the front door to get someone to help with the bags. As far as he was concerned, his duty was done for he would have no truck with heaving around luggage,.

  A suitably attired member of the household staff came out to their aid, and introduced himself as Walter Waule, butler-cum-valet to Sir Cardew McKinley-Mackintosh. ‘We dinnae hae a great number of workers in the Castle, so we all double up, as it were,’ he explained, rolling his ‘r’s ferociously. ‘Hae ye any staff with ye?’

  ‘We’ve got a valet and lady’s maid arriving by car sometime tomorrow,’ Lady A explained.

  ‘That’s vera well, as some of the guests seemed tae hae forgotten to bring staff wi’ them, and we cannae cope withoot help.’

  He showed them to their rooms, explaining that the booming sound they heard as they entered was the dressing bell. The two Sassenachs had hoped to arrive in time for afternoon tea, well over by now, but it was only six o’clock, and surely far too early to be dressing for dinner.

  ‘Dinner will be served at six-thirty,’ explained Hamilton. ‘The master and mistress like to dine early, so they can get to bed by nine. No need to change t’night, as ye’ve on’y just arrived.’