The Room on the Second Floor

by T A Williams

  Chapter 9

  Two miles along the road, Duggie was also relieved. In his case it was because his search for the elusive butler had come to an end.

  Henri was easy to spot in the public bar of the Prince William. Not because of a tricolour in his button hole, or an all-pervading reek of garlic, but simply by virtue of the fact that the place was quite empty, apart from this one man. He was sitting on one of the stools at the bar, nursing a glass of some colourless liquid. He was in his mid to late fifties, almost bald, but desperately trying to conceal the fact. His chosen method was to grow the hair at the sides of his head, and curl it onto the bald central part. There, it formed an intricate series of swirls and curls, held in place by a liberal coating of hair cream.

  Duggie advanced down the bar towards him. He was almost upon him when the barman appeared from somewhere behind the bar and greeted him.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. And what can I get you?’

  Duggie had a moment of inspiration.

  ‘I’ll have what he’s drinking.’ He pointed at the Frenchman and the barman’s face dropped.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He didn’t look too happy. Duggie realised why when the glass was placed in front of him. It was full to the brim and quite transparent. His suspicions were confirmed as he raised the glass to his lips. Well, at least he could cross out alcoholism as a reason for absence from work.

  ‘Henri?’ He slid onto a stool and opened the conversation. The other man raised his head from his water and nodded. Duggie introduced himself.

  ‘I am Douglas Scott and I’m the new manager… Chief Executive of Toplingham Country Club.’ The barman seemed far more interested than Henri, who only just glanced up briefly, before once more turning his eyes downwards. ‘This is my first day and I have been trying to meet all the staff.’

  ‘That little tittle-tattle, Patrick. He told you I was here?’ There was undisguised annoyance in his voice. The accent was part Inspector Clouseau, part Eastenders, but the pose was pure Bogart, albeit without the stubbly chin, straight out of The African Queen. How did he manage it on a glass of water?

  ‘Never mind how I found you. I am only pleased that I have.’ Duggie warmed to the task ahead of him. ‘I have heard that you are one of the best butlers in the country. And yet, I find you not on duty. Please can you explain this to me?’ In fact he had heard nothing about Henri at all, but in his experience, a bit of buttering up was always appreciated. This time he got more reaction and, for the first time, a direct look into his eyes.

  ‘What is there to be a butler for or to? My master popped his clogs two months ago. Since then, I have been fiddling my fingers and playing with myself.’ Duggie restrained himself and managed to keep a straight face, whilst admiring the Frenchman’s courageous attempts at mastering the vernacular.

  ‘But your contract of employment?’ He asked gently. The reaction was an emotional outburst.

  ‘I was employed fourteen years ago by Mr Eustace to be his personal butler. I performed my duties to the very best of my abilities, even when he lost his marbles and went gaga. And you are wrong in what you say. I was not one of the best butlers. I was without question the very, very best in all this country, maybe even in France too! The bee’s knees.’

  Duggie noted the modest, self-effacing manner of the man, but did not hold that against him. He had always been a firm believer that if you had a trumpet, you should blow it. For a moment his mind flitted back to Tina Pound, but he pressed on with the matter in hand. He would be seeing her again later on.

  ‘Well, Henri,’ he clapped him round the shoulders, ‘I have good news for you. Your new master is now in residence. Professor Roger Dalby, much-loved nephew of Eustace McKinnon, is the new owner. He is at the manor now, awaiting your ministrations.’

  The Frenchman’s back stiffened as if the ‘Marseillaise’ had suddenly struck up.

  ‘Ah bon, enfin. I shall resume my duties. I shall get my finger out and get it stuck in.’

  Very close, thought Duggie with the slightest hint of a grin, but a brave try. Henri swigged the last of his water and leapt off the stool. ‘On y va?’

  ‘Oh yes, definitely.’ Duggie decided not to reply in French, principally because he could not speak a word of the language.

  Chapter 10

  Within a couple of months, Roger had settled into the manor most successfully. So much so, that he could barely remember life without a cup of tea and the Independent at eight o’clock, underpants ironed with a crease in them, or toilet paper without the first sheet neatly folded into an arrow shape. Even Jasper had mellowed with the passing weeks. He now managed to sleep all night without leaping onto Roger’s bed, or noisily slurping the water from the toilet bowl at three o’clock in the morning.

  Outside, Stan the gardener and the three newly engaged groundsmen were making terrific inroads into the undergrowth. As they did so, they gradually unearthed the fine old golf course, designed by Harry Colt in 1923. They turned up stone benches, drinking fountains and statues, along with the unmistakable outlines of tees and greens. Truckloads of turf were arriving on a daily basis and the men were working flat out. Stan had assured Duggie that the course would be ready for its grand opening in January. Plans were already being made for a major event that month.

  Duggie himself could not remember ever being happier. Every day was an adventure. There was the discovery of no fewer than three solid-fuel cookers. When sold to a specialist dealer, the proceeds had gone a long way towards funding the new range of stainless-steel food preparation and cooking equipment. This now took pride of place in the kitchens, which had themselves been totally gutted and refurbished.

  The ground floor was swarming with workmen. The floors had been sanded and polished, the carpets replaced and new furniture ordered. Roger’s apartment on the first floor could wait. While a bit tired, it was still very comfortable. Particularly when compared to the spartan terraced house where he had lived up till then. The second floor of the manor was still to be restored. It really was a huge old place.

  Mrs Vinnicombe clearly approved of the improvements, particularly with the arrival of the new industrial vacuum cleaners and floor polishers. So much so that Duggie had had to restrain her from over-polishing the already mirror-like floors. This was after both Henri and Linda had ended up on their backs, within hours of each other. For his part, Duggie had also ended up on his back, front and, on one memorable occasion, his head, while closely entwined with Tina. She now had a key to his flat and kept a toothbrush in his bathroom cabinet. All in all, life was going well.

  Henri was enchanted. Things were back to normal. He was once more able to minister to the needs of a respected master. And he really did respect Roger, particularly once he discovered that the professor understood not only modern French, but medieval Old French as well. Anybody who had read the Chanson de Roland in its original manuscript form was worthy of deep respect in his eyes.

  Linda, too, was a happy girl. With the generous pay rise awarded to her by her new employer, she had finally left her mother’s house. With Duggie’s aid, she had found a charming flat in the little town of Toplingham, a stone’s throw from the estuary, and only a short cycle ride from the manor. Roger told her to take whatever she needed from the manor. As a result, she was now the proud owner of, amongst other things, an absolutely enormous bed in the main bedroom. Her single duvet looked rather forlorn there, but then she was used to that sensation.

  Her work was reassuringly similar to the previous years at the university, while the working environment was unparalleled. She had an office the size of the vice-chancellor’s, with a view out over spectacular gardens. And, of course, she had a boss to die for. And tonight she was entertaining him with supper.

  Linda’s mum was not a great cook. For her family, food was necessary because, without enough of it, you died. Whether it was interesting, attractive or creatively prepared, was of less importance than the scrupulousness of the washing-up and
cleaning afterwards. Linda had, therefore, invested in some cookery books. She asked Henri for his advice, without specifying for whom it was intended. The butler was, however, in no doubt as to who the lucky recipient of her hospitality was to be. In consequence, he advised her with all the experience of seduction a Frenchman could muster.

  ‘Ah, my dear, you are planning a feast. It has to be foie gras with lightly toasted, very thinly sliced bread. And, remember, it must be white bread. Maybe with a sauce of pears, caramelised of course. A glass of Sauternes to accompany it is always to be recommended. And then for the main course, I would always favour a lobster, but be sure to cool it well after the cuisson unless, of course, you favour thermidor…’

  Linda had thanked him with a smile, and sought advice elsewhere. Mrs Vinnicombe had had little to offer, apart from ensuring that there be lots of it, whatever it was. Predictably, she also exhorted Linda to ensure everything was clean and spotless. Paddy, unexpectedly, was the one who gave her sensible advice, none of which involved Guinness, Dublin Coddle or Boiled Boxty.

  ‘As long as the ingredients are good, the food will be good. Don’t overcook it, and make sure you serve it hot. Something kind to the oesophagus and the stomach will also ensure a comfortable night’s sleep, while your gastric enzymes perform their necessary duty.’

  He had then mercifully branched away from his normal fascination with the constituent parts of the human body. He had gone on to tell her about his years in the merchant navy, and the dishes he and his fellows had thrown together (and up) during their time at sea. These seemed to be principally composed of emergency rations, particularly powdered egg, cocoa powder and corned beef, sometimes all mixed together. Wisely, she decided not to emulate him. Nothing should be allowed to harm what she fervently hoped would turn out to be a night to remember.

  She had had modest success in the past with her cottage pie and summer pudding, so she decided to stick with what she felt comfortable doing. She made sure she bought everything fresh that morning. Upon her return to the manor, she stuffed the supermarket bags into one of the huge fridges and rushed up to Roger’s office. Upon arrival, she was greeted effusively by Jasper. Roger was bent over an old book and barely looked up.

  ‘Sorry I am late, Roger. I had a few things to do.’ She did not want to tell him what she had bought for dinner. He waved dismissively and launched predictably into the Middle Ages.

  ‘Fontaine-lès-Dijon. I really must go there and see if there is anything left of Bernard’s home.’

  For a moment, Linda wondered what it would be like if he were to invite her to accompany him. The idea of a few nights with him in a French hotel sent shivers up her spine. Her eyes became quite dreamy for a second or two until he turned the page and added, ‘You could hold the fort here for a few days, couldn’t you?’

  Linda nodded, her expression giving nothing away. She had long ago come to terms with taking second place to a long-dead saint. Ruefully, she turned her attention to the post. She began slicing the envelopes open and passing them across to him. As he opened them and read the contents, she allowed herself a few seconds to study him, unobserved. He was looking very relaxed and fit. His early morning runs through the grounds with Jasper had brought a bit more colour to his cheeks and he looked all the better for it. His hair was getting long, and she knew he would soon get it cut. She always thought that it suited him longer though. It fell over his forehead and ears in an unruly brown mop, the sides just beginning to show a few grey flecks. She felt the urge to reach out and tidy it for him with her hand. As ever, she resisted the temptation.

  There was a tap on the door. She looked up to see Duggie, a broad smile on his face. She reflected that he had been looking very happy for a good long while now. Tina and he made a good couple. A glance to her right reinforced her feeling that Roger and she would make an even better couple. Her thoughts sped on to the evening to come. The rigours of church twice every Sunday throughout her adolescence had suppressed any religious inclinations she might have developed. Nevertheless, she offered up a silent prayer for the success of her soirée.

  Jasper, seeing his friend, sprang up and trotted over to him, tail wagging. Linda nodded approvingly. She reflected that only a couple of weeks previously, it would have been a full-blooded assault, albeit with the most amiable of intentions. Inevitably, dog and man would have ended up rolling on the floor. Now Jasper’s greetings were much more restrained. Progress indeed.

  ‘Roger, would you have a few moments for me to run through possible logos with you? I think that the image of the club is so important.’ Roger nodded and waved him to a seat.

  Roger indicated to Linda to sit down with them. ‘I would be grateful for your advice, Linda. You are so much better at these things than I am.’ She happily agreed, pleased to be involved.

  Duggie produced a number of pieces of artwork, some variations on the acronym formed by the initial letters of Toplingham Country Club, and some more abstract. After seeing them all, they both readily decided in favour of Duggie’s stated preference. This consisted of a silhouette of the house, with the two huge cedars of Lebanon in front. Duggie was keen to add a strapline below. They agreed upon Leisure in Luxury. He was clearly delighted at their endorsement.

  ‘Anticipating your approval of my proposals, I took the liberty of asking the marketing consultants to put together a couple of specimen membership cards. What do you think?’ They leant forward to view the flashy gold and green cards, complete with hi-tech hologram and, surprisingly, the photo of Roger on one, and Linda on the other.

  ‘How splendid.’ Roger was impressed, as was Linda, right up to the moment when she saw that the card bearing her photograph was not in the name of Linda Reid, but Linda Dalby. With a masterly piece of iron self-control, she managed to avoid blushing bright red. This resolve lasted for all of a couple of seconds till Roger, too, noticed. He blushed like a traffic light. At that point she joined him in third-degree embarrassment.

  Duggie suddenly realised he was late for an appointment. Sweeping the documents into his case, he mouthed an excuse, and disappeared out of the door. He left them, as he later reported to Tina, like a pair of prize lobsters on the slab.

  After his departure, there was a long silence as they composed themselves.

  ‘How do you feel about lobster?’

  Linda was the first to take a desperate stab at conversation. In an attempt to change the subject, she hit on her scheduled menu for that evening. She soon discovered that cottage pie was going to be the best option, without a shadow of a doubt.

  ‘Never been able to try the things. I suffer from an allergy to prawns. As the lobster looks like the biggest prawn of all, I have always given them a wide berth. Anyway, that business of chucking them into boiling water always did seem so cruel.’

  Both of them were glad to get back to everyday matters. He managed to look up and meet her eye. ‘Why do you ask? Is that what you were thinking of giving me tonight?’

  Linda smiled broadly and replied. ‘No, it was just a suggestion from a friend.’

  She picked up the rest of that morning’s post. She leafed through the letters before handing him a formal-looking white envelope with the words Strictly Personal, Private and Confidential across the front. Roger opened the envelope to find it was from Mr Heslop, the solicitor.

  His meeting with Heslop some weeks previously had afforded him a fascinating insight into the life of his uncle. Heslop, himself well into his sixties, had acted for McKinnon Marine for many years and had known his uncle well. Roger listened in fascination to the tale of this self-made millionaire. His rise from modest beginnings to vast riches had been the stuff of fiction.

  Eustace had been obliged to leave university at the end of his first term after wounding a fellow student in a duel. Considering that this would have been well into the nineteen thirties, duelling demonstrated an appreciation of history to which Roger had immediately warmed. In the years leading up to the Second World War, he ha
d travelled the world in the Merchant Navy. Gradually, he worked his way up the ladder. He borrowed heavily, bought a boat, and set up his own shipping line. He was joined by George Jennings some years later. The war made multi-millionaires of them both, and their shares had continued to grow and grow.

  In the nineteen nineties, when both were already old men, a scandal had burst upon the company. It was discovered that old Jennings had been filtering money out of the company and into various private accounts. This had been going on unchecked for decades. Chased out of the company by the legal team, he was finally brought to trial for tax evasion. ‘Like Al Capone,’ as Heslop had put it. As a result, he spent a number of years in prison, in spite of his advanced age.

  During his time in jail, he produced a steady stream of hate mail, all aimed at Eustace. He delivered enough threats to have himself thrown straight back into prison after release. However, Eustace chose not to press charges against him. Eustace himself, in his final years, was no longer in a fit state to read the letters, let alone respond to them. The death of Jennings not long before Eustace himself, hopefully, ended the affair. Roger had returned to Toplingham reassured, but this new letter indicated that, unfortunately, all was not well after all.

  He glanced at the letter in his hands, expecting a bill for the London meeting. Instead, he was surprised to read the following:

  I regret to have to inform you of an annoying development. I am in receipt of a letter indicating in no uncertain terms that the descendants of George Jennings intend to seek redress from the descendants of Eustace McKinnon for the suffering caused to George Jennings and the loss of his share in the company, which they feel is still rightfully his.