The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  “‘Sir’?” Mrs Clarkson interrupted with a smile on her face.

  “Yes, ‘sir’. I’m always polite when I talk to strangers. ‘Sir,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem. It’s Christmas coming soon and I ain’t got nothing to feed my family. I was wondering whether you could help me?’ ‘And why would I want to help you?’ Mr Boogledug asked. ‘Well, I’m an ’ard-working man,’ I said, ‘and I’ve just spent the last few days and nights sitting in a dark little office, nearly blinding myself by reading and collating reports about stolen jewels.”

  Mrs Clarkson burst out laughing. Clarkson ignored her and continued. “And I did all that just so that I could give my family, who I love more than anything in this world, the most scrumptious meal they’ve ever had in their lives. So I was wondering if you could help me out?’ ‘Well,’ said Mr Boogledug, ‘you sound like a good and honest man to me and I’d be more than happy to help you out.’ And so he did. It was Mr Boogledug who provided us with this scrumptious fowl which your mother has cooked for us so deliciously. Well, what do you think of that then, children? That was nice of Mr Boogledug, weren’t it?”

  The children nodded.

  “And I think it’s only right and proper that we should thank him, don’t you?” He picked up the poultry knife and fork.

  The children nodded again.

  “Well, then look down at the goose and say ‘Thank you, Mr Boogledug.’”

  “Why do I have to look down at the goose?” one of the children asked.

  “Because you should always look someone in the face when you thank them. It’s good manners. Go on. Look down at the goose and say ‘Thank you, Mr Boogledug.’”

  “You mean Mr Boogledug is the goose?” the child asked.

  “Yes, Mr Boogledug is the goose.”

  “Mr Boogledug is the goose?” the other child asked, horrified.

  “That’s right. Mr Boogledug is the goose. Thank you, Mr Boogledug,” Clarkson said as he plunged the fork and knife into the goose’s breast. “Thank you very much!” The children shrieked with horror and Clarkson and his wife rolled about with laughter.

  *

  Dinner was over and Mrs Clarkson and the children were in the kitchen, clearing up. Clarkson was sitting at the end of the table, huffing and puffing and rubbing his recently filled belly. Billings observed how different he was when he was surrounded by his family. He looked proud and contented – even quite handsome. Did he always come home to a house filled with laughter and companionship, he wondered.

  “You all right there, Billings?” Clarkson asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “You enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You sure? ’Cause you don’t look it.”

  “Oh, I am. I am.”

  Clarkson was right. Billings had been distracted all day. He couldn’t get the events of the past month off his mind. He kept thinking about Jacobs in hospital. And Mrs Forrester all alone in that cold, large house. How where they spending their Christmas?

  “I think I’ll go outside for a while,” he said, getting up from the table. “Get some fresh air.”

  “Good idea,” Clarkson replied. “I think I’ll go to the john myself in a while. Make some room for the Christmas pudding.”

  As soon as Billings stepped out of the door, a cold, fresh breeze caressed his face. He took a deep breath and looked around him. The street was deserted, but he could see candles burning in every window and he could hear laughter and singing behind every door. He decided to stretch his legs and started pacing down the cobbled lane towards Clapham High Street. From there, he continued his walk and wandered all the way to the common. He listened to his footsteps over the frosty cobbles and was reminded of his long walk through the fens of Cumberland. He felt that same strange, peaceful feeling engulfing him and, not wanting it to end, continued walking. He walked over the common all the way to Battersea. Before he knew it, his feet had dragged him back home.

  He was tired now and his stomach felt heavy with food and alcohol, so he went inside and stumbled up the stairs, avoiding Mrs Appleby who was celebrating Christmas in the lounge with her sister. Then he locked himself up in his room, fell onto his bed and dozed off. He woke up several hours later with a syringe dangling from his arm and a gentle knocking on his door.

  “Mr Billings? Are you there?” It was Mrs Appleby. “He’s probably doped on that morphine again,” he heard her tell someone. Who was she talking to? Was it Clarkson? He suddenly felt bad for abandoning Clarkson’s party without saying goodbye. “Mr Billings!” Mrs Appleby continued. “I ask you! Christmas Day and he just locks himself up in his room. It’s a right shame, the way that man carries on!” Why did he do it, thought Billings. Why did keep pushing people away only to complain later that he was feeling isolated? “Oh well, let him be.” He heard Mrs Appleby walk back down the stairs. “Best check up on him again tomorrow morning, see if he’s all right.”

  Billings remained in his room all night, haunted by thoughts of Jacobs and Sebastian. Two lives, completely ruined. Not by misfortune or circumstance, but by their own reckless hands. Why did they do the things they did? Then he remembered that quote from Robinson Crusoe, the one which had so impressed him when he read it. ‘It is a secret overruling decree that hurries us on to be the instruments of our own destruction. Even though it be before us we rush upon it with our eyes wide open.’

  Other Books by Olivier Bosman

  D.S. Billings Victorian Mysteries

  Death Takes a Lover

  http://viewBook.at/deathtakesalover

  Something Sinister

  http://viewBook.at/somethingsinister

  The Campbell Curse

  http://viewbook.at/thecampbellcurse

  Gay Noir

  http://www.olivierbosman.com/gay-noir-series