Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (15 page)

“So what if I look like John Wilkes Booth? Shut up and kiss me!”

Lord Crawfish asks Tomaine why he would lay in wait for the chance to kiss him in the pantry.

“Oh, you have no idea where I’d
like
to kiss you,” the footmasseur winks. “And by the way, what were
you
doing here? You can’t put your trousers on without assistance, so it’s unlikely that you were looking for ingredients to make yourself a midnight snack.”

“I’m afraid that I have no choice but to fire you, Tomaine.”

*   *   *

Slovenia is hit hard by the Spanish flu, and takes to bed. Atchew and Marry take the opportunity to enjoy some clandestine time together in the parlour.

“Should we ‘canoodle’ a bit?” Marry asks.

“There you go again with your big words,” says Atchew. “In English, please. Olde, preferably.”

“I just think it’s time that we do more than flirt. We could cuddle, or share gentle touches, or—”

It is at this moment that Atchew makes the decision to shut Marry and her impressive vocabulary up, in the simplest possible manner: he kisses her deeply. Music swells from the next room. And—this being Downtrodden Abbey, after all—this is the moment that Slovenia Swine comes down the stairs.

Slovenia wonders at first if her watery, puffy, Spanish flu-attacked eyes are deceiving her. She considers the possibilities. Perhaps Lady Marry had something on her lips that Atchew was helping her remove by using his mouth. Or maybe they were engaging in a staring contest, and merely got their faces closer than need be.

Slovenia startles the lovebirds. “Atchew!”

“Yes?” her intended responds.

“That was an actual sneeze, Atchew. Remember? I’ve been confined to my bed for several days.”

Lady Marry approaches her. “You’re not looking well, Slovenia. I think you should return to your quarters at once. Not that Atchew and I are trying to get rid of you or anything. Really. Go ahead. I’ll come up and bring you a few magazines. Once I’m done, er, whatever I’m doing down here with Atchew. Which is nothing to worry about, just to recap.”

Slovenia starts to suspect foul play as she heads back upstairs.

By the next morning, she is dead. The medical examiner cites the cause of death as “Extreme heartbreak.”

“Why, that’s ridiculous,” Vile, the dowager countess snorts. “It’s not as if she is a character in a tawdry melodrama.
Heartbreak
is not a medical term.”

This hardly assuages Lady Marry and Atchew’s guilt as they attend Slovenia’s funeral.

“Well,
this
is depressing,” Atchew mutters, as he stands with Marry behind the other mourners. “It probably doesn’t help that it’s raining, a dirge is playing, we’re all wearing black, and we’re in England.”

He grabs Marry and kisses her deeply.

“Atchew. We are at the funeral of your fiancée. This would be a good time to exert some measure of control over yourself.”

Roderick is surprised to see that Lady Supple has attended the service with Handsom, who dresses appropriately but brings a sign protesting the use of the cemetery for what he calls “Human Landfill.” Supple pleads with him not to picket the service.

“Honestly, Handsom—it’s always something with you.”

“You don’t see me ‘protesting’ when you hold me next to your shapely, sensual curves,” says the driver in his own defense.

Supple melts. “At least you have the quick wit so blatantly missing in most bleeding-heart liberals. Oh, yeah—and a particularly large penis.”

Back at Downtrodden Abbey, dinner is disrupted by the appearance of Scotland Yard. Answering the door, Tyresom wonders how it’s possible that a large piece of land has travelled to the estate; it is explained to him that Scotland Yard is actually the name used for the British police force. When he asks why it’s not called “England Yard,” he is shuttled into the next room, as Roderick interacts with the police inspector.

“I am here to arrest John Brace on counts of inferior cooking and intent to murder his wife, Viral. Oh, yeah—and of actually murdering her.”

Tyresom explains that Brace is downstairs in the servant’s quarters, and suggests that they come back in a few hours, at which time the valet may have navigated said stairs.

“What’s this?” asks Nana, entering the foyer.

“It’s a police inspector,” Tyresom informs her. “This is Mr. Brace’s fiancée,” he informs the police inspector.
This is a disaster,
he informs himself.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, ‘what’s the meaning of this?’ is what I mean.”

The inspector explains to Nana that it might be a good time to rethink the idea of marrying John Brace. Or, at the very least, having him make her dinner if they do get married. But the truth is, where he’s going, she won’t have much to worry about either way.

After a British policemen complained about being called “Sally,” the nickname “Bobby” was adopted.

“My God!” Lady Marry exclaims, as the police cart Brace away. “Do you know where they’re taking him? Jail. Prison. The big house. The hoosegow. The stir. The brig. The clink. The rock. The pokey. The slammer. The stockade. The castle. The cooler. The joint. The hole. The farm. The sneezer. The stockade. The Greybar Hotel. Con college. He’s going up the river. Up north.”

“Marry, you have
got
to stop doing that,” Vile demands, then points at the winsome wordsmith and asks the inspector, “Say, do you think perhaps you could take her as well?”

*   *   *

The roof of Downtrodden Abbey is removed every winter for the annual lowering in of the Christmas tree. Somehow the spirit of the season is slightly diminished this year. Perhaps it is due to John Brace’s arrest and transport to prison, where he awaits sentencing for the murder of his wife. Or maybe it’s the breakup of Atchew and Lady Marry, who is now convinced that marrying Dick Calamine is the answer to her and her family’s problems. Or Tomaine, who has been welcomed back to the Abbey, but refused the position as Lord Crawfish’s valet until he has replaced all of the vinegar he has stolen from the pantry.

Nana decides that a trip to Cockswallow, the prison housing her intended, could not possibly be more depressing than staying at the Abbey. Her journey to the institution takes three days. Brace tell her that the conditions are ghastly, and that he is constantly mocked for his disability. Nana tries to cheer him up.

“Look at the bright side, John,” says says. “You’re around men you can bond with. You can catch up on your reading. You are getting three square meals a day.”

“Thanks, Nana,” says Brace. “Somehow I feel even worse now.”

Back in the library at Downtrodden, Calamine starts to worry that Lady Marry is dragging her heels on setting a wedding date. She claims that she’s in a sewing circle on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays she’s all about working out, Wednesday night is book club, and the weekends are taken with polo and social events.

“You seem completely booked,” Calamine moans.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be able to fit you in,” a voice says from behind. It is Lord Crawfish, who winks at Lady Marry as he speaks. “Lady Marry has such strong feelings for you, Dick, that she is just looking for the perfect day.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you are interested in marrying me for less than honourable reasons,” Calamine says.

“Not at all,” says Lord Crawfish, whom Calamine thought had left the room. “Lady Marry is deeply in love with you. She particularly likes the feel of your hand on hers, the whisper of your soft breath, and the way your heart seems to race in her presence.”

“Lord Crawfish!” the appalled Calamine barks. “You’ve pulled a book of Keats poetry off of the shelf and are reading from it! And Lady Marry seems to have slithered out of the room several minutes ago.”

“Ah. You’re so right. Please forgive me,” says the Earl of Grandsun, before slithering out as well, leaving Calamine with his conflicted feelings.

On a regular basis, people are either eavesdropping or slithering in this place,
he thinks.
What
up
with that?

Upstairs, Lord Crawfish starts to question whether his daughter should marry Calamine after all. Flora sits him down for a talk.

“Roderick,” she begins. “I’m going to break a basic law of dramatic writing and tell you something that anyone who might be watching already knows.

“Do you remember Camel, the Arab who stayed at Downtrodden Abbey last year? I’m afraid he … soiled Marry’s sheets
and
reputation.”

Lord Crawfish moans. “Oh, God, no.”

“It’s true, dearest. And Calamine’s threatened to blackmail her.”

“Then there’s only one solution, Flora.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not sure. But I do know one thing—that there’s only one solution. I think.”

*   *   *

The Crawfishes retain a lawyer, Bernie, to help with the case involving Roderick’s dear old friend Brace. None of the family has had much experience with Jews, but there is concern that Atchew—who is also an attorney—would have made a mess of things. For several days before meeting with Bernie, they practice drinking less and getting into even more trivial arguments than usual.

“I gotta be honest, it’s not looking good,” Bernie tells the Crawfishes. “Between that gimpy
schlemiel
starting up a thing with the maid—although believe me I understand, having seen her delicious
punim
—and then the
mishegas
with Brace going back to London, and the
farkakta
rat poison, it looks like you’ve got a real
magilla
on your hands.”

Roderick and Flora look at each other and shrug. Though they don’t understand a word Bernie says, they trust that they are in capable hands as the date of Brace’s trial approaches.

Lady Enid goes missing, and Tomaine suggests that Downtrodden residents stage a massive hunt for her. They refuse. Tomaine “finds” Enid, who tells everyone that it was he who kidnapped her in the first place, hid her in the doghouse, and planned to be a hero and ingratiate himself with Lord Crawfish by serving as her rescuer.

Instead, he is fired yet again.

XIII

Renewal (?)

As the season winds down at Downtrodden Abbey—and again, no one is exactly sure what “the Season” is—the winds of fortune shift. Unable to tolerate Calamine’s threats to expose Lady Marry’s sordid past, Atchew slips him an exploding cigar. Humilated, Calamine flees, his face ashen.

At Cockswallow Prison, John Brace gets a call from the governor, who insists on being called “Guv’na.” Brace is reluctant to get on the phone, until someone explains to him what “a call from the governor” means. He is granted a reprieve. And after someone else clarifies what a “reprieve” is (he thought it was when they repeat a song in a musical revue), Brace finally understands that he may soon walk away as a free man. (Walk with considerable difficulty, of course, but as a free man. So he’s got that going for him, which is good.)

Exploding cigars ushered in the first era of cosmetic surgery.

The Schleppers’ Dance, an annual tradition at Downtrodden which had been cancelled due to the war, is rescheduled and held in high style. As this follows what is referred to as “awards season,” the residents feel “renewed,” and ready for another year of “episodes.”

Roderick slow waltzes with Flora, as their love is rekindled in the wake of his near-miss affair with Jen. Tomaine is rehired, as the event desperately needs a choreographer. Even Lady Supple and Handsom make an appearance, if only to protest the drawn-out manner in which Atchew and Lady Marry have conducted their flirtation. Clearly, they are running out of things to protest.