Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (16 page)

In the decades before cellular phones, impatience was a scourge.

Speaking of the on-again, off-again couple, Atchew chooses his moment to reach for Marry’s arm, march her to the front of the Downtrodden Abbey ballroom, take a knee, and declare his eternal love for her. Again, he asks for her hand in marriage. Again, she misinterprets the expression and he must explain that it means more than just her hand. Again, Lord Roderick Crawfish and his wife worry for the future of their family and—more importantly—their fortune.

And then they hear Lady Marry utter these magic words in response to Atchew’s proposal:

“You know what? Let me think about it.”

Music swells, as do bits of Atchew. Credits roll.

Part Three

Being the Third of Three Parts

XIV

House of Mirthlessness

Flora Crawfish loves her mother, Surly McPain. She is just not at all certain if she
likes
her. Sometimes she thinks she likes the
idea
of her more than her actual being.

Which is all to say that Surly is pretty much a walking narcissistic personality disorder, and a monumental pain in the ass.

Journeying from her home in Sedona, Arizona, Surly arrives at Downtrodden for the wedding of Marry and Atchew. In short order, she begins to rant about Britain and its failings.

“You people think you invented the English muffin!” she snorts at dinner. “But it was the Scottish—the McDonalds, in fact—who deserve the credit. They popularized the so-called English muffin in the States, and we Americans figured how to eat them properly—with an egg in the middle, covered with cheese, and special sauce. Served between seven and eleven in the morning.”

Vile winces at the mere thought.

“Can I ask you a question, Surly? What exactly are you doing here? We are concerned that your appearance at this wedding is a mere stunt, designed to increase attendance.”

Surly can handle such criticism. She has endured far worse. A career in Hollywood films, for example. And a brother whose antics in the boudoir routinely made headlines. In fact, she believes that this is not her first physical incarnation. You know how someone will tell you that they think they were Joan of Arc, or Napoleon, in a former life? And you think,
yeah—right—sure you were!
Well, Surly makes a pretty convincing argument. She really does believe that she has previously led several lives. And she claims she’s managed to get book deals to recount each and every one of them.

Her relentless yammering is interrupted by the arrival of Supple and Handsom, the latter of whom proves, in terms of patriotric fervor, to be even more obnoxious than Surly.

“The Irish—now
they
know breakfast. Leather-like bacon? That’s us. Black pudding
and
white pudding? Check. Liver—why not? And of course, our signature contribution to the first meal of the day—baked beans!”

“Honestly,” says Enid, “I think I’m going to be sick. Isn’t it considered deplorable form to discuss breakfast when one is at dinner?”

This comment triggers another boast from Surly about how Americans also revolutionized poor table manners.

At the head of the table, Lord Crawfish can barely hear this blather over the noise in his own head. Crawfish has recently learned that his investment of Flora’s fortune—in a chain of Big & Tall Men’s clothing shops in Tokyo—has been a massive mistake.

Marry intervenes, threatening to withhold her affection from Atchew if he refuses to do one little favor for her—keep Downtrodden Abbey in the family.

“Withhold your affection? You mean, you would refuse to marry me, Marry?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t say that,” she assures him. “Technically, we
would
be married. I would just ignore you, make sure that my interests don’t intersect with yours, and keep my communication limited.”

“Oh, Marry, my sweet, naïve thing. That
is
marriage!”

The wedding is an extravagant affair, during which some less-than-extravagant affairs are carried on in the upstairs bedrooms, the pantry, and the barn (don’t ask).

When Surly is solicited for the funds to save Downtrodden, she has no choice but to sneak off and return to America.

*   *   *

Edsel Parks was one of the military salon’s finest colorists when she got—how to put this delicately—knocked up by one of the soldiers. Forced to give up the child, she turned to opium, developed an addiction, and became a prostitute.

“Not the most impressive curriculum vitae,” says Vile. Nonetheless, Edsel is hired as a scullery maid, against the wishes of the dowager countess.

“Is it that difficult to find someone to scrub carrots?” Vile asks.

“The girl really has a knack,” shrugs Isabich.

Meanwhile, Enid begins a torrid hand-holding relationship with Sir Antonio Stallion, who is not only a crippled geriatric, but is one of Marry’s castoffs. Flora is unhappy about their blooming relationship.

“Enid,” she warns. “Look at Nana. A young girl like that, saddled with an accused murderer who goes to prison, threatened regularly by violent cellmates, and—”

“—All right, Mother. You’re making me jealous.”

“Jealous?!? Of Nana’s miserable existence?”

“She’s
married,
” Enid explains. “I mean, how long do you think I can go, with this face and personality, before my chances of finding a life partner are permanently dashed?”

Good point,
Flora thinks.

Rarely solicited prostitute.

“Oh, don’t be silly, darling,” Flora says. “You have a big, long life ahead of you. Women don’t expire until they reach their forties these days.”

*   *   *

Atchew receives a letter saying that he is being left a small fortune. He suspects that it is from a Nigerian prince. (It just has that vibe, you know?)

“Darling, don’t be a stooge,” says his loving new bride, Marry. “It’s from the late father of Slovenia Swine.”

Slovenia Swine
 …
Slovenia Swine,
thinks Atchew.

Marry reminds Atchew that Slovenia was the former fiancée, whom he dumped unceremoniously. Though she is dead, Marry believes that there is an opportunity for Atchew to take further advantage of her if he so desires—to take every shilling of her late father’s estate. And in doing so, save Downtrodden Abbey by handing the money to Lord Crawfish.

“So it’s victory-victory, all the way,” Marry adds.

Upon hearing Atchew’s offer, however, Lord Crawfish almost turns down the gift.

“I’ve actually been looking at a big two-bedroom in the village,” he explains.

“Roderick, are you mad?” scoffs Atchew. “You have a forty-person staff, a wife, and grown children to house. Don’t let your pride get the best of you.”

The morning of Enid’s wedding day arrives. The hopeful bride begins to get worried when she sees that no one has responded to the invitation, sent a gift, or visited the registry (by standing) online at Boudoirs, Bath & Beyond.

Nonetheless, she dresses for the event and—for her—actually doesn’t look too unfortunate. But that’s not enough to deter Sir Stallion, who leaves a dashed-off note at the altar that reads, “Um … sorry. I had some stuff to do.”

Enid is devastated. She cannot even get a commitment from an infirmed, aged, malodorous loser.

Tomaine finds himself bored for a few hours and decides to spread a rumour about O’Grotten. He settles on a bad case of the crabs, but the scheme backfires when O’Grotten is given a week off and sent flowers and gifts.

With her three-year contract at Downtrodden running out, he prays that she doesn’t renew it.

XV

Irish Stupor

After returning to Dublin, Handsom starts working as a fry cook in a small town. (After this is discovered, he is formally hired by the establishment.) But when he burns the toast of a local aristocrat, the restaurant’s particularly punitive manager calls the police. Handsom is pursued to the border; in a panicked fit of self-hatred, he heads to Downtrodden Abbey.

“Where is Supple?” asks Marry.

“I knew I forgot something,” Handsom replies sheepishly.

“How could you, Handsom? She’s with child!”

“No, she’s not … she’s alone!” He thinks for a moment. “Wait, does ‘with child’ mean … pregnant?”

*   *   *

In prison, Brace has not heard from Nana in weeks. Her letters to him have been intercepted by the warden and adapted as a musical by the Cockswallow Theatre Ensemble. Sadly, Brace learns of this when he attends the opening, and the lead—a male prisoner, in drag—belts out a song entitled “Don’t Call My Husband a Lowly Cripple, He’s Also an Accused Murderer.” (It was the warden’s first attempt as a librettist, and it goes without saying that his work subsequently improved.)

Back at Downtrodden, Tyresom hires a new footmasseur, Jiggy, who immediately turns the heads of both male and female residents and staff members.

“Your job is not the turning of heads,” Tyresom admonishes him. “It is the massaging of the feet.”

Prison theatre dance number.

Meanwhile, a comely blonde, Hivy, is recruited as a scullery maid. Laizy gives her a hero’s welcome by bitching her out every chance she gets.

Enid—who has barely survived a nervous breakdown following her jilting at the altar—begins to develop not just stress-related cold sores, but progressive political beliefs. These manifest in nightly walks around Downtrodden, during which she incessantly makes birdlike sounds. When Marry asks what she is doing, Enid replies, “Why, I’m tweeting, of course.”

Marry suggests that rather than tweeting, Enid express herself in a more modern fashion such as the telegraph, or a newspaper column.

*   *   *

Atchew approaches Marry warily in the drawing room.

“Sorry to interrupt your drawing,” he says. “But … I need to talk to you about your father.”

“Ohmigod,” Marry gasps, dropping her charcoal. “Don’t tell me he’s been kissing some young maid behind the stable … and he’s leaving my mother … and taking off with this girl somewhere into the Midlands … never to be heard from again—”

“Marry, get a grip,” Atchew says, stroking her wrist. “I just wanted to raise the possibility that Roderick may … not be so good with money.”

Marry turns away from him. “How dare you malign my father’s character like that! This from someone who a few short years ago was eating fish with a grapefruit spoon!”

“You know what?” Atchew moans. “Forget I said anything.”

Atchew has become increasingly aware of Marry’s extreme mood swings of late. He has also noticed a protrusion of her lower stomach area. She has been vomiting in the mornings, and eating odd combinations of food.

He would think she was pregnant, if he knew any better.

No such luck.

Unlicensed family doctors often prescribed “Lox, bagels, and a schmear.”

Supple, meanwhile, has a veritable “labour party,” as anyone and everyone seems to be present for her and Handsom’s blessed event—the arrival of Lord Grandsun’s first grandchild. When Supple suffers complications, the dunderheaded earl arranges for a medical face-off. The diagnosticians in question are the kindly, caring doctor who has known the Crawfish family for decades, and an obnoxious obstetrician whose sole claim to fame is that he served as Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle’s nutritionist.