Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (2 page)

Despite the strength of British imperialism in the years that followed, the disparity of the economic strata was cause for concern. While the wealthy held lavish parties in the gardens of grand estates and danced until dawn, the impoverished were only permitted to dance until seven or eight at night.

Domestic servants were hired to handle individual items of apparel, including one for each sock.

Many of the poor toiled as domestic servants, and due to the sheer number of them available in the workforce, they were paid very little. Almost as revenge, these chefs, foot masseurs, and maids entertained themselves with gossip and transgressions against the expected behaviour of the day. As they had little or no money, they were immune to financial ruin, or accusations of slander. In some ways, they possessed more power than their employers.

However, they did have to eat slop, live in dumpy little rooms, and start work at five in the morning. So maybe “power” isn’t the best word.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

LORD RODERICK CRAWFISH,
Earl of Grandsun

COUNTESS FLORA CRAWFISH,
his Yankee wife

SURLY MCPAIN,
Flora’s annoying mother

LADY MARRY CRAWFISH,
their fetching daughter

LADY SUPPLE CRAWFISH,
their even more fetching daughter

LADY ENID CRAWFISH,
the daughter with the
personality,
let’s just say

VILE CRAWFISH,
Dowager Countess of Grandsun

ATCHEW CRAWFISH,
third cousin of Lord Grandsun

ISABICH CRAWFISH,
Atchew’s mother

SOLVENIA SWINE,
Atchew’s fiancée

DICK CALAMINE,
Lady Marry’s suitor

MRS.USED,
housekeeper

TYRESOM,
butler

LAIZY,
scullery maid

EDSEL PARKS,
housemaid

“POTATOES”
O’Grotten,
Lady Flora’s maid

TOMAINE,
first footmasseur

JOHN BRACE,
Lord Grandsun’s valet

VIRAL BRACE,
his wife

NANA,
mousy housemaid

MRS. PATMIMORE,
visually impaired, talent-compromised cook

WREN,
housemaid/screenwriter

JIGGY,
hot-ass footmasseur

HIVY,
smokin’ scullery maid

HANDSOM,
Irish chauffeur/troublemaker

JEN NEHSAYQUA,
Lithe, coltish maid

CAMEL HOKKYPUK,
incontinent Arab

HOWIE KREPLACH,
your basic Jew lawyer

Part One

The First Part

I

That Sinking Feeling

It is the residents who occupy Downtrodden Abbey shortly after the turn of the twentieth century to whom we will now turn our attention.

The year is 1912—specifically, October the fifth—when word spreads that a telegramme is on its way.

“What is this ‘telegramme’ you speak of?” asks Vile, the dowager countess, who is so old that her eighth-grade science project was The Wheel. This woman’s wrinkles have wrinkles, I wanna tell you.

“We’ve been through this countless times, Countess,” responds Mrs. Used, the bitter, no-nonsense housekeeper. “The telegramme is one of the great conveniences of the modern era. A short message is written. Each character—letters and punctuation marks—is set on a printing press, and one edition of the message is produced. The page is then passed to a paid courier who—on horseback, seafaring vessel, or foot—journeys over mountain, sea, and sand. A mere three to six months later, it is delivered to the intended recipient’s doorstep. One would be hard-pressed to find a more convenient or expeditious method of communication.”

“This technology is simply out of hand,” marvels Vile. “Whatever will they think of next?”

Mrs. Used explains that there is rumour of a version in which a strapping lad dressed as a bobby sings the telegramme’s contents in celebration of a female’s birthday or impending nuptials. But it turns out that the lad is not in actuality a bobby, and shortly after announcing his arrival he begins to disrobe, accompanied by saucy harpsichord music and the screams of the other female guests.

“Oh, Mrs. Used, it sounds like you’ve been in the wine cellar again,” Vile says, wagging a gnarled finger. “Are you balmy on the crumpet, woman? I, for one, refuse to believe such hogwash prior to verifying it with the Snopes office.”

*   *   *

Tonight, in the parlour, a game of Charades has been organised.

Lord Crawfish and his wife, Flora, will seize any opportunity to enjoy leisure games with their three daughters. However, following a croquet accident that left one of their uncles with a head injury and an insistence on permanently thereafter wearing an unsightly pith helmet and only speaking in Latin, these activities were limited to indoor, more cerebral pursuits.

A few words about Flora Crawfish. She eats poorly, reads trashy novels, is ignorant about politics and is unsophisticated with language. When attending sporting events, she is boisterous to the point of those around her requesting Security. She could spend weeks on a beach, drinking cheap wine, reading gossip magazines, and gambling on fixed dog races (in which both the dogs and the races are fixed) at night.

At the turn of the century, hormonally challenged girls were often armed with croquet mallets.

If you have not surmised it, Flora Crawfish is American.

Beautiful Lady Marry—the oldest Crawfish daughter—has skin like porcelain, but rest assured that in no other way does she resemble the accoutrements of tea service. For one thing, fine china could hardly withstand the bedroom acrobatics Lady Marry simply cannot live without. It is said that she has seen more ceilings than Michelangelo. For years, she has successfully managed to withhold knowledge of her insatiable appetite for fornication from her family. She keeps such ribald secrets between herself and her diary. A suffragette in theory if not practice, Lady Marry has for years been lobbying for hemlines to be lifted by one half inch.

Lady Supple, the youngest daughter, has silken tresses that frame a face of unutterable mystery. As might be expected, a woman this lovely could not possibly have a brain in her head, and Supple is no exception.

(Note: Women’s figures in the twentieth century were—how to put this delicately?—smokin’. More zaftig than the Victorians, by the 1910s, women wore long corsets cut below the chest. Small animals, preferably deceased, were often inserted to exaggerate the size of the bosoms. When only living critters were available, ladies often resorted to the “Thingamajigger,” a scooped-out melon half, stuffed with horsehair and attached to metal springs, all of which were anchored by a frame of human bone. Adverts for bust cream peppered periodicals of the day. These magic potions allegedly create “That Va-va-va-voom Effect,” and guaranteed “Staggering Bulges from All Passing Gents.” Chinese tinctures were also quite popular, but an hour after application, they had to be applied again.)

The Crawfishes know nothing of Supple’s hidden desire: to locate and wed the most destitute Irishman in the county and endure an impoverished existence of resentment, hardship, and impassioned political belief.

Lastly and very much leastly there is Lady Enid, the middle child, who in private regularly curses nature for the wrath it unleashed on her. She is distinguished by inordinately large knuckles, load-bearing hips, and a facial expression less reminiscent of the
Mona Lisa
than of
The Scream
. But to quote the Duke of Flashingmore following a crushing defeat on the polo pitch in Oxford, “One cannot win them all.” Enid, too, has secrets, but no one is terribly interested in them.

It is on Enid’s tragically unfortunate countenance, however, that her family’s eyes are presently trained. She reads a clue and begins to pantomime its contents, starting by extending her arms, one on either side of her not inconsiderable, highly asymmetrical frame.

“Big!” Lord Grandsun surmises, but Enid shakes her head laterally as she continues to silently act.

“Grand!” his wife Flora guesses, which is also followed by a negative response.

“Girth!” yells Lady Marry confidently. But she, too, is incorrect.

Enid again glances at the clue, then alters her strategy. She plummets her hands, as though suddenly submerging them in water.

“‘Diving’?” Lady Supple queries.

“‘Plunging’?” offers Flora.

“I know, I know,” says Marry, excitedly. “It’s—it’s ‘going down’…”

Enid nods with enthusiasm, pointing with a crooked index finger to her deformed nose.

“Going down … would it be ‘Fellatio’…?”

Flora blushes crimson. “Marry!”

“Hear me out, mother, I think I’ve got the answer,” Marry continues. “Could it be ‘A well-endowed Arab found in my boudoir’?”

The shocked silence that follows is broken by the disgusted Lord Grandsun.

“Marry Crawfish! Wherever would you conjure such an appalling image?”

His eldest shrugs, questioning to herself the wisdom of having imbibed her third cognac.

Flora stands conclusively. “In my opinion, this game is concluded,” she concludes.

“Is no one curious as to the correct answer?” Lady Enid asks. “It was ‘The Sinking of the
Gigantic
.’”

Lady Supple giggles. “Oh, pul-
ease
. Like that could ever happen.”

Mrs. Used appears in the doorway, telegramme in hand.

“Lord Crawfish,” she says, handing him the water-damaged document. “I forgot to give you this the other day.”

TELEGRAMME

DATED: APRIL 16, 1912

TO: LORD RODERICK CRAWFISH, EARL OF GRANDSUN

FROM: LANE CRAWFISH

UPDATING OUR GIGANTIC CRUISE. STOP. FOOD IS TERRIBLE. STOP. AND SUCH SMALL PORTIONS. STOP. LOST A SMALL FORTUNE IN THE CASINO. STOP. TEE SHIRTS AND SOUVENIRS WAY OVERPRICED. STOP. NIGHTLY “ENTERTAINMENT” CONSISTS OF SEMITIC YANK MOTORMOUTH CALLED JOAN RIVERS. SHORT CAREER PREDICTED. STOP. SHIP IS UNEXPECTEDLY HEADED STRAIGHT FOR OBSCURE COUNTRY CALLED “ICEBERG,” NAME OF WHICH CREW IS SHOUTING LOUDLY AND REPEATEDLY. STOP. PLEASE CHECK AT MY HOME TO SEE IF I LEFT FURNACE ON. JUST HAVE THAT SINKING FEELING. STOP.

REGARDS
LANE

Lord Grandsun’s face registers profound concern.

“Evidently, it’s true,” he tells his family. “The fact that this telegramme is actually soaking wet is not a good sign. Clearly, the
Gigantic
has sunk. And so, in turn, are we. I assume you all know about the entail.”

Enid stands, again attracting the attention of the others.

“Of course. The entail is one of a human or animal’s intestines or internal organs, especially when removed or exposed.”

“Enid…” Flora pleads, to no avail, as her homely offspring continues.

“These are also known as the bowels, guts, viscera, or innards.”

Lord Grandsun rolls his eyes. “Not ‘entrails,’ Enid. I said ‘entail.’”

“Oh—I think I know,” Enid offers excitedly. “Would that be the end of an animal’s tail?”

Marry can take no more of her sister’s idiocy. “Crikey, Enid—now you’re merely guessing. The charades game is over, remember? Please let Father continue.”

Lord Grandsun explains the consequences of the ship sinking in as succinct terms as possible: Roderick’s nephew Pettrick was to marry Marry, his oldest daughter, thus inheriting the title and fortune tied to the property from Flora, Marry’s American mother. According to the entail, the land and title must pass to a male heir.

If there are two things the earl despises, they are moving and going belly up, both of which seem in the offing. For a minute he wonders if Enid could pass for a man, which, from a cosmetic standpoint, is a feat that could be easily executed. But then she would have to marry her own sister, which would undoubtedly present additional problems, heir-wise.