Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family (6 page)

“You should try it some time,” he replies. “And I am foreign, by the way—not deaf.”

“Marry, would you use this spoon or that one to penetrate this melon?” asks Atchew.

How disgusting, she thinks. Using double entendre—what an amateur seduction tactic. She directs her focus back to Camel.

“I’d love to sample your sausage,” Marry purrs. “Maybe in my boudoir, later tonight.”

“Are you saying what I think you are?” Camel asks. “Eating in one’s bedroom is not frowned upon at Downtrodden? And breakfast fare—in the evening?”

He’s not very bright,
Marry thinks,
but I would definitely give this Camel a ride
.

That night, the Arab is anything but deserted, as he makes his way into Marry’s bedroom.

“Why, Camel,” Marry exclaims. “Don’t tell me you’ve come here for a bit of the old slap-and-tickle?”

“What?” he asks.

“The old slap-and-tickle? Shagging. Making whoopee. Rolling in the hay. The horizontal bop. The monster with two backs. El Schtuppo. Hide the salami. The Venus Fly Trap. Intercourse. Bumping uglies. Doing the Dirty. Sticking it in. The Hot Beef Injection. Banging. Laying pipe. Cattle prodding the oyster ditch. Marinating the nether rod in the squish mitten. Retrofitting the pudding hatch with the boink swatter.

“And I could go on.”

“Evidently you can,” says Camel. “That is quite a vocabulary you have there. But the truth is, much as I would enjoy mitten-bumping—or whatever you want to call it—this morning’s squirrel hunt has absolutely flattened me. I am simply exhausted, and my mattress is lumpier than Mrs. Patmimore’s porridge.”

So that is his agenda,
Marry thinks.
Camel is just using me for my comfortable mattress. How dare this despicable sand merchant assume that he can take advantage of me!

“Come on in,” Marry says.

“Can I just run to the loo?”

Midget bed, c. 1916.

“I, uh, wouldn’t go in there for a while,” she advises. “That boiled squab we had for dinner really did a number on me.”

*   *   *

Two hours later, Marry makes a tragic discovery, races down the hall to Nana’s quarters, and knocks on the door.

“Mr. Brace?” she hears from inside.

“Mr. Brace? No, it’s Lady Marry.”

“Oh,” Nana says, cracking the door. “You, uh … have the same knock as him. You’re dripping with perspiration, Lady Marry. What’s going on?”

“I have a little problem on my hands. I shared my bed with a certain Camel, and—”

Nana is revolted. “You’re into that? I mean, it’s one thing to have a puppy in there with you, but…”

“Calm down, Nana. Not an
actual
camel. The Arab. The handsome one, who smells like fresh hummus. Or
smelled
like it, that is. I’m afraid he’s…”

“Dead?” Nana asks.

“No, it’s worse—it’s—he…”

“Spit it out, Milady,” pleads the young maid. “I’ve got to get up in two hours to fluff and fold the newspapers.”

“What do you know about cleaning soiled bedsheets?”

Nana tries to hide her shock. “Don’t tell me—”

“—I’m afraid it’s true,” says the humiliated Lady Marry. “Camel has wet my bed.”

Nana gasps.

“That’s right,” says Marry. “He pissed it. Soaked it. Soiled the sheets. Took a tinkle. Made a yellow mess. Peed. Wee-weed. Sprayed his scent.”

“Oh, Lady Marry,” Nana moans. “We never should have gotten you that thesaurus for Christmas.”

Nana and Lady Marry spend until dawn contemplating where to hide the dirty linens, as an attempt to wash them would undoubtedly arouse suspicion in the Abbey.

“How did you sleep, sweetheart?” Lord Crawfish asks Marry the next morning at breakfast.

“Very wet,” she says. “I mean, very
well
.”

IV

Faire to Middling

The faire arrives in town, and everyone at Downtrodden Abbey knows what that means: two weeks of listening to “
It’s a Long Way to Tipperary
” and lots of inferior street food. Deep fried potatoes! What will they think of next?

The second footmasseur, Fodder, has been looking forward to the faire for some time. Genial and positive, Fodder gets along with very few of the serving staff for those very reasons. His interest in the faire is that it affords him an opportunity to invite Laizy, the scullery maid.

Laizy’s tenure at Downtrodden began rather shakily, as she did not know what “scullery” meant, and for the first few weeks was afraid to ask. Once she settled in, she became indispensible. Who but a dim-witted teenager would want to spend twenty hours a day washing dishes?

From Laizy’s diary, a typical workday:

4:30 a.m.
There is nothing quite like a solid two and half hours of sleep. I am ready to face the day. I will pull on my well-worn corset, dress, and apron, and head downstairs to see if there are any dishes that need washing. If not, I will again wash the clean ones. Joy!

6:05 a.m.
The time has come to wake the housemaids, see if the hall boy has arrived with the coal, and wash some more dishes. Life is splendid!

10:15 a.m.
Tomaine and Fodder (who is quite a fetching lad) have brought the breakfast dishes in, and when I am finished with those, I can start on the pots and pans. Starting to get a little tired, truth be told, but spirits still high, all things considered.

2:08 p.m.
Lunch is over, and guess what? Filthy dishes, pans, and crockery await my gentle touch. One question, diary—would it kill them to hire a second scullery maid?

6:50 p.m.
Getting ready to serve supper. Not only do I get to make sure that goes well, I am also responsible for feeding the servants, who are chronically unhappy about every aspect of their responsibilities. I am near to ready to hoist a fireplace poker and jam it into my eye sockets.

8:25 p.m.
Dinner is completed. Do you know what that means, diary? More pots and pans with caked-on and dried bits of food I will never be able to taste. Unless I just go ahead and start eating the trash. Then maybe I will die a quick death, and not have to get up tomorrow morning. Jk, jk!
☺

Before Fodder gets the opportunity to ask Laizy to accompany him to the faire, Tomaine makes his own overture.

“I have a great idea,” he says one morning, as Laizy scrubs pudding remnants from a cauldron. “We can each wear something frilly—not the same colour—and spend the afternoon picking lavender, gossiping, and pampering ourselves with fragrant oils and tinctures.”

“Rumours abound that you are a … ‘man’s man,’ Tomaine.”

“Where would anyone get that idea?” asks the perplexed footmasseur.

Meanwhile, Vile confronts Atchew in his office.

“I understand you are a lawyer,” she says. “And I need your help.”

“What is it?”

“There is a certain thing that I need to have … taken care of,” Vile responds.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific, dowager countess. It’s never been your style to mince words.”

“Let me ask you a hypothetical question. Imagine that your family has, in its possession, a grand mansion—designed and built by the esteemed architect Inigo Schwartz, for instance—which has been handed down over several generations. What would you do if a certain legal loophole—an entail, let us say—kept that house from remaining in the family … unless a backwoods boob who doesn’t know a salad fork from a sorbet spoon marries into the family?”

Atchew gets up from his chair and paces. “As only a woman with ice water in her ancient veins would do otherwise, I will assume that the mansion you reference is not Downtrodden Abbey, and the idiot you are talking about is not me. If I were in your position, I would do everything in my power to make sure this clamhead you describe does not inherit the estate.”

Because British men dressed nicely, enjoyed musical theatre, and slept with each other, it was assumed that they were homosexuals.

Vile stands to leave. Her strategy has been validated.

“And by the way,” Atchew says as she leaves. “Is all of that cutlery
really
necessary?”

*   *   *

Later, in the village, Atchew runs into Lady Marry.

“Excuse me,” he says.

Marry tells him to watch where he’s going.

“So, your grandmother paid me a visit,” he says. “Evidently a certain someone is set to inherit Downtrodden Abbey, and she’s as annoyed as a clergyman’s daughter in a leper colony.”

Eating utensils, gardening instruments, and dental instruments were stored together and often confused.

“Why, that certain someone is you, Atchew.” Lady Marry blushes. “Hey, that rhymes.”

Atchew does a slow burn. “Ooh! That dried-up hag. How dare she try to stand in the way of our nuptials.”

“Our nuptials?” Marry exclaims. “Atchew, you know I cannot be wedded to you until you’ve mastered the silverware. It breaks my heart to tell you this. Also, I’m not in the least bit attracted to you. But I’ll tell you what—get the fork and spoon thing worked out, and we’ll talk.”

Back at Downtrodden Abbey, Tyresome makes a shocking discovery: a bottle of vinegar has gone missing from the pantry. Immediately, he suspects Mrs. Used, and heads to her bedroom to confront her.

“Mrs. Used,” he says, peeking in.

“I did not take that bottle of vinegar from the pantry,” she says, and then hiccups. “Pardon me.”

“Interesting that you would raise the subject of the vinegar if you were uninvolved in its disappearance,” says Tyresome. “Come on, ’fess up. Needed something for a late-night salad, perhaps? Or perhaps you had to clean some milking tools—did you know it could be used for that? Vinegar also removes rust from tools and spigots. Have a bee or jellyfish sting you need to attended to? Guess what soothes the pain?
Vinegar!
”

“Jeez—you’re like a combination of Sherlock Holmes and a know-it-all apothecary.…”

Tyresome continues to pace, struggling to make sense of the situation.

“Perhaps you had the hiccups. One tablespoon of vinegar and—poof—say goodbye to that problem. Trying to remove fruit stains from your hands? Guess what will do the trick there? You might even use it to relieve the discomfort of a yeast infection. Did you know that vinegar, when mixed with warm water and used as a douche, can actually adjust the pH balance in a lady’s naughty bits?”