by Nicky Roth
With having a younger sister, he once in a while flipped his way through all the various magazines, most of them a sorry excuse for felling trees to make paper, and as far as he could discern, the trend nowadays tended towards as much makeup as humanly possible until ones face looked like that of an altogether different person. One trend that had him burst out laughing was the “no-makeup makeup” one. Yes, he got it, some people were not blessed with flawless skin, but still, oh the irony!
With a little sigh, he made his way over to the classroom, only to find a group of bewildered looking men. Yes, he got it. He was bewildered, too...
Great, they were in pre-school apparently, as the chairs had been put in a neat circle and no shit, in the middle lay what he assumed was a discarded chiffon curtain in bright red on which an array of weird unconnected items had been placed: a heart-shaped biscuit tin, the framed picture of a kissing couple, another one that showed just two people holding hands, a baby-doll (shit, that thing was fugly!), fancy knickers, a bra (judging by the size of it meant to hold a pair of watermelons), a dusty looking veil, a small jewellery box, baby-shoes, a bottle of champagne, a single red rose, a single white rose just for good measure apparently, an ancient camera with a broken lens and... - eh, handcuffs?
That did indeed spur the imagination... Kinky!
Unless one thought about marriage in the sense of shackling two people together.
Okay, perhaps not so kinky. But shouldn't it be leg-shackles then?
Right, he was not in the mood for such philosophical questions. In actual fact, the one thing he was in the mood for since he'd entered the room was a large amount of alcohol. Yes, not strictly a solution, but it was a decent enough numbing-agent when it came to it.
Looking over his shoulder all the tables that had been pushed to the side of the room to make space in the middle held, were bottles of water, some sparkly, others still, and apple juice right next to neatly stacked and very colourful Tupperware cups. Yes, he'd almost forgotten he was in pre-school. Now he remembered.
Hm, would they start their class with a little song? He was quite curious all of a sudden. Shoot, the only children's song he could remember was “The wheels on the bus”.
Since Georgiana had a tiny aversion against spiders, when a child, “Itsy bitsy spider” had never gone down all that well with her. He still remembered the one time when she had to be picked up from kindergarten after she had dissolved into hysterics when they had play-acted the song and when later that night she had crawled into his bed because she had been too scared to sleep in her own. She and her teddy bear. And her stuffed mummy-dog. And all its puppies, the bunny with the purple ears, the floppy horse, her snuggly blanket, her favourite doll and, and, and...
By the end of the night he had ended up on the floor, but hey, what were big brothers for? Shit, was that really more than ten years ago? Yes. He was growing old. Time to plan the funeral and order a coffin. Perhaps he should suggest a course for planning one's own funeral...
Okay, his thoughts had turned slightly sinister, but by the looks of it, he wasn't the only one with dark thoughts.
Almost all of the men around him appeared rather wary, and when the door at last opened to reveal their tutor, he realised they had every reason to.
'Good evening, ladies and gentleman,' William Collins beamed, completely ignoring the fact that there were only men in the room, unless, of course, he spoke about his own alter-ego, Penny Morton.
But seriously, that man and rhetoric should not be put in the same sentence, let alone in front of a classroom of at any rate confused men.
'I am so sorry I am late, but the roads were quite clogged. I, of course, called in to ensure her Ladyship that I would be right on time for the classes, and so I would have been, had I not been held up by my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. The very woman whose workshops have enabled me to do the one or other class at her wonderful establishment here, when she offered a course in how to motivate children to get interested in learning. Ah, she is all affability and condescension, I have to say, never fails to inquire after one's well-being and the journey one had. Well, and before we knew it, it was past the hour. - Please forgive me. But Lady Catherine always says, that one has to pay proper respect to those who support one, and I quite agree. - Ah, Mr Darcy! - And here is a nephew of this noble woman amongst us. I am sure you will set the perfect example for your fellow men assembled here.'
Oh, really? Good to know.
'So, I would say we all sit down comfortably and then have a little introductory round.'
Collins beamed as if Christmas had come early and had brought Easter with it and then he did something that had Darcy almost fall off his chair: he pulled out a multi-coloured soft-ball.
Yes, men never really grew up, but come on! This was taking it a tad too far.
'Now, I will throw this ball at one of you, and whoever catches it will tell us something about himself.'
The enthusiasm in the room was exactly what Darcy had expected - non-existent. And when Penny did as he had threatened and threw the ball, it was with little surprise that no-one caught it. It bumped off the first guy, dodged the leg of the chap next to him and then fell at another fellow's feet where it now lay abandoned. Bewildered Collins stared at the ball, seemingly at a loss as to what to do next.
He was saved by the most unexpected person, and presumably the only person present who would have delighted in this little game.
'Ba-ba!' the little boy from earlier at dinner cried out happily, wriggling from his father's arms the moment he had come into the room.
Well, Darcy had wondered how they would manage with their bunch of unruly kids and here now was the answer. They were not, everybody else was.
In an attempt to turn the situation around, Penny smiled at the child before asking: 'So, and what is your name? Have you set a date yet?'
The answer was a cheeky grin followed by another impressive fart. How was it, that this kid wasn't floating in the air with the amount of wind he seemingly kept in his tummy?
To make a long story short, after about twenty minutes in which everybody was quite occupied with rolling the ball towards the little rascal, the child was tired enough to clamber onto the next best lap, which incidentally happened to be Darcy's, of course, and fell asleep.
Needless to say, that still there had been no introductions, and as by then even Penny seemed to have realised that it was a futile effort to have another try, he finally started with the lesson. Yeah!
'So, what I am here to teach you, is to make a proper speech for your wedding...,' Collins started afresh only to be interrupted by a grumpy looking man pointing out that this task normally fell to the best man.
'Well, but perhaps... - Anyway. So, I have brought a couple of items along when I was here last week...'
'You have taught before? Wow!' another man threw in with a hint of irony.
'No, I took a course.'
'Would that be “Mrs Beeton's household-management” or the “hula-hoop revival”?' Darcy couldn't help asking.
'”Behave like a lady”, actually.'
Snickers followed this statement. And images of William Collins in a flouncy dress arranging flowers threatened to disturb his peace of mind. Okay, imagining Penny with a hula-hoop wasn't all that much better. Possibly even worse, if he thought about it.
'What I would like you to do is choose two items each and try and come up with a little rhyme that describes them.'
Eh, come again?
When once again no-one stirred, Collins picked up the doll and the camera, presumably because they were closest to him. Hm, that would be interesting. Trying to think of something that rhymed with camera, nothing popped up.
'Now, this is a camera.'
No shit!
'And this is a doll.'
Really?
'And I am now going to try and make up a little poem, just so you have an idea what I am talking about.'
A man two chai
rs down from him raised his hand.
'Yes?'
'I need to go potty, Sir.'
Hm, he had been wondering when the lesson would degrade to the stage where toilet-humour was deemed appropriate. Not that Penny realised that they took the mickey.
'Then go.'
'And don't forget to wash your hands,' someone added.
'Yes, yes, quite right.'
Argh! His aunt couldn't be serious in hiring this man for such a task, surely. Or she had a very twisted sense of humour he hadn't noticed before...
'Your beauty is like a picture painted by Picasso,
I love you more than words can say,
I dream at night of you being by my side,
and of the day when I can finally say: I do! - So, what do you say?'
'I think Dada is an interesting choice of style,' Darcy remarked dryly. 'Though perhaps it is a rather dubious compliment to say that the woman one loves looks like a painting from Picasso...'
'You think?'
'Yes.'
'Okay. Why don't you have a go? - Come, choose something from our lovely display.'
'No.'
'Come, we will all have a turn, Mr Darcy.'
'Then I take the handcuffs and the bottle of champagne...'
'Wonderful!'
Nope.
After about a minute of contemplation Darcy began:
'Your cuffs and collar don't quite match,
Not even close would be a stretch
but then I drank a bottle of sparkling wine
and realised that you were mine.
And so I'm here a rhyming wretch.'
'You are not taking this seriously, are you?' Collins asked with nothing but surprise in his voice.
'No.'
'Oh, okay. So, right, who's next?'
Okay, he had to say one thing about this man, he didn't give up easily. But a good soldier knew when a battle was lost, and this one had been lost about an hour ago. To be more precise, the moment William Collins had stepped into the room.
Needless to say that no-one volunteered and the only noteworthy occurrence during the silence that followed was the sleeping toddler sprawled across his lap, who figuratively pointed out what most of the attendants thought about the lesson by once again filling his nappy to the brim.
When Darcy pressed the smelly boy into his father's arms, the man took the queue and quickly left, while the rest of the party scrambled to their feet and piled out of the room under the pretence of needing to catch some fresh air and ultimately went in search for something to drink. Something that wasn't water or apple juice.
They found what they were looking for in the person of his cousin Richard, who had, presumably unbeknownst to their aunt, opened the bar. Good man!
Darcy could swear that Fitz must have been eavesdropping. But for now, he had more pressing matters to attend to, like laying his hands on a pint. A pint full of draught, not water! The others seemed to agree with him there as everybody drank with surprising speed and willingness.
'So, how was your lesson?' Fitz asked, when everybody held a beer in hand, some even two.
'Interesting.'
Hm, that surely was worth a degree in putting things politely, right?
'Liked your Limerick, mate.'
Ha, he'd known it! Of course, his cousin would snoop.
'And I like the fact that you had the foresight to provide the numbing,' Darcy replied. 'What you see here is a room full of traumatised men. Seriously, I wonder how many couples will still get married after this weekend.'
He could not help wondering if the ladies fared any better, but then again, their class was not taught by Penny Morton, so there was hope for them yet.
'Ah, come now, it wasn't all that bad.'
'True, it was ultimately worse,' Darcy replied, helping himself to another beer.
'I actually think I should invite him over to Sandhurst for provocation-training.'
'Brilliant plan, but I hope you'll make sure your men are unarmed.'
'Where is the fun in that?'
'The fun is in finding other, more creative ways to silence him than to just shoot him after two minutes.'
'Like hanged, drawn and quartered?'
'For example.'
'Hm, god point, Darcy.'
'Hello? Where is everybody?' the meek voice of their rhetoric instructor sounded from the corridor a quarter of an hour later.
'Somewhere else!' someone answered.
Someone who was decidedly pissed already. Some achievement in such a short amount of time. He either was a very fast drinker or a teetotaller driven by Mr Collins to break his pledge.
'Yes, but where?' Penny's voice piped up again, just outside the door behind which they had all huddled together.
'Having a swim in the fucking fountain,' the same man shouted.
'Ah, thank you...'
And there went Mr Collins never to be heard of again... - Not this weekend anyway. Phew!
Chapter 37:
Fifty shades of white
With a firm grip, Lady Catherine de Bourgh led her into the lion's den aka, their classroom. Well, it was certainly not what she had expected. It looked more like an overstuffed bridal salon, and sure enough, a sign on the only wall not lined by clothes rails announced that the dresses had been provided by the “Westerham Bridal Parlour”. Wow, they could not have come up with a more innovative or catchy name if they had tried...
Most of the women looked quite keen. Naturally, since they were actually getting married, so fair enough. She was perfectly happy to take a backseat.
Pouring herself a glass of water, Elizabeth did just that, sitting down as far to the back of the room as she could, which was still not far enough for her taste, while all the other ladies had tried to get as close to the front as was possible. Everyone waited with bated breath for what was to come, like a herd of cows standing at the gate when it was time to bring them in for milking. Okay, a mumbling herd of cows, for though the tension was almost palpable, it did not stop the crowd from whispering to one another, occasionally pointing at the one or other dress. Whether it was in delight or contempt, she could not quite make out, and at any rate, to her, the gowns kind of all looked the same. Some shade of white or another a few with some glitzy stuff on them, others sporting lace and some rather plain and unadorned. The more conservative version of “Fifty shades of Grey” so to say.
'Hello, Ladies!' a shrewd-looking compact and jovial woman all but yelled waltzing her way down the room like an avalanche.
A very peach-coloured avalanche with a touch of purple here and there, wearing a bright pink hat with a lime-green flower. In contrast to all the white gowns in the background, her attire, which no-one could call subtle even at the best of times, stood out like a cow on London Bridge. More so, if she thought about it. Amongst all the buses one might be able to overlook a single cow, but this dress was something that even the most short-sighted person could not miss. Besides, it had not been all that long since cattle had been ushered into town via London Bridge bound for Smithfield Market. Okay, history lesson over, on to style consultation. Or rather a lesson in how not to dress at any time.
'Welcome to our little course in style and fashion, the colourful woman carried on cheerfully as soon as she had reached the front of the room. 'My name is Lady Marjorie Metcalf and I am to be your tutor for tonight. I am also the owner of Westerham Bridal Parlour, but don't let that deter you, I will not talk you into dresses that won't look good on you - but I might try with those that do.'
Everybody chuckled. Okay, considering that the dresses were all more or less white, nothing much could go wrong, right?
It could, apparently, but not in the way Elizabeth had expected. Lady Marjorie had apparently just wanted to continue when the mother-bride came in, her two bickering daughters in tow. And as it happened, the only vacant seats were right next to herself. Oh, joy!
Well, she had wondered how the parents would handle the kids while they them
selves attended classes. Now she had the answer. They weren't, everyone else had to put up with the little monsters.
The boy was presumably with his dad and she could literally see how the poor sod teaching the rhetoric class was made to have him speak in full sentences within the course of an evening.
The female half of the family had barely sat down, when the first girl was out of her seat again, rummaging through the rows of dresses pulling the one or other out, some slipping off the hangers and ending up on the floor.
Though Elizabeth had little idea about how expensive they were, one thing she did know was, that wedding-dresses were not cheap.
'I want to try this one!' she announced, when she had found a particularly sparkly one.
'No, you won't. I will!' her sister, aka pink-princess, announced to a speechless audience, and considering they were all women, that had to say something.
'Actually, this course is for the brides, sweeties,' her Ladyship twittered with a strained smile, while the mother just looked on indulgently.
'But I WANT!' both sisters for once united, cried.
Shoot, if they were any louder or shriller for that matter, they surely would burst the windowpanes.
'Now, let us see how far we get and then you can try a dress on at the end of the evening,' the lady in the makeshift parrot-costume tried to soothe them.
'No, NOW!'
'Yes, we want to put them on NOW. This, and that one there and the one over there.'
'Pam, Tiffany, you should say “please”,' their mother reprimanded them.
Shit, even her mother would have said something if any of her sisters, including herself, obviously, had behaved like that and be it for the simple fact that she'd feared he'd have to pay for all the damage. Heck, even Lydia would have had an earful, and she had gotten away with the worst behaviour of them all.
'Okay. - PLEASE!'
'As I have said, later. We go one after the other, and since you came in last, it is only fair that you go last, isn't it?' Lady Marjorie still managed to smile somehow, but her face grew ever so much tenser.