The Final Testimony of Raphael Ignatius Phoenix

by Paul Sussman

  Slaggsbys, according to His Lordship’s monograph, had been there since the beginning. They were there when Stonehenge was built, very possibly acting as architects of the latter, and were still there when the Romans arrived, giving ‘that filthy little Itie Caesar a fucking good hiding’ when he first arrived from Gaul. King Alfred’s shield-bearer was a Slaggsby, and a Slaggsby, Gunthwine by name, stood beside King Harold when the latter was shot through the eye by a Norman arrow at Hastings. There was a Slaggsby with Thomas a Becket when he was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral; another with King Richard on the Third Crusade; another still with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest; and no fewer than three of them sitting with King Arthur at his legendary Round Table. There were Slaggsbys at Crécy and Agincourt; Slaggsbys at Bannockburn and Culloden; Slaggsbys at Trafalgar and Waterloo; Slaggsbys at Inkerman and on the Somme; and, indeed, Slaggsbys at every major military engagement, either at home or abroad, in which Englishmen had ever been involved. One Slaggsby had been the lover of Queen Elizabeth I – ‘Damn fine filly!’ – another had assisted Wren in the construction of St Paul’s Cathedral, and there was compelling evidence to suggest that William Shakespeare was, in fact, a Slaggsby. There was even one Slaggsby, a distant half-cousin named Alfonso, aboard the Santa Maria when Columbus discovered America. Aside from God, there was probably no single force in the universe which had, according to His Lordship, so affected the history of mankind as the family Slaggsby.

  It was for the purposes of imparting this information to an ignorant public that my employer was compiling his monograph. All day, from nine o’clock in the morning to six o’clock at night, with a two-hour break in the middle for lunch and a nap, His Lordship would toil away at his opus; and all day, from nine in the morning to six at night, I would assist him with it, fetching books from the library, taking notes and cross-referencing, transcribing, proofreading, checking dates and facts and names and spellings, sharpening pencils, tidying the desk, cranking up the gramophone, fetching cups of tea and biscuits and basically doing everything short of writing the damn thing. Towards the end, indeed, I even started doing a bit of that too, when my employer became old and senile and unable to hold his pen properly.

  Work on Slaggsby: A Very English Heritage continued uninterrupted until 6 p.m., when we would down pencils, turn off the gramophone and head off back up the wheelchair relay to His Lordship’s room, where I would bath and dress him for his evening meal.

  Even when rationing was still in place, which it was until the early Fifties, dinner at Tripally Hall was a sumptuous affair. Taken at 7 p.m. in the main dining room, it consisted of a minimum of five courses, cooked by Crone, served by me and eaten by His Lordship in complete silence and totally alone (although if memory serves me right he did have one guest sometime in the early Sixties). The whole thing never took less than two hours to complete, more if His Lordship fell asleep between courses, which he did increasingly as he got older, and it was not usually before 9 p.m. that the last plates would be cleared away and I would wheel my burping employer into the billiard room, where I would allow him to thrash me at balls for an hour.

  ‘Ye gods, Phoenix, you’re even worse than Smotters,’ he would cry.

  ‘Yes, Your Lordship.’

  ‘Hit the bloody thing, man! Give it a whack, for Christ’s sake. You’re not a liberal!’

  From the billiard room it was back up to the bedroom, at 10 p.m., where I would undress His Lordship and help him into bed. There would then be a deal of fuss over his pillows – ‘Plump them up, damn it, man, plump them up! It’s like sleeping on a bloody sandbag!’ – before I eventually closed the curtains, turned out the lights and at 10.30 p.m. wished him a good night.

  ‘I sincerely doubt it will be, Phoenix. And make sure Crone gives me three rashers of bacon in the morning.’

  His Lordship safely tucked up, I would return to the kitchen for my own dinner, which would have been left in the oven by Crone. I would pop down to the wine cellar for a surreptitious swig or two – Lord Slaggsby had a formidable wine cellar, including almost 500 bottles of Château d’Yquem 1921, and as many of Margaux 1900 and Lafite 1920 – before sneaking a quick, illegal cigarette in the pantry garden. At 11.30 p.m. I would then retire to my own room and prepare for bed. Off would come my excruciatingly ill-fitting uniform, under the pillow would be slipped The Photo and The Pill, and beneath the covers would go I. By midnight I’d be fast asleep.

  That, however, was not quite the end of my day, because every night, without fail, after a brief period of respite, I would be woken at precisely 2.30 a.m. by a whistling from the funnel-ended rubber tube beside my bedstead.

  ‘Phoenix!’ would come Lord Slaggsby’s distant voice. ‘Phoenix! I’ve got the gripes! Christ, I’ve blown up like a bloody bagpipe!’

  ‘Yes, Your Lordship,’ I would mumble sleepily. ‘On my way.’

  Whereupon I would get up, heave on my uniform, light a candle and traipse all the way over to his bedroom, arriving only to find that he’d gone back to sleep again. I put up with this pantomime every night for 23 of my 24 years at Tripally Hall before I eventually lost patience and, taking a ball of paper, stuffed it down the mouth of the communication tube so I could get an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

  And then at 5.15 a.m. I’d wake up and do the whole thing all over again.

  Such was a day in my life at Tripally Hall. And since, as I’ve already explained, each day was precisely the same as every other day (except second Fridays), such was my entire life at Tripally Hall.

  It was not, admittedly, the most scintillating of existences, and His Lordship could certainly be a handful when he put his mind to it, which he did most of the time. Crone, too, was a constant thorn in my side (the fact that I killed His Lordship rather than her is further proof, if further proof were needed, of just how illogical a thing murder is).

  It wasn’t all bad, however. I had an unparalleled selection of wines at my disposal in the Tripally cellar, and actually rather enjoyed working on His Lordship’s monograph, deriving therefrom the same sense of satisfaction as I imagine a storyteller must derive from spinning a particularly long and colourful adventure yarn. There was even a bit of sex, believe it or not, albeit only sporadically, in Old Lummy’s potting shed, with big-boobed Mrs Shine, the local baker’s wife.

  So it wasn’t all bad. Not by any means. And if 24 years might seem a long time to those looking in from the outside, to those of us on the inside it went by in a flash. That’s what happens when every day is exactly the same as every other day. You lose all sense of time passing. Working for Lord Slaggsby – always following the same routine, always doing the same thing – was akin to a form of transcendental meditation. I slipped into a sort of coma, emerging in February 1969 as though from a deep sleep. When Emily told me how long I’d been there I could barely believe it. I felt like Rip van Winkle. And my hair had gone completely white.

  I have now, on three separate occasions, mentioned that something curious happened every second Friday at Tripally, and the time has now come to reveal just what that something curious was. To reveal my master’s terrible secret. His skeleton in the closet. Lord Slaggsby, you see, was addicted to cream cakes.

  Why this should have been a source of such humiliation to him I have no idea. A penchant for cream cakes, after all, hardly constitutes a crime. It is not treason, or pederasty, or incest, which are the sort of things aristocrats usually get upset about. For some reason, however, His Lordship was ashamed of his craving, as though it in some way represented a betrayal of all that he held most dear in life.

  To his credit, he struggled manfully to control his addiction. He did not eat cream cakes every day. Nor even every week. He managed to last a whole fortnight between one bunfest and the next, during which time he would become increasingly irritable and twitchy, and play his Wagner increasingly loudly until, eventually, every second Thursday night, as I put him to bed, he would cry with an edge of despairing anguish to his voice:


  ‘God bloody bugger it, Phoenix, it’s too strong. I can’t hold out any longer. If I don’t have an éclair I’ll go mad. We’ll pop down to the village tomorrow. And not a word to Crone or Lummy, d’you hear? I won’t have the name of Slaggsby sullied because I happen to be a filthy weak-willed blackguard.’

  ‘You really are too hard on yourself, Your Lordship.’

  ‘I ought to be flogged! Flogged through the streets. And then burnt!’

  Thus it was that every second Friday morning, directly after breakfast, whilst Crone was off the estate visiting her sister, and Lummy working on the rose gardens at the back of the Hall, I would take Lord Slaggsby down the five-wheelchair relay from his bedroom to the front door, and thence down the steps on to the front drive.

  ‘By Christ, this is risky, Phoenix!’ His Lordship would mutter. ‘We’re skating on damned thin ice here. It only takes one person to spot us and the secret would be out. I’d be ruined! Ruined!’

  ‘It’s really not as bad as you think, Your Lordship.’

  ‘Not as bad! It’s worse! Now get a move on. And for God’s sake put some oil on these wheels next time. They’re squeaking fit to wake the dead!’

  The simplest way to cover the three miles from Tripally Hall to the village below was to follow the driveway down to the front gates and then turn right on to the narrow country road that led up from the valley. To do so, however, might have risked bumping into someone, and since His Lordship was most particular about not being seen on his fortnightly foraging expeditions, we were forced to negotiate a rather more circuitous path. This involved crossing the front lawn – the heavy mahogany wheelchair leaving deep ruts in Old Lummy’s neatly clipped grass – and then following a narrow path that wound down through the estate like a thin, coiled snake, the latter eventually emerging on to the village road just at the point where it began its final steep descent down to the river.

  Beyond this point Lord Slaggsby refused to go – ‘Can’t risk being seen,’ he would snap. ‘Can’t risk the shame!’ – and I would therefore wheel him behind a large holly bush before continuing alone.

  ‘Quick as you can,’ he would hiss, peering excitedly through the foliage. ‘And don’t forget the strawberry pastry horns. Dear God, it gives me a turn just to think of them!’

  I would duly descend the steep incline to the river, cross the old stone bridge and make my way up through the village to Shine’s Bakery at the far end of the high street.

  Here Mrs Shine – the same Mrs Shine with whom I enjoyed an occasional liaison amongst the compost bins and tomato plants of Old Lummy’s potting shed – would be serving behind the counter, aided from the mid-Sixties onwards by a large-boned local girl called Sharon Maggot.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Phoenix,’ the baker’s wife would coo, her titanic bosoms bulging over the top of her apron like flour-sacks dangling on a garden gate. ‘Come for your cream cakes.’

  ‘That’s right, Mrs Shine,’ I would reply innocently. ‘And kindly make sure you include one of your pastry horns.’

  ‘Now, Mr Phoenix, you know I always give you a horn.’

  ‘Indeed you do, Mrs Shine.’

  ‘And today I’m going to give you an extra big one.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be a real mouthful, Mrs Shine. I can barely wait to get my tongue into it.’

  So the innuendo would fly – the large-boned Sharon Maggot completely oblivious to the double entendres zipping about all around her – until Mrs Shine had boxed up His Lordship’s cakes, whereupon, with a nod and a wink, I’d leave the shop and set off back to my waiting employer.

  ‘Damn you, Phoenix, where’ve you been?’ he would cry as I approached. ‘I’ve been sitting here like a bloody pig in a poke! Stop for a nap on the way, did you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Lordship. There was a queue in the shop.’

  ‘To hell with queues. Give me those cakes. Any éclairs?’

  And with that he would rip off the lid of the cardboard box and set to, devouring cake after cake in glutinous silence as I wheeled him slowly back up the snaking path to Tripally Hall. By the time we reached the front lawn his moustache would be covered in cream, his jacket with crumbs, the box would be empty and His Lordship’s face a luminous shade of green.

  ‘God have mercy on my soul, Phoenix,’ he would cry, belching loudly. ‘I’ll burn in hell for this.’

  ‘They are just cakes, Your Lordship.’

  ‘No, Phoenix, they are not just cakes. They are weakness. Womanly weakness. Now get me back up to the study so I can get on with some work. And not a word of this, d’you hear. Not a word.’

  ‘No, Your Lordship,’ I assured him. ‘Not a word. You can rely on me.’

  Such was the curious ritual that was enacted every second Friday at Tripally Hall; and such, in large part, was the curious ritual that was enacted on that second Friday in February 1969 when I did for His Lordship, so bringing to an end 24 years in his service.

  The day had started in its usual fashion with me wheeling my grumbling employer, now well into his eighties and slightly deaf, down the winding path to the point where the latter joined the road to the village. Here, in time-honoured fashion, I had left him behind the holly bush and continued alone, his exhortations not to forget the strawberry pastry horns ringing in my ears.

  ‘And make sure they’re creamy ones!’ he’d hissed from amongst the branches. ‘Last week they were dry as a dervish’s backside!’

  In Shine’s Bakery I had been served, as always, by Mrs Shine, now slightly greying, although still the possessor of a spectacular pair of knockers, exchanging innuendos whilst big-boned Sharon Maggot had bustled around with trays of gingerbread men. Carrying my cakes under my arm, I had then set off back through the village, across the bridge and up the hill to His Lordship, just as I always did.

  ‘Damn you, Phoenix, where’ve you been?’ he bellowed as I approached. ‘I’ve been sitting here like fucking Robinson Crusoe on his island! Fall down a mineshaft, did you?’

  ‘I’m sorry for the delay, Your Lordship,’ I replied patiently. ‘I had to wait for the pastry horns.’

  ‘You’re a damned slacker, Phoenix. Now hand over those cakes. Any walnut whips?’

  Which is the point at which, for no obvious reason, everything suddenly started to change. Why it should have happened then, on that particular second Friday, rather than the one before, or the one after, I really can’t explain. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. His Lordship was no more hectoring than usual, nor any ruder; nor was I in any worse a mood than I had been the previous fortnight, or the one before that. It was in all respects a second Friday just like every other second Friday for the past 24 years. For some reason, however, on this particular one I suddenly decided I’d had enough. After a quarter of a century I reached the end of my tether, and rather than handing over His Lordship’s comestibles when he asked me to, as I usually did, I instead took a step backwards and kept hold of them.

  ‘You can’t have them,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that!’ he sputtered. ‘Give me those cakes! Give them to me now!’

  ‘No,’ I said, as surprised as he was to hear myself say it.

  ‘What!’ he cried, leaning forward in his chair and cupping his hand about his ear. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You can’t have your cakes, Your Lordship,’ I repeated, raising my voice.

  ‘Can’t have them! Why can’t I have them?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to give them to you.’

  ‘What are you talking about, you filthy seditious blighter? Hand them over now, I say! I want my pastries.’

  I said nothing, just took another step backwards. After 24 years of unquestioning deference it felt rather good to goad him thus.

  ‘What in the name of God’s got into you, Phoenix? Have you taken leave of your senses? Smotters never took leave of his senses, and he only had one leg. Now give me those cakes or I’ll have you birched to within an inch of your life!’

&nb
sp; He seized the wheels of his chair and began to propel himself towards me. After a couple of feet, however, the wheels became bogged down in a patch of soggy grass and he juddered to a halt.

  ‘Bloody damn thing!’ he snapped, feebly banging the armrest with his fist. ‘Bloody damn thing!’

  I remained where I was, clutching the cakes, watching him as he rocked back and forth, his face becoming increasingly red. He looked, I thought, rather like a large jack-in-the-box.

  ‘Do you want me to have a seizure, Phoenix?’ he roared. ‘Is that your idea, eh? I always knew you were a bloody Jew-boy pansy-man. Help me, damn it! Help me!’

  I stayed where I was for a moment longer and then, laying aside the box of cakes, crossed to the chair, took hold of its handles and, with a heave, pushed it forwards on to the side of the road. Here I swung it round through 90 degrees so that it was facing downhill, and applied the brakes.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he puffed. ‘Coming to your senses at last. Now hand me my cakes and we’ll be on our way. Acting like a bloody Itie you were!’

  I retrieved the pastries and walked round to the front of his chair, where I held them just out of reach of his outstretched hand.

  ‘Well, come on then! Hand ’em over!’

  He leaned right forward in his chair, fingers stretching, eyes fixed despairingly on the cardboard cake box.

  ‘Dear God, if I don’t have a creamy puff I think I’ll die. Give me my damn cakes I say!’

  ‘Do you really want them?’ I asked.

  ‘You know I bloody want them, you filthy arse-reaming Bolshevik scoundrel. Now I’ll ask you one more time: give me my cakes, or you’ll never work in this country again!’

  ‘If His Lordship wants his cream cakes,’ I said, smiling, ‘then His Lordship shall have his cream cakes.’