The Wilt Inheritance (2010)

by Tom Sharpe

  “Probably forgot he’d a catheter in and wanted to urinate. Very forgetful, the Brigadier is. And obstinate too.”

  “Was by the look of things,” announced the doctor.

  “Must have hit his head on the locker when he fell.”

  Five minutes later the Colonel heard the siren of a police car arriving and more heavy footsteps on the stairs. Why couldn’t they use the lift? Five more minutes passed and they did – or at any rate tried to.

  “He’s too bloody tall! He’s never going to fit in here…should have been on the ground floor.”

  “What? And have him where visitors could hear him using such foul language all the time?” Matron replied. “Anyway, we always put the most difficult old bastards down there, so they can’t make things too awkward for the staff who have to get them up and dressed and so forth.”

  From his room, the Colonel decided to make his feelings known.

  “I am not a difficult old bastard!” he yelled, and heard someone say he could see what Matron meant.

  Presently she opened the door and poked her head inside.

  “Now don’t you worry,” she cooed into the darkness. “You just go back to sleep like a good boy.”

  “I am neither an old bastard nor a boy,” shouted the Colonel. “And you’re the ones who’ve woken me up, pounding up and down the stairs without a thought for anyone else. I won’t have it, and I won’t have your rotten rudeness either, do you hear me? In fact, in future you’ll call me ‘sir’ when you address me. Now bugger off!”

  “Naughty, naughty,” answered Matron. “There’s a catheter going spare for nasty old men who won’t behave themselves.” And shut the door with a loud bang.

  The Colonel roundly cursed all women and then lay grimly contemplating his future. It would be an unpleasant one and probably short. His thoughts drifted back to the days when he’d still wielded some authority. It all seemed a very long time ago.

  Before he got back to sleep he had worked out the rudiments of a plan to get himself out of this hellhole, preferably before that old bag could do anything involving catheters. He had remembered hearing that Matron had a son who had been an officer in a county regiment. A man of that calibre would have more respect for anyone connected to the army than for his old bat of a mother. No point in throwing himself on Clarissa’s mercy: she’d made it quite plain when she’d come down to settle him into the Last Post that it was this or the even more Godawful-sounding Journey’s End where, according to her, you could practically smell the Crematorium on a busy day.

  No, he’d had it with Clarissa. He was pretty damn’ sure he knew why she visited so regularly and it was nothing to do with love. Or, rather, nothing to do with any kind of love for him.

  Now if he could only get a message to this army chap, he might just be able to get out of here.

  9

  Next morning Wilt was awake surprisingly early and over his standard breakfast of muesli – which Eva insisted was good for him – continued mugging up on the First World War. Eva was still in bed, much to his delight. He probably wouldn’t have been so relaxed if he’d known she was thinking dark thoughts about him and Lady Clarissa. Eva eventually came downstairs in her mauve and yellow dressing gown and was relieved to find him sitting at the kitchen table, obviously engrossed in his book.

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “Just an account of the decisive battles of the First World War,” he answered. “I thought I’d better go through it again myself before trying to make it even faintly comprehensible to what’s-his-name? You know, the Gadsleys’ puppy…Edward. I must say, the prospect doesn’t exactly enthral me. It’s very bloody reading – but I daresay that’ll make it more interesting to the young brute.”

  Eva didn’t want to know. Instead she made a pot of tea for herself and some coffee for Wilt.

  “I hope you had a nice time last night,” she said sarcastically as she put the cup on the table just out of his reach. “Out drinking again, I suppose.”

  In fact, Wilt had been driven to seek refuge in the pub after spending an unpleasant afternoon being badgered by his wife about behaving properly at Sandystones Hall: not getting drunk or using bad language or having sex with Lady Clarissa. Or letting Lady Clarissa have sex with him. In desperation he’d gone down to the Braintrees’ and dragged Peter out to the Duck and Dragon where they had sat outside and drunk beer, watching the boats pass by on the river.

  “What’s this Lady Clarissa like?” Peter had asked him.

  “Drinks huge dry martinis as if they’re water. She has to be an alcoholic…or at least that’s the impression I got at lunch. I’d be very surprised if she hasn’t a lover on the side, too, the eyes she made at me. One thing that is certain is I’m going to stay well clear of that sort of thing. Not that I’m planning to put Eva out of her misery, any time soon. The truth of the matter is she’s only really concerned about the fifteen hundred quid a week I’m going to be paid for tutoring the dimwit son.”

  Wilt had only stayed out for as long as it took to ensure Eva had gone up to bed ahead of him, and was actually pretty much sober when he made his way home.

  Eva finished her tea and went back upstairs, leaving him concentrating on his book. To Wilt’s surprise and disgust she came back down moments later, this time wearing a sheer dressing gown through which he could see her vivid scarlet panties. That meant only one thing and Eva put it into words.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, Henry, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s about time we had some gender,” she said, using the word Wilt had come to detest.

  “If by that you mean sex…” he began.

  “I do,” interrupted Eva. “We haven’t had any for ages, and at Sandystones Hall I don’t suppose we’ll get the chance. Besides the girls will be there too and…”

  Wilt interrupted her.

  “…you make such a din they’re bound to know what we’re up to. Not that it matters. They know more about sex than I do. Haven’t you heard Emmeline going on about it? Anyway I had a sleepless night and I’m whacked out. I couldn’t get it up even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  “Hmm, yes, and I wonder what you’ve been up to that you’re so ‘whacked out’, and whether it’s got something to do with the fact that you’ve taken to sleeping in a separate bedroom from me? Mavis Mottram thinks that if you’re a man of normal appetites, you must be satisfying yourself if you aren’t satisfying me. Not that ‘normal’ is a word I would usually apply to any of your activities. In any case, you’ll be glad to know she has given me some Viagra just so you can get an erection. I know it went wrong for us before but she says the dose was…”

  “Take bloody Viagra? And possibly go blind into the bargain,” said Wilt, almost wishing he was. Those blasted panties were a practically inflammable red.

  “What on earth are you talking about…going blind?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know? It’s been in the papers. A number of men in the States have gone blind after taking Viagra.”

  “I don’t believe it. They’d probably just been masturbating, like you do.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! If you believe that…”

  “Of course I do. Definitely.”

  Wilt raised his eyes to the ceiling in despair.

  “So why haven’t I gone blind? Either I masturbate and don’t go blind or I’m not blind because I don’t masturbate. Which is it?”

  “Some men don’t, I suppose,” said Eva, now thoroughly confused as to what it was she was accusing Wilt of doing.

  “But on the whole they do? So most of the blind men you meet in the street – you know, the ones with sticks and guide dogs – are wankers?”

  “Of course they’re not! And how many times do I have to tell you to stop using such foul language?”

  “And do you also check for hair on the palms of their hands?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Because that’s another hoary old story stupid women like
you and Mavis Mottram put about. You can try it out on the Gadsley boy. When I was at school we used to tell younger ones that if they did it they’d grow hair on their palms, and they always looked to check.”

  “You must have gone to a very peculiar school.”

  “All schools are peculiar. They have to be, considering the number of morons they turn out.”

  And before Eva could think of a retort to this, Henry had gone out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door.

  “I’m off to the Tech to get some peace and quiet. Come to think of it, you can give yourself some DIY sex while I’m gone. Those flaming pants are dying for some.”

  He left Eva to work out that last remark. Ten minutes later he was sitting in the sun outside old Coverdale’s shack, with a cup of tea in his hands.

  “Do you ever miss sex?” he asked his friend.

  “Gave it up years ago,” said the old man. “I reckon it’s an overrated pastime. Besides you should see my missus. She’s an anti-aphrodisiac if ever there was one. Only a sex maniac would want her – and then he’d regret it.”

  “Don’t go on,” Wilt pleaded. “My wife’s walking about the house in a pair of pants that would put a sex-starved rapist off for life. She wears the beastly things whenever she wants what she mis-calls ‘gender’.”

  “That’s a grammatical term surely.”

  “Not in our house it isn’t,” Wilt said bitterly. “Let’s talk about something else. Like how I’m going to get this young idiot to pass his exam when every time I sit down to swot up, my blasted wife sticks her oar in.”

  “It’s not her oar you need worry about, from the sound of it! You want to watch she doesn’t sneak some of that Viagra stuff into your food, you do.”

  Wilt nodded gloomily. He still remembered only too well the debacle that had ensued last time Eva had fed him an aphrodisiac. He’d be lucky if he even made it to the Hall at this rate.

  10

  Lady Clarissa arrived back at Sandystones Hall feeling in a good mood. She’d had an energetic night in Ipford with her young man, and now that she had met him she was also greatly looking forward to the arrival of Wilt the following weekend.

  He was obviously a well-educated man and she was sure he’d be just the right tutor for Edward, who was due back from school next Monday.

  Even Sir George was more amiable than usual, having heard that a neighbour he had always detested had been sentenced to three months for dangerous driving, and to the loss of his driving licence for two years on the additional charge of being drunk at the time.

  “That’ll teach him to trespass on my land,” he added inconsequentially. “I’ve warned him to keep off it time and time again, as you know. Anyway, you’re back at last. How’s your uncle doing at that new nursing home? Enjoying himself?”

  “Far from it, I’m sorry to say. No, he kept on telephoning me at the hotel, complaining about the traffic noise and the fact that the Brigadier upstairs had fallen out of bed just when Uncle Harold had got to sleep and they couldn’t get him into the lift because he was too tall. And how Matron told him not to be a naughty boy when he asked her to tell them not to make such a din. He doesn’t like the place being called the Last Post either. Says it’s morbid. Oh, yes, and he also dislikes having to sleep in what he calls ‘a premature shroud’.”

  “A premature shroud? What the devil’s that?”

  “A long nightshirt. It’s because he’s only got one leg and they think it’s more manageable than pyjamas. Apparently they’ve also told him he’d be better off with a catheter, but he objects to that too. I can’t think why.”

  Sir George could but he wasn’t going to argue about it. He’d had one after an operation and wouldn’t wish the experience of the procedure on anyone, even Uncle Harold, miserable old bugger that he was. He decided to move the conversation on to a more pleasant subject.

  “By the way, I’ve found an excellent cook,” he said. “She’s been here since Friday, and by God she’s pretty special! Her name is Philomena Jones but she doesn’t mind being called Philly. What she can do with a goose is quite remarkable…”

  Lady Clarissa tried to think what one could do with a goose other than roast it. She couldn’t see it being fried or boiled.

  “First she smears it with bacon fat and butter. She calls that ‘schmatzing it’. Then she stuffs it with paté de foie gras and blood pudding and…oh, yes, I forgot. She cuts the head and neck off first then puts them back just before she serves it up. She’s extremely artistic. For pudding last night there was a choice of zabaglione or plum duff, followed by Limburger cheese the like of which I’ve never tasted before.”

  “I can well imagine. I had some once and found it absolutely revolting. Just the smell was enough to put me off the stuff for life,” said Lady Clarissa with a shudder.

  “I suppose it’s an acquired taste, but I can tell you that I’ve never dined and lunched so well in my life as I have over the course of this weekend. Goose, duck, partridge, pheasant…you name it, Philly can cook the lot. Of course, she varies the stuffing. She’s been mixing fried snails with garlic and…”

  “Hold it there. Just tell me where she gets the snails from. I hope they come in a tin?”

  “Great heavens, no. She goes into the kitchen garden and collects them. Eating off the land and all that. Philly’s a forager, Clarissa. And damned good at it she is, too. Yesterday we had stuffed breast of hedgehog for an hors d’oeuvre. She’d baked it in clay to remove the prickles, of course. Utterly delicious.”

  “And doubtless extremely healthy,” said Clarissa sarcastically. “In other words, I’ve only to leave you here alone for a couple of days and you completely ignore the cardiologist’s strict instructions not to eat vast quantities of fat and to stick to chicken and fish as much as possible. Instead I come home and find you indulging yourself in a positively lethal diet of goose stuffed with foie gras and black pudding, not to mention the other disgusting ingredients. And where on earth did you find this Myra Hindley of a cook?”

  Sir George smiled.

  “As a matter of fact, in court. She was sentenced to a month’s community service for poaching. So to save money I took her on here to do her community service, which means she’s extraordinarily cheap. Actually she costs nothing except for what she eats herself. I mean, I give her bed and board. That way I get to eat magnificently and we save money into the bargain.”

  “Perfect,” said Clarissa. “Just tell me one other thing before you drop dead. Is this woman Philomena Jones a gypsy?”

  Sir George hesitated for a moment.

  “Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that,” he said finally. “She certainly lives nearby and the man she usually lives with has been sentenced to six months for something or other. I think it was causing bodily harm to a gamekeeper. Had I known his wife, if that’s what she is, was such an excellent cook, I’d have used my influence to see the court gave him a much longer sentence.”

  “Brilliant! Utterly brilliant. No wonder she wants you dead,” said Clarissa, staring out of the window while considering what to do about this. She did not want to become a widow again. Not just yet. On the other hand, she had no intention of sharing her husband’s notion of gourmet cuisine. Garden snails and hedgehogs were…she tried to think of an adequate description and failed. Instead she tried another tack.

  “Am I wrong in thinking this creature is fat?”

  “As a butterball,” said Sir George. “Whatever a butter-ball is.”

  “In other words, extremely fat.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Overweight, perhaps, but not really obese.”

  “You and I have a different definition of obese. I can’t say that I have ever understood this predilection of yours for enormous women – God knows why you ever married me.” She glared at Sir George, daring him to respond to this last point, and he at least had the good grace not to reply.

  “Oh, well, I’d better go and see what this paragon of cordon bleu cookery
looks like.”

  “Well, you can always ring for her. She rather likes me sending for her.”

  “I’m sure she does, but I rather want to see for myself what denizens of the wild she is preparing for us tonight. Toads’ legs from the dry moat, perhaps? Hare’s testicles on toast? I despair of you, George, I really do.”

  And on this cheerless note Clarissa marched down the long corridor to the kitchen, to be confronted by a woman who did not look in the least like a gypsy given her fair hair and pasty complexion. She had rather a snub nose, and rosy cheeks that bulged out below deep-set eyes. In fact, she bulged grotesquely just about everywhere.

  “You must be Philomena,” Lady Clarissa said. “Philomena Jones.”

  “You can call me Philly. Most everyone does.”

  “And is that your real name? Not that it matters.”

  “Yes, mum, except the last bit. I made that up for the court.”

  “Well, I am Lady Gadsley and you will address me as ‘my lady’.”

  “Yes, mum. I call himself Mr Gadsley.”

  “You can call him whatever you like, though I’d prefer it if you dealt mainly with me from now on. And what are you proposing to poison us with tonight?”

  “Poison, mum? Was there anything in particular you were thinking of?”

  “I told you not to call me ‘mum’.”

  Philly grinned.

  “Know you did, but if I called you ‘my lady’ I’d have to curtsey, wouldn’t I? And then I’d probably fall over and have trouble getting up. I have to get out of bed real careful. I fell over in front of a steamroller one time and only managed to crawl out of its way at the last moment…”