“Glad to hear it.” Said the Earl. “What is the title of your tale my good man?” he asked as he cut the top off another thick cigar with his cutter.
“I shall call it Scarecrow, Scarecrow.” He said, and I swore for a moment he was going to pull some notes out from under the table, yet he did not do so thankfully.
“An excellent title.” Said the Earl as we all settled down for the next story. “Please proceed…”
Scarecrow, Scarecrow…
Despite McGee being widely held to be incapable of understanding a bar bill of more than five figures he was without doubt the thirstiest fellow to enjoy an evening blowing the froth off a beer or two at the village inn with. I say inn of course but “The Slaughtered Lamb” was somewhat more than just a down market gin parlour, for it was frequented by the more select members of society, being as it was within (as they say apparently) spitting distance of the grand halls of Eton which lay but a mere two miles away along the northern road. My friends and colleagues were all boarders there of course, and had been since we were of the age of thirteen.
As for the apparent occupation of The Slaughtered Lamb by the older fellows from Eton, it was definitely the case that many an ex-blue had supped there and had gone on to be a fine and revered member of society. Being boarders in our final year and therefore at the age of seventeen most of us were of an age when an establishment dedicated to the partaking of beer was if not frowned upon by the general public, then most certainly was amongst the house masters and dames of Eton college. My friends and I were at an awkward age. We were in the bloom of youth as were most of my drinking friends, neither too old nor too young to partake of a few jars even though I had myself been a patron of this veritable establishment for more than a year now. In England we start early and enthusiastically it is said and that was certainly the case with my friends and I, and out good friend and companion, ale and beer.
Not that this was an issue with the law for of course beer was not gin, that hateful brew that seemed to provide a wake of legislation of its own. Beer and ale was a good healthy alternative; and yet - and yet slowly the penny was about to drop as they say in the city, and even now the licensing laws began to be grumbled about and pored over in the House of Commons and above. I fear that king beer is due a mighty fall, and that that fall will be in the shape of taxation as it was with the demon gin. Bearing this in mind we made large and enthusiastic efforts to sup as much of the damned stuff before the inevitable taxation and licensing occurred. Many a night we staggered back along the road to Eton, singing and cater-wailing loudly in the dark, chundering as we went. It always made chapel just after eight thirty the next day extremely interesting for we would be in trouble if we failed to attend, for to not do so would draw attention to ourselves and perhaps curtail our drinking activities. We most certainly did not want that!
My close friends, McGee and Villiers, were drinking colleagues of the highest standard even though as I stated earlier McGee’s mathematical prowess was not quite all it could have been. His family however were very good at proving that cotton was indeed king and his funds seemed limitless. Not that it made a great deal of difference to myself of course for I was also provided with a more than adequate trust fund, an increasing amount of which was invested in ale, not all of which I managed to hang on to on an ongoing basis. Still I was an apt pupil in the area of learning the art of drinking and with every session (three nights a week mostly, though sometimes more) my expertise increased.
“I say Farrer!” yelled Westbury across the taps, calling me by my surname as was the custom at Eton. “More ale for this end of the bar I feel old man.” He waved his personal flagon at me. “You are in the chair I believe!” This was indeed the case and so I called the barman to fill up the cups, which he made to do.
“So how does your swotting proceed McGee?” I addressed the ginger haired rotund form of McGee who was leaning on the bar as if he owned it.
“Frightful.” he sighed, seemingly not at all concerned with the incongruous fact that he was currently doing his best to get as ratted as his allowance would deem fit. “Just cannot seem to get the hang of algebra.” he finished, swigging from his cup yet again. I sighed along with him showing sympathy with his plight. Mathematics was hardly my strongest subject and I had to badger it just so to harness some form of comprehension from the damned subject. So we returned to our rousting and supping of the ale.
Quite a rowdy bunch we were too, given to tomfoolery of the type that we thought was particular to our generation, though quite often the look upon the face of the proprietor, one Charles Montague, often belied the fact that this was most definitely not the case. The landlord would often remark during one of our ale sodden evenings that although it was widely thought that the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, it was indeed much more likely the case that the battle was actually won over the pool table of The Slaughtered Lamb but two miles along the road.
As was often the case our thoughts and conversation turned towards the spotting and pursuit of the ladies of the town, and in particular the fine form of Miss Elizabeth Solomon who was the daughter of a particularly wealthy land owner whose farm was astride the very road that we staggered home along most nights of the week on our way back to college and bed.
I had met her but once face to face and instantly I was captivated. She had tresses of auburn hair cut short in what was the current fashion and she was assuredly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She possessed the most wonderful deep green eyes that made my very thoughts dissipate in an instant. When introduced to her I had stuttered and mumbled like a fool in her presence for what seemed like hours but was probably just one minute. Eventually she put me at my ease however and the night passed in an instant. I think we danced though I cannot be sure, for it all passed in a whirl.
As she left in her carriage my heart sank and since that day I had mooned over her absence like a moon addled coxswain, and constantly I manufactured reasons to attempt to be in her presence once again. Usually to no avail I must say for I had only managed to ingratiate myself into her presence one more time much to my dismay. We had “bumped” into each other in the village (though in fact I had waited for her for hours purely on the off chance that she was in the village at all), and we had taken tea. Conversation had flowed relatively easily and I remembered her curious laughter: high pitched yet full of humour. We had parted ways friends but I had yet to see her face since that day despite my fleeting thoughts seeming to indicate that she had showed some interest in me.
“Still fretting over that Solomon creature, Farrer? Trust you to fall for the vicar’s daughter old thing. Quite awful for you I should imagine.” laughed McGee. Elizabeth was of course the vicar’s daughter, much to the amusement of my friend who brooked no chance to insert a ribald remark into the conversation every time that her name was broached in any manner at all. Today however he had some bad news and at least he had the despondency to look abashed as he related it to me, for he knew how much I thought about her. “I hear she has a suitor now.” My world darkened upon hearing this, though of course I could not show McGee this.
“Really?” I asked in a voice that I considered to show no interest at all, though I was obviously not entirely successful in this judging by the expression on McGee’s face.
“Indeed.” he continued, now rather more smugly than was polite I thought, though this may have been at my ridiculous efforts to appear nonchalant at this news more than anything. “Chap by the name of Grace I believe. Visits the fair lady in question every Thursday at lunchtime. Regular as clockwork I am told. I overheard some of the chaps in Villiers House taking the rise out of Mister Grace the other evening just after prayers. Seemed quite put out he did.” I nodded despondently as desolation settled upon me.
“I see.” I said, and not even I could keep a tremor from my voice. “Not familiar with the chap at all.” I finished.
“Had a paper sent up for good in Michaelmas term.
” he said and I felt my eyebrows rise for this was a rare and unusual honour. McGee just stood there grinning as I felt my shoulders stoop. “Goodford sent it up himself I believe.” he muttered, supping more ale. My eyebrows rose despite myself at the mention of the headmaster, Charles Old Goodford who although only headmaster for five years to date was fast gaining a reputation as a disciplinarian, though I found some of his views on liberty and self-determination a little odd and at great variance with his rules and regulations of our fine school. Nevertheless, it was a rare honour to have work sent up to the school archives and coloured my view of this boy named Grace even further. There was no doubt he was serious competition.
“You should go and call on her.” said another fellow called Rogers who was now propping up the bar alongside McGee. We three were frequent drinkers together and relatively inseparable.
“Of course not.” I stated, the very thought of potential rejection filling me with dread. “She may refuse to see me for a start, and what an embarrassment that would be!”
“Well you need to do something old chap.” sighed Rogers as McGee nodded along in agreement. “This Grace fellow visits her every Thursday apparently. Common knowledge in Villiers. Been going on a few weeks apparently.” I felt my despondency increase as thoughts of this Grace fellow and Elizabeth sitting in her drawing room sipping tea whilst making doe eyes at each other formed in my mind. One of the other chaps at the pool table looked over his shoulder at us standing by the bar.
“I have heard she told him to be off with himself!” he smiled. My heart soared at the thought. Surely it would burst if these ups and downs in my temperament continued.
“She rusticated him?” I enquired of the new chap who I knew by the name of Clipton but no more than that.
“Not what I heard.” said McGee and Clipton shrugged his shoulders and returned to his game of pool.
To say that I was in a quandary was an understatement. What if the delightful Elizabeth had sent Grace on his way and she was merely waiting for us to have a chance meeting again? Yet on the flipside of the coin what if I called upon her only to find Grace sitting in one of her armchairs cooing like a love struck pigeon? I simply could not make my mind up as to what course of action to follow and therefore decided to quaff as many types of ale as I could manage to put my thoughts to one side.
This was not a plan of a particularly high order. Later on as McGee, Rogers and I staggered along the road in our cups, heading back to college and the inevitable sneaking back into our houses. As we staggered along in the dark we passed the drive that led to Elizabeth’s family home and I looked forlornly through the closed iron gates down the drive. The gardens were quite large with fields off to the right being used for the growing of vegetables of the like usual to the area. The moon was high and near to the fence that ran along the road stood a lone scarecrow, picked out from the dark like some form of phantom of cloth and hay in the moonlight. I reeled along the road, steadying myself on the staggering form of McGee as I did so.
“You should go and visit her.” he said yet again as we continued on our way. I felt my ire rise.
“And what if that Clipton fellow has it wrong and Grace is sitting there with a cup of tea and a scone?” I snarled. Rogers laughed.
“Well box him about the ears and be done with it!” he said, and McGee shook his head.
“Poor old Farrer here needs to know what this girl is about, Rogers!” he said.
“I need to spy on her?” I asked incredulously.
“Not a bad idea, all told.” muttered Rogers. “At least you would know if Grace was a contender.”
“So I shall stand like a dullard on her doorstep and be cuckolded as this Grace fellow arrives?” I sneered.
“Or not.” said McGee. “Clipton seemed certain she had seen him off.”
“But how would he know?” I spluttered, my gorge rising. “It is but speculation as far as I can see.”
“We need to work this out logically!” said McGee, throwing an arm around my shoulder more in an effort to support himself than to indicate support. Now let us summarise, shall we? “You don’t want to go and see her just in case she has found another chap and at the same time you do not want either to observe her home to see if this Grace chap calls upon her. I imagine calling Grace out is out of the question too?”
“Of course!” I said. “Though you have made a fair summary of the situation. I certainly cannot be seen standing at her drive all day. She may see me, or her parents may and call a policeman to query my vigil.”
“Well I don’t know what you will do.” said Rogers, obviously bored with my situation as he attempted to avoid falling into a ditch that ran along the side of the road. “Conceal yourself behind a tree or the like.”
“The grounds are lightly wooded.” I mumbled. “I would be seen.” Dimly at the back of my mind I could feel a plan forming but the beer held it at bay. “Wait for me you two ne’er do wells!” I shouted after my two friends as they staggered ahead of me, before following them into the night.
***
I woke late the next day and it was a mad dash to get myself ready for Chambers at eight thirty five but I made it having skipped breakfast, though I was somewhat red eyed and bleary, my stomach churning ominously as prayers were said. The beaks did not seem to notice however for I kept a low profile though I did notice Rogers and McGee seemed to be struggling just as much as I was. I just hoped that I did not look as dishevelled as they did, though I was sure that I probably did. First, second and third school proceeded as well as could be expected and it was with relief that the three of us gathered for chambers. It was still two hours and two more schools away from lunch but my stomach did not feel as if it would be appreciative of food for my head was still muddled and woolly.
“I feel pretty rotten.” said Rogers. In all fairness he did look just as awful as I felt.
“Me too.” said McGee as all three of us considered whether a snack was a worthwhile notion or not. Almost unanimously we voted with our feet and decided that it most certainly was not. Leaving our house, we wandered out into the grounds for some fresh air.
“It is your entire fault, Farrer!” laughed Rogers. “Keeping us stout fellows out late by demanding our advice on the problem of Elizabeth Solomon.” McGee laughed at this.
“Some advice that was.” I smiled. “Hide in a hedge and knock on her door and be considered to be a loon by her.” Rogers patted me on my back.
“Never fear old man.” he said, “Something will come to you I am sure.” The pat on my back shook me up in more than one way.
“The scarecrow.” I said aloud, and blinking in the sun looked at both of my house chums who were both looking at me in confusion. “The scarecrow.” I repeated. “It has a good view of the house and yet is also near enough to the road to be accessible.”
“You are going to hide behind the scarecrow?” giggled McGee. “How odd!”
“You would be seen from the road by anyone happening to be walking along there anyway.” said Rogers.
“I could get dressed as a scarecrow.” I said aloud and both McGee and Rogers almost fell to the floor with laughter.
“Quite preposterous!” sniggered McGee. “Just knock on the door old chap!”
“I cannot!” I stuttered and an edge of stubbornness found its way into my voice. “I simply cannot!”
“So you would dress as a scarecrow rather than knock on a door?” asked Rogers, an eyebrow rising as he spoke. I nodded.
“You would have to go there in the dark and then leave in the dark also or you would be seen.” he said, a broad smile crossing his face at the preposterous nature of my plan.
“Not many scarecrows go a - wandering in Eton these days.” laughed McGee as I found their objections to be increasingly irritating.
“I am perfectly aware of that.” I sniffed as my two fellow boarders found my agitation to be even more amusing. “Twenty four hours should be sufficient. Clifton said that Grace always calle
d on Miss Solomon on a Thursday, correct?”
“Indeed. But twenty four hours standing still?” laughed Rogers. “You would never manage it old chap.” I thought about this for a while. I’d be damned if Rogers was not right.
“Well you two could help me out there. Fasten me to the pole or something of the like.”
“I can’t believe you are considering this old man.” snorted McGee. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely!” I said and almost in unison both Rogers and McGee rolled their eyes melodramatically. Rogers wandered off muttering to himself and McGee stood by the wall looking at me as if I were some new and curious form of creature. Eventually fourth school commenced and it was not until supper when we all managed to catch up with each other. It was usually during this time between eating and prayers at twenty minutes past eight that we managed to escape to The Slaughtered Lamb, but this evening we all looked too weary to entertain an evening’s drinking and so we merely wandered across the quadrant, kicking up stones as we went.
“I think if you are to proceed with your ludicrous plan then you would need to be strapped securely to a stake when dressed as a scarecrow, you know.” said McGee. I nodded eagerly, pleased that he seemed to be taking my plan seriously at last. “Twenty four hours is a long time. You would almost certainly fall asleep for some of that. There are however a number of quite large wooden stakes at the back of the gatekeeper’s cottage. They would be equal to the job.” Rogers looked on incredulously.
“So let us summarise your plan.” He said, clearing his throat and then counting off on his fingers, “in the early hours we attach Farrer here to a cross frame of wooden stakes. Next we dress him as a scarecrow. Finally, we then carry him into Elizabeth Solomon’s garden and leave him there until the following night when we return to retrieve him.”
“That is about it.” I said smiling. “Twenty four hours should be sufficient for me to observe whether Miss Solomon receives any visitors or not.”
The Waiting Room Page 5