The Education Of Epitome Quirkstandard

by A. F. Harrold

  Funicular blanched.

  ‘Does this shock you sir?’

  ‘I must admit to a little unsettledness,’ he said, looking out of the window at the roof of a passing cab. ‘That a woman should remove her belt in the presence of a man … quite unthinkable.’

  Miss Penultimate looked at him pityingly.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she leant and whispered into his ear, ‘Mr Funicular, sometimes I wear trousers.’

  His eyes flicked from the view of the street to her legs which were, here in England, covered up with a simple, plain brown skirt.

  ‘Do you know, Mr Funicular, what those men did to encourage me to take such drastic steps?’ she asked, while straightening herself up a little and returning to the topic she most wanted to impress upon him.

  ‘To make you wear trousers?’

  ‘No, to kill them, you little fool. Trousers are simply much more practical in many parts of the world. For riding camels and so on. And for having pockets. No, Mr Funicular, do you know what those men did that made me take such drastic action with regards to their deaths?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They overstepped the mark, Mr Funicular.’

  ‘The mark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And can I give you a piece of advice, Mr Funicular.’

  ‘I expect so, Miss Penultimate, you are most wonderfully generous.’

  ‘Mr Funicular.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be very, very careful in the future.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If we were to meet somewhere that happened to neither be your office nor surrounded by witnesses you may well find yourself at a slight disadvantage.’

  ‘Disad-?’

  ‘Disadvantage, Mr Funicular. Unless you had a pistol, of course. In which case things might be evened up a little. But I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  ‘Disadvant-?’

  ‘Mr Funicular?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  He gulped and nodded.

  ‘I was,’ she added, ‘going to say ‘Do we understand each other?’ but then I realised that I could never possibly understand quite what it is that makes a repulsive worm like you get up in the morning. Which may or may not be a pity. Though I suspect ‘not’.’

  To her delight he started to cry. Not loudly, not blubbing and groaning, but a silent tear trickled down his cheek and landed with a little splash among the dandruff on his collar.

  ‘I don’t like you, Mr Funicular. Pray, let this be an end to it.’

  Epitome had watched the two grown-ups talking by the window and although he hadn’t been able to make out any of the words he could see that his Aunt was strong and brave and upstanding and beautiful and he felt that he loved her very much. He’d been sad to hear that mama had died, but she’d never had the mysterious something that Auntie Penelope had and he looked forward to spending the rest of his life with her. He certainly wasn’t sad to see the back of the lawyer’s safe.

  ‘Come boy,’ said Miss Penultimate, her voice warm once more, the icy glint banished from her eye. She took his hand in hers and helped him down from the desk where he’d been sat. ‘Let us leave this place and find something to eat.’

  ‘Iced cream?’

  ‘If that is what you want, Epitome, then, today, that is what you shall have. Did I ever tell you of the time I was in Florence, oh! The iced creams they had there …! Of course, they call them something quite different, but the flavours, my boy …’

  Funicular stood, hunched, staring out of the window and watched Penelope Penultimate and the boy cross the street below him. He watched the swing of the hem of her skirt, remembering the steel in her voice, her breath in his ear, the ruthless threat she’d uttered to him, just to him … especially to him. Deep inside his chest he felt the stirring of an emotion that he dared hardly put a name to. He cancelled the rest of his appointments for the morning, in order to think about it all, and about her, for a little bit longer.

  Chapter 20

  Crepuscular & The View Out To Sea

  Crepuscular and his two boys found their way to the banks of the Amazon and from there they paddled and drifted their way along to the Brazilian coast.

  The further they went the wider the river grew, until they lost sight of the other bank entirely. It reminded Simone uncomfortably of the sea, but to his mild surprise he found the fresh water and the smaller waves combined to make him only slightly violently ill.

  It was the thought of those two boys by his side, or in his arms, that gave him the strength to continue. As he lay, pretending to sleep, at night, there was no desire in him stronger than the one which bade him remain lying down, that said to him, ‘Stay here in the jungle, here with your heart.’ But each morning they’d wake him up, from the shallow version of sleep he’d eventually drop into, and seeing their hungry faces, so reliant on him, so entirely reliant on him, he’d make them breakfast out of whatever grew close to hand, in a sort of hazy half-trance, and they’d start walking or boating. As much as possible heading eastwards.

  He’d detached Teresa-Maria’s multi-purpose prosthetic before he’d left her, since it was the only sharp instrument they’d brought with them. Holding it made him feel as if not everything was lost, and as he looked at its shining, reflective surface he sometimes imagined that his eyes weren’t the only ones that were looking back at him.

  When they finally reached a small estuary town, a few weeks later, he sat down on the quay and stared out at the ocean. Far away, way beyond the brown outflow of the river and the dotted clumps of land that littered the delta, he could see a razor thin slate grey line which represented the deep salt sea. Looking at it he sighed deeply. Thinking about it he slumped visibly. He remembered what the Pacific had been like. He knew what the river had done to him, and now he was faced with this second great ocean, without his mariner-bride. She had always claimed great cures for seasickness, and although she had never revealed them (since they’d never been to sea together) and even though he suspected (knowing her deeply piratical nature) that they probably involved keelhauling or cat-o’-nine-tails or plank-walking, he so, so wished she were here to tell them to him.

  She had been the steady point on his horizon, the smile he aimed for but which was always mysterious, always not wholly explored yet. There was so much future before them, so much she had yet to tell him. She was reticent, secretive, oddly quiet and he longed to find everything out, but he’d never pushed her when she stopped an anecdote halfway through, saying, ‘No, I don’t think I want to go on.’ He knew there’d be a time – in a year maybe; maybe in thirty years – when she’d come back to that story and finish it off. His pirate, his beauty, his bride. His mystery.

  So, Simone Crepuscular sat on that quay, looking out at the water and once again, as if it might change things, he sighed deeply. He had been travelling, on and off, for ten years and had come many thousands and thousands of miles. He wondered how it was that the Simone Crepuscular he was today was so different from the Simone Crepuscular he had been at the beginning, the one that had walked out of that army camp in Northern India, and had even less in common with the Simone Crepuscular (the boy) who had tried to join the circus. Oh! He hadn’t thought of the circus for years, he’d forgotten about the clowns and the sea lions and the burning hoops. He’d seen real seals in the wild since then, gazing up out of the foaming seawater at him as he lay on his boat, with their giant brown eyes like particularly sweet puppies, as they dodged the falling vomit. How strange the path has been, he thought, how little

  of it I could ever have predicted.

  He was wise enough to know that the Simone Crepuscular who would finally set his foot back on English soil would be yet another, newer, Simone Crepuscular, one that he hadn’t met yet.

  *

  After watching the ships bobbing in the tide for some days he stood up, called his boys to him and walked over to the quayside. He scanned the flags
that dandled from the stern of each boat, trying to recognise what they represented, but he’d never really given any time to studying flags so he simply picked the one that looked most cheerful.

  As he walked up the gangplank, in order to offer his services to the Captain in exchange for board and transport, he felt his stomach perform its usual nautical flips and he wished he’d never eaten anything, ever before, ever in his entire life. Ever. Ever. Ever.

  Chapter 21

  Quirkstandard Searches for Gentlemen

  On Friday morning Epitome Quirkstandard went back to Mauve’s. In his hands he carried a folder containing a dozen of his favourite Crepuscular pamphlets. He nodded at Snatchby as he strode through the doors, for the first time in his life marching like a man with a purpose. Down corridors he stalked at speed, not stopping to talk, not even checking his pigeonhole for post; no, he had more important things on his mind at last. At last, a real purpose.

  As the doors to the Great Room swung shut behind him, he peered into the gloom. This set him back in his tracks somewhat. After spending the last few days in the bright shop front of Crepuscular & Sons he had forgotten quite how dim they liked to keep the lighting here at Mauve’s. It was Club policy to not excite the gentlemen with intense stimuli, and so the windows were kept shuttered and the gas lamps hissed quietly on the walls where they were turned to the lowest setting.

  Gingerly he paced to the very middle of the room. Away on either side, in front and behind him, were deep leather armchairs and a few purplish settees. Whether they were occupied or not was hard to tell in this light, but he coughed quietly to get their potential inhabitant’s attention anyway.

  Another thing he had forgotten about this place, living out, as he had, in the real world for a few days, was how sound itself seemed muffled, as if the distance it travelled before tailing off was curtailed in the close dimness. As he thought this, the image of Crepuscular’s Little Master and what he had said about sound popped into his mind. Something about vibrations. Quirkstandard hadn’t quite followed that bit, but there had been a very nice drawing of a yak that had stuck in his mind. He’d been impressed with the breadth of the animal’s horns. A yak, he thought, would’ve made a noise that these old men would’ve noticed.

  Of course, many of the gentlemen who were members of Mauve’s were no older than Quirkstandard, but he couldn’t help but think of them that way now – as ineffectual old duffers – stuck in their ways and unable and unwilling to poke their head out from behind the barricades of their wealth, privilege and ignorance in order to learn new tricks: ergo, old men.

  Quirkstandard coughed once more, ready to begin his lecture. There was no response.

  He wished he’d brought a glass and a fork, because he thought that would make a more immediately noticeable sound. They did that, he’d noticed, at banquets and weddings and things to get everyone’s attention.

  Putting his folder down on an occasional table he marched back up the corridor to where Snatchby was waiting in the hallway.

  ‘Snatchby?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Do you know where there are any wine glasses?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, super. Can I get one?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And a fork, I think. That should do the job, yes?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Quirkstandard followed Snatchby up the passage to a cabinet just outside the Great Room in which were glasses and cutlery. He selected a pair of items, thanked Snatchby and re-entered the room. Having strode over to where he’d left his papers he stopped, coughed gently and then tinged the glass. A clear note shone through the room, beautiful and glittering and rousing entirely no response.

  Quirkstandard tinged again.

  This time he either hit too hard or had found by chance the undetectable focus of the glassblower’s stresses, the sweet spot as it were, and with a cracking tinkle the glass shattered into a thousand pieces in his hand, leaving him holding a jagged stem and a fork and looking rather worried.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, knowing that breakages were added onto a gentleman’s subs at the end of the month.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Snatchby, appearing by his elbow. ‘I brought a dustpan, just on the off-chance. And a brush, sir.’

  ‘Oh, very good Snatchby, old man. Always one step ahead, eh? Smashing.’

  ‘Smashing indeed, sir.’

  ‘Ha ha. Yes. I see what you mean.’

  Quirkstandard looked around the room.

  It seemed that no one had stirred.

  Not one gentleman had come forward to hear what he had to say, not one newspaper had been folded away with a fresh noisy crunching. Nothing. In his hands (well, on the occasional table at his side) was the most explosive, eye-opening, world expanding material that had ever passed through the portals of the Club and they weren’t paying the scantest bit of attention to him or it. He only wanted the chance to share it. That’s all. He took a step forward and leant into the gloom. The nearest plush leather armchairs were, it turned out, quite empty. He walked over to some more, a little further off, only to discover that they were empty too.

  ‘Snatchby?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Snatchby, are there any gentleman in this Club?’

  ‘As you know sir, much to your Aunt’s chagrin, there are only gentlemen in this Club.’

  ‘This is no time for jokes Snatchby, this is important. You know what I mean. Are there any gentlemen in this Club today, right now?’

  ‘You mean are there any gentlemen here at present, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is one sir.’

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘Yes sir, just the one.’

  ‘Well,’ said Quirkstandard, feeling a little crestfallen, ‘I suppose one is better than none. I had hoped to make a bit of a splash with this material. It really is top-notch stuff – thrilling, funny, informative and rippingly intelligent – really good stuff, and I’d rather hoped there’d be a little crowd here to hear it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t suppose it’s your fault, Snatchby, old man.’

  ‘Indeed not, sir.’

  ‘Well, Snatchby, you’d best lead me to this solitary gentleman so that I may enlighten his life with the glow of education.’

  ‘Ah, sir. I believe I must have been unclear in my pronunciation.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The one gentleman present this morning, well sir, it happens to be you, sir.’

  Quirkstandard looked around.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, sir.’

  ‘Just me, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just you.’

  ‘Crikey. I must look rather a dunce, Snatchby, to not have worked that out myself. I’m rather glad now, I must say, that there aren’t any other chaps around to see me be so thick.’

  ‘My lips are sealed, as ever, sir.’

  ‘Thank you Snatchby, you’re a card.’ Quirkstandard paused for a moment. ‘So,’ he began again, ‘Where is everyone today?’

  ‘You must be forgetting, sir, with all the excitement of your new hobby perhaps, that this is the third Friday of the month.’ Quirkstandard looked none the wiser. ‘And on the third Friday of the month, sir, the gentlemen of this establishment like to play a game of hide-and-seek. I believe a book is run and there is a tournament cup at the end of the year.’

  (Early that morning (early at Mauve’s meaning sometime after ten o’clock, but before lunch) Snatchby had stood in the corner of the Second Lesser Room, where post-breakfast cigars were traditionally consumed, and had been asked to count to one hundred while keeping his eyes closed. As he counted, the gentlemen went and hid and once he had reached one hundred it was his job to look for them. This was a Mauve’s tradition which had continued unchanged and unchallenged since time immemorial (meaning about 1909). Snatchby played his part with good humour since he was paid well eno
ugh at the end of each week to not worry about being a little silly. However, since most of the gentlemen (and on this particular Friday, all of the gentlemen) would by now be sniggering behind laden clothes-horses or inside pantries in a wide variety of town houses and stately homes across the Home Counties, Snatchby tended to put very little effort into his seeking and spent the quiet time catching up with his newspaper.)

  ‘Oh well, you know I’ve never much gone in for sports, Snatchby, I’d forgotten about that. Blast it. So there’s no one here at all?’

  ‘No, sir. There is you, and there is me. I believe Mr Lillytit is in his office, but you weren’t counting the management were you, sir?’

  ‘No Snatchby. I don’t think he’d appreciate having his brain stretched, do you?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so either.’

  ‘Oh, and your friend Mr Spiggot is here, sir. He’s in the garden. Cook gave him a bone just before going off duty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bone, sir.’

  ‘No. Of course a bone. What else would cook give out? What I meant was, did you say Mr Spiggot?’

  ‘I did sir. Mr Spiggot, sir.’

  ‘Well yes, Snatchby, I thought I heard you the first time. But I also thought I heard you that I was the only gentleman here? How could you forget Spiggot? You silly chap.’

  ‘Quite so, sir. I am berating myself for the omission even now, sir.’

  ‘And so you should, Snatchby, so you should. Now he’s in the garden, you say?’