The Education Of Epitome Quirkstandard

by A. F. Harrold

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  The room hung in silence for several lengthy seconds, as Nancy rocked her head to one side and looked intently across the table.

  ‘Ah, but Miss, that’s where you’re wrong, isn’t it? Because, do you know what? Because I think, perhaps, you did have to tell me, didn’t you?’

  Nancy wanted the job, she needed the job, but her words weren’t entirely motivated by that thought. She found herself actually wanting to say them, because of what they said, not, necessarily, for what they might achieve. She looked at this older woman, with those funny little streaks of grey on either temple, whisking off into the rest of her hair, which was tied back, not all that neatly, but energetically. She sat up straight, but her hands were folding and unfolding in her lap.

  ‘I do hope,’ she said, ‘that your life hasn’t been tragic, Nancy. I do hope you’ve been happy.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been happy enough,’ Nancy lied. ‘The orphanage wasn’t bad. They fed us and then I went to work for the Duke. So you know, not that bad.’

  ‘And now, you’re here with me,’ said Miss Penultimate.

  As she spoke, almost without thinking, she laid a hand over Nancy’s on the table.

  ‘Yes, Miss. I seem to have come full circle, don’t I? Without even knowing that that was what I was doing. How curious.’

  They both pondered the unlikely coincidence in silence for a moment, maybe two.

  ‘Strange indeed. But that’s the world, Nancy. That’s the world exactly.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  The two ladies smiled for a time in the warmth of the kitchen before Nancy slid her hand away, got up and put the kettle on.

  Chapter 24

  Simon & The Silver Ghost

  That evening Spiggot helped Epitome pack his small weekend trunk. Together they chose several changes of clothes from his dressing room, some ablutionary necessities from the bathroom and Epitome put in the folder of pamphlets he’d borrowed from the Crepusculars that morning but which he had forgotten to return to them. He was sure the old man wouldn’t mind him holding onto them for a little bit longer. He also packed a pillow and some blankets, knowing his Aunt’s ideas of comfort, and wished that Cook was still here to give him some sandwiches. Nevermind, he thought in a moment of wholly unwarranted prandial optimism, maybe Auntie will have hired a cook of her own by now. Left to her own devices, her ideas of a suitable meal could remind a gentleman, used to society and its niceties, of her sleeping arrangements.

  Nigel Spiggot watched all this packing, all this stuffing and forgetting and shutting and remembering and opening and restuffing and locking shut and remembering something else, with a sense of bemused detachment and doggish superiority. He travelled light and had nothing with him except the small bag his parents insisted he take, which contained a long lead, a waistcoat (in case, unlikely as it seemed if you’d ever met Miss Penultimate, that he needed to dress for dinner), an India rubber ball and some biscuits for the journey which he and Quirkstandard had already eaten.

  *

  That night they both slept soundly, although the excitement of going away was clearly in Quirkstandard’s sleeping mind because he rolled over more than was usual in his dreams and kicked out at some vision or other, quite knocking Spiggot off the end of the bed with an angry yelp. Although, in actual fact, he was half lost in dreams too, and climbed back onto the blankets (with a little difficulty, owing to his short legs and his dicky bladder) imagining he was chasing the scent of some cat or other. He growled, ground his teeth, snorted loudly once, farted quietly and drifted back into a more contented slumber. Quirkstandard woke dozily at the noise, the damp patch and the smell, apologised, rolled over and snuggled back into sleep himself.

  *

  After breakfast the next morning, which consisted of two very hard-boiled eggs, they assembled in the street with the two Crepusculars and looked at the car that was parked there.

  ‘Golly, that’s nice,’ said Simon, who had an eye for design.

  His father ran a hand along the white bonnet and looked at the wheels appreciatively.

  ‘It’s a car,’ he said. ‘That’s for sure. Can you drive it Simon?’

  ‘Oh, it’s more than a car, dad. Look at it, it’s a Rolls-Royce. It’s the sort of car that other cars dream about being.’

  ‘It’s got cobwebs.’

  ‘Ah … well …’ said Quirkstandard, as if he were about to begin an explanation.

  ‘As long as they’re not so big as to clog the works,’ said Simon, ‘I think we’ll be safe.’

  ‘It’s not us I worry about,’ said Simone Crepuscular, leaning down and hooking a strand of cobweb on the end of his finger. A tiny spider tried scuttling to safety but found his entire world transformed to whooshing air and this small pink hillock of land: the fingertip.

  Crepuscular scraped the spider off on a railing and went to investigate the other three wheels.

  ‘Are you sure you can drive this, Mr Crepuscular?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve read all about it.’

  ‘Well, jolly good.’

  ‘The rest of the wheels are clear now, I think we can probably be going, don’t you, Mr Q.?’

  And so the four of them climbed up. Quirkstandard and Spiggot sat in the back and the two Crepusculars sat in the front. Simone Crepuscular had brought along a map and unfolded it expansively as Simon started the engine up. Once it caught he turned around and advised the passengers to hold onto their hats.

  And within seconds they were off and speedily reversing into a lamppost.

  ‘I think,’ said Simon’s father, ‘that we need to be going in the other direction, unless I’ve got the map upside down.’

  *

  ‘Two more? You mean there’s three of ’em, Miss? And the dog,’ complained Hugh Nerrin, Miss Penultimate’s gardener. ‘Where are you expecting me to put ’em all?’

  It was Saturday morning, the Crepusculars had set off in the Silver Ghost and Penelope Penultimate had just read her nephew’s telegram.

  She stood outside her back door with Nerrin and surveyed her garden. At the south end stood the little two man tent that Nerrin had erected beside his tomato frames. It had aired nicely overnight and didn’t smell quite as musty as it had the day before. It wasn’t Miss Penultimate’s best tent, she had much smarter and larger ones, but it was the only one that fitted on that patch of lawn.

  ‘Perhaps we could put them in the shed, Nerrin?’ she said eventually.

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  He didn’t argue and just made his way over to the shed and opened the door. He flicked a dark straggle of loose hair out of his eye, before unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off his muscular, powerful torso and hanging it on a handy hook.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Miss,’ he said, politely.

  ‘Of course, Nerrin, don’t mind me.’

  He began shifting his tools out of the shed. Although he didn’t move them far, merely leaning them against the shed’s outside, carrying all those forks and trowels and hoes and spades and watering cans and the rotary mower and tins and pots and cardboard boxes of chemicals, seeds, bulbs and paint, and rugs for kneeling and protective gloves, soon caused a misty sheen of sweat to break out between his strong flexing shoulder blades, which moved under his skin like finely honed tectonic plates, though much quicker. He covered everything up with a tarpaulin, just in case it rained and then leant against the door, wiping his glimmering, dark brow on the back of his hand.

  ‘There you go, Nerrin,’ Miss Penultimate said unnecessarily.

  ‘They’ll be safe enough like that. All we need to do now is find something for these men to sleep on in there.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Let me pop upstairs. I must have a spare couple of sleeping mats. I do hope they’ve thought to bring some blankets.’

  ‘It’s a warm day, Miss.’

  ‘Ah, but does that mean it’ll be a warm night?’ she said as she watched Nerrin slip his thin shirt o
n over his swarthy chest and his taut biceps. He fastened the buttons carefully with his powerful, but precise, fingers.

  ‘Who knows, Miss?’

  A few minutes later, after she had retrieved two thin padded sleeping mats from her attic, they heard the distant thunder of a motorcar driving somewhere in the countryside.

  Nancy came out from the kitchen and stood with Penelope, standing on tiptoe trying to see where the noise was coming from. Nerrin assiduously got on with some weeding at the far end of the garden, not particularly interested in folk from London.

  From down the lane came the noise of breaking shrubbery, an internal combustion engine and the scrape of paintwork, and the two ladies wandered over to the gate to see what was coming. Around the corner jerked Quirkstandard’s Silver Ghost, somewhat closer to the afterlife than when it had set out. It lodged one wheel in a ditch and a headlight in a robin’s nest and shuddered to a halt.

  ‘There we are,’ said the younger of the two men sat in the front. ‘Parked.’

  Spiggot was the first out of the beached motorcar, leaping ashore like a mariner who had just discovered that he didn’t much like ships. With surprising agility for his age he bounced across the lane, and leapt at Miss Penultimate, landed short, and waddled the last yard and a half to finish slumped against her ankles.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Spiggot,’ she said bending down to stroke him behind his ear, just the way he liked.

  Ah, Spiggot thought, this is why I come here, she knows just how to treat a man. He was, quite probably, the only gentleman ever to think such a thing about Miss Penultimate.

  ‘Auntie,’ Quirkstandard called out as he wandered over in Spiggot’s wake. ‘Auntie!’

  ‘Here I am,’ she called back, wondering if the boy needed the extra clue, and then feeling just the tiniest bit guilty for having thought such a thing about her own flesh and blood, but then adding a wave all the same.

  Quirkstandard fell into her arms, and, even though he was a good few inches taller than her and a little broader, she hugged him in a warm embrace that made him stand up straight and feel loved.

  Spiggot edged out of the way of his feet and wagged happily, while casting a wary eye back toward the Rolls-Royce.

  ‘Auntie,’ Quirkstandard began, letting go of his Aunt and stepping back, ‘I want to introduce my new friends, Mr Crepuscular and Mr Crepuscular – well one’s Mr Crepuscular, and one’s a different Mr Crepuscular, it’s a bit confusing at first, but I can tell them apart, because … well one has a beard and the other one is much younger.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the two of them who had now climbed out of the car.

  ‘There’s another son, but he’s not here. He had to paint his wife this weekend.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ his Aunt said, looking at her two new guests.

  She held her hand out and shook the proffered hand of the younger of the pair. Her eyes, however, kept glancing toward the elder.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Penultimate,’ said Simon as he extracted his hand from her grip. ‘I’ve got a pair of the Basic 01s on right now. It’s an honour.’ He glanced toward his shoelaces as he spoke.

  ‘Really, um …?’

  ‘Simon. Simon Crepuscular.’

  ‘Really, Mr Crepuscular. I believe the 01s are still the best selling line – stylish in a popular sort of way, cheap and of reasonable quality – but I really have nothing to do with the business anymore.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Simon had freed his hand and stepped back, backwards, as if he were being ushered out of the presence of royalty. He found himself bowing a little for no reason at all.

  Simone Crepuscular stood, like his son, with his hand proffered, at attention. He was a tall man, even in his advancing age, and his shoulders were broad. His head had long since lost its original fine covering of hair, and he no longer needed to shave it to keep it looking that way. All it required was a quick wipe over with a cloth in the morning and he was ready to face the world. He had been wearing a sunhat in the car, with a little stringy chin strap to keep it on in the wind, but now he’d taken this off, feeling uncomfortable wearing such a thing in the presence of a lady. His beard, which was white and grey and long, had been combed out especially that morning and he had scrubbed as many ink stains off his hands as he could without removing skin at the same time. They were long-fingered and pink. His eyes, which were of a very deep blue, so deep they sometimes seemed black, glittered brightly, full of intelligence and brimming over with curiosity. All of this Miss Penultimate took in with a keenly trained first glance.

  Her second glance took in the sandals that Crepuscular habitually wore. They had clearly been associated with him for some time. The leather was pliable and moulded around the contours of his feet with remarkable consistency. They reminded her of the similar comfortable familiarity that her own favourite pair of boots had with her feet. Of course, she thought (the remnants of the business woman in her popping its head up for a moment), sandals don’t require aglets. She didn’t feel sorry about this, or feel any resentment towards this man who refused her father’s fine offering to the world, but rather she found herself amused that, moments after chiding the young man for mentioning the aglets at all, here she was, unable to repress the thought of them in her own observations.

  After her second glance had taken in Mr Crepuscular’s footwear, and her first had looked him in the face, her third quickly took in the rest of him. She wasn’t so impressed with this. As a rule she didn’t invite men to her house (they certainly weren’t allowed inside the cottage), and if she had made a habit of it, then she would certainly have expected them to wear more clothes than this. That was just a suspicion, but like most of her suspicions, she suspected it was reliable. Mr Crepuscular was wearing his usual loincloth, looped over, round and under his belt and nothing else, unless he had other items of clothing, say a tie perhaps or a scarf, hidden under his voluminous beard.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said as he stepped into the space before her that his son had just vacated.

  ‘Mr Crepuscular, really there’s no need to call me that, I’m not the bloody queen,’ she snapped, feeling annoyed out of habit. But then when his hand met hers and she felt the firmness of that grip something in her softened just a touch.

  There is nothing quite so unfortunate and unpleasant, she thought, than shaking hands with a damp squib, a wet fish or a piece of blancmange. Such occurrences, which crop up throughout life, could well be viewed stoically, or perhaps with a dash of compassion or pity on the side, but they can never be enjoyed. What would it be like, Simone Crepuscular and Miss Penultimate thought at precisely the same time, to be the owner of a hand that behaved in just that way, that was no more firm than a sock full of custard, a piece of boiled lettuce or a jellyfish? They both shuddered a little at the thought. They were each thankful, and pleasantly surprised to find that the other had a handshake as firm as their grip was strong.

  This did mean, however, that they were also the sort of people who were reluctant to be seen to be the first to break off, in case that was interpreted as weakness, as if, maybe, the strength of their grip ran out of strength and just gave itself up, melting away like whipped cream in a light breeze.

  Eventually Crepuscular, realising he was the guest and should offer the first branch of peace and humility, let go and Miss Penultimate followed his lead.

  ‘What should I call you then?’ he asked.

  She thought for a moment, as her eyes once more flickered over his entire length.

  ‘I think Miss Penultimate will be fine for now.’

  *

  Meeting Mr Crepuscular in his curious state of dress, a state which she imagined must cause some consternation up in London where she knew there were many people who took such matters as calves, thighs and midriffs (not to mention anything else) with awful seriousness, reminded Miss Penultimate of a trip she had taken with some girls at the turn of the century to a resort in the Austrian Alps. It had been
an early naturist establishment, although this hadn’t been entirely clear from the literature she had read in advance (otherwise she might have hesitated about escorting six such plain and unimaginative young women there), but Miss Penultimate had found the air and the light to be persuading and pleasing enough to encourage her to try it out.

  At that time of year, the tail end of the long warm Autumn the whole of Europe had been experiencing, there were few people around and for the most part she and the girls had the run of the chalets and could walk for whole afternoons in the high pine forests without seeing anyone. She had been much younger then, she thought ruefully, and the fresh air whistling all over her skin had been the sort of silly thing she might enjoy, being carefree and happy, although responsible for six grumbling fully-dressed young women. She had felt a bit irked at first when they had all refused to take up the opportunity to let the wind run its fingers through their hair, but since they were the ones missing out, and since she believed forcing girls to do what they weren’t happy to do was more than a touch dubious, she let them be, although she did have to stretch her German vocabulary to the limits with the resort authorities in order to allow them to stay there whilst staying clothed. But she appreciated stretching her vocabulary now and then, since, she always said, only a complete idiot didn’t savour a challenge.

  Although she was irked at first, later on she was, for once, relieved that her wards hadn’t followed her example, for one afternoon as she was leading her girls down a wooded path, dressed in only her sturdy, companionable walking boots and her rucksack, she heard someone whistle. Now, she knew that whistling was a common enough pastime or entertainment in Austria, even after the invention of the printing press, but this particular whistle had been of the most coarse sort, which carried with it a very obvious meaning and implication. As if the meaning weren’t clear enough from the wolfish melisma of the thing, she watched as one rotund little German twenty yards ahead on the path made a suggestive leer, wink and hand gesture.