Manservant

by Harwood, Michael

  “And how’s this little chap doing?” he said.

  “So much for keeping it a secret, Drum!” she laughed, playfully slapping his shoulder.

  “Forgive me, darling; you know how I am with secrets. I’ve never been able to keep one for long,” he said, looking straight at me as he passed on his way into the house.

  I glanced over at Gloria and Vera, whose mouths were literally hanging open.

  “Well, I didn’t see that coming, did you?” Gloria said to Vera when Lord and Lady Shanderson were out of earshot.

  “No, I did not,” Vera replied.

  Long after the welcome party had dispersed, I was still standing alone by the front door, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  Lady Shanderson, Lord Shanderson’s trophy wife with whom he shares a marriage of convenience, is up the duff. What a turnup for the books, I thought. All that bullshit about separate rooms and separate lives would appear to have been nothing more than a big fat lie.

  I suddenly felt as if my stomach were about to do a somersault, and every last drop of moisture evaporated from my mouth. And then, quite out of the blue, I was violently sick into the rose bush next to me.

  When I finally pulled myself together I heard a small, timid cough from behind me.

  “Erm . . . Vera told me to come and look for you. Lord Shanderson is calling for you,” Kylie said, looking quite shocked at having seen me barfing up into the bushes.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, taking out a hankie and wiping my mouth.

  “He’s not a good man, you know,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “What did you just say?” I said, clasping my hand over my mouth, worried I might throw up again.

  “Oh! Nothing, ignore me. What do I know? Sometimes I just say silly things. Vera’s always telling me I have a vivid imagination,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  “No, seriously, Kylie, what makes you think he’s not a good man? What have you heard?”

  She looked at me carefully before answering, as if she were undecided about what route to take.

  “I used to go out with George, you know,” she said.

  “I didn’t know that,” I replied, suddenly very worried about what she was about to say next.

  “Lord Shanderson made George’s life a misery. One minute he’s flavor of the month, and the next he’s throwing him out on his ear. George and me, we hit it off just fine until Shanderson took a shine to him, and then I was discarded like yesterday’s newspaper. I thought George really liked me, and then he goes and dumps me without an explanation. Next thing you know he’s being escorted off the estate. I still haven’t got to the bottom of why he was sacked, but I will.”

  I studied her face as she spoke and felt an overwhelming urge to put my arms around her and tell her a few home truths, but she looked hurt enough without my telling her that her exboyfriend was a bisexual blackmailer.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, clasping her hand between mine. “Shall I tell you something, Kylie?”

  She nodded silently.

  “I think you can do a lot better than George; I really do. I think George might have been a bit rough around the edges for a nice girl like you.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But you have to admit he was bloody sexy though, wasn’t he?” she said with a little wink.

  “He certainly was,” I agreed.

  When I eventually pulled myself together, I headed back into the house, but as I crossed the Marble Hall on my way to the kitchen, I did a double when I saw Lady Elizabeth’s maid and her butler arguing like an old married couple.

  “Sharon, how many times do I have to tell you? My doctor says I simply mustn’t lift heavy loads. You’d be the first to complain if I was off work altogether with a bad back,” the butler said, lifting a tiny vanity case and flouncing up the stairs with it.

  “Lazy, fat, old queen,” she hissed under her breath, before heaving a huge tote bag over her shoulder and picking up two suitcases.

  “Here, let me help,” I said, running over and wrestling one of the cases off her.

  “Cheers,” she said with a toothy grin. “Glad to know there’s at least one gentleman in this house.”

  Lady Shanderson’s suite was in the East Wing, directly above the games room, but when I turned left at the top of the stairs, Sharon turned right.

  “Erm, excuse me, I think you’ll find Lady Shanderson’s suite is this way,” I shouted down the hallway.

  “Don’t worry. I know where I’m going,” she said over her shoulder, before turning the corner and disappearing out of sight.

  When I finally caught up with her, she was just about to march into Lord Shanderson’s suite.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “You can’t go in there.” But before she had a chance to answer, the door opened, and Lady Elizabeth appeared with her hands on her hips, looking quite put out.

  “You took your time,” she said. “Come on, hurry up and get those bags unpacked.” She pulled Sharon into the room before spotting me. “Ah! Anthony, how kind of you—would you be a dear and bring that parcel in, please?”

  She pointed to a large, flat, brown-paper parcel leaning up against the wall. I placed the suitcases down, but when I went to lift the parcel it was much heavier than it looked.

  “Quickly now,” Lady Shanderson said as I struggled through the door with it.

  I staggered into the room, but I almost dropped the damn thing on my foot when I saw Drummond sprawled out on the bed reading the paper whilst his wife arranged her things on the dresser. I noticed she’d also cleared the top of the nightstand and replaced what was there before with silver-framed photographs of her and Lord Shanderson.

  “Where have you been, Anthony?” he said when he saw me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “My apologies, sir. I was just helping load the bags in.”

  He looked over the top of his reading glasses and mumbled something that I couldn’t quite hear, but that made his wife titter like a schoolgirl. The thought of them sharing a joke at my expense made me want to jump on the bed and punch him in the face.

  “Anthony, can you call down and tell my chef I want a kale and açai berry smoothy sent up ASAP,” she said as she began opening the boxes I had lugged back from London. “Drummond, you naughty boy!” she squealed, holding up a pair of lace trimmed panties. “These are adorable!”

  “Only the best for you, my darling,” he said, leaning over and planting a kiss on her lips.

  “Will there be anything else, Your Lordship?” I asked, trying not to show how uncomfortable I was watching him shower his wife with gifts and affection.

  “No,” he said without even bothering to look at me.

  “Actually,” Lady Shanderson interrupted, “there is something you can do, Anthony. You can unwrap the parcel you just brought in for me.”

  I began to rip open the packaging whilst Lady Shanderson looked on.

  “Now it’s my turn to give you a gift, darling,” she said, clapping her hands and turning to her husband.

  “What on earth is it, Elizabeth?” Lord Shanderson asked, looking up from his paper. When I removed the final layer of bubble wrap, I heard him gasp.

  “Oh, darling. You didn’t. . . . Oh my God! You did. It’s stunning, absolutely stunning,” he gushed, flinging his arms around his wife and showering her with kisses.

  I glanced down and saw that it was a painting. I stared at the thick layers of dark, muted paint caked onto the canvas and felt a little surprised that something so modern and abstract had solicited such rapture from His Lordship. I took a second look to see if I could work out what all the fuss was about and realized I was holding one of Lloyd Maxwell’s most iconic paintings—Les Éternels Amoureux. The eternal lovers.

  Jesus, these two really deserve each other, I thought as I left the room.

  Down in the kitchen Jacques, Lady Elizabeth’s chef, was slowly but surely taking over Vera’s kitchen, much to her obvious
displeasure.

  “Do you have a vegetable juicer?” he asked Vera in his thick French accent.

  “When you say vegetable juicer . . .” she said, looking utterly bemused.

  He rolled his eyes and began laying out a set of expensive-looking chef’s knives like a surgeon preparing for surgery.

  “I take it you managed to get all the items on my list,” he said.

  Vera shot him a look and simply pointed her thumb in the direction of the larder. Jacques headed off in search of organic yak’s milk or whatever it was he was looking for, but as soon as his back was turned Vera stuck two fingers up at him in a gesture so childish and unexpected I burst out laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” she said, pulling a serious face. But in a matter of seconds she was laughing along with me, which seemed like a blessed relief for both of us.

  “Don’t worry, Vera,” I said, slipping an arm around her fleshy shoulders. “They aren’t staying long.”

  She pulled away, suddenly looking deadly serious.

  “Are you sure about that, dear? Because if I know Lord Shanderson, he won’t let her out of his sight in her condition.” She took my hand and squeezed it firmly.

  I thought I must have been imagining it, but something about her expression made me think she knew something I didn’t.

  “So have they been planning a baby for long?” I asked.

  “It’s hot in here, don’t you think? Lady Elizabeth always insists on the heating being on full tilt when she’s here; drives me mad, it does. Let’s get some fresh air.” She let go of my hand and headed out to the garden.

  I followed her, feeling nervous about what I was about to hear but at the same time desperate to make sense of what was going on right under my nose. When we got to the far side of the lawn, she led the way through a wooden door in the high, stone wall that ran along its perimeter, closing the door gently behind us. On the other side was Vera’s pride and joy: the castle’s original Victorian kitchen garden. She guided us past immaculately planted rows of cabbages, leeks, and pumpkins, and other crops I couldn’t quite make out as they were hidden beneath ancient glass cloches to protect them from the frost. It was a good choice for a place to have a “little chat” as we were sheltered from not only the biting wind but also from prying eyes. Something I’d realized there was never any shortage of at Castle Beadale.

  “Do you know the difference between the French and the English?” she said out of the blue.

  “I’m sure you are about to tell me.”

  “They say the French build castles to keep people out, and the English build them to keep people in.” She laughed.

  “I can think of worse places to be a prisoner.”

  “Anthony, do you realize how much this house means to His Lordship?” she asked, turning to face me.

  “Yes, of course. It means the world to him.”

  “If I tell you something in confidence, will you swear to me that you will keep it to yourself?”

  “Of course—I promise.”

  She pointed to a wooden bench, and we sat, turning to face each other.

  “The future of all of this,” she said with a sweeping wave of her arm, “depends on one thing and one thing only, and that is a male heir to succeed Lord Shanderson.”

  “I see. I’m guessing that’s exactly what he’s about to get.”

  “Yes, God willing, it looks like it is. This baby has been a long time coming, believe you me. And it’s something we all want because without it a lot of people around here will be out of a job and out on the streets—me included.”

  “Oh, come on, Vera. Lord Shanderson would never turf you out.”

  “No, you’re right; he wouldn’t, but Old Ma Szabo wouldn’t think twice about it. If her daughter doesn’t produce an heir and a spare before her eggs are fried, this house will be up for sale quicker than you can say Jack Flash. Madame Szabo made it perfectly clear that she won’t fund Castle Beadale if there’s no one to carry on the Shanderson name. Those Szabos are nothing more than a bunch of Hungarian peasants without a title, and without an heir there is no title. It’s as simple as that.” Vera was wearing a look of such maternal concern that I suddenly wanted to bury my head in her ample bosom and suck my thumb until everything seemed better. But thankfully I didn’t.

  It was sort of making sense, but what I really wanted to ask Vera and obviously couldn’t was “And where does this leave him and me?”

  “So, dear, this baby represents a future for all of us at Castle Beadale—you included.”

  I felt myself beginning to well up, but the last thing I wanted was to treat Vera to a display of waterworks, so I jumped up and pretended to look at my watch.

  “Jesus, would you look at the time; we’d better get back.”

  Vera stayed put and simply smiled up at me.

  “If you want to stay around and be part our big Castle Beadale family, then I think you should put your head down and get on with it. I know His Lordship values your services very highly.” She took hold of my hand again before adding, “But if it’s anything else you are looking for, perhaps Beadale is no longer the place to look for it.”

  She eased herself up off the bench using my hand as leverage, and as she did I noticed a small, weathered plaque on the back of the bench, right where I’d been sitting.

  ALBERT JOHNSON 1908–1977

  PERFECT SERVANT, PERFECT FRIEND

  Dinner that night had the distinct air of a French farce about it. Malcolm, Lady Elizabeth’s butler, hovered over his mistress like a serpent guarding its nest, so much so that at one point when I attempted to fill her glass with sparkling water, he just about barged me out of the way.

  “Only still water for Her Ladyship,” he mouthed at me as he filled her glass. “Gassy water is bad for baby.”

  Lord and Lady Shanderson remained locked in conversation throughout the meal, so I doubt they were aware of the simmering tensions between their respective manservants.

  I went to place a dessert fork in front of Lady Elizabeth, but before it had even made contact with the tablecloth Malcolm snatched it up as if I had just placed a freshly laid turd in front of her.

  “Are you fucking mad?” he hissed under his breath later as we stood side by side in the butler’s pantry. “It’s a crème brûlée, for God’s sake. What use would she have for a fork?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes like a pantomime dame.

  “Whatever you say, Malcolm. Though it’s not how it’s done at the Palace,” I added, knowing those particular words would wound him like a dagger through the heart.

  “I like to be addressed as Mr. Chisholm, actually,” he said, placing an emphasis on the last word for added effect.

  “I bet you do, Malcolm. I bet you do.”

  Before the situation between us really started to escalate, the bell from the dining room sounded. Malcolm quickly smoothed down his thinning hair and pushed past me. Smiling to myself, I followed him through to the dining room.

  “Anthony,” Lord Shanderson said, looking straight through Malcolm, “there don’t appear to be any fruit forks here.”

  “My apologies, sir. Malcolm will see to it right away.”

  I shot Malcolm a look that said, “Jump to it, bitch!” and he quickly replaced the missing cutlery with a flourish. I was happy that the natural pecking order had finally been established and that dinner was a lot less painful than it could have been.

  In the end I actually found myself being grateful to have Malcolm around. For, during all the time I spent trying to get one over on him, I wasn’t fretting about how on earth I was going to extricate myself from my car crash of a relationship with Drummond.

  When it came to clearing dinner, Malcolm’s back suddenly became so painful that he wasn’t even able to lift a plate, so he took himself off to bed and left me to it. After everything was washed and put away, I thought I’d stop by the kitchen before I turned in for the night to see how Vera was.

  “Ah! Anthony, dear,” she
said when I popped my head around the door. “I’m glad I’ve seen you. His Lordship has invited people over for a pheasant shoot tomorrow, so it’s all hands to the pump. There will be a shoot in the morning, and then he’s asked for lunch in the bothy on the edge of the woods. Nothing fancy, just a beef stew and dumplings and a nice, warming steamed pudding for afters.”

  “Stew!” Jacques said. “A stew? My God, it’s more primitive down here than I thought.”

  “I’ll have you know that my beef stew and dumplings is Lord Shanderson’s favorite meal,” she barked at him, before continuing in a softer voice. “They’ll probably go out for another couple of drives in the afternoon if the weather holds up.”

  “Don’t you mean if they are not too pissed to shoot straight,” Jacques said over the top of a tumbler of what looked like His Lordship’s fine single malt. “I’ll make something more suitable for Lady Elizabeth. I’m sure I read somewhere that beef stew and dumplings can harm the baby.”

  By the time I got to Rose View I was gasping for a stiff drink. I was all out of vodka, so I cracked open a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured myself a huge glass of it. In fact I filled it so enthusiastically I had to sip at it whilst it remained on the table until it was safe to pick up the glass. It was cold and crisp and as welcome as a mother’s milk.

  I sprawled out on the sofa and turned on the TV, mindlessly flicking through the channels whilst I sipped at the wine. Eventually, when I went to top up my glass, I realized that I’d finished off the bottle. Images of Drummond as the proud husband and father were still playing on an endless loop in my head, so in an attempt to roll the final credits on that saga I cracked open another bottle.

  And then, halfway through the second bottle, I decided it would be a really good idea to text Frank.

  The next thing I remember was waking up about 4 a.m. still fully clothed and clutching my iPhone as if my life depended on it. I didn’t bother to check what I had written to Frank, knowing I’d need to grab some sleep if I were to be fit for work in less than three hours, so I left my phone on the hall table and collapsed into bed.