Belchester Box Set

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I like writing Christmas cards.’

  ‘Well, nobody’s stopping you, but you’d better get on with it, or they’ll have to be New Year cards instead. Do you want me to put a PS on my note to Beauchamp to pick some up while he’s in Belchester?’

  ‘Please, Manda. I seem to have lost track of the date – not an uncommon occurrence – but a dashed nuisance if it happens when one is writing a cheque. I sent one out the other week, and it was returned to me because I’d dated it for some time in 1955.’

  ‘Hugo! You old duffer!’

  At this point a mobile pile of dust, grime and cobwebs entered the room, coughed, more from necessity than manners, and Enid Tweedie’s voice issued forth from it. ‘Mr Bowchamp asked us if we’d like to have a bite of lunch, to save us going home and having to come back again. He said that if it was all right with you, to tell you that your lunch would be slightly delayed, but that he was sure you wouldn’t mind,’ and she said this all in one breath, in case Lady Amanda would think it impertinent of her to presume that she and her crew of stout mothers might presume to eat here, as well as have the privilege of cleaning decades of dirt from its back-stairs regions.

  ‘Absolutely no problem, dear Enid.’ Lady Amanda beamed at the mobile midden, so pleased was she with the completion of the guest list, which she had considered would be a much more onerous task than it had proved, and good old Hugo had been worth his weight in gold, with the suggestions he had made.

  ‘Hugo and I were just going to plan where to put all the Christmas trees, weren’t we, Hugo?’

  ‘All?’ queried Hugo, an expression of horror taking possession of his features.

  Chapter Six

  Right in the Thick of it

  ‘Just how many Christmas trees do you put up every year?’ asked Hugo, through a mouthful of cod in parsley sauce. ‘We only ever had one really big one in the entrance hall. Drapings of holly, ivy, and mistletoe sufficed for all the other rooms of the house. Of course, the staff had a small one in their sitting room, but we didn’t go mad. One was enough for us.’

  ‘Well, it’s never been enough for this family. Let me see …’ and she counted silently on her fingers, ‘I think it’s ten.’

  ‘TEN?’

  ‘And why not? We always liked Christmas to colour every room we used over the yuletide season, and I’ve seen no good reason to meddle with tradition.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Entrance hall, drawing room, dining room, breakfast room, study, snug, library, ballroom, morning room and first floor landing, so that the lights shine down on one, out of the darkness. So jolly! Oh, and I nearly forgot – two outside, each side of the entrance, to brighten up leaving or entering the house. And I suspect Beauchamp has at least one, in his own quarters.’

  ‘And all this just for you?’ Hugo was astounded.

  ‘I’m worth it, aren’t I? And anyway, it makes up for not being surrounded by a large and loving family at that particular time of year, which seems to be tailored for that sort of thing,’ she replied, somewhat belligerently.

  ‘But you’d hate that, wouldn’t you? Scores of relatives everywhere, running hither and thither, and generally messing up your routines.’

  ‘Of course I would, Hugo, but it’ll be an awful lot nicer, having you here, this year.’

  This compliment caused Hugo to blush rather, and he looked down at his plate, studying the remaining new potatoes and peas thereon with unwarranted interest.

  ‘Jolly decent of you to say so, old thing.’

  ‘Not at all! Now, eat up, and we’ll have our coffee and half an hour to digest, then we’ll get going on those trees.’

  ‘Were they up in the loft, too?’ asked Hugo, innocently.

  This question caused Lady Amanda to burst out laughing. ‘You don’t think I’d allow an artificial tree house room, do you? No, these were delivered to the stable-yard yesterday afternoon when you were taking your nap, and Beauchamp is going to drag them round to the front door when he’s cleared away luncheon. Then we can get on with the fun bit!’

  Hugo, who couldn’t see where the fun was, trying to hang things on branches that were always just out of reach, and getting oneself covered in spiky needles and, occasionally, resin, the stickiest substance known to man, volunteered for an alternative duty. ‘Couldn’t I work on the menus for Boxing Day afternoon, instead?’

  ‘No, you certainly cannot! That is something that I’m particularly looking forward to myself, and I don’t see why you should have all the fun of that, while I’m doing something else. Besides, you’re taller than me, and can reach the higher branches easier.’

  ‘Now, how did I know that that was exactly what you were going to say?’ asked Hugo, accepting the inevitable with bad grace, and producing a sulky pout that lasted until Lady Amanda passed her compact mirror over to him, and showed him his face.

  Hugo hadn’t realised just how big the trees that Lady Amanda had ordered would be, and was horrified to find that most of them were about ten to twelve feet tall, with just two of them being the rather more manageable height of eight feet. When he’d gone outside to take a look, Beauchamp was lugging round a variety of containers in which to plant them, a look of resignation on his face.

  As he passed Hugo, he muttered confidentially, ‘I don’t mind so much getting them inside and in their pots, because you do get the look of them when they’re decorated to enjoy, but lugging them out again in New Year is a thankless task, and I absolutely dread it – all those pine needles everywhere, and it doesn’t matter how much you clean – they keep turning up till after Easter.’

  This cheered Hugo up no end, to realise that he was not the only one in the household that wasn’t a hundred per cent enamoured of these seasonal decorations and, having seen the look on Beauchamp’s face as he made this confession, decided to throw himself into the activity with all the enthusiasm and energy he could muster, to support the man who had to do what he was told.

  It was after Beauchamp had lugged the eight giant trees into the house, only leaving the two relatively shorter ones outside, that Hugo decided to begin his good deed, and bent over to grab hold of the base of the trunk of one of them. That was his first and only mistake. With what he thought must have been an audible ‘ping’, his back went, and he was stuck fast, bent over the length of evergreen, unable to stand up again.

  ‘Manda!’ he cried, all the blood rushing to his head. ‘Help! I’m stuck! Help, Manda! Help me!’

  Lady Amanda came scooting out of the house and was brought up short by the sight of Hugo, bent nearly double, and shouting his head off. ‘Whatever’s the matter with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Back’s gone!’ he explained, using as few words as he was able, to retain his puff. ‘Can’t get up! Can’t move!’

  ‘Hang on there a moment, and I’ll get you inside,’ she instructed him.

  ‘But I can’t move!’ he reiterated, before noticing that she had disappeared in the direction of the stables, returning a few moments later pushing a stout wheelbarrow.

  ‘Lady Amanda to the rescue,’ she trilled at him. ‘Just stand there, and go with the flow. Don’t resist anything,’ she commanded.

  ‘I can’t even stand up, let alone resist any … whooo!’

  Hugo yelled, as the wheelbarrow hit him square behind the knees, and he fell backwards into the old wooden contraption which Lady Amanda had thoughtfully filled with straw, before felling Hugo like a small tree with it.

  ‘That hurt!’ he spluttered in indignation, lying on his back looking up at her.

  ‘Serves you right!’ she replied, unsympathetically. ‘Silly old fool, trying to drag that thing indoors. It might not be very heavy, but you know you’re not supple enough to do it. I’ll have to get Beauchamp to give you a good rub with horse liniment. That ought to do the job!’

  At that moment, Enid slipped through the front door for a few minutes away from the dust-filled air of the domestic quarters and, looking with amusement at Hugo, o
verturned like a stranded tortoise in the wheelbarrow, ,commented, ‘He’s not the first prize in the Christmas draw, is he?’ before dissolving into giggles.

  Lady Amanda explained what a pickle he’d got himself into, and Enid responded immediately. ‘One of our retired ladies used to work as a chiropractor. Shall I ask her to get cleaned up and come and have a look at him?’

  ‘If you would, Enid, we’d both be most grateful,’ agreed Lady Amanda. Hugo tried to smile but found that hurt too, so just lay there, like the prize pig in a rural raffle, while Enid disappeared into the house again, calling, ‘Mrs Hardacre? Mrs Hardacre? Where are you? Someone has need of your special talents,’ while Lady A wandered a short distance away, where she could have a little snort of amusement without hurting Hugo’s feelings.

  Not only did Mrs Hardacre work wonders on Hugo’s locked back, but the ladies of the Mothers’ Union returned on Tuesday, to carry on their cleaning work in the attic bedrooms, and again on Wednesday, to help decorate the trees for Lady Amanda and Hugo, whom they viewed as an elderly couple in need of practical help.

  By this time, Hugo, with two more treatments from Mrs Hardacre, was more sprightly than he had been before his unfortunate mishap with the tree, and Lady Amanda was busy sliding cards into envelopes, hot from the local printing press, and invitations (marked prominently RSVP ASAP) into rather grander envelopes, for their Boxing Day ‘do’.

  The sooner she knew how many were coming, the sooner she would be able to sort out the catering, and if they all did answer promptly, then any refusals could be filled with substitutes, with still time to RSVP before the shops closed for the festive season, and she was champing at the bit to get on with things.

  Having deposited her tottering piles of envelopes on the hall table for Beauchamp to put in the post box, she sought out Hugo so that they could run through the route of the tour, and discuss any food phobias from which their guests might suffer.

  She found him stretched out on a chaise longue in front of the fire, in the library, and his face was wreathed in smiles when he saw her approach. ‘’Lo there, Manda. Come for a li’l chitty-chatty?’ he asked, his forehead creased in puzzlement at the indistinct diction he had just demonstrated.

  ‘Are you all right, Hugo?’ she asked in concern.

  ‘Think so. Not abs’l’y sure, acksherlly,’ he replied, and Amanda went to the other side of him, to see if there was any obvious evidence of what was wrong with him. She hoped to God he hadn’t had a stroke. How he (or she) would cope with that, on top of his other medical problems, she didn’t dare even to think.

  Her fears proved unfounded, however, as she espied at the head of the chaise longue a brandy bottle and balloon, and a box of coproxamol. The silly old bear had just about knocked himself out with strong painkillers and alcohol. ‘Have you been drinking, Hugo?’ she asked him acidly.

  ‘Just a li’l one. ’s only medic-ic-imal!’ he stated, with inebriated dignity.

  ‘Just a little half a bottle!’ she declared, her voice rising with each word. And how many of these pills did you take?’

  ‘Wha’ pills? Don’ know nothin’ ’bou’ no pills,’ he stated, ending on a high-pitched fortissimo hiccough.

  ‘BEAUCHAargh!’ she shouted, leaping to one side, as the man seemed to emerge from the very floor.

  ‘Yes, my lady?’ asked Beauchamp, his usually bland expression somewhat challenged at the sight of Hugo with his thatch of white hair sticking up all over the place, and the idiot smile on his face.

  ‘Mr Hugo is rather tired and emotional, Beauchamp,’ Lady A stated, recovering her dignity with amazing alacrity. ‘I wonder if you could see him to his room, and make sure he gets to bed without mishap.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady,’ agreed Beauchamp, and added quietly, as he turned to his task, ‘I’ll just get the wheelbarrow, shall I?’

  ‘What was that? I couldn’t quite catch it?’ asked Lady Amanda, and couldn’t understand why Hugo had just started to laugh hysterically.

  ‘Nothing, my lady. Just encouraging Mr Hugo.’

  The next day, after Hugo had refused a fried breakfast, and settled instead for some dry toast and black coffee, Lady Amanda suggested that they get on with the menu for the dry run on Boxing Day.

  ‘Manda! Have a heart!’ Hugo exclaimed in as loud a whisper as he could. ‘I’m not feeling quite the ticket. Must have been something I ate yesterday, although I’ve no idea what, as we ate exactly the same things.’

  ‘I don’t think eating was the problem, Hugo. Tell me, what do you remember of going to bed last night?’

  Hugo sat and thought for a while, even though thinking increased the thumping headache he was nursing. ‘I don’t have any clear memory of going to bed, actually,’ he replied, looking a mite puzzled.

  ‘What is your last clear memory?’ Lady Amanda was going to let him have the unvarnished truth about the matter, because she didn’t want a recurrence, not only over the festive season, but ever.

  ‘I was in the library,’ Hugo articulated slowly, a frown creasing his brow. ‘I had made the decision to have a tot of brandy, then try a little nap; just to refresh myself, you understand. Then … well, not a lot.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You got yourself into a right old state, taking your painkillers and brandy – about half a bottle, I estimated, and BeauchaARGH! I wasn’t actually calling you: I was just mentioning your name. Now run along and get back to whatever it was you were doing. I really must get you some shoes with steel heel and toe-caps, or bells on them, or something, anything just to warn me of your arrival.’

  The manservant left the room, smiling mischievously to himself and stifling a chuckle, as Lady Amanda continued, ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you were in fact sozzled! As squiffy as a drunken sailor! As pissed as a newt – if you’ll excuse the vernacular. You were, in fact, steaming drunk, Hugo, and Beauchamp,’ (she whispered his name this time), ‘had to fetch the wheelbarrow and put you to bed to sleep it off.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Hugo, accidentally raising his voice in surprise, then wishing he hadn’t, as all the little men with mattocks started digging away at the bedrock of his brain again.

  ‘Yes, Hugo, and it just won’t do. A cocktail or three – fine, no problem. A bucket of spirits, however, is too reminiscent of Grandpapa, who couldn’t face the day without a snifter of brandy first thing in the morning.’

  ‘I never knew he was a tippler,’ said Hugo with a grimace of effort, as he tried to place Lady A’s grandpapa.

  ‘More of a toper, although it was hardly noticeable until he had to write anything, then all he could do was a sort of scribble, because he was too far gone for his coordination to work efficiently. He was known by his contemporaries as Old Scribbler, which is just as well, for in his later years, he was more like Old Dribbler.

  ‘Now, have you taken anything for that birdcage mouth, the little men drilling in your head and the stomach like a stormy sea?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, groaning as she reminded him of his individual symptoms, ‘And it’s not drills, it’s mattocks: little men with mattocks,’ he informed her for the sake of accuracy.

  ‘What an old-fashioned hangover you’re having. And as for the way you’re feeling, I’ll get Beauchamp to make you one of his prairie oysters – goes down like fire, but cleanses as it goes, and leaves you feeling as right as ninepence.’

  ‘Who’s old-fashioned now? That should surely be as right as 4p. Urhhh!’

  On queue with the groan, Beauchamp stepped smartly into the room with a tall glass on a small silver salver. ‘For you, Mr Hugo,’ he intoned, leaning forward to offer the glass. ‘I noticed how you looked this morning, and thought you would probably feel a lot more human after one of these.’

  Hugo eyed the glass, and it eyed him back. With a start, he asked, ‘How can I drink that when it’s looking at me?’

  ‘That’s only the egg yolk, sir. It’ll slip down without you even noticing.’

  ‘And no doubt rea
ppear within a few seconds looking for an encore.’ Hugo was very dubious about the contents of the glass.

  ‘Trust me, sir. I have been ministering to hangovers in this house since I was a boy, and I haven’t lost a patient yet.’

  ‘Hold your nose while you drink it, Hugo, old bean. It’ll make it easier to swallow if you can’t taste it.’

  With two pairs of eyes scrutinizing him closely as to what he would do next, Hugo pinched his nostrils together with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand, while lifting the glass to his lips, and tossing off the contents almost in one swallow.

  He sat in silence for a while, colour slowly returning to his cheeks, then he opened his mouth and made a sound like an air-raid siren. After this sound had ceased, he sat back in his chair, ran a hand through his thatch of white hair, and smiled. ‘I don’t know what you put in that, Beauchamp, but it seems to have worked a miracle. What was it?’

  Lady Amanda butted in as he finished speaking. ‘You really don’t want to know Hugo. Just be grateful that you got it down, and it’s staying down. I can see you look better already. Which is good, because today I wanted to go over the menu with you for our experimental opening of the house. I suggest, however, that, given the delicate state of your constitution, we do nothing until after lunch.’

  ‘Good-oh! I might feel human again, but I think I’ll just go to my room and have a little lie-down. I didn’t sleep soundly last night, as I was haunted by the most peculiar dreams. After Beauchamp’s contribution to my constitution, however, I feel I shall sleep like the dead. Perhaps you would be so good as to wake me just before the gong for luncheon.’ And with that, he rose from his place at the table, folded his napkin, and made as hasty a retreat as he could manage from the room.

  ‘Thank you for your anticipation, Beauchamp. That will be all for now,’ Lady A trilled at her manservant, and was unaware of the muttered ‘Beecham’ from him, as he headed back to his own corner of the house.