Belchester Box Set

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I suppose you’re right, but there you go ‘your ladyshipping’ me, again. I am not my mother, you know, and never will be.’ Until her mother’s death, he had always addressed her as ‘my lady’.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to accept that form of address, now your dear mother is no longer with us.’

  ‘But you never used it before, when she was supposed to have been killed in that car crash two decades ago,’ she challenged him.

  ‘That is because I knew all along that Lady Edith had not died, and that form of address would be wholly inappropriate. Now that we know she is really deceased, I’m afraid I can’t help it,’ Beauchamp defended himself.

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t really matter, if it carries connotations of seniority, in your eyes. Now, what have we got tonight?’ she asked, eyeing the contents of the glasses on the tray greedily.

  ‘A snowball for you, m’lady, although, before you protest,’ he said, holding up one hand as a look of horror crossed her face, ‘it is my own creation, which I have privately named “a turbo-charged Snowball”,’ he concluded, causing Her Ladyship’s face to dissolve into a smile of quiet gratification. ‘And for Mr Hugo, I have a Scotch Mist, which I understand is the best medium in which to see ghosts,’ he added, with a smug little smile.

  ‘I nearly had one of those last night,’ Hugo mumbled.

  How on earth did Beauchamp do it? thought Lady Amanda. He couldn’t have been aware of a conversation to which he was not privy, but he’d already got to the heart of Hugo’s fears about the castle. ‘Well done! Beauchamp to the rescue, again,’ she said, reaching eagerly for her glass.

  ‘You two look very Scotch, I must say,’ commented Enid, eyeing the pair up and down, totally unaware of her pun.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Lady A exclaimed, ‘Don’t you ever use that word downstairs with the staff.’ She’d almost said ‘other’ staff, but had managed to stop herself just in time.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Enid, puzzled.

  ‘Use Scots or Scottish. There’s nothing the Scots like less than being described as “Scotch”. It’s all right as a name for their national drink, but not for anything else. Try not to get yourself in hot water. They’ve a fierce temper.’

  ‘We’ve already discovered that, Lady Amanda. There were two visiting maids fighting like alley cats when we arrived, and Beauchamp had to separate them.’

  ‘Really? How exciting! What were they fighting about?’

  ‘One was a Campbell and the other was a Fraser.’

  Lady A held up a hand to halt Enid’s narrative. ‘’Nough said,’ she grinned. ‘That old grudge will never be forgotten. If it happens again, take no notice, unless they seem about to break anything other than each other’s faces.’

  The dinner gong sounded its sinister metal voice once more, and Beauchamp withdrew a slim silver hip flask from an inner pocket. ‘That was your summons to dinner, as you are no doubt aware,’ he informed them, ‘but I have a little corpse-reviver here – a full flask of Frozen Spirits, in fact – in case you are in need of a little tipple before turning in.

  ‘Enid, here, has a small bucket of ice, to keep it at the optimum temperature, and I shall place the two over here, in the draught from the window, to achieve that aim. I, of course, will make sure that your hot water bottles are in your bed at a decent time, and I wish you a very good evening.’

  Draining her glass at a swallow, then gasping as the turbo-charged ingredient of the cocktail hit her, she summoned Hugo to join her on their descent to dinner. She had high hopes of this evening, and wished that he would enjoy himself too.

  Back in the servants’ quarters, there was a state of panic reigning over the absence of Beauchamp and Enid, and their reappearance heralded sighs of relief from all sides. Cook fixed them with a beady eye, and informed them, ‘You’re on wine duty, Beauchamp, and you’re serving at table, Mrs Tweedie.’ Enid was too flustered even to attempt to ask her to call her Enid.

  ‘Evelyn and Walter will show you the way to the dining hall, and we all wear sashes on Burns’ Night, to show that we’re celebrating. Here are yours,’ she concluded, handing them the aforementioned garments, which sported a Scottish saltire on both front and back. Beauchamp was already wearing his tartan waistcoat, and felt like a Christmas tree in the process of being decorated, as Enid reached up and dropped it over his head with a little snicker.

  The dining hall had been draped with winter greenery, the fires stuffed with logs large enough to completely fill the width of the vast grates, and flaming torches adorned the walls, making the room quite bright and light, and giving it a definite air of being en fete.

  As Walter Waule went through the drinks to be served, which, of course, proved not to be wine at all, Beauchamp looked on in disbelief. There was to be a dandelion and burdock to go with the first course, Lucozade to go with the main, and lemonade to help down the dessert.

  ‘What is the first course?’ he asked, not quite satisfied with what he saw in front of him.

  ‘Cullen skink,’ replied his educator, ‘same as last night.’

  Beauchamp thought for half a minute, and then suggested, ‘Do you not think that orangeade would complement the soup better?’

  Walter also stood for a while, lost in consideration, then said, ‘I ken you’re right, Mr Beauchamp. I’ll get it changed right away.’

  Beauchamp raised his eyes heavenwards and sighed. He’d be glad to be back in Belchester Towers, where life was reasonably sane – some of the time, at least!

  When Lady A and Hugo left their rooms to go down for dinner, they were surprised and delighted to find that the whole length of the corridor to the staircase had been lined with the flares of real torches, much more in keeping with the age of the castle, than the weak electric lights that had guided them to dinner the previous night.

  ‘This is better!’ exclaimed Hugo, admiring his trews in the light of the flickering flames. ‘I hope the improvement goes on for the rest of the evening, and, if it doesn’t, we’ve always got that flask of cocktail to see us off into the Land of Morpheus.’

  ‘You keep on hoping, Hugo,’ Lady A advised him. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, the dining hall will be unrecognisable from yesterday evening.’

  ‘Oh, goody!’ piped Hugo, his eyes beginning to glow with excitement, and when they reached the dining hall, his eyes and mouth were a trio of ‘o’s at the transformation that had been wrought since yesterday. It was even warm, the fires being constantly stocked with fresh wood laid in high heaps in the grates, and pumping forth a most gratifying amount of heat.

  They took the same places at table as they had before, and Hugo whispered into his companion’s ear, ‘Why no piper? Seems a bit odd, tonight of all nights.’

  ‘He doesn’t appear until he pipes in the haggis, after the first course, but you won’t be disappointed.’

  ‘At least he won’t be waking me up this time,’ Hugo observed, looking smug at this conclusion.

  With everyone feeling warm, and delighted in the change in the grim old hall, conversation hummed throughout the first course, not a soul complaining that it was the same as they had been offered the evening before. The haggis was to be the delight of the evening, followed by dancing.

  Lady Amanda and Hugo had quite an audience as the details of their two previous brushes with murder were teased out of them, both adopting a coy attitude and, therefore, making their fellow diners even more eager for details.

  When the first course had been cleared, the sound of distant piping was discernible, no doubt emanating from the kitchen, whence the haggis was conveyed to table, and a hush descended on the diners. Lady Amanda took this opportunity to draw Hugo’s discreet attention to something she had secreted into her handbag before they left their rooms.

  ‘Oh,’ whispered Hugo, his face a mask of delight. ‘How sneaky of you,’ he commented as his eyes caught sight of the hip flask full of what, no doubt, was cognac. ‘I hope it’s not lemonade with the ma
in course, or we won’t get away with a little slug in our glasses.’

  ‘If I remember aright, it’ll be Lucozade, Sir Cardew’s favourite tipple, and nobody will suspect a thing, if we add a little extra ingredient, surreptitiously.’

  The music grew louder as the piper and haggis grew closer, and the atmosphere of anticipation was palpable. Closer and closer it came, until Jock Macleod entered, his face purple with his efforts, his complexion clashing horribly with his red hair and beard. Behind him waddled Cook, who would not let the honour of carrying the haggis go to anyone but herself. Her face was also a fiery red from her efforts in the kitchen.

  Behind her, Enid carried a huge tureen of what Hugo presumed were neeps and tatties, and, behind her, Evelyn Awlle bore a small glass jug of what, he supposed, was the minute ration of whisky, known here as Scottish gravy, for adorning the haggis.

  The sound of the pipes was almost unbearable when the piper was so close to them, but they bore up without complaint, as the haggis was set before Sir Cardew, the neeps and tatties in the middle of the table, and the little jug to the right of the master. An intricately decorated short sword was passed to their host by Walter Waule, and Sir Cardew stood, gazing first at the haggis, then round the table at his guests.

  The piping ceased, and the hall was completely silent, waiting for the address that would follow, and really start the celebrations. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest like a pouter pigeon, and launched into the traditional verse, his voice strong and full of emotion, as he began to recite the age-old words of the Scottish bard, Rabbie Burns.

  ‘Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

  Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

  Aboon them a' yet tak your place,

  Painch, tripe, or thairm:

  Weel are ye wordy o'a grace

  As lang's my arm.

  ‘I’m glad that’s …’ whispered Hugo, not getting a chance to get to the word ‘over’.

  ‘Shhh!’ Lady Amanda hissed. ‘He’s only just started.’

  ‘The groaning trencher there ye fill,

  Your hurdies like a distant hill,

  Your pin was help to mend a mill

  In time o'need,

  While thro' your pores the dews distil

  Like amber bead.

  ‘Is that it?’ Hugo enquired again, rather fed up with all this stuff he couldn’t understand.

  ‘No it is not! Now hush up!’

  ‘His knife see rustic Labour dight,

  An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,

  Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

  Like ony ditch;

  And then, O what a glorious sight,

  Warm-reekin', rich!

  ‘Is there much more of this?’ hissed Hugo, through the side of his mouth. ‘I’m beginning to feel that Rabbie was short for Rabid.

  ‘Shut up, Hugo! This is almost sacred in Scotland. It’ll be over in a minute, and you’ll get to stuff your face to your heart’s content.’

  ‘Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:

  Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,

  Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

  Are bent like drums;

  Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

  Bethankit! hums.

  ‘I’m considering suicide, Manda.’

  ‘Then commit it quietly, so the rest of us can hear.’ Eyes were beginning to turn in their direction, and Lady A was frantic not to be tarred with the brush of someone who chattered all the way through the almost sacred address to the haggis.

  ‘Is there that owre his French ragout

  Or olio that wad staw a sow,

  Or fricassee wad make her spew

  Wi' perfect sconner,

  Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

  On sic a dinner?

  ‘Oh, come on, this is turning into a joke. And these trews do chafe so, with no underwear.’

  ‘Be quiet, do! You’ll upset everyone.’ Pause. ‘What, Hugo? You mean you’re not wearing any drawers? You fool! That only applies to kilts, not to trews. Really, you are the end. No wonder the seams rub. Now, shut up! Sorry, Moira. Sorry, Drew.’

  Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

  As feckles as wither'd rash,

  His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;

  His nieve a nit;

  Thro' blody flood or field to dash,

  O how unfit!

  ‘Manda?’ Hugo hissed again. ‘I can’t understand a blasted word the man’s saying. What heathen language is he speaking?’

  ‘It’s old Scots vernacular English. Now, shhh! If Cardew notices us talking, he’ll get himself into a fearful bate.’ Another ‘shhh’ came from across the table, and two Sassenach faces blushed at their overheard interruptions.

  ‘But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

  The trembling earth resounds his tread.

  Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

  He'll mak it whissle;

  An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,

  Like taps o' trissle.

  ‘Manda.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I need to go. It’s urgent. And I really haven’t got any knickers on.’

  ‘This is the last verse just coming up, so shut up and hold on to it.’

  ‘But Manda, it’s worse than you think. I don’t want to do number twos in my trews and besmirch the noble tartan.’

  ‘Then clench your buttocks and pray, for there’s no way I can help you. Now zip it! Your mouth, that is.’

  ‘Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,

  And dish them out their bill o' fare,

  Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

  That jaups in luggies;

  But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer

  Gie her a haggis!’

  For a few seconds, silence once more reigned, before Sir Cardew made a slashing cut in the skin of the haggis with the short sword, immediately followed by a further burst of enthusiastic piping. ‘Can I go, now?’ asked Hugo. ‘I really don’t think I can wait much longer without doing something very childish on the floor.’

  ‘Be off with you, but get back as quick as you can. Cardew likes everyone present to receive gratefully their plateful of Highland haute cuisine.’

  Hugo unhooked his sticks from the back of his chair and made off as fast as his arthritic old joints would allow him, while warm plates were provided by Mary Campbell, newly arrived from the kitchen, lest her plates cool too much while waiting for the address to the haggis to finish.

  These she placed in front of Sir Cardew, dropping a ghost of a curtsey as she did so, and their host began to spoon the spicy delicacy on to plates, which Walter Waule conveyed down the table to the guests.

  It was Enid’s job to serve everyone with neeps and tatties from the vast tureen she had carried in. Nervous as a kitten, her hand shook as she spooned the savoury lumps onto the plates, anxiety writ large on her face. She started well, however, and the smiles of gratitude as she heaped plate after plate soon helped her to relax a little.

  Everything went well until she came to Lady Amanda and Hugo, as maybe she had relaxed just a little too much by them. As she lifted the large serving spoon to serve Hugo, who had now returned, very much relieved, serving from the left as she had been advised, her arm gave a sudden involuntary jerk, and a large piece of potato shot from her spoon, and for the next few seconds, everything happened in slow motion, in her mind’s perception.

  She saw the potato sail slowly and gracefully through the air across the front of Hugo’s chest. With an almost languid gesture, he reached out a hand, infinitely slowly, and clasped the fingers of his right hand deliberately and almost sluggishly around the loose vegetable cannon.

  That was the point where the flow of time returned to normal for her, the spell broken by Hugo’s scream of, ‘Yow!’ as he instinctively got rid of this searing object as quickly as was humanly possible; back the way it came, propelled now by considerable force, coming to
rest squarely in Moira Ruthven’s cleavage, visible this evening due to her low-cut gown.

  She, too, gave a screech of pain, but her quick thinking drove her to pierce it with her fork, before throwing it down on her plate where it lay, innocent and mute. Both ladies at table sat with eyes front, innocently, as Hugo attempted to adopt the same expression, as all eyes were now on them.

  Enid, however, did not possess such well-bred ‘front’ and began to gibber and wail, eventually being led away by Evelyn, to the kitchen, where Sarah Fraser was sent to take her place. Cook was very kind to her, explaining that when she had first waited at table, she had had a similar accident, but hers had involved a whole tureen of scalding soup.

  ‘Dunnae fret, pet,’ she advised Enid. ‘Anyone can make a mistake, if they’re nervous. Now, ye’ll take a cuppa tea wi’ me, and you can go back after the meal to watch the dancing. It’ll all be forgotten by then, ye ken. And the lady will dine oot on the story for years to come, ma girl.’

  ‘What, with only Lucozade to lubricate their throats and tempers?’ Enid was near tears at the thought, too mortified to ever look any of the guests in the face again.

  Cook winked, and told her, ‘They’ve all got a wee flask aboot them, don’t ye worry. There’s not a guest here who doesnae ken that if they want a wee tipple, they’ve to bring their own, and be secretive aboot it. The master may claim this is a dry hoose, but behind his back, it’s awash with booze.’

  After the meal, the piper moved off into the huge main entrance hall, where the dancing was to take place, while coffee was served at table. Lady Amanda and Hugo refused, on the grounds that it would keep them awake, and shortly all twelve diners followed where Jock the piper had gone before them, Lady A and Hugo lagging a little behind, as they took a sneaky sip each from the flask. They weren’t the only ones doing this, as they would discover before the evening was over.