Slippered!
By Malcolm Twigg
Copyright 2011 Malcolm Twigg
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NOTE:
THIS WORK CONTAINS ADULT THEMES AND SEXUAL REFERENCE
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CHAPTER 1
The 21st century had come late to Staddon Hall - but it came with a vengeance, and a new hand on the rudder with plans which Slipper - steward, family retainer, chief butler and, at times, wet-nurse - took both as a personal slight and a blot on the escutcheon of the family honour. In fact, Slipper looked on the new Master and his grand plans with nothing short of open hostility.
Staddon Hall had been the ragged-arsed seat of the Earls of Melsham since the Norman Conquest. Not that the fact was widely known. Nor, indeed, the existence of the Hall itself, tucked away as it was in the rolling folds of the Dimpset hills, where it had successfully disappeared from public scrutiny for the last 80 years or so, the consequence of the reclusive 15th earl, and his father and grandfather before him. A crumbling monument to a lost age, it stood isolated in its own creaking progress towards an uncertain future, hanging grimly on to the proprieties of the feudal dependence which had seen its birth.
It was ably assisted in this by the doleful ministrations of Slipper, who was as set in his ways as the foundations of Staddon Hall were set in bed-rock . "It's never right, you know" he confided to Brandybutt, the head gardener,"and Lord Melsham not yet cold in his grave! He never would have stood for it."
The statement bore more than a grain of truth, for the late Lord Pemberton Horrocks, 15th earl of Melsham, had stood for very little - save the National Anthem - these past 30 years, and then only with Slipper's steadying presence on his left hand and firm grip on a bottle of claret with his right. The bottle had been Lord Melsham's downfall. A particularly hefty session one night had left him crumpled at the foot of the grand staircase, leaving – at one and the same time - frowsty old Staddon Hall in the avaricious hands of his late cousin's only son, the unhurried pace of the Estate in the balance, and Slipper mortally affronted by the unexpected turn of events. Whatever else he may have been, the late Lord had been an aristocrat - unlike the new earl!
"A Butcher!" Slipper intoned, speaking for the benefit of no-one in particular, Brandybutt had heard it all before - on an average about three times a day since the inheritance of Staddon Hall had become established - and was gently nodding off by Slipper’s fireplace. "A common tradesman! The 1st earl would have had him hung, drawn and quartered!"
Slipper spoke as though he knew the 1st earl personally. In a sense, he did (albeit that the 1st earl had been in his grave these past 800 years) for the stewardship of the Melsham estate had been Slipper's for all his working life, and his father’s before him. Consequently there was little about the family history that he did not know. The aristocratic side, at any rate – the rest wasn’t worth bothering about.
The fact that ‘the butcher’ was, in reality, a self-made man and the head of a national chain of High Street meat product merchandisers made not a scrap of difference in Slipper's estimation. Once a tradesman, always a tradesman, and no tradesman had ever crossed the front portals of Staddon Hall in the whole of the edifice's cloistered career. Quite a few rogues and knaves had, but they were of the nobility and, whatever the rights and wrongs of it, that was the way of the world, always was and always would be.
Brandybutt was snoring openly, an ebullient sound which rattled the teacups hanging from the shelf. His needs were simple and, as long as he had a roof over his head, food in his belly and a bed of earth in which to dig his stubby fingers, Brandybutt was a happy man. The ramifications of the changes afoot had not percolated through to him, as yet. Slipper doubted whether they would register when they did. He shook his head at his friend's sleeping figure, sighed, and trudged outside.
From where he stood, he could see little of the surrounding Houndsmoor hills. The overgrown estate trees that crowded the parkland close to the Hall, withdrawn in its secluded valley as it was, prevented any long-distance view, but Slipper had no need to see any further than the Hall and its immediate environs anyway. His world consciously stopped at the Gate House, where he had been born and which he had made his own over the years.
He turned to look at the Hall. It had seen better days, he had to admit that, but the recent earls had been too supportive of the wine cellar to worry overmuch about restoration. The fabric of the building outside the servants' quarters had never been the most prepossessing and years of neglect had reduced it to something of a shambles. The facade of the Hall was little better. There was an air of gentle decay, both about the building and about Slipper as he stood in the cobbled courtyard, arms akimbo. He looked up with an almost proprietorial eye at the place which had been home to him for his whole life, and reflected on the pending upheaval.
These past few decades, it was due to Slipper that the Estate had been kept going. He ran the household and ruled what servants remained with a firm hand, his only concessions to humanity being his devotion to the late Master and, to an extent, his friendship with Brandybutt. The gardener was well into his dotage now but still kept the grounds, if not in pristine condition, at least in some semblance or order. In this, he had the grudging assistance of Harris, a callow youth from the village to whom Brandybutt had taken a liking, but whose general attitude to life at the Hall, and to Slipper’s regime, left a lot to be desired in Slipper’s opinion. He found that in a lot of things of late. More particularly in the new Master’s own attitude, both towards himself and the running of the Estate. He felt that his place in the household was being eroded slowly, and gathering pace by the minute.
“The end of an era,” he though glumly, turning once more to the dark doorway to the Gate-House. Then, taking a firm grip on his resolve: “But not if Reginald Slipper has anything to do with it.
***
The object of Slipper’s disaffection was, at that moment, exercising a firm grip on something a great deal more tangible than well-intentioned resolve, but proving equally as elusive, as the twanging of knicker elastic demonstrated. Doris, the parlour maid, straightened from her fender polishing with considerably more alacrity than that with which she had applied herself to the task. She turned to face the new earl, covering her ample rear with brassoed hands. "Milord!" she gasped, uncertain whether to be flattered or incensed - it had, after all, been some years since any man had shown the slightest inclination for dalliance. But, a peer of the realm! And with her Ladyship in the next room! "Milord!" she gasped again, with more gusto, this time.
"Now, now Doris" said Archibald Lappit, 16th earl Melsham and entirely lacking in the most rudimentary of social graces. "Don't take on lass. Just a friendly gesture, that's all."
Doris groped for words. Mr. Slipper had said nothing about randy earls. Not that the present Lord Melsham was her idea of an earl. She had pictured some haughty, monocled old Etonian, not this ruddy-complexioned, over-weight bull of a man, coarse of speech and coarser of manners, with his leering eye and sausage-fingered hands even now, in her imagination, fumbling with the straining buttons on her blouse. She found her voice at last.
"Milord!"
Hardly an improvement over her previous contribution but expressed in a tone that managed to deliver a mixture of reproach, surprise and disgust - which was entirely lost on the new earl.
He laid a meaty finger alongside his nose, sidling closer. "Mum's the word, now, Doris. We don't want to go upsetting her Ladyship, do we?" he asked, confidentially, adding with a hint of malice "If you get my drift, eh?" He reinforced the statement with a light slap across her rump. Doris jumped, combined it somehow with a hurried curtsey, and withdrew in a fluster of confusion and embarrassment.
Melsham's lascivious eye watched her plump form retreat with appreciation. He imagined himself stretched out across the billiards table while Doris, clad in basque and high-heeled shoes, advanced on him in menace, feather duster at the ready. Since moving down to the rural backwaters of Dimpset he found that he missed the flesh-pots of Brandsley, and Doris had enough flesh to fill a few of the best pots Melsham had ever seen. He had a catholic taste in women - the bigger, the better. To plunge into the cavernous cleavage of an enormous bosom whilst being beaten about the bottom with a big stick was his idea of Nirvana: an unconscious yearning after the mother-figure he had always wanted, and a twisted reflection of the hair-brush wielding mother he had had.
Not that anyone could have blamed Wanda Lappit, for Archibald had been obnoxious even when a child. To his mother's eternal regret, he had been conceived in inebriate stupor after a drunken Master Butchers' Ball, and had thereafter got in the way of her endless pursuit of pleasure, which made it even harder for her to bestow any of the normal maternal instincts on the infant Lappit. His erstwhile father - the late Lord Melsham's distant cousin - always looked with suspicion on the lad's paternity (with no foundation in fact, as it happened). Nevertheless as a consequence he always treated his son with a certain distant reserve. Given his parents' disregard, the seeds of the new earl's disenchanting personality were well sown.
From that seed also sprang young Archibald's fierce determination to succeed and to grind everyone else into the sod on the way. He found he had a natural talent for that. When, at his majority, his parents were killed by a runaway lorry as it swerved to avoid collision with a young mother and her baby and, instead, crushed their car against the Corporation Cesspit Cleanser, Lappit junior had experienced a curious sense of release and an innate feeling of justice.
With the insurance money and the inheritance of his father's small chain of butchers' shops, he soon turned his talent to divesting his competitors of their livelihood, built up a small local empire and, when the supermarket boom hit the country in the '60's, took his opportunity to elbow his way in amongst the big boys. Nowadays, Lappit had a finger in every meat pie ever bought across a supermarket counter, and he ruled the roost. And now, by courtesy of an old soak he never knew, he was Lord Melsham, 16th Earl, and incumbent of Staddon Hall: a long, long way away from his plebeian beginnings. It was owed him - and not before time. He felt vindicated.
At that moment he also felt queer. The thought of feather dusters in capable buxom hands always did things to his knees. He crossed to the dresser and poured himself a large scotch, disposing of it in a manner which would have won the approval of the lately departed 15th earl. He felt better after that and addressed himself to the purpose of his presence in the Dining Room which held the only table large enough to contain the plan of the Estate he had forcibly extracted from Slipper's clutches.
"The man's a pain in the bloody arse" Melsham thought to himself in sudden irritation as he smoothed the plan out on the flat expanse of table. Despite Slipper’s studied air of subservience, Melsham knew that there was little love lost between the old butler and himself: Slipper resented the earl's proletarian beginnings, and made it plain and Melsham could never decide just how much Slipper was quietly sneering at him, so he returned the resentment in full measure.
The trouble was, Slipper was part of the place and without Slipper, Melsham wouldn't have had a clue how to run it. Both men were astute enough to realise it, so, for very different reasons each tolerated the other: Melsham because, in spite of himself, he respected Slipper's knowledge; Slipper because his position required him to and because – did Melsham but know it - come hell or high water, he was going to see this upstart out on his ear even if it cost him his job - or worse.
***
Quite how Slipper was going to bring about Melsham’s downfall, he didn’t quite know yet. But of one thing he was sure: there was going to be a sausage factory in the hallowed grounds of Staddon Hall over his dead body! He returned to the Gate-House, ignoring Brandybutt's stentorian rumblings, and mused further on the bombshell that Lappit - he couldn't bring himself to use the title in private - had dropped on him: the conversion of the range of stables and outbuildings into a sausage factory, and the Hall into an up-market eating and international guest house. Melsham hadn't put it quite like that, of course, but that was how it equated in Slipper's mind.
What the earl had actually said, in his irritating northern accent, was something to the effect of "expandin' t'base of operations to market a noo range of exclusive cooked meat products under't label 'Lord Melsham's Table': 'ome prodooced fare from t’seat of Dimpset' s oldest haristocratic family." The Fortnum and Mason of the south-west.
Add to that, the rider that the earl would also open the Hall for pre-booked banqueting and week-end house parties for the international tourist trade, featuring the Exclusive Home Produce, and there was a proposition that the earl couldn't resist and that Slipper abominated. The thought of tourists disporting themselves within the walls of Staddon Hall was something almost too awful to comprehend. What was worse was the thought of Lappit passing himself off as the scion of a noble English family to unsuspecting and gullible foreigners who would leave convinced that the British Aristocracy came down to dinner in tweed jackets and ate peas with a spoon! And, to compound the heresy, as Melsham's butler and steward, Slipper was actually expected to participate in the arrangements!
The first, irretrievable, step in that direction was the release of his beloved Estate plans for the man Lappit to paw and pore over - before his team of surveyors, architects and tame officials descended in droves to disrupt the bucolic anonymity in which Staddon Hall had basked for so long
Brandybutt's snoring finally got on Slipper's nerves. How could he concentrate on a plan of campaign to an accompaniment of snorts and grunts that wouldn't have been out of place in one of Lappit' s pig farms? So, rousing the old gardener, he escorted him back to his own quarters. He missed a flummoxed Doris by seconds.
***
In the dining-room, Melsham had finally regained control of his knees and was studying the estate plans minutely. Comparing it with the notes from his marketing experts he now knew precisely where everything would fit within the stable complex. It would be a tight squeeze but in keeping with the ‘cottage industry’ presentation the marketing men envisaged.
There was only one addition that Melsham would like to make: a Hospitality/Exposition suite. And, stabbing a podgy finger decisively on the Gate House, he knew exactly where he wanted it!
CHAPTER 2
Carmen, the Hon. Lady Lappit and bane of her father's life, watched the sun sink behind the distant hills of Houndsmoor, and hitched her skirt down over dimpling thighs as she pushed herself up against the hay bales. She picked pieces of straw from her hair and turned a jaundiced eye on the heaving figure beside her, wheezing face down in the straw like an Olympic marathon runner in final extremis. She liked her men young, strong, healthy - and often. Her partner of the moment fulfilled the first three criteria, at least. On a rating of 1-10 she ranked his score at four and-a-half, with 'E' for Effort - not a bad score to Carmen's exacting standards.
She also liked them with unblemished posteriors. The vision at the moment mooning up at her from amongst the straw put her in mind of a hitherto unknown and virulent strain of measles. "'Ere,” she said, elbowing the dying whale "Cover it up. It's disgusting, that!"
The figure responded with a grunt and a feeble flap of a limp arm. Carmen sniffed and scooped her bosom together, harnessing it back into the tight blouse, from which it immediately fought to escape once more. She pulled herself to her feet and smoothed her clothes, nudging the now sleeping figure with her foot. Bits of straw stuck out at odd angles from the interstices of her clothing, making her lumpy body seem like some badly stuffed doll - which, she reflected, was precisely how she felt.
Precocious at ten, a coquette at twelve, at the age of fifteen Carmen had been proficient at things most girls twice her age had only dreamed about. At the ripe old age of eighteen she had now turned in to a hard- bitten cynic who regarded men as no more than mobile pleasure factories, flaccid and uninspired for the most part but, at rare intervals, fired with the odd flash of thunder that sparked a similar response in her satiated libido which her bruised psyche refused to acknowledge. Consequently, she had established no lasting relationship. The present one, flopping about on the floor of the barn, looked like going the way of the rest of them.
Carmen nudged him again, more viciously now. "Eh! It's time to go. Are you coming?"
The figure groaned. "Oh, God, no. Not again!"
"Suit yourself" she said and, plucking straw from her cleavage, flounced out of the barn.
Harris raised his head to watch her go just long enough to register a gaze of stupefied admiration before it was suffused by a look of anguish that felt to him as though it was etched there permanently.
***
Lately, Freddy Lappit had taken to looking askance at any oriental face he encountered. The mystique of Eastern womanhood had finally been his undoing. Ever since playing the Lee Kwan sisters off against each other and, in the process carelessly impregnating both, Freddy was understandably reticent about forming even a passing relationship with any Chinaman who looked intent upon upholding the family honour. The trouble was, you could never tell. Which was why he was southward-bound along the M5 en-route for Cousin Archie's where, by all accounts, Chinese in the heart of Houndsmoor were few and far between.
The notion had come to him quite suddenly when Sally and Lisa Kwan's brothers had called at his flat the day before. Mercifully, he had been out and arrived back home just in time to see the Kwan brothers pulling away in their Limousine. If, Freddy thought, they could make only half as much mess of a person's face as they had of the flat, he would never be so grateful for the puncture that had delayed him that night. Hastily gathering together what few belongings had been spared the knife, he threw them into the back of the Porsche and shot off to Dimpset like a noodle from a greasy wok.
Another puncture picked up in the middle of the Somerset section of the Motorway, with no spare in the boot, was not helping Freddy's nerves either. The wait on the hard shoulder for the repair wagon to arrive seemed interminable, with headlights snaking down on him from behind like the baleful eyes of dragons bent on revenge, rocking the car spitefully as they roared past. He fell into a fitful sleep, punctuated by dreams where Lisa and Sally Kwan, lying bloated on sheets of black silk, pulled at his body and argued shrilly over which parts should next be consigned to the chopping block. They were attended by endless shifts of the Kwan family, each wielding meat cleavers of obscene proportions who, in turn, prodded his body with inquisitive fingers, testing the quality of the flesh.
With a start, he awoke to a hand on his shoulder through the open window. Following the arm up he found himself, to his horror, face to face with the gimlet-eyed countenance of an Oriental, made demonic by the passing headlights. The scream of terror which leaped from Freddy's lips was second only to that which echoed a split moment later from the lips of Arthur Ying, the only Chinese motorway patrolman this side of Wapping and who was, just then, only with difficulty avoiding the evacuation of his bowels at this entirely unexpected encounter with what appeared to be a madman screaming into his face. This was something his training had not prepared him for.
Each screamed steadily at the other for some seconds before Freddy noticed the peaked cap with its emblazoned symbol falling over the mechanic's eyes. Freddy's screams cut off abruptly as the reality of the situation dawned. The startled mechanic's tailed off uncertainly in response, and a sense of normality returned. Freddy closed his eyes and leaned back on the seat. "God, you gave me a fright!" he said, and added "Sorry. I was dreaming and you …" He tailed off as his heart slowly resumed its normal rhythm.
Arthur leaned against the car and took control of his larynx - and sphincter - with some effort. "Gor blimey, guv’nor" he gasped in a broad Cockney accent "Do us a favour. Don't do that again. Fair gave me a heart attack, you did.”
The two men recovered their composure and Ying set about the business of getting Freddy's car back on the road. He was a garrulous man, but even he could extract nothing but monosyllabic responses from Freddy, who was anxious to be away. In the end he gave up any attempt to engage Freddy in conversation and worked on in silence, while Freddy looked about him anxiously, giving Ying a hand when requested.
Shielded as it was by Ying's van parked immediately behind, and a sudden convoy of heavy lorries blocking the slow lane, the Porsche was hidden to oncoming traffic, and Freddy was so intent on superintending the recovery of his vehicle that the sleek lines of the limousine gliding past in the dark went unnoticed.
***
Ying took his leave of Freddy with some relief and drove off. The Motorway Service Area and a hot, sweet mug of tea beckoned some miles further on.
Freddy roared on ahead, soon leaving Ying and the slower traffic behind until a series of lane closures slowed him to a crawl and caused the late-night lorries to bunch. Once through the hold-up he again assumed the fast lane, leaving the lorries to fight it out amongst themselves. In the process he again missed sight of the Limousine prowling along in the slow lane as the heavy vehicles bunched up around it, hiding it from view. He glimpsed the Motorway Service signs in the distance with a sense of gratification. "Food" his stomach said. It had been a good eight hours since he had last eaten. In the rush to get away from Brandsley, food had been the last thing on his mind, but it was now uppermost, terror having put an unexpectedly keen edge on his appetite. He pulled into the approach and parked the Porsche between two heavy lorries in the Transport Car Park, handy for a quick getaway - just in case.
He chose a corner booth in the shadows, and sat down to a plateful of sausage, egg and chips with relief. He felt the tension drain away as the mundane process of eating focussed his mind on the more normal aspects of life. "Women,” he thought morosely "are trouble.” He seriously considered - just for a fleeting moment - the benefits of celibacy. The voluntary kind. Not that which a vengeful Tony Kwan would doubtless wish to inflict upon him. But he considered it only for a moment. Women were too ingrained in Freddy's nature for him to countenance any such espousal for long.
It was hardly surprising. A man would have had to have the constitution and composure of a saint to resist the attentions of the women attracted by Freddy's Adonis-like appearance; and despite his ever-so-brief reflections on the monastic life, Freddy could never be accused of sanctimonious behaviour as far as matters of sexual favour were concerned. Ever since the age of eighteen and the disappearance of his pubescent acne, Freddy had been irresistible to the fair sex, and the adulation was reciprocated with relish. As Freddy matured, his sparkling eyes had taken on a glint of more things seen and done in a few years than most men ever experienced in a life-time, and his attraction assumed the animal-like quality of a rutting stag - without the aggression. For Freddy was a man of the boudoir, preferring his conquests between the sheets, rather than at the blow of a fist, so to speak. Which was a pity: the one rather invited the other.
Finishing his meal rapidly he pushed his plate away and stood to leave. Just as quickly he sat down again, drawing himself further into the shadows as Tony Kwan, followed by his three brothers and others whom Freddy recognised as cousins, walked in the entrance to the restaurant. Outside the plate glass windows he saw the ominous lines of the Kwan's limousine parked in the 'Reserved' spaces, a prerogative that the Kwans generally assumed for themselves and no-one in their right mind disputed, having once seen the spark in Tony's eyes.
Kwan despatched a younger cousin to fetch their orders whilst the party occupied seats directly in line with the doorway, cutting off Freddy's only line of retreat. He quaked in his seat. It would take only an inquisitive glance around the almost deserted restaurant to detect the half-hidden figure skulking in the corner booth. The party seemed relaxed. But then, Freddy reflected, so does a hunter who anticipates a good kill at the end of the trail.
Snatches of conversation drifted over but, so far as he could make out, they were speaking in the Cantonese dialect that Sally and Lisa had sometimes used on him in playful mood. He debated the wisdom of making a break for the door, trusting to luck to give him the edge, but their car was closer than his and the thought evaporated almost as quickly as it had arisen. The cousin came back with the orders and Freddy was relieved to see that it was only tea all round. With any luck, he reasoned, they would consume the lukewarm mixture and be out of the restaurant in double-quick time.
Then, Arthur Ying walked through the entrance. He nodded toTony Kwan's group, surprised to encounter such a large party of his compatriots so late at night. A gregarious and voluble chap by nature, when he had obtained his cuppa, he sauntered over to the Kwans' table, exchanging pleasantries on the way with one or two of the regulars whom he recognised.
"Evenin'" He established himself at the table opposite theirs. The Kwan clan looked bleakly at him and Tony curtly acknowledged the mechanic, turning away abruptly to continue his muttered conversation with his brothers.
"Well! Excuse me,” said Ying to himself with typical Cockney irony "Sorry I spoke, I'm sure.”
Tony rounded on him with a glare and a hissed imprecation in Cantonese. From the intonation it needed little translation, which was all to the good since Ying had not one word of his native tongue. However, he took the hint and, gathering up his mug of tea, moved to join a regular late-night diner with whom he had shared a cup of tea on occasion. He tossed his head in the Kwans' direction and complained to his companion, in a Cockney whine that carried in the quiet restaurant, "I dunno what fings are comin' to when you can't exchange a civil word nowadays. What with unsociable folk and mad Yorkshire geezers in Porsches frightenin' the bleedin' life out of you it makes you wonder if the world's goin' to 'ell in a bleedin’ basket."
That prospect rapidly became an odds-on probability when, at the mention of a Yorkshire lad in a Porsche, the snappy-suited figures at the table were galvanised into action. As a man, they rose and Tony Kwan grabbed at Ying's elbow, jarring his arm and slopping tea all down his uniform.
"'Ere, what's your game?" Ying yelped, and struggled to his feet in alarm. The few late-night diners scattered around the restaurant roused themselves in interest, while Ying's companion wondered what the mechanic had let him in for. The cashier, dozing at his till, despatched himself off in search of the Duty manager.
"No game, my friend, I assure you," hissed Tony in faultless English. "Your man in a Porsche. Where was this?"
Ying was many things, one of which was foolhardy. "None of your bleedin' business mate, what's it to you? Look at my trousers. Bleedin' soaked they are!" He flapped ineffectually at his sodden clothing, slopping the remains of his tea out of the mug and over Tony's immaculate jacket.
Tony stepped back out of range and gestured to his cronies. Two of them pinioned Ying's arms against his body while a third forcibly removed the mug from his immobile hand. Eyes spitting venom, Tony stepped up to face Ying once more, pulling out a knife and waving it under the mechanic's nose. "Now, I ask you again. Where was this Porsche?"
Ying's internal plumbing suffered a severe jolt for the second time that night. "Gawd Almighty" he breathed, as his knees turned to jelly. "Hold up, mate. Only jokin'. It was just up the road, what, half-an-hour ago. A good lookin' lad. Yorkshire, by the sounds of him. Went past me like a bat out of 'ell as soon as I fixed his tyre. Eh, do us a favour, leave it out! I don't want no trouble."
Tony let go of Ying' s lapel and glared a t his cronies, breaking into a babel of high-pitched Cantonese and goading them into immediate action as they ran from the restaurant. Released from the restraint of the Kwan brothers Ying collapsed into his seat, wondering whether the job was really worth it.
Freddy had watched the drama unfolding from his precarious half-hidden position. While the Kwans' attention was focussed on the hapless motor mechanic, he surreptitiously took his opportunity to join the exodus of diners who had suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere. He had time to gain the relative safety of the darkened forecourt before, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the gang break into a run. He sidestepped into the toilets, out of sight, and the Kwan family thundered by to their limousine.
Resolutely, Freddy locked himself into a cubicle and waited until he heard the squeal of tyres as their car swished out of the Service Area before he emerged.
Ying, meanwhile, had recovered his composure sufficiently to make his own way to the toilets. The shocks he was receiving to his system that night were having a terrible effect on his stomach. As he rounded the corner, he bumped into Freddy, who was edging his way out. Nerves in tatters, both men shied away and briefly resumed their previous screaming match before Freddy broke into a run for his car - and Ying finally lost his fight with his bowels.
CHAPTER 3
At the same time as Freddy had picked up his second puncture that day, Melsham wiped tomato soup from his moustache with the back of a forefinger and picked up his wine glass. He waved it carelessly at Slipper, sloshing a few drops across the table cloth. "Slipper, move your things out of the Gate House, will you?" he demanded loudly "I'm putting your quarters in the North Wing now.” His voice rang around the cavernous dining room, causing Slipper to wince, as much at the Earl's familiarity with servants at table as the import of the message. He paused in serving the potatoes and looked at his master with incomprehension. "Milord?"
"North Wing, man.” Melsham waved a hand vaguely. "Quick as you can. I've got some builders coming in on Monday. They'll want a free run at the site.”
"But milord" Slipper queried, "the Gate House is not included in the plans, if memory serves. May I ask why you wish me to move?"
"Wasn't included, Slipper, wasn't.” Melsham took a huge draught of wine, gesturing imperiously for a refill. "Is now.” He watched, with satisfaction, the seething emotions fighting for supremacy behind the controlled mask of Slipper's face. "Progress, Slipper.” He spitefully pushed home the barb. "Can't afford to let grass grow. This place is costing me an arm and a leg. Got to get a return. Time is money."
Of all expressions, the latter was one which Slipper execrated. Had it been true, then the hitherto unhurried pace of life at Staddon Hall should have ensured a comfortable existence for all its inhabitants for ever more: time had previously been everything. The hurry-scurry of the outside world had been another dimension, visited only infrequently for the essential perquisites not available at the Hall. Time, it appeared, was now overhauling Slipper with the inexorable finality of an Einsteinian equation. And, it now seemed, deprive him of his home in the process.
He looked coldly at Melsham. "As milord wishes" he said, taking a stranglehold grip on his serving spoons and placing the potatoes on the plates with a forced regularity that belied his state of mind.
From the other end of the vast expanse of table, a blue-rinsed Lady Melsham had caught little of what had passed. A childhood illness had left her with a perforated ear-drum, and the reverberations of clicking cutlery on china and Melsham's booming tones echoing in the hollow confines of the Dining Room had confused her hearing. She could see by the set of Sliper's jaw, however, that Archibald had just scored another point: a considerable one, if Slipper's constrained attitude was anything to go by.
Her impaired hearing had left her very perceptive. She simply could not understand why Archibald insisted on antagonising the man so much. Bully-boy tactics might be all very well in the hurly-burly of the market place, but in the privacy of their own home a little more refinement wouldn't have come amiss. Lady Melsham was very big on 'refinement' with a medial 'a-i' - and wished that her husband would adopt a little of Slipper's gentility. She admired Slipper, even though he was just a servant. His aloof bearing appealed to her well developed sense of snobbery and, unlike her rough-cut husband, his aquiline features and immaculate manners were the epitome of English County life, for which she so vainly strived. Acceptance into the County set was still a very long way off, unless Melsham's wallet made the introduction any the easier, but Melsham was not about to ingratiate himself with the local gentry at the expense of his bank account. And, anyway, that didn't appeal to Lady Melsham at all. If she were to be accepted as a peer and equal to the County neighbours it would be by dint of her own 'breeding' and not her husband's wealth. She had, sadly, as much chance as fly and the naivety not to realise it.
She was harmless enough, though, even if her ideas of genteel society were wide of the mark, and grated on Slipper more, if anything, than Lappit's phlegmatic refusal even to pay lip service to the precepts of his Title. He grudgingly had to admit, though, that of the family, Lady Melsham was the least objectionable.
He served her potatoes, still fulminating over the exchange with her husband, causing him to deposit the vegetables onto her plate a little more fiercely than he had intended, and Lady Melsham, sitting in poe-faced silence in the approved manner, jumped, startled by the unexpected crack of spoon on plate. Slipper apologised to her, inclining his head in dignified rectitude, and placed the next spoon full with a more considered approach.
Doris followed behind Slipper with the vegetable dish. She had had no chance to speak to him yet about the earlier incident and wondered whether the time was right anyway. Mr. Slipper had not seemed quite himself for a couple of days. Very withdrawn he had been. Any uncorroborated allegations against the master might not have received a willing hearing, notwithstanding the antipathy known to exist between the two, for his steadfast loyalty to his position was legendary. On balance, she decided, it was probably best to let things lie, just so long as the master kept his hands to himself.
The proximity of Doris' pinafored bulk made that a fairly remote possibility from Melsham's point of view. His hands clutched at the napkin crumpled on his lap in an effort to keep them from surreptitiously renewing their earlier intimacy with the meatier portions of the parlour maid's anatomy. Doris recognised the signs and served the Earl's vegetables hastily, anxious to be out of range of Melsham's visibly quivering fingers. The action did not go unnoticed by Slipper, still discomfited by his own lapse, who threw a sharp little glance at Doris hurrying down the length of the table to serve Her Ladyship. The glance took in Lord Melsham, half darting forward in his chair after Doris' quickly retreating bulk, and his eyes narrowed in surprise.
Melsham covered his unconscious reaction by bending down to pick up his napkin from the floor, where his spasmed hands had knocked it. He regained his seat, panting with exertion and with a fine beading of sweat on his brow.