Thaddeus

Thaddeus

By

John Vault.

SMASHWORDS EDITION.

***

PUBLISHED BY:

HiRisk Publications on Smashwords.

Thaddeus.

Copyright © 2010 by John Vault.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

HiRisk Publications has rated this work suitable for readers of 16 years or older.

It may contain frequent use of strong language, horror themes, violence or descriptions of a sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

***

This work is for Amy, Louis and Eleanor, without whom I would have no doubt finished a great deal sooner… Love, 'Fatha'.

***

Chapter I

Death is as popular now as it's always been, and despite knowing little or nothing about it, more people are trying it than at any other time in human history.

It can be compared on the whole to an absurd mystery tour, and people tend to prepare for it in much the same way. There are those who don’t want to participate and will desperately try to avoid it or to book a later flight and there are those who try to take their home comforts with them. Some hope for a return ticket and expect to be back in a few days rested and refreshed while others intend to stay indefinitely. Various levels of accommodation are usually on offer ranging from five star super deluxe to perpetual agony and outside toilets. What we do know is that nobody has ever had their expectations truly confirmed. The only saving grace that this journey has is that unlike everything else, it is completely free. This is possibly the real reason why so many people take part.

We also know what death looks like for it is a slave to fashion, culture and class. Unfortunately it is usually somewhat behind the times, always appearing in the style of the last generation. It wears new looking old clothes as it smiles cheerfully from cracked and fading photographs and it lives in a grand house stuffed with mock Edwardian décor and pewter trinkets. Each dusty room is connected by dark wood hallways that smell of lavender floor wax. The objects in this place have been lovingly polished so many times that even the shine has been rubbed away, and life is never really over until you have been through these doors.

‘He’s what?’ Hector Crane’s eyes popped like a toad with a deftly blown straw up its rectum. ‘He’s coming here? Great uncle Thaddeus is coming here?’

‘That’s what it says.’ Fleur waved the lightly scented writing paper in Hector’s face. ‘He’ll be here by Thursday morning. That gives us two days to prepare a room for him.’

‘A room?’ Hector’s face was reddening more by the second. ‘You’re not suggesting that we keep the old fart here? He must be over a hundred years old! He looked bloody ninety when I last saw him and that was over twenty-five years ago. We haven’t got the facilities to cater for him. Can’t he stay in a hotel or something? Or a nursing home? Somewhere where they’ve got access ramps and special toilets and people with very loud voices?’

‘I don’t think that’s the issue Hector.’ Marcus Gimlet interjected calmly. ‘From my perspective as your solicitor your late grandfather's business partner still owns a considerable percentage of your family business, forty eight percent I believe, and as such should be treated with great care until we know the full motive for his visit.’

‘Yes, yes, I know all that.’ Hector groaned. He parked his vodka and tonic on the black marble mantle piece and sighed deeply. ‘Good God, I thought he’d died years ago. What if he wants to, well you know, interfere with everything?'

‘Well, with the greatest respect Hector,’ Marcus grimaced, ‘things aren’t going all that well for you anyway.’

‘Oh, thank you Marcus for that incisive business appraisal, I’m sure you’ve given it long consideration. We’re just going through a quiet patch that’s all. There’s been a lull in the market recently.’

‘A lull?’ Gimlet looked incredulous.

'Well, people are living longer now. It’s a fact.’ Hector spluttered. ‘The number of pensioners who are still batting is increasing at a hitherto unprecedented rate.’

'It’s true Marcus,’ Fleur nodded in agreement. ‘There was an item on the news only yesterday about a man who was celebrating his eightieth birthday and the birth of his latest son on the same day. Honestly I...’

'That’s all very well Fleur,’ Gimlet interrupted, ‘but people are still dying aren’t they?’

'Well, yes.’ Fleur concurred.

‘And they are going elsewhere for their final services.’

'Yes.’ Fleur answered, staring at the slightly threadbare carpet.

'Then perhaps,’ said Gimlet, ‘the experience of Mr. Moribund could be regarded as a welcome resource rather than an inconvenience?’

'It’s not me that you have to convince Marcus.’ Fleur whispered jabbing an accusatory finger at Hector, ‘It’s him.’

'It’s not that I can’t embrace change Marcus,’ Hector explained. ‘It’s just that people expect things to be a certain way. As an established funeral service we have a responsibility to show a degree of quiet stability and decorum that our bereaved client can feel at ease with in their time of trouble. Can we honestly expect a decaying centenarian to offer up viable ideas for a new way forward, regardless of his experience in the field, assuming of course that he’s actually been doing anything these past decades?’ Hector shook his head solemnly. ‘No. What we need to do is to show him what he expects to see and then get rid of him as quickly as possible!’

‘I fully accept what you’re saying Hector.’ Marcus got up from his chair to refill his brandy glass. ‘But we have to remember that, absent or not, he is a partner in this business and he’s entirely within his rights to look long and hard at his and your business affairs, and we have no idea of his motives for coming here. He may simply be putting his affairs in order in anticipation of his own death, in which case he may wish to bequeath his half of the firm to you. On the other hand he may leave it to a complete outsider and that is also his right.’

‘What!’ Hector bellowed. ‘Hand over everything? All that my family has worked and sweated over for almost sixty years handed to a pimply faced adolescent with a business degree? Over my dead body!’

‘Which is why,’ Gimlet raised his hand to Hector in a calming gesture, ‘you must keep him here in order to discover his purpose. There’s a saying in war that’s also valid both in business and in politics; keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I think you know what I mean Hector.’

Hector picked up his glass and paced up and down in front of the large flame effect fire saying nothing. A light tapping on the lounge door interrupted his whirling mind. All eyes turned to see the door creep open and a shock of curly orange hair flop into view followed by a greasy forehead and a pair of cautious blue eyes. Hector put his glass back on the mantle piece.

‘Well?’ He shouted. ‘Come in Phillip for heaven’s sake! What’s the problem?’

Ginger threw himself into the room. He sniffed loudly and quickly straightened his ill-fitting sandy brown cotton smock.

‘They’ve sent the wrong stuff sir, the joiners sir,’ he wiped his nose on his sleeve, ‘we asked for two of the Statesman in dark oak and a Royal Classic in golden pine sir but they’ve done it the wrong way ‘round and the Statesman’s six inches short with the cream lining instead of the oyster sir. We’ll never prise old lardy Johnstone into a box that’s six inches short sir, no chance.’

Hector’s face grew redder still but his voice remained disturbingly calm.

‘Phillip,’ he said, clasping his hands behind his back and staring at the rug, ‘how often do I have to remind you not to address our sadly departed clients in such familiar terms? While I am aware that for many years Mr. Johnstone was your schoolteacher and an ardent believer in the application of corporal punishment and that you and your friends lived in considerable fear of him, I will simply not allow you to carry your ill will onto these premises. What’s past is past Phillip and if you are to continue working here I would suggest that you behave a little more professionally in the future. I would also like to remind you that as an established service of considerable repute we do not deal with boxes, coffins, sheds, crates or Japanese motels. We offer high quality caskets Phillip, and only the very best. With regard to the unfortunate confusion at the joinery, you may replace the undersized Statesman with the mahogany Grandeur from the showroom. I will apologise profusely to the bereaved when they arrive for the viewing tomorrow afternoon and a strongly worded letter will be dispatched by Mr. Gimlet to Clarke’s joinery with a view to recovering some of our financial loss.’

‘Right sir,’ Ginger, half bowing, retreated toward the door, ‘er, would you like me to swap the coff... er, casket handles over first sir? I mean, the handles on the Statesman are jus’ brass an’ the Grandeur sir, well them’s solid silver. We could save a quid or two there sir.’

‘If the Grandeur comes with silver Phillip then silver it shall stay. Never let it be said that the reputation of Moribund and Crane was tarnished for want of a ‘quid or two’.’

‘Right you are sir,’ Ginger started bowing again, ‘I’ll sort it out straight away sir.’ He backed out of the room taking an eternity to silently close the door.

‘See?’ Hector whispered loudly to Gimlet. ‘See what I’m up against? Of all the thousands of school leavers that have been turned out into the big wide bloody world looking for an honest apprenticeship the only two people who have knocked on our door have been Phillip Wilson and his even less intelligent cousin Gordon. And they only wanted to work here because nobody else in their right minds would let them onto their premises! I ask you Marcus, how can I get on with the running of this business when I’m forced to constantly supervise thoughtless delinquents?’

‘All the more reason to warmly invite Mr. Moribund into the fold?’ Marcus smiled.

‘On the contrary Marcus, if he is as decrepit as I assume him to be he’ll serve only to amplify the problem by demanding our constant attention.’

‘Then hire a nurse! Surely there are agencies that will provide staff with the requisite experience?’

‘Of course there are Marcus,’ Hector glared, ‘but I cannot afford to pay for one, and as yet we don't know how long he plans to stay.’

‘I’ll do it!’ Fleur interrupted.

‘No Fleur,’ Hector frowned deeply, ‘that’s out of the question.’

‘But why Hector?’ Fleur seemed genuinely shocked at his response. ‘I’ve helped out downstairs before now! There can’t be much difference between cleansing a deceased elderly gentleman and one that’s only barely alive!’

‘Fleur please!’ Hector winced. Fleur laid a tiny, well manicured hand on the black lapel of Hectors suit jacket.

‘Hector, let me help you. You need me.’

‘Fleur, I didn’t marry you to have you working yourself to death for my benefit. If I’d have known that this...’

‘Hector!’ Fleur interrupted. ‘It's in my interest as your wife to see that your business affairs run as smoothly as possible so that I can have you to myself more often. Besides, I’m bored Hector and I want to help.’

‘Very well then,’ Hector sighed, ‘we’ll see what he’s like when he arrives and plan from there.’

‘Excellent!’ Gimlet smiled ‘That’s settled then.’ He reached once again for the brandy bottle.

***

‘So?’

‘What?’ Gordon asked.

‘Has Mrs. Clooney got the f’king three of spades or not?’ Gordon peered over Mrs. Clooney’s shoulder to look at her cards.

‘Er, not.’

‘Okay then Gordy, lowest red if you will.’

‘What?’

Ginger sighed deeply.

‘Play your lowest f’king red Gordy. For fucks sake try to stick with it!’ Gordon squinted at his cards for a while and finally located his lowest red.

‘What if the gaffer calls in Ginger? What’ll we tell him?’

‘He won’t call in Gordy.’ Ginger smirked. ‘Not at this time of night. His kind don’t do the hard f’king work mate, they just take the f’king cash. It’s mugs like us that do the shit jobs and work all f’king hours for fuck all.’

‘Yeah,’ Gordon agreed, ‘f’king right!’

‘So?’ Ginger asked. ‘Has she got it?’

‘Who?’

‘Has Mrs. f’king Clooney got the bloody nine of hearts?’ Gordon peered once again over Mrs. Clooney’s shoulder.

‘Yes, she has!’ Gordon plucked the card from Mrs. Clooney’s cold hand and the rest of her cards fell onto the table.

‘Oh, nice one Gordy!’ Ginger smiled sarcastically and threw his cards over his shoulder. ‘That’s that fucked then.’

‘No, no it isn’t!’ Gordon hastily gathered all of Mrs. Clooney’s fallen cards together and tried to balance them in her unresponsive fingers. Just as he’d satisfied himself that he’d got everything right Mrs. Clooney pitched forwards and came to rest with her forehead in the overflowing ashtray.

‘Look,’ Ginger whined, just make us a f’king cuppa an’ I’ll put the old bird back on the slab.’

Gordon stood up, straightened his smock and wandered off in the direction of the kettle as Ginger grasped the flaccid, artificially pink body of Mrs. Clooney by the shoulders and lifted her head up from the table. A previously stifled cigarette end decided to make a final bid for notoriety and Mrs. Clooney’s parched grey hair instantly flared up.

‘Jesus bloody f’king bollocks!’ Ginger shouted, sitting Mrs. Clooney back in her chair and turning his face away from the flames. ‘Fetch some bloody water Gordy, the silly bitch’s caught fire!’ Gordon came running with the kettle, tore the lid off and threw the contents expertly over Mrs. Clooney’s shoulder. He stood there for a while; not quite believing that he had in fact completely missed. Ginger stood next to him gaping. ‘Get some more bloody water then you daft sod before she’s all gone!’ Gordon ran off while Ginger picked up a folded newspaper and began beating Mrs. Clooney around the head and face in a desperate effort to dock her out. By the time Gordon had returned it was all over. Mrs. Clooney was sitting up, quietly unconcerned about her charred forehead and the scant remains of her wispy burnt hair while Ginger still wafted away the stinking plumes of smoke. Gordon started to panic.

‘What’re we gonna do Ginge?’ He stammered. ‘How’re we gonna cover this up? We’ve had it! We’ve bloody had it!’ Ginger lurched to the admin corner and retrieved the office diary from the sticking drawer of a worn and lopsided desk. He opened it at the most recent date and then began to skim backwards through the feint ruled pages for any entry that pertained to the late Mrs. Hilda Clooney. His desperately darting eyes suddenly stopped.

‘She’s here, and, oh thank fuck, she’s down for the big barbecue, and there’s no immediate next of kin so there’s no viewing arranged. All we have to do is patch her up and stick her in a crate. She goes to the crematorium tomorrow afternoon and it’s us that’s taking her. No f’king bother!’ Gordon was somewhat less confident.

‘But what the hell are we going to do with her head?’ He moaned. ‘It’s a right bloody clip! And she smells!’ He pinched his nose tightly.

‘Don’t you worry Gordy me old mate, just get a sharp knife from the tool kit and scrape off the burnt bits, none of the good stuff mind, you’ll have to be careful. I’ll get the air freshener from the bogs to cover the whiff and we’ll comb some hair over from the back to cover the hole. A bit of pink make-up dabbed over the dark patches and even if someone asks to see her they’ll never notice anything without getting into the box with her for a closer look.’

After almost two hours of frantic activity the task of refurbishing Mrs. Clooney’s head was complete. It had taken longer than first anticipated because the hair on the back of her head wasn’t long enough to comb over the top to form a convincing fringe. After some deliberation Ginger decided to take a risk and cut a large swathe of silver hair from around the back. He arranged it on the table to form an artificial fringe, which he then held together with sticky tape. Keeping it in position on Mrs. Clooney’s head had also proved a problem until Gordon had experienced an uncharacteristic flash of inspiration and suggested the use of a large rubber band. Once the new hairpiece was in place Mrs. Clooney’s remaining hair was arranged to conceal the rubber band and the fringe was then trimmed to length. Both boys were presently staring at their handiwork, which was now peacefully positioned in an open casket. Gordon was the most relieved of the pair. Now he would keep his job, so he could pay for his lodgings at home, so his beer stained ‘second dad’ wouldn’t kick the shit out of him.

‘You think we’ll get away with it then Ginger?’ Gordon asked, still not absolutely sure of avoiding parental retribution.

‘No f’king bother Gordy!’ Ginger leaned forward and sprayed Mrs. Clooney with the air freshener for the sixth and hopefully the final time. ‘If I met her down the pub I’d shag her myself, I’m f’king tellin’ you!’ Gordon let out a high pitched giggle that went on for just a little too long to feel comfortable. Together they positioned the casket lid and closed the latches.

‘Where’s the gaffer gone anyway?’ Gordon asked. He rarely had any contact with the management; it was always Ginger. Ginger had helped to get him his job here and had looked after him when he started. It had always been that way. In school he’d followed Ginger around like a bad smell, carried his books and stolen cigarettes from the corner shop for him. They were mates, blood brothers like those blokes in the black and white films, fatty and thinny, opposite and complimentary. Ginger was clever. He knew things about people, how they thought and how they’d respond. He knew how to attract people and best of all he knew how to distract people. Gordon was different. He only knew how to do what Ginger told him to do, but he also had nerve. Gordon had the kind of nerve that could cut someone’s throat. A strand of steel ran down his spine, cold and hard the fists and boots of his alcoholic step father’s pathetic lust for control had tempered it. Ginger was his friend and there was absolutely no limit to what he would do to defend him. Even Ginger didn’t know the extent of Gordon’s loyalty, but one day he would, Gordon felt sure.

‘Fuck knows!’ Ginger shrugged. ‘I’ve heard them talking about a visitor arriving tomorrow.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. Some really old bloke who owns a chunk of the business I think. Anyway they’re proper scared of what he’s gonna do so they’re buttering him up. They’ve been out all day buying stuff for him. I saw them both clearing out the dining room and talking about what kind of bed to get. Anyway if he decides to pull out his share I reckon we’re all for the chop.’

‘What?’ Gordon’s panic returned. It was hot and sour in his throat. ‘You think we’ll get the sack?’

‘Let’s just say we need to be on our toes, you know, eyes and ears open.’

‘Right.’ Gordon mumbled quietly.

Little else was said for the remaining two hours of their shift. Their heads were down; tidying and scrubbing like the boss had told them. Everything had to be presentable. By home time Gordon was sick with worry. Ginger felt little except hatred for anybody who had such power over him.

***

Hector slowly buttered his toast. He always had the same breakfast routine; two slices of thick, pale brown toast thinly coated with best butter and a hot mug of milky tea without sugar complemented by twenty minutes spent reading the morning newspaper. Fleur never usually disturbed him until he’d finished reading because she liked to spend that time slice drinking a glass of orange juice while sitting outside on the garden porch and watching the wild birds in heated dispute over bread crusts. This particular morning however had been different because uncle Thaddeus was due and Fleur was clearly anxious. She was currently sitting opposite Hector at the breakfast table, reaching over to pick up his toast crumbs from the blue and white check tablecloth.

‘You did tell him didn’t you Hector?’ He’d been part way through a mind-numbing article about the decline of the Eider duck farming industry when her voice had finally registered on his consciousness. He looked up into her exquisite, heavy lidded sleepy blue eyes.

‘What?’

‘The man at the specialist bed place.’ She yawned, stretching her arms up and back and pointing her breasts at him through the fabric of the huge white rugby vest that she always wore for bed. ‘Did you tell him that it had to be delivered this morning?’

‘Yes, of course I did.’ Hector’s eyes roamed around his wife’s petite and delicious form and he wondered, as he did every morning, why the hell he’d fallen into a career that demanded such sobriety of him and worse still, that he had to get up early seven mornings a week. ‘He assured me that he would supervise the delivery himself.’ He paused. ‘Fleur, did we really have to spend all that money on just a bed?’

‘You said yourself he’s very old and we don’t know how long he’s staying. If we’re going to protect our investment Hector then it’s probably wise to invest a little more, don’t you think? Besides,’ she smiled, ‘it’s a beautiful, firm bed and when he’s gone we can keep it for ourselves.’

‘What do you mean… when he’s gone?’ Hector coughed. ‘Do you think he may, I mean, what if he dies in it?’ Fleur threw her head back and laughed and Hector fell in love with her all over again.

‘You know, for someone who deals with the personal face of death almost every day, you must be the most squeamish man I’ve ever met.’

Hector shrugged and went back to his newspaper as Fleur finished her juice. He became aware of a faint irritation, an itch deep down in his spine that constantly forced him to change position in his seat. He shuffled around trying to get comfortable. It didn’t work. Then he realised what it was.

‘Yes?’ He said.

‘What?’ Fleur replied.

‘You were staring at me. What’s wrong now?’

‘You’re sure are you? That you said that it had to be here this morning? Only, it’s not here yet and uncle Thaddeus could arrive any time!’

‘Fleur!’ Hector thrust his newspaper down into his lap. ‘It’s only seven thirty! What time do you expect it to get here? Do you think they’re out there now, camping on the front doorstep perhaps? Doing a bit of last minute French polishing?’

‘No.’ She sighed. ‘I’m just nervous that’s all.’ She rattled her empty glass on the table and tapped her feet on the polished wooden floor.

‘You don’t say.’ Hector mumbled.

‘How has it come to this Hector?’ She suddenly barked. ‘How can it be that your grandfather, your father and you can work so hard and for so long building a firm foundation for yourselves and your families only to have it all undermined at the whim of some crumbling old relic who should have been pushing up daisies for the past two decades? It just doesn’t seem fair!’

‘No love,’ Hector sighed, ‘I don’t suppose it does.’ He reached for his second slice of toast and picked up the butter knife. ‘But be that as it may, we’ve got to deal with it. Anyway, supposing he does decide to cash his chips in, he’s not going to be left with much is he?’

‘No,’ Fleur conceded, ‘and neither are we!’

‘No,’ Hector agreed, ‘but this building will fetch a serious amount of money if we have to sell up. Even if we only get half the cash we’ll have enough to buy a fairly desirable residence suitable for ourselves, and hopefully several children. I’ve already had words with Janice Feathers and she seems quite confident that if the business is folded correctly and our assets fully realised, we won’t have any money worries for the next five years at least. Who knows? This may be a blessing in disguise?’ Fleur just stared at him with tears brimming in her eyes. She smiled.

‘Only you would choose a time like this to start a family.’

‘Fleur,’ Hector grinned and reached over the crystal and silver cruet set to place his hand on hers, ‘you know I’ve always wanted kids. It’s just this bloody business! It’s been so unreliable for the past few years that there’s never been a right time that’s all. Honestly, if uncle Thaddeus pulls the plug on us tomorrow I’ll be as relieved as I am sad.’

‘But you’d rather the business stayed afloat wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s in your blood. Your family has been in the funerary line for three generations. Can you really see yourself doing anything else?’

‘No love not really. But dad and Jeff Allsop were friends for years. He’d give me a job this afternoon if I asked him.’

‘What!’ Fleur gasped. ‘You’d work for the competition? Allsop’s funeral parlour is cheap and tacky, the cars are falling apart and everything they offer is standardised. How many times have I heard you say that?’

‘That may be the case Fleur but they’re doing better than we are so they must be getting something right.’

‘Yes!’ Fleur became tight lipped. ‘Standard burials and cremations, hearses with rust marks and quality free compressed paper mache caskets! Seven hundred quid all in with a monochrome buffet dinner and no dignity. Besides how do you know that they’re doing any better than we are?’

‘Yes, I know, I know.’ Hector squeezed her hand tightly. ‘Everything you say is true but even though we’ll have a good nest egg from the sale of the business we’ll still need an income. Someone with my experience in the trade can command a decent salary and we’ll have none of the worries associated with self-employment. So why not?’

‘Because we’re better than that Hector.’

Hector had no answer for her. He just stared. The doorbell rang.

‘That’ll be the new bed.’ He murmured. Fleur walked into the hall to answer the door grabbing a trench coat from the coat-rack on the way. She slipped it on as she walked and tied the belt. Sliding back the bolts on the heavy black double doors, she turned the thick brass key, pulled open one door and popped her head around it.

‘Mrs. Crane?’ A tall and slim, fair haired gentleman stood in the doorway wearing a long overcoat and brown leather shoes. He leaned towards her and smiling he tipped his trilby hat. ‘Good morning to you.’

‘Oh hello,’ Fleur smiled, ‘I must say you’ve certainly stuck to the plot getting here so early.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Will your men be able to carry it in for us? Or does it come in pieces?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In pieces.’ Fleur repeated. ‘We’ll never get it in on our own in one lump surely?’

‘I’m afraid that you have me at a loss madam,’ the man stated with a stable and matter of fact tone, ‘didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Letter?’ Fleur suddenly felt that all her nightmares were creeping up on her, dancing like candle lit shadows just beyond her peripheral vision.

‘Yes, I am Thaddeus Moribund. May I come in?’ Fleur spun around and ran down the hall.

‘Hector!’

***

They were sitting stiffly in the front parlour like a display of pot dolls, staring into space and politely half-smiling. It is in situations such as this that the whole of an event is contained, not in the body of the conversation, but in the spaces in between. Luckily Hector’s entire working life had been spent in and around pools of stifling formality and although he felt some minor discomfort at being central to the scene rather than some barely noticeable regimented satellite, it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Fleur on the other hand was a bag of nerves, and Hector had already promised himself that regardless of her exquisite looks and relentless charm he would never allow himself to be paired up with her for a card game. She was just too transparent. She was fidgeting about on the edge of her seat subjecting their new guest to rapid-fire banter while her teacup danced around the saucer in her palm at four point five on the Richter scale. Fleur couldn’t hide herself from anyone and she didn’t feel the need to. There was a word for that Hector thought to himself, it was sincerity.

‘...isn’t it Hector?’ He heard her say.

‘Oh yes, yes of course it is, er...’ Hector paused having missed the preceding minute or so of the conversation, ‘what is?’

‘Up and down Hector.’ Fleur repeated, slightly irate.

‘Ah, up and down yes, I er...’ Hector paused again praying for a lifeline. It was Thaddeus who finally cast it out to him.

‘I feel, my dear young lady, that your husband is somewhat mentally preoccupied.’ His voice was noticeably resonant considering the parlour furnishings which were designed to promote soft silence and therefore allow quiet contemplation about higher things. ‘He wishes to know why I am here.’ Hector suddenly found himself to be the silent centre of attention. He coughed loudly and took the bull by the horns.

‘Well yes, I would actually.’ He coughed again. ‘We all would!’

‘Hector!’ Fleur scolded. ‘The poor man has barely removed his coat and you’re making him feel unwelcome.’

‘No no, not at all.’ Hector pleaded, ‘It’s simply that it’s such a surprise and at short notice and well I...’

‘And after he’s travelled all this way to get here.’ She interrupted. ‘All the way from, where was it you said?’

‘I didn’t.’ Thaddeus answered. ‘But be assured that I will as soon as I’ve freshened up. May I use your bathroom? And perhaps you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of a nearby hotel.’

‘A hotel? Yes, right then!’ Hector smiled, slipping a sideways glance at Fleur.

‘Certainly not Thaddeus.’ Fleur insisted. Hector sagged inwardly. ‘You will stay here with us as our guest. We already have a room prepared, if the new bed arrives on time that is, and you can stay as long as you like.’

‘Very well then, if you insist.’ Thaddeus conceded. ‘But you really didn’t have to go to any trouble for my sake. I have travelled entire continents often living under canvass or less, so any amount of civilised provision is a luxury for which I am always grateful.’

‘Well that’s settled then,’ Fleur smiled, ‘I’ll get one of the apprentices to take your luggage into your room.’ She paused, a little red faced. ‘We’ve put you on the ground floor. For some reason Hector assumed that you were very old and I thought that...’

‘Thank you my dear.’ Thaddeus sighed, bowing his head slightly. Fleur got the impression that he bowed a lot, possibly to hide his tallness. At five feet four inches tall Fleur was accustomed to looking up at people, but Thaddeus seemed to go on forever. Perhaps it was his slim build and his angular, almost gaunt face that made him appear to tower over her. Wherever he’d come from there obviously wasn’t much food. Everything about him seemed slender and elongated. She had assumed that his hair was white with age and that the removal of his trilby would reveal a barren and shining pate but she had been proved wrong. His hair was thick and long, obviously unkempt due to his travels through inhospitable terrain. Despite his dull attire; a loose fitting drab woollen sweater and equally colourless cotton trousers, he looked strong and wiry, like a noble savage. The way he spoke, his tone and mannerisms seemed years out of date and yet his posture was soft and unrestrained as if he would appear to be fully dressed and wholly dignified even when naked. Where had he been that would leave all the remnants of a learned formality untouched and yet still keep his fundamental humanity intact? The only possible place, it seemed to her, was everywhere.

‘Well not old exactly,’ Hector lied, ‘just er, elderly, yes elderly that’s it. I mean, the last time I saw you before today was what, twenty seven years ago? And forgive me but you were no spring chicken then were you?’

‘Hector...’ Fleur snapped.

‘It’s alright,’ Thaddeus assured her, ‘I can understand Hectors concern. It has indeed been twenty seven years since we last met but you should remember that you were only twelve years old then, and to a boy of that age all adults seem positively ancient.’ He smiled. ‘When I left I was fifty-two years old. I intended to be away for little longer than a year. I am now seventy-nine.’

‘Seventy nine?’ Fleur whispered. ‘But you look barely fifty!’

‘Thank you dear lady.’ Thaddeus laughed. ‘It would seem that the natural lifestyle has its advantages. Do you know that I once met a Mongolian goatherd who claimed to be over one hundred and seventeen years old and yet he still ran up and down the steep grasslands of northern china like a boy of sixteen?’

‘Really?’ Fleur was hooked.

‘Yes, and he had never eaten a single piece of fruit or a leaf of salad in his entire life. Just goats blood and milk.’

‘Hardly seems worth it really.’ Hector mumbled under his breath.

‘But there will be plenty of time to talk about my adventures later.’ Thaddeus continued with barely a sideways glance. ‘For the moment I would like to take a brief rest and then perhaps a little later a tour of the premises and this afternoon I should like to meet with our accountants and go through the books.’

‘The b…books?’ Hector stammered.

‘Yes please.’ Thaddeus smiled. ‘If I’m to get back into the swing of things I’ll need to know the current state of affairs.’

‘Into the swing of...’

‘Yes of course uncle Thaddeus.’ Fleur interrupted, rising from the comfort of her red leather seat. ‘I’ll show you where the bathroom is and you can rest in our room until your new bed arrives.’ She ushered him to the parlour door and out into the hall. Just inside the front door Ginger and Gordon were in the middle of an argument.

‘I f’king told you we needed both bloody doors open to get it in you thick twat.’ Ginger shouted quietly. ‘You’ve bloody scratched it now, pushin’ and f’king pullin’ at it. You’re a right bloody silly sod you are. How the fuck are we gonna explain this? We’ve bloody had it this time I’m tellin’ you...’ He looked up, suddenly aware that they were not alone. Both boys instantly stood to attention ignoring the fact that the brown wicker seat with the hole in the base that was wedged in the doorway had just dropped even more firmly into the stuck position.

Thaddeus looked at the boys, and at the wicker seat. He tilted his head over to gain the correct orientation on the object.

‘If I’m not mistaken,’ he murmured, ‘that’s a commode isn’t it?’

‘Ah well,’ Hector spluttered, ‘while it certainly looks like...’

‘Yes it is.’ Fleur pounced before Hector could do any further damage. ‘They’re oddly undesirable things aren’t they?’ She placed a hand on Thaddeus’ shoulder and guided him gently towards the stairs. ‘We were clearing out your room for the new bed. The boys are just throwing it