Timothy Lea - Confessions from a Health Farm

‘Roughage! Surely you remember me? I’m going to convert the house into a spa.’

‘You’re wasting your time. There’s a new Tesco just down the road.’

‘Stop trying to close the door on my foot! Miss Zonker and I have a perfect right to be here.’

‘Does she charm warts?’ says Roughage, showing faint signs of interest.

‘She charms anything,’ I say gallantly.

‘Shall I show him my credentials?’ says Wanda.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ says Sid. ‘You can have too much of a good thing.’

‘What about fortune telling?’ says Lizard Chops. ‘Her ladyship has been powerfully attached to the crystal ball in her time.’

‘Quality rather than quantity, eh?’ says Sid, sounding comforted. ‘I don’t know where you get the impression that we’re gypsies.’

‘And don’t park your caravans up by the pigs,’ says Roughage, who seems to be a bit hard of hearing.

‘You mean, because of the smell?’ says Sid.

‘That’s right. Two of the pigs passed out last time. We had to give them mouth to mouth resuscitation.’

‘How horrible!’ says Wanda.

‘It was. Both of them died.’ Roughage scratches his head thoughtfully. ‘Maybe there’s something in those toothpaste advertisements.’

‘Come, come, my good man,’ says Sid. ‘We can’t stand here talking all day. Miss Zonker and I have work to do.’

‘And so have I,’ says the grey-haired Roughage. ‘I’m supposed to be helping her ladyship move into the dower house. She’s very put out by the way things have gone.’

‘I’m certain Sir Henry has her interests at heart,’ says Sid. ‘Timothy, why don’t you give Roughage a hand while I help Miss Zonker decide where to put her equipment?’ He runs his horny hand up the small of her back and I imagine the evil little thoughts that are pelting through his mind – even an evil little thought likes to keep moving in a place like that.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Where shall we meet?’

‘Down by the lake,’ says Sid. ‘There’s a gazebo at the far end.’

‘He won’t still be there when I’ve finished, will he?’ I ask.

‘A gazebo is a kind of summer house,’ says Sid, as if pronouncing the words causes him pain. ‘You’ll have to become a lot more araldite if you want to be a success at Beauty Manor.’

‘You mean “erudite”, Sid,’ I tell him. ‘Araldite is something you use for sticking parts together.’

‘I’ve never found that necessary, myself,’ says the little Lithuanian knocker factory.

‘Whatever I mean, you’ve got to smarten yourself up,’ says Sid. ‘Everything here has got to be done with tremendous couth.’ He does not wait for a reply but scampers off hand in hand with Wanda. Roughage clears his throat and looks round as if for somewhere to spit.

‘I don’t hold with it myself,’ he says. In the weeks to come this is a phrase that falls frequently from his withered lips.

‘I suppose we’d better get on with it,’ I say.

Roughage looks me up and down with contempt. ‘No need to rupture yourself,’ he says. ‘We’ve got all day.’

I am about to point out that I have considerably less than all day when the ancient retainer beckons me into a room bigger than anything I have ever seen outside the labour exchange. There are pictures painted all over the walls, and the ceiling looks like the sky with a load of fat tarts lying on clouds and being touched up by cherubs. Quite saucy it is, really.

‘You don’t need a telly, do you?’ I say cheerfully.

Roughage looks sourer than a furry yoghurt. ‘Them Baulkits wouldn’t give you the time of day,’ he says. ‘They take the batteries for the cook’s transistor out of her wages.’ Before I can reply he walks over to a long polished table and picks up a cut glass decanter full of booze. Removing the stopper he takes a long swig. This is not easy because the mouth of the decanter is square and I can see why the front of Roughage’s suit looks as if it has been used for pressing out the lumps in a vat of treacle.

‘Elevenses,’ he says with a loud hiccup. ‘One of the perks of the job.’ He opens the lid of a silver cigarette box and slips his hand inside. ‘OW!’

When he has stopped jumping about I help him remove the mouse trap from his fingers and he sticks his digits in his cakehole. It is not a course of action I would have followed myself, but then, I never did reckon that mice were as clean as a bar of Lifebuoy.

‘It’s no wonder they can’t get the servants these days,’ he says. ‘Who would put up with that kind of treatment when they could be making more money as a toast master?’

‘You’d get fed up with making toast all the time,’ I say. ‘Anyway, the machines are taking over.’

Roughage gives me a funny look and for a moment, I think that he is going to say something. Then he takes another swig from the decanter.

‘What is it?’ I say.

Roughage smacks his lips together for a couple of moments and then an expression of extreme distaste begins to dawn on his face. ‘Syrup of figs!’ he shouts and pushes past me into the hall.

What a funny set-up, I think to myself. His taste buds must be a bit on the dicky side if he can make a mistake like that. I always thought that butlers were supposed to know their way round a bottle of plonk.

It is also clear to me that relations between employer and staff are not going to teach Ted Heath any lessons. Roughage seems to awaken feelings of distrust in the Baulkits and I am not entirely surprised. I would not leave him alone with my money box and a bent hairpin.

‘What are you doing here?’ I whip round to see a bird of about forty peering at me from the doorway. She is wearing a lot of makeup and a suspicious expression. Although a bit on the thin side she is definitely not undesirable. She plucks anxiously at a string of pearls and feeds a second helping of upper class accent into my lugholes.

‘You’re not a sex maniac, are you?’

‘No,’ I say, taken aback.

‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. Knickers! I always have to go and say the wrong thing. ‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘I’m helping your butler with the move,’ I say. ‘Are you Lady Baulkit?’

‘For my sins,’ says the bird, fluttering her eyelashes at me. ‘That’s the best way of marrying into the aristocracy, you know. When I met Henry I was wed to another.’

I nod understandingly. Dad has frequently pointed out to me that the upper classes get away with murder when it comes to sack jumping and make hideous mockery of the nuptial couch. He is dead jealous, of course.

‘He was a retired Lieutenant-Colonel in the Pay Corps and we lived in Scotland. I met Henry when he came up for the shooting.’

‘Grouse?’ I say.

‘No, the village post mistress. The role of mistress was one she filled for more than just the GPO. Her husband was a very jealous man. Henry was cutting his teeth on the Aberdeen Press and Journal at the time. He always had a penchant for journalism.’

‘I expect it came in very handy,’ I say, wondering what she is on about. These upper class bints are inclined to be gluttons for the rabbit. I remember from my window cleaning days how they would always be bending your lugholes over a muffin and a cup of jasmine tea.

‘It was love at first sight,’ she says. ‘Rude men have always appealed to me. In those days he would pull his pyjamas on over his riding boots. It took me six months of marriage to stop him wearing spurs in bed.’

I nod my head sympathetically. Fascinating how the other half lives, isn’t it? Oh well. Please yourself.

‘Does any of this stuff have to be moved?’ I say, looking round the room.

‘No. If you touched anything it would collapse in a cloud of dust. It’s upstairs that I need some help.’ She tries to flutter her eyelashes but they carry so much mascara that one set sticks together and falls on the floor. I gaze out of the French windows like a gent while she repairs the damage.