Patrick deWitt - Undermajordomo Minor

“I will be sure to tell him.”

“Very good. And when will you be rising, I wonder? Mr Olderglough has had to fetch his own breakfast, and yours is getting colder all the while.”

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am; it won’t happen again. I’m getting up now.”

Agnes nodded, and crossed the room to go. Pausing at the door, she said, “You will remember to lock up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s not something to be forgotten.” She looked over her shoulder at Lucy. “Or possibly you don’t understand how important this is.”

Lucy swung his boots from the bed, and to the floor. “I suppose I do.” He scooped the puppy up and deposited her in his pocket. “Actually, I don’t,” he said. “Why exactly must I lock my door, please?”

“We all must lock our doors.”

“But what is the reason?”

She measured her words. “It’s not for nothing, and that’s all you need to know.”

Agnes took her leave, and Lucy sat awhile, pondering. “I should like to know quite a lot more than that,” he said at last. Later, he would wish to know less.

He moved to the window, telescope in hand.

Mr Olderglough was sitting in the servants’ dining quarters, a cramped and cheerless room annexed to the scullery. His hand was free from its sling, apparently on the mend, and he was poring over a large leather ledger, to the side of which sat his breakfast, consisting of a bowl of porridge, a thin slice of dry bread, and a cup of tea. An identical setting had been laid out for Lucy; he sat, sampled the porridge, and was not in any way impressed by its flavour, texture, or temperature. His tea was likewise cold, in addition to being bitter, but it washed away the taste of wood shavings the porridge imparted, and so he drank it down in a gulp.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, gasping.

Mr Olderglough nodded but did not respond verbally, distracted now by the sawing of his bread, three cuts lengthwise and three on the height, making for nine squares in total. Once this was accomplished, he stuck out his tongue and lay a square on the fleshy pink appendage. Withdrawing his tongue, he chewed, proffering a look which dared Lucy to comment. Lucy did not comment. He said,

“I find myself wondering, sir, if I might keep an animal.”

Mr Olderglough swallowed. He was moderately alarmed. “An animal?” he said.

“A dog, sir, yes. A puppy.”

“Where in the world did you get a puppy?”

“From Memel, sir. His dog gave birth to a litter.”

“I see. Sloughed the burden off on you, then, did he?”

“I wouldn’t say sloughed.”

“Every man for himself?”

“Not exactly, sir. In point of fact I’m happy to have the puppy. If you’ll allow me to keep it, that is.”

A look of confusion had affixed itself to Mr Olderglough. “When did all this happen , may I ask?”

“Only recently, sir.”

“Clearly.” Staring into space, now, Mr Olderglough said, “Do you ever get the feeling the world is passing you by?”

“I don’t know about that, sir.”

“An occasional rapidity of time? Things occurring in an instant?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“A speediness of events? And then, once the speedy event has happened, it cannot unhappen?”

“I suppose that’s true, sir.”

“Yes. Well, at any rate, if you desire a companion, then who am I to stand in the way of your happiness?”

“So I may keep the puppy, sir?”

“And why not? It’s none of my affair what you get up to of a Sunday. I’m a proponent of individual freedom.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One should search out his heart’s desire, wouldn’t you agree with me?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“We’ve only got one go-round, eh, Lucy?”

“One go, sir.”

“Once around the park?”

“That’s right.”

“Let’s make it count, why don’t we?”

“Let’s do that, sir.”

Mr Olderglough pointed. “Why aren’t you eating your porridge?”

“Because of the taste of it, sir.”

Mr Olderglough looked about the room, then leaned in and whispered, “Dump it in the fireplace, why don’t you. And mine as well. Agnes stomps and clomps if the plates aren’t licked clean.”

Lucy did as he was told, then returned to his chair.

“Is it a he or a she?” Mr Olderglough asked.

“A she, sir. I hope that’s all right.”

“I have no preference. I’m just making conversation at this point. Would you like another cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“I believe I’ll go again.” Mr Olderglough poured himself a second cup and took a dainty sip. He said, “Did you know that I myself keep a bird?” This last was spoken as though he’d forgotten it to be so, and only just remembered, and was surprised by the fact of it.

“I didn’t know, sir, no,” said Lucy.

“A mynah bird,” said Mr Olderglough, “named Peter. I had thought he might brighten my room with his chirping song. Alas, not a peep.”

“I’d thought the mynah was the chatty one.”

“That’s what I’d been led to believe as well. Consider my displeasure, then.”

“Yes.”

“Study on it.”

“I surely will. I wonder if there’s something the matter with him.”

“Or else the showman’s desire is absent. Anyway, Peter is mute as a stone.” Mr Olderglough sighed. “I could do with a bit of music, to tell you the truth, Lucy. I could do with a bit of cheer.” He propped his head against the back of the chair. “I’ve always liked the name: Peter. That’s what I’d have named my son, if I’d had one. Well, it wasn’t for the lack of trying. If I had a penny for every barn dance I attended in my youth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Some of us are fated to roam the earth alone, it would seem.”

“Sadly true, sir.”

Mr Olderglough pushed his plate away. “Would you like to meet him? Peter?”

Lucy did not particularly care to, but it seemed to be expected of him, and so he said that he would. Mr Olderglough clapped and stood and began expediently buttoning his coat.

Peter was a deeply antisocial bird. A passerine of middling size with drab brown plumage and a sharp orange-yellow beak, he squatted sullenly on his perch, looking not at but through his visitors. Actually, Lucy thought his expression, if a bird can have an expression, denoted legitimate hatred.

“This is Peter,” Mr Olderglough said.

“Hello, Peter.”

“Say hello, Peter.”

Peter did not say hello, but burrowed his face in his breast and pulled up a leg, standing motionless, and it seemed he would be thus forever.

“Closed up shop,” said Mr Olderglough. “You see how it is, then?”

“Yes, sir, I think I do. And you say he’s never made any sound whatsoever?”

“None.”

“Something which will make him sing, sir.”

“Nothing will.”

Mr Olderglough moved to rest upon a faded fainting couch in the corner of his parlour. Muttering to himself, the man was lost for a time to his reveries, and Lucy took advantage of this to survey his superior’s quarters: at once tasteful and dire, formerly grand, utterly dated, and coated uniformly in dust. It was a room in which time hung more heavily than was the norm, and Lucy had the feeling he was the first to pay a social call in a long while.

A wall clock chimed, and Mr Olderglough said, “You’ll be wanting to meet the train, now, Lucy. In the entryway you’ll find the Baron’s letter on the side table, as well as a list of what’s needed from the village.”

“And with what shall I pay for the goods?”

Mr Olderglough stood, patting his pockets but turning up nothing. “Do me a favour, boy, and pay for them yourself. I’ll get it back to you soon enough.”