Sunday Evening at Dimpler Towers

[caddyman]

Dark and glowering, boiling, steaming, torrid. Old Sproat.

Eyes like billiard balls protruding, tilting perilously as he approaches. Apoplectic. Jacket streaked with water stains from the downpour, trousers like twisted paper spills and shoes slapping on the floor: old, wet, uncooked liver.

Languidly folding the Sunday paper and placing the martini on the table, the Head of the Dimpler household lights a Cuban and blows a ring of smoke in the direction of the portrait of old Honorious over the mantelpiece. The cat, startled, bolts the ornamental cattle prod sent pirouetting away gracefully until it connects with the elephant-leg gun wrack. Teetering momentarily, it falls sideways its rigging of old spider webs aflutter like a man'o'war in distress.
The moment broken, Sproat visibly deflates.

"Been eating the coffee granules again, Sproat?" I enquire impishly.

The old rheumy eyes swivel audibly away from the mushroom cloud of dust now settling near the fireplace. There s a moment of obvious confusion, so I cough helpfully. His glare joins the yellowed stare of old Honorious, fixing an undefined point in the middle of the room. Fascinated, I stare at the same spot trying to ascertain the object that has attracted his attention. And then I observe that he is not wearing his spectacles. I cough again. Blind as a bat, Sproat compensates with the acute hearing of a door post. Shifting in my seat, better to flex my diaphragm, I cough a third time. This time at a lower register which is both more commanding and better suited to an auditory range ruined by years placing bets at the dog track at Crushton.

Visibly relieved, Sproat turns in my direction and with a noise like dry twigs wrapped in old newspaper, straightens to his full and imposing five feet four inches. A deep breath, and he retorts.

"Eh?"

"Ah!" I respond with practised wit and flick cigar ash with a natural nonchalance at the ashtray. I make a mental note to practice the nonchalance less and work more on my aim. "You wished to see me, Sproat?" query Basso profundo.

A transient moment of hesitation. He brandishes something long grey and wet, like a mummified snakeskin on a stick. Instinctively I reach for the 12 gauge. "Tis moy umbrella, Sor,"

I relax. "What of it, and where is it?"

"This be it, Sorr. 'Tis broken." He shifts uncomfortably, like a lawyer faced with a fact. "Oi wants a new 'un," a statement, matter of fact. "This'n bain't never bin no good," querulous, now.

"Nonsense! You've had it a mere fifteen years. It's a classic tote, absolutely invulnerable. You can't have cleaned it properly." I smile. I have him now, for he knows the truth of the matter.

Then, with abrupt violence, the door slams open. Strands of unfinished crotchet work trailing from her apron, Hettie Barnstaple, Dimpler Towers' housekeeper and cook appears. Sproat jumps and I recede into the defensive embrace of my chesterfield. "Bloody cat!" she barks, and with a hair raising squawk it is launched across the room with a deft boot. The claws rake the portrait of old Honorious and I note with interest that he now has a Heidelberg duelling scar across his left cheek.
"Boiler's up the creek, again, you stingy old git!" she exclaims. No shrinking violet she. "I had to take the canary out and give it mouth-to-mouth." I shudder at the image.

Standing, I assert my authority as last of the Dimplers, "Since my shares in El-Ron went west, we can only afford so much!" I point out reasonably. "We must vote on our priorities: Sproat, your vote must be for the needs of the butler's pantry. Mrs Barnstaple, you must vote on kitchen affairs. It's the only way these matters will get fair representation!"

They look at me with suspicion. The cook indicates the boiler, the retainer waves his brolly.

"Ah, a tie. The casting vote is mine, then."

I stand and walk over to the coat rack. "Another case of martini it is, then." I exit triumphantly and walk out into the lobby. Outside it is raining.

"I'd better borrow your brolly, Sproat."