Drastic Measures at the Towers
Friday, January 24th, 2003 11:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanFinancial reality strikes the LAst of the Dimplers
Billowing cumulo-nimbus clouds of steam. A surprised pig's head: tomorrow's brawn.
The kitchen at Dimpler Towers. Above the hob propped against the wall, next to the candlestick, a faded framed portrait of Lord Kitchener pointing accusingly through vapour-induced foxing and not a little mould, "Wants Yo". In front, a small, chipped porcelain sphinx, sporting a crotchet hat and the legend, "A present from Egypt." Hetty Barnstaple's domain.
At the table, back to the door, the mad-eyed cook, greying hair like a surprised dandelion, rocked back and forth crotcheting another seamless invention to be inflicted on a relative, the vicar, the school charity fete or worse, the Last of the Dimplers.
In the study, martini in hand and feet a-table, the aforementioned Last of the Line perused the monthly accounts.
Sad, baleful yellow sunlight sloped in through the windows and lay wanly across the desk, on the papers with pallid, listless illumination. The figures, entered in Old Sproat's spidery copperplate made for poor entertainment indeed. Twelve months earlier, the Dimpler portfolio had been a joy to behold, but since the El-Ron accounting debacle, the values had plummeted with a speed that no financial parachute could have slowed.
Leaning sideways and striking a lucifer against the toenails on the elephant foot umbrella stand, Dimpler thoughtfully lit his last Cuban. Blue-grey smoke wafted up into the cobwebs in the beamed ceiling. A leggedy scuffling and a small cloud of dust, and then peace again. "Something must be done."
A half hour later, and in a flurry of tweed and spats, the kitchen door burst open.
A wide-eyed shriek, a scattering of crockery and a cloud of displaced crotchet work. Hetty Barnstaple, surprised, lurking beneath the table, mumbling about hottentots, carrier pigeons and that's where the Worcestershire Sauce went. A moment later, shattered dignity retrieved and composure regained, a triumphant re-emergence, sauce bottle in hand and crotchet needle in hair.
Best not comment.
"I need inspiration, Hetty, for the accounts are poor, income negligible and costs soaring. The financial newspapers are worse than useless and there's not enough left of the east wing to fake another insurance claim." The Dimpler paused, drew on his cigar and continued, "Sproat's sources at the track have failed us; we need to find new cash flows to dam and divert. Otherwise, a lifestyle that has endured since time immemorial will end."
A look of shock at this unexpected and unwelcome announcement. For the first time in an age, the weight of years seemed too much for Hetty and her face folded into a grimace that turned her complexion in to a single ream of creases, ear to ear. What hopefully was a tear welled up.
"But sir, you can't mean..."
"Indeed I do, Hetty, indeed I do. Though it grieves me greatly. There is no other option, no other way out. It must be done."
With an audible click, the old cook pulled herself together and stood. In the corner, next to the goose bridle, hanging on a hook, almost forgotten. The iron key. With a sigh or resignation, she handed it over.
Outside, twenty minutes later, Old Humboldt. Dancing up and down on a molehill, cursing loudly, inventively and with relish. The lawn would never be the same. The sudden crack of canvas snapping in the wind halted his terpsichorean endeavours. Suddenly tense, he paused, turned and gaped. "Oh Lor, that 't is come t' that..."
A whimper and a crunch of gravel. A cloud of dust. Old Sproat fainted, his hand pointing up at the gates, twitching.
The banner, fluttering in the wind: "Historic Dimpler Towers. Priest hole for rent. Suit professional couple. £100 week, laundry extra."
Ah, the housing shortage. The saviour of Dimpler Towers.
Billowing cumulo-nimbus clouds of steam. A surprised pig's head: tomorrow's brawn.
The kitchen at Dimpler Towers. Above the hob propped against the wall, next to the candlestick, a faded framed portrait of Lord Kitchener pointing accusingly through vapour-induced foxing and not a little mould, "Wants Yo". In front, a small, chipped porcelain sphinx, sporting a crotchet hat and the legend, "A present from Egypt." Hetty Barnstaple's domain.
At the table, back to the door, the mad-eyed cook, greying hair like a surprised dandelion, rocked back and forth crotcheting another seamless invention to be inflicted on a relative, the vicar, the school charity fete or worse, the Last of the Dimplers.
In the study, martini in hand and feet a-table, the aforementioned Last of the Line perused the monthly accounts.
Sad, baleful yellow sunlight sloped in through the windows and lay wanly across the desk, on the papers with pallid, listless illumination. The figures, entered in Old Sproat's spidery copperplate made for poor entertainment indeed. Twelve months earlier, the Dimpler portfolio had been a joy to behold, but since the El-Ron accounting debacle, the values had plummeted with a speed that no financial parachute could have slowed.
Leaning sideways and striking a lucifer against the toenails on the elephant foot umbrella stand, Dimpler thoughtfully lit his last Cuban. Blue-grey smoke wafted up into the cobwebs in the beamed ceiling. A leggedy scuffling and a small cloud of dust, and then peace again. "Something must be done."
A half hour later, and in a flurry of tweed and spats, the kitchen door burst open.
A wide-eyed shriek, a scattering of crockery and a cloud of displaced crotchet work. Hetty Barnstaple, surprised, lurking beneath the table, mumbling about hottentots, carrier pigeons and that's where the Worcestershire Sauce went. A moment later, shattered dignity retrieved and composure regained, a triumphant re-emergence, sauce bottle in hand and crotchet needle in hair.
Best not comment.
"I need inspiration, Hetty, for the accounts are poor, income negligible and costs soaring. The financial newspapers are worse than useless and there's not enough left of the east wing to fake another insurance claim." The Dimpler paused, drew on his cigar and continued, "Sproat's sources at the track have failed us; we need to find new cash flows to dam and divert. Otherwise, a lifestyle that has endured since time immemorial will end."
A look of shock at this unexpected and unwelcome announcement. For the first time in an age, the weight of years seemed too much for Hetty and her face folded into a grimace that turned her complexion in to a single ream of creases, ear to ear. What hopefully was a tear welled up.
"But sir, you can't mean..."
"Indeed I do, Hetty, indeed I do. Though it grieves me greatly. There is no other option, no other way out. It must be done."
With an audible click, the old cook pulled herself together and stood. In the corner, next to the goose bridle, hanging on a hook, almost forgotten. The iron key. With a sigh or resignation, she handed it over.
Outside, twenty minutes later, Old Humboldt. Dancing up and down on a molehill, cursing loudly, inventively and with relish. The lawn would never be the same. The sudden crack of canvas snapping in the wind halted his terpsichorean endeavours. Suddenly tense, he paused, turned and gaped. "Oh Lor, that 't is come t' that..."
A whimper and a crunch of gravel. A cloud of dust. Old Sproat fainted, his hand pointing up at the gates, twitching.
The banner, fluttering in the wind: "Historic Dimpler Towers. Priest hole for rent. Suit professional couple. £100 week, laundry extra."
Ah, the housing shortage. The saviour of Dimpler Towers.