4. A RATHER GRUBBY YOUNG MAN

4. A RATHER GRUBBY YOUNG MAN

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson
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Ursula discovers just how lazy a young man can be...

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The sun is so hot, thought Urusula, and she smiled at Charles Snootnose.

I am rather thirsty,” she said quietly, using what she thought was a really posh accent so that he didn’t look down on her from too great a height. “I’d love some lemonade.”

Charles dribbled, and wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, his heart suddenly racing.

It’s down here,” he muttered, indicating the drive to Snooty Manor, leading to the right off the lane they were on.

He’d lived there alone for a good year by then, and the drive was getting to be overgrown. Where the gardener, employed when the family lived there, had weeded the gaps in its cracked surface, he’d done nothing. And it looked weedy in an untidy, uncared for, unkempt sort of way.

The house at the other end of the drive also looked tired.

My father left me in charge,” he grumbled as he surveyed his own fiefdom, “but it’s not me, really. I’m a troubadour and an artist and a great romantic, not a painter and a weeder, but father only allows me enough in the way of funds to live on, not enough to employ an army of artisans to tidy the old place up.”

You poor soul,” murmured Ursula.

He glanced quickly at her. Was that sympathy in her voice, or something he didn’t like? Might it be criticism of his good fortune when compared to her own? But she was only a girl, a child really, and he must try to realise that, especially when she pushed her chest towards him like she had that time in the village shop. What did she know about the cost of upkeep when the upkeep is of a mansion the size and splendour of Snooty Manor?

I am,” he almost purred, “would you like me to show you my etchings?”

Etchings?” What are those, sir?” she asked, in genuine ignorance.

They didn’t teach her much at that dreadful school she went to, thought Charles, always dismissive of the misfortunes of others, I’ll bet she didn’t even get thrashed for her ignorance like a good schoolmaster would...

I make them,” he said, “they’re pictures etched by acid onto a metal plate and then the image transferred to paper. I love doing it. Maybe I could do one of you? After all, you are moderately good looking.”

With acid?” she asked, nervously, ignoring the moderately word.

I wouldn’t put any acid near you,” he assured her, “but I have copper plates, quite small because big ones are expensive and father is mean with his money, and I coat them in wax before scratching away with a sharp point until I have my picture. Then I soak the plate in acid, and the places where the wax has been scratched through are eaten away by the acid… it’s really quite skilful, as you might imagine...”

And that would make a picture of me, sir?” she asked.

Naked, if you like,” he almost purred, “I’ll bet you look very much the artist’s model when you’re naked … you seem to have the right shape.”

I’d have to get undressed?” she asked, “You’d have to see my … body?

How else would the artist know what to etch?” he replied, grandly despite his almost withered chin.

But do I have some lemonade anyway?” she murmured nervously, “sir?” she added.

He shook his head almost as if he could see the fly escaping his parlour-web

Of course you can,” he breathed onto her neck when they reached the side door, the one that led into the smallish south wing, which was the limit of his empire. “Come on in. It’s delicious. Father sends it from Harrods.”

What’s Harrods, sir?” she asked.

Where has the child been all her life? Not knowing the meaning of Harrods and living in England? He looked at her and shook his head. “It’s a big shop,” he replied, “where the King goes shopping,” he added, to give it some extra kudos even though that kudos was wasted on her because Ursula wasn’t all that bothered where royalty went shopping. As far as she was concerned the king and his family were a different species, as far above her as she was above a flea.

Oh,” she said, and dutifully added, “sir.”

The inside of the south wing was generally untidy and here and there she was sure there were little pools of dried vomit on the floor. It smelt that way too, having the sort of smell that turned the stomach. But Charles ignored it and said, crisply, “follow!”

So she followed.

I could do with a woman, but father won’t pay for one,” he said as if it was enough explanation for the assault on Ursula’s senses. She wanted to ask why he didn’t do a few obvious things for himself but thought it might sound ungrateful, what with the promise of a glass of lemonade and maybe even an etching.

The kitchen wasn’t so bad. It hadn’t always been the main kitchen, just a small affair used by servants to boil their kettles and toast their bread. There were burnt things in there, pans and the like, scorched to the point of being holed so that there was hardly a saucepan that would hold liquids again, and piles of unwashed crockery, but the smell was less offensive than it had been in the vomit-strewn passage.

I get my laundry done by the co-op,” he said, “but nobody washes my plates.”

This time she couldn’t hold back. This time the question had to be asked or something inside her would shrivel up if it wasn’t.

Can’t you wash them yourself, sir?” she asked.

I sometimes have to,” he agreed as if the offence was magnified by his sentence.

Most people do,” she said quietly, and omitted the sir.

He looked at her, his double squint disguising his inner feelings.

I’m a gentleman,” he said, “and you’re a child. I ask you, does a gentleman wash plates and cups and saucers? Does a gentleman, with good honest ancient blood flowing in his veins, have to do such tawdry tasks?”

Maybe, if nobody else will,” she replied, again without the deferential sir.

He stared at her, though the double squint disguised the direction of his stare.

Then he sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, “so now for the lemonade.”

If you’ll let me clean the receptacles first,” she said, “I don’t like drinking from dirty glasses.”

He had no shame, that much was obvious.

If you will,” he said, “and while you’re doing that I’ll go and change into some clean clothes. I don’t know what happens to my underwear, but it always has a smell about it...”

Don’t you bathe?” she asked the obvious question.

What? With nobody to fill the bath and test the temperature?” he asked, “how could I? It’s unreasonable to expect...”

So you don’t take a bath? So you’re dirty?” she asked.

I suppose so. Father will put it right when he finds out. He’ll provide me with a manservant. Do you want to see my etchings now, and have lemonade later?”

I’ll see your etchings, but not until after you’ve cleaned this place and taken at least two baths,” she said, bravely, determined to state her intent. “I’ll come back some time,” she added, “but meanwhile, you have shown me just how disgusting life can be when you’re a gentleman!”

He stamped one foot in a sudden burst of temper. “You cheeky harlot!” he snapped, “I’ll tell mummy, and that will be that!”

What will?” came a well-modulated voice from just beyond the greasy kitchen door.

Mummy!” he shouted, “Mummy, mummy, mummy, where did you come from?”

It was Lady Patience Snootnose, and Ursula could tell by the wrinkled angle of her nose that she was most displeased.

What’s this harlot doing here with my little boy?” she asked, flicking a casual wrist towards Ursula, “why isn’t she cleaning things, why isn’t she being good?”

© Peter Rogerson 06.07.18




© 2018 Peter Rogerson


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Wonderful; I intend to read it all! I have vision issues, (going blind), so your good, bold font is perfect for me.
A great read!

Posted 5 Years Ago


Peter Rogerson

5 Years Ago

I am always aware that a small font can put readers off, even those with 20/20 vision.

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Added on July 6, 2018
Last Updated on July 6, 2018
Tags: Snooty Hall, gentleman, dirt, cleaning, washing, bathing, smell

A WOMAN OF EXCELLENT TASTE


Author

Peter Rogerson
Peter Rogerson

Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, United Kingdom



About
I am 80 years old, but as a single dad with four children that I had sole responsibility for I found myself driving insanity away by writing. At first it was short stories (all lost now, unfortunately.. more..

Writing