First, a whinge: people asking me if I have a lighter. Look, pal, we've all got our vices in this imperfect world, we're all killing ourselves somehow, I know that, I won't judge you. But why would us non-smoking members of the public go around with lighters in our pockets to facilitate you in your particular odious habit? Some people drink to excess, and nobody has ever come up to me on the street asking for a bottle-opener. I've got an odious habit of making overcomplicated puns, which will see me dead one of these days - and yet do you see me hanging around on the Murano bridge accosting people (with their arms full of shopping, too) saying 'Here mate got a proverb I could spoonerise?'. I mean, really.
Anyway, what about the food? This:
...is how I dispose of all those things I buy at the start of the week in the sure expectation of using but not in any particular amount. There's tatties, green beans, mushrooms, onion, and bacon in there: another week it might be ham, or broccoli. Obviously this is a recipe meant to be adapted, so adapt away. (You're supposed to treat all my other recipes as religious revelation. Obviously.)
Simple as anything: slice and boil the potatoes and beans, chop and fry the mushrooms and onion, grill the bacon in the meantime, and then drain the potatoes and chuck them in and, here is the special secret bit, simmer up to the ankles in three parts olive-oil to one part vinegar (white-wine, preferably) plus a spoonful of wholegrain mustard. Then spoon it all onto a plate. All of it! That's the beauty of leftover-meals. If some of it falls onto the floor, what do you even care? There's plenty where that came from; and it's Saturday night in student digs, things will be worse before the sun rises again. So dole it out, forget your manners, and scoff.
At a recent English seminar, we divided the story of Jane Eyre into five bits named, as is customary, after the various dreerily-named locales where she spends them, Thornfield and Gateshead an' aw. But we couldn't always remember which element matched which; and so eventually poor Jane was stuck somewhere called Thornwooddeanheadmoorhouse Hall.
Surely this place must exist, I thought. It's cosmically necessary. It is the dark side of England; the tails of the coin which has daffodils and Chipping Sodbury on its head; the north as it was, rain-swept and sinister, before anybody had invented Warbuton's; the location of the English nation's short but memorable fling with Elemental Passion. If it did not exist it would be necessary to create it. So I did.
Mr. Scoulswell, 33rd master of Thornwooddeanheadmoorhouse Hall, was all but lost from sight where he sat in the shadows of a cavernous old armchair, itself almost lost in the odd angles of the dusty library. Portraits of venerable ancestors peered down at him through the gloom, as if in silent censure. He ground his teeth, clenched and unclenched a fist. Outside, the rain pattered on the windows, weakly but ceaselessly, like a freezing traveler in need of shelter, knocking with failing strength at a dark unmoving door.
In his other hand he held a letter: the condition of the paper, obviously old yet not torn or crumpled, showed that it had been well-cared for - perhaps even worn thin by reading and re-reading. But now he held it with the words away from him, as if he could not bring himself to read them over yet again. What memories were there preserved in ink: memories of bygone years stained black themselves, not by ink, but by black deeds? Alas!: eyes not used to the incessant murkiness of Thornwooddeanheadmoorhouse Hall would find it impossible to discern anything.
...Hang on, though, tonight it seemed a little easier than it might have been. This fact did not escape the attention of Mr. Scoulswell, who suddenly sprang out of his chair and went over to the door, around which some excessively cheerful yellow light proved to be shining. Ah, as he'd suspected: it was Sally, the new maid from the city. She'd left all the candles lit again, contrary to express instructions. Ah, well, you couldn't get good help these days. Scoulswell muttered observations of this nature as he stalked along past long-sealed oaken portals and rusted relics of half-remembered wars, blowing out two candles of every three.
He had just reached the end of the landing and was looking back along, a look of satisfaction momentarily displacing his usual furrowed, brooding brow, when there came a mad shrieking cackle from the floor above.
Scoulswell, looking slightly perturbed, took his watch from his pocket - its wheezy tick a reminder of the mortality of man - and studied it.
"Too early, Sally!," he exclaimed irritably. "Much too early! Just when any guests will be drifting off to sleep, remember!"
A plump rosy-cheeked face peered over the stairs above. Scoulswell grimaced. It wasn't really the right impression, but then nobody could help their face. But really, she could make an effort, couldn't she? Did she really have to take such fastidious care of her teeth, for instance?
"Och, A'm awfie sorrae, sir!," said Sally, speaking broad Scots because the author couldn't do rural Yorkshire and hoped nobody would notice. Scoulswell again had cause to lament the general decline of standards.
"Never mind, never mind, you're getting better," said he, and decided not to bring up the candles. Did some long-buried - perhaps purposely suppressed - remnants of human compassion and tender feeling still dwell in a heart made hard by the cold wind of this, his native moor? Or perhaps he just couldn't put up with more of Sally's apologies, frantically sincere and entirely devoid of cryptic warnings and significant glances as they invariably were? Well, anyway, the girl would learn, eventually.
Scoulswell stalked off again down the stairs: he's had a fire lit earlier in the evening and by now it ought to have burned down to some sad and ruddy embers that would cast odd red and black patterns on is craggy features, making it suitable for a spot of light brooding before bedtime. "And try for a bit more vibrato!," he said over his shoulder, not unkindly.
But before he reached the fireplace, there came a knock on the door: loud, firm, and with a sense of grim Calvinistic inevitability. Scoulswell forced down a smile at this demonstration that some people at least knew how things ought to be done and assumed his best misanthropic glare as he opened it. Rain was blown into the corridor: his grandfather had had the house rebuilt to ensure that anyone cowering on the thresh-hold would be exposed to the prevailing winds, and that the cloak of anyone riding up the lane would billow satisfactorily.
"Who's there?," Scoulswell said, peering suspiciously into the gloom.
"Ah... says here there's an order outstanding from Thornwooddeanheadmoorhouse Hall?"
Scoulswell narrowed his eyes. "You're absolutely sure that's not Thornwooddeanheadmarshhouse Hall? A lot of people make that mistake."
"Ah... 'cor, sir, it wouldn't half be easier to read if we had some light."
Scoulswell grimaced again. And that knock had been so promising... he led the man into the half-light of the corridor, where he was revealed as a stout red-faced tradesmanlike person of about five-and-thirty years.
"Right, right, definitely moor. So, it'll be about the attic, then, sir?"
"Come with me." Looking like some sinister phantom as his long coat flapped behind him, Scoulswell ascended the stairs two at a time with a look of stony-cold determination on his face. Without a glance behind he stormed along the attic corridor and flung open one particularly ancient, singularly grim, and especially oaken portal.
He waited for a moment while the tradesman caught up, taking his wretched time about it.
"Blimey!," he said on entering, whistling and extracting a clip-board from somewhere. "Very well-appointed attic, if I may say, sir. Have you taken advantage of our services before, sir? There's a discount!"
Scoulswell's face was twisted as if in pain as he was reminded of memories on which he clearly did not wish to dwell.
"...She gave notice. Said she wanted to pursue a career on stage." As if being a madwoman in an attic wasn't a respectable career in this day and age! "Give me the quote, man."
The tradesman sucked his lips thoughtfully.
"Well, there's your standard or popular madwoman, well and truly insane, two menacing cackles per night and one on Sundays, several hours per day staring with an astonishing mixture of whistfulness and fury out of an upper window of your choice. Say... one and six a week. Five percent discount for professional men."
Hmph, thought Scoulswell, new money wanting to put on a show. Far too much of that sort of thing in the county these days. "What comes after?"
"Ah, well, sir, you mean the premier madwoman! Entirely and diabolically unhinged, five menacing cackles per night of which no less than one to be outside the bedroom door of any visiting guests, plus all domestic and catering needs seen too by another trained member of our staff, sir, a queer old hag who speaks in riddles in thick local dialect and shuffles about suspiciously anights, not less than 550 shuffling hours guaranteed. Discount for country squires. Bridal wear for the madwoman possible by arrangement, hang on, there's another sheet here for accessories..."
"Hmm. Is there another grade?"
"Oh my, you've got taste, sir! There is, in fact, for the very discerning customer, the Madwoman Deluxe. Shilling per cackle per night by order with possibilities for snatches of haunting old ballads. Troubling racial-colonial implications done specially to request, at no extra cost, mind, sir, no extra cost. Attempted murder of the customer to the highest standard at least once every two months plus birthdays and other special occasions, and any amount of assaults on guests and menacing property-destruction. You'll need to fill in this form for the symbolism, sir..."
"Yes, yes, I think that will do nicely," said Scoulswell. "How much?"
"With these facilities? Well... you're not a clergyman hiding a sinful past at all, sir? Only there's a discount... No, well, with these facilities, say, seven and four a week, and you'll not find better, sir."
Scoulswell sighed under his breath. It was getting so hard, these days, to keep up a respectable establishment.
Your tea looks deliciously mustardy. And I did enjoy your Jane Eyre-inspired pastiche, although I confess I more than half expected a groan-inducing pun at the end of it. More than a hint of TP inspiration there as well, perhaps. Great fun.
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