SMASHWORDS EDITION
Short stories by the same author:
- In Orchard Lost
- Taking the Queue
- The Last Prince of Egypt.
Copyright: Dominic King 2009
SMASHWORDS EDITION
THE RECALCITRANT STOOL
Dominic King
Although the affair I'm about to relate goes back very many years to my early adulthood, I carry it around forever in my thoughts, like an endless brown smear on the cinematographic film of my life, to use a modern analogy.
It was just after half past four when the dwindling light of the murky, late-autumn day no longer sufficed to render the small spidery scrawl before me the readable. I had risen from my desk to light the gas lamp projecting from the wall above when the characteristic footfalls of our senior partner, Charles Goodwin, broke the numbing silence. They halted just outside my door, which was abruptly flung open, an the ensuing draught instantly blew out the match I was holding.
His tall, burly figure contrasted with his long thin face which, despite its bushy sideboards, seemed to belong to a more slender body.
'Aha, young Wilkins!' he growled, 'I see it you are away from your desk. Am I to conclude that you are not given enough work to occupy yourself with?'
His utterance, made in jest, was followed by a thunderous laugh which sent a couple of postage stamps scurrying over the edge of my desk.
'I trust you can make yourself available this evening,' he continued, 'For you are honoured with an invitation to supper at the house of Sir Joshua Prout, a retired senior judge of the Old Bailey and a long-term friend of mine. And in case you happen to be wondering how such an immense privilege has befallen on you, I'm afraid I have little to give by way of explanation, other than Sir Joshua is greatly interested in, not to say concerned by, the degree of knowledge and capacity for legal reasoning among the young entering the profession. I do recall having mentioned you to him in the past, not as a model of excellence, mind you, but as an example of the norm currently prevailing in such matters.'
Those last words extinguished what little flattery I may have drawn from the invitation and left me in a state of considerable apprehension. Indeed, my modest upbringing as a schoolmaster's son had not trained me to the manners that may be expected by such members of London's high society, nor had my narrow education properly equipped me with the conversational skills I had witnessed among some of my peers. Trying not to betray my discomfiture at the prospect, I bowed my head and muttered some words of gratitude.
'Don't thank me, I'm but the messenger... which reminds me.' Mr. Goodwin pulled out an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out at arms length.
'Here, I believe everything is contained in this note.'
As soon as he handed it over to me, my master turned his heels and withdrew, bellowing out as he disappeared down the corridor:
'And remember, you are to defend the reputation of our honourable firm; I expect to hear an excellent report of this encounter.'
I stared a moment at the envelope before me and opened it with dread. I found a single folded sheet of relatively heavy paper, as used for certificates and bonds. On the inside page, to the right of the centre-fold, it bore the following message, written in immaculately centred copperplate and worded almost like a court summons:
'Sir Joshua Justice Prout requests the attendance of Mr. John Wilkins, this evening of November the twenty third, at seven o'clock, for supper, 14 Lamb's Conduit Street, London.'
My mind began to race. It would take me not less than another full hour to finish copying the draught of the title deeds which were to be collected by the postal clerk. That would leave me barely time to return to my digs in Islington, wash and brush up, put on a clean collar and then retrace my steps back towards Holborn.
Whatever was to be the nature of the discourse that lay in store, my performance as ambassador to the firm would, I shamefully concluded, be at best embarrassingly mediocre.
No sooner had the postal clerk collected my day's work than I put on my coat and set off with a brisk step. The church of St Mark struck six shortly before the front door of my abode came into sight. I allotted myself fifteen minutes for ablutions and a change of clothes. I need hardly say that these activities were reduced to the bare minimum: a shave, a brushing of hair, precious moments lost rummaging through my drawers for a clean and a reasonably unstained neck tie, and a rapid polishing of my boots.
It was a good twenty minutes after I had set off again, just after passing the Saddler's Wells Theatre, when, feeling a succession of spasms in the region of my bowels, I realised I had not accorded myself a now much-needed visit to the lavatory. The growing discomfort gave way in rapid succession to concern and then profound anxiety. Gone now were my thoughts and projections on the impending scrutiny to which I would be subjected. My brain was brutally seized by a torment beyond the grasp of reason or wisdom, rooted in the animal nature of our earthly incarnation.
My preoccupations were now almost entirely diverted to applying the appropriate muscular efforts to counter the natural urges of my intestines. By brisking my pace yet more and taking long, deep breaths, I discovered with relief that my battle to stem the untimely call of nature was turning in my favour. The last quarter mile along Theobalds Road was in fact tolerably pleasant under the circumstances, my mind, numbed by the physical efforts, settling into a reverie quite disconnected, as I recall, from the forthcoming social commitments.
It was not until after I had turned into Lamb's conduit Street and saw the large brass '14' shimmering under the porch that my wits awoke to the purpose of my displacement. I took out my hunter watch and held it against the hanging lantern. The hands indicated seven o'clock exactly as I tapped twice with the knocker. Before I had released my grip, the front door edged open, revealing a pale, darkly clad stooping figure silhouetted against the diffuse straw-coloured light emanating from a large chandelier within.
'Good evening, Sir. Whom am I to announce?' uttered the elderly servant.
I coughed lightly, having just inhaled the indoor air laden with stale tobacco smoke.
I gave my name to the servant and stood waiting at the threshold. Almost a minute must have passed before further activity occurred in the form of the appearance of another figure, that of Sir Joshua Prout, a tall, thin man well approaching seventy with a surprising mass of silvery hair projecting several inches beyond the top of his long and narrow forehead. His complexion was even more pallid than that of the servant and accentuated the sternness that exuded from his aquiline features and dark, deep set eyes. He scrutinised me from head to foot sufficiently long for me to take several breaths. He peered at me with a countenance that expressed both irritation and disgust, and exclaimed in guise of greeting with an orotund delivery:
'Good heavens, is that supposed to epitomise the future of our nation's legal tradition?'
Discountenanced by his outburst, I stood paralysed, as if struck by a thunderbolt. It was then that a violent stirring deep within my bowels announced an imminent expulsion of solid matter.
Panic stricken, I rushed to the front door, blindly obeying an impulse that my brain could neither reason nor withhold. There I crouched, knees gently flexed, trying to hold back the forces being exerted uncontrollably by my viscera. In this uncomely posture, my eyes were almost square against the horizontal opening of the letter box before me. I arrested my gaze on the blackened flap, trying to recover my senses. Slowly, I turned my head and beheld Sir Joshua Prout's icy stare, his expression marked by irritation more than surprise.
Much as I was aware of the hideous scene in which I was the unwilling actor, I did not stand erect for a while, lest it should restore my initial discomfort now provisionally and partially assuaged.
'I... I was followed as I arrived before your front door and I wished to ensure discreetly that my stalker is no longer around.' I stammered.
'A stalker indeed! How very odd. Odd as your foolish antics, I would say. Now, when you have set your mind at rest, perhaps you might have the civility to announce yourself and make a proper greeting.'
I sensed an air of weariness in his tone, as if he had instantly received confirmation of his earlier judgement that I was but a pitiable character and, as such, should merit no passion.
'Of course, of course, sir. Pray forgive me for this... unorthodox... reaction. I just had a delayed reflex to effect a precautionary check after this … uhm.... incident. One hears so many stories these days.'
By the time I had finished my awkward explanations, I was standing as straight as I dared, slightly stooped with my left hand firmly pressed against my lower stomach in a pose that might have suggested obsequiousness.
Maintaining that stance, I shuffled towards my host, produced my right hand and announced myself as if I had just been ushered in:
'John Wilkins, of Goodwin and James, sir, here in response to your kind invitation, for which I feel greatly honoured...'
'I care little to learn your name and know exactly why you have come. You have quite wasted enough of my time with your imbecile behaviour,' interrupted Sir Joshua. 'Now, make your way at once into the dining room.'
He made no sign to indicate where to proceed, nor seemed ready to move. Mindful not to rekindle any further convulsions, I remained in the same posture, like a statue, hoping to receive a cue as to the direction I should take.
'Well, are you going to stand there like a stuffed dummy?' Sir Joshua broke out after an pregnant pause, 'Follow me in where my other guests may contemplate the demise of the our institutions.'
I hobbled behind my host, all the muscles of my lower body tensed, until I reached an open double-door. Inside, six austere gentlemen, dressed formally for supper, were seated around an oval table. I immediately spotted the two vacant places at opposite ends. I hoped that I would be assigned the one nearest the exit.
The fellow guests seemed scarcely to have remarked my entrance and continued their conversation until Sir Joshua, having now, to my dismay, reached the near end, pointed in my general direction.
'This spineless character has been identified as representative of the future upholders of our nation's laws and institutions, in the very words of our dear friend Charles Goodwin, would you believe.'
One of those present, a relatively young man in his early fifties, addressed Sir Joshua.
'He seems awfully ill at ease, as if our company were not to his liking!'
'Or perhaps he is in need of nourishment,' interjected his neighbour, a stout rubicund fellow with large whiskers, of friendlier disposition. 'Here, sit down and tell us about yourself.'
I grimaced a smile, nodded and proceeded to sit. But as I released the comforting grip on my stomach to pull back the chair, I sensed with dread a deep gurgling intestinal response that this action had elicited. There was to be no respite. I mustered what little alacrity my mind could produce and decided that the wisest course of action, albeit socially objectionable, would be to ask if I could pay a visit to the ablutions before settling down.
'Ablutions! Good heavens, the man's now trying to pass himself off as a duke!' guffawed one of the party.
'Or perhaps it's an excuse to prowl around the house,' cautioned another 'I would have him accompanied to the wash room.'
The master of the house must have heeded that last suggestion and pulled the cord, for the elderly manservant appeared promptly and beckoned me to follow him.
The servant showed me to the stairs. His motion was painfully slow, yet afforded the advantage of allowing me to proceed at his pace up the stairs while advancing in side steps, my posterior firmly applied to the banister now serving as an improvised restraining means. When we reached the top landing, the silence was broken by my guide's dull voice:
'It's over there, the first door on the left as you turn right, sir.'
I nodded and, without looking behind, darted straight to the place indicated. The dim light permeating inside from the fan-shaped flame of the nearby gaslight was sufficient to reveal all too starkly that the room, though quite large, was bereft of the throne I had so desperately expected to find in my blinkered optimism. A bath, a wash basin and a dresser with a swivelling mirror were all the furnishing that could be made out. Anguish turned to panic. A new series of renewed convulsions mercifully snatched me back from my delusions and set my body running uncontrolled to the end of the corridor, as if animated by a wandering spirit. Perhaps I should call the latter an angel, for my dash led me directly to a door at the far end which, with scarce loss of momentum I thrust open with a deft clasping and turning of the door knob. Inside, I was greeted by the outline of a bowl on a pedestal, my so desperately sought source of solace. Though hardly distinguishable from the seat under the semi darkness, the wooden cover was quickly found and flipped upright in a rapid vertical movement of one hand while the other was already preparing to pull my lower garment in the opposite direction. Within what could not be more than ten seconds, I was promptly and properly settled and almost fully relieved, facing the still-open door. After a short time, the task being concluded, I reached for the chain pull and tugged upon it heftily. The barely discernible overhead cistern responded with deep gurgle and sent its two gallons in what sounded like a maelstrom swirling around the bowl.
However, before leaving, I had first to avail myself of a source of light to ensure that the flush had produced its effect fully. I strode stealthily to the landing where an oil lamp was sitting on a half-moon table and stole back to the closet. What I had anticipated as a mere perfunctory exercise of confirmation revealed what was to be the final nail in the coffin of my London career: a large dollop of light-brown flotsam bobbing gaily on the unsettled surface of the freshly filled bowl. Its unusual buoyancy was made manifest by a substantial portion of surface lying above the water line. There was no way I could leave the premises while this incriminating object could later be discovered and surely identified to be of my making.
In all, there must have elapsed a good five minutes, possibly considerably more, since my taking leave, the limit beyond which eyebrows would be raised and possibly an explanation sought. I raised the lamp up to inspect the cistern, a Twyford’s flush toilet of relatively modern design, but whose water inlet, judging from the painfully weak trickling sound, seemed inadequate to feed such a contraption. However tempting, haste had to be proscribed, for a renewed pull of the chain with insufficient water would be of no purpose – a waste of ammunition, as it were. At least two minutes had elapsed since the original flush and the continuous low hiss from the water flow was still giving no sign of abating. Now it had become imperative to devise a passable motive for my prolonged absence. It was clear that the over-duration could not reasonably be accounted for by any probable event, and no rational and acceptable explanation, let alone one with an element of truth, came to my troubled mind while I waited for a renewed attempt at flushing. No sooner the moment for the latter was finally signalled (by a gradual change of tone caused by the correspondingly gradual closing of the ball cock) than I pulled on the chain, holding the oil lamp to illuminate the scene of anticipated swallowing away. The excretion responded to the down-flow with disconcerting ease, dancing as it bobbed up and down, now vertical, now inclined, seeming to mock the eddying waters as they subsided, the latter bringing nothing but themselves down the siphon.
Having witnessed the insolent manner in which the recalcitrant stool responded to the aqueous assault, I conjectured without any room for doubt that a third attempt would be quite futile. The course of action before me, expressed in terms of results to be achieved, was now evident: remove the offending object by other means, transport it to some place out of sight and return to the assembly with a brief story that would carry conviction. However, the manner by which those results were to be obtained proved to be of a different order of difficulty. For the removal of the stool, I needed a scoop of sorts that would be able to contain the object intact, even when soaked. The cleansing paper placed at disposal offered little prospect of satisfying this requirement, however the number of plies used. I searched through my clothing for whatever may be of assistance and found in my breast pocket the sheet of heavy paper bearing the invitation. I rolled it tightly over four or five turns to impress a natural curvature thereon and released my grip slightly on the thus-formed cylinder to produce a cross-section sufficient to accommodate the offending object. After having raised the seat to avoid any risk of contact therewith and rested the lamp on the rear ledge behind the seat hinge, I was well positioned to carry out the salvaging operation. Fortunately, the faecal matter was quite rigid – as its buoyancy had intimated – and it was with relative ease that I was able, by mild prodding and dabbing, to re-orient it so that its extremity coincided with the mouth of the cylinder and penetrated the latter over a couple of inches. After having pinched closed the opposite end of the paper roll, I was able, by a succession of gentle pushing, raising and tilting movements of the cylinder, to coax the stool neatly inside its makeshift housing. The entire operation having been conducted largely at and above the surface of the water, the main body portion of the improvised recipient remained dry and showed no obvious sign of enclosing its unlikely content; only the periphery at the insertion opening revealed signs of its liquid excursions.
The overall success of this operation inspired renewed optimism in me and, with that, fresher wit to devise a plan for performing the remaining tasks. The paper roll would be carried downstairs without recourse to stealth, for it impressed upon me that, given my limited skills in such matters, all attempts to conceal the package would only risk inducing the opposite effect, namely to arouse suspicion. Moreover, I figured, there was no a priori reason for my host or even his servant to be present in the path from the top of the stairs to the entrance to the dining room below. My planned trajectory was to take me first to the front door, at which point I would pass the paper cylinder cleanly through the letter box and into the outside. Then, on my departure, I would pick it up for casting in the gutter at some distance.
I made my way in a natural step, even exaggerating my footfalls to announce to the assembly that I would presently reappear and – hopefully – that there was no need for anyone to exit from the dining room. As for my excuse for this prolonged absence, I had prepared a few sentences describing how a sudden asthmatic attack (something which I did in fact suffer from occasionally) had gripped me and led me to rest while waiting for the coughing fits to cease. There was but to hope that they would not have expected to have heard the alleged coughs from where they were, nor equally that they had not heard the flushes.
I had now almost reached the bottom of the stairs and was holding the cylinder at arm's length in front of me in readiness for the quick dash to the letter box some twenty feet beyond. Alas, at that moment the dining room door sprang open and my host stepped out with three fellow guests, looking enquiringly in my direction.
'Good heavens, what on earth have you been up to all this time?' Sir Joshua asked in a brisk voice.
'I pray you forgive me, sir; I was seized by an attack of asthma and felt obliged to stay away from …'
He interrupted me.
'Asthma, eh? How very unfortunate for a fellow who is called upon to exercise his rhetoric for a living.'
'Is this a common malaise among your peers, young man?' interjected a guest standing just behind.
I was totally disarmed in the face of this contingency. Slowly, I advanced towards the confronting group now assembled a few feet from the foot of the stairs. At the end of my still-outstretched arm, the roll was now alarmingly close to Sir Joshua's face. I began to flex my elbow to bring it towards me, unhurriedly as if it were about to be placed back inside my breast pocket, which was indeed my intention. Unfortunately, my movement caught the attention of my host and was interpreted as signifying something quite different. With surprising speed, he advanced and, with a supine right hand moving towards the roll, beckoned me to hand it over to him.
'Ah, you are urging me to take this brief of your own composition, as indeed I must have asked of Mr. Goodwin, in order that I may appraise your writing skills. Well, come on, give it to me.'
To my horror, I felt the roll slip from my grip as it was pulled away smartly by Sir Joshua's hand, manifestly familiar with the action of seizing documents held before him.
I froze. A primeval instinct made me want to run for the door and disappear, shutting out that episode for ever from my mind. However, a part of me refused to accept that the scene played before me was real and I succumbed to the illusion that nothing untoward had in fact taken place. Like an actor on stage who has just blundered in his preceding lines, or knocked over accidentally a stage prop, and carries on as though nothing had happened by considering only the present moment, I continued playing my role of a humble guest who dared not protest nor otherwise impose himself on his elders and superiors. Thus it was that I became the spectator of a detached version of myself, animated like an automaton, dutifully following Sir Joshua back into the dining room. By the time I had seated myself, I was nothing but an ectoplasm, a loud ringing in my ears being the only the sensory perception I can recall.
Resuming his place at the table, but remaining standing, my host held my offering in the manner of a torch and addressed the guests.
'The young gentleman has produced some evidence attesting to the quality of his work, of which he appears rather proud, judging by the truculence with which he thrust it before me.'
'Perhaps he retreated from us simply to finish off his prose, or possibly even to draft it; after all, he had plenty of time for it,' commented wryly the guest who had previously warned of my possible marauding intentions.
'Be that as it may,' continued Sir Joshua, 'I propose to read it out to you here and now and see if his arrogance finds any justification.'
With his free hand, Sir Joshua pulled out a pince-nez from his jacket pocket and, after having placed it on his nose, clasped the leading edge of the roll at the centre, oblivious of the soaked condition and pinched state at its respective extremities.
Adjusting his posture for the reading, he leaned forward slightly to catch the light from the candelabra at the centre of the table, bringing the roll about eighteen inches plumb with the bowl of soup that had been brought in.
Now in a trance, as if drugged, I watched with half-closed eyes the unrolling of the sheet. He fumbled as he had to force the twisted end to unfurl. I heard him utter an irritated growl, presumably upon noticing the crease marks around that portion. The fingers of his right hand were now uncurling the final curve of bottom portion and I saw his fingertips disappear over the edge inside as they went to straighten the sheet.
'Heavens above, there is something warm and soft here...What on earth is this!'
His resonant voice ended with a hiss. A silence reigned and I became aware of a craning of heads straining towards the object of attention. The stool was now held exposed at the centre of the open sheet, watched by all. A malodorous whiff soon accompanied the exhibition, leaving no doubt as to the reality of the events.
The next thing I remember was seeing a wild, uncontrolled upward movement of Sir Joshua's arms as he recoiled, the stool thereby being launched into the air. In its fall, it struck the edge of the soup bowl fairly at its centre and broke in two, one piece finishing with a soft plop on the soup's surface, the other on the table mat.
What happened in the immediate moments thereafter I truly cannot recall with accuracy, my nervous condition being too disturbed or – as modern psychology would suggest – my mind simply refused to retain those traumatic events. Even now, so many decades later, I suffer acutely the symptoms of panic and deep-rooted anxiety which, though generally attenuated, have persisted and marred my existence ever since.
There was no shouting from those assembled, but utterances delivered with a vehemence and tone that, by their sound more than their content, struck me like darts. I can also see myself proffering apologies, talking incoherently about my note falling in the gutter on the way, how it must have picked up the muck unnoticed...
'I feel I must take leave under the circumstances.' I seem to recall having said, accompanying this announcement with a rapid movement, head down, towards the door, dodging some chairs and guests who were beginning to surround me. The servant posted outside, upon hearing the commotion, opened the door just as I was at the threshold. My exit continued at a quick pace though the front door and beyond into the street. Curious as I was, I dared not look back. I hurried to the end of Lamb's Conduit Street and up Theobald's Road in a state of total confusion. It was only after I had got within sight of the Saddler's Wells that I became conscious of what had happened.
'Manchester, leave for Manchester and start a new life there,' came a voice within me. Why that city, I cannot say; I knew no-one there nor what I could expect to find in that part of England so foreign to me. Perhaps that was reason enough to follow this providential advice of my subconscious, or at least I considered it so, for my mind was there and then made up. With momentary relief, I hastened back to my digs, already thinking about the practicalities to accomplish for departing on the early-morning train.