The Wilt Inheritance (8 page)

‘So why haven’t I gone blind? Either I masturbate and don’t go blind or I’m not blind because I don’t masturbate. Which is it?’

‘Some men don’t, I suppose,’ said Eva, now thoroughly confused as to what it was she was accusing Wilt of doing.

‘But on the whole they do? So most of the blind men you meet in the street – you know, the ones with sticks and guide dogs – are wankers?’

‘Of course they’re not! And how many times do I have to tell you to stop using such foul language?’

‘And do you also check for hair on the palms of their hands?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Because that’s another hoary old story stupid women like you and Mavis Mottram put about. You can try it out on the Gadsley boy. When I was at school we used to tell younger ones that if they did it they’d grow hair on their palms, and they always looked to check.’

‘You must have gone to a very peculiar school.’

‘All schools are peculiar. They have to be, considering the number of morons they turn out.’

And before Eva could think of a retort to this, Henry had gone out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door.

‘I’m off to the Tech to get some peace and quiet. Come to think of it, you can give yourself some DIY sex while I’m gone. Those flaming pants are dying for some.’

He left Eva to work out that last remark. Ten minutes later he was sitting in the sun outside old Coverdale’s shack, with a cup of tea in his hands.

‘Do you ever miss sex?’ he asked his friend.

‘Gave it up years ago,’ said the old man. ‘I reckon
it’s an overrated pastime. Besides you should see my missus. She’s an anti-aphrodisiac if ever there was one. Only a sex maniac would want her – and then he’d regret it.’

‘Don’t go on,’ Wilt pleaded. ‘My wife’s walking about the house in a pair of pants that would put a sex-starved rapist off for life. She wears the beastly things whenever she wants what she mis-calls “gender”.’

‘That’s a grammatical term surely.’

‘Not in our house it isn’t,’ Wilt said bitterly. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Like how I’m going to get this young idiot to pass his exam when every time I sit down to swot up, my blasted wife sticks her oar in.’

‘It’s not her oar you need worry about, from the sound of it! You want to watch she doesn’t sneak some of that Viagra stuff into your food, you do.’

Wilt nodded gloomily. He still remembered only too well the débâcle that had ensued last time Eva had fed him an aphrodisiac. He’d be lucky if he even made it to the Hall at this rate.

Lady Clarissa arrived back at Sandystones Hall feeling in a good mood. She’d had an energetic night in Ipford with her young man, and now that she had met him she was also greatly looking forward to the arrival of Wilt the following weekend.

He was obviously a well-educated man and she was sure he’d be just the right tutor for Edward, who was due back from school next Monday.

Even Sir George was more amiable than usual, having heard that a neighbour he had always detested had been sentenced to three months for dangerous driving, and to the loss of his driving licence for two years on the additional charge of being drunk at the time.

‘That’ll teach him to trespass on my land,’ he added inconsequentially. ‘I’ve warned him to keep off it time and time again, as you know. Anyway, you’re back at last. How’s your uncle doing at that new nursing home? Enjoying himself?’

‘Far from it, I’m sorry to say. No, he kept on telephoning me at the hotel, complaining about the traffic noise and the fact that the Brigadier upstairs had fallen out of bed just when Uncle Harold had got to sleep and they couldn’t get him into the lift because he was too tall. And how Matron told him not to be a naughty boy when he asked her to tell them not to make such a din. He doesn’t like the place being called the Last Post either. Says it’s morbid. Oh, yes, and he also dislikes having to sleep in what he calls “a premature shroud”.’

‘A premature shroud? What the devil’s that?’

‘A long nightshirt. It’s because he’s only got one leg and they think it’s more manageable than pyjamas. Apparently they’ve also told him he’d be better off with a catheter, but he objects to that too. I can’t think why.’

Sir George could but he wasn’t going to argue about it. He’d had one after an operation and wouldn’t wish the experience of the procedure on anyone, even Uncle Harold, miserable old bugger that he was. He decided to move the conversation on to a more pleasant subject.

‘By the way, I’ve found an excellent cook,’ he said. ‘She’s been here since Friday, and by God she’s pretty
special! Her name is Philomena Jones but she doesn’t mind being called Philly. What she can do with a goose is quite remarkable …’

Lady Clarissa tried to think what one could do with a goose other than roast it. She couldn’t see it being fried or boiled.

‘First she smears it with bacon fat and butter. She calls that “schmatzing it”. Then she stuffs it with pâté de foie gras and blood pudding and … oh, yes, I forgot. She cuts the head and neck off first then puts them back just before she serves it up. She’s extremely artistic. For pudding last night there was a choice of zabaglione or plum duff, followed by Limburger cheese the like of which I’ve never tasted before.’

‘I can well imagine. I had some once and found it absolutely revolting. Just the smell was enough to put me off the stuff for life,’ said Lady Clarissa with a shudder.

‘I suppose it’s an acquired taste, but I can tell you that I’ve never dined and lunched so well in my life as I have over the course of this weekend. Goose, duck, partridge, pheasant … you name it, Philly can cook the lot. Of course, she varies the stuffing. She’s been mixing fried snails with garlic and …’

‘Hold it there. Just tell me where she gets the snails from. I hope they come in a tin?’

‘Great heavens, no. She goes into the kitchen garden and collects them. Eating off the land and all that. Philly’s a forager, Clarissa. And damned good at it
she is, too. Yesterday we had stuffed breast of hedgehog for an hors d’oeuvre. She’d baked it in clay to remove the prickles, of course. Utterly delicious.’

‘And doubtless extremely healthy,’ said Clarissa sarcastically. ‘In other words, I’ve only to leave you here alone for a couple of days and you completely ignore the cardiologist’s strict instructions not to eat vast quantities of fat and to stick to chicken and fish as much as possible. Instead I come home and find you indulging yourself in a positively lethal diet of goose stuffed with foie gras and black pudding, not to mention the other disgusting ingredients. And where on earth did you find this Myra Hindley of a cook?’

Sir George smiled.

‘As a matter of fact, in court. She was sentenced to a month’s community service for poaching. So to save money I took her on here to do her community service, which means she’s extraordinarily cheap. Actually she costs nothing except for what she eats herself. I mean, I give her bed and board. That way I get to eat magnificently and we save money into the bargain.’

‘Perfect,’ said Clarissa. ‘Just tell me one other thing before you drop dead. Is this woman Philomena Jones a gypsy?’

Sir George hesitated for a moment.

‘Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said finally. ‘She certainly lives nearby and the man she
usually lives with has been sentenced to six months for something or other. I think it was causing bodily harm to a gamekeeper. Had I known his wife, if that’s what she is, was such an excellent cook, I’d have used my influence to see the court gave him a much longer sentence.’

‘Brilliant! Utterly brilliant. No wonder she wants you dead,’ said Clarissa, staring out of the window while considering what to do about this. She did not want to become a widow again. Not just yet. On the other hand, she had no intention of sharing her husband’s notion of gourmet cuisine. Garden snails and hedgehogs were … she tried to think of an adequate description and failed. Instead she tried another tack.

‘Am I wrong in thinking this creature is fat?’

‘As a butterball,’ said Sir George. ‘Whatever a butterball is.’

‘In other words, extremely fat.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Overweight, perhaps, but not really obese.’

‘You and I have a different definition of obese. I can’t say that I have ever understood this predilection of yours for enormous women – God knows why you ever married me.’ She glared at Sir George, daring him to respond to this last point, and he at least had the good grace not to reply.

‘Oh, well, I’d better go and see what this paragon of cordon bleu cookery looks like.’

‘Well, you can always ring for her. She rather likes me sending for her.’

‘I’m sure she does, but I rather want to see for myself what denizens of the wild she is preparing for us tonight. Toads’ legs from the dry moat, perhaps? Hare’s testicles on toast? I despair of you, George, I really do.’

And on this cheerless note Clarissa marched down the long corridor to the kitchen, to be confronted by a woman who did not look in the least like a gypsy given her fair hair and pasty complexion. She had rather a snub nose, and rosy cheeks that bulged out below deep-set eyes. In fact, she bulged grotesquely just about everywhere.

‘You must be Philomena,’ Lady Clarissa said. ‘Philomena Jones.’

‘You can call me Philly. Most everyone does.’

‘And is that your real name? Not that it matters.’

‘Yes, mum, except the last bit. I made that up for the court.’

‘Well, I am Lady Gadsley and you will address me as “my lady”.’

‘Yes, mum. I call himself Mr Gadsley.’

‘You can call him whatever you like, though I’d prefer it if you dealt mainly with me from now on. And what are you proposing to poison us with tonight?’

‘Poison, mum? Was there anything in particular you were thinking of?’

‘I told you not to call me “mum”.’

Philly grinned.

‘Know you did, but if I called you “my lady” I’d have to curtsey, wouldn’t I? And then I’d probably fall over and have trouble getting up. I have to get out of bed real careful. I fell over in front of a steamroller one time and only managed to crawl out of its way at the last moment …’

‘What a dreadful pity,’ said Clarissa ambiguously. ‘Anyway I haven’t come here to discuss the world’s misfortunes. I want to discuss the menus.’

‘Men yous? I don’t know about men yous. Not here, that is, though I know Mr Gadsley fancies a bit of crackling at night, if you take my meaning?’

Lady Clarissa shuddered.

‘Are you talking about pigs cooked or pigs uncooked?’

But the implication behind this question escaped the cook.

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Clarissa as Philly struggled to answer or at any rate appeared to. ‘I just want to make it absolutely clear that I do not share my husband’s taste for snails, hedgehogs, blood pudding and foie gras stuffing, to say nothing of all the lower forms of wildlife you seem to serve up. From what Sir George has said, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were offering up fricassees of slugs and the like. It’s simply absurd.’

‘Oh, no, mum. I never heard of anyone wanting slugs for breakfast. Or dinner either, come to that.’

‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ said Clarissa. ‘So what are you preparing for dinner tonight?’

‘I thought, ’cos Mr Gadsley keeps asking for a savoury, that for starters we’d have toadstools …’

‘Toadstools?’ squawked Lady Clarissa. ‘Don’t you mean, mushrooms? Toadstools are frequently poisonous.’

‘Perhaps some are. Depends what you pick,’ said Philomena. ‘My old man says the ones what are white on top and sort of white underneath, too, are all right. The red ones on their hats aren’t.’

‘You can take all of them off the menu for a start! I’m not having my husband killed off just yet. And for the main dish?’

‘Suckling pig roasted to a crisp. Like I said, he does enjoy his bit of crackling.’

‘No, absolutely not. We’ll have a light supper tonight. Some tinned asparagus, followed by sardines with a lettuce salad and some tinned beans. And afterwards plain Cheddar cheese,’ Clarissa ordered, then stormed out of the kitchen again in search of Sir George.

‘You may wish to die a premature death from food poisoning but I most certainly do not,’ she snapped at him. ‘And that ghastly creature in the kitchen knows as much about healthy cooking as I do about the structure of the atom. I’ve just ordered her to serve a salad for supper tonight.’

‘Oh, God, no. Just when I was looking forward to some delicious hors d’oeuvre followed by suckling pig.’

‘I doubt you’d still have been around for the suckling pig. She was going to give you toadstools for starters. Yes, toadstools, dear. Assorted toadstools. You know, the ones that are white underneath … like death-caps. Yes, I thought that would make you sit up and take notice.’

‘I’m not sitting down or up, as a matter of fact,’ said Sir George. ‘And I’m quite sure Philly knows what she’s doing. After all, she’s a child of Nature. Been living off the land since she was born.’

‘Suckled by Nature, too, I suppose.’

‘You know what I mean. Gypsies have a gift for survival. That is, if she is a real gypsy.’

‘Whatever the creature is, you’d better get it into your head that I mean to see we survive her lethal cooking. I’m not having you dying in agony or, even worse, being paralysed by a cerebral haemorrhage. In other words, a stroke.’

‘I am fully aware what a cerebral haemorrhage is, thank you very much.’

Lady Clarissa took perverse comfort from the anger in his tone and decided to press home her point. ‘I had an old friend once who had a stroke and turned into a human cabbage overnight. I remember the occasion well. He insisted that all this fuss, as he put it, about fat clogging the arteries was a lot of nonsense. He was smoking a cigar at the time, as I recall, and had just eaten two extra helpings of crackling at dinner. He was standing in front of the fireplace holding forth
when he suddenly keeled over and never spoke again. Or even moved his hands. He made pitiful noises, which his wife tried and failed to interpret. She sat by his bed for three years although the stroke specialist she called in did tell her he would never recover his speech or ability to move. But she hung on out of devotion. It was only when she met a top man in the Foreign Office and fell in love with him that she finally agreed her husband could be taken into a nursing home. I can give you his name too. It was …’