‘That little tittle-tattle, Patrick. He told you I was here?’ There was undisguised annoyance in his voice. The accent was part Inspector Clouseau, part Eastenders, but the pose was pure Bogart, albeit without the stubbly chin, straight out of The African Queen. How did he manage it on a glass of water?
‘Never mind how I found you. I am only pleased that I have.’ Duggie warmed to the task ahead of him. ‘I have heard that you are one of the best butlers in the country. And yet, I find you not on duty. Please can you explain this to me?’ In fact he had heard nothing about Henri at all, but in his experience, a bit of buttering up was always appreciated. This time he got more reaction and, for the first time, a direct look into his eyes.
‘What is there to be a butler for or to? My master popped his clogs two months ago. Since then, I have been fiddling my fingers and playing with myself.’ Duggie restrained himself and managed to keep a straight face, whilst admiring the Frenchman’s courageous attempts at mastering the vernacular.
‘But your contract of employment?’ He asked gently. The reaction was an emotional outburst.
‘I was employed fourteen years ago by Mr Eustace to be his personal butler. I performed my duties to the very best of my abilities, even when he lost his marbles and went gaga. And you are wrong in what you say. I was not one of the best butlers. I was without question the very, very best in all this country, maybe even in France too! The bee’s knees.’
Duggie noted the modest, self-effacing manner of the man, but did not hold that against him. He had always been a firm believer that if you had a trumpet, you should blow it. For a moment his mind flitted back to Tina Pound, but he pressed on with the matter in hand. He would be seeing her again later on.
‘Well, Henri,’ he clapped him round the shoulders, ‘I have good news for you. Your new master is now in residence. Professor Roger Dalby, much-loved nephew of Eustace McKinnon, is the new owner. He is at the manor now, awaiting your ministrations.’
The Frenchman’s back stiffened as if the ‘Marseillaise’ had suddenly struck up.
‘Ah bon, enfin. I shall resume my duties. I shall get my finger out and get it stuck in.’
Very close, thought Duggie with the slightest hint of a grin, but a brave try. Henri swigged the last of his water and leapt off the stool. ‘On y va?’
‘Oh yes, definitely.’ Duggie decided not to reply in French, principally because he could not speak a word of the language.
Within a couple of months, Roger had settled into the manor most successfully. So much so, that he could barely remember life without a cup of tea and the Independent at eight o’clock, underpants ironed with a crease in them, or toilet paper without the first sheet neatly folded into an arrow shape. Even Jasper had mellowed with the passing weeks. He now managed to sleep all night without leaping onto Roger’s bed, or noisily slurping the water from the toilet bowl at three o’clock in the morning.
Outside, Stan the gardener and the three newly engaged groundsmen were making terrific inroads into the undergrowth. As they did so, they gradually unearthed the fine old golf course, designed by Harry Colt in 1923. They turned up stone benches, drinking fountains and statues, along with the unmistakable outlines of tees and greens. Truckloads of turf were arriving on a daily basis and the men were working flat out. Stan had assured Duggie that the course would be ready for its grand opening in January. Plans were already being made for a major event that month.
Duggie himself could not remember ever being happier. Every day was an adventure. There was the discovery of no fewer than three solid-fuel cookers. When sold to a specialist dealer, the proceeds had gone a long way towards funding the new range of stainless-steel food preparation and cooking equipment. This now took pride of place in the kitchens, which had themselves been totally gutted and refurbished.
The ground floor was swarming with workmen. The floors had been sanded and polished, the carpets replaced and new furniture ordered. Roger’s apartment on the first floor could wait. While a bit tired, it was still very comfortable. Particularly when compared to the spartan terraced house where he had lived up till then. The second floor of the manor was still to be restored. It really was a huge old place.
Mrs Vinnicombe clearly approved of the improvements, particularly with the arrival of the new industrial vacuum cleaners and floor polishers. So much so that Duggie had had to restrain her from over-polishing the already mirror-like floors. This was after both Henri and Linda had ended up on their backs, within hours of each other. For his part, Duggie had also ended up on his back, front and, on one memorable occasion, his head, while closely entwined with Tina. She now had a key to his flat and kept a toothbrush in his bathroom cabinet. All in all, life was going well.
Henri was enchanted. Things were back to normal. He was once more able to minister to the needs of a respected master. And he really did respect Roger, particularly once he discovered that the professor understood not only modern French, but medieval Old French as well. Anybody who had read the Chanson de Roland in its original manuscript form was worthy of deep respect in his eyes.
Linda, too, was a happy girl. With the generous pay rise awarded to her by her new employer, she had finally left her mother’s house. With Duggie’s aid, she had found a charming flat in the little town of Toplingham, a stone’s throw from the estuary, and only a short cycle ride from the manor. Roger told her to take whatever she needed from the manor. As a result, she was now the proud owner of, amongst other things, an absolutely enormous bed in the main bedroom. Her single duvet looked rather forlorn there, but then she was used to that sensation.
Her work was reassuringly similar to the previous years at the university, while the working environment was unparalleled. She had an office the size of the vice-chancellor’s, with a view out over spectacular gardens. And, of course, she had a boss to die for. And tonight she was entertaining him with supper.
Linda’s mum was not a great cook. For her family, food was necessary because, without enough of it, you died. Whether it was interesting, attractive or creatively prepared, was of less importance than the scrupulousness of the washing-up and cleaning afterwards. Linda had, therefore, invested in some cookery books. She asked Henri for his advice, without specifying for whom it was intended. The butler was, however, in no doubt as to who the lucky recipient of her hospitality was to be. In consequence, he advised her with all the experience of seduction a Frenchman could muster.
‘Ah, my dear, you are planning a feast. It has to be foie gras with lightly toasted, very thinly sliced bread. And, remember, it must be white bread. Maybe with a sauce of pears, caramelised of course. A glass of Sauternes to accompany it is always to be recommended. And then for the main course, I would always favour a lobster, but be sure to cool it well after the cuisson unless, of course, you favour thermidor…’
Linda had thanked him with a smile, and sought advice elsewhere. Mrs Vinnicombe had had little to offer, apart from ensuring that there be lots of it, whatever it was. Predictably, she also exhorted Linda to ensure everything was clean and spotless. Paddy, unexpectedly, was the one who gave her sensible advice, none of which involved Guinness, Dublin Coddle or Boiled Boxty.
‘As long as the ingredients are good, the food will be good. Don’t overcook it, and make sure you serve it hot. Something kind to the oesophagus and the stomach will also ensure a comfortable night’s sleep, while your gastric enzymes perform their necessary duty.’
He had then mercifully branched away from his normal fascination with the constituent parts of the human body. He had gone on to tell her about his years in the merchant navy, and the dishes he and his fellows had thrown together (and up) during their time at sea. These seemed to be principally composed of emergency rations, particularly powdered egg, cocoa powder and corned