An Evening Dinner

Lord Bolingbrooke was preparing to eat dinner at his estate. Dressed only in a purple robe and slippers of matching colour, he emerged from his study and menacingly shifted his way downstairs. His ankles throbbed upon ever step. Travelling across the hall, to the head of the dining table, he sat down with inexpedience. As usual, just one place was set. Decanters, candles, glasses, jugs and other items of great worth congregated around the table, like a ware parliament. As usual, Henderson had let his creative impulse get the better of him.

The man was an enormous fellow. Burdened with a barrel-chest, fantastically bulky arms and legs, and virtually no neck to speak of, his countenance suggested a Frankenstein creature more than a gentleman, if testimony from his staff were to be of any worth. Balding, red-cheeked and chubby-faced, the old man wore a wig on many occasions to hide his decay. This was not an issue tonight, for like many nights past, guests were far and few between; a topic often revived by Henderson, only for it to be put to a swift and tidy end.

The room; very high, though not particularly unusual for such a building, held enormous paintings of his ancestors. Lords, barons, dukes and viscounts, immortalised high above, seemed to look down in pensiveness at their only surviving descendant. Peering down in silent contempt, the portraits of faces got as good as they gave, as the lord belched out curse after curse, followed by hearty laughter. A tragic enthusiasm overcame his aged visage.

Occupying the centre of the vast ceiling hung an enormous chandelier. Caked in dust and the memories of centuries past, this Colossus served as history’s dream catcher for the C Bolingbrooke family. This wrought-iron monster cast shadows wherever fate allowed it. One could easily mistake them for spectres—circling the cavernous room, trying to find relief in the oily abyss. Settling at last in his chair, he robotically shuffled his stubby fingers in an effort to stuff the linen into the neck of his gown. His hands were quite dextrous for their size, and though often seen shovelling natures creatures into his gaping portcullis, were surprisingly well groomed. The cloth however, was not to share the same chasteness, for it were to be assaulted with a range of sauces, meats and bodily fluids. The wind howled outside, and the shadows danced unabashedly.

Henderson had shuffled silently into the room. The family butler, cook, doorman, driver and whatever else his title could have been declared to be, had been in the servitude of the Bolingbrooke family for forty-two years, and a friend for some time longer. Standing as tall as a coatrack (and often resembling one), Henderson was always impeccably dressed, well groomed—no ‘facial shrubbery’, as he amicably called it— no untidy article of clothing and no ill detail to speak of. He was as clean as he was proper. After bolting himself next to the table, like a streetlamp overlooking a post-box, he cleared his throat, and exclaimed-

“As you ordered sir, beef medallions in a mushroom sauce.”

This particular dish was often requested, and often made a frightful mess of by Henderson. It was in his best interest that he took precise care in preparing every meal, as the old man soon descended into a stampeding rage if dissatisfied with even the most trivial detail. A hailstorm of dining room chairs in the direction of the staff wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. This transformation in behaviour was nothing new, and during Henderson’s forty-two years of servitude; those forty-two years of slavery, and those forty-two years of well-paid purgatory to the family, he still hadn’t quite got used to it. Trying best not to poke the grizzly, Henderson set the china down with military precision. Whilst pouring himself a glass of wine, the lord suddenly ejaculated-

“Henderson! Hopefully, I shall enjoy my steak tonight…”

Quivering, Henderson responded swiftly, fighting to hold back the nerves that had jailed his entire figure-

“Y- Yes sir. I have taken extraordinary care.”

“While you’re here, fetch me a bottle of gin from the cellar. A night without gin is unimaginable!”

“Indeed, sir. Uh- a- anything else?”

“I shall be waking at eight tomorrow. No earlier, no later. Should I bark, you are to keep to my request. I have an appointment, you see.”

With this, he dropped his eyes to the table, and mechanically shook his chin (this was the ‘signal’ for dismissal) to his now quite anxious cook. Hanging around like a frozen carcass was a most heinous offense. Previous violations of this rule had seen objects hurled around the room: books, pottery, a lamp, small furniture; even letter openers! A message the staff of the estate learned quickly. Shaking like a jelly, Henderson helmed his arthritic body toward the kitchen, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

“He would have made a dreadful poltergeist.” - The old man snickered under his breath as he relieved a decanter of its wine. The shadows dispersed momentarily, and the faces of time gone by seemed to scoff at his drollness.

Readjusting the linen, the lord then embraced his instruments with great relish. Being left-handed, the knife was the first to assume position. The less dextrous appendage then grasped the fork. Both hands now rose in perfect unison, to which he conferred the oncoming slaughter. With one swift blow, the steak was pierced with great marksmanship, and raised like a sea-bitten wreck. With his mouth watering like a tiger, his nose spasmodically twitching, and his eyes overcome with lust, the portion was halted in its tracks by a sudden buzzing—

“Blast! Henderson! Get this dreaded thing— Henderson!”

His words slowly died in the stale air. The cellar was some walk away, and he knew Henderson would be at least another five minutes. The buzzing echoed throughout the room.

Digging his heels into the carpet and ejecting his bulk from the table, the old man assumed the blasted creature must have been hiding in wait for some time, “Just waiting for the right moment to sing its song of misery!”— Darting his head around the room, the ogre boomed—

“HENDERSON!”

Realising the futility of his plight, the old man stood still to quell his temper. Often he tried to diffuse his Achilles-heel, and if experience had taught him anything, had come to realise it was best to let the emotion run its course.

“He must be joking! Dilly-dallying… on my pound!”

The prisoners of eternity’s gaol, fettered in their gilt-frames, seemed to observe the spectacle with great interest, as their jailer held them back with unyielding force. The old man’s head darkened into a viscous burgundy. The insect propelled itself around the room, as if to comically mock its cumbersome opponent.

Without warning, the old man dived like a jaguar, most fiercely over the table. Lunging past the gangway of items, his gargantuan hands, swinging like that of a primate, failed to greet the intruder even once. Of course, he had succeeded in assaulting the more defenceless victims; a candlestick, a silver salt cellar and several articles of cutlery, all of which had now found their way on to the dark blue carpet. The buzzing now orbited the old man’s head, splintering his ears with every revolution.

With his etiquette already having escaped through the window-cracks, the ogre descended on his wily adversary around the room, grabbing and throwing whatever was in arms-reach. After an incredibly brief marathon, the old man was accosted with a spell of dizziness; the kind of light-headedness one feels when dismounting a chair too quickly, or perhaps walking from a warm enclosure into the barren air. Digging his stubby fingers into the tablecloth, gurgling, like a young child, he rid the table of its regal pasture, and straightened himself out, seemingly against his will. The chap stood erect like a redwood, froze with equanimity, and finally keeled over in the most frightful fashion.

Reassembling, the shadows chanted around the now naked table. High above, the spectators turned pale with horror. The dreadful racket continued, completely void of melancholy.