BY STEPHEN PAX LEONARD
Chewing the cud about something or other, Reggie peered out of the sash window, arousing the curiosity of the last of the ewes. He was breakfasting late. The Biedermeier wall clock reminded him of as much. Reggie was feeling idle, and had no intention of dispensing with the dressing gown just yet. The art of life was to be fancy-free after all.
“Mrs Daddywood, might there be any more marmalade?” shouted Reggie as he scraped the bottom of the Wilkin & Sons jar with disapproval.
“One sec, my luv.” Slightly flustered, Mrs Daddywood appeared in a jiffy with a fresh jar.
“Much obliged,” said Reggie, reaching across the table for the preserve.
“Much obliged indeed. So, what do you make of it all?” said Mrs Daddywood.
“Wot’s that, then, my luv?”
“Well, the whole country is going to hell in a hand-cart, isn’t it? Rape and pillage: the tactics never change, do they? It is all warfare, but this time round the police and lawmakers seem to have taken the side of the invaders. What a perverse turn of events. And all this is happening at a time of a collapse in trust in Blighty’s damn politics. It is all becoming rather tiresome, wouldn’t you say, Mrs Daddywood?”
“Aye! I ‘eard about that poor man that had his head cut off. It is wuthering heights, ain’t it?”
“If you say so, Mrs Daddywood. But I don’t think even Heathcliff was capable of such rage! Wuthering Heights. Give me Thrushcross Grange any day. We all need to take the pressure off, I reckon. You know, relax, pour yourself a glass of Graham’s and enjoy a nice dripping crumpet, lying back with legs lolling on the chaise longue. A touch of Schubert probably wouldn’t go amiss, I dare say.” With that delicious thought in mind, Reggie prized another piece of toast from the Edwardian silver toast rack and began to butter it in a slow, pensive manner. He looked out of the window again. June limped by. What a bore!
“There’s talk of civil war, Mr Reggie. I don’t know what to think of it. Vigilantes are forming, I ‘eard. I don’t feel safe walking the streets, pet.”
“Yes, well, talking of pets. My greatest fear with civil war is the horses getting frightened. But you will only know things have kicked off in earnest when the parks empty out of their cavalcades of prams and Jack Russells.”
“We have been too tolerant of the intolerant for too damn long. That is the problem, Mrs Daddywood,” said Reggie stiffly. “Civil war, I mean: who against whom? Is the green-haired brigade armed with their water pistols going to team up with the Taliban diaspora and take on the Millwall fans? I am sure those chaps from The Den will have the edge,” guffawed Reggie.
“The thing with wars, Mrs Daddywood, is that the one who laughs the most wins. Just look at that bad-tempered Hitler fellow. And the English have oodles of the stuff. Laughter, that is,” chortled Reggie.
“No, nonsense. Come what may, Mrs Daddywood, we shall remain here an outpost of fine manners and decorum right to the jolly end. The garden shall be in exquisite order, the hydrangea shall be frolicking and the candelabras finely polished. Isn’t that so, Mrs Daddywood? You’ll join me for tea in the rubble with the last of the débutantes and their trailing chiffons, I trust?” chuckled Reggie.
She grinned sheepishly.
“Fear not, Mrs Daddywood. We shall not be inviting the butchers of Khartoum round for supper, but if they turn up unannounced, I should be pleased to show them how to pluck a grouse, circulate the Port anticlockwise and how to agree to disagree without resorting to the machete. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll escort them to the cold showers behind the stables. Then we will see what they are made of.”
“Have you noticed how they all seem so dashed suspiciously keen on coming to a country they know nothing about?” continued Reggie. “Have they ever been to Hull, I wonder? As Larkin said: I am settling down in Hull alright. Every day I sink a little further. Haha. Isn’t that right, Mrs Daddywood? I am sure it would suit them uncommonly well.”
Mrs Daddywood tried to suppress her mirth. “I know nowt, Mr Reggie. I just know that you will be the last gentleman standing in this once fine green land, won’t you, luv? When the country goes down the pan, you, Mr Reggie, will be standing like a stoic with your Spartan resilience and unwavering duty. As eagerly sought after as butter.”
Reggie sat agog, digesting the uncustomary compliment, thinking how tough the outlook for the debs of 2026 might be.
“By golly, that is awfully kind of you, Mrs Daddywood. Well, Keep Calm and Carry On and all that. But where will it land us this time? Let’s see.”
The Biedermeier clock struck two.
“Mrs Daddywood! It is two o’clock. I am meant to be at Epsom!” Reggie closed the sash window with quite a clunk, startling the fellowship of ewes, and made straight for the bedroom to don his morning suit.
“Epsom, Epsom! You know, shortly after the bombing in broad daylight of the High Street in Newmarket in 1941, the Jockey Club announced that it would sadly be calling for fifty-three days of racing up to June instead of the usual ninety-two. The number of meetings was not reduced because of the bombing, but because the RAF needed to use the courses for ‘special operations’. That is the spirit, Mrs Daddywood. That is the spirit.”
“Toodle pip!” shouted Reggie as he closed the front door behind him. “Oh, and semper vigilans, Mrs Daddywood. The place can probably be commandeered at a moment’s notice,” roared Reggie.
Stephen Pax Leonard is a writer, linguist, traveller. His book Noble Sentiments for an Exile and Other Writings has been published and is now available here.