In case you missed the previous episodes in this dark soap opera:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Farquhar Nob had gone to bed on the morning of his wife’s unattractive demise. The smell from her suite was horrific so he simply opened the windows and closed the rooms hoping that the staff would eventually get around to cleaning up all the noxious effluent. He had been on the lash with his club buddies all night and was in no fit state for lengthy discussions about dull domestic matters. When he finally awoke during the following evening he was so hung over that he could not lift his head from the pillow and needed a hair of the dog.
He rang the bell for Mr Grey and then remembered that he was dead and hopefully buried. ”A pox on the man!” he cursed and rang through to the garage to summon his chauffeur. There was no reply. “Where the fuck is everyone?” seemed to be a repeating refrain in his life. He yanked the bell cord for the kitchen staff and jumped out of his skin when Miss Judge knocked sharply on his door and entered bearing a tray. She wordlessly gave him a small tumbler of malt whisky. This woman had 30 years of Nob experience. She followed that with a large glass of watered down orange juice and two thick slabs of buttered toast. Fuky was unlikely to want to discuss much so she simply stated that the chauffeur had been sent to kidnap an illegal immigrant in Margate, quietly retreated and soundlessly closed the door, no more disgusted with him than she usually was.
The following morning, with Chef miraculously back at his stove, Miss Judge was able to complete her duties in respect of the sparsely attended, socially distanced imminent crematorium ceremony for Mrs Nob. As far as she could tell, the only attendees would be Mr Nob and his skeleton house staff provided they all passed their PCR tests for CoronaPox.
When the kitchen phone rang she was alarmed to find herself trying to decipher a jumble of French and English from a very guttural Paris Gendarme.
”Mademoiselle Getona Nob et Monsieur Tarquin Ramsbottom” followed by a complete mess of words of which only one lodged in her mind. Mort. She sank into a kitchen chair and shook violently.
As soon as she discontinued that conversation, the phone rang again.
Mrs Ramsbottom, Toadie’s mother, was hysterical and completely incoherent. Thankfully Mr Ramsbottom took over and explained precisely what had happened in Paris. He mentioned arrangements to bring the bodies home and asked to speak to Mr Nob if he was at home. Miss Judge rang the appropriate extension. She silently stayed on the line to overhear the conversation.
”Fuky, old man. Damned bad news, what!” was all she heard before Chef strode across the kitchen and took the receiver out of her hand. He listened intently and smiled when he heard Farquhar Nob exclaim “Fucking paparazzi!”.
As soon as he had made the remaining few preparations for Caressa’s wake, Chef took Spotty Boy into town to buy black suits and ties. They went to Asda and kitted themselves out for a reasonable price. Spotty Boy wondered why his father was in such a good mood. For the first time in his entire 15 years, Spotty did not hear a single expletive, not even when Chef had to go up a size due to an expanding waistline. In fact, Chef was insisting they went for a swift shandy at the local pub.
The Chauffeur arrived back to the Manor with a swarthy lad who sported a straggly black beard. He spoke a language that nobody understood but that did not really matter. Not much speaking involved in Groom to the Stool duties. Chauffeur installed him in Mr Grey’s old room to get some much needed sleep. Spotty Boy noticed him lock the door and take the key with him.
Mrs Caressa Nob was no sooner shuttled behind the screens and curtains at the crematorium than the few attendees were whisked back to Nob Manor where they complimented Miss Judge on her splendid vol-au-vents and canapés, but each made their excuses to retire early with a bottle of their preferred tipple.
The house became virtually silent as the morgue until a few days later when Farquhar Nob sobered up long enough to collect his wife’s ashes in a rather unseemly plastic replica urn. Surprisingly, Chauffeur sauntered into the kitchen, helped himself to a couple of slices of quiche lorraine and perched on the edge of the kitchen table. He seemed very cheerful and, for the first time in his employment he strung more than two words together.
”Yur man’ll be scatrin’ her Nob in Fishguard on the moro.” he said. Chef, Miss Judge, the gardener and Spotty exchanged surprised glances but there was no opening for further conversation. Chauffeur nodded at a slight sideways angle and went out to clean the limousine.
“I didn’t know Chauffeur was Irish, did you Chef?” remarked the gardener.
Nope!” said Chef. “Never heard him speak before, as it goes! And why are they going to scatter Madam’s ashes in Fishguard….. isn’t that in Cardigan Bay? Wales?”
”Yes” piped up Miss Judge. “That is where Fuky met Caressa when they were youngsters. It was very romantic they said. They were there with the Duke of Edinburgh Awards Scheme, learning to sail.”
“Well I never!” Said Chef. “Can’t imagine Fuky being young or romantic!” and everyone agreed it was a difficult thing to visualise.
Chapter 6 - The Finale
https://francesleader.substack.com/p/ch-6-the-nobs