The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 25
“Private! Private!”
Doggy Dougie shouted at the top of his lungs, frantically trying to climb over the electric fence and onto the safety of the other side. The middle-aged man wearing a crown, who had appeared at the front door of the house moments earlier, was now standing at his side. He was saying something.
Doggy Dougie climbed down and — trying to hide his fear as best he could — asked, “What?”
“Your friend can no longer hear you,” said the man calmly. “The micro-tornado creates an impassable sound barrier. Besides, we are now quite high up as you can see for yourself.” A downward look through the fence made Doggy Dougie collapse onto the ground.
“Now, now,” said the man in a soothing voice, “no need to become alarmed. The micro-tornado is a perfectly safe means of travel.”
“Tornado?” repeated Doggie Dougie vacantly, having now ascertained with utter certainty this was indeed the most puzzling day of his ten-year tenure on earth.
“A small one,” smiled the man, bringing his thumb and index finger close together.
“But …” Doggie Dougie was trying very hard to come up with a reasonable contribution to the dialog. “But … How did the tornado get here?”
The man laughed good-heartedly. “My dear boy, the micro-tornado did not ‘get here’, as you seem to believe. I made it.”
“Made it?” Doggie Dougie’s contribution to the conversation waned momentarily. “How?”
“Among other things I happen to be a weatherman,” explained the man concisely.
By now Doggie Dougie was back on his feet, with a large portion of his presence of mind back at his disposal. Boldly, he said, “You’re not a weatherman. I know what a weatherman is. He’s the guy on the TV who talks about the weather.”
The man shook his head and sighed. “The youngsters in this country learn such strange notions from the telly. Tell me, lad, does a chairman talk about chairs? Does a fireman talk about fire? Does a sandman talk about sand? Does a spokesman talk about spokes? Does a shipman talk about ships? Does a townsman talk about towns?” Before Doggy Dougie could answer, the man raised both his hands and started counting with his fingers. “No, no, no, no, no, and no. A chairman makes chairs, a fireman makes fire, a sandman makes sand, a spokesman makes spokes, a shipman makes ships, a townsman makes towns, and a weatherman” — here he raised his voice slightly — “makes weather.”
Doggie Dougie scratched his head and spoke. “What’s a spoke?”
“Never mind that,” replied the man firmly. “We’ve got more important matters to discuss.”
Standing on his own feet, Doggie Dougie announced defiantly, “Not before you tell me who you are, mister.”
The man laughed heartily. “You know who I am — I’m Old Man Crown. Come now, Doggy Dougie, let’s go into the house.”
The interior of the dwelling was ascetic to the point of austerity, epitomized by the threadbare elegance of the whirlpool bath, which lay just right of the entrance. Entering the small drawing room, Doggie Dougie could not help noticing the thick layer of dust lazing on the three lost da Vinci paintings, attesting to the frayed state of the art.
Old Man Crown motioned Doggy Dougie to the floor. “Please, have a seat,” he said amiably. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you something in the way of a chair. I used to possess several of those objects but they have all disappeared inexplicably. I suspect the mystery bears some relation to my customary invitation to have a seat. Anyway, the floor is quite comfortable.”
As soon as man and boy were well established on the ground, the crowned one asked, “Lad, have you ever wondered whence you come?”
The boy was confused. “What’s my Swahili teacher got to do with all this?”
The man was confused. “Your Swahili teacher?”
“Yeah,” said Doggy Dougie, “Mrs. Wents.”
“No, no,” chuckled Old Man Crown, “I was simply asking whether you’ve ever mulled over your origins.”
The boy was now clearly on the defensive. “Mister, I already told Principal Howler I had nothing to do with Eurora Jins! Besides, she started it.”
Patiently, the man tried again. “I was referring to your ancestry.”
“Aunt Sestry?” laughed the boy. “She’s like a zillion years old. What’s she — ”
“WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?” roared the man quietly.
“No need to shout, mister,” said the boy in a hurt tone. “I’ve got the best ears in school. Ask anybody, they’ll tell you Doggy Dougie can turn a deaf ear better than anyone.” His head was resting pridefully on his shoulders, by way of the neck. “Besides, that’s a silly question. I come from my house. Where’s Private?”
“All in good time,” mumbled the man. “All in good time. Doggy Dougie, you’d better sit down and brace yourself for what I’m about to tell you.”
The boy contributed a dose of logic to the dialog. “We’re already on the floor, mister, and my braces came off last year.”
“Excellent,” affirmed the man ardently. “Doggy Dougie, you’re not Doggy Dougie.”
The ten-year-old was beginning to think the man seated opposite him had escaped from the funny farm. “You’re funny, mister.”
“Delighted you should so judge, my boy, but the truth of the matter is, you are not Doggy Dougie.”
Deciding to join the man’s game, the boy asked, “And I guess my daddy ain’t my daddy and my mama ain’t my mama.”
The man sighed. “Dear heaven, we shall have to oust that ‘ain’t’ of yours and get rid of your horrible colonial accent. Anyhow, obviously your father is your father and your mother is your mother. However, the roles in question are not filled by Mr. and Mrs. Foster.”
Doggie Dougie was setting about the long road en route toward his destined future. “I’m not Douglas Foster?”
“No. The Foster family is not your real family,” explained the man, “and I am not Old Man Crown.”
In response, two questions were fired. “Who are you? Who am I?”
The man straightened his crown, sat upright, and quietly, almost whisperingly, said, “I am Lord Dogsworth of the House of Cards.” He paused for a moment, and moved on to the next line.
“And you, my boy.” Another pause. Another move to the ensuing line.
“Are.” Pause. Move.
“My son.”
The swift exchange of parentage perturbed the boy somewhat, producing a mildly liquid reaction. “Can I have a Coke?”
“May I have a coke,” corrected Dogsworth, nodding his head in a gesture symbolizing the shocking state of colonial English.
“Sure you may,” replied the newly inducted Dogsworth cheerfully. “Just tell me where the fridge is.”
“I do not stock the beverage referred to as ‘Coca Cola’ upon the premises,” averred Dogsworth senior sternly.
Dogsworth junior refused to capitulate. “Pepsi is okay, too.”
“Young Dogsworth,” stated the elder Dogsworth solemnly, “such displays of cleverness must cease promptly. Remember: You are an English nobleman.”
“Lemonade?” the boy tried again.
“Tea!” cried the man. “You shall drink tea henceforth.”
Through the mist of futurity, the direness of his predicament was dawning on young Dogsworth.
“This ain’t so bad,” commented young Dogsworth as he munched.
Horrified, his father cried, “No, no, no. That’s a tea bag. One places it inside the cup of hot water, not within one’s mouth. No need to take the cleverness bit to the other extremity, my boy.”
A nagging thought, which had been inching its way toward the surface of young Dogsworth’s consciousness, finally made it. “Hey, what about Mom and Dad?”
Delicately, the elder Dogsworth explained. “As I expounded, lad, the couple in question does not compose your real parents. But they will join you in your new abode.”
“My new what?”
“ ‘I do not understand the meaning of abode’ — ”
“Me either.”
“ — would constitute a simple and vastly superior phraseology in this case. As for the horrible ‘Me either’ — neither do I.”
“Neither do you what?”
“What?”
“What ‘What’?”
“What ‘What ‘What’?”
“What ‘What ‘What ‘What’?”
Luckily, Thelma the siren intervened at this point, putting a stop to the perpetually swelling conversation.
The older Dogsworth picked up where he had left off. “Mr. and Mrs. Foster shall join us at your new home. They are to be your tutors.”
“Tutors?” inquired the boy. “That means they’ll teach me stuff, right?”
“Not just ‘stuff’,” explained the man. “They shall teach you the essentials of nobility, the sine quibus non of aristocracy, the part and parcel of landed gentry.”
“I get it,” his son got it. “The works.”
“Quite,” agreed his father keenly. “Mr. Foster shall teach you the ideology of bad cooking and instruct you on the highly guarded secret of what one does with the smallest fork. Mrs. Foster shall tutor you in fencing; a métier, I might add — having beheld your escalade just now — wherein you have much to learn. She shall also coach you in the art of strings.”
The boy grimaced. “Yuck, strings. That’s for girls.”
“I should not be so fleet in passing such judgment,” said his father grinningly.
Young Dogsworth reflected judgmentally for a moment, and then asked pertinently, “If you’re my dad then why did you leave me with Mom and Dad?”
The dreaded moment had arrived. Deciding now was not the time to elaborate upon this emotionally loaded subject, his father replied simply, “Suffice it to say, at some point, I had not wanted certain parties to be aware of my having an heir.”
“Oh, I get it,” the boy nodded understandingly, “you had all these parties to go to and you couldn’t bring a kid along. Cool.”
“Glad you concur,” replied Dogsworth — and resumed breathing; clearly, he had underestimated the extent of his trepidation from this confrontation. He scolded himself privately for being so emotionally unEnglishlike.
The entire exchange took place while they were flying at a cozy cruising altitude above the Atlantic. “Where are we flying to?” the boy finally asked.
“To England,” replied Dogsworth. “More precisely, to Cardiff — ancestral home of the House of Cards.”
An urgent memory made a sudden guest appearance within young Dogsworth’s northern hemisphere. “Hey,” he cried in anguish, “what about Private. Can he come too? He’s my best friend!”
His father lowered his head, and said in a soft voice, “Sadly, he cannot, my boy. You know, Groucho Marx once said, ‘I never forget a face, but in your case I’ll be glad to make an exception’. I am aware of your feelings toward Private. But you must make an exception and forget him. Believe me, lad, it will be best this way.”
“Never!” Young Dogsworth was on his feet. “I’ll never forget Private. I don’t care what this grouchy Mark said.”
The man sighed, pondering his own erstwhile noble pains. “Know this, my boy: Forget the forgettable and remember the memorable. Private’s memory must depart.”
“No, no, no,” cried the boy, tears flooding his boyish face.
“Forget the forgettable and remember the memorable,” Dogsworth repeated the truism chantingly, and added another. “The present is undeniably the best moment to do that which must be done now.”
Faced with such a duo of potent isms, the tears dried up at once, and the young boy embraced his titled destiny valiantly. “Okay, how do I forget?”
“I find the French method to be the most efficacious,” answered his father.
“What’s the French method?” asked the boy curiously.
“Noblesse oublie,” explained Dogsworth, “literally, nobility forgets. Just think about Private and say ‘noblesse oublie’.”
“Wow, that’s easy,” pointed out his son.
“A short memory is the birthright of a nobleman,” expounded Dogsworth.
The boy concentrated, a focused expression enveloping his face, and uttered ceremoniously, “Noblesse oblique.”
Dogsworth sighed. “It’s ‘noblesse oublie’ my boy. Come, think of Private again and repeat those words.”
“Think of who?” asked the boy perplexedly.
“Of whom,” mumbled the man distractedly. “You don’t know anyone by the name of Private?”
“I …” The boy hesitated for a few seconds. “No, I don’t.”
“Interesting,” commented Dogsworth, eyeing the boy sharply for an intense instant. “All right. Let’s leave it at that.” He walked over to a small wooden cabinet by the hearth, which bore several burn marks, and took two seat belts out of the bottom drawer. Returning, he handed one to his son, and said, “Here, buckle up. We’ve started our descent. Incidentally, do be so kind as to observe the no-smoking sign.”
“Why seat belts?” asked the boy inquisitively. “We ain’t got no seats.”
Dogsworth shook his head and muttered under his breath. “Confounded ‘ain’t’. And that ghastly colonial accent. Lucky the boy is still young enough …” He looked at his son, and said, “The seat belts, my lad, are a matter of tradition. And tradition is the hallmark of nobility.”
With that, both incumbent and future Lords Dogsworth landed in Cardiff.
