In the Event of Madness

A tribute to butlers everywhere.

 

                My master went insane on Wednesday. I came at precisely seven o’clock and made tea and scones. When I bustled into his room he was sitting on his bed, his hair in a disheveled mess.

                My, he looked terrible. Sir has somewhat long hair, and muttonchops running to his formidable jaw. He looked like a puffer fish, hair spewed about.

                “I think I’m going crazy, Werkins.” He stared at a painting of his mother that had been there for years. He called me Werkins, even though my surname was just Werk. No one could call a butler Werk, after all. It had to have an ‘ins’ at the end.

“Yes, sir,” I placed the tea-tray down and put the plate of scones on his lap.

                “I dreamed I had tea with Peter Rabbit last night.”

                “That long-eared fellow in those children’s books, sir?”

                “Yes.” Sir looked at the scones suspiciously, as if they were an alien life form. Then he took a bite of one.

                “Well, sir, if it is any relief, I dream I’m having tea with Queen Victoria every third Saturday.”

                Sir reached for the tea and dribbled it on his scone. I was surprised. Sir was usually very clear-headed, straightforward, and sometimes could be quite droll. This was strange behavior for him. Besides, everyone has one strange dream every once in a while.

                “It’s not only that, Werkins.” Sir stood and the plate of scones crashed to the ground. “I felt an urge to measure the road yesterday.”

                “What, width-wise?” I scrambled to pick up the mess of scones.

                “No. Length-wise.”

                “Well, sir, someone has to do it I suppose. Sir? Where are you going?”

                Out the door he went and I heard a crash as he went down the stairs. Fearing for my patron’s health, I scurried after.

                His great-great-great-grandfather’s Milanese suit of armor was lying on the ground. Over three hundred years old, it had been worn in only the best parades. Sir’s ancestor had been knighted in it, and, when he couldn’t get the worrisome thing off, his ancestor even slept in it.

                I set it up on its pedestal and fixed the arms in their positions, then reached for the sword. Except—oh dear—the sword wasn’t there. I blinked and looked up at Sir’s figure, walking away in a nightgown.

                “Sir! Why are you taking that sword? Ancient thing, it is! You might hurt yourself!”

                “Never know if you might meet a Jabberwock on the road, Werkins,” Sir called back absent-mindedly.

                “Sir! Where are you going?” I dashed after him, coattails flapping.

                “To the Town Records, Werkins, to see if craziness is hereditary.”

                Now I was struck with a terrible choice; to go into the village and be seen with my master, or to stay and wait for him. My sense of self-esteem overrode my butler’s duty and I went upstairs to clean up the scones.

                He came back around noon. I heard him slam the door from upstairs.

                “Werkins! Werkins!”

                “Sir?” I came to the stair-rail.

                “Goodness me, man, I’m in my nightshirt! What kind of butler are you? You forgot to dress me before I left.”

                “Frankly, sir,” I descended the stairs as quickly as I could, “I didn’t have time.”

                “That is no excuse, Werkins! My word, when a man is afraid he is descending into insanity, he should at least have the comfort of a good butler to depend on! I believe I shall die of cold—run the bathwater.”

                I opened my mouth but shut it so instantly it gave me a sharp twinge in the teeth.

                “Yes, sir. Oh—and the sword, sir?”

                “Hmm? What sword?”

                “Your great-great-great-grandfather’s one. You took it, I believe, to fend off the, er, Jabberwock, sir.”

                “Oh no,” Sir collapsed into a chair and covered his eyes.

                “I’m sure I can find it, sir. I’ll search by the nearest Tum-tum tree, sir.”

                “Werkins—“ he waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Do you think I am going mad?”

                “I…I think there is the slightest possibility, sir.”

                “What should I do?”

                For once, I was lost for words. Though never exactly a talkative person, I always had an answer for Sir. But now, I stood there, wondering if I should obey his order to run the bath, or if I should try to answer the question intelligently.

                “Perhaps…perhaps you could have it looked at?”

                “Looked at?”

                “Your condition, sir. Perhaps have it looked at.”

                “You mean go to a doctor?”

                “A specialist, perhaps, sir.”

                He considered this for several moments. I stood still, looking ahead.

                “Yes, one of those psychiatrist chaps may just be what I need. Do you know if there is one in town?”

                “I think there is, sir, in Portsmouth. Quite a reputable one, sir, if what I hear is nearly correct.”

                “Then I shall go and see him,” my employer sprang up and headed for the door. “Call up a carriage.”

                “Sir!” I called.

He turned about. “Yes?”

                “Perhaps you should…um…dress, first?”

                “What? Oh…yes, thank you, Werkins.”

                “Just attempting to be a good butler, sir.”

 

                The motorcar took us to Portsmouth right after Sir had taken a good bath and, of course, gotten dressed. I rather hurried him out the door, as he nearly forgot to put his shoes on twice.

                The Portsmouthshire countryside trudged by like a slow nickelodeon showing—minus the old lady pounding on the piano. The driver was a skinny, mustachioed man who told us his name was Orace. He drove the motorcar about as well as a ferret on hashish.

                His first words to me were, “Sorry aboot that—that woman should nae ha’ been walking her cow on the side o’ the road, I ken.”

                “Yes, I’m sure she won’t think of doing it again. Not after that.”

                I watched Sir. He seemed to have a good deal of his sanity back, as he was watching the countryside slide by and humming himself a brisk tune.

                Two hours and several sideswiped pedestrians later we arrived in Portsmouth. Portsmouth is a splendid town to visit, if you avoid the slums and happen to have no nose. We went straightaway to the offices of Dr. Gollychops, Psychiatrist.

                I waited outside, as Dr. Gollychops would not let me into the practicing room with my employer. Sir was in that room for over an hour, and when he came out he had a set expression on his face.

                Gollychops came out after him. To say the doctor was portly would be a gross understatement. He was several ports put together, with a few large townships added in around the waist. His muttonchops were so greased they could be passed off for the real meat.

                “You are the Squire’s butler, then?” He eyed me over his half-moon glasses.

                “Yes, Doctor.”

                “You…you keep an eye on him, alright, chap?”

                “I always do, Doctor,” I replied, looking straight ahead.

                “Good. Look here, my man. He’s pretty far gone—you say this just came up? Well, I would say he needs something to distract him. Now—eh, where did he go?”

                The doctor and I rushed out of the practice building and scanned the street. Fear filled my heart. Sir might be going off the deep end, he might be mad as a loon, but he was my Sir and by King Edward, I was not going to let him go.

                Some children from Portsmouth’s gutters—and perhaps worse—had popped up, and, to my horror, one picked up a mud-clod from the ground and threw it at the Doctor.

                “Gollychops, Gollychops!” they chanted, tossing their missiles at the psychiatrist’s white waistcoat.

                I had an even greater shock when I realized that Sir was among them.

                “Gollychops, Gollychops!” he shouted, getting a bullseye right in the Doctor’s face.

                I braved the flying missiles and scattered the children with a wave of my hands. Then I whirled and caught Sir by his collar.

                “Oi! Leggo a’ me! I was just ‘avin’ a bit of a lark!”

                “Sir, get in the horseless carriage before the Doctor recovers!” I urged, shoving him into the backseat. The street children waved to us as we drove off. Dr. Gollychops said a word I will not write down.

                I made sure to chastise Sir as we left the city. “Sir, that was terrible behavior on your part, I must say.”

                “Good shot, though,” Orace added.

                “I think I see a Martian.” Sir shaded his hands against his forehead.

                “Yes, and further—what did you say?” I blinked and looked at him very closely.

                “Not a Martian itself, really. One of those tripod-thingummies. The ones with three legs.” He was gazing at a clump of trees off the side of the road.

                “Oh no…”

                “Those are dangerous things,” Orace put in.

                Despite these delusions, when we got back to the manor Sir was quite thoughtful and did not speak at all. Instead, he went in and sat by the fire, which, incidentally, wasn’t lit. Out of consideration I went in and put a few extra logs on and lit it so he would be warm.

                Then I went into the kitchen to fix Sir a luncheon. I made him and myself a sandwich according to The Gentleman’s Book of Sandwiches and even stuck a toothpick through it. This didn’t seem to cheer him—in fact, he ate the toothpick absentmindedly.

                I went into the kitchen to eat my lunch in peace. However, I was soon drawn back to the drawing room after hearing some strange sounds.

                Sir was sitting on his chair, the sandwich in his hand—but not anywhere near his mouth. In fact, it was up in the air, held out at arm’s length above the table. What was worse, Sir was making quiet rumbling noises in his throat.

                “Wkhhhhh hyah! Boom! Captain, lead a charge. What? No, lances! Yes, I want mustard with that. Where did that blasted artillery go?”

                When he was done he went back and sat by the fire, this time with his hand on his chin. I found myself wondering if he had actually found anything out at the town hall about madness in his ancestry.

                “Well, Werkins,” Sir said at last, “if I am, indeed going crazy—“

                I almost shouted, ‘If?’

                “—then I suppose I should enjoy life while I still have a good amount of sanity.”

                This sounded somewhat hopeful to me. However, it was too much to hope that Sir’s madness was gone.

                “Well, sir,” I twiddled my thumbs behind my back, “I think you have indeed been enjoying life, don’t you?”

                He threw his hands up in the air.

                “What? Reading books and being locked up indoors? What kind of a life is that? I’m going to go live!” He made a dash for the door.

                “What? Sir, what do you mean?” I spun after him.

                “I am going to go get—“ he took breath in and held it, raising his finger in a declaration of purpose, “—a sweetheart!”

                And with that, he put his hat on and ran out.

                “Wait, sir, your shoes!”

 

                Miss Havershertonvilleson was probably the most celebrated bachelorette in the village, being now of marrying age. Her previous sweetheart had just died in a walrus accident—and this was a good thing for Sir, who came up to her door with a bunch of tulips that day.

                Sir is by no means old, but on the opposite end he is by no means young. The fact that he had been for many years totally unable to grow any bit of facial hair perhaps made him look younger. Still, he was easily double Miss Havershertonvilleson’s age.

                But Sir, as I said, was also by no means of his right mind.

                I watched, sighing, as Sir walked up to the door and knocked. It had begun to rain, and Sir’s hat and his flowers were drooping.

                “Yes?” I heard the maid ask.

                “I would like to speak to the Young Miss,” Sir replied, turning out his toes.

                “I will…get her immediately,” the maid closed the door, a look of horror on her face.

                Sir turned around and gave me a thumbs up. A few minutes later, the door opened once more and a young girl looked up and frowned at Sir. I heard them speaking in low tones for some while, and then, to my amazement, they strode down the walk, hand-in-hand.

                “We’re going courting, Werkins,” Sir winked at me. “You may have the evening off.”

                My mouth dropped slowly, like a greasy drawbridge, as they went by.

                “I’m a pretty good shot with a mud-clod, you know,” he boasted as they walked off.

                I went back to the manor and made myself some tea. I would not go home, I would wait until he came back. I did not know what to think. I finally came to the conclusion that Sir was too far gone to be saved and decided that I would have to renounce my pledge as butler. After only a day of his madness, I was already supremely frazzled.

                I must have fallen asleep on the couch in the drawing room, because when I awoke Sir was shaking me. Nightfall had come.

                “Oh, Werkins, I have had the most fantastic time! Miss Havershertonvilleson is a delightful woman, and you know what? My madness has left me, I believe. The Martians are gone! The Jabberwocks have fled! The Cavalry has retreated! I am my own master. She completes me, Werkins, she really does. I shall ask her to marry me, soon.”

                “Really, sir?” I rubbed sleep out of my eyes. “And why does she complete you, do you think?”

                “Oh, I don’t know for sure, Werkins, but it may be because she is just about as mad as I am, ha ha!” he chuckled and bounced up and down on the seat.

                “Just…just as mad as you, sir?” I staggered under the weight of his words. I was becoming lightheaded.

                “Oh, yes, just about.”

                “And you will be asking her…to marry—you?”

                “Yes, yes I will! Ha ha! Now—say, what’s the matter, Werkins? You’ve gone all pale!”

                “I…” It was a butler’s duty. Stand beside the master, through thick and thin. Still, the thought of another day like today—doubled? Then again…perhaps having two lunatics, they would sort of cancel each other out? Butler’s duty, I reminded myself. Butler’s duty.

“It’s nothing, sir. I think…I think you should be getting to bed, sir. It’s very late.”

“What? Oh, yes. Thank you, Werkins. You are a very good butler, my man.”

                And the next morning he said he dreamed he chased the White Rabbit down and hung its pelt up on the wall.

                I, of course, had a wonderful teatime with Queen Victoria.

 

Author's Note

I think I've been reading too much Terry Pratchett...

Reviews

[Shanna (Renae)]

My sis, Something Obvious, told me that I had to read this. I sure am glad she did!

This is really good, I love your sense of humour. The one thing you could change is the part where the butler is fiddling with his buttons. From what I've read of butlers (in Wodehouse), they never fiddle with anything, let alone the buttons on their jackets.

I agree with my sis, you have to write a series of stories about the butler!

[Lauren Marie]

It was just as hilarious as the other ones!
Sir and Werkins are characters to be remembered!

[Crowley]

Jolly good read sir. The dialogue was very good and whats cool about this story is there are a couple of places you could end it with good effect in the case you needed a short short for a contest or to meet a word limit. You write very well, I would say keep up the good work but I see there are a few more posted so it appears that you have been working, an I should get busy reading. Peace.

[Kyari Hasutto]

"I think I've been reading too much Terry Pratchett... "

One can never read too much Terry Pratchett.

Bravo, my friend! This was a very entertaining read.

-Kyari

[dhoeweler]

Hey Scott,
Good story... Interesting reading about insanity from the outside in. It can be funny and entertaining. It can be many things, and all things at once. Good job.

[John Morris]

How can you ever read too much Pratchett?

Another funny write

:) Enjoyed it

[A. Rose]

This made me laugh the whole way through! I loved it, it was very lighthearted and easy to get into!

[Jimmy Greenie]

That is really funny and more than a little weird. I've the sequel and will read that soon, this was a really good read. well done

[Victoria Harlequin]

Wow, this is a really fantastic story. It was entertaining and it was .. hmm - vigorous.
I really enjoyed this [:

[Emily B]

amusing, fun and droll. . . a good combination for a story

[The handsome stranger]

I much enjoyed this particular story because of its applicability to everyday life. Though I must admit that I was under the impression that it would be a bit more of a helpful handbook for those who think think they are going mad. That would be a handbook of which I am in dire need as I feel that I may have a twinge of madness myself. Never the less, well done, this is a funny, well constructed story. I especially enjoyed the part about queen Victoria.... Spot on.