Fred and Chris

Fred stood, gazing out of his bedroom window. His tie slung loosely round his neck, his shirt half unbuttoned and untucked. His hands resting lazily in his trouser pockets, his expression vacant.

His friend and companion, Chris, lounged, still in his favourite striped pyjamas, in an armchair, his legs cast over one side. He leafed through the morning newspapers; focusing mainly the sport sections while stopping now and again to fill in crosswords and suduku puzzles. Soon bored with brainteasers, he began to doze in his chair. Fred glanced around at him, silently shook his head and smiled.

The peaceful scene was soon destroyed by the entrance of Lord Arthur, Fred’s father, who was followed by Tony, Fred’s personal attendant.

“Morning, boys,” Lord Arthur bellowed so loudly poor Chris started out of his sleep so violently he fell off his armchair. Lord Arthur frowned at him.

“I say, Chris old fellow, put some decent clothes on, will you. It’s too late in the morning for a chap to be half undressed.”

Chris was touched by Lord Arthur’s concern for his safety after landing quite heavily on the floor. He stuck his tongue out at Lord Arthur, crawled across the floor and into his own room, courteously slamming the door behind him.

“Stupid boy,” grumbled Lord Arthur, frowning again. Fred finally turned away from the window and walked over to the mirror to fix his tie.

“What is it, Dad?” he asked, smoothing down his collar. His dad very rarely visited his room. On the rare occasions in the past it was to address him on very important, private, personal matters, such as reminding him to shave or brush his teeth. Other times it was to tell him and Chris to stop making too much noise while they re-enacted the battle of Waterloo or Agincourt, and for goodness sake, stop jumping on the bed.

“Well, Fred,” his father began, sitting down in Chris’ vacant armchair while Tony made the bed, “it’s my annual garden party this afternoon and I want you and Christopher on your best behaviour. No frightening Lady Catherine or playing silly jokes on your cousin Noel, do you hear?”

Fred couldn’t help laughing as he tucked his shirt into his trousers. Trust Dad to spoil their fun.

“Frederick?”

“All right, Dad, I’ll promise not to let Chris tell Lady Catherine stories about the haunted ballroom or put a ‘Kick Me’ sticker on Cousin Noel’s back. Satisfied?”

“No,” replied Lord Arthur, rather gruffly, “I know that Christopher will get up to something foolish, no matter what you promise. Seriously a man of his age.”

Chris was twenty eight, same age as Fred. They’d met at Oxford, while Fred had been studying History and Chris, English Literature, and had been inseparable ever since. They were complete opposites. Fred was dark haired; Chris was fair. Fred was sensible, most of the time; Chris had never grown up. Fred was reserved; Chris, a loud, outgoing, dramatic fool.

Fred was tall, muscular and tanned from annual holidays to the Caribbean on his father’s yacht. He was incredibly handsome with high sweeping cheekbones, a firm, square jaw, piercing blue eyes and thick brown hair. He was always polite, kind and sincere, a real gentleman. He was, however, shy and modest. No, he’d said to Chris umpteen times, he wasn’t England’s hottest guy, because frankly he always felt the cold. When it came to socialising with the younger members of the opposite sex, it was a case of ‘the floor has never been so interesting’ or ‘excuse me I need to go to the bathroom’.

Chris was slightly shorter than Fred, but stocky with broad shoulders. He was also relatively good looking, apart from his crooked nose, the result of being broken three times during rugby matches and late night drunken brawls. He was exuberant and funny, sometimes even a little bit crazy. But he was caring and considerate. He looked on Fred as a younger brother who needed looking after. Wherever Fred went, Chris followed. Now and again, Chris would lead Fred astray in such pranks as mentioned above, but always in the good cause of having a harmless laugh.

Fred secured his cuffs and surveyed himself in the mirror. A £700 suit was definitely not too casual for one of his father’s garden parties.

“By the way,” continued Lord Arthur, a smile spreading across his face as Chris re-entered the room, “Lady Philomena and her daughter are coming this afternoon. They should help keep you two in line.”

With that bombshell, he left the room, chuckling to himself. Fred groaned and sank down onto the newly made bed, much to Tony’s annoyance. Lady Philomena’s twenty three year old daughter, Lucybelle, was infatuated with him, but he couldn’t stand the sight of her. She was always following him around like a lost zombie, trying to hold his hand or sit on his knee. Chris turned to Tony.

“Tony, find me some cyanide please, so I can put myself out of my misery before it starts.” While Lucybelle was infatuated with Fred, her mother, Lady Philomena was obsessed with Chris, which was worse as she was twenty five years his senior.

“Ah,” soothed Tony, in his strong Spanish accent, “It can’t be that bad.”

“No,” replied Chris, “It’s worse. Look Fred, can’t we skip this outdoor fiasco?”

Fred shook his head,

“You know what Dad’s like. If we’re not there we’ll be ‘roasted alive’ as he says. Besides my cousin Lizzie’s coming and I haven’t seen her for years.”

Chris frowned.

“Fine, I’ll dress up as Santa Claus for the afternoon.”

“In the middle of July, when it’s 28 degrees outside, Chris?” asked Tony, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, then Lady Philomena will definitely find me hotter than usual!”

By three o’clock that afternoon the Ashwood Manor was a hive, buzzing with stylish and important people. Waiters, smart in their white and black uniforms, glided smoothly in and out of the throng, balancing silver trays of champagne and cucumber sandwiches on their fingertips. Lord Arthur strolled up and down, shaking hands, patting backs and laughing till he was red in the face. Fred and his cousin, Lizzie, paced the terrace, arm in arm, remembering old times when they’d played together as children in those very gardens. Cousin Noel was eagerly listening to Teddy Firth, England’s top cricketer, give an account of their latest victory over India. In the summer house, Lady Catherine was having tea with Oscar winning actor, Laurence Taylor, while Sir Harry Davis, former singer and heart throb of the 1970s, helped Tony mix cocktails at the bar set up the terrace.

Chris had been politely listening to Lady Margaret lamenting on how after a year and a half of dieting she still couldn’t fit into a size 14, while she nibbled through a plate of cream cakes, when he caught sight of Lady Philomena heading his way. He begged his excuses to Lady Margaret and fled. Fred saw him dive under a table and disappear from sight. Fred rolled his eyes and shook his head.

For the next twenty minutes, Chris discreetly crawled from under one table to another, gradually getting nearer to the shelter of the house. Dodging knees and swinging feet, he finally emerged next to Tony at the bar. He dusted off his knees, straightened his disturbed tie, and walked into the drawing room and straight into…

“Oh, Christopher!” exclaimed Lady Philomena. “Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“Ah, Lady Philomena, what a pleasant surprise. And how beautiful you look.” Why, oh why had he left the safety of the underworld?

“Well, you know Chris, I always try my best for you.” She leered at him, displaying her crooked teeth set behind a pair of bright red painted lips. Chris gritted his teeth and grimaced back, “Er her, er yes, well…”

“Oh, listen. The band have just started playing a waltz,” she commented, walking back out onto the terrace, pulling Chris with her. “Oh Chris,” she turned to him, fluttering her eyelashes at him, “You must do me the honour of dancing a waltz with me.”

Fred had been enjoying himself. Lucybelle had been keeping her distance thankfully and he was now talking to Cousin Noel. He glanced round at the terrace and almost choked on his champagne. Chris was waltzing, with Lady Philomena! A penguin dancing with a whale. Fred could see Chris’ pained face and forced smile as Lady Philomena tightly squeezed his hand and shoulder. Chris caught sight of Fred laughing and scowled at him. Poor Chris.

He tuned back into what Noel was telling him about the flower show he’d been to the previous week. He wasn’t really interested but listened politely. Elsewhere he could see his cousin Lizzie dancing with Teddy Firth; Sir Harry was joking with a group of politicians; his father was telling Laurence Taylor the family history; Tony was surrounded by a party of young richly dressed ladies; Lady Margaret was tucking into a chocolate gateau while her husband, Sir Sebastian made eyes at Lady Catherine’s niece across the table; police commander-in-chief Stewart Redgrave and his wife admired the 18^th century fountain in the centre of the garden; and there was Lucybelle, walking, straight towards him and Cousin Noel!

“Hello, Fred.”

She stood quite close to him, grinning, her face bright red.

“Oh, hello.”

Fred quickly stood up just in case she tried to sit on his knee. He remembered his cousin sitting next to him. He took a deep breath.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my cousin. Lucybelle, this is Noel. Noel, Lady Philomena’s daughter, Lucybelle.”

Noel rose and bowed.

“It is a delight to meet you. May I offer you a chair?”

Lucybelle beamed. It was the politest and most attention she’d received all afternoon. Noel immediately engaged her in conversation, allowing Fred to slip away unnoticed.

He observed his cousin and Lucybelle from the safety of the weeping willow, and laughed to himself. What a perfect couple they made. He sat down on the grass, concealed from view. This was an old refuge. Chris soon joined him, flinging himself on the ground. He was out of breath.

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing much more Lady Philomena anymore,” he remarked, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. Fred looked down at him curiously.

“Why not?”

“I have just informed her that I am soon to be married.”

Fred laughed.

“What?”

“You heard.”

“And who are you supposed to be marrying?”

“Your cousin, Lizzie. I’ve just met her and think she’s absolutely fandabedosy.”

“What will Lady P do when she finds out the truth?”

“Ask to be invited to the wedding, I suppose.”

Fred shook his head.

“I fully intend to engage Miss Lizzie’s affections and marry her.”

“I thought you were ‘a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so’?”

“I was until I met Lizzie.”

“Is this just a ploy to permanently get rid of Lady P?”

“Marriage is no joke, Fred.”

“You can’t be serious. Lizzie, I know very well, is basically engaged to Lord Jefferson’s son, Simon.”

“There you’ve done it, you’ve broken my heart. I shall never be able to lead a normal life now,” he lamented, far too dramatically.

“Did Lady P actually believe you?”

“Every word. She stormed off in a huff, to cry on Lucybelle’s shoulder. Who by the way, I perceive is actually besotted with your beloved cousin, Noel.”

“Yes, I hope it’s not too serious though. I don’t think I’d want her as a permanent addition to the family. Lady Philomena for that matter, either.”

“Hey, look. Mr Rashdi is taking a romantic stroll with Lady Christine’s daughter.” They peeked through the drooping branches and saw the couple head away from the party, into the growing night. Chris rubbed his hands together.

“I smell some fun.”

Fred put a restraining hand on Chris’ shoulder.

“I promised Dad to keep you out of trouble.”

“Ah, Fred you’re no fun.”

“Yes I am, but not now. You have to remember your age, position and responsibilities. So no mischief, or I’ll tell Lady Philomena that you’ve been telling lies.”

It was late when the majority of the guests began to leave. Lady Philomena had to drag her daughter away from Noel, who dearly hoped they would meet again soon. Lord Arthur, again, shook hands and slapped backs again, while Fred and Chris escorted many of the ladies to their cars.

Chris slumped down onto the sofa, kicking his shoes off. Fred strolled into the room yawning, soon followed by his father.

“Well, I think that went splendidly,” remarked Lord Arthur, loosening his collar, “No mishaps and everyone was quite complimentary. Must do it more often.”

“Once a year is quite enough for me.”

“No one is concerned with your opinions, Christopher,” Lord Arthur said, dismissively. “And what’s this I hear from Lady Philomena? You’re getting married? Am I finally going to get rid of you?”

“Nothing quite so splendid, Dad. He made it up.”

“I did not!” objected Chris. “I have found the woman of my dreams and I am going to marry her.”

Fred sat down.

“She wont have you. She has some sense.”

“Who? Who is the unfortunate lady?”

“What is this, slap Chris day? Any woman fortunate enough to interest me as far as marriage would be extremely lucky, I tell you.”

“Well, who are you fantasising about?”

“Cousin Lizzie, Dad.”

“Ha! Well I wish you luck, my boy. Lizzie is engaged to Simon Jefferson, a far superior young man.”

“Humph. A far superior prig of a man. He’s a politician, gets spray tans and plays cricket, how can any woman get excited about that?”

“No, I imagine unemployed, troublesome, immature ninnies are much more suitable for a lady like Lizzie.”

“Yes,” Chris replied, simply.

“Who’s an immature ninny?”

Noel entered the room, a plate of food perched on the palm of his hand.

“Who let him in,” Lord Arthur grumbled under his breath. “Noel, my boy. Did you enjoy yourself this afternoon?”

“Oh incredibly so, Uncle. Such charming, well informed people, and the ladies, especially Lucybelle.” Chris pretended to gag. “Tell me, Uncle have you seen such grace and elegance in a woman?”

Lord Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No, I don’t think I have,” he lied.

“I am quite bewitched by her, you know,” Noel continued enthusiastically, in between mouthfuls, “I said as much to her. I said, ‘Lucybelle, you are a flamingo among ducks’. She was quite flattered by that.”

Fred tried his best to stifle the laughter rippling through him. Lord Arthur, not for the first time, could not believe this bumpkin was a blood relative.

“I’m sure she was, my boy.”

“It was quite poetic, wasn’t it?” Noel enthused, licking his lips.

“Yes, it was Noel. Even Keats and Wordsworth would have been impressed,” said Chris, dryly.

Noel shrugged, bashfully.

“Well, you know. Spur of the moment…... Cream slice?”

“You’re not serious about Lizzie, are you?” Fred asked, as they walked upstairs just before midnight.

“Yes.”

“But you hardly know her.”

“When you meet her, you know, old fellow. Just like that,” Chris explained, clicking his fingers.

“What if she isn’t interested?”

“Then I’ll make her interested. My dear boy, that’s the fun of wooing a girl. If it’s too easy, then there’s no game, no fun.”

“You make it sound like a sport.”

“It is. Best sport there is.”

“Only if you win.”

“True.”

“You have a strategy?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why, Fred, I’m hurt. Why shouldn’t I fall for a girl like Lizzie? She’s clever, witty and attractive, and no doubt has a kind heart.”

“She’s engaged to be married, that‘s why.”

“Well, I shall to show her what a big mistake she’s making.”

They reached Fred’s room.

“If you cause any trouble or upset her in any way I shall knock ten bells out of you.”

“That wont be necessary. True love conquers all, even pathetic creatures called Simon Jefferson.”

Fred shook his head and left his friend on the landing.

“Goodnight, Chris.”

Chris couldn’t be serious. He most certainly must have drunk too much. By the time he woke in the morning, Chris would not have the slightest recollection of who Lizzie was.