1. A BALL IS PLANNED

THE FANCY DRESS BALL (1)

“It used to be the case, Roger,“ said Sir Jeffrey Absinthe quietly to me one afternoon when he was clearly bored out of his mind with almost nothing to fill his empty hours and his copy of The Times thoroughly read, “that in the past those fortunate enough to live in a house like this one upon special occasions offered little treats to their less fortunate neighbours.”

“You mean the Mugginses and their ilk?” I asked. The Mugginses were a farming family with fields that bordered on the lands surrounding the Manor house, now occupied by Absinthe, his wife, daughters and their part time cook Dorothy.

“Now Peterson,” chided Sir Jeffrey, “one must have some standards and you know full well that if I were to draw a line in the tilled soil the boorish Muggins and his tribe would be well to the south of it!”

Sir Jeffrey had long had a love/hate relationship with Jack Muggins, especially during those weeks when what described as the filthiest tractor on God’s Earth filled the often pristine blue skies with smudgy black smoke.

“It would be churlish to leave them off the list,” I grinned, “remember where your toffee apples comes from!”

He snorted because the remembered only too well that every autumn Sophia Muggins, the farmer’s wife, brought a great tray of her delicious toffee apples to be enjoyed at the seasonal bonfire held on the back lawn of the manor grounds. And those toffee apples are truly special. I can testify to that, I who don’t normally favour sugary sweets.

“And your Christmas fudge,” I added.

“All right then!” he snorted, “we’ll do something special for the villagers to join us in song and dance! What, Roger, do you suggest?”

“A ball?” I said thoughtfully, “maybe a late summer dance, with musicians and fancy lights, maybe out on the front lawn, we could have quite a ball!”

“Not outdoors!” he insisted, “last time we held an event on the front lawn it took a whole season for the grass to recover! It’ll have to be in the main hall. And no musicians, I’m not made of money!”

“You’re the wealthiest man in the county!” I pointed out, “Middleshire would be all the poorer if you took your fortune to live elsewhere.”

He sniggered at that. “Have you any idea how much I have to pay in taxes every year?” he protested, “my fortune, as you put it, is being drained away fast as blinking!”

I chose to ignore that because I knew how it would end and anyway he wasn’t at all a reluctant contributor to the nation’s expenses.

“What about a summer dance?” I suggested. “An August ball? After all, the damned pandemic has locked most people into their homes since March and they’d appreciate something a bit on the light side after that.”

“Then I fear August might be a tad too soon,” he murmured, “and we’d have to insist on face coverings: you know, masks and the like.”

“Hold it outside on the back lawns and any damage to your precious grass won’t matter so much,” I pointed out, “because come November you’ll be setting fire to it with your annual bonfire.”

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbled, and with Sir Jeffrey Absinthe that always meant he’d agreed in principle, but was leaving the details to his staff to work out, and his staff consisted of a part time cook, Dorothy Pippins, a jolly woman who always added a couple of decades onto her age when she discussed it. It appealed to her to be looked on as an old crock when in truth she was far from being one.

Before I continue much further I’d best introduce myself. My name is Roger Peterson and I’m the journalist who broke the Tiffany scandal that brought down the government a few years back and led to the downfall of the them prime minister who exiled himself to an island in what is often described as a tropical paradise of an island before he was due to be arraigned before the courts. I’d been undercover, so to speak, dressed as Lady Plumptitude, which had completely ruined my street credibility. After then, and despite the absolute purity of my name, I was spurned by the press who delight in shooting the messenger if they didn’t like the message, and opted for early retirement.

Since then I have shared my time between my flat in London and Swanspottle Manor, where I was always welcome by Sir Jeffrey Absinthe, though during this dratted lockdown I’ve been at the latter address. My investigation into the Tiffany affair had turned out well for the Absinthe family and I like to think there there, at least, my efforts were appreciated.. But all that is in the past and should have no bearing on happier times.

True to form Sir Jeffrey sent a circular round every house in his corner of the village, including the oft-cursed Muggins farm. His corner of the village, by the way, included a couple of crescents and an avenue that had always been separate from the main thoroughfares of Swanspottle, being divided from it by the Middleshire Railway line and associated level crossing, which was often cursed by those in a hurry when its lights were on red.

Sir Jeffrey had either been persuaded by Dorothy or by his wife Cynthia, to hold a Fancy Dress Ball. I say persuaded by those ladies because he’d never have thought it up on his own. He was always one for an easy life, and dressing up in absurd costumes didn’t, in his eyes, constitute one of those!

Every house in the vicinity, or rather on the Manor side of the Railway Line, received a copy of the circular inviting one and all to join Sir Jeffrey on his back lawn for a summer fancy dress ball, admission by fancy dress only! He even financed the circular by talking the proprietor of the theatrical costumiers, Balls & Co, in Brumpton to advertise the existence of their more unusual costumes department in a font of his own design! He was fond of creating such silly things as brand new fonts, though many of them bore an uncanny similarity to those already in existence!

“So,” I said, holding my copy of his circular as the two of us sat in what he liked to call his library, with coffee, “fancy dress, is it?”

“Cynthia thought it was about time we gave the peasantry an outing,” he muttered, “now that they’re not still locked away from the virus in their little houses.”

“It’s been a long drag for them,” I pointed out, “they’ll love sorting out something ridiculous to parade before us in.”

“Who are you thinking of dressing up as?” I asked, teasing him, knowing that we’d be lucky if he even put an appearance at his own fancy dress ball.

He merely scowled at me, picked up his copy of The Times and pretended to read it.

“I think,” I murmured, “that I’ll come as a policeman. Plain clothes, of course, nothing ostentatious.”

“You can’t do that!” he spluttered, “that's not dressing up at all!”

“It would be if I was a lady detective,” I murmured, “with falsies and a really ferocious skirt!”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, “You wouldn’t,” he said, “surely not. Not after the Tiffany affair!”

© Peter Rogerson 17.07.20