G

The funeral was a simple affair. Old Mr Fancourt had insisted on the
whole household being present, had issued each of the maids a black
cap, but the service was short, dismal, bleak. Everyone stood rather
awkwardly around the grave, family on the one side, servants on the
other, shivering slightly in the cold, autumnal air, which tugged
gently at their clothing. A few stray people from the local village
(drawn, Mr Fancourt supposed, more by curiosity than by respect for the
dead man) also gathered there, clustering together, a respectful few
feet from the main party.

The children kept fidgeting, and one of the footmen still retained a
hacking cough from the previous month's outbreak of illness, which
sounded incessantly throughout the reading. Mr Fancourt's daughter,
Emily, remained looking rather bemused.
('All of us at the funeral?' she had demanded, on her father's
suggestion the previous Saturday. 'For a servant? I know he was dear to
you father but surely even the death of a butler needn't require such a
fuss??' However, the old man had insisted, and this gloomy occasion had
been the subsequent compromise.)

Everyone, noticed Mr Fancourt, seemed most relieved when the last
handful of cold dust was thrown over the coffin, which hastily
disappeared into the ground.

Passing the kitchen garden on the way back to the house, his white
knuckles gripped tightly around his mottled cane, Mr Fancourt noticed
two threadlike whisps of smoke rising from behind the wall.
He stopped and listened. A loud gratified sigh was heard.
'First fag I've 'ad out here in ages' spoke the unseen offender. 'I was
always afraid that that pompous old fool of a butler'd come out and
catch me.'
'Aye, the bastard - he may 'ave been 'alf blind, deaf and ancient, but
'e could always smell a fag?'

Back in his room, Mr Fancourt eased himself into an armchair, and
rested his weary frame. Could it really be that Goodrich had been so
poorly regarded by his colleagues? That a butler, an esteemed butler,
who worked his life away for a household, could be of so little value,
hardly worth a funeral or a kind word? Mr Fancourt could remember the
day the man had first arrived in the household, a fresh-faced boy,
seven years his junior, with well-scrubbed boots and face, and a set
look of determination. No one but he could see this image, not his
daughter Emily, or son-in-law Charles, nor the children. They saw a key
figure in household organisation, a tight-lipped boot-polisher, or a
grim-faced old man who would not let them play in the kitchen
garden.

Old Mr Fancourt sighed, pulled out his pocket watch, and squinted at
the face, which glinted smugly in the warm light. Almost dinnertime.
But no one had come to dress him. Instinctively, the old man reached
out for the little bell beside him, which tinkled a high-pitched note,
like those only audible to dogs, bats - and well-trained butlers.
Within seconds, this should have him gliding silently into the room,
appearing at his master's side. The room remained empty. He rang again,
louder this time, until the sound of feet scurrying up the stairs could
be heard. A red-faced young-man, whom Mr Fancourt did not recognise,
entered the room: 'Forgive me, sir, if I am late' the boy spoke with
heavy accent of the local area, and his words had a rehearsed quality
about them, 'I will be dressing you this evening.'

Since the butler's death his daughter had helped him dress, but Mr
Fancourt nodded kindly, and stretched out his tired legs. The boy came
close to unpin his cravat, and the old man perceived little beads of
sweat shimmering on his forehead. His ears were pink, as if from
scrubbing, and his brow was furrowed with the concentration of his
tasks. A faint, bitter odour of sweat and smoke could be detected from
underneath the many-layered uniform. Goodrich had always been
odourless.
Mr Fancourt looked politely away while the boy dressed him, with
awkward, rather clumsy movements. Goodrich had always had a weightless
ease in his actions. Probably, the old man reflected, from many years
of experience. Dressing had always seemed almost an art form, as the
butler's skilled hands fastened, tucked, and straightened with measured
precision.

The new boy was having trouble with the fresh cravat. His tongue poked
out from between his teeth as his eyes fixed on the slippery pin. The
beads of sweat on his brow multiplied, the tips of his ears became
decidedly pinker, and Mr Fancourt was just wondering whether he should
say something, anything, even offer to do it himself when, thankfully,
the pin finally slipped into place.
'Thank you, my boy, that will be all', he said gently, and the young
man gratefully exited.
* * *

Coming slowly down the curling, carpeted stairway to dinner, old Mr
Fancourt was greeted by his daughter, who looked flustered.
'Oh Father, I am sorry, but I'm afraid dinner is late. Do you know, I
never realised how complicated coordinating this household is - you
really can't imagine!' She laughed shrilly, but the laugh did not quite
reach her nervous eyes. 'Now that we've lost that butler, I'm quite
frantic. There's a staff plan to be re-written, and in the meantime
it's just chaos: no toast at breakfast, no one's polished Charles'
shoes, the drawing room's quite filthy - Kitty has managed to leave her
toys simply everywhere. I'm at my wit's end I really am?'
Her father reached out to pat her shoulder consolingly. 'Not to worry,
my dear, I can -'
But the kind gesture was redundant; Emily's attention had long since
strayed from the old man, her thoughts flitting to the un-made beds,
the children's toys that littered the house, and now cook was playing
up. Such a terrifyingly surly woman! And so fascinatingly ugly! Emily
couldn't think how to deal with her?

Meanwhile, old Mr Fancourt had made his way into the drawing room and
glanced around. His eyes lit on what he wanted: the sherry decanter
winking at him from the little rosewood table Emily was so proud of.
Yes, a sherry was what was in order. He began to move towards the table
when his foot came into contact with something hard and metallic.
Stumbling, he clutched his cane wildly and, lurching, somehow managed
to stay upright. Breathing heavily, he manoeuvred himself into a chair,
and reached to pick up the culprit: a toy steam engine Kitty must have
dropped that afternoon. The point where its sharp corner had met his
shrunken leg throbbed dully. Where was that sherry? He rang the bell.
No answer. And a second time. It remained unanswered. Exasperated, he
reached for the decanter himself, raised it and had begun the motion of
pouring before he realised it was empty. The butler had always
organised the sherry and port.

This really was too much. Fancourt slumped back in his chair,
frustrated and weary from the excitement of his vexation. He had never
realised how much he had depended on Goodrich, how many times a day he
had unwittingly relied on his presence. Why, he could still remember
the days when the man had been but a footman. He was not Goodrich then,
of course, but John. Or was it Jack? It suddenly struck Fancourt how
little he had known of his servant. Had he been married? Surely not; a
man with as many responsibilities as he could not have had time for a
wife and family?
At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of one
of the maids in the doorway:
'Excuse me, sir, but there's a woman to see you.'
Mr Fancourt looked up quizzically.
'She's from the village, sir. Says its important.'
'Well, see her in, see her in', spoke the old man, startled. 'We
wouldn't want to keep the lady waiting.'

The 'lady' immediately entered, pushing past the maid and into space
before him. She wore a black mourning dress, but it was cheap, the
edges frayed, and the gentleman could detect a faint note of liquor
seeping from her. He supposed she could only have been in her late
thirties, but her face was slack, and weary. She wiped one coarse hand
over her drooping eyelids, her flushed visage, and opened her mouth to
speak.
'Forgive me, sir, for bursting in on you like this, but I've come about
my uncle James.'
James? Fancourt did not know anyone named James. He wished this woman
would leave. He suddenly felt tired and sullen, and longing for his
bed. He could think of nothing less appealing than talking to this
drunkard from the village.
'James Goodrich?' the woman tried again.
'Goodrich?' Fancourt said, at once looking at her properly. 'He was
your uncle?' A note of disbelief had crept into his voice, but the
woman did not seem to hear it.
'Yes, sir. I've got to say, sir, 'ow much I appreciated that funeral
this afternoon. It was really good of you, sir; I was touched. See,
Uncle James 'as been supporting me ever since my mother died when I was
a little girl. 'E's been sending me most of 'is pay for years now. I've
been relying on it. I always said to him, "Uncle James," I said, "you
should save it for yerself," I said. But 'e never would listen. I've
come to rely on 'im, yer see, so you can only imagine what a shock it
was to 'ear 'e'd died just like that, leaving 'is poor niece stranded
with no way to support 'erself?'
She trailed off, but seeing the old man's face still looking at her
questioningly, she licked her lips as if this would let the words
through more easily, and tried again:
'And so? well, I've not known what to do all week, so?and so I came
'ere, sir, to see if you were as kind a man as Uncle James always said
you?'
This time, it was her courage that ran out. It had taken the woman an
afternoon in the pub to work up the nerve to come here at all, and now,
when her flow of inspiration had dried up, and she looked at the old
man, seated in his chair, looking calmly at her, she felt herself
deflate.
Mr Fancourt, meanwhile, was inwardly torn. This woman needed money and
help. She was family to Goodrich, trusted Goodrich, and had appealed to
him, Fancourt, in an hour of need. And yet, the old man could only
imagine Emily's response if she found out he'd been handing out charity
to local women. He knew what she would say, knew that piercing look she
would give him, knew how she would regard a cheap, drunken woman who
came begging at their door. And how could he even know she was telling
the truth, this unknown person who stood before him. He had never heard
of her before. Why, Goodrich had never mentioned a niece. She could
just be some nobody, trying to take advantage of him. Fancourt puffed
out his chest. No, no one would take advantage of him. Besides,
wouldn't a real family member, who valued Goodrich highly, have spent
more on mourning clothes? Oh no, he wasn't to be fooled. He rang the
bell.

'I'm sorry for your loss' he said. 'The maid will show you out.'

* * *
That night, in his bedroom, he turned the incident over in his mind.
Had he been wrong not to help the woman, as a last gesture in
recognition of Goodrich's years of loyalty to his household? One could
never know with these situations, he concluded, as he clambered into
bed. The barefaced cheek of people these days really was astonishing.
And after all, it would never do to get too involved with the lives of
the lower ranks.
How he missed Goodrich. Goodrich had always seen off these importunate
visitors.