Greater Expectations (6 page)

It must have been a full fifteen minutes later when I was lying on my bed and flicking through a magazine when I heard that “clunk” again. This time it was followed by the patter of bare feet scurrying rapidly along the hall in the direction of the bathroom.

Ah, the delights of having an en suite.

Maybe it’s my vindictive nature or maybe it was a festering desire for revenge on Richie for trying to embarrass me in front of her Ladyship. Who was I kidding? He had totally embarrassed me in front of her. Maybe I resented his inviting himself and actually being here with me. So many maybes. All I know is that this is a golden opportunity that I could not resist and one that I was going to have some fun with.

As stealthily as I could manage, I scampered from my room and entered his. The room opened out to my left with the bed as the centrepiece. On the wall that housed the door, there were built in closets with slat finish, with just enough of a gap between to see through. I secreted myself within the unit immediately beside the door and left a gap of around three inches. My greatest challenge from then on was fighting to stifle my laugh. Behaving like a child and thoroughly enjoying myself, I wondered if this was simply my own immaturity or if this kind of prank ever gets old?

It wasn’t long before Richie’s feet came racing along the corridor and into the room and, once again, as soon as the door was fully closed, he locked it. Although he wasn’t yet in my line of vision, I heard everything, including the now familiar “clunk”. As he came into view he was walking around the bottom of the bed and over towards the window. Then I witnessed the most peculiar sight, he actually started
talking
to himself.

Oh my good God!

“Right Richie, okay, that’s you in for the night. The door’s locked.”
He cast his eyes back towards the door, pointing at it and checking it was still locked.
“Yes, the door is definitely locked. You are one storey up.”
He was at the long velvet curtains now. He pulled one of them back and peered out into the darkness.
“I’m glad I’m not out there tonight. You can’t see the hand in front of your face out there. No, this is perfect. There are no drainpipes for anyone to climb up.”
This seemed more of a question to himself as he looked around the edge of the window frame.
“No, no drainpipes Richie old boy and, anyway, your window is locked. If they want to come in this way, they will need to break the window.”
He walked away from the window and back around the bottom of the bed. He continued,
“If they break the window, think of the noise. That would have Z in here in a second. He would surely hear it and that wee door is nothing for the big man. No, he’d smash that no problem.”
He walked in front of the slat cupboards.
“No worries Richie, you’ll be fin…”

This was my moment. I threw my hand out through the gap and caught the top of his arm, at the same time I screamed
“RICHIE!”
in my very best Vincent Price voice. His eyes were the size of saucers, with the full whites visible around his pupils. Falling backwards, over the bottom corner of the bed, his arms and legs were flailing about in as wide circles as he could muster. I really have never seen eyes that wide. Whatever he was saying was altogether lost within the strange, high-pitched whine that he was emitting.

I simply collapsed inside the cupboard. I ended up with actual physical pain from laughing. His fear gave way for bravado and his threats followed me as I left his room, “I will get you back, you bastard. Mark my words, I will get you back. You see if I don’t. If it’s the last thing I do, I will get you back...”

They were empty threats. Even at that moment, we both knew that nothing he could do to me would ever surpass this.

10

The Lady And The Tramp

Wednesday 14th January

A quiet word after breakfast on the Tuesday morning was all that was needed to let Richie know that this was not a conventional “lads weekend” for me and that all I had been after was some alone time away. In fairness, he took this better than expected. He quickly forgave my prank and even apologised for his uncouth “toilet” gag, he obviously recognised that he had embarrassed himself with this. He is a decent enough lad who seems to have learned a lot during our short time away. Evidently one thing he had certainly learned how to enjoy was the long walks down through the glens and appreciate the tranquillity that it brings. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed his company and found that I now actually cared that he had a good time.

It’s not until you have that level of enforced intimacy do you truly realise what a person is really like. Richie is actually a good guy who is just too eager to please. He is caught up in that “career” idea where he believes that kissing ass is the only way to scale the ladder. I gently pointed out that, with our agency being so small, this strategy doesn’t actually help one way or another as by reporting directly to the owners, he has already topped out. All kissing ass did was to make the drivers wary of him and so ensure that he is deemed untrustworthy in our eyes. It was a harsh truth that visibly shocked him, being told so bluntly, and I know that the past few days have given him time to reflect and contemplate his own path.

In some way this trip must have been fate for him too.

This being our last night, we had each excused ourselves and retired to our rooms rather sharply after dinner. Thankfully, Richie had garnered some courage and now seemed far more comfortable in his new surroundings. Although, that said, there was still the familiar “clunk” from his locking the room door, now both upon entry and exit. That key went everywhere with him, a valuable lesson learned methinks.

Unless, of course, he was using it as a crutch for his crotch.

It was after 9pm and I was thoroughly engrossed in my reading when my phone began to rapidly vibrate, dancing wildly on top of the solid wood bedside table. It would be an untruth to say it hadn’t spooked me somewhat. In all honesty, it scared the crap out of me. I grabbed it but managed to contain my instinct to throw it against the wall. Failing miserably in my efforts at composing myself, my heart pounding in my ears, I saw it was a text from a number that was not in my contacts nor did I recognise.

“Z, it’s Penny. Would you care to join me for a nightcap in the Drawing Room? I have a nice single malt that would be wasted without good company.”

The very fact that there was no mention of Richie was not lost on me. I knew she had my number from my booking but there was no way she had Richie’s, and so he could only be extended the invite through me. It made the request all the more intriguing. She considered me
“good company”
? I was undeniably flattered and found myself feeling like an errant boy at boarding school, sneaking around in the dead of night trying not to be caught. It took a full five minutes to tip toe in the darkness from my room and down the main staircase. It wasn’t until I saw the faint lights from under the Drawing Room door did I dare to stride out as normal with all the confidence I could summon. Well when I say stride, it was more akin to scurrying.

This really was a creepy old house.

My heart was still pounding in my ears as I rather deftly opened the door and stepped inside. Peering deep into the abyss towards the source of light, a soft voice calls back at me. “Ah, there you are. I thought I must have had the wrong number or, worse still, you were simply going to ignore me.” There must have been over a hundred eyes in that room yet, against all the odds, mine successfully managed to find the only other live pair. Penny was sat in an ornate leather chair next to the fireplace with what could only be presumed to be all of her ancestors staring at us from every wall. From what I could tell, there did not seem to be too many looks of approval at my being here. Although there was only the two of us, it felt like I was a gladiator ready to enter the arena, into the throes of a hostile crowd. My hand seemed glued to the door handle as I stood rigidly beside it, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

“I do like your T-shirt” Penny continued, the Empress completely at ease in her surroundings and utterly oblivious to my own torment.

In my haste, I had thrown on the first clean shirt I could put my hand on. It was a personalised “Superman” T-shirt where I had taken the liberty of replacing the “S” with a “Z”. Hardly mature but it appealed to my sense of humour and yet I felt quite childish about it now. Try as I might, all words had abandoned me and I was simply unable of either saying thanks or trying to explain. Sensing my unease, Penny quickly moved on and with a disarming smile asked, “Are you going to just stand there? Dare I suggest that you may be more comfortable if you were to take a seat?” She gestured towards the matching chair to hers on the opposite side of the hearth.

“Certainly…, of course.” The words spluttered out as I wandered through the sea of chairs that were strewn around but, on reflection, were in some semblance of order. As I got closer I could see that there was a small table beside each of our respective chairs. On her side sat the promised bottle of single malt which was already missing a quarter of its contents. It was only as I moved towards my proposed chair that I saw the full glass that was to be mine. She already had an equally generous measure in her other hand that had been obscured to me until now.

“I took the liberty of adding only two cubes of ice. You see, this is the oldest and, in my humble opinion, finest single malt whisky the Oban distillery has ever produced. Thankfully, we were quite fortunate enough to secure a case from only 6000 bottles. My dear old father would spin in his grave if it were to be wasted with over-dilution. Please, try it.” She sat back and took a sip from her own glass yet her eyes never left me.

I sat and raised the weighty glass to my nose. It seemed that the delicious aroma was immediately demanding the attention of all my senses. It generated such a feeling of warmth and comfort that I was all but lost for a moment, desperately trying to enjoy the solace that it provided. All too soon I was drawn back to reality and, realising that my eyes are closed, silently chided myself for being so rude. Taking a sip, I allowed the cold liquid to trace across my tongue and breach my throat, inhaling deeply thereafter. It slowly meandered down into my chest yet it was my head that was enjoying its rather pleasant effects. My eyes were still closed. Selfishly, I want to savour the moment for as long as I can although time seems to be standing still.

Is this what Brigadoon is like?

“The look of pleasure on your face is exactly why I extended the invite to only you Z. You see, young Richie would have no such appreciation for a single malt of this quality.”

Until that very moment, I was completely ignorant to the idea that
I
had such an appreciation for a single malt. No clue at all. I just knew that whatever this was, I adored it. This is what it must be like to be one of
them
. One of the aristocracy. One of the gentry. If this
is
Brigadoon, then I want to stay forever. My eyes were open now and all my focus and attention fell directly upon her, trying to understand who and what she was. Why did it matter? No reason I suppose, just curious.

“So, you are a truck driver? You don’t give that impression, if you don’t mind me saying?” She knew I didn’t mind. How could I be offended in these circumstances? It occurs to me that rarely have I ever met anyone with such a smooth tone of voice, it is most calming.

I relaxed back into my seat and replied, “The obvious question from that would be ‘what impression did I give you?’ Although that would be a bit of a cop out. Although, being completely honest, I really didn’t think for a single second that I would ever have made any impression upon you at all.”

I truly didn’t.

“Why would you think that?” She was deflecting as she took another sip, her eyes never leaving mine, watching me intently over the rim of the glass. It was apparent that she was toying with me although I was completely confused as to whether I was enjoying it or not.

“Well…” I cast my hand around the room “…you have all this. You are from all this, and I am a mere truck driver.” A
“mere”
truck driver? I am not a
“mere”
anything.

Why did I say that?

“I never figured you as a slave to stereotypes.” As she said this, she broke eye contact for the first time. The fire now the object of her gaze, she looked sad and seemed quite offended. “You obviously don’t see me as a person. Rather, you see a title and a social standing.” She paused for a second, then drew her eyes back from the fire and onto me. When she continued, she spoke very slowly and deliberately, carefully selecting each of her words. “It's easy to make the assumption that I live in some sort of kaleidoscopic utopia whereupon I am protected by my status, safely ensconced within the social elite from any and all pain and suffering that befalls those below us. I am one of
them
, one of the aristocracy, one of those who are perceived as above the law and who live completely carefree and immune to pain.”

She seemed more exasperated than angry and I thought her little tirade was over and so sat in chided silence, thinking of how to appease the situation. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought this speech was rehearsed. Whilst I was lost in my own thoughts, she continued.

“Growing or, at the very least, preserving our wealth is viewed as our primary function. Obviously, being publicly seen to be enjoying it too with our equally elite friends is hugely important. We are expected to marry for the preservation of such status and expand our wealth for future generations rather than for love. The stiff upper lip brigade, where familial duty and honour ranks above the personal desires or aspirations of the individual.” She sat forward in her chair to face me.

“That is what you see, is it not?”

There was genuine hurt in her eyes and yet I somehow felt responsible, as if it were my fault. Not for a single second had I considered what my thoughts were of her, either as a person or as a title. In my defence, there had been no reason for me to consider this either way. Yet it quickly struck me that every one of her assertions, in relation to me, had been correct. I had been fighting against my own stereotype for so long that my own perception of others had been lost, only for Penny to prove that I was ignorant enough to utilise those very stereotypes as a blanket categorisation of others. It was easy to recognise that my own behaviour had altered when in her company due to the very stereotype that she has just described, yet why should it? There was no denying that I had become altogether reverential rather than just being myself.

As such, I had demeaned us both.

Ordinarily, I would have made my excuses and gone to bed with a harsh lesson learned, safe in the knowledge that I would never see nor hear from her ever again. However, tonight was different. Tonight it seemed like she wanted more from me, although I had absolutely no idea what.

I was completely intrigued.

Taking her silence as my opportunity, I attempted to explain. “Yes, your assertion is absolutely correct and, for that, I can only apologise. I fully understand and recognise your obviously deep discomfort with a stereotype, having fought against such stereotypical attitudes my entire life. Although it is true that I am a truck driver, it is not
merely
so. I was wrong to describe myself as such. I should also mention that I have multiple degrees in law.”

“Multiple” sounded better than “two” and I hoped that this would leave her suitably impressed. It was my turn to gaze intently at her, searching for any sort of a reaction. Thankfully her face betrayed her and I was determined to take full advantage. “You look surprised? It would seem that we are both guilty of preconceived ideas. Obviously the stereotype works both ways.” It proved impossible to not sound smug and so, admittedly, this was not my finest moment.

Yet, rather than take offence, Penny let out a chuckle, “Touché” she said and raised her glass towards me in acknowledgement and then took a drink. I reciprocated her toast.

“Let’s start over. Why law?”

It was a relief to be able to converse on a subject that was actually in my comfort zone. “To me, the law is absolutely fascinating and I adore how it protects all of us in its spirit and application, especially when it is utilised properly and, more importantly, to provide actual justice. For example, a moment ago, you mentioned that I was a ‘slave’. That reminds me of the great case of
Knight v. Wedderburn
in the 1700’s. The basic facts were that a Scots plantation owner brought his manservant slave back with him to the UK from Jamaica. At some point thereafter, the slave, Joseph Knight, sued his master for his freedom. As slavery did not exist under Scots law, the court had no option but to find in his favour. As such, Mr Knight became a free man. This case perfectly encapsulates why I love the law.”

The fire crackled and spat sparks around the grate and momentarily drew my attention. Then it occurred me that my thoughtlessness has struck again and that this was not my best example, given that this was a case where the aristocrat was screwed over.
Fuck
. Thankfully, she never mentioned anything about it and moved on. “So the obvious question would be why are you driving trucks with such a high standard of education?”