The Sleeping Army Awakes

Part 23 Buttons Bows and Ruthers

Ruthers, Sir Gilbert's ancient valet, was pampering and preening his master. There was a stark contrast between Sir Gilbert and his manservant. Sir Gilbert was corpulent to the point of rotundity, prematurely greying, of only barely average height, and middle aged; whereas his family retainer was tall, thin, bald, and as gaunt and gnarled as a dried prune.

Ruthers was a being, who seemed to move like a preying mantis, with thin spindly hands darting here and there to perfect his master's jacket, still with remarkable dexterity for his age, picking single specks of dandruff from his shoulder and finally finishing it off with a brush.

"Oh really Ruthers! Do you have to fuss so?" Sir Gilbert complained, when for not the first time his aged servant's head came in between him and the pictures displayed in the air. "Fred it man! You're getting in the way of the vidstream!"

"A thousand pardons sir?" Ruthers asked. "Please forgive my old creaky bones. One is not as lithe as one once was."

"Just cease and desist you moron!" Sir Gilbert commanded, he had read that somewhere in a contract.

"Surely it not your wish that I leave you imperfect and therefore subject to ridicule?" Ruthers enquired. "You were such a smart little boy and we, I mean the servants hall, were all so proud of you in your pristine school uniform!"

"Ruthers! In case tht you hadn't noticed. I am no longer a little boy and I am only going down for Fredding breakfast!" Sir Gilbert mocked. "And if anyone ridicules me then they had better watch out!"

"If you'll pardon me making the observation sir?" Ruthers asked, "Your father was always of the opinion that one should always look one's best sir... whatever the circumstances."

"I'll thank you to leave my Governor out of this Ruthers." Sir Gilbert said. "I was told that he died in flagrante delicto with a sheep."

This salacious slur had been invented by the fertile, but malicious, imagination of none other than Ruthers himself. He had spread the rumour himself, because he felt it his duty to repay every unkindness from his employer, with one of at least equal viciousness.

"Your father was a person of diverse pleasures sir." Ruthers expanded, wishing to squeeze every possible gram of humiliation out from the conversation.

Ruthers stood to attention and put his hand on his heart as if saluting the King. "But he died dressed to the nines... in the finest silk pyjamas that Savile Row could provide. I remember them distinctly there was Gold Brocade all around the cuffs and collars. He lived life to the full."

There was more embroidery in the telling of the tale, than there had ever been in any garment that Sir Gilbert's father had ever worn.

"But they say that he died in the company of sheep!" Sir Gilbert stated.

"But it was a female sheep sir. Pedigree!" Ruthers informed him. Here Ruthers was alluding to Sir Gilbert's predilection for young men. "your father was exclusively interested in females!"

"But never the less pater had a sheep in his bedroom!" Sir Gilbert cried.

"He was probably just grooming the animal. If one may be permitted to remark so sir? She was just a casual relationsheep sir!" Ruthers offered further turning the screw. "Your mater was your father's main peccadillo."

"Pecca-what-o... is that a sheep too?" Sir Gilbert asked. "But mater didn't resemble a sheep!"

"At times she could be sheep-ish sir." Ruthers quipped. "But your Pater had good taste... the ewe in question was a pedigree beast, if only we still had such bloodstock now. She was a handsome specimen! Such luscious locks."

This in no way softened the blow to Sir Gilbert who by now was rather confused whether Ruthers was referring to his mother, the sheep or both.

"She was a Solwaybank Suffolk. The last of her kind!" Ruthers protested. "And she was manicured and prepared to the highest standards."

"Really my mother?" Sir Gilbert asked, wondering how wise it was to give Ruthers another opportunity to expand on his theme.

"No sir! The ewe! Her hooves were polished up to shine. Mutton... but not dressed as lamb." Ruthers gushed. "Unlike yourself... your father only liked really mature beasts." He let this sink in before adding. "And later on she tasted a treat!"

"Do you mean that you ate her after Pater had....'groomed' her and passed over?" Sir Gilbert asked. "That's disgusting!"

"Waste not! Want not sir!" Ruthers replied pragmatically. "The staff thought that..." Ruthers reduced his voice to a whisper, "it was as well to... remove all trace of the evidence, before the press arrived."

All of this was complete fiction but Ruthers had learned exactly how to push the right buttons to obtain the desired effect.

"Still!" Sir Gilbert said dubiously, breakfast had suddenly lost its appeal.

"But Sir! The animal was thoroughly cleaned first," Ruthers advised, continuing the fiction, "and you partook of the flesh yourself! In fact we all ate her... for days."

"I did?" Sir Gilbert asked incredulously. "that is the most disturbing thing that I have ever heard!"

"You even remarked that it was the finest Shepard's pie that you had ever tasted!" Ruthers continued, tightening the noose maliciously. It amused the old man to torture his employer. It was only a small retribution for years and years of calculated hurts and slights and being so close to death anyway, it had made him braver and braver.

"Oh my Fred if I had only known!" Sir Gilbert said bitterly. "You are really turning my stomach. Remind me never to eat lamb again. Not another word about this Ruthers or you will pay a heavy price."

"Indeed sir!" Ruthers replied, "I will not let another syllable past my old and cracked lips."