Stories and Articles

A Jeremiah come to judgement ...

by Ean Lawrence

It wasn’t a judgement as subtle as those submitted to Daniel, or as important as the one that Solomon famously delivered; as it involved a judgement of a class of beauty, it might be thought to have recalled something of the pickle that caused Paris so much trouble, though, in fairness to Jeremiah Molesworth, untainted by any charge of venality in his case.

The following are abridged extracts from transcriptions of the diary of Jeremiah. As poor Molesworth has passed over onto the side of the great majority, there is no likelihood that an injunction, whether of the ordinary or of the super kind, can be applied for and thus prevent the following from appearing in the Whistler (if the editor of that august organ, justly lauded for his perspicacity, doesn’t reject it, of course) or any other publication or outlet of repute. As to the identity of the source of the extracts, I’m honour bound not to reveal his or her name.

June 6th

The letter of invitation arrived in this morning’s post and seemed to offer nothing more unpleasant than the prospect of an agreeable weekend spent in the country being indulged by my father’s favourite sister, my Aunt Berta. I spent the rest of the day engaged in the most important of tasks: assembling my wardrobe for the impending visit. What one wears on these occasions is very important. (Despite all the nonsense talked about appearance, it is important: how one presents oneself to the world is a mark of one’s standing and one’s self-esteem; I condemn, without reservation, those people, especially the ones that should know better, who do not dress appropriately and decorously, yet with a certain fashionable élan.) The weekend would, no doubt, involve participation in those tiresome traditions that had been established over time: a gentle amble around the estate showering condescension on the poor and needy – in my opinion it should only be the deserving poor and needy who are the beneficiaries of such attention; sympathizing with those who are ill and infirm; a small soirée attended by guests carefully selected from among the local society to reflect Aunt Berta’s egalitarian principles (where these silly notions originated from is a complete mystery to the family); and, just as inescapable, the necessary corrective of church parade on Sunday morning. Anyone who’s sat on a pew of penitential hardness in a damp church whilst suffering from the after-effects of the night that precedes the morning after will know what a sobering effect such an experience has on both the body and the soul.

June 7th

I arrived at Molesworth station in good spirits having enjoyed an excellent luncheon in the train’s dining car. Waiting at the station was Butterworth, driving the old but well-polished shooting-brake. Butterworth, who serves Aunt Berta in a number of roles, is, at times, taciturn to the extent that many who do not know him well assume that he is a mute; there have been occasions when even I, who does know him well, entertained the possibility that he may actually have lost the power of speech: there would be days when the only responses he would make would be either shakes or nods of the head. But I like old Butterworth. Over the years, while visiting dear Aunt Berta, he has proved to be most discreet about my little indiscretions. Arriving at Wren House, the building (late Elizabethan with a repulsive Victorian excrescence) is bathed in a lambent, blue flame: the Wisteria has reached the full bloom of its horrible perfection.

Taking care not to expend more energy than was necessary, I went to the sitting room where my Aunt was waiting to greet me. The warmth of her welcome, taken in conjunction with the invitation, seemed to indicate that I had been rehabilitated and reinstated in my Aunt’s affections: it would appear that she had forgiven me the unfortunate escapade that had occurred on my last visit that had involved a shuttlecock, a fox’s brush and the portrait of our noble ancestor Sir Arbuthnot Molesworth, Bart., that hangs at the top of the grand staircase. I soon discovered, however, that I had not fully discharged the debt that I had incurred for that misdemeanour of the previous summer.

No sooner had I entered the sitting room than Aunt Berta informed me that she had arranged for me to act as the judge of a baby show that was to be held the following day as part of the village fête. My heart sank and my good mood disappeared in an instant. I flopped down on to the settee opposite my Aunt, my head in my hands. After a pause that seemed to last for several minutes but which actually only lasted a matter of a few seconds, I confessed to my Aunt that all babies looked alike to me, and that, therefore, I was disqualified from undertaking such an important role and should be excused such a signal honour. My Aunt pointed out to me that she had given her word, the fact had been advertised and it was too late for me to withdraw. Resigning myself to the fact that whatever argument I might make as to my unsuitability as a judge of such an event would prove to be unavailing, and that, therefore, opposition to my Aunt was pointless and imprudent, I consented, reluctantly, with a good many misgivings about the outcome of this ill-advised appointment. I began to wonder who could have put this ludicrous idea into my Aunt’s head; she was not someone who was naturally malicious, though she could be a trifle censorious at times.

June 8th

Having eaten a hearty breakfast – my Aunt had insisted that I was suitably fortified – I felt that I was playing out the role of a condemned man. Butterworth, who seemed to be delighting in my predicament, drove my Aunt and me to the village hall in the landau with the top down. It felt as if I was in a tumbrel. Yes, albeit a well-upholstered tumbrel but a tumbrel that was conveying me towards a fate that I would have sacrificed half my collection of Rupert Bear Annuals to have avoided.

I entered the hall and climbed up the steps to the platform – or should that be scaffold? In the state of mind in which I found myself, I was relieved to see that there wasn’t a guillotine on the stage, or a block; there was, however, a trapdoor on the far side of the stage, and I took particular care to avoid going anywhere near it.

And there before me, sat in the front row of seats, were fifteen mothers together with the matching number of rosy-cheeked babies, who, I have to say, behaved impeccably. At the sight of the assembled redoubtable matrons, my courage nearly failed me and I thought to bolt. But a look at my Aunt’s noble mien and I knew that I couldn’t let the family down and besmirch its honour or stain its escutcheon – they’re such a devil to get clean again – and bring down upon my head lasting opprobrium.

It was then that I saw my old school chum, Johnson, minor, at the back of the hall leaning against the jamb of the door that gave entry to the kitchen. He was sporting one of the broadest grins that I had ever seen him sport – and I’ve seen him sport some very broad grins in my time. It suddenly dawned on me that it had been Johnson, minor, who had put the idea of my judging the baby show into my Aunt’s head. In a flash I saw a way out of my difficulty and, at the same time, of getting even with Johnson, minor.

I cleared my throat and addressed the expectant mothers as follows: ‘You will agree with me, I think, that the babies are all little dears. I also think that you will agree with me that there is one baby here that is so much prettier than the others that it deserves to be placed in a class of its own. Now, in such a sensitive matter as this, I don’t think it would be fair to the other mothers if I were to announce publically the winner at this time.’ The mothers offered each other sympathetic smiles and nodded in acknowledgement of the judge’s obvious acumen and the sagacity of his words in expressing this thoughtful sentiment. Even I began to believe that I was acting in this way for their sakes and not my own.

‘If the mother who holds the winner in her arms – and she knows to whom I refer – will present herself and her winsome child at the house of Mr Johnson tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock, she will receive the award that she so justly deserves. Thank you so much.’

At these words, the grin of amusement on Johnson’s face narrowed and finally disappeared, contracted into a sphincter of anger as a shadow of foreboding fell across a countenance from which the colour was visibly draining. In the clamour that ensued, I left without a restraining hand coming to rest on my shoulder. I directed Butterworth to take me immediately to the station, and instructed him to have my luggage returned to me by the local carrier.

June 9th

I have heard, through communication with my Aunt, that there was quite a commotion outside Johnson’s house when fifteen fond mothers turned up to demand the prize that they thought they richly deserved. My Aunt placated the indignant mothers by inviting them all to Wren House and giving them a jolly fine tea. Johnson was most grateful for my Aunt’s intervention. There is no doubt in my mind that I have a lot of work to do to get back into my Aunt’s good books. But it was worth it just to see the look on Johnson’s face.