"Your sister," sneered Miriam Golddieb, "has invited herself for Christmas." She peered down her nose at her husband, who was reading his newspaper. "Are you listening Martin?"
Martin folded his paper carefully, keeping the rustling to a minimum and his face impassive. He was well aware that in this mood his wife could – and would – take just about anything the wrong way.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said. His voice was calm and low, which is how he always addressed his wife. "I think we should tell her that we'll be indisposed at Christmas."
"Well of course we will be! How could you think otherwise? It's Christmas, and there will be people arriving expecting to be entertained, Martin, and who will entertain them? Not your sister, that's for absolutely certain! She's only entertained things that paid for it. Expensively paid for it."
Martin allowed himself a tiny sigh. He didn't much care for his sister, and he felt that her approach to life was a little too mercenary and a lot too unfocused, but nonetheless she was his sister and Miriam seemed altogether too keen to put her down. It was similar with his brother, Johann; Miriam never missed an opportunity to be catty.
"Miriam," he said, gathering his thoughts. "Miriam, Nickie is quite probably a whore, and she is more masculine than Johannn when she puts her mind to it, and she definitely killed both Aunt Tilly and Cousin Julia. Nonetheless, that she can call these people these things, or rather that she could, means that she is family. She is blood, Miriam, and you must remember that. Be nicer to her."
Miriam sniffed. "That is far easier to say than to do," she said stiffly. "Especially since it is too late to tell her to return."
"What?"
"We received the letter only three days ago, and it should have arrived last week. Unfortunately, the latest outbreak of hostilities between house numbers 19 and 25 mean that the postman's corpse lay untouched in the gutters for a week before they sent a postboy through to salvage the letters and complete the deliveries. Your sister will be arriving this afternoon."
"Nickie will be here this afternoon?"
"I've told you that, Martin. You sound ridiculous repeating it over and over again."
Martin stood, and with a sudden, sharp movement slapped Miriam in the face with his newspaper. She recoiled, stumbling over her long purple dress, and then toppled to the floor, unable to break her fall without appearing inelegant.
"Be careful what you say, Miriam," he said. "I will not tolerate your constant dismissal of my family like this. I watch my tongue when discussing your family."
Miriam didn't reply, instead thrashing around on the carpet. Her dress, a long thin purple tube with whale-bone reinforcements made it hard for her to right herself because she couldn't bend at the waist to sit up. Instead she had to try to turn herself onto her front, press herself up and then use the furniture to pull herself back to standing. Martin watched her struggle for a few minutes, his grey eyes wintery and his newspaper held loosely by his side, and then he walked out. As he walked along the hall he passed the butler, a muscular middle-aged man who could carry a sow under each arm.
"Barnard," he said, his voice peremptory. "Miriam is in the Blue Drawing Room. Get a maid to help her up please." Barnard nodded, but Martin had already turned away and didn't see it.
Showing posts with label Martin Golddieb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Martin Golddieb. Show all posts
Monday, 17 December 2012
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Game of Sitting Rooms
"Your brother," and here Mrs. Golddieb sneered without changing the lightly conversational tone she was using, "had telegrammed us to say that he will be in London this coming week and wishes to visit." She was sitting in a high-backed wing-chair in the Blue Drawing Room, one of three in the Golddieb's five-storey townhouse, stiff-backed herself and holding the offensive telegram in one hand. The chair was brocaded to match the carpet and appeared almost to grow out of the floor in an oddly organic way.
Mr. Martin Golddieb took care to look pained, and left the comfort of the Welsh Dresser to cross the sand-and-silver carpet and take the telegram from his wife.
"Oh Miriam," he said, glancing at the telegram. "Well, I suppose we have a duty to entertain hi–"
"Like he entertains those whores?" Little red blotches appeared in the centre of her cheeks, and he could almost swear that she was trembling with rage.
"Pas devant les enfants," he said reflexively. "Mir–"
"The children are with the nurse," she said, hissing her sibilants like an angry snake. "But you are here in front of me, telling me that you intend to invite that little viper into this house again! How can you stand to be under the same roof as that vile little man? You know he consorts with consorts frequently in his house in Leeds! You must remember that he attempted to marry one of them last Spring! Hah, if your father hadn't intervened then we'd all be disgraced. And only two months ago, he hanged a man in his front garden!" Her hands were clutching the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles were bone white, and when he looked at her face again little beads of sweat were standing out on her forehead.
"The man was a traitor," said Martin, working backwards through the litany. "He stole boot-blacking and was selling it to the baker to adulterate bread with. My brother sought to kill three birds with one stone: he stopped the theft, he stopped the adultery–" he paused while Mrs. Golddieb snorted, "– and he made an example of the man that others could not deny they'd seen. I sincerely hope you'd expect me to do no less under the circumstances." He paused again, waiting for agreement from his wife. The angry silence drew out, first for seconds, then for nearly a minute. At last, unwillingly, she glanced at the Welsh Dresser where the heads of the northwards-neighbour's children were floating in preserving jars and nodded, her jaw tight and her eyes fixed firmly forwards. "My father did thankfully intervene with Johann, and none are more grateful than me for that. None," he emphasized, his foot striking the floor in time with the word. "He had his failings, but we all have those and it is best not to mention them in polite company. Even in discreet company it can only fare ill to talk of these matters." He sighed, his tone dropping from formal and angry to weary all of a sudden. "But you are right, Miriam, you are very right. When Johann comes this time I will speak to him about his attraction to the less salubrious side of life and set him straight. He must reduce his contact with these women; in fact, he should take a wife, a proper wife, and the sooner the better."
"I am pleased that you think this way," said Miriam stiffly. Although she was pleased with her husband's words she couldn't bring herself to step down from the argument as easily as he could and would need to leave the room and let her anger cool down from its simmer before she could agree to his truce. "I think I shall go and see what the children are learning this afternoon, and then instruct the cook to provide something suitable for their tea." She stood up, and smoothed down her heavy dress that provided insulation against the cold and made her feel like walking was a constant struggle.
"I would like cucumber sandwiches for tea," said her husband quickly, aware that his wife was growing increasingly keen on the idea of a diet of raw meat for the boys. "Perhaps with some of that new spice?"
"Paprika," said Miriam. "If you insist, dear." She swept out of the room, the fabric of her dress rustling against itself like the wind in trees in a storm. The Blue Drawing Room door closed behind her, just loudly enough to be a final reproof, and Martin sighed again, and went back to the Welsh Dresser. He picked up one of the heavy preserving jars in both hands and turned it until he could look into the dead eyes of the boy's head. Their northward's neighbour had sent the children into his garden on a raid, probably hoping that not all of them would come back. None of them had returned.
"Well Christian," he said to the dead head, "it looks like Johann will be causing his usual excitement. All it needs now is for Nickie to cause a scene as well and announce her arrival and it will be a menagerie here instead of a home."
Mr. Martin Golddieb took care to look pained, and left the comfort of the Welsh Dresser to cross the sand-and-silver carpet and take the telegram from his wife.
"Oh Miriam," he said, glancing at the telegram. "Well, I suppose we have a duty to entertain hi–"
"Like he entertains those whores?" Little red blotches appeared in the centre of her cheeks, and he could almost swear that she was trembling with rage.
"Pas devant les enfants," he said reflexively. "Mir–"
"The children are with the nurse," she said, hissing her sibilants like an angry snake. "But you are here in front of me, telling me that you intend to invite that little viper into this house again! How can you stand to be under the same roof as that vile little man? You know he consorts with consorts frequently in his house in Leeds! You must remember that he attempted to marry one of them last Spring! Hah, if your father hadn't intervened then we'd all be disgraced. And only two months ago, he hanged a man in his front garden!" Her hands were clutching the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles were bone white, and when he looked at her face again little beads of sweat were standing out on her forehead.
"The man was a traitor," said Martin, working backwards through the litany. "He stole boot-blacking and was selling it to the baker to adulterate bread with. My brother sought to kill three birds with one stone: he stopped the theft, he stopped the adultery–" he paused while Mrs. Golddieb snorted, "– and he made an example of the man that others could not deny they'd seen. I sincerely hope you'd expect me to do no less under the circumstances." He paused again, waiting for agreement from his wife. The angry silence drew out, first for seconds, then for nearly a minute. At last, unwillingly, she glanced at the Welsh Dresser where the heads of the northwards-neighbour's children were floating in preserving jars and nodded, her jaw tight and her eyes fixed firmly forwards. "My father did thankfully intervene with Johann, and none are more grateful than me for that. None," he emphasized, his foot striking the floor in time with the word. "He had his failings, but we all have those and it is best not to mention them in polite company. Even in discreet company it can only fare ill to talk of these matters." He sighed, his tone dropping from formal and angry to weary all of a sudden. "But you are right, Miriam, you are very right. When Johann comes this time I will speak to him about his attraction to the less salubrious side of life and set him straight. He must reduce his contact with these women; in fact, he should take a wife, a proper wife, and the sooner the better."
"I am pleased that you think this way," said Miriam stiffly. Although she was pleased with her husband's words she couldn't bring herself to step down from the argument as easily as he could and would need to leave the room and let her anger cool down from its simmer before she could agree to his truce. "I think I shall go and see what the children are learning this afternoon, and then instruct the cook to provide something suitable for their tea." She stood up, and smoothed down her heavy dress that provided insulation against the cold and made her feel like walking was a constant struggle.
"I would like cucumber sandwiches for tea," said her husband quickly, aware that his wife was growing increasingly keen on the idea of a diet of raw meat for the boys. "Perhaps with some of that new spice?"
"Paprika," said Miriam. "If you insist, dear." She swept out of the room, the fabric of her dress rustling against itself like the wind in trees in a storm. The Blue Drawing Room door closed behind her, just loudly enough to be a final reproof, and Martin sighed again, and went back to the Welsh Dresser. He picked up one of the heavy preserving jars in both hands and turned it until he could look into the dead eyes of the boy's head. Their northward's neighbour had sent the children into his garden on a raid, probably hoping that not all of them would come back. None of them had returned.
"Well Christian," he said to the dead head, "it looks like Johann will be causing his usual excitement. All it needs now is for Nickie to cause a scene as well and announce her arrival and it will be a menagerie here instead of a home."
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