feet. Miss Martin biting her lip on the pebbled drive. Two cohorts silent by the open hearse doors. Whispering in to the prostrate figure.
"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith."
Rotund person, displeasured brow acrinkle and faintly crossed with white fear. Walking up to the cohorts, standing rooted, black toppers in hands. In a manner taught by Mr. Brandy for the graveside presence.
"What is the meaning of this. What are you doing."
Smith slowly to a sitting position. Rotund man rearing back..
"My god, what. Vas."
Crowd collecting on the lawn. Tinkling thin membranes of glass. House lights flooding out in the evening gloom. Somewhere in this great spreading dark mansion dallies Bonniface.
"I'm Mr. Jiffy. What is the meaning."
"I'm Smith."
"Well you're George Smith. Well. Ha ha."
"Sorry if I gave you a fright."
"Well welcome, Mr. Smith, sir. Ha ha, your arrival. Well."
"Miss Martin. Mr. Jiffy. Mr. Jiffy, meet my drivers."
"Hi there. Come on in."
Little gathering moving into the big gathering. Under the massive stone porch. Pink scattered way up in the distant skies. Jiffy's hands on Smith's elbow, sir you must meet my wife. Alas Jiffy out of a slit of eye I saw her keel over unconscious above us.
Great entrance hall. Flanked by spears, daggers, armour. Sandstone steps hung with a balustrade of crimson rope. Sign my guest book, Mr. Smith, while I find my wife. Miss Martin scratching her left handed signature. Mr. Jiffy in search of spouse. Smith sneaked in an X. Good sign this night.
Miss Martin clinging. Mr. Smith I feel so out of place, with all these people in evening clothes. Smith nudging a feel with an elbow. Miss Martin digging her fingernails into his arm. George's knees gave with the pain. Jesus Christ Miss Martin watch the nails, will you. As they passed now along a hall. Tall portraits of ships and horses. And down steps. To a sunken room. A balcony high up round the walls. Gigantic table and transparent clock. Clutches of people. Whispers and turnings around as George Smith with one brave hand filled two pewter tankards with champagne. A word of mausoleum. Of market. Of money. And one loud voice out of a thin reed of woman. "Love to expose my body, marvelous lunacy."
Further over the heads. Down more halls. A peek passing the dining room. White table cloth covered with silver coffee machines. Black uniformed maids waiting in white lace aprons. And the library. Whoops, behind each book a bottle. Gloomy tall windows flanked with brown tomes. A ladder on wheels. And further the sign of a canvas boot high up, searching in the vellum among the manuscripts. Visions everywhere. Do not look further up that leg. Come Miss Martin to the conservatory I spy at the end of the hall. Full of palm. Monkey tree. Hydrangea.
Under a dripping vine by a strange flower. Two lurking unblinking eyes. Between the heating pipes. Smith bending near to get a better look. Snap. Wham. The jaws of a goodly sized definitely loose alligator, hissing. Jiffy is distinctly outdoor. Smith draining the tankard. Miss Martin tugging. Mr. Smith I want to meet people. Sign of betrayal. Not to lurk quietly here with the alligator, Miss Martin. You want to saunter in the high life. Greet and meet nobs. Well then, come.
Smith taking Miss Martin down the hall. Nearly dragging her along. No one these days wants to sit and talk with just you. Mr. Smith it's only that I've never seen people like this before or been in a place like this. You only have a little cabin in the woods. With a spider, Miss Martin. But this is a palace or something, full of important people. I see, Miss Martin. You think because I hold out in the mere and barren room of 604. Because my suits are repaired. Underwear ripped. That I cannot shiver all these ears.
Pomfret Manor's lonely evening grandeur. One side the sloping lawns. The other sheer rock cliff with a dining terrace. And back road. Looking down on tree tops and further into a deep valley. Moon up. The lake lit far below. Smith tucking into another tankard. Stray folk making curious ways to shake his hand. I want to say someday I met you. You made the big boys cringe. To these dreadful flatterings. Smith quietly smiled. Looking for a sign of Bonniface. Miss Martin coyly across the room with a tall gentleman, grey hair well greased back with distinction. Four medals on his chest. I recognise as military. And I am left alone.
Mosquitoes.