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Cravendish

CHAPTER NINE

"It isn't their fault you know!  They didn't know he had fish!"
The carefully chosen words of Evelynn accompanied the click-clack of Cravendish's dress shoes as he walked through town to the Masonic Lodge Meeting he was to attend that evening.  It had a strangely calming effect on him, of the obvious balance between real, horrid and intentional real life, and the chaotic, random sensibilities of a woman somewhat undesired by the mainstream public, because it was too distant from the sensible, sheep-like life they preferred, what with their badly written Soap Operas and their attention to trend, regardless of individual and sometimes logical thought to any kind of contrariness.  Evelynn's words held a beauty beyond the meaning, that spoke to Cravendish deeply and spiritually.
"Go on!  Eat the dirt from their hands!  She isn't there, you know!  I saw her yesterday!"  Beautiful.

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The baritone mutterings that accompanied the Festive Board which followed the Ceremony, held by the Masonic Lodge of Friendship and Wisdom, was readily moving under the dull light of the Dining Hall, where the hen-pecked Husbands and the confirmed Bachelors met the Street Cleaners and the Solicitors, the Firemen, the Policemen and the Caretakers, the Butchers, the Bakers and sometimes the Candlestick Makers; all so that fully grown men could act like children and get invariably plastered for one day a month in the centuries old Boys Only Club, making fools of themselves while eating a cheap meal, usually pie-based, but always with burnt roast potatoes.  The dark blues looked down upon the light blues; the top table looked down on everyone in the supposedly equal through merit Institution Founded On Brotherly Love.  Groups of men who had known each other for decades, spurned the ones they knew for mere months, sticking embarrassingly to their cliques and fencing out others.  Occasionally there was the odd man on his own, very much alone and ignored, who was often grouped together upon the sprigs with like minded loners, some due to circumstance and others due to their ineffable ability to be complete and utter bores and malcontents who loved the sound of their own wallet, and what conversations can one-sidedly commence.
There sat Cravendish at the end of a sprig, with one of the more obtuse members of the Lodge, Charlie Light.  Charlie was the kind of man who started a sentence with, "When I was looking from my Penthouse Room in Dubai -"
But this time, as a change of pace, he began with, "So, how's things, Cravvy?"
Cravendish was at that moment tackling a particularly stubborn potato, "How do you mean?  And it's Cravendish."
Charlie slithered about the point, "You know, with the old business type thing?"
Cravendish took his attention from the potato for a moment, "It's - fairing.  In fact I have a case -"
Charlie obviously wasn't listening, "You know I could still get that guy in Marketing to see you -"
Cravendish waved him away, "No, its really kind of you to offer -"
"That, and when you put your Old Dear in the Home -"
"Can we not talk about that, Charlie, please?"
Charlie seemed to be working on a wavelength beyond the diatribe he thought he was holding with Cravendish, "Just think of it!  Get rid of the Old Bag, and whoosh!  World's your proverbial, my old mucker!"
Cravendish was turning a new shade of red in his attempt to hold his emotion in check, "I'm not sure about -"
But already Charlie was elsewhere, in a sordid and sexist part of his mind, from where, it seemed, many of his fellow diners also derived, "Woah!  Check out the new serving girl!  Wonder how long those legs are?  Look, Cravvy!  Like to work your way around that, eh?  Her Indoors - out of sight, out of mind?"
"I love my Mom."
Charlie jostled Cravendish with a painful jabby elbow in his side, "Who doesn't love their Mom?  I know I do.  See her at least once a month - wait, where are you off to, Cravvy?  Was it something I said?"
Cravendish had stood up and was walking toward the door of the Dining Room, "It's Cravendish.  And I'm going outside for some fresh air."
But already Charlie the Cretin was sailing three sheets to the wind and into turbulent waters elsewhere, "Right-o, Crav mate!  So, any of you lot up for a jolly this weekend?"  No one answered him.
Outside it was a little quieter.  The constant banter of grown men acting like children was temporarily resolved by more grown men acting like children, this time due to excessive alcohol.  In fact, the only difference between those inside and those outside was that those inside were wearing suits.
"You been in there with the old Tickling Trouser Brigade?"  It was Nick Turnerby, the Doorman to the Skittish Nightclub, next door to the Lodge.  He was a tricky man at the best of times, but for Cravendish it would be one or the other, so he decided to take in an anecdote from Turnerby, just to refresh his palette, "You know, my Granddad was a Mason?  Got kicked out for punching the Director of Ceremonies for suggesting he lose the attitude.  Hard case was my Granddad.  No idea why he thought Freemasonry was for him, but then it was the Sixties and Seventies?  More crooks on the square than in my manor in them days.  I'm sure it's not like that now!"
Cravendish was kicking the air a little as he took a position next to Nick, "You might be surprised."
"Is that right?" continued Nick Turnerby, "Ah, well.  Still, you got that Detective Agency thing, I suppose?  Bringing in any work?"
Cravendish was immediately grateful to have a conversation he could actually participate in for once, "Some.  I've got a case ongoing - in the middle of it, in fact."
"Salacious, is it?  I bet it is!  You know what this reminds me of?  That time I was working for Old Vinnie, back in the day!  Hard man, was Vinnie.  He dropped a man from a carpark roof once, just for brushing past his motor!  Luckily, the man fell into a tree, managed to climb down and scarper!  But I tell you -"
"Actually it's about a runaway cat - oh, and a young hiker girl from Europe, and a brooch -" interrupted Cravendish, dangerously.  It wasn't the done thing to get on the wrong side of Nick Turnerby.  Be on his good side, and that person would have the safest and bravest of friends.  Be on his bad side and kiss those kneecaps goodbye.
Nick, however, continued, "So I says to Vinnie, I says - Vinnie?  For t'was his name; Vinnie?  I think someone is messing with yer messy, you know, yer game - yer girl?  Well, first off he came for me.  I was ready for him though.  Only got one or two brahmas on me cook, afore I wellied him one on the dosser!  Fell flat on his you-know-what!  Never again did he raise them to me!  Right tearaway I was back in the day, you know!  Hardest around, I was!"
Cravendish wasn't quite sure where this was going, and slightly suspected it was a dark alley with a baseball bat, "Well, this case isn't quite that -"
"So we went round the old Gaffers gaff, blended their mouse, you know, like you do - only caught them in the wassisname, didn't we?  Well, Old Vinnie, he cramped them up good!  Fair took a sliff of the old tooburah!  Lefty left, leaving Long Les, Lol and Lenny, while Will, Warren and - erm - Neil, I think?  Well, they -"  The heavy use of Nick's own peculiar brand of vocabulary worried Cravendish that it might be one big scary test, and that he was expected to capitulate in the same vocabularic manner.
"I think we're at cross purposes here -"
But Nick was coming to a completion, "Anyway, to cut a long story short, he lamped him one.  Good bloke, Old Vinnie!  Just, you know, don't mess with his missus?"
Erring on the side of caution, Cravendish decided to cut his loses there and get out while the going was good, "Thanks for the advice, Nick.  I'll bear it in mind?"
Nick beamed a broken toothed reply, "Right you are, kid!  Keep yer wassisname up?  Pecker!"
Safe in the knowledge that at least most of the people in Lodge were just a bunch of selfish, nepotistic children, it certainly became a safer prospect to return to them than staying outside with Nick and his nonsensical anecdotes.  Cravendish walked back into the Temple and to the Festive Board, in order to finish his dinner.  Maybe the potatoes had softened in his absence.

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