I reach the top of Hawthorne Avenue at 4:30 pm. Another Thursday. Three minutes to gather myself and go through my breathing exercise—deep nasal inhalation, a count to five, and slow release. No more than three minutes, not enough time to attract the attention of vigilant residents.
A brisk walk down Hawthorne Avenue, avoiding pavement cracks, past tidy hedges and manicured grass. I stop at Number 35. A ceramic gnome holding a fishing rod sits in the middle of the lawn.
I check my watch. Thirty seconds to go. I retrieve the key from under the sisal mat, unlock the front door and step inside. Another time check. The second hand tips onto twelve; precisely 4:40 pm.
“Here I am.”
Arriving a moment early or late is inconceivable. I have entered a world that preceded me and accepted Mr. Kevin’s rules. Why question the day or time, or having to call out here I am?
I had answered an advertisement in the local newspaper.
Wanted: Skilled factotum. One session per week; Thursday, 4:40 pm sharp. Equitable remuneration at £2 per minute.
What did Mr. Kevin see in my application? Had he discerned my lack of preference or expectation? Perhaps I was the only applicant.
At the beginning, I thought 4:40 pm on Thursday must be significant, and I searched the internet for events attributed to that day and time. The assassination of an Eastern European dictator whose name I’ve forgotten. The unveiling of the first merry-go-round somewhere in Turkey. The Mayflower embarking for the New World.
I stopped searching. What did any possible significance matter to me? I am paid for my work, and paid well.
I enter the kitchen and go directly to the noticeboard made from wine corks. I unpin the white envelope and remove five £20 notes. The message chalked on the blackboard reads: Look under the gnome.
The kitchen clock counts the seconds; chuck-it, chuck-it, chuck-it…
A £100 payment means a fifty-minute session. Equitable remuneration, a better hourly rate than most executives, or doctors, or air traffic controllers.
I go outside, ignore the gnome’s crotchety expression and tilt it to reveal another envelope with my instructions.
Mr. Kevin waits in the living room, seated upright on his La-Z-Boy sofa. Embroidered antimacassars droop from the armrests. He wears a Joy Division tee-shirt, olive green combat trousers, and black Doc Marten boots polished to an intense sheen. He holds his bulbous shaven head erect to better display his jutting ears, and disguise his weak chin. A recent cut above one eye glistens raw red.
“Number 1,” he says.
My eyes dart to the first page.
Read aloud with pauses that capture the rhythm of the missing words.
Underneath are blocks of text arranged like song lyrics or a poem with some of the words blacked out.
Mr. Kevin claps his hands. “Commence.”
I begin reading.
“How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty”
The words that follow, one and a half lines, are redacted. I pause, and then continue.
“And loved the…”
“Too soon.” Mr. Kevin shakes his head.
I wait a moment.
“…the sorrows of your changing face.”
Mr. Kevin leans back in the La-Z-Boy.
“Continue.”
I cough to clear my throat.
“He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross”
Another block of redacted text. I wait.
“Too long.” Mr. Kevin slaps his thigh.
“A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man.”
“Hmm...” Mr. Kevin scratches his dainty button nose, incongruous in the putty blandness of his face. “Do you know who wrote those lines?”
“I don’t.”
“W.B. Yeats.” He sighs and looks at the ceiling. “And can you identify the theme expressed in those words?”
I look at the page. “Horse riding?”
“No.” He inhales and slowly exhales, and I am reminded of my breathing exercise. “The answer is old age. Yeats was contemplating his father, the artist John B. Yeats. He wrote about his father’s aging and his own mortality.”
The fluting voice still throws me, so unsuited to Mr. Kevin’s thuggish appearance.
“A mediocre performance. Four out of ten.”
He leans over and adjusts the laces of one Doc Marten, then returns to an upright position, his eyes blinking. “Number 2.”
I read the instructions.
Bring two slices of Pata Negra ham and three pieces of Wensleydale cut into three-inch equilateral triangles. Use the Rose Plate.
I return to the kitchen, take the cheese from the fridge and cut it on the marble worktop, measuring the slices with the ruler provided. The packet of ham is filled with slices. I remove two and lay them on the cracked plate decorated with an image of Canada Geese in flight. On a previous task, I had to bring Mr. Kevin a series of plates until I arrived at the correct one. The following Thursday, his instructions began with an explanation: The plate with the Canada Geese belonged to my Aunt Rose, and is the Rose Plate.
Mr. Kevin accepts the plate, takes a triangle of cheese that he nibbles along one edge like a cartoon beaver making its way through a log.
When he finishes the cheese slice, he rubs his belly and the wobble of flesh causes the Joy Division tee-shirt to ripple.
“So tasty,” he says. “Crumbly and nutty.”
He pops a second triangle of cheese into his mouth, chews, and sucks a slice of ham through his lips with more chewing, the chomp of wet mastication. The third piece of cheese is consumed in prolonged nibbling. Then, he holds aloft the final piece of ham and lowers it into his mouth.
“Delish.” He dabs his lips with the hem of his t-shirt, revealing folds of hairless fat. “Seven out of ten.”
Mr. Kevin brushes crumbs of cheese from his knee.
“Number 3.”
Turn on the Hi-Fi and wait 30 seconds.
I go to the sideboard that accommodates stacked modular CD, tape and radio units, an amplifier and two loudspeakers. A CD’s case is propped against one of the speakers: Brahms Violin Concerto in D Major. I press the play button, check my watch, and scan the instructions.
Read aloud in a tone sympathetic to the music.
Oboes and bassoons conduct a mournful discourse over the undulation of violins. A low burble of wind instruments flows in syncopated ascent.
I begin.
“Keep away from Metal Me…”
“Slower.”
“…Norman Wisdom. He come. He go. Man say, bacon and eggs…”
“Not and…” Mr. Kevin stamps his foot. “Unt eggs.”
I check the instructions. “…unt eggs. Oh no, not me.”
“Lento. It must be slower.”
“Not mee.”
“Lento. Lento.”
“Noott meee. De kush iddir…”
“Pronounce it coo-ish, like a dove.”
“De coo-ish iddir omnium. Oh no. Tra la.”
“Turn off the music.” Mr. Kevin blows out his lips in loud puff-puffs. “Do you know who wrote those words?”
“No.” I pause. “Not Brahms?”
“Of course not Brahms. I wrote those words.” He drums his fingers on the armrest. “You have no musicality. Three out of ten.”
I move away from the Hi-Fi system.
“Number 4.”
Start a conversation on the subject of pigeons as rodents. State your opinion.
I shift my stance but am careful not to shuffle or fidget. Mr. Kevin requires me to stand in readiness while he relaxes on his La-Z-Boy.
“As pigeons scavenge and carry disease, they have a lot in common with rats.”
Mr. Kevin raises his hand to stifle a yawn.
“Better pigeons than deer,” I say. “Deer are rats on long legs.”
“Ah.” Mr. Kevin clasps his hands and rubs his thumbs. “Much better. That response warrants seven out of ten. And now, Number 5.”
Deal the cards for a game of Canaria 45. Three cards each face-down, followed by two face-down. Then, turn the top card face-up.
Mr. Kevin points to a deck of cards on the coffee table. “Commence.”
I deal the cards and return to the instructions.
There are four suits: swords; clubs; coins; dreidels. Low number beats high number with clubs and swords. Higher number wins with coins and dreidels. The five of trumps is the best possible card.
Mr. Kevin leans forward to check the card that is face-up. “Coins are trumps.” He flicks a card onto the table. “Your turn.”
I examine my cards. Red and black images of cudgels that must be clubs, hexagonal coins bearing a monarch’s head, elaborate swords and spinning tops. A number in each corner tallies with the total images. I play the three of swords.
Mr. Kevin grabs the two cards. “My win,” he says, smiling.
He plays the nine of swords, and I reply with the six of dreidels.
The smile congeals on his lips. “Enough of this. You’re not taking the game seriously. Two out of ten. Next—number 6.”
Ask a question.
“Why does the clock in the kitchen make a chuck-it sound?”
“A very good question.” Mr. Kevin strokes his weak chin, his eyes widening. “That is the sound of time passing in this house.” He nods his head three times. “An excellent question. Not an expression of idle curiosity, or banal querying, seeking purpose. £2 per minute is surely purpose enough?”
“It is.”
“Well done, nine out of ten. On to number 7.”
Bring the gnome inside and place it at one corner of the coffee table.
Outside, the air is damp. Not yet night, twilight at 5:20 pm, and 80% of the session complete. I pick up the gnome, which is heavier than I expected. The grinning face exudes malevolence. I carry the gnome into the living room and place it on the table at the corner farthest from Mr. Kevin.
“I approve your choice of corner.” He gestures to the gnome. “This is Günter, a family heirloom, all the way from Baden-Baden.”
The gnome perches on the coffee table, fishing rod at a 45-degree angle.
“I award you nine out of ten. Time for Number 8.”
Foot soak. Half-fill the red basin with water, temperature 35±1 °C. Add three quarters of a cup of Epsom salt. Bring the blue towel from the bathroom.
I go back to the kitchen, fill the kettle and turn it on. Then, I measure out the requisite amount of salt. As the water comes to a boil, I fetch the towel. This is not the first foot soak, and I know where to find the digital thermometer. Adding cold water from the sink tap and stirring the water with my hand, I pour in the salt, monitoring the temperature until the thermometer reads 35.2 °C.
In the front room, Mr. Kevin reclines with his legs outstretched. The Doc Martens lie beside the La-Z-Boy.
“Remove my socks.”
I hold one foot below the ankle. The socks are yellow and ultra-soft, made of a material that feels like fur. His feet are remarkably white, the nails long and jagged. I position the basin and he slowly immerses both feet.
“My heels are very rough. I must obtain a pumice stone and have you remove the dead skin.” He closes his eyes. “Wonderful. Eight out of ten. Continue with Number 9.”
Polish the Doc Martens using Teddy.
Mr. Kevin keeps the shoe polish in a wooden box under the sink, which also contains a miniature teddy bear stained from repeated use, one eye missing. I sit at the kitchen table, the left boot gripped between my knees, and smear Teddy with Wassington Premium Black, rubbing in small circular motions, toe and tongue, sides and heel. Second boot polished, I return the tin of Wassington and Teddy to the box under the sink.
Back in the front room, I kneel before Mr. Kevin, lift his feet from the water and fluff them dry with the towel. Then I slide the fuzzy socks over his feet. He picks up one boot, and turns it slowly in his hand.
“Very satisfactory. A laudable effort, nine out of ten.”
I move away, taking up my station two steps from the coffee table, hands by my sides.
“There is no time for more today,” Mr. Kevin says. “We must stop at Number 9. A pity, as Number 10 involves an intriguing problem regarding timetables. Please return the envelope of instructions and key to Günther.”
I put the page and front door key in the envelope and place it under the gnome on the coffee table. Then, I turn and wait to be dismissed.
Instead, Mr. Kevin affords me a broad smile. “You’ve done very well today. Apart from the Yeats reading, and the game of Canaria 45, and the Brahms piece. Otherwise, highly satisfactory. So much so that I feel compelled to recommend your services to some of my acquaintances. What do you say to that?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Mr. Conor for instance is in need of a reliable factotum. And then there’s Mr. Spencer and Mr. Dominic who have had terrible experiences with past employees. I too have suffered many misfortunes in that respect.”
I should thank him, but I can’t find the correct words.
“You may leave.” He waves me to the door. “You have a bright future ahead of you as a factotum. Mr. Conor and Mr. Spencer are well-connected . A word from them in the right ear and you’ll have no end of opportunities.”
I leave the house at 5:30 pm, breathless and excited. The words bright future dance in my head. As I make my way down the street, I wonder once again what Mr. Kevin sees in me.
The light is failing, the bottom of Hawthorne Avenue fading in the growing blackness. The evening has its own smell, a heady savour of grass mingled with a ripe sourness.
Mark Keane has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. Recent short story fiction has appeared in Midsummer Dream House, Avalon Literary Review, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Cape Magazine, Empyrean Literary Magazine, Seppuku, Shooter, untethered, Night Picnic, upstreet, Granfalloon, Liquid Imagination, Into the Void, Firewords, and Dog and Vile Short Fiction. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).