Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 2
Ten minutes later I was standing with my bags on the street cobbles swearing that one day I’d get one up on them all.
It was late next day when the coach brought me home to the Sussex countryside after making a half-dozen stops at various pubs and alehouses in attempts to stall and formalise my story.
I still hadn’t settled on a version of events that might curtail my father’s rage. What could I say, arriving home in the middle of May, two months before final examinations?
But after paying the driver to drag my cases to the front door of my father’s estate, what I received next was quite unexpected. I knocked on the door but it wasn’t my father who answered.
“Jack?” Mrs Clayton stepped back and blushed as I shuffled around her. “Shouldn’t you be at Eton?”
Caught unexpected, I see. “Shouldn’t you be with Mr Clayton?”
That shut her up. And I distinctly saw the shame flash across her aged, yet still beautiful face before she turned back to the door and took an unusually long time closing it. “Jack’s in the study.”
Jack, aye?
Oh, I understood this little arrangement, alright, and I tried not to picture Clayton’s mother and my father rutting away whilst we were learning Latin verb tables. More than anything else, I prayed I’d get to be the one to tell him all about it.
It was a pity though. I’d always quite fancied the thought of having at Mrs Clayton myself and had on more than one occasion insinuated a pass, given that Mr Clayton was presently preoccupied cracking stones in one of Her Majesty’s debtors prisons. Oh, the shame he brought on his family, and it was just like Jack Senior to take advantage. Doubtless, Mrs Clayton was doing well out of it too, she looked young for a woman in her mid-forties and way too good for my drunken father.
For a brief moment, as I approached the study, I experienced a sense of relief that things may not actually go all that bad for me, given my father owed his present ability to indulge his lechery to my former friendship with the woman in question’s son.
He was leaning back in his recliner, eyes shut, mouth open, yellow dribble dripping over his shirt, glass of Scotch on the desk. The problem was that when he was in one of his drunken stupors you could never quite foretell his mood.
I tapped him on the knee and he shook before clearing his throat of its usual whisky induced catarrh.
“What in the blazes?” He heaved himself up and squinted as though disbelieving I was standing before him. “What the bloody hell are you doing here? You’re not due back for two bloody months, what?”
There was no way around it. The only option was to tell the truth and I decided he may at least respect me that little bit more if I just came out with it. “Dad, I got kicked out of Eton for bullying fags.”
His hand instinctively moved for the birch but stopped halfway upon seeing he couldn’t reach it without having to expend considerable exertion. “You got kicked out for bullying fags? What the bloody hell? That’s what they’re there for!” He yelled.
“That’s what I told Old Tubs but I was damned if he’d listen.” My voice was high pitched, my hands held in some odd placatory gesture which I almost dared hope might work.
He grit his yellow teeth and attempted to push himself out from the chair but gave up when the strain proved too much. “All that money…” his voice rose to a crescendo but I was happy to take it for the moment as he continued to lament the financial loss. The lecture continued to cover such topics as my clearly being more of my mother’s side, that I was a disappointment and could I not have kept my head down for only another two months. “Well, that’s Oxford shot to bits…damned if you’d have made it anyway, you damned bloody fool.”
I hesitated as I tried to sum up the moment and his mood. “Well, that’s just it and I was thinking…I’m not sure I really need an Oxford education to join the family business.”
The family business involved recruiting destitute Irish wanderers by the many hundred and contracting them out to factories, railways, farmers or the council for ditch digging, taking thirty percent of their pay. It was an easy way of making a fortune whilst doing relatively little. How hard could it be and why did I need Oxford for such an endeavour?
But now, after hearing my suggestion, he absolutely did push himself from the chair and I backed away toward the wall, glancing once over my shoulder to check the cricket bat was in its usual place. “Do you think I’d risk the bloody business with you?” He began, his blood vessels pulsing. “We’re in deep enough with the bean counters as it is without risking the whole ship on the likes of you, my lad.”
This wasn’t good, no, not at all, and I felt the emptiness rise in my stomach. The family business was my birthright. Stuff Eton and Oxford but the business was what belonged to me. “Dad, you promised.”
He coughed and cleared his throat of yet more thick mucus. “And you promised to remain out of my sight until July.” I saw it then, the sudden realisation in his drunken face that I’d seen his mistress, but it didn’t change his tact. “Looks like Alfred’s my last hope, assuming your brother proves not to be an absolute bloody fool too.”
“Look, you need to think this through. You know Alfred doesn’t have my likability,” being more of my father’s side, “and you need me to secure new contracts, especially since, like you say, we’re in the dirt with the money lenders.”
He shifted back toward the birch as I shuffled toward the bat. “How dare you! You get yourself expelled and then see fit to make demands?” His face turned an obscene shade of purple.
I trembled because the old man just wouldn’t see sense. Maybe I’d played the family business card too soon? “Then what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?” Now, there was my ace card, because I knew he wouldn’t want me loitering about the home all day and all summer long, especially now considering he had Mrs Clayton to entertain. “Listen here…send me to Eastbourne and I’ll run the operation for you.”
For a while, he displayed no reaction but then he began laughing and for a moment I thought he might even agree to it. And then he spoke. “I’m afraid not, my lad. No, the only option for you is to join the army.”
Pushing it any further whilst he was in this mood would do no good but after this latest damned fool suggestion, I certainly wouldn’t let the matter rest there either.
It was English upper-class tradition that the second or third sons would join the army while the first, me, would assume the family business and become rich. I wouldn’t suffer the humiliation of Alfred stealing my comfortable prospects just because some fag named Davis ran crying to Old Tubs.
I was in a rare rage when I stopped Mrs Clayton by the stairs. “Tell me, how much are you costing him?”
She almost dropped the books she was carrying. “Such a foul mouth you have on you.” She took a swing with a Bible, missing.
I grabbed her arms and moved closer. “Wouldn’t you rather have younger, more virile meat than the old man? I bet he paid off all the debts your husband ran up.”
She struggled and kneed me in the groin. “You wicked boy. I see you’ve inherited your father’s lechery.”
I doubled over, struggling to breathe. “And I see where your son gets his treachery.” Unfortunately, the pain was too severe to appreciate my impromptu rhyme.
She raised the Bible, poised for another strike at my head, which I’d take any day over a knee to the ghoulies, when there was a knock at the door.
And it was the conversation resulting from this moment that was to forever change my life.
An Uncle With Connections
I’d only seen him once before my entire life, apparently as a baby, and naturally remembered nothing of him.
Uncle Luther and I had taken a walk out to the stables where we now conversed as we leant against Bess, one of our English thoroughbreds.
“You’re a stupid idiot, son.” He regarded me with judgemental eyes whilst jauntily holding onto the lapels of his weskit.
“For getting kicked out of Eton?”
“For trying to lift the skirt of your father’s wench.” He lit up a cigar and blew out a plume of smoke. “You never heard the saying, ‘don’t shit where you eat,’ son?”
I hadn’t, but it made sense. Sure, I’d wanted her in the moment, but probably not enough to risk the consequences of her snitching to the old man. Already, I’d suffered one incident of my inferiors running to higher authority and I considered the likelihood of her blathering to him but reasoned that more likely she’d rather enjoy the thought of my lusting after her and as long as she kept my indiscretion to herself, well then, she could ensure my good behaviour, in the short term at the least. Or was I deluding myself?
“What do you think will happen?”
He almost choked on his smoke. “You’ve made the atmosphere toxic, is what will happen. I hope you enjoy being back here, around a drunk father on the warpath and his whore biding her time, maybe even blackmailing you while you go about fixing the shattered remnants of your life.”
He’d take her word over mine, I was certain of that.
But worse, I now had the prospect of having to share an abode with the pair of them, without even my idiot brother Alfred around to act as a buffer.
He smoothed down Bess’s hair, which I didn’t like because the silence meant his shrewd mind was concocting something. Being of money, Uncle Luther was therefore to be liked and trusted, even if he’d been living too much of the good life recently, evidenced by his portliness. He was donning a cravat and shirt below black weskit with top hat and cane, very respectable and I felt in good company.
“Why are you here anyway?”
He took another pull from his cigar and spat into the straw. “Jack, your father and I have business to discuss but rest assured, matters of settling a few old scores with him have nothing to do with your ears, so I’ll spare you the particulars.”
And with that, I knew not to push the matter further. Luther had always despised the old man for the adultery and misery he put my mother through and with my father, apparently in debt, my uncle was likely salivating at the chance to throw some misery back, which meant the Strapper estate would be even more toxic come tomorrow.
“How is the old man anyway? Still drinking, gambling and whoring away the wealth?”
I’d witnessed at least two within five minutes of arriving back. “He suggested I join the army,” I said, quite offhandedly as I joined my uncle in petting Bess.
His hand stopped within her mane. “And what did you tell him?”
I laughed because he asked with such a neutral expression. “Well, it was a joke, surely. Me, in the army? Oh, I realise he’d love nothing more than to be shot of me, but can you imagine me in front of the enemy?” I laughed again at the absurdity of it.
His expression remained the same, which was now getting silly. “Why not? You could have a comfortable life as a cavalry officer. You can ride, I assume?”
It would be hard to deny the fact, given we were presently petting one of our horses. I’d been riding my entire life and apart from plunging myself into deep messes beyond my control, it was probably the one thing I was truly gifted at.
“Of course, I can ride, but I can think of nothing more petrifying than facing a line of musketry across a battlefield, or God forbid, enemy cavalry.” My hands were literally shaking from the mere conversation, which had to say something.
He continued to study me, somehow weighing me up and I didn’t like the way his bushy brown brows encircled his eyes. “You don’t read the papers, do you son, and I also assume that expensive public school that contributed to your father’s impending bankruptcy didn’t keep you much in the loop of things either?”
“What in the blazes are you talking about?” The man was getting tiresome and I had a future to contemplate as well as mistresses to avoid.
He shook his head with impatience. “There are no more wars, son. We pasted the Chinks and forced them to buy our opium and after the Crimea, the Bear knows not to make any moves that might upset us. And let me tell you this,” he shook his fist in what could only be described as some sort of pride in his nation, “there’s nobody left who’d dare mess with Britannia. The Dagoes are a spent force, Fritz is taking forever to get organised, even the bloody French have learned their lesson, finally.”
“What about those upstart Americans?”
“America?” He reserved his loudest laugh for that one. “Son, the way things are going, they’ll soon be too busy having at each other and we ain’t daft enough to get involved with that. I understand your silly father’s been investing in slaves while the smart money,” and at this, he puffed out his barrel chest, “the smart money’s been pulling it out. Made more than a bloody fortune, let me tell you. No, no, son,” and now he reached over Bess to place a hand on my shoulder, “if you sign up, nothing’ll happen except that maybe you’ll be given some dashing uniform the ladies’ll swoon for and perhaps get posted off to some far off distant and exotic land of the Empire, and who wouldn’t want that? Oh, sure, there’ll be the odd skirmish with the local rabble-rousers but didn’t we just put that Indian mutiny down swiftly, right, old boy?”
“Huh…” I tried to let it all sink in. “No more wars, aye?” I mean, there was no way I’d be so bloody stupid as to actually sign up, but he did paint rather a romantic picture and I could quite imagine myself strutting about in dashing cavalry overalls and sabre the ladies would be sure to lust after, just so long as I never had to use the damned thing. I’d have to avoid India, naturally, and Africa went without saying, as well as all sorts of other nasty places, but I quite fancied The Cape or Bermuda. But of course it was all nonsense, so I flapped a hand at him. “Well, if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the old man awake and not fagged out drunk and drooling in his chair.”
He took a final tug on his cigar before grinding it into the straw, hardly the sensible thing to do. “You don’t know about my line of work, do you, son?”
My mother had once mentioned something about him being in the military but at that point, I’d never even met the man so hadn’t very much cared or listened.
“Jack, it happens that I hold an administrative position at the Horse Guards and I have my say in who gets sent when and where. What if I were to pull a few strings and have you posted to a nice safe cavalry regiment in a place where nothing much happens or is ever likely to?”
I flinched because here was this stranger arriving from nowhere with, what at face value, seemed like a genuine and generous offer that would solve all my problems. But there was a hitch that I’d yet to even consider because uncle Luther was not of the common Strappers but of the aristocratic Rocheforts, which meant that now, with my mother dead, he had no reason to do a good turn for a Strapper in need. The fact he was here, for all I knew with the intention of having the estate signed over to him, was testament that I ought to be sceptical.
“You’d really do this for me?”
Again, he reached over Bess to place a yellow paw on my shoulder. “Son, we’re family, ain’t we?”
I considered him as he displayed teeth for my benefit. “Which regiment did you have in mind?”
He had one of those faces you could probably trust and possessed the smallest resemblance to my mother and now, after my question, his smile grew wider, which put me at even greater ease. “Well, let’s see, there’d be several worthy of taking a squint at, but the one I had in mind was the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars.” It meant nothing to me and he must have seen my blank expression. “Irish, as in Ireland, my boy.”
“Ireland?” I stepped back as something in my belly lurched sidewards, which, as I should have known, is instinct. And as I’ve come to learn, instinct should always be listened to. “I thought you said you’d send me to a place where nothing’s ever likely to happen? The Irish are always rabble-rousing.”
He raised his voice. “The Irish make up almost a third of the entire British army and those who don’t fight for Britannia are busy digging our ditches. They know which side their bread’s buttered.” I didn’t know what that expression even meant. “And an easier life you’ll not find in all the Empire.” He now placed a hand on each of my shoulders, which made me trust him all the more. “Never fear, my boy. If there was a war on, which there ain’t, but even if there was, after the Crimea, the 8th are in no position to fight anyway.”
“Why? What happened?” It sounded bad and I had to know.
He shrugged unconcernedly, “they lost half their number during that bloody Charge of the Light Brigade fiasco and they’re still only at half strength. When you arrive in Ireland it’s likely they’ll give you a nice billet before putting you to work touting for new recruits. And they don’t take just anybody in the cavalry, did you know, no my son, but you’ll be mixing with the upper classes, with high society, the very best.”
“Indeed. Well, there you have it. Not bad for a lad who got kicked out of Eton, aye?”
He clapped me on the back. “That’s the spirit, son.”
Having no other options, I resigned myself to the idea. There was though, the small matter of the purchasing of my captaincy but strangely, Uncle Luther agreed to speak to my father about settling that, who not to my surprise, and despite being in the hole, was more than happy to stump up the £3225 to see the back of me. Not only that, but Luther also managed to broker for me an allowance of £1000 a year, which apparently my father agreed to without hesitation - Charming.
The only problem was, I still had nearly two weeks of waiting around on the estate until my papers arrived from Horse Guards and I could sail for Ireland. It made for a few awkward meals between Jack Senior, Mrs Clayton and myself, let me tell you.
Uneasy Feelings
As fate would have it, I turned eighteen during the painful wait for my permission slips and confirmation of captaincy to arrive via courier. I used the time to brush up on my riding skills, practice jabbing at a hanging bag with a stick, avoiding my father and his whore and to grow a fine, manly set of cavalry whiskers. Now, I didn’t join the army to get into anything physical, so I reasoned that the more stout and gallant I projected myself, the less likely trouble was to find me. I’d also pegged on that the ladies had a thing for a man with the style or, if they didn’t, they soon would.
