2. The Manual
666 Words
Chapter Two
The Manual
“A man and his manual shall never be parted.”—The writer of said manual
Hilda had picked the wrong footman to bribe, but Hilda was not a good judge of men. She assumed they were all the same and the only thing a footman wanted was to be was off his feet with a decent sandwich, along, of course, with the chance to do a foot massage.
So, when she called the youngest footman (who was at least seventy) to spy for her, she thought a few pseudo egg sandwiches, some decent shoes, and he was hers.
She had no idea that a foot massage could arouse feelings, or to be honest that a footman had any, apart from a desire to retire.
“Give me a footman any day,” she used to say. “So easy to bribe. Not like those smart-arse robots.”
It was Hilda who pushed for the “shuffling-of day.” And it was she who insisted on a limo to take them to the “Last Hoorah” home.
For once, Beryl agreed.
Some were suspicious of the so-called “Last Hoorah” home. But when the first batch of footmen sent back an “It’s true!” mandatory survey, the footmen were convinced.
They took one look at the survey stuck on the men’s john and sighed . . .
How clean was your room? Ten out of ten.
How warm is the sun? Almost a ten.
How is your view? Ten and more!
How often do you put your feet up? Impossible to count!
And the sandwiches? Need you ask?
Hilda’s plan had worked. The footmen, it seemed, had a future—a future worth obeying for.
DBO pulled a set of earphones meticulously wrapped in individual bundles from a box. Effortlessly she unwrapped one pair and slipped the earphones into her ear.
The footman watched. Was there no end to this woman’s talents?
When he first walked into the shed, DBO was sitting comfortably on a pile of cushions looking far from stupid. He was taken by surprise; he had been told she had as much intelligence as a cooker. And there she was, legs crossed, working on an H-Pad like she knew what she was doing. Then, when she asked him his name, he was swept off his feet. No one had asked him that before. Now all he had to do (apart from what she asked) was try and remember it.
DBO fingered the dashboard searching for the socket—the shed was in darkness so as not to attract attention. She plugged in her set and another for the footman.
The footman shook his head with a surprised “me?”
“Watch,” said DBO.
The footman looked at the earpiece with suspicion.
“It’s clean,” muttered DBO.
The footman, unconvinced, pulled a lace handkerchief from his pocket.
They waited for a picture to appear on the H-Pad. They could hear Hilda tucking into hemp biscuits as boredom raced through her mind, followed by frustration.
DBO smiled. “Let her try the manual.”
The footman looked at her. “I thought they were burned—tossed—forbidden?”
“Not all,” said DBO, “the secretary is a great collector of things technical.”
She nodded to a dark corner. The footman, after a several fumbles, pulled a slim book from the corner.
Manuals were slim books that expanded open into unrecognizable diagrams and maps. Some expanded so large they could only be viewed on the floor. Reading them required window- and door-shutting to prevent any “catching of the wind,” pressing the corners with something heavy to prevent any “rolling up,” and a dictionary (yes, another manual) to understand the wording.
Manuals were designed by men for men who told women that technical stuff required big words that took training to understand.
However, once the C-Pad had developed its “ask me anything” applicator the manual and its man-made language was obsolete. Soon mountains of space were cleared, painted, and filled with other things where manuals used to gather.
For a moment he looked at it with a fondness for the good old days. He fingered the cover and then slid his finger under a corner.
DBO threw him a glare. “Not on my watch.”
He snapped it shut. “Yes, ma’am.”
- Writer
