1. The Second Massage
905 Words
Chapter One
The Second Massage
“The rubbing of a toe is greatly undervalued.”—An elderly footman
Hilda stared out of the window. It was dark, with no outlook but the wall of the building beside it—hardly a penthouse view.
It wasn’t her choice; it wasn’t anyone’s choice. Even an Operator’s grannie would have turned down Hilda’s so-called penthouse suite. Beryl claimed it was “temporary.”
That will soon change, thought Hilda. But first things first: overthrow, divide and conquer, overthrow some more, and—she smiled—the trappings will soon follow.
Hilda had watched Beryl’s landing on the streets of Dunoon. She also watched as Beryl and H2 left the Argyll. The H-Pad was able to tap into CCTV and gave Hilda a clear picture of Beryl and H2 taking shelter in a doorway. Hilda found great pleasure in watching them huddle together for warmth.
Only the masses huddled.
Beryl rarely shook hands, let alone touched, and there she was closer than a set of glasses on a nose to an Operator of the lowest order—H2, a woman who was lucky to get a nod from a kitchen porter let alone a shoulder from the leader.
Hilda let out a loud, maniac laugh that jolted her snoring footman awake. Beryl’s days of leading were numbered.
“Switched the H-Pad on replay. Back to the first arrival,” she shouted, then eyed the footman. “How about a massage?”
She wanted to bask in her brilliance, enjoy her triumph and perhaps . . . relax . . . just a little. Soon she was so relaxed she fell asleep and woke to the H-Pad replaying Beryl’s time in Sheila’s diner, and her footman doing something painful with her small toe.
The footman was staring at a clear picture of Beryl, H2, and Archie looking dry and warm in Sheila’s diner with Archie tucking into a plate of meaty food glistening with fat. The footman mesmerised by the eggs, bacon and extra-large Cumbria sausage; had stopped mid manipulation. As he watched a large forkful of sausage enter Archie’s mouth he squeezed and forgot to stop he could just about taste the gristle . . .
Hilda’s mouth almost watered until she pulled herself together.
“Get me more bubbly,” she shouted.
“But . . . your bunions, ma’am, I haven’t touched them.”
“Bunions? The leader has no bunions.” She paused for a minute. “This is an earphone moment.”
The footman’s face filled with dread. “Ma’am?”
“Yes, I think earphones are called for.”
The footman gulped.
Earphones were one of the few things never modernised on Planet Hy Man, and were, according to all footmen, a “bastard” to set up.
He gestured about the empty room. “But who is here to hear . . .”
Hilda glared at him; he stopped mid-“ma’am?”
“These are dark times; no one is to be trusted, not even those dozy footmen out there,” she said, gesturing to the corridor. “Who knows if they are really dozing?”
He looked at her. Was she mad? The footmen were so old even if they did hear— which they couldn’t—they wouldn’t know what to do or even care if they did. They had, like their out-of-date hearing aids, given up, packed it all in, and were waiting for the day of “shuffling off.” The day a letter arrived at the footman’s bunkhouse stating . . .
“Service no longer required, pack your things”—which was a mere backpack or two—“the resting home awaits.”
The resting home was a place where, rumor had it, old men could finally stop standing and had a view worth staring at.
Hilda motioned a “what are you waiting for?” wave.
The footman, wiping his hands, went to the “only open when absolutely necessary” drawer and pulled out a bowling-ball bundle of ancient earphones glued together.
Resignedly he began to untangle.
“Hurry up,” she snapped.
He fumbled as nerves got the better of him.
She grabbed the ball and began to jiggle, pull, and shake while swearing the standard selection of salad vegetables.
“Beetroot and pickled egg, who was the last to use these?”
“You were, ma’am.”
She glared at him.
He tried to help, pulling and tugging, then after some undignified slapping from Herself, a set fell to the floor. The footman bent to pick it up with a groan.
“Hurry up,” she snapped. “We may be missing something, some thoughts even.”
“Ma’am, it is but a mere rumor that earphones pick up thoughts.”
“We’ll see about that, bring them here.”
“But you don’t know where they have been,” said the footman pulling a face.
“Just hand them over.”
The footman, after a ceremonial flick/wipe of his lace handkerchief, suspended them in front of her with a look of distaste.
Hilda snatched them from him, eased the tiny piece into her ear, and stared at the H-Pad . . . she had a perfect view of Sheila’s diner.
The waitress handed Archie a brown bag of something, and thanks to the footman, she had no idea what. She threw him a “now look what you made me miss” look.
“Tablet, ma’am, don’t you remember?”
“Ah yes,” she smiled. “Mex’s downfall.”
Hilda stretched out her other foot. “What about the other small toe?”
The footman left Hilda’s room, pulling faces at the other footman in the corridor.
“Earphones, now,” he tutted.
A few tutted, except for one footman—the footman who had just spent his “sleep” night massaging DBO’s feet. Without a word or a gesture, he waited for his shift to end and made for the shed.
He coughed at the door as instructed by DBO and waited for her answer.
Earphones, he thought. I wonder what her in the shed will think of that?
- Writer
