The Friendly Butler

John Breckenridge

You know how it is; the party has finished, youve put your girl on the last bus home after a close and passionate goodnight kiss but your mind and body are buzzing. Surely someones still partying - its only 1:00 am for Gods sake!

On high alert you walk out of George Square, along St. Vincent Street and into Renfield Street, heading back up to your flat. You reach into your pocket for a cigarette. Good - she hasnt smoked them all. Pulling one out of the packet you reach into your pocket for matches. Damn, damn and damn. No matches and youre dying for a smoke. You look around and theres a smartly dressed chap, smoking a cigarette and walking down the other side of the street. You cross over, and waving your unlit cigarette, you stop him and ask for a light.

He smiles, reaches into his pocket and produces a gold lighter, coaxing it into flame with a practised flick of his thumb. Cigarette lit; he speaks to you in a well modulated English accent. Not normal in Renfield Street at a quarter-past-one on a Sunday morning. You start talking and find a shared, passionate interest in having things to do after 1:00 am on a Sunday morning.

The talking continues past that point where you say thanks for the light and go on your respective ways. He asks if you fancy going back to his place where he claims to have some amazing whiskies that are just asking to be sampled. You think it isnt a bad idea but worry about how far you have to walk. He says hell pay for a taxi. You wonder for a moment... and then agree.

Twenty minutes later the taxi turns into the driveway of a large south-side mansion. You look at him enquiringly - he says he lives here and directs the taxi round to the back. We get out and he unlocks the door, motioning you inside with a finger to his lips. People are asleep.

He guides you through to a small sitting room furnished comfortably with battered green leather armchairs spread around a smart gas fire which he lights. You sit down and he disappears, only to return with a tray on which stand a crystal jug of water, crystal glasses, one bottle of Glenmorangie and another of The Macallan. Bliss! Students cant afford luxuries like this.

Glasses filled, the discussion resumes. You ask about the house, is it his? He laughs and says that it belongs to His Lordship, that he is His Lordships butler and that we are in his quarters, the Butlers Pantry. As he explains further you are amazed the perks of the job. He claims the salary is quite reasonable, but that is only a start as he also lives, eats and drinks and dresses at His Lordships expense. You ask about being a butler, what do you do, do you run His Lordships household? He seems to find your questions funny but explains the running of the household and it seems that he is His Lordships right hand in the house and on the estate.

You then tell him about your degree courses, the professors and lecturers, life in a student flat, your flatmates and their funny little ways, the feeling of being perennially hard up and the dodges required to survive in some sort of style. Dodges like a wasp in a matchbox that can be conveniently found in your rice towards the end of your curry, the resultant protest ending with a free meal.

As the conversation develops, you are astonished at the breadth of his reading and knowledge. He then starts in on the Macmillan Government. As a debater and a member of all of the main University political clubs you enjoy this and soon you are going at it hammer and tongs. The discussion continued, lubricated by copious quantities of His Lordships finest whiskies until he asked if you were hungry and suggested we have an early breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, a breakfast of fresh orange juice, poached eggs, tea, toast and marmalade made its appearance. You hadnt realised how hungry you were and hoovered up all the food within reach. Looking up you see that that a wan grey light is filtering through the window and look at your watch; 6:30, the night has flown.

You hear footsteps and the door is flung open with a bang. A large, angry looking man strides into the room and after fixing the Butler with a furious glare, he turns to point at you and asks who the hell you are? Without waiting for an answer he tells the Butler that he may not bring vagrants back to the house and turns back to you and tells you to get out, now, go!

Shaken, you stand up and head for the door as fast as you can to escape this wrathful apparition. Moments later you stand outside the back door in the Sunday dawn and run down the drive to the main road as fast as you can.

An early morning bus comes past ten minutes later and you jump on for the ride to George Square. You walk through the door of your flat, flop down in a kitchen chair with your last cigarette and reflect on a totally surreal night.

You had given him your address and about ten days later you received a letter from him. He had been fired just after you left and promised to keep in touch.

He never did.