One Good Turn Deserves Karma

 

As the shadows of Captain Poo fade, the figure in the armchair transforms from a weary soldier fed up with the futility of war into that of a hen dressed in an elegant Edwardian costume which has seen better days – it is Lizabettina, the Edwardian ancestor of Mrs Slocombe. Mrs Slocombe, it has to be said, it thrilled to be playing a part that isn’t the chief cook and bottle washer she is usually lumbered with. She thinks she could grow used to dressing up in upper class finery and having other people wait on her instead. But all is not what it seems. Although Lady of the Manor Lizabettina Slocombe’s fortunes have fallen on hard times.

‘My ancestor ghost,’ begins Mrs Slocombe, nodding towards the chair on the other side of the fire where Lizabettina is perched ‘is Lizabettina Slocombe, the wife of Lord Slocombe who was descended from a very wealthy family. It is the Slocombe’s who came into the possession of Much Malarkey Manor in 1920s when, free from the horrors of the Great War, a new sense of freedom and gay abandon rippled through society. Unfortunately, it also rippled through the Slocombe wealth. In the 1920s, although money seemed no object to them, Lizabettina was constantly looking over the Manor’s account ledgers, growing increasingly worried about the mounting debts.’

Mrs Slocombe opens her own story book.

‘It was the eve of Christmas Eve in 1929, and Lord Slocombe was nowhere to be found. At least, that is what the staff of Much Malarkey Manor were saying. But Lizabettina knew where he was. He had gone to the City, to his club – The Enormous Turnip – where she knew he would be enjoying the Christmas festivities with his dubious friends and gambling away more of the Manor’s wealth on ludicrous bets involving raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

‘But Bernard,’ she had pleaded the day before as he left for the City, ‘it is Christmas in two days’ time. You need to be here, on the Estate, amongst our employees at this time of year. They expect it – it’s at this time of year we show them our thanks for all the hard work they put in over the rest of the year in keeping the Estate running so profitably and so smoothly.’

‘And what,’ replied Bernard, ‘is the point of profit if not to spend it? I shall be home in time, don’t you worry, my pet,’ and off he went, with not a glance backwards.

That morning, Lizabettina had checked the Estate accounts. It was tradition, on Christmas Eve, to lay on a celebratory feast for all the Estate workers and the staff of Much Malarkey Manor, but she knew immediately that this year it would not happen – Lord Slocombe was already living on credit and it had reached its limit.

‘What am I to do, Lambert?’ Lizabettina said to the faithful butler. ‘I cannot provide for the Estate Christmas Eve celebration this year. I cannot make purchases to fill the gift boxes with gifts for the children. I cannot even buy the ingredients for the traditional Malarkey cake I make to present to each and every household as a token of my affection.’

Lambert nodded, slightly. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘please do not worry yourself. Everyone on the Estate knows how hard you have worked trying to manage Lord Slocombe’s profligate ways. They also know how much you have sacrificed personally in order to pay your debts to the businesses in the village. The sale of your jewels, paintings, even the small trinkets from your own family that came with you into this marriage. And some of us know that you have been earning money in a private capacity, teaching cookery lessons to other gentry, in order to earn money to support the Estate. It is not befitting of your status but it shows your character and determination in a glorious light, that you are not too proud to get your feathers dirty, as it were.’

‘I have tried, Lambert,’ said Lizabettina, hanging her head in shame that he knew she has been working to earn money, and from their gentry neighbours, too. ‘I have tried so hard. But truly I don’t know what else to do.’

‘I shall speak with everyone,’ said Lambert. ‘And now, I think your Ladyship should rest. You look exhausted with all the worry and anxiety.’

‘But it is Christmas…’ Lizabettina protested. 'There is too much to do.'

‘Trust me,’ says Lambert.

He was right. It was too late for her to do anything, and she was so tired she could sleep standing up. Lizabettina retired to her rooms, and the Manor fell quiet.

Lizabettina woke on Christmas Eve to noise and bustle from downstairs that was above that of the usual noises made by the staff waking up the house.

‘What’s going on?’ she wondered, and quickly, she dressed and ran downstairs – and such a sight met her eyes!

For the enormous ballroom of Much Malarkey Manor was filled with people setting up many tables and benches and decorating them for Christmas celebration. In the kitchen, food was being prepared for a feast such that hasn’t been seen in the Manor for years. Lizabettina was bemused, yet amazed at the hustle and bustle and the constant greetings of ‘Merry Christmas, Your Ladyship!’ that came her way as people bustled to and fro.

She went to find Lambert. ‘What is all this, Lambert?’ she said, looking around her in bewilderment.

Lambert smiled. ‘This year, madam,’ he said, ‘we are making Christmas for you. It is our gift of thanks for everything you have done for us. Everyone on the Estate and in the village is contributing something – furniture, food, drink, decorations – and everyone is coming to the Manor to celebrate the season together.’

Lizabettina didn’t know what to say. She could feel tears brimming her eyes. ‘I don’t know what his Lordship will say when he returns,’ was all she could manage.

‘Ah,’ said Lambert, leading her to a quiet alcove. ‘I am afraid I have some sad news appertaining to Lord Slocombe.’

‘Oh?’ she said.

‘I’m afraid news came late last night that Lord Slocombe was involved in a brawl in a tavern in Deptford over an unpaid bill,’ said Lambert. ‘And he was stabbed. Behind an arras.’

‘Is he…?’

‘Dead? I’m afraid so, your Ladyship.’

Lizabettina gazed around the ballroom, at the excitement and Christmas cheer that was building. She smiled at the people, indeed friends, who had come together to make Christmas happen and she thought, this is the start of something new and better. When one door closes, another opens. Out with the old and in with the new.

‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘Thank heavens for the insurance policies, eh Lambert?’

‘Indeed, madam,’ said Lambert, bowing and with a small smile on his lips. He offered his arm. ‘Shall we party, madam?’

‘Indeed, we shall!’ said Lizabettina.

‘Good grief!’ says Mrs Pumphrey from the wings of the performance set. ‘I wasn’t expecting THAT. Lizabettina didn’t seem very bothered about the untimely death of her husband, did she?’

Mrs Miggins nods. ‘The thing it, one never knows everyone’s full story,’ she says. ‘Mostly, we only ever hear one side of events. But I do believe that Lizabettina Slocombe had every faith in the power of karma. And the fact she seemed unbothered by what happened suggests a debt of karma has been paid. Onwards and upwards, eh?’

And Mrs Miggins nods her thanks to the ghost of Lizabettina Slocombe who, in years to come, went on to independently regrow the wealth of Much Malarkey Manor for future generations. And she became a bit of a philanthropist, too. Eventually, she died peacefully in her sleep at a very ripe old age. Lizabettina nods to Mrs Miggins in return, and, her story told, she fades into the background, the chair now empty to receive the next ghost.