The Little Gathering
A knock erupted through the manor on a chilled Friday night. Lord Mortimer Carrington of Carrington Arms took to his feet from his grand armchair and stood at the entrance as one of many maids opened the mahogany door. On the other side, smiling an undoubtedly artificial smile, was Claude Godkim. He wore a fine silk suit of possible French origin, though he was sure that nobody at the little gathering would recognise it, with a small bow tie. He gripped his cane, bashed it firmly against the floor, then leaned forward slightly.
“May I enter, Lord Carrington?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He took a step back and dismissed the maid. “Good chap.”
Lord Carrington himself, of course, was wearing a flamboyant smoking jacket, which captivated the eyes so closely that one would scarcely notice its ineffectiveness, as a bespectacled fellow such as Newman Clubb, also present at the gathering, would see his trousers had residue from many cigars plastered between its creases. Godkim’s greatcoat was hung up and his cane put with the others, and his hat placed on a chest next to a copy of The Sandman. He made his way leftwards into the living room.
“Claude, you made it, dear,” Minerva Carrington, the lord’s younger wife, cooed from where she was lying on the chaise longue.
“Good evening, all.”
Clubb took him by the hand and shook it vigorously. “Mister Godkim, a pleasure.”
“And to you, too.”
Newman Clubb was a lawyer, dressed in a dandy summer suit in the midst of the coldest autumn of the decade. He grinned loudly and had a meltingly excited gaze, tucked behind a tan pair of spectacles gripping tightly to his nose.
“I hear you have some frighteningly good tales for us.”
Godkim shrugged. “You will see.”
The guest took his place at the middle armchair. On the right of him, Carrington, and on the left, Clubb. All three men faced Minerva. She was an odd woman, generous to a fault, dressed in red velvet always and two gold bangles on each wrist. She smiled gorgeously at Godkim, then seemed to realise something. She shot from where she reclined and opened the mantle-seated tantalus, took a bottle of scotch from its prison and called for four glasses.
“Would you like something more suited for you, dear?” she asked Godkim.
“I am able to drink scotch tonight.”
“Really?” Clubb replied incredulously and with the curiosity of a small boy.
“Trust the chap, Newman!” Carrington barked then turned to his wife. “Old girl, the maids seem to be occupied. Fetch the glasses yourself.”
Without a word, Minerva’s expensive shoes clicked across the hardwood and exited the living room. After a moment of long silence, she returned and gave a glassful of scotch to everyone. Godkim stared at the amber liquid, then drank it all. As he recovered from the sharp effects of the drink, he noticed how Carrington had begun to sniff the air and stroke the underside of his collapsed chin.
“Goodness, that is a foul odour,” he finally muttered, seemingly pointed at Godkim.
When Godkim looked up at the lord, he redirected his gaze onto Clubb, then to the window behind the chaise longue. It was open only slightly, and yet the stench of burnt leather and mouldy oil slipped through. He huffed and stood, then slammed it shut. He retreated back to his armchair and fell upon it once again.
“I say,” he began, “that Chamberlain simply must relocate.”
“Dearest, you know he can’t,” Minerva replied.
“Why not?!”
Clubb hopped where he sat. “I hear he’s got a bad leg,” he exclaimed.
“My brother met a man in the War. He had no left leg, and he fought for his bloody country. That chap can move a tannery away from my good house.”
“Well, you know how things are, dearest.”
Carrington sighed loudly and emphatically slurped his scotch. Godkim became aware of the clock tutting away on the mantle, shaking the silence, irritating the lord further. He crossed his ankle over his knee and straightened his back completely, brushed the ash from his trousers and reached for a new cigar from the box. Under Minerva’s watchful eye, he decapitated it and set it alight, then clenched it between his teeth.
He turned to the left. “Can you smoke, Claude?”
“I’m afraid not, Lord Carrington.”
“It will only be a matter of time before you can,” Minerva assured him.
“So,” Clubb leaned towards the centre armchair, “your stories?”
Before Godkim could tell a story, Carrington got to his feet once again and stormed out of the living room. He viciously rang the bell above the crystal banister ball and stamped his feet several times.
“Where are the blasted maids?! The tannery is still pungent! I want every window closed, I say, closed!” He entered the living room once again, smouldering still. “Good heavens, how difficult is it?”
“Mort, calm yourself,” Clubb whispered.
“Thank you, Newman, but I am fine.”
Clubb seemed to have a certain queer glint in his eye that sparked a similar one in Carrington’s. The lawyer smiled warmly, and the lord sat down. The four could hear the frantic scrambling of maids and servants upstairs, racing to close every window or balcony door they could. It was not likely any would be open, it was far past the likes of chilly on the street, and yet the scent of the tannery persisted.
“I apologise, Minerva, Claude… Newman.” He inhaled deeply, held for three seconds, and closed his eyes to exhale. “Isn’t this intimate?”
“Quite,” Godkim replied. “Let’s hope the smell dissipates soon.”
Godkim could not smell the tannery, and he was not sure if Minerva or Clubb could, either. Perhaps Carrington was hallucinating, he pondered, or perhaps this was another situation in which he was invariably and, for the foreseeable future, unchangeably different from the other guests at the little gathering.
“Yes, I concur,” Minerva agreed and finally finished her scotch.
“And me,” Clubb added and poured his second glass after already finishing his first with a loud and exaggerated sigh.
Godkim creaked open his mouth to begin telling the story he was obligated to tell, but he was interrupted once again by the lord.
“Wouldn’t it be funny for us to see what Chamberlain has got going on in his little faux chateau?” he suggested. “See if he really has a bad leg?”
“Mortimer!” Minerva hissed through her perfect teeth. “Not around Claude.”
“Ah, I am sorry, Claude, truly.”
Clubb sipped at his liquid amber and wondered why Carrington even said it in the first place around Godkim, but kept his mouth shut. He may have had a past with the lord, but he was not exempt from punishment from him.
“It was simply in jest,” the lord elaborated.
“It is fine, I am not bothered.”
“That’s delightful then, dear.” Minerva returned to her silken voice. “We know of his… paternal bond with you.”
Clubb scoffed and Godkim replied, “He is not a father figure. He is simply my master and nothing more. I would not be angry if Lord Carrington was to break into his house.”
“He was joking,” Minerva rushed out, then said more sternly, “And being foolish.”
“I see.”
A mighty silence fell upon the room. The clock’s ticking once again became deathly prevalent in all four minds. The maids and servants had stopped scrambling, and a heat had overcome the house. There were windows open no longer, but yet Carrington’s face contorted as if he could still smell the tannery.
Godkim suddenly rose from his armchair. “I must go to the bathroom.”
“Fascinating…” Clubb muttered in awe.
“It is up the stairs, old chap, straight ahead,” Carrington instructed.
Godkim left the three alone to gossip about him and he ascended the stairs. He caught the stares of the maids and servants dusting the old, rich furniture and collecting the many clothes of Carrington and his wife to wash. He did not pay them any mind and entered the bathroom. He did not relieve himself, but rather turned and stepped in front of the mirror. He stared at his own glowing red and blue eyes, his face, crafted perfectly. He ran a smooth hand across his cheek and chin, stroking his own complexion. He could hear the living room chatter.
“He calls Chamberlain his master?” Clubb asked the room.
“Quite odd, I’ll admit,” Minerva replied.
“It’s only natural for a chap like him,” Carrington added. “Chamberlain did create him.”
“Oh, don’t say it like that, you’ll make me feel queasy,” his wife pleaded.
“To have something that came from such a… oh, bother, now I feel ill, too...”
“Quiet,” Clubb hushed them both. “I think he’s coming.”
Godkim descended the stairs and looked through the banister at the three sitting silently and completely still, waiting for his arrival once again. He stepped through the doorway and time resumed again, and Minerva poured him another glass of scotch. He took the glass and sat back down on his throne. He finished the scotch in just seven seconds and swivelled the glass around in his perfectly made hands.
“I don’t think you’ve given us one of your stories, Mister Godkim.”
“I haven’t.” He cleared his throat. “I have been Claude Godkim for so long, that I have forgotten who I was. What I was. My mind frolics at night to the darkness of the ‘tannery’, the moment of my creation, and though I remember the scene in perfect detail, as any manufactured product would, I remember not my name, nor my designation. I remember only a married couple and another man hiring me to be their Godkim.”
The room was silent as it was known to be, but it was not a tense silence. It was not an uncomfortable or sad silence; it was simply a silence. Carrington chopped off the head of another cigar and brought the butt to his lips. He was going to kill himself with all that tobacco. He sucked in the nicotine, then brought the cigar away from his mouth to speak.
“Well, we couldn’t very well just leave him out of our little gatherings.”
“Little gatherings are only little gatherings with four members,” Minerva elaborated. “Otherwise, it is simply just three people.”
“I suppose it still is just three people,” Clubb murmured.
“Claude, dear, I think it’s time you should go.”
He stood, said his goodbyes to the other three, gathered his hat, cane, and coat, and swiftly left the premises, to return for another little gathering next Friday. Any man would certainly smell the ‘tannery’ outside, but, of course, Godkim was not a man at all.
