Fiction

Perhaps the shortest of short stories

Frederic Featherstone Smythe was a bit of a lad. For reasons best known to themselves he and his wife of many years lived separate lives. There were no children. Nevertheless he was sufficiently wary of his wife's lashing tongue to deem it imprudent to go home wearing a jacket reeking of tobacco smoke from the iniquitous haunts where he spent his evenings with the cards and the drink.

He was in the habit of leaving his jacket in my mother's porch on a hanger provided for the purpose. The following day, like the faithful retainer that she was, she would freshen up this garment and press it. Come the evening she would hang it back in her porch.

This arrangement continued for some years. From time to time he would reward her mostly in cash. Sometimes he would give her chocolates as well. Whatever it was, large or small, she would accept with good grace as a loyal servant should.

My mother had been in service with the Featherstone Smythes from the time that she was sixteen up to the time she was pensioned off having risen to the position of housekeeper. She had known Frederic since he was a wayward only child, always in trouble, who never seemed to learn to avoid the punishments that were frequently his lot.

Then one day the jacket did not appear in the porch and after an interval it seemed that the practice had ceased. In the course of time it emerged that Mrs Featherstone Smythe had abandoned the family home. Rumour had it that she had got fed up and another man was involved.

All would have been well were it not for the fact that a few years later, quite by accident, a body was found in the local mere. It was identified as that of Mrs Featherstone Smythe. It was established that the cause of death was drowning and there was nothing on the body or in it to suggest that it was anything other than a tragic incident. It seemed to be a strange way to choose to commit suicide but people in distress do some peculiar things don't they?

After a while the fuss died down and Frederic got on with his life. His habits did not change. Thus it happened that a local man made an unfortunate remark. It was unfortunate all round. The incident occurred in the Cock and Dragon in the village and in Frederic's presence. It was inferred that the circumstances surrounding Mrs Featherstone Smythe's death were not natural. Frederic, who had also been drinking, flew into a rage and hit the man so hard that what with his attempt to avoid the blow his chair went over backwards. He cracked his head on the stone floor and, in one of those quirks of fate, died on the spot.

Frederic was charged with murder, a charge later reduced to manslaughter, to which he pleaded guilty. There the story ended. No doubt he served his time in prison.

I have no idea what happened to Frederic subsequently. My mother died and the link was broken. However with a substantial fortune and a large estate to return to it does not seem likely that he would experience the privations suffered by others in his position.

This story was told repeatedly by my mother as some old people will who have lived uneventful lives. She always told it as though it were the first time of telling. Her audience, usually family, would listen as though it were the first time they had heard it nodding or expressing astonishment as seemed appropriate. It was all part of family kindness to the elderly.

It seems proper to share it with those who truly have not heard it before.