Free Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family by Gillian Fetlocks Page A

conversation.
    Lady Marry explains to her grandmother the intricate matrix of vacuum tubes, wiring, and electronic signals that mesh to form radio, one of the more important advances in communication of the nineteenth century.
    “Sounds like a lot of poppycock to me,” Vile snorts. “Next you’ll be telling me that a system of receptors in the sky can beam down driving directions for motorcars, both visually and spoken, on small screens in the vehicles themselves.”
    Marry listens to Vile gas on for several minutes prior to suggesting that such wild thoughts are undoubtedly the product of sleep deprivation. When the dowager countess leaves the drawing room, Marry shakes her head sadly.
    “Honestly, that woman is madder than a snake,” she says.
    “There is something wonderful about her imagination,” says Nana. “I mean, that whole thing about the interconnected system of receptors—I must give her credit—that is really inventive.”
    A passel of returning soldiers file into Downtrodden Abbey, whose rooms are converted into stations to shampoo, rinse, cut, and blow-dry the men’s hair before determinations are made regarding the larger issues of scalp treatment, hairpieces, and surgical follical replacement.
    Under Isabich’s direction, Tomaine takes over as a consultant, conducting intakes on each of the officers and diagnosing his individual styling needs.
    Handsom takes a walk with Supple, and reveals his plans to claim his right to refuse to perform military service as a conscientious objector.
    “Have you got a strategy?” Supple asks.
    “I’m thinking of fleeing up to Scotland,” Handsom says. “Did you know they don’t pay for health insurance there? And everyone has guns, but no one uses them?”
    On furlough, Atchew visits Downtrodden in the middle of one of Tomaine’s hissy fits, but is still impressed with the high level of hair care being offered. Marry, meanwhile, discovers through Dick Calamine that Brace did not actually return to his house in South London—he has been spotted daily in a village tearoom, where word has it that he sits for hours on end with a notebook and fountain pen.
    Marry shares this information with Nana, who travels to the village on her day off, scouring each and every tearoom for her beloved. Finally, she locates Brace, who is scribbling away feverishly.
    “Brace—Brace, it’s I,” says Nana.
    “Hang on a second,” he responds, making another entry in his book.
    “Brace, what are you doing? I was under the impression that you were cleaning your garage, and now I hear that you’re spending your days sitting in this tearoom.”
    Brace realizes that this is an opportunity to be completely honest, as Nana is the one woman with whom he feels emotionally safe.
    “Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” he pleads, his eyes welling with tears.
    “I promise,” Nana says.
    “No, seriously—pinkie swear.”
    Nana rolls her pale blue eyes. “Come on, Brace, I only have a few hours off. I’m supposed to go muck out the horse stalls.”
    “That’s as a good a segue as any, I suppose,” says Mr. Brace. “I’m actually working on a—”
    “—Oh, God, not another—”
    “It’s a novel,” Brace explains. “A big, sprawling epic set in an estate in England, concerning a group of downstairs servants and the upstairs family they work for. Oops, ended that sentence with a preposition. Trust me, I’m a better writer than that, heh-heh. Anyway, it’s from the point of view of a valet who’s handsome, hobbled, and haunted.”
    “Is it autobiographical?”
    “Why would you say that?”
    Nana wipes her brow. “I’m just relieved that you’re not working on a screenplay,” she says. “I mean, it’s like bubonic plague—everyone I talk to thinks they have a good idea for a motion picture. Crikey, when I started working on mine, there was very little competition. But coupled with the transformation of Downtrodden Abbey into some kind of palatial beauty