Frankie McCafferty

Young Keogh flexes a peck, suspiciously.

Non-committal, he coo-hullens out the door...

Mrs. Bellingham of the big house.

Double-fronted Georgian splendor, replete with climbing ivy and tones of gentry maroon.

Two-story over basement, long graveled avenue, with lion's heads on pillars in mid-Leonine stately roar.

Good morning, gentlemen.

Now, what do I need?

She casts a careless hand in the direction of the meat counter, throwing airs of pheasant shoots, racing golden retrievers, hip flasks and crackling turf fires.

I need a round roost for part of eight.

He's really great.

Thanks for asking.

She lies.

That looks fabulous.

We're having some friends over, you see.

At home, hiding, and not invited to any dinner parties, Mr Bellingham of the big house whimpers.

Depressed, Crestfallen at the loss of his imaginary controlling interest in the East India Company, he lies in the foetal position in an oak-panelled library made entirely out of unpaid invoices and builders' estimates for gargantuan, never-before-seen roofing expenses.

Here he nightmares on everything must go signs and auctioneers hammers and the dirty Wellington booted footmarks of the nosy, stinky, silage soaked farmers who will stomp across the Persian carpets of that same auction.

His long-forgotten ancestors sneer and snoop downwards from dusty antiquarian portraits.

They hiss with disapproval at his low, desperate... That's wonderful, Cortland.

Cortland walks out the back of the shop, past the bone saw and the cutting bench.