Chapter 12
Lesson 12: When the world is ending, the scream of bagpipes will be the first sign.
Bridget Jones Tally:
drones—3
Scotsmen—2
moments of peace—0
When my alarm went off, I cracked my eyes open and wished violently that there was someone whom I could bribe to allow me
to stay in bed all day. I reset my alarm, closed my eyes, and rolled over.
I couldn’t miss the day, but I could at least skip breakfast. I drifted off again, half-asleep, half-awake, half-consumed
with my worries, half not caring anymore. When the little retro phone in my room rang, I rolled my eyes behind my closed eyelids
and put my hand to my forehead. It could only be one person. I picked up the receiver and hung it back up. I wasn’t a child. I didn’t need a wake-up call.
I might not have needed a wake-up call, but I sure as hell freaking got one.
A siren wailed, and I nearly fell out of the bed. Danger! My heart pounded out of my chest. My body shook with adrenaline. Surely it was an air-raid siren. Surely it was the end of times! Surely it was... a jig. It was a fucking jig. The siren was bagpipes, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the cursed things were being squeezed directly under my window.
“Alice Cooper!” a voice called over the noise.
I swore.
Percy started howling.
I had a charming cottage bedroom with old windows set deep into thick, whitewashed walls that overlooked a circular drive
and front garden. I whipped the curtain back. There in the middle of the grassy circle was a man I had never seen playing
the Highland pipes. Next to him was Beelzebub himself, with a shit-eating grin. Behind him was the entire assembled tour group
of ladies—and Percy, eyes squeezed shut, singing his little heart out.
The man finished the tune, the pipes deflated in an inelegant whine, and Satan’s smile widened even further.
“There she is!” he said, and the women cheered. “Time to get a wriggle on, Alice Cooper.”
I groaned. “I was getting up. We have twenty more minutes,” I said lamely, tamping my hair down and pulling my pajama top
up. “Where did you even find bagpipes anyway? We’re in England!”
“Halluuu!” called the piper amiably, with a big warm smile. “I’m Ian, Robbie’s mate from Glasgow.” He had a deep brogue and
waved with his free hand. I had seen him, actually. At check-in. This was his B&B.
“Of course you are. Nice to meet you, Ian.”
I assessed. After this noise I resigned myself to never going back to sleep, possibly ever. “Alright, alright. I’ll be down
in a minute.”
When I got on the bus, the women clapped and cheered, faces smiling. Nosferatu looked altogether too pleased with himself.
I smiled down the bus and took a little bow.
“I hate you,” I said low through my smile.
He laughed. “Nothing new there then.”
“You will pay for this.”
“I don’t doubt it. Here ya are. You skipped dinner.” He handed me a napkin with something warm inside.
“I don’t want your... what is this?”
“It’s a bacon butty,” he said. “You’ll like it.”
I frowned. “A bacon buddy?” I said, as if it was some kind of child’s toy. Bacon Buddies: When your best friend just isn’t greasy enough.
“A bacon butty .” He laughed again. “Ya daft Americans with your D s and T s. Outrageous.”
“Well, I don’t want it,” I lied.
“Course ya do. And here’s a scone and jam for after. Now have a seat, and let’s get rolling.”
He was right. The bacon butty was delicious, and I was ravenous. I hated him for it, but I had a little bit of a smile while
I ate. I couldn’t tell if I was furious or amused by his stupid prank, but I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t thinking about
my problems anymore.
When I finished all my delicious carbs, fats, and sugars, I wiped my mouth and got out my notebook to brainstorm my revenge.
Things to Torture Our Terrible Tour Guide:
Point out his mistakes. (Note: This works with all men.)
Roll eyes often.
Refer to him as British or even English instead of Scottish.
Incite and inspire complaints from the oldies.
Ask often for bathroom breaks and make sure not to go until he calls everyone back to the bus.
Refer to Braveheart for historical accuracy.
Give Percy his farty snacks.
Bring it to Agatha’s attention if he goes even a mile over the speed limit.
Yawn theatrically during presentations.
Refuse to laugh at any and all jokes.
Mention offhand that Trainspotting was a horrible film.
Pronounce Edinburgh as ed-in-BURG (hard G ), and Glasgow as glas-GOW (rhymes with cow ).
Yes. I felt quite brightened and rejuvenated with this renewed purpose.
On the drive to Chatsworth House, our tour guide set a cat among the pigeons.
“So I wondered if you ladies could help me out with a little quandary. If you were to choose... would it be Mr. Darcy and
Mr. Knightly, or would it be Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff?”
War broke out.
“Well, obviously Darcy and Knightly. Right, ladies?” Madge said. “No competition, really. Nice, handsome, honorable men with
lots of money.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Helena. “Sure, Austen men are lovely, but where’s the passion? All the heroes are dry and reserved,
and all the passionate men are the baddies: the Willoughbys and Wickhams. They were the cautionary tales. The men to stay
away from. But that made me like them all the more.”
“So instead you vill choose a disturbed man with half a face and a burned-down castle who likes to lock women in the attic?”
asked Berrta, getting worked up about what she clearly thought was a nonsense opinion. “Or maybe you like an obsessive psychopath
who kidnaps people and kills dogs?”
“Heathcliff seems far more lickable than Darcy,” said Flossie.
“Likable! She means likable ,” interrupted Agatha.
“No I don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Madge,” Lorna weighed in. “Sure, the Austen men are reliable. But what is life without passion and drama? I’d
bet Darcy would spend most of his morning doing the crossword puzzle, whereas Heathcliff would make love to you outside in
a thunderstorm.”
“Oh, ridiculous,” said Agatha through a tight mouth. “None of them are real. And if men were actually like that in reality,
then we wouldn’t be out here, just a bunch of old women without them.”
“Maybe they’re not real,” I said. “But they sure felt real enough to me when I read them.”
“Me too!” said Lorna.
“And what’s more, I think I started reading these stories so young that they shaped my perspective of men, and of what men
should be. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Certainly,” Helena agreed. “I’m sure I probably married my husband because he reminded me of Gilbert Blythe.”
“Ooh, I love Gilbert Blythe!” I gushed.
“Ladies! We’ve lost the thread here,” said Doris. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re Austen men or Bront? men. The only thing
that really matters is Colin Firth coming out of that lake with his shirt soaking wet.”
No matter where we were going or what we were doing, there was always the sound of someone somewhere blowing their nose. This
meant that tissues were forever in short supply, an issue no one realized would soon become pertinent as we walked ourselves
into the closest thing to Jane Austen’s Pemberley that existed on earth.
Helena let out a low whistle. “Is it too late to change my answer to Darcy?”
Chatsworth House was a glittering jewelry box. Every spare inch shone with gold gilding, marble tiles, sculptures, painted ceilings, and furniture finer than I knew was possible. Abbotsford, I realized, was a small, intimate space for Sir Walter Scott. I had thought it was so grand, but really it was a place to write and be cozy. Chatsworth, on the other hand, was built by a duke and duchess to impress royalty. It was widely accepted that Pemberley was based on Chatsworth, and I could see why. It was opulence made earthbound.
“Madam. The house is dog-free, I’m afraid. But you’re welcome to walk him in the garden.”
I whirled around. A young man in a uniform was addressing Doris and looking very uncomfortable.
“This isn’t just a dog. This is Percy. He’s my support animal, as you can see on his vest, had you bothered to look.”
The young man looked at Percy’s hand-embroidered vest dubiously. “Umm... I will have to check with Mr.—”
“I’m ninety-eight. He is necessary for my health and safety. Are you going to take away my support animal?”
“Well, I...”
“No, I didn’t think so. Stand aside. Come along, Percy.”
His nails tapped the marble triumphantly.
“This is my first time visiting Chatsworth.” My morning executioner walked toward us with tickets. “So I’ve booked us in for
a tour with a guide who will know the history far better than I do.” He gestured at the uncomfortable-looking young man. “This
is Anthony.” He walked over and parked himself next to me. I would not squander the opportunity.
“Thank God he’s English. At least I’ll be able to understand some of it.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You seem to find a way to misunderstand everything, regardless of the accent.”
“I think it’s just you, actually. You see, I don’t speak jackass.”
“Really? You surprise me. You’re certainly picking it up like a native.”
“I’m a quick study. And anything is easier than Scots. The question is, when are you going to learn English? Perhaps Anthony could help. Excuse me, Anthony. Can I ask a favor please? Could you pronounce the
word worm for me?”
“Umm... worm ?”
“Yes. Perfect. See how it’s done, Braveheart? Just one syllable.”
As we went from one room to the next, I was rendered speechless, and forgot entirely about my scheme for retribution. I listened
to Anthony’s stories of the sixteen generations of the Cavendish family, and I imagined parties, banquets, and balls swirling
by in a prism of rustling skirts. I imagined myself as Lizzy Bennet, seeing Pemberley for the first time with her aunt and
uncle, falling under its spell, bumping into Darcy (probably in a wet shirt), and wondering how on earth she turned him down,
when she might have been mistress of all this.
“Oh, come here, love. You’ve got a bit of jam on your face. And a bit on your lovely cardi as well.” I turned around and saw
Madge speaking to Doris. Doris rubbed at her face with her arthritic fingers, but the purple smear on her cheek stuck fast.
Madge dug around in her handbag. “Lorna, sweet. Have you got a spare tissue?”
“Bugger. I don’t think I do.”
I walked closer, digging in my own bag, but not finding anything to help.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ve got one in here somewhere. There now, that’ll do.” From her purse Doris pulled out a large, wadded-up napkin,
and started to rub her face with it. As she did, something crumbled and began to fall out and all over her bosom. Not noticing,
she continued to smush and rub. Larger chunks bounced off her and rolled onto the pristine carpet.
“Wait, Doris. What’s all this?” Lorna moved in closer. She grabbed the napkin and opened it.
“Huh?” Doris looked at the napkin, then at her chest, and then, with crumbs clinging to her chin, began to laugh. “It’s my leftover scone.” She laughed harder. “From Tuesday.” Scone crumbs had turned the expanse of her bosom into a winter wonderland, a ski slope, and as she laughed harder the crumbs bounced to the floor. “It’s me scone.” It was everywhere.
Lorna and Madge started laughing, and Doris began to wheeze as her laugh deepened. I was trying to be discreet and not draw
Anthony’s attention to the mess we were making, but I couldn’t help myself. Doris’s dry hiss of noiseless laughter was contagious,
and it grabbed hold of me all the tighter for my trying to struggle against it.
From nowhere, our tour guide swooped in and silently delivered an unopened package of travel tissues into Lorna’s hand, then
made a quick play to distract Anthony to the other side of the large room and away from the carpet.
“Anthony, can I trouble you with some questions about this map?”
Lorna laughed harder. “Oh no. It’s all over the beautiful floor.” She took a tissue out, licked it, and proceeded to wipe
Doris’s face with the spitty part. At this, Doris, holding on to her cane, crossed her legs as her knees bent under her. Is she alright? What is she...
That’s when I began to laugh so hard that my chest hurt. She was trying not to wet herself!
Percy ran over from wherever he was and whatever he was doing. Doris was wheezing and gasping, but he wasn’t there to check
on her for signs of distress—or, say, a heart attack. He was there for the scone. This made Doris laugh so hard that she crumpled
even further, and I rushed in and grabbed her elbow to keep her upright. I was glad she was wearing her black pants.
“It was me scone.” This sent her into another grip of laughter. I put my arm around her shoulder and we leaned into each other—one helpless, heaving animal. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed this hard. She squeezed my hand, and I gave her a big, smacking kiss on her newly cleaned cheek. When I could be trusted to move my limbs again, I stretched out and kicked a large chunk from under an eighteenth-century writing desk over to Percy, who made smart work of the evidence.
We might have thought that the rest of the tour would be comparatively uneventful. And it was. Until the end, at least, when
Anthony was wrapping things up.
“Chatsworth remains a modern house that is very much alive and an integral part of the community. We have performances and
events throughout the year, as well as a health and fitness club with a pool and tennis courts...”
“Oh, I love tennis. It helps to slow the southerly descent of my derriere. My husband and I play twice a week. Does anyone
else play?” Helena asked the group as we were released into the gift shop.
“I used to play tennis,” said Berrta, “but now I prefer pickleball.”
“Pickleball, really? I tried it once, but I got so confused by the rules. Have you been playing long?”
“About two years now.”
“How nice. What got you started?”
“Well, there was a local Nacktkultur community group that started to have pickleball games for naturists every Sunday.”
“How lovely, and did you have to buy... I’m sorry, did you say for naturists?”
“Ja.”
Doris pushed over with a squeak of her cane. “Naturists? I know what that means!”
“Yes, we play pickleball together.”
“In the nude?” Doris shouted, eyes enormous behind her thick glasses. People from across the room turned their heads.
“Yes.”
No. Way. This cannot be happening.
“What, with all your bits and bobs bouncing around?” asked Doris.
“Natürlich.”
Lorna and Madge had come over with their eyes alight. Doris squeaked a few inches closer. “Is it women only?”
“No. It is free for any who vant to play.”
Doris sucked in a breath. “You mean that you watch men running around with their... pickle and balls swinging about?” Doris
laughed.
“Of course,” Berrta said unflappably.
I muzzled into the circle with my mouth open. “Tell us everything.”
Agatha appeared, as if summoned magically by the opportunity to castigate someone. “People are staring at us. Those children are listening to everything you’re saying. Where do you think you are, Doris? Your trashy book club?”
Doris spun around with surprising agility, nostrils flaring. “Good smut is not trashy, Agatha.”
“And vat is vrong vith the naked body? I vill answer. Nothing at all. You may be ashamed of your naked body, but I am not
ashamed of mine. It is natural and healthy. It is good to get the flesh out in the cold air. Once you get used to all the
bouncing, pickleballing in the nude is very freeing. I think you should try this one day and see for yourself.”
“Why not now?” Flossie asked. “I’m not wearing any underpants.”