Only through a weird set of circumstances would it have come to pass. Fortunately (I think), my life’s circumstances are frequently as weird
as a fishes underwear. Therefore, when I found out that the
nice receptionist to whom I had been expending my carefully hoarded
charm had a daddy who was an honest-to-Agincourt baron, I glibly informed
her that the Fabled PC and Your Humble Obedient &tc were soon
to go to The Continent.
“Ooh! You’ve gotta look up Daddy
at his castle!” she gushed.
Castle?
“Where does your father
live? I mean, where is his... castle?” I wasn’t buying
this right away, you see. The nice girl-lady to whom I was speaking
was a pure California-type. You know the kind -- they have to
wear padded shoulders so they don’t hurt their heads when they talk.
“Daddy’s castle is in Arbroath. On the coast of Scotland. He is the Baron of Kelly. When you look out any one of the windows
on top, the North Sea is right there. In Scotland,” she finished
erratically, eyes shining proudly.
“Your father is a baron?”
“You
betcha my betcha against your betcha, and I betcha my betcha wins,
I betcha.” She was on a roll, now. Just as I approached
certainty that all of the kookies were not in the jar, she reached
into her receptionist-thingy desk to pull out an impressive certificate
signed by the Exchequer to the Queen and Knight Commander of the Royal
Victorian Order, Sir Lord Lyon King of Arms, Royal Big Shot and Nobody
to Be Sniffed At, or somebody.
It was a list of the bonafides
that swore through the listed genealogy and historical records attested
to ad nauseam that one Mr. Gerald Hubert Colson (aka “Daddy”) was,
in truth and fact, the Baron of Kelly. And here was his coat
of arms, his baronial coronet, his baronial motto, and my God -- even
his bloody flag.
Geez.
“Give Daddy a call -- he’d
love to have you stay over. He’ll probably put you in the Blue
Room at the Castle.”
You could hear the capital letters.
So
I wandered home, thinking that my maladjusted charm had really gotten
me into a deep etiquette stew this time. The Fabled PC thought
it was cute, and that I ought to give the guy a phone call the next
night, just to say hello if we happen to be in the area.
Brrrrrnnggg. Brrrrnnnggg.
“Kelly Castle.”
“Duhh. This is Walt Snedeker...
Ah, um... I, umm,” I opened brilliantly.
“But of course,
you must be that great humor writer who creates those smashing magazine
articles that my daughter told me about. How kind of you to
call. I was ever so hoping you’d get in touch.”
And they
wonder why we raw colonials dearly love a lord. This guy owned me.
“Well, Baron, er, Your Highness, sir, I...”
“Oh, you
must call me Jerry.”
Wow.
“Your daughter told us to look
you up when we got to Scotland.”
“Yes. She mentioned that
to me. When will you be here?”
I told him we’d be there
in about two weeks, and then asked if he knew of any good Bed-and-Breakfasts
in the area.
“Nonsense.” A crisp command -- a touch of
the Colonel, here. “You’ll stay at the Castle.”
He used
capital letters, too.
“Oh, that’s very kind, but we don’t want
to impose...”
“Nothing of the sort. Let me know when you
are going to arrive, and I will send a car down to the station to
meet you.”
Did he say: ‘send a bloody car down to the cotton-pickin’
station’??? The Fabled PC and I exchanged looks.
“(*gasp*)
Uh, thanks, Your Royal, um, Jerry.”
“Cheer-o, then.”
Click.
Oh,
my.
Scene cut to two or so weeks later. The Fabled PC and
Your Humble &tc. are at the station in Arbroath.
There is
no car.
We dial up the Castle. We are now using capitals. No answer. Uh-oh. But wait. We can leave a message.
“Hi, uh, Your Jerryship, sir. This is Walt and PC. We’re at the station. We’ll just get a cab and hop over to the
Castle.”
So we did. The cab drove through the clean, sleepy,
modest little town with its tiny postage-stamp lawns, each house touching
its neighbor. Beautiful, quaint little place.
Then we turned
up a drive. Holly, rhododendron in bloom, dogwood, giant flowering
things lining the shaded drive. A huge pasture full of cows...NO!! Wait a minute!!
“PC! Lookit! Lookit! Those are DEER!”
“But they’re too big, aren’t they?”
Astute
lass. The deer were more the size of elk. But they justsat there looking at us. And they were deer. Humongous,
utterly tame deer. I had the cab stop and got out. Arnie
Schwartzenbambi just calmly gazed at me. Unreal. The Baron’s
private herd.
The Baron was not in.
One of the staff informed
us that he was being given a joyride by a warship of the German Navy,
and would be back tomorrow. (What the hell is this world coming
to?)
So we stayed in a Bed and Breakfast. It was lovely.
The
Baron was all contrite in the morning, having gotten his calendar
awry, and could he come and pick us up now?
We knew the car was
from the Castle instantly. Everybody else had, well, cars. The thing coming down the road was probably launched as a special
favor to the Baron by the Rolls Royce company.
The Baron had
pale gold-grey hair, an immaculate mustache, and a blazer with the
baronial crest. The Castle was begun to be built in the 12th
century. We nearly got lost by the time our very special tour
was over.
I say “special tour” because the Baron (giggling in
a refined peer-ish sort of way) showed us something others never saw: he pulled on a book in a bookshelf, to be rewarded with an enormousclick! Hooboy! A genuine secret panel opened up, revealing
a steel door that would not have been out of place at Brink’s. We went through it, with me clicking away with my camera, and found
ourselves in a private office.
The Baroness announced dinner. We segued/sashayed/stumbled into the main dining room. The table
would only seat forty or so, but the Fabled PC and I figured we could
squeeze and make do. Along the wall opposite where I was seated
was a leather tapestry akin to the Bayeux job which features the Battle
of Hastings. I remarked on it, and the Baron was delighted.
“Yes,
I am very pleased to own that. Christie’s came in and appraised
it, then insured it for two hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.”
That’s a half-million bones in American, folks. But it
wasn’t the end by any means. The table we were seated at (if
you chucked in the chairs and sideboard) was picked up by ole Jerry
at Sotheby’s for another trifling half mil.
Jiminy. We
hadn’t even gotten out of the dining room, and the furniture cost
more than a million dollars.
Eventually, we took our leave, the
Baron being gracious to the end, insisting that we stay the night
in the Blue Room (the one with the suit of armor standing in the corner).
When
we got back to Florida, we looked at the pictures. The Fabled
PC was doing a lot of sighing.
Uh-oh. I could see
it coming.
“I want to redecorate.”
