Living in the Smoke

[romney.livejournal.com]

I had posted this as a comment in a friends journal, in honour of caddyman's attempt to give up smoking. Then I thought of putting it here as the group appears to be moribund and so I'll be safe from anyone noticing it. The original piece I wrote was cut to meet the LJ comment word-limit and was Rather Better for it. This has been tidied even more and is thus version three.


The butler walked unsteadily into the kitchen.

"That was quick," exclaimed the head cook. "It usually takes you an age ter get 'is Lordship settled after 'is meal... why Mr Lumpett, whatever is wrong?"

With quavering voice the aged retainer could only announce "His Lordship declares... he has... given up... smoking."

The crash of dropped dishes, pans and consonants echoed round the cavernous kitchen for some time as all work came to a sudden halt.

"'Es Given Up?" cried the cook, giving voice to the incredulity of the staff.

"Indeed so, Mrs Scald. It was during the final smoking break of the meal, as I was scraping the bitter chocolate from his Lordships dinner mint. He had earlier smoked a brace of fine Cubans, one either side of the fish course, and thus depleted the choice in the tabletop humidor. Anticipating a scene, I had wheeled in the Afternoon Humidor, which I had of course entirely restocked after the Vicar had visited for tea. I was just pointing out the new Double Coronas to him when he cleared his throat..."

"Cleared 'is throat?" gasped the cook in horror.

"Indeed Mrs Scald, he cleared his throat."

"But... but 'e usually coffs uncontrollably fer a good ten minutes a'fore 'is mint!"

"Indeed. I was of course most concerned, and was forward enough to ask him if all was well, that perhaps he might have identified a stale cigar. But he said..."

Overcome with emotion, the butler paused to sip from the bottle of cooking-gin hurriedly offered by the worried Mrs Scald.

"Oh Mr Lumpett, please tell us wot 'e said!"

"He said, Mrs Scald, that he thought he might... 'Do without'"

The scream of the cook echoed round the room, scaring the cats, waking the bats and unsettling the calves-foot jelly in its mould.

"Oh no! no! Mr Lumpett! Please tell us you managed ter convince 'im otherwise!"

"Alas, I tried. I offered him each variety of cigar available in turn, but for ten minutes he refused them all, even the Presidente I broke the glass on the emergency humidor to obtain."

"He said he'd been thinking of 'cutting down a bit' and perhaps I should order a few less boxes a week from the London shippers. And from Amsterdam. And direct from the Bahamas, Brazil, Costa Rica, the Dominican Republic, Honduras, Mexico and Nicaragua. So while I was rightly concerned, I was slightly less worried as of course the majority of his cigars come from Cuba."

"But then he said 'Dash it Lumpett, I think I'll just stop entirely' and he described some sort of 'health fad' of which he has heard, one that considers smoking to be harmful in some way, and that an acquaintance had told him he might 'do better' to quit."

"I immediately offered the opinion that, if his acquaintance were a young lady, he should be aware that such creatures lack the education to have the correct view on such matters, and would he like a Panatela while he reconsidered?"

"But no, he said his mind was made up, that he would stop smoking cigars immediately. Well, despite the enormity of the situation, I know my duty is to serve, so I reassured him that I would enlarge the range of cigarettes, pipe tobacco and snuff that we hold. But he announced that he would give up all tobacco, and concentrate on finer things, such as the scent of flowers, the bouquet of fine wine and the taste of good food..."

Again the Cry of the Cook rebounded around the kitchen, lifting the roof-tiles three stories above and driving the crows forever from the nearby wood.

"But I 'ave cooked for 'im all 'is life! And my mother for 'is father, and back as many generations as we can count! Their Lordships 'ave all smoked, every larst one of 'em. If 'e starts to taste 'is food then we're all done for!"

"Mr Lumpitt, You know I can’t cook but a single dish wot tastes as it should, there's nobody in this kitchen that can! My family 'ave always been rotten cooks, our food is awful. No-one with any sense of taste could eat it, and we shall all be dismissed in disgrace if 'e ever finds out..."

At this moment, the pizza delivery boy arrived with the staff suppers, and joined in the communal wail of terror at the thought of the uncertain future ahead.