Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

thought for a moment. “Unless you mean the loo.”
Michael smiled sheepishly. “I do, actually.”
“Ah. Just across the way there.”
“Thanks so much.”
The man extended his hand. “I’m Teddy Roughton. Uh … what are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Michael flushed, shaking his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver, a friend of Mona’s. I thought she’d told you.”
“Well … no matter. I expect she will. How splendid. A guest for Easter.”
“Guests, actually. There’s two of us.”
“Even better.”
“I hope it isn’t an imposition.”
“Don’t be silly. Look … why don’t you lurk off to the loo, then come back and join me for elevenses?”
“If you’re sure …”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Thanks. Then I’ll just …” He made an ineffectual gesture toward the loo.
“Yes. Go on. I’ll be here.”
When Michael returned, Lord Roughton was pouring tea at a little table by his bedroom window. He was forty-five or thereabouts, tall and lean, almost gangly, with melancholy gray eyes that bulged slightly. His graying hair was cut very short, and he was wearing the pajamas Mona had bought at Harrods.
“So,” he said, looking up. “How is everything in Seattle?”
“Oh … I’m not from there.”
“Sit down, for heaven’s sake.”
Michael sat down.
“Where are you from?”
“San Francisco.”
“Really? How extraordinary!”
“How so?”
The gray goldfish eyes popped at Michael. “I’m moving there. Didn’t Mona tell you?”
“No. She didn’t, actually.”
“Well … I am. I was there six months ago and went mad for the place. What do you take in your tea?”
“Thanks, I just had …”
“Please. I insist. You may be my last houseguest.”
Michael smiled at him. “Thanks. Milk is fine.”
“Good.” He doctored the tea and handed it to Michael. “I must say, this is a pleasant surprise.”
Michael sought refuge in his tea, then asked: “When are you moving to San Francisco?”
“Oh … a fortnight or so. I have to sell the house first.” Michael hadn’t figured on that. “I see. Then this is … really permanent.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And there’s no one in your family who can …”
“Carry on? I should hope not. I am … how shall we put this delicately …?”
“The end of the line?”
“The end of the line,” nodded Lord Roughton, whispering as if he’d offered an intimate confession.
Michael smiled at him.
Lord Roughton returned it. “Mummy and Daddy are still alive—as you’ll see soon enough—but I’m afraid they’re never coming back from the Scillies.”
The sillies? They were senile? “You mean …?”
“They live in the Scillies now. To escape the taxes.”
Michael nodded.
“Off Lands End, you know. The islands.”
“Oh … right.”
“It’s the only way to be an expatriate and still be British about it.” He lifted his teacup and stared down his lashes at Michael. “We’ve driven our aristocrats into the sea.”
Michael laughed.
“So,” said Lord Roughton, “how long have you lived in San Francisco?”
“Almost … nine years.”
Lord Roughton sighed, peering out the window at the moss-tufted gatehouse and the fields beyond. “We’ve lived here nine hundred.” He rolled his head languidly toward Michael. “That’s the family, mind you. I’ve lived here barely half that time.”
Michael wouldn’t indulge him. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Well … it isn’t. Not always. But I’ve made some decisions about the rest of my life, and Easley isn’t part of the picture. Do you know what I do here? I’m a landlord. I sit at that table once a month and take money from the villagers. I live in two rooms—the kitchen mostly, because I can heat it—and sometimes I get money for having tea with people named Gary and Shirley who arrive at my doorstep in charabancs. I spend long, leisurely mornings sweeping the batshit out of the guest bedrooms and picking moss off the stone, because it costs five hundred pounds to replace one of those ornamental blocks along the parapet and the moss is eating this place alive.”
Michael smiled at him. “I hope this isn’t your sales pitch.”
That got a chuckle. “1 have a buyer already.”
“Someone you know?”
He nodded. “A woman I’ve known for years and her horrid new husband. They’ve already begun making noises about Returning It To Its Former Glory.” He shuddered noticeably.
“I like it like this,” offered Michael, “all frayed around the edges.”
“Thank you.”
I mean