Workmanlike

It was an autumn afternoon—a man and his nephew walked down an unusually sparse main street. A few carriages tickled the cobbled road; unconcerned with their lack of haste. Barely a soul or two flanked them either side of the street. The calm, dreary atmosphere was broken only by the flapping and banging of the rafters so high above, and the occasional tinny whisper of the curious folk who passed by.



The boy; a young lad, no more than ten years old, danced around his uncle as they walked. Portly, plum-faced and sharply dressed, the lad beamed with an unhindered zeal. The son of a wealthy merchant-- now deceased, freedom from responsibility and the fetters of financial inadequacy all contributed to his skylarking demeanour. His brown hair, falling out of place, like a drunkard caught in a jig against his will; his milk-teeth, greeting the sallow sky with every playful smirk; his pinched eyes, bursting with timidity-- like all children, this young master cared not for the world men live in, only the unending bliss and problem-free bubble children seemed to be born into. Not caring an ounce for soiling his clothes, he kicked dirt and chippings off the street onto his bloomers.



Bounding steps ahead, the uncle of the lad travelled with a confidence of a man who had the world in his pocket. Impeccably dressed, much more so than the boy; the gentleman commanded his own fortune; his wardrobe, his jewellery and that ever-so desired quality which no gold dust can buy: the respect of his peers. Wearing a velvet, burgundy suit, the uncle couldn’t help but be quite conspicuous in this part of town, for it was an area he would not frequent too often, had he not previously engaged in business with his friend; the artisan, who made his living specialising in incredibly ostentatious trinkets such as watches, snuff boxes, letter openers and other fine metal toys.



Receiving much grief for his expensive hobby, the uncle believed a watch, being one of the only few pieces of jewellery a gentleman can wear, must require much deliberation upon it’s choosing; it’s appearance, it’s function, and what it whispers to inquiring eyes who may happen upon it. Yes, beyond cuff-links, a pocket watch, a ring denoting wedlock, and perhaps maybe a tie-pin, there wasn’t much else a man could wear without looking so dastardly and lacking in taste. ‘One had to make the best of it!’ he’d often say.

To describe his appearance further; the uncle wore a paisley waistcoat under his jacket. Finely stitched by one of those French dandies in London, the coat was lovingly wrapped up by four ample-sized jewel-covered buttons. Sparkling even in the dullest of afternoon light, his nephew often joked of a fleet of magpie, diving in ecstasy upon spying such a treasure!



The shoes; magnificently polished and bearing a reflection like that of ice, seemed as though their powerful shine could ignite gunpowder. Well-shone footwear spoke a lot about a man, especially one of business. He never forgot the words of his father, when he very seriously conjectured at the merchant bank as a young chap of eighteen. “Always pay particular attention to a man’s shoes and watch. If they are without blemish, everything else is in order.” Words it seems would stay with him for the coming forty years.



His head, despite his advanced age, still teeming with black wavy hair, was topped by a bowler of subtle disposition. Charcoal grey, stylishly tilted and snugly pressed against his forehead, the hat adopted a position similar to that of an archer upon a tower. A bowtie sat proudly under his chin. The colour of a poorly rolled cigar, though not without its accompanying flaws, it served his appearance as a centrepiece would suit a dinner table. The Windsor knot stood like a fortuitous beacon against the objects the world had to throw at it. A black moustache, speckled with portions of grey, sat like Gulliver marooned on Lilliput over his unusually small lips. His eyes, like mail slots, surveyed the street with sagacious audacity. This appearance, finished by a slender black cane topped with a glass sphere, reasoned instantly that the man was of fine taste, proud demeanour, and of humble eccentricity. However, despite this exquisitely fanciful countenance, the drooping state of the city had taken their toll on the man’s spirit. With his fortune plummeting down like a loon, only to catch an updraft soon after, this often had his heart beating like that of sportsman, if this air to fate could be described as such. He had often scolded his financier for shocking his ticker so.



The relationship between man and boy was insurmountable. Not like that of man and woman, where the almost compulsory, regular altercation is required in order for the health of courtship. Such ridiculous notions were not present here, just like that between man and man, man and beast, and man and child. As is the case with all young men, they see their father, or father-figure-- as is the case here, as a superman. Invincible to the flirts of a woman; unyielding to the weight of any burden; unconvinced of any vagrant plea; melting not under the greatest pressures—he is perfect, infallible and surely desirable to all.



As the flagstones underneath them came and went, the young lad employed a speedy gait, as if someone was in increasing pursuit of him, though no such thing was to happen. Such games young people play! Meanwhile, his uncle had gained some distance during his frivolity. Following quickly the steps of this dinosaur, the boy grew increasingly excited, as if a surprise were to rear its head.

Interrupted by small talk of the passing destitute, the eyes of the uncle glistened quite suspiciously-- considering the area of town, at a man in dog-eared threads ambling down the street. He suspected the local liquor joints had opened early. As the parties came closer to one another, the sun shining from over the tower blocks seemed to penetrate the eyes of the uncle every second or two, in perfect sync with the hobble of his stately walk. This resulted in a momentary disappearance of the shaggy gentleman, though of course, he was still jocularly darting down the narrow pavement, occasionally trespassing into the street upon every hiccough. The boy, unacquainted with such alien behaviour, assumed the old vagrant to be suffering from some illness or another, as he promptly soliloquized:



“Why else would a man behave such a way!?”



A dozen or so metres away, onlookers; if any soul were to be found, would have no doubt compared the two men to freight trains careering down opposite ends of the same track, destined to slam into each other with godly force. Such is the case with a man of such power and integrity, though the motives of a drunkard, however, change like the wind. A tall breeze could have easily blown him into the neighbouring signage. Presumably, the apparition heading down the street toward them was unemployed; perhaps relieved of his labour, no doubt laborious, due to this infatuation with the occupants of alcohol decanters. A fate of many, though a destiny of few, this quick-draw analysis of the chap seemed to paint a clearer picture the nearer he stumbled.



The man donned a long black coat, very unbecoming, and had most definitely seen better days. The garment was long past its retirement, as were the rest of his clothes—yet they clung to his emaciated frame like wet tissue. Wearing mostly a sickly green colour, excluding the boots, which were black and tatty, the man exhibited an enormous grey beard, striped with remnants of brown, alcohol coloured hair. A philosophical appearance to some degree, the bristly hair swayed as he meandered down the street. His eyes were drilled into his head, like bolts on a cart-wheel; his mouth, as dry as cotton, and his forehead, wrinkled as unprocessed cloth, formulated what seemed to be a grizzly experiment of human abuse. To guess, one would think his age to be seventy-six.



As the two men almost met, shoulder-to-shoulder; the boy in tow, apprehensive of such a beastly creature; the man, lurching slightly back, contemptuously discharged a factory of tobacco and saliva onto the uncle’s formerly pristine jacket. The projectile had delivered its package to his shirt, neck and lapels, accompanied by a barrage of slander which was unintelligible to both man and boy.

Creasing not a single panel of his face nor batting an eyelid, the uncle nonchalantly withdrew a pistol from his left breast pocket, and, as if he were swatting a fly during dinner on, reflexively discharged the weapon into the man’s chest. Dead instantly, his body slumped lifelessly against the nearby post box. Horrified, though still traveling, the boy employed a look of both horror and stupefaction. This was soon interrupted by the booming, yet calm words of his uncle:



“Make haste lad, stop gawking! We must be moving if we are to satisfy our appointment.”



The boy, conscripted with confusion; confusion a boy should never have to feel, hesitated not for a second, grabbed at his uncle’s jacket pocket, and, like an animal, followed like a kid after its mother. This sudden draft of emotion had no time to be analysed, or thought about; all he knew, was what he always knew. His uncle was a good man; no, not a good man—a great man! Yes, he was a great man, indeed, and could do no wrong. The scruffy chap went too far! To obey jurisprudence was not to stray away from it, but reinforce it as one should. This is what happened, of course. It is what the next man would have done, too.



With that, the boy departed from his thoughts and resumed his impish toddle. Soon, the smog of the afternoon had clouded them from view.