Fast Fiction: Residoo
Is Encott the the butler a philosopher, a might-have-been don…or something else?
Richard Mallinson tells a thoughtful tale.
'It's the residoo that matters,' said Encott, flinging his arms about as usual. 'You can read as much as you like and live as long as you like but the only thing that matters in the end is the residoo which lodges itself in your inner mind.'
'What is he talking about?' whispered Harriet, aged 10 at the time.
'He's talking about painting, writing, music, that sort of thing,' I said. 'And I
think he's telling us how the creative spark is formed.' I was 15 at the time.
*
Encott has been retired these many years and Harriet, my sister, is now a well-known composer. Indeed, that will be her at the door now . ..
'God,' she says, 'I don't know how you can live in a place like this' - meaning my one-room flat, packed with books and papers.
'Do you ever think about Encott?' I ask as we sip our coffee. (I can't offer her a biscuit because I haven't any.)
'Yes, from time to time,' she says. 'An unusual butler, wasn't he?'
'He'd have made a very fine schoolmaster... or don,' I say.
'He certainly taught me something,' she says. 'Do you remember what he used to say about the residue - or residoo, as he put it?'
*
Harriet's just left and now I must get on with writing my diary. Well, I call it a diary because I write in it every day but in fact it's more like a notebook.
Of course, if it were a proper diary like Pepys' or Evelyn Waugh's it would be full of activities, people, places and food and drink.
But mine's not like that at all. It's quite dry and academic, really.
*
Now, having filled the usual daily space in my diary or notebook, I await my next visitor, who will doubtless be Encott, our former butler, aged eighty something.
What am I going to say to him? What is he going to say to me?
All I know is this: if he's on the cadge, he's going to be disappointed.
