OLD RAICH CARTER
By Julian Fairbanks
I suppose as a child growing up in an aristocratic family, back in the late seventies to what I deemed normal, regular indigenous folk would have said that I was a very lucky little boy leading a charmed upbringing. Actually, for the record, that was the polite version of how they deemed my childhood.
The reason I am telling you this before we get onto the awful truth about old Raich Carter, our gardener - famous for ruling his modest household with a rod of iron. I thought, to give you a clear picture of the times, I would fill you in a little about my myself as I grew up in the splendour of Kuntly hall.
As an only child, and friendship wise, I never had any dealings with the local children as such - and from an early incident in my life I had no wish to.
I can remember the day I was fully tainted against local types like it was yesterday. I mean, mummy always told me how much better I was than those born without a title, but as a child, innocence and goodness can blur your vision, before you experience the negative aspects of life for yourself; like in my case, I realised that the world was not all rosy in the garden, after my first incident with working class people.
Ronaldson, the family chauffer, had decided to bring the Bentley into the village for a service, and mummy and I thought it would make a smashing adventure to tag along in the backseat and pretend we were stowaways on the high seas.
After we arrived at the garage we decided to part company with Ronaldson until the repairs on the vehicle were complete. The mechanic was an oily man, and his appearance upset us somewhat.
So to get away form the dreadful man, Mummy informed Ronaldson, that she and Crispin (my good self ) would be taking Tiffin at the Analy Tea Rooms at the end of the village.
Excited and no doubt a little high from the excitement of our marvellous adventure, we contemplated the anticipation of a jam scone; and if we were very naughty, perhaps two jam scones.
However our fervour was to be short lived as we were accosted by some local boys from across the road. I remember thinking to myself how dirty and unwashed they looked. Grubby tykes no less, as I myself was bathed by our bathroom maid thrice daily.
I can remember how Mummy and I were to be most upset by these uncouth vagabonds as they hurled terrible insults at us.
I had never heard the words, “spoilt cunt,” before. It was most upsetting.
“Mummy, let us take our leave of these awful types. They look so poor,” I wailed to my Mater, who herself shared in my distress.
After that, due to who we were, we had the local constabulary arrest those responsible for making me cry, and had them horse whipped. It made me feel an awful lot better to know that they were writhing in agony. I only wished at the time that I had been a few years older with the muscles of a gentleman, so I could have whipped those boys myself.
But, as you can see from that little adventure, mummy had quite a wild streak about her. And it was after that incident that brought a simmering tension between my father and Mater to the surface.
I can remember overhearing my father complaining about mummy to old Raich Carter. Raich was very much my fathers confident; probably because Raich hardly ever said anything. And when he did speak, it wasn’t much.
Raich, I suppose, at the time, was in his early fifties, with a thick shock of white hair. His face was thin and ferret like, he had a sharp nose and ruddy cheeks, and in his stocking feet would not have reached more than five feet four. His body was thin with a wiry strength. His accent though not on a level with the families, still held a level of breeding. Why on earth he was just a common gardener was anybody’s guess. But as I said, he held breeding, one could see that, and unlike the other staff in the family employ, we did not treat him like dirt.
“How do you do it, Raich. How do you make your wife respect you?” my father whined inside the potting shed. They were sharing belts of brandy from Raich’s hip flask.
After what seemed like an hour, or so it felt like, old Raich finally answered. “How do you mean Mr Crookshanks-Forbes-Spicer?”
“You know, stop her gallivanting into the village on wild adventures,” father replied.
Unbeknownst to my father and Raich, I was hiding in a large Terracotta pot watching all of this.
Again Raich took and age to react to my fathers enquiry; and when he did It is something I will never forget. For a man not known for showing even the slightest vestige of emotion, I can remember being quite surprised to witness a wry smile surface on old Raich’s thin lips. Without replying he balled a wiry right freckled hand into a fist where I could see the whites of his knuckles, to which he showed to my father.
My father understood by this gesture, that the wise Raich would discipline his long suffering wife if she ever dared gallivanting off into the village without his permission. Understandably, my father was very impressed.
Life was never the same for the family after Raich departed this knowledge to father.
Two major events happened in the following years into my teenage hood. Firstly, my father hit mummy in the face one day, and she promptly hit him back. After that, father was to question the wisdom of old Raich’s words. And not long after that, the second major event that happened came after the police found Raichs’ wife’s battered and dismembered corpse inside a large cooking VAT on his stove.
Raich was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Throughout his trial he refused to speak.
And during his incarceration he never spoke. And even on his death bed old Raich never spoke, so nobody was any the wiser as to why he did away with his wife.
A few years back a local reporter asked me to comment on the grisly murder. All I could quote was: I guess Mrs Carter must have sneaked into the village without old Raich’s consent.
- - -
My name is Julian Fairbanks, I'm 40, Irish, totally insane and I believe my writing reflects this. I write dark humour. I have an army of short stories in reserve and am currently working on my third novel as part of a satirical trilogy.
By Julian Fairbanks
I suppose as a child growing up in an aristocratic family, back in the late seventies to what I deemed normal, regular indigenous folk would have said that I was a very lucky little boy leading a charmed upbringing. Actually, for the record, that was the polite version of how they deemed my childhood.
The reason I am telling you this before we get onto the awful truth about old Raich Carter, our gardener - famous for ruling his modest household with a rod of iron. I thought, to give you a clear picture of the times, I would fill you in a little about my myself as I grew up in the splendour of Kuntly hall.
As an only child, and friendship wise, I never had any dealings with the local children as such - and from an early incident in my life I had no wish to.
I can remember the day I was fully tainted against local types like it was yesterday. I mean, mummy always told me how much better I was than those born without a title, but as a child, innocence and goodness can blur your vision, before you experience the negative aspects of life for yourself; like in my case, I realised that the world was not all rosy in the garden, after my first incident with working class people.
Ronaldson, the family chauffer, had decided to bring the Bentley into the village for a service, and mummy and I thought it would make a smashing adventure to tag along in the backseat and pretend we were stowaways on the high seas.
After we arrived at the garage we decided to part company with Ronaldson until the repairs on the vehicle were complete. The mechanic was an oily man, and his appearance upset us somewhat.
So to get away form the dreadful man, Mummy informed Ronaldson, that she and Crispin (my good self ) would be taking Tiffin at the Analy Tea Rooms at the end of the village.
Excited and no doubt a little high from the excitement of our marvellous adventure, we contemplated the anticipation of a jam scone; and if we were very naughty, perhaps two jam scones.
However our fervour was to be short lived as we were accosted by some local boys from across the road. I remember thinking to myself how dirty and unwashed they looked. Grubby tykes no less, as I myself was bathed by our bathroom maid thrice daily.
I can remember how Mummy and I were to be most upset by these uncouth vagabonds as they hurled terrible insults at us.
I had never heard the words, “spoilt cunt,” before. It was most upsetting.
“Mummy, let us take our leave of these awful types. They look so poor,” I wailed to my Mater, who herself shared in my distress.
After that, due to who we were, we had the local constabulary arrest those responsible for making me cry, and had them horse whipped. It made me feel an awful lot better to know that they were writhing in agony. I only wished at the time that I had been a few years older with the muscles of a gentleman, so I could have whipped those boys myself.
But, as you can see from that little adventure, mummy had quite a wild streak about her. And it was after that incident that brought a simmering tension between my father and Mater to the surface.
I can remember overhearing my father complaining about mummy to old Raich Carter. Raich was very much my fathers confident; probably because Raich hardly ever said anything. And when he did speak, it wasn’t much.
Raich, I suppose, at the time, was in his early fifties, with a thick shock of white hair. His face was thin and ferret like, he had a sharp nose and ruddy cheeks, and in his stocking feet would not have reached more than five feet four. His body was thin with a wiry strength. His accent though not on a level with the families, still held a level of breeding. Why on earth he was just a common gardener was anybody’s guess. But as I said, he held breeding, one could see that, and unlike the other staff in the family employ, we did not treat him like dirt.
“How do you do it, Raich. How do you make your wife respect you?” my father whined inside the potting shed. They were sharing belts of brandy from Raich’s hip flask.
After what seemed like an hour, or so it felt like, old Raich finally answered. “How do you mean Mr Crookshanks-Forbes-Spicer?”
“You know, stop her gallivanting into the village on wild adventures,” father replied.
Unbeknownst to my father and Raich, I was hiding in a large Terracotta pot watching all of this.
Again Raich took and age to react to my fathers enquiry; and when he did It is something I will never forget. For a man not known for showing even the slightest vestige of emotion, I can remember being quite surprised to witness a wry smile surface on old Raich’s thin lips. Without replying he balled a wiry right freckled hand into a fist where I could see the whites of his knuckles, to which he showed to my father.
My father understood by this gesture, that the wise Raich would discipline his long suffering wife if she ever dared gallivanting off into the village without his permission. Understandably, my father was very impressed.
Life was never the same for the family after Raich departed this knowledge to father.
Two major events happened in the following years into my teenage hood. Firstly, my father hit mummy in the face one day, and she promptly hit him back. After that, father was to question the wisdom of old Raich’s words. And not long after that, the second major event that happened came after the police found Raichs’ wife’s battered and dismembered corpse inside a large cooking VAT on his stove.
Raich was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Throughout his trial he refused to speak.
And during his incarceration he never spoke. And even on his death bed old Raich never spoke, so nobody was any the wiser as to why he did away with his wife.
A few years back a local reporter asked me to comment on the grisly murder. All I could quote was: I guess Mrs Carter must have sneaked into the village without old Raich’s consent.
- - -
My name is Julian Fairbanks, I'm 40, Irish, totally insane and I believe my writing reflects this. I write dark humour. I have an army of short stories in reserve and am currently working on my third novel as part of a satirical trilogy.
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