Very Fawnedly Yours

© 2013 by Walter Reimer

(All characters courtesy of  eocostello,  mercmarten and  marmelmm. Any resemblance between characters depicted herein and any real person, living or dead, is too bad for them.)

The setting is Spontoon Island, in the story section Let's Doe It (Let's Fall In Love).

Art by  turnbolt


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Part 73.



Willow:

In the back of my mind I saw the newspaper accounts of the Strindberg Baby.

The King and Queen could afford to show off their foal. They had police, detectives, and a whole Army, Navy and Air Force to make sure that the little fellow stayed safe.

What did Reggie and I have?

I’m sure Alan wouldn’t mind getting more business his way, and I know that Minkerton’s has a solid staff of agents here in Britain as well as elsewhere in the Empire.

I managed to put a smile on my face to say good-bye to the Greenleaf-Hayses, and again as Uncle Albert and Arabella ushered George out to the car. “He’s a beautiful fawn, Willow,” Arabella said. “You and Reggie are so lucky.”

“Thank you.”

But how long would that luck hold out?

Reggie and I waved, and went back inside to find Lodge helping Gwladys and Lord Josslyn with their coats. “Leaving so soon?” I asked.

“Can’t lay about all week,” Josslyn growled.

Wonder of wonders, he let me kiss his cheek, and he shook paws with Reggie.

Gwladys kissed me. “You two be safe.”

“We will.”

Again, we waved as Reggie’s folks pulled away in their Rolls.

Reggie was making faces at little Tommy, and Lodge noticed the look on my face. “Is there something wrong, Ma’am?”

“Well, Lodge, it’s like this: I’m worried that letting the world know that Reggie and I have a fawn will – “

The beaver favored me with a warm smile, something very rare. “You need have no worries on that score, Ma’am. The matter is in paw.”

“It is?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Top men are on it.”

“But – “

Briefly the beaver’s expression hardened.

“Top. Men.”

I decided that it would be wise not to press the matter further.

Still, I figured a telegram to Minkerton’s might be in order.


***


Reggie:

I overheard the conversation Willow was having with Lodge. It wasn’t like Br’er Beaver to sound so . . . unequivocal.

I had a mental image of my son being secured in a box, which was then squirreled away in the bowels of some cavernous warehouse somewhere.

Still, so long as he’s safe, I suppose.

“I say, Willow?”

“Yes, Reggie?”

“I almost forgot. I got Tommy a few christening gifts.”

“Oh?” She fairly purred at me. “What are they?”

“Well, Mummy got me a membership at Blades back when I was a fawn, so I set one up for him.”

“That was very sweet of you, Reggie.”

“Keeping up family traditions, y’know.” I smiled a bit shamefacedly. “I set it up before Christmas.”

“Before Christmas? But, Reggie, what if Thomas had turned out to be Thomasina?”

I chuckled. “The folks at Blades would have to get used to it, I suppose.”

Willow laughed. “What was the other gift?” she asked as she gave me a hug.

I kissed her. “He’ll be going to Oxford when he grows up. Of course, he’ll take after you in the brains department . . . come to think of it, he might make the rest of the students look bad. May make some of the teachers look bad, too.”


***


Willow:

If he grows up with Reggie’s brains, the dons at Oxford will be earning their pay. Especially if he inherits his father’s sense of humor.

Wait a minute!

Pictures!

After Reggie and I turned in for the night, I jotted a note to see about hiring a photographer to take the requisite baby pictures that I knew our friends would want to see. The baby things would come in very useful for that, and Tommy would look great in them.

I had sent Rosie a telegram the day before Tommy’s christening, and the reply showed up on Monday. She was, to put it mildly, thrilled to the tip of her tail.

So was Da.


***


February 1938
Be Careful What You Wish For


Reggie:

I got a wire from Chicago when I got back to work, congratulating me on Thomas’ birth and thanking me for saving the jobs of the laid-off workers. The wire was from the union representing those workers, and was gladly lacking some of the usual rhetoric.

Of course, Father would simply have sacked the board, then gone off and had a huge lunch. Mummy calls it his “purge and binge” system. Well, while it may be effective, it’s certainly rather rum, and not at all my style.

“Mr. Buckhorn?”

“Yes, Miss Haversham?”

“Lord Buckhorn wants to see you in his office.”

“Of course.”

“You wanted to see me, Father?”

“Yes.” He looked a bit peeved, as well as peckish – there was a tea service and a plate of Zepps cookies near at paw. The ubiquitous covered walnut dish and attendant cracker stood nearby. “I’m told that you’ve already contacted Oxford about my grandfawn.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Impertinent. I wanted to do that.”

That surprised me, and I made a mistake.

I said so.

The Sire shot me a look that was equal parts lemon juice and bitters. “Don’t get too comfortable, blast you. You’ll soon have your fawn playing idiotic, damn-fool practical jokes on you, and you’ll soon start to hate them.”

“I’ve always thought that timing was everything in practical jokes, Father.”

“Bah.” Father took the lid off a dish of walnuts.

Did you know that large banana spiders will rear up when they’re surprised?

This one did. He reared up, waving his front legs in the air in a threatening manner.

I almost fancied I could hear him say “Boo!”

Now, I didn’t know that.

I also didn’t know that Father was a bit scared of spiders, but the almost feminine bleat of terror and the fact that he pronked from a seated position to the far side of his office sort of proved that theory.

I replaced the cover on the walnut dish and smiled at the Sire.

“What you say may be true, Father, but one can enjoy practical jokes until that day.”


End.



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