Unfortunately, Mrs. Ackerly-Tate did not at all agree with this choice of profession. They were, after all, the Brighton Ackerly-Tates, and although people told them that no career was below her child, she was insistant when little Brewster's future was in question.
"I will not let my child work with beasts, Colin!" she had shouted at her husband one night, when Mr. Ackerly-Tate had tried to explain that it really wasn't her choice. "Our son will not fall victim to the glamour of California!"
So, she decided that she and her adorable little Brewster needed to have a... "discussion".
"Sweetheart," she had said to her eight-year-old son, smiling tightly. "Um... I know you really want to train animals. But... Er..."
"But what, Mumsey?" he asked, looking up at her sweetly.
"But... I'm afraid I'm in charge of you until you're an adult, and by then you'll... 'want' to be a doctor."
And so Brewster grew up, longing for a monkey to discipline or a dog to teach cricket to; and he focused so much on his animals that his marks in school slowly deteriorated into nothing. His mother's dreams for him to be a fine heart surgeon were dashed, and after he (eventually) forgave her, Brewster took several different jobs and earned enough money to pay for a building on Lower Belgrave Street. He became a private investigator because it was one of the few jobs that required very little education.
And he compensated for the animal training by starting a collection of kittens.
"Doe, a deer, a female deer..."
James Norrington was not in a very good mood. Nearly five months in a foreign prison could do that to you, he supposed. Especially when Will Turner was across the hall, belting showtunes both famous and annoying. Or when two Russian sumo-wrestlers, who called themselves Kristoff and Ivan, kept giving him sidelong glances and saying suspicious-sounding things in their native language. Needless to say, life was anything but a cabaret.
"Ray, a drop of golden sun...."
Ivan said something to Kristoff, and gestured at James for the thirtieth time that day.
"Me, a name I call myself..."
Yes, but everyone else calls you "Raving lunatic" Norrington thought.
There was, all of a sudden, a very intense quiet, and James offered up prayers of thanks for getting at least one moment's peace. Between Sondheim and Gershwin and Rodgers and Hammerstein constantly, whoever had even thought of the idea of a singing bit of theatre was forever on his blacklist.
"You know," the words floated over from Turner's cage to James's. "I think I've just had a major relevation,"
"Revelation, Turner."
"Right... Re. Vel. Ation. Anyway, I think I've figured out how we can get out of here and save Elizabeth."
James sighed. As much as he disliked Turner, he couldn't help but feel sorry for his infinite hope. Because, while Will actually thought that they still had a chance of capturing Jack Sparrow and returning Elizabeth to her father, he -- Norrington -- knew that all was lost. He knew that Sparrow had probably recovered, and Elizabeth had been too weak from shock to even consider running for her life...
Perhaps he was just being negative about things, but they were definitely not looking up. After all, he was Elizabeth's only... intellegent hope.
But James Norrington, having been trapped in Russia, did not know that Mr. Swann had called Detective Ackerly-Tate and Friday Lawrence.
"Miss Lawrence... do you think that blue wool stockings would work with my gray suit if I used that periwinkle tie and the silver cufflinks?"
Detective Ackerly-Tate raised his head from his suitcase, holding a pair of socks next to a tie and gesturing towards a suit that was draped over a chair. Friday raised an eyebrow.
This was going to be one long case.