It was a question of what to put the beer in, he supposed. The Head Gardener, Mr Brooks, hadn't been too clear on that aspect and in his enthusiasm for a solution he had neglected to ask. A saucer, perhaps?
From the small settee in their cosy sitting room, Charles made his way to the kitchen and the dresser where Elsie had proudly displayed their tea set. They didn't have many treasures, no lifetime of building a house and home together to have had the opportunity to collect little trinkets, but this was certainly one of them. It has been a wedding gift from below stairs and Elsie cherished every cup and side plate. He'd spied her more than once, giving loving strokes to the gilded edge of each piece as she'd dried them, always selecting a fresh tea towel for the purpose. He didn't begrudge her these moments of sentimentality. They lived well, modestly of course by the standards set by the Crawley's, but in general terms wanted for nothing. But when he saw how much care she took in the things they did have he couldn't help but wish he could give her more. No, a saucer wouldn't be right, he concluded. He'd have to find something else,
As he began to make a pot of tea, he gave the matter of the trapping snails further thought. The beer would intoxicate them, he understood that element but the question of the how remained. Whatever was needed would surely have to be shallow and not too wide. An ashtray might do it, he speculated, if he had ready access to any which of course, he didn't. As he waited for the kettle on the stove to come steadily to the boil, he looked out over the garden. It was another fine day and he had plenty to do. The tomatoes had grown another inch or two and the twine securing their stems against the fence was going to need adjusting. Elsie was partial to a tomato with her lunch and he had a small idea of surprising her with the first one that he hoped would appear before too long, thinking how her face would beam with pride at what he'd been able to achieve. Oh, how he longed to see that smile. Thoughts of how to entice it from her often took up much of his day and it was only the whistling behind him that drew him reluctantly from them now. He went through the ritual of warming the pot, scooping in the tea leaves from the caddy before adding the water, and then setting the whole thing to one side to allow it time to brew. The newspaper had arrived a few minutes before and so he fetched that from the mat and settled himself at the table, his cup of tea now freshly poured placed alongside.
Elsie had woken early as was her custom and he'd relished hearing her pottering about, readying herself for the walk up to the Abbey as he was caught delightfully between night and morning. He didn't need to open his eyes to know the precise manner in which she smoothed out her dress as it lay on the bed before she was ready to put it on, or the exact twist that she made with her braid before reaching for the pins that would hold it firm all day. Nor did he need to ask how she'd like her toast as he stood over the blasted machine, watching it like a hawk for fear the bread would burn and he'd have to start over. And he certainly didn't need to be reminded how joyful it was, as she kissed him goodbye each morning, to hear the almost inaudible hum of her contentment as their lips touched.
When he'd first retired Charles had gotten up with the lark when she did. Too many years of being awake at first light had meant it was a routine printed indelibly into his psyche. But as weeks had slipped into months, he'd begun to lay in a little, started to reach for his dressing gown over and above his vest and shirt. And before too long a new routine had taken hold, one which saw him wave her off each day clad only in his dark pyjama trousers, the frayed belt of his gown the only thing protecting his modesty from their nearest neighbour across the way, before tackling the tasks of the day. And had the subject come up he'd be embarrassed to confess that on occasion he didn't get to dressing until mid-morning. But not today. Today was already mapped out in his mind.
He'd watched her depart from the window, waiting until she was out of sight before talking himself through his plan. A few little domestic chores needed to be tackled first, then an hour or so in the garden would be a worthwhile distraction before he'd take himself up to the house. Mr Brooks needed further questioning on the matter of pests and then he had an idea that he'd 'spontaneously' join the downstairs midday lunch. A hot meal for him and Elsie would work better for them today, he reasoned. Mrs Patmore would lift her eyes to the heavens of course but he'd swallow her exaggerated irritation if it ensured his grander scheme could be achieved.
His eyes flicked across the day's news but he took very little in. He wasn't a fool and he realised now he'd made an error in going to the pub the previous day. He'd had to rally himself after she'd torn herself away from him, refusing to let feelings of dejection get the better of him. But then he'd got distracted by the garden and somehow allowed his plan for an intimate supper get derailed by his own weakness for good beer and a practical solution to a problem. How different it could have been, the feel of her gentle hands across the back of his neck as he pulled her close against him, the stretch of her back as she reached up towards him. The glint of her eyes as she enticed him to kiss her, and not delicately but passionately, lips and tongues locked in a desperate search for more. And more would come, he knew that so well now. She could spark life into him like he'd never known, a certain look that she alone possessed enough for him to be overtaken by an all-consuming desire. It would extract from him noises he hadn't known he could make, move his hands in ways he'd barely dreamed of, and take her so wonderfully to places he hadn't conceived of. In those moments he was driven by only one thing, eliciting the most delicious of cries from her, over and over again. And then afterwards, the wonder of holding her, of being held, rejoicing in the sheer knowledge of one another.
And so now, the tea cold in the pot, the pages of the newspaper shuffled together as neatly could be managed without an iron and board, he set to work. His expression resolutely determined as the minutiae of his plan captured his thoughts and he began to put them into action.
Definitely to be continued…