Easy As Killing Bambi.*
by Angharad
part: 393

*Might not be suitable for vegetarians or people of taste.

I opened the front door, and accepted the flowers and wine presented to me, I also accepted the peck on the cheek. I showed him into the lounge where Stella was sitting. “I believe you two know each other,” I said.

“Hello, Stella.” Des held out his arms to give her a hug.

“Hello, Des, long time no see.” She accepted his hug and they kissed each other on the cheek.

“Yeah, you know how it goes, work, work, work. No respite for the wicked.”

“Your past caught up with you, then?”

“Looks like. So what are you up to?”

“The letter C, why?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I simply answered your question Desmond. I am up to the letter C in arranging my music CDs.”

“You don’t change do you? Ever the quick wit.”

“With you around, one needs to be on one’s mettle.”

“Oh I am mortally wounded,” he pretended to stagger about as if he’d been stabbed in the heart, “stabbed through the heart by the woman I trusted. Oh death where is thy sting?”

I clapped his performance having returned from the kitchen moments before. “Very good, Des, it would have brought a tear to a glass eye.”

“Methinks, the lady doth mock me.”

“Do forgive me kind sir, but I be just a poor serving wench whose purpose be to tell you and the Mistress Stella, that dinner is served in the great hall.” I curtseyed after speaking.

“Lead on then wench, come, Lady Stella, prithee take my arm and accompany me to the great hall, whence we may dine.”

“Great ‘all? Lawks a mercy, Sir, I ain’t never seen one o’them.” Stella switched into her Eliza Doolittle act.

“Well stick with me kid, and you never know what might happen.”

“Sadly, Des, I do, but hopefully not in front of Cathy, she’s a callow maid and I wouldn’t like to frighten her.”

“Frighten her, what’s going to frighten her?”

“The way I say, NO. Grown men have been known to weep and tear out their own eyeballs rather than witness it.”

“You’re assuming I would ask you something, for you to refuse.”

“Yes, I am being presumptive, but this comes with experience of your track record and modus operandi.”

“Geez, Stella, talk about givin’ a dog a bad name, how do you know I haven’t reformed? Ask, Catherine, here, our resident vestal virgin.”

“I don’t think I can cope with writing references and serving dinner, come on through and take a seat.”

“Hmm, it smells good,” Des sniffed the air in the dining room.

“It’s venison,” said Stella.

“Oh no, you killed Bambi, I can’t eat it.” Des clowned around pretending to cry.

“Fine, I’ll eat yours then,” said Stella.

“You cruel, cruel woman–how could you eat Bambi?”

“Easy,” said Stella pretending to aim a gun.

“It’s been organically killed,” I informed them.

“Eh?” They both commented together, “Organically killed?”

“Yeah, they beat it to death with a cauliflower. Come on, it’s getting cold.”

“I shall never be able to look a cauliflower in the eye again; not without seeing it tainted by Bambi’s blood.”

“You’d better keep your eyes shut then, laddie, ‘cos it’s on the menu.”

“What? Bambi’s blood?”

“Yeah, it’s in the gravy, so’s the cauliflower.”

“If it made him cry, would it be cauliflower au greetin’?” Asked Stella, which about plumbed the deepest of the various puns so far. Des and I groaned and stepped into the dining room.

The conversation slowed down as we used our mouths for their other function and got stuck into the dinner. It was pretty good, if I say so myself, and we drank the remains of the burgundy I’d used to make the sauce.

“You’re driving,” I reminded, Des.

“Only because you won’t let me sleep with you,” he replied.

“Certainly not,” I said firmly, “I’m spoken for, and besides, you probably snore.”

“So does the, saintly Simon,” he smirked, “I’ve known him suck the drawers out of a tallboy.”

“Suck the drawers off a tall boy?” Stella deliberately repeated it incorrectly, “Nah, not Simon, he’s not like that, he likes women, in fact, one in particular very much.”

Des shook his head, he knew whatever he said, she would twist and throw it back at him. “You haven’t changed have you, Stella?”

“Yes I have, you don’t think I’d have driven here in this outfit do you?”

“Tell me, did the house mistress get pregnant?” I asked innocently.

“Ooh, who’s been airing dirty linen then? Let me guess–Stella Cameron.”

“Moi?” she asked with feigned innocence, “Li’l ol’ moi?”

“Et tu, Stella.”

“I think we may be crossing a few cultural lines here somewhat. Isn’t it supposed to be, Et tu Brute?”

“What’s the problem? I always associated Miss Piggy with Shakespeare.” Des had struck back. I nearly fell off my chair when Stella choked while protesting.

“Miss Piggy? Miss Piggy? I’m an actress, I tell you!”

“How about we call a truce?” I asked, partly because nothing was likely to top that last riposte of Des’, and partly because I needed him to focus on some more serious business.

I made some coffee and poured it, Stella handed out the after dinner mints. “I haven’t had any response yet from Bristol, regarding the dormouse site, but West of England want me to do some teaching next week, just for a week.”

“I thought the term started September —October?”

“This is a summer school, their tutor has gone sick.”
“Hey, that’s useful, a foot in the door,” Des congratulated me.

“Yeah, I suppose so. I could have done with something less intense, I’ve got other things to do for Tom and the mammal survey.”

“Plus our filming, you have to do your David Attenborough bit.”

“Here we have a frustrated film maker,” I said in a manner not too unlike Sir David, “we can tell his mood from the way he throws film cartridges about while chattering in a manner unlikely to make him approachable to many of his fellows. Oh look, he’s just attacked one of his tribe with his Panasonic–no, I tell a lie, it’s a Sony camera.”

“That sounded more like Alan Whicker,” said Stella.

It was Des’ opportunity to break into his Whicker’s Isle sketch, obviously of Monty Python creation. “Here, on Whicker’s Isle, the sad truth is, there is no one left to interview.”

Had Simon been here, undoubtedly the pair would have done the whole routine and we’d still be there a week later. I gave thanks for small mercies. I would arrange with Stella after Des had gone, not to mention any of this to Simon.

Des finally left about midnight, when Stella and I began to yawn rather too much to concentrate on the conversation. He said he would try and pressure the university to sort out the Forest of Dean site, reminding them of my presence in the area. “After all if we have an outstanding beauty in an area of scientific interest, they should use her.” With that he kissed us both and left.