The Coal Biter

In a small market town in The West Riding of England, Fitzwilliam Hall, a smart Palladian house, stands proudly in its own grounds. It’s present occupier, a Mr John Gateshead, had inherited it. And, he felt, it was no less than he deserved. 

He relishes, in particular, the oculus in the pediment of the house. To him, it resembled a Cyclops eye embedded in a regal forehead, its gaze dripping contempt over the hunched roofs of the surrounding cottages. These cottage dwellings appeared to have huddled and shrunk beneath the weight of its haughty gaze. And so they should, he thought. 

It was a sad turn of events that led John Gateshead to possess such a house. The person who unknowingly bequeathed it to him had no awareness of John’s existence.

Reginald Fitzwilliam-John, a distant uncle of John Gateshead, had commissioned the construction of the house in the late 1700s. He had grand aspirations of establishing a prosperous dynasty within its walls. His second child died along with his wife at the time of the birth. Some decades later, the widowed Mr Fitzwilliam-John lost his first born. His son, a vociferous monarchist trading in Marseilles, was shot during the chaotic period of the French Revolutionary Wars. 

Overwhelmed by grief, Reginald withdrew into seclusion, then madness, refusing to receive any visitors. Amongst those turned away from his portico were the family lawyers. He rejected all visitors, including the family lawyers who could have helped him during his remaining lucid months. Their expertise would have guided this benevolent soul in the choosing of a worthy beneficiary.

It took a while for Mr John Gateshead, a most distant next of kin, to be tracked down. 

John Gateshead was a low and louche individual. He was so difficult to locate, as he took every attempt to evade his creditors. A disreputable oaf, whose matted yellow hair crowned his course features. This hair was often soaked with dregs and ash as he slumped in oblivion over tables at London’s gaming houses in the east end of the city. 

Inside any gaming house he had protective eye of the landlord as, in losing so frequently, he was a profitable asset to any such establishment. On the rare occasion that he won anything, John’s habit was to make his way towards the river to procure a Dream Pipe. 

Having watched the card game play out from a murky corner, some fingersmith would often chase his shadow down Upper Swandam Lane, leaving him light of coin once more. He was lucky he didn’t end up tumbled down the river stairs, with a gash in his throat, as well as his pockets.

Inheriting Fitzwilliam Hall probably saved John Gateshead’s life. 

Now he was located far from his associates, and clear of debt, this could have meant a new start in life. An opportunity to live a fulfilling life, thankful of the possibilty to make real friends for the first time.

But John Gateshead wasn’t made that way. His reckless behaviour in the past was driven because he felt he deserved more. More respect, more money, more admiration. 

He carried a sense of entitlement to "More". Gambling had tantalised him with possibility of fulfilling these desires in an instant. 

Having now quite legitimately acquired More, he saw it as proof of his superiority. John Gateshead continued his habit of indulgence, but now was able to delight in putting his opulent lifestyle on display to the whole village.

There came a terrible winter, a Great Frost. The price of coal could only be met by the wealthy. All the firewood from the surrounding woodland had long been gathered and burned. The villagers were freezing.

But what did he care about the others? He deserved his comfort, being such a special individual.

One weekend, he planned the perfect display of his privileges. He sent all the servants home to their families. The freezing misery of the cottages would be a lesson to them in just how superior their staff accommodation Fitzwilliam Hall was. Hopefully, they’d demonstrate sufficient gratitude on their return. He was looking forward to becoming justifiably resentful if they didn’t.

The last of the servants’ duties before the weekend was to build the fire in the large drawing room that faced the street. An enormous pyramid of shiny, blue-black, coals was stacked and topped with kindling. 

It was a tough decision as to whether he would get the fire settled-in by a servant, and let that servant enjoy some warm bones to walk home on as a result. Or to deign to undertake the task himself. He decided on the latter, imagining the dandy flourish with which he’d present the spill from his pipe to the tinder, framed by the damask curtains of the drawing room window. Such elegance. What show.

As dusk fell outside, the light in the drawing room was replaced with the soft glow of candles. Wax candles, not tallow, of course. 

There were six candelabra on the mantlepiece, and two on each fireside stand. He was rather pleased with how the light from them played on the crystal decanter of Port Wine. A pity it was half empty. An oversight of housekeeping? Perhaps. His dirty glass told otherwise. 

The brilliant and shimmering light from the candles was very important. There had to be very many of them. He needed to make sure he was fully illuminated in order to star in his tableau to best effect. What theatre. 

He rather hoped that young scullery maid, Jane, would take notice as she passed by the large window of the drawing room. Hopefully she’d be busying about her village business. He’d have her, yet. How dare she reject his advances. 

More Port Wine, perhaps. 

The Port was all gone. 

Tokaji, perhaps? 

He thought again of Jane, and noticed that the first popping and smoky crackles of the fire had melted satisfyingly into languid amber tongues. The same amber as the last of the Tokaji he drained from the decanter.

What soporific sweetness. He stretched back on the divan, and splayed his legs, roasting his crotch in the warmth of the fire. His hands idly fingered the draping silk velvet of his voluminous smoking jacket, and he soothed himself to sleep. 

He woke, startled, and covered in beads of sweat. John Gateshead was now so hot that he resigned to heave himself up and pad over to window. He pushed the top sash down a little. Now that he was on his feet, some Brandy perhaps? Yes, here’s the decanter full of the fine stuff!

Ah, this is is the life he deserved. He hummed a bawdy tavern tune and held the brandy glass up to the candlelight enjoying swilling the last of its contents in time to the song. He dosed off again.

The most avid spectator to John Gateshead’s diorama that evening was not scullery maid Jane, but Tabitha. 

Tabitha crouched in the boxwood that grew by the window for shelter from the icy wind. She often skulked here. Over time she had rubbed the lower branches bare, in scratching against them, in her flea bitten reverie. The acrid smell of the shrub delighted her as it was so similar to her own feline reek. 

She stared through the window, mesmerised by what the material comforts in the room promised. When the window had been opened, she’d noted it. She also noted remembering what swift contact with John Gateshead’s boot felt like. She continued to watch.

But, wait now, he’s asleep again. If only to sit by that fire for a minute. To bathe and soak in warmth for the first time since the autumn. Tabitha leapt, spider light, and poured herself in through the open sash. Carefully, carefully, she made her way across the room towards the grate, timing placing her paws to John’s snores.

A loud metallic clang froze the soft rhythm of the cat’s approach. The long case clock started to announce the hour. 

Tabitha’s split second instinct was to pounce high to the safety of the mantlepiece. The whirr of the second stroke starting, so hot on the heels of the first, confused her. Her coordination failed and she knocked over a fireside stand mid-flight.

The candles, and the pitch pine fireside stand, landed on the coals. The fire roared in appreciation of this wax and wood bounty. The flames, so wild, reached up and melted the candles on the mantlepiece. Wax from them drooled down until the chimney itself caught alight with the intensity of it all.

Sparks flew. Many landed on the folds of the slumbering John Gateshead’s silk velvet gown. His jacket, and the divan he sprawled on, soon sparkled with flame.

He’s awake now.

Tabitha made a lightning dash back through the open window. After landing on the safety of the box hedge, she looked back through the window into the room. In such a short time, the icy north wind seeping through the open window had really fanned the flames. She should move away now.

All around, the villagers have started to gather on the street to watch the spectacle. Any with family that work at Fitzwilliam Hall cast nervous glances over the crowd, until they can confirm their kin are safe on the outside. So that’s alright, there’s no one inside that they need to rescue. 

Oh what delicious heat. Mouths drool and eyes roll in relaxation at the comfort it brings.

The villagers continue to step ever closer to the house as the blaze subsides. Wearing coarse wool clothing, that is now felted through time and use, these people are safeguarded against any sparks.

Tabitha watches. In the strobing light from the inferno she can see the villagers rotating slowly on the spot to bathe their bodies evenly in heat. A rhythmical pattern of ecstatic cooing and gasping rises from the crowd. In the background, there’s a percussion of exploding glass and plummeting floorboards from within the house. 

Soon, there’s not much left of Fitzwilliam Hall, nor Mr John Gateshead.