Middle-class morality tale: 'Rogues' ... continued

Having moved on from Jailbirds I have Known to mere Rogues, here’s the story of a man we’ll call Desmond.

I met Desmond via my in-laws, who lived in a classic and very respectable English market town.  A tubby, bustling, jovial fellow, Desmond was well known to all in the Rotary / Conservatives / Probus circles (Freemasons too, I’m guessing).  He had been brewery manager at a well-known county firm, and was now comfortably retired with his wife in a smart bungalow, very much playing the latter-day country squire.  When he wasn’t out shooting, he attended every good lunch and dinner going – and that’s quite a lot in a town of that sort.  He was easy to like, but behind his back there was a lot of cheery laughter at his expense, because at every meal, his roving eyes were on the lookout for extra helpings: “… If you’re not going to eat those parsnips …”, and he would brazenly help himself to his neighbours’ (plural) unwanted scoff.  This is not at all the done thing in these circles, but Desmond was shameless.  And tubby.

The other aspect of note was that Desmond plus Mrs were always off shopping in the smart stores in the bigger county towns, and would invariably lunch there too.  This small-scale but relentless extravagance was also widely commented upon – even well-off county folk tend to abstain from conspicuous over-consumption – and one day it came to a juddering halt.  The consumerist couple had, it transpired, taken out all the equity from the bungalow, spent themselves into the ground, handed the keys back to the bank and, accurately presenting as homeless and penniless, threw themselves on the mercy of the local authority.

By some miracle, they were immediately found a small but comfortable flat at minimal rent in a sheltered housing complex based around a smart 18th century town house in pleasant grounds, not two miles from where they lived before.  Doubtless, several other welfare benefits flowed: if means-testing was involved, they qualified!  After the immediate disbelief had worn off, the reactions of their many acquaintances were critical, but by no means terminally outraged: nor were Desmond & Mrs shunned from polite society.  Somehow in all this they had managed to keep the shotguns & car – and proceeded to continue with life much as before, less the shopping and lunching expeditions.  Well, there was nowhere to put new purchases any longer.  Amazing stuff.  Over time, the commentary perceptibly shifted from “feckless bugger” to “not sure why we don’t do that, too!“  As periodic visitors to this saga of everyday county life, Mrs Drew and I were possibly even more surprised by the widespread eventual acceptance of Desmond’s dissolute doings than we were by the deed itself.  We even half-wondered if we were detecting a faint new hint of “oh well, eat, drink and be merry, eh?” in the general attitude of Desmond’s circles.

Anyhow, notwithstanding his shameless insouciance there was probably some stress involved in all this for the portly Desmond, and some months later he suffered a heart attack.  He lasted but a few days in hospital and suffered a fatal relapse after lunch one day.  Fittingly, his last words were reliably said to have been: “I never did get my pudding…”   Middle-class entitlement, eh?  

He would have wanted to go that way, everyone agreed.

ND