Chapter Eleven: The Hightopps of Iplam (2)
Tamial Hightopp, apprentice to Mamoreal’s Keeper of Time and future Master of Time, groans as a beam of cheerful sunlight stabs him squarely in his right eye. He rolls over in bed, grumbling several choice words that would get him into a great deal of trouble - guaranteed! - should they be overheard by a grown-up.
“Bloody... hate mornings,” he informs his pillow on a mumble.
The pillow, being very familiar with this particular statement, does not respond. Which is just as well, Tam figures, as nothing short of stuffing the morning into a closet for a couple of hours has any chance of improving the situation.
He closes his eyes and remembers a time - had it really only been a few months ago? - when he had rolled out of bed without a single grumble once the sun had risen? He sighs heavily. His Mam has said, time and time again, that what he’s going through is - unfortunately - perfectly normal. And he trusts his Mam to know all about Normal. Far more than he’d trust his Fa. No, Tamial would trust his Fa for instructions on how to avoid Normal entirely.
“Shoulda asked th’ hat that,” he moans to himself.
Yes, he should have. The other day, when his Fa had offered him his very first and very own Hightopp top hat, Tam should have thought to ask it about this rotten fellow called Normal and how to kick his stinky, little scut.
Tam snorts, imagining that. “M’be he squeaks,” he speculates, trying on and discarding a variety of scut-kicking scenarios.
“Talking nonsense again!” the doorknob accuses. “Like father like son, no doubt! The next thing I have to look forward to, I suppose, is you waking me up at the crack of dawn, wandering the halls and muttering about blessings and lairds or some other such twaddle.”
Tam rolls over and glares blearily at the mechanism. “My Fa doesn’t talk nonsense or twaddle and neither do I!” he huffs. “It’s not our fault you’re too dim to get what we say.”
The doorknob scoffs. “Dim am I? Well, I may not be well-polished brass - although I could be if someone would have half a care for me! - but even I know that there is nothing for me to get , as you so eloquently put it.” The fixture sniffs condescendingly. “I am a doorknob. The only thing I get is a bit of slamming about from time to time.”
“You could always ask to be moved to a guest room door,” Tam informs it indifferently.
“Or I could ask you to move to a guest room.”
“All my stuff’s in here,” he argues. “And besides, this is my house. I’m not a guest.”
“Neither am I!”
“Humph. Well, just as soon as I have you turned ’round the right way-”
“In a rush to get that done, aren’t you, lad?” it snarks.
“Bugger all...” Tam grumbles, presenting his back to the door.
The doorknob threatens, “I’ll tell your parents you used such foul language while wholly cognizant!”
In response, Tam grimaces in concentration and lets loose an abrupt, squeaky fart.
“That had better not be one of your more frumious gas leakages, young man!”
But Tam can already smell that it is. He makes a face at the stench and rolls out of bed; he knows when to beat a hasty retreat. Out of spite, he closes the door behind him, leaving the doorknob to cough and gasp and gag, and pads down the hallway, following his growling stomach on a direct route to the kitchen. As he passes his parents’ room, he very deliberately starts reciting the proper names of the gears and gizmos in the average pocket watch under his breath. Just in case. If there are any, er, noises coming from that room, he doesn’t want to hear them!
The recitation does the trick and Tam listens rather happily to the sound of his own voice until he’s halfway down the stairs, at which point he is in Safe Territory.
His stomach demands that he head straight for the kitchen, but at the sight of his Fa’s open workroom door, he dares to make a brief stop. His innards growl with discontentment, but he can’t help it; he is Curious as to whether the top hat his Fa had made for him is ready yet. Although Tam hadn’t said as much at the time, he thinks he’d looked rather dashing in it!
He pokes his had into the room and frowns. It is even more spotless and tidy than he remembers. It is also completely empty of hats. Top hats included. He frowns at the worktable, confused. His Fa said he would leave it here, right here for when Tam is ready to introduce himself properly, but there is nothing on the polished wood surface.
With a sigh, he relents to the insistence of his adolescent empty stomach. Still frowning, he meanders down the hall. It’s not until he’s standing in the kitchen doorway with one hand splayed on the portal holding it open, that he realizes the room is already occupied.
His father sits, still in his pajamas with a bathrobe thrown over his shoulders - a rare sight indeed on a non-rest day! - gesticulating rather wildly and extravagantly as his Mam perches on his knees (and she is also still in her nightclothes and robe!), doing her best to trap his wildly fluttering hands and fingers.
“Now, now, Alice. You won this Batten jam quite fairly as I recall!” he whispers on a giggle.
“And you’re fairly late in delivering it,” she counters, biting her lip and muffling her laughter as she chases after him. “Botheration! Hold still and stop your squirming! Take it like a laird of Iplam, Hightopp.”
“Hightopp?” he echoes in an oddly playful yet dangerous tone.
His Mam arches her pale brows. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it was.” His voice lowers even further. “An’ jus’ b’cause ye ken hauw teh knock me on mae tail d’snae mean I’ll b’lettin’ ye ge’away wi’it.”
His Mam huffs out a breathy chuckle. “Oh, this I absolutely must see,” she insists with a grin that is far too sharp and... something to belong to a Mother.
She leans forward, her hands grasping his Fa’s wrists, and he stretches up toward her. The kiss is imminent.
“Eugh. Enough, please,” Tam begs. “Just hand over some bread and butter and you can carry on!”
His Mam leans back, looks up at him and snorts. His Fa doesn’t look all that perturbed by the interruption, either. Unfortunately.
“Ye’re late!” his Fa informs him.
“Or early,” he mutters as his Mam slides off of his Fa’s lap and, with that very unsettling grin curving her lips, collects the jar of Batten jam sitting on the table and murmurs something that sounds like: “We’ll settle this score later.”
Tam decides to ignore the anticipatory grin and unfocused, beaming expression on his Fa’s face.
He does not, however, ignore the fact that his Fa looks... better.
“Do I want to know?” Tam grouches, helping himself to the aforementioned bread and butter.
“I’m sure you don’t,” his Mam replies lightly.
“That would depend on the question,” his Fa replies, rather astutely.
Turning, Tam leans a hip against the counter and butters his bread. “You look...” Healthy. Well. Great. Younger. Stronger. Yourself. “... better,” he finishes lamely.
His Fa’s auburn brows arc upward at that.
“But if that has anything to do with Batten jam and settling scores then I do not. Want. To. Know,” he warns them both.
His Mam sniggers.
“On the contrary,” he Fa replies happily. “In fact, I expect it has very much to do with a history lesson that you are long overdue for.”
Tam rolls his eyes. “A history lesson? Come on, Fa. I’ve still got two whole days before you toss me into Sir Fenruffle’s lair.”
“Gryphons have nests, not lairs,” his Mam notes, now fiddling with the teapot at the sink.
Tam rolls his eyes.
“Have a seat and take some tea,” his Fa invites, gesturing to Tam’s usual chair. And because the two of them appear to be behaving themselves (for the moment), he decides to indulge him.
Plopping down, Tam asks around a mouthful, “How come my hat’s gone. The Answer to My Prayers top hat.” He clarifies which hat in particular before his Fa can misunderstand - which Tam suspects he does quite a lot... accidentally on purpose, too! - and starts naming things that begin with the letter M.
Accepting a cup of freshly brewed tea, his Fa says with shocking bluntness, “It turns out you won’t be needing that one any time soon. I’ll make you another.”
“I liked that one.”
“You’ll like this next one better.”
“How do you know?”
His Fa glances over the rim of his teacup at him and - maddeningly - giggles. Tam takes his own cup - milky and well-sugared - from his Mam and glowers in thought as his Fa indulges in a noisy sip and, leaning back, declares in a dreamy tone, “Ye make th’ best tea, mogh’linyea.”
“At no time do you ever cease to rhyme?” she counters with a happy smile.
Tam sighs, looks from one parent to the other and shakes his head. Seriously, what is going on here? All last week things were... weird. And now... what’s with all this lovey-turtledovey... stuff?!
It’s enough to put a guy off his tea.
But Tam remembers the doorknob and, calculating the likelihood of it still being in a snit, resigns himself to occupying the breakfast table for a bit longer. If only the stupid thing had been installed correctly! Whoever wants to have the talking end of a doorknob inside their room? But every time Tam asks his Fa or Mam to fix it, he gets some irritating excuse or other... or another list of things that begin with the letter M.
Wondering precisely how long he’ll be forced to wait before the fixture on his bedroom door either forgives or forgets the incident and permits Tam to re-enter his room, he pulls his Fa’s pocket watch out from under his nightshirt - where he keeps it on a leather cord around his neck - concentrates on his request and consults the face of the watch.
“Hm,” he muses. According to this, he should be in the clear in just a little over a quarter of an hour. Much sooner than he’d thought. Of course, he might get into another argument with the blasted thing the moment he sets foot in his bedroom...
“It’s still behaving for you?” his Fa asks idly, indicating the pocket watch.
Tam smirks. “Of course it is.” Wiggling his brows, he challenges, “Would you like to know your future?”
His Fa looks up and over the table. Tam’s Mam does likewise and Tam finds the coordination of the gestures a bit... eerie. More eerie than usual. For them.
She smiles and his Fa sighs. “Thank you for the offer, son,” his Fa says, “but I do believe that answer has already been Asked... and Given.”
Strangely, his Mam says nothing. She merely reaches across the table and he watches as his Fa’s hand meets her halfway, their fingers intertwining.
Tam gives up. Grown-ups. There’s just no understanding them. Maybe the doorknob was right: there’s not an ounce of sense in them. Tam sighs: it’s a somewhat depressing thought that he has this - sugary smiles, gooey gazes, and certain senility - to look forward to in his later years.
Maybe, if he offers the doorknob an apology, he won’t have to wait the full quarter hour to be allowed back into his room. His Fa always says that introductions and apologies are the sugar and cream of life - as with tea, a great many things are more easily swallowed with a liberal application of both.
Firmly ignoring the Moment his parents are sharing, Tam snaps the pocket watch shut and tucks it back under his shirt.
“Well, if you change your mind...” he says, guzzling his tea and rising to put his cup in the sink.
“We know where you live,” his Mam finishes for him.
Tam thinks about the snooty doorknob he’s on his way to negotiate with for a pair of socks and a jacket and finds he can’t be as optimistic as her on that point. One of these days, that stuck-up bit of brass is going to lock him out of his room for good, and then who knows where he’ll end up living... maybe in the stables with Fitzfrey and his Mam’s students! At this point, a truce with that bloody-minded doorknob seems impossible. But, then again, his Mam’s specialty is impossible things.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning as he grabs another piece of bread for the trek back up the stairs. “You do.”
*~*~*~*
Notes:
1. What does a Master of Time do? Well, actually, I haven’t really decided yet. So, use your own imagination. If I think of something really cool someday, I’ll share. Promise.
2. And on the subject of gas leakages... I realize that here, in Upland, it’s the silent ones to beware of... but Tam’s not an Uplander, is he? (Why does this passage make me snigger and giggle like I’m 20 years younger? No idea. Just... No. Idea.)
3. Ah... yes. It looks like despite Tarrant having... appropriated a jar of Batten jam from Thackery’s kitchen at the end of Book 4, he and Alice hadn’t actually gotten around to, erm, settling that score (from back in Book 4, Chapter 5).