Awful Rivalry: Eleventh Tattersby

Awful Rivalry

 

Awful Rivalry

 

The extraordinary freedom!

I refer to taking matters of despatch into one’s own hands.

I had been inclined, even I, to stick to rules, you know. Embarrassing

the name of Bevington not done.

(As though this were a thing of real concern.)

I bore the insults. Wavered, I tell you

On the brink of feeling

Titles, after all, must find each other out…

Here what feels to the guest like the clutch of a hand

Chilling his forearm with such freezing immediacy

He fears he has been done an injury

How at this moment he could wish, to share this insight with his colleagues!

Do you understand me! Roscoe shakes him and he notes

the arm not broken (shattered)

I’d taken her across to Paris, taken her over the sea

To Antwerp. We’d strolled their sodding cobbled streets, took Flemish snaps

Of architectural excrescences. It was cosy. We came across Tattersby.

Lunching at the flying club.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, ‘now you I’ve heard of. You had an awful rivalry with Anselm

once. This,’ she’d said, ‘is Anselm’s brother.’

Tattersby yawned a bit.

 


 

More of this piece on Tattersby Page

 

(copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster)

 

 

 

 

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