Beggars for Roses

The Girl in the Picture Frame - II

I stormed into Richie's quarters. There he

was, sitting up on his single bed, in

that content way of his, rubbing hands on

a small towel, a bowl of soup, finished,

still aromatic on his side table.

His quarters were large, comfortable but

old. He held multiple positions in

our household: chauffeur, supervisor of

staff and gardener in chief. This last post

he had held back in our ancestral home

in Warwickshire as well.

                                                    My father had

his quarters built along with other key

staff around the house after moving here,

Richie's largest and separated from

others by a private garden, richly

grown, of his own.

                                       I had the gentlest love

for this man. He became my teacher, my

mentor, my playmate, my companion, my

friend ever since my father died. I would

have gone insane, truly, if not for his

constant company. He was the Alfred

to my Bruce. All the empty hours that my

father's death had opened up threatening

to swallow me up in their black-hole were

slowly and surely taken up by him.

As I grew up, he remained the one main

reason I managed to be moderate,

despite my excesses and transgressions,

enough to come back to a semblance of

a life of sanity.

                                In that moment

of discovery, I had no wish to

shower him with my affection.

                                                                I thrust

the picture rudely in his face.

                                                              "What's her
name?"

                   He didn't even glance at it. He

only looked at me sadly, his sense of