Mr Fish Does Not Fit Into The Picture So Well
It had long been Mr Fish’s dream to attend an English country house party of the sort which last for a single weekend. He’d read of them in the works of PG Wodehouse and other novels of a certain ilk and had developed a rather fixed notion of what such parties should involve. A hunt, of course. Ideally, a ball. A murder or two. Some localised haunting. Cigars and whisky in the library. A beautiful heiress with strained nerves. Gardens. Billiards. A po-faced butler. Smoked kippers for breakfast every morning. Obviously, the kipper situation wasn’t ideal. Mr Fish was not a barbarian. He would prefer not to eat his own. Perhaps, he reasoned, if presented with such a dilemma, he might excuse himself under the auspices of a dicky tummy. English people were always suffering from dicky tummies in the novels he liked to read.
Mr Fish was not English. In truth he knew not what he was. He’d spawned in a warm current off Greenland and been drifting ever since, keeping a careful distance from his numerous siblings, whom he found to be somewhat run of the mill. Did one hail from the place of one’s conception or the spot where one spent one’s formative years? Mr Fish was hopeful for the latter. He’d spent his youth and early childhood swimming around an oil rig, stationed West of Galway Bay. This rig was manned by a team of Liverpuddlians. Now, Mr Fish was always looking to better himself but he saw nothing worthy of emulation in the workers’ sloppy English or their manners, which were dreadfully base. Spitting. Swearing. Scratching their groins in a fashion Mr Fish found most uncouth. The foreman however, was a better breed. He wore a tie and well-pressed shirt, kept his work boots polished to a godly sheen and spoke with a clipped Kent accent. Mr Fish observed him every morning, taking his daily promenade around the rig with a paperback novel in hand. When these novels were duly finished and cast into the choppy sea, Mr Fish tracked them down and devoured them, savouring each delicious morsel of properly written English pomp.
It was here that he learnt of the country house, here he developed his great ambition and here he determined to make his way slowly East via ocean, sea, river and stream to England, which he considered his natural home. It took some months before he arrived at Chimneys’ Lake and a further month before he managed to make himself heard. He chose Miss Bundle as his primary contact for she was given to flights of fancy and spent long hours drifting around in a rowing boat. She seemed the most likely of the household contingent to appreciate a talking fish.
Mr Fish’s suspicions were spot on. Miss Bundle pronounced him a darling creature and scooped him up in an old punch bowl. Mr Fish would be the guest of honour at the following weekend’s house party. He was delighted to hear that a murder, two burglaries and a picnic supper were already on the cards. A spontaneous elopement was also rumoured, not to mention a betrayal or two. “Jolly good,” said Mr Fish, (this being something he’d learnt from his books). He envisioned himself in the midst of proceedings, perhaps swimming around the dining table in a purpose-built cut glass tank, offering charming observations about the décor and the ladies’ gowns. If the moment presented itself, he might even quote some choice morsels of English verse.
Miss Bundle was dreadfully apologetic but she felt it best to be above board. There’d be no possibility of Mr Fish dining with the regular guests. Neither would he be welcome in the library post dinner or on the terrace for G and Ts. The dear girl was truly, awfully sorry to have misled him. In truth, she’d seen Mr Fish as a kind of sideshow: an entertainment, much like the Bulgarian trumpet player or the Spanish Flamenco dancers who were due to perform on Saturday night.
“I thought Papa would be tickled to hear a talking fish,” she explained. “I’m awfully sorry for any upset.” When Mr Fish asked if things might’ve been different if he were a man, or even capable of walking on feet, Miss Bundle was quick to reassure him. It was nothing to do with his lack of feet. The bottom line was rather unpleasant. It wasn’t something she was proud of. Mr Fish was not now, nor ever had been, a genuinely English fish. Papa liked fish as much as the next man. It was foreigners he objected to. He didn’t mind them dancing for him, but dining together was out of the question, even if Mr Fish stayed inside his tank. Sadly, Mr Fish understood. He was disappointed, but not surprised. He’d read of such men in his English books.
Inspired by Agatha Christie’s 1925 novel, “The Secret of Chimneys”
Dropped on Sunday 26th January 2020 at le Jardins des Plantes, Paris, France
#MyYearWithAgathaC