The Bookkeeping Club
Darcy and his two friends, Viola and Haydn, have started what they call The Bookkeeping Club. With funds solicited from various dubious sources, they have rented out a shady one-room apartment (with an attached but woefully unusable bathroom) and have gathered (thirty) old books for the club. Unfortunately, all The Bookkeeping Club does is to have meetings that go wrong in some way or the other.
Darcy held the scissors aloft and snipped the red ribbon in two.
"The Bookkeeping Club is officially open."
"With a grand total of three members," Haydn said.
Darcy gave him a withering look. "There's no need to bring that matter up."
"Might I remind you to look on the glowy side, Chair?" Haydn said with irrepressible optimism. "We are the only members in the Club, so we all automatically get positions of authority! Chairman," he said, with a nod to Darcy, "Vice-chair," he gave Viola another nod, "And Assistant Vice-chair!" he finished, looking pleased with himself.
"And might I remind you that the position of 'Assistant Vice-chair' is quite redundant. Do not tempt me to absolve you of that lofty title," Darcy replied grumpily.
"Then I'll be the only normal member of the Club," Haydn replied, unfazed. "Still an honour. You can't win."
Darcy sighed. "Who's idea was it anyway to have this stupid ribbon-cutting thing?" he growled, hastily changing the subject.
"Mine," said Viola. "But you did say it was a good one, Darce. Thought you said it would attract attention, and therefore, more members?"
"I don't remember that," Darcy muttered, pushing the memory away into a dusty corner of his brain.
"Oh, was it your brother I was talking to, then?" Viola said sarcastically. "Twin brother. So awfully alike. I've known you for two years and counting and I still can't tell the difference."
"Yes, of course it was. Sounds terribly like an idea he'd approve of," Darcy played along. "And some of our relatives have known us all our lives and still can't tell us apart."
"Oh, was that Will the other day? I didn't know! I didn't introduce myself! Why didn't you tell me, Chair?" cried Haydn. "He did look so much like you! He must've thought I was rude, I finished his tea for him!"
Viola rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Sarcasm, Hay, sarcasm. Of course it wasn't him."
"Oh. Right."
"He doesn't look anything like me," Darcy grumbled. "Not at all."
"Yeah, and you're identical twins, Darce."
"He dresses far more sloppily. And he behaves like a delinquent."
"You aren't very brotherly, aren't you, Chair?" Haydn said as the three of them entered the cramped, one-room apartment and plonked boxes of old books on the floor. "Me, I get along very well with Ludwig and Wolfgang. We played in a trio together, back in Austria."
Viola smiled. "Your brothers? Wow, all named after composers."
"Yeah, and my best friend is named after an instrument. One of my favourite instruments! I love such coincidences," said Haydn warmly as he put an arm around Viola.
Darcy gave a loud sniff.
"Oh," said Haydn. "Don't worry, Chair. Your name's pretty good too. From Pride and Prejudice, right? The charming Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. You and William. Very cool."
"If you were triplets the third brother could be named Fitz," joked Viola.
Darcy sniffed again. "We had a dog, and he was named Fitz."
"Oh. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be, it was short for Fitzgerald."
"But if your mother wanted to gather the family, and the dog, would she call, 'Hubby! Fitz! William! Darcy!'?" asked Haydn.
"Yes," groaned Darcy. "She enjoys it."
Haydn and Viola exchanged looks of amusement.
"Her name is Elizabeth."
Haydn and Viola burst into laughter.
"And might I ask if she was a fan of Jane Austen, Chair?"
"No shit, Sherlock!" Darcy was hating this conversation already. "This is not funny. You two don't know how much I hate my name."
"Perfectly good name, Chair, perfectly good," choked Haydn in the midst of his laughter. "Doesn't it mean 'dark'? Just like the brooding Mr. Darcy here."
"Stop making jokes about my name!"
"Would you rather be named William then?" laughed Viola.
"NO!"
"Fitzwilliam?"
"Of course not!"
"Charles?" suggested Haydn innocently.
"That's an okay name-" began Darcy, before realizing his mistake.
"... Bingley!" chorused Haydn and Viola in unison.
"You two are fired," snarled Darcy. "And I shall be the only member. Chair, Vice-chair and Asst. Vice-chair!"
"It's okay, We're still going to be the honourable first-generation alumni!" laughed Haydn.
Darcy would never win against his two best friends.
The books were now nicely arranged on the shelves. The (only) three members of The Bookkeeping Club settled themselves down nicely on plush armchairs (donated by Darcy), armed with a pot of tea and some biscuits.
"So, ahem," Darcy cleared his throat. "We hereby commence the first meeting of The Bookkeeping Club. Any questions, complaints, queries, objections?"
"Complaint! You don't have to prove the point that you know other words for question and complaint. That question was far too long."
"Question!" Haydn screamed shrilly, ignoring Viola's complaint. "Why are we called the Bookkeeping Club?"
"We, well, keep books in here."
"Yes, but won't the word for that be library?"
"Yes, but we don't provide borrowing services."
"We don't?"
"Haydn, please tell me you did read the club Proposal," Viola interrupted. "Under Aims & Objectives. The point of the Bookkeeping Club is to gather like-minded reading enthusiasts. To engage in the act of reading at least once a week in the confines of this clubroom and discuss the themes of at least one literary classic every week, in order to promote the love of books."
"No, it was too long. Complaint."
Darcy closed his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead in frustration. "You were supposed to. Complaint."
"Complaint. Haven't you two realized that we need to do something about the complaints? Otherwise there won't be a point in making them."
"Hmmm. Why not make the punishment for causing a complaint be to donate any spare change to the club Fund?" Darcy suggested. "We need funds after all."
"Question! What if we don't have spare change?"
"Then just donate money. Okay?"
Both Haydn and Darcy dropped a few coins into an empty jam jar, aptly labelled 'LIQUID ASSETS'. The brand name of the now-non-existent jam was accurate as accurate got.
"Okay," Darcy continued. "Now, we need to determine the Book of the Week. In order to have discussions about its themes."
Viola brought out an old biscuit tin. "I wrote the names of all the books down on small slips of paper. Not a difficult task, because, as you know, we only have thirty of them. Pick one."
"Me?"
"You're the Chair."
"Of course," Darcy reached in and grabbed one of the folded slips. "Ready?"
The slip read Pride & Prejudice.
Darcy gritted his teeth. "This club hates me. Complaint."
"No, we love you," Haydn said merrily. "You donated all the Jane Austen books, don't you remember? Your excellent past self (the one who did the donating of books) hates you. I believe we have three copies of Pride and Prejudice. Simplified, Slightly Simplified, and Unabridged. All formerly yours, or should I say, aunty Elizabeth's?"
"Three out of a thirty, that gives us a chance of about a tenth, doesn't it?" said Viola. "We got lucky. I'm rather looking forward to the discussion, really."
"I was hoping to wean her off the whole P&P obsession. I regret it now."
"Oh, and don't forget. We charge people for causing complaints!" Viola said. "And so, with regards to Mr. Darcy's complaint...?"
Darcy groaned and handed over a five-pound note. And that was how The Bookkeeping Club began its first week with Darcy's past self thwarting him, a much complaint-filled discussion of Pride and Prejudice and a rather full jam jar.
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Viola walked into the cramped but cosy quarters of The Bookkeeping Club to find bits of splintered wood and wooden shavings littered all over the carpeted floor. Haydn was sitting in the middle of the mess carving f-holes into what looked like the leg of Darcy's favourite armchair. Or what remained of it, at least.
"What are you doing?!" Viola screamed. The chair itself was nowhere to be seen. Strewn on the ground next to Haydn were several very familiar-looking blocks of red-brown wood.
"Oh!" Haydn jumped, then peered at Viola from behind a pair of dirty lab goggles. "Er... This isn't what it looks like."
"I sure hope it isn't," Viola snapped, folding her arms. "It looks like you have just carved up a chair. Into a violin."
"Um, okay. It does look like that."
"But?"
"Er - no, what I meant was, yes. It IS like that. And admittedly looks like what it, er, is," Haydn cocked his head sheepishly toward the pile of wood. One of the blocks split into two with a creaking groan.
"What were you thinking?! And what were you thinking it looked like?!"
"Er... Well, I thought it looked rather a lot like a murder scene. But I haven't done anything bad, I swear."
"You murdered an armchair!"
"It was an old armchair, and I... know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Viola narrowed her eyes disbelievingly. Haydn had a lot of quirks. That was what she had learned about her best friend over the course of a year since he had transferred to their school. Apparently the list of quirks hadn't ended. Yet.
"I do this in my free time, yeah," Haydn said cheerfully. "And my not-so-free time."
"You mean, all the time."
"Yes!" Haydn chirped excitedly, then came to his senses. "I mean, no. No. I don't do it in my, erm, absolutely-not-free time. Yes. Strictly a part-time job."
"Job? Not a hobby?" Viola was confused for a second. It was hard to imagine Haydn having a job. A proper one, that is. She quickly turned her mind back to the matter at hand. "Job or not, it's an armchair. For us to sit in! Not for you to use as your... your... work supplies! Do you know how much it will cost to buy us a new one?!"
"This one can get us about a thousand pounds at least."
"Oh." Viola's ears pricked up at the sound of a thousand pounds. "How d'you mean?"
Haydn beamed and opened a laptop lying on the small tea table. "See this? My business site. I take custom orders."
Viola looked at the screen. Apparently potential customers would make appointments with Haydn through the website, to decide on the size and look of their instruments, before he made them. Most importantly of all, the fees all came up to 4 digits.
"By golly," Viola's jaw dropped. "Haydn, you're rich."
"We're rich," Haydn replied with a smile. "Since I used the armchair, I'm donating the so-called proceeds to the Club."
"Swell," Viola flashed a momentary smile. "There's but one little snag, I'm afraid."
"What is it?"
"Darcy's coming over. Now."
"WHAT?! It isn't normal club-operating hours!"
"As if anyone keeps to the normal hours. Any minute now."
Haydn scrambled to his feet and looked around desperately. Probably for a hiding place, Viola thought dryly. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" he demanded. "He's going to stab me."
"In case you haven't noticed, I just got here myself!"
"You could have called!"
"We're too poor to fit this place with a landline and your phone's with me because you left it behind yesterday. Again."
"Okay, okay," Haydn groaned. "What're we going to do now? We're so dead."
"You're so dead. I'm an innocent party. Didn't take part in this... shenanigans."
"Vi!" Haydn's voice was outraged. "A thousand pounds, remember? And who do you think you have to thank for it? Hmm?"
"Right." Viola remembered that the Club was broke. The three of them were now smart enough to carry around lots of 1p coins whenever they attended club meetings. Each complaint was now, on average, worth only about one pence. "Sorry."
"So...?"
Viola looked around the room. The wooden shavings could easily be swept under the carpet. As for the blocks, they could be temporarily stowed in the unused closet in the attached bathroom. No one would use the bathroom, not until they had the water utilities arranged, anyway. The half-done violin would go into the closet as well. All good. Except for one tiny problem.
Viola turned to a fear-stricken Haydn. "We sweep up the chips and shavings, blocks go to the bathroom cupboard, this one too, and there we go. And get rid of your goggles. Put that saw away."
Haydn shoved his goggles into the inner pocket of his jacket and stuffed the saw into an empty box. "Okay, good. So, let's get cracking?" he said nervously, grabbing a broom.
"Problem is, we've got a case of The Missing Armchair, Hay. Darcy will notice."
"I don't think he will actually mind about that, will he? I mean, it's just us making the place messy that he cares about, isn't it? An old chair for a thousand pounds, of course he won't even blink."
"You making the place messy, you," Viola corrected him. "Yes, he will like the money. But you see, he's a... sensible sort. The sort that doesn't like their armchairs turning into violins. Especially not since it's his favourite armchair. His late grandmother used to sit in it."
"You don't say."
"I do say."
"Oh dear, Vi, he's going to stab me!"
"I'm afraid you're right," Viola heaved a sigh. Darcy was indeed quite fond of the chair. Never sat on anything else.
Her phone buzzed. Viola extracted the slim black device from her pocket and checked her texts. Darcy had sent her a new message.
Detour to get us some food. Fish with potatoes baked in their jackets. Going to run a little late. Very sorry about it. Coming at three.
They were very lucky that Darcy happened to feel peckish.
An idea popped into Viola's mind. Cushion padding. That was it.
"I've got an idea! Do you still have the cushions for that chair?"
"'Course, right here," Haydn pulled out two fluffy crimson cushion pads from underneath the table. "Why?"
"See that armchair over there?" Viola pointed to another armchair with faded blue cushion paddings. "It's about the same size and shape as the one you just destroyed."
"Carvings on the legs a bit different though, yeah."
"We'll just have to hide the blue cushions and put these on that chair. Then it'll look exactly like that other one!"
"'Cept for the carvings."
"Damn the carvings!" Viola snorted. "You tell him we sold a chair-violin for a thousand pounds, and Darcy'll be too busy basking in the afterglow of a thousand pounds to notice carvings on his chair legs. He won't see the difference."
"I noticed the difference just now."
"You've just spent the last few hours cutting the legs up, staring those carvings in the face. But all Darcy ever does to that chair is to sit in it. He doesn't spend hours admiring its legs, I'm sure."
"Very sure? Remember, a man's life depends on this."
"Yes, unless Darcy's some sort of armchair specialist."
"You do know he's the Chairman, don't you?"
They cleared up the last of the shavings and hid the blue cushions behind some cushions. Darcy's favourite armchair was back. Disguised in plain sight. Haydn and Viola sat back to admire their handiwork over cups of tea.
"Just curious, but why 'stab'?" Viola asked.
"Hmmm. What?"
"You said 'stab'. That Darcy would stab you. Why 'stab'?"
"Why not? You don't think he's going to do something murderous?"
Viola laughed. "No, I mean, usually people say, I dunno, skin me, or kill me."
"I don't think Darcy's the type to rage about and rave and rant," Haydn furrowed his brows. "If he'd wanted to be murderous he'd simply pick up a sword and run you through with it. With a perfectly straight face. Stab."
"Is that what you really think of him?!" Viola struggled to imagine Darcy poking a sword through Haydn without changing his expression. "Like a robot?"
"Maybe like a ninja."
"Don't they use flying stars? Or, what do you call 'em, shuriken?"
"Chicken." A cold voice sounded from the doorway. Both Viola and Haydn turned wildly. "The fish sold out by the time the line got to me. Had to settle for chicken instead," Darcy held up a bag. "Chicken and mashed potatoes. Still pretty good." Haydn nearly choked on his tea and Viola almost dropped her cup at the sight of him.
Darcy looked at the both of them suspiciously. "Why are the both of you acting like that?"
"Like what?" Haydn said, a little too quickly.
"Acting suspiciously. You both were all jumpy."
"No we weren't," Viola said, rather defensively.
"Yes you were."
"You scared us, that's all," she conceded. "Bit sudden of an entrance. And we were just talking about ninjas."
Darcy raised a doubtful eyebrow and started to unpack the food. It smelled rather good.
"Er, we have something to tell you about," Haydn began weakly.
Darcy put the food into the microwave. "What is it?"
"We, er, chopped up one of the chairs-"
"Not we! You!" Viola whispered fiercely.
Darcy's eyes widened in shock. "Say. That. Again."
"We, um, I chopped up one of your chairs."
The tiny takeaway plastic fork in Darcy's hand was suddenly looking as dangerous as a whale harpoon.
"Haydn's a maker of violins!" Viola blurted out quickly. "He took one of the chairs, yes, but the violin he's made can make us at least a thousand pounds! Imagine how many new books we could get with that! Hell, we can even use the toilet!"
"And I didn't touch your chair!" Haydn added reassuringly. "See?" He gestured to the disguised chair.
Darcy stared at the two of them in deep thought. "A thousand pounds?" he said at length.
"Yes. Maybe more."
Their chairman gave a sniff. "I suppose... that's okay."
Both Haydn and Viola gave sighs of relief.
"But the next time you two do that, I will personally chop up a Chair. And I'm not talking about the kind you sit in." Darcy gave a pleasant smile.
"So he doesn't stab after all," Viola whispered to Haydn under her breath.
"Don't you worry, Chair, I'll use the cupboard next time!"
Darcy glared.
"Sorry!" Haydn spluttered. "But we don't put things in it."
"Hay, shut up," Viola hissed. "Now."
Haydn gave an awkward little cough and gulped down the rest of his tea.
Ding! The microwave sounded. Darcy pulled out three plates of freshly heated food.
"We can eat now," he said. He put the plates down on the little tea table and settled comfortably into his favourite armchair. Or what seemed to be his favourite armchair.
"Looks great," Viola said cheerfully.
"Let's eat," said Haydn, already working his way through a mouthful of chicken cutlet.
"This isn't my chair."
Haydn and Viola froze. Darcy was staring at his chair curiously. More specifically, he was looking at the carvings on the legs of his chair.
"W-w-what do you mean?" Haydn choked. "It's your chair, ain't it? Yeah, Vi?" He nudged Viola in the ribs.
"Er, yeah. Yeah, of course it is."
"The carvings on the legs are not the same."
"Is that really why you're the Chairman?"
"Excuse me?"
"Er, no - I mean - you're very... attentive to detail. Detail. Yes," Viola finished off lamely.
"Yes," Haydn chimed in. "How would you know the carving's different. I'm pretty sure it's the same. Completely the same." He gave a nervous little laugh.
"I happen to be in the habit of rubbing my foot against the carvings every time I sit in my chair. Roses do feel very different from, um," Darcy looked hard at the carvings. "Er, doves."
"Cherubs."
"Are they really? They don't look like that to me," Darcy said, bending down to look at the carvings again.
Haydn and Viola exchanged looks that said distract him.
"So what have you two done with my chair?" Darcy said sharply. "The real one." Too late now.
"Er, we really didn't mean to-"
"He didn't really mean to, Darce-"
"YOU MADE IT INTO A VIOLIN."
"A rather nice one, really-"
"MY GRANDMOTHER SAT IN IT-"
"It was on its last legs, truth be told-"
"WHEN SHE DIED-"
"Okay! Okay, look, it's still right here-"
"AND I WAS VERY FOND-"
"Just in a different shape, that's all-"
"OF SITTING IN IT!" Darcy bellowed.
Haydn dropped his knife and fork to his plate in a clatter and went on his knees. "I'm so sorry, Chair, I really am," he cried, grabbing the hem of Darcy's pants. "I didn't know. I just wanted to help." He hung his head, looking genuinely remorseful. The tearful puppy dog eyes were certainly helping, too.
Viola put a hand on Darcy's shoulder. "He is sorry, Darce. He really didn't know. He meant well, you know that."
Haydn wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater. Darcy looked a tad guilty for his outburst.
"Fine," he muttered. "What's done is done." He rubbed his left foot against one of the uglier cherubs. "I'll just settle for, ahem, badly rendered cherubs."
"Does the carving really matter so much to you?" Haydn said timidly through his tears.
Both Darcy and Viola gave him glares. Haydn closed his mouth with a snap. Darcy heaved a sigh.
"It's not about the carvings. It's just - sentimentality. Grandmother."
"We'll get you a new one with customized rose carvings," Viola said soothingly. "Exactly like the old one. We have a thousand pounds to spend on it, remember?"
Darcy gave a small grunt of approval.
"At least you've still got the cushions," Haydn piped up, dropping the tearful act.
"Haydn," Viola said warningly.
"They're the ones your grandmother actually sat on, if you know what I mean."
Darcy gave him a cold look. "You wiped your tears on my pants. Do you want me to chop you up?"
"Ok, I'm sorry. Will shut up now."
"Thank you."
A week later Darcy walked into The Bookkeeping Club to find his favourite armchair (the real one) sitting intact in the clubroom, looking fine save for an f-hole in its left leg and several nails holding its various parts together.
His two best friends were seated on the chairs beside it, smiling from ear to ear.
"We fixed your chair, Darce," Viola said.
"I fixed your chair," interrupted Haydn with a twinge of annoyance. "I'm glad to say it has been restored to its former glory. Or, not quite. Sorry 'bout the nails and the, er, f-hole."
Darcy immediately walked across the room, plunked himself down on the chair and felt a warm gush of affection for his friends.
"Thank you," he said in the sincerest of tones. "But I really am not angry anymore. You guys didn't need to go through all these trouble, really," said he as he rubbed his foot against the familiar wooden roses, "But thanks anyway."
"Glad you like it," Haydn said cheerily.
"We decided that sentimentality is worth far more than a thousand pounds."
The chair gave an alarming creak.
"... Though money is still a problem around here. So I chopped up the other chair instead."
The chair groaned.
"I'm surprised actually, that I could put it all back together," Haydn went on. "It was in a rather bad shape. But now, you can even-"
With a great snap the chair collapsed onto itself, taking with it the unfortunate Darcy, who landed on the carpet with a rather painful-sounding thud.
"-sit in it," Haydn finished. He looked at Darcy. "Or not," he added doubtfully.
And that was how The Bookkeeping Club lost two chairs and gained two thousand pounds.
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"I have a happy announcement to make," announced Darcy as he stepped into The Bookkeeping Club. Haydn and Viola were sitting in their armchairs sorting books into various categories: Fiction, Non-fiction and Dubious Non-fiction. Three mugs of tea were on the tea table.
"Did a new member join?" asked Viola immediately.
"No."
"We can use the toilet?" questioned Haydn.
"No. Actually, we can. I brought us a bucket of water and two empty one-litre bottles. But this isn't what I was going to talk about. This time, the Book of the Week is The Lord of the Rings," smiled Darcy. "Incidentally, one of my favourite books of all time. Picked it out myself. And I have donated all our P&P books to the library."
"Pity. We still have Death Comes to Pemberley, though," Viola said. "We could get lucky again."
Darcy swore inwardly and made a mental note to make another kind donation to the library.
"Chair, using bottles isn't the same as using a real loo bowl. Complaint," Haydn complained. "You could have brought giant bowls instead. And I thought we were going to install the water utilities using the money I earned? Question."
"The roof leaked, and the bill for repair was three thousand pounds," Viola reminded him. "As of now we are still in debt. As for who caused the leak, you know very well who. With regards to Mr. Haydn's complaint..."
Haydn obediently contributed 1p to the LIQUID ASSETS jam jar.
"We could start a book fair to earn money!" Darcy was struck by a brilliant idea. "As of now we have a hundred books, with several extra copies of... Let's see. Sense and Sensibility. Northanger Abbey. Emma. Donated by a Haydn and his accessory in crime, Viola. Great. We could sell them."
"What accessory in crime? I didn't donate them."
"Bailing yourself out of our evil schemes at the last minute again, Vi."
"A person who has knowledge that a crime has been or is going to happen, and whose action or inaction helped the criminal in some way. As I know, you saw Haydn adding those books to our donation pile, and quote, 'Great idea, Hay. Quick, Darcy's coming our way, hide them', unquote. You assisted the criminal in avoiding detection. Hence, accessory in crime."
"And when did the law around here state that it is a criminal act to donate, quote, Sense and Sensibility. Northanger Abbey. Emma, unquote? Say, is it in the Bookkeeping Club Rule Book?"
"... Um-"
"Aha. Got you."
"We don't even have a Rule Book," Haydn said.
"We do," Darcy said in utter shock. "I wrote it myself. And I will make sure to add one very small addition to the list of rules."
"Oh, so you're the Legislature now, aren't you?" said Viola amusedly. "I suppose I would be the Executive, seeing that I'm the one who collects the fines for complaints. Haydn could be the Judiciary! How nice. And I suppose I will have to choose not to enforce that one last rule."
"Then you would be breaking the law."
"I'm sure Haydn will let me off. As the Judiciary, he does have the authority. Am I right, Haydn?"
"Quite right, Vi! Chair, you cannot win. Don't try."
"You two gang up on me all the time," grumbled Darcy. "I am a repressed minority of this State, and that is not constitutional at all. At all. Anyway, shall we commence our discussion on Mr. Tolkien's most distinguished work?"
"I haven't read the book, Chair."
"But you watched the films?"
"Yes! Five times, as a matter of fact. I have a replica of the One Ring!"
"Oh, that reminds me," Viola said. "We have five copies of The Lord of the Rings. Those will fetch more than the books you suggested, Darce. The father of the fantasy genre, I do believe?"
"B-b-but it's The Lord of the Rings!" Darcy said, horrified. "As you said, the mother of the fantasy genre! We need all five. It's a series! The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, The Return of the King, erm, The Hobbit, and... and... The Dark Knight!"
"Didn't I say father, not mother?"
"Who cares? Parent! Don't we have the Parent 1, Parent 2 thing now?"
"Well, J.R.R. Tolkien is a father."
"Wait, guys, isn't The Dark Knight a movie? Batman?"
"No, stupid! Batman's in The Dark Knight Rises. Rises, Haydn. Completely different. Remember, bats can fly."
"What utter rubbish. I've read the books and there is no Dark Knight in the series," said Viola. "Only the Dark Lord. And yes, Hay, you were right and Darcy was wrong. Plus, the Lord of the Rings books we have are all identical, 3-in-1 compilations of the ONLY three books in the trilogy. We have separate copies of The Hobbit, too, five of them, in fact."
"Damn. You noticed."
"I thought the Dark Lord was in Harry Potter, Vi? The unfortunate one with no nose?"
"They are both Dark Lords, Hay. Voldemort's actually not that unfortunate, really. Sauron's a freaking giant eyeball."
"Moral of the story: If you want to be Dark, be a Knight instead of a Lord."
"The Batman took all the blame for Harvey Dent's murder of five people, Haydn," sighed Darcy. "Not much of an improvement, if you ask me."
"I haven't seen that movie, Chair. You've gone and spoiled it."
"No wonder you didn't know. Sorry."
"Actually, I've seen the movie, and I would agree with Hay," Viola said. "Think about it. Fugitive by night, billionaire by day. Versus Noseless Wizard and Giant Eyeball. No prizes for guessing who you'd rather be."
Darcy laughed. "I'd much rather be Aragorn than any of these Dark Lords and Knights. The king of Gondor!"
"If you ask me, Chair, you're more like Boromir. The favoured son. And Will can be Faramir."
"Then if you ask me, you'd be Pippin. The clown of our Club. And my brother is Out of Topic for this discussion."
"Excellent. Very Boromir-like of you, Darce." beamed Viola. "I shall appoint myself Arwen."
"No, if I'm a hobbit, you're a hobbit as well, Vi. You're my accessory in crime!"
"Who says a hobbit's accessory in crime has to be a hobbit as well?"
Darcy sighed heavily. Another pointless discussion was in the works. "Viola can be a female Merry, then. You both stole produce from Farmer Maggot's farm. Criminal, and accessory in crime. Does that work?"
"No, that way we'll both be criminals."
"Doesn't that make you Farmer Maggot, Chair? Since you accused us of the crime?"
"No! I don't want to be Farmer Maggot! He didn't even appear in the films!"
"Will you settle for Boromir, then?"
"No!"
They sat in silence for a while as they sorted out more books. Haydn spoke up after a while. "... Actually, you're right, Vi. A hobbit's accessory in crime isn't necessarily a hobbit. Bilbo burglarized Smaug's lair in The Hobbit, and his accessories in crime were Gandalf and the dwarves!"
"... So, you're Bilbo? And I'm Gandalf? Or a dwarf?"
"Gandalf, probably. Or a dwarf! Maybe one of them was a woman! You never know. Didn't they mention that it was hard to tell the difference because dwarf women also had beards?"
Darcy wondered why they were even assigning roles to themselves. Weren't they supposed to discuss the themes of the books?
"That makes you Smaug, Chair!"
Darcy groaned. "No thank you, I will much rather be Boromir, then. Say, aren't we supposed to be discussing the themes of the books? Instead of doing this... role-play thing?"
Viola tossed a tiny black book onto the pile labelled Dubious Non-Fiction, along with what seemed to be Oxford's Dictionary. "What we're doing is in-depth character study, Darce. It's kind of a way to delve into the themes."
"No. No, I'm very sure it isn't."
"This is more fun," said Haydn.
Darcy spotted the little black book in the Dubious Non-Fiction pile and snatched it up in horror. "What is the Rule Book doing in the Dubious Non-Fiction pile?" Darcy said, feeling rather aghast for his Club members' apparent disregard for the rules. "It is Non-Fiction, clearly! And Oxford's Dictionary!"
"Problem is, we don't know whether to take it for real, Darce. Especially after you bend the rules to your liking. Hence, dubious. The dictionary's a very old one, I'm afraid. Still says Pluto is a planet."
"I don't bend the rules to my liking! ... Fine, I will not add that one last tiny rule."
And that was how The Bookkeeping Club changed the name of the pile labelled Dubious Non-Fiction to Non-Dubious Non-Fiction and continued accepting donations of large numbers of Jane Austen books.
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Chapter 4
“So, Vi, you’re Miss Scarlett. And I choose Professor Plum. Chair can be Dr. Black!”
Darcy looked up from his laptop from which he was balancing the accounts for The Bookkeeping Club. Viola and Haydn were seated around the small tea table, sipping Earl Grey and setting up a Cluedo game board.
“I am very well aware that Dr. Black was the victim, Haydn.”
“Yes, I know. But you’re not playing. We need to explain your absence. The answer is clear. Miss Scarlett, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard, Reverend Green, Mrs. Peacock and Mrs. White are all here,” said Haydn, fingering the little coloured plastic pieces. “Dr. Black and Chair aren’t here. The only valid conclusion is that Chair is Dr. Black!”
“I have not been murdered. I’m sitting right here.”
“Would you care to be Colonel Mustard, then?” asked Viola. “Unless you want to be Reverend Green. Not likely, since he’s bald.”
Darcy dragged his chair over to the small tea table. “Alright, I’ll take the yellow piece. I accuse Mrs. Peacock. She killed Dr. Black in the Lounge with the Candlestick. Evidence to the contrary?”
Viola looked to her own cards, then at Haydn, who shook his head. “None.”
Darcy smiled widely. “Very well then. I win.”
“How on earth did you know?” Viola cried. “You can’t have got lucky. Did you take a peek at the cards?!”
“Haydn forgot that he asked me to put the cards into the answer envelope so that both of you wouldn’t see.”
“Chair! How could you!”
“You didn’t win, anyway,” Viola said dryly. “The rules state that you have to move to the room in question before you make an accusation. You haven’t moved at all, and in fact, Miss Scarlett always moves first. The accusation does not stand.”
Viola paused to take a sip of tea. “As I see it, Miss Scarlett, a.k.a me, not only moves first, but is also the closest to the Lounge. In due course I will most certainly win the game. So, I win.”
“You can’t!” Darcy protested. “I made the deduction first.”
“Is that a complaint? Because, if you complain about me winning, we'll have to charge you. I got the answers thanks to you.”
“No, no, of course not. It was a... simple clarification of the facts. In case, er, Haydn wanted to know why you are going to win.”
“Don’t push this on me, Chair,” Haydn said. “Fact is, Viola shouldn’t win. She was an accessory in crime!”
“Not again. How and why, this time?”
“Miss Scarlett is standing closest to the Lounge. And the Lounge door is here. If she was facing front, which she was, I think, she most certainly would have witnessed Mrs. Peacock entering the room with Dr. Black. And she probably would have heard a cry of help of some kind. But she did not assist Dr. Black! She allowed the crime to take place. Hence, accessory in crime,” Haydn explained, rather triumphantly.
“Not unless Mrs. Peacock and Dr. Black entered the Lounge after they’d been to the Dining Room. Then they would have been out of Miss Scarlett’s range of sight,” countered Viola. “Perhaps Mrs. Peacock got Dr. Black drunk in the Dining Room before luring him into the Lounge? I think she would have to, given how Dr. Black must’ve been very guarded, when he’s been the repeated victim of so many murders.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “What has this got to do with who wins?!”
“In any case, Colonel Mustard is most definitely an accessory in crime,” said Viola, looking pointedly at Darcy. “Given his position, he would have a clear view of them entering the Lounge, no matter from where. And that is probably why he knew who committed the crime, with what, and where!”
Darcy looked at her in shock. “Huh?”
“No, Vi, you can’t be cleared,” said Haydn doubtfully. “You see, from your position, surely you would have heard Dr. Black’s cry for help? The sounds of the ensuing struggle? But Miss Scarlett didn’t help him!”
“It’s a Lounge, Hay. For people to rest and relax in. I think you can be fairly sure that it has padded, soundproof walls.”
“You both are over-analyzing this. If you want to stretch the facts, Dr. Black did it himself. Since, as you have so kindly pointed out, he was aware that he had been the victim of many repeated murders, not sure how he was myself, by coming back to Tudor Hall with the very same people that were there on the night or nights he died, he was walking himself to his grave!” Darcy said. “Now, that isn’t possible.”
“You’re the one who over-analyzed it the most, Chair.”
“Nowhere is it written in the Rules that an Accessory of Crime cannot win the game. Even the murderer can win, having given the right accusation. I still win,” Viola announced.
“You don’t,” Darcy said. “As I said, Dr. Black killed himself. The accusation was wrong.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed Haydn enthusiastically. “We can’t determine if your accusation is right or wrong. So we can’t let you win.”
“I haven’t actually made the accusation,” Viola said. “When I get to the Lounge, which I most certainly will before any of you, I could accuse Dr. Black of the crime, with Mrs. Peacock being his accomplice. I still win.”
“Vi, you may be the one that moves first, but both Chair and you are equally far away from the Lounge. Seven squares, to be exact. What if you throw all ones and he throws sixes? Then he will reach before you do. And Chair will win!”
“Don’t forget, Haydn, that you can drag someone to another room by making a suggestion involving that particular person. Since you go second, you can prevent Viola from winning by dragging her somewhere. If you can get into the Study before she reaches the Lounge, of course,” said Darcy with a smile.
“But you most certainly will never be the winner, given your geographical disadvantage,” Viola reminded Haydn. “It’s either me or Darce. And you have the choice, given who you implicate in your suggestion. How about it? You let me win, or you let the person who let me win win?”
Haydn scowled. “I don’t want any of you to win. I shall enter the Study and make suggestions about both of you in turn! You both will forever be stuck there.”
“In that case, Haydn, you will also be stuck there. Forever.”
“Then I’ll first drag you both to the kitchen, then I’ll move to the Hall, and then the grand finale will be a race to the Lounge! All fair!”
“Given, of course, you reach the Study before any of us reach the Lounge. Eight squares away, I do believe,” said Viola. “As opposed to seven. And I move first. Good luck.”
Darcy sighed. “We’ve got to admit, that statistically, Viola does have the highest chance of winning.”
“So, should we leave this game up to Statistics, or to Providence? I mean, I could still win by sheer luck. If you and Vi throw all ones and I throw... sixes.”
“Providence,” said Darcy.
“Statistics,” said Viola.
“Providence it is.”
Viola threw a Six.
“So, the statistics have changed once again. This time, they are even more skewed in my favour,” said Viola smugly. “What then?”
“Objection!” Haydn yelled, and slammed his fist onto the board. The dice rolled onto the floor and landed on One.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I already moved my piece,” Viola deadpanned. “In that case, we shall treat that fist-thump of yours as your unique way of throwing the dice. Hence, you shall move one square.”
“You’re too smart, Viola,” said Darcy. “We give up. You win.”
“It’s not fair, you’re using your superior intellect to win! Unfair advantage,” said Haydn somewhat grumpily.
Viola raised an eyebrow.
“Is that a complaint?”
“Yeah, I suppose so. Against you,” said Haydn.
“Is the complaint against the fact that I used my superior intellect, or against the fact that I won? Or both?”
“Both, I guess,” said Haydn, eyeing her suspiciously. “What’re you getting at?”
“As I see it, I had to use my ‘superior’ intellect, only because I’m up against such formidable adversaries, a.k.a you both. And I won, because Darcy here kindly supplied me with the answers. Therefore, with regards to Mr. Haydn’s complaint...”
Both Haydn and Darcy were forced to contribute spare change once again to the LIQUID ASSETS jam jar.
And that was how The Bookkeeping Club spent their afternoon playing Cluedo instead of doing anything remotely to do with Book-keeping.
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“I was thinking, Vi, you owe the Bookkeeping Club an awful lot of money,” Haydn mused. The three of them were painting the walls of the Bookkeeping Club.
“How so?”
“All citizens pay taxes, you see, to the government. To use for the good of the State,” Haydn reasoned. “If you take the Bookkeeping Club as a sort of State, which it is, because it has Rules and a government body (us) and citizens (also us). The funds, which we use for the good of the State, are our taxes. Both Chair and I have contributed a lot to the jar over the past few weeks. While, you, Vi, have not contributed a single penny.”
“Wrong, Hay,” Viola said with a swish of her paintbrush. “The jam jar money is collected from whomever is the causer of a complaint. Therefore, it is safe to say that they are fines, not taxes. In that case, if you were indeed making a complaint about taxes not being paid, we all should pay our due, as causers of that particular complaint.”
“We shouldn’t have you in charge of collecting the complaint money,” grumbled Haydn. “You’re too good at finding the causers of the complaints!”
“Which is why I was appointed.”
“We didn’t appoint you,” said Haydn. “At least, I didn’t.”
“I didn’t say who did. I appointed myself.”
“Guys, actually, it is a good idea to collect taxes,” Darcy said, wiping his hands on his apron. “A set amount of money, every week, instead of collecting 1p coins. We need money for the paint and everything. A very good suggestion, Haydn.”
“Glad to contribute, Chair.”
“How about five pounds a week?” suggested Viola. “And lunch will be paid for by our own expenses.”
“Five pounds it is, then,” Darcy declared. “I shall write it down in the Rule Book. It is compulsory for every member to pay five pounds per week to the club Fund, not including complaint fines, to use for any and all club activities, not including meals. How’s that?”
“You might want to define club activities,” said Viola. “As it stands, we do an awful lot of un-club-like activities. In fact, apart from the pooling of old books and the sorting of them, what have we done that is what a Bookkeeping Club might do?”
“Sadly we don’t know,” replied Haydn. “I’m afraid we’re rather one of a kind.”
“Quite true. I really never heard of something called a Bookkeeping Club before all of this.”
“You two might want to consult the Proposal,” said Darcy. “Doesn’t it say that the Bookkeeping Club is for the purpose of gathering like-minded reading enthusiasts, in order to engage in the act of reading at least once per week and to discuss the themes of at least one literary classic per week? Club activities, there you have it.”
“You’re pretty good at quoting from it, Chair.”
“I wrote it.”
“That explains a whole lot of things.”
“Viola should know too,” Darcy said, looking at her accusingly. “Didn’t you quote the exact same paragraph some time ago? The first week, wasn’t it?”
“The problem is,” Viola began, “That those aims are pretty broad. They don’t exactly tell us what activities we’re supposed to do. What does it mean to gather like-minded reading enthusiasts? Do we kidnap people from the library? And the discussion of themes. Surely you didn’t mean it in the way we did The Lord of the Rings?”
“You said it was a way of delving into the themes, Vi.”
“Oh, that was only because Darcy was making a complaint, and we were the causers. I had to deflect it a bit, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t even know I was making one,” Darcy said indignantly. “You worm out of things all the time, Viola!”
“The next time, Chair, be sure to add the word ‘complaint’ behind. You just made one, too! You should say ‘complaint’!”
Viola ignored the both of them and started making swirly patterns on the plain tea-brown surface of fresh paint with an inky black paintbrush. “What are we going to do then, since we haven’t been engaging in club activities?”
“Luckily for us, it isn’t specified in the Rule Book that it is against the Rules to not engage in club activities,” Darcy said, with a groan. “I should have known better.”
“What did you put in it, then?” Viola asked.
“Evidently you both don’t read the Rules at all.”
Haydn picked up the small black book from where it lay on one of their armchairs.
“No stealing books from the Club. Bring your own tea-bags. Pay for all damages in case of damage to any of the Club’s property. Books are to be replaced on the shelf in the same order they were found in at the end of every meeting. No absenting yourself from weekly meetings save during occasions of debilitating illness, accident, or death.”
“Bring your own tea-bags?” said Viola with a laugh. “What on earth were you thinking when you wrote these?”
“I was thinking of our current members,” Darcy said coldly. “Who drink off my tea bags every week. Complaint.”
“Darcy,” Viola began slowly, “You bring enough tea bags for three people every week. From the first week onwards, that’s what you did. What are Haydn and I to expect? That you drink enough tea for three, by yourself? Suffice to say, YOU trained us to be this way, Darce. With regards to Mr. Darcy’s complaint...”
Darcy gave a sniff. “I retract the complaint.”
“No absenting yourself save during occasions of death?” said Haydn. “I thought that was kind of obvious.”
“I thought of writing ‘No absenting yourself‘ but our Club is an understanding one, Haydn,” Darcy explained. “We make exceptions for terrible circumstances.”
“We should put up posters around the area,” Haydn said. “Perhaps with more members, The Bookkeeping Club can commence on more club-like activities.”
The trio abandoned their paintbrushes and sat down around the tea table with hot mugs of tea (courtesy of Darcy) with their laptop.
“We design this on Paint, then print many copies of it,” said Viola. “All good.”
“Paint?” said Darcy incredulously. “Can’t we use some nice sharp photographs and put them in Photoshop? And add some nice text?”
“Great idea.”
“You never fail to amaze Chair and I, Vi. We thought you were really smart.”
“Especially after we played Cluedo with you,” added Darcy.
“Oh, I don’t use my brain during non-critical situations. Saves energy for the critical ones.”
“Cluedo is a critical situation?”
“Of course, someone's been murdered. But that was only sarcasm. I am human, things slip my mind sometimes.”
“Oh, I was thinking it was very like a robot of you to be able to stop using your brain at will, Vi.”
“Only humans do that, Hay. Hence the phrase, use your brain. Applied only to humans, I’m afraid.”
“But the non-usage is not at will, is it?”
“I’m afraid it almost always is. No one’s forcing anybody to not use their brains.”
“Hey, you two might want to start thinking of ideas for the posters,” Darcy said. “Photoshop has finished loading.”
“It took ages, Chair.”
“We should get a new lappie.”
“Those aren’t ideas for posters. And if we want to get a new laptop, we should focus on getting more members, so that we can collect more than just fifteen pounds a week, hence raising the chance of us getting enough money to buy a laptop,” rattled off Darcy. “So, posters.”
“We could do the Uncle Sam thing,” said Haydn. “We want you. To join the Bookkeeping Club. And to pay us five pounds.”
“We could have someone, say, the Chairman, to pose for a picture, dressed as Uncle Sam,” suggested Viola mildly. “Uncle Sam himself has been overused, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Darcy refused flatly. “I don’t want my face plastered all over town. Like a wanted poster!”
“Not your face, Darce, a picture of it.”
“And it will be a ‘want’ poster, not a ‘wanter’ one! The Club would be famous. You’d be famous.”
“You do it, then.”
“But you’re the most good-looking,” Viola said suddenly.
Darcy was taken aback for a moment. He never really thought of himself as good-looking before. He wasn’t ugly, that he knew, but he never gave much though to whether people found his looks pleasing or not. Not till now.
“Yeah I agree,” Haydn joined in. “You’ll look good in the picture.”
“I never listen to you, Haydn. You thought that guy in that painting was good-looking.”
“I meant in real life. Not his portrait! It was Cubist!”
“But you’ll listen to me,” Viola pressed.
Darcy felt himself reddening. “I suppose you’re right.”
Minutes later Darcy was seated in an armchair, his vision assaulted by bright lamp lights.
“Make your smile a bit more friendly, Darce,” Viola said as she pressed down on the shutter button of an old digital camera. “Wouldn’t want you to scare all the potential members away, now would we.”
“He shouldn’t smile,” Haydn said. “Uncle Sam doesn’t smile in the picture. He’s very serious about wanting people!”
“Yes, but a serious-looking Darcy will scare people away.”
Darcy felt a little annoyed. First he was good-looking. then the sight of his face was going to scare people away? He made a mental note to never to fall for Viola’s schemes again.
And that was how the Bookkeeping Club produced a hundred copies of a photo of Darcy wearing a top hat and smiling frozenly.
/tillnexttime.