Advice for Romeo and Juliet

A humor short story

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It was a cool fall evening, the windows open in the Bear and Wicket. A young man came in and sat down heavily at the bar and ordered a double whisky. He knocked back half of it and sat staring at the rest.

“That’s a stiff drink for what I’d say is a heavy heart, friend,” said the Porter next to him.

“You can say that again,” said the Double Whisky.

“Oh?”

Double Whisky shook his head.

“Come on now, lad,” said a Gin and Tonic two seats down the bar. “It can’t be that bad. Love has its ups and downs, and though this might be a down, there’s sure to be an up once you’re out of this valley.”

Double Whisky sighed. “Ever heard of Romeo and Juliet?”

“Heard? Heard?” Gin and Tonic, an elderly man with silver hair and huge jowls, spluttered. “Who hasn’t heard of Romeo and Juliet? Who hasn’t read The Bard? What is the world coming to,” he said to the barman, “if a youngsters gotta ask if you’ve heard of Romeo and Juliet? O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

“Go on, Richard,” said a Pint of Bitter from across the room.

“I played a bit of Shakespeare in my youth,” said Gin and Tonic proudly.

“Impressive,” said Double Whisky. “Did you play Juliet?”

Gin and Tonic scowled then split his face with a grin and rolling, chuckling laughter. Double Whisky joined in.

“See, laughter really is the great healer. Come on, son, tell us your troubles and maybe us old-timers can provide a little advice as an orison for your healing.”

“We’re just so different; our families too. They don’t want us to be together, don’t think we’re going to work and don’t think it’s right for our families. Hence the Romeo and Juliet. I’m a Montague and she’s a Capulet and never the twain shall meet.”

“Say no more, lad,” said a Pint of Ale, walking up and setting his drink on the bar.

“But—”

“I’ll tell you a story,” said the Ale.

“But there’s more—”

“It’s about my cousin, Tally Telford. He was in love with a girl, Mary Oxford, but their parents wouldn’t have it. The Telfords were lower class, downstairs folk, and the Oxfords had a university named after them, which tells you all you need to know. They were miles apart as far as families go, but Tally and Mary found a way. This is what happened.”

And the Ale started his story.

***

Everything I tell you (said the Ale) I witnessed myself or I was told by Tally after the fact and some of it was told to him by Mary.

It was some years ago now, we were young, Tally and I, much younger than we are now and Tally and I worked in my dad’s mechanic shop. We made a little scratch and it kept us out of trouble, although we wanted trouble to find us back in those days. Pints and girls and walks down country lanes and stealing policemen’s hats. Innocent trouble but trouble nonetheless.

One afternoon, a pretty girl in a Vauxhall Grasshopper pulled in to the shop saying that the front wheels were all wobbly. Turns out the alignment was off, as Tally and I correctly adduced, and so we set about our work.

I could tell from the start that Tally was taken by her. She was not just pretty but chic and elegant, her strawberry blonde hair tucked neatly under a round blue hat that matched her bag. We weren’t ones to fight over a girl and besides, I noticed how she looked at him too-quiet, demure little glances. Whether it was his looks—he wasn’t a bad looking fellow—or his mechanics skills jacking up the car and whipping the wheels off—maybe she liked a guy with a little grease on his hands—I don’t know but I could tell. We fixed up her car and, although Tally refused to take her money she insisted, which was generous of her, and she was off but not before Tally got her name and where she lived. She was Mary Oxford. As soon as he told me she was an Oxford, I knew Tally was in trouble. Everyone knew them and although they were nice enough people, they lived in a different world from the rest of us. They had their rich friends and their connections down in London, and another home in London to boot, plus the place in the south of France.

Poor Tally, he did his best to do it right. He called at the house and asked for Mary but even though he was wearing his best, he was a far cry from what Sir and Lady Oxford had in mind for their daughter and he was turned away.

When Mary found out he had come to see her she was upset that her parents kept him from her and she came over to the shop to see Tally. They started going out after that. Somehow she looked even better on Tally’s arm. He was strong and tall, taller than me, and when he wasn’t covered in grease he was a pretty good-looking fellow. They went to the pub some nights. Other times they would go for picnics or long walks. Tally even saved up and took her to London to see a musical comedy, Miss Featheringdon’s Lover, one weekend.

Sir and Lady Oxford were livid when they found out but they couldn’t stop her and all they could do was threaten her inheritance and called Mary to the study one evening after dinner. Sir Oxford was a large man with a beefy, jovial face. Lady Oxford was tiny but her tiny frame held a tempest of a woman.

“Mary, this has to stop,” said Sir Clarence Oxford.

“What?” Mary said.

“Don’t play coy with me, Mary. The Telford boy. I know you’re fond of him but it can’t last, Mary. I love the people of this village. We put on the fête every year and I’m happy to put up a few quid to fix the parish roof and all that, but we live in different worlds. Tally Telford is completely uneducated. He’s poor. He has a narrow worldview and narrower horizons. He’s just not right for you and I think you know it.”

Mary was torn between anger and tears. “What would you even know, papa? You’ve never met him. He’s a wonderful man. He’s kind and caring and handy—he can fix anything, not just cars. Why must I marry some stiff Eton man who speaks French and Latin but can’t even get himself dressed without help?”

Sir Clarence sniffed. “I went to Eton and speak French and Latin.”

“And I love you, papa, but one doesn’t choose her parents, but one does choose whom one marries.”

“No, one does not,” Lady Oxford said flatly. “We won’t pick for you, but we will guide you to the right horizon. Mary, come sit,” Lady Oxford said, patting the spot next to her on the settee.

Mary didn’t move.

Lady Oxford pursed her lips and continued. “Mary, this isn’t just about you. This is about all of us, about our entire family. I wish that love could be easy, and silly, and vain, but it’s not, not for us. You are an Oxford and that means you have a responsibility to your family as well as to yourself not to get caught up in a frivolous romance—”

“It’s not frivolous. He likes me and really knows me.”

Lady Oxford scoffed. “How well can he know you? You’ve only seen him a few times.”

Mary pulled her lips tight, then blurted out, “Where do you think I go every day? I see him every day.”

“You don’t…you haven’t…”

Mary rolled her eyes. “No, mum, he’s a good man. And I’m a careful woman. I know how to say no.”

“He’s asked?!”

“No, mum. I said I know how to say no, I didn’t say I needed to.”

Lady Oxford threw herself back and began to hyperventilate. “Clarence, a brandy, Clarence.”

The big man sprang to the sideboard and was back with the drink in hand before you could say ‘Oxford green.’

“No, no, don’t be stingy,” Lady Oxford said to her husband.

“Florence—”

“The brandy, Clarence,” she said, sending bolts of lighting from her eyes through his disbelieving face.

Clarence came back, more slowly and grumbling. Lady Florence daintily gulped the brandy.

Mary looked from her mother to her father and back to her mother.

“You and papa were from different classes and you’ve made it work.”

“Mary Elizabeth Kingsley Oxford, you take that back at once,” Sir Clarence said. “Your mother may not have been born an Oxford, which as we all know is the tippy top of the pole, but she was born the daughter of a wealthy industrialist in a well-to-do family, and the moment she married me she became an Oxford, full stop no ifs ands or buts.”

“But—”

Sir Clarence held up a finger. “Ah ah.”

“But—”

“No, no.”

“Papa, she was new money and you were old money.”

Lady Florence sobbed into a handkerchief.

Mary went on. “There’s a distinction and a difference there and maybe it’s not such a stretch for old money to marry a good, kind, hardworking, handy mechanic from King’s Somborne.”

“Why did you have to call your mother new money? That’s an awfully cruel thing to do, Mary. She’s as old English as the oldest kings of Wessex, Aethelheard and Cynewulf and Alfred the Great, and I won’t hear otherwise. We’re through with this conversation and you’re through with Talisman Telford.”

Well, Mary wasn’t going to just accept that and she was sure there was a way to bring her parents around to Tally. Times were changing and she knew they couldn’t hold on to all that class stuff forever. The Oxfords had made an exception for her mother and they would make an exception for Tally too. All she needed was the opportunity to prove to them what kind of man he was.

The opportunity presented itself one week later when Sir Clarence, Lady Florence, and Mary were due to drive to the station to catch the train to London. Mary convinced the Oxford’s driver, Thomas, to take the night off and, having dressed Tally, who objected to such subterfuge, as the driver, put him in the driver’s seat.

Tally was unconvinced as to what this was going to achieve but as he leaned on the hood of the car watching the evening sunlight fade on the oak trees spread across the spacious grounds and shading the copious flower gardens, he felt that even though living a life of complete leisure and luxury was a silly way to spend one’s time, he could, after some reflection, manage to enjoy living in even one of the smaller houses on such an estate.

He embodied the lower class’s cautious attraction to the upper class and to money as well as the wisdom that money did not automatically solve all of one’s problems, but it certainly made things easier. When you have money along with it comes the luxury of worrying about which restaurant you’re going to for dinner instead of whether or not you will eat. As with much of the lower and middle class, Tally also had the desire to join the upper class, which could not be said to work in reverse. He knew as well that, money or no money, he desperately wanted to marry Mary and he would do whatever it took to prove himself worthy to her parents, even if it was ostensibly an impossible task. Mary hadn’t let on what her plan exactly entailed, just to ‘be ready,’ which didn’t sit too well with Tally but he trusted.

The Oxford’s emerged from the front door of the Tudor estate, Sir Clarence leading the procession and puffing like a cape buffalo. Behind came Lady Florence and Mary. Lady Florence looked slightly cross but pleasant nonetheless and Mary was resplendent as usual, her reddish-blonde hair contrasting delightfully with her emerald green dress.

“Don’t just stand there, Thomas, start the car.”

Tally ran around to open the door for them, keeping his cap low in an attempt to obscure his face. The car, a Rolls Royce Phantom I, sagged under Sir Clarence’s weight. Mary smiled and winked at Tally as she climbed in.

“I said start her up, Thomas. Come on, man.”

Tally ran around the side of the car and climbed in, shutting the door firmly.

“Careful with the door, man, and let’s get going.”

Despite being so absurdly wealthy, Sir Clarence still loved his cars dearly and showed an exaggerated concern for them.

“Yes, sir,” Tally said.

He started the engine and tore off, spinning the tires in the gravel drive.

“Easy there, Thomas, God damn your foot.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

They drove along the curving country lane leading away from King’s Somborne, trees hanging over either side of the road, now and then a long, low hedgerow taking the place of the trees, and beyond far, wide fields of green divided here and there by low stone walls.

Sir Clarence seemed increasingly agitated by something and finally spit it out.

“Why do you sound so funny, Thomas? Do you have a cold, Thomas? I don’t want to catch a cold. You know how I detest colds.”

“No, sir.”

“Then why do you sound so funny?”

“I don’t know, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Mary chimed in, anxious that her father shouldn’t yet discover Tally’s identity. “Papa, I’m so looking forward to dinner and the opera today.”

“Really? I thought you hated the opera.”

“I don’t hate it, not at all. I—I—oh my god, is that a fire?”

“Fire? What fire?” said the whole car.

Tally, looking anxiously out every window and in every mirror, finally spotted the gout of fire streaming from the petrol tank.

“Good God!” he shouted and slammed on the brakes. The Phantom skidded to a stop in the middle of the road.

The Oxfords, Sir and Lady, not the liveliest bunch on a good day, theirs a more noble, aristocratic, grave mien as a matter of course, were not as quick to react as Tally and Mary, both of whom had seen the fire. Sir Clarence looked around out the window, “Fire? Where? It’s too early to be burning the fields, they’re still full of corn. Florence, I must talk to Angus about the estate. There shouldn’t be any burning yet.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why are you stopping, Thomas? We’re going to miss the train.”

“Daddy,” said Mary, “you need to get out of the car.”

“Nonsense. We’re in the middle of the road.”

“Get out of the car!”

“Mary, what has gotten into you?”

Having had enough of this and suspecting what Mary had done, Tally wrenched open the doors, heaved Sir Clarence out of the car, scooped Lady Florence under one arm, and hustled them to the roadside.

“Thomas, what—what—,” Sir Clarence spluttered. “Get your hands off my wi—oh my god!”

Sir Clarence suddenly fell silent when he saw the roaring flames erupting from the petrol tank.

“Just a moment, sir.”

Tally was off like a shot, pulling something out of his back pocket and attacking the furnace that had replaced the petrol tank. Tally put out the fire with all the calm ease and style as if he were putting the finishing touches on a coat of wax and indeed, when all that was left of the fire was a bit of smoke wafting away in the evening air, the petrol tank looked brand new and there wasn’t a spot of damage in sight.

“How—how?” Sir Clarence managed.

“I am a mechanic, sir,” Tally said and whipped off his cap.

Sir Clarence gasped. “Telford!”

Lady Florence gasped, doing her best impression of Sir Clarence gasping. Mary beamed.

A noise down the road made her turn. A large truck was barrelling along, apparently unaware of the obstacle parked directly in its path.

“Tally!” Mary shouted.

Tally jumped in the Rolls. The engine roared. Tires spinning, the whole bulk of the once luxurious automobile swung around like a racecar and, fishtailing only slightly, came to a rest half off the road and safely out of the way of the oncoming truck. The truck passed, leaving the four standing in a cloud of dust, with the Rolls safe and sound.

Mary, confident but ultimately unsure of how her parents would react, showed Tally a tight-lipped smile and squeezed his hand. Tally held his breath.

Sir Clarence coughed. “Telford, that was—”

“Incredible,” said Lady Florence.

“Yes, I suppose that’s the word,” said Sir Clarence. “You’re…um…alright, Telford.” He shook Tally’s hand.

“Glad to hear it. Thank you, sir.”

***

The Ale sat back in his chair. “And that was that. You can go up to Oxford House and ask Tally yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“So all I need to do is contrive some sort of heroics with which to prove myself to her family?” said the Double Whisky.

“Exactly. Piece of cake.”

“But you never let me tell you what’s different about us. We’re not upper and lower class at all. It’s totally insurmountable.”

“Nothing’s insurmountable, son.”

“They drink PG Tips and we’re a Twinings family.”

The Ale choked on a mouthful of beer. He took a couple of heaving breaths. “I…well…best of luck with that, son.”

“Thanks a lot,” said the Double Whisky.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.