The Royal Perfects

By Jeremy Neeley

Plagued by a rare disease and the vengeful curse of a former school headmaster, Timmy Wicketts finds himself a directionless vagabond on the streets of the 19th century English town of Upper Southrump. Out of desperation he turns to street performing, and that choice leads him on a journey grander than any he could have imagined. His is a true tale of love, friendship, and perseverance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Neeley
• Release date: Sep 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452345949

Jeremy Neeley

Mr. Neeley has always loved the art of storytelling and believes writing has the wonderful ability to not only entertain, but to inspire. He has worked for several years as a graphic designer at a Pittsburgh-based university and currently lives with his wife and three children in Pleasant Hills, Pennsylvania. The Royal Perfects was the first novel-length story written by Jeremy Neeley. Due to its overwhelmingly positive reviews from family, friends, and the Internet community, Mr. Neeley was spurred on to continue writing original, fiction stories and distributing them via Smashwords.

Book preview

The Royal Perfects

Written by Jeremy Neeley

Copyright 2010 Jeremy Neeley

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Table of Contents

Paupers and Pigs

An Act of Desperation

The Spotlight Shines

Dressed to Impress

The Growing Gusto

Playing the Part

A Hell of a Night

Addition Through Subtraction

Building Momentum

Greek Tragedy

Time in the Grinder

Confined Creativity

Duchess Josephina’s Secret

Challengers and Their Wicked Ways

The Book of Love

The Final Bow

Epilogue

A Note from the Author

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Paupers and Pigs

Timmy pressed his cheeks between the bars of the wrought iron gate and gazed upon the brilliant green stretch of manicured lawn extending beyond. There gathered an assembly. Dozens of young men and women, adorned in silken graduation robes, stood attentively as an aged man of academics issued remarks of congratulations and advice from behind a podium. Timmy could identify each member of the youthful congregation, their faces filled with hopes and dreams. He knew, all too well, the rambling dean presiding over his charges. He was fully aware why they were there and why he was not, and a deep sorrow fell over his heart.

Timothy E. Wicketts was deemed the Bastard Babyface of Shuttlecock Lane. A fatherless runt, his ageless facial features never matured beyond that of an eight-year-old boy. During his formative teenage years, this odd ailment, coupled with poor student performance, made him a prime target for bullies and ruffians. Not only was he cursed with the softness, he was not much of a scrapper, despite the almost daily need to defend himself. After a rather vicious tail snapping in an alley next to the finishing school he attended, Wicketts decided he desperately needed to devise a method to elude such rough ends.

Months before, the Bastard Babyface was approached by a group of classmates intent on unleashing a bevy of fists and boot buckles. As they rolled up their sleeves, Timmy pulled a large stovepipe hat and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his duffle. Donning both, he scribbled a charcoal stash and mutton chops upon his face. The bullies didn't know what to make of the transformation and neither did the growing throng of school children eager to bear witness to another beating.

Wicketts knew he had everyone's attention, and grasping the moment, he broke into an elaborately planned, and downright exceptional, skit mocking the school's headmaster, a man very similar in appearance to the now costumed boy. The kids hooted and hollered as Timmy cracked fancies and hobbled about with clownish zeal. By the end of his routine, not a single child harbored him ill will. They were all simply too amused to hate. Wicketts had found his greatest means of self-preservation ...entertainment.

The next few weeks were noted by several requests for impersonations. From the haggard, old hall polisher to the professor of fine textiles, Timmy performed his magic without fail. Each time he would hit the mark in most satirical fashion, and the kids were left rolling and giggling.

A few months before graduation, Timmy found himself once again skipping about in his headmaster persona while acting a grand scene in the boys’ washroom. His fans smiled and bellowed, thoroughly amused. But then their mood suddenly and surprisingly grew stale. All eyes had shifted toward a spot behind Wicketts. Timmy turned to mirror their gaze and was met by the enraged pupils of Headmaster Vincent Vainville himself.

The headmaster snatched Timmy by the ear and dragged him off amidst a harsh tirade of damning words. The humorless man was so incensed at what he perceived as a personal assault on his very character that he expelled Timothy that day.

Now looking on from a distance at his classmates, barred from the pomp and circumstance, Timmy wished he had toughened it out just a bit longer. He wished he had taken a few more wallops and bruises just until he received his diploma, because a diploma from The Vainville Academy for Proper and Prosperous Youths was a ticket to success.

Despite a tradition of molding many young people through routine doses of cold discipline, the academy was a progressive institution in at least one respect. It was one of the first to offer not only men, but women as well, proper education in a variety of trades and disciplines. As long as one could afford the hefty tuition, every graduate was guaranteed a job full of wealth and esteem. From bankers to businessmen, fine tailors to high seas sailors, all would find a profession of envy among the people of Upper Southrump.

The Vainville Academy was a place of legacy and Timmy's father was counted among the alumni. Unfortunately, he had passed away prior to Timmy's studies. His wealth was enough to spur on his son's education, but it had all been squandered when Timmy got himself expelled. Even more disappointing was that the vindictive Headmaster Vainville had taken Timmy's punishment to even greater extremes. Vainville was a man of community connections and he used those influences to blacklist the lad from anything deemed as respectable employment.

A joyous hurrah marked the end of the ceremony. Corner-caps were sent sailing into the air as hugs and well wishes spread among the group. It was a cacophony of relief, joy and excitement. As he scanned the vibrant visages, he came upon that of Genevieve Jenkins. Her golden blond hair swayed as she turned, like sheer, sun-kissed silk cascading down her soft shoulders. Timmy held there for a moment, taking in her beauty.

Genny was the only classmate who consistently abstained from his harassment. She was the only one to speak kindly, if briefly, to the young Wicketts. On one occasion, she even helped him to his feet after a pack of misfits had knocked him down. Once Timmy’s skits had garnered him acceptance, Genny continued to be a smiling face just off in the distance. Their relationship never became more than that, but Timmy wished it had. It would certainly never be the case now. Genny would head off to become a successful merchant and Timmy would do God knows what. His options had been vengefully limited.

Move along son, a gruff voice bellowed, accompanied by a shove from a baton. No need to be gawking.

Yes, Sir, replied Timmy, respectful of the constable’s order.

Timmy turned from the scene, Genny fresh in his mind once more. Despite the disappointment of not being among the graduates, thoughts of her always lightened his heart. He kicked a stone down the lane as he walked the cobblestone street heading back to his home in Sooty Stoops.

Upper Southrump was a bustling burgh of variety. What once existed as a smaller shire of shipping and agriculture had slowly been transformed over decades’ time by the catalyst known as the Industrial Revolution. The rich and savvy were keen to adapt, reaping even greater fortune, while many others were subject to job loss and poverty at the hands of change. For every wool coat-wearing aristocrat dining on plumb goose, there existed a dozen other Southrumpians nibbling on stale crust.

Timmy walked adjacent to the several yards of mortared stonewall surrounding the Vainville Academy. The building lay at the center of Southrump, not far from the mayor’s quarters and the local house of parliament. There were many fine mansions and upscale proprietors in the Central District. Landscapes of sprawling design, highlighted by ornamental flowers and shrubs, traced the street edge. This was the land of the well-to-do. Tailored suits and parasols strolled the walks and everyone was greeted with a tip of the hat. Wealth called Central home, and it seldom strayed far from its familiar surroundings.

A few more blocks brought Timmy to lane upon lane of specialty shops. The Shillings District was full of markets and merchants. It was a keystone of commerce and a place where you could find anything in the world. From exotic foods to finely sewn gowns, Shillings had something for everyone, provided you had the pounds. It was a constant dervish of sellers and purchasers exchanging goods and haggling deals.

Just past Shillings wafted the ever-present, pungent perfume of fish and sea, the land of sailors and shippers, The Moors. A rougher crowd conducted business here, but if you knew yours, one could pass through without incident. The salty air mixed with salty dialogue gave The Moors its unique local color.

Finally, Timmy set foot on Shuttlecock Lane, a twisting roadway winding like a wet noodle amongst the black-shingled homes of Sooty Stoops. At one point, Sooty Stoops was purely residential. Hundreds of flats and cottages were nestled amongst one another in a tightly knit patchwork of alleys and lamppost-lined paths.

Home to the less affluent of Upper Southrump, Sooty Stoops had seen the brunt of industrial change. Several immense factories had opened their doors upon demolished tenements and foreclosed storefronts. These bastions of mass production would churn out thousands of consumer goods while simultaneously spewing thick clouds of ash into the air. The new industry employed many, but unemployed more.

Tradesmen, who used to be valued for their handiwork and craftsmanship, had been replaced by automation and cheaper inventory. Many of these unfortunate beings were left to their own means among the rabble and rubble of Sooty Stoops. It all made for quite a congested and depressed nook of Upper Southrump.

Timmy hadn’t always lived in Sooty Stoops. At one point he and his parents had lived in a cottage in Greycourt Abbey, another nearby district. After Timmy’s father passed away, his mother had moved them both to the less expensive Sooty Stoops neighborhood. She had hoped to extend their inheritance for she did not work and lacked any marketable skills. It could be said she was of loose morals for after her husband died; Mrs. Wicketts waited but a few weeks before seeking out the attention of another, hopping from man to man as a grasshopper leaps amongst the twigs. Her search was fueled further by Timmy's expulsion. Both had hoped Timmy would land a good-paying job after graduation. When that plan went up in smoke, Mrs. Wicketts went on the prowl for a wealthy benefactor, much like her first husband.

The Bastard Babyface stood in front of an oak door, washed in a fading green patina. He procured a key from his pocket and unlocked the rusted iron latch. The thick slab creaked slowly open. Timmy entered his home, the echo of his steps bouncing off the cold stone walls. It was quiet. His mother must have been out again, a fairly common occurrence. The lad walked through the common room, tossing his worn longcoat overtop a tattered settee. He then went to the pantry to rummage for a snack.

As he approached the cupboard door, something upon the tabletop caught his eye. Upon closer inspection, he discovered an envelope with his name written on it. Timmy tore back the enclosure, breaking the red wax seal emblazoned with his family emblem. Inside was a note from his mother.

Timothy, it began, I have met a man of love and fortune. He is a handsome and successful turnip farmer. I am going away to live with him and we plan to wed. You are your own man now and I pray you do not seek me out. All in our house I leave to you. I bid you luck and love. With regards, Mother.

As Timmy folded the parchment back up and placed it on the table once more, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling. Part of him was filled with sadness. Part was indifferent. His mother had fast-become a more selfish woman, caring less about her son and more about returning to a lifestyle of leisure and comfort. Timmy would see her sparingly and only occasionally while on holiday from the Vainville Academy. After his expulsion, their interactions again would be limited. During the day, Timmy would be out about town seeking employment, and come evening his mother would depart, dressed in questionable attire. They had become less mother and son, and more passing flatmates. With her gone, Timmy was relieved the burden of worry and had only himself to look after. That wasn’t entirely a bad thing in his mind.

Scrounging a couple of dried beet cakes from the breadbox, Wicketts sat down at the table. He pushed aside his mother’s letter and reached for the day’s issue of The Southrump Ballyhoo. The Ballyhoo was the newspaper of record in Upper Southrump. Printed in its pages were all manner of announcements, stories, and public notices. Timmy was focused on the classified ads. Now that he was an adult orphan, finding work fast became of vital necessity.

He saw an ad for a novice noodle hanger, the same ad he had seen the week before. But, when Timmy went to apply for the position, he was turned down immediately upon uttering his name. Vainville’s vicious words had met another compliant ear. Timmy also saw an ad for a shipmate on the Crested Flounder, another unfilled occupation he had previously inquired about. But again, the headmaster’s influence was far reaching. Even work at The Moors was hard to come by.

Finally the young man noticed a new announcement, one not previously published. It called for an apprentice to a professional pig musher, whatever that meant. Wasting little time, Timmy ran back toward the common room and retrieved his longcoat. He sprinted out the door and down the road hoping he’d be the first, and only, applicant.

The classified led Master Wicketts to a stable only a few blocks north of his home. It was a small pen with an attached wooden shack shaded by a thick wickerwork roof. In the pen were several rotund boars, snorting and rooting through muck and filth. When Timmy drew nearer, the largest looked his way. It belted out a gurgling burp, which alerted a smaller pair of pigs to squeal. Before long, the whole lot was making noise and eyeing Timmy curiously.

The ruckus also brought the attention of a man inside the shack. He stumbled out the log door in a bit of a fog. He rubbed his eyes as if just waking from slumber, and re-tied the twine rope that held up his trousers.

Quiet down you pink plumbs! the man bellowed at his pack of pigs. He then caught sight of Timmy standing by the pen fence. Oh, didn’t see you standing there, son, he apologized.

Timmy did not hesitate. He held up his copy of The Southrump Ballyhoo and pointed to the proposition.

Are you hiring, fine Sir? Timmy questioned with hope.

Yep, the man said, as he gave Timmy a thorough looking over. How old are you?

Timmy was asked that question on almost a daily basis. Having the face of a boy, but the body of a full-grown man, made for an odd visual.

I’m 19, replied the gentle-featured Wicketts.

Timmy could tell the man was debating the fact in his head, but only for a moment. His next question proved his acceptance.

You interested? the man asked.

Quite definitely, responded the eager Wicketts.

The man then approached and extended a handshake while introducing himself, I’m William Mudd.

Timmy shook his dirt-covered paw and gulped hard fearing what was to come upon revealing his name. I’m Timmy Wicketts, Sir, he said in a lesser tone, almost hoping to sneak it by Mr. Mudd.

What’s that, boy? Wicketts? Mudd asked, having not fully heard Timmy’s name.

Yes, the cautious applicant said with more clarity. Timmy Wicketts.

He could see the axe drop, the continued and inevitable result of Vainville’s curse. This is the point at which he’d be shot an evil glare and a cold refusal. This is the point where hope died and he was sent away in shame. Only this time it didn’t transpire that way at all.

Nice to meet you, Wicketts, Mudd stated, as he delivered a firm shake and a stiff pat on the shoulder. It was now evident that William Mudd had not heard of the Vainville Academy incident. He revealed no such knowledge of that history in his response.

Look here, son, Mudd continued, you come back at first light and we’ll get started. If you like the trade and have some aptitude, you got the job.

Timmy grinned widely. Yes, Sir! he replied with fervor.

He gave William another sturdy handshake, one of gratitude, and headed back to his house. Despite the fact that Timmy didn’t have the foggiest idea of what being a pig musher truly entailed, he didn’t really care at that moment. All he knew was he had an opportunity, and that was enough to provide him a sound sleep that night.

When Timmy arrived the next day he found Mr. Mudd already awake and ankle deep in the pigpen. Mudd was filling a trough with spoiled food and grains, and his pigs were ravenously enjoying their breakfast.

Ah, Wicketts, Mudd greeted upon seeing Timmy approach, jump the post and get over here.

Timmy did just that, happy to get to the task at hand.

First thing's first. We feed the oinkers, Mudd said. This guy here, his name is Tusk. He’s my lead pig. Mudd patted the raised hair on the largest boar’s back. The pig looked up and snorted a hello, or at least it sounded that way. We’ll let them eat a bit before we prep ‘em for hauling. Follow me, I’ll give you a rundown of the gear and ratchets.

Mudd led Timmy to the back of the stable area. In a shaded alcove stood a couple of small chariot-looking wagons. They had all the makings and markings of the classic Roman transports, just at a smaller scale and with an additional wheel in front and seat at the rear. Hanging from hooks about the walls were all manner of latches and fastenings. The picture in Timmy’s head was now crystal clear, but Mudd spelled it out to be certain.

These are my two pig chariots, Wicketts. Each is capable of hauling a driver and passenger on standard two-pig power. During rush hour, I’ve contemplated dressing a third to give the chariot a little added boost.

Timmy was slightly befuddled. Pigs? he asked in astonishment.

Yeah, swine, boars, four-footed rooters. They can haul as well as a donkey over short distances, plus the upkeep is a quarter the cost. It’s the latest and greatest mode of transportation in all of Upper Southrump. I’ve done a couple test hauls over the past week or so, and I think we’re just about ready to go public. The way I see it, with the tight, congested streets and narrow alleys all over the city, we’ll have more maneuverability and efficiency than those larger horse-drawn deals clogging up the entire town. Plus, those big steeds leave behind big messes, if you know what I mean. Pig chariots are really cutting-edge technology—all the benefits of quick transportation with far less pollution.

Mudd was definitely passionate about his vision. That was without doubt. Timmy couldn’t vouch for the marketability of such an idea, however. That thought quickly came and went, though, as he concentrated on what mattered—gainful employment.

William pulled a map from his back pocket and laid it on a nearby anvil.

This here is a map of all of Upper Southrump. Like I said, I did a few test runs and have pretty much outlined what I feel will be our most beneficial routes. Where we’ll make our money is in getting those fat cats over in Central back and forth from their new factories and businesses in Shillings and here in Sooty Stoops.

Mudd spoke on as he traced his finger across a red line weaving through the city. This is probably our best lane. It’s the most direct while still taking advantage of our smaller carriages. It also avoids the horse-heavy intersection by the old docks and the high traffic one next to the Institution for Uppity Type Hat Merchants. This one here I marked in blue is a good alternate if you run into any trouble on the main line. I also have this here green one. The only issue with that is it traverses a rather steep incline over by the waxing plant. I don’t know if any pig combo can handle that grade unless one of them is ole’ Tusk. If he ain’t hauling you, tis' smart to avoid that path.

Timmy examined the system carefully, doing his best to memorize the various routes.

Mudd then grabbed a tunic and bell off an overhead shelf. My plan is to operate a two-chariot system. We’ll both wear these uniforms.

The professional pig musher unfurled a large red garment. A picture of a smiling pig wearing a crown had been sewn at the center. The words Mudd’s Swine Taxi circled the image, written in a decorative and distinct font.

Mudd was obviously pleased with his handiwork, smiling as he said, We’ll both wear these and ring a bell just like this. The bell jingled in a jolly fashion. We’ll shout ‘pig chariot, pig chariot’ all while ringing our bells. That should draw attention and customers. It’s a one-fare ride no matter the distance. Three pennies will get them carted where they like, provided it is on our standard lines. You getting all this, Wicketts?

Timmy just nodded. It was a lot to gather, but he didn’t want to let on there was even the slightest hint of confusion.

Good, let’s move on to preparing the pigs and chariot, Mudd stated as he went to retrieve a couple of his swell swine.

Over the next few hours, Timmy learned everything he ever wanted to know about pig mushing. Mudd covered proper pig maintenance and how to keep them in best temperament. Surprising to Timmy, boars loved their hindquarters scratched. Mudd had a specialized quill-rowed brush he used for administering the favored act. Scratch their butts and they’ll follow you anywhere, William advised.

Timmy was also shown a rather unique method of pig hoofing. He never knew you could actually shoe a pig, but William Mudd had devised an ingenious method. It was a matter of forming and fitting a steel-soled slipper to cover the boars’ cleft nails. The practice saved wear and tear and would keep the pigs happier and healthier than they may otherwise be. Proper latching and fastening was reviewed next.

Mudd covered the common two-pig hitch as well as the three-pig setup, should the need arise. After that, it was a demanding lesson on vocal calls and actual mushing. The professional pig chariot operator had trained his stable of workers to respond to a series of auditory commands. Mudd himself had always delivered them, so there was a definite learning curve when Timmy belted out the orders. On his first attempt, not a single swine responded. Timmy did not lose heart, however. He listened carefully to Mudd’s inflections, his rhythms. He took note of his subtle pronunciations and the way he formed his mouth. On his next attempt, Timmy Wicketts delivered a spot-on vocal impersonation of William Mudd. The boars did whatever he ordered, without hesitation. Even ole’ Tusk was fooled.

Alright, Wicketts, Mudd said, approvingly, looks like you got the knack. He then handed Timmy the reigns of one of the chariots. Take her for a spin.

Timmy had already harnessed a pair of hogs to the wagon, so he simply boarded, took tight grip of the reigns and shouted out the command for go, Hieeeee!

With that, he was off. The pig chariot rumbled out of the holding area and down the street. Timmy urged a bit more speed and the pigs obliged. He ordered a turn here and a turn there, and the pigs altered course confidently. Skirting around at a steady trot, the transport definitely beat walking. With a light breeze in his