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“Top of the morning!”
Alfred grimaced. What was he, Irish?
He adjusted his tie in the hotel mirror for the umpteenth time. Of course, he knew how to put one on. He’d done so thousands of times. But the Wayne family was leagues above the company he kept back in London and he was all but certain that a tie offset by one degree was a grave offence.
He brushed a speck of dust off his shoulder and picked up the small brown parcel on the dresser, which had been delivered to him by a lesser confidante of the Waynes as soon as he landed in Gotham City not twelve hours prior. Inside the box was a pair of white cotton gloves with three stripes running down the middle and the Wayne family crest embroidered on the outer wrists. A sword, a glove, and some kind of mountain goat sat inside a shield, surrounded by a lion, a hawk, a coat of arms, and the family name.
He slipped the gloves on. They didn’t snap on perfectly the way he expected them to. The wrist opened a bit too wide and tiny pockets of air at the fingertips made it seem like he was holding a bunch of deflated balloons.
If Alfred closed his eyes, he could pretend for a second that he was still there. The hollowness was like an unfinished repair. Was he missing the man who would take him onto his shoulders, make him feel like a fighter pilot or whatever else his child mind decided to be that day? Or was he longing for what could have been—a father who chose him instead of another family an ocean away? Maybe that’s why he was here. Not to fulfill a dead man’s wish, at least not entirely, but to selfishly cling to the fibres of what should have been his.
He cast his thoughts and empty parcel aside, straightened his posture, and turned to the imaginary master at the foot of the twin bed.
“Good evening, Mr. Wayne. Allow me to take your jacket.” He folded his own coat carefully over his arm, as drawn in the book he had brought, The Gentleman’s Guide to the Art of Butler Service. “I hope the dinner I prepared tonight is to your liking.”
That was another problem, wasn’t it? His favourite plum pudding recipe was paltry against the fare they were accustomed to. At that moment, he regretted not spending more time with his mother when she cooked.
Well, it was too late now. He just had to man up and get in the kitchen. Perhaps with the Lord’s prayer. Give us this day our daily bread, indeed.
Alfred went around the room acting out scenarios—pulling out chairs, delivering his receipt like a business letter, and balancing candles on the decorative plate like hors d'oeuvres on a platter. He practised saying things like “Right this way” and “As you wish” , micro-analyzing everything from his volume to inflection. He swirled sink water in the flower vase as if he were decanting wine. Knowing the Waynes had a child, he repeated the phrase “young master” until the idea of being subjugated to a wealthy primary schooler no longer made him outwardly cringe, despite still being a jab to his principles.
The six o’clock alarm thrust him out of his training (if he could even call it that) and officially into his new career. He packed his suitcases, laying the book on top. As he didn’t have a U.S. licence yet, the Waynes’ temporary chauffeur picked him up and brought him to the towering hilltop estate by six-thirty.
He stamped down his lingering worries as he made his way down the long cobblestone walkway and rang the ornate doorbell that probably cost more than his entire London flat. There was a moment as he heard footsteps.
The door opened not to the lord or lady of the house, but to a six-year-old boy clad in black striped pyjamas who looked like he had just been dragged out of bed.
Alfred smiled. “You must be young Master Bruce.”
“Why are you so early?”
“Well, that’s what your mother and father told me.” He offered out his hand. “I’m Alfred. I will be your new butler.”
“We already have a butler.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Bruce replied. “Jarvis is gonna be back. My parents said he was just resting. We don’t need a new butler.”
Alfred cleared his throat. “Somebody needs to take care of things in the time being, right?”
Bruce thought for a second. “I guess.”
A well-dressed early-thirties woman ushered the boy away and told him to go brush his teeth. She apologised about her son before introducing herself as Martha Wayne, though Alfred already knew. They exchanged a handshake and she welcomed him in.
To his relief, she’d already prepared a simple breakfast of French toast and berries for her family. Thomas Wayne, who was also dressed and surrounded by documents at the table, stood up and greeted Alfred similarly.
“This isn't an easy time. Jarvis meant a lot to all of us. He was family.” Mr. Wayne said, clasping Alfred’s hand. “And any family of his is a family of ours. If there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“And please, take your time getting settled in,” Mrs. Wayne added. “We already re-arranged our schedules these next couple of days to lighten your workload. Your room is already set up on the second floor, third door on the left. Thomas and I have a luncheon and after that, he has some meetings and I’m going to bridge club, but we left a to-do list on the desk once you’re ready. Again, it shouldn’t be too much given your outstanding qualifications.”
Alfred should’ve been relieved. At least they cared for his father and felt the same way toward him. But the message behind the kind rambling was clear: We’re doing you a favour because you’re Jarvis’s son. Get with the program. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stretched the truth so much on his job application.
After showing Alfred his room and explaining the basics like which keys unlocked what, who to call in different scenarios, and where different supplies were kept, Mr. and Mrs. Wayne gathered their belongings and met the chauffeur downstairs. At least he could make himself useful and open the door for them.
He went back to his room to unpack his bags. In all his twenty-eight years on this planet, he had never seen quarters so spacious, let alone for a live-in employee. Growing up, his room wasn’t very big given that he lived in a Central London flat, and it was only made smaller by having to share it with his brother. From there, he spent four years in army barracks packed with two dozen other men like sardines. After that, despite the spotlight he received, the arts were not as lucrative as popular media made them out to be. Plus, he had a family.
The time on the black alarm clock read 7:15 A.M. That was 11:15 in London and Alfred couldn’t help but wonder what his daughter Julia was up to. Sunday was book club day, meaning his ex-wife would be meeting up with some other ladies at the park. As he hung one of his jackets in the large mahogany wardrobe, a photo of his daughter fluttered out of the pocket.
He remembered that day, her cherubic smile as she abandoned her shoes to get a better grip on the tree she was trying to beat some boys at climbing. Julia’s mother fussed over her dirty stockings and hair afterwards but the five-year-old maintained it was worth it to see the look on those boys’ faces. Alfred agreed.
He carefully folded the photo in half and searched for a place to keep it. Without a frame, he couldn’t put it on the mantle or nightstand, however, the locked desk drawers proved to be the perfect spot. He slipped it between the pages of his butler training guide and locked them both inside. The key, he decided, would go behind his bed frame.
After unpacking, he turned to the to-do list.
Shelve the new library books (see the box in the living room). Sort the laundry. Sweep the patio.
The living room was unlike any he had seen. Woven rugs covered parts of the granite tile, and on top of them were leather couches, handcrafted tables, and crystal centrepieces worth more than a month’s income. Between the wide windows were paintings of Wayne family members past and present, with Mr. and Mrs. Wayne and their son’s portrait above the fireplace. How exactly was he supposed to be a proper butler if he was afraid to touch the furniture?
Alfred found the box of books underneath the coffee table. Some were well-preserved, as if purchased from a special collection, while others were brand new with the price stickers still attached.
As he made his way to the home library, he couldn’t help but notice a tiny shadow slinking against the wall, always trailing a few paces behind him.
“Young Master, I will let you know that I used to be a spy. You cannot go undetected that easily.”
Bruce stepped out from where he was hiding behind an armchair and pointed to the books. “You’re not doing it right.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Do enlighten me, then.”
The boy pulled some of the books that Alfred had organised, saying, “First, you sort it alphabetically by last name. Then by title.”
“I would think books belonging to the same series would be shelved together, no?”
He shook his head. “That’s not how Father likes it.”
“Duly noted.”
As Alfred rearranged the books, Bruce continued to follow him. He turned around.
“Young Master, you do not need to accompany me.”
“Where’d you get your accent from?”
“I bought it at a wee little corner shop on Downing Street.” Alfred flipped through the new Asimov book before sliding it onto the shelf.
“I know what sarcasm is,” said the child.
“Clearly,” he said. “Might I ask, do you have anything you should be doing? Homework, perhaps?”
“I finished it on Friday.”
“Well done.” Alfred put the last book away and folded the box. “If you must excuse me, I have some laundry to sort.”
Bruce might have understood sarcasm, but he didn’t know how to take a hint. He followed Alfred down to the large laundry room.
“Mother likes her dresses sorted in rainbow order,” he said. “And Father’s ties go in the top drawer in their room.”
“Thank you, Master Bruce.”
The first thing Alfred picked up was the tiny shirt from a school uniform.
Bruce snatched it. “Mine.”
“Master Bruce, I simply need to sort out the clothes.”
“I don’t care. It’s mine.”
Alfred took a deep breath and turned back to the pile. Every so often, his silent folding was punctuated by Bruce taking one of his own clothes back as if Alfred was going to swipe a first grader’s T-shirt for himself.
“Were you really a spy?” Bruce asked.
“Indeed.” Alfred nodded. How much was he allowed to reveal? He tried to recall that butler’s handbook but was drawing a blank.
The boy climbed on top of the washing machine to meet Alfred’s eyes. “You don’t look like a spy.”
“Spies that look like spies don’t make for very good spies.”
“Are you here to spy on us? Like the Soviets?”
“I see you’ve been watching the evening news.” Alfred smoothed out the sleeves of Mrs. Wayne’s pink sweater.
“Father’s been letting me stay up ‘cause he doesn’t know when I’m supposed to go to bed. Jarvis always did that.”
“Well, now that I’m here, expect to return to my father’s schedule.”
Bruce smirked. “Do you even know what it is?”
Alfred picked Bruce up and set him back on the ground. Wait, was he supposed to do that? Great, he forgot the policy on physical contact. He should’ve just kept the book in his pocket.
He placed the folded laundry in two hampers and started the long trek upstairs, still unable to shake the child.
The master bedroom felt way too large for two people. The bed was an endless satin sea that Alfred didn’t even want to think about making tomorrow morning. Leather sofas and armchairs surrounded another fireplace. On the coffee table, a shiny radio sat beside the latest issues of Vogue. Back home, a family of four could gather around that. Sitting on the mantle were some family pictures and a handmade silver menorah. On the other side of the room stood a vanity laden with perfume and jewels. Another wooden door led to what Alfred assumed was the washroom.
Bruce raced ahead of Alfred to yank the wardrobe doors open. “Dresses and coats go here.” He then ran to the dresser and pulled open every drawer. “All the other stuff goes here.”
“I appreciate it, Master Bruce. You may run along now.”
Bruce planted himself criss-crossed on the ottoman. “Do you have any secret spy gadgets?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“How about not-secret ones?”
“They gave me a free pen.” Alfred brushed a speck of dust off of Mr. Wayne’s sport coat and hung it next to the rest.
“Did you wear disguises?”
“Occasionally.”
“Like what?”
Alfred arranged the coats neatly in the wardrobe. “I once went undercover in the circus.”
He hadn’t, but Bruce bought it. As he finished sorting Mr. and Mrs. Wayne’s clothes, Bruce rummaged around his mother’s jewellery box as though she’d have a treat hidden for him.
Alfred thought for a moment, then said, “Let’s play a game, shall we?”
Bruce perked up.
“While I complete these chores,” he said, “I want you to go around the house and collect as many toys as fast as you can. If you finish before me, I’ll tell you a story from when I was a spy.”
“You’re on!”
Bruce’s tiny footsteps disappeared down the hall. Alfred breathed a sigh of relief as he finished sorting the clothes in the master bedroom and went down the hall to Bruce’s room.
For a child’s bedroom, it sure didn’t look like it. The walls were decorated with the same striped wallpaper as Mr. and Mrs. Wayne’s room and the curtains were the same heavy material. A woven area rug covered the wooden floor and a dresser was pushed up against the wall next to the bathroom door. The only evidence that it belonged to a six-year-old was a toy chest under the bed and the picture books stacked neatly on the desk.
Evidently, Bruce organised his clothes the same way as Mr. Wayne. Or perhaps, Alfred thought mournfully, it was a remnant of his father’s ways. He couldn’t be certain, though. Jarvis Pennyworth lived a life of servitude. Everything he did was to the Wayne family’s liking, and the line between his occupation and him was as foggy as the Gotham air. Alfred didn’t even know how he would’ve arranged his own closet. The silver lining—if he could call it that—was that Bruce would have an eternity to cement the details of his father, which Alfred was never granted.
He heard Bruce frantically gathering toys in the playroom as he made his way down to the patio. Alfred predicted he’d have another good twenty minutes or so. Plenty of time to sweep up while thinking of which of his military stories he could tell Bruce without accidentally committing treason.
The patio overlooked a vast garden stretching in every direction. The trimmed hedges formed a labyrinth, occasionally decorated with fountains and marble statues. At the end of it was a wrought iron gate, behind which was a cemetery plot that seemed almost purposely veiled by mist, as if to remind Alfred that he wasn’t yet privy to the family’s whole story.
He swept the dust and a few stray leaves off the patio before moving the empty plant pots away from the bench, making a mental note to get some flowers for the summer. Even after the patio was all tidied up, he kept up the charade of sweeping for a few more minutes until Bruce sprinted out to declare his “victory.”
Ten minutes later, with a steaming cup of tea in hand, Alfred recounted the tale of how he saved the Queen and Prime Minister from an assassin. Bruce listened, wide-eyed, without saying a word. Even when Alfred paused to pour himself another cup, the boy anxiously waited on the edge of his seat.
The story ended just as the phone rang. Alfred set the mugs in the sink before picking it up.
“Wayne residence, this is the butler speaking.”
“Hey Alfred, it’s me,” said Mr. Wayne. “We’re about to wrap up here and we were wondering if you started on dinner yet.”
“Not yet, sir,” he said. “Is there something you have in mind?”
“Yeah, we were actually thinking of having pot roast. Can you do that?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Great. We’ll be back in about an hour and a half.”
After Thomas hung up, Alfred told Bruce to go play outside while he looked through the kitchen. He knew how to make a Sunday roast, but doubted that was the same. He flipped through some of Mrs. Wayne’s cookbooks, to no avail either. When an hour and a half turned into just under an hour, he checked to make sure Bruce wasn’t around before pulling out the Yellow Pages.
The first few establishments he called didn’t offer takeaway, and the next few didn’t offer the dish that the Waynes were asking for. At this rate, he’d have a callused index finger from the rotary phone before he’d have dinner. Luckily, the next one—a small, high-end downtown bistro—did both. They said they would even send a delivery boy, giving Alfred just enough time to set the table.
Bruce peered over as Alfred straightened the candles at the centre of the table. “I found something.”
“I’m sure it’s very nice,” Alfred said, glancing at the clock. “Your parents will be home soon. Why don’t you wash up? Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Okay.” Bruce set the takeaway bag on the table and started up the stairs.
“Wait!” Alfred exclaimed.
Bruce stopped at the top of the stairs and pulled a receipt out of his pocket. “Are you looking for this? I was going to put it on Father’s desk. He likes to keep track of spending.”
“Please don’t give it to him.”
“Why not?” He tilted his head. “I paid the delivery boy with Father’s money.”
“I will handle it myself.” Alfred plucked the receipt out of Bruce’s hand.
“And what do I get?”
“Excuse me?”
Bruce crossed his arms. “I don’t keep secrets for free.”
“I will buy you ice cream later.”
“Deal.”
Alfred raced downstairs. Faster than he ever thought he could, he arranged the pieces of pot roast, carrots, and potatoes neatly on three china plates. He moved the bread rolls from their bag into a wicker basket he found in the pantry and the salad went into a crystal bowl shaped like a swan. The dessert, a chocolate cake, went on a spinning gold cake platter. Each of the three places also had silverware neatly wrapped inside dark red napkins. As for drinks, he wasn’t quite sure what was to their liking, so he placed a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and poured some juice into a pitcher for Bruce.
The front door opened as he wiped a few stray drops of gravy off the edge of a plate. Alfred stuffed the takeaway containers in the bin and nearly sprinted to greet the couple.
“Oh, it smells wonderful,” Martha said as Alfred took her coat.
Thomas peered into the dining room. “It looks even better. And on such short notice. I’m impressed.”
“As am I,” Alfred said under his breath.
Bruce was already there, sitting at the head of the table with an impish smile. Thomas ruffled his son’s hair before Bruce moved to the other chair across from his mother.
Alfred rolled the drink cart over. “Might I interest you in something to drink?”
“Yes, please,” they both say.
As he decanted and poured the wine, Thomas and Martha showered the food with compliments. Bruce looked past them, straight at Alfred, with a knowing smirk. Alfred mouthed “ice cream” and Bruce turned back to his plate.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Martha said. “That bistro downtown. Their pot roast is just like this.”
Alfred hummed. “You don’t say.”
After the table was cleared and the Waynes went their separate ways—Thomas to his office, Martha to her room, and Bruce to heaven-knows-where—Alfred found himself doing the dishes while the radio played a late-night talk show that he wasn’t really paying attention to. He was drying the crystal swan—the worst dish to clean, by the way—when Bruce walked in.
“You owe me ice cream,” he said.
“Yes, only if we keep tonight’s dinner our little secret,” Alfred replied. “And your parents will get suspicious if we go out at this hour.”
Bruce pouted.
Alfred then said, “I will take you another time. Right now, you should be getting ready for bed.”
“I can’t.”
“And why is that?”
Bruce walked across the hall to the half bath and stood next to the sink. He looked like a tiny frog sheltering under a white toadstool.
Alfred stifled a laugh. “Message received.”
The battle to get Bruce to bed was long and arduous, and by the end of it, Alfred decided he’d much rather return to the Western front. Bruce was not an ordinary insubordinate child. No, that would have made Alfred’s life too easy. He was an active saboteur. He scattered the pieces of his pyjamas and slippers across two different rooms. He hid under his bed, far out of Alfred’s reach, for ten minutes until Martha had to intervene. Alfred helped him brush his teeth and immediately after that, while still standing on the little stepstool in the bathroom, Bruce pulled out a chocolate bar and took a huge, sticky bite.
He was just like Julia.
Once he tucked Bruce in, Alfred retreated to his quarters where he stared at the telegraph, as though it would come to life any moment and send a message to England for him.
After agonising for longer than he should’ve, he settled for a pithy: Dear Marie, I have reached Gotham safely. Please send Julia my love.
He sighed and ran his hand down his face, thinking:
Father, what have you left me with?
The vacuum hummed loudly as Alfred worked around the living room furniture. Bruce laid across the rug, watching reruns of The Lone Ranger on the boxy TV, surrounded by toys he had brought out only to forget about moments later.
“Master Bruce, if you don’t mind, I need you to clear the floor for just a moment.”
Bruce ignored him.
Alfred repeated his request and Bruce said, “But I don’t want to miss the good part.”
He vacuumed around Bruce the best he could, but when it became clear the boy wasn’t moving, he lifted Bruce with one hand like a dinner platter.
Bruce squealed, “Put me down!”
“I gave you a chance.”
Bruce wriggled out of Alfred’s grip and disappeared down the hall. Alfred gathered the forgotten toys—a slinky, some scattered LEGO bricks, and an egg-shaped canister of silly putty that had gathered carpet fuzz.
As he coiled up the vacuum tube and put it back in its place, he heard glass shatter upstairs. He raced up to find Bruce with a pillow in hand, standing in front of the remnants of a lamp.
“Are you alright? What happened?” asked Alfred.
“I hit it,” Bruce replied.
“Now why on Earth would you do that?”
“I wanted to see what would happen.”
“Did you get your answer?”
Bruce nodded.
“In that case,” Alfred said, “why don’t you wait in your room while I clean this up so you don’t step on the glass? And we can keep this little mishap between us.”
The boy agreed, leaving Alfred to sweep up the shards of glass.
Halfway through, the downstairs phone rang. He ran down and caught it on its last ring.
“Wayne residence, this is the butler speaking.”
“Alfred! Hey, it’s us again,” Thomas said. “I know we said we were having dinner with Martha’s family, but Jacob came down with the flu so that’s been cancelled. We’ll be back home soon, if you don’t mind whipping something up.”
What?!
Alfred cleared his throat. “Not a problem, sir. Do you have anything in mind?”
“Whatever we have at home works,” he said. “We had a pretty big lunch so it doesn’t have to be fancy.”
Alfred nodded before realising Thomas couldn’t see him. “I will get right to it.”
Thomas hung up and Alfred internally screamed. He hurriedly cleaned up the rest of the broken glass before opening the refrigerator, pantry, and all the cupboards in search of something he could use. They contained little bits of, well, everything: meat, beans, oatmeal, drippings, potatoes, cabbage, and other produce that needed to be used up—especially the apples that were too soft for anything else. They also had some baking supplies, but they were running low on eggs and he would much rather save them for breakfast.
He could work with this.
During the war, the easiest way to feed a family was to throw everything into a giant pot. It made for lots of memorable moments around the table. Indeed, nothing could go wrong with a hearty stew and a classic eggless sponge cake for dessert.
Or so he thought.
He swore the food looked more appetising back home. The vat of stew looked like the brown sludge one would get if they trawled the Thames. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he must have missed a step in the sponge because when he turned the cake pan over, it spilled onto the plate in an unceremonious mountain of crumbles.
The Waynes would be home any minute. Dismayed, he garnished the stew with some parsley, praying to every higher power out there that the tiny green sprigs would distract from the rest. As for the cake, he tossed the foam-like crumbles in a bowl with some whipped cream and an entire box of raisins.
“Well, what do we have here?” Thomas asked, intrigued.
Alfred pulled out their chairs. “I have prepared the traditional delicacies of my homeland.”
Bruce poked at the stew. “It looks like mud.”
“Don’t say that,” Martha chided. “We have to respect other cultures.”
The boy grumbles and turns to his food. Unlike Bruce, who was perfectly candid in his displeasure, Thomas and Martha had strained smiles on their faces.
“This is… quite the meal,” he said.
“Yes. Very… interesting,” she added.
“Why thank you,” Alfred said. “The secret ingredient is salt.”
Just like the day before, the family parted ways after dinner. Alfred went through the day’s mail and spotted a telegram addressed to him. He tucked it under his jacket and delivered Thomas and Martha’s mail to their rooms before retreating to his own and opening the envelope.
Alfred, all is well. Julia is spending her spring half term with your mother in Castle Combe. She is excited to get out of the city but keeps asking when you will be coming back. She hasn’t quite understood that you may be gone for a longer term. When you do return, there will be a stack of her drawings waiting for you and I expect you to treat each one as if it belongs in the Louvre.
He chuckled. Though he and Marie went their separate ways ages ago, he always admired her sense of humour. It made sitting down and crafting a return message far easier. He also wrote a second telegram to his mother out in the village, brimming with questions about his little girl, sending it right as the boy in the next room called for his assistance.
Like the other butlers and hired hands waiting in line in front of the elementary school, Alfred checked his watch while mentally tallying everything else he needed to do that afternoon. Standing next to his car, he distracted himself from the early spring chill by making small talk with the portly butler from the Cobblepot family.
The second the bell rang, children of all shapes and sizes but all in the same pressed uniforms flooded the car park. The Cobblepot boy—who, if Alfred was being honest, resembled a baby penguin—all but torpedoed into the car, demanding to go to the library. Bruce, on the other hand, was among the last wave of students coming out the door.
“Master Bruce, I hope your day was well,” said Alfred.
A few older kids passed by and snickered at him.
Alfred raised his eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
The oldest of the kids said to Bruce, “You’re still getting the help from other countries? What’s next, bringing over a Soviet?”
Bruce’s face reddened and he silently got into the car. Alfred simply rolled his eyes and did the same. Back in his day, children were not disrespectful the way they are now. At the risk of aging himself, he blamed doo-wop and television.
He glanced at the sulking boy in the rearview mirror. Was it his place to ask what was wrong? Or would that be overstepping the bounds?
“We have some time before we have to be home,” he said. “I believe I owe you some ice cream.”
Bruce lit up.
The parlour was teeming with the typical after-school crowd. Teenagers gathered around the bar while little kids stood on their tiptoes to get a glimpse at the tubs of ice cream. Cartoonish posters advertising different flavours lined the walls, and behind the counter was also a Coca-Cola fountain. Translucent paper covered the old “Whites Only” restroom sign and the tables had been shifted around to accommodate a baseball team from the secondary school.
Bruce wanted the biggest hot fudge sundae they had, but after some back-and-forth, they compromised on a scoop of chocolate ice cream with a shortbread biscuit.
Following a long stretch of silence, Bruce said, “I don’t know how to make them stop.”
“Who?” Alfred asked.
“Those bigger kids back there,” he said. “They’re always making fun of me. Any idea what I should do?”
He thought for a moment, once again unsure if it was even his place to say. On one hand, he could really help the boy. On the other, what if he overstepped the bounds? Or worse, gave Bruce advice that got him hurt?
“There were mean people in the army too,” Alfred said. “They thought they were bigger and stronger even though we were on the same side. My greatest tool against them was not my fists, but my wit.”
“So I gotta be smarter than them. I can do that,” the boy said. “I read a lot of books. Like today, we went to the school library and Ms. MacPherson let us pick whatever books we wanted so I picked Curious George and I read the whole thing before class was done.”
“That’s very impressive,” Alfred said. “You’ll easily outsmart those other children.”
Since they still had some time before they needed to be home, he took Bruce to the park and set him loose on the playground. Meanwhile, Alfred found a bench in a shaded spot and glanced over his shoulder as if Thomas and Martha would suddenly materialise before he pulled out The Gentleman’s Guide to the Art of Butler Service. He still had quite the list of evening chores ahead—dinner and dishes and ironing Thomas’s suit and sweeping the wine cellar. He could start with the fact that he still couldn’t cook a satisfactory meal, but all the book gave him was vague techniques.
Nearby, two women were at a picnic table chatting about their kitchen garden recipes while their children played with Bruce. Alfred approached them hesitantly.
“Excuse me, I can’t help but overhear you talking about some of your recipes,” he said. “I’m new to this town and have a job where I have to cook, so I’m currently looking for ideas. Do you mind if I join?”
“Um, sure.” The first woman, with a light blue dress and blonde bob cut, held out her hand. “I’m Sharon. And you are…?”
“Alfred.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“I like your accent,” the second woman, a redhead in a green dress, said. “You’re from England, I take it?”
“London, yes,” he said. “Which is why I need help finding American recipes to suit the family I work for.”
“Lillian here is amazing at that, plus she has her own garden,” Sharon said. “Tell him about your tuna-lime salad ring.”
Alfred pulled out a pen and began taking notes in the margins of the book. Just as she finished, a little girl ran up to her with a handful of dirt, among which was a tiny flower sapling.
“Mom, look!”
Lillian turned to the girl. “What do you have there, Pamela?”
“I found it by the tree. Can we keep it?” the girl asked.
“It was growing just fine with all the other plants there. How would you feel if someone took you from me?”
She looks down. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll put it back.”
“That’s my girl.” Lillian grabbed her purse. “How about we go home and harvest the basil on the windowsill?”
“Okay!”
She bade Alfred a kind farewell. Meanwhile, Sharon had her eyes on a little girl with long pigtails about to jump off the jungle gym.
“Look Ma, I’m a Flying Grayson!” the girl exclaimed.
“Harleen, be careful!”
Sharon apologised to him and ran toward the playground. Alfred glanced from her, to Bruce on the swingset, to his notes, and thought: Maybe I can manage this after all.
Someone should have given him a heads-up about the animals on this continent before he spent thirty minutes chasing a raccoon with a rake. He had followed it to the edge of the garden before it burrowed under the fence and disappeared into the woods, probably to tell its little friends about the fun it had putting Alfred through all the trouble.
As he tried to navigate back—this place could really use a map—he came to a waist-high iron gate that led to a small cemetery. This must have been the family plot. Thomas had mentioned in passing how he visited his own parents every year on their wedding anniversary. Alfred had no one there. His father was buried back in England. Still, he turned the latch.
It felt like stepping into another realm. The mist inexplicably hanging in the air obscured many of the names on the graves, but the small stones stacked on top of them told him they were loved. Though the day wasn’t warm to begin with, the chill was a relieving one.
In between the rows, he found a granite bench with a bronze plaque that read: Jarvis Pennyworth. 1875 – 1950. Father, brother, loyal to the end. Similar to the graves, it too held a row of tiny stones.
Alfred questioned the truth to that as he gingerly sat down. He wanted to miss his father. At least, miss him more than his current state. But Jarvis Pennyworth was really only a father in blood and name. Alfred was raised by his mother, the grimy London streets, and disappointment after disappointment. The few memories he desperately clung to grew tiring; the good times grew stale.
Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the gate open or someone come in until a tiny fist hit his arm, forcing his attention.
“Why are you here?” Bruce asked.
Alfred straightened up. “I was just taking a short break before going back to yardwork, young master.”
“That’s Jarvis’s bench. You’re not supposed to sit there.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Mother said he’s resting and Father said he’ll always be with us, so I put these rocks here to save his spot when he comes back,” Bruce said, his bottom lip starting to quiver.
Alfred decided it wasn’t his place to break the truth to the boy, so he stood up and watched as the six-year-old produced another stone from his pocket and placed it on an empty spot.
Bruce asked, “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Alfred cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m not privy to that.”
“But he’s your dad. You gotta know. Just like I know Mother and Father are at the country club with some people from work but they’ll be back in time for dinner. Why don’t you ask? You can use the telephone in the kitchen.”
“I’d rather give him privacy,” Alfred said, effectively ending the conversation.
He latched the gate shut behind him as Bruce ran up to one of the flower bushes.
“Alfred, look!” Bruce exclaimed. “There’s a baby bird in here. Can I keep it?”
He scooped up the tiny fledgling robin, its wings wrapped around itself like a cape.
“Perhaps when you are older,” Alfred said.
It didn’t appear injured by any means, and judging by the song in the air, its mother was nearby.
“I don’t think it’s alone,” Alfred said, “but if the next one is, you can keep it.”
Bruce seemed satisfied with the answer, and Alfred led him in with instructions to wash his hands.
He received a return telegram this morning. His mother was doing well and Julia was having loads of fun with her cousins and some neighbourhood children she befriended. Mary Pennyworth always had a hand for storytelling, and it shone in the pages upon pages practically detailing each hour of their days.
Alfred had the fourth page on the countertop as he prepared breakfast. She had included a recipe for her signature Shrove Tuesday pancakes—or crepes, as Americans apparently called it. The problem was, she also wrote the recipe like a literary rather than a cook. He got as far as “a hearty bunch of flour” before getting stuck. He took a few trials of dumping flour into a bowl, then putting it back by the spoonful until it resembled the memories of his mother in the kitchen. Surprisingly, his pancakes were not terrible.
As he placed each plate in front of the family, Thomas flipped through the morning paper, grunting.
“Truman just ordered military reinforcements for the Koreans,” he said. “That spells trouble if the Reds in the North don’t make the wise choice and stand down.”
Martha nodded, lips tight, as she cut into her pancake. “Nothing we can do about it at this time, can we? Anyway, I’m looking forward to the party this afternoon. Alfred, have you been in contact with the event planners?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Wayne,” he said. “They will be arriving at nine o’clock for setup.”
While the event planners were in charge of transforming the yard into a colourful springtime cocktail party, Alfred, naturally, had been placed in charge of the food. Behind the swinging door, the kitchen was filled from window to wall with hors d'oeuvres and cocktails from another book he found. Inside the refrigerator was also a lemon pie, several pitchers of juice, and the tuna-lime salad ring Lillian Isley had recommended.
Thomas had some business to take care of after breakfast and was out the door before Alfred finished clearing the table. Martha had taken Bruce upstairs to help him get ready, with the boy whining about not liking the new shirt his mother picked. Alfred let the two event planners in through the back garden.
Guests arrived in sleek cars, dressed in fashion that Alfred had only seen on the occasional magazine cover—they were mostly the wives of businessmen with the occasional aide tagging along. Before long, the place was abuzz with martini glasses clinking and people gossiping. A small corner of the yard held a children’s croquet setup, where Bruce and a few other children that Alfred recognized from the elementary school fumbled through their childlike understanding of the rules.
Alfred swung by Martha’s table with a tray. “Might I interest you ladies in some deviled eggs?”
“Certainly,” one woman said.
As Martha thanked him, the second woman at the table remarked, “He’s quite chatty for the help, isn’t he?”
Martha laughed. “He’s a better conversationalist than Thomas.”
The first woman chuckled. “That’s just how husbands are.”
Alfred silently recused himself to replace his empty tray. At the table lined with food, an older teenage girl eyed the tuna salad ring.
“Mister, what’s in this?” she asked.
Alfred answered, “Tuna, eggs, dill pickles, celery, and lime gelatine.”
“Interesting. I’m, uh, actually allergic to all of those, so…” She slowly backed away.
(In hindsight, he shouldn’t have taken recipes from strangers in a park.)
A thwock, followed by a child shrieking, is heard across the yard. The child, one of the older kids that had been picking on Bruce, had tears streaming down his puffy face as he rubbed a red bump on his forehead. Bruce nudged the croquet mallet aside with his foot, trying to mask a smug expression.
“Oh, sweetheart! What happened?” the boy’s mother asked.
The boy pointed at Bruce. “It’s his fault!”
Martha caught up and crossed her arms. “Bruce Thomas Wayne, what did you do?”
“He started by making bets on the game, so I bet him that he couldn’t hit the ball against the fence. I guess it must’ve bounced back,” Bruce replied innocuously.
The two mothers sighed and separated their children. As the attention drew back to the party, Martha sent Bruce inside for a time-out before turning to Alfred.
“I know you’re still new to this, but part of a host’s responsibility is to make sure everyone is behaving safely,” she said, disappointment evident. “Now, why don’t you go inside and fetch our guest an ice pack?”
He nodded. As he did that, he stopped by the front door to pick up the letters in the mail slot. One was addressed to him—a slightly thicker envelope from an earlier date than his last telegram. After giving the boy an ice pack and some simple instructions, Alfred snuck back inside and opened the parcel.
Inside was a photo of Marie and Julia at the train station, the day after Alfred left England (according to the train schedule in the background). Julia was tense, and very clearly forcing a smile at her mother’s request. Also in the parcel was a bow tie he had left behind and a handful of toffees from Julia’s favourite candy shop just down the road from their flat. He glanced upstairs where Bruce must have still been in time-out, then out the window at the party, and then at the photo again, before tucking it in the safest pocket of his coat.
“Hey, Alfred!” Bruce stuck his head out the open window. “Can we go out? I’m booored.”
“In a moment, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “I must finish hanging the laundry first. I’m almost done here, so why don’t you find your shoes and jacket in the meantime.”
“Okay! I call picking what’s for lunch!”
Fifteen minutes (plus watching Bruce struggle with his shoelaces because “he was a big boy, he could do it himself”), they were out the door. Bruce kept insisting he didn’t need a jacket, but it was hard to argue when Alfred simply pointed to the grey clouds rolling into the city.
The pizza parlour Bruce wanted was in the heart of downtown Gotham, neatly arranged between luxury stores and office buildings. One look at it and Alfred knew it wasn’t the ordinary man’s pizza place. The inside was decorated like a bistro, with hanging glass lights and walls painted to make the entire place look fifteen feet tall. Everyone was dressed smartly, of course, between businessmen in pressed suits and high schoolers in their uniforms taking their lunch breaks in their shiny Corvettes.
Alfred’s eyes widened. “How can a slice of pizza cost a whole dollar?!”
Bruce cocked his head. “It’s supposed to be less than that?”
Alfred kept tabs on the prices as Bruce put away more than his six-year-old body conceivably should have. There was a toy store across the street and Alfred was hoping to send Julia a gift from the States—something his father never did, owing to constantly “being busy.” As a bonus, it was an easy way to entertain Bruce for the afternoon too.
With instructions to stay inside the store and meet at the register in an hour, Alfred set the boy loose into the labyrinth of action figures, model cars, board games, and stuffed animals taller than any adult he knew.
According to his mother’s latest telegram, Julia had taken an interest in one of the neighbour’s kids’ science kits—tonnes of which occupied the second floor of the store. He took one last look at Bruce as he went up the spiral stairs; the boy was busy comparing two remote-controlled birds against each other by going in circles around the ceiling.
Alfred frowned at the prices. He couldn’t use the credit card Thomas gave him—that was for emergencies only. But even the most basic geology kit cost more than the pocket money he had brought.
Eventually, he accepted that there was just no way to get it without waiting longer, and he didn’t want to be like his father, so he made his way back downstairs to look for something else.
An employee approached him. “Anything I can help you with, sir?”
“In fact, yes,” Alfred replied. “I’m looking for a gift to send to my five-year-old daughter back in England.”
“Oh, we have a huge selection of dolls right over here,” the young man said.
“Actually, she’s not as fond of dolls,” he said. “She’s the curious type. Loves to read and explore the outdoors.”
“Ah, I see. I have a niece like that too.” The employee scratched his chin. “How’s she with building things? We have some wooden crafting kits that just came in.”
“Now that’s more like it.”
Following some collaborative deliberating, he decided on a wooden biplane like the ones she always wanted to fly. For such a young child, she had a keen sense of who she wanted to be—and last he checked, she wanted to be the next Amelia Earheart.
As the employee rang him up, Alfred looked around and caught Bruce trying to climb one of the shelves to reach a toy car.
“Master Bruce, please get down before you get hurt.”
Bruce stuck his tongue out. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
The employee said, “He’s right, buddy. You can’t be doing that here.”
“And why should I listen to you? I’m the customer.”
Bruce tried to pull himself up onto the top shelf, but his hand slipped. Alfred sprinted over and caught Bruce just before he could hit the ground.
He apologised to the worker and paid for their things before leading Bruce out the door.
“You shouldn’t speak to people like that,” Alfred said. “Just because somebody is working for you doesn’t mean you can be disrespectful. It’s no better than being a schoolyard bully.”
Bruce pouted but remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon as Alfred stopped by the post office to mail the toy to England. The car ride was similar, with the only noise coming from the humming engine and the Elvis Presley song on the radio (Alfred had to admit, not all new music was utter rubbish).
The wind picked up as they turned into Bristol.
Bruce finally piped up, “Can you close the window? My jacket’s ‘bout to be gone in the wind.”
Jacket. Clothes.
The laundry.
Alfred hit the gas. Leaves and litter slapped the windshield as he sped through the neighbourhood, followed by razor-thin raindrops. The car screeched into the driveway and he ran around to the side of the house, just as clothes began to free themselves from the confines of the clothespins. Bruce trailed closely behind, picking up the scattered pins as Alfred hurriedly stuffed everything into the wicker laundry basket. Some of his work had been undone, but that was something he could worry about in a little bit.
“Look, the worms are coming out!” Bruce pointed to the ground.
“That’s nice, Master Bruce. Head inside now.”
Bruce ran ahead, stopping halfway in front of a rapidly filling puddle.
“Don’t,” Alfred warned.
Bruce grinned deviously and leaped in. Alfred just barely spared himself and the laundry, but the boy was covered in mud.
“Master Bruce!”
Bruce blew a raspberry at him.
“Inside. Now .” Alfred dragged Bruce along, making him abandon his dirt-crusted shoes and wet socks on the porch.
“You know what’d be fun?” Bruce asked. “Jumping on the couch, like a trampoline.”
Alfred pulled him back before he could. “Not like that, you’re not.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Yes, I can. I’m the adult and you’re the child.”
“But I’m the master and you’re the servant.”
Those words shouldn’t have cut him, but they did. He wondered if that was how they saw his father. Sure, they spoke of him affectionately, but in the end, he too was just their hired hand.
“All you have to do is take a bath,” Alfred said. “I’ll even lay out your clothes for you.”
“Nope. I’m gonna watch TV.”
“You’re going to this instant or you can spend the rest of the week in your room.”
“I’m telling Mother and Father,” Bruce said. “And then you’ll be in big trouble.”
“Go ahead,” Alfred said. “Your mother has already had an eye on me since the little stunt you pulled at the cocktail party. This job is already plenty difficult without you devising reasons for them to fire me.”
Bruce froze. Alfred took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Master Bruce. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
The boy hung his head and muttered that he’d take a bath and that he didn’t need Alfred’s help picking out clothes. That gave Alfred time to go to his room and send a vent-filled telegram to his family. The only people he wanted to see right now. The one he was so stupid as to leave and for what? Carrying on the legacy of a man who was never there?
With a shaking hand, he pulled out a pen and a piece of paper.
Please accept this letter as my formal resignation.
He didn’t end up giving them the letter, at least not yet. Thomas and Martha were preoccupied with arrangements for a gala they were invited to by one of the neighbours a few miles down from Wayne Manor.
In the day and a half leading up, Bruce was uncharacteristically quiet. He only spoke when spoken to, kept to himself when he played, and always cleaned up his toys and books. Alfred was the only one who noticed, and the guilt weighing uselessly on him proved to be a distraction.
They had exactly seventy-five before they had to leave for the gala. Bruce was all dressed up and waiting quietly in the living room, but Thomas and Martha were a different story.
Thomas sucked his gut in as he tried to fasten the buttons of his suit jacket. “Looks like Martha’s right,” he said, chuckling. “I need to cut back on the office cookies.”
Alfred made no comment, instead taking the jacket from him and offering a different one. This one matched his shirt better but was an even tighter squeeze. One wrong breath sent a button flying off, hitting the mirror with a tiny clink .
“That’s my favourite one,” Thomas said. “I won’t wear it today, but since we have a couple of minutes, can you get the sewing kit and at least put the button back on.”
“Right away, sir.”
He went to retrieve the sewing kit under the bathroom sink, completely forgetting about Martha taking a shower until he was hit with a faceful of steam and her screaming from behind the curtain. He scrambled back and slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily.
Neither Thomas nor Martha mentioned it for the rest of the evening, though Alfred could see her face reddening underneath her makeup in the rearview mirror.
Eventually, Bruce broke the stifling silence by tapping on Alfred’s shoulder and saying quietly, “Drake Manor’s the other way.”
Alfred mentally cursed and swerved back around, trying his hardest to ignore the looks Thomas and Martha cast him.
Between that and an unexpected detour due to road construction, they made it at the tail end of fashionably late. Another couple of minutes and they would’ve been socially unacceptable late. As one of the event staff took their coats, another one directed Alfred to where the other butlers were picking up drinks and food to carry around the gala—he recognized the Cobblepot butler as one of them.
As an actor, Alfred trained in dance and knew how to keep himself balanced as he wove between glamorously dressed guests with a tray of champagne glasses in one hand. Still, he had a couple of close calls. One was with a chihuahua that had escaped from one woman’s purse, but she was kind about it and agreed to put the dog in another room. The other was an older man who filled his entire table with hundred-dollar Himalayan cigar smoke every time he opened his mouth—he wasn’t anywhere near as polite, and it was like driving through a London fog. Thomas and Martha were chatting up an executive from Queen Industries while Bruce busied himself with dipping every food in the chocolate fountain, from apple slices to crab legs. After the cocktail party debacle, Alfred subconsciously hovered where he could keep the boy in sight.
He set his empty tray down in exchange for a new one.
Just then, a two-year-old torpedoed into his legs. He tried to catch himself and the drinks, only to tumble to the ground in a mess of champagne and shattered class. The toddler began crying. Heads snapped toward him.
A young woman rushed forward. Alfred recognized her as the gala’s co-host and the matriarch of the mansion. She scooped the boy up, inspecting him for injuries.
“Jack!” she exclaimed. “Are you okay, darling? Did you get hurt?”
As she took the boy away, Alfred’s chest tightened at all the eyes fixed on him, the bumbling butler who landed flat on his bum, covered head to toe in champagne worth more than his job was paying him. His eyes stung and heat rushed to his face as he clumsily scrambled to his feet and rushed away. He wasn’t sure where. Just away. Like a coward.
He found a smaller washroom down the hallway, beyond the velvet rope with a No Entry sign, and locked the door behind him.
What was Father thinking? Anyone, anyone would’ve been better than Alfred.
As he wiped himself down, there was a tiny knock at the door.
“Occupied,” he said tersely.
Instead of an awkward apology, what he got instead was, “Alfred? Mother and Father said we’re going home.”
Splendid. And he’ll be all packed and out the door by morning, no doubt.
“I will be just a minute,” he replied.
Of course, he had expected Bruce to leave and wait by the car or something, so he was caught off guard when he opened the door and Bruce was standing there with big glossy fruit bat eyes.
“Wanna play Zorro when we get back?” Bruce asked. “That always makes me feel better.”
Alfred sighed sadly. “Thank you, Master Bruce, but I think it’s better if we all just turn in for the night.”
The drive was silent and as soon as they returned home, Thomas and Martha went into Thomas’s office, where their hushed voices were further dampened by the thick doors. Bruce prepared for bed with no fuss—Alfred needed only to check on him to make sure he didn’t wear his pyjamas backwards.
Thomas summoned him downstairs. On his way down, he retrieved the letter from his drawer, folded neatly and pinched tightly between his white-gloved fingers.
“We wanted to talk to you about something,” Thomas said.
Alfred straightened up. He supposed he should at least appear graceful about being a disappointment to his father’s legacy.
“We want to say we’re sorry.”
Alfred froze, stunned. “Come again?”
Thomas continued. “We were doing some thinking and realised that we’ve been rushing you into things too quickly after Jarvis.”
“We just wanted everything to go back to normal, especially for Bruce’s sake,” Martha said. “But that’s not possible, is it?” She chuckled nervously.
Alfred only gave a small nod.
“What we’re trying to say,” Thomas said, “is that we hope this week hasn’t put a damper on your view of the job or this family, and that we’d love to keep having you if you’ll have us.”
Alfred quietly concealed the letter in his sleeve. “May I have some time to think about it?”
“Of course,” Martha said. “Take all the time you need.”
Alfred returned to his room, where he slipped the letter underneath all the telegrams from his family. It could lie in wait, for now, until he made up his mind. But first, young Master Bruce was waiting for a bedtime story.