Mrs Darcy vs The Aliens

The man looked Wickham up and down and gave a disdainful sniff.

“Sir, I seek work,” said Wickham. “I am a rough cottager unjustly evicted from Lord Whitrow’s estate. I am skilled at coppicing, sedge-frotting and wither-mangling. I – ”

“Show me yer ’ands,” said the estate manager.

“I beg your – I mean, you what, mate ?” said Wickham, recovering quickly.

“I said, show me yer ’ands.”

Wickham shrugged and then presented his hands for inspection, palms upwards. The man grasped them and pulled Wickham towards him. As he did so, Wickham caught a strong smell of rotting turnips. The estate manager closed his eyes and rubbed Wickham’s hands between his own forefingers and thumbs. Finally, he scowled.

“These are a woman’s ’ands!” he said, letting go with some force.

“Sir, they are most certainly not!” said Wickham. “These hands have worked as hard and as long as any man’s hands in this great country of ours. They have worked in the fields from dawn to dusk throughout many a harvest and bitter winter. These are the hands of an honest English labourer.”

“Bollocks,” said the estate manager. “’ands of a sodding ballet dancer, more like. Smooth as a bleeding baby’s bottom, they are. Show me where the calluses are, then, matey! Show me where the thorns of the haggleberry bush have pierced yer flesh! Show me the bruises from fencing whiplash!”

“Sir, I maintain that these hands – these ’ands – of mine are – despite appearances to the contrary – the hands of a man of the soil. And when I tell you why, you will be sorry you ever questioned my honesty, sir. For I – ” Wickham paused for dramatic effect “ – worked for ten long years on Lord Whitrow’s aloe vera crop.”

There was a long silence, during which the estate manager looked hard into Wickham’s eyes. Then he softened, and a look almost of pity came over him.

“Aloe vera, you say?”

Wickham nodded, lowering his head. The estate manager put his hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t yer say, old feller? ’Tis notorious round these parts what the aloe vera can do to an honest man’s ’ands.”

“I know. They used to be coarse and gritty, my hands did. Young women would flinch when I touched them – ”

“Aye. As young women should – ”

“ – and then I started working for Lord Whitrow. I said I didn’t want to work on the aloe vera, ’cos I’d heard all the stories – ”

“ – I know – ” said the estate manager.

“ – but I was – I were – only a young lad then, and I couldn’t say no. I stuck it out for ten years, and in that time my poor hands became so soft that a cat would let me stroke it!”

“No! A cat?”

“It’s true. And women used to say that they liked me to … to … hold their hand.”

“Holding hands is no way for a rough cottager to carry on.”

“I know. I know.” Wickham waited for a moment and then looked up at the estate manager again. “Sir, will you give me a chance to turn my life around? Will you let me use my wretched smooth hands for gorse-gathering? Will you allow me to pummel stones for her ladyship’s rockery? Will you let me develop some proper … calluses?”

The estate manager looked back at him and Wickham detected the faintest ghost of a smile. Then he patted Wickham on the back. “’Course we will, mate,” he said. “’Course we will.”