(~7 minutes to read)
(Note to the uninitiated—“Cholmondeley” is pronounced “Chumley”. Honest!)
“Pass the maple-rye,” said Tyrone Cholmondley-Wellichuk, the family patriarch. His love of rye whiskey infused with maple syrup was legendary in the circles in which he moved.
And move in circles is what he frequently did, since one leg was shorter than the other as well as being somewhat paralyzed—the result of a duck-hunting accident in the 1960s.
Cousin Algernon passed the decanter of whiskey.
“Hell, let’s all have some!” said Randall Wellichuk-Farquart, the oldest at the gathering, but being only stepfather to Tyrone, not the patriarch. “We can toast this great country with its most famous product!”
“What, Justin Bieber?” asked Luquass Cholmondeley-Wellichuk, the youngest of the gathered clan.
“Damned stupid whippersnapper!” returned Randall. “Although Bieber’s wet enough behind the ears you could drink from ‘em. No, I mean maple syrup.”
“Isn’t this mostly rye though, with just a smidgen of maple syrup?” asked Drew, a forty-something poo-disturber, and Tyrone’s son and heir.
“It’s nine parts rye, one part syrup,” interjected Guillaume, the family’s faithful old butler.
“Still got some maple syrup in it!” argued Randall, obstinately.
“Does it matter?” asked Algernon in an attempt to defuse the developing argument. “Let’s all fill our glasses and drink to the greatest country in the world.”
There were mutterings in favour of and against this, but the fact that alcohol was involved won the day, and in two shakes of a beaver’s tail, the glasses were full.
“Here’s to Canada—happy birthday!” said Tyrone.
A unison response of “Happy Birthday Canada!” and one shake of a beaver’s tail later, the glasses were empty again.
“Who remembers Canada’s centennial back in 1967?” asked Randall. “What about you, Guillaume?”
“I remember it with fondness sir,” replied Guillaume as he glided from guest to guest re-charging their glasses. “I was butler to Mr. Tyrone’s father at the time, and he was adamant that the family should celebrate in as authentic a Canadian way as possible.”
“Ah yes,” said Tyrone, the mists of reminiscence (or was it the rye?) blurring the present scene. “Sockeye in seal blubber followed by pemmican followed by elk followed by maple ice cream.”
“The gentlemen also indulged in Newfoundland Screech, and the ladies were served homemade applejack, I seem to recall,” continued Guillaume.
“That was the first time I touched alcohol,” confessed Tyrone. “I was twelve at the time.”
Guillaume’s left eyebrow elevated itself almost imperceptibly, a trick he’d learned from watching films and TV shows of Wooster and Jeeves. “I think sir may also recall his visit to his father’s liquor cabinet in 1965? On that occasion, your drinking partner was your father’s parrot, Fletcher. The adventure came to light when Fletcher was discovered in a supine position on the floor of his cage, singing sea shanties.”
“With a Canadian accent,” he added.
“Absolute heathen,” opined Cousin Algernon, whose penchant for the upper-crust English elocution of the 1920s was a source of irritation to the rest of the family. “Sea shanties should be sung with a Devonshire or Cornwall accent. Whoever heard of a Canadian sea shanty singer?”
“Whoever heard of a fifth generation Canadian speaking like Noel Coward?” exclaimed Cousin Sheldon. “If anyone should speak like that, it should be Guillaume, yet he sounds as Canadian as they come.”
“You’re just jealous of my cultivated persona, dear boy,” said Algernon dismissively.
“I’m just fed up with your pretentiousness,” retorted Sheldon. “The notion of sea-farers all speaking in that pseudo-Devonian-Cornish accent is pure Hollywood. Do you think that sailors from Liverpool or Newcastle had to learn that accent before they were allowed to climb the rigging in a howling gale to reef in the sails?”
“No—but pop singers around the world sing in a pseudo-American accent even though they don’t speak that way. Why couldn’t sailors fake the accent for sea shanties?” said Algernon, thinking incredibly quickly for someone of his inbreeding.
“Because sailors aren’t pretentious asses like you or shallow copycats like the singers you speak of,” replied Sheldon.
“That’s enough!” yelled Tyrone. “This is a family gathering, and it’s for a special occasion for Canada. Bury the hatchet, will you, just for one day!”
Young Luquass had been watching and listening, and was feeling left out.
“I’m feeling left out,” said Young Luquass.
“Okay,” said Drew, wanting in on the conversation also. “Do you think Cousin Algernon is a pretentious ass, or is Cousin Sheldon an intolerant poo disturber?”
“Both,” said Young Luquass without a nanosecond’s hesitation. “Algie acts like he’s got a copy of Debrett’s stashed in his backside, and Sheldon’s always looking for a fight. Who cares if it’s Hollywood’s fault that we think pirates spell every word in the English language with seven ‘r’s? What does it matter if Algie thinks he’s a cut above the rest of us with his hoity-toity accent? And do you remember on New Year’s Eve when Sheldon told Algie that his Cuban cigars had never even seen a Cuban leg let alone been rolled along one? He’s always spoiling things by having to be so right all the time!”
“Well, Young Luquass,” said Drew. “I suppose I did ask. Now—before I have Guillaume take you out to the stables to be horsewhipped, is there anything you want to say about any other members of the family? Your family?”
“Why not?” replied Young Luquass. I may as get it all said now and only get whipped once.
“Great uncle Tyrone. I can’t decide if you’re a patriot, a jingoist, or a xenophobe. I’m sure you’ve got “Made in Canada” tattooed on your backside.”
“How did he know?” said Tyrone to no one in particular.
“Mr. Farquart.“
Casey Farquart was Randall’s half-brother, and therefore not a blood relative of the Chalmondley-Wellichuks.
“You’re not a real member of this family. You’re only here because Grandpa Randall married into the family. You’re boring. You have very little to say, and when you do say something, you dig a hole for yourself that requires a search and rescue team to get you out of.”
“It’s best I don’t respond to that then!” spluttered Casey, his anger betrayed by his nervous habit of repeatedly pushing his dentures half out of his mouth.
“Uncle Drew. You’re my favourite uncle, but only because there’s so little competition. Oh, and also because I’m hoping you won’t have any children and will make me the beneficiary in your will and heir to your fortune.
“Although now I’ve said that, I’ve probably ruined my chances of that.”
Drew drew himself up to his full height, drew breath, and spoke.
“Young Luquass. You’ve spoken your mind, and you did so in a mature and erudite fashion. I would never have known about my father’s posterior tattoo if it wasn’t for you, and I’m going to have to Google ‘Debrett’s’ to find out what it is. That all took courage, and that’s a noble Canadian trait. I’d be proud to name you heir to my fortune, but I don’t have one yet—I have to wait for Grandpa Tyrone to take his dirt nap first.
“Oh. And there’s one other impediment to you being named my heir, and telling you provides me with the opportunity to announce something to the whole family.”
He paused for effect.
“And Casey.
“In January, I secretly married my childhood sweetheart, Guillaume’s granddaughter, Marie-Claire. “
Guillaume beamed a smile from ear to ear, despite his years of training and decades of experience.
“Why? Because the child she was expecting is mine.”
“Did you say ‘was’?” said Tyrone.
“Yes, father, ‘was’. You may have wondered where I was this morning. Well, I was in the servants’ quarters supporting her as she gave birth.
“I have a son. Nemo Guillaume. Born on Canada Day.”
“Congratulations!” said everyone except Young Luquass in their various ways.
“Shit!” said Young Luquass in his own particular way. “No inherited fortune for me then,” he continued.
“Never mind, Young Luquass,” said Guillaume. “Have some maple taffy.”
Guillaume turned to Tyrone. “Shall I break out the Screech and Applejack in order that every one may ‘wet the baby’s head’, so to speak, sir?”
“I think so, Guillaume,” replied Tyrone. “After all, how else should we celebrate the birth of my grandson and your great-grandson on the hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of Canada’s birth?”
“Certainly not with Molson Canadian, sir!” said Guillaume.
“I’ll drink to that!” said Tyrone.