Jackpot Jack: A London Farce. Tatiana Bazhan

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      Tatiana Bazhan

      Jackpot Jack: A London Farce

      Chapter 1: Jocular Judgement

      

      Jack, a fellow whose brain worked slower than a treacle tart cooling on a winter's day, had a habit of inserting his foot so far into his mouth, surgeons considered him a walking medical marvel. He was a plum pudding of prejudice, steeped in the stale brandy of outdated notions. One fateful afternoon, a misplaced invitation led him, like a moth to a particularly garish lampshade, to the home of the Honeywells.

      The Honeywells were, shall we say, peculiar. Not in a “collecting stamps made of toenails” peculiar, but in a “defying every expectation you’ve ever had” peculiar. Mrs. Honeywell, a woman whose smile could melt glaciers and whose bank account could buy a small country, greeted him with a handshake that could crush walnuts. And the daughters! Three of them, each sharper than a new pin and more determined than a badger defending its sett. First, there was Beatrice, a legal eagle whose courtroom victories were the stuff of legend. Then there was Penelope, a coder who could probably rewrite the internet using only carrier pigeons and a tea cosy. And finally, young Cecily, who at the tender age of ten was already a chess champion and budding astrophysicist.

      “Come in, come in, Mr … Jack, was it?” boomed Mrs. Honeywell, leading him into a drawing room that looked like a cross between a library and a botanical garden. Jack, never one to observe before leaping, launched straight in.

      “Charming place! But, you know,” he said, patting Mrs. Honeywell on the arm with a familiarity that made Beatrice’s eyebrow arch like a cat's back, “It must be … well, inevitable, isn't it? With all these daughters. The future, I mean. All that … domesticity.”

      Mrs. Honeywell raised an eyebrow. “Domesticity, Mr. Jack? Are you suggesting that my daughters are doomed to a life of baking and needlepoint?”

      “Well, aren't they?” Jack countered, oblivious to the gathering storm clouds on Beatrice's face. “I mean, girls will be girls, won't they? After all, it’s inevitable, isn’t it, that they'll marry and keep the home fires bur-, well, never mind.”

      Penelope, who had been quietly observing from the corner, finally spoke. “I'm sorry, but it's not inevitable to be a housewife. I prefer to live on the sofa, doing what I want. I don't mind if I have my own house or if I live with my future husband.”

      Beatrice stepped forward, her voice as sharp as her legal arguments. “Mr. Jack, it is, sadly, inevitable that you will shortly be departing. My mother, as you may or may not be aware, practically funds this country, and I, as her daughter, am a lawyer of exceptional repute. I trust you understand the gravity of the situation?”

      Jack, who up until this point had been thicker than pea soup, finally caught a flicker of comprehension. “Oh,” he stammered, “Oh dear. I seem to have … misspoken.”

      “Indeed, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. Honeywell said, her smile as sweet as poison. “You seem to have confused the Honeywells with a flock of docile sheep. Now, unless you wish to be devoured by this family, I suggest you make a hasty retreat.”

      And so Jack, like a coward running from a ghost, fled into the night, leaving the Honeywells to their formidable, and utterly un-domesticated, lives. He learned, or at least, should have learned, that the surest way to make a fool of oneself is to underestimate the ladies.

      Chapter 2: Jack's Brunette Revelation

      Jack, poor sap, was a frightful mess. He looked like a badly packed portmanteau, all wrinkles and bulging seams of shame. He'd made a right hash of things with the Honeywells. A family of formidable women, each one sharper than a tack, each one more successful than the last, and he'd dared to suggest that a woman's place was in the home, minding the sprogs. The Honeywells, naturally, had treated him like a particularly irritating bluebottle. He'd fled, tail between his legs, conviction in tatters. Now, slumped in Mike's frankly rather uncomfortable armchair, he looked like a man who'd lost a bet with a particularly tenacious badger.

      “Mike,” he sighed, his voice a mournful foghorn, “I've made a blunder of epic proportions! Utterly, completely, irrevocably …”

      “Messed up, have we, Jack?” Mike offered, ever the master of understatement.

      “Messed up? My dear fellow, I've single-handedly set back the cause of male superiority by at least a century! The Honeywells…they're a force of nature, Mike, a whole blooming Amazonian rainforest of intellect! They’re all … brunettes.”

      Jack fixed Mike with a look of profound, yet utterly misplaced, understanding. “That's it, you see! The brunettes! They’re the clever ones. Always have been. The Honeywells, they run businesses, write books, probably build rockets in their spare time! It's obvious! Brunettes are for doing, for achieving, for conquering the world. Blondes, now they're different kettle of fish. Blondes are home bodies. Domestic goddesses,” he declared, with the air of a man unveiling the secrets of the universe. “Blondes are for baking cakes and producing little cherubs.”

      Mike, who knew his wife Anna was a platinum blonde, shifted uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to point out the glaring flaws in Jack’s logic, to maybe suggest his friend was painting with a brush broader than the Thames, but before he could utter a word the door swung open with a flourish.

      “Darling, I'm home!” a voice chirped. Anna, Mike’s wife, and a vision in sunshine-yellow, breezed into the room. She glowed with a self-satisfied smile. “You wouldn’t believe it! I’ve won!”

      “Won what, love?” Mike asked, already dreading what was coming.

      Anna beamed, holding up a rather gaudy trophy. “The Annual Village Erudition Competition! I knew all the answers! Beat old Professor Smith hollow! Honestly, Jack, you should have seen his face!”

      Chapter 3: The Weeping Tycoon

      Jack was in a state. Not a state like Buckingham Palace, mind you, but a right pickle. “Blast these brunettes!” he'd muttered, a phrase he repeated like a parrot with a grudge. “And bother those blondes!” He'd just witnessed Anna, that clever clogs, win the Annual Village Erudition Competition. Victory was hers, and Jack's brain felt like a scrambled egg, all thanks to the baffling brilliance of the female intellect. He bolted out of the living room faster than a startled rabbit, desperate for a bit of masculine solace.

      “Men,” he declared, his voice a low mumble, “are simple. Men are straightforward.” In his mind's eye, men were like granite, unyielding and dependable. They weren't weepy willows, not them! No sir, a man would rather wrestle a badger than shed a tear. Steeled by this vision, Jack plonked himself down on a park bench, seeking refuge from the intellectual storm raging in his addled head. The sun was doing its best to peek through the clouds, painting little islands of light on the damp grass. Here and there, puddles lingered like forgotten tears of the recent rain.

      Suddenly, a figure of impressive authority settled onto the bench beside him. This was a man who screamed success; his pinstripe suit practically bellowed “I mean business!” Even the lapels of his jacket seemed to stand to attention, radiating competence and a no-nonsense attitude. This was a man, Jack thought, who knew his way around a balance sheet and wouldn't flinch if you offered him a handful of nettles.

      And that's when it happened. As clear as day, a single, shimmering tear rolled down the tycoon's cheek. It was a magnificent tear, a testament to the absurdity of life. The source of this emotional outburst? A toddler, no bigger than a loaf of bread, gleefully splashing in the aforementioned puddles. The little tyke was having the time of his life, sending muddy spray in every direction.

      Jack, quite flummoxed, dared to speak. “Erm, excuse me, are you alright?”

      The tycoon dabbed at his eye with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. “Perfectly fine,” he sniffed, his voice a low rumble. “Just…allergies, you know. Terrible allergies. Dust, pollen, err … toddlers.” He winked, but it came out looking more like a twitch.

      Jack,