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‘Yes, there is. Don’t you know the size of your own bathroom? There’s plenty of room, believe me.’
‘I am not disputing that. However, I still cannot come in.’
I frowned. He was so stubborn sometimes. ‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he explained to me, his voice painfully calm, ‘persons of different sexes do not shower together. Society generally frowns on that kind of thing.’
My frown deepened as I tried to concentrate. If I tried very hard, I vaguely seemed to remember something of the sort.
‘But Napoleon is in here with me, too,’ I pointed out, waving at the Emperor, who was leaning against the opposite wall, playing chess with one of members of the piggy dance troupe.
‘Err, well… he’s a Frenchman. That’s different.’
Before I had a chance to argue, I heard hurried footsteps receding on the other side of the door. Strange. Why had he run away?
Pouting, I removed my towels and stepped under the shower. It would have been a novel experience taking a shower with somebody else. For some reason I couldn’t recall at the moment, I had never done it before. Thoughtfully, I eyed Napoleon on the other side of the room, but he didn’t seem interested. He was much too engrossed in his game of chess. The yellow piggy appeared to be winning, and the Emperor’s face was set in grim lines of concentration.
Ah well, it would be a new experience anyway. To be honest, I had never stood under a shower before. They were a pretty new and fancy invention - expensive, too, by all I had heard. Much more expensive than the traditional bathtub. Mr Ambrose probably only had installed one because he had calculated that in thirty-seven years or so, the water he had saved would justify the additional investment.
Money is power is pumpernickel, right?
Oh well, t
here couldn’t be that much difference between a hot bath and a hot shower. Shrugging, I grasped the tap and turned it.
A banshee-like scream echoed through the halls of Empire House. Outside the door, I could hear the sound of running footsteps, and then Mr Ambrose’s voice, calling: ‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton, has something happened?’
‘Yes!’ I yelled back. ‘Yes! A bucket full of ice water, that is what has happened! Where the dickens does the water in your pipes come from? Antarctica?’
I heard something from the other side that sounded very much like a wall being punched with energy. Or maybe the floor. I hoped it was the floor. He deserved it more.
‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Where the heck do you get your water from?’
‘A rainwater tank on the roof,’ came the cool reply. ‘Why?’
‘You use rainwater?’
‘Yes. You don’t honestly expect me to pay for water when I can get it for free, do you?’
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ I asked, as sweetly as I could.
‘Yes?’
‘Is the water in this tank per chance heated in any way?’
‘No, of course not. Why would I waste money on that?’
I proceeded to explain to him exactly why. My explanation might have contained an expletive or two, or maybe a dozen, most directed at him, his ancestry to the tenth generation, and most especially his architect. When I was finished, his cool voice came from outside:
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Do not make any unnecessary noises again. I am trying to work.’
And with that, he was gone.
Quivering with cold, I stood under the shower, cursing the icy water running over my skin, and cursing Mr Ambrose. If he were in here with me, damn him, I was sure I would not be half as cold. He could be surprisingly warm considering how icy he was all the time.
