Jane Eyre vs. The Mighty Boosh

Vince Noiyre, a young governess, takes a position at Thornfield Hall under the watchful eye of Howard Moonchester. But what are those noises coming from the attic? Why does everyone think Vince is a girl? And how old is Naboo?

Category:

Characters: , , ,

Pairing:

Genre: , , , ,

Rating:

Warning:

Status:

Length: words

Chapter Three: In which Miss Noiyre loses technology that probably hasn’t been invented yet, Mr Moonchester turns out to be a flamer, and saliva is swapped.

Chapter Three: In which Miss Noiyre loses technology that probably hasn’t been invented yet, Mr Moonchester turns out to be a flamer, and saliva is swapped.

The schoolroom’s okay, nicer than some, not as nice as others. It’s got a blackboard, a globe of the world (which I think is out of date, America’s not still a colony, is it? This is what happens when you don’t read newspapers), and a little desk and chair for Naboo to sit in. There’s a proper sized desk in front of the blackboard for me to work at, and as soon as Bollo’s gone I start going through the drawers and having a general poke around for anything interesting.

Nothing. From the smell of the place it hasn’t been used in years. I open a window to let some fresh air in, and it creaks scarily. I put a bit of wood under it to hold it up.

I figure the best thing to do is to set Naboo a little test on pretty much everything – it won’t make me very popular, but at least that way I can prove to him that there are gaps in his knowledge, and we can do more fun stuff later. I go up to the library and grab a few basic books on maths, science, history, that sort of thing, as well as a couple I brought with me. Oh, and I bring down my gramophone too, be nice to have a bit of music while I work.

I set up my books in a big pile on the desk, wind up the gramophone, and put one of my favourite records on.

I’m a dandy highwayman who you’re too scared to mention… ’ echoes through the room as I work away. This guy Adam Ant’s bloody mental, one gig I saw him at he had this big white stripe across his nose, mad. But he sings a good tune, you’ve gotta give him that.

I’m sitting there scribbling, starting to think I should’ve asked for longer than an hour to write a test for all human knowledge, humming to the music, when the door to the schoolroom slams open violently.

For one moment I think maybe the window’s fallen shut, and look over there, but then Howard limps into the room, shaking with fury, his face all red. He stands next to the desk, and before I can get to my feet he’s yanked the record out of the gramophone with a horrible screeching scratching sound that makes me wince

“Oi!” I start to say, but he just chucks the record on the floor. It bounces, thank Christ, and skitters to a halt by the door, still open.

“What… the fuck… is that?” he says through clenched teeth, pointing an unsteady hand at the gramophone.

“It’s a gramophone, sir,” I say, and when he doesn’t reply I feel like I have to give a little more info for this poor guy living out in the sticks. “It’s a machine that plays music.”

At the word ‘music’ he physically flinches, looking up at me. I see he’s not shaking in anger. It’s fear.

“It’s perfectly safe,” I add hastily. He probably thinks it’s powered by the devil or something.

Safe?” he echoes, staring at me in horror. He looks back down at the gramophone, and slams the lid shut with one hand. “It’s banned.”

Banned? “I don’t understand, sir.”

He puts his long cuff over his hand, and picks up the Adam Ant record off the floor, putting it on top of the gramophone, trying not to touch either of them with bare skin. “Look, you’re new, Miss Noiyre. And I realise Miss Fairfax may not have gone through the rules with you yet. But… music… is outlawed here. No singing, no whistling, no instruments… and definitely no fucking ‘gra-ma-fons’.”

I open my mouth to ask why, then think better of it. Howard limps over to the corner of the room and pulls another one of those bell-ropes, and Bollo appears at the door. “Miss Fairfax, please take this machine upstairs and put it outside the door to the attic.”

“Now hang on…” I start, but Bollo’s already picking up my gramophone.

Howard looks at me, leaning on the desk for support. I’m guessing he just basically ran from the sitting room on his injured leg. “And Miss Noiyre, go upstairs and fetch any more…” he nods at the record, “plates you may have, anything that could make… noise. You’ll give it to Miss Fairfax, and she’ll ensure it’s locked away properly.”

I’ve got a whole trunk of records, a tin whistle a mate brought back for me from Ireland, and a hell of a lot of combs and paper, but I’m buggered if I’ll give them up. I think about arguing, but Howard really does look awful, like just the idea of music in Thornfield is sucking the life out of him, so I decide to shut up for now. At least they’re only going to be locked up, not burned or anything. I follow Bollo meekly out of the room, leaving a shaking Howard to cling to the desk, his head on his chest.


I’m woken in the night by the music of Adam Ant drifting down through the ceiling, and I think, Bastard. What the hell does he think he’s playing at? Okay, no music in the house, fine. Well, not fine, really – I’m a musical creature, you might as well ask me not to piss or breathe or get horny, but I can stand it for a bit, I suppose, just until I can find somewhere better to work, and worse comes to worst I can always go right out into the fields and scream a couple of songs into the wind. But to make up that whole bullshit story just so he could play my records to himself up in the attic, that’s fucking not on.

I’m in my red silk pyjamas – present from an ex-boyfriend, as most of my bed-related items are – and I throw on a dressing gown and light a candle. I’m gonna go up there and give him a fucking piece of my mind.

I open the door to my room, a little disorientated in the gloomy corridor. My sputtering candle doesn’t give out much light – the sooner they invent electricity the better, if you ask me. Howard’s room is just opposite mine, I found that out earlier when he went to have a little lie down and rest his ankle. I’m just about to head up the corridor to the stairs to the attic, when I hear a little muffled noise coming from his room. His door’s ajar, there’s light flickering inside.

Now, if Howard’s in the attic, who’s in his room? Bollo? Naboo? I get this horrible tightness in my chest suddenly, thinking about what a twelve-year-old boy might be doing in Howard’s bedroom. I mean, you don’t hear about it, but it happens. And it’s happened to kids under my care a couple of times. Each time I did what I could to sort it, but… look, I don’t wanna bring the whole narrative down, but let me just say that I know why he might be in there. And I have to go look.

I push open the door to Howard’s room, wary of what I might find.

Howard’s there, in bed, alone. There’s no one else in the room, thank fuck. He’s straining and scrabbling away under the sheets, covered in sweat, eyes shut. It looks like he’s having a nightmare, a really painful one.

Oh, and his bed’s on fire.

I can’t believe he hasn’t woken up, but he’s under about fifteen thousand blankets and eiderdowns and coverlets, and the flames are gently lapping around the foot of the bed. I grab the water jug from off his bedside table and throw it onto the fire – saying a little prayer inside my head that he’s not like my ex-employer old Mr McGregor, whose water jug was actually filled with ‘Nig’.

There’s this loud hissing noise, and most of the flames go out. I pat out the others with part of the blanket, my hands burning a little.

Howard screams, and sits bolt upright, his eyes wide. I spin round, putting my candle down on the table and grab him by the shoulders, scared out of my wits. “Howard? Howard, are you okay?”

He blinks a couple of times, and then suddenly catches sight of me. He smiles really slowly, the expression creeping over his face like the water soaking into the bedclothes, but never reaching his eyes. Maybe he’s still asleep.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “And who might you be, pretty lady?”

Maybe he can’t tell in the dim light. “It’s me, sir. Vince Noiyre. I heard a noise, you were on fire. Are you alright?”

His eyes are dark and unreadable. “Mmmm. You’re a sexy little thing, aren’t you, Vince?”

My mouth goes dry. “I think I better fetch Bollo…” I manage to stammer. I turn to go, but his hand suddenly snakes out and grabs my wrist, holding me where I am.

“No need, sweetness. We got all we need right here.”

The room’s warm and smoky from the fire, and my hands are still tingling, and I feel dizzy. It’s dark, and hot, and close, and Howard is very, recognisably, there. His eyes are roaming all over me in a way he didn’t look at me today, and he’s wearing these black pyjamas that just remind me of him on his horse, all masculine and commanding.

So when he tugs on my wrist, pulling our faces right close together, I don’t struggle, because maybe part of me believes I’m dreaming, or he is, or that at any rate it’s been a while since I got laid, and there’s a whole bunch of reasons for why when he kisses me firm and brutal on the lips, I kiss him back.

There’s tongue, and teeth, and all that moodiness and glaring is right there in him kissing me, hard enough to leave bruises, tongue slipping inside to taste. I don’t… I mean, I bottom a lot, yeah, but I’m not submissive. Except right now, apparently, where he leads and I just follow, hanging on. He’s got his hands on my back, and he suddenly pulls me in from where I’ve been standing by the bed so now I’m on the bed, sprawled across his legs, him bent over and still kissing me, hard.

The door creaks, and he breaks away suddenly, looking up. I’m still too breathless to move, so I don’t see who it is, but he blinks a couple of times, letting me go, and says, “Miss Fairfax?”

I look up, and Bollo’s standing there in a frilly nightdress, holding a candle and looking about as shocked as it’s possible for a gorilla to look.

Howard looks down at me, lying across his knees on top of the covers, and his eyes go wide. “Miss Noiyre?!” he says, like this is the first time he’s seen me. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and get up, quick, pulling my dressing gown closed.

“There was… um. There was a fire. I put it out.” Bollo and Howard just look at me, and I point to the charred remains of Howard’s top blanket, lying in a heap at the foot of his bed. No one asks how putting a fire out ended with me and Howard snogging each other’s faces off.

“Right. Good. Excellent work, Miss Noiyre,” Howard says eventually, smacking his lips like he tastes something odd in his mouth. He looks up at me, and maybe he remembers or maybe he works it out, but his lips tighten like he’s done something awful, and I think, not again, for fuck’s sake.

There’s just silence.

“Um, I’m gonna…” I point over my shoulder, and edge out of the room, past Bollo, who doesn’t say anything, and back to my own room. I close the door in darkness, realising I’ve left my candle behind, but I don’t want to go get it.

I get back into bed silently, no longer hearing the music coming through the ceiling, and think for a bit. I’m guessing Howard was still asleep, sleep-snogging somehow. It happens, maybe. I just hope… I need this job, if only to get references for a better one. If he throws me out, I don’t know where I’ll go. Is there anywhere more isolated than Thornfield?

I fall asleep with the taste of blood in my mouth, and I don’t dream.