The Black Joke

by David Bramhall

  Chapter 22

  A very present help in trouble (Psalm 46)

  Pert had thought of the gold coin Teague had given him. If he could sell it or change it into ordinary money, he'd be able to buy the balloons, but he didn't know how to go about it. He decided to ask Mr.Surplice.

  “Oh no,” said the curate, turning it over in his fingers. “No, I don't think you should do anything with this, not right now. If you took it to the bank or to a solicitor and asked them to change it, there'd be questions. What is it, where did you get it and so on? The alternative would be to find a jeweller or goldsmith to buy it from you, and I can't think that there is such a person in the town. And if there were, the same would apply – awkward questions!”

  “And if it got out, people might guess it was pirate money and they'd be even more certain that I was in league with them,” said Pert despondently.

  “What do you need the money for?”

  “Balloons.”

  “Oh, I say, balloons? Are we having a party?”

  “No. It's ... look, it's difficult to explain. I just need balloons, that's all. It's really important.” Pert had not yet told Septimus about what he had heard in the vestry, and what he had found underneath it. He meant to, and he meant to tell him about Rosella too, but it was going to be a long story and he wanted to pick his time to tell it. And there was always the risk that the curate would be all grown-up about it, and advise him to stop what he was doing. And he had no intention of stopping at all.

  “Well,” said Septimus. “I'll tell you what. I have a few coppers put by. Why don't I buy the balloons? Only if there is a party, I trust you will invite me to it!”

  “I promise,” said Pert. “When there's a party, you'll be the first to know!”

  He took the curate's coppers gratefully and ran down to Mrs.Toogood. Sure enough, she had two packets of balloons tucked away.

  “They're only one packet of blue and one of yellow, though,” she said. “I sold all the red ones.”

  He assured her that blue and yellow were his favourites of all colours, and ran back in time to walk down to the school with Fenestra and Billy. At the school gates they came upon a little crocodile of Prettyfeet, all holding hands. Leading them was a girl in grey, plain clothes. From the back she looked a little familiar, and when they came level it was the shop girl he had spoken to at the Emporium.

  “Hallo,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

  “I'm not supposed to talk to anyone,” she said nervously. Seen in daylight, she was less pale than he thought, and had a pleasant, rather plump face. This time she had tied her hair back so her face wasn't hidden.

  “Who says?”

  “Her. Mistress Grubb.”

  “Oh. That is a problem, because I really want to talk to you.”

  The girl looked up and down the street in panic. Her little charges had vanished into the playground with Fenestra and Billy.

  “I don't ... oh, all right, I'll take a chance. Look, walk behind me, just casual like, as though we're not together but just walking the same way.”

  “We are, aren't we?” Pert said, falling in behind her.

  “Yes, but you never know who might be watching,” she said over her shoulder.

  In fact they said nothing until they turned up the Bearward, and then she evidently felt a little safer.

  “You're the boy who came into the shop Christmas morning, aren't you? And you're Rosella's friend?”

  “Yes. Do you know anything about Rosella? What are you doing with her sisters? Do you know where her boots are?”

  She laughed over her shoulder at him. She had a nice laugh. “That's a lot of questions,” she said. “Mistress Grubb sent me up to look after the little girls, because their mother keeps locking herself in the dining room and there's no one to look after them now Rosella's at the Emporium. And I'm supposed to tell Mistress Grubb what's going on, but I ain't.”

  “Aren't you scared of her?”

  “Of course I am. Everyone's scared of her, an' I ain't no different. Only there's nothing much to tell. The little girls are no trouble, really, and Mrs.P's locked in the dining room an' cries a lot, and Mr.P justs sits in 'is study and doesn't do much. 'E looks at me a bit funny, mind. I put a chair under me doorknob last night, in case 'e decided to come in, but 'e never.”

  “What about Rosella?”

  “Ah, she's causing a stink, an' then some! Screaming an' shoutin' an' bashin' about, an' smashin' a chair over Grubb's 'ead, it were really somethin', that were! I wish I were brave like that!”

  “But she's been locked up for it, hasn't she?”

  “Yes. Silly of 'er really. If she jus' did what she were told, an' got on with it like the rest of us, it wouldn't be so bad. Servin' in the shop's all right, you don't get hit when there are people lookin'. An' if you keeps yer nose clean, you just get the odd kick when she feels like it, and a reg'lar whippin' once a week, which she says as keeps you “pliant”, whatever that is.”

  “Whipping? Does she use a real whip?”

  “Yes. One o' them little ones they use on 'orses,” she said. “It 'urts, that does, especially when she does it on yer bare skin. I could show you some bruises, I could. 'Cept I'm not goin' to,” she added.

  “So you're better off here, then?”

  “Coo, yes, I should think! Long as Mr.P keeps 'is 'ands to 'imself, I'm well suited!”

  “What about the boots?”

  “Don't know. I'll look around, see what I can find out. I got to go in now. Mr.P might be watchin', an' I got to start lunch. It's rolled pork, an' that takes ages.”

  Pert stopped and let her get ahead. She paused at the Prettyfoot gate, and looked back.

  “What's yer name again?” she whispered.

  “Pert. What's yours?”

  “Floris.”

  “Isn't that a boy's name?”

  “No, it's mine. It might have been a boy's name once, but I got it now. See you!” and she ran up the garden path.

  Pert went in and knocked at Mr.Surplice's door. “Septimus?” he said, “can I come in? I've got stuff to tell you!”

  The curate opened the door, and ushered Pert inside.

  “Your mother's told me about Rosella,” Septimus said. “How awful! That poor, poor girl!”

  “Yes, it is awful. But we're feeding her through a grating. That's what the balloons were for. And I've got a plan for getting her out, but it's not finished yet. I've got to think about it a lot, and talk to Billy about it. We'll be needing him.”

  “Yes, a very useful young man, that. Smelly, but useful. What else did you have to tell me?”

  Pert launched into his account of the expedition to the vestry and what he had found beneath it. Septimus was awe-struck by the spoon.

  “This is beautiful!” he said. “It looks very old, and I'm almost sure it's gold. It's not tarnished, you see, and that's why people first started to value gold so highly – its beauty never dims. This could easily be part of a hoard.”

  “So it's a sort of proof that the hoard was in the room under the vestry, then?”

  “Well, not proof exactly, but it seems to point that way, yes.”

  “And after I found it, I found something else - there's a tunnel! It goes under the nave, and out at the north west corner, and under the churchyard and across the Canonry I should think. I couldn't go far because my candle ran out.”

  “Oh my goodness! This just gets more and more extraordinary!”

  “It does, doesn't it? So I need to go back with some more candles, and explore it properly. If the treasure was down there, maybe someone took it out down the tunnel. Or perhaps it's still down there somewhere.”

  “Well, I'm not sure that's a good idea ...”

  “You're not going to go all grown up on me, are you?”

  “Suppose the tunnel caves in? Suppose there are hidden traps, or pitfalls, or wild animals? Bears live in caves. Or bats. Or snakes. Or ... anything could happen. You might get lost. It's dang
erous!”

  “Oh, pooh! There have never been any bears round here. Bats are tiny, and the only snakes are adders and grass snakes. Grass snakes are harmless, and adders are really little. And the other things ... well, I think you've been reading too many stories. I suppose Fenestra hasn't taken to writing about a princess who lives in a cave, has she?”

  Septimus laughed. “No, but I expect she will when she hears about this!”

  “And there's more. When I was in the vestry, Tench and Grubb turned up!”

  The curate paled. “They caught you?”

  “No, I had time to clear up and hide in the cupboard. And I could hear them talking, and it was awful! She as good as admitted that we were right about the money – she and Prettyfoot and Tench have been robbing everyone blind for years. And she said that if Tench gave her the account books to destroy, he could have Rosella. They didn't say what for, but it didn't sound good.”

  “Oh my goodness, this is too much! That there should be so much wickedness in this town, and the church in the thick of it! I really should leave here, go to St.Portius and talk to the bishop.”

  “No, no, no, that's the last thing! Look, I have a plan. Well, half a plan, anyway. I can't rescue Rosella from Grubb's, because it's too difficult and there are two pirates guarding it. But I probably could get her out of a house, like the vicarage. I haven't worked out the details, yet, but it has to be possible. But I need you to think of something for me ...”

  “Anything, dear boy.”

  “Can you work out how I can get the account books back again so Tench can find them and give them to Grubb, but do it in such a way that we can still prove what's been going on if we need to?”

  “Give them to Grubb ...?”

  “That's the price she wants for Rosella, don't you see? If she gets them, she hands Rosella over to him, and that gives us a chance to rescue her!”

  “Oh my goodness. It all sounds very dangerous to me. The Vicar ... he's a terrible man ...”

  “Not all that terrible. Grubb hoisted him up the wall and practically throttled him. He was so frightened he almost wet himself. He's not as scary as all that!”

  “Oh. Well, in that case ... I'll see what I can ...”

  They were interrupted by a commotion downstairs. They ran down to find a wide-eyed Floris in the doorway.

  “Please, let me in!” she said. “Quick! 'E went out, so I come over, but I don't know where 'e's gone or 'ow long 'e'll be!”

  “Yes, come in, quick!” said Pert. “Mother, this is Floris. She's looking after the little Prettyfeet, and she was never here.”

  “Wasn't she?” said Mother, looking confused. “Oh, I see! No, I never saw her!”

  “And Floris, this is Mr.Surplice, the curate. Only we call him Septimus.”

  Septimus stood at the foot of the stairs, with a strange look on his face, as though he had just been struck by lightning, or a pain in the stomach.

  “Oh,” breathed Floris, “ain't 'e sweet!” Then she recovered her composure and curtsied. “I got the boots, Master Pert! I found 'em in the boot room, where else? An' ...” she fiddled with something under her skirt, revealing a length of plump but shapely calf, “'ere they are!” With a thud, Rosella's boots fell on the floor.

  “I tied a string to 'em, and slung it round me waist under me skirts!” she said proudly. “They did 'alf swing about, though. Me ankles are black an' blue now!”

  “Won't you get found out?”

  “No, I foun' some ol' gardener's boots in the shed, an' swapped 'em over. Boots is boots, to most people. They won't notice unless they looks close.”

  She stared once more at Septimus, a look of longing on her face. “I got to go! Quick, I got to go!” She vanished out of the door, and the gate swung behind her with a bang.

  “Well!” said Mother. “What a surprising young lady!”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Septimus quietly.

  In the afternoon Pert walked down to meet Billy and Fenestra. He and Billy had to plan the evening's expedition to take food for Rosella, and he rather hoped to be able to speak to Floris again and see if he could learn a little more about life at the Emporium. It might be useful.

  At the gate his sister was already waiting, with Billy grinning in attendance. Floris was there too, and she glanced round nervously before sidling up to him.

  “'Ere,” she whispered, “that Mr.Surplice, 'e's lovely! ... 'e ain't ... er ... spoken for, is 'e? There ain't no Mrs.Curate?”

  “Er, no ... feel free!”

  Floris looked relieved, and moved away as the Prettyfeet came out of the playground. Pert found Fenestra looking at him with an expression of glee.

  “Crumbs!” she breathed, “was she saying what I think she was saying? Crumbs!”

  She took his arm, and they began to walk up the hill, Billy on the other side. “Of course, that does mean he'll have to stop lusting after me,” she said quietly. “I'll just have to make do with Billy. But Billy,” she turned and said sternly, “there'll be no lusting until you've had a proper bath! I mean it!”

  “Oo-er,” said Billy, grinning.

  Septimus was waiting for them when they got in. “I think we may be able to get the accounts books back,” he said furtively. “Can you go and get them?”

  Safely ensconced in his room, with Billy and Fenestra perched on the bed, Septimus took the books and flicked through them.

  “If I take these and hide them under some other rubbish in the cassock cupboard, with a bit of luck Tench will find them and think they were there all the time,” he said. “I can't believe he ever took much notice of them before, so we should get away with it.”

  “And how do we manage about keeping some of the evidence?”

  “Well, we ought to keep one book to show how the accounts used to be kept, before Prettyfoot came on the scene. Tench and Mistress Grubb won't be certain when the accounts started, so if we hang on to the very earliest book they won't be any the wiser.”

  He searched through the books and set aside the oldest one, from 1879. “Now, as to the later ones, we daren't keep any of them back. But I thought we might just remove a page or two. This one, for instance ...” He pulled out the very last book. “If we carefully cut out one or two pages here, perhaps they'll think they just fell out.”

  “They probably won't even look, they'll just put them on the fire,” said Pert. “But I've got a better idea. Let's pull the book to bits, as though it just got battered about in the cupboard and fell apart, and then a few pages missing won't seem odd at all.”

  And this is what they did. They broke the back of the binding by bending it back and forwards, and then craftily sawed through some of the binding threads with a blunt knife so there would be no neat cut edge. The pages came loose in pairs, so it was easy to remove a couple of sheets. Then they stuffed the whole thing back together again, and it looked exactly like a notebook that had seen some rough use.

  “Perfect!” said the curate. “Now, you take the evidence, Pert, and keep it safe and hidden, and I'll smuggle the rest into the vestry and hide it in the cupboard.” Suddenly he looked very serious. “But Pert,” he said, “you do realise what you're doing, don't you? You do realise that by giving these back you could be putting Rosella in even greater danger than she is now?”

  “Golly, how can she be in any greater danger than she is now?” puzzled Fenestra. “She's shut up in a cellar with nothing to eat and drink with two pirates outside the door!”

  “Oh, I think there could be even worse things,” said Septimus. “That man Tench ...”

  “Don't let's think about it,” pleaded Pert. “If I let myself think about it I get all paralysed and can't plan properly! And that's what I have to do now, I have to make a plan that really will work, to get her out of the vicarage pretty much the moment she arrives.”

  “And once you've done that, what then? Where are you going to hide her? Grubb won't just give up, you know.”

  “I've thought of that. I'm going
to hide her under the vestry. We can put food and drink and bedding and candles down there, and she should be safe enough for a couple of days. But you'll have to help, Septimus, because every time we go in there we have to shift the table and the carpet.”

  "What are you talking about?" demanded Fenestra. "What's under the vestry? You never told me that?"

  "I found a room there, a sort of cave. I thought Rosella could hide there."

  "Gosh, hiding in a cave! How romantic!"

  “Yes, but cold and lonely, I think,” said Septimus. “Not all that much better than where she is now.”

  “Better than Tench,” said Pert. “But what we need to know is where that tunnel goes. I mean, we might be able to get in and out from the other end and never have to go through the vestry at all.”

  “Indeed, that would be very convenient,” agreed the curate. “I have the little people for their catechism tomorrow afternoon. I'm not looking forward to it, I must say. Having Rosella there made it a lot easier. You and I could go early, I could let you down into the trap door and cover up after you, and then let you out when the class is over.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” said Fenestra. “And I've got an idea, too. I'll come and take Rosella's place. I probably won't be as good as Rosella because of the boots, but I'm sure I could be quite scary if I put my mind to it.”

  “Oh! What a kind ... oh yes, that would be splendid!”

  “But you're not to do any lusting!” she said sternly. “I'm off limits. There's only one person you can lust after now, and that's Floris!”

  Septimus blushed deeply and look flustered. “Oh my goodness ... I never ... she is a most ... well, she seems very, er ...”

  Fenestra rolled her eyes. “Oh crumbs!” she said. “Do I have to spell it out? Look, you'd better not let her get away, because this might be your only chance. You're not exactly God's gift, you know. I suppose curates are allowed to get married?

  “To be sure ... er, yes, certainly ... but I never thought ...”

  “Just get on with it,” she said, and led Pert out of the room.

  Outside he cornered her at the foot of the attic stairs. “Look, Fenestra, do you actually know what you're talking about here?”

  “Of course I do. It's a woman thing, you wouldn't understand.”

  “You're not a woman, though, you're a little girl. And do you really know what lusting is?”

  She looked down. “Erm, well ... look, this is strictly between ourselves, right? I'm not quite sure of all the details. They do say things like 'Let's give three lusty cheers,' don't they, so it must be something jolly. But it's just such a lovely word, and when I use it people get all flustered, so perhaps it means something else as well. I expect I'll find out when I'm a bit more grown up!”

  Pert let her go. “All right, then. And perhaps when you do find out, you'll tell me!”

  She smiled, and patted his cheek. “I will. But I expect Rosella will tell you first!”

  The evening expedition to feed Rosella went smoothly, at least to begin with. Pert and Billy delivered a dozen slices of bread and butter and some thin pieces of cheese through the grating, and eight or nine balloons, though one split as they pushed it through. They caught a glimpse of Rosella's white fingers as she reached up and gathered them together.

  “Are you all right?” Pert whispered, and thought he heard a quiet “Yes!” before Billy grabbed his shoulder hard. There were footsteps at the head of the alley.

  “Quick, run!” breathed Billy, and they took to their heels. There was a shout behind them, and the sound of heavy feet. At the bottom of the alley Pert risked a glance back, and thought it was only one man, a big man who was lumbering and gasping for breath.

  “Billy, wait up!” he called. “He's never going to catch us!”

  Billy came back. He looked up the alley and grinned. “You're right, guv,” he said, “that's only ol' Fisty, 'e couldn't catch a cold, 'e couldn't. But we better keep an eye out in case the rest of 'em's

  around.”

  They turned right at the foot of the alley and walked quickly down a steep, narrow street towards the sea. Ahead of them in the distance there was noise, people calling out, and shouting.

  “There's somethin' goin' on!” said Billy, and they ran down towards the sound. As they got nearer to the harbour they could hear more clearly. There were many running feet, and more shouting, and over the housetops they could see a red glow in the sky. Something was burning.

  Billy led them right and then left into another alley, down some steps and then out into a broader street. At the end of the street was the quay. People ran past, hurrying along the quay, and then someone turned into the street and ran up towards them. He was running hard, and panting, his elbows pumping with the effort. Round the corner came three more men, chasing him, shouting and cat-calling. Pert and Billy shrank into a doorway and watched, wide-eyed.

  Half way up the street the man disappeared into a patch of shadow and did not come out. Perhaps he too had slipped into a doorway to hide, but his pursuers were not to be fooled. They ran into the shadows behind him, there was a scuffle and a cry, and then they appeared again, walking back down the hill and breathing hard. As they passed Pert's doorway he recognised Squance, the pirate.

  When the coast was clear the boys ran cautiously towards the hunted man. He lay in a doorway, propped up against the door, his hands loose at his sides and his chin on his chest. He did not move, even when Pert, his hands shaking, gave him a shove on the shoulder. There was a dark patch on the doorstep which grew as they watched.

  “I think he's dead,” Pert whispered, his mouth dry.

  “D'you know 'im?” asked Billy.

  “I think I've seen him around. He's just one of the fisher boys.”

  “It's started then. Knew it would.”

  They walked nervously to the bottom of the street and looked along the quay. All was quiet now, with no one in sight. At the far end, near Better Times's mooring spot, a shed was blazing, and while they watched one wall fell inwards with a crash and a cloud of sparks rose into the air and drifted inland over the rooftops.

  Pert looked towards the sea, where Black Joke was moored. There was no movement, but he could make out three or four figures on deck, watching the shore, and the great gun amidships had been trained round and now pointed at the town.

  “We better get 'ome,” said Billy. “Your mum'll want ter know you're safe, and I'd better see if mine is all right, an' all.”

  Pert left Billy at Primrose's door, and insisted that he could get home safely by himself. The town seemed unnaturally quiet now, the streets deserted. He walked slowly and quietly, keeping in the shadows and darting across patches of moonlight. The stalls in the Market Place were boarded up and silent. He crossed to the foot of the Bearward, and paused, looking across at the Emporium. Rosella, poor Rosella, what must she be thinking? Buried in that miserable cellar with nothing but a few slices of bread and sips of water, not knowing what was to happen to her. He felt tears welling up, and swallowed angrily.

  Just as he moved off again towards home, he glanced up at the top floor of the Emporium. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could make out a bulky figure in one window, standing back in the shadows, motionless. He shuddered, and ran for home.

  Urethra Grubb stood looking out over the roofs of the town. Slates gleamed in the moonlight, and the streets below were in deep shadow. The shouting and running had died down and stopped a good hour ago, but still she stood, watching.

  There was that Potts boy, nasty sneaking little worm that he was. What was he doing out so late, sneaking around? She would have to deal with him soon, before he became a nuisance. But first there was the matter of the accounts to clear up. If Tench couldn't find them, she'd make him pay. She wondered whether it might be best to do something permanent, or just ruin him and get rid of him. He was a wreck, just the remains of something that had once been able to function as a human being but was now a mass of malice and per
version. He wouldn't be useful in future. No, perhaps it should be permanent. On the other hand, if he came up with the goods and found the accounts, all well and good. He should have his little pretty to play with, just for a while. Not for long, though. Just long enough to break the little harridan's will, reduce her and make her pliant. Then Mistress Grubb had other plans for her.

  She looked out again, smiling grimly. So it had started, the fighting and the violence. She had known it would, had even planned it. She wasn't certain just how it was going to work out, but of one thing she was sure – there would be a way to turn it to her own profit. There always was.

  Primrose Moon had been right. Urethra Grubb did know everything that went on in this town. She made it her job to know, and if nothing was going on, she often took steps to make sure something did, putting temptation in this man's way, or cajoling another man's wife into some petty betrayal, for people's wickedness and selfishness and weakness were what gave her power.

  But for all the secrets Urethra Grubb kept, there was one she cherished above all. It was the one dark secret that only great men know, the one law that rules every other law, the one tenet that masters every religion, the one proposition that guides and controls every manifesto.

  She knew it, and she lived by it, and she spread it and propagated it like the plague-carrier who moves calmly from place to place leaving death and suffering behind. She knew it so strongly that it burned within her and threatened to consume her. She knew it so deeply that she was driven to share it, like the missionary who knows a contagious western disease is justified by the conversion of innocent savages before they die, like the mussulman with his curved sword who knows cut throats and disemboweled children are Allah’s will, like the zealot who knows that a thousand emaciated bodies in a shallow grave will cleanse and liberate the land that covers them.

  She knew that nothing matters. Whatever little lust or whim you have, whatever sleight of hand, whatever greed or envy, whatever urge to cruelty or perversion, there is no reason why you should not indulge it.

  What is to stop you? Punishment? That doesn’t matter - when it is over, you can do the same again. Only next time you will be more clever, more thorough, more ruthless so that you will not be caught and punished again. The disapproval of your fellows? What does it matter what they think? Next time you will do it to them, each and every one of them, and teach them not to judge you. Death? What does that matter? It has to come at sometime, and until it does you may as well do whatever you want. Suffering? What matters this, so long as it is someone else’s suffering and not your own?

  Nothing matters, and so you are free. You are free to steal and lie, to violate and burn, to cheat and swindle, to do whatever you want to do. Urethra Grubb knew herself to be truly free, and like a true apostle she wanted everyone else to be free as well. Of course they would also be free to be kind, to be considerate, to help those less fortunate than themselves, to make others happy. But where would be the fun in that? Those who wish to make others happy do so for one reason and one reason only - to gain approval, to make people like them.

  Urethra Grubb knew that was a snare and a delusion. “Oderint dum metuant” was her motto - “let them hate, so long as they also fear”. There was nothing to gain from being liked.