by Heide Goody
Pigeonwings
Heide Goody & Iain Grant
Pigeon Park Press
‘Pigeonwings’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2013
The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9571754-8-8
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9571754-9-5
Published by Pigeon Park Press
www.pigeonparkpress.com
[email protected]
Dedication
To the memory of Ade Hadley.
Ade came to the launch of Clovenhoof and told Heide that she should feel like a rock star. She thinks of him every time she demands M&Ms with all of the brown ones taken out.
There were five of them at the meeting in the chapter house, six if one counted Barry. Barry, a large sleek peacock with sharp eyes and an even sharper beak, sat in Abbot Ambrose’s lap. All present knew it was unwise to discount the abbot’s pet for although the bird tolerated the abbot’s attentions, it had bitten chunks out of any unfortunate brother who strayed too near.
Brother Sebastian, the procurator, a middle-aged man whose slick manner and easy-going confidence suggested that, in a previous life he might have been landed gentry or, at least, a dodgy second hand car salesman, looked up at the high windows and the ceaselessly drumming rain.
"I think it’s easing up a bit," he said.
From beneath his thick wig-like mop of grey hair, the abbot fixed Sebastian with a silencing glare. Barry gave him a beady stare for good measure as well.
"Are we here to assess the damage to the monastery or second guess the weather forecast?" said the abbot.
"Apologies, Father Abbot," said Sebastian with just the right balance of deference and sarcasm. "The storm brought down some tiles and stonework in the almonry. I must also say that the arches between the almonry and dormitory wing look quite unsafe now. Falling tiles also broke several panes of glass in the orangery."
"I hope your temporary repairs in the orangery are sufficient," said the abbot.
The novice monk taking the meeting minutes wrung a few more drops of water from the sleeve of his white habit and nodded damply.
"I used what plywood sheets we had, Father Abbot. I did the best job possible in that howling gale."
"The best job possible?" said the abbot sternly. "Novice Trevor, we are not interested in how difficult a job it was. You are not here to seek glory or praise but to record the decisions of this emergency meeting."
"Yes, Father Abbot," said the novice. "And it’s Novice Stephen."
"Who is?"
"I am. Stephen, not Trevor."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Father Abbot. I get it a lot. Apparently, I have one of those faces."
"One of what faces?"
"A lot of people call me Trevor," said Novice Stephen. "I must just look like one."
The abbot’s surly frown deepened.
"And what does a Trevor look like, Novice Stephen?"
"Like this, I suppose," said the novice and gestured to his own face.
"The point Novice Stephen was perhaps making," said Brother Sebastian, "is that we do not have the materials to hand to effect the proper repairs."
"This will not do," said the abbot. "We cannot allow the elements or sloppy workmanship to damage the integrity of the orangery."
"Father Abbot," said Sebastian smoothly, "surely there are more pressing matters. There is a hole in the almonry wall. Rain is pouring through the dormitory ceiling. We have twenty monks living on the island and some of them are getting soggy. The orangery is just a greenhouse which serves no-"
Abbot Ambrose slammed his fist on the oak table. Barry gave a hoot of alarm, his turquoise plumage standing on end.
"I do not care if the dormitory is under six feet of water! That orangery is home to unique plants of which we are custodians. And where will Brother Arthur spend his days of recuperation if the orangery is in disrepair?"
The assembled brothers looked at Brother Arthur. Arthur, the prior of St Cadfan’s, had been wheeled into the meeting in his ancient wicker bath-chair and had spent the entire meeting gazing dumbly at nothing in particular. It would have been surprising if the prior had said anything at all. When Brother Sebastian had first arrived at St Cadfan’s, the prior had been old, frail and clearly without either speech or wits. The situation had not improved since then. In fact, it had struck Sebastian more than once that the prior had taken on the characteristics of his bath-chair, becoming even more weathered, lined and creaky over time.
The idea that the prior was ‘recuperating’ was laughable.
"Tell the boatman to bring such wood and hardware supplies as you need when he next comes," said the abbot, forcibly smoothing down Barry’s ruffled feathers and calming the bird.
"Because of the weather, there has been no boat from the mainland for seven weeks," said Sebastian. "General supplies are low."
"Ah," said the abbot. "No doubt that is why we’ve had such an unusual menu recently."
Brother Manfred, the refectorian, whose German accent, playful manner and bouncing grey curls, always put Sebastian in mind of some Eighties Eurovision pop star, shrugged amiably.
"The thing is," he said, his light, sibilant accent shaving the edges off words, "I try to be inventive but there is only so much you can do with a cellar full of cabbages, carrots and rhubarb, no?"
"Is that why we’ve had nothing but sauerkraut and rhubarb crumble for the past week?"
"Sadly, that isn’t even sauerkraut. No, it is just very old coleslaw."
The abbot rumbled unhappily.
"I am not sure our collective guts can take much more of it."
"You must understand," said Brother Manfred, waving his pen to punctuate his speech, "a craftsman can only work with the materials to hand. I am many things. A cook, an embroiderer, a sometimes zither player and one-time unicyclist, but working miracles I cannot do, Father Abbot."
This last point was made with such force and passion that Manfred’s pen slipped from his hands and skittered across the table. It rolled against the abbot’s hand, leaving a tiny inky indent on his skin. Without a moment’s thought, Manfred reached across to retrieve it. Barry pecked instantly and savagely at the back of his hand.
"Ow, that really did hurt," said the refectorian, cradling his wounded hand.
The abbot was unsympathetic.
"Oh, don’t be such a sour…" He paused. "…puss. If we can put up with age old coleslaw, I think you can tolerate a little criticism. You know what happens to anyone who hurts me."
"It was an accident," said Manfred.
"Vengeance seven times over," said the abbot.
Brother Sebastian leaned in to speak.
"Whether the boat comes tomorrow or next month," he said, "I’m afraid we simply do not have the funds in our bank account to cover the kinds of repairs we are going to need to make."
"Surely, we have some money," said the abbot.
"Some, but not enough to pay for the kind of quality masonry and carpentry needed here. Unless you know of any other funds we can draw on, Father Abbot…?"
The abbot sat back and stroked his pet peacock thoughtfully. A tiny drop of blood glistened on the tip of Barry’s beak.
"I can check," said the abbot.
"Thank you, Father Abbot. Perhaps in the meantime, we need to do some serious thinking about how we can make ourselves some money."
"Fundraising schemes?"
"Commercial enterprises," said Sebastian
.
Abbot Ambrose nodded in slow agreement.
"Why not?" he said. "What harm can it do?"
Chapter 1 – In which Molly speaks from beyond the grave and Michael tries to put off the inevitable.
If there was one advantage to being the devil it was that you were expected to be bad. It was part of the territory, it was in his contract. It was stamped throughout his metaphysical DNA like the name of the grimmest, shittiest seaside town in the grimmest, shittiest stick of rock ever.
Actually, Jeremy Clovenhoof decided, stopping outside the door of flat 1a, if there was one advantage to being the devil, it was the horns. From opening beer bottles to ruining perfectly decent hats to using them to store doughnuts, bagels and naan breads when your hands were otherwise busy, horns were the business.
But, horns aside, the key perk of being His Satanic Majesty was the expectation – no, the demand - that one should behave badly. All moral questions vanished from life. To kick a kitten or not kick a kitten? To recycle old newspapers or not recycle? To give visiting Jehovah’s Witnesses the time of day or not? All these issues were resolved without the need for introspection. Clovenhoof could recycle the kitten, kick the Jehovah’s Witnesses and wallow in the gloomy disasters from last year’s papers without feeling a single pang of conscience. The fact that no one on Earth (well, almost no one) seemed to see him as anything other than a ruggedly handsome, if slightly over-the-hill, bloke did not alter the fact, it merely added relish to every essential misdemeanour he carried out.
And so, on seeing that the door to flat 1a was open, Clovenhoof did not hesitate but walked straight in, already wondering what he might steal or defile.
The new tenant, Michael, was out somewhere. Clovenhoof had seen him go that morning. However, there were signs of activity: the glisten of fresh white paint on the living room walls, the sight of carpenter’s tools in the kitchenette and the sound of mindless off-key whistling coming from the bathroom.
Clovenhoof went into the kitchen and investigated the contents of the new fridge freezer Michael had installed. He scoffed at the bottles of mineral water. Clearly, Michael hadn’t yet discovered what taps were for. He turned his nose up at the rows of fresh fruit and salad. However, he was drawn to the foil-covered pots of Ambrosia Custard and so took two, one to eat now and the other to misuse later.
He moved on to the bedroom, eating the custard with his fingers. He rifled messily through Michael’s suits in the built-in wardrobe and then poked around in the bedside cabinet, hoping to find something secretive and embarrassing that he could use to blackmail or humiliate Michael. There were none of the copies of Nuts magazine or the Catholic Herald that Clovenhoof had expected to find. However, there was a leather-bound notebook containing page after page of Michael’s flowing script.
"Day ten of my mission among the people of Earth," Clovenhoof read aloud and rolled his eyes. It was like the opener to a bad sci-fi movie. How like Michael to treat his exile from heaven as something other than the punishment it was.
Day ten of my mission among the people of Earth.
O Lord, I visited one of their super markets today. Its bright lights and well-ordered rows appeal to me. Moses may have led his people to a land flowing with milk and honey but this land flows with all manner of food and drink. The shelves are filled with a Babel of labels and logos.
Clovenhoof cleared his throat in irritation. Trust a bloody angel to take four sentences and two Biblical references to say, ‘bugger me, isn’t there a lot of choice at Tesco.’ He read on.
I have yet to establish what would be a suitable diet for a divine being such as myself. In the Celestial City, I had no need of any sustenance but your love. At the super market, I enquired after some heavenly manna but, sadly, they were out of stock. I bought such fruit and vegetables as I recognised and a quantity of a substance that purports to be ambrosia. It is yellow and viscous and flows in a manner quite obscene. Perhaps the food of the gods takes on these unseemly properties under Earth’s crude physical laws.
My Earthly body has yet to adapt fully to life on this material plane. Not only does my body crave food but also it produces the most unpleasant secretions. I perspire from my pits and must wash several times a day to remove the stink of it. The inside of my nostrils are smeared with a disgusting mucous that replenishes itself constantly. There is also the matter of the waste water that gushes several times a day from… that thing.
My thing bothers me greatly. It is the only significant change to my anatomy made during the transition. I look at it frequently. I’m sure there must be some mistake. It strikes me as quite wrong. I cannot imagine anything as wrinkled, misshapen and dangly belonging on a human body. O Lord, I cannot believe that you, in your infinite wisdom, would design mankind with such an odd appendage. I do not dare ask any of my neighbours to take a look and comment upon it in case this is construed as unusual behaviour.
Clovenhoof took the pen from Michael’s bedside drawer, drew a proud cock and balls in the margin of Michael’s diary and labelled it, ‘perfectly normal specimen.’
There has also been the problem of the disquieting rumblings from my gut. I had a fearful prescience that something truly foul and hellish wishes to escape my fundament. I fight it as I would fight the very devil (who lives in the flat above) and so far I have managed to quell and contain my riotous innards.
I distract myself from the inner turmoil and my anatomical worries by keeping myself busy. I have made myself quite at home and engaged several tradesmen to make my new residence more like my old home. As it is in Heaven, so shall it be on Earth.
I also intend to seek gainful employment. The stipend with which your invisible agents have provided me is quite generous but I feel that, if I am to live among these people, I must do my best to live like these people. I shall draw up a Curriculum Vitae and make myself available on the job market.
Ben Kitchen, the young man who lives in flat 2b, has, despite having few social graces and very poor taste in clothing, shown himself to be a friendly and generous sort and has promised to help me install my new Personal Computer once I have collected it from the shop. Ben is the closest thing I have to a friend in this world. I might perhaps show him my thing and ask him to comment on it.
Clovenhoof laughed out loud at this delicious thought, spraying Michael’s bed with flecks of custard. The atonal whistling in the bathroom stopped.
"Is that you, Mr Michaels?" called a voice.
Clovenhoof ignored it and read on.
I wish I could say I felt a comradely fellowship with the rector of St Michael’s Church. As shepherd of the local flock, Reverend Zack Purdey should be the one man I show my thing to but he is less the shepherd of my soul and more swineherd for every crone, sluggard, waif and stray in the parish. On my first mortal visit to the church that bears my name, I tried to feel your presence and receive your love, but all I felt was a draught and all I got was a cup of tea and a Bourbon biscuit at the ‘fellowship’ after the service.
I prayed so hard, O Lord. Did you hear me? Will you answer?
"Tosser," said Clovenhoof and threw the diary onto the bed.
"What?" said the young man in the doorway.
Clovenhoof frowned.
"Who are you?"
"I’m the plumber."
Clovenhoof looked at the man critically. He wasn’t what Clovenhoof regarded as a proper plumber. This young man’s jeans were secured with a belt above the bum-crack line, there wasn’t a cigarette poking out of the corner of his mouth or tucked behind his ear and, when he spoke to Clovenhoof, he didn’t address him as ‘guv’nor’.
"I thought it might have been Mr Michaels," said the plumber. "You’re a friend of his?"
"More of an arch-enemy," said Clovenhoof. "I live upstairs."
"I’ve just got an issue with the bathroom. I didn’t know if you knew…"
He waved Clovenhoof through to the bathroom. Gone was the former tenant’s bathroom suite, the avocado bath, basin and to
ilet. In their place was something far more severe and stylish: a narrow and steep-sided bath, a separate shower with a steel waterfall showerhead, a wash basin that seemed to be inspired by a brutalist Soviet monument and…
The plumber gestured at the exposed soil pipe where Mrs Astrakhan’s toilet had once stood.
"Mr Michaels just asked me to get rid of it," he said.
"Get rid of it?" said Clovenhoof. "And replace it with what?"
"He didn’t say," replied the plumber, scratching his forehead. "He said he didn’t need one."
"Oh?"
"What he actually said was that he didn’t need a foot spa. I’m not sure if he was confused. You wouldn’t happen to know what he wanted?"
Clovenhoof looked at the jutting soil pipe.
I have managed to quell and contain my riotous innards, the diary had said.
But for how long? wondered Clovenhoof.
"Well, matey-boy," he said, "you know what they say: the customer’s always right."
~ooOOOoo~
Nerys Thomas woke from dreams of heaven.
There had been no angels or harps or drifting clouds in a perfect blue sky. Instead, there was a city of white stone and dazzling architecture, sort of how Venice might look if they had a tidy up and did something about the smell and the pickpockets. Nonetheless, it had definitely been heaven.
And in this dream of heaven, Nerys had been with her Aunt Molly, not Molly as the old woman she had become but the athletic young woman she had once been. But it wasn’t just the pair of them in the dream. The woman vicar from St Michael’s, the one who had been knocked down and killed some months back, was there too along with – and this was particularly odd – a feisty teenager in full plate armour. And, capering in the background, was a figure who sometimes appeared as a horned, goat-footed devil and sometimes appeared as Jeremy Clovenhoof, the lecherous weirdo from downstairs.