Then I heard feet approaching. Or not exactly heard – not in the ordinary way. What I heard were vibrations travelling through the ground. I felt them with my bones.
I tried to lie still and be calm. It must be those people again, the ones who had been moving around near the chairs. They were coming to rescue me!
But now I was beginning to black out from lack of oxygen. My lungs felt thick and lumpish, and there was a pain in my chest. The earth seemed to be pressing down on me tighter and tighter all the time. I felt as if I was turning into a kind of earth myself. Like peat, like a subterranean seam of coal. I felt my heartbeat growing sluggish, the circulations of my body congealing to a halt. A strange transformation was creeping over me.
Then there were more vibrations. Bump-bump-bump! It must be those people jumping down into the trench…I could recognise the vibrations of their different voices, rising and falling as they shouted to one another. But what were they shouting about?
Everything was starting to seem very remote. Even the voices sounded a thousand miles away. Why didn’t they pull me out? What were they waiting for? Didn’t they realise how close to death I was?
I think I must have lapsed into unconsciousness just at the moment when they finally pulled me out.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Part Two
IN THE VICARAGE
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Ten
I stayed blanked-out for a very long time. I remember there was a fiery pain in my chest. I seemed to be crawling along some endless tunnel, desperately trying to leave something behind…
Then gradually the pain diminished. Occasionally I rose to a sort of half-consciousness. I became aware of lying between clean linen sheets, with a faint dry smell of lavender. I was wearing my own blue-and-white striped pyjamas. My head rested on soft pillows and there was a floral patterned bedspread in front of my eyes. Overhead was another pattern – a pattern of interlocking wire and springs, like the underside of a bed.
I didn’t understand any of it. I was just thankful to be alive, smelling smells and seeing colours. Vaguely I traced the pattern of the bedspread and the pattern of the wire, and soon sank back asleep again.
For a long long time I hovered between dream and reality. But finally I came fully awake. I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings.
I was lying in the lower berth of a double bunk. Close by was a massive square chest, with brass handles. On top of the chest stood a glass of water. It seemed to have been set there for me to drink. My bag was there too, and all my clothes laid out neatly across the lid of the chest. My coat had been hung up on a hook at the side of the bunk.
The room itself had an old-fashioned appearance, everything slightly faded and dim and dingy. The wallpaper was dark blue and buff, with a pattern of flying birds. There were black timber beams runing across a low sloping ceiling, and a single small window divided into six tiny panes. On one side of the room was a fireplace, with paper, wood and coal laid in the grate. It looked as though the fire hadn’t been lit for ages.
As for the furnishings, they were all made of wood. As well as the chest and bunk there was a child’s playpen and a desk. The desk was painted pale green. It had a bench-seat attached and a hole for an inkwell. The playpen was painted pink and ornamented with fancy carving. There was no child in it, only a heap of toys: crayons, alphabet building blocks, a stuffed felt animal, some picture books, a bucket and spade. But nothing plastic, not like modern toys.
I considered it all carefully, moving my eyes without moving my head. I was still very weak. The playpen and desk and wallpaper suggested a child’s room, an old-fashioned nursery. I was still considering it when the door creaked open. Four figures came in from the corridor outside.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Eleven
There were two men and two women. They came in on tiptoe, very cautiously. One long thin man followed by one tiny little woman, followed by one big tall woman followed by one short fat man. When they saw that my eyes were open they halted. The tiny little woman clapped her hands.
“Look at his eyes!”
“He’s awake!”
They turned to one another and whispered together for a moment. I could catch only a few phrases:
“Give him time…”
“…still new here…”
“…find out for himself…”
“No-one to rush…”
The whispering finished with nods all around. Then they turned and advanced once more towards me. They lined up side by side a few feet away from the bunk.
They were an odd collection. Let me try to describe them as I saw them at the time. The long thin man looked to be in his sixties. He wore a tweed jacket with leather elbowpatches. When he moved he was amazingly angular and bony, like a stick-insect. His face reminded me of a horse.
The tiny little woman was equally old, and very frail in appearance. Her white hair was done up in elaborately crimped curls. She had on a lilac-coloured two-piece suit, and matching lilac highheeled shoes. She seemed to be wearing a great deal of make-up.
The big tall woman was much younger. She was built like an Amazon, with whacking arms and thighs, and a particularly massive bust. She carried herself very upright, head high and shoulders back. She wore a low-cut dress of ballooning brown velvet, like an old-fashioned ballroom dress.
As for the short fat man, he was striking because of his bright red hair. It hung down in a fiery rim all around his smooth bald crown. He wore a quilted waistcoat and a silk cravat. The cravat looked slightly soiled and greasy – in fact everything about him looked slightly soiled and greasy.
The bony man bent forward to address me:
“Are you feeling better?”
I tried to speak. But my chest was still painful and my throat still dry and contracted. A funny croaking ‘Yes’ was all I could produce.
“He speaks!” the big tall woman proclaimed portentously. “Praise the Lord!” The bony man raised his hand for silence. He seemed to take the lead over the other three. “We must introduce ourselves,” he said.
He angled a forefinger towards his own cadaverous chest. “I am Mr Caulkiss!” he announced. His voice was loud and nasal, trumpeting out of his long bony nose.
Then he pointed towards the red-haired man. “Mr Quode!”
Mr Quode smoothed himself down with both hands and performed an unctuous bow. Then the little white-haired woman. “My wife, Craylene!”
She bobbed and ducked, and cocked her head this way and that like a tiny bird. “Craylene Caulkiss, pleased to meet you!” she chirruped.
Then the big tall woman. “Melestrina Quode!”
Melestrina Quode made a dramatic gesture of welcome. She opened her arms and flung forth her bosom – then froze. Like a human statue, she stood there motionless in a welcoming pose. “And you – ” The bony forefinger turned in my direction. I opened my mouth and tried to speak. But Mr Caulkiss spoke first. “You are Mr. Martin Smythe.”
“Sm-y-y-the,” echoed Mr Quode, savouring the sound on his tongue.
“We looked through your wallet!” twittered Craylene brightly. “We hope you don’t mind!” I smiled to show that I didn’t mind. Immediately they all smiled back. I almost shrank at the sight of the bony man’s teeth, hugely exposed and yellowy.
“Look at him smile!” cried Craylene, twinkling towards me.
“Isn’t he nice!” said Mr Quode. “Très gentil!”
They seemed enormously pleased. Mr Quode was almost hugging himself with delight. His underpants were showing out above the top of his trousers.
“We are honoured to make your acquaintance Mr Smythe,” said Mr Caulkiss. “Welcome to Morbing Vyle.”
The name of Morbing Vyle rang a bell in my head.
“Is this –?”
Melestrina Quode abandoned her welcoming pose and stepped forward with a sweep of the hand. “This is!” she cried. “Morbing Vyle!”
> “You came here through the forest,” said Mr Caulkiss. “You were lost in the rain.” I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Mr Quode rolled his eyes. “Don’t you remember how you fell into a trench? You were all buried in mud.”
“Then we heard your shout! We pulled you out!” cried Craylene. “We saved you!” Again I shook my head.
“Ah,” said Mr Quode. “He seems to have lost his memory.”
They came to the very edge of my bed, stooping their heads in under the upper bunk, all four of them bending down over me. I stared straight up into the twin caverns of Mr Caulkiss’s nostrils.
There were great black tufts of hair sprouting inside.
“We had come to bring the chairs in out of the rain,” he explained.
“You were so lucky!” cried Craylene. “We just happened to – ”
“No! No!” Mr Caulkiss raised his hand. “Do not speak of luck. It was meant to be!”
“Ah, Fate!” boomed Melestrina. Her voice was deafening in the enclosed space. “Ah, fateful Fate! Indeed!”
“And now we shall be able to look after you,” said Mr Quode, cutting in as Melestrina paused for breath. “Praise the Lord!”
“Praise the Lord!” repeated Craylene and Mr Caulkiss.
“Praise the Lord!” thundered Melestrina. “O praise the Lord!”
They stayed a while longer, but I don’t remember much else of what they said. Craylene, as I recall, kept patting the blankets down around me and endlessly straightening and unstraightening the sheets. Mr Quode wanted to be helpful too: he drew out a white porcelain chamber pot from under my bed, and started waving it about in front of me. I think he was trying to explain the proper way to use it.
As for Melestrina Quode and Mr Caulkiss, they turned away to the wall. With loud thumps on the floor they went down on their knees to pray. I could hear the ongoing rumble of their voices, Mr Caulkiss’s bass and Melestrina’s baritone, but I couldn’t distinguish the words. They sounded very fervent.
Finally Mr Caulkiss finished his prayer and stood up. He looked at me for a moment, pulling thoughtfully on his nose. Then he addressed the other three:
“I think Mr Smythe is tired now. We must leave him to rest. He needs to recover his strength.”
There was a strange noise from Mr Quode, a sort of strangulated snigger. Mr Caulkiss cleared his throat.
“Goodbye, Mr Smythe. Sleep well.”
The other three rose up and followed Mr Caulkiss towards the door. I managed a last smile in response to their goodbyes. Then they were gone.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Twelve
It was true what Mr Quode had said. I really did seem to have lost my memory. I lay for a while thinking about everything they had told me. About how I had come through a forest in the rain, how I had fallen into a trench and been rescued. I believed them, naturally. But I couldn’t remember any of it.
So this was what it was like to have amnesia! I racked my brains. I could recall coming to New Morbing and talking to the librarian, the town clerk, the checkout girl. I could recall as far as the signpost, with its charred stump of an arm bearing the last letters of the name of MORBING VYLE. That was all perfectly clear, as clear as if it had happened an hour ago. But after the signpost – nothing. It was as though the time between leaving New Morbing and waking up in the bunk had simply never existed. It was as though I had been under anaesthetic.
It was frightening in a way. But I told myself not to worry. No doubt the missing memories would come back in their own good time. Wasn’t that what usually happened in cases of amnesia? No use trying to force myself to remember…I relaxed and drifted off to sleep again.
When I awoke it was evening. I could hear voices talking outside in the corridor. The room was dark but there was a thin outline of light around the door.
Then the door swung open and the same four figures trooped in. Craylene and Melestrina were carrying candles. Melestrina held hers aloft like a picture of Florence Nightingale inspecting the sick. The flickering yellow flames cast long shadows around the nursery.
They came right up beside my bunk. Their faces looked odder than ever. Somehow the candlelight brought out their most prominent features. Mr Caulkiss was all nose and Melestrina all chin. And Mr Quode’s fat cheeks positively gleamed with oily reflection.
I felt much better than before. My voice was better too.
“Hullo,” I said. “What time it it?”
They gazed down at me with a sort of loving expression on their faces.
“It’s seven o’clock.”
“Time for dinner.”
“Look what we’ve brought you.”
Mr Quode held out what he was carrying: a small white bowl and a silver teaspoon. The bowl contained a pinky-coloured stuff, very soft and pulpy.
“What is it?” I asked.
But Mr Quode shook his head.
“He does not like to reveal his recipes,” explained Melestrina.
Mr Caulkiss bent down over me. He snuffed in a deep nostril-quivering breath. Then he hooked his long bony hands over my shoulders and lifted me up off my pillows. I swear I could hear his arms creak.
Then Craylene rearranged my pillows. She accompanied her movements with curious little tsk-tsk noises of tongue against teeth. When Mr Caulkiss released me once more, my head was propped up at a suitable angle for feeding.
Mr Quode dipped the spoon into the pinkish stuff and held it up to my lips.
“Voila!” he murmured. “Into the mouth and down the throat. It will slide down so easily you won’t even notice.”
I didn’t want to offend. I opened my mouth. It was exactly as he said: the stuff was so slippery and soft and tasteless, I could hardly even feel it go down.
I took another spoonful, and another, and another. Four faces watched me with approval. Then I decided I’d done my duty.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s enough.”
I had to shut my mouth immediately, because Mr Quode was still pressing the spoon towards my lips. He didn’t want to stop. He tipped the spoon until the stuff started trickling down my chin.
“That’s enough,” said Mr Caulkiss.
Reluctantly Mr Quode withdrew.
“It was very pleasant,” I said politely. “Very, er, smooth.”
Craylene Caulkiss pulled a tiny white handkerchief out of her sleeve. With little dabbing movements she mopped over my face and chin. The handkerchief smelt of perfume, overpoweringly sweet. When she had finished, Mr Caulkiss said:
“Now. You must have many questions to ask.”
“Yes.” I tried to think. I didn’t know where to begin.
“Very well,” said Mr Caulkiss. “First of all, of course, you want to know where you are?”
“In Morbing Vyle?”
“Yes. In the vicarage of Morbing Vyle.”
“I see.” I took a guess. “Are you the vicar here?”
“No, no!” Mr Caulkiss uttered a loud braying sound. “I’m the deacon.”
“And I’m the verger,” put in Mr Quode.
“I’m the deacon’s wife,” added Craylene.
“And I believe in the Lord!” cried Melestrina, irrelevantly. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and clasped her hands across her mighty bosom.
“I think I saw a photo of the vicarage in a book,” I said. “A red-brick vicarage all overgrown with ivy? Is that where I am?”
“Yes indeed.”
“And isn’t there a little church close by, with a tower and spire?”
“Not any more. That was the old church.”
“We’re building a new church.”
“It’s under construction. You came through it in the rain. Don’t you remember?”
I shook my head. My memory of that time was as blank as ever. I remembered only what I had learnt about Morbing Vyle in the University library.
“How about the thatched cottages?” I asked. “And the pub? Is th
e village still as pretty as it used to be?”
“There is no village.”
I didn’t understand.
“The village had to be pulled down,” explained Mr Caulkiss. “To make way for our new church. The stones and bricks from the old cottages now serve as our building materials.”
“So only the vicarage is still standing?”
“Only the vicarage. For us to live in.”
“But what about the villagers? What happened to them?”
“The village was deserted eighty years ago. We are the only inhabitants of Morbing Vyle.”
“Ah.” I was struggling to take it all in. Morbing Vyle sounded like a very strange place indeed. “You must lead a bit of an isolated life then?”
“Of course. Completely isolated!”
“We have turned our backs on the outside world.”
“Turned your backs? How do you mean?”
“We despise the false materialists!”
“We reject the secular society!”
“We want nothing to do with the timeservers and compromisers!”
“We are the true believers!”
They had become suddenly very fervent. Mr Caulkiss was bellowing, Craylene was flapping her arms, Mr Quode was going red in the face, and Melestrina was absolutely heaving with emotion.
“But you aren’t totally cut off?”
“Yes we are!”
“But you must – ”
“No we don’t!”
“We live on our own!”
“We never see anyone else at all!”
“Unless they come here to us!”
“As you have done, Mr Smythe!”
“O praise the Lord!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“PRAISE THE LORD!!!”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirteen
The Vicar of Morbing Vile Page 4