I tried to fend off the attack with my arm. The hen clamped her beak over the cuff of my dressing-gown. There was a loud rip and a strip of material came away in her teeth. Neck arched and chest puffed, she turned to display the trophy to the troops.
“CARK!!” she cried. “CARK!! CARK!! CARK!!!”
It was like a signal. Now all the other animals started up with their own noises – baaing and mooing and grunting and quacking. And as they opened their mouths, I could see that every single one of them was equipped with those same ferocious metal dentures.
I didn’t dare take my eyes off them. Step by step I backpedalled down one of the paths. Step by step they followed me.
“BAAAAAAA – AAAAA!!”
“OINK! OINK! OINK!!”
“BLEHHHHHHHHHH!!”
“QUACKERQUACKERQUACKERQUACK!!”
The noise swelled to an ear-splitting din. The pigs drooled, the sheep slavered, the ducks were gnashing their teeth. There was a hot red bloodlust in every eye.
Faster and faster I retreated. Faster and faster they came after me. The goats and cows moved forward at the sides to hem me in. I realised that they were forcing me back against the wall of the vicarage. I was trapped.
But then a voice called out behind me.
“This way, Mr Smythe!”
Still backpedalling frantically, I glanced round over my shoulder. It was Mr Quode. The noise must have roused him. He had opened his kitchen window and was leaning out watching me.
I was never so glad to see him as then. I spun on my heel and ran. Behind me the animals charged. Hooves pounded, wings beat, teeth reached out…Desperately I dived for the open window.
“Do come in, Mr Smythe!” cried Mr Quode, with a Quode-ish smile and a beckoning gesture. He stood to one side and lifted the muslin curtain up high out of the way.
I barely made it. Even as I flung myself over the sill, there was a stabbing pain in my left buttock. Agony! I could feel the teethmarks like so many separate needles. But I hurtled across the sill to safety. I slid from the sill, rolled over a kind of counter, and tumbled down onto the floor.
Outside, the animals were raving and bellowing in a frenzy of frustration. Mr Quode stuck his head out of the window and addressed them in a soft soothing voice.
“Margus! Phelia! Carodin! Calm down now! Quieten yourselves!”
I lay where I had fallen, temporarily exhausted. I had arrived in Mr Quode’s kitchen. I surveyed the kitchen from my position on the floor. It was a very cluttered room, with tables, shelves, cupboards and glass-fronted cabinets. All around lay bowls and pots and dishes, mostly unwashed and greasy-looking. Ladles and graters and basting-irons too – every conceivable item of old-fashioned cooking equipment, hanging from hooks or stacked up on shelves. And inside the cabinets, rows and rows of preservative jars, each with its own handwritten label.
Then I heard the slam of Mr Quode shutting the window. A moment later, and he was lying on the floor beside me. He wore an apron over his usual clothes – an apron that must once have been white but was now bedaubed with all sorts of smears and messes. His face gleamed with pleasure just inches away from my own.
“Ah, Mr Smythe! What a narrow escape for you!”
He spoke in a whisper. Involuntarily I whispered back. With his face so close it was impossible to talk in an ordinary voice.
“Panker set those animals onto me!”
He smiled. I had never before realized just how juicy his lips were, like the halves of a split red cherry.
“Why do they all have teeth?” I asked.
“Because Mr Caulkiss fits them with dentures.”
“But what do they need teeth for?”
“To make them wild. To encourage their mettle and vital energies.” He licked his tongue over his lips. “It makes their meat more tasty. L’essence de vie! Gourmandise de la chasse! Tame animals never have the full intensity of flavour.”
“But they’re dangerous! One of them really bit me!”
“Bit you where?”
“On the behind.”
“Can I see?”
“No!” I clamped my hand protectively over the bitten part. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh but it does! Was it a big bite? Does it hurt?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
But Mr Quode was already wriggling around on the floor, inspecting me. And inspecting, in particular, my bare pyjama-less legs. I cursed myself for ever mentioning the bite. Of course I had to give him some excuse for why I was wearing no pyjama pants. But I couldn’t think of anything. “Ah dear!” he murmured. “What blatancy! What flaunting of flesh! What leggishness!” He seemed completely fascinated. I felt more and more embarassed. Finally I said: “I took my pyjama pants off because I was hot.”
He loosened the cravat from around his neck, and used one end of it to wipe his forehead. He stared and wiped, and wiped and stared.
“I mean, my legs were hot. Sitting by the fire. And then I sort of – er – forgot to get dressed again…afterwards.”
He turned his face towards me. His eyes were very soft and moist and slithery.
“No need to explain,” he whispered. “I quite understand.”
“You do?”
“I always knew it would happen. When you got over your illness and recovered your strength. Only – ” he lowered his voice to an even more intimate whisper “ – I didn’t know that it would be your legs.”
“You didn’t know – ?” I was completely out of my depth.
“No! But I should have guessed! It’s perfectly obvious. Such large legs you have! So firm and muscular! And very hairy! They were bound to be the first to feel it!”
“Feel what?”
“The urge to transgression!”
“The urge to transgression? I don’t know about that. They were just hot.”
“Of course they were! And they wanted to be out in the open! To have the cool air wafting around them! And look at them now!”
I looked. I was relieved that the dressing-gown was still well pulled down over my thighs.
“What about them?”
“Touching the floor! The sensation of cool kitchen tiles! Even cooler than the air! What extremity of feeling! Oh, I can’t resist! I’m going to try it too!”
He rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, exposing his legs to the knee. His legs were very pale and naked and blubbery-looking. He flopped out flat on his back with his calves touching against the tiles.
“Ooooh! Yes! Ooooooh!”
In a moment he was quivering and thrilling all over. His eyelashes fluttered as though he was about to faint.
“Stop it, that’s enough,” I said sharply.
“Oh, more than enough!” He sat up and wiped his brow. “Too much! Much too much! But I know what’ll be even colder!”
Before I could stop him he was up on his knees and shuffling away across the kitchen. “Don’t move!” he called out over his shoulder. “Stay where you are!”
I watched him reach up onto the tables and into the cupboards and shelves. When he came back he was carrying a whole collection of bowls and implements. He settled down beside me again, and spread the things out on the floor.
“Now! Where shall we begin? What about this? Let’s start with the coldness of metal!”
He picked up a meat-cleaver with a broad blade of shining steel. He pressed the flat of the blade against the skin of his leg.
“Ahhh!” he gasped. “Mmmmmmm!” he moaned. “Oh, unspeakable! Unutterable!”
He looked as if he was about to faint again. But suddenly he rolled over, lifted the cleaver from his own bare leg, and pressed it against mine instead.
“Yow! That’s freezing!”
“Yes, yes! Feel it! Feel it!”
“No! Take it off!”
But he kept on pressing. He was horribly excited. I was half afraid that he would turn the edge of the blade against me. I reached forward and pushed back his arm, moving the cleaver safely away. He yielded w
ithout resistance.
“Didn’t you like that?” he asked, oozingly. “Was it too hard? Wait! Here’s something soft!”
He dipped his hand into one of the bowls he had brought and fished out something soft and pale. It was spongey and cellular and dripping with liquid.
“Let’s try this! It’s been standing in ice! You can have first go!”
The thing wobbled disgustingly in the hollow of his hand. I realized that he was about to press it against the skin of my leg. I jumped back and scrambled to my feet. I had had as much as I could take.
“Oh, don’t go!” He gave a little cry of disappointment. “Are you offended? Do you think it’s sinful? But you don’t believe in sin!”
He wriggled around like a slug on the floor. Even as he spoke his arm was moving, as if of its own volition, carrying the thing in his hand towards his leg. When it made contact, his eyes took on a sudden inward look.
“Ooh la la!” he murmured to himself. “The little tinglings! Le frisson nouveau!”
“Goodbye,” I said. “I’m going back to the parlour now.”
There was no reply. I stepped right over him on the floor. He was wriggling and writhing in voluptuous bliss. In no time at all I was out of the kitchen and back in front of the parlour fire again.
And that was where I stayed for the rest of the day. I didn’t feel like making any further explorations. I sat in my chair with one of Mr Caulkiss’s manuscripts spread out on my lap, pretending to be absorbed in what I was reading. When Mr Quode looked in on me a little later, he went away again without a word.
I was thankful to have escaped from his bizarre attentions, at any rate. But I wondered what would happen when he and Panker reported to the others. I still felt aggrieved over being attacked by the animals. But I decided not to complain. It wasn’t in my interest to get on the wrong side of the inhabitants.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Twenty-Six
They didn’t come into the parlour until after dinner. Before dinner I could hear them talking and arguing in the kitchen. It was after seven o’clock when they all trooped in. They looked very solemn. Melestrina nursed my bundled-up pyjama pants against her bosom.
“I see you’ve brought my pyjama pants!” I said brightly. “Is that Panker still inside them?”
“It is,” said Mr Caulkiss.
“I left them behind, you know. When I went for a little walk today.”
“We know. You talked to Mr Scrab.”
“Ah yes, Mr Scrab. I hope he’s all right?”
“All right?”
“He seemed to be coming down with some disease.”
“Mr Scrab is always coming down with some disease.”
“Really? But then why does he lie out there in the open? Is he imprisoned there?”
“No. He can leave whenever he wants. He likes to lie out there. It is his inclination.”
“But it must be terribly damp and chilly. And he’s so old! He was telling me – ”
“What?”
“How old he was.”
“Anything else?”
“And how he saw the vicar of Morbing Vyle.”
“What about the vicar of Morbing Vyle?”
“Nothing. That was when the disease came over him.”
Mr Caulkiss revealed his teeth in a monumental display of yellow ivory.
“You shouldn’t talk to him, Mr Smythe.”
“No?”
“No.”
There was a long silence. Mr Caulkiss made a gesture to Melestrina. She stepped forward bearing the blue-and-white bundle of Panker-filled pyjama pants.
Then she started to squeeze. With both hands she worked away at the bulge in the pants.
Panker was being extruded like toothpaste from a toothpaste tube. Soon a tiny whir of toes and fingers appeared at the bottom of one pyjama leg.
She gave a final squeeze. Panker popped out like a bullet from a gun. He flew halfway across the room before he landed. Then he began whizzing around on the floor. There was a pink blur of baby and a series of high-pitched squeaks. Finally he disappeared behind the black curtaining drapes by the window.
Melestrina held the now-emptied pyjama pants out towards me as though making a grand ceremonial presentation.
“Thanks,” I murmured awkwardly. I took the pants and put them on. I slid them up under Mr Quode’s dressing-gown and fastened the cord around my waist.
Then suddenly Mr Caulkiss clapped his hands. I looked up and discovered that he was smiling.
“And now, the Lord be praised!” he cried. “For your recovery, Mr Smythe! A pleasure to see you up and walking!”
“And doing it so well!” added Mr Quode.
“Thanks be, and gratefulness!” boomed Melestrina Quode.
The mood had changed. Now they were all smiling.
“Yes,” said Mr Caulkiss. “And since you’re better, you can come with us tomorrow. No need to go wandering around on your own. We’ll show you what there is to be seen. Starting with our great building work on the Church of Morbing Vyle.”
“Er, thank you.”
“We shall all go. You can meet Gambels too.”
“Gambels? Is this some other person I haven’t seen yet?”
“You’ll meet him tomorrow. And then in the evening we shall have a special banquet here in the parlour, to celebrate your recovery. No more eating on your own, Mr Smythe!”
“Formidable!” cried Mr Quode in French, kissing the tips of his fingers. “I shall create my finest recipes!”
“And I,” cried Melestrina, “shall provide dramatic entertainment!”
“Won’t it be good!” cried Craylene, fluttering her hands and dancing around. “Good! Good! Good!”
I smiled politely and said yes. Inwardly I wasn’t so sure. But I could see I didn’t have much choice in the matter.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Part Three
THE BANQUET
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Twenty-Seven
By the following morning the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was much colder, with only a pale wan glow of sun from behind a haze of clouds. The ground was white with a sparkle of hoarfrost. Everything seemed crisp and brittle, every sound rang in the air like metal. Our breath came out in long steaming plumes.
For the first time in two weeks I wore my own clothes, my own shirt and socks and briefs, my own trousers, jumper and coat. But not only my own clothes. The inhabitants of Morbing Vyle were determined to see me warmly wrapped up. So from Mr Caulkiss I had a long string spenser; from Craylene a fox-fur stole; from Melestrina a black velvet cape; and from Mr Quode, a cravat and a cummerbund. Clad in many thicknesses of clothing, I accompanied them out through the front door.
Gambels was asleep in a kennel outside the front door.
“Here he is,” announced Mr Caulkiss proudly.
I don’t know how to speak of Gambels – as an animal or as a human being. At first I could see only his head sticking out, encased entirely in a grey woollen balaclava. It was a human-looking head but it rested on the ground like the head of a dog. His hands stuck out alongside, curled up like paws. There was a collar around his neck and a chain attached.
Mr Caulkiss stooped down towards the sleeping form. Over his arm he carried a complicated harness of metal clips and leather straps. Now I could see what it was for. In two swift movements, he unhooked the chain from Gambels’ collar and slipped the harness over his head.
Gambels sprang into action. He sprang to the left and sprang to the right, bashing his head successively on either side of the kennel door. The rest of his body rebounded around inside the kennel like an india rubber ball.
“Waff! Waff! Waffem!” he cried, in a strange meaningless voice. It sounded like the cry of a young boy.
He was dressed like a young boy too. Mr Caulkiss hauled on the harness and dragged him out of the kennel. He wore a frayed old jacket with a school badge on the breast pock
et, a striped blue-and-green tie, and a pair of grey flannel shorts. A complete school uniform, with wellington boots on his feet. But he stayed down on all fours like a dog.
“Stand back!” warned Mr Caulkiss.
Then Gambels turned into a kind of tornado. Back and forth, back and forth, he rushed crazily in every direction. His legs and arms kicked at the air, kicked at the ground, even kicked at himself. Several times his limbs got into such a tangle that he ploughed to a halt with his head rammed violently into the ground.
“Oing-a-boing!” he cried in his strange meaningless voice. “Hubbsa-hubbsa-hubbsa!”
But he was still on the end of the harness. And gradually Mr Caulkiss reined him in. The harness worked by means of tiny spurs which dug in at the sides of Gambels’ neck. Mr Caulkiss worked the spurs by pulling on different straps. And gradually Gambels’ wild gyrations evened out to a regular motion, round and round in a circle.
“Now!” cried Mr Caulkiss. “Forward to the South Transept! Off we go!”
And off we went. With another pull on one of the straps, Mr Caulkiss directed Gambels forward in a straight line. Immediately Gambels raced ahead at frantic speed – or tried to. But Mr Caulkiss leaned back on his heels, and Gambels’ bare hands and booted feet skidded ineffectually on the ground. There was a tremendous spray of dirt and stones. Gambels’ whole body rippled and twanged with muscular exertion. But still he could move no faster than Mr Caulkiss’s walking pace.
“Ungalung! Galung-galung!”
Out across the building site we went. We came to the lines of the trenches and crossed over them one by one. Our route was marked by a succession of plank bridges. All around were fragments of wall and bits of stonework and mounds of earth.
“Isn’t he a bundle of energy,” said Mr Caulkiss admiringly, pointing at Gambels.
“Yes.” I nodded. “But why does he act so strangely? What is he?”
“What is he? He’s my son.”
“Your son?” I could hardly believe my ears. “But you treat him like an animal!”
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