I watched for a while. I wondered what had happened to the inhabitants of Morbing Vyle. I remembered how they had marched off to the Altar last night. Where were they now?
I discovered the answer soon enough. I crossed to the parlour door and found them all outside in the hall. They were lying flat out on the tiles, fast asleep and snoring. They looked like survivors from a shipwreck. The light from the stained glass window played over them in colours of red and purple and blue.
They must have flopped to the ground the moment they came in. Craylene lay face down with her paper streamers tattered and torn. Mr Caulkiss lay on his back with his mouth open. Dirty yellow stains covered his cassock. Mr Quode’s clothes were even dirtier, and he seemed to be wearing most of them back to front. He had one arm completely out of his shirt, and his bow tie appeared at the back of his neck. As for Melestrina, she lay in her fur coat like a fallen avalanche. Her hair was matted and there were dark circles under her eyes.
God only knows what they had been doing during the night. But they had radiant expressions on their faces. Even as they slept and snored, I could see their beatific smiles.
What did it mean? I didn’t aim to stay and find out. I tiptoed very cautiously around their prostrate bodies. I was heading for the front door.
But it wasn’t so easy to leave the vicarage. When I opened the door, the frozen air took my breath away. The falling snow was like a hanging screen. And then there was Gambels.
“YAFFY-YAFFY-YAFF!!”
His kennel was right beside the front doorstep. I could just distinguish the shape of his balaclave-clad head sticking out. He went into action the moment I opened the door. He jerked and bounced around so violently that his whole kennel jerked and bounced around too.
“YAFFY-YAFFY-YAFF!!”
I retreated and shut the door. The Caulkisses and Quodes were starting to stretch and stir, roused by the cold air or the noise. I took one look and made for the staircase. I didn’t want to talk to them. After last night I didn’t want to have anything more to do with them.
I sped upstairs and back to my bedroom. I don’t know if they came fully awake – but if they did, they soon went back to sleep again. I moved quietly along the upstairs corridor and closed the bedroom door behind me.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Forty
I spent the rest of the day lying in bed. I didn’t feel well. My skull was pounding and my stomach was in revolt. I lay snuggled between the sheets, still fully dressed with only my shoes removed. Even trying to think gave me a headache. I buried my splitting head in the pillow and lay very very still. Sometimes I drowsed and dozed.
Outside the window, the snow kept falling. It fell with a soft swishing hush, casting a moving mottled light on the nursery walls. I imagined that the nursery was at the bottom of a deep white sea.
Towards the end of the afternoon, the light started to fade. Then I began to hear sounds in the house. People moving, voices talking, water running into a bath. It seemed that the Caulkisses and Quodes had slept off the excesses of the night before. Now they were cleaning themselves up.
I felt a bit better myself. My stomach was still queasy but the worst of my headache had gone. Yet still I stayed snuggled between the sheets. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Then I heard a tiny tap-tap-tap at the nursery door. A moment later and the knob started to turn. Slowly the door creaked open and a head peered in. It was the balding oily red-fringed head of Mr Quode.
“Ah Mr Smythe!” He addressed me in a loud whisper. “Wonderful wonderful Mr Smythe! Have you had a lovely long sleep?”
I turned my face away. “I’m still having it,” I said.
“You’re so special to us now, Mr Smythe.” He smiled caressively. “We’re more fond of you than ever. You told us! Mr Caulkiss calls you the Bearer of Good Tidings.”
“Told you?”
“Mr Caulkiss felt the bag, you know. He reached inside the Altar. It was moving, just like you said. Such a great part you have played!”
“Didn’t you look inside the bag?”
“Mais non! Of course not! Our Lord will emerge when he is ready! The Bursting of the Bag! Mr Caulkiss expects it any day now. O triumph! O ecstasy!”
“O phooey,” I murmured under my breath.
“Would you like to come downstairs and celebrate with us, Mr Smythe? We want to be so nice to you! We want you to join in everything now!”
“I don’t fell well enough. I’ve got a hangover.”
“A hangover? Oh, quelle dommage! What can we do to help?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Nothing? Oh la, there must be something! We don’t want you feeling left out! No trouble is too much!”
“Just leave me alone.”
He made a little moue of disappointment. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
I refused to respond. He stood hovering in the doorway.
“I’ll leave you alone then, shall I?”
Still I refused to respond. After a while he closed the door quietly and went away.
But he didn’t stay gone for long. Half an hour later he was back. By now the daylight was almost gone. His gleaming head appeared like a pale moon around the door.
“I’ve had an idea, Mr Smythe! Magnifique! Incroyable! Do you want to hear my idea?”
I gave a groan and buried my head deeper into the pillows.
“I’m going to give you a Christmas present! I’ve got such an exciting present for you!”
I came out from the pillows. “I thought you didn’t believe in Christmas?”
“Not for us. But this is for you. To make you feel better. You said you liked Christmas presents!”
“But it’s not time yet. Christmas Day is tomorrow.”
“Oh I know. This is something to look forward to. It won’t arrive until the middle of the night. Naturellement!”
He seemed absolutely delighted with his idea. He was rubbing himself ecstatically up and down against the side of the door.
“I can wait,” I said dryly.
I pulled the sheets up over my head, preventing any further conversation. The rubbing sounds continued for a while. Then there was a soft little sigh and the door closed shut again.
But still that wasn’t the end of him. Half an hour later he stuck his head once more around the door. By now it was completely dark. He was carrying a candle.
“It’s not time yet,” I told him.
“No, no, this isn’t your present,” he said soothingly. “I just came to say we’re about to have dinner. Are you sure you won’t join us?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
“It’s cuisine à la Quode.” He was trying to tempt me. Did he really still believe that I enjoyed his disgusting food? “An original recipe. Boutons d’oreille à la Nicoise. Mmmmmm!”
I shook my head. The mere thought made my stomach turn. I remembered last night’s recipes – the sheep’s guts and pigs’ gums and wriggling worms in the soup. I felt my gorge rising.
“Shall I bring you some up on a tray? I can feed you with a spoon – like we used to do!”
“Go ‘way!” I muttered desperately. I knew I was going to be sick. I clasped my hand over my mouth. If only he would go…
He went. Just in time. As soon as the door closed behind him, I threw off the bedclothes and pulled the chamber pot out from under my bunk.
BLGGGHHHHHH!!!
I vomited. And again:
BLGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!
My last night’s meal lay slopped in the chamber pot. I sat on the side of the bed, breathing slowly. After a few minutes I felt better – much better. My stomach must have been wanting to get rid of that meal all day.
I stood up and walked around the room. There were draughts rising from the cracks between the floorboards. The cool air was invigorating. I felt like a new man.
I nodded to myself. I had wasted the whole day doing nothing. But now at last I was ready for action. I had
to make my escape while I still had the chance.
I listened to the sounds from below. The Caulkisses and Quodes were chanting a solemn chant, ending with a loud ‘Amen’. They must be saying Grace. They were all in the parlour having their dinner. It was the perfect opportunity!
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Forty-One
First I made my preparations. I put on my shoes and as many warm clothes as I could find. It was going to be cold in the snow outside. I fumbled around for several minutes, dressing myself in the dark.
Then I slipped out through the nursery door. I had to feel my way along the corridor, groping against the walls. But there was a faint glow of light at the top of the stairs.
I came to the landing and looked down the stairs. The glow was coming from the chandelier in the parlour. The light streamed out through the open door, across the hall. I could hear the tinkle of cutlery and voices raised in excited conversation. But I couldn’t quite catch the words.
I crept cautiously downstairs. I peered through the railings of the banister, keeping my eye on the open door. Now I could see the piano stool and the legs of the table. Lower and lower I descended, trying not to creak on the wooden boards. About ten steps from the bottom Craylene’s tiny high-heeled shoes came into view, and the legs of Mr Quode.
“…I believe we should start on the Methodists and Baptists.” That was Mr Caulkiss making a pronouncement. I could hear what they were saying now.
“O rather convert the Catholics!” boomed Melestrina Quode. “Forthwith to Ireland!”
“No, no!” chirrupped Craylene Caulkiss. “The Church of England! We must make sure of England first!”
“Bien entendu!” Now the unctuous tones of Mr Quode. “But then over to Europe. I want to conquer Paris!”
“I say the Scandinavians!”
“Eastwards to Russia! We must crush the Bolsheviks!”
“What about the Muslims!”
“America!”
“Russia!”
“Paris!”
“Be quiet!!!” roared Mr Caulkiss, thumping on the table. “He will decide!”
“Oh of course. We can only advise.”
“He will lead and we shall follow.”
“Of course.”
“I’d still like to conquer Paris,” murmured Mr Quode.
I grimaced. What delusions of grandeur! They were so unrealistic, it was ridiculous. But I didn’t feel like laughing any more.
I considered my plan of escape. The front door was the easiest way out – but Gambels would be there. He would certainly give the alarm. No, it had to be the back door. Out into the courtyard and over the courtyard walls.
I crept down the last few steps and along the hall to the parlour door. I halted just out of sight at the side of the door. They had gone back to eating their dinner. I listened to the sounds of cutlery clinking and jaws chomping and the occasional gargle of Mr Quode’s digestion.
I took a deep breath. This was the risky bit. I would have to slip across in front of the open door. I could only hope that no-one was looking.
But before I could make my move, someone else moved first. It was Craylene Caulkiss. She must have got up from the table without a word. She was coming right out through the parlour door.
I froze. If she had glanced my way she would have surely seen me. But she didn’t. She came out through the door and headed immediately towards the back of the house.
I watched her tiny figure disappearing down the hall. She was carrying a candle in a saucer. She turned the corner into the corridor towards the kitchen. I followed the diminishing click-clack of her heels. Where was she going? What was she doing?
I didn’t have to wait long to find out. A minute later the click-clack was approaching again. Brighter and brighter came the light around the corner. I had missed my chance to retreat back up the stairs – now it was too late. This time she couldn’t help but see me.
But again I was in luck. She emerged from the corridor and crossed towards the opening that led to the cellar. She didn’t even look down the hall. For a single brief moment she was illuminated in front of the niche where the coat-stand stood. For a single brief moment I saw the huge red hunk of meat she was holding in her hand. Then she passed in through the opening and was gone.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I could hear her high heels going down the stone steps. She made a sort of soft crooning sound to herself. Obviously she was paying one of her usual visits to the Little Ones.
I nodded to myself. Suddenly it all fitted together. The red hunk of meat must be for feeding the Little Ones. So they weren’t sweet little pets at all – but flesh-eating carnivores of some kind! Probably very large and very savage. I should have expected it.
I waited for a few moments. When she got to the bottom of the steps, there was the rattle of a padlock followed by the creak of an opening door. I listened for animal sounds, for growlings or snarlings. But there was only silence.
I waited no longer. Inside the parlour the conversation was beginning again. Time to make my move, before anything else happened. I crouched down low and slunk past the open door.
It took me a mere split second. They were sitting around the table under the chandelier. Mr Caulkiss and Mr Quode had their backs to the door, while Melestrina was drinking from her glass. No-one was looking my way. Simple!
I hurried on down the hall and into the corridor. I passed the door to the kitchen and the door to Mr Caulkiss’s laboratory. Now for my escape!
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Forty-Two
I pushed open the back door and stood in the doorway. The air was filled with falling snowflakes. I couldn’t see them but I could feel their wet icy touch. They settled and froze on my face and hands. I turned up the collar of my coat and pulled Craylene’s fox-fur tighter around my throat. Shutting the door behind me, I stepped out into the night.
At once I was lost in a strange blanked-out world. I couldn’t see the walls of the courtyard or the long low building that housed the animals. But I could remember. And I remembered how one of the side walls had a trellis set up against it. That would be the best place for climbing over. I headed in what I thought was the right direction.
A thick carpet of snow squeaked and crunched under my feet. It was already five or six inches deep. I had to walk with an awkward high-stepping gait. I marched along in the straightest possible line, regardless of paths or vegetable patches. Once I trampled through the glass of a garden frame, with a breaking shattering sound.
Suddenly a hump in the snow appeared out of nowhere and hit me sharply on the shins. I crumpled to my knees, catching on to the hump as I fell. And then I realised. What I had walked into was the wall of the well in the centre of the courtyard.
I was still on my knees, still recovering my breath, when a muffled voice called out from below:
“Arrrrrgh! Who’s there?”
I cursed to myself. I had roused Mr Scrab once again! I looked down and saw a sudden movement break through the smooth white snow by my feet. The surface caved in and four long withered fingers stuck out like a claw. A moment later, and four more fingers stuck out alongside.
“Who is it then? Who comes to see old Mr Scrab?”
The claws worked back and forth through the snow, widening the hole. Scrape, scrape, scrape. The black patch of the grate appeared and a foul rotten smell wafted up to my nostrils.
“Ah, Mr Smythe, is it?” Still I couldn’t see his face. “And what brings you to see me?”
“Oh, I – um – ”
“Come to tell me the news, have you?”
“Have I?”
“But I’ve already heard, see? Caulkiss and Quode told me. The Great Return! Soon our Lord will be with us once again!” His voice grew phlegmy with emotion. “Ah, happy I am, to have lived to see the day! A blessed miracle, Mr Smythe! Is it not a blessed miracle?”
“I suppose.”
“What’s that? You suppose?” His vo
ice turned rough and rasping. “Are you a true believer or aren’t you? Are you with us or not?”
“Of course, of course,” I said placatingly. “I’m the same as all the rest of you.”
“Well then! Don’t you know what it means? The Great Return?”
“It means that the Vicar is coming back to life.”
“Indeed it does. Praise the Lord! But what do you know about Him, our Vicar of Morbing Vyle? How much have they told you?”
“Well – er…”
“Have they told you how He first came to Morbing Vyle? What He did with the choirboys? His artistic creations? His Ultimate Work? Have they explained all that to you?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Hah! You haven’t been told properly then! I might’ve guessed! The Caulkisses and Quodes can’t tell you properly because they were never there themselves. They should’ve brought you out here to me long ago. I’m the only one that can tell it properly.”
“Yes, I’m sure. But now I’d better be off…”
“Because I was there, see? I can remember everything. You need me to tell you the full story.”
“Perhaps some other time.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll come back later.”
“No, now! You must be told now! Now! Now! NOW!”
Suddenly he was shouting at the top of his voice. I glanced nervously around. He would bring out the Caulkisses and Quodes with his noise.
“Hush! Not so loud.”
“Stay and listen then,” he said, quietening down.
“Okay. I can only stay for a minute though.”
I bent down towards the grate, to keep him talking in a quiet voice. A fresh whiff of foulness drifted up through the bars. I held my nose.
“Five minutes,” he said. “It won’t take long.”
But it did. It took ages and ages – an hour at least. For all that time I stood bent over the grate, listening to Mr Scrab’s voice rambling on and on. And soon I didn’t even want to get away. I forgot about my plan of escape, I forgot about the freezing cold. The story of the Vicar of Morbing Vyle held me in its grip. I was as if hypnotized. At long last I discovered the explanation behind all the mysteries I’d been trying to solve. It was the most dreadful story ever told.
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