“They don’t really look up to me, you know, even now,” Jack continued. “They don’t look at me with awe and hang on my every word, like you said they would. They take more notice of me all right, but they definitely aren’t treating me like a Prophet.”
“They will,” he promised. “After Wednesday.”
“What happened yesterday?” Jack asked him, remembering. “Was it Daisy?”
Uncle Parker nodded.
“Rooted out some matches I’d overlooked and got a blaze going in the corner of the kitchen with cereal packets. Full ones. Snap crackle and pop all over the place.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I took her to see a friend of mine who’s dabbled a bit in psychology,” Uncle Parker said. “We’re going to try Saturation.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s letting her make fires the whole time, even making her make fires, till she’s sick of the sight of them.”
“Aren’t you going to run out of things to set fire to?” asked Jack.
“Good thought. Got any old newspapers in the garage?”
Jack helped him to fetch some and stack them in the boot of his car. He could not help having his doubts about the effectiveness of this experiment. Uncle Parker had some very odd friends and their advice was not often sound. He had the kind of friends who would set off all of a sudden to travel to Katmandhu or Turkey, and then turn up months later to stay with him, bringing with them numerous half-baked theories they had picked up during their travels. Once one of them had brought Aunt Celia some worry beads, and they had disturbed her and got on her nerves so much that in the end she had deliberately snapped them, wailing, “I can’t bear it, I can’t!” and sent worry beads flying all over everywhere. Jack had been there at the time and knew for a fact that the only thing that had been worrying her was the worry beads. She had calmed down again the minute the worry beads had been swept up and thrown in the dustbin.
“Now don’t forget,” Uncle Parker told Jack before he drove off, “keep it up. Keep all three Prongs on the boil from now on. And stick to the dowsing – we’re going into countdown now – five days to zero hour.”
“Zero hour,” repeated Jack. “Hear that, Zero?”
Zero wagged his tail in the half-hearted way he had.
“It’s pretty good, having an hour named after you,” Jack told him, as he watched Uncle Parker drive off in a flurry of gravel. (He was obviously not yet on the lookout for a resurrected Thomas.) “Not to mention having your portrait painted. Come on.”
He went back to the house to hang around waiting for openings for Visions, Mysterious Impressions, anything that he could pull in. He spent most of the next four days doing this. It was up to him, he knew, to create the build-up to the final revelations at Rosie’s Birthday Picnic. He had the whole lot of them on the hop in the end.
He found that the minute he entered a room anyone who was in there would find some excuse to leave it almost immediately. He began to see that being a Prophet and a Phenomenon was a sad and lonely life. Even Mrs Fosdyke became uneasy when he was alone with her in the kitchen. Her nerves were already under strain with the preparations for the party fare. She took great pride in catering for special occasions and elaborately decorated everything she made. She was more than usually anxious about this particular occasion because Rosie, knowing that one of her presents was to be a camera, had told her that she intended to photograph all the food.
“If it comes out well,” she told Mrs Fosdyke, “I shall get it enlarged and hang it on the wall at the side of my Birthday Self-Portrait.”
The thought of having her trifle and stuffed eggs immortalised on film had Mrs Fosdyke in agonies of excitement and trepidation.
“Mind you,” she told her cronies in The Fiddler’s Arms (where she had taken to going most evenings of late, partly because she felt the need and partly because there had been so much news to tell), “mind you, it does give you an incentive. Every now and then I’ll be in the middle of stuffing an egg or trimming up a pork pie and I’ll think to myself, ‘Even when it’s all been eaten up, it’ll still be here. It’ll be here for ever –’ and a fair shiver runs up me. It’s having your cake and eating it, see.”
There was no doubt, then, that the food for this particular birthday was going to be the best ever – certainly from the visual point of view. Mrs Fosdyke was paying great attention to doilies, and the colour of the paper napkins.
The picnic would not be a picnic in the strictest sense of the word because the meal would be laid on trestle tables and the guests would sit on chairs rather than rugs. It was Mrs Fosdyke who had pressed for this arrangement. She gave as her reason that the elder Mr and Mrs Bagthorpe would be uncomfortable seated on the ground and, if it were damp, might even damage their health. The real reason was that she wanted her culinary masterpieces photographed against the background of a lace tablecloth, not plaid travelling rugs with holes in them.
The day before the picnic Jack nearly put a fatal spanner in the works by having another Vision of the Giant Bubble and Great Brown Bear and rounding it off with the faintly uttered words:
“… tomorrow … the eleventh … tomorrow …”
Nobody much liked the sound of this. Vague and indeterminate allusions to such phenomena were one thing, but when a date was set for their appearance it threw a very different light on things.
“You realise,” said Tess in a wobbly voice, “that there’s a wood on the other side of that meadow, don’t you? And you realise, don’t you, that bears generally live in woods?”
Rosie had then squealed and said she had changed her mind and wanted the party in the dining-room even if it was all charred up. William said that if a Great Brown Bear was out to get the Bagthorpes, it would get them anyway, if he knew anything about prophecies. The whole point of a prophecy, he said, was that it was inevitable. If they went to the ends of the earth for Rosie’s party, if they went to China for it, then if that Great Brown Bear was destined to get them, get them it would.
Mrs Bagthorpe told him to go up to his room after he had made this speech. She practically never sent her children to their rooms; she did not, by and large, believe in it. On the other hand she herself felt that she could not stand much more talk of this sort, and Rosie certainly could not. Jack felt really sorry for her because it was after all her birthday, and she was only going to be nine. He felt so sorry he went down into the village and bought her an extra present on top of the one he had already got for her.
Mrs Bagthorpe tried to comfort her and told her that William was only teasing. Grandma then chipped in and said she hoped not, because if anything was going to emerge from that wood tomorrow afternoon, then that thing would be Thomas, in all his old golden glory.
“I am as certain of it,” she said, “as I have ever been certain of anything.”
She took Jack on one side later in the day and asked him if he could possibly arrange to have another Vision and this time try to see things a little more distinctly.
“I can’t just bring them on,” he told her, which was true. “They just happen –” which was not. Although he enjoyed the attention he was getting Jack was beginning to get a little tired of having to evade awkward questions and even tell fibs. He was probably looking forward to the next day more than any other single member of the Bagthorpe family. If Uncle Parker’s forecast was correct, his position would be once and for all established.
“And yours, Zero,” he told him, as he prepared for bed that night. “Your name will live for ever.”
The prospect apparently left Zero unmoved, because he flopped down by the pile of comics and put his nose between his front paws. Jack took out the Plan of Campaign and updated it. He put in details of all the Visions and Manifestations of the past few days, which took quite a long time. He ended up by writing:
Tomorrow my time will come. Even Father will lay his neck beneath my heel.
He underlined this, concealed the notebook amo
ng the comics again, and went to bed.
Chapter Fifteen
The Bagthorpes were up early on the morning of the eleventh. Rosie had made sure of this. They were all gathered in the kitchen surrounded by wrapping paper and string when Mrs Fosdyke arrived just before eight.
“Happy Birthday, Rosie.” She was removing her coat as she spoke, but instead of a hat, she was wearing today a turban that almost concealed a headful of tin curlers. This she kept on. “And here’s something for you.”
She had given Rosie a toy xylophone that they all recognised because it had been in the village shop since the previous Christmas. (Mrs Fosdyke rarely went into the town. She said there were too many cars and that the air was pollutinated. Also, she was afraid of having her pocket picked.)
A discussion of the weather followed. It was one of those July days when the weather could swing either way. It was still cool, there was a rather watery look about the sky, but on the other hand a hint that the sun was there, about to break through. By and large, it seemed that the picnic was on. There were mixed feelings about this.
“You didn’t have any dreams or anything last night, did you, Jack?” Tess asked.
He truthfully assured her that he had not, but she none the less announced her intention of taking her rounders bat down to the field with her for self-defence. She also said it was a pity that Mr Bagthorpe could not shoot.
“Most people who live in the country can shoot,” she said accusingly. “You haven’t even got a gun.”
Mr Bagthorpe pointed out that it would be difficult to get any worthwhile kind of an aim with his right arm in plaster, and added that he didn’t believe in killing animals anyway. He loved animals, he said, and was a conservationist.
Grandpa must have caught some of the drift of the conversation because he said loudly:
“Newspaper’s the best. Get ’em on a clear surface and – swat!” He brought the flat of his hand down on the table to illustrate his point.
“Bit early for wasps yet,” he said cheerfully, “but you never know. Make sure we take some newspapers. No harm in one of those sprays, either.”
He was evidently in a happy mood at the prospect of possibly combining his two favourite pursuits (stuffed eggs were bound to be on the menu).
“I hopes, Mrs Bagthorpe,” said Mrs Fosdyke, “that there will be no squirting sprays on my food.”
“Of course not, Mrs Fosdyke,” she assured her. “That was just Mr Bagthorpe’s little joke.”
It was a busy morning for everyone. William and Jack were given the job of carrying the trestle tables and chairs down to the field. Zero accompanied them on each journey and this got on William’s nerves.
“That dog can’t do anything,” he said. “Most dogs can carry things in their mouths.”
Jack pointed out that it was unreasonable to expect Zero to carry a chair in his mouth, or a trestle.
“It’s not even as if he’s a guard dog,” William said. “If that Bear of yours does turn up this afternoon he’ll be out of this field like a flash. He’ll probably be the only one to get away.”
They then had an argument about where to place the tables once they had them in the field. William wanted them in the open, Jack under a tree. William said things dropped out of trees and he didn’t want things in his food, thank you, and Jack argued that if the sun came out all the cream in the meringues and strawberry shortcake and such would go sour. In the end they compromised and half was in sun, half in shade.
Mr Bagthorpe had earlier said rather smugly how he regretted not being able to help because of his injured arm, and shut himself up in his study. About mid-morning he came out again. He went into the kitchen and flung himself into a chair.
“It’s happened,” he announced.
“What has, dear?” Mrs Bagthorpe was packing paper cups and plates into a box.
“I’ve got a block,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, dear,” said Mrs Bagthorpe. She went on counting under her breath and this must have irritated Mr Bagthorpe, who liked to have a serious thing like a block taken seriously.
“It’s the end of the road,” he said tragically. “I’ve lost it. It’s gone.”
“Lost what?” enquired Mrs Bagthorpe absentmindedly. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen—”
“Lost whatever it was I had, of course!” Mr Bagthorpe was beginning to shout. “You don’t understand. None of you understand.”
As if to rub salt in the wound Mrs Fosdyke was bustling about the place, darting from here to there in her best hedgehog manner. Every available surface was taken up with trays of food. Mr Bagthorpe glowered at her. It seemed to him a bitter irony that he was blocked and Mrs Fosdyke was not. Mrs Fosdyke, indeed, was on peak form.
Matters were not improved by Grandma entering at this juncture, carrying a dusty-looking cat basket.
“Tess found it in the loft and is going to clean it up for me and line it with flannel,” she told them. “Everything will be ready.”
Mr Bagthorpe opened his mouth to make a cutting retort, then remembered it was someone’s birthday, and closed it again. He really did make an effort to be calm and kind on feast days. He did not think he could manage it surrounded by people darting about like hedgehogs, however, or crooning over tattered cat baskets, so he left abruptly to hug his block to himself. He went into the sitting-room and found Rosie there, seated before a mirror, painting her Birthday Self-Portrait.
“Oh, do go away,” she begged. “I can’t do it if anyone’s looking.”
He could not bear the sterile atmosphere of his study, jibbed at the charred dining-room, so went into the garden, where he began dead-heading roses to calm his nerves.
The party was due to begin at half past three with family games in the meadow, followed by tea. Lunch was an almost non-existent affair, with people walking about with cheese sandwiches and talking with their mouths full. No one could sit at a table because the tables were all covered with trays of food for tea.
At two Mrs Fosdyke excused herself and went up to the bathroom carrying a large black plastic bag. When she came down ten minutes later she was transformed. Her hair was in tight curls, she wore a black dress with sprays of mauve flowers on it and shiny shoes with heels. The Bagthorpes boggled. They had never seen Mrs Fosdyke dressed up before. Even at parties – perhaps especially at parties – she would always run around in her wrap-round pinafore, giving an impression of ten people doing the work of one. On these previous occasions, of course, Mrs Fosdyke had never had the prospect of being photographed with her food. As Mr Bagthorpe afterwards remarked, you never saw Fanny Craddock in a wrap-round pinafore with her hair in curlers.
None of the Bagthorpes had intended to do anything very special in the way of dress. The kind of games they were proposing to play were of the rough and tumble variety, and although no one put this into words, no one wished to be caught fleeing from a Great Brown Bear in long skirts, or any other form of clothing that might impede rapid movement. Now, however, they felt that Mrs Fosdyke had set a certain tone, which it was up to them to match.
One by one, therefore, they drifted upstairs and came down attired with a greater or lesser degree of sartorial elegance. Grandma put on an old black full-length frock and a silver locket which everybody knew contained two colour photographs of Thomas. Not to be outdone, all the other female Bagthorpes wore long skirts, with the sole exception of Tess, who was obviously more worried about the Great Brown Bear than anyone else. She wore a pair of new denim flares she had been saving for going on holiday. William, doubtless with the intention of impressing Atlanta, and giving himself a Byronic air, wore a purple shirt with a yellow scarf knotted carelessly at the neck – a style he had never previously gone in for. Oddly enough, Mr Bagthorpe had opted for much the same sort of thing, and the pair of them kept eyeing one another hard, as if each was suspecting the other of some kind of subversive tactic.
When Uncle Parker roared up at about three, himself attired in a cre
am open-necked shirt with a scarlet neckerchief, the whole thing really did begin to look like a conspiracy or the beginnings of a secret society. Jack was reminded of what Mrs Fosdyke had said about things always going in threes. He took a good look at Daisy and thought she looked rather calm and subdued. Perhaps the Saturation technique had taken all the fire-raising spirit out of her. He hoped so. He did not know what it was that was to happen shortly in the meadow, but whatever it was he did not want it distracted from by something going up in flames. Aunt Celia was wearing sunglasses although the sun was not fully out. Jack thought perhaps she felt safer behind them. If she’d known about the Great Brown Bear it was unlikely that she would have been present at all, he thought. She must simply be suffering from an understandable general sense of unease.
Once they were all foregathered Mrs Bagthorpe arranged a kind of ceremonial procession down to the meadow with everyone carrying a tray of food, and Rosie in the lead bearing the cake. Mrs Fosdyke insisted on carrying the trifles and the strawberry shortcake herself. Obviously she felt these were the most photogenic of her efforts and did not wish to see them end up in the long grass. Grandpa had been entrusted with the stuffed eggs and was walking very carefully indeed, his eyes fixed on them.
The food was laid out, with Mrs Fosdyke darting hither and thither putting little finishing touches, and then the Bagthorpes stood back to watch the photograph being taken. The sun came out, right on cue.
“I should take more than one, dear,” Mrs Fosdyke said, nervously patting her curls, “just in case it don’t come out. You never know with cameras.”
“I’ll take three,” Rosie told her. “One at each end of the table and one in the middle, and then we’ll get everything in.”
Mrs Fosdyke was so enchanted by this news that when she posed she actually did look happy – something she hardly ever allowed herself to do. For one of the photographs she picked up a plate of her meringues and held it, looking for all the world like a proud mother at a christening. After the photographs all the Bagthorpes clapped, and Mrs Fosdyke must have been really touched because she actually dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin. Only Mr Bagthorpe seemed discontented. Mrs Fosdyke was having a gala performance, and he was blocked.
Ordinary Jack Page 16