I arrived back in Molehill well after midnight, having stopped first at Lily’s to deposit Gunga Din, and then on to Mrs Tubbly Pole’s flat in Maida Vale. The parting between dog and mistress had been lengthy and lachrymose, but Lily assured me it was always thus and that each rallied the instant the other was out of sight.
‘The reconciliations are far worse,’ she confided gloomily. ‘Total mayhem. I have to lie down for two days afterwards.’ Knowing what I did of both parties, and sharing similar sensitivities, I did not think this latter claim exaggerated. Nor had Lily exaggerated her aunt’s speed of recovery. As we drove towards Maida Vale, Mrs T. P. was in gloating mood, delighted to have eluded ‘my pursuers’, and talking volubly about the loot she was going to rake in from her American lecture tour.
Unlike the dog’s, my own parting from her was fortunately without drama, but she thanked me effusively for ‘assisting the Muse’, and threatened to return to Molehill immediately the dust had settled on ‘that little beast’s demise’. I prayed fervently that the dust be permitted to circulate for a considerable time.
Oddly enough, relieved though I undoubtedly was to be rid of her relentless sleuthing, I drove home in a curious state of deflation. Her presence in Molehill had been disrupting, preposterous; but she had exuded a humour and vitality which, largely lacking these qualities myself, I had found strangely companionable. It is true that I feel safer in monochrome, but a little colour does not come amiss; and I trusted that despite my hopes regarding the dust, one day – some distant day – we should meet again.
39
The Vicar’s Version
It was the day I had been most dreading: June 17th – the terrible anniversary of the business in the woods. And just like that day, the morning dawned mistily bright, fresh and inviting. But this time I was far from being enticed to wander those sylvan paths with the melodies of birdsong and their memories of beauty, calm … and mind-numbing nightmare.
Instead, with curtains drawn and phone off the hook, I stayed glued to my desk, immersed first in the drudgery of parish accounts, and then in the curiously absorbing task of the following day’s sermon. I say ‘curiously’ because although I have always taken the act of composition seriously, it is rare for me to be totally engaged – at least not in any dedicated sense. But that day something was different: I wrote rapidly, compulsively, and with a sense of conviction that normally only displays itself when I tackle the intricacies of the ‘Goldberg’ Variations or rehearse the insidiously soothing notes of that elegantly well-tempered Klavier. Now, however, instead of notes it was the words on the page which engrossed me – gripped my mind – and which made me write with such intensity and confidence.
When it was over I was exhausted; and went to the piano and played … not Bach, but Ellington. ‘The “A” Train’, ‘Mood Indigo’, ‘Love You Madly’ – anything in fact that came into my head – all was belted out, unsubtly, but with a zest and verve I hadn’t experienced for a long time. The noise was thunderous – to blot out the ghosts? – and Bouncer, whose preference is usually for something more sombre, came snuffling in and sat companionably by the stool. Maurice was absent, but he generally is when things get musical.
The concert over, we retired to the graveyard where we were graciously joined by Maurice, and cat and dog bounded happily among the tombs; while I, lighting a cigarette and turning my back resolutely on the far prospect of Foxford Wood, sat down on the grass and meditated …
The following day, the Sunday, I quickly reread my sermon and prepared for church. For some reason I had an urge to take Bouncer – a desire not conspicuously shared by him as he was obviously intent on remaining in his basket with ball and bone. However, I pointed out that he was an idle hound and that if he wanted a good lunch he had better have the grace to come with me, otherwise it would be short commons for the rest of the day. That did it.
We set off briskly and arrived early. I went to kit myself up in the vestry and sent the dog on ahead to the pulpit. Bouncer has a liking for the pulpit, a fact I discovered early on in our relationship when, not sure whether he could be trusted to stay alone in the house, I would take him with me on my parish rounds. Walking up the path to the church one day, I had let him off the lead; and then, distracted by conversation with some worthy parishioner, had completely lost him. Half an hour was spent in aimless whistling and scouring the surrounding area. I was just thinking hopefully that he might have trotted off home, when Edith Hopgarden had emerged from one of the side doors and announced accusingly that the ‘hearthrug’ which I ‘dragged around’ was fast asleep in the pulpit and what did I intend doing about it?
Relieved that the animal had been found – and safely in innocuous slumber – I remarked mildly that I was a great believer in letting sleeping dogs lie, adding that I was sure that Bouncer was not the only one who slept in church, and that as long as he didn’t snore there seemed no reason to disturb him. She gave me a funny look and marched off. Thus Bouncer had gained entrée to precincts ecclesiastical, and thereafter his occasional presence became an accepted fact. Apart from Edith (and Tapsell her musical paramour) none seemed to object, and services proceeded unaffected.
So that particular Sunday, with Bouncer installed in his customary place, things took their predicted course: ritual was punctiliously observed, my sermon duly delivered, Communion distributed, and the ceremonial brought to a close with the usual parleying in the porch. Except that this time the parleying was far from usual! There is a term which in my younger days used to be applied to the crooner Frank Sinatra: mobbed. But in this case it was not bobby-soxers who were doing the mobbing, but mature ladies and gentlemen of the Surrey and Anglican ilk.
Apparently they had approved the sermon: for I was pinioned against the porch wall, hand grasped and wrung, bombarded with questions I didn’t really understand, asked earnestly for copies of my ‘fascinating’ address, showered with spit and invitations, urged to speak at Ladies’ Guilds and Golfing Luncheons – and (slightly worryingly) requested to become the Visiting Pastor at the Home for the Afflicted and Intemperate.
Eventually I managed to make my escape, but not before being collared by Miss Dalrymple who, temporarily diverted from her normal pursuit of gum-chewing choirboys, was clearly in magnanimous mood.
‘Nice bit of preaching, Vicar, nice bit of preaching! Not like your predecessor Purvis – we couldn’t understand a word he said. All very holy, I’m sure, but totally unintelligible. Your words make sense – that’s what’s needed! You see, you have the common touch.’
I winced at her choice of adjective but reflected ruefully that that was exactly what my father had once said, when as a boy I had thoughtlessly put out my tongue at one of his clients. There had been a fearful row.
‘I liked your theme,’ she said stoutly, ‘“Hope and Perplexity” – very fitting for today’s society.’
I thanked her warmly but refrained from saying that although the latter was a very familiar condition, I was on less certain terms with the former …
‘And what’s more,’ she breezed on, ‘you are not an interferer – not like that dreadful man who was your locum last year, Rum something. Most officious!’
‘No,’ I acknowledged silently and gloomily, ‘not an interferer, merely a dispatcher.’
And with that sobering thought, I called Bouncer to heel and we made our way home to lunch and sanctuary.
40
The Cat’s Memoir
With the pair of them out of the house, it had been a restful morning. And I had been passing it lazily, dozing on the windowsill and occasionally toying with the knitted mouse presented to me by one of F.O.’s brighter parishioners.
The front door slammed loudly, heralding their return. And I heard the vicar’s feet thudding up the stairs, followed by the sound of the dog’s paws padding across the hall to the kitchen – obviously going to seek out fodder before regaling me with his exploits. I closed my eyes, savouring the final moments of quiet. All to
o soon the sitting-room door was pushed open and Bouncer wandered in, beard embellished with bits of Muncho, and crunching noisily.
‘That was a cracking good sermon!’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Cracking good, it was.’ I stared at him blankly as, biscuit demolished, he proceeded to worry his rubber ring.
‘How can you possibly know?’ I enquired. ‘You wouldn’t have understood the long words … Besides, since when have you been a student of moral theology?’ And I smiled indulgently.
‘I know what I know,’ he rejoined tartly. The dog likes that expression and uses it frequently, although it rarely enlightens.
‘Really, Bouncer, just because F.O. occasionally lets you sit in the pulpit with him you don’t have to pretend that you are in on the act!’ And I waved my tail impatiently.
He looked up from the ring and said solemnly, ‘Ah, but you see, Maurice, it’s my sixth –’
‘Your Sixth Sense. Yes, yes, we all know about that! But if you ask me, a bit of common sense wouldn’t come amiss. How can you possibly declare that the vicar preached a good sermon when you do not produce a shred of evidence!’
‘Oh, there was plenty of evidence all right,’ he replied airily.
‘Such as?’
‘When he’s burbling on I sometimes get a bit fidgety, and so I poke my head round the edge of the pulpit just to see what they are all doing down there in the pews.’
‘Oh yes? And what are they doing?’
‘Sometimes they are just sitting there like Christmas puddings. And other times they look silly and prim and pious. And now and again they look shifty – just like you do when you’ve been at the haddock in the pantry. And quite often I see that Hopgarden woman gazing at the organist and powdering her nose, and Colonel Dawlish having a crafty go at the crossword. But today they were all staring at F.O., and they looked, they looked … ALIVE!’ And the dog started to bound about the room, rolling his eyes and flaunting his tail in what I took to be a copy of human animation.
Once the thespian antics had subsided, I asked gently whether that was his only proof of the sermon’s quality.
‘Oh no. Other things too.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘You see, for one thing there was the way they sung the hymn after the sermon was finished. Roared their heads off, they did. Roof nearly collapsed!’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ I said indifferently. ‘Probably relief that it was all over.’
‘It was not relief,’ he growled. ‘It was …’ There was a long pause while his brow furrowed and his jaws worked silently. This invariably means that he is grappling to deliver some new word or Latin term he has learnt from the tombs in the crypt. I waited patiently.
‘EX-UL-TAT-IO!’ he exploded. I leaped back, deafened by the blast but just able to execute a neat side-step as the dog raced up and down the room in triumph.
‘Very nicely put,’ I conceded, ‘but is that all?’
He looked thoughtful, and then said, ‘You know at the end of the service, when he hangs about in the porch and they all troop past?’
I nodded vaguely.
‘Well, this time there was a big snarl-up. They were all flocking round – smiling, shaking his hand and jabbering away nineteen to the dozen. In fact there was such a scrum I thought I’d never get out from under their feet. Quite a bruising experience, you might say! Still, I managed to escape and went and sat quietly on the grass waiting for him to come back from the vestry. They were still muttering to one another as they walked down the path, and I kept hearing things like “good stuff”, “makes you think”, “he’s got something there”, “better than the last man”. I tell you, Maurice, they all seemed pretty chuffed … So you see, he did preach a good sermon. And what’s more, my bones and sixth sense tell me it won’t be the last!’
He sat back on his haunches peering hopefully through the curtain of his fringe. Had I been a human he would have expected me to give him another biscuit or at least a kindly pat. As it was, he had to make do with a prod from my paw.
‘Well, Bouncer,’ I observed, ‘fully focused attention, exultant hymn singing, expressions of thanks and approval – yes, you are quite right: it does indeed seem to suggest that our master delivered a tolerable address!’ And I emitted a gracious mew of congratulation, while he beamed and wagged his tail vigorously. Then, without thinking, I foolishly added, ‘And your Latin is coming along quite well too.’
I don’t normally give lavish praise and immediately regretted the lapse, for it unleashed a maelstrom of such frenzied prancing and barking that I feared F.O. would come floundering down the stairs and set about the pair of us. But he was evidently locked in his afternoon collapse, for nothing stirred and one was thus spared the usual swirl of smoke and oaths. Nevertheless, I spoke sternly to Bouncer and warned him that if he didn’t restrain himself he would be in line for a smart clip on the ear from Above.
‘No I shan’t,’ he snorted. ‘After that sermon he’s out for the count – won’t surface till drinks time. Bet you a Bonio!’
‘I have no intention of engaging in games of chance – least of all for one of your teeth-shattering biscuits,’ I replied, attempting to settle down to snooze. It was of course impossible.
‘I say!’ he exclaimed.
‘What?’
‘I wonder how many murderers can preach nice sermons? I mean, sermons that deliver the goods.’
‘What goods?’
‘Well, the goods that make you feel sort of hopeful and better. You know, like I feel when I hear the bells!’
‘Not those confounded church bells again!’ I groaned. The dog has a thing about bells. Says they churn him up inside – whatever that is supposed to mean. Fortunately I have never been thus affected. ‘I have no idea,’ I replied wearily, ‘… does it really matter?’
‘P’raps not. But then again p’raps it does!’
I sighed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, the point is that if F.O. did something bad when he got rid of Fotherington – which I suppose he did, because of all the fuss and the way the cops kept nosing about, and the danger of him being caught and going to prison or being HUNG – then how is he doing good to people in church and making them feel alive and sort of strong?’
‘Certainly doesn’t make me feel strong,’ I murmured sleepily. ‘In fact there are times when he’s in one of his panics that I feel distinctly fragile and debilitated …’
‘Ah yes,’ replied Bouncer affably, ‘but then you’re only a cat.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Maybe I’ll have a word with O’Shaughnessy – see what he thinks.’
‘You will do nothing of the kind!’ I cried, now thoroughly awake. ‘On no account are you to discuss the Fotherington issue with that madcap setter. He may have helped us dispose of the evidence last year but he didn’t know the crucial details of the case – and nor shall he! This is something we must keep strictly to ourselves. Careless talk costs lives. Just remember that!’ And I fixed him with one of my more fearsome glares.
The dog does not often look abashed but he did then, and said meekly, ‘You mean if I let the cat out of the bag there won’t be any more Bonios and haddock.’
‘Precisely, Bouncer. And kindly moderate your metaphors!’
‘What?’
‘Your metaphors, kindly adjust … oh never mind.’ I was in no mood to instruct him in the niceties of semantic tact. And gathering my woollen mouse, I hastened from the room to view the sparrows on the terrace.
41
The Vicar’s Version
The period following the success of the sermon and my farewell to Mrs T. P. turned out to be unusually soothing and productive: pressing paperwork had been completed, the Young Wives’ annual gymnastic display less embarrassing than usual, another hefty chunk contributed to the Spire Fund by an unknown ‘well-wisher’, and St Botolph’s actually featured in the Church Times as being an example of ‘conservative calm and mellow dignity’
– qualities, the writer lamented, which were fast disappearing from the current social scene. This last was an accolade indeed, and to celebrate I put a whacking fiver on the two-thirty and bought myself a half bottle of Glenfiddich. The horse fell at the first fence but the Scotch went down a treat.
Unfortunately it has generally been my experience that periods of pleasure are invariably paid for by events of dire discomfort. And this was no exception. Walking home with Bouncer from Evensong one evening, I saw Mavis Briggs coming towards me with intent expression. I sighed, assuming she was about to deliver another elegy on the theft of her painting. However, she seemed to be in a state of some considerable excitement and had started to gabble several yards in advance of our meeting.
Drawing level, she exclaimed, ‘Oh Vicar, you’ll never guess, never guess … not in a month of Sundays!’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Guess what?’
‘You know my art class?’ I nodded, and she continued. ‘Well, our tutor is taking our little group up to London … to the Tate Gallery for a lecture!’
‘That’s very nice, Mavis. I am sure you will enjoy it,’ I said indulgently.
‘Oh, but I will, I will!’ she cried. ‘You see, it’s to be a very special lecture.’
‘Oh yes?’ I replied abstractedly, debating whether I could goad myself into giving Bouncer a bath when we got home.
‘Yes, it’s going to be given by that great Austrian artist – Herr Spendlow! And our tutor has actually managed to get us seats. He’s only in London for two days. Aren’t we lucky!’
I gazed open-mouthed. ‘You don’t mean Spendler, do you, Mavis? He can’t possibly be coming! He’s far too old, and anyway –’
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