by Ashly Graham
A much smaller, modern house, which lay out of view to the rear of the church, had formerly been rented out by the Church to a non-stipendiary deacon whom Effie had persuaded the vicar to persuade the Bishop to assign to the parish to attend to functionary matters. This deacon, who was as complaisant and flexible as his superior in agreeing to anything Effie wanted, had proved overly pliant in moral areas amongst the more married of the parish women, and was long gone. Being vacant, the DL had awarded the quarters to Fletcher Abraham Dark so that he might be conveniently situated to attend her.
The Annexe, as this property was called for want of anything politely descriptive, was of hasty construction circa July nineteen sixty-four. By contrast to the venerable Rectory, it was a hunched and disreputable-looking brick affair, which, had it been human, might have sidled up to one and in a low sibilant voice (Psst!) offered to sell one a packet of dirty postcards. The Annexe’s black metal-framed windows and unkempt condition gave it the surly expression of a mangy cur that had slunk away from a farmyard to lurk in the shadows under the hill.
Fletcher Dark had taken to it immediately, exclaiming, ‘Well I’ll be damned, what dandy digs!’ The honorary reverend was an alliterative person when moved.
Effie was astounded at the Rectory’s transformation. Outside, instead of the former jungle of unpruned trees and brambles, it sported neatly trimmed shrubbery and immaculate weed-free lawns. The house’s signature cracked and pitted walls were now creamy and flawless, the roof had been re-slated, the driveway was crunchy with caramel gravel, and the wrought-iron gates had been painted a glossy black. Effie did not regard these changes as improvements, and objected to having to dismount to open the gates, which for as long as she could remember had leaned drunkenly into the banks behind them. Now they were upright and operated smoothly on straightened and oiled hinges.
As she walked her horse up the drive, carefully so as not to twist her ankle in the thick Kensington gravel, the beast skittered, disconcerted by the pungent smells of fresh paint, weed-killer and wood-preservative. Halfway to the house it became even more alarmed, sweating and whinnying at the sight of an assortment of newly arrived mastiffs that were monitoring their arrival from the top of the steps outside the front door. Effie cursed, and hauled on the bridle. But although their ears strained forward and their brows furrowed, the dogs refrained from barking, and remained stock-still as they gazed at the arrivals with the long-distance intensity peculiar to large canines.
After her mount had veered onto the croquet lawn, deeply indenting its smooth surface, and generously manured a rose-bed, Effie looped the reins over a branch of a tulip tree as far as possible away from the dogs where the longer grass began. The horse, reassured, took advantage of its situation to start nibbling the longer grass that extended as far as the orchard. Approaching the front door and ignoring the dogs, Effie kicked at a large cat that was draped against the base of the door like a draught excluder. The cat moved, and she missed and had to steady herself against the wall.
As the feline arched its back and spat at her the door opened, to reveal the devil lady’s manservant, who, having heard the commotion outside, had not waited to be summoned by the bell. Disregarding his remonstration at her arriving without an appointment, Effie thrust her mud-bespattered coat into his arms and forged past him down the exquisitely decorated and furnished hall to the drawing-room. She knew her way well enough from her visits to the former vicar, and was conscious of a moment’s regret at not having him to twist round her little finger any more. The soles of her riding boots scuffed and muddied the polished parquet floor, which pleased her mightily, and she wished that she had thought to wear a pair of spurs. Then, before the manservant could catch up and announce the uninvited visitor, Effie erupted through the double doors of the drawing-room and marched into the centre.
The devil lady was seated at a davenport or escritoire, engaged in writing a memorandum to her supervisor at HQ. There were many things to complain about. The fax machine that the techies had sent was flashing a message that it was in need of service, though it was supposed to be brand new, and the computer was continually either on the blink or downloading Updates and Service Packs. Most importantly her moving expenses and living allowance had not been paid, as a result of which her manservant had been unable to pay the butcher and wine merchant, and they had refused to deliver on credit. Until a BACS payment was made into her bank account they were living on an inadequate overdraft, non-lean minced beef and apple juice. There was nothing in the larder except a dozen quails’ eggs, some stale French bread and a little Ardennes pâté, and there was no freezer because it would burn her manservant’s arm to stick his hand in it.
Possibly worst of all, the DL was as it were dying for her customary six p.m. Dartington Crystal Helmston Old Fashioned cut-glass tumbler gill of Islay whisky with a reprehensible splash of Diet Canada Dry ginger ale. Doing without made her irritable; having to put up with apple juice was a penance too many.
The focal decorative point of the room was, in an ironic touch of the devil lady’s own devising, an Adam chimney-piece with an ormolu Louis Quinze clock on it. The hands on the clock were indicative not of the correct time of day, as would have been appropriate on a supra-terrestrial assignment—this was an oversight on the part of the manservant that the DL had not yet noticed, so taken was she with such a prized antique artefact as the clock itself—but of that in Hell where there was no time and no need of clocks and where, had there been any time, any time would have been the correct time. The chimney-piece contained a grate large enough to have been designed by Hephaestus, and a massive pair of firedogs, attended on either side by the usual array of tongs, bellows, brush, shovel, poker, log-basket and coal scuttle. A deep leather wing-chair was drawn up to one side of the fireplace.
The walls were hung above the dado rail with Flemish tapestries and Dutch School portraits, there were Persian rugs on the polished and no-longer cupped wide floorboards, and the furniture was Regency. A piano, a nine-foot-six-inch Imperial Grand Bösendorfer, stood in a corner with its lid half open on the short stick. On the music stand were Volume One of the Beethoven Sonatas for pianoforte in the red cloth board Associated Board edition edited by Harold Craxton with commentaries and notes by Donald Francis Tovey, open to the first movement of the Sonata in C Minor Op. 13, the Pathétique; and a sheet of Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer.
There were cornices and mouldings on the walls and high ceiling, and a central chandelier hung with Murano glass pendants. Dresden china groups, white jade figurines, an ivory statuette on a japanned stand, and other items including some burial urns of ancient trophy conquests from the DL’s prime, were displayed in cabinets and on occasional tables and a whatnot. Featured in an ornate gilded frame over the chimney-piece was a warlike scene featuring Pallas Athene, armed and helmeted, painted either in the style of Rubens or by the Master himself. A Genoa velvet-cushioned window-seat around the three sash-windows overlooked the front lawn. The conversational sound of chamber music issued from stereo speakers concealed behind a pair of walnut commodes.
Whatever her other attributes, Effie noted, though she was no connoisseur herself and deprecated the artistic side of life, it was clear that this was a woman of cultivated tastes. Her visitor just did not want them growing anywhere near her.
‘What the...my dear woman,’ expostulated the DL, startled into good manners. She half rose from her seat before falling back into her chair, the state of her infernal finances gone from her mind. Doing her best to pull herself together, she looked angrily at her flushed manservant as he arrived in the doorway and raised his hands in apology.
‘My dear horse-poop,’ countered Effie, pleased with the effect that the momentum of her arrival had caused. Through the window she was pleased to observe her horse making a steaming contribution to the fertilizer surrounding the base of the tulip tree. The dogs appeared unmoved at this consecration of their mistress’s property, as if, being unable to distinguish
between unwanted visitors and post- and tradesmen, they were under orders to behave themselves.
‘Who gave you authority to dismiss the vicar?’, boomed Effie, ‘not to mention appointing another one. Mentioning it. The Bishop and the PCC¾that’s the Parochial Church Council in case you don’t know¾haven’t been consulted, and that’s illegal. Nice day, by the way.’
The devil lady paused to consider whether to have this anonymous person thrown out on the spot, or to dignify her question with a response. In the interest of constraint and a mild curiosity as to the reason for the incursion she settled on frosty politeness.
‘Lovely I’m sure, not that I’ve had the opportunity to enjoy it. Madam, as you appear not to be aware, let me tell you that as Patron of this Benefice, I am within my rights to select and appoint—the term, I believe, is to collate—any minister I wish. The Rights of Presentation belong to me, if you are capable of understanding such a thing. The Living is in my gift. And I know perfectly well what this PCC of yours is, I read about it in the stuff that H....never mind.’ She shot a filthy look at the wretched fax machine, the source of many woes, where its proximity to a jade figurine made her squirm with aesthetic embarrassment; but owing to certain top-security transmissions from HQ, she could not allow the machine to be placed elsewhere in the house where her unconfidential manservant would be sure to read them.
Having recovered the initiative, she relaxed somewhat. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion and your objection is noted. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet and…why I am telling you anything?’ The question was addressed to herself. ‘So kindly get off the premises before I sick the dogs on that loose-bowelled horse of yours. If you come again I will not be At Home, and that goes for everyone else too, so please to pass the word. By the way, who are you?’
Effie bridled. ‘Listen, lady, we already have a priest in our village, Reverend Ophelia Blondi-Tremolo. My friend and companion. What’s your bloke’s name—Dark? We don’t need that fat baboon of yours throwing his weight around. He’s already offended everyone without saying a word, only opening his mouth to stuff stuff in it.’
Despite herself the devil lady was interested. ‘Ah yes, this Ophelia woman. Your partner, I understand, is that right? You must be Effie. I have read your curricula vitae, they were sent to me by…never mind who they were sent to me by. Your Ophelia is top of my list for investigation. Ophelia Blond…that’s quite a name. Sounds foreign, and I didn’t think you went in for foreigners in Harrumphshire. Or a cross between a hairdresser and an organ-stop. What do people call her, Mother Ophelia? Sister Ophelia? And how about you? I suppose you have any number of cutesy pet names for each other. I don’t suppose Euphemia is the handle of choice.’
Effie’s chin shot up in acute umbrage, exposing the wattles of her throat, and the DL leered. ‘Aha! score one for me. Now then, since you’re here. I understand your Ophelia’s not exactly persona grata with the Bishop. Am I right or am I right? Don’t think that I blame her for that, though. Quite the contrary. I dislike bishops myself.’
Except when they were roasting on a spit, she reflected. In Hell there were so many bishops they were hard put to find enough labours for them all to do; one only had so many salt mines. The Department of Corrections—it was such a nice euphemism—had more staff dedicated to the episcopal category of soul than it did to any other, in a ratio of four to one. Bishops and higher: the devil lady had had an archbishop confirmed to her credit by the Damnable Deaths Review Board, known to all as the O Sole Mio, in her early successful career; and one of her closest coups, the one that would have made her for death, had been when she nearly nailed a Pope who had been both married and had several illegitimate daughters. But although the Pope still ended up in Hell, labelled Sextus the First, the DL had lost him because he was poisoned by his wife.
But that was ancient history and the devil lady smiled, her good humour restored. ‘Well, that’s enough said for now. But as we get to know each other better, Effie, and believe you me we will get to know each other better, there are some fascinating items I might be prepared to share with you. Declassified material only, of course, nothing controversial. Damn me for being such a bigmouth. But for now, just to show what a reasonable person I am, so accommodating of local sensibilities, despite the unofficial and unorthodox nature of this encounter I’ll take the opportunity to tell you that, on a pro tem basis only, I’m prepared to let your Ophelia continue in her duties in her capacity as stipendiary curate. Shall I repeat that or put it in words of one syllable? Effie, I am not reassured by that uncomprehending expression on your face. O-phe-li-a can stay on for now, how’s that? But because I’ve heard that she’s something of a loose cannon, lowly hedge-priest though she is, I’m holding you personally accountable for keeping her under control. You’ve had to do that rather a lot over the years, I understand, so keep up the good work. Advise her to be very careful what she says in her sermons, for both your sakes. My moods can change very quickly, Effie, just so you know.
‘But fie on me for gabbing on like an old woman! Ah. Odd as it is that we should end this impromptu tête-à-tête as we began it with passing reference to the weather, Effie, I will observe that it has suddenly become very dark as in black outside. I get a distinct impression of inspissated gloom. Which doesn’t bode well for your return journey. It wasn’t in the forecast, as I’m sure you know, good peasant stock as I’m sure you come from, or you would have deferred your visit.’
Effie turned to look and, indeed, a very large black cloud was occluding the sky and some very big raindrops were rolling down the window-panes. Already furious with herself for not having got a word in for longer than she never did not get a word in, this caused her to frown deeply.
The DL smiled at her vexation. ‘Don’t let a drenching make you forget what I said about Ophelia. Warn her that if she steps out of line she’ll become very non-stipendiary and non-curatorial in a hurry. If that doesn’t sound like a threat I can assure you it is, and only an intimation of what will follow. Nemo me impune lacessit, as they say in Bonny Scotland. Of course she shall comply. As I understand it she’s on thin ice as it is, having only the Bishop’s permission and not a licence to officiate, so her position is agreeably tenuous. In short, may I suggest that it is very much in Ophelia’s interests, and yours too if you value your, er, friendship with her, to make yourselves agreeable to the Reverend Fletcher Dark. Ophelia takes orders from him now. I have no interest in the man from a personal perspective, you understand, only the job he does for me. You on the other hand share with him an interest in the culinary arts, in that you like to cook, and he likes to eat, if that’s not too much of an understatement; so yours could be marriage made in H…. He’s a bachelor, you know.’
Effie shouted, ‘Let’s get back to the reason I came. Our vicar was a good man! There was no reason for anyone, least of all you, to give him the heave-ho. He’d been here for decades and he was very effective.’
‘By effective you mean he did what you told him to.’
‘Up yours. Nobody believes that story you put around about him and his wife. How dare you come around here raising Cain!’ The DL’s eyes widened slightly with surprise. ‘Ophelia’s extremely popular in this community and people’ll do anything to defend her. If you attempt the same thing on her as you did the vicar, try to give her the bum’s rush, you’ll have a fight and a half on your hands.’
The DL was miffed and sniffed. ‘The way I see it, I gave them a pretty sweet deal, old what’s-his-name and his wife. Better than they could have afforded on a Church pension. What were their names?’
‘The Reverend Nathaniel Posey and his wife Laetitia.’
‘Quaint. I can’t say the Poseys looked after this place very well, it was a disgrace, cost me no end of trouble and money to fix it up, much of which is still unreimb…. And that parrot of the old man’s looked as though it had psittacosis, not healthy, causes pneumonia in humans, I once lost a sou….’
�
�Listen, his career wasn’t over. He was a Doctor of Divinity and about to be made a canon. And I liked The Rectory the way it was instead of filled with all this poncey crap.’ Effie waved an arm round the room and knocked a terracotta statuette of Apollo off a rosewood table. It broke. ‘Sorry. Good thing it wasn’t valuable. Maybe it can be repaired.’ She finished Apollo off with a stamp of her foot. ‘If it was it ain’t now and it can’t be.’
As horrified as the devil lady was at the destruction of her prized Etruscan artefact, she realised it was important that she maintain her poise. The fireworks could come later and in a less precious environment. In a strangled voice she said, ‘Rather like your poor broken canon-in-waiting. Pity. Had I known you thought highly of him we could have debated liturgy together over hot toddies on long winter evenings.’
Effie clapped her hands impatiently to her sides as if they were the spurs she came without. ‘Spare me your sarcasm. As for your man Dark, I’m going to…I’m going to bake his balls in a cherry pie and send it round for your dogs to eat.’
At this the manservant, who had been standing to attention by the door throughout the encounter pretending that he was not listening, emitted a staccato laugh. Effie, encouraged, drew herself up to her full height, thereby adding a half inch. ‘Hey, you might think you’re a big noise in your impressive new residence here, Mrs Lady of the Manor, but you’ll soon see what we’re made of. This community will ram that tail of yours so far up your fundament that you’ll be using it as a tongue. Nathaniel warned me about you before he left. You’re bad news.’
The patina of the devil lady’s demeanour dulled and the muscles of her face worked. ‘I don’t think you have cause to be so confident, Effie. Believe me, you don’t want me as your enemy, more than you can avoid it. Those who go out looking for trouble are more of a gimme, to use a golfing metaphor, than one can ask for, and count for fewer points. There are no mulligans or second chances, only holes-in-one, in my… Blast. Anyway, I hate golf, nasty proletarian and badly dressed activity. Now see here, Effie. You obviously have an exaggerated sense of your own importance. This is my village, and the church too, neither of which were ever yours, nor will they ever be, for me to do with what I want. And I want much.’ She lightened. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but principled disagreements are one thing…these incivilities are unbecoming.’ They certainly were, she thought. Mud-wrestling with the Effies of this world was far beneath a tenured devil from her world, which was a world where there was a lot of Beneath.