by Ashly Graham
Ophelia forced a laugh, partly to reassure them both that all was well and partly, because she shared Effie’s antipathy, to keep the mouse at bay. ‘I hope there might have been more to it. Perhaps, perhaps not. Maybe. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure. We did warn her about them, with good cause as it turned out.’
‘And with good effect.’ Effie smiled. ‘It’s lucky that servant fellow didn’t have time to use the Heineken manoeuvre on her. I tell you, though, it’s going to be some time before I can bake another rock cake, let alone eat one. There’s half of the same batch left at home, but after them the village’ll have to make do with shortbread. Myself, I’m on a flapjack diet.’
Together the women walked outside, and round to the stable block at the back where Effie had parked her horse. They found it eating hay and docile, and there was no sign of the late Lady of the Manor’s highly strung ebony stallion.
‘Her and the horse she rode in on, then,’ said Effie with satisfaction. ‘Come on, Ophelia, the weather’s fine, what say we walk the beggar back along the bridle-path?’
And so like Adam and Eve at the end of Paradise Lost, with wandering steps and slow, through the woodland Eden above the village Effie and Ophelia homeward took their solitary way.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The following day Effie and Ophelia were sitting in the kitchen, recuperating over a cup of tea and slice or three of sponge cake, when there was a knock at the door. Effie wiped the crumbs from her mouth, brushed them from her lap onto the floor, and looked inquiringly at Ophelia. ‘Who on earth…or places else…could that be? Are you expecting someone?’
Ophelia tidied the newspaper the newspaper she was reading. ‘No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Most likely it’s for you.’
Effie went to lift the latch and crack the door, but when she looked out there was nobody there. She was about to go inside when she looked down and saw a short male figure—he could not have been more than five feet tall—whom she did not recognize at the foot of the doorstep. She opened the door wider.
Their visitor was an elfin, gentle-looking individual, bald except for two vestigial strands of hair that were plastered across his cranium. He was wearing a tired Harris tweed sports jacket with a green Paisley handkerchief in the breast pocket, and leather patches at the elbows, a knitted tie and check shirt, and round National Health spectacles with wire frames and ear springs. It was clear from the way that the man was shifting from foot to foot that he was ill at ease.
‘Can I help you?’ Effie said, in a tone that conveyed she would rather not. She put her hands on her hips and frowned, thinking that he must be a traveller who had been caught short and wanted to use the toilet.
‘I’m t-terribly sorry to bother you.’ And he did sound truly apologetic. ‘The name’s Carruthers, Samuel J. Carruthers. At your service, ma’am.’ Before Effie could move to block the door the little man peered inside. ‘At both your services,’ he added, squinnying at Ophelia and waving to her in greeting. Ophelia raised her hand in acknowledgment.
Effie waited for further enlightenment, smoothing her apron and pursing her lips. Her tea was getting cold and there was a tray of something, she could not remember what, in the oven.
‘To what do we owe the…pleasure?’
‘I’ll come straight to the point.’
Effie doubted it, for the man started coughing as if his windpipe was blocked, and his eyes filled with tears. She tapped her foot as she waited. When the fit was passed Mr Carruthers said, ‘I do beg your pardon. Please don’t think that I’m trying to frighten you when I tell you that I’m what they call a Specialist. I’m in the area on official business to investigate the affair of the she-devil you are…were acquainted with. Mrs Diemen, you called her, and it’s as good a name as any.’
Effie’s features went rigid, and she sorely regretted having answered the door.
‘Please, don’t be concerned,’ said Mr Carruthers; ‘this is just a formal visit to introduce myself, nothing more. I wish you no harm.’
‘I don’t believe you. Get off my property.’
Looking over his shoulder, Mr Carruthers bent forward and lowered his voice. ‘I wonder, would you mind if I came in for a moment? I hate to disturb you…’
‘Quite,’ said Effie. ‘You heard what I said.’
‘Please, what I have to say is important, very important.’
‘Stay where you are and make it snappy. I’ve got buns in the oven.’
‘Shortbread actually,’ said Mr Carruthers, looking pleased. ‘Very good shortbread, too, I should say, and it’s ready to come out. It smells heavenl...delicious.’ Effie, despite herself and her state of nerves, was prepared to be flattered. She hesitated and the so-called Specialist followed up his advantage. ‘I have a proposition to make to you both,’ he said, ‘and I’d rather do it in private.’ He looked over his other shoulder. ‘There’ll be no tricks, I swear. Cross my heart and hope to…you know what I mean.’
Effie turned to Ophelia, who was listening to the conversation from where she was sitting, for her reaction. Instead of responding her friend pointed to a large tin on the sideboard. It contained the remainder of yesterday’s batch of rock cakes, which had been set aside for putting out at church on Sunday. Neither of them would be touching a crumb. Ophelia got up, took down a willow pattern plate from the dresser, opened the tin, and used a pair of wooden tongs from the drawer to set out several rock cakes.
Effie nodded and stood to one side, and Mr Carruthers, thanking her profusely, mounted the steps and scuttled in before she could change her mind. Effie pushed the door half closed with her foot. Ophelia stood up, and the man bobbed like a robin in the middle of the floor as he shook hands with each of them twice.
Effie said tartly, ‘Sit down, Mr Specialist Carruthers,’ and she indicated the chair at the other end of the table, so that Ophelia and she would be closest to the partially open door. The man headed for it. Sitting down, he continued to betray his edginess by crossing and uncrossing his legs, and humming as he looked about him. Effie removed the shortbread—which was indeed baked to perfection—from the oven, cut it into slices, transferred them with a spatula from the square parchment-lined pan onto a rack to cool, and sat down. The Specialist stopped humming and sniffed appreciatively.
‘You’ll have some tea, surely,’ said Ophelia; and without waiting for an answer she took another cup off a hook on the dresser, and an extra saucer and side-plate and teaspoon from the cupboard and drawer underneath, placed them before their visitor together with a paper napkin, poured from the Brown Betty, replaced the tea cosy, slid a blue-and-white-striped milk jug and a sugar bowl towards the man, topped up Effie’s and her cups, and sat down again.
As carefully as if he were measuring plutonium, Mr Carruthers...who seemed now to have calmed down...took half a spoonful of sugar, shook a few grains back into the bowl, stirred the remainder into his cup, tapped the spoon on the rim, touched the surface of the liquid with the tip to remove the final drip, placed it in the saucer, and took several sips.
‘Oh, that’s good,’ he said. He accepted a piece of sponge cake from the plate that Ophelia held out, and ate it all very slowly, wiping his mouth between bites with the napkin. The two women waited impatiently for him to finish it and be ready to speak again, since he was apparently too polite and appreciative to eat and talk at the same time.
‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ he began, setting the cup down for the fourth time. Effie snorted but contrived to turn the sound into a sneeze, and the Specialist jumped. ‘Bless…er, gesundheit,’ he continued. ‘Where was I? Ah yes. First, may I say how much I appreciate your trusting me like this, after all you went through yesterday. It must have been a harrowing experience.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Effie.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the Specialist loudly; ‘it must have been a very…’
‘I’m not deaf, Mr Carruthers. As for the trust part, that will have to be earned.�
�
‘How right you are. Before I explain myself, would you mind if I peeked in the oven?’
‘The oven? What! You mean…’
‘It’s possible. It’s more than hot enough in there for...them.’
‘What about my shortbread? At least we haven’t eaten any yet. You open it.’ The Specialist got up and came over, declined an oven mitt, knelt down and opened the fire door, and stuck his head as far inside as it would go. Then he withdrew his head, removed his spectacles, used his tie to wipe the steam off the lenses, put his head back in, took it out again, wiped his fogged spectacles a second time, closed the door, and resumed his seat.
The women stared as he took a sip of tea. Not even his eyebrows were singed. ‘Well?, said Effie in exasperation.’
‘Excellent, excellent.’
‘Excellent from whose point of view?’
‘Yours. Ours. There’s nothing, nary a trace of anything except a very large beef bone. Nasty creatures, demons: a necessary evil where I come from, but that doesn’t mean one has to like them. Now then, ladies, to proceed. I am ready to make a very sensitive proposition to you. You’ve seen at first hand what happens to devils who contravene Infernal Law. Much of which, and a large part of our Constitution, I confess without any pride, I was responsible for writing. Specialists, I should explain, are the thinkers rather than the doers in Hell. Like Jesuits, we are teachers. We are theoreticians, judges, overseers, planners. We sit on committees. Many committees. We do not go out into the field to engage with humans, only with other devils when we are conducting a field audit or investigation.
‘Until today that is. But I can assure you that our contact will be brief and inconsequential, more of a courtesy call, really. You see…’
‘Not yet we don’t,’ said Effie. ‘When do we get to the proposition bit?’
‘I’m sorry to be so long-winded, please bear with me. Not only am I a Specialist, but I rank high enough to be a member of the Infernal Council, and I have just been re-elected for another four-year term. Somewhere in the not-too-distant future there’s a possibility that I will be elected Chairman; which, not to be overly alarmist, would amount to my assuming the position of...’
Effie and Ophelia’s eyes rounded. The Specialist looked apologetic and held up a hand. ‘There’s no need for concern, or a rolling-pin. You see…I mean…well, as embarrassed as I am to admit it, I confess to suffering from a similar condition—a much more serious one, given my position—to that of Mrs Diemen, may her frazzled carcass soon be restored to active duty somewhere else, and nowhere near as pleasant. Put another way, she is not alone in experiencing the emotions that were responsible for causing the erratic behaviour you witnessed yesterday.’
Effie looked at him grimly. ‘We haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Ma’am, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m burned out. Whacked, bushed. Knackered, if you’ll excuse the term. I’ve been at the forefront of this industry for so long that…for too long. I want to retire. They…we expect so much of us Specialists. Although we have a fearsome reputation, commanding great power and authority, the pressure upon us is, well, out of this world. It gets to one after a few thousand years, and it’s not as if one can take a holiday. Mere mention of this makes me guilty of the worst offence that it’s possible to commit in Hell, so you must…I beg you to believe that I’m throwing myself at your mercy.
‘Which of course I don’t deserve. Should any word leak out of what I have just confided in you, even I, Samuel J. Carruthers, quake at the prospect of what would happen to me at the hands of my peers. But to my credit, I think, is that, fortunately for you, Effie and Ophelia, I decided to come here in person and not send some ambitious young devil looking to turn your parish inside-out for the purpose of adding the achievement to his or her Curriculum Mortis.’
‘Somewhere,’ sighed Effie, ‘in the dim and distant past I still recall something about a proposal. So far you’re not exactly a minefield of information.’
The little man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and crimped the knot of his tie. ‘It is this: I am looking to escape from Hell. I want to disappear into total anonymity in a place where no one can find me. I vont to be more alone than Greta Garbo. I want to grow flowers and vegetables, and read mystery novels, and bake bread, and study the stars and planets, and do some bird-watching, and learn how to play the piano.’
‘How nice,’ said Effie. ‘What has this got to do with us?’
‘In short, I want to come and live in your village.’
‘You what?’ said the women in unison.
‘That’s right. And if you should be gracious enough to permit me to do so, I solemnly pledge by all that’s...I undertake not to interfere with your activities. I should stay out of your and everyone else’s way. I will not socialise. I will not come to church. No one other than yourselves would know I was here. I will dedicate myself to living…living!...the life of a harmless hermitic nobody.’
‘Again, Mr Carruthers, why should we believe you? Mrs Diemen may be gone, but we still have this Flabby Dark character to deal with. What if you were to take over where Diemen left off?’
‘That’s not going to happen. There’s a very nasty piece of work, a long-time competitor of mine with a very far-reaching agenda, who is going to be keeping your other reverend occupied in another area entirely that has nothing to do with you.’
The Specialist bowed his head. ‘Look, ladies. Obviously my motives in coming here are selfish. Fact is, I’ve already got my heart set on a particular little cottage just off the common. It’s available for rent and needs a lot of work, which appeals to me because DIY is one of the things I’m interested in. With your permission I’d apply for the lease. Please, take as long as you want to think about it. I can come back tomorrow if you’d like to sleep on it, or in a few days. If you say No, I will leave immediately and never darken…though that may not be the right word for a man of my stature, only for your other Reverend...your door again. Only where I’d go next, I really don’t know…’
Mr Carruthers assumed a mournful expression and, withdrawing a folded white handkerchief from an inside breast pocket, blew his nose.
After Effie and Ophelia had exchanged a significant look, Effie pushed the plate of rock cakes towards the Specialist. ‘Will you have a rock cake, Mr Carruthers?’
The Specialist put his handkerchief away and shed his mournful look. Now his eye twinkled as he said, ‘Oh, no thank you, ma’am. Your reputation for rock cakes has spread far and wide. Much further and wider than you may think.’
The women could not help but break out laughing. ‘Very well, Mr Specialist Carruthers,’ said Ophelia, ‘I think I speak for both Effie and myself in saying that you have yourself a deal. We will take you at your word, and though you’ll be living nearby we will leave you alone. But if it turns out that you’re responsible for creating even the teensy-weensiest bit of trouble, Effie will come for you and she will bake you into one very large rock cake, and then we and all the villagers will bowl you down the Devil’s Breach until you break into pieces.’
The Specialist beamed from ear to ear and, standing, bowed to each of them. Then he shook them both effusively by the hand to seal the bargain.
‘And now,’ said Ophelia pleasantly; ‘perhaps you would like to take a turn around the garden. We think you’ll agree that the flowers are very fine at this time of year. We might even be able to spare you some seeds to plant after you’ve settled in.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Confronting the scoundrel morning, the Reverend Fletcher Abraham Dark—still in situ but no longer practising now that he no longer had anyone to report to, except the local post-mistress for his half pension—sat down to breakfast in the living-cum-dining room at the Annexe behind the now vacant Old Rectory, and took slow deep breaths, as if he were inflating himself into three dimensions from the pages of a book. He needed his strength, and the dishes before him awaited pr
oof of the mettle of his digestive system.
Lowering his head, the turbine of knife and fork whirled and fanned his moistening brow. Every third mouthful he paused to suck in a sludge of instant coffee, made from catering-tin powder rather than freeze-dried granules, which he poured from a pretentious height out of an old earthenware jug. As the reverend’s rubbery lips applied Charybdean suction to the mug beneath the proud hairs of his flaring nostrils, his protuberant eyes disappeared in their sockets and re-emerged at the end of each draught.
Dark spared a thought for that noble animal, the pig, which had sacrificed itself so that he might feast on it and prepare himself for the day. The phrase “You are what you eat” flickered in his consciousness, and a spasm of humour shook his midriff and twinged the hernia scar before dissipating in the rolls of fat beneath his straining soutane. He dived once more into the trough, and, when the table was bare, leaned back and filled his lungs with an Aeolian-sized bag of air.
‘Bartholomew!...Bart!…Bring!’
The ears of the sparsely furnished room were deafened by the sound, which was followed by an echo...Bring...ring...nng…ng...like that of a very loud telephone. After a moment, while the reverend thrummed his porky fingers on the Formica table, there was a soft-shoe shuffle in the passage, a hand fumbled with the door-knob, and a beaky nose poked in: the property of one Bartholomew, or Bart! (Dark always uttered the contraction as an exclamation). Actually, any loud noise was sufficient to summon the Bart! from the kitchen where it spent his days; and nights too, for as a favour it was allowed to bed down next to the stove with Dark’s flea-ridden mongrel, a creature upon whom the reverend lavished genuine affection.
The person who entered, piecemeal, was a male middle-aged scraggly-bearded half-deaf toothless albino cretinous Epsilon-Minus Semi-Moronic cripple with a cleft palate: a combination of qualities that had greatly recommended it—Dark was ignorant of the individual’s sex—to the reverend, and caused him to remove him from the county lunatic asylum on the pretext of taking him into his care, custody and control, and press him into wageless service as his housekeeper. Mirabile dictu, this Bartholomew had a spouse, a woman identical in appearance and disabilities to himself. The pair had fallen in love over a bed-pan at the institution they called home, and the chaplain married them on the ward to the fond applause of nurses, orderlies, an attending physician, a consultant, plus numerous distracted fellow occupants and various of their relatives who had unlimited visiting rights by virtue of all being a chin whisker away from committal themselves.