A Load of Old Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  I could not see my hostess immediately but in any case was initially more intent on procuring a drink. It wasn’t exactly flowing and the choice seemed limited to fruit punch or sherry. Experience has too often taught me that the former is rarely fortified and so I opted for the sherry. It wasn’t very nice. Just as I was registering this fact I suddenly saw Mrs Fotherington on the far side of the room in a flowing mauve dress, bedecked with diamonds and talking to Reginald Bowler.

  On seeing me she gave a gay wave of her plump arm and endeavoured to move in my direction. She was balked in this by Bowler who was clearly intent on finishing the conversation. From what I could see there was a brief moment of tension as they squared up to each other: the one intent on departure, the other being as obstructive as convention would permit. Eventually she extricated herself and with fulsome greetings weaved her way over to where I was standing.

  “Ah, vicar,” she trilled, “so good of you to forsake your duties to grace this little gathering. How fortunate, how truly blessed we are!” It had never struck me that my presence was much of a benison to anybody but I smiled and nodded and made the appropriate responses to her enquiries about the vicarage. “I hope it’s not too spartan,” she said. “The late Reverend Digby Purvis was a widower, alas. His dear wife had the misfortune to be eaten by lions years ago in their missionary days. He lived a life of utmost piety – almost one might say of penitential sacrifice. The house has few creature comforts, he preferred the ascetic life. Indeed,” she continued, giving one of those Tinkerbell laughs that I soon came to know and hate, “I used to think of that little place as a veritable hermitage!” She touched my arm, adding in arch tones, “I hope you won’t be such a recluse, Francis!” I assured her that I would do my best not to be, while inwardly thinking that I was beginning to see the attraction.

  “His sermons, you know, were most impressive. Not easy to understand of course, but obviously deeply profound. In his latter days they radiated a significance utterly baffling!” She sighed. “Such spirituality! Don’t you think that’s too wonderful?” I hesitated, not quite knowing how to respond and also recalling the mounds of empty gin bottles I had found heaped up in my predecessor’s tool shed. Instead of answering I smiled and enquired casually how he had died.

  “Oh, some liver complaint, I believe…” she replied vaguely, adding with lowered voice, “such a worthy man, so high-minded.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for the late Digby Purvis, wondering what kind of hell he had been inhabiting in those lonely months closeted with his gin and his high mind, penning those incoherent sermons. I was glad I had bought my piano and wondered idly whether my next purchase should be a dog.

  However, I had no time to reflect on either matter as at that moment there was a tap on my shoulder and a voice boomed in my ear: “Ah, padre, monopolizing the sherry I see, and our good hostess!” It was Reginald Bowler. “Can’t have it all your own way, you know, cutting other fellows out. I know you clerical chappies – always an eye for the pretty ladies, ha! ha!”

  So saying he dug his elbow in the ribs of some particularly plain female who had the misfortune to be standing next to him and leered roguishly at Elizabeth Fotherington. She seemed in two minds whether to be flattered by his compliment or irritated by the intrusion. I was similarly ambivalent. His jovial patronage irritated me but I was relieved to be diverted from my hostess’s cloying appraisal of the spiritual life of the Reverend Purvis.

  Smarming and palming, Bowler delivered himself of further inanities for her benefit and at my expense. “You have to watch them, you know, these men of the cloth – dark horses they are, my dear good lady, dark horses!” Braying loudly he grabbed a passing sherry and downed it in a single gulp.

  “Oh really, Reggie!” she exclaimed. “You do talk nonsense. Dark horses indeed! You’ll embarrass our guest. Besides, I can see the dear vicar is as open as the day is bright!” She simpered up at me and I smiled bleakly.

  Somebody asked Bowler how his dog was. Before he could answer Mrs Fotherington cried, “Ah that sweet little doggie, what a pet he is! He is being such a good boy in the kitchen. Cook has given him some special titbits.”

  “Nothing sweet about Bouncer,” snorted Bowler. “A damned villain that dog is, a damned villain!” He stopped suddenly and in mock horror clapped a hand to his mouth and exclaimed, “Oh dear! Sorry, vicar. Pardon my French! Forgot you were here. Shouldn’t like to offend The Cloth, you know!” Bloody fool, I thought.

  The joint attentions of my hostess and Bowler were becoming irksome, and feeling things growing too close for comfort I took a step backwards. My heel connected heavily with something solid, and in the next instant a series of anguished howls emanated from the vicinity of my trouser leg: Bouncer. Sated with Cook’s titbits he had evidently sneaked into the drawing room in search of new delicacies. What he had got was a hefty blow from my foot. At the same time there was an almighty crash as the dog veered into one of the spindly tables. The silver bowl containing the fruit punch was sent flying, the entire contents splashing over Bowler’s backside. There was an appalled silence.

  I stared aghast as the animal squirmed and whimpered, displaying all the symptoms of imminent demise. The eyes of the room were riveted upon me and my victim.

  Bowler, all bonhomie gone, glared accusingly and snapped, “Well, that’s a fine thing, I must say!” adding icily, “I take it you didn’t see the dog there.” I doubted whether he had either, or indeed anyone else in the room; but exclaimed that of course I hadn’t and was terribly sorry etc., etc. Fruit punch trickling down his trouser legs, he continued to glower belligerently; and then stooped down to minister to Bouncer who, silent by now, stared up pathetically not unlike a hirsute Dame aux Camelias. He looked awful.

  Elizabeth Fotherington broke into a frenzy of wailing and general hand-wringing, while from elsewhere there were murmurs of sympathy – largely for the dog, some for the punch-soaked Bowler. Few, I imagine, were for me although one of the military was decent enough to mutter that no one but an idiot would bring a dog to a cocktail party. I was grateful for that and was inclined to agree but continued to maintain my air of cringing apology. People started to drift awkwardly to the door, bidding the hapless Elizabeth goodbye and then moving swiftly into the porch. One of the first to leave was the pinch-faced piano player, relieved no doubt to get the chance to give her plodding fingers a rest. Others soon followed, and with a crunching of feet and tyres on gravel they were away. The ‘little soiree’ was at an end.

  ♦

  A small group of us remained: Bowler of course with the afflicted Bouncer, Elizabeth and one of her house guests, myself, a couple of other people I didn’t know and the Veasey twins. One of the latter briskly took charge, directing that the vet be called immediately. “No,” her sister contradicted, “the creature will have to be taken there. It’s Robinson’s late-night surgery. He won’t come out.”

  Bowler looked impatient and said testily, “Drat! I shall have to call a taxi. My motor’s in dock and I certainly can’t carry the poor little brute.” He shot me a look of smouldering reproach. I suddenly brightened, realizing how I might be of use and possibly retrieve a bit of my lost status.

  “Don’t worry!” I cried eagerly. “My car is right outside my gate. It won’t take a moment to bring it over. We can be at the vet’s in ten minutes. Better telephone ahead to say we’re coming.” Not waiting for an objection I hurried from the house, trying my best to look firm and purposeful, and strode down the drive glad to be free of that oppressive room. Maurice, as I had heard him called, was still on his gatepost and stared balefully as I passed but this time I was too preoccupied with my mission to be unsettled by a peevish cat.

  When I returned with the car they were all assembled in front of the porch; Bowler in the middle looking damp and disgruntled, sodden trousers furled around his thin ankles. He was carrying Bouncer whose earlier whimpering had been replaced by grumbling grunts. I bundled master and dog into the smal
l back seat and said goodbye to my hostess. She had by now recovered her spirits and bade me an effusive farewell, babbling something about a knight in shining armour. In the circumstances I thought the analogy a trifle excessive but, as I was beginning to learn, there was much that was excessive about Elizabeth Fotherington.

  I don’t think Bowler liked the bit about the knight in armour. Glancing in the driving mirror, I caught him scowling fixedly at the back of my neck. He had taken out his pipe and was making clumsy attempts to light up. This was followed by a gurgling snort. It could have been either dog or master. However, the source was immaterial: as long as neither threw up I didn’t care. As it was, I was already worried about the sticky patch likely to imprinted on the upholstery. So with a brisk pump on the accelerator the car shot forward and we arrived at the vet’s in double quick time.

  ♦

  The last of the evening’s clients were leaving and Robinson ushered us in himself. He glanced quizzically at Bowler’s clammy trousers but said nothing. I offered to stay in the waiting room.

  “No, no,” he said genially. “You can come in. Bouncer won’t mind, he enjoys an audience. Besides, we can always do with benefit of clergy!”

  “Can we?” said Bowler drily.

  We trooped into the surgery, where Bouncer was put on the table and duly examined. He was surprisingly biddable, allowing himself to be poked and prodded, and at one point seemed about to nod off.

  “He’ll live,” announced Robinson cheerfully. “Nothing much wrong here – always makes a drama! Bit of shock and bruising and he’ll be pretty stiff for a few days. Still, I’ll have to bandage that back leg – it received the full brunt of the kick and there’s quite a graze.”

  “I didn’t kick him!” I broke in indignantly. “I simply stepped back and…”

  “As good as,” muttered Bowler. The vet affected not to hear and busied himself with bandages. I couldn’t help noticing that in the course of drying, the fruit punch on Bowler’s seat and thighs was beginning to turn a pale amber. I hoped that Robinson hadn’t noticed but could not be sure.

  “The problem is,” he said, deftly securing a wad of padding to Bouncer’s leg, “he won’t like this and will try to tug it off. But it’s got to remain in place for at least two days.”

  “Well, you can’t expect me to go round like a nanny constantly pinning him up,” protested Bowler. “I’ve got important matters to attend to!”

  “We can put him in a protective collar,” Robinson explained. “There’s a new device from Scandinavia, not many of them about yet. It looks a bit funny, rather like an inverted lampshade, but it does the trick. Stops them getting at the patch and it’s surprising how quickly they adapt.” He went over to a cabinet and pulled out a large box. “The suppliers normally send white ones but they must have run out or something and they’ve sent us a consignment from Paris instead. They’re just as good but a different colour – pink actually. Something to do with their poodles, I suppose.”

  He took from the box what looked like a large poke-bonnet or indeed, as he had described, a lampshade. He laid it on the table and we regarded it in silence. Bouncer sniffed at it curiously.

  I had not seen one of these before and started to smile. Bowler must have seen me smiling for with scarlet face he suddenly rounded on the vet and in a voice of thunderous fury bellowed: “Look here, Robinson, if you imagine I am going to allow a dog of mine to mince about wearing a pink hat like some frigging fairy, you’ve got another think coming!”

  There was a long silence. And then from the table Bouncer stared up at the three of us. He belched loudly.

  6

  The Cat’s Memoir

  It never ceases to amaze me, the sheer duplicity of human nature. How fickle and manipulative that species can be! Those neighbours of Fotherington for example, who had seemed so appreciative of my charms…far from being receptive to my overtures they treated my plight with a boorish indifference bordering on rank hostility.

  Such ill nature was not apparent when my mistress was alive and I can only conclude that their former blandishments were simply a means of ingratiating themselves with that addled woman and getting their grasping hands on what Bouncer would call ‘a slice of the dosh’. She used to shower them with lavish presents and provide their obnoxious offspring with treats and buns. I suppose they thought they were on to a good thing. Talk about cupboard love: if that didn’t take the blue sardine! They showed themselves up as completely two-faced and I was required to rethink my entire strategy. It was really too bad.

  However, being a resourceful cat I quickly concocted a Plan B in pursuit of which I started to make a reconnaissance of the vicarage. As a place of permanent refuge this had a certain potential – although compared to my late mistress’s abode it was of course a modest property; and peering through the windows I observed a ramshackle disorder not normally to my taste. Beggars, however, cannot be choosers and I did spy a few promising nooks congenial to a cat of my independence. It might suit moderately well. Already I felt detached from my current menage. Cats have few nostalgic ties. We are designed for freedom and self-preservation and cannot be encumbered by the constraints of undue sentiment.

  By my standards the vicarage garden was small and spartan: little evidence of that luxuriant catmint gracing Elizabeth Fotherington’s winding paths. However, there were fields at the back and it abutted on to a sizeable graveyard. I had never really noticed this before, having had little occasion to wander beyond the area of The Avenue, but it could, I thought, yield all manner of pleasurable possibilities.

  There were for example tombs galore: their surfaces ideal for summer slumbering, and their shadowy angles perfectly set for the concealed ambush, the brisk pounce on passing mouse or marauding dog. Everywhere there was camouflage (whose value, you may remember, I have already remarked): long grass, thick dark yew trees, deceptive laurels, trellises of ivy and swathes of trailing bindweed. In the neater parts where the grass was clipped there were mounds of freshly dug earth sometimes decked with flowers, its texture fine and crumbly and ideal for good scratchings or attending to matters of ablution. In fact the more I examined the place the more enticing it became.

  Its quiet isolation had further appeal although I did rather wonder whether I should miss the little dramas of The Avenue – particularly those bracing skirmishes with Bouncer and his idiot master. But I assumed the graveyard would provide its own brand of drama: diggings, processions, the panoply of cope and fluttering surplice – spectacle enough to feed a feline curiosity. Besides, were I to weary of such novelties I could always return to Bowler’s garden and madden him by playing the Wall Game.

  But it was all very well dreaming of graveyard delights. What about the vicar, Francis Oughterard? Would he prove a suitable host? It was essential I had someone congenial this time, not a babbling ninny like my late mistress. From what I had observed he seemed an inoffensive creature but one could never be sure. Being a conservative cat I dislike constant change and did not relish further upheaval should he prove otherwise. I would quiz Bouncer on that score as I knew his master had some link with the church. Certainly he was always trekking off there on a Sunday (Bouncer being left behind gnawing one of those repellent bones), so the dog might have learned something of its incumbent. His habit of referring familiarly and unsubtly to Oughterard as ‘Old F.O.’ at least implied a presumption of knowledge.

  In all events, I knew I had to proceed with the greatest circumspection. It would have been dreadful to make another error of judgement as I had done with those wheedling counterfeits next door!

  Thinking of them returns me to the question of my feeding programme and other domestic matters. For the time being I still had the run of Marchbank House and was thus hardly a refugee (although judging from the gross decline in culinary standards since her death you might have thought so). The lumpen daughter had come to stay – ostensibly to settle her mother’s affairs but principally I suspect to ensure that her portion didn�
�t go adrift. According to Bouncer, Bowler was the executor. With someone as crass as that in charge I should think all manner of things could have gone wrong.

  Being less garrulous, the daughter was not quite so bad as the mother; but she was very large and took up too much room for my liking. She regularly stuffed herself into my favourite armchair and didn’t seem to grasp that my sleeping arrangements required the eiderdown and both pillows in the best spare bedroom. She had appropriated all of these, which in the circumstances struck me as remarkably inconsiderate. Very often, just when I needed a little repose in the conservatory, I would find her there: sprawled over wills and testaments and eating sandwiches noisily. It was all exceedingly tiresome and I looked forward to the vicarage business being settled.

  ♦

  Returning from exploring the graveyard one morning I encountered Bouncer mooching about in the bushes. He rushed up to me, barking and whooping and throwing himself about as if I had just returned from the North Pole. He was full of questions about my plans; but wishing a little longer to reflect I was disinclined to divulge them immediately. All in good time, I thought to myself. In fact that is precisely what I said to him, adding that he must learn to be patient. He looked at me reproachfully and then tail in air stalked off grumpily muttering something about cats and baskets.

  I felt a pang of remorse thinking that perhaps I had been just a trifle curt. The foolish fellow meant well. And besides, I did need to ask him about the vicar. So I followed him into the shrubbery where he was busy practising his bone-burying technique, and after a few moments began to purr rhythmically. This has a soothing effect, and when I saw he was sufficiently mollified I told him that I was thinking of taking up residence at the vicarage. He stopped his scrabblings and sat back on his haunches looking thoughtful. And then said casually: “Of course you do realize he’s off his chump.”