He must have sensed he was being watched for he suddenly broke off his conversation and shot me a cool heavy-lidded look. I was slightly nonplussed, not knowing whether to acknowledge his presence or affect unawareness. However, the question proved academic for he showed no sign of recognition and turned back to his companion. Feeling relieved though oddly a little disappointed, I attended to my drink and a copy of the evening paper. When I looked up again he had detached himself from his companion and was crossing the room in my direction. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man at the bar shrug and turn away.
“Well, well, well, Francis Oughterard! Long time, no see. What are you doing down here in Brighton all on your owney-oh!” The reedy mocking voice brought back the past with an unsettling jolt.
“I could ask the same, Nicholas,” I replied, drawing up a chair and offering him a cigarette. He made a wry face.
“Oh God, you’re not still smoking those awful weeds, are you?” And as if to underline the point he took out his case and withdrew a black Balkan Sobranie, snapped open an enviably slick-looking lighter and settled into his chair, lazily expelling the smoke and sipping some virulent pink mixture in a cocktail glass.
We exchanged a mutual appraisal and engaged in pleasantries describing such aspects of our lives as each was prepared to divulge. I told him a little about Molehill and he told me rather less about his life in Brighton. (“Oh, pictures and such, dear boy…”) He asked if I had married and when I said no, grinned and said cryptically, “Probably as well, there would only have been tears before bedtime.” I was somewhat affronted by that and was about to ask what he meant but thought better of it, and instead directed my attention to his pink drink.
“What ever is it?”
“The Bishop’s Floozie,” he answered cheerfully. “Two parts brandy, one each of Dubonnet and Triple Sec, a dash of angostura and a whisk of rum cream. They make the best ones on the south coast here. You should try one.”
I shuddered. “No thanks, it sounds disgusting.”
He laughed and then said, “Talking of bishops, who’s yours these days?”
I told him it was Clinker and he almost did the nose trick.
“Good Lord! Horace Clinker. So he’s still around! Well, well. Fancy his being your boss – that’s a bit of a trial, isn’t it?” I agreed that it was just a bit but I could imagine far worse.
“Yes, I daresay. After all, in his heyday old Hor was quite a goer. He and I were on good terms for a while until he met the ghastly Gladys.” He paused a moment and closed his eyes – presumably visualizing the ghastliness. “And then of course there was that other little problem.” He smirked. “You may remember.”
“Yes,” I replied drily, “I remember.” The ‘little problem’ had in fact been a massive scandal which had rocked St Bede’s and almost cost Clinker his promotion. Things of course eventually died down and the righteous public turned its predatory gaze elsewhere. But it had been a close run thing and something which I imagine bishops would not be too keen on recalling.
Nicholas had known Clinker at Oxford in the thirties when the latter was a junior divinity don and Nicholas an undergraduate at Merton reading Classics. I gather they had originally met through some bridge circle, and despite differences in age and background had become close drinking companions. However, Clinker had married, became ordained, and with the advent of war they lost touch completely. What Nicholas had done in the intervening years was unclear, presumably some sort of war service although I didn’t recall him mentioning it at college. It was unlikely that he would have been a conscientious objector as being interned for one’s principles wasn’t exactly Nicholas’s style. Anyway, whatever he had been doing, some sort of religious interest must have played a part for when I arrived at St Bede’s in late 1946 he was already in his second year.
He was a few years older than me and we didn’t have a great deal of contact but I recall being uncomfortably impressed by his air of unctuous anarchy. It happened that Clinker was the then acting Dean and I rather gathered had pulled a few strings to smooth the entry of his old bar crony. Such loyalty was misplaced. For as things turned out the protege proved a considerable liability. Whereas the influence of Gladys and the requirements of position had resulted in Clinker becoming all but teetotal, Nicholas’s consumption had increased prodigiously and he was fast getting the reputation for being a lush. This was not the only reputation he was acquiring. He had developed – or was choosing to indulge – a propensity for close encounters in situations not normally approved.
Clinker had seemed curiously deaf to the rumours, and even the more exotic of Nicholas’s adventures passed without obvious comment from the top. In this respect I rather wondered if Nicholas didn’t have a bit of a hold over him, something perhaps from their Oxford days which Clinker preferred to let lie. Whatever the reason, Nicholas Ingaza was permitted a wide and louche discretion not usually accorded to trainee vicars – or indeed trainee anythings.
It could not and did not last. The drunken escapades and dubious trips to the West End culminated in a midnight telephone call from the police. There followed inevitably the usual lurid court case in all its prurience. Embarrassment fell in every direction. Publicly the college attracted its fair share of sniggering curiosity while privately Clinker was reprimanded for his laxity and ill-placed sponsorship. Matters were tense for him. Yet somehow despite all the fuss with the Church authorities he managed to maintain his position, rising in fact with surprising speed to his present episcopal status. Even the Turkish baths where Nicholas executed his dastardly gaffe continued to flourish, and indeed gained a fashionable notoriety. Only the culprit really suffered: ejected from the college, carted off to clink, and never heard of again until that evening in the summer of 1957 in the lounge bar of The Old Schooner, Brighton.
♦
Our conversation turned to less delicate matters and I told him a little more about Molehill, its mellow twelfth-century church and the more recherche tombs in its rambling graveyard.
“Your parish sounds a straight run,” he observed. “Trust you to wangle a cushy number. Though apparently you did get a bit pious and energetic for a time; really pulled the wool over their lordships’ eyes. All that ‘muscular’ Christianity!” He giggled, adding, “But it cost you, didn’t it, old man. Couldn’t stand the pace, I heard.” I was nettled by these remarks and said coldly that I didn’t know what he meant.
“Had a little upset, didn’t you? So I gathered.”
“I did not have an upset!” I exclaimed irritably. “I merely got rather tired, that’s all.” He had always been tiresome.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of describing it.”
“At least I didn’t get thrown out from anywhere!” I retorted.
“That’s true, Francis,” he said thoughtfully. “You always did manage to keep your head above water. Dark horses have a habit of walking just on the safe side – if you’ll excuse the yoking of metaphors.” And he smiled sardonically. Bugger the metaphors, I thought. Some safe side! However, I laughed in return, made a breezy comment and steered the conversation elsewhere. I did not care for the direction it was taking.
To ease the mood I asked about Clinker in the old days: had he really been as human as Nicholas implied?
“Oh yes!” he exclaimed. “Once upon a time Clinker was really quite bright – in both senses of the word. He had a certain intelligence – which of course became clouded after meeting Gladys – and a sense of humour too, albeit of a rather bald kind. He also had a penchant for strong cocktails.” He saw the sceptical look on my face, and went on, “Yes – gin in various guises, though his particular downfall was White Ladies. They used to be thought rather a feminine tipple but Hor took to the mix like a duck to water. Couldn’t get enough of the stuff. There was one frightful occasion when…” He broke off, gave a humourless smile and said, “Then of course Gladys came on the scene. She soon put a stop to that – and quite a lot of other things too.” F
or a brief moment he looked almost wistful, and then roared with what I felt was slightly forced laughter.
We chatted on casually for a while, recalling former colleagues, but the conversation grew desultory. Too much water had passed under our bridges; that and a certain mutual wariness made intimacy impossible.
Finally he stood up and announced his departure: “Well, Francis, I wish you all good luck in your Molehill. Here’s my number in the unlikely event you should ever want it. Give my regards to the good bishop when next you see him. Time I was off. Have to see a man about, er…” and he paused mockingly, “something or other – you know.” I didn’t know and didn’t care to.
Touching his hair lightly he moved towards the swing-doors where he turned, winked slowly and broadly, and with a languid wave disappeared into the passage and, as I then thought, once more out of my life. I decided to dine in after all.
10
The Cat’s Memoir
Having satisfied myself that St Botolph’s graveyard was indeed the paradise that it had first seemed, my investigations were now complete. The vicarage itself was less Utopian, but being a creature of eminent reasonableness I understand the virtue of compromise and – when it suits me – can practise it. I had intended to make a closer scrutiny of the vicar but was thwarted by his unexpected absence.
Peering in at the window I saw in his place a rather questionable type sprawled at the kitchen table. Since he was wearing a dog collar (not my favourite term) I took him to be one of F.O.’s associates. There was an array of bottles in front of him and two or three copies of Sporting Life. I am not enamoured of horses – they would kick a cat as soon as look at it – so was not impressed with the visitor’s choice of reading. However, it was imperative that I got my paws under the table, and so without more ado I jumped boldly through the open window ready to make soft-soapy overtures. You may recall that my previous attempts with Flirty-Gerty had not been a success, but she of course was a feeble Pom and I expected better results this time.
All went according to plan. The man (whose name I later learned to be Rummage), although patently a loon, was nevertheless susceptible to my blandishments. I purred cosily in what Bouncer would call a ‘matey way’ and rubbed my back endearingly around his ankles. These of course were just the preliminaries, softening-up tactics. My coup de théâtre was to follow. One of the chief things I have learned about human beings is that they love to be amused. If you can make them laugh then you are more than halfway to success.
Thus I commenced my circus tricks: a couple of balletic leaps, much chasing of tail, three brilliantly executed steps on my hind legs, and then a graceful sinking down upon my back with legs waving languidly and furry tummy displayed for tickling. They can’t resist it. And nor did Rummage. He started to make all the usual responses, flattered to think that he had been selected for special attention (as indeed he had), and soon a bowl of milk appeared followed by some not unpleasant pilchards.
These I consumed, sang again for my supper by indulging in a few more absurd antics, and then curled up discreetly behind the sofa in the sitting room. Two days later, as far as Rummage was concerned I was part of the household and he had got into the habit of putting out saucers of milk and fish. I just hoped that F.O. would have the courtesy to continue the practice when he returned from wherever he had gone.
11
The Vicar’s Version
I did not sleep as well as I had expected and experienced long periods of wakefulness punctuated by dreams of a disturbing and bizarre nature. The most memorable of these seemed to involve Nicholas and Elizabeth engaged in a convoluted foxtrot in the ballroom of the Blackpool Tower while I, sporting a bishop’s mitre if you please, endeavoured to keep the band in some semblance of tune. Somewhere from the region of the tearooms I kept hearing the bark of a rutting roebuck. It was all very wearing and I awoke at seven o’clock the next morning feeling tired and bleak. The weather had changed overnight, and instead of the previous day’s bright sunshine there was now a surly mist greying the windows and generally blighting the spirit. I lay staring at the ceiling contemplating the future and God knows what.
The immediate future was of course my sister Primrose and her new house between Brighton and Lewes. She had moved in four days previously and I liked to think that by the time I arrived the more arduous tasks would have been addressed by the removal men and kindly neighbours. I saw my own role as being supportive rather than practical.
I quite like my sister, and having observed other people’s consider myself lucky in having one who is relatively undemanding. Primrose is five years older than me; and like me tall, thin and unmarried. I don’t know why this last should be – women tend to marry on the whole – but it may be something to do with her monumental selfishness. I don’t mean selfish in the sense of being mean-spirited or unpleasant – nothing as obvious or paltry as that – but rather a total absorption in her own world and requirements. Provided that world is not impinged upon nor those requirements thwarted, Primrose is the model of civilized decency. But on the rare occasions when liberties are taken and boundaries crossed her capacity for resentment is prodigious and she assumes an energy for prejudice which, speaking as one who tires easily, I find remarkable.
The other outlet for Primrose’s energy is her painting at which she is surprisingly good. I say ‘surprisingly’ because one never really expects a member of one’s own family to be especially talented at anything; competent perhaps, but hardly good. Indeed, I recall our parents being distinctly put out when as a young woman Primrose began to display her quite exceptional (for our circle) artistic skills, and it was with a grudging and embarrassed grace that they were prevailed upon to send their daughter to the Courtauld Institute. Here it was intended she spend her days studying the Old Masters and honing her talent. She must have done a bit of that, I suppose; but from what I recollect – and subsequently heard – she passed much of her time engaged in subtle but dedicated riot – in which masters, both old and young, seemed to play a substantial part. Curiously Primrose’s florid lifestyle never really reflected itself in her pictures, for her particular and lucrative forte is the depiction of Sussex scenes – mainly Downland churches and grimly po-faced sheep; a choice of subject baffling to those who confidently expect to see a painter’s life mirrored in their art.
Anyway, there were three full days at my disposal before the visit to Primrose and her new house. The sea mist was clearing and already hints of sun had started to appear. I thought I would begin the time by reacquainting myself with the Royal Pavilion and exploring the older parts of Brighton. On one of the days a jaunt over the Downs would be nice, motoring to Birling Gap and the Seven Sisters, even perhaps as far as the old Belle Tout lighthouse at Beachy Head. I enjoy such meanderings and the prospect of sea air and freedom was pleasing.
In the meantime should I book a trip around the two piers on one of those sleek speedboats which the more intrepid trippers were queuing for? However, as I looked more closely at the motion of the craft and the rearing and slapping of its prow, I doubted whether my rather delicate stomach could cope. Regretfully I decided against it – one of the chugging motor launches was probably more my style. I was carrying Elizabeth’s binoculars and it also occurred to me that it would be a shame not to put them to good use, so perhaps a visit to Plumpton racecourse might be arranged or even over to Goodwood. The possibilities were numerous! First though to the Pavilion and the charms of Mrs Fitzherbert’s yellow drawing room.
♦
Having had only a light breakfast, by noon I was feeling quite peckish, and after the perambulations amidst the Prince Regent’s chinoiserie was in need of a mild bracer. There was a small and ancient-looking pub down a side street and I went in and ordered some ham sandwiches and a glass of beer. I don’t normally like beer but felt thirsty and it seemed in any case somehow appropriate to the holiday mood. There were only a few other drinkers huddled in corners, and the place was dark, quiet and restfully nond
escript. I sipped my drink and contemplated the dartboard, and for some reason an expert player I had once admired came into my mind: a WAAF called Madge.
During the war I had been on leave in the town a couple of times. It was hardly a safe haven – that stretch of coast attracting returning enemy bombers like moths to a candle – but it had been fun all the same. The place had been swarming with Forces personnel, particularly the RAF from Tangmere, and included the usual bevy of female auxiliaries, many of them Wrens billeted at Roedean. I could never achieve that ease with girls which came so naturally to most of my colleagues. It wasn’t that I shunned their company, but I could not entirely breach that careless circle of brazen joke and knowing laughter, and hovered diffidently on its edge envious of my friends and fearful of my own shyness. Somehow I knew that their sprawling world of easy and insouciant sex would never belong to me, would never really open its doors. Except that it did, just once, just fleetingly – through the ministrations of Madge Rivers.
Madge was what used to be known as a ‘goer’ – racy, disgraceful, delightful; and she was kind-hearted. Indeed her kind heart amounted to an almost missionary zeal, and on three sunlit afternoons in the confines of a boarding-house bedroom she instructed me carefully and cheerfully in the ‘man-woman relationship’. The experience was not unpleasant but it was more tiring and certainly more complicated than I had hitherto imagined. Madge applied herself with infinite patience and appalling humour. Feet stuck high in the air (principally I suspect to admire her scarlet toenails), she would giggle her instructions while I pushed and fumbled between her ample thighs. Then, spurred on by her yelps of encouragement, I would eventually reach where I was supposed to be and collapse on top of her in a grateful heap. After a while I too learnt to laugh, and as I turned lazily on my back would glimpse from between the half-drawn curtains some of that dazzling sun which must have been making her toes glint…
A Load of Old Bones Page 6