Hell’s teeth! I thought, savagely hurling the newspaper at the cat. It was less the threat to the legacy that worried me than the disturbing attention it created. Confound the woman, she was as bad as her mother! Worse really, for she had an intelligence, a low cunning quite lacking in the latter’s idiocy. Fate – or the ghost of Elizabeth – was forcing my hand and I should have to act after all. One thing was certain: I had no intention of meekly handing over the funds to the ‘bosom of the family’ – i.e. Violet Pond! Nevertheless, they would have to be got rid of, that much was obvious. Above all it was imperative that I appeared without a hint of motive.
At the time when it happened I had of course a very definite motive: the suppression of noise and maintenance of peace. Well, that move had backfired all right! I brooded for a while on the Macbethean ironies of the situation, even seeing myself as tragic hero caught in a proliferating web of self-made doom and raw coincidence. The reverie was interrupted by Bouncer who, taking advantage of Maurice’s hasty exit, had brought in one of his bones which he was now busily gnawing with gagging relish.
The throaty sounds returned me to the pressures of the moment and I started to ponder on to whom I could offload my ‘well-deserved windfall’.
At first I thought some ecclesiastical cause would fit the bill – a modest endowment for a theological scholarship, much-needed donations to the Diocesan Repair Fund, support for indigent clergy perhaps…No, none of these. Such a transfer might pander to the view of the Church as a self-serving club and thus play straight into the hands of the martyred Pond. Instead, just for a fleeting second an image of the charitable Mr Gladstone and his fallen women came to mind; but as a focus for philanthropy the latter would hardly enhance my position. I could envisage the headlines only too well: TARTS TO RECEIVE VICAR’S HUSH MONEY. BISHOP DENIES ALL!…Eccentric gestures had their place, I mused, but in this case securing a broad public sympathy was vital and it was unlikely that Molehill was ready to endorse charabanc holidays for ladies of the night.
I racked my brain trying to work out what worthy causes evoked most popular sentiment and over which I could not be accused of personal or professional bias. The young? The old? Dumb animals? Yes, all three were in the front frame and I could do a lot worse than share the money amongst them. These would surely fit the bill and presumably do a bit of good along the way as well. However, having decided what there was also the question of where. To make donations to large national organizations would certainly be well regarded, but to ensure personal gratitude and loyalty – and thus further defuse suspicion – it might be more practical to target local needs.
My mind roved over the area’s possibilities and finally alighted on the ramshackle barn which served as a venue for the Cubs and Brownies. That would be appreciated, I thought: a brand new community hall where Badgers and Pixies could cavort, tie knots and sing peculiar songs to their hearts’ content! Already I could see the beam of approbation on the faces of their parents and grandparents. And thinking of the latter – what about setting up a special Pensioners’ Christmas Party Fund? Properly invested, the money could generate gallons of beer and acres of bangers in perpetuity – far more fun and sustaining than the current dreary fare of weak tea and hard mince pies. And instead of the usual mix of bars of soap and plastic combs we could supply real presents: tins of ham, half bottles of whisky, curling tongs, and inexhaustible sets of garden gnomes…Why, we might even afford a professional cabaret artiste who would surely be much more entertaining than Mavis Briggs and her interminable recitations.
The idea took quite a grip on me and I must have been showing signs of excitement for I noticed that Bouncer had ceased his gnawing and was casting me furtive looks from under his fringe. Catching his eye I was reminded of my third needy category: animals. I paused here, feeling that in harbouring him and the awful Maurice I had perhaps already done enough for our dumb friends; however, if there was anything left over presumably a few hundred to the Dogs’ Home wouldn’t go amiss.
I leaned back in the chair mulling over these ideas, when all of a sudden came the flash of sheer genius – the Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Prize! An annual prize to be awarded to the chorister who in the judgement of the choirmaster, vicar and congregation (a whiff of democracy always impresses) had contributed most to the musical life of the parish and its choir. That little stone would surely settle a few birds! There could be a special award ceremony with plenty of pomp and processing and much mentioning of Elizabeth’s name. I even wondered whether one might go so far as to commission an anthem to mark the occasion, to be sung by the whole congregation and led by the chosen chorister. I could hear myself proclaiming it from the pulpit – “We are now going to sing the Elizabeth Fotherington Anthem. All please stand!”
I rather liked the sound of that and rehearsed it out loud a couple of times, something that seemed to distract Bouncer even further. He had now completely jettisoned his bone and was standing staring at me with that intent baffled expression that he often adopts and which can be quite unnerving. It had the effect of bringing me down from the wilder heights of fantasy but not before I had exclaimed jubilantly, “Trounced, Mrs Pond. Trounced!” (My recall is not exact and I think the original phrase had something to do with legacies and fundaments.)
Still chuckling, I went into the study to find my cigarettes but as I was crossing the hall the telephone rang. It was Clinker. What he had to say soon took the smile off my face, and once more I was engulfed in a pall of foreboding…
♦
The bishop’s news was as bleak as it was shocking. In bland, avuncular tones he had proceeded to tell me that while he was perfectly satisfied with my running of St Botolph’s he felt that ‘by and large’ and ‘on the whole’ my special talents(!) could be better employed in a different setting, namely as chaplain to the superannuated residents of St Chad’s Rest Home for Church of England Clergy. This was thirty miles from here in the middle of what I can only describe as a semi-industrial wasteland. I had once had occasion to visit the place and it had not been an enlivening experience; for days afterwards I had been haunted by that doleful line of Betjeman’s, ‘…old and ill and terrified and tight’. Old of course the residents certainly were; but in various degrees so did the other adjectives apply and the prospect of a permanent transfer appalled me. Rummage had once jovially referred to it as the Home for The Clapped-Out. Was this now to become my home, and how soon would it be before I too reached that condition – or was I perhaps more than halfway there already?
These were grim thoughts but the knife was given a further twist by Clinker’s airy announcement that he was thinking of replacing me with Rummage. Why Rummage, for God’s sake! According to Clinker he had acquitted himself remarkably well in my absence, had exerted such a stirring influence on the parish. (That was true, I thought: he had given them such a kick up the backside that they were still reeling from the shock and had welcomed my return with near grovelling relief!) What Molehill needed, the bishop opined, was someone of Rummage’s dynamic calibre to drag it into the twentieth century and deliver a spiritual depth-charge – whereas I, apparently, was ideally suited to ministering to the mellow and moribund. (He didn’t use that word but it was obvious what he meant.) He added benignly that he was also worried about the strain that the Fotherington/Pond business might be putting upon me and that doubtless I would be glad of a chance to ‘get away from it all’. Whether I was supposed to thank him for his thoughtful compassion I don’t know, but I certainly didn’t. He concluded by saying that since he was due here the following week for the Confirmation Service, he would drop in for a private chat the next day so we could ‘explore the matter more fully’.
What an end, what a prospect, what a sell-out! To think that I had staked everything, confronted the very jaws of Avernus to preserve my peace and sanity, when all along these were destined to be snatched away by the vagaries of some meddlesome bishop. Fate was really having its field day. What the hell now? Oh, what
the hell now!
I collapsed into my chair in the study where despite such misery I couldn’t help noticing that Bouncer was again staring at me intently. This time, however, he looked thoughtful rather than baffled, and I was surprised and quite moved when he came over, sat at my feet and put his chin on my knee. I ruffled his fur absent-mindedly, and somehow that woolly contact had a steadying effect. I calmed down and slowly began to gather my thoughts and devise some sort of defence against the bishop’s move.
Slowly, amid sips of whisky, the seeds of a strategy began to form. I say ‘seeds’ because nothing very clear was emerging, and what finally did was distinctly crude rather than inspired. I would get him drunk: completely and appallingly legless in Gaza! I thought of Nicholas and his hints about Clinker’s riotous past. (What was it at Oxford that had made him so soft on Nicholas at the seminary?) I thought of his alleged penchant for cocktails, his inability to resist ‘White Ladies’, and the disastrous effects they had on his behaviour. Just supposing that when he arrived to ‘explore the matter more fully’ I could somehow give him a whiff of earlier days, get him so gloriously tight that the ensuing shame would render the very names of Molehill and Oughterard anathema. With such fearful memories he might be only too glad to let sleeping vicars lie…It was a long shot of course, an absurdity. But nothing ventured nothing gained, and – as I had noticed once before – when desperation drives, anything does tend to go.
21
The Cat’s Memoir
The binoculars were still there gathering dust on the shelf where he had left them, but their strap had unfurled and was now dangling down in the most tantalizing way. Naturally, I could not resist giving it the merest tweak with a passing paw. They were more precariously balanced than I had supposed, and the instant I pulled they came tumbling down, narrowly missing me by a whisker.
The crash woke Bouncer who leaped up and roared, “You clumsy oaf! What did you do that for!” Well, as you can imagine, I was not having any of that! Never in my life have I been described as an oaf, let alone a clumsy one, and I certainly wasn’t going to tolerate such insults from Bouncer of all creatures. So without further ado I marched over to him, stood on my hind legs, and with both paws delivered a brisk one-two to the snout.
It was a deft little movement and very satisfying. But I had forgotten his propensity for theatricals and from the ensuing scene you would think he had been mauled by a tiger. The noise brought the vicar flapping in, effing and blinding and scattering ash all over the place, but by that time I had withdrawn to the rug where I crouched with eyes tightly shut, snoring vigorously. He picked up the binoculars, collared Bouncer and took both off to the kitchen. There was a noise of a tin-opener at work: presumably the ‘victim’ being fed a dollop of Muncho. I sat on the window-sill watching the sparrows and saw Bouncer sloping off in the direction of the crypt: obviously down to his lair to lick the imagined wounds. Peace at last and a chance to reflect on the inanity of dogs and parsons.
There wasn’t time to reflect for long. A few moments later the back door opened and I observed F.O. making a lolloping beeline towards the canal which runs behind the hedge in the adjoining field. He had the binoculars slung over one shoulder. I was slightly surprised at this as I had not known him to be a fellow bird-watcher. But you never know with humans, they get sudden and peculiar whims. Perhaps he was proposing to look at the stars; they seem to do quite a lot of that. Anyway, whatever was going on, he returned half an hour later without the binoculars. I must admit to being a little curious. It did not strike me as very logical behaviour but then humans are not given to logic – least of all F.O. Recalling the peevish display after the police visit I assumed his nerves were playing up again. My mind turned to more absorbing matters: the fish in the Veasey lily-pond and how to get at them without suffering further onslaught from those harridans!
♦
The night passed quietly. Bouncer’s basket in the kitchen remained empty and he had evidently elected to stay with the murk and spiders in the crypt. I just hoped it had put him in a more accommodating mood. It generally does. I have often noticed that a night among the tombs tends to have a calming effect and makes him more amenable to useful advice. It evidently suits his peculiar temperament; sometimes in fact too well as there are occasions when he emerges with the most extraordinary notions.
The next day I took up my usual position near the crypt and awaited his appearance. He eventually scrambled up the steps wearing an expression of furrowed gravity. I sighed. Clearly this was to be one of those times when some gnomic pronouncement could be expected…
“I’ve got mange.”
“What!”
“Mange, I’ve got it,” he repeated gloomily.
“Surely not,” I protested. “Where?”
“Backside.” I walked round and inspected his rump. There was a small pale patch about the size of a half-crown. Extending a front foot I gave it a tentative probe with my claw.
“Get off my mange!” he yelled, and scuttled into the shrubbery. After a pause I followed warily and found him tearing and munching tufts of grass. I pointed out that such measures were quite unnecessary.
“Yes they are,” he asserted, “I am ill!”
I let it go on for a bit, the chewing and spewing; and then said, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Bouncer – you haven’t got a trace of mange.”
“I have!” he growled indignantly.
“No. What you have is a patch of dried paint that has matted and flattened your fur. It was obviously part of something you rolled in and now it’s making you itch.” He asked if I was sure, and I told him that unlike some animals I had no difficulty in distinguishing paint from mange and just hoped that F.O. had the wit not to call in the vet otherwise we should have to endure the horrors of the pink bonnet all over again. There was a silence while he thought about that and I harried a passing butterfly.
The afternoon was a time of great noise: F.O. at one of his piano sessions. I find these rather wearisome, though small matter I suppose in comparison with the trials engendered by my previous owner. However, I do not share Bouncer’s peculiar enjoyment of music (though a violin can be tolerable if played in the upper registers). But there is no accounting for tastes, especially tastes such as Bouncer’s; and at least it provides a distraction from his rabid pursuit of bones and female Pomeranians. Thus for half an hour or so he had been lying in the hall apparently enraptured by the din emanating from F.O.’s sitting room, until prompted by the usual greed he had repaired to his basket in search of broken biscuits. These he proceeded to eat loudly. Closing my eyes in an effort to blot out the grinding of teeth and crashing of keys I tried to sleep…In vain.
“Begorrah!” he suddenly exclaimed apropos of nothing.
“Be-what?”
“Be-gorr-ah. It’s what the Irish say, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I answered. “Only on the stage, not in real life. It’s a popular myth put about by the English.”
“O’Shaughnessy says it.”
“O’Shaughnessy is a show-off,” I countered tartly. There was a silence followed by the usual bowl-rattling, always a danger sign.
“Yes, but at least he’s fun,” he growled.
I was somewhat stung by that, having always regarded myself as a very companionable cat. Clearly Bouncer was unable to grasp the subtleties of my playful wit. His mind is not the most finely honed. However, I was disposed to be indulgent; and changing the subject asked him what he thought about the detectives and whether he had revised his views about the vicar’s hand in the Fotherington affair.
“Oh, it was his hand all right,” he said slowly, “and if he’s not careful he’s going to put his foot in it too. And then we shall all be in the can! That weedy one’s got his measure.”
“Perhaps he has,” I conceded, “but that won’t matter much. After all, you’ve got the evidence – or have dealt with it at any rate!” And I flashed him a kindly smile. I don’t often do that and
was slightly disappointed that it didn’t elicit a stronger response. In fact it did not elicit a response at all. Instead he stared into space and then started to chew his paw.
Assuming that to be the end of the conversation I decided to go for an early stalk in the graveyard. Just as I was halfway through the pet-flap he called out: “You know, Maurice, you should never underestimate the enemy!”
Of course the dog is ever prone to hyperbole, yet somehow those words cast a blight over what had promised to be a very pleasant ramble. My pouncing tactics quickly palled and I returned to the house in a mood of irritable disquiet.
22
The Vicar’s Version
Rather to my surprise the Confirmation Service was a howling success. Clinker, clad in his episcopal raiment, looked almost impressive and preached a very tolerable sermon. The confirmees were appropriately meek and decorous, the choir efficient, and parents duly appreciative both of it and of the mammoth tea provided afterwards by the Young Wives. Even I had a look in, being congratulated on the choice of hymns and the alacrity of the candidates’ catechism responses. Indeed, so pleased was Clinker with his own performance and the general smooth running of the ceremony that for one foolish moment I wondered if he might be having second thoughts about my transfer.
Naturally, such hopes were idle. As he took his leave he drew me to one side and reminded me in tones of booming benignity that he looked forward to calling at the vicarage the next day to discuss ‘the logistics’ of my removal to St Chad’s. Luncheon was not required though apparently a light snack would not go amiss. Smiling gamely I gritted my teeth and turned my mind to the finer details of my plan. It was almost five o’clock but there would just be time to nip down to the off-licence to buy some extra gin for the White Ladies and of course the essential bottle of Cointreau. The latter I knew would be prohibitively expensive – but if my ruse worked the cost would seem a bagatelle!
A Load of Old Bones Page 11