A Load of Old Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  During the evening I tidied the sitting room, made and wrapped some meat-paste sandwiches for the prescribed snack, and worked out the amount and exact proportions of gin, lemon juice and Cointreau that would be needed to blast the bishop to kingdom come. After that I sat down at the piano and made a remorseless attack upon Chopin’s Revolutionary Study.

  ♦

  The next morning I was up at dawn: restlessly on edge but feeling a distinct tingle of excitement as I mixed the drinks and rehearsed my part for the coming challenge.

  The challenge arrived at midday. From the bedroom window I saw the Daimler draw up smoothly at the front gate. It was driven by Barnes wearing his usual undertaker’s expression. Clinker alighted and after addressing a few words to the chauffeur dismissed the car and started up the path. His footsteps must have startled Bouncer who set up a yelping din unsuited to a bishop’s reception. I hastily shoved him out of the back door and told him to buzz off to the graveyard. He trotted away happily, and composing my features into a beaming smile I went to the front door and ushered in my visitor.

  Clinker looked moderately benign, presumably having partaken of a good dinner the night before and enjoying his time away from the ghastly Gladys. We sat for a little discussing the weather and the Confirmation, and then I suggested that since it was well past midday perhaps he would prefer a small aperitif rather than a coffee. He declined at first, saying that he rarely touched anything at lunchtime, but then weakened. He had no further plans for that afternoon so perhaps after all the merest soupçon of sherry or something mild would do no harm…

  I went to fetch the jug and glasses. On my return he immediately launched into the purpose of his visit: Rummage’s advent and my departure. When he had originally broached the subject on the telephone there had seemed some small margin for discussion. Not any longer there wasn’t. To his mind the whole thing was obviously a fait accompli and he talked enthusiastically about Rummage’s innovative energies and my ‘natural empathy with the tired and frail’.

  From the very start the prospect had appalled me but now the full horror descended as he expatiated upon the domestic advantages of such a move: there would no longer be a vicarage to maintain, instead a small flat was to be provided within the Home itself – “cosy, compact and right over the shop, as one might say. What could be more convenient, my dear chap!” I could think of few things more disagreeable; and as he went on to outline further loathsome benefits – meals taken with the residents, Scrabble drives, weekly recitals of harp and recorder – I became increasingly morose. Grasping the jug grimly I poured a hefty slug into his glass. If nothing else it might at least check that dismal paean. In fact so intent was Clinker on selling me the assets of St Chad’s that at first he did not seem to register what he was drinking. But at the third sip he suddenly stopped talking, gazed at his glass in wonder and exclaimed, “I say, Oughterard, what have you given me?”

  “Oh – just lemon juice, drop of gin and a dash of orange stuff,” I replied carelessly.

  “I should think you have!” he chuckled. “What you’ve given me is a White Lady – and at lunchtime too!”

  “Really, sir?” I said vaguely. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Yes, yes, of course it is. Don’t you know that!…Now, as I was saying – ” And he took another sip (getting on for a gulp really) and returned to the delights of St Chad’s on which he continued to expound while I smoothly topped up his glass.

  Well into his stride and clearly enjoying himself, he raised the inevitable subject of Rummage on whose alleged virtues he gave graphic tongue. At last, moving into his peroration and pausing only for another gulp, he finally concluded with the question, “Wouldn’t you agree, Oughterard?”

  “Absolutely!” I exclaimed. “And what’s more he’s so nippy with the censer! In the old days when we were both deacons I tried to imitate his wrist action but could never quite manage it…Such skill, such artistry – those masterly tilts and swoops, the subtle feints and sallies, the exquisite finger flicks, the smooth control. Why, Rummage’s sleight-of-hand was legendary! Of course, he’s still got that slickness,” I enthused, “it’s just that there’s generally less call for him to use it these days, not with the censer at any rate…”

  Clinker looked at me blankly for a couple of moments and then said, “Hm. Ye-es. Well, I daresay you’re right, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen that particular display.”

  Noting the burgeoning discomfort as he struggled to decide whether he was dealing with a defective or just conceivably being made the butt of some obscure jest, I hastily turned to the subject of his Confirmation address – The Perils of Piety – and congratulated him on its shrewd perceptions. As a matter of fact the sermon had been an interesting one, though I suspect rather wasted on the candidates. We discussed it briefly and I was reminded of Nicholas Ingaza’s remark that once upon a time Clinker had been quite bright. However, not bright enough to resist another White Lady; and I picked up the jug for the third time and offered to replenish his glass.

  He accepted without demur, nodded appreciatively and settled back expansively in his chair. I asked politely after his family and Mrs Clinker.

  “Oh, she’s all right,” he said airily, taking another sip. And then added, “No, as a matter of fact, Oughterard, that’s not entirely true. In fact – ” and he leaned forward conspiratorially – “between you and me and…” Here he paused dramatically, and then with slow and careful emphasis added, “the gatepost…she’s being a pain in the arse.”

  I was a trifle startled by this and made what was presumably the required response, saying in shocked tones, “Really? Oh dear! A pain in the arse, you say?”

  “Got it in one, Oughterard. In…the…arse,” he enunciated with slow relish. I cleared my throat, searching for some appropriate comment.

  “Well, sir, I’m sure Mrs Clinker must have some uses,” I ventured encouragingly.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “She makes a good junket and stewed mince, and keeps the Mothers’ Unions off my back; but other than that of course – she’s pure pain.” This was said in a tone of masochistic satisfaction, and there seemed no answer to make. In the ensuing silence I took a couple more sips myself, and then noting his eye fixed leech-like on the jug passed it over, suggesting he help himself. He did so liberally.

  “Ah,” I said in a knowing voice, “I understand what you mean – marriage can put its constraints on a chap!”

  He looked at me sharply and despite the rapidly slurring speech said with some asperity, “Since you’ve never taken the plunge, Oughterard, I don’t see how you can possibly understand at all. However,” and his tone mellowed slightly, “as it happens you are absolutely right. All work and no play…” makes Jack a pompous old fart, I thought. Then laughing sympathetically I lit a cigarette. He started to scowl, evidently not appreciating the perfectly formed smoke rings now circling his head. But he could make no objection for fear of my retrieving the jug from his side of the table.

  “Yes,” I said nostalgically, “life pre-war was a little freer when we were all young and uncommitted,” adding wistfully, “There was quite a bit of fun around then!” I stared into the far distance as if musing upon the good old days. Clinker nodded vigorously.

  “That reminds me,” I exclaimed, “you will never guess who I ran into the other day – Nicholas Ingaza. Now there’s a figure from the past!”

  He didn’t respond immediately but then cleared his throat and said warily, “Ah, Ingaza. Yes – yes, I know who you mean of course, but can’t say I recall much of him. It was all so long ago…” And his voice trailed off evasively.

  “Oh, but you must!” I exclaimed jovially. “He certainly remembers you. In fact he particularly asked me to give you his best wishes. His best wishes.”

  “Well, that’s very civil of him,” said Clinker stiffly.

  “He spoke most warmly about you, said you used to be the life and soul of the party, a real wag in fact. No…” I
hesitated as if trying to remember the conversation, “…actually, now I come to think of it the term he used was wagtail. That’s it: ‘He was a right wagtail – of one sort or another – was Clinker.’ Those were Ingaza’s very words!” I laughed heartily, repeating the description a couple of times and enjoying the look of discomfort appearing on his face. “Of course,” I continued, “Nicholas was always one for exaggeration. What a raconteur!” And I laughed again indulgently.

  “What do you mean, exaggeration? What has he been telling you?” Clinker cried.

  The hint had been dropped; it would be unnecessary and clumsy to pursue it further. So to reassure him I said quickly, “Oh, nothing of any account – you know Nicholas. What an idiot! Always was. Funny him popping up like that after all those years but I doubt if one will see him again. Didn’t look too well, I thought. No, I should think he’s gone for good. Absurd chap really…”

  “Yes,” said Clinker eagerly, “quite absurd.” He glanced around the room seemingly looking for some distraction to seize upon.

  “What do you think of the piano?” I asked helpfully. “It looks a bit workaday but it’s in marvellous condition. I’ll give you a demonstration in a minute but how about another of these first? It seems a pity not to finish it off. After all,” I added jocularly, “it’s not often we clergy have a chance to indulge!” I pushed the plate of sandwiches in his direction and went into the kitchen to get clean glasses and the reserve jug from the refrigerator.

  When I returned he was standing a little uncertainly at the window munching one of the sandwiches and clutching the curtain tightly. He was humming tunelessly but happily in a rumpty-tum sort of way.

  “I say, Oughterard, you certainly know how to mix ‘em!” he chortled. “Haven’t had such good White Ladies for I don’t know how long. In fact,” he went on roguishly, “haven’t had any ladies recently, white or otherwise!” He exploded into a series of hiccuping giggles. I smiled supportively, proffered him another glass and sat down at the piano. ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ would seem an appropriate beginning and I launched into it with gusto. It was the right choice. Clinker started conducting wildly and bawling a cacophonous accompaniment. But it was when I moved into ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ that things really took off.

  Clutching the corners of his jacket he started to caper about the room doing a fair imitation of Mrs Brown. The faster I played the more frantic the performance, and the good lady’s knees-ups soon turned into a spectacular cancan. For a man of the bishop’s girth and age his nimble energy was quite impressive. He pranced and trumpeted merrily while pictures wobbled and drinks and books went flying. Quite obviously he was having the time of his life.

  As I pounded the keys I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Bouncer was poised in the doorway looking in on the scene. Presumably bored by his own devices in the graveyard, he had come back to the house seeking diversion. He certainly got it. With a sudden whoop of excitement he hurled himself into the room where he bounded delightedly snapping at the bishop’s heels. For half a minute or so man and dog cavorted together until somehow Bouncer must have got entangled in the dancer’s flailing legs. A sharp yelp was followed by a stupendous crash. I spun round on the piano stool and saw Clinker sprawled on the floor hooting and heaving in a state of helpless mirth. He floundered about for a bit and then looked up at me, closed his eyes, and with a contented sigh passed out.

  I went into the kitchen for a cloth to mop up the spilt drinks. Bouncer was there, by now sitting meekly in his basket. He wore a slightly worried expression and seemed surprised when I stooped down to pat his head and give him the remains of the potted meat sandwiches.

  ♦

  The problem was how to get the bishop off the floor. I don’t have great physical strength and knew that I was unlikely to be able to cope with Clinker’s bulk on my own. Barnes would be due shortly but I didn’t particularly want him to see his employer in that recumbent stupor. As I pondered this I heard a movement outside the window and realized that someone had entered the porch. It was too early for Barnes and I feared it might be one of the choristers come to collect his lost music-case.

  It wasn’t the chorister: it was Savage. He was holding a garden fork and a small cardboard box. “I’ve brought your fork back,” he said. “Thanks for the loan. Can’t think where mine’s got to, confounded thing. Have to get a new one, I suppose.” He put the fork down and thrust the box at me. “The wife thought you might like these – they’re fairy cakes. She’s always making them and had a few left over.” He warmed to his subject. “Actually they’re not bad really. They’ve got thick butter cream made with a sort of raspberry-tasting cochineal, and silver balls, and little – ”

  “How kind!” I beamed, taking the box and hastily putting it to one side. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you could spare a minute. There’s a bit of a problem which perhaps you can help me with.”

  “Another one?” he said warily.

  “It’s not all that serious,” I answered reassuringly, pulling him in and shutting the door firmly. “It’s just that I’ve got a chap laid out on the floor in the sitting room.”

  “Oh yes?” said Savage. I guided him into the room where Clinker still lay sprawled on the carpet dead to the world. He stared down unseeingly.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Honkers,” I said.

  “Ah…” he muttered; and then as an afterthought added, “Bit early in the day, isn’t it?”

  “Well, he got a little carried away – you know how it is sometimes.”

  “It happens,” observed Savage sagely. “What do you want me to do?”

  I suggested that if we each took an armpit we could perhaps drag him into the hall and prop him up on the stairs. “His car will be here soon and the chauffeur can take over.”

  “Chauffeur, eh!” exclaimed Savage impressed. “Who is he – the Queen of England?”

  “Not as such,” I answered, “though he sometimes thinks he is.”

  We bent down and started to take a grip. As Savage fumbled he must have touched Clinker’s stiff collar. “What’s he got round his neck?”

  “A dog collar.”

  “Crikey!” he exclaimed in awed tones. “He must have had a skinful!” I explained patiently that it was of course a clerical dog collar.

  “One of your cronies, is he?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I replied with dignity, “he is one of my superiors.” (I thought it unnecessary to define Clinker’s exact status.) “He is not in the habit of imbibing and overdid it a trifle.”

  “You don’t say,” replied Savage drily.

  It took some time to get Clinker on to the stairs and we were both perspiring from our exertions. To say that he looked the worse for wear would be an understatement. A picture of utter dissolution would be nearer the truth. He was still out for the count, and Savage, finding the purple handkerchief in his pocket, had started to fan the banister vigorously. I gently tilted his hand in the direction of Clinker’s face. The draught seemed to take effect for he opened his eyes, glared at Savage and in petulant tones said, “Can’t you ever close the door, Gladys!” He then promptly returned to his torpor. I thought that a little sprinkled water might help the revival process and went to the kitchen. When I returned Savage seized the glass and muttering something about shock tactics flung its contents over Clinker. Except that it wasn’t over Clinker; it was over me.

  At that point the bell rang, and brushing the dripping water from my sleeves I went to open the door. Barnes stood there in his full chauffeur’s rig: black peaked cap, tunic, shiny boots and gauntlets. He looked like Conrad Veidt minus the monocle, and I resisted the temptation to click my heels. He stared past me, taking in the crumpled effigy on the stairs. I half expected him to say, “Mein Gott!” Instead, he gave a low whistle and exclaimed, “Streuth!”

  “I am afraid His Lordship is a bit under the weather,” I said.

  “I should think he is!” he observed, adding accu
singly while eying my sodden shirt, “He wasn’t under the weather when I delivered him here this morning!”

  “Well, he is now,” I snapped, not liking his tone. “And I want you to help me get him to the car.”

  Fortunately Barnes was tall and broad-shouldered, and together we were able to haul the bishop to his feet and gradually lever him out of the front door. As we were making our lurching way down the path there was a shout from Savage, left standing in the porch: “Hey, what do you want me to do with your fairy cakes?” I did not answer, being too preoccupied manoeuvring Clinker’s sprawling feet.

  At last, hot and panting, we achieved the Daimler door and heaved our burden into the back seat. Here he basked like some beached seal intoning quietly, “Knees up, knees up…” Then, with a dying fall the voice faded and was replaced with a rumbling, rhythmic snore.

  Barnes climbed into the driver’s seat and I expressed my thanks, adding that I was sure he would treat the matter with the appropriate discretion.

  “Oh yes, sir,” he replied impassively, “you can rely on me. And if I may say so, I hope you will be able to find somewhere to put your fairy cakes.” So saying he drove off down the road at what I felt was an unnecessarily brisk speed.

  23

  The Cat’s Memoir

  After the imbroglio with the bishop a period of relative calm had settled upon the household. Taking advantage of the lull I was in the sitting room one day quietly resting after having had what Bouncer would call ‘a dust-up’ with an unduly fractious mouse. As I sat there savouring the privacy, I noticed that the piano stool’s sliding seat was partially open. It covers a deep recess for storing music and I assumed that F.O. had been careless in replacing it. Being a little pernickety about such things, I strolled over to see if it could be closed. Balancing on my hind legs I tried to push the seat back into place with my right paw. The wretched thing seemed to have jammed slightly and my exertions nearly made me lose my balance. Clinging to the side of the stool for support I involuntarily peered into its interior. What met my eyes I can barely manage to tell…