The Scarecrow

by Ronald Hugh Morrieson

  ‘Up yuh go on the roof,’ said Prudence imperiously. ‘And then I’ll need the ladder to finish off that bit up there.’

  That left Les and me marooned on the roof.

  ‘You do that bit,’ said Les. ‘I’ll finish off over there.’

  It was beginning to look like I was just the rouseabout round this place. Grimly I set to work, keeping at least one foot jammed against every lead-headed nail I could see. It was about half an hour later that I noticed the wisps of smoke coming up over the edge of the roof and drifting playfully around my brush. A few minutes later I woke up.

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled. ‘Prudence! Bring the ladder! Hey! Help! The house is on fire. Bring the ladder, Pru, get the fire brigade, ring the phone! Hey, Les! We’re trapped on the roof and the derned house is going up in smoke.’

  Keep cool, I thought.

  ‘Prudence!’ I screamed. ‘Over here, round here with the ladder, get the fire brigade, yuh goof, and get me outa here, we’re going up in smoke!’

  Relax, I thought; keep calm, the captain is the last to leave the ship. Prudence appeared below me, brush in hand.

  ‘You idiot,’ I remarked placidly. ‘Bring the ladder willyuh before I’m roasted alive on the roof and ring the fire brigade and bring the ladder. Can’t you see THE WHOLE FRIGGIN’ HOUSE is on fire!’

  Les did something I would never have dared to have done. He jumped. Prudence staggered round with the ladder to where I had been painting and I retreated in good order, apart from forgetting my brush and paint can.

  From the ground there was no smoke to be seen and I began to think I had made an ass of myself properly, but Prudence was white-faced and panting.

  ‘The place is on fire!’ she hooted. ‘Uncle Athol has set the house on fire! Do something, willyuh. Ma’s stuck in the hedge trying to use the phone next door, but there’s no one home. Do something, willyuh!’

  And so it came to pass that yours truly E. C. Poindexter (Neddy) had the pleasure of smashing the glass on the emergency fire alarm fixed to the telegraph pole right outside the front door of the Temple of the Brethren of the Lamb. I pressed the button and waited for the town to blow up. From here our beautifully painted house on the corner was wreathed in clouds of curling smoke. I sank helplessly down in the gutter. The ghost of my spiritual sparring partner, Schopenhauer, sat down alongside me.

  ‘Here we go again,’ he remarked. ‘See what I mean, Bud?’

  There were only two Dennis products in Klynham. One of them was our little old tip-truck and the other was the big fire-engine. They were both ancient models, in fact it would not surprise me to learn that the fire-engine was the earlier of the two, but what a thrill I got when the old red monster came screaming around the bend and began to thunder up Winchester Street, all its brass glittering in the morning sunlight and the banshee really going to town. They were probably not going very fast, really, but what a psychological effect that howling banshee has! I reckon Malcolm Campbell would have pulled the Bluebird over to let them past even if he had to sit there and roll a cigarette while he waited.

  The whole town, including Josephine McClinton, arrived a minute or two after the Dennis. I went and sat in the shed, I was so ashamed. I never loved Prudence so much as I did when her shadow in the shaft of the sunlight through the half-open door was followed by herself and she sat down gloomily and inelegantly on a box beside me. It was a long time before the shouting died away and then, by tacit agreement, we emerged.

  Not much damage had been done. The front door no longer needed blowtorching, being now non-existent; the paint in front of the house needed a touch up, the passage was full of foam and water and wallpaper and the ceiling was black and charred, but otherwise everything was hearteningly intact. The Poindexters still had a roof over their heads and a newly painted one to boot.

  ‘Many’s the time,’ declared Ma, presiding over the most amazing collection of guests our kitchen had ever harboured, ‘I’ve said that fire was worse than earthquake, or war, an idea I’ve laboured in my bosom since Grandma’s house was raised from the ground by fire and the impression it left on my mind forever.’

  ‘What a party,’ said Charlie Dabney. ‘Great Scott, the lights won’t go out all night.’

  Fortunately he fell asleep again.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ said Ma. ‘It isn’t often that I approve of people reparticipating in the demon rum at this hour of the day, but if ever there was an emergency this is it by Jesus, if you’ll forgive me, Reverend?’

  The Reverend Higgins wagged his head.

  ‘Just a small one,’ he said to Prudence, who was sloshing the Dabney brandy around in great style. ‘As your mother says, an emergency like this calls for some resilience in our attitude to what is right and proper in the Lord’s eyes. My dear, do have a glass yourself, after your fearful ordeal in the flame in which apparently’—the Reverend coughed discreetly—‘you have lost your garments. Bless us all, and restore us to our rightful heritage of warm garments to clothe our limbs, and to comfort and safety from the devouring tongues of fire, so recently defeated by our gallant, not to say noble, firemen.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said a big man, whose brass helmet was on the table.

  ‘Cheers,’ said the Reverend Higgins still looking at Prudence who, I may have forgotten to mention, was wearing the same dress she had worn out in the racing car with the insurance bloke. She looked like Tarzan’s soulmate. She jammed me up against the mantelpiece by sticking the muzzle of the brandy bottle in my stomach.

  ‘Have one yourself, sport,’ she said hoarsely. ‘After yuh ordeal in the flames and what-have-yuh, you’ve earned one. I may even indulge, hrrump, myself.’

  She tilted up the bottle and drank till her eyes glazed over. So did I. She heaved, then grabbed the bottle off me and partook of another mighty draught. So did I. Then we excused ourselves. Only the fresh air saved us from vomiting it all up. On the patch of garden around the end of the house we hung around each other’s necks and laughed until the tears streamed down our faces. This is how we were when Len Ramsbottom found us.

  Len was visibly moved by our pale, tear-ravaged countenances and the babes-in-the-wood hold we had on each other.

  ‘Hallow me,’ he said, ‘to offer moi most sincere sympathy for the trouble you have had this mah-horning. Through-out the week Oi ‘ave noticed the most commend-ah-hable way you ‘ave both worked at pah-hainting the ‘ouse. Hallow me to conher-gratulate you. These things are sent to try us out, Miss Poindexter, er, Prudence, and I am grateful that no great-her damage has he-ventuated. I ‘ave taken a brief statement from your mother pertaining to the houtbreak of fire and I ‘ope to be seeing you in the hemmediate future with an eye’—he blushed— ‘to rehahsuming our toipewriting le-hessons.’

  He looked an awfully big man, with a sort of clumsy dignity that was all his own, as he went around the end of the house.

  Chapter Fifteen

  To give an idea how resilient we were, to borrow from the vocabulary of the Rev. Higgins, we were painting again before dinner hour. Prudence was a new girl on the strength of Len Ramsbottom’s affable address. We waved to literally hundreds of sightseers. A fire was a big event in these parts, and, ordinarily, our fire would have been a subject of jesting talk for many months. Little we knew that a blackly scowling fate planned otherwise.

  Pop went and lay down for the afternoon. He and Herbert had been at the other end of the town changing a wheel on the Dennis when they heard the house was on fire, and their panic-stricken activities from then on had left Pop in a nerve-shattered and debilitated condition. Herbert was more resilient and went and played snooker. Uncle Athol was in bed, taking refuge from disgrace in swinish slumber.

  Mr Wilson had clamped down on Les in the afternoon to do some deliveries around the town. We were discussing the relative merits of sandsoap, linseed oil and turpentine for removing paint off our hands and arms, when Herbert came up the steps between us and went inside, without answering our greeting. He was n
ot looking as resilient as he might have been.

  ‘What’s biting him?’ said Prudence. I shrugged and went on picking paint off a knuckle, and then Prudence nudged me, and said, ‘He wants yuh.’ I followed Herbert into our room. He sat down on the edge of the bed and I could see he was mightily perturbed over something.

  ‘Look, Neddy,’ he said, ‘I’m in the cart good and proper. If I learned one lesson today it’s this, and yuh better listen ‘cause one day yuh might thank me for telling yuh, and that’s this— never play snooker for money with a guy that carries his own chalk in his pocket.’

  ‘Yuh owe some money?’ I said, astutely.

  ‘Yuh telling me I owe some money,’ said Herbert, hoarsely. ‘Eight quid. Where am I gunna get that sorta dough from? I’ve borrowed three quid from Jack Glenn, but a fiver, who in hell’s gunna lend me a fiver?’

  ‘Don’t pay him,’ I said.

  ‘Yuh don’t understand,’ groaned Herbert. ‘Everyone in the room watched this last game for a tenner. Kelly, Hodson, everyone. I thought I could whack the arse off this spivvy-looking character. I thought the way he played the first three games for a dollar and then ten bob he was a pushover. I thought he was nuts when he said, “Let’s play for a tenner.” I thought it was money for jam. It’s the oldest trick in the world and big sucker me falls for it. I should’ve known when I saw he carried his own chalk. I tell yuh, Neddy, I’m in the cart and that’s fuh sure. He’s out to make trouble, this character. If I haven’t got that money this evening I’ll have to shoot through. I just couldn’t face the boys again if I welsh on this lot. There’s nothing for it, Neddy, I’ll just have to shoot through and it serves me right for being so dern stupid as to play a guy that carries his own chalk. It oughter be about the first lesson a guy oughter be taught, as soon as he gets outa short pants, and that’s look out for a guy that carries his own chalk. But it’s too late to talk about it now. I’m washed up around this neck uv the woods.’

  ‘How about ole Charlie Dabney?’

  Herbert gave me a peculiar look.

  ‘Well, Neddy,’ he said, and sighed, ‘if yuh must know I’ve approached old Charlie.’

  ‘And he knocked you back?’ I said.

  ‘Well no, not really,’ said Herbert. ‘Oh hell, let’s forget it, I’ll just pack muh grip and shoot through.’

  ‘Go on—what did he say? If he didn’t knock yuh back, what did he say?’

  ‘He said—oh hell.’

  ‘Go on, spill it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Herbert, ‘he said—oh hell, he’s pissed to beat the band and he said sure I could have a fiver, anything to oblige a son of Dee-aitch and all that bunk, but he’d feel happier if he presented it, personally, to Prudence.’

  ‘To Prudence!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yeah to Prudence! The flower of the wilderness. The beautiful waif of the tempest or something. I tell yuh, Neddy, the ole coot’s off his rocker, he’s going around the bend.’

  ‘Prudence!’ I exclaimed again.

  ‘Who’s talking ‘bout me?’ said Prudence, looking in suspiciously.

  Herbert looked down at the floor in shame, so I started in and gave her the whole story.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ she said. ‘He wants to give me a fiver.’

  ‘It’s for me, really,’ said Herbert, hastily.

  ‘Oh yes, I know that. Well, why doesn’t he give it to you? Oh well, I suppose I’d better put on another frock and we’ll go an’ see the silly old tit.’

  ‘Will yuh really, Pru?’ said Herbert. ‘Gee, Pru, I’ll never forget this. As soon as I get some money it’s all yours.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Prudence.

  ‘Look here, Pru,’ began Herbert.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well I mean to say I don’t want ole Charlie trying to kiss you or something.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ said Prudence. ‘He better not. I’ll have to kid him a bit, I s’pose, but none of that kissin’ business. Help, I reckon his breath ud knock yuh down flat on yuh back.’

  She went out and Herbert sprang up. He looked a new man.

  I went with them. By the time we arrived at Charlie Dabney’s place of business, Prudence was not looking so keen.

  ‘Can’t this wait till termorrow?’ she muttered.

  ‘Not really,’ said Herbert. ‘Gee, I know he’s in there, Pru, and who’s frightened of that little fatty?’

  ‘It’s not him I’m scared of,’ said Pru, looking at the dark windows. ‘It’s that awful place. No wonder he drinks. To live in that place you’d want to be blind-shickered all the time.’

  ‘But he is,’ said Herbert, who was not really listening, he was trying so hard to see a sign of light behind the grimy plate-glass windows. ‘He definitely is.’

  He went over and tried the front door. It opened with a creak.

  ‘Oooh,’ said Prudence.

  As we stood there in the deepening twilight the street lights flickered into life along the main street.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Herbert. ‘Eddy and I’ll stand inside the door.’ The three of us stood inside the door and Herbert called out, ‘Mr Dabney, Mr Dabney.’

  We stood for a moment and then, somewhere at the back of the shop, we heard shuffling footsteps.

  ‘There he is,’ urged Herbert. ‘Go on, Pru, don’t be a baby, we’re here.’

  Boldly Pru walked across the front shop and around the end of the counter. The only light in the shop was from the street. Prudence vanished. We heard her footsteps stop. Next thing she was back.

  ‘Out! Out!’ she yelped and plunged past us into the street. We followed her and, inadvertently, I pulled the door so sharply the Yale lock clicked shut.

  ‘Well, now yuv done it!’ said Herbert angrily.

  ‘Done nothing,’ snapped Prudence. ‘Wild horses won’t drag me back into that chamber uv horrors. She-whit the place is full of coffins and, Eddy, you know who I think I saw?’ I felt a shiver explore my spine.

  ‘No,’ I whispered.

  ‘Salter the Sensational,’ said Prudence and her eyes were like that character on the glory road, like moons. ‘Standing among the coffins.’

  ‘She-whit.’

  ‘Now I’m sunk,’ gloomed Herbert. ‘As if I didn’t have enough trouble without you two kids to start in seeing things. I tell yuh I was around here only an hour ago and if there was one coffin there, that’s all. One measly coffin and the girl jumps out of her pants.’

  ‘Yuh leave my pants outa this,’ flashed Prudence. ‘It’s you that wantz a kick in the pants for losing that money. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have to go through a nordeal like this. Five quid. Yuh wouldn’t get me back in that chamber uv horrors for five thousand quid and yuh can play that over on yuh ukelele.’

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed Herbert. ‘Shut up, will yuh, here’s the guy I owe the dough to, coming down the street now.’

  There now hove into view the most jaunty-walking, flashy-dressed, spivvy-looking character I had ever seen. He was about medium height, but he was as skinny as a gadget for getting corks out of bottles. This rooster was no heavier than I was, I would calculate, but the shoulders of his check suit were a mile wide. The brim of his hat was more like an umbrella with the wind under it than the brim of a hat. The hat had a feather sticking up out of the band like an ostrich plume. He was smoking a cigarette in a six-inch holder, and, when he took it out of his mouth to blow out smoke and flick the ash off the end, he flung his arm out in front of him and looked at it as if he were the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. He was not so much walking as dancing, rising up on tiptoe with each step, and the advancing leg flicking out from the knee like a whip. The thumb of the hand that was not busy gesticulating with the cigarette holder, was hooked into a waistcoat that looked like one of those coloured charts of the circulatory system I endeavour not to notice, in the medical journal. From my point of view this individual’s total ensemble was something I would have liked to turn the page over on quickly, b
ut he paused when he came up to us. He made an elegant bow.

  ‘Salutations,’ he proclaimed in a twangy voice. ‘And who, Herbert, is this luscious morsel? Holding out on me, huh? Who would have thought it in a burg like this? What a piece of lush brush! This sheila oughta be a film actress. What a clarse piece of arse! Herbert, you’re the luckiest guy in the world to find a supercharged hunk of gashed stuff like this in a burg like Klynham. I can’t wait to shake the dust of this Gawd-forsaken burg off my little tootsie wootsies; but first, of course, there is a little matter of eight, teeny, weeny quidlets you owe me and which I would like to take possession of pronto, if not sooner.’

  He looked at Prudence, pushed his hat back and rocked on his heels. He shot his arm out and flicked ash away.

  ‘What a filly! What a waste to see a broad like you go to seed in this Gawd-forsaken burg. With a bod like that, baby, you’n I could really make the towns and hit the high spots. This junk-head here is numb from the ears up, no offence ole cock-a-doodle, but reely trooly a guy who handles a koo like you, just don’t deserve a curvy little piece of homework like this here gorgeous, bouncy, juicy—reely you’re the most, sister, you’re the most.’

  Herbert was shaking with rage. Suddenly the stranger left off rocking backwards and forwards and running his eyes up and down Prudence. He wheeled on Herbert.

  ‘Where’s this dough, cock-a-doodle?’ he said, showing his teeth. ‘You’ve had long enough to raise the ante, sport. C’mon, give, give.’

  He held out his hand. He was only a runt, but I will candidly admit he scared me. He looked the most likely type to pack a gat I had ever seen.

  ‘Uh sure like yuh, big boy,’ said Prudence.

  We all looked at her. She waggled her hips and the hair slipped down over her eye. ‘Yessuh,’ she cooed. ‘Yuh sure look like a real, live man to me, yessuh. Yuh look like a man that might know how to give a girl a good time and not fool about like the yokels around these parts. Cop that classy suit. I sure do like a man that knows how to dress like a man, and not look like something outa Snake Gully.’