The Scarecrow

by Ronald Hugh Morrieson

  Charlie was extricated from under the hearse and dusted down. Someone put the top hat back on his head at a rakish angle.

  Uncle Athol tried the starter again and this time the motor caught. The racket the motor kicked up was a great relief to those who were painfully bottling up their mirth. It began to appear that the disgraceful episode was ended and that the funeral would now proceed with some pretence of dignity, but right then one of the teachers came out of the alley and approached the headmaster. The news flew around like a stick in a party game. It was the wrong funeral. The school had lined up to watch the hilarious last ride of Channing Fitzherbert.

  ‘I am unable to find it in my heart,’ the headmaster said in his address to the school after lunch, ‘to punish anyone for their behaviour this morning. Laughter is a natural function and I think that not only the pupils, but the staff also found some of the mishaps this morning uncontrollably diverting. We can only be thankful that it was the funeral of an old man and that it was not attended by any of his kith and kin. This afternoon Angela is leaving us forever. I know we all loved Angela. Her heartbroken parents will be present and I want all of you to understand quite clearly that no matter what may eventuate— I repeat, no matter what, anyone guilty of laughter will be severely punished.’

  Miss McGlashan appeared to be chewing her cud. That handkerchief was surely getting a thrashing.

  But no one laughed when we assembled outside Charlie Dabney’s at two o’clock. The sight of Mr and Mrs Potroz would have robbed any spectacle of humour. Prudence was with them, openly weeping, and soon all the girls were weeping too. I was not far off it myself. It was while I was standing there that I overheard a conversation which gave me a nasty turn. Two relatives of the Potroz’ were standing behind me.

  ‘My God,’ said one of them, ‘hanging’s too good for this swine. I’d gouge his eyes out. I’d roast the bastard alive. God Almighty, it makes you wonder if there is a God. When I saw her face in her box there, I nearly fainted.’

  ‘So did I,’ said the other voice. ‘One glimpse was enough for me, by God. He musta torn her to bits. He musta torn her hair out. Hell! it doesn’t stand thinking about.’

  No wonder, I thought, they refused to let Prudence see poor Angela. I felt sick right through.

  ‘Christ,’ said the first voice, ‘I can’t credit some kid did anything like that. It’s the work of a fiend. I remember her as such a pretty little thing and Godstruth lying there, her face looked like an old man about eighty. She musta gone through hell.’

  Everyone was moving away from the hearse, but I stood stock-still. Charlie Dabney was making no attempt this afternoon to walk in front of the hearse, but was propped up in the cab with Uncle Athol.

  Probably can’t walk by this time, I thought bitterly; but, in the main, my mind was busy piecing the odd scraps of overheard conversation together. First, the old lady this morning had said Channing Fitzberbert had looked in death as beautiful as a little girl, and now I had heard Angela’s appearance described as that of an old man. With all her hair torn out. It added up, by God, it added up. As I moved off after the hearse I wondered wildly if perhaps my homage was not being paid to old Channing Fitzherbert, after all.

  That Angela’s mother was nearly out of her mind with grief was not only a local topic, but also obvious to all with eyes to see. In his misery and concern, it was more than probable that Mr Potroz had left final arrangements in the numb hands of Charlie Dabney, himself, in person.

  There was no gauging the drunken folly of Charlie Dabney and his lieutenant, Uncle Athol. If the coffins had been confused in the chapel and relatives conducted to and shown the wrong corpse perhaps the farce had been carried out to the bitter end. There was no telling now; and I knew, right then, trudging along in silence, there never would be an answer.

  I will confess that I shied at including this account of that Tuesday in my little narrative, as I feel it to be in the worst taste. On the other hand, its omission would have left me feeling guilty of withholding some aspects of Klynham’s dark hour and, when all is said and done, it is to these moments in the town’s history my recording pen has inexorably led me.

  The Hupmobile hearse never reached the graveside.

  With a grinding crash it collided with the left-hand pillar of the great ornamental stone gates of the cemetery. The pall-bearers had a long walk. Charlie Dabney and Uncle Athol were conspicuous by their absence at the graveside, too. They slumbered peacefully in the cab of the wrecked Hupmobile.

  So it came to pass that the next court day at Klynham was not marked by any sensational unmasking or preliminary trial of Angela’s killer, but only by the usual crop of people who had ridden bicycles without lights, and Uncle Athol who was charged with being drunk-in-charge and in consequence lost his driving licence for twelve months. The shame of it all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Detective Inspector Peterjohn became a familiar figure around Klynham, as familiar as the posters on the corrugated-iron walls of the cinema for ‘Palmy Days’ and nearly as tattered. The Airflow Chrysler came and went. Between police and reporters it was as if Klynham had become a tourist resort. The papers— city papers and weeklies—were beginning to clamour for retribution. ‘What were the police doing?’ they asked. It was a question we were all asking.

  Les and I were anxious to play detective, but we lacked the nerve to go down into the quarry. We ventured down one afternoon when there were a few other people poking around and we had the actual spot, where Angela’s body was found, pointed out to us; but, after that, whenever we returned it was a dark deserted place, a place of horror, and, as I said, our nerve failed us.

  There was nothing superficial about the grief of Prudence. Like Rachel she mourned and would not be comforted. She went daily with flowers to the cemetery and it was this more than anything, I think, which kept my trap closed concerning my deep suspicion about which grave harboured who.

  For the first time since Pop and Ma had married, we were shot of Uncle Athol. Prudence saw him each day, working as she still was at the Federal, for Uncle Athol had found himself living quarters somewhere in the rambling building which belonged to Charlie Dabney and such time as he did not spend there, he spent leaning over the bar in the hotel.

  There was no actual romance springing up between Les and Prudence, but at least he saw more of her now than any of her other admirers. The others still hung around of course, in fact, in greater numbers and with more persistence than heretofore, but Prudence seemed to have no patience with them. Les and Prudence and I spent quiet evenings at home, talking around the fire and making up a scrapbook. We went to the flicks together and on Friday nights we tried to roller skate. This was a new craze in Klynham, started by the proprietor of a bicycle shop who had rented an old hall, was hiring out skates and charging sixpence for admission.

  It was just a month after the murder of Angela when Les and I, one Friday night, called for Prudence at the Federal Hotel to take her skating and were told she was not there. We were known at the pub by now and had gone straight down to the kitchen. The cook told us Prudence must have gone.

  ‘I’ve just been upstairs,’ she said, ‘and she’s not there. She was hanging out clothes on the annexe verandah line after tea, and I haven’t seen her since.’ She looked out the kitchen window. ‘She’s not out there now.’

  Les and I looked out at the backyard but it was dark and deserted. I could see the white, ghostly shapes of sheets and pillow slips hanging from the clothesline on the annexe verandah.

  ‘We’re running a bit late, Neddy,’ said Les. ‘Maybe she’s gone down to the skating.’

  We stood in the front doorway of the hotel for a few minutes, looking up and down the main street and it was while we were there that we saw Herbert and Uncle Athol go in through the front door of Charlie Dabney’s furniture shop.

  ‘That brother of yours is getting to be nearly as big a hophead as yer uncle,’ observed Les. ‘C’mon, let’s get along down.
’

  The first people to pounce on us at the skating were the Headly sisters, Marjorie and Beth. They were well-known hard cases in Klynham, short-skirted, gum-chewing, full of fun, precocious. They must have had Les and me marked down, we never had a chance. We forgot all about Prudence. We walked the sisters home after the skating, both of us quite incoherent and with our hearts pounding deliriously. At last we had graduated from the outside-looking-in class. The sisters were far from incoherent. When they were not smooging up to us and teasing us for being shy they danced along the narrow footpath and sang scatty songs.

  He doesn’t look like much of a lover

  But cha don’t judge a book by its cover.

  In a taxi-cab—hmm hmm

  Or in a Morris chair—hmm hmm

  Yoo-hoo-ud be surprised.

  At the garden gate we received the most wonderful kiss of all—the first. Not only that, but Beth stuck her tongue in my mouth. I thought it was her chewing gum at first. Marjorie had done the same to Les, he told me.

  ‘Looks to me,’ he said, as we walked back, ‘that these two sheilas are gunna be the ones to learn all about you-know with.’

  ‘I wonder what it is like?’ he said, just before we parted at the corner.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘You-know,’ he said.

  ‘Accordin’ to Herbert,’ I told him, ‘it’s like bluebirds flyin’ outa yuh backside.’

  ‘Is that really what Herbert said?’ Les seemed greatly impressed. I know now that these were not my big brother’s own words at all, but those of some mute, inglorious Milton; in fact, I knew then, but, because it seemed to put Herbert up a peg or two in Les’s eyes, I let it ride. After all blood is thicker than water.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Ziz flush,’ said Charlie Dabney. ‘Flush beats straight every friggin’ time. Great Scott, Athol, you old scoundrel, I’ve headed you off you ole reprobate.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Uncle Athol. ‘Not friggin’ flush attall, not even hand of any sort, four friggin’ hearts anna diamond, not even a friggin’ pair.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be frigged.’

  ‘And I’ll tell you something, Athol,’ said Herbert. ‘Hate to menshun this and all that, but nine, ten, Jack, King, ace, aren’t friggin’ straight either. Where’s friggin’ Queen?’

  Charlie Dabney cackled long and loud as Uncle Athol examined his cards. He brushed a tear from his eye. ‘Great Scott, never laughed so much in all muh friggin’ life. Haftu have a lil’ drink on that. Liesh won’t go out all night. No flush, no straight, wouldn’t read about it. Strordinary affair.’ He groped around for the brandy bottle. He looked behind the box he was sitting on.

  ‘Athol,’ said Charlie, sternly, ‘where’s the brandy? Have you flogged my brandy bottle, you old rapscallion?’

  ‘Havva beer,’ said Herbert.

  ‘Stick it,’ said Charlie. ‘Brandy bottles vanishing rightnleft lately ‘round here. Very mysterious. Maybe not so friggin’ mysterious after all. Maybe perfectly logical explainaesh. Same explainaesh as food vanishing rightnleft all the time. Same explainaesh as cigarette lighter vanishing. Very simple, logical explainaesh. Traitor in camp. Viper in bosom. Great Scott, biting the hand that rocks the cradle.’

  ‘Just what—’

  ‘Bottle was over there a minute ago,’ said Herbert. ‘Saw it muhself. Yuh left it on that bench there. No one’s been near that bench.’

  ‘Perfectly simple, logical explainaesh. See it all now. Viper in bosom. Name of viper, Athol Claude friggin’ Cudby.’

  ‘I beg your bloody, friggin’ pardon,’ said Uncle Athol, haughtily.

  ‘Just wait a minute,’ said Herbert, arising somewhat unsteadily from the box he was sitting on.

  ‘I’ll have you know—’

  ‘Perfectly simple, logical—’

  ‘Shurrup,’ hissed Herbert. He held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Accuse me of friggin’ stealing would—’

  ‘Perfectly straiford, simple, logical—’

  ‘Shrrup,’ hissed Herbert. He began to tiptoe away on a tour of inspection of the vast, shadowed room. The only light came from a very tiny electric globe suspended by a flex and hanging very low above the scattered playing cards.

  Herbert told me that he now received the biggest fright of his whole life. I am sure I am the only person he ever confided in. He had a very good reason for this reticence, i.e. the shadow of the gallows.

  Herbert tiptoed around the end of a great pile of old furniture and timber and came face to face with Salter the Sensational. His heart, as near as dammit, stopped.

  ‘There’s your thief,’ he yelled, staggering back. ‘There he is. There he is.’

  Salter advanced, brandy bottle in hand. Herbert backed away.

  ‘Great Scott,’ babbled Charlie Dabney. ‘You, you villain. Thought you’d robbed my till and decamped weeks ago, you distardly bastard. All the time still here, robbing ole Charlie, causing trouble between me and dear ole frien’ like Athol. Cause of wild accusaesh against dear ole frien’. Nev’ forgive, nev’ forgive.’

  ‘Qui’ awright, Charlie, qui’ awright, forget whole affair, qui’ understan’—’

  ‘Very noble, Athol, heart of gold, episode definitely not closed. Too much altogether. Ring police immediately. Ring friggin’ police. Get Smith, hah.’

  In high dudgeon, Charlie Dabney set off for his little office, but he covered very little distance before Salter had him by the throat. He arched the fat, little undertaker back and sank his thumbs deep into the jugular vein. It would have been all up with Charlie in one minute flat, but Uncle Athol and Herbert between them managed to tear Salter loose. At close range he stunk like a polecat.

  Purple in the face, Charlie fell to the floor. Salter felled Uncle Athol with a murderous blow. Herbert retreated. Snarling like a tiger, Salter began to stalk him. Herbert backed into the pile of timber and, reaching behind him, tried to wrench loose a plank. Salter stopped and groped under his armpit. His hand emerged empty, but not a muscle of his freak-ugly face twitched. He charged and pounced. Only mad terror gave Herbert the strength to wield the plank and even with this boost he only swung it high enough to wipe Salter’s long, flying legs from underneath him. Salter’s temple hit the edge of a coffin lid, jammed firm in the pile of timber. He lay still.

  Herbert helped his uncle to his feet. They both lifted up Charlie Dabney and lowered him into a sitting position on a box.

  ‘I’ve knocked the bastard out,’ said Herbert. ‘We better tie him up or something. This guy is dangerous.’

  Uncle Athol had found and picked up the brandy bottle. They all had a suck at it.

  ‘Great Scott,’ said Charlie Dabney, massaging his throat. ‘Nearly lost my ticket for soup that trip. What a scoundrel! Gimme another drink and I’ll ring the jondomerohso. Ring Smith, hah.’

  ‘Yuh better hurry,’ said Herbert, eyeing the recumbent form of Salter the Sensational.

  Uncle Athol went over and examined Salter. After a while he turned around, cold sober, and said, ‘There isn’t any hurry.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I slept blissfully all night, emotionally intoxicated with a few kisses and Beth Headly poking her tongue down my throat. I was ever a person of simple tastes.

  Herbert arrived home hours later than usual, but his arrival did not awaken me. In the morning I woke him up, not intentionally, but by roaming the sunlit bedroom singing, ‘There’s a War in Abyssinia, Wontcha Come. Go Getcha Peanuts andya Gun’, to the tune of ‘Roll Along Covered Wagon, Roll Along’.

  Herbert rolled over and yawned languorously. Then he sat bolt upright. Even his hair stood up on end.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I queried.

  ‘Whas wrong?’ repeated Herbert. ‘Jesus, did you say whas wrong?’

  ‘That’s what I said, man.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Herbert. He tottered across the room, smacking his forehead.

  ‘Well, what is wrong?’

  ‘No
thin’,’ he muttered. ‘Nothin’. Gotta lot to do, thas all. Gotta get the truck off Pop and pick up some junk from a joker’s place. Promised I’d run it down to the tip.’

  ‘Well, it’s early yet.’

  ‘Promised I’d be early. Hell! Where’s muh shirt? Where’s muh fags?’

  ‘Yuh better cut out smoking,’ I told him. ‘You’re shaking like an aspro leaf.’

  When I got out to the washhouse, Herbert was leaning over one of the tubs being sick.

  ‘Thas booze for you,’ I jeered. ‘Yuh better lay off the booze, as well as smokes, or yuh just gunna be Uncle Athol the second.’

  ‘Shut up, willyuh!’ Herbert screamed at me.

  ‘I’m sorry, kid,’ he said a moment later. He was sweating like a pig. He went out of the washhouse and I shrugged my shoulders. He poked his head back in and said, ‘Tell Pop I’m taking the Dennis to pick up a load. Tell ‘im I’ll be back before any time at all to speak of.’

  When I came out on the verandah he was cranking the truck. Every two or three spins he had a rest and leaned on the radiator. As I went inside, the old girl fired.

  ‘You’re up early,’ said Ma to me as I entered the kitchen. ‘Whas got into everybody? Herbert out of bed at the crack of dawn. Prudence gone—’

  ‘When did she go?’ I asked.

  ‘I dunno, I didn’t see her. But she’s gone.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was all I said, but I went cold from head to toe. Oh no, please God, not Prudence.

  ‘Yuh want some porridge?’ Ma asked.

  ‘I’ll have some soon,’ I said. ‘Yes, soon. I’ll nip down the street first.’

  ‘Look Eddy,’ said Ma, ‘venturing forth on an empty stomach is just about the surest way in thuh world to pick up every germ known to science, and then some. The atmosphere we breathe aboundinates in the vilest germs, as Grandma Cudby would be the first to tell yuh, and nothing looks like a good landing place to the above-average germ more than an empty gutz at the crack uv dawn.’