Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  A week passed, and I was just beginning to think that the archdeacon had overestimated his brother’s interest in my ‘researches’, when I received the awaited call. The voice was similar to his elder brother’s, but feline rather than brusque and a good octave higher. It shared, however, the same self-absorbed earnestness and note of tart rectitude. But fortunately he seemed well disposed to the idea of my visit, apologized for the delay in contact (‘so many little talks to prepare, you know’) and cordially issued an invitation for lunch the following Tuesday.

  Thus, engagements cancelled and Bouncer’s meals taken care of by a neighbour, I set off for London encumbered only by nerves and annoyance, and arrived in the vicinity of Manchester Square shortly before the prescribed time. This was as well for I get flustered parking in unfamiliar areas, and the square and the adjacent streets proved more congested than I had thought. However, after some circling about I was able to shunt into a vacant spot beneath a plane tree and conveniently just around the corner from Claude’s flat.

  Walking towards the tall Georgian building I thought of Nicholas, and for once wished I shared some of his brass neck. A little of that might have made the project less daunting! As it was, I climbed the three flights of stairs to my host’s front door in a state of furtive and panting agitation, convinced that all would fail and I should be exposed for what I assuredly was – a bumbling thief and conman. Then, trying to convince myself that exchange was no real robbery, I squared my shoulders and with a sudden spurt of confidence rang the bell.

  It was answered almost immediately by a miniature Blenkinsop: Claude was about half the size of his brother, but in every other respect looked depressingly similar – though, as suggested from the telephone, the voice that greeted me was mild and silken (unlike Vernon’s rasping tones) and there was something distinctly mannered in his movements.

  ‘Ah, the Reverend Canon Oughterard, I presume. Welcome to my little eyrie ’midst the tree-tops!’ He bowed theatrically and ushered me into a neat hallway and thence into an elegant and high-ceilinged drawing room decorated in delicate shades of cream and grey. The furniture was largely French Empire, with scrolled and gilded mirrors adorning the walls. The rosy tones of a faded Aubusson covered the floor, and on a marble console-table groups of porcelain harlequins and cherubs besported themselves among lavish peonies. Defying the looped silk curtains, light poured in from the long windows. It would be hard to imagine anything more distant from the archdeacon’s stern and fusty study – or indeed from my own workaday domain!

  For a couple of minutes he chatted inconsequentially, enquiring about my journey and the vagaries of the weather; and then rather to my surprise commented on features of St Botolph’s church with which he was apparently quite familiar: ‘Some very pleasing touches, but of course the Lady Chapel is entirely ruined by that monstrous Victorian reredos. Such a blot! Can’t you do something about it?’ He peered up at me with that intent and querulous gaze which I had seen many times on the face of his brother. (What on earth did he expect me to do – repaint the thing? Or was I expected to stash it out of sight in the belfry as I had once had to do with certain other artistic embarrassments?) I explained that it was in the hands of the Church authorities and not something over which I had much control.

  ‘Ah yes … the Church authorities,’ he replied bleakly, ‘a fat lot they know about matters of taste – least of all my venerable brother!’ He gave a biting laugh and offered me sherry from a sparkling decanter. ‘Now, come and enjoy the view. My visitors always love staring down at the pavements – gives them a sense of detached superiority, I suppose.’ He took me over to one of the large windows with its tiny French balcony. And as we gazed down admiring the quiet square with its trees and discreet architecture, a woman emerged from a side street. She was about forty, nondescript, with a limp perm and flat sandals.

  Claude gave a pained sigh and then murmured quietly, ‘Have you ever noticed that ladies who wear those Roman sandals with thick leather ankle straps are invariably of a certain ilk and bore the pants off one?’ I was startled by that – both the observation and its metaphor – and mumbled something to the effect that it had never really occurred to me. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued confidently, ‘and what’s more, it is always those with the thickest ankles who wear the thickest straps!’

  I digested that piece of information and said that I would start to look more closely in future.

  ‘Won’t have to look far: should think Molehill abounds in them!’ He chuckled thinly.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it …’ I began.

  ‘Exactly! … Oh look – now that’s what I call a decent shoe, good ankle too!’ And gripping me by the elbow, he gestured towards the corner of the square. I could just make out another woman briskly exercising a wire-haired fox terrier. Dog and owner pranced along with nonchalant skip, and as she drew closer I could indeed discern a neat pair of ankles encased in tiny high-heeled shoes. The dog’s grey and white markings matched the check of her shapely suit, and I was struck by the pert slant of the pill-box hat.

  He beamed. ‘One of the pleasures of London life. One sees so little of that sort of thing in the provinces … But still,’ he added archly, ‘we can’t stay here all day ogling the girls! Luncheon beckons, I fancy.’ And he ushered me into a small but exquisitely furnished dining room.

  The fare was cold, concise, and meticulous: iced consommé and melba toast, poached salmon and asparagus, and a half-bottle of delicious ’55 Montrachet. Of the last I had not enjoyed such a treat since my father’s demise three years previously. We talked of this and that, of porcelain, curios, and cabbages and kings. Or rather he did, while I listened politely, abstracted with thoughts of the pig and how to get my hands on it.

  Nicholas Ingaza had been right about Blenkinsop Minor being a windbag. The prattle was unceasing but not without humour, and now and again I was pulled from my cogitations by a sly witticism or barbed aside. At one point I enquired, perhaps mischievously, if he saw much of his brother.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ was the acid reply. ‘He’s a dreadful bore, you know. Takes himself too seriously. Were he a woman he too would wear thick ankle straps!’ And he laughed scornfully. I began to wonder if my host was a foot fetishist. I had read of such people.

  Lunch over, we returned to the drawing room for coffee; and snapping open a sleek cigarette case he offered me a Turkish Abdullah. I remembered my mother smoking these before the war; and their flat shape and distinctive smell took me back down the years to hushed afternoons in our ramshackle house on the East Sussex coast, when our parent would be ‘resting’ – it was never clear from what – on the rose sofa in the morning room. The ritual invariably involved several Abdullahs and a steady stream of jet black coffee in the tiniest of green cups. And at such times my sister and I would be firmly directed to ‘leave Mother in peace’ – although I do remember as a small boy, on occasions and on sufferance, being allowed to play with my toy elephant with the proviso, of course, that I was to be ‘very good’. As with Proust’s madeleine, the smell of that oriental tobacco triggered a sudden spate of such memories, and I savoured the novelty, enjoying the contrast with my own workaday Virginians.

  The reverie was interrupted by Claude’s reedy voice saying, ‘Now tell me more about this little paper you are engaged upon …’

  I duly reproduced the spiel about my researches into the life of Sir Royston Beano – in which at Nicholas’s behest I had so laboriously immersed myself – saying how eager I was to view even a reproduction of the original idol, recognizing of course that my host’s was one of the earliest copies and thus of particular note. ‘There are so many base imitations,’ I declared earnestly, ‘and it is a privilege to encounter one made within the lifetime of Beano himself!’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he acknowledged with preening modesty, ‘I am indeed fortunate to have it in my possession, and while I fear the original has been lost in the mists of time, I like to feel that in some strange way f
ate has picked me to be the custodian of its most worthy successor. Naturally, being a copy it is not valuable in the vulgar commercial sense, but nevertheless highly regarded by those of a discerning sensibility.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I murmured, trying my best to look discerning.

  We talked a little longer about my ‘researches’ and the difficulties of doing justice to private passions when so preoccupied with the exigencies of professional duty.

  ‘But at least you have private interests,’ he exclaimed, ‘unlike my brother, who seems to spend his entire life chairing diocesan meetings and writing officious letters to Canterbury. As you probably know, he is due to retire at any moment, so goodness knows what he’ll do then – but at least it will let the archbishop off the hook!’ He gave a caustic snigger, adding with patronizing relish, ‘Poor Vernon, so dull! You’ll never believe it, but the last time I tried to interest him in my precious little collection he actually said that he had far better things to do than drool over piddling gewgaws! So sad …’

  I was about to say that talking of piddling gewgaws, how about showing me the pig – when we were interrupted by the discreet chimes of the doorbell.

  Claude tutted. ‘Now who can that be at three o’clock in the afternoon? Some errand boy, I suppose, and just when I was about to show you …’ He got up crossly and pottered towards the door. I stared out of the window keeping my eyes peeled for ankles, thick or otherwise. My perusal was cut short by a voice from the hall only too gratingly familiar.

  ‘My dear Claude, so sorry to descend on you like this but it is a matter of some urgency – essential that I make a telephone call and I can never get the hang of the public boxes. All that pressing of buttons A and B, it drives me mad! Would you oblige, dear fellow … awful bore, I know!’

  I listened in frozen horror to the tones of my bishop, Horace Clinker.

  What the hell was he doing, bursting in like this just when I was about to execute my sleight of hand with the idols! Anyway, why wasn’t he at home in the diocese doing episcopal things in the Palace? What brought him up here, for God’s sake?

  I heard Claude’s thin tones directing him to the study where presumably the telephone was. A door shut and then my host re-entered the room. He looked peeved.

  ‘Clinker,’ he announced. ‘I suppose he’ll want to use the lavatory next! Anyone would think I was some sort of club or public facility. Haven’t seen the fellow for five years and now he suddenly takes it into his head to use my telephone. Typical of Horace – always did take liberties! … Did you know he was up in London?’ (Said in slightly accusing tones.)

  I cleared my throat nervously. ‘Absolutely not,’ I replied. ‘Rather a coincidence!’

  ‘Oh well,’ he observed scathingly ‘we shall just have to put a brave face on things.’

  ‘Ah, that’s lucky!’ the bishop’s voice boomed from the doorway. ‘Actually managed to get through. Thanks, Claude, saved my bacon! I –’ He suddenly saw me, broke off and recoiled. ‘Good God, Oughterard, what are you doing here!’

  I was about to mumble something about just passing, when Claude said pointedly, ‘Francis and I have had a most restful luncheon and I was about to show him my rampant pig.’

  ‘Show him your what?’

  ‘My Poona pig.’

  Clinker looked startled and said cautiously, ‘A pig, eh? Where do you keep it?’

  ‘Well, it’s rather precious, so I prefer to house it in the study – too public in here.’

  ‘I see,’ said Clinker slowly. ‘I, er, don’t think I saw it …’

  ‘Probably not,’ replied Claude carelessly, ‘after all, it’s not everyone who would recognize the Beano Pig, and of course it’s quite small so –’

  ‘Oh,’ cried Clinker, relief and recognition dawning, ‘you mean you got it out of the Beano! I remember. Wonderful little creatures! Mind you, it was three weeks’ pocket money plus four tokens, but well worth it. So you’ve still got yours, have you? Lost mine years ago. Well, I never!’ And he laughed loud and long. Claude did not.

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Horace,’ he replied stiffly. ‘Suffice it to say, I did not get this remarkable objet d’art out of some comic! Fortunately Francis is a connoisseur in these matters. You evidently are not.’

  To give Clinker his due he was quite unfazed. ‘Sorry, old chap. Put my trotter in it there, didn’t I!’ And he let out another bellow of mirth.

  Claude Blenkinsop raised his eyes to the ceiling, sighed heavily, and between what I took to be gritted teeth said, ‘Well, Horace, since you are here and are obviously in need of some enlightenment perhaps you would like to see the item in question.’ And so saying, he herded the two of us out of the drawing room and into the study.

  Unlike the tiny dining room this was surprisingly spacious. It had the same elegance as the rest of the flat, but apart from a large roll-top desk and a couple of bookcases, was largely taken up with display cabinets and a vitrine table. Gesturing towards the latter, he turned to me and said, ‘At least you, Francis, will recognize my treasure!’

  I did indeed, and was rapidly working out how on earth I should manage to make the switch. It hadn’t occurred to me that the thing might be kept under glass – a detail that Nicholas had helpfully omitted to mention. Clinker’s presence was also a dratted encumbrance. However, I made all the right noises and peered closely at the glass top, trying as it were to get a closer look.

  ‘Just a moment,’ murmured the proud owner, ‘I’ll take it out.’ And touching a knob at the side he slid back the glass panel, took out the little pig and placed it on a side table.

  ‘I like the green eyes,’ observed Clinker appreciatively. ‘Do they glow in the dark?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ snapped Claude. ‘It’s not a lighthouse, you know!’

  ‘May I pick it up?’ I asked.

  ‘By all means.’

  I made a great show of examining the object, and ran my finger down its back and then, unobtrusively, along its underside. It seemed perfectly smooth. I tried again, this time with my nail – and yes, Nicholas was right: the ridge was there! A mere hairline in the bone, but definitely there. It was the real thing all right!

  I continued to regard it solemnly, still desperately wondering how I was going to effect the change. Then miraculously Clinker exclaimed, ‘I say, Claude, is that a genuine Toledo dagger over there?’ And together they moved towards one of the display cabinets. In a trice I plunged my hand into my jacket pocket, fingers poised to grip the replica …

  But even as I did so I knew the act to be futile, that my hand would grasp nothing but the coat lining: for the Singer’s glove box had flashed before my eyes, and I realized with the certainty of doom that I had forgotten to remove the replacement. Such had been my elation in finding a parking spot that all other thoughts had vanished, and I had strolled blithely up to Blenkinsop’s flat with the object of my mission still stowed in its place of safe-keeping!

  With hand stuffed pointlessly in my pocket, I heard my father’s voice intoning, ‘Head full of sea air, Francis – nothing but air!’ He had been right.

  In helpless dismay I gazed down at the idol while Claude instructed Clinker in the intricacies of Toledo dagger patterns. What could I do? Request another visit? But why on earth should that seem necessary? Make some lame excuse and rush downstairs to the car, get the idol and try to re-enact proceedings? Impossible. Return to the flat disguised as a plumber or tax inspector? … These and other absurdities raced through my mind as I stood there bleak and wretched, cursing myself and cursing Nicholas. Finally I slumped down on the sofa bored out of my mind and longing to return to Molehill. The other two prosed on in front of the cabinets, and I shut my eyes …

  Suddenly I heard Clinker saying, ‘Oh, I think that’s quite all right. No trouble at all, dear fellow. As a matter of fact I was going to ask Oughterard here if he wouldn’t mind giving me a lift to Victoria. I have rather important business to attend to there, but there’s
plenty of time and we could easily drop it off.’ And then turning to me, ‘That won’t take you out of your way, will it, Francis?’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so,’ I replied vaguely. ‘Er, sorry, where are we going?’

  Clinker sighed. ‘To drop off Claude’s pig at the jeweller’s – it’s got an eye loose. Didn’t you hear!’

  ‘The right eye, is it?’ I asked absently.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact it is!’ exclaimed Blenkinsop. ‘How did you know that?’

  I had of course remembered Ingaza’s tale of Beano’s wife hurling it at the fender with the resultant dislodging of one of the emeralds. Reset it may have been, but the damage was done, and a hundred and fifty years later it had presumably worked itself loose again.

  ‘Er, I …’

  ‘Sharp eyes, that’s what you’ve got, my dear chap. A fellow enthusiast, I can see that!’ And he nodded appreciatively.

  I smiled modestly and gave thanks for major mercies. To think that, after everything, the pig was going to drop into my lap just like that!

  But not quite – for my offer to carry the package had been pre-empted by Clinker who seemed intent on taking the box himself, assuring Claude of his utmost care in the matter. Thus somehow, between our departure from the flat and arrival at the jeweller’s, it would have to be detached from the bishop’s grasp.

  We said our goodbyes to Claude, and with Clinker carrying the package and me pondering logistics, made our way downstairs and out into the street. As we went I noticed that in addition to the pig in its box, Clinker was carrying a dark mackintosh. I recalled Mrs Carruthers’ reference to his incognito garb, and wondered if the ‘important business’ near Victoria involved a few rounds of surreptitious tiddlywinks.