However, such speculation was cut short for I had something else to think about: the weather. It had started to rain. Clinker gave a tut of exasperation, stopped in his tracks and began struggling to put on his raincoat. With the box grasped in one hand, he was having difficulties. The rain was suddenly pounding the pavement and I leaped to assist.
‘Here, give me the box, sir … and I tell you what, if you stand under this portico I’ll run on and get the car. Shan’t be a second!’ And not waiting for a reply I rushed round the corner clutching the precious package.
I scrambled into the Singer, wrenched open the glove box, and with frantic fumbling switched the two objects. I had just done this when a thought struck me – ‘God almighty! I’ve forgotten the damned eye!’ The original pig’s emerald orb had worked loose, hence our visit to the restorer. Its fake counterpart, to be eventually returned to Claude, would have to show similar damage! I looked around wildly for some gouging instrument. None came to sight or mind. Rain poured, sweat oozed. And then suddenly I remembered – under the dashboard, Pa’s Swiss army knife! He had foisted it upon me just before the final hospital sojourn, and cluttered with other problems and impedimenta, I had left it there long since forgotten … I took the pig, seized the knife, and attacked the eye. Then executing a sprawling three-point turn, swung the car round and headed back to the sheltering Clinker.
‘Most thoughtful, Oughterard. Thank you,’ he exclaimed, stuffing himself into the passenger seat. ‘Can’t stand this erratic weather, you never know what to expect.’
I grunted sympathetically and passed him the bogus pig. ‘You’d better hang on to this, sir. Claude Blenkinsop would take a dim view if anything happened to it!’ And I laughed wryly.
‘Hmm,’ he replied, ‘Claude Blenkinsop is an old woman – always has been. And why he has to live in an apartment without a lift I cannot imagine. As to this pig, can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’ve seen more riveting things in Woolworths!’
We drove briskly until my passenger pointed out that we were fast approaching Paddington Station. ‘Rather disorientated, aren’t we, Oughterard?’ he observed. ‘I think you will find Victoria approximately a mile south from here.’
In the face of interesting gestures from cab drivers, I managed to turn the car and join the cortège moving in the opposite direction. It was the rush hour, and reaching Victoria a frustrating business; but we eventually got there, and to my surprise had little difficulty in finding the jeweller’s, which was tucked away in a corner behind Westminster Cathedral.
Making a rather laboured joke about entering upon popish precincts, Clinker levered himself out of the car, and clutching the pig box disappeared into the shop. It would, I suppose, have been courteous to offer to go in myself; but my companion had seemed perfectly happy to complete the mission. And in any case, I reflected, the less I was seen to have anything to do with things the better!
Five minutes later the bishop returned to the car and in imperious tones directed me to the Vauxhall Bridge Road. About halfway down he suddenly said, ‘All right, you can stop here now, Oughterard. I’ll walk the rest of the way. The – ah – office is only just round the corner.’ And barely waiting for me to draw up, he was out on the pavement muttering thanks and buttoning his mackintosh; and then with a vague wave in my direction started to walk purposefully towards one of the side streets. As he went he turned up his coat-collar and pulled from his pocket a sort of crumpled black fedora. He crammed it on, and looking like a squat Mafioso, quickened his stride and disappeared out of sight.
I was about to start the engine when, glancing in the mirror, I saw a car draw up a few yards behind me. The passenger door was flung open: and swathed in furs and furbelows, out stepped Mrs Carruthers. I had been right after all!
The noise started immediately she put foot to pavement, as with whoops and cackles she struggled to prise from the back seat a female companion, who eventually emerged into the air as might a grey porpoise. The driver also emerged – one my father would doubtless have described as ‘rather a common little man’, sporting a small moustache and a very loud check jacket. He was carrying a wicker hamper. The porpoise lady was also carrying something: a large shiny wooden box with brass corners. Mrs Carruthers carried nothing except a tightly furled pink umbrella with an enormous spike. Chatting and clattering, the three of them tottered towards the corner around which Clinker had disappeared.
I looked at the hamper, the wooden box, and my watch. Nearly six o’clock – l’heure bleue: the cocktail hour. Obviously time for tiddlywinks and tequilas!
Thus with my mind filled with visions of genteel riot and roguery, I left the Vauxhall Bridge Road and braced myself for the Brighton run.
9
The Cat’s Memoir
As I had predicted, the vicar started making preparations to go up to London. Clearly the Brighton type had tightened the screws and our addled master was now once more in the role of reluctant lackey. I cannot say that his discomfort would have bothered me unduly – the risible blunders of humans deserving of some small penance. However, in this particular case the penance would not be confined to F.O. If his project aborted we should be involved, and that was not something that I found amusing. Life was precarious enough as it was without the vicar’s antics fouling things further.
As I pondered the matter I felt a sulk hovering and began to make my way to the holly bush where I settle at such times. However, my path was blocked by Bouncer. Last seen he had been skulking around the tool shed, but he had evidently observed me emerging from the rhododendrons and was now standing barring my way and panting loudly.
‘I say, Maurice,’ he gasped, ‘you’ll never guess – he’s cleared away my bones and blanket. It’s not right!’
I observed that there were very few things of F.O.’s doing which were right, and would he kindly mind removing himself from my path. He said that he did mind actually, as he had some urgent things to communicate and would appreciate my advice. I am of course renowned for giving good advice and can rarely resist an appeal to my helpful sagacity. Thus I agreed to listen to the dog’s complaints. These were not easy to follow but seemed to involve the church, the vestry, the Briggs woman, and some unpleasant-sounding ham bones.
‘… so I had gone to all the trouble of making this cosy kennel,’ he gabbled, ‘and put all my stuff there, even the blanket, and it was a really good little den. I’d been going there for weeks, and then F.O. messed it all up and locked the door. It’s not fair!’
‘Nothing is. Besides, you never told me about it!’ I replied irritably.
‘Thought you would probably cut up rough,’ he explained.
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I am not in the habit of “cutting up rough”, though doubtless I would have questioned the wisdom of the venture.’
‘That’s what I said – cut up rough.’
I let that pass, and instead asked how on earth he had managed to transport the blanket unobserved. ‘Must have been quite cumbersome. Did you do it at night?’
‘Didn’t do it at all. It was O’Shaughnessy. He’s got a bigger mouth than me. Besides, it was his idea in the first place. Said I would be as snug as a bug next to the hot pipes and only an eejit would think of looking there. A “darlin’ little hidey hole” he called it.’ I might have known. Trust the setter to be at the bottom of things!
‘Well, nice while it lasted, I daresay,’ I observed. ‘But you’ll have to find another place now – though why you can’t just stick to the crypt I do not know!’
‘Ah, but you see, Maurice,’ he replied solemnly, ‘in life it’s always good to ring the changes.’
And having cast that philosophical pearl, he went sniffing off among the bushes.
Abandoning my sulk, I promptly called him back. ‘Your bones matter little in the general scheme of things,’ I observed sternly. ‘They are merely ciphers which –’
‘What scheme?’ he asked.
‘The Brighton type’s scheme to
manipulate the vicar and destroy our chances of an easy life – not to mention the police putting their hulking hoofs in everything! It is all going to be exceedingly tiresome.’ And I emitted one of my more ear-freezing miaows. The dog winced, but before he could bound off again, I remarked casually, ‘Anyway, he’s definitely going up to London and thence down to Brighton – and this time has no plans to take you on the outing.’ (I couldn’t resist mentioning that, as the dog gets cocky when given preferential treatment.)
‘What!’ he yelped. ‘What about my grub?’
‘There won’t be any,’ I said. And waited.
As anticipated, the reaction was violent and theatrical. Indeed, such was the volume that even the phlegmatic sparrows took flight, and I could hear the baby next door wailing in protest.
I suffered the drama for a while, and then raising my voice above the din let it be known that it was just one of my playful jests, and that of course F.O. would never go off without making the necessary arrangements, and that all was in hand for the dog’s culinary needs.
‘Yes, yes, but will I get my GRUB?’ he bellowed.
‘Yes, Bouncer, you will be fed, i.e. f-e-d, FED!’
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ he said. And promptly lay down and went fast asleep.
10
The Dog’s Diary
I had a jolly good day yesterday, JOLLY GOOD! In fact it was so good that it made up for me losing my new cubbyhole in the church vestry which O’Shaughnessy had kindly helped me with. When I told him what had happened, about the vicar putting the kybosh on things, he said that in his experience that is what owners generally did, and the name of the game was not to be downhearted but to rise to the challenge and find something else to fox them with. He said that was one of the things that made it fun being a dog: always something to keep you on your toes and your snout in good order! I think O’Shaughnessy talks a lot of sense, though the cat can be a bit sniffy about him – but then Maurice is sniffy about almost everything. He enjoys it. I suppose that’s his bit of fun. Mine is racing about or eating – and I did a lot of both yesterday!
You see, F.O. had gone swanning off to London, and then down to Brighton, where the Type comes from, so we were without him for almost twenty-four hours (didn’t get back till nearly two in the morning – at least that’s what Maurice says; I’m not too good on clocks myself). So that meant I could do pretty well just what I liked! Mind you, when Maurice first told me of F.O.’s plans and that he had no intention of taking ME with him, I was pretty miffed. After all, what about my mealtimes? The cat made one of his unfunny jokes, saying there wouldn’t be any grub! Well, you can bet that upset me. I mean to say, no self-respecting dog is going to go all day without his Bonios and Muncho. So I made a bit of a scene. Scared the daylights out of Maurice, who then had the brass neck to say he had been pulling my leg. SOME STUPID JOKE!
Anyway all was well, because the vicar had organized the woman from over the road to come in and give me the necessary. I made a great fuss of her – grinning all over my face, wagging my tail nineteen to the dozen, staring fondly into her eyes, and even sitting up and begging. (I didn’t use to be able to do that, but think I’ve got the knack now, and it’s JOLLY handy!) She was so impressed that she gave me extra dollops all round, plus masses of chocolate cake – which F. O. never allows me. She said I was the sweetest little fellow she had ever seen! Maurice said it all made him feel rather sick.
In between the noshes I went and played with O’Shaughnessy in the graveyard and beat him twice in our race round the tombstones! Maurice said that the setter was just holding back to let me win, but I know different. Bouncer knows a thing or two when it comes to crafty obstacle races! After that we paid a visit to the organist’s aunt – the one whose Yorkie was murdered by the bulldog belonging to the vicar’s friend, Mrs Tubbly Pole. I told O’Shaughnessy that if we were to get into the garden without the old girl seeing us he would have to be very quiet and tread carefully. He said he would be as quiet as a Celtic fairy. Like hell he was! Great paws crashing everywhere, and all the time laughing his head off fit to bust! Don’t know how Tapsell’s aunt didn’t hear us – deaf, I suppose. Anyway, we had a good time doing her dustbins over, and then had a bit of digging practice outside the drawing-room window. The earth is quite soft there and we were able to make some really big holes. There were lots of those bulb things all strewn about and O’Shaughnessy tried to eat some, but he made awful faces and spat them out, and then rolled about waving his legs in the air making gagging noises and pretending to have tummy-ache. It was good fun – but it was even more fun when the aunt’s cat appeared. That really stretched our legs and lungs! We were just on our second lap round the garden when I saw the owner at the window, purple in the face and shaking her fist. Suppose she thought her pet was about to go the same way as the Yorkshire! Anyway, we ditched the cat and got out smartish.
On the way back I asked O’Shaughnessy if he would like to come home for tea and have some chocolate cake (assuming Maurice hadn’t hidden it in his litter); but he said that he thought it was nearly time for his mistress to come back from the hairdresser’s all permed up, and that he must go to his usual post at the front gate and put on a forlorn face ready for her return. I asked why the face. He said this always makes her feel guilty for leaving him so long, and he would be much petted and given titbits for the rest of the evening. I thought of trying that with the vicar, but knowing him he would probably walk straight past me and never notice a thing!
Still, it was just as well that O’Shaughnessy didn’t come back, because as I began trotting up the front path who do you think was coming down it? The rozzers: the fat one and the weedy one!
‘That’s his dog,’ said the fat one – March, I think his name is. ‘Hello, Bouncer old boy! Where’s your master then?’ (Damn fool question. Did he really think I was going to say anything?) ‘Gone off and left you, has he? Eh?’ He patted my head and I gave him one of my soppy looks.
‘Nice little chap, this one,’ he said, turning to his mate.
‘No he’s not!’ the weedy one snapped. ‘Don’t you remember when we were here interviewing Oughterard last year? Him and that cat, like fiends from hell they were! Nasty beggars, the pair of them.’ And he glared. I was going to glare back but then thought it better if I stayed looking soppy.
‘Come off it, Sidney,’ said the fat one laughing, ‘they were only having a game.’
‘Having a game? That’s not what you said at the time, sir. What you said was –’
‘Yes, yes, all right, Sidney, no need to be so literal … besides, we’re not here to discuss his domestic pets. What we want to know is when’s he coming back so as we can have another go at him. That’s what we’ve got to consider.’
‘Well, you won’t get it from the dog, that’s for certain!’ And he gave me another sour look.
They went babbling on, but I was feeling sleepy after playing with O’Shaughnessy and it was quite a strain keeping my ears cocked, so I didn’t catch much else. (You have to listen really hard when humans talk to each other – and most of it’s gobbledygook anyway.) Then after the fat one had written something in his notebook and told me to ‘be a good dog then’, they went on down the path to the gate. I was glad to see them go as they were standing in the way of me getting at that cake – which I did NOT have to share with O’Shaughnessy!
11
The Vicar’s Version
It took ages getting out of London, not helped by the fact that I discovered the petrol gauge was teetering on empty and filling-stations perversely self-effacing. However, I found one at last, and feeling a trifle more relaxed could concentrate on negotiating my way to the Brighton road.
This eventually achieved, I started to think about Nicholas and presenting him with the pig from Poona – or the Beano Bone Idol as it was officially known. I had to admit to being rather pleased by my ‘coup’ and trusted that he would be duly grateful. After all, he could hardly accuse me of maki
ng a cock-up this time, and might even offer to stand me supper or certainly a couple of drinks at the Old Schooner where we had arranged to meet. After the dramas of the day I suddenly felt rather in need of strong libations and glad we were meeting in the warmth of the hotel and not in the dubious domesticity of his home (wherever that might be, for I still didn’t know). I wondered if he would bring the so far faceless Eric, but hoped not. For a reason I could not quite define, I was reluctant to confront either his pad or his pal. Perhaps anonymity on both counts helped to preserve the sense of unreality and keep the nightmare in check … the more I could keep aloof from the grasp of their raffish world the better!
I pushed on through the gathering dusk, and once beyond Hickstead began looking for a telephone box from which to announce my arrival. Naturally no such thing materialized until the precise moment when I had a large saloon with blazing headlamps right on my tail. But I was loath to miss the opportunity and, quickly signalling, swerved a trifle abruptly into the kerb and came to a skidding halt. With screaming klaxon and flashing lights the saloon roared past, and despite the gloom I had a brief glimpse of an irate driver and fulminating passenger. For a tense moment I thought they might stop and come back and remonstrate – or worse! But fortunately it sped on, still hooting, into the night.
Muttering oaths I scrambled out on to the grass, and was halfway towards the kiosk when I remembered the pig in the glove box. I suppose I was becoming paranoid, but after the earlier fiasco I was nervous of letting the thing out of my sight until ‘safe’ in Ingaza’s avid grasp. I returned to fetch it, found the requisite coins, and after some fumbling was able to get through almost immediately.
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