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The Old Dog and the Doorstep

Page 9

by JP Wright

Before we could have our dinner, we had to wait for Verity to rescue the lamb soldiers from the oven and stand each one up in a moat of chunky sauce. She slipped off their helmets and scattered them with the gremolata, which did make them look pretty, and they were sent off to the front line in two detachments, with a couple of dishes of veg in support. By luck or planning, there were several reserves, nearly a whole tray-full left behind once all the guests had been served. The bug poked suspiciously at the bare bones jutting up from their brown shoulders of meat, so Verity, with a sigh, instructed me to scrape off the meat and mix it with the sauce. There were a few gross wobbly bits that I picked off while she was not looking, but once it was mixed in it did not look so threatening, and Kitty dug in with her usual warthog enthusiasm.

  “You should ask the Chef for some help with your cooking thing,” she advised me through a mouthful. I ignored her, and sprinkled gremolata. Once I had tasted it, I rather wished I had not sprinkled so heavily – surely Verity had meant to cook the garlic?

  “I don't know what you see in that Belle,” I said to the louse, trying to get her away from the subject of cookery, “I really don't believe that she is an actress anyway.”

  “She is too,” the tick protested, “She's been in things.” She waved her fork above her head, pointing out the things she meant, that might or might not exist, somewhere out there in the world, but mostly nearer my face than I would have liked.

  “Well, Mother was in things,” I countered, scraping the decoration off what was otherwise a rather good stew.

  “Only Theatre things, not TV,” said the little fool.

  “Your Mother is an actress? Oh, crap,” Verity said, glancing over her shoulder and dribbling a little lemon custard outside its pastry case.

  “She was when she was young, but only Theataah daahlink,” said K, “But Belle has been on TV, and she is a professional. I read Mummy's review and it said she was really amateur.”

  “It said ‘a true amateur’” I told her. There was a much-folded, yellowed newspaper clipping we had found in the bottom of the dressing-up box; “That meant she did it for love, not for the money or fame. She wasn't Driven to it by Poverty.” I thought to myself that the sort of work that Belle was fit for was more often done by amateurs too.

  “It also said she was a dilutant,” said K, “and only playing at playing and her family was wealthy.” Why Mother kept that review I do not know; maybe she liked the 'wealthy' part.

  “Anyway,” I snapped, “I think she is a fake.” Meaning Belle. I had no reason to believe that: it was pure prejudice against thick ankles and dyed blond hair.

  While we girls debated, the lemon tartlets were being slid into the oven, not unnoticed by the walking bottomless pit. “Twelve there, so plenty for us,” she grinned.

  “If they all come out okay,” said Verity dubiously. “They are mostly butter and sugar, with just enough flour to hold it together. And there isn't enough time for them to cool properly. Cross your fingers and toes.” Which the tick immediately tried.

  Charity trundled back in with the trolley, and the Maid and the Stable-boy (peace be upon them both) entered from the back stairway. They had shed their costumes, now that they were dead: that did not stop the pest from quizzing them.

  “Did he stab you?” she asked the Maid, her eyes lighting up. “I missed the murder, but I heard you scream from here. Very impressive.” To which the Maid, or rather Charlotte the now-resting actress, gave a little curtsey, before sitting down to demonstrate how she had prepared herself for the rôle of 'buxom maidservant'.

  “Glad to have that costume off,” she grinned adjusting her bra-straps and piling stew into a bowl in front of her. “Any bread? It was so tight round me middle, I thought the sisters were going to be popped out the top. I had to be careful not to sneeze.”

  “Don't take such care next time,” smirked Sandy. The vile lech.

  “Naughty boy,” laughed Lottie, seeming not to mind.

  “I didn't kill her,” Sandy told K. “I don't think. They have to find the murderer, don't they? And I'm dead now too.”

  “The mystery deepens,” nodded Detective Tickham, “Do you like lemon tart, only there may not be enough for us all?”

  “I like all sorts of tart,” leered Sandy. Inappropriate, I thought. Lottie, silly girl, giggled again. The Butler lurched in and frowned to see the pair of them sitting shoulder to shoulder.

  “What-ho Cookie!” he bellowed, in the manner of Colonel Rooting-Compound. Charity scowled over her shoulder from the sink; Verity bent down to the oven to carefully slide out her delicate tartlets. Drunkenly obvious, obviously drunk, the Butler considered the feasibility and advisability of slapping her bottom. His hand twitched, but he decided – to the benefit of the waiting diners – that the slap direct would not be well-received. He threw a clumsy wink instead at giggling Lottie and tucked the offending hand inside his waistcoat, as though saving it for later. “Any chance of some grub?” he asked, more quietly, and then helped himself, leaning over the table. “Best to line the stomach,” he burped. Revolting.

  Sandy and Lottie, having nothing else to do, stayed in their places; in urgent hope of dessert and in preference to study, Kitty and I stayed in ours. Butler soon abandoned his post at the end of the table and shambled off to check for dregs, to be relieved by Cook, the guests having finished questioning her.

  “The food is going down well,” she nodded to Verity, who was in the cupboard under the stairs, juggling the contents of the new fridge, trying to find space to cool down her tartlets, “I've had more questions about that than about the murders. Well done, my loves,” she added, with a glance at Sandy and Lottie, who by now were looking quite the friendly couple. Under the table, one of the actor's bony hands was clasping the sturdy thigh of the actress. No doubt he was disappointed she had switched the short skirt and fishnets for thick joggers. I wished they would get a room. In fact, they had rooms: I wished they would go to them.

  Cook chattered on about the guests' compliments. Clearly, she had been happy to take the credit on Verity's behalf. “Perhaps you would like to give them my card,” the Chef growled, draining candied lemon peel.

  “In your professional capacity,” chirped up Kitty, “how much force would you say would be required to tip a cake over a window sill – that window sill, say – assuming that it was perched somewhat precariously?” Verity and the Cook both frowned. It seemed to me more like a physics problem than a cookery one. Which reminded me that on top of the Home Ec thing, I had some physics homework to do: something about dropping pebbles into water and watching the ripples.

  “How heavy was the cake?” asked the Chef.

  “It was a coffee and chocolate cake. Pretty heavy,” said the flea, “About as heavy as the cat. Do you suppose the cat might have tipped it?” The Cook pursed her lips, turned to look out of the window, pretended to be gauging the height of the work-surface.

  “In my long experience as a Cook” she told Kitty, nodding seriously, “I have had countless pies stolen by rascally boys from window sills. Plum, apple and cherry. There isn't by any chance a boy named Jack hiding around the corner? Pies, crumbles, even duffs I have lost, but I have never known a cat commit such a crime. Fish, yes they will drag away; cake, no.” Kitty cast about for a pen with which to note this important piece of expert opinion. Verity snorted, and went back to juggling plates.

  “Tits!” she exclaimed, as the first tartlet crumpled. Sandy raised his eyebrows at Lottie, who giggled again. “Charity, please tell Mrs Tickham that dessert will be delayed. Perhaps there will be time for another murder.”

  “I have to be back for my child-minder,” sulked Charity. Proving that even the least appealing of people can find a mate: poor thing, she looked like something Picasso might have thrown away. By some odd freak of genetics, it seemed that each half of her face had been inherited from a different parent, and neither of them lookers. Pity the child. Pity the child's minder.

  “Well start walk
ing now then,” snapped Verity, “Or wait for my tartlets and my car.” The audience sucked its collective teeth.

  “I'll go,” offered Cook amiably. “They're all sozzled – they won't mind waiting,” and she ambled off, back to the limelight, leaving Verity to drum her fingers on the table impatiently, and Charity to clatter dishes furiously. Before anyone could blink, Kitty had whipped the damaged tartlet out from under Verity's nose.

  “Delishush,” she mumbled, spraying crumbs.

  “Jeezus, K.”

  “You should make thish for your school thing, V,” the little toad went on.

  “Shut up.”

  “Verity, lemons are Italian aren't they? V is cooking an Italian meal for school on Monday it’s easier than French I suppose but she doesn't have much clue.” I wondered about dropping her into the pond: that would stop her interference. Verity poked gingerly at another tartlet, biting her lip, then put it back in the fridge. Lottie leaned forward, pushing away Sandy's paws, eager to help.

  “Pasta's easy,” she offered, “I always have pasta. And it's good for you.” It had certainly nourished her well. Verity pushed back her round hat and wiped her sweaty brow on her sleeve. Now that the meal was almost done, she was beginning to relax. Just those tricky tartlets to turn out.

  “What are you planning?” she asked me.

  “Just some stuff,” I explained; if only Kitty had caught my eye, she would have been the next victim – killed with a glance, the perfect crime. Verity shrugged and poked at her tartlets again, then dragged a chair across the kitchen to climb up on it and started rummaging in the cupboards. She was barely more than Kitty's height, and skinny too. I could see why the Colonel was surprised she was the Chef. How could she be around food all day, and still have such a small bottom? It was not as though her food was bad. I wondered whether there was any bread to soak up the sauce from my bowl. Not a thin sandwich slice, a good crusty chunk of granary.

  “D'you have a jam-jar or something?” she called down. There were some left over from tea.

  “Is strawberry okay?” I asked, “Lower cupboard.” She clambered down, agile as a monkey, and dragged out one of Mrs B's hefty jars.

  “Too big,” she said, “It isn't the jam I need – it's the jar. Something smaller.”

  “Mustard!” cried Kitty, and hopped over to the old fridge. “Or … horseradish?” She handed Verity the small jar. Sandy and Lottie sniggered about horseradish. I tried to imagine what Verity wanted it for. It turned out to be something rather clever: the tartlet cases had loose bottoms (shut up) that pushed out (I'm warning you for the last time). Rather than try to push them out with her fingers, which is what had done for the first one, the crafty little Chef balanced the tartlet on top of the horseradish jar and gently eased down the outer ring, then slid the perfect, golden, crispy, lemony, sweet, sharp little thing onto its plate. She topped it with a couple of twists of candied peel, a dollop of crème fraîche and a dusting of icing sugar. Charity stopped putting away dishes and pans and stacked the tartlets on the trolley. Two cracked slightly as she moved them, so they stayed behind. Kitty, counting quickly, grabbed one pristine example from the trolley before Charity wheeled it away, and began stuffing it in. “The firsht wum didn't count – it wash brokem,” she insisted. Sandy and Lottie split one. I had a cracked one to myself. It was just perfect – sweet and sour, buttery, soft centre and crumbly biscuity crust. If I could cook like that, my bum would definitely not be as small as Verity's.

  I was rather ashamed. It seemed pretty poor, compared to what we had just eaten, but I told her, “I am supposed to be making lasagne. My teacher said it would be easy, but it seems pretty complicated and I have to do three courses. I thought just melon and ham to start with.”

  Verity perched herself on the edge of the table and pecked at a lamb bone thoughtfully. “Good idea,” she said. “Anything you can make ahead, do. And prosciutto must have plenty of social and historical context, right?” Clearly she had been through this herself. “How about making the béchamel in advance, and the meat even. Then you just have to put it together.” I did not think that would be okay with Miss Simpkins.

  “Anyway, I haven't got the stuff I need. No mince, no onions or anything,” I said. Maybe the white sauce though – if I could get together all the bits I needed to float in the milk. Before I could ask Verity whether she happened to know which one was the bay tree, her assistant squeaked back into the room with a trolley-full of empty plates, and began grabbing boxes to haul out to the car.

  “You might have lent a hand Violet go and wipe down the dining table would you Tabitha dear time for bed,” Mother said, sweeping into the kitchen.

  “I really should do some work before I go to bed,” I explained, but she just ignored me and began sorting through her fridges, counting bottles of milk and eggs, preparing for breakfast I suppose. I did not go up to my room to calculate the fat content of a tissue-thin slice of cured ham. Instead, I cast aside the damp rag Mother thrust upon me and went out through the front door, across the driveway and between the holly trees to the pond. I took a few stones from the driveway, thinking that I might be able to do my physics homework by tossing them into the water. I could pretend one was Kitty. It was way too dark, though, despite the moon being full, and too windy. The moon's reflection was smashed into a thousand pieces on the surface of the pond. I sat on Grandpa's fishing bench and threw the stones in anyway: one for Kitty, one for Miss Simpkins, one for Mother. Between plops I thought I heard a rustle. Another one for Kitty; a big one for Miss Simpkins; a little one for 'Belle', who hardly deserved the effort. Another rustle, and a sigh. Or was it just the wind? I looked around, back to the house, where the lights in the dining room flicked off. Suddenly, the broken moon was the brightest – the only – thing to see. No: down the hill in the distance off to my right there was a pale, flickering light. Perhaps the farmer was out looking at his sheep. Do you believe that? Perhaps it was Verity's car down at the gate: that sounds more plausible. The light had disappeared before I could be sure. Perhaps it had been a trick of my eyes. In any case, I heard another rustle behind me, and soft footsteps, and just as I turned again to see who was there, a white shape appeared in the water on the other side of the pond, paler than the yellow moon. I remembered Mrs Baker's story about the ghost of Farmer Tickle or Pickle. Could he have moved out of the village … could he be here? Maybe the village kids were too tough for him; maybe he had some grudge against Grandpa and had come to seek him out in his favourite spot. Was it him, padding quietly up behind me? Then who was over there – one of his victims?

  Another sigh drifted across the water, echoed by a heavier sign behind me, and hot breath on my neck and – thank goodness! – the warm, yeasty odour of Marcus. The moon reflected in his big, wet eyes as he planted two huge feet on the back of the bench and panted in my face. Never was the stink of his breath so welcome. I could have kissed him, if I had not been so busy trying to stop him kissing me.

  “Get down Marcus!” I said, and “Who's there?” at the figure across the pond – less ghostly and fearful now I had faithful Marcus with me.

  “Hallo,” came a quiet voice. The pale figure stepped out of the shadow: short blond hair, rosy cheeks, a long white gown with lace at the neck. Not Farmer Tickle; not one of the missing children, though the figure did have a Victorian look about it, a cake-decoration look, like one of Mother's china figures that gather in groups, huddled for warmth, on the vast snowfield of the gigantic Christmas cake she bakes every year, which we can never finish, which goes to feed the birds, or some unfortunate that the Vicar has singled out for particular support that winter. It was not a ghost, then, nor even a Victorian wassailer, but a Choirboy. In fact, not even that: it was Ms Tisket in her Choirboy outfit. Or Ms Tasket. She gave a shy wave and picked her way around the margin of the milky pond.

  “Hi!” I called, “Get off Marcus.” Discouraged, the old dog padded off, back to his bed now he had done his job, patrolled the borders of
his territory. Roger shuffled over to perch on the moss beside me. “Any more suspicious deaths?” I asked, my confidence back now that the ghost had been exorcised.

  “I don't think so,” Roger muttered, and sat looking pensive. You know that look people get when they want to be coaxed into talking? I wondered whether I could be bothered, and then remembered that she was a Paying Guest, and did the dutiful daughter thing.

  “Waiting for the Vicar?”

  She shrugged, “She's talking to the Cutter-Plains I think. Mrs Rooting-Compound was giving me the 'Why isn't a nice girl like you married?' speech, so I thought I'd have a walk. Is it okay to come out here – it's not off limits?”

  I shook my head. “It's fine.” She still looked haunted. Trouble in paradise, obviously. So I had to ask, “Why aren't you, then?”

  “Why am I not what?” Roger replied, looking at – or in the direction of – the darkening water.

  “Married,” I said bluntly. That got her attention. She looked sharply at me, measuring me. She knew I knew. A cloud crossed the moon.

  “I am a Teacher,” she confessed. They always tell you, and usually sooner rather than later. Always with the capital T; or, with solemn brow, the burden of the future weighing them down, I Teach. “I Teach,” there it was, “and so does Clara.”

  “Surely that's not so unusual.” I looked out over the pond too. This was pretty embarrassing stuff, especially coming from a self-confessed teacher. The moon was rising and getting smaller, and more clouds had begun to slide across it, and I had things to do. Still – duty, duty. “Is there some not-in-the-workplace rule?”

  “In fact,” she turned to face me, ready to unburden herself, gawd help me, “we work in separate schools but that makes it more complicated. She's at the RC, I'm at the C of E. Mixing allowed on a strictly platonic level only. Not that Plato would be much approved of either. Hah! The old farts at Our Sainted Mother of Christ would have a sacred cow if they saw her got up as a Vicar, and the twin-set-and-pearls battleaxes at St Auberon's would be pretty sniffy about my dressing as a boy.”

  “A boy in a dress,” I pointed out. “And isn't a Vicar a Vicar either way?”

  “I rather think the boy-in-a-dress thing would make it worse. Perhaps we should have switched rôles. And no, the Holy Fathers think they are something rather special and not to be confused with the C of E amateurs. They have only been around a few hundred years, and some of them are still straight you know.” This I took to be satire.

  Leaving aside the age of them, and their sinister profession, the Tragic Situation of Ms Tisket and Ms Tasket was really rather romantic. Two lovers separated by their cruel masters, forced to escape to the safety of the countryside, unable to resist the pull of their hearts but having to hide their passion from society. “So you had to flee, to get away together to a place where you could be yourselves, where you could be together and …” I tailed off. There are limits.

  Roger smiled. “I may have exaggerated the difficulty of our position,” she admitted. “We share our home. We just don't shout it from our rooftop. Marriage is not an option if we want to keep our jobs, and I don't much mind that, but Clara chafes. No doubt we will continue to argue about it and do nothing, until we fade into the tweedy old age of respectable school-marms, when we shall be allowed to openly link arms for a stroll along the prom, and sit side by side in deck chairs watching the sea grumble away over the grey sand of some benighted coastal last resort.” I thought of great aunt Hettie, wondering whether, if I looked back through the few photographs of her, trowel in hand or setting off on a vigorous hike, I would find a face repeated in the cluster of friends around her, her constant companion, unacknowledged even to family. I managed to maintain silence for just long enough: “Right. Better get back I suppose,” said Roger brightly.

  Good, then. So long as she was okay and not about to fling herself into the pond to float Ophelia-like among the water-lilies, then my duty was done. “Do you happen to know anything about Physics or Home Ec?” I asked as she went to stand. She did not.

  Chapter 10

 

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