A Conspiracy of Aunts

by Sally Spencer

  Or a sort of wake, because, though they didn’t know it, this was to be the last time I would ever feed them.

  As I piled the bowls high, other cats – who’d been hunting on the very edges of their kingdom, or else involved in amorous adventures beyond the paddock – began to arrive, and by the time I had completed my task, every cat on the farm, including the recently-abused Van Gogh, had congregated in the barn.

  I placed the bowls on the floor.

  ‘On your marks!’ I said, going through, for one final time, the ritual which had given me so much pleasure.

  Two or three of the newer cats put a tentative paw forward.

  ‘Wait for it!’ I ordered.

  Tentative paws were withdrawn.

  ‘And … go!’ I told them.

  Within a second, I was surrounded by a sea of rubbing, swaying fur. I made my way to the barn door. I had not intended to stop and turn around, but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Goodbye, little friends,’ I said to the scores of rapidly bobbing heads.

  I stepped outside and closed the door behind me. From my pocket, I took out my bike padlock. It was a big, heavy thing, the sort Les Fliques had advised us to buy – had ordered us to buy – during his lecture on road safety and crime prevention, back in my primary school days.

  I slipped the padlock through the barn door hasp, and clicked it into place.

  ‘Try and cut through that, Auntie Peggy,’ I said aloud.

  She could cut through it, of course, given time – but time was the one commodity I intended to rob her of.

  I ran through my time projections in my mind. She would have about five minutes to do something. The first thirty seconds would be spent in shock. It would take her at least the next two minutes to discover that all the cats were locked up in the barn. She’d waste another couple of minutes looking for the hacksaw blades I’d already transferred to the saddlebag on my bike. And then, as the last, precious moments ticked away, she’d realise that, however much she hated the idea, there was only one course of action left open to her.

  15

  The call box was located at the edge of Norton, on the road which led – eventually – to Cuddles Farm. It was empty, which was only what you would expect so early on a Saturday morning. I stepped inside and dialled a famous three-digit number.

  ‘Emergency,’ the operator said, with reassuring calm. ‘Which service do you require, please?’

  ‘The Polis,’ I told her in my best Irish accent.

  There was a click, and then a new, wearier voice said, ‘Norton Central Police Station.’

  It was just possible that Les had taken the day off – but, knowing him as I did, I didn’t think it likely.

  ‘Oi want to speak to Sorjeant Fliques,’ I said.

  ‘Your call will be processed by the duty—’

  ‘Tell him it’s about the jools at Cuddles Farm,’ I interrupted.

  Fliques was on the line in seconds. ‘Who is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oi’m not prepared to give moi name, sor.’

  ‘Is that you, Bobby?’ he asked.

  ‘Shut your gob and listen, sor,’ I said.

  God, but that felt good.

  ‘I’m listening, Bobby,’ Fliques told me.

  ‘I’ve got some information that might be of interest to youse, sor …’

  ****

  It was nearly half an hour before a black police car, with Les Fliques at the wheel, sped past my phone box hiding place. I already had the money ready, and I pushed it into the slot and then dialled Cuddles Farm.

  ‘Yes?’ my aunt answered, in a sleepy voice.

  ‘The police are on the way,’ I said.

  ‘Police?’ Aunt Peggy repeated. ‘If this is a joke, Bobby, you’re in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It’s no joke,’ I assured her. ‘You’ve got five minutes – maybe less.’

  ‘But your Aunt Catherine promised me that she’d—’

  ‘You’ll hear their sirens any second now,’ I said.

  ‘Cats!’ my aunt screamed. ‘Where are all the bloody cats?’

  I hung up, to give her time to realise that she had no choice but to do what I’d planned she should do. Though it was still early, my work for the day was complete.

  I decided to go for a bike ride.

  ****

  It was a pleasant early-autumn morning, and the country lanes I followed were deserted. I enjoyed the feel of the sun on my neck, and the crisp air blowing against my face. A rabbit scuttled across the road, a hedgehog balled itself up at the base of a tree. Overhead, a flock of birds circled in preparation for their long journey south.

  I dismounted by a bramble patch, and picked a handful of blackberries. They were sweet and juicy.

  In some ways, I had to admire Aunt Peggy. The cat couriers had been a brilliant idea, because known criminals often got stopped by the police and had both their persons and their cars searched. But what policeman would also think to search the insides of the cat the criminal happened to have with him?

  Yes, it had been clever – but it had also been very, very wrong. Moggies like Van Gogh must have suffered terrible discomfort when they were forced to swallow the jewels, and even more when they had to regurgitate them. And they had been the lucky ones. Cats like Charlie Chaplin – with his comical walk – and Wurzel – the scruffiest animal on the farm – had come to far worse ends, their throats cut by vicious men who only cared about the contents of their stomachs.

  It was too horrible even for me to think about – and I knew Mother would have shared my horror.

  ‘Always be kind to dumb animals,’ I heard her voice say from the other side of the brambles. ‘They’re God’s creatures, just the same as we are.’

  ‘Indeed they are, Mother,’ I agreed.

  ‘And make the punishment fit the crime,’ Mother continued. ‘Always make sure the punishment fits the crime.’

  I nodded. I was sure that in this case, that was exactly what I’d done.

  16

  Aunt Peggy died shortly after that, and so I went to live with Aunt Catherine.

  PART FOUR: The Queen of Hearts

  1

  ‘God called me here,’ Aunt Catherine said.

  I looked around me.

  To my left, the bay curved like a twisted lip, coming to a natural artistic conclusion at the run-down fishing port from which, every morning, a few dispirited boats would set out onto the hostile sea.

  To my right lay the town. Boarding houses lined the front – inelegant peeling Victorian dwellings with names like “Sea View” and the “Atlantic Hotel”. Immediately behind them – almost seeming to grow out of them – was the sharp hill on which most of Llawesuohtihs was built. As far as the eye could see, rows and rows of narrow terraced houses clung to the incline, confidently pessimistic that one day it would rain a little too hard, and they would slither helplessly down into the oily water.

  My vantage point for this spectacular panorama was a crumbling platform which jutted out to sea on legs a spider would have been ashamed of.

  “The World Famous Llawesuohtihs Pier”, the sign announced at the entrance.

  In what world was it famous? I wondered.

  All in all, I decided, Llawesuohtihs was a very backward place. Even the name was unpronounceable to anyone not born under a cloud of drizzle and within the sound of bleating sheep.

  ‘Yes,’ Aunt Catherine said complacently. ‘God called, and I answered that call.’

  It seemed to me that if He’d sent her to a place like this, God couldn’t have liked her very much.

  ‘Your aunt has been a great, spurting fountain of strength for me,’ said the man by her side.

  Like all the great double acts in history – Holmes and Watson, the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Batman and Robin – my aunt and her mentor, Pastor Ives, made an incongruous pair. Tall, gaunt Aunt Catherine habitually wore the long, flowing dress of a severe Victorian
governess, but with her scrawny neck and a beak of a nose, she looked more like a reject from a chicken factory conveyor belt. Pastor Ives, by contrast, was a small, bulging man with a milky complexion and a topping of silver hair. He always dressed in white suits, and wore a pair of gold glasses with lenses as thick as bottle glass.

  They made a ridiculous pair, yes, but it would be a mistake to underestimate them. Together, they made a formidable team, and, almost without help, they had managed to build the Church of Christ the Consumer into the most boring and completely incomprehensible mission in the whole of Wales.

  ‘The Pastor asked you a question, Robert,’ my aunt said harshly. ‘Haven’t you been listening?’

  ‘Of course I have, Auntie,’ I replied.

  As a matter of fact, I hadn’t. Instead, I’d been scanning the bleak seafront, expecting, at any moment, to see the figure of my old friend, Sergeant Fliques, resolutely marching towards us. But I needn’t have worried – it would be months yet before Les came to hound me over what I’d done to Aunt Peggy.

  ‘I was asking you if you understood the tremendous challenge of our mission,’ Pastor Ives said.

  ‘Not really,’ I admitted.

  ‘People have the wrong idea about our Saviour,’ he told me. ‘Christ was never against consumerism. Had there been a Sainsbury’s in ancient Palestine, His holy feet would have been the first across the threshold, and He would have filled his basket with special offers, just as He filled His net with souls.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that,’ I said, trying not to laugh.

  ‘That’s the point,’ Ives said, drenching me in enthusiasm and spittle. ‘Most people don’t realise. Take another example. Had video shops existed in those far-off days, He would have rented a tape – as regularly as clockwork – every Friday night. Except, of course,’ he chuckled, to indicate that as a modern, broad-minded churchman, he was comfortable enough with his faith to be able to poke mild fun at it, ‘except, of course, on Good Friday, when He was otherwise engaged.’

  ‘And He would have bought a Chinese take-away to eat as He watched it,’ I said, as my contribution to the theological discussion.

  ‘Perhaps, being from the Middle East, He would have a kebab rather than a chop suey,’ Ives said, but he was obviously pleased with me. ‘And that’s the message we have to get across,’ he continued, serious once more. ‘Christ is relevant to ordinary people’s lives.’

  ‘It is as hard for a rich man to enter the gates of Heaven as it is for a shopper to pass through the check-out at Asda on a Saturday morning?’ I suggested.

  Pastor Ives frowned – and I realised I had gone too far.

  ‘I’m not sure you quite understand,’ he said. ‘God wants us to spend. It is through new, improved washing powders and miracle cleaners that He manifests His wonders in the world.’

  ‘The boy understands, well enough,’ Aunt Catherine said, fixing me with her sharp little eyes, ‘but his heart is hardened. The sins of his mother, his Aunt Jacqueline, and his Aunt Peggy, cling to him as tightly as does the price sticker on a bottle of Fairy – which is as kind to hands as the Lord is to souls who see the light. Yes, the sticker of sin is firmly fixed upon him, but we will scrub and scrub until we have succeeded in stripping it away.’

  The wind had changed direction, and now it carried on it the stench of the fish-canning factory. Drizzle prickled against my face, that particularly Welsh drizzle which always manages to make itself feel wetter than rain elsewhere. Out at sea, heavy grey clouds merged with choppy grey water, and robbed me of a horizon.

  It looked as if I was in for a jolly few years.

  2

  If there’s one thing I’m especially proud of in my life – apart from my skill at the bridge table – it’s the way I’ve behaved to the women who were part of it. To all of them, without exception, I have shown a sense of duty and responsibility which would have made Mother proud of me. I cleaned Aunt Jacqueline’s house until it was as bright as a new pin. I fed Aunt Peggy’s cats, and I fixed her roof despite my vertigo. Almost single-handed, I created the Shelton Bourne Trust to please Sadie. I even helped Rosalyn, my late fiancée, to produce those frightful stories her equally frightful newspaper was always demanding. Yet, on balance, I think it was Aunt Catherine who got the best value for her money.

  God, how she worked me during my time in Wales, both as her personal servant and in the role of general building contractor to the Church of Christ the Consumer. I’m not complaining, you understand. In fact, I was glad to have the opportunity to do something which would pay Aunt Catherine back for the kindness she’d shown in taking me in.

  And, as Mother used to say, ‘Hard work never hurt anybody.’

  Still, I must admit that there was one job which really irritated me, because – unlike painting the house or re-hanging a door on the Mission – it seemed completely pointless.

  And what was that job?

  My monthly trek to Abernuffa.

  The first of these expeditions to what could hardly have been called the centre of the universe – even if the universe in question was a pretty dull one – took place shortly after my arrival in Llawesuohtihs.

  ‘We’re both going to Abernuffa today,’ my aunt announced one Saturday morning.

  The name meant nothing to me, but Aunt Catherine was wearing her best governess dress – the one which made her look like a cockerel on stilts – and so she obviously attached some importance to the visit.

  ‘Why are we going there, Auntie?’ I asked.

  ‘To shop.’

  ‘But couldn’t we shop here?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t,’ my aunt told me. ‘Not without drawing attention to ourselves.’

  ****

  It was a slow, wearying journey from Llawesuohtihs to Abernuffa. The bus, a geriatric single-decker, coughed its way up the hills, breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the crowns, and seemed to go into a panic every time we began a descent. We stopped at innumerable slate-and-flint villages to drop off mail and pick up passengers who looked as if it would be news to them that the Hindenburg had crashed. Only after an hour and a half’s bone-rattling travel did we see a sign which announced that Abernuffa welcomed careful drivers.

  We may have wasted time by going to Abernuffa at all, but not a minute was squandered once we arrived. My aunt marched resolutely from the bus station into the near-by branch of Boots, and, once inside, headed straight for the hair brushes. She stood for perhaps a minute examining the array of brushes, then picked one up and stroked it against my cheek.

  ‘What does it feel like?’ she demanded.

  ‘It tickles,’ I giggled.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ my aunt said impatiently. ‘But does it feel to you like it’s human hair?’

  ‘I suppose so – but very spiky human hair.’

  ‘Always get them like this,’ my aunt told me, ‘real bristle, not plastic – and always in black. Do you understand?’

  It didn’t seem too difficult to grasp. I nodded my head.

  My aunt paid for the brush.

  ‘Do we need anything else?’ I asked.

  ‘Not from here,’ Aunt Catherine replied.

  From Boot’s, we went to Hughes’ Bros., and again immediately homed in on the hair brush section.

  ‘You choose one this time,’ my aunt said.

  Anxious to please, I selected a brush similar to the one we’d bought in Boots, and handed it to her.

  Aunt Catherine stroked it against her chin.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘this will do nicely.’

  And a minute later, she was the owner of a second brush.

  After Hughes Bros., we visited Marks and Spencer, the Welsh Handicraft Store, Griffiths and Son, and the Dylan Thomas Gift Shop. We bought brushes at all of them. Only then did my aunt seem satisfied.

  ‘From now on, it will be your responsibility,’ she told me. ‘For just as the fork-lift truck in Tesco’s can shift whole crates of
Campbell’s Concentrated Soup from one shelf to another, so has the Lord lifted this burden off my shoulders and placed it on yours.’

  ‘What burden, Auntie?’

  ‘Buying the brushes.’

  ‘But you’ve just bought six,’ I gasped.

  ‘And I shall require six more next month and every month,’ my aunt said, with a dangerous edge to her voice. ‘Six new brushes, from six different shops. Have I made myself clear?’

  Clear? Yes. But I couldn’t honestly say she was making any sense.

  ****

  On the way back to Llawesuohtihs, I did my best to solve the mystery of the hair brushes.

  Perhaps she gave them out as prizes to her Sunday school class, I thought – but the class was not that large, and after a few months, surely every child in it would have been given at least one brush.

  And the prize theory wouldn’t explain why she went all the way to Abernuffa for them – and bought them all from different shops.

  Maybe someone had told her that in the event of nuclear war, hair brushes would be in short supply, I speculated, and she was stockpiling them secretly to avoid a panic. But no, that was ludicrous – even for my aunt.

  The answer to the mystery, as it turned out, was both simpler and more puzzling than any of my speculations – she needed new brushes because she used the old ones up.

  I discovered the first of them in the kitchen bin, a week after our trip to Abernuffa. Initially, I was sure it couldn’t have been one of the brushes we’d bought – not in that condition – but closer examination revealed that it was, indeed, the brush I’d selected in Hughes’ Bros.. Another four turned up in the bin over the next few weeks, so that by the time I made my first solo trip to Abernuffa, Aunt Catherine was down to her very last brush.

  How did she do it? I wondered as the old bus groaned its way into yet another oppressive hamlet. What could anyone possibly do to a hair brush to make it go completely bald in such a short time?

  3