Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  At last the ribbon was cut. There was a round of applause. Dean watched his mother step forward, invite Lady Darkley to enter the village hall. Typical that his mother had been saddled with the job of showing that old dragon around. Obviously no one else had volunteered. Lady Darkley led the way, her sidekick Mrs Pole stuck to her like a limpet. Dean’s mother followed. The other members of the committee came next, with Dick Emery bringing up the rear. At the very last moment – just before the ribbon was replaced to keep out the hoi-polloi during the ‘royal’ visit – Cally slipped in behind them all. Cheeky, thought Dean admiringly. Then: why did she do that, why didn’t she come to find me?

  Dark clouds of suspicion began to gather in his mind. He tried to fight his way towards the front of the crowd so he could see better. It was not easy. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea.

  If she smiles at me again, said Dean, then everything’s all right. If she doesn’t….

  But that didn’t bear thinking about.

  He finally reached the front row only to find, to his annoyance, that his sister and Old George had followed in his wake. They stood either side of him as he craned his neck over the ribbon. Amanda had somehow got her hands on an Exhibition catalogue and she began to read aloud from it.

  ‘…an array of home-grown talent, a panoply of artistic endeavour, an affirmation of the central importance of creativity in all our lives—’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Dean.

  ‘Exhibits numbers one to four,’ Amanda continued, doing that thing where she raised her eyebrows and looked excessively pleased with herself so that you ground your teeth and wished that sororicide was legal (sororicide was a good word, it deserved to be used more often). ‘Exhibits numbers one to four: fine pieces of needlework from the skilful hands of Mrs Jean Wetherby of Well Lane….’

  ‘Sewing!’ Lady Darkley had obviously reached exhibits one to four. She had her glasses out but was not wearing them, was holding them up to her eyes like binoculars. She looked less than impressed with what she was seeing.

  ‘It’s embroidery,’ Dean heard his mother say.

  ‘I daresay it is, but my dear Gwen, sewing is not art. It’s drudgery. I’m surprised at Jean Wetherby. I didn’t know she sewed.’

  Lady Darkley swept on, dismissing Mrs Wetherby’s embroidery.

  ‘Exhibits five and six,’ read Amanda. ‘Hand-crafted pottery courtesy of Mr Roscoe Mainwaring….’

  Dean scowled, leaning as far as he dared over the ribbon. Why wasn’t Cally looking at him? She was talking to Sandra. What were they saying? Was Sandra still banging on about Richard: why doesn’t he text me, I’m so in love, blah-blah-blah? It was time she got over it. It wasn’t as if Richard was anything special – apart from the fact that all the girls fancied him – half the boys, too, or so you’d think, the way they went on, as if he was a superhero or something.

  But wait a second: all the girls?

  Not Cally.

  Surely not Cally.

  But if she did … if she did! Oh God … oh shit … it was too horrible to think about. If Cally did fancy Richard then that would be it, Dean would lose all faith in humanity for ever. Not that he had much faith in them to start with. People were so shallow, so annoying. Old George and Amanda, for instance, talking across him as if he wasn’t even there.

  ‘Well, girl, what’s next? What other delights do we have in store?’

  ‘Exhibits twelve to sixteen,’ Amanda read, then exclaimed, ‘Oh, this should be good. It’s Mum’s stuff.’

  Dean, still following Cally with his eyes, allowed himself a quick glance at his mother’s work as Amanda continued to read from the catalogue.

  ‘Number twelve is entitled A Woman’s Work,’ said Amanda. ‘Number thirteen: Divine Inspiration. Number fourteen: Feeding Time At The Zoo. Number fifteen: They’re Here….’

  The ‘royal’ party was now at the far end of the hall. His mother’s paintings were on display facing the entrance but they were so far away it was difficult to make anything out for certain. Was that a kitchen in the first picture? But it was so cluttered and untidy, crockery and utensils everywhere, it couldn’t possibly be drawn from life: his mother would have had an apoplectic fit if her kitchen had ever looked like that. The next picture was of what looked like psychedelic banana splits – but he must be wrong, it couldn’t be banana splits, no one in their right mind would do a painting of banana splits. Then there was one of baby birds sitting on fluffy clouds – drowning in them, it looked like, from this distance, except that the clouds resembled mashed potato more than anything.

  ‘I think Mum’s gone round the twist,’ said Amanda.

  The ‘royal’ party had been inspecting Gwen’s paintings for some time. At last Lady Darkley’s voice came trumpeting down the hall.

  ‘Hmmm. Rather avant-garde for you, Gwen. That one there makes me feel rather itchy. It looks like millions of creepy-crawlies climbing all over each other. I suppose it’s what they call abstract. Nice try, though. Seven out of ten for effort.’

  The ‘royal’ party moved on, went out of sight behind the display boards, but Lady Darkley’s voice could still be heard, reverberating around the hall. ‘Yes, yes, very good, good, good.’ She seemed to have speeded up now. Probably bored, thought Dean. Who wouldn’t be?

  ‘Exhibit thirty-one,’ read Amanda. ‘The Queen of Hearts. Foil on card. Mrs Green, The Bungalows.’

  ‘Ah. Diana Spencer.’ There was an ominous tone to Lady Darkley’s disembodied voice. ‘Not a good likeness, I have to say. Not a good subject, for that matter. Couldn’t stand the woman. All me, me, me. Egotistic. Manipulative.’

  ‘Oh, I agree, all me, me, me, I always said so myself.’ Mrs Pole was like an echo.

  ‘Not a nice family, the Spencers. Troublemakers. I won’t speak to Charles Spencer any more, won’t have anything to do with him.’

  ‘Like she’s ever even met him,’ muttered Amanda.

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past her,’ said George. ‘Very pushy, Lady Darkness. Bet she used to slobber all over him, until Lady Di began to ruffle a few feathers and they decided to bump her off.’

  ‘That’s just a conspiracy theory,’ said Dean, feeling the need to enlighten George on this subject: people couldn’t be allowed to live in ignorance all their lives. ‘Conspiracy theories aren’t true.’

  ‘And how would you know, boy?’

  ‘I looked at the evidence. I went on the internet and—’

  ‘The interweb? You don’t want to take no notice of the interweb. It’s all propaganda. You mark my words, Lady Di was bumped off. Secret Service, it was. They’re allowed to kill people if it’s on foreign soil.’

  Dean opened his mouth to reply, was about to point out that using a double negative as George had just done gave his sentence the opposite meaning to that intended, but then, glancing at George – glinting eyes, stubborn jaw – Dean had second thoughts, decided to keep quiet. Some people got a bit uppity when you took the trouble to point out where they were going wrong. You’d have thought they’d be grateful, but—

  ‘Shut up, you two,’ said Amanda. ‘Listen!’

  ‘… but what is it meant to be?’ The ‘royal’ party had obviously moved closer. They were still out of sight, but Lady Darkley’s voice was loud and clear, must have been audible even to those right at the back of the crowd outside. ‘There’s nothing there. It’s just different shades of white.’

  ‘What is it she’s looking at, girl?’ said George, nudging Amanda.

  ‘Exhibits forty to forty-six,’ read Amanda. ‘Paintings by Lydia Taylor.’

  ‘Morris dancing, you say? It’s meant to be Morris dancing, is it? Well, I’m sorry, but this sort of thing infuriates me. A child could do better. It’s meant to be modern, I suppose, like those pickled animals or that dreadful woman with her unmade bed. That’s not art. It’s an insult to my intelligence. It drags this country’s name through the dirt. And this…. What’s this called? What? Well, for a start, there aren’t any b
lack panthers in England, so what’s the point in a picture like that? I’m not even going to look at it, it only encourages more of the same nonsense. Oh, and here’s another one. I thought we’d finished. What’s this one—?’

  A sudden silence fell. People looked at one another. It wasn’t like Lady Darkley to be lost for words. What was going on?

  The silence stretched out. You could have heard a pin drop.

  Old George nudged Amanda again. ‘Well?’

  Amanda consulted the catalogue. ‘It says here, Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder.’

  ‘And what’s that mean when it’s at home?’

  Amanda shrugged. ‘How should I know?’

  The silence was abruptly broken. ‘WHAT is the meaning of this?’ It was like a sudden explosion, made people jump, cower, cringe.

  ‘Quick, you young ’uns!’ said Old George. ‘There’s a window round the side. We can see what’s happening. Follow me!’

  Several other people seemed to have the same idea at the same moment. It began as a casual stroll, one or two amongst the crowd heading towards the corner of the village hall as if they were simply stretching their legs. Within seconds it had become a mad scramble, people pushing and shoving and climbing over each other to get at the narrow window round the side. Old George forged ahead, bony elbows flying, Dean hanging on his coat tails, Amanda tagging on behind. The crowd pressed and squeezed. Thirty or more pairs of eyes strained to see through the miry window.

  Dean found himself squashed right up against the glass. He peered through the dirt. The ‘royal’ party was gathered in front of the last of the display boards where, presumably, the panther’s pictures were on show. Dean could make out one with swirls of white and hints of shadow; another where dark shapes seemed to be flitting across a patchwork-quilt landscape. But Lady Darkley was not looking at those. She was standing in front of a different painting. She had her back to the window so you couldn’t see her expression. Next to her, Mrs Pole was like a startled rabbit. Dick Emery was rubbing his hands together, uneasy. His mother, Dean noted, looked decidedly sheepish, hovering on the very edge of the little group.

  ‘Huh! It’s only a picture of someone with no clothes on.’ Old George sounded disappointed. ‘Not even a woman, neither. And there was I thinking it would be something juicy.’

  Amanda had her head on one side, contemplating the picture which they could only half see. ‘Men are ridiculous,’ she announced. ‘They look ridiculous, is what I mean. It’s no wonder they don’t go round with their bits on show.’

  Dean had an urge to rub Amanda’s nose in the dirt on the window. Men were not ridiculous, she was ridiculous. Though he did sometimes wonder – not that he’d ever mention it or anything – but he did wonder if his own bits weren’t … well … lopsided … and perhaps slightly …

  But yeah, well, anyway: how would Amanda have liked it if it had been women’s bits on display? Women’s bits were ridiculous, if anything was.

  Except they weren’t. They were … were…. Words failed him.

  The picture being of no interest, Dean tried to locate Cally instead. He could just see the top of her head (was she really that tall?) and one of her legs (her legs…), but the rest of her was hidden by the ample figure of the Stasi. Dean wondered what Cally thought of the painting. Did she have the same opinion as Amanda? It was a worrying thought.

  ‘This is beyond the pale!’ Lady Darkley’s voice, though muffled by the glass of the window, was still eminently audible. ‘Male pudenda is most definitely not art! It’s smut. Pure smut!’

  ‘Don’t know why she’s getting so het up,’ muttered George. ‘It’s only a John Thomas. She’s seen plenty of them in her time, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘It’s depraved! It’s outrageous! I won’t have it! My grandfather built this village hall and I won’t have it defiled by this filth!’

  ‘T’weren’t her grandfather as built the hall,’ muttered George. ‘It was old Lord Darkley’s grandfather, nothing to do with her. She was a nobody afore she married Lord Darkley. Ann Smith, she was called. Imelda? Pah!’

  ‘Is nobody going to do anything about it?’ trumpeted Lady Darkley. ‘In that case, I will! Down with it!’

  She lunged for the painting, but at the same moment the panther jumped forward, barring the way.

  ‘Oh no you don’t! You’re not touching my work!’ she cried.

  Dean goggled as a most undignified struggle ensued, Lady Darkley doing her best to get her hands on the painting, the panther fending her off. Old George was chuckling, the crowd oohing and aahing.

  ‘Ladies, ladies!’ Dick Emery stepped forward, wringing his hands. The two women ignored him.

  ‘I’ll thank you to get out of my way!’ bellowed Lady Darkley, raising her handbag and giving the panther a thwack across the shoulder. The crowd gasped.

  Someone pushed to the front of the little group inside. It was Mr Armitage from college, Dean realized. He hadn’t known Mr Armitage was even in the hall. You tended to overlook Mr Armitage most of the time. Not now. He was blazing with anger.

  ‘Stop! How dare you! You can’t treat a pregnant woman like that!’

  ‘Pregnant? Did he say pregnant?’ There was a buzz in the crowd.

  Old George tittered. ‘This just gets better ’n’ better. Like the telly, this is.’

  ‘Pregnant, is she?’ Lady Darkley took a step back – not, thought Dean, due to any solicitude over the panther’s condition; more because, with Mr Armitage now also in the way, her path to the porno painting was well and truly blocked. ‘Pregnant? Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard all about her loose morals. As if we hadn’t got enough single mothers sponging off the state – and to have one in my village!’

  ‘She’s got a head of steam now!’ said George delightedly. ‘There’ll be no stopping her!’

  ‘It’s a scandal, the things that go on in this country nowadays, an absolute scandal!’ Lady Darkley tiraded. ‘Harold Wilson is behind it: Harold Wilson, I tell you. He wreaked havoc on this country. Anything went in the sixties: drugs, permissiveness—’

  Who was Harold Wilson? Dean wondered. Would he be on the internet?

  ‘—absolutely anything. It was shameful!’

  ‘And Europe,’ murmured Mrs Pole, who was staring up at Lady Darkley with a mix of awe and wonder. ‘There’s Europe, too.’

  ‘Europe my fanny!’ thundered Lady Darkley. (Another gasp from the crowd.) ‘Why did we bother fighting the war if we were just going to hand the country over to the Germans afterwards? That was Harold Wilson, too—’

  ‘No it weren’t,’ said Old George. ‘It was Ted Heath, not Harold Wilson. She don’t know she’s talking about. Never has.’

  Dean looked at George, indignant. Harold Wilson, Ted Heath – Dick Emery, for that matter: who were these people, and how come some old relic like George knew more about them than he did? It wasn’t right; it made Dean feel almost as if he was ignorant. His fingers itched for Wikipedia.

  ‘He should never have been allowed to get away with it, he should have been … should have …’ Lady Darkley faltered.

  ‘Put on trial?’ suggested Mrs Pole demurely. ‘A traitor?’

  ‘I may have misjudged old widow Pole,’ murmured George. ‘She’s a bit of a shit-stirrer on the quiet.’

  ‘He was a traitor,’ Lady Darkley resumed. ‘He was in the pay of Moscow, everyone knows that. And this is what it’s led to: filth like this on open display where anyone can see it!’

  Lady Darkley made a sudden lunge towards the painting but Mr Armitage stood his ground. You would never have guessed he had it in him, thought Dean.

  ‘It’s all right, Terry,’ the panther was saying now. ‘Let her take the painting if she objects to it so much.’

  ‘I will not let her take it!’ cried Mr Armitage. ‘She’s just a bigoted, parasitical, proto-fascist—’

  ‘Please, please, ladies and gentlemen.’ The vicar stepped forward again, raising his hands in a sig
n of peace, his face twitching, a nervous smile coming and going. ‘If we could conduct proceedings with a little more decorum. I’m sure with a little calm and rational discussion we can reach a consensus that will—’

  ‘Consensus!’ Lady Darkley swung round, bore down on him, steamrollering. The vicar backed away in alarm. ‘What are you blithering on about, you silly little man? You should be taking the lead! You should be making a stand! What else is a vicar for if not to uphold Christian values?’

  ‘And morals,’ Mrs Pole added pertly.

  The vicar flinched. ‘Well … er … yes, of course … but things are … things are not … always … so … clear-cut. Different points of view, different outlooks, and so on.’

  ‘Points of view? Points of view! I have never heard such balderdash! Where in the Bible does it say that one should daub one’s walls with filth and obscenity? Is peddling pornography the Christian way? Is this what the Church of England has come to? If you are not careful, you will be turning into one of those happy-clappy, wishy-washy, flower-power vicars!’

  ‘I … I …’ Dick Emery looked at that moment as if he very much wished he wasn’t any sort of vicar at all – not that he even looked much like a human being, thought Dean, with eyes popping out in alarm, a head jerking like a chicken’s, teeth sticking further and further out as he was driven back against the wall by the force of Lady Darkley’s onslaught.

  ‘Let me tell you here and now, my good man, I won’t have that sort of nonsense in my church. You had better buck up your ideas. Now do as you’re told and come away from this … this Exhibition. I wash my hands of it!’

  Lady Darkley spun round to leave – but caught sight of the panther again as she did so. She paused, fixing the panther with a baleful stare. Dean could feel the intensity of it even from outside the hall, but unlike the vicar, the panther stood her ground, looking Lady Darkley in the eye.

  Dean trembled. Anything might happen. Weren’t there nuclear shelters for this sort of contingency?

  ‘You!’ Lady Darkley spat. ‘You’re behind all this. Don’t think you’ve fooled me for one moment. I know. I know. And to have the effrontery – the brass neck – to stand for the parish council, too! I’ve never heard anything like it, you … you … you snake in the grass!’