On my way home I bumped into Savage, and told him my news. ‘Cor, that’s pretty good, Rev!’ he exclaimed. ‘Suppose they’ll be making you Pope next!’
‘Unlikely,’ I said. ‘That’s the other lot.’
My encounter with Savage resulted in further bombardment with his wife’s fairy cakes. A consignment was delivered the next day ‘to celebrate the Rev’s leg-up’ and wishing me well in my new ‘cannonade’. I was touched by this kind thought but rather doubted whether I should be able to generate the explosions evidently envisaged by the Savage family. However, the gift was certainly appreciated, and Bouncer and I spent a happy hour squabbling over the butter-cream and the meticulously applied silver balls. The cat looked on with a sour expression.
In the course of this pleasurable consumption I pondered the reasons for my advancement. Who on earth had recommended it? Certainly not Clinker! And on what grounds? It was puzzling. However, the answer was not long in coming, for the second post delivered a peremptory note from Archdeacon Blenkinsop:
‘Gratifying to know that there are some members of the Church who still take their diocesan duties seriously. Your handling of the Rummage absurdity was exemplary, and I only wish others would heed my precepts as efficiently as you did: the Church would be a more stable institution. We no longer live in sober days, Oughterard, but I like to think my views still hold sway in certain circles of influence! Congratulations on your appointment.’
Bugger me! I thought. Bully for old Blenkinsop. Just goes to show – pomposity has its uses!
A day later I received the official letter cordially inviting me to take up the post of Honorary Canon – in recognition of my dedicated contribution to parish stability (i.e. being bland and uncontentious) and of my solid services to the diocese (i.e. toadying to Blenkinsop). It irritatingly overemphasized the lack of remuneration for such office, but assured me that other than delivering an annual sermon to the diocese, no further duties would be required beyond those already being ‘so suitably discharged’. In the concluding paragraph there was mention of my being allocated a stall in the cathedral, and on ceremonial occasions being permitted to embellish my cassock with a scarlet cummerbund … So that was something to look forward to.
That evening I telephoned Primrose and told her my news.
‘Your brother is now a canon,’ I announced. ‘Canon Oughterard. Do you think it sounds all right?’
‘It doesn’t matter what it sounds like,’ she replied. ‘What are you paid?’
‘Well, money doesn’t really come into it …’ There was a snort of impatience from the other end, and I added defensively, ‘But I can wear a red sash and have been given a personal stall.’
‘In the Gents, you mean? What will they think of next!’
I explained carefully that the stall was not in the Gents but in the cathedral chancel and that it would have my name on it.
‘Just make sure they spell it properly. You know how illiterate these people are!’
‘These people’ was one of Primrose’s favourite terms of disparagement and was applied frequently and broadly. So broadly in fact, that it was impossible to know the precise category to which she referred, or indeed how wide its boundaries – the general point being that whoever they were, they deserved disapproval.
Nevertheless, as a celebratory gesture she graciously offered to buy me a large whisky the next time I went down to ‘do the garden’, but added darkly that perhaps in view of my new status I should decline the spirit and stick to ginger beer. I said that I did not think that was part of the contract.
We then got on to matters artistic, i.e. the Spendlers, and I was able to tell her that things were all but cleared up, and thanks to Professor Higginbottom, the artist was scuppered and our reputations no longer imperilled. To which she replied that as long as I was her brother an imperilled reputation was par for the course. I forbore to ask after the chinchillas, and we ended our conversation amicably.
Initially I felt rather awkward with my new designation, but people in general seemed receptive (apart from Clinker of course), and since it made no undue demands on my normal routine, I gradually became attuned to the idea. Indeed, there were occasions when I derived a certain pleasure: when sporting the scarlet cummerbund for instance or being treated to sudden bouts of cringing deference from Tapsell. These latter would not last but at least provided short-term entertainment. Edith, of course, remained rock-like in her hostility. Guilt is an intractable business, and being caught twice by your vicar in a compromising situation might well fuel resentment. Though she was lucky, I thought ruefully, to have only an illicit liaison to cope with.
The following weeks passed very pleasantly – and indeed, not without a little gaiety, the redoubtable Miss Dalrymple having organized quite a racy, not to say lavish, drinks party in my honour. There were French cocktail onions, bowls of mock caviar and, instead of the usual Mateus Rosé, real pink champagne! Halfway through, and presumably prompted by the pinkness of the champagne, Colonel Dawlish was so bold as to open a book on the topic of my first canonical address. This gave rise to much speculative merriment, and people kept sidling up and asking in lowered tones for a private ‘tip’. Naturally I hadn’t a clue so they didn’t get far. However, it did occur to me that perhaps an appropriate theme would be the evils of insider trading.
Thus a good time was had by all – except for one. Owing to the toll taken by one of her frequent colds, Mavis Briggs was unable to attend. Regrets were sadly expressed, and we were denied hearing a medley fiom her poetic Gems of Uplift – an omission which was possibly the high point of the evening.
The difficulty with the canonical sash was Maurice. He liked it. And when I got home that night it was to find him sprawled on my bed, head thrust beneath its scarlet silk, and tassels firmly gripped between his paws. The grey woollen mouse lay jettisoned on the floor, obviously discarded in favour of richer pickings. He was snoring.
The problem was how to disengage sash from cat. Maurice is a tricky customer at the best of times, but when possessions are threatened the ensuing scene can turn spectacularly sparky. It would be a manoeuvre requiring considerable tact and I approached it with some diffidence. But as with Colonel Dawlish, suddenly emboldened by the pink champagne I took a chance, gave him a quick prod, and without hesitation whipped the thing from under him. It worked a treat, and apart from a brief howl of surprise, Maurice did nothing except stare at me in glazed indignation. I gave his tail a friendly tweak and reminded him he was now sharing the house with a canon and he had better jolly well show some respect. He closed his eyes and resumed snoring.
49
The Vicar’s Version
The days sped towards Christmas, and with a slight pang of unease I realized that the Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Event would soon be upon us.
This was a ceremony I had instigated the previous year, principally as a means of allaying police suspicion of my involvement with Elizabeth’s end – a sort of smokescreen device which, on the face of it, had proved successful. And it had certainly been popular in the parish. The central part – the awarding of the Fotherington Chorister Prize – had produced enormous local interest, inflated the Church Spire Fund, and enhanced our choral reputation. The special anthem composed by Tapsell and the choirmaster, and set to words by the seventeenth-century lyricist Herrick, had been universally approved.
But there had been a deeper reason for the ceremony’s genesis, buried yet subtly compelling: some sort of expiatory necessity, nagging and as yet unresolved … It was something that would have to be dealt with one day. One day.
However, my immediate task was the upkeep of standards, i.e. a repeat of the previous year ’s success. Reputations were at stake – St Botolph’s and Elizabeth’s – and I was intent on preserving both. So I briskly rounded up Tapsell and the choirmaster Jenkins, and with a bit of canonical bullying heavily laced with grovelling flattery, reminded them it was high time that rehearsals were afoot. In fact the
y needed little urging. Both are prima donnas and each was eager to reap the last year’s plaudits and get his photograph in the newspaper again.
Thus having set in motion the two protagonists, I had to get myself organized. The earlier occasion had been highly demanding: emotionally, for obvious reasons, but intellectually too, as it had been my place to select the words of the anthem, a task that, given the circumstances and not having much literary expertise, I had found perplexing in the extreme. However, my choice of the Herrick poem had seemed to please, and for a good fortnight after the event Molehill’s two bookshops were inundated with requests for ‘that nice seventeenth-century chap’. Curious the way good reputations can spread via dubious routes.
But this second time around things were less difficult, and the only matter that really presented a problem was my address from the pulpit. Somehow it had to fit the occasion. But how? The matter would obviously require very careful thought, and to that end I poured out a large glass of my precious Talisker (kept for special occasions), lit a cigarette and sunk into my favourite armchair.
I suppose that like the Scholar Gypsy I was expecting the ‘spark from heaven to fall’, and p.d.q. at that! It didn’t of course, and an hour later, with the ashtray littered and the malt reduced by a fair third, I was no further on.
There came a slight scrabbling at the door and Bouncer nosed his way in. He sauntered over to the piano stool, regarded it for a moment, looked at me, and then made to cock his leg. Since I had seen him in the garden only a few minutes earlier, I knew very well that this was no sudden emergency and shouted at him to stop. He lowered his leg, wagged his tail, and came slinking over. There are times when I think that dog goes out of his way to wind me up!
He settled meekly at my feet and stared up with that kindly yet quizzical look which is at once reassuring and faintly unnerving. I stared back, wondering what on earth was going on behind those doggy eyes. For a few moments we sat quietly in a state of mutual regard.
And then with a start, and nearly upsetting my glass, I realized what my theme would be: God’s creatures: their comfort and companionship, and their benison in times of angst and strain. That was it, I would dissert on Man’s best friend: his wise jester and clownish sage; solace of the bereaved, safe confidant and loyal mate … Yes, that was what Molehill’s worthies would hear from the pulpit – an encomium upon the dog, the cat, and other four-footed helpers! I laughed in relief and ruffled Bouncer’s cobwebbed ears. I think he thought I was barking.
As might the reader. After all, on the face of it there seemed little to link the animal fraternity with the deceased; and given the nature of the occasion I was going to be hard pressed to justify my theme. Had animals held a particular place in Mrs Fotherington’s affections? Not as far as I was aware, unless of course you counted the waspish Maurice whom she had persecuted with unrelenting sentiment. Still, I recalled, there had been the wretched canary, and she had certainly indulged Bouncer’s greed by feeding him titbits at that fateful soirée (memory of which still sends a chill down my spine!).*
Yes, I decided, there was ample material on which to peg my thesis. In any case it is always good to embellish people’s qualities, however limited. Indeed, one might say the greater the limitation the greater the need …
And thus supper over, I embarked eagerly on the task of eulogizing the role of domestic pets, while at the same time conferring upon Elizabeth attributes of the most tenuous kind. Regarding the latter, I think I rather over-egged the trifle, as for days afterwards people kept coming up to me and remarking how little they had realized what an incredible rapport Elizabeth had established with our four-footed friends and that her sensitivities in this sphere should be an example to us all! Even the Molehill Clarion ran a brief article to the effect that I had paid ‘shining tribute to a great animal lover’, and prefaced its report with the slightly unsettling headline, THE LADY’S SECRET: CANON CONFIDES. However, generally it was all very gratifying – although a whiff of cynical dissent did waft over from the direction of Colonel Dawlish.
He accosted me one morning, shook my hand warmly and said, ‘Nice piece of rhetoric, Oughterard. You’re getting better. I always told ’em you’d get into your stride eventually. Made an interesting change from the usual sort of thing. About time the ox and the ass got a mention. Mind you, all that stuff about Elizabeth being a protector of furry beasts was a load of my eye – as well you know!’ And he grinned sardonically.
‘Well …’ I began weakly, ‘there was her cat – and the canary …’
He snorted loudly. ‘Oh, come off it, Canon. She may have drooled over those two creatures, but fundamentally she was terrified of anything on four legs. You should have seen her with my Tojo – ran a mile rather than get near him!’
Since Tojo was a wholly manic West Highland with a propensity for duffing up both humans and fellow terriers, I had some sympathy for Elizabeth. However, before I could say anything to that effect, the Colonel added slyly – and rightly, ‘Admit it. You used a weak case on which to peg a strong argument!’ And whistling merrily he sauntered off.
Well, I mused, if that was the only objection I wasn’t doing too badly. And with that comforting thought I took a gentle potter in the church before returning home to lunch and a nap.
When I awoke, the telephone was ringing. To my surprise (consternation?) I realized it was Eric, Ingaza’s chum.
‘Wotcha, Rev!’ he began affably. ‘Thought we’d just give yer a tinkle to see how you was getting on. His Nibs would of phoned himself but he’s in bed with a chill. Leastways, that’s wot he says. If you ask me, he’s swinging the lead – trying to escape his Auntie Lil. She’s been playing up no end since all that picture stuff and it’s getting on his fins!’ An explosion of mirth came hurtling down the line.
‘Er, good afternoon, Eric,’ I said wonderingly. ‘How kind of you to enquire. So sorry to hear that Nicholas is laid up. The occasional rest does us all good!’ And I laughed nervously.
‘Well, funny you should say that ’coz that’s wot we was phoning about. “Get on the blower,” Nick says, “and tell Francis I meant wot I said about him coming down to Brighton. Looked peaky when I saw him last. Could do with a bit o’ the old ozone!”’ Another rasping chuckle, and I adjusted the receiver to a more convenient distance. Peaky? Of course I looked peaky. Who wouldn’t in Ingaza’s clutches! The paintings danced before my eyes.
‘That’s very kind of him,’ I said, my mind racing at breakneck speed, ‘the only problem is that things are a bit hectic just at the moment, what with a fresh spate of christenings and funerals, the verger on holiday, and, er, problems with the pews – damp rot, you know …’
‘Cor, you don’t ’arf lead a merry life. Better take a break soon or yer may crack under the strain of it all!’ More guffaws. I refrained from saying that I thought I had cracked a long while ago; and instead joined faintly in the merriment.
‘Anyhow, Nick says that congrats are in order. You’ve been a good boy, so he says!’
‘Sorry, I’m not quite sure what you –’
‘You being made a canon or whatever. Goin’ up in the world, cuttin’ the old moutarde!’
‘Ah, yes – yes of course. Thank you. But, uhm, how ever did Nicholas hear about it? News certainly travels fast!’
‘Oh it does, old son, it does. S’matter of fact it was his other Surrey pal. Nose like a bleedin’ ferret, that geezer!’
I might have guessed. The Cranleigh Contact!
He went breezing on. And then being persuaded that I really couldn’t manage a trip down to Brighton, bade me a fond goodbye – but not before saying that come the spring the pair of them would probably be taking a little jaunt north and thus passing quite close to Molehill …
I had intended going into Guildford that afternoon in quest of some new socks and handkerchiefs, but after my discourse with Eric suddenly felt fatigued and decided to give it a miss. I wandered over to the piano, played a few scales and then toyed wi
th a little Cole Porter. But it was a lacklustre performance and after ten minutes I gave up and resumed my chair.
I pondered why they had invited me to Brighton. Was it really for the pleasure of my company? Surely not. There must be some darker purpose! What dubious game was Nicholas playing now – and more to the point, what role had he cast for me?
I stared at the small sepia photograph of my father on the mantelpiece, and from the distant past heard his brisk and crackling tones: ‘Now don’t mope, Francis! Moping gets you nowhere. Be bold. Be brave – and kindly stand up straight!’
As a gesture, I dutifully uncrossed my legs, straightened my shoulders, and reflected on more of the parental diktats: ‘Never sell yourself short, boy. Capitalize your assets – and what’s more, nil illegitimi carborundum!’ I smiled wryly. He had been proud of that one – the only ‘Latin’ he had known – and he would bark it out with force and frequency. ‘Daddy’s one bit of scholarship,’ as Primrose used to say.
But I suddenly brightened. Despite everything, his words were not without point – and in terms of my present situation were surely pertinent. I had been guilty of fruitless moping, and yes, was rather allowing the illegitimi to grind me down. Enough was enough! (Well, more or less at any rate.) As to selling myself short: it was, I supposed, just possible that Nicholas was without ulterior motive and was genuinely concerned with my welfare. Could the invitation to Brighton be really free from strings, and my company on the promenade all that they sought? The concept presented some difficulty but I flirted with the hope nevertheless.
Calculation of assets, let alone their capitalizing, was also quite difficult. But as I reviewed the events of the last few weeks I realized that things could be a lot worse, and that all was not as yet lost. For example, I was still in the clear re the ghastly Fotherington business; the picture nightmare was apparently resolved; Ingaza held at bay from Molehill until at least the spring; I had received promotion (albeit of a nominal kind); and for some curious reason I seemed to be gaining favour in the community. There was also the additional benefit of having the war-blinded Savage as my friend – not to mention the comfort of his wife’s fairy cakes. Few assassins could ask for more.
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