by Ashly Graham
A small boy stretched up his arm and punched the air several times. ‘Please, miss...Miss Feelya!’
‘What is it, Stevie?’
‘Can we hear the Animal Alphabet please miss?’
‘Oh yes, miss, the Animal Alphabet, let’s do that’, came the chorus. The children seemed relieved to have an excuse to ignore Dark and expunge his presence with something enjoyable.
‘But that has nothing to do with Scripture, Stevie, which is what we’re here to discuss. Didn’t we have the Animal Alphabet just last week? It’s doggerel of the worst kind, you know, and doggerel is worse than caterwaul.’
Dark winced.
‘And I’m sure Father Fletcher won’t approve of such nonsense. We can do the Animal Alphabet again another day.’
‘Oh do, pray, continue,’ oozed Dark, shifting his corpulence up the nave and plumping down on an empty bench across from Ophelia and facing the children, who instinctively shrank together. ‘I want to hear the Animal Alphabet. May I ask what it’s about?’
Ophelia put her head on one side in a characteristic pose. ‘It’s pure nonsense. I made it up one day to amuse the children, when they got bored with The Book of Job. Secular, I’m afraid, but then Sunday school isn’t just about religion, is it, Father? They don’t understand most of the words but it helps them with their letters, and they like the coloured chalk cartoons I drew on the easel to go with them. Very well then, boys and girls, since Father Fletcher insists, here is the Animal Alphabet, in which each letter represents an animal of some kind, or a bird or person or thing. Stop fidgeting, Stevie, I know the bench is hard but it won’t be for long, and anyway, you were the one who asked for it. Settle down now, all of you or it’ll be back to the Old Testament before you can say “cat’s whiskers”’. A few fast “cat’s whiskers” came from the back, quickly shushed by the others. Going to an outsize easel on the steps, Ophelia leafed through a block of cartridge paper until she reached the page on which was inscribed a large capital A. Next to the letter was its corresponding small, or lower-case, symbol flanked by an intelligent-looking aardvark, Orycteropus afer.
‘A is for Aardvark,’ declared Ophelia, pointing to it with a stick and facing her audience. ‘When Aalice and Aalastair had a son, they called him Aa, because they couldn’t agree on Aandrew or Aalan or Aadrian or Aalfred.’
She flipped to the next sheet, on which was represented a lacrimose-looking basset-hound.
‘B is for Bloodhound. A bloodhound’s ears, which drag on the ground because its legs are so short, have to be removed and washed every night because they get so dirty. No wonder the bloodhound always looks close to tears.’
Turning, and turning,
‘C is for Chough. The senior raven, the chough, doesn’t wear pyjamas but gets his shut-eye in the buff. Here are the feathers, hung up for the night: it would be rude to show a chough in the nude.
‘D is for Dodo. Dead, and the dodo, would appear to be one and the same, because the dodo is supposed to be extinct. But I’ll let you into a secret: the do-do isn’t adone-done: keep your eyes peeled and you may see one.
‘E is for Ermine. The vermin ermine in summer is called a stoat. In winter it grows a white coat, to make its presence difficult to det-ermine, and then it is called an ermine. Why does the stoat turn white in winter and go to live in Dunfermline in Scotland where there is a lot of snow, and change its name to ermine? Because it takes a lot of ermines to make a lady’s coat, and there’s no known antidote for a second-hand stoat.
‘F is for Fennec fox. You never have to speak loudly or repeat yourself to a fennec, because his ears are so big, though you do have to go to the desert to say it. The fennec never says, “Pardon?” (which would be polite) or “Eh?” or “What?” (which would not).
‘G is for Great Crested Grebe. The grebe lays his tufts of hair down when working, but waves it up in a punkish wave for parties, like a rooster or cockatiel. How? Why, like anyone else he uses hairspray or gel.
‘H is for Horsefeathers, which is an American word meaning nonsense. Have you ever seen feathers on a horse? Have you ever been to America?
‘I is for Idiot. Do you recognize this person? Be nice to him.
‘J is for Jackass. Another name for jackass is mule or donkey, animals who bray or make hee-haw noises. In Australia there’s a bird called a laughing jackass, so called because of the silly noise it makes.
‘K is for Kingfisher. The kingfisher is coloured bright blue, and cinnamon, and white. But while on the outside he’s very dressy, inside the hole in the riverbank where he lives the bed is never made, and the place is full of fish-bones and muck. Yuck.
‘L is for Loser. A loser is a person who loses things and doesn’t know where to look for them, and when he does he doesn’t recognize them. Here is a picture of a loser, lost in his own house.
‘M is for Meerkat. Meerkats are always getting up on their hind legs to see what’s going on, like periscopes. They hate to miss out on any action.
‘N is for Nincompoop, or Ninny. Nincompoops are simpletons who eat soup with a fork, and wear their best clothes to the beach. Nincompoops are always saying “Whoops!” and “Oops!”.
‘O is for Ooayesay! Ooayesays! are nervous creatures whose round eyes pop out of their heads with amazement. Pop! Pop!
‘P is for Prendergast. The woman whom Mr Smith wanted to marry insisted he change his name before she agreed. “Smith is so common!” said the future Mrs Prendergast.
‘Q is for Quisling. A quisle can pat its head and rub its tummy at the same time. Here is a picture of a quisle, quisling.
‘R is for Recluse. If you invite him to go somewhere, the recluse always says he’s too busy. Here is a picture of a recluse being reclusive, fast asleep on the sofa.
‘S is for our Down-land friend, the Sheep. Sheep are bred for wool and mutton, not brains. When they are lambs they do not go to school, and never have to do homework. The only things a sheep knows is what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
‘T is for Telephone. A telephone is a parasite of the mouth and ear, and it is almost impossible to get rid of.
‘U is for Uvula. The uvula is a fleshy projection that hangs from the rear margin of the soft palate. If you want a thrill, try a uvula trill. Ulululululu!
‘V is for Vicar. The vicar is a garish Sunday bird with bright plumage that changes colour at different times of year. If you get a shufti at a vicar during the week when he’s in mufti, which means wearing plain clothes, he always looks shifty.
‘W is for Wood pigeon. This wood pigeon is saying, “I’m off to the zoo, Sue, to see the gnu. Would you like to come too? Please do!”
‘X is for Xcentric. Xcentrics are people whose minds are a jumble of odds and ends tied up with string. If you ask them a question, before answering they have to loosen knots in their heads.
‘Y is for Yumyum. Yumyums are always thinking about food, and the word “diet” puts them in a bad mood. Yumyums diet in between bites of currant buns.
‘Lastly, Z is for Zygote. Zygotes are half zebra, half goat, and when they run they wiggle their bottoms. Why? Well, you would too if you were half zebra, half goat.’
The children remained quiet throughout the Animal Alphabet, as entranced by Ophelia’s mellifluous voice as they were by the odd images she conjured. As soon as it was over, several of the older ones at the back whispered amongst themselves their own version of W for Wood pigeon:
‘Hello Sue—may I use your loo?’
‘Boo, nice to see you! Number One or Number Two?’
‘Is there a queue, Sue? The need just grew! Coo, it’s too late noo, the poo’s past due!’
Fletcher Dark gathered that this was a familiar routine, and that The Book of Job did not come up very often in the Sunday school curriculum; any more, he suspected, than did anything else in the Biblical Canon.
Now came a chorus of requests for something called Bad Bob. Ophelia looked a little pink and discomposed by her exertions under scrutiny. �
��Not today, girls and boys, not with Father Fletcher here, you’ll get me into trouble. More trouble. But now that he’s here he may wish to say something to you. Father? Should you like to address my little charges?’
The children looked blank, unsure if this was a good idea or not. They decided in the negative. ‘Please, miss, we want to hear Bad Bob.’
‘Mm, Bad Bob,’ said Dark. The seed of a thought was germinating within him as he wondered what madness he had stepped into. ‘I must say, Mother Ophelia, as a teacher I find you exceedingly liberal in your choice of educational tools. I’d be interested to hear about Bad Bob sometime. But as it happens there is a little composition of mine own, which, er, be it ever so humble, I’d like to share with you all. For the moral universe—that is after all what we were just hearing about, is it not?, for I’m not a complete I for Idiot—is something of which I, too, am qualified to speak.’ Swelling with determination, Dark marched to the pulpit and mounted the steps. The children became fractious and started clambering over the benches, hitting each other and pulling hair; but as he loomed over the assembly they quailed at his frightful aspect and were hushed.
The reverend cleared his throat. ‘This ditty, my dears, is entitled King Bill, and it is one for which I entertain a discreet sentimentality. It is an ode to the Head of the Church and Defender of the Faith. And so, without further ado, I give you King Bill:
‘
When Prince Bill got an F in his final exam,
His dad said, “Fact is, we don’t give a damn:
In the royal fam-illy—go search every part—
You’ll find not a one can be said to be smart.”
And since scholars familiar with the Constitution,
Knew only of standards for royal e-locution,
(Of min. eddication there being no mention)
Re Bill’s future as King, there was no contention,
Notwithstanding, though he headed the queue for the throne,
And was booked for a seat on the Stone of Scone,
It was written in permanent ink, not in stencil,
That the prince hadn’t got any lead in his pencil
So that, now wearing the Coronation Ring,
Billy, heirless, was last of a succession of kings.
His dynastic end, though not stuff of legend,
Must still be recorded and this is what happened.
Alas! Bill shook the country to its core
By confirming his lift didn’t stop at each floor:
Else put, the fuse having blown in his mains,
The lights were all out in the area marked “Brains”.
William got the idea, a doozy, a beaut,
Of disputing the assertion of Danish Canute
That a king wasn’t able to keep his robes dry
When down at the beach the low tide turned high.
“I look at it different”, Bill said to the nation,
“Old Canute’s scientific demo-monsteration
Was to prove, when his piggies were wriggling in sand,
The sea did his bidding as well as the Land.
“The air, too,” said the King, “our subject be,
When winging ’twixt palaces A, D and G
Sans engine—and right now hie we
From Buckingham Palace to Bexhill-on-Sea.”
On a day that monarchists be-wail and curse,
Anointed Will was in for much worse
Than wet feet when he attempted to fly
Un-emplaned in his disloyal subject the Sky.
No prizes to those who re-frained from betting
An outcome of nowt but a salt-water wetting:
For royal exsanguination, or copious blue-bleeding,
Versus dampness saline is dire exceeding,
Which was proven when Bill told his subjects to clap
As he jumped off the roof and gave a quick flap...
And the soldiers, perforce, who were Changing the Guard
Had to clean up the mess where he’d landed, hard.
Now, if you’re the sort who comes over teary
At the drop of a king, most noblesse oblige-ly,
Know that Bill as he plummeted royally past
Consid’rately lowered the flag to half-mast.’
Dark glowed with self-appreciation and awaited an outbreak of applause, which failed to materialize. The children stared at him in dismay and he made a communal moue.
‘Now can we hear Bad Bob, miss?’ came a small voice.
Ophelia said briskly, ‘No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. You’ve had quite enough education for one day. Anyway, your mothers will be along to pick you up in a few minutes.’
‘They’re not here yet, miss.’
Dark’s face darkened. ‘Oh go ahead, indulge yourself. Children! To be seen on occasion, if absolutely necessary, but not heard. Spare not the rod. Declension of the Latin noun for Discipline: Bendover, Whackeroo, Youchee, Sorebum’. Stomping down from the pulpit he resumed his seat on the bench, and folded his arms and concertina bellows of chins on his chest.
As Ophelia began quietly declaiming, the children fell mute and linked arms, mouthing the words and swaying with the rhythm that she had stolen from A.A. Milne:
‘Our Bob was not a good dog, he liked things his own way,
He wouldn’t lie down when we told him to, or heel or sit or stay;
If we met him in the village, or walking in the town,
He’d put on his signature snooty stare
And lift his nose high in the air
As if to say, “I really don’t care for words like ‘Buy’ and ‘Own’.”
‘Our Bob was not a good dog, if we stroked him he would bark,
He bit the postman and chased the cats in the garden and the park.
When we caught him in the act, and looked stern and asked, “But why?”
He’d frown a little towards the south,
And ponder on the season’s growth,
And open wide his rubbery mouth to yawn into the sky.
‘Our Bob was not a good dog, he didn’t seem to care,
If we wanted to take him to the vet he’d vanish in thin air.
When we said to him, “Where were you?”, and, “We waited quite a while,”
He’d lick the fur upon his paw
And grind his teeth and jut his jaw,
As if to say, “What a terrible bore,” with a sort of wriggly smile.
‘Our Bob was not a good dog, he couldn’t give a woof,
The best things in his pampered life were cats stuck on the roof.
He’d also go for squirrels and any number of rabbits,
At sight of him they cut and run
As if they’d heard the shot of a gun...
Which he considered tremendous fun.
He wouldn’t change his habits.
‘Bob led a comfy life and slept beside the fire,
He wanted you to think he was a doggy country squire;
He got up when he felt like it and didn’t work a lick;
He’d bark and bark until we went and threw a ball or stick.
He wouldn’t take a bath¾he was never in the mood¾
And was always most particular how we prepared his food.
‘Our Bob was not a good dog, he’d hide from us and stray,
And disobey his owners in a hundred different ways.
But even Bob had dreams, of things that crawl and creep,
Since, like ourselves, dogs have nightmares
While we are all in bed upstairs.
It’s not just chasing pheasants and hares
After they’ve gone to sleep.
‘Bob usually dreamed of rabbits, and partridges, and cats,
But this time he saw dinosaurs, a mammoth, and giant bats.
For the first time in his life, the chaser was chased instead.
Running as fast as his legs allowed, which felt as heavy as lead,
He shinnied up drainpipes, raced down streets, a
nd scrambled into trees,
And trembled and panted and went weak at the knees.
‘Though our Bob was not a good dog, he’d always slept so well,
Until this night when he was surely in a canine Hell.
For the first time in his life he knew the nasty feeling
Of quaking with his hair on end and running out of breath;
His heart was in his mouth, and he was scared to death…
Then he awoke, saw his room, and the ceiling.
