A Load of Old Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  Slowly and rather stiffly I mounted the pulpit steps, placed my hands on its solid ledge, and fixing the congregation with solemn eye took a deep breath and declared: “Now we will sing the Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Anthem. All please stand!”

  36

  The Cat’s Memoir

  The afternoon of the Choral Prize-Giving had been a tranquil one for me. Not only was the vicar absent from the house but Bouncer too. As a special treat he had been allowed to accompany F.O. both to the event and to the supper afterwards. Despite the painful drama of the Fotherington soiree he likes that sort of thing – being petted and made much of – and is in his element when the centre of attention especially if there’s food about. Thus for a few soothing hours the house was my own and I savoured the comfort of the fireside undisturbed.

  Their return put paid to that. Both were voluble so I gathered things had been a success. Indeed F.O. was in an unusually expansive mood, singing what seemed to be a cross between a Te Deum and ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’. As a means of relief you would have thought that such lyrical effusions would suffice. Not at all. Changing from his warblings into some sort of fractured chant, he swept me up in his arms and proceeded to foxtrot across the room. I am not used to being so manhandled and endeavoured to make my position clear. However, my protests were ignored and for some minutes (and much to Bouncer’s obvious relish), we continued to zigzag and feather our way around the carpet.

  Finally such indignity came to an end, and after calling me a ‘silly old puss’ he returned me to the rug and cavorted off to bed. Just occasionally it occurs to me that the dog was right – our master really is off his chump.

  In the ensuing silence I turned to Bouncer and said as coolly as I could, “I deduce from that performance that the occasion went well.”

  “Oh yes!” he said. “It was a very sparring evening – most sparring. I like a good tune, sort of churns you up, you know. You missed a treat!”

  “I doubt it,” I rejoined irritably. “I’ve been churned up more than enough for one evening! In fact I am beginning to feel distinctly queasy.”

  Needless to say that didn’t receive any sympathy. Instead he launched into a particularly puerile ditty:

  “Quick, quick! The cat’s being sick.”

  “Where? Where?”

  “Under the chair.”

  “Hasten, hasten! Fetch a basin.”

  “Too late, too late –

  He’s gone and done it in the grate!”

  On the last word he keeled over with a howl of mirth and engaged in his usual leg-waving antics. I waited patiently for it all to subside – and was about to remonstrate when he bounded up off the floor and in solemn tones said, “You know, Maurice, I think we may be safe after all. I think he’s pulled it off! F.O. has put back – ” and he took a deep breath – “the STATUS QUO.”

  “Great Fish!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get that from?”

  He sniffed and in a chilly voice replied, “You are not the only one around here who can speak foreign. I too have Classical leanings!” And taking his rubber ring in his mouth, he walked stiffly out of the room. As I sat pondering this extraordinary utterance I heard the rattle of the pet-flap and concluded that it was to be one of his nights for the crypt.

  And then of course it became clear: it was the crypt that was inducing those ‘Classical leanings’, that gave him access to a dead language amidst the sleeping bones; the crypt with all its old tombs and plaques covered in their Latin inscriptions! So that was what he did down in the depths when he wasn’t chasing spiders or at his baying practice: sat and stared at the crumbling stones and their grave and fading epitaphs; absorbing the words, sniffing the past. Cobwebs, it seemed, were not the only things that he picked up there.

  I wondered if he was right about F.O. restoring the status quo. One would like to think so. It was getting a little wearying having all these Ponds and Marches traipsing in and out of the house; and if the recent display was anything to go by it wasn’t doing the vicar’s nerves much good either. A small respite might be a help to us all.

  Two days later it was Christmas Eve and O’Shaughnessy came visiting. He was carrying a fresh and meaty bone in his mouth which he dropped at Bouncer’s feet, then he grinned all over his foolish face. It was clearly intended as a Christmas offering and while as you know I do not approve of bones, it was nevertheless a kindly gesture and I commended the setter for his thoughtfulness.

  “Hold on,” he said, “got something for you too – won’t be five ticks.” And he bounded off in the direction of his house. We waited in some curiosity. He returned soon with another object in his mouth. It was yellow and it smelt exquisite.

  “Got this out of her shopping bag,” he chortled. “Thought it might be right up your street, Maurice.”

  It was up my street. It was a beautiful, shimmering, shining piece of haddock! A piece of haddock the like of which I had not encountered for many a month, and I seized it with a long mew of delight. We thanked him profusely for his Celtic kindness and said we would take him something very special on Boxing Day.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “Just tell me when our next mission is to be. That was a grand thing so it was, that little outing to the woods!” I explained that we hadn’t got anything immediately planned but living with the vicar one never quite knew when fresh reinforcements mightn’t be called for. He nodded eagerly. “Rightho!” he barked. “I’ll be off now.” And with a wild leap he cleared the fence and set off down the road in a lolloping career.

  Bouncer gazed after him in rapt admiration, head tilted on one side and tail slowly twitching. I sighed, closed my eyes, and thought: “Now I have three of them to contend with!” As I dozed I could hear myself purring. I cannot imagine why.

  37

  The Dog’s Diary

  It’s funny the way things turn out. When Bowler rushed off like that I thought it was the end of the world. But I am very glad I came here, it’s all been very nice. My first master was all right but he would keep on so! F.O. is much easier. Daft as a brush of course – but then Maurice is peculiar too, and sometimes doesn’t half talk a load of old bones! Still, I am managing to cope with the pair of them and generally holding my own.

  I tried that long word on Maurice the other day, the one Bowler was always using. It had the most funny effect: it stopped him talking! It was quite hard getting it all out in one go but I managed it in the end. He was prosing on and on like he does and as I didn’t have my rubber ring with me I was getting a bit bored, so I said it: Mydeargoodlady! He stopped in mid-sentence and gawped at me with his ears twitching and mouth wide open. I thought he looked pretty daft and was going to tell him so but I suddenly felt a bit sleepy and must have dozed off. Oddly enough he’s never mentioned it since. Mind you, I still don’t know what it means – but if that’s the effect it has I might try it again sometime.

  Christmas was good. We had a very musical time – with F.O. killing the keys in clouds of smoke and gin while Maurice ponced about on the piano-top like a regular old beauty queen! (I think deep down he’s getting to like the vicar’s playing though of course he’ll never admit it.) On Boxing Day F.O. gave him a pale blue floppy bow and tied it round his neck. Knowing Maurice you would think he’d go berserk. Not a bit of it! He wore it the whole day long (even when it got all screwed up and scraggy), and I kept catching him making sly faces in the mirror and preening his reflection in the kitchen window.

  F.O. also kindly gave me a new rubber ring. It’s all clean and bouncy and I like playing with it. But nothing beats my old one, and although F.O. thinks he has got rid of it, I was able to drag it out of the dustbin and have put it in ANOTHER very secret place! This means I can take a crafty chew whenever the spirits move me (which they do pretty often) without the Man or the Cat ever knowing. No fleas on Bouncer, you know!

  38

  The Vicar’s Version

  It is always reassuring to see good coming out of ill. The ceremony of the
Memorial Prize seemed to give pleasure to everyone. The boy chosen for the award was visibly moved by the experience (though later sufficiently recovered to hog the entire batch of Mrs Savage’s fairy cakes and to mow down Mavis Briggs with his racing-bike prize). Tapsell and the choirmaster were much applauded for their fine piece which had been most ably rendered by the choristers, and were overheard eagerly discussing plans for further collaboration. Such sinking of base antipathies in the interests of high art is really most cheering. Uplifting too were the large banknotes stuffed into the Donation Box by satisfied parents and those still shocked by Elizabeth’s demise. The Spire Fund derived enormous benefit.

  I was a trifle sorry not to see Violet Pond in the audience – presumably preparations for the house sale being too distracting to allow attendance at her mother’s commemoration. However, it was gratifying to glimpse in one of the back pews the bulky figure of Inspector March nodding gravely at some of the finer points of my address. Samson I could not see.

  ♦

  Thus the business of Christmas got off to a good start and the period passed very agreeably. It was hectic of course what with extra services, house calls to make and bazaars to open; but at least these were routine duties and gave welcome relief from some of the things I had been facing in the last six months.

  These latter miraculously seemed to be resolving themselves: the police matter mercifully closed (or at any rate, with the help of Robert Willy, put into indefinite abeyance); the awful daughter decamped in dudgeon; and not a squeak out of Clinker. Was that even keel which had so stabilized my early weeks in Molehill beginning to reassert itself? Could life really be creeping back to being pleasant again?

  I lack the knack of popularity but was nevertheless struck by the way people were beginning to hold me if not exactly in esteem, at least in kindly regard. Some of the parishioners had even been nice enough to produce seasonal gifts of brandy butter, cigarettes, tolerable mince pies and other friendly tokens. Such attention was surely less to do with my personal magnetism (of which, despite Elizabeth’s peculiar yen, I fear I have little) as with approval of my recent donations. But I think some of it also stemmed from my having no special theological or social axe to grind. Thus I posed no threat to St Botolph’s congregation, indeed was possibly seen as a handy aid in the preservation of its conservative comfort. Despite the unfortunate vicissitudes of recent months the future could perhaps be congenial after all…

  With these thoughts in mind and to celebrate the imminent arrival of the New Year I poured myself a small malt and put on the gramophone record Primrose had given me for Christmas.

  To the obsessive yet soothing notes of Bach’s Goldberg Variations I stood at the window chewing a slice of Miss Dalrymple’s heavily impacted plum cake and watched Bouncer as he bounded about with his new toy. The garden, which was never much even in summer, looked gaunt, and the gate and palings decidedly dilapidated. Come the spring I really ought to do something to spruce things up…Perhaps Primrose could suggest some new shrubs. But in the meantime I might certainly paint the gate and get some fresh fencing. Yes, that was obviously what was needed: a good smart fence. Probably Savage knew about such things, I would ask his advice.

  I was half expecting a call from Primrose, so when the telephone rang I answered it eagerly meaning to raise the question of the shrubs. It was not my sister, it was Nicholas.

  After the usual seasonal greetings he said, “By the way, Francis, you remember you kindly said I might ask a favour of you?” The question was clearly rhetorical and he continued breezily undeterred by my silence. “Well, there’s a small thing that’s cropped up where you might be able to help. It’s to do with a couple of paintings I happen to have – rather good ones, not unvaluable actually.” He paused.

  “It’s no use trying to sell them to me,” I said hastily. “Don’t have that kind of money.” (Not since my ‘munificence’ I certainly didn’t!)

  “Oh no,” he laughed, “you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I don’t want to flog them to you, I’d just like you to keep them.”

  “What do you mean, keep them?”

  “Just for the time being while I find somewhere suitable – sort of safe storage really. You won’t need to hang them on the wall,” he added quickly.

  Miss Dalrymple’s cake which a few moments ago had seemed so satisfying had somehow lost its savour and I returned it to the plate. “Why can’t you store them yourself?” I asked, beginning to feel my mouth go dry.

  “Oh, I would,” he said airily, “it’s just that I haven’t the room at the moment, far too much clutter! They’re for one of my more special clients but he’s in America and won’t be back for a few months. Until then they need rather careful handling by someone reliable, a safe pair of hands you might say; which is why I thought of you, Francis…”

  I stared ruefully at my hands, wondering wearily why people kept saying they were so damned safe.

  He continued talking cheerfully, suggesting dates and times when the goods might be delivered. And I continued to stare out at the garden watching Bouncer and contemplating the sagging, broken-down fence. The dog was joined by Maurice who, clearly in one of his lighter moods, started to caper skittishly around the sundial. They made a pretty picture and I envied them their freedom, their peace…

  I sighed. “Yes, Nicholas, that’s all right. Bring them next Friday at eleven. I’ll be here.”

  EOF