The Europe That Was

by Geoffrey Household

  ‘Can I sell ’em,’ she asked, ‘without that young Crott comin’ up after me wi’ the constable?’

  ‘No, you can’t. Not to say sellin’ ’em as is sellin’ ’em. But you can give ’em away, and I’ll tell ’ee where. And that’s Mr Buckfast up at The Bull, with all his guests wanting two fried eggs to their breakfasts when he can’t hardly give ’em one. He’ll take all you can give ’im, and it wouldn’t surprise me if ’e was to pay you at seventy bob instead of the fifty we gets from the government. But ’e won’t be paying you for eggs, mind, but for carrots or such-like.’

  Mrs Swallop leaned against the gate-post, calculating in so fast a whisper that she couldn’t keep listening to herself; so she fell into a sort of trance, and old Trancard had to take her up to the house and bring her round with a glass of port.

  ‘And there’s no point in you bringing eggs as ain’t legal eggs up to me for grading,’ he said, when he had given her an arm back to the pram. ‘You know an egg as ain’t when you see it as well as I do. But don’t you go giving away an egg that’s an egg within the meaning of the Order, because it’s not worth the risk.’

  Next week it was all over the district that Mrs Swallop had another male to keep the buck rabbit company. He was a black leghorn cock of a fine laying strain, with a certificate to prove it; but his breast-bone was twisted over to one side like a plough-share, so that when he stretched out his neck to crow he had to spread his tail the other way to balance himself. Mrs Swallop, naturally enough, did not have to pay a penny for him, though she may have done some little favour to the bees in passing.

  In spite of his looks the hens took to this young cripple, as females will. And Mrs Swallop groomed his tail feathers and whispered to him and stuffed him with National Poultry Food till the old buck was so jealous that he set about him and got a spur down his ear-hole before they could be separated.

  When spring came, Mrs Swallop was not delivering anything like the proper number of eggs, in spite of the fact that she and the black leghorn between them had raised her flock to nearly a hundred birds, most of them laying pullets of her own breeding. Trancard went down to her holding to see if he could help at all, and a repulsive sight the yard was for a careful farmer. He stared at those miscoloured, lopsided, sinister-looking freak pullets, and went purple in the face with the pressure of all he did not like to say.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong wi’ ’em?’ she asked him.

  ‘Missus,’ he said, ‘there’s everything wrong with ’em. But if they’re yourn, they’re laying—and that young Crott has been up, lookin’ at me books.’

  Mrs Swallop gave him a sly smile under her moustache, with a twitch of the lips that must have enchanted Tom Swallop fifty years before.

  ‘Don’t ’ee worry over me, me dear,’ she said.

  But Trancard did worry. He knew Mrs Swallop was making a mysterious profit. So did Percy Crott. She had had her fences repaired, and a pipe laid to the spring where she got her water instead of old lengths of rusty gutter stopped with clay. And there was nothing to account for all the eggs in town, especially at The Bull, except the visits of Mrs Swallop’s pram.

  Crott timed it nicely. He watched Mrs Swallop deliver a parcel of eggs—which should have been all she produced—to Trancard, and he let her go down to the town with her pram. Then he took his government car and the local cop from behind the haystack where he had parked the pair of them, and drove into Trancard’s yard and asked to see the books.

  Old Trancard tried to muddle him by passing off some of his own eggs as Mrs Swallop’s. The cop did his best to help. But the ink was hardly dry in the book, and there was no getting away from the figures. Mrs Swallop had delivered only two dozen eggs that morning, and nothing else for a week.

  ‘She’ll be on her way to The Bull now, constable,’ said Percy Crott, pushing him into the car.

  He started to drive slowly down the hill so as to reach the hotel about the same time as Mrs Swallop. All Trancard could do was to rumble behind in a tractor wondering how Mrs Swallop could ever pay the fifty pounds or so which the beaks would have to fine her, and whether they would give her six months if she didn’t.

  When they stopped in front of The Bull, Percy Crott and the constable nipped round into the backyard, with Trancard a second or two behind them trying to look as if he had just called to return the empties. There was Mrs Swallop talking to Buckfast, the proprietor.

  ‘Madam,’ asked the inspector, ‘what have you got in that perambulator?’

  ‘Nothing but eggs, sir. Nothing at all,’ she answered, pretending she was frightened of the cop.

  ‘And were you thinking of selling them?’

  ‘No, she weren’t,’ Buckfast told him pretty sharply. ‘She was giving them to me. And it’s legal.’

  ‘Uncommonly kind of her!’ said Percy Crott in a sarcastic way, and he whipped the cover off the pram.

  It was stuffed with eggs. And not one of them was fairly oval. There were eggs which might have been fat white sausages, and round eggs and oblongs and lozenges, and pear-shaped eggs and eggs with a twist like a gibbous moon with round points.

  Inspector Crott pushed them aside with the tips of his fingers as if they were something the dog had been rolling in. They were all the same quality right down to the bottom of the pram.

  ‘Don’t your hens lay anything fit for human consumption?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ she told him, ‘they don’t. A poor old woman can’t afford good ’ens like you gentlemen.’

  Then Buckfast was taken with a fit of the sniggers, and old Tran-card slapped his breeches and grinned at Mrs Swallop as if she were the knowingest farmer in all the county.

  ‘Damme if she ain’t been breeding for rejects!’ he roared. ‘Damme, and I tried to tell ’er how to run fowls! I tell you, Mr Percy Crott, that if only she ’ad a cock with a face like yourn, them ’ens would lay eggs and bacon, and burst out laughin’ when they turned their ’eads round to look at what they ’ad done,’ he said.

  ABNER OF THE PORCH

  When my voice broke, even Abner and MacGillivray understood my grief. I did not expect sympathy from MacGillivray, for he had no reason to like me. But he knew what it was to be excluded from cathedral ceremonies. He was the bishop’s dog.

  Abner was masterless. I would not claim that he appreciated the alto’s solo in the ‘Magnificat’ when the organ was hushed and there was no other sound in the million and a half cubic feet of the cathedral but the slender purity of a boy’s voice; yet he would patronize me after such occasions with the air of the master alto which he might have been. Though not a full Tom, he knew the ancestral songs which resemble our own. To our ears the scale of cats is distasteful, but one cannot deny them sustained notes of singular loveliness and clarity.

  Abner’s career had followed a common human pattern. My father was the gardener, responsible for the shaven lawns and discreet flower beds of the cathedral close. Some three years earlier he had suffered from an invasion of moles—creatures of ecclesiastical subtlety who avoided all the crude traps set for them by a mere layman. The cat, appearing from nowhere, took an interest. After a week he had caught the lot, laying out his game-bag each morning upon the tarpaulin which covered the mower.

  Fed and praised by my father, he began to pay some attention to public relations and attracted the attention of visitors. Officially recognized as an ornament of the cathedral when his photograph appeared in the local paper, he ventured to advance from the lawns and tombstones to the porch. There he captivated the dean, always politely rising from the stone bench and thrusting his noble flanks against the gaitered leg. He was most gracious to the bishop and the higher clergy, but he would only stroke the dean. He knew very well from bearing and tone of voice, gentle though they were, that the cathedral belonged to him. It was the dean who christened him Abner.

  To such a personage the dog of our new bishop was a disaster. MacGillivray was of respectable middle age, and had on occasion a sense of
dignity; but when dignity was not called for he behaved like any other Aberdeen terrier and would race joyously round the cathedral or across the close, defying whatever human being was in charge of him to catch the lead which bounced and flew behind.

  His first meeting with his rival set the future tone of their relations. He ventured with appalling temerity to make sport of the cathedral cat. Abner stretched himself, yawned, allowed MacGillivray’s charge to approach within a yard, leaped to the narrow and rounded top of a tombstone and, draping himself over it, went ostentatiously to sleep. MacGillivray jumped and yapped at the tail tip which graciously waved for him, and then realized that he was being treated as a puppy. After that, the two passed each other politely but without remark. In our closed world of the cathedral such coolness between servants of dean and servants of bishop was familiar.

  MacGillivray considered that he should be on permanent duty with his master. Since he was black, small and ingenious, it was difficult to prevent him. So devoted a friend could not be cruelly chained—and in summer the french windows of the Bishop’s Palace were always open.

  He first endeared himself to choir and clergy at the ceremony of the bishop’s installation. Magnificent in mitre and full robes, the bishop of the head of his procession knocked with his crozier upon the cathedral door to demand admission. MacGillivray, observing that his master was shut out and in need of help, hurtled across the close, bounced at the door and added his excited barks to the formal solemnity of the bishop’s order.

  Led away in disapproving silence, he took the enormity of his crime more seriously than we did. On his next appearance he behaved with decent humility, following the unconscious bishop down the chancel and into the pulpit with bowed head and tail well below horizontal.

  Such anxious piety was even more embarrassing than bounce. It became my duty, laid upon me by the bishop in person, to ensure on all formal occasions that MacGillivray had not evaded the butler and was safely confined. I was even empowered to tie him up to the railings on the north side of the close in cases of emergency.

  I do not think the bishop ever realized what was troubling his friend and erring brother, MacGillivray—normally a dog of sense who could mind his own business however great his affection for his master. When he accompanied the bishop around the diocese he never committed the solecism of entering a parish church and never used the vicar’s cat as an objective for assault practice.

  His indiscipline at home was, we were all sure, due to jealousy of Abner. He resented with Scottish obstinacy the fact that he was ejected in disgrace from the cathedral whereas Abner was not. He could not be expected to understand that Abner’s discreet movements were beyond human control.

  The dean could and did quite honestly declare that he had never seen that cat in the cathedral. Younger eyes, however, which knew where to look, had often distinguished Abner curled up on the ornate stone canopy over the tomb of a seventeenth-century admiral. In winter, he would sometimes sleep upon the left arm of a stone crusader in the cavity between shield and mailed shirt—a dank spot, I thought, until I discovered that it captured a current of warm air from the grating beside the effigy. In both his resting-places he was, if he chose to be, invisible. He was half Persian, tiger-striped with brownish grey on lighter grey, and he matched the stone of the cathedral.

  As the summer went by, the feud between Abner and MacGillivray became more subtle. Both scored points. MacGillivray, if he woke up feeling youthful, used to chase the tame pigeons in the close. One morning, to the surprise of both dog and bird, a pigeon failed to get out of the way in time and broke a wing. MacGillivray was embarrassed. He sniffed the pigeon, wagged his tail to show that there was no ill-feeling and sat down to think.

  Abner strolled from the porch and held down the pigeon with a firm, gentle paw. He picked it up in his mouth and presented it with liquid and appealing eyes to an elegant American tourist who was musing sentimentally in the close. She swore that the cat had asked her to heal the bird—which, by remaining a whole week in our town in and out of the vet’s consulting room, she did. Personally, I think that Abner was attracted by the feline grace of her walk and was suggesting that, as the pigeon could be of no more use to the cathedral, she might as well eat it. But whatever his motives, he had again made MacGillivray look a clumsy and impulsive fool.

  MacGillivray’s revenge was a little primitive. He deposited bones and offal in dark corners of the porch and pretended that Abner had put them there. That was the second worst crime he knew—to leave on a human floor the inedible portion of his meals.

  The verger was deceived and submitted a grave complaint in writing to the dean. The dean, however, knew very well that Abner had no interest in mutton bones, old or new. He was familiar with the cat’s tastes. Indeed, it was rumoured from the deanery that he secreted a little box in his pocket at meals, into which he would drop such delicacies as the head of a small trout or the liver of a roast duck.

  I cannot remember all the incidents of the cold war. And, anyway, I could not swear to their truth. My father and the dean read into the animals’ behaviour motives which were highly unlikely and then shamelessly embroidered them, creating a whole miscellany of private legend for the canons and the choir. So I will only repeat the triumph of MacGillivray and its sequel, both of which I saw myself.

  That fulfilment of every dog’s dream appeared at first final and overwhelming victory. It was 1 September, the feast of St Giles, our patron saint. Evensong was a full choral and instrumental service, traditional, exquisite, and attracting a congregation whose interest was in music rather than religion. The bishop was to preach. Perhaps the effort of composition, of appealing to well-read intellectuals without offending the simpler clergy, had created an atmosphere of hard work and anxiety in the bishop’s study. At any rate, MacGillivray was nervous and mischievous.

  While I was ensuring his comfort before shutting him up, he twitched the lead out of my hand and was off on his quarter-mile course round the cathedral looking for a private entrance. When at last I caught him, the changes of the bells had stopped. I had only five minutes before the processional entry of the choir. There wasn’t even time to race across the close and tie him up to the railings.

  I rushed into the north transept with MacGillivray under my arm, pushed him down the stairs into the crypt and shut the door behind him. I knew that he could not get out. Our Norman crypt was closed to visitors during the service, and no one on a summer evening would have reason to go down to the masons’ and carpenters’ stores, the strong-room or the boilers. All I feared was that MacGillivray’s yaps might be heard through the gratings in the cathedral floor.

  I dived into my ruffled surplice and took my place in the procession, earning the blackest possible looks from the choir-master. I just had time to explain to him that it was the fault of MacGillivray. I was not forgiven, but the grin exchanged between choir-master and precentor suggested that I probably would be—if I wasn’t still panting by the time that the alto had to praise all famous men and our fathers that begat us.

  St Giles, if he still had any taste for earthly music, must have approved his servants that evening. The bishop, always an effective preacher, surpassed himself. His sinewy arguments were of course beyond me, but I had my eye—vain little beast that I was—on the music critics from the London papers, and I could see that several of them were so interested that they were bursting to take over the pulpit and reply.

  Only once did he falter, when the barking of MacGillivray, hardly perceptible to anyone but his master and me, caught the episcopal ear. Even then his momentary hesitation was put down to a search for the right word.

  I felt that my desperate disposal of MacGillivray might not be appreciated. He must have been audible to any of the congregation sitting near the gratings of the northern aisle. So I shot down to release him immediately after the recessional. The noise was startling as soon as I opened the door. MacGillivray was holding the stairs against a stranger in the cr
ypt.

  The man was good-dogging him and trying to make him shut up. He had a small suitcase by his side. When two sturdy vergers, attracted by the noise, appeared hot on my heels, the intruder tried to bolt—dragging behind him MacGillivray with teeth closed on the turn-ups of his trousers. We detained him and opened the suitcase. It contained twenty pounds’ weight of the cathedral silver. During the long service our massive but primitive strong-room door had been expertly opened.

  The congregation was dispersing, but bishop, dean, archdeacon and innumerable canons were still in the cathedral. They attended the excitement just as any other crowd. Under the circumstances, MacGillivray was the centre of the most complimentary fuss. The canons would have genially petted any dog. But this was the bishop’s dog. The wings of gowns and surplices flowed over him like those of exclamatory seagulls descending upon a stranded fish.

  Dignity was represented only by our local superintendent of police and the terrier himself. When the thief had been led away, MacGillivray reverently followed his master out of the cathedral; his whole attitude reproached us for ever dreaming that he might take advantage of his popularity.

  At the porch, however, he turned round and loosed one short, triumphant bark into the empty nave. The bishop’s chaplain unctuously suggested that it was a little voice of thanksgiving. So it was—but far from pious. I noticed where MacGillivray’s muzzle was pointing. That bark was for a softness of outline, a shadow, a striping of small stone pinnacles upon the canopy of the Admiral’s Tomb.

  For several days—all often I should say—Abner deserted both the cathedral and its porch. He then returned to his first friend, helping my father to make the last autumn cut of the grass and offering his catch of small game for approval. The dean suggested that he was in need of sunshine. My father shook his head and said nothing. It was obvious to both of us that for Abner the cathedral had been momentarily defiled. He reminded me of an old verger who gave in his resignation—it was long overdue anyway—after discovering a family party eating lunch from paper bags in the Lady Chapel.