When one of his side teeth collapsed while he was eating a nut, the dentist suggested he had a plate. A normal occurrence, many people have them, and Charles's tooth, on the thinnest cobalt plate imaginable, was most realistic. After his initial attempt at eating with it, when he announced that meals now meant nothing to him, never again would he be able to taste anything, he settled down with it very well. The one exception being that when he'd had it in for long periods – particularly when he'd had a hard day at the office or been to visit his Aunt Ethel – it gave him indigestion. He said it did, anyway. He got a strong metallic taste in his stomach.
We were coming back from town one night, even more harassed than usual on account of we'd not only been visiting Aunt Ethel but were extremely worried because we'd lost some keys that morning and couldn't think where they were, when Charles said he'd have to take his tooth out. He couldn't stand it a moment longer, he said. His stomach was sending up signals of solid aluminium.
If he put it in his pocket, I warned him, sure as eggs were eggs he'd lose it. Don't be silly, of course he wouldn't, said Charles, slipping the fragile metal strapping into a fold of his breast pocket handkerchief. After which we forgot about his tooth and returned to worrying about the keys.
We had reason for worrying, too. We could get into the cottage all right; I had a spare key in my handbag. But the garage key was missing, without which we could neither put the car away nor get the hay for Annabel's supper. The coalhouse key was missing, without which we couldn't light the fire. The toolhouse key was missing, which meant if anything went wrong and needed fixing – as, in the circumstances, it undoubtedly would within the hour – Charles couldn't get the tools to do it with.
What with that and our normal homecoming routine of letting out the cats, getting Annabel in, switching on the radio to hear the news, changing used earth-boxes and seeing that Solomon didn't get up the path and encounter Robertson, we were in our usual state of pandemonium.
I searched the bedroom for the keys, and the pockets of Charles's duffle coat. I looked in the dustbin, where they'd been found on several previous occasions, but they weren't there this time. Charles was wandering about the paddock with a torch. Some hope, I thought, he had of finding anything in that mud.
I knew from his tread as he came down the path a while later that the news wasn't good. Honestly, I said. Where things went around this place I didn't know. We couldn't feed Annabel, couldn't light the fire, where Solomon had got to I hadn't the vaguest clue...
Solomon was by the rain-barrel, said Charles. He'd passed him coming in. He'd found the keys, he informed me as he kicked off his boots – adding, when I started to say but that was good, 'But now I've lost my tooth'.
He had, too. We searched for it for ages. Upstairs. Downstairs. In the mud of the paddock. Even – since that was where he'd discovered the keys by seeing them glint in the torchlight – in the straw in Annabel's stable. We found it at last where it must have fallen when Charles bent to switch on the radio. On the rug in front of the fireplace. We'd have trodden on it long before if Solomon, presumably under the impression that it was some sort of spider, hadn't been sitting there cautiously keeping an eye on it. Meanwhile, being used to Solomon and his trophy hunting, we'd been stepping over and around him automatically, and had never noticed a thing. It was only when he reached out and cautiously poked it that I realised what our fat man was watching. There was no dignity around this place, said Charles, leaping to the rescue of his beloved tooth just as Solomon's paw came stealthily up for the kill. Just no dignity at all.
ELEVEN
How to Light an Aga
Things were quiet after that until Christmas. Reasonably quiet, that is. There was one little upheaval when the Parish Council, having met and discussed the complaint about Mr Carey's entrance, duly announced its decision in the matter, which was to refer it to the County Council. This meant another two months before the reply could itself be debated and that, with luck, the matter would still be under discussion in six months' time.
When this state of affairs was reported back to the Rose and Crown, Fred Ferry said if 'twere he he'd put weed-killer on th'eather and have done with it. Actually Fred wouldn't have done any such thing. It was just his way of talking. This being precisely what had occasioned his previous row with Father Adams, however – Father Adams having planted a privet hedge against the boundary wire because he fancied it, Fred Ferry saying the roots would spoil his dahlias and making a cryptic reference to weed-killer, the hedge having subsequently died and Father Adams having dark suspicions as to how it had happened – from then on Father Adams was on the side of Mr C.
Some people was a mite too handy with their weed-killer, he announced in the general direction of the bottom of his cider mug. Some people wanted to mind their dahlias didn't go instead of th'eather. Why shouldn't the chap have a heather bank if he wanted to? demanded Father Adams, coming up for air, banging down his mug, and warming more and more, the more he thought of it, to the idea of an Englishman's cottage being his castle and if he wanted to block up his entrance and grow heather on it, why the Magna Carta shouldn't he?
'What about the beer lorry then?' asked Fred indignantly. Father Adams said 'What about it?' back – adding, in the heat of the moment and in complete negation of his former attitude, that it ought to be made to unload at the front door, sticking there blocking the roadway like that – and thereby he sealed his fate for weeks.
The supporters of the Rose and Crown to a man weren't speaking to him. Father Adams, for his part, went stubbornly out of his way to talk to Mr Carey whenever he saw him. He was also, when he wanted a drink, going over to the Horse and Hounds in the next village for it, and the sight of Father Adams in our car headlights, trudging defiantly along the lane in the wrong direction as we came home at night, gave us as much a feeling of unreality as did the occasions on which we'd seen a badger in the self-same spot.
The atmosphere down with us was much more harmonious. It was the mouse-catching season, for a start. Afternoons saw Sheba ensconced beside the fish-pool, gazing prettily at a hole in the bottom of the woodshed, warmed by the autumn sunshine and nicely handy for a chat with passers-by. Solomon did his mousing in the garden path. A sunken path which runs from the cottage to the garage, with nine-inch high stone walls on either side. His mouse-hole was in one of the walls. Watching it in his case meant not sitting close to it as Sheba did – patiently, scarcely breathing except when a passing admirer spoke to her, when, being Sheba, she forgot and bawled enthusiastically back. Watching it in Solomon's case meant an ambush position three feet away against the opposite wall. To delude the mouse into coming out, we understood. He hadn't found Sheba's method very successful.
As his interpretation of Sheba's method had been to sit bang in front of a hole, breathe down it, peer down it, and, when all else failed, put his paw down it in an effort to liven things up, we appreciated this new development. Solomon, we said, was actually thinking.
It was a pity he had to choose the path to put his deductions into practice, though. In order not to disturb him, we now couldn't walk up it. Mustn't come between a cat and his mouse-hole, must we? Charles called encouragingly' across to him as we took our new route to the garage – up the path as usual to begin with; a wide, semi-circular detour across the lawn at the point of operation; and then rejoining the path further on.
It was all very well in daylight, but when Charles did it one night in the dusk he fell over the snowberry bush. Even in daylight it had its drawbacks, too. Our garden is low-walled and open to the public gaze. The path being sunken, people looking in as they passed – as, in the country, they invariably do – couldn't see Solomon sitting in it mouse-watching. All they could see was us, apparently bonkers at last, proceeding in mysterious semi-circles over the lawn.
It was peaceful, nevertheless. Sheba by the woodshed; Solomon in the path; Robertson, with a defiantly turned back indicating no connection with anybody, hunting all by himsel
f in the paddock hedge.
All was peaceful with Annabel, too. It had been Janet's idea to take her waist measurement when she came back from being mated. Owing to their being barrel-shaped it is very difficult to tell when donkeys are in foal – but this way, said Janet inspiredly, we couldn't go wrong. Measure her now... measure her in six months' time... the difference would be bound to show.
We measured her. Fifty-four inches. We looked at her incredulously. Fifty-four inches now, when to our eyes she looked quite thin? What must she have been before? we wondered. And what, if one could encompass such expansion, would she measure when her time was up?
Fifty-four feet, judging by the way she was eating. 'Eating for two, remember!' said Miss Wellington coyly, whose chief occupation these days seemed to be making Yorkshire Puddings, having a spoonful herself, and bringing the remainder down to Annabel to keep up her strength. It wasn't just the amount that was suspicious, either. Annabel was eating nettles. Fresh ones from the hedgerows, dusty ones from the edges of the lane, dried-up old dead ones from the bonfire heap where they'd been put for burning and were pulled out and eaten by Annabel as she passed as if she would die on the spot without them. Seeing that she'd previously declared nettles were poison and she'd die on the spot if she ate them, we were certain that something was up. So we were when Annabel fell down. Sure-footed, nimble as a goat, with legs like little stool-props on which she couldn't fall down, she was going up the lane when she did. A step or two up the bank to reach a dandelion and there she was, a typical expectant mother, rolling helplessly on her back in the dust.
We helped her up, felt her anxiously and decided that all was well. It was a sign though, we said. From then on we were more careful. Walked either side of her when we took her uphill. Tethered her on the lawn when the ground was frozen so she couldn't trip over things. Which was one of the reasons why, that year, we had a somewhat eventful Christmas.
It began with the Hazells going to London. Over Christmas itself this time, to visit their parents. If we could feed Rufus, said Janet hesitantly, and keep the Aga going till Boxing Night...? Of course we would, we said warmly. No trouble at all. So Jim fixed the Aga to burn more slowly – that way, he said, we need stoke it only once a day; he knew we'd be busy with visitors – and off, waving happily, they went.
I'd said not to touch that Aga. We were going up twice a day in any case to feed Rufus. We weren't experts at Agas ourselves. I'd have felt much safer doing it twice a day, as we'd always done in the past.
It was all right the first night. The Aga was doing well. Next morning – Christmas Eve – it was noticeably cooler. I filled it, riddled it furiously and hoped for the best. That night it was out. Charles, the super-optimist, insisted that it wasn't. Riddle it, he said, suiting his action to the words; open the bottom; in ten minutes it would be going like a bomb. Ten minutes later Rufus said it wasn't any warmer, was it? and Charles said he'd think of something. Meanwhile we took Rufus up a hot-water bottle.
I got little sleep that night. Charles's Aunt Ethel, who was staying with us for Christmas, never sleeps properly away from home as she is always telling us. What with listening to her bed springs creaking restlessly through the wall, her getting out of bed, her getting back again – after which, with the same sort of relief one gets from hearing the fall of the second boot, I ought to have been able to doze off only I was stark-eyed worrying about the Aga – I heard every hour strike till dawn.
To add to everything we'd had a heavy frost. The Aga out, the house getting colder, the Hazells coming home to a heatless Boxing Night – visions whirred through my mind like Cinemascope. When I got to the weather turning to snow, the Hazells being delayed, the pipes bursting and the carpets being ruined, I woke Charles in a panic. Nonsense, said Charles reassuringly. We'd get it going easily now we knew it was out. All we needed was some charcoal. What he'd overlooked, of course, was that it was now Christmas Day and we couldn't get any.
I will draw a veil over the events of the day that followed, save to say that at our party that night the chief topic was how to start Agas. Coal, suggested someone. If we stood by and watched it? In the intervals of cooking the turkey we'd tried that all the morning. Firelighters, suggested another. If we used enough of them? In between cutting sandwiches we'd tried those all the afternoon. Charcoal, insisted an expert; you couldn't use anything else. We gave him a nasty look.
It was colder than ever that night. The glass was dropping. The ground rang like iron when we saw our guests off and Rufus shivered visibly when we took up another hot-water bottle. Even Charles was wakeful when we went to bed, and at four in the morning he informed me that he had solved it.
We have one of those air-controlled open fires. A big one, with plenty of draught. Get our fire going like a smithy, said Charles; bring down some of the Aga fuel and lay it in rows on top; then he'd go up and empty the Aga, when he'd done he'd phone me at the cottage, I would then shovel the red-hot fuel into a bucket and run up the lane with it (I do an awful lot of running when you come to think of it), pour it into the empty stove, and Bob would be our uncle.
Surprisingly enough he was, though it was a good thing nobody actually saw me on my mission, heading hot-foot up the lane with the makings of a rattling good forest fire.
It was an old bucket with leaky seams. Running increased the draught and it was glowing like a brazier as I panted through the Hazell's door. Into the kitchen, down through the funnel, more fuel piled on top as fast as we could shovel it...
It worked. The world was a different place an hour later as we strolled back down the Valley. Behind us was a rapidly warming house, a tidied kitchen, a purring ginger cat sitting happily on the cover of the hot plate. Before us lay the rest of Boxing Day in which to relax. To chat to Aunt Ethel, pay some attention to the animals, go over to Charles's brother in the evening...
We'd left Annabel tethered on the lawn with some hay. We'd been a bit worried because the lawn was extra icy but she had to have an airing. It was alarming, nevertheless, to get back and find that her rope was broken.
We really must get a stronger one, I said, grabbing the end and anchoring her hastily to the lilac tree. Supposing she'd realised she was loose? Galloped up the lane after us in her condition and slipped on the icy track? I wilted, I said, at the thought. At that moment Aunt Ethel came scuttling round the comer in a salmon pink: dressing gown and brogues and I wilted in earnest. Aunt Ethel, who is over eighty, never goes outside the door, even to the dustbin, without her hat and coat. Something was obviously up.
Had been up, to be correct. It seemed that Annabel, annoyed at our going off without her, had broken her tether rope shortly after I'd left and had followed me up the lane. Aunt Ethel, gazing peacefully out on the winter landscape before going up to dress, had seen her and given chase in dressing gown and slippers. Unable to catch her, and miraculously not having fallen down herself, she'd come back with the intention of ringing us at the Hazells, but realised she didn't know the number. Unearthing the directory (what on earth, she said, induced us to keep it in the log box?) she found there were an awful lot of Hazells, and some of them spelt it with an 's'. She'd decided it was probably 'z', started to go through the list, had a couple of interesting conversations with people whom she'd apparently addressed as Charles and told them the donkey was loose – they, she said indignantly, hadn't known what she was talking about, which was hardly surprising when we looked up the directory later and discovered that the first one lived twenty miles away and the second one nearer forty... 'And then', she said, fixing me with a look, 'your Aunt rang up' .
My Aunt Louisa has an affinity for trouble. Let her clear a table and you can guarantee she'll drop the tray. Put her on a bus for us and you can bet she'll go past the stop. How she could have mucked things up by telephone was beyond all comprehension, but true to form, she had. Aunt Ethel, explaining about Annabel, had asked if she knew how Hazell was spelt. With an 's' or a 'z'? Louisa, who didn't know and had never met th
em, always likes to be helpful. 'With an 's'' she declared unhesitatingly.
Aunt Ethel abandoned the Hazells, went through – to their complete mystification – the list of fifteen Hasells, and was mentally wringing Louisa's neck before re-starting on the 'z's' when she happened to glance out of the window and there, on the lawn, having reappeared with the suddenness of a magician's rabbit, was Annabel. Having failed to find us, she'd come back to finish her breakfast.
Stopping only to put on her brogues – as a precaution, she said, against slipping – Aunt Ethel had sallied forth to tie her up and that was where we'd come in. It was just as well we had. If Aunt Ethel had laid hands on the rope – and if Annabel had started cavorting, as she usually does if she thinks it's loose – our aged relation would have gone across the lawn like a water-skier on those solid, thick-soled brogues.
We escorted her inside, gave her some whisky, had some ourselves to calm our nerves. 'Anything exciting happen?' asked Jim Hazell, ringing up next morning to thank us for seeing to the Aga. Nothing exceptional, said Charles reflectively. Not when you considered it was us.
Raining Cats and Donkeys Page 9
