I dislike the smell of turpentine, ranking it little better than the odour of incense for which her brother had such a penchant, but nevertheless emitted a winsome miaow and made gestures of approval. She looked startled but I persisted, going so far as to make a couple of playful pirouettes and to show interest in her left shoe. You may wonder at such antics, but again I am in debt to the wisdom of Uncle Marmaduke. ‘Never compromise with humans,’ he had warned, ‘unless it be to your advantage.’ The advice has been invaluable and I have followed it faithfully. Thus in view of Bouncer’s crass goading of the chinchillas I thought it politic to affect an air of silken deference – a temporary device naturally, but necessary to secure our acceptance in the new ménage.
This ménage I may say is not without its merits, having a large, ill-kempt garden, a warm stone wall and no immediate neighbours. Admittedly the shrubbery does harbour two hedgehogs but so far they have been suitably respectful – though what will happen once the dog gets wind of them I am uncertain. And while our late master’s cabaret of blunders had been a source of painful amusement it is reassuring to think that life in the artist’s household will be less ruffled than that of the vicarage. It will certainly be more regular for I am glad to note that our new mistress is timely in serving my meals, a courtesy her brother could never quite grasp – but then efficiency never was his strong point. Ah well, nil nisi bonum … And to give him his due, as human beings go, he was a kindly creature. Just absurd.
Mind you, absurdity is not the prerogative of vicars, for in my experience many are so afflicted: tabby cats, field mice, writers, gravediggers, schoolmasters, pedigree dogs, mongrel dogs, policemen, vets, squirrels, most dog owners, all speckled hens, elderly bicyclists, youthful bicyclists, beards (male or female), bell ringers and bishops … The list is endless but its repetition a useful way of inducing sleep on the rare occasions when such aid is needed. Not that I expect insomnia in our new environment – unless, of course, P.O. were so foolish as to follow F.O.’s example and eliminate one of the locals. (A merry jest and one that I must remember to tell Bouncer!) Yes, I think I can confidently predict that my days here will be passed in leisured sanity, untrammelled by the disruptive practices at Molehill and of our previous associates. There is one problem that remains, of course: the dog. If I can curb him all will be well.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Dog’s View
I am getting the hang of this place now and it’s better than I thought, much better in fact. True, we don’t have the vicar’s graveyard to race around in and I do miss him pounding the old ivories; but the swirls of fag smoke are much the same, and his sister, Primrose, has given me a brand-new basket and a really fancy rug to go with it. Mind you, I was a bit miffed about that at first and didn’t go near either of them. I mean it’s quite a shock for a fellow to have his special hairy bedding taken away and to be told to kip in something all fresh and foreign. For a start it smelt different … No, that’s not right, it didn’t smell at all! What do you think of that? Not nice, I can tell you. In fact I took a leaf out of the cat’s book and went into a SULK. You didn’t think Bouncer could do that, did you? Well yes, it did seem a bit strange at first, but I’ve seen Maurice doing it often enough and thought I would have a go too. So I crawled under her kitchen table, made god-awful panting noises and didn’t touch my grub for a WHOLE DAY! Maurice told me I was in a trormer (or some such word) due to loss of basket. I told him I didn’t care what I was in but that I jolly well wasn’t going to have my kit interfered with!
Anyway, unlike F.O., P.O. seems to notice things and she soon twigged that I was out of sorts. And do you know what she did? Went to the dustbin, fished out my old rug and put it on top of the new. I thought that was quite sporting and so made it clear that I could manage a little food after all. Don’t suppose F.O. would have done that: just effed and blinded and crunched his humbugs.
But you know, it still feels a bit off without him; though I’m not too sad as Maurice says he has gone to where all good dogs and vicars go: to the wondrous kennel in the sky, full of gin and bones and really good smells like rotting rabbit and that smoky stuff he used to spray the church with which made me sneeze. Oh yes, he’ll be fine up there all right. In fact I expect I’ll join him one day; you never know, it could be pretty good fun. But meanwhile there are important things to do down here, i.e. get the lie of the land and the measure of our new owner.
You see it’s all right for Maurice (so far as anything ever is right for the cat) because he has already had one lady owner – the Fotherington woman who the vicar did in. So I suppose he knows a bit about mistresses. But I’ve only had masters, so having the Prim to deal with may be tricky. Maurice says the thing to do is to watch closely and keep quiet. He says it’s all about making the right … uhm … ass-ment or some such, and then acting accordingly. I’m not too good at keeping quiet myself – never seen the point of it – but I think I can make an ass-whatsit all right, it just needs concentration. The great thing is to keep a guard on your rear. F.O. was always having to guard his, so I expect I’ve learnt a bit from him. Besides, I’ve got what the cat hasn’t: sixth sense. Maurice doesn’t like me talking about that, says he doesn’t believe in it and it’s all non-sense. But I know what I know, and it comes in pretty handy, I can tell you. So I’ll use some of it to get P.O.’s number … A bit of the old dog-nous beats cat-craft any day!
And talking of getting numbers, I went to inspect the chinchillas this morning, the same ones that were here when we came before – Boris and Karloff. They got a shock all right. I was just strolling casually up to their cage door (well, not strolling exactly – sort of charging), when I heard Boris say, ‘Oh my arse and whiskers, there’s that’s blithering dog again!’ ‘Which one?’ its mate asked. ‘The bouncing bugger,’ roared Boris, ‘take cover!’ And that’s what they did: scuttled into the back of their hutch and stayed there like stuck hedgehogs. All I could see were those pink mad eyes glowing in the dark.
Ho! Ho! I thought, three can play at that game! So I sat down on my haunches and waited patiently, pretending to be Maurice. In fact I even tried doing one of the cat’s special miaows (you know the sort, those awful rump-freezing ones), but somehow I couldn’t quite get the hang of it and it came out sounding a bit odd – odder even than when Maurice lets fly. Still, it seemed to do the trick as the next moment there was a great thumping and squeaking from inside and I knew it was Karloff having the vapours. And then Boris broke cover and hurled himself against the mesh shouting ‘Swine!’ Personally I thought that was what the cat would call ‘common’ and told him to calm down otherwise he might trip over one of his stupid lugholes. (I mean what self-respecting rabbit has ears that sweep the ground? Plain daft I call it.) I could see he didn’t like that as he started tearing chunks out of his soppy carrot and spitting them on the ground. A right old mess he was making, and I pointed out that if I made that sort of mess in the kitchen I’d get the slipper. He squeaked back that he had every right to make a sodding mess if he wanted and that if he were my human owner it wasn’t a slipper I’d get but a socking great boot. I thought that was RUDE.
Just goes to show, anyone can see that these chinchillas are ‘not used to polite society’ as Maurice would say. Still, they are better sport than that Mavis Briggs person who used to plague the vicar; so all in all I think I could get to like it here. As the cat says, it’s just a question of waiting upon events … or as I would say, cocking your ears (or leg for that matter) and sniffing the wind. NO FLEAS ON BOUNCER!
CHAPTER FIVE
My dear Agnes,
Delighted to hear how well things have been going in Tobago and that Charles’s horticultural researches are a success. What fun it will be to see Podmore Place quite transformed with the new plantings once you are back. How brave to tackle its total restoration!
Meanwhile, life here jogs along in its customary way: hacking coughs among the juniors – I often think they put it on just to get into the san; Erskine M
inor’s parents being difficult as usual; the penance of the Spring Fair (why will Miss Twigg insist on a gym display? It’s not as if anyone enjoys it, least of all the participants); the termly tests with the usual rows over cheating – not my domain fortunately; and young Mr Cheesman, who, having attended a half-day course on child therapy, has come up with the scintillating idea of each boy being assigned a pet rat to look after. I ask you! He says it would be good for their psyches (the children’s not the rats’). It certainly won’t help my psyche to find one of those little beasts leering at me from the office filing cabinet! Thus I told Mr Cheesman that while it was a most inventive plan I rather doubted if the headmaster would sanction the cost – pointing out that rats were noted for their voracious appetite. He looked most crestfallen and murmured something to the effect that money was of small account compared with the nurture of a child’s soul … You know, I rather suspect that he doesn’t intend staying with us much longer: better suited to being a Jesuit or a zoo administrator perhaps.
So, my dear, nothing of great moment to report – unless you count Primrose’s growing antipathy to our new arrival Mr Topping. She is absolutely convinced that he is not what he seems – a perfectly inoffensive little Latin master with a pleasing smile and polite manners. He also plays bridge rather well, so when you get home you might find him useful for making up an occasional four. Though just remember not to include Primrose as his partner.
Incidentally, she rang me last night in high dudgeon, complaining she had just bumped into Topping taking an evening stroll, and that he had invited her to a little ‘in-house’ soirée he is giving, and that as such a notable local artist and one of the judges for the school’s annual painting competition, her presence would be most agreeable. Being Primrose, she seemed to see his overture as some sort of insult – ‘presumptuous’ she kept muttering. So is she going? Of course she is, if only to have her prejudices confirmed!
Anyway, I must fly – we have a visitation from the auditors tomorrow and you know how that affects the headmaster. (Must remember to ask Matron about the aspirin supplies.) Will resume this on Wednesday and regale you with news of the Topping event.
Wednesday Night
Unusually good weather for early April – really warm in fact. Indeed so warm that it rather went to Mr Topping’s head and he had let it be known that should we be graced with a mild evening he might hold his soirée in the garden. Rather thoughtlessly I mentioned this to Primrose who practically had an apoplectic fit. ‘Outside?’ she fumed, ‘he must be mad.’ I was slightly startled by the vigour of her response, and said vaguely that after the trials of winter a little cocktail en plein air might be rather nice … Not a good idea. She gave me one of those withering looks and said that drinking ropey sherry in the teeth of midges and a howling gale was bad enough in summer, but to attempt it in a spring dusk was sheer lunacy and that only one as questionable as Hubert Topping would suggest such a thing. I was a trifle bemused by this and said that I couldn’t recall having encountered midges in howling gales, least of all in spring, and in any case how could she be sure the sherry would be ropey. She replied that regarding the latter she wasn’t sure but wouldn’t mind taking bets; and as to the former, it was clear that her experience of al fresco gatherings was considerably wider than mine. Well I thought it best not to argue, and as things turned out the matter never arose: it rained. Heavily.
Thus huddled in Topping’s flat – the one in that cottage Miss Dunhill lets out at those outrageous prices – we smiled politely and sipped amontillado and warm Piesporter. Primrose sampled both, made the most awful I-told-you-so faces and continued to imbibe at the rate of knots. She was wearing that rouched taffeta frock, which I have to admit rather suits her, plus the dangling jet earrings inherited from her mother and those stilt-like heels her brother gave her (goodness knows why: I don’t think Francis knew anything about clothes – or women). The effect, as you might guess, was quite striking; and being tall, even without the shoes, she towered over Topping, making him look like a benevolent gnome.
Less gnome-like, but equally benevolent, was the headmaster. We had passed the auditing test with flying colours and I rather suspect that his consumption of the Piesporter was a mere stomach-liner for something more abrasive when he got home. Anyway, he was certainly on good form and was heard to murmur to Hutchins (Geography) that the school was fortunate in having such a generous member of staff. Hutchins, not noted for his prodigality, observed that the next time the new member chose to put his hand in his pocket he might consider atlases rather than alcohol … There is something rather Stygian about Hutchins (a common trait with geographers perhaps?) but Mr Winchbrooke affected not to hear and just smiled. He has Not Hearing down to a fine art – surely an invaluable asset in a headmaster, particularly at Erasmus House.
Thus things were progressing fairly well – the theme of juvenile imbecility getting its usual airing and glasses being quaffed with genteel abandon: rather unwisely guests had been invited to help themselves from the sideboard. But then I noticed the absence of our host. Nothing odd in that you might think, probably popped to the kitchen for some more crisps. But neither was there any sign of Primrose, seen only moments previously being condescending to the German art mistress. As you know, Primrose does not exactly melt into the shadows of a room and she was definitely no longer amongst us. Intrigued by the coincidence of the double displacement and bored with Mr Neasden’s lugubrious banter, I slipped from the room ostensibly en route for the lavatory, where in any case I might have found Primrose and we could have had a little pow-wow.
I had just moved a few feet along the passage when I was brought up short by seeing her pressed squarely against the study door in what can only be described as ‘listening mode’. ‘Primrose,’ I gasped, ‘what are you doing?’ There was no answer except the furious mouthing of, ‘Shut up!’ Then re-applying her ear to the panel she signalled me to go away – which I did in some haste. Back in the drawing room I avoided Neasden, sought out the peanuts and thought the more.
A minute later Primrose reappeared, scowled at me, beamed at everyone else and engaged in animated conversation with Hutchins. Actually that is not quite accurate as animation is not Hutchins’ forte. It was, you might say, a unilateral engagement. Then two minutes after that Topping returned; and also beaming, including at me, bustled about replenishing drinks and being generally obliging. The noise waxed, the drink waned and little Milly Hopkins got one of her migraines and had to be taken home ….
Yes, on the whole it was a successful evening and one which certainly enabled the new member of staff to win nodding approval from amongst his colleagues: a sort of self-baptism by grape I suppose … But approval, nodding or otherwise, was hardly Primrose’s view; or at least, judging by her extraordinary behaviour at that door it wasn’t. I cannot think what she was doing there, and am unlikely to learn until I have returned from the Isle of Wight. Yes, my periodic pilgrimage to mother is nigh, and Mr W. is sanguine in his assumption that things will run smoothly in my absence. They won’t.
So, my dear Agnes, it seems we have a little mystery on our hands; and I just hope that on my return it will not be to hear that our dear friend has been ferried away by the white-coated ones for ‘tests’ – as I believe incarceration is termed.
Your good friend,
Emily
CHAPTER SIX
The Dog’s View
On the whole, she’s not bad: quicker than F.O. – more on the ball you might say; and when we were out on the downs just now she walked along at a good old lick which meant that I didn’t have to keep turning round to see where the hell she had got to. (You have to keep an eye on them because so long as you are in their sights they think they are in control. They’re not, of course, but it stops them bawling your name all over the place and getting ratty.) Mind you, she got a bit edgy when we passed some sheep – obviously thought I was going to duff them up. Nah, not worth it: sitting ducks! They stare at you blankly, then
bleat their soppy heads off and fall on their rumps running away. It was fun when I was a puppy but now that I’m a big dog I’ve got better things to do like stalking the rabbits, for instance. Now they can be a challenge. Some are easy, of course, but there are others that are real buggers. Cocky with it. And from what I can make out there’s an awful lot of ’em down here – much more than in our other place, and that’s saying something. Yes, Bouncer’s going to have his work cut out keeping them in order! Still, this afternoon with the Prim I was as good as gold and hardly moved a muscle, just sniffed the wind and made a crafty recky. But once I’m really dug in here I’m going to sneak out one evening and make an ONSLORT and then they’ll know it!
I tell you what though, when we were coming home we met someone just outside the house, a smart little geezer with a sort of pink plant stuck in his jacket. When he got level with us he raised his hat and started muttering. I’m not too good at understanding what humans say: I mean there are some things that are easy enough – like ‘who’s a good dog then?’ or ‘get out of the way, you little blighter’ – but for the most part they gabble and you really have to strain your ears. But it’s specially tricky grasping what they’re spluttering about when they lower their voices. And this chap’s voice was pretty low – pi-haa-no as the cat would say.
Anyway, the man went burbling on and P.O. had the sort of look that the vicar often had, especially if he was with Mavis Briggs; the look that says, ‘For Christ’s sake, get to the point because I want my gin!’ Well, I think he did get to the point because she started to smile and said something like, ‘How very kind of you Mr Top-Ho. Yes, I would love to come. A little party, how charming!’ Can’t say that she looked very charmed – leastways not when we had got back inside, because the first thing she did was to kick off her shoes, light a gasper and say to Maurice, ‘Well really, that’s all one needs!’ No response, of course: the cat was in one of his po-faced moods, knackered by the soft-soaping earlier, he can only keep it up for so long. Then she started to shove her face in the newspaper and made awful crackling and rustling noises. I have noticed that human beings often do this when they are feeling ratty (which is quite often); they don’t seem to read anything, just make a rumpus turning the pages.
The Primrose Pursuit Page 2
