The Old Dog and the Doorstep

by JP Wright

Kitty did not find me in bed: I am not so lazy as she claims. Despite my late night, the tension and pressure of espionage, and my bruising hike across the field, I woke fairly early. I banged my head against the books for a while, having too much work and too little time in which to do it, then when I was confident that mother was safely downstairs (the clattering of cooking was well under way), took the opportunity to return the incriminating key to its place amongst the necklaces. Now it was up to Father to do what he had said he would for the double-cross to be completed.

  Instead of returning to my work, I wandered out to the pond. At the bottom of the back stairs, hearing from the kitchen a mixed chorus of chirruping from the grasshopper and sniffling from Mother, I had deduced that some drama was being played out in which I wanted no part, so doubled back, past my bedroom and Kitty's, and escaped down the main staircase just as the flea hopped up the back stairs. It was warm there, on Grandpa's bench, with the sun bouncing up off the water, the wind baffled by the holly. No ghosts. I tossed pieces of gravel into the water, two or three at a time, and tried to watch the ripples: where they began, where they ended; but they bounced off the edges and off lily pads and overlapped and criss-crossed one-another. Every now and then, a fish would pop up, attracted by my gravel and sink again, disappointed. All the hours Grandpa spent sitting here, I cannot remember him ever bringing back a single fish. My handful of gravel gone and, thanks to the fish and the interference from the banks and vegetation, and the dazzle of the sunlight from each ridge as I tried to count them and track their paths from birth as perfect rings to dissolution in chaos, nothing learned, I began to wonder whether I had not better study the effect of a drop of milk in a cup of tea. But no breakfast for the wicked it seems: as I got up to leave in the direction of tea and toast, up bounded the flea. She had on a red bobble hat, three t-shirts and a pair of trousers covered in pockets.

  “Found you at last,” she chirped.

  “You were looking for me?” I asked, innocent as you like.

  “The Cook's dead the police are here I mean not really police but Sandy and Lottie and Mother baked another chocolate cake but the cat broke it well Marcus did but the cat made him and Mummy's in a watery mood again I'm afraid and soon it will be lunchtime.” By which she meant, I suppose, that I was expected to sort out Mother, or sort out lunch, or both.

  “What are the guests up to?”

  She shrugged. “Playing at detectives I suppose. The I.T. geeks both suspect each other, Mrs R-C is going about sniffing people to detect traces of poison, the Tisket-Taskets have drawn up a chart using different coloured pens to work out who was where when, and the Colonel went off to find a yard-arm and see whether the sun wasn't over it yet. And Simon is the new Butler.”

  “What was wrong with the old one?” I asked, knowing I was letting myself in for it, sitting down again.

  “Drink,” nodded Kitty soberly, and with much regretful tutting, gave me her colourful version of the previous night's adventure, with plenty of arm-waving, falls and groaning. I rather wanted to tell her what I had been up to in the meantime, which seemed to me at least as exciting. Especially as she kept annotating her account with “All the while, you were in bed,” and “Of course, this was while you slept,” and “Remarkable that you weren't woken – well, you always were a heavy sleeper. Gravity affects great masses more.” But I could not tell her, of course, or Mother would know right away, and the whole point of the plan had been to not involve her, to spare her the trouble. Especially with her latest cake disaster, she did not need the bother.

  “Everything seems so much more complicated than it used to be, don't you think?” I said, tossing a stick into the pond without even bothering to observe its effect. I was thinking of Father's promise that everything would be the way it had been, but it did not seem so likely in the day as it had been by lamplight. I did not see how it was going to work out that way. One stone, tossed into the pond, created a simple ring that – at least until it bumped up against something – was easy enough to understand; two or three – say Mother, Father and me – and it got pretty complex where the rings overlapped. Why sometimes the ridges gathered height, and why sometimes disappeared, I could not tell. It was too quick, too transitory (which, okay, I did just look up). Add a Kitty-shaped obstacle, zipping across the surface like one of those miraculous beetles, setting up ripples of her own all over the place, and the situation was becoming impossible to follow. Then throw in a handful of guests, Simon, actors – chaos. I do not think the situation is reversible. Even if you stop throwing in stones, there is no way back to those perfect rings. The waves will carry on bouncing back and forth, interfering with one-another, until they wear themselves out amongst the rushes, lapping at the muddy edges of the pond.

  “It certainly is a mystery,” Kitty agreed, “And at every turn, new suspects appear. Of course, my Great Brain will unravel it all. Behind all these apparently unconnected events there must be one greasy eminence.” She did not know how close to being right she was. Though, come to think of it, Father could not be blamed for the Butler's broken leg, except very indirectly (the Butler, the actor, was in the house as part of Mother's scheme to raise money made necessary by Father's being a fool or a bastard; but it was his own choice to dance with the demon drink and there had to be a good chance that he would have fallen down some stairs somewhere, wherever he had been that weekend; how far back can the string be traced, before some pretty dubious knots are required?), and not at all for the destruction of the second cake … but it would not have been baked if he had not destroyed the first. Perhaps Kitty was right, and it was all one.

  “Do you think,” I asked her, “that people deliberately do wrong – or do they do what they think is right, but they are looking at it wrong?”

  “What did you do?” she gasped, grabbing her notebook and searching through her many pockets for a pencil.

  “Not me. I was thinking ...” about Father, but I could not say that, “hypothetically.” And maybe a little about myself.

  “So what did you hypothetically do?” pressed the Great Detective, pencil poised, “I definitely saw the cat trick Marcus into pushing that cake out of the window, so it wasn't you this time.”

  “This time? It never was me!” I protested, aware that I was protesting too much. The bug pressed on regardless, hunched over her pad like a praying mantis.

  “That is still a matter under investigation. Now I did not see anything broken this ay em. I know the 'Ming' vase is okay.” She leapt onto the bench and grabbed me by the face, almost pressing her eyes into mine.

  “Gerrof freak, I don't want your pinkeye!” quoth I.

  “Is it … is it about a boy?” she squawked, “Or did you get thrown out of school for finally horse-whipping Annabelle Haugh-Frost? Can I tell Mummy? I'll make it sound like you had to do it.”

  “I did not do anything,” I said firmly (not really quite true), “But I mean sometimes something can look wrong, if we don't have all the information.”

  “Like if you try to cook a cake but you don't have the recipe?”

  “No. Not like that.” So much for dialectics. “That's just silly.” To be fair to K, not knowing what lay behind my questions, how could she be expected to provide useful answers that would help us progress?

  “Suspect continues to display signs of guilty conscience,” murmured the pest happily, scribbling away in her notebook, and added, “I'll tell Mummy you are coming in. And I'll prepare the ground for your confession.”

  “Jeezus K, don't tell her anything,” I pleaded, as she hopped away to stir up trouble.

  “If you need to practise, talk to the Padre!” she yelled back to me as she rounded the stables: the black-suited, dog-collared Ms Tasket or Tisket, Clara who chafes, had appeared in the undergrowth on the other side of the pond and was working her way around the edge towards me. What was it about these clerical types that drew them to water? Or was word getting about that there was some kind of local oracle who had nothin
g to do but sit on a mossy bench and be unburdened to. Clara definitely had that look about her of someone determined to bare her soul to the nearest hapless bystander, willing or not. Mother would have to wait a while for her dutiful daughter.

  “Good morning, Vicar,” I bade her, non-committally.

  “Morning, Victoria,” she said, approaching, hesitating, then parking herself on the warm bench.

  “Violet,” I grumbled: duty does not extend to accepting any label I am given.

  “Beg pardon. Bad guess. Stab in the dark. Much nicer. Viola,” the Vicar muttered, then paused painfully before adding, “Nice morning,” and then falling silent again. Her sermons must be such fun. The time must fly by. Her numb-buttocked flock will at least be prepared for the inevitable bureaucratic delays, when they are loaded up for judgement. Or, not a real Vicar I remembered, so her pupils. Same thing. Her victims.

  One or two fish bubbled up, still hopeful, and a grasshopper celebrated the sunny morning with a song. A dragonfly flashed by. The cold night had just been a warning shot – autumn did not really mean to take hold for a little while yet.

  “Ignore my sister,” I warned, in case she had overheard anything from across the pond. I looked about for something else to throw into the water, finding only dry holly leaves, too spiky and too light to throw, “She has no idea what's really going on.”

  “Oh really? Had thought she seemed to have more clues than the rest of us,” Clara said. This could have been to provoke me, as it must be clear to everyone that K is a lunatic with a grasp on reality that is weak and slipping.

  “No clue at all, really,” I said firmly, closing the subject, only to regret it when she opened another.

  “I Teach.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “No, don't be. Someone has to. I meant: I was aware.” She may have failed to grasp my lightning wit, or was accustomed to ignoring her pupils.

  “So does Ashleigh.” I assumed she meant Roger.

  “It's rather ironic, our being dressed up as man and boy, and Vicar and Choirboy at that. Hah! I just got it. Roger.” She tapped her trousered thigh. Apparently as close as she came to laughter.

  “Mother didn't choose the names,” I hurried to assure her, “They came in a kit with the clues and so on.” She carried on regardless,

  “Well, I wanted to take Ashleigh away from school, and all the politics around it. Rather intense.” Had they not only just returned after the long summer holiday? “Have no Mother with a country pile to bring her to meet. Thought this might do instead, as a distraction. Or a background. Ply her with booze. Get her alone. Make a proposal. That sort of thing.” I was not sure I liked having the house called a pile, but I let it go. In any case, there was no stopping the flood now. I must have a face that says 'I care – talk to me.' I shall have to work on that. “Thing is, last week, offered deputy head-ship,” she went on relentlessly, “Big responsibility. More money. In charge of pastoral care too. Awkward politically. Have always been a little reckless about the job – makes Ashleigh anxious. To be honest, thought they knew. Perhaps they do: a sort of test? But now ... maybe it’s going nowhere; maybe I should end it.”

  Maybe you should ask someone other than a fourteen-year old stranger, I thought, but “The job?” I asked innocently, again casting about for something to throw. Anything to avoid looking at her, all tense with emotion and pulling at her collar. In danger of sweating, dressed up in black with the sun coming down and sheltered from the breeze.

  “Ash,” she choked out. Now, I was not convinced about the qualities of Ash/Roger/Ms Tisket or Tasket: chubby cheeks, chubby thighs, a teacher with no useful knowledge regarding Italian cookery or waves. Perhaps she had hidden talents and attractions. Whatever. But look, with all the wishing in the world I could not get even one buff, tin-eared, tin-whistling Irish singing boy to come and carry me away to his castle to live happily ever after to the sound of fiddles and great waves crashing on rocks, and yet here was this Vicar ready to give up her Choirboy for the sake of a lifetime of preaching to generations of ungrateful kids who – I knew it – would not be listening to a word she said. Which is probably a good thing so far as pastoral care goes if it is anything like the cringe-making sermons we get. And I guess the Sainted Mother of Christ school takes a pretty stern line on that sort of thing. It made me angry: maybe my face is right, maybe I do care.

  “What do you think this is?” I demanded, facing her, “Is this the 1950s? How is this even a dilemma for you? What do want – fifty years of drudgery in the classroom? Do you think they'll give you a medal? No. Do you think they'll make one of those sickening movies about your life inspiring kids from the wrong side of town to overcome their base instincts and finish school before starting a family? No. No-one will care, no-one will notice whether you are there or not, and soon enough you'll just be another old bitter old lonely old woman. Choose passion instead. Choose risk. Choose having someone who will ask you how you are because she really wants to know. You might still end up a lonely bitter old woman, but you will have given yourself a chance of love. Regret taking the chance, not missing it.” Not sure where all that came from. I used to read a lot of romantic trash. “Sorry, it's none of my business,” I muttered finally.

  She sat for a while, staring at the water. I wondered whether I should leave, but it was my house dammit and my pond, so I stayed. A bird sang the same song over and over. “Sod off, this is my tree. Sod off, this is my tree. Sod off, this is my tree.” Clara drummed her fingers.

  “Might be right,” she admitted, in a small voice, and then carried on sitting there. I wondered if I should say something else, but I was all argued out.

  “Do you know anything about cantuccini?” I asked. Might as well try to get something out of this.

  “No,” she said, standing stiffly, “Opera singer?” Hopeless. She marched off in the direction the flea had hopped, back to the stables, still drumming her fingers against her thighs. I carried on staring at the pond a while longer, then went in to find Mother, who was almost as damp. She was sitting in the kitchen, still sniffling into a wet rag, and doing nothing at all about lunch. Flour from her early morning's futile baking still dusted the floor. The window was open wide.

  “Your guests are starting to get on my nerves,” I told her, meaning to buoy her up with the realisation that she was not the only one with problems. It seemed to backfire, inducing another waterfall of tears. So I began poking about for lunch. There was a great lump of ham in the fridge, which I sliced and laid out in a ragged sort of spiral on our biggest plate. There were apples, there was celery. Mother damply pointed out grapes and walnuts. “Mayonnaise?” I asked, “There's no way I'm making it.”

  “New fridge,” Mother flapped her hand. So that was that done, and I found some chutneys and cheese. What else? There were big tomatoes, which I sliced.

  “Olive oil, Mother,” I told her – have to be firm when she is in these moods – and nipped out to the kitchen garden, where the Rooting-Compounds lurked. They had just wandered through the gate, despite Kitty's 'privet' sign, from the rose garden, where they had found one of Kitty's clues. Some parsley had survived being leapt onto, and there was thyme and marjoram. It may have been oregano. Suitable for tomatoes, anyway, in the absence of basil. I nipped back in, just as the old crocks were approaching, waving their clue (Mrs) and looking thirsty (the Colonel) and with irritating questions leaping to their lips. Those little leaves were scattered onto the slices and the olive oil glugged over (Mother had evidently hauled herself up to fetch it, and then slumped back into the chair again, leaving it on the table), and some salt and pepper and sugar. I remember the gremolata of the night before and wondered about garlic, but decided that our little party was too English for such adventure.

  Also in the new fridge was a plastic tub packed with bits of chicken swimming in a reddish oily pool. “What do I do with these?” I asked, shoving them under Mother's nose. The spicy marinade
must have perked her up, because she stopped sniffing and put the oven on. Soon, the smell of roasting chicken drove me out of the kitchen. Not that I dislike it: on the contrary, roasting chicken is what weekends should smell like. But if you have had to miss your breakfast, dear Reader, and are finding it torturous having to read about all this food, then you have a little idea of how I was suffering actually being there. To get away, I carried a stack of crockery out to the terrace, where Simon was wrestling with the trestle tables, whilst trying to maintain a butlerish (or should it be butlerine?) dignity under the pressure of questioning from the Cutter-Plains.

  “It is true, milady, that it was I who discovered the Master,” he said, trying to unfold one table.

  “There's a hook at the end,” I told him, standing waiting with the heavy plates.

  “Thank-you. I discovered him with a letter knife inserted with what I might call surgical precision between his shoulder blades.”

  “Surgical eh?” crowed Dr Plain, stepping forward to support the table as Simon grovelled underneath for the stays.

  “I say Butler, mind yourself around my wife's ankles!” cut in Mr Cutter, stung by the implied accusation, “The use of poison against Cook suggests a medical mind, don’tcha think?” Simon shook out a tablecloth, covering both table and bickering couple.

  “It suggests to me, Sir,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect while the pair fought their way out from under the cloth, “the mind of a murderer.” I dumped the plates and headed back to the kitchen. Mother was sitting down again, but she had added half-baked rolls to the oven and now the smell was unbearable. I yanked the oven open and turned over the chicken – not ready yet – and checked the rolls. Not really ready either, but I had one anyway, to keep my strength up.

  “Don't worry Mother,” I said, “I have everything under control.” Just as there was a bang from the oven; the shelf I had put the chicken on had fallen down on one side. Marinade slopped over the edge of the baking tray onto the floor of the oven, and sizzled there, but none of the chicken got away.

  “It does that,” nodded Mother. This, she seemed to find amusing. Her watery mood began to dry a little. I shoved the shelf back in and shut the door on the smoke that was beginning to rise from the burning marinade. The chicken and bread would just have to have a barbecued flavour, that's all.

  “All under control,” I repeated, more to myself than to Mother, who in any case was blissfully unaware of the plot that had been hatched by her own daughter and (albeit estranged) husband to steal papers from her safe. Or she would have said something, would she not? Not for the first time, I asked myself if I knew what I was doing. Echo alone replied. So I tested a little sliver of ham with my stodgy three-quarters-baked bread and took the rest on its platter out to the terrace, where the guests were beginning to gather expectantly, like ants around a picnic blanket. Simon had put up the second table, and was submitting to questions from the Vicar and Roger, who had evidently been persuaded to don her dress again and her jolly red cheeks.

  “The church does indeed take a dim view of it,” the Vicar was nodding, in response to some counter-question of the Wet's. I plonked down the ham, skirted around the Colonel (“Warm weather what? Danger of dehydration in this sun, what?) and his wife (“Good morning Valerie, dear, just up?”) and headed back in for napkins and so forth. Came across the blight, lingering at the bottom of the stairs, and dragged her with me. In the kitchen, I set her chopping some sticks of celery and carrot “and for god's sake don't cut your fingers off, freak” to stick in a bowl of hummus, then went to find out where Mother had got to. I could in fact hear her murmuring low and angry in the salon. Had she lost it completely? Was she talking to herself?

  Worse: she was talking to Father.

  Chapter 15