by Gene Kemp
‘This was the monks’ cloister,’ said Dad.
They finally came to another man in coat, hat and muffler, at the foot of the grand staircase. There was a wooden gargoyle sitting on the newel post, half lion, half dragon. It watched Rachel with sly dark carved eyes as if waiting for a chance to bite her. There was a faint hum of human voices, trickling down the stairwell.
From the safety of the stairs, Rachel looked back, trying to see the sign for the Ladies. The far end of the cloister seemed lost in a thin black mist, as if somebody had left a window open, and let the dark in.
The great hall was full; a sea of fur coats, fur hats, suede boots. Nobody was taking anything off, for small draughts curled round your legs like icy snakes, every time a latecomer opened the hall doors. They found Mum nicely placed by a huge fireplace that looked like a Gothic tombstone, complete with a pair of winged figures that certainly weren’t angels. It was extravagantly filled with a roaring log fire. Some of the logs were three feet long.
‘Central heating’s not much cop,’ said Mum. ‘I’m roasting one side and freezing the other. Let’s cuddle up, George. Put Rachel in the middle.’
They’d no sooner settled than a tall thin grey-haired man rose to his feet across the sea of fur hats. People eventually stopped losing and finding their gloves, talking, and waving to friends, and settled to listen. As the gentleman had floppy hair and a great sheaf of papers, and had to keep pushing his hair out of his eyes and retrieving papers from the floor, he was not easy to listen to. But it appeared he was the secretary of the charity that had bought the abbey. They hoped to turn it into a children’s home. They had saved the abbey from the very brink of disaster; pulled eight-foot ash trees out of cracks in its walls; spent all one stormy night on the roof, holding down the slates with their outspread bodies.
‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here tonight …’
A lot of fur hats tilted, as people looked nervously at the ceiling. It certainly carried a lot of peculiar spreading stains, like maps of South America and Norway.
‘I think we can guarantee your safety this evening,’ said the secretary, and dropped his notes again. There was an anxious titter, thin as the blowing of dead leaves on an autumn night.
He told them of the charity’s first night in the abbey, with ninety-one locked rooms and only ninety keys. How all the lights failed half an hour after dusk; how his bedroom was nearly a hundred yards from the kitchen.
‘But we learnt that night that there are either no ghosts in the abbey, or, if there are, they are friendly to our cause, and want the abbey to survive. So I think they would be pleased to see us all gathered here tonight, a week before Christmas, so that the old house is alive again …’
Then the musicians walked in. Three plump young men in crumpled dinner jackets, with dark crinkly hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. They might have been brothers. And a very elegant lady with long neck and long graceful bare arms, who was going to play the cello. They announced themselves as the Rococo Ensemble, and began plucking and tweaking nervously at their violins and double bass. The swan-necked lady became visibly aware of the temperature in the hall and the writhing icy snakes from the doors, which kept opening and shutting in the draught, as if someone kept meaning to come in, then changed their mind. Rachel watched the lady’s arms and neck turn first purple and then blue, in interesting patches; saw the lady look longingly at the thick woolly stole at her feet, then decide that one could not really play the cello wearing a stole …
Then their leader announced they would begin with one of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ and they had decided to make it … ‘Winter’ …
More thin laughter. Then the four musicians looked at each other with raised eyebrows and cold little smiles, and were off.
And it was very fine; but very wintry. Rachel’s eyes swept the ceiling in a dream. Huge oak beams soared to the top of the roof … ‘The wicked Abbot’s original beams,’ said Dad in a whisper. In between, later families had plastered their coats of arms, boasting who’d married whom. But Rachel wasn’t much bothered by who’d married whom. She had not liked that phrase about the old house coming back to life. Her mind roamed round the house. The ancient central heating system, passing through wall after wall, from darkened room to darkened room, hissing hot water and steam and totally failing to keep the cold at bay. The black attics, where the partitions were buckled as if a shell had hit them. The long orange cloister that led to the loo, full of smoky dark at the far end; the cellars where the dry rot grew out of the walls like an old man’s beard …
And all the time Vivaldi’s music of raindrops pattered on their ears, and the air grew colder. Only the ceiling looked warm, lit with a rich yellow light, from concealed spotlights hidden behind the beams.
The music ended; the musicians almost ran for the comfort of their changing room and its two-bar electric fire. The secretary announced that the buffet was now open in the state dining room, with a choice of wine or hot coffee. There was nearly a stampede, scarcely checked by middle class decorum.
The state dining room was fabulous. A huge white marble fireplace with columns, a huge white door with columns, and a white and gilt plaster ceiling. Pity there was a gaping black hole in the ceiling, with a raw new wooden post thrust up through it, high as a fir tree. The secretary announced that it was dry rot, but perfectly well in hand. Somebody had pinned a blue notice to the post, saying ‘Queue here for coffee’.
The state dining table was smothered in mini pork pies, chicken croquettes and huge cream gateaux from end to end.
‘Good spread,’ said Dad, handing yellow paper plates around.
‘The plates are very small,’ said Mum. ‘That won’t hold much!’
‘You can come round again.’
‘What, after this bunch of vultures have been through it? Anyway, those sausage rolls have been kept warm too long – they’re all shrivelled.’
‘That table’s a lovely bit of mahogany.’
‘You can’t eat mahogany!’
Rachel went round again three times, and had two cups of very hot coffee. Then the standing up and the cold and the two cups of coffee began to make their effects felt. She knew she ought to go to the loo.
Then she thought about the misty orange cloister …
‘Mum – do you want the loo? I know where it is.’
‘Shhh – in public – certainly not. These vol-au-vents aren’t bad, George. Try one.’
Rachel desperately kept her legs pressed together. Once they sat down again she’d be all right.
‘Will you please take your seats again, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Mum – I’ve got to go …’
‘Go on, then. Hurry up – it’s starting. Trust you …’
‘Come with me?’
‘Certainly not. You’re a big girl now – nearly twelve.’
There was no choice. Rachel went. Running down the grand staircase she met a few people coming up, stamping out their cigarettes on the stone, then picking up the flattened dog-ends guiltily and putting them in their breast pockets. Still, there was still the man on the door, at the far end of the cloister … he’d be sort of company.
She met him hurrying up the stairs too, blowing on his hands and very glad to leave his lonely post. She was now quite alone.
She began walking along the cloister, towards the mist of dark. She couldn’t bear to look at it. She walked on, counting the cracks between the paving stones instead. But she had to look up, eventually.
There was a black-robed figure, standing right outside the entrance to the Ladies. Black from head to foot, and its back turned towards her. Absolutely still.
Terror transfixed Rachel. Then the figure moved slightly, and the black robe lifted a little from the floor, to reveal a pair of sparkling diamanté heels.
Blood surged back into Rachel’s heart in great painful pumps. No nun ever wore diamanté heels. The figure turned, to reveal a plump lady in black velvet evening cloak and
sequinned dress, with a kind face and dangly earrings. She gave a start when she saw Rachel, then smiled.
‘Oh, you did make me jump! Isn’t this a funny old place? Which way is it back? I’m quite lost.’
‘If you wait for me a tick,’ said Rachel desperately, ‘I’ll show you.’
The woman smiled understandingly.
Rachel had never been so quick in her life.
Things really began to go wrong in the second half. The musicians tried over and over again to get their instruments tuned properly, and couldn’t seem to manage it.
‘It’s the cold,’ said Dad. ‘It affects the catgut.’
‘It’s affecting my guts,’ said Mum. ‘I wish now I’d gone with our Rachel.’
More in desperation than hope, the musicians launched off into some Albinoni, with a half-hearted little quip about hot rhythms. Albinoni would not have liked it. The two violins could not get together, and wowed frequently and horribly. The swan-necked lady had donned not only her stole, but also a clashing polo-neck sweater, and it showed in her playing. The double bass, stout backstop, seemed somehow to get detached; its sound seemed to be coming from one corner of the rafters.
‘Funny acoustics,’ whispered Dad. ‘Must be a layer of warm air up there.’
‘You must be joking,’ said Mum. ‘I’ve just lost my last layer of warm air, and I won’t tell you where from. There’s no heat in this fire.’
Rachel held forward her hand, and it was true. The fire roared up the chimney as fiercely as ever, but not a trace of heat could she feel. All, musicians and audience, seemed locked in some terrible refrigerator.
And then, up among the rafters and the ceiling spotlights, Rachel saw a little black dancing shadow, moving up and down erratically, like a flake of soot from a burning chimney; like a little black butterfly.
She watched it uneasily for a bit, then tugged Dad’s sleeve.
‘Moth,’ said Dad. ‘Been hibernating. Been wakened up by the heat of the spotlights.’
‘What heat?’ asked Mum, from the depths of her collar.
Rachel forgot the music, went on watching the moth. There was a funny effect. As it fluttered nearer the spotlights, seeking light and warmth, the spotlights threw its shadow on the ceiling, magnified many times. The shadow looked as big as a bird, waxing and waning, depending where the moth flew.
And then it seemed that the moth itself, the solid black shape, became as big as its shadow, and the shadow grew many times bigger. Big as a person.
People began to notice. Little indrawn breaths came from the women; then little shrieks as the thing came lower, with wavering uncertain flight. The music flew wilder and wilder, as even the musicians turned their heads to follow its flight, without stopping playing.
Suddenly, it was hovering right in front of Rachel’s face. Black, black like a robe, with a little bit of white and paleness on top.
She stared and stared and stared …
Then Dad’s arm crashed across, with his open tweed cap in his fist. It hit the black thing a terrible sideways blow, and flung it into the heart of the roaring flames in the great Gothic fireplace. There it hovered a moment, still fluttering to live. Then there was a puff of dark grey smoke, and a slight and evil smell, and it was quite gone.
‘Bloody bat,’ said Dad, uncomfortably, as everyone turned to stare at him. ‘Nasty bloody things. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
Then Rachel was crying uncontrollably. Dad tried shaking her; Mum tried cuddling her. But it was no good.
Guiltily they led her towards the doors that still opened and closed a little in the draught, as if someone was trying to get in and failing.
The tall grey man tried to apologize. ‘Nests in the chimneys … nearly smoked us out this morning … early days.’
But no one could hear him, because Rachel would not stop crying.
Audience and musicians watched them go, sympathetically.
At the door, Rachel broke away, back into the room.
‘But didn’t you see,’ she shouted. ‘It had a human face! It wanted me to help her. Didn’t you see?’
The doors closed behind her, as Mum and Dad dragged her out.
‘Poor child – quite overwrought.’
‘She’s had a nasty fright – very nasty.’
‘They’re very imaginative at that age …’
The Albinoni picked up wearily, like a record player switched on when a record has been left half-played. The audience settled back into its fur coats and suede boots, to weather out the concert.
But there was never another concert in that abbey.
The Passing of Puddy
GENE KEMP
‘That’s it. That’s it, Puddy, me old moggy, you’re gumming away nicely,’ crooned my brother, Jed, from his kneeling position on the kitchen floor, black leather rear end stuck high in the air, black spiky hair tangling with Puddy’s dirty fur.
And Puddy was gumming away very well indeed considering his great age, a hundred and seventy-five at the last count, seven of his years to one of ours, an old, old pussy cat, thin with arthritic legs so he could no longer jump the back wall as he used to, and all his teeth worn down to stumps after years of fierce and terrible hunting: mice, sparrows, blackbirds, gerbils, hamsters, even once a crow, and even more remarkable a grey bird, with shining blue feathers under its wings, a jay said my mother. Those grey and blue feathers were scattered from one end of the house to the other by the time Puddy had finished with it. You name it, Puddy caught it.
But now he was old, thin in limb and stumpy of tooth and my vile brother had carefully laid some tired pieces of French garlic sausage, sliced very fine, with orange plastic round the edges, you know the kind, on the kitchen floor where they stuck to the worn red quarry tiles, wringing wet because it’d been raining for days, and then they sweat, just as Puddy was sweating with the effort of trying to detach the meat from them – if cats sweat, that is – with no teeth to speak of and my brother Jed sweating with delight just watching him.
‘Don’t be so filthy mean,’ I shrieked, seizing a bit of garlic sausage, very smelly it was, and shoving it into Puddy’s eager mouth, whereupon he almost choked with joy.
And a voice came from the door. We had been joined.
‘That cat ought to be put down. It’s a health hazard,’ said my half-brother, Colin, standing there in his grasshopper-green tracksuit, oozing health and vitality, just having been jogging. Fourteen thirty hours was always jog time with Colin.
Jed rose up slowly.
‘Nobody, but nobody ain’t gonna put that cat up, down or through any place else.’
‘Everybody knows it’s not healthy keeping a cat as old as that and in rotten condition. Besides it’s cruelty.’
Jed’s spikes sharpened and shone black purple against the light of the window. Puddy continued to gum away furiously at the bits of garlic sausage.
‘You looking for trouble?’ asked Jed. ‘’Cos if you ain’t, you’re finding it just the same.’
They were about the same height, Jed whippet thin, Colin stocky in the tracksuit.
‘I might just ring the RSPCA,’ he said.
‘And if you do you might just be needing it yourself.’ Jed’s voice would have chilled the freezer.
Me, I am just a natural born coward and I hate rows, so I picked up Puddy and his garlic sausage (they got together happily and smellily) before the horrible duo started on each other, but at that moment Mum arrived saying either help or get out, there’s a lot on tonight, so it’s an early meal, Jess – that’s me – get on with the veg and, Jed, there are at least four of your mates in the hall drinking coffee and playing gin rummy so get rid of them, and, Colin, wake up your mother, she’s bound to be having a rest somewhere, and find Dilly and Dally. And put the cat outside, Jess. It needs fresh air.
Aroma of garlic was spreading fragrantly all around the kitchen, pongy at the best of times, ever since my mother put too much fertilizer on the herbs and they grew to the
size of cabbages, and also since Jed took up Indian cooking with no talent for it.
‘That cat doesn’t need fresh air, it needs a miracle,’ muttered Colin, with unusual wit for him.
‘So do we all,’ snapped Mum with more than edge to her voice.
So I put the cat outside, made some coffee and got stuck into the vast mound of veg required for an evening meal in this house, thinking bitterly how life had changed since Colin, Dilly, Dally and Caroline, their mother, had arrived. Out of all recognition, in fact. We’d always had lots of people around but now, all the cosy chats over coffee, the easy atmosphere had gone as Mum grew bossier, Jed stroppier, and I turned into an unpaid, low grade assistant cook, vegetable peeler, coffee maker and childminder.
What a set-up. My father married Caroline – it was all very posh – but after Colin was born he pushed off with her cousin, who just happened to be my mum. Some time after Jed was born, Dad and Mum got hitched and I arrived and then later once again Dad pushed off. Not a man you could rely on, Mum said. We stayed together as a one parent family, which suited Mum apparently. But six weeks ago, who should turn up at the doorway, weeping picturesquely on something that turned out to be Colin, with two little girls just behind them, but Caroline. Second hubby had turned very nasty, and having seen Mum’s name in the paper on account of her work in the community, and being her cousin into the bargain, where else could she go? Jed, having taken one look at them, suggested a few places but Mum, believing as she does in the sisterhood of womanhood, welcomed them all in.
‘Why do all your men push off?’ I wanted to know, but no one answered.
‘I’ve had a terrible time, darling,’ sobbed Caroline over her third glass of gin, ‘but I know you’ll look after me and my rights. And you won’t mind Nanas will you?’
Because worst of all, Caroline had brought her dog. A yappy, hairy thing called Bananas.
‘Bananas,’ choked Jed, rolling about the floor. ‘Bananas,’ and he was off again. After a time he recovered and called the cat.
