A Load of Old Bones Read online

  Suzette A. Hill

  United Kingdom

  A Load of Old Bones

  Francis Oughterard #1

  2005, EN

  All the Reverend Francis Oughterard had ever wanted was some peace and quiet, instead he becomes entangled in a nightmare world of accidental murder, predatory female parishioners, officious policemen and a drunken bishop. As the vicar’s life spirals out of control it is his supercilious cat, Maurice, and bone obsessed hound, Bouncer, who save the day. A Load of Old Bones is a charming and farcical romp through a 1950’s mythical Surrey.

  1

  The Cat’s Memoir

  It was Bouncer who found the leg. Well, the whole body really, but it was the leg – stout, white, thick-ankled – that had initially caught his attention and caused him to curtail his sylvan rampage. These rampages were a periodic occurrence embarked upon with a mixture of cringing stealth and cavalier bravado. He once told me that they gave him feelings of exquisite triumph, being proof yet again that a gap could be breached in his master’s laborious barricades. Once out and in the wood he would wreak havoc upon the rabbits and lesser denizens, crashing about in that absurd slow-witted way until eventually, worn out with futile exertion (rarely did he catch anything), he would slink home or be collared by his protesting ineffectual owner.

  Bluff and blustering, the man was possibly even more obtuse than his canine charge, and they suited each other: Reginald Bowler, local bank manager – raucous, dull, pipe-obsessed; and Bouncer his ridiculous mongrel companion. They had what I have heard humans describe as a sound working relationship, an ill-defined rapport difficult for outsiders to grasp. Most evenings you would see them – I saw them – floundering around the block: the man with pipe a-glow, jauntily proprietorial of dog and neighbourhood, snapping out soldierly commands (his feet are flat, he never served); and amidst the sparks and noise, straining manically at the leash, Bouncer – oblivious to all except the next lamp post.

  And so they would go, leaking and fuming along the pavements until they drew level with me on my gatepost, when things would change a trifle. At this point I generally managed to contrive a mild fracas: a little cat-calling perhaps, a minor skirmish – some light divertissement to help the evening along and hasten the mousing hour…

  But I digress, and must return to the matter of the leg. You see, it belonged to my mistress. As indeed did the attached body. So when Bouncer came careering up the street bellowing the news around my watchtower I was hard pressed to retain my customary aplomb. As you might imagine, the news was a bombshell and I experienced acute feelings of shock, albeit tinged with the merest quiver of satisfaction. Nevertheless, shock was dominant; and not caring for Bouncer to see it I continued to stare down indifferently at the histrionics being enacted round the base of my pillar.

  That pillar, I may say, was not only convenient but eminently comfortable. Convenient because it afforded me an expansive view of most of The Avenue, ranging from the Blakes’ bungalow Khartoum at the far end, to the vet’s house on the edge of the park, and finally to that appalling monstrosity at the top of the slope belonging to the Misses Veasey which they had the nerve to call Nirvana. Bowler’s place was just out of sight but I liked that as it was amusing trying to gauge the precise moment when dog and master would round the bend on their evening foray.

  On the afternoon of the leg I had assumed this ritual would be waived, for judging from the yelps emanating from Foxford Wood Bouncer had escaped his flimsy Colditz and was savouring a joyous idyll among the rabbits, intent – to quote one of those human music maestros – on making ‘the buggers hop’. Hop they did, so he told me afterwards. (But I take that boast with a flea’s knee, suspecting that Bouncer’s capacity for duffing up rabbits is largely in his imagination.) At any rate, I knew that he would be in disgrace and thus forfeit the nightly exercise, and so with a slight sense of disappointment I had settled down to doze in the noonday sun. The stone was warm, its surface smooth and solid: an admirable piece of masonry on which to pass an idle hour.

  The value of comfort to a cat cannot be stressed enough. Without it contentment is a chimera; with it life has a quality which dogs – particularly those as limited as Bouncer – can rarely contemplate. My pillar was one of a pair of grandiose posts guarding the long gravel drive to Elizabeth Fotherington’s residence. Like several in the neighbourhood the house had been built just before the First World War and seemed to reflect that air of solidity and confidence which, rightly or wrongly, humans ascribe to that era. The same cannot be said of its owner, my mistress.

  Solid legs she may have had, but in all other respects she was entirely at odds with the house she inhabited. Edgy, fulsome and witless, she was a constant source of annoyance to me; and my best means of refuge from those crushing embraces was the sanctuary of the high pillar. Facing south it offered an easeful warmth and was sufficiently elevated to ensure protection from pavement vulgarities. I doubted whether St Simeon’s perch was half as good as mine, and in any case probably lacked its attendant tree – whose overhanging branches were not so dense as to blot out the sun yet thick enough to create the necessary camouflage. Cats need camouflage. We are prey to dogs, small boys, and petulant householders.

  In particular the tree helped to veil my presence from Bouncer. When he bounded round the corner, with or without his asinine master, he was never quite sure whether I was there or not. The creature’s sense of smell is fairly acute but I sometimes think his eyesight is defective. This may be congenital (one of the several handicaps of the canine condition) or perhaps the effects of the lunatic fringe which cascades from his brows. But whatever the cause it meant that he did not always observe me lurking there, and thus when not in a socializing mood I could remain withdrawn and be spared his frenzied greetings.

  Anyway, the leg. There I was that afternoon quietly enjoying my customary post-prandial snooze when suddenly the air was rent by the dog’s excruciating tones. As mentioned, I managed to keep my composure and icily directed him to lower his voice. My cool reaction had a sobering effect and he proceeded to recount his experience. It was a fairly lengthy business as he is not the most succinct narrator and much of it was punctuated by demonstrations of how he had beaten hell out of the rabbits. I told him to get to the point which he eventually did.

  Apparently he had been resting briefly having first rolled in a mess of rotting leaves and Lord knows what (the pungency was still upon him), when he noticed a large bush to his right. He was just pondering whether it had lamp-post possibilities when he caught sight of something alien protruding from its undergrowth. His eyesight not being of the best, he went over to take a few exploratory sniffs. He said there were a number of flies buzzing around which it was fun snapping at, and that the thing seemed fairly stiff and had a smell which he couldn’t quite place. He tried a few tentative licks and thought the texture vaguely familiar; but it was only when he registered the brown leather casing at the near end and saw it was a human shoe that – to use his own words – ‘the bone dropped’.

  Now, I know Bouncer is none too bright but even he has flashes of perspicacity, and it passed through his mind that where there was one leg there might be two. So he rummaged around a bit and found the second one tucked up in a twisted position under a green garment. It was a dress clothing a female torso to which both legs were attached. He said he was bouleversied by the discovery (my word actually – I think his was ‘buggered’); but shock turned to awe when on closer inspection he realized that the brown shoe, the dress, the chiffon scarf wound tightly round the neck (plus the unaesthetic shape of the legs) all pointed to one person, namely Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington, owner of Marchbank House, bane of the local church and its incumbent, and my ghastly mistress!


  Why she should be dead I could not think. She had been only too alive the previous evening, twittering around the place in her usual irritating way: moving the ornaments, straightening the cushions, plaguing the budgerigar, crooning and gurgling down the telephone to the vicar, and humming interminably in that high gnat-like voice. In short, she had been her normal maddening self. Nothing untoward, nothing remotely interesting. So what was she doing now, flat on her back under the hawthorn bush dead as a doornail?

  As a species we cats are an independent group and in view of my antipathy you may be wondering why I elected to stay. The answer is simple: food and comfort. I have already discoursed on the importance of the latter, and in the realm of food I confess to being a bit of a gourmet (unlike that philistine Bouncer whose idea of a good meal is a tin of Muncho and a gnaw on one of his disgusting marrow bones).

  These epicurean tendencies my owner largely satisfied, providing me with a spacious garden full of the things I most admire: the noble catmint, clouds of trailing asparagus, the intoxicating lemon verbena – lush and wonderful basking plants! And in the house there were soft surfaces, plump cushions, sensuous rugs and eiderdowns where I could luxuriate to my heart’s content. Being of a foolish and indulgent nature she permitted me these things. Nothing was forbidden, not even the flexing of my claws on those irresistible shiny cretonnes. My meals were served promptly, the menus delicious and diverse. Cream was copious, fish plentiful. In short I lacked for nothing.

  Naturally there was a penalty to pay for all this: her presence. I am by nature a reflective cat. She, however, was ceaseless in her chatter; tediously effusive, and as far as I could make out reflected on nothing but the Reverend Francis Oughterard on whom she lavished gross and painful attention. Whether he was as adept at eluding her clutches as I was, it is hard to say. Probably not – guile is not one of his qualities.

  However, back to Bouncer and those critical moments when he first apprised me of the afternoon’s events. He was clearly in a state of shock (as was I, though naturally mine was the more concealed) and I felt an unaccustomed sympathy as he shifted from paw to paw peering up worriedly through the curtain of that bedraggled fringe. I think that the excitement of flouting Bowler’s fences, the exertions of the rabbit hunt and the repellent encounter with Elizabeth Fotherington’s corpse, had all taken their toll and he was obviously eager to return to the ministrations of Bowler and his foul-smelling pipe. Nevertheless, I had to speak sternly to him, pointing out that he couldn’t just slope off home as though nothing had happened, and that it was his duty to somehow or other alert his master to what he had found.

  These injunctions, you understand, were not prompted by feelings of public concern but rather by the realization that the sooner the neighbours were informed, the sooner my feeding programme could be resumed. The people next door had always spoken very civilly to me and on one occasion I heard them compliment my mistress on the lustre of my fur. Thus there seemed a fair chance that once they heard of their neighbour’s demise they would take pity on the poor beleaguered cat. Naturally I couldn’t expect the meals to be of the same high quality; but circumstances, as they say, alter cases, and occasionally standards do have to be modified. It is all to do with ports and storms.

  So I dismissed Bouncer with a gracious flick of my tail and settled down to devise plans for my future welfare. At that stage questions involving the details of my late mistress’s death – the whys, whos and wherefores – did not really occupy me. They were to later, but for the time being it was all a matter of sauve qui peut (or purr, as the case may be).

  2

  The Vicar’s Version

  When the bishop first sent me here I thought he must be mad. They can get like that, bishops. It’s the job; it makes them lose their sense of reality and they go a bit peculiar. I had seen it a number of times and thought that might have happened with Clinker. But as things turned out, either by accident or design he was proved to be right. Contrary to expectation the parish does suit me (and possibly I the parish), and – except for one dreadful phase – my time here has been as undemanding as I could wish.

  I don’t quite know why I entered the Church. It seemed, as they say, a good idea at the time. I am not the most vigorous of people and when I was demobbed I had been in a bit of a state. The war and my military companions had taken their toll: the bombs, the bellowing, the bull – it was all just too much. Therefore when I got my papers (which they seemed eager to give me at the first opportunity) the relief was enormous. But I had no idea what I was supposed to do. My late mother had provided me with a modest income so I was not exactly pressed for funds; but at some point these would need to be supplemented and I knew I ought to be seeking a role; carving out a career, climbing a ladder or something or other to success. Others were busy at it: opening garages, selling cars, importing nylons. But I couldn’t muster an interest in these, or anything really that required entrepreneurial drive. Enterprise is not my forte.

  So deciding what to do – what to be – was no small problem. It was further complicated by the fact that army life, though onerous, had at least given me a framework and provided a coarse but convenient canopy. Where in the civilian world should I find comparable cover? School-mastering possibly but I had an aversion to small boys – or larger ones for that matter, having seen quite enough adolescent waggishness in the Mess to last me a lifetime. So somehow it was the Church that I drifted into.

  In its size, order and hierarchical complexity, the Anglican Church in those days resembled the army but without the latter’s licence to kill. I judged that it was an institution into which I might melt anonymously and yet derive from it a modicum of status requiring little effort to sustain. In this I was greatly mistaken, initially at any rate. I had overlooked the fact that we had now entered upon the era of ‘muscular Christianity’ and as you may have deduced I am not of a muscular disposition.

  However, I completed my theological studies and largely through default found myself ordained. Hopes of avoiding the more extrovert aspects of the profession proved vain, and it soon became clear that if I were to achieve even the most modest distinction I should have to become hearty and ‘dynamic’. To this end I endured the horrors of the rugger field, challenged my fellow clergy to arm-wrestling bouts in Working Men’s clubs, downed endless pints of wind-inducing beer, and led rousing discussions on such crucial questions as ‘Would Jesus Have Joined A Union?’ or ‘Is God Your Tipple?’ To some it might have been a challenge; to me it was exhausting.

  Nevertheless, it seemed to pay off as my superiors were evidently satisfied with my progress and I was rewarded by being given charge of a large and unsalubrious parish in Bermondsey Clearly I had overplayed my part. But it was not such a catastrophe as you might think for by now the role of ‘Boxing For God’ had got me by the throat and I became the zealous victim of my own fantasy. Thus for a number of years I laboured, proselytized and marched under its delusion. Eventually such fervours took their toll and the contrivance collapsed. I went into a decline, became twitchy, depressed and finally ill. Simply, I suppose, lost my nerve – just as I had in the army.

  However, I persuaded myself that this was merely a temporary lapse, an aberrant phase brought on by excess of ardour. The Southwark authorities were sympathetic and allowed me a brief sabbatical. And then, just as I was preparing to re-enter the fray swirling the clerical cudgels, they suddenly transferred me out of Southwark and into the neighbouring diocese. The bishop here was Horace Clinker whom I had known some years previously, and he chose to have me assigned to the small parish of Molehill in Surrey, a quiet community as different from Bermondsey as semolina from salt beef.

  I was surprised and affronted…After all, had I not built my modest but hard-earned reputation on bringing the Message to the shop floor: drinking with the best of them, thumping out boogie-woogie in the Mechanics’ Institutes and generally being a glowing example of the ‘relevant and thrusting’ Church Militant? To be now rel
egated to this prim backwater was insult indeed – which was why I concluded that the bishop was mad.

  3

  The Dog’s Diary

  That cat Maurice is such a supercilious bastard. Yes, he thinks I wouldn’t know that word, but as a matter of fact I know quite a few long words and supercilious is only one of them. I hear them from my master when he does the crossword or telephones his bank customers. I also know overdraft, outofthequestion, outrageous, insolvent, certainlynot, disgraceful, mydeargoodlady. Haven’t quite got the measure of that last one yet but Bowler uses it pretty freely so I’ll probably get the hang of it. Perhaps if I say it to Maurice it’ll start to make sense. Anyway, as mentioned, he really can be so rude. For example, only the other day he made some dire crack about my hunting abilities, suggesting that the rabbits’ racing handicaps must shoot right up whenever I appear in the undergrowth. That’s just typical of his low sarcastic humour – wit, he would call it! I replied coldly that I hadn’t seen him with any trophies recently and that the mouse population was beginning to look pretty plump and prosperous. He didn’t like that and went into a sulk. Caught a raw nerve there!

  I don’t wish him any harm, you understand, but occasionally I can’t help wishing that he would forfeit one of those nine lives by falling off that damn gatepost. That would bring him down to earth all right! It won’t happen of course. He clings to it like a limpet, preening, purring, and generally lording it over everyone. Still, a dog can dream…Mind you, he’s not awful all the time and sometimes makes me laugh by twirling his tail and making funny screeching noises. When he does that I join in with low growls and we make quite a good row together. The neighbours get a bit shirty, and that old Fotherington starts to play up, accusing me of disturbing her poor pet. Poor pet, my arse! He runs rings round her.