A Load of Old Bones Read online

  Come to think of it, not any more he won’t. Not after what I discovered the other day! Perhaps you’ve heard about that: my brave escape, my prowess in the woods (prowess – that’s another good word I’ve learnt from Bowler), me sounding the alarm and dragging my master to view the body. In fact I played a jolly important part in it all. Even Maurice said I was a right little hero though whether he meant it I’m not so sure. You never really know with that cat, and sometimes I am a bit slow at working things out. Not too slow of course, just averagely so. Well, I can tell you, once I had taken Bowler to the wood all hell was let loose and the hoo-ha has been going on ever since.

  Do you know, there’s been so much excitement – what with hordes of police, reporters and gawping onlookers – that I’ve not had the chance to dig up any of my bones for days. To tell the truth, after finding THE LEG, digging for small thrice buried marrow bones seems a bit tame. I mentioned this to Maurice and he looked relieved, muttering something about an ill wind. He’s funny about my bones, always has been. Fish is his thing – though I doubt whether he’ll be getting much of that now that she’s gone. Serve him jolly well right! He’s a spoilt rotter.

  As a matter of fact, since the discovery he hasn’t been looking quite his lofty self; seems a bit edgy and off colour. Delayed shock, I shouldn’t wonder. It must be quite a facer losing his mistress like that. Not that he had any affection for Fotherington – far from it – but he likes his comforts all right and she certainly gave him those. He’s probably beginning to feel the draught. Still, he’s a clever beggar and he’s bound to think of something.

  Bowler’s been a bit odd too. She was one of his best customers (a good and hefty bank balance by all accounts) and I used to notice that whenever she was about, at the bank or one of those puzzling bridge parties humans are always giving, his voice would get even boomier than usual and that funny word mydeargoodlady would be flying all over the place. (Must remember to try it out on Slick Paws sometime.) Maurice used to say that he had designs on her, but I don’t know what that means so can’t comment. What I do know is that ever since the EVENT a steady flow of whisky has been leaving the bottle. Our evening walks are shorter too and he keeps lolling about doing nothing; even his pipe seems to have lost some of its puff. Perhaps he’s sickening for something. It’s as well that so much is going on in the wood and at Marchbank House otherwise I might be getting just a teeny bit bored. I do like to have a bit of life about me…Whoops! Paw went in it there all right!

  Can’t help thinking about that so-and-so Maurice. He’s not on his gatepost so much these days. As for visiting Bowler’s garden, he hasn’t been here for ages. The master has a passion for birds, and Maurice used to come and sit on his wall as bold as brass and pounce on anything with wings from midges to magpies. He isn’t specially interested in the creatures themselves, it’s just part of his general bloody-mindedness. He likes to stir things up. It works a treat: Bowler does his berserk act and has a right little rampage while Maurice prances about caterwauling. Or sometimes, cool as a cold nose, he will crouch stock still pretending to be Felix the Garden Gnome; and then just as Bowler gets to him he leaps into the air in a shower of hiss and spit and shoots off into the lavender spraying dust and grass seeds all over the shop.

  It’s good fun and although there’s all that shindig up at Fotherington’s house I’m beginning to miss it. Besides, without having Maurice around delivering his usual commentary on events I can’t get their full taste. Keeping a bone to yourself is one thing, but this corpse business really needs another jaw to chew it over with. Don’t know where that cat goes these days but I’m a good sniffer so I shall put my nose to the ground and jolly well find out.

  4

  The Vicar’s Version

  After a few months in the parish I began to think that Clinker, though quite possibly unhinged, was not actually barking. His decision to send me here may well have been one of those rare flashes of episcopal insight for which one must ever be grateful.

  As the weeks passed I began to experience a curious and not unpleasant sensation of air being gently released from taut lungs. There are, you know, certain things whose salutary value one can long be persuaded of – cold baths, firm mattresses, bracing walks, the Manchester Guardian, porridge, The Children’s Newspaper – but whose abandonment brings insidious guilty relief. It is a sort of sinking, cushiony feeling of the kind reportedly felt by women when removing their stays.

  Thus it was with me and the Church – or at least that part of the Church which expected its clergy to show a robust and jovial militancy. Joviality is not my strong suit (though I have seen enough to make a competent copy); and – as my superiors in the army seemed fond of pointing out – I am neither robust nor militant. Little by little I started to realize that deep down I had loathed the raucous merriment of my fellow clerics, that I hated Real Ale (or any ale come to that, real or bogus), and that the whole holy venture had been a mistake, a terrible self-induced sham.

  So what to do? Nothing very much. Keep head beneath parapet: be kind to old ladies, bless the children, stroke the dogs, preach a soothing sermon. With a bit of luck – and conceivably God’s will – all should be well, all manner of thing should be well…What an interesting lady Mother Julian must have been! I think I might have enjoyed her company, which is more than I can say of many women.

  It is not that I dislike the opposite sex but it has a certain knowing, managerial air which I find unsettling. Nor is it that I have proclivities elsewhere but I just don’t seem to have the stamina for any close commitment, least of all a domestic one. The constant noise, the insistent proximities, the tensions of opposing interests, the in-laws, infant paraphernalia, the sulks and tantrums, the kitchen dramas, the adolescent furies – it would all be totally beyond me. In fact even now dwelling on such things I feel a fearful weight of weariness descend.

  You see, all I had ever really wanted was a quiet life – plenty of peace leavened with moments of charm and gaiety, the stimulus of a few good books, a little choice music, a glass or two of wine…a modest enough desire you might think. But so far, whatever the circumstances – school, Oxford, army or Church – it had eluded me. Now, in the year of 1957 in the little Surrey parish of Molehill, amazingly it had started to materialize!

  Life here in this leafy enclave moved in a calm and unremarkable fashion. My parishioners for the most part were dull, worthy and mercifully self-contained. The young men did not clamour for my presence on the soccer field, the mothers showed a rare restraint in not thrusting their offspring upon me, and even the Vestry Circle conducted its dreary business with admirable self-sufficiency. (In a moment of kindly altruism I once suggested I should man the tea urn for them but the offer was met with little enthusiasm.) Courteous and undemanding, the congregation of St Botolph’s seemed to have few spiritual concerns other than the maintenance of the church spire and the custom and ritual of the Anglican dispensation. It suited me down to the ground.

  Of course, I wouldn’t say that I was ecstatically happy for ecstasy is not in my nature. But in this staid little place I began to feel a contentment, a sense of ease and well-being which I had feared would never be my fortune to enjoy. You will perhaps appreciate, therefore, how awful it was to be seized upon by Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington as the target of her persistent and arch attentions.

  No preliminary signals had been given, or at least none that I had been aware of, but one Sunday morning as I was hovering in the church porch after the eleven o’clock service, she made her sudden and fateful pounce. I vaguely recalled seeing her when I first arrived in Molehill; she would sometimes be in church but generally melted away after the service, often amidst a coterie of similarly lavendered ladies. And then for a period she seemed to disappear altogether, but I barely registered her absence as her presence had never really impinged. It would in future!

  Looking back on things, I suppose she had been laying her plans for weeks: arranging her opportunities, biding her tim
e. Then when the moment was right she seized it with expert and practised ease. It was a simple enough move, but from that moment, and despite all my attempts at ducking and weaving, I was caught irrevocably in the woman’s clutches.

  Thus on that Sunday morning, after a few pleasantries about my sermon and the weather, she invited me to one of her ‘little soirees’. She had been away, she explained, her annual sketching party in the Italian Lakes, otherwise would have invited me earlier. (Surely there had been ample opportunities; probably waiting to see if I passed social muster.) “After all,” she observed, “it was not every day that ‘this darling parish’ could welcome a vicar from the ‘wilds of bracing Bermondsey!’” At this she emitted a high tinkling laugh and with fluttering bejewelled fingers adjusted the tilt of her hat.

  I asked if she was familiar with Bermondsey, a question which seemed to surprise her and which elicited further girlish laughter. We changed the subject. After a brief exchange on the topics of psalms and tulips (for which latter she had ‘an undying passion’) she wafted away smiling and cooing and reminding me to join ‘our merry throng’ at Marchbank House in ten days’ time.

  Since arriving in Molehill I had of course met a number of my parishioners socially and had received pleasant if uninspiring hospitality. However, despite my rapidly growing contentment I was still on the social edge of things and felt that Mrs Fotherington’s invitation might acquaint me further with my flock. As you may have gathered, I am not particularly gregarious and was enjoying the unaccustomed quiet and space. Nevertheless, total isolation can be a disadvantage. And for a vicar, knowledge of one’s congregation is generally considered an asset. Thus it was that I contemplated her ‘little soiree’ with some interest, mercifully unaware of the appalling consequences it would unleash…

  In the intervening days I busied myself with the usual chores – dashed off a couple of bland and reassuring sermons, instructed some lumpish girls in the benefits of Confirmation, racked my brains re the Sunday School Treat, and ordered some new dog collars from Wippell’s. I also bought a piano.

  There is a music shop in the High Street run by an ill-tempered pair called Berlin and Beasely (inevitably known locally as the Two Bs). It keeps the usual stock of gramophone records and sheet music but also has a vast conglomeration of second-hand musical instruments from banjos, bongo drums and cymbals to those tiresome little triangles one was always landed with in the school band. All are crammed higgledy-piggledy into its front window and grouped around a central tableau comprising a helmet from the Boer War, a slightly moth-eaten Union Jack, and a yellowing placard advertising His Master’s Voice. I believe the fox terrier on the placard is called Nipper but what relevance he has to the flag and helmet, nor yet their connection to the instruments ranged about, I do not know. In fact as I neared the shop that day I was considering going in to enquire. If the girl assistant was there I could satisfy my curiosity without the necessary purchase. If, on the other hand, either Berlin or Beasely was lurking then it might be politic to buy some small item. I gave this matter careful thought, gauging which would be the cheaper, a music catalogue or a vinyl-polishing cloth.

  Occupied with such imponderables, I did not at first notice the change in the window display. It was only when my foot was on the threshold and the bell already beginning to clang that I suddenly realized that something was different. Except for the items of the tableau the whole window had been denuded of its usual clutter and in its place stood two pianos: a baby grand and an upright. Draped ‘tastefully’ on the lid of the former was the flyblown flag, while the Boer War helmet had been carefully positioned in the middle of its stool. Balanced rather precariously on the top of the upright was Nipper and his wind-up gramophone looking, I thought, a trifle uncertain in his new elevation.

  I gazed fascinated at this transformation but was also impressed by what certainly appeared to be the good condition of the pianos. The larger one was ebonized, the other of some sort of maple. Both wore reputable but undistinguished names. Screwing my neck in various directions I was able to locate the price labels and decipher their crabbed inky script: the figures were surprisingly reasonable. The ivories of both instruments were pale and polished – and inviting.

  Now, I am not very good with my hands, ham-fisted actually, prone to cutting my fingers and dropping things; but strangely I can play the piano. Not brilliantly, you understand, but enough to amuse myself and it seems other people.

  I caught the knack at school under the tutelage of some fearsome little man with a glass eye. He taught me duets which was quite fun but also something of an ordeal. In the excitement of the fast bits he would take out his glass eye and place it on top of the piano where it would roll and rattle in the most distracting way. If a piece was really strenuous he would put his teeth there as well. Glass Eye, as naturally he was christened, gave me a feel for the instrument which has remained ever since.

  In the army I think it was my saving grace, my one special accomplishment, and which at least ensured me a share of popularity. I can play by ear and improvise so was in demand at parties, and since I enjoy most things from Scarlatti to Novello and Fats Waller I am also good on ‘requests’. The talent was useful in the Church during my muscular phase but then it always seemed more of a duty than a pleasure. Now I was free of that charade. Should I indulge myself…?

  Banishing the question of cloth or catalogue, I strode purposefully into the shop, and fixing Berlin/Beasely with a glittering eye (strange, the staying power of ancient schoolmasters and mariners) said imperiously: “I’ll have one of your pianos, please!”

  ♦

  Which one did I settle for? As you might guess, limitations of space and funds dictated the upright; but I was pleased with my purchase nevertheless. Had it been a car it would doubtless have been described as a ‘good little runner’. There was also a matching stool with removable seat for storing music scores and for which I negotiated a very decent discount. It was duly delivered a few days later and installed in my rather small sitting room and ministered to by Savage, the blind piano tuner from down the road. It looked quite smart and imposing in its new surroundings, and after giving it a brisk polish and shoving a vase of wilting daffodils on top, I sat down and delivered a vigorous rendering of The Golliwog’s Cakewalk.

  Buying that piano was one of the best things I ever did; and as you will hear it has played a significant and companionable role in my life from that day onwards.

  5

  The Vicar’s Version

  The day of Elizabeth’s soiree dawned and I made the necessary sartorial preparations: dusting down my second best suit (in a decorous shade of clerical grey), polishing my shoes, picking a slimline dog collar from the new consignment; and to add a raffish dash, selected for my top pocket a handkerchief of virulent yellow. I was quite pleased with the result and that evening, unusually relaxed and confident, stepped out smartly for Marchbank House.

  As I walked through the gateway my composure was slightly ruffled by the sight of her cat peering down from its usual perch. I was a bit wary of that cat, having passed it a number of times in the street when it would fix me with a stare of querulous curiosity. I found this scrutiny unnerving, and that night too it seemed to be making its customary appraisal. Clearing my throat I quickened my pace up the drive. I had not gone many yards when I heard from behind me an unpleasant noise.

  It was a composite sound – gasps, grunts, heavy panting and strangulated gagging. I turned in alarm, and was nearly knocked flying by Reginald Bowler and his dog. They were moving in lurching tandem, the panting coming from the bank manager, the gagging from the dog (at least I think it was in that order). Straining at his collar Bouncer was dragging his owner with glazed intensity, and they overtook me, scattering gravel in all directions. I think Bowler muttered something, even attempted to raise his hat, but he was hauled on relentlessly and they rounded the corner out of sight. I paused briefly, partly to catch my breath and partly to allow them entry to the
house before I caught up. By this time I was beginning to feel a trifle nervous and did not want my arrival on Mrs Fotherington’s doorstep to be entangled in the imbroglio of Bowler and Bouncer.

  The house was large, solid and Edwardian, with a glass-fronted porch and a white door graced by one of those lion-faced brass knockers. It was set amid attractive lawns and flower beds, and from its open windows I could hear the soft tinkling of a piano. It seemed reassuringly calm and welcoming, and despite the little upset of a few minutes earlier I felt a flicker of anticipatory pleasure and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a maid clad in the conventional black and white and I was ushered into a formal salon. This had the potential for being a very lovely room – good proportions, large windows, handsome pelmets, elegant plasterwork – but was in my view ruined by being fussy and over-stuffed: too many ornaments, too many pictures of questionable quality, a superfluity of rugs and drapery, and a plethora of small tables on uncertain spindly legs. In one corner was a grand piano whose notes I had evidently heard in the drive. It was a glossy elegant Steinway and I experienced a pang of envy as I compared it ruefully with my workaday upright. However, it was being played with less than indifferent skill by a pinch-faced woman whom I vaguely recalled as being one of the more rabid members of the Vestry Circle.

  The room resonated with a low buzz of unanimated conversation. There were about thirty other guests – a group such as one would expect to find in Molehill rather than Bermondsey: women in pearls with shiny handbags and neatly coiffed hair; a few men in pinstripes and several in navy blazers; the usual clutch of rather dreary indeterminates – forgettable ladies in bobs and spectacles, alone or with undistinguished escorts in ill-cut flannels. The Veasey twins were there looking their usual sepulchral selves, one or two military types, the local doctor, and me – the diffident, falsely beaming vicar. None of us, I judged, was below the age of forty, and most considerably beyond.